#cross-platform mirroring

[filehulk]

LetsView

LetsView is a free utility developed by Wangxu Technology Co. Ltd. for PC devices. It is a cross-platform screen mirroring tool that enables users to mirror their smartphones to their computers and vice versa. The program supports casting applications and media via protocols such as AirPlay and Miracast. Similar to tools like ApowerMirror and TeamViewer, Lets View allows seamless switching…

[vingtetunmars]

Uncharted Territory

Pairing: Eddie Munson x F!Reader

Summary: During a study session that turns into something more, a simple kiss on the forehead unexpectedly leaves Eddie completely hot and bothered.

Tags: fluff, humor, teasing, implied praise kink, new couple, established relationship, first time, reader is sunshine incarnate, tender intimacy, virgin!Eddie Munson. No description of Reader. No mentions of Y/N.

A/N: This fic is inspired by this post by @sheneedsrocknroll92 , I thought it was funny and probably something that would happen to Eddie. If you have any requests, suggestions, or thoughts, feel free to send me a message. Reblogs are appreciated. Please do not steal or cross-post it on another platform without asking. Thank you.

Word Count: 1.8k

masterlist

You weren’t supposed to notice him.

Not in the way that mattered.

Eddie Munson knew his place at Hawkins High. Resident freak. Satanic panic poster boy. The kid teachers gave up on and parents warned their kids about. People stared, sure—but only long enough to whisper, then look away.

But you never looked away.

You smiled.

The first time was in the cafeteria. You were sitting with your friends, those pastel, soft-voiced types with glitter pens and locker decorations. You didn’t look like someone who would know his name, let alone say it. But when he passed your table, you lifted your head and smiled straight at him. Bright. Simple. Like it was the most natural thing in the world.

He almost dropped his tray.

The next day, you waved in the hallway. He looked behind him just to make sure it was actually for him. You laughed. Said, “Hi, Eddie!” like you’d done it a thousand times.

He spent the rest of the week convinced someone put you up to it.

Except… you kept doing it.

You showed up near his locker. Lingered near Hellfire with a soda and a snack in hand. Laughed at his dumb jokes even when no one else did. It was like you orbiting around his life was normal, like he didn’t have to prove he was worthy of it.

And that scared the hell out of him.

Because you were sunshine in a person. The kind of girl people opened up to without meaning to. The kind who said things like “you look handsome today” with complete sincerity, not even knowing the chaos it would cause in someone like him. Eddie was used to being mocked, dismissed, at best tolerated. You were different.

The scary part was how fast he got used to it.

He started looking forward to you. Every hallway run-in. Every shared lunch on the bleachers. Every time you curled your fingers around his wrist like it was no big deal. And then, the moment that flipped his world upside down—you kissed his cheek and said:

“I like you, Eddie. Just putting that out there.”

Then you smiled and walked off like you didn’t just detonate a bomb in his chest.

It took him a week to build the courage. A week of sweaty palms and bad dreams and practicing in the mirror. Then he found you after school, heart in his throat, and said something completely idiotic like, “I also like. You. Like-you. You, I like.”

You just grinned, slid your fingers into his, and said, “Cool. Because I think we look good together.”

Like it was that simple.

And, god, maybe it was.

You made it easy.

Eddie had no idea what the hell he was doing. You were his first everything. First kiss. First girlfriend. First person to call him “baby” like it belonged to him. He thought he’d mess it up. He still thinks that, sometimes. But you’ve never once made him feel like he was falling behind.

You make him feel… like he could be good at this.

You play with his hair when he’s sprawled out on your couch. You cheer for him when he wins boss fights in Hellfire, even though you barely understand what’s going on. You bring him peanut butter M&M’s and wear his Hellfire shirt, even though it’s baggy on you and smells like his cologne. And you hold his hand like it’s just what people do.

He doesn’t always know how to respond. He’s still learning. Sometimes his brain fries when you lean into his side or call him “pretty boy.” But he loves the way you look at him when you do.

Like he’s something precious.

Like he’s not some loser hiding behind loud clothes and louder words.

And two months in, Eddie Munson is still stunned every single day that he gets to have you.

That someone like you wanted someone like him.

That maybe—just maybe—he’s not entirely unlovable after all.

It’s late afternoon and the sun is doing that lazy golden thing through Eddie’s window, casting long, warm streaks across his bed. The two of you are sitting cross-legged on the mattress, notebooks and worksheets spread in a hopeless mess between you. Eddie’s handwriting is still a disaster, half the math problems are half-finished, and somehow there’s a doodle of a dragon in the corner of the page.

You should be annoyed.

But instead, you’re beaming.

“Okay,” you say, tapping your pencil against your knee. “You didn’t totally flunk that one. That’s, like, a B-minus effort. Maybe even a solid B. I’m proud of you.”

Eddie groans, flopping back dramatically on the bed. “I got five out of twelve, sweetheart.”

You raise an eyebrow, grinning. “You got two right last week. That’s progress.”

He peeks at you through his hair. “Baby steps, huh?”

“Exactly.” You crawl closer, lifting a hand to brush the bangs from his forehead. He freezes beneath your touch, a familiar stiffness he still hasn’t grown out of. It’s not discomfort—it’s reverence. Like he still doesn’t understand how you touch him so gently, like you don’t think twice about it.

You lean in and press a soft kiss to his forehead.

Simple. Sweet. Warm.

And that’s when it happens.

You pull back like nothing’s changed. But Eddie is suddenly dead quiet. His body tenses, his arms shoot around his torso like he’s guarding something, and before you can even blink, he’s curling up into himself like a human shield.

“Eddie?”

He lets out a strained noise. High-pitched. Embarrassed. “Yeah, no—I’m good. Just. Just need a minute. Maybe a few minutes. Don’t look at me.”

You blink. “Wait… are you—?”

“Don’t say it.”

“…Did a forehead kiss really just—?”

“Don’t say it,” he groans, pulling a pillow into his lap like it’s a weapon, dragging one of his old Metallica hoodies across himself in record time. His ears are bright red. His hair’s a mess from how fast he moved. He looks like he’s about to combust.

And you… start laughing.

Not cruel, not mean. Just startled, delighted giggles spilling out before you can stop them. Because this boy—this five-ten, metal-loving, D&D-obsessed chaos gremlin—just got hot and bothered over a forehead kiss.

“Oh my god,” you wheeze, wiping your eyes. “You poor thing.”

He groans again, flopping backward like he’s dying. “You don’t understand. It was too sweet. Too nice. My brain short-circuited. I didn’t even know that could happen.”

You slide closer, biting your lip to suppress another laugh. “Eddie, it’s okay.”

“No, it’s not okay! You just kissed my head and now I’m having a hormonal crisis. That’s not normal. People don’t just do that.”

“Actually,” you say gently, brushing your fingers through his curls, “they do. It’s just that most people don’t feel everything all at once like you do.”

You duck your head until your forehead rests against his. “It’s okay, Eddie. I love that about you.”

He stares at you. Flustered. Overwhelmed. And still very much refusing to move his pillow.

“…Okay, but like, next time maybe warn me before doing something that affectionate.”

You didn’t stop smiling.

Even after his dramatics. Even after he tried hiding under the pillow like it was a shield from the embarrassment of having a boner caused by a forehead kiss. You just kept looking at him like he was the cutest thing in the world.

Which, unfortunately, did not help his current situation.

You leaned over him, voice light and teasing. “Y’know… this is kinda flattering.”

He peeked up. “You’re flattered?”

“Yeah,” you giggled, poking his ribs gently. “It’s nice to know I can wreck you that easily.”

Eddie let out a low, half-strangled groan. “You are so unfair.”

“I’m very fair,” you said, tilting your head. “I just didn’t expect forehead kisses to be your weakness.”

“It’s not,” he muttered. “It wasn’t. It—god, I don’t know, it felt like you were taking care of me.”

You stilled a little at that. Your voice softened. “Well… I was.”

He looked up at you.

You bit your lip thoughtfully, then reached down, brushing your fingers through his curls. “You know… I could keep doing that. Taking care of you.”

Eddie blinked. “Wh—what, like… now?”

You nodded. Your voice was calm, careful. “If you want. We don’t have to. But if you do want… I’ll be gentle. I’ll go slow. I just want you to feel good.”

Eddie swallowed hard, pupils blown, breath catching in his chest. He was pretty sure his brain had left his body a few minutes ago. You were so soft, so sweet, so stupidly beautiful, and you were looking at him like he was the precious one.

“Okay,” he said, voice low. “Yeah. I… want you to.”

You smiled at him like that was the best answer he could’ve given.

“Alright, baby,” you whispered, removing the pillow and climbed into his lap with slow, careful movements.

Eddie’s hands found your waist instinctively, holding you like you might vanish if he let go. You brushed your nose against his, pressing a light kiss to his lips first—then another, and another, deeper each time.

It started slow. Gentle.

Then his fingers tightened.

Then your hips rolled.

And by the time his head tipped back against the pillow, both of you breathless and warm, you were rocking slowly together, hips bumping in a soft rhythm, mouths never parting for long.

Your hands cupped his face.

His arms circled your waist.

And the world outside his bedroom melted away as you kissed him deeper—teaching him, guiding him, loving him like no one ever had.

Eddie was still staring at the ceiling when you flopped beside him with a satisfied sigh, your limbs brushing his.

There was a long pause.

Then, in a dazed voice, he mumbled, “I think I saw God.”

You burst out laughing, burying your face into his shoulder.

He turned to you, blinking slowly, curls a mess, skin flushed pink across the cheeks and down his chest. “Like. I’m serious. She looked just like you. But like—glowier.”

You nudged his side with a grin. “Are you trying to flirt with me after we had sex?”

“Yes,” he said without hesitation. “Because now I really don’t want you to leave me.”

You laughed again, kissing the tip of his nose. “Baby, I’ve been your girlfriend for two months.”

“Yeah, but now I feel like I need to propose. Or like, write a ballad. Or get your name tattooed on my—”

“Eddie.”

“I’m kidding. Mostly. Unless you think the tattoo thing is hot. I’ll do it.”

You rolled your eyes, cuddling into his chest. “You are absolutely ridiculous.”

He let out a breathy chuckle and pulled the blanket over both of you, his arms curling around your shoulders. “Ridiculous and lucky.”

You smiled into his skin, fingers drawing slow shapes across his ribs. “You did great, baby.”

There was a pause.

Then, a groan. “Don’t say that again right now.”

“Why not?” you asked innocently, already giggling.

“Because last time you said that, I got bodily betrayed, and I don’t know if I’ve got the energy to recover twice in one night.”

You leaned up and kissed his cheek. “Okay, okay. I’ll let you rest… for now.”

“Threat noted,” he muttered, but he was smiling—broad and crooked and deeply in love.

And so were you.

[toxicanonymity]

EVERY INCH 4

SERIES MASTERLIST | SLASHERS MASTERLIST PAIRINGS: ghostface x f!reader; dark javi x f!reader LENGTH: ~6.6k words. The next one will be shorter.

SUMMARY: after what you did on the metro, you're ashamed and paranoid. javi crosses a line. ghostface does something he's never done before. so do you.

WARNINGS: I8+ dubcon, piv and various acts, references to noncon, somno, drugs, degradation, dirty talk, angst/shame, yearning, breeding & "daddy" kinks, descriptions of (not actual) pregnancy. Restraints, blindfold. And idk, it gets weird. Anonymous ghostface. We enjoy surprises in this series, soo WRITER CHOOSES NOT TO WARN IN FULL. READ AT YOUR OWN RISK.

A/N: Thank you for your patience and enthusiasm and omg all the love on the fics 🖤. Thank you negraarmadura (@theblackarmor) for your valuable input and inspiration. Also, @lunitawrites can shoulder some blame for the excessive breeding kink. Ty @saradika for the dividers.

🚨 FIC ART: banger collage by @aurorawritestoescape and action packed movie trailer by @carminepoison

Overnight, your fury and humiliation fades into gloom and confusion. Ghostface. You wake up itchy and dehydrated. 

You never imagined things would go this far. You should kill him, right? Ghostface? Don’t you have to? Think about what he did to you. What he made you do. You should kill him, but you don't have the energy. And you're too angry at yourself to have much ire for anyone else. 

Ghostface, a notoriously brutal killer, called you a serial rapist, and he wasn’t even really lying. How much of the metro disaster was planned? Did Ghostface orchestrate it, or did he simply seize the opportunity to watch, fascinated by your blind lust and rage? 

You didn't want to know. As long as you weren't certain, you still had that little sliver hope that you didn't rape a stranger at gunpoint all on your own. But either way, you did hold the gun. Either way, you took the man’s dick out and degraded him as you forced yourself on him in the middle of a public train. Lost in the moment. Feeling like it was just you and him, Ghostface. Until it wasn’t.

The day after the metro, it feels like everybody knows what you did. Every time you close your eyes, images of crowds on train platforms blur through your mind. An infinite audience to your terrible crime. 

You stay in bed, frozen, not wanting to face reality. Telling yourself it’s a dream. Sleeping off and on. Batting away uncomfortable thoughts–like when will you see Ghostface again? Is he going to call you? What will you do? You can’t get him off your mind. 

Two mornings after the metro, you drag yourself out of bed, then out into the world. At the grocery store, you bump into your older pothead neighbor, and he asks if you're okay. Your heart races, thinking he must know. It takes you a moment to remember why he’s asking – your friend Marla was stabbed to death just days ago, and she wasn't the first.  

In the checkout line, you space out until a man’s voice jars you from your trance. You apologize and put your items on the conveyor belt. When you’re just about to pay, you receive a text message from an unknown number, a fact which on its own makes your tummy tingle. When you read the text, your whole body turns hot: 

I’ll split your ass like a tangerine. 

The words land straight between your legs. As the grocer hands you your bags, he asks if you’re okay. You shake yourself out of it and nod.  The grocer wishes you good luck. At least, that’s what you think he says. Good luck not getting caught? Good luck not getting killed? Good luck with what? You decide you must have imagined it. 

In the parking lot, before heading home, you sit in your car for a few minutes, spaced out, wondering if you'll ever be able to go out in public again without feeling like this. Like everyone knows something awful about you.

On the way home, you can't get your phone to charge. You’re fiddling with the cord when blue lights flash in your rearview mirror, making your stomach drop. The lights turn off only after you're parked on the grass shoulder of the two lane road. 

Every second feels like a minute until a tall, blonde cop in aviators gets out of his car, stretches, and strides over like he has all the time in the world.  You roll down the window. He plants two huge hands on the top of your car and ducks down to look at you. For a few seconds, he doesn't say anything, just leisurely chews his gum. 

Then, he shifts his stance and asks, “How ya doin’, ma’am?”  Deep voice, smooth as butter. 

Out of nowhere, you feel on the verge of tears. Avoiding your reflection in his shades, you swallow the knot in your throat and answer, “fine.” 

He stops chewing and asks,“Yeah? You sure?”

You suck your lips together and nod. 

He looks from you to the groceries in your front seat and the mess of junk in the back, then asks, “Where ya headed?”

“Home.”

He bobs his head in understanding and glances down the road, chewing his gum again. 

Your heart continues to race as you watch his face for a long moment of silence. Finally, he speaks. “Well, put your fuckin’ phone down for me.” He raises his eyebrows and tips his shades forward, forcing his sky blue eyes on you. “‘k, darlin’?”

Your lips part, and you forget to blink until he winks at you and flashes a smile. Then you nod and mumble, “Uh. Yeah, sorry.” 

He fixes his aviators back. “Careful out there, ‘k?” After a nod and a casual tap on your roof, he walks off. You watch him in the rear view mirror.  

Are his legs that long, or is it the monochrome outfit? He adjusts his belt before getting in his car. Your chest bubbles with interest, attraction, and you curse yourself under your breath. 

At home, you try to distract yourself by watching a show, but it’s just not possible. After what he did—what you did–on the train, you’re terrified to know what’s next. What you might do next in this absurd state you find yourself in where he consumes your every thought. And it hits you, the sickest part of all—why you attacked who you thought was Ghostface. Not because Ghostface attacked you, not because he tried to kill you, but because he left you after getting you worked up. Ghostface walked away from you. He left you alone and alive in that alley, and it upset you. 

You find yourself at the bizarre revelation that you and Ghostface are the only people in your world that feel real right now. You’re inextricably linked. He’s the only one who really knows you. He knows your darkness. 

Are you the only one who really knows him, too?

Your phone dings with a text. It’s a political campaign, but you take the opportunity to re-read:

I’ll split your ass like a tangerine.

It gives you butterflies. It sounds like him. It has to be him. That’s the only thing that helps you relax.

(Some hours and a nap later. . .)

"What would you do if you had Ghostface cornered," Javi asks, sitting back and manspreading next to you on your sofa. He's nursing a Mike's Hard Lemonade from a case he brought and crammed into your fridge, pushing aside expired condiments and old takeout containers. 

You should never have let Officer Javi in when he knocked on your door. “Heard ya had a rough day,” he had remarked. “Pulled over?” he raised his eyebrows. There was something about him that made you uneasy, but you didn’t feel like you had a choice, so you opened the door.

It was impossible to miss the way he sniffed the air after crossing the threshold. You imagined he was smelling the cum of Ghostface and amateur Ghostface, even two days and several showers later. 

Pulling yourself back into the moment at hand – Javi’s question isn’t easy – what would you do if you had Ghostface cornered? What would a normal person do? 

You ask, "if I had him cornered?"

"What, you wouldn't do anything?" Javi challenges you. 

"I wouldn't get within ten feet of him," you claim. 

Javi chuckles skeptically. "You wouldn't kill him?" 

“No. . . .should I?”

"I think you have it in you,” Javi replies, then drops his voice. “Or you want it in you." 

Your heart skips a beat, but you don’t let it go. You challenge him, "What are you talking about?"

"You don't want to be a victim. You're determined not to be." 

In a gesture that could pass for reassurance, Javi’s cold, broad hand rests just above your bare knee for a moment. Then he trails his fingers up your thigh, all the way to the hem of your shorts, close to where you’re now tingling. 

His voice goes down in pitch and volume.  "It's an attractive quality. . . Your lust for control." His face is dark with lust. 

You take his hand off your thigh and place it on his own leg. 

“See? ” he asks with a condescending twitch of his mustache in the corner of your eye.  

"Pervert," you mutter.

"You wouldn't shoot Ghostface with my gun?" Javi glances down at himself. Eyes following his gaze, you do a double take at the shape in his tight pants. 

Shame prickles your face, and you swallow as you admit, "Your gun was stolen." 

"I know," Javi nods with just the hint of a smile. "It was turned in." 

With an air of nonchalance, he takes the gun out of the back of his pants. He subtly rubs the side of the barrel against his hard cock as he pretends to inspect the firearm before setting it on the coffee table. "Now you can shoot him.”

He watches you look at the gun on your coffee table. The one that was buried in your cunt less than 48 hours ago. Javi continues, “But you won't shoot him, will you?"

"No," you agree. 

"Don't want him to leave you alone."

"No," you argue, mouth getting dry. “That’s ridiculous.”

"Oh,” Javi seems to be acting. “Too scared to shoot a gun?  We'll practice."

“No,” you shake your head, then ask, "How do I know he's the right one? The one who’s cornered?" 

"Ah," A smile creeps across his face. "The real Ghostface, and not just some guy in a Stab costume? " He raises an eyebrow. 

Over the next few seconds, your face goes ice cold.

"Shhh. It's okay,” Javi rests a hand on your back, then rubs it slowly. “I know, sweetheart.” 

He knows what? Is he involved in this somehow? Your question spills out before you can stop it. “What are you getting at? What did you do?”

The large palm on your back slows to a halt between your shoulder blades. Javi pouts in contemplation, looking at the ceiling like he's racking his brain. Another twitch of his mustache. Before meeting your eyes again, he subtly shakes his head, "Nothing," then bends forward, picks up your drink, and hands it to you. He puts his hand on your back again, lazily caressing it with his knuckles this time. 

Trying to calm yourself down, you take a sip. He nods encouragingly. 

You ask, "Are you even a cop?"

"Yeah, I’m a cop," he laughs. 

“Okay, pig. Who’s your supervisor?”

Javi’s eyebrows shoot up. “Ouch! ” 

Another sip of your drink. 

“Good girl,” he whispers as he watches you swallow. His eyes are right on your throat. The tingle simmers between your legs. Javi’s hand slides up your back to slowly rub the nape of your neck with his thumb and fingers while his hungry eyes scan you head to toe. How hard is he right now? You don’t allow yourself the glance.

“Listen sweetheart,” his tone shifts,  “I can’t make this any easier on you.” His thumb gently glides over the peach fuzz on your neck.

“Make what easier?”

Javi’s only acknowledgement of your question is to breathe out a small laugh, then continue, “But I can make it harder.” 

“What the fuck does that mean?”

“It’s in your best interest if I keep you company tonight.” 

With Javi’s crotch tugging at your peripheral vision, a mild arousal stirs in your gut, but you muster a look of disgust. “Or what?”

“Let’s not find out, ” he threatens. 

You scowl and take another sip, catching a flash of satisfaction in his dark eyes. He continues to caress the back of your neck, then says, “Unless you want to find out.” 

His thumb freezes right in the dip at the base of your skull. “Maybe I read you wrong. Maybe you do want to be a victim.”  He taps his thumb twice and takes his hand away. His dark eyes scan your face as he reaches for the remote control.  

Are you paranoid, or does he know something? You no longer trust yourself to see things as they are. You pray he’s just a creep, taking advantage of his assignment to protect you. If he were a worse looking creep, you might be more concerned. 

Two hard lemonades later, you’re lying on your side on the couch, watching Rosemary’s Baby with Javi spooning you and lightly caressing your lower abdomen, right at the top of your shorts.  

“Are you on birth control? ” he asks, which catches you off guard and makes your face and insides tingle.  

“Yeah, gonna put that in your report?” you answer. 

“Mm,” he sighs. “Bet you take it real well, too.” 

A pool is forming in your panties. 

“Same time every day? ” He doesn't wait for an answer before adding, “Even with all this going on? ”

No response from you.

With the softest flick of his thumb, he unbuttons your shorts. 

“You really think i’m going to fuck you, don’t you?” you ask as his hand plunges into your panties. At least those are fresh. Or they were. 

When Javi’s fingers reach your wetness, he groans softly. “I told you, sweetheart. We can do this the easy way or the hard way.” Rubbing circles over your most sensitive place, he lightly grinds his hardening dick against your backside. The warm pressure of his arousal makes you throb. 

This goes on for a minute, then he cruelly slides his hand out of your shorts. He smells his fingers. The crudeness makes you twitch and seethe. A moment later, he’s urgently tugging down your shorts. His forearm vein bulges as he wedges his hand between your legs again. Your knees open for him, you can’t help it. His cock is pressing so hard against your ass, throbbing for you. He’s rubbing you at a steady, desirous rhythm, and your body is helping your mind forget everything. 

Need is rushing through your blood. The only thing you can see is a climax in sight.  Your insides swell and throb for him. You think about his cock, you want his cock, but no, you’re not going to give a pig that honor. This will have to do. 

He breathes heavier, and so do you. Your hips move with his rhythm. Every once in a while, his middle finger goes down and teases your hole as he gathers more slick to bring upward. Then one time, his finger stays at your entrance. He wriggles the tip of his middle digit into you, then plunges it in with a grunt, as far as he can get. 

He pumps his finger and grinds his palm against your clit. Your hips begin to rock into his hand. He mutters, “mierda” (shit), to himself as he slides his ring finger in. His thick digits stay buried inside. His cock twitches, and he calms himself, slowing down. A moan slips out of your mouth when you’re on the edge, desperate for release. 

“You want this, don’t you? ” he sides an arm under your neck and across your breasts to pull you tight against him. The swell of his cock sends a wave of pleasure upward, through your chest. 

“No,” you choke out, but your hips roll into his hand. 

“If you want to cum, all you have to do is ask.”

“Fuck you,” you manage between heavy breaths. You’re almost there. Then, you grab his hand and hold it still against your cunt as you send yourself over the edge, grinding against his palm, gasping vocally, spasming against his hand, pathetically trying to hold back your moans. 

As it fades, you want more. Of course you want more. But you won’t give him the satisfaction. 

You wriggle out of his embrace to sit up and kick your shorts off your ankles. 

“I’m going to wash the cop off me,” you mutter in self-disgust. 

Javi is bemused. “He doesn’t make you ask, huh? ” 

Heat rises to your face. You stand up and don’t even look at him. “Fuck you, Javi,” you mutter. 

“Does he even make you cum? ”

“I don’t know who you’re talking about,” you lie. 

Javi stands up, braces his thumbs on his lower back,  and pushes his hips forward in a stretch. A spot of precum on his pants draws your eye as he steps forward, his engorged dick straining to get out.  

After his stretch, he steps forward. His jaw clenches and his eyes are cold. He takes your jaw in his hand and looks from your lips to your eyes and back.  “Everyone’s going to know who I’m talking about if you’re not careful.”

Your stomach drops, but you manage not to show it, you think. “Be gone when I’m out of the shower,” you warn as if you could do anything about it. 

“Suit yourself,” he smiles slightly. “This time.” He adjusts himself with his dry hand. 

You give him one last glare. Then, your eyes fall to his hand, where he’s inspecting his two wet fingers, glimmering in the low light of the movie credits. His mustache twitches, and he walks in the opposite direction of your front door. You don’t bother redirecting him. You’re just glad he’s leaving when he exits out the back.

In the shower, you start to feel woozy. Did you drink more than you realized, or did Javi slip you something? It could have been either.  You end the shower sooner than you otherwise might, wrap yourself in a robe and lay on your bed. Aching to be filled, you think about retrieving a toy from your nightstand, but your sudden fatigue wins over.  Not getting off to the thought of Ghostface is a victory, even if it’s on a technicality. Instead, you fall asleep, thinking about the only man you’ve thought about for weeks. 

Your dreams are wild. 

Ghostface is working at a grocery store, with his mask on. He has a black button down shirt under a long black apron with a name tag that says Daddy. He’s rolling up his sleeves as he walks toward customer service. It feels like he runs the place. He stops in his tracks when he sees you. You stand frozen as he approaches swiftly. He grabs you roughly by the elbow and marches you toward the produce section as if you shouldn’t even be there at the store. 

He bends you over a crate of citrus fruit, and a fake thunderstorm booms from a nearby produce cooler as the vegetables get misted.

Standing behind you, holding you down on the fruit with one hand, he kicks your ankles to spread your feet open, exposing your cunt to the cool air. “You couldn't wait, could you?”  He asks, hiking up your dress. You aren't wearing anything under it. “Couldn’t wait for Daddy to get home...” 

There's a surge of need at the crux of your thighs, and you eagerly await his cock. Instead, what you feel is the cool, taut skin of a lime gliding against your dripping pussy. 

He slides the fruit up and down your dripping seam and pauses to grind it against your clit. The man knows what he’s doing. You throb and twitch and sigh as the smooth skin of the lime warms up. 

“That’s right, princess.” He wedges your legs further apart, so far apart the stretch burns. Then he resumes his work with the fruit. 

One end of the lime teases your entrance, then he pushes it into you. Your body sucks it up with ease and spasms around it. 

“Good girl.” His hand remains between your legs, hooking under your body to reach your clit. You whine as he rubs your sweet spot. The lime seems to thrust inside you with each rub of his hand against your front. It’s unlike anything you’ve ever felt.

He makes you cum on the lime, and with each of your spasms, your body sucks the fruit further into your channel. 

As your orgasm fades, Ghostface zip ties your hands over your head, fixing them to the sale sign in the middle of the produce crate. He leaves you with your dress still pulled up, ass and cunt exposed, twitching with aftershocks. 

“Please, wait,” You beg him to come back. 

Another worker notices you and fails to hide his erection. The man’s face is pink and spellbound. He stands there and rubs himself through his pants. He looks around furtively as he does it, watching you. And you’re a vision — pathetically bent over the fruit, spread wide open, moaning and whining for your man to come back and fuck you raw. 

A new sensation eclipses your awareness of the small audience. It begins to feel like the lime is growing in your womb, spreading your insides apart. You're increasingly aroused, feeling less and less control over your body as it swells with desire. You find yourself wishing for anyone to shove himself inside you—staff or customer. If only anyone with a cock would stop and use you. Please, you think to yourself. “Please,” you whimper out loud. You’re desperate to cum again, desperate to relieve all this pressure building in your belly. 

An older man approaches, undoing his belt, and he looks you over as he runs his hand over the outline of his erection, deciding what to do with you. He gets close enough to spread your cheeks and examine your cunt. Your hole tremors at his touch, and you whimper. You can feel from the air that you are spread wide open. It feels like you’re going to split at the seam. After examining your parts, the man mutters, “oh,” before deciding against it and walking away. 

Your whole torso feels like it could burst with the amount of tension swelling inside you. Your nipples are tight and sensitive, and you feel one of them bare against an orange under your chest. You look down to see your breasts, noticeably swollen, falling out of your dress. 

The fruit beneath you begins to dig into your tummy and it hurts. It's too much, paired with the aching need between your legs.  You cry out, and the other worker pages the general manager, Ghostface, over the intercom. 

-

When Ghostface returns, he snips your zip ties then roughly flips you over so you're face-up on a big pile of fruit. He ties your hands over your head again, this time using a plastic produce bag. 

“Well, look at my pumpkin,” he admires your body as he removes his gloves. Until you see the way his mask seems to stare at your middle, you don’t realize your midriff is exposed. Your dress has ridden up over your belly, which is rounder than before. It feels tight and distended, and you just feel so full.  He places both hands on your belly, feeling your shape. When you look down, you hardly recognize yourself. Your nipples are leaking. The one still in your top is creating a wet spot. Your other breast has broken containment completely. 

“What did you do to me,” you demand, with Ghostface massaging your belly tenderly. 

He groans and reaches up with one hand. Suddenly he clamps his hand over your eyes. The next thing you feel is a mouth sucking at your exposed tit. It feels amazing, all the tension rushing out of your breast, along with the stimulation of his tongue. He breaks away with a moan. 

“I knew you'd be delicious.”

So much pressure is built up inside you, you're dying to cum. He holds you by both your sides. You’re painfully spread open, inner thigh muscles aching. He puts himself between your legs. He grinds himself against you, and it makes your walls clench and convulse almost instantly with a groan that echoes. 

He pulls his hips back and watches between your legs as you surrender to another orgasm. “Look at you, drizzled all over the fruit,” he marvels as he watches your fluttering hole. With each wave, you feel your belly and breasts swell a little more until you feel and look like you're in your third trimester. 

“Please make it stop,” you beg.  It feels so good, but you don’t want your body like this.

He rubs at your dripping cunt, his flattened fingers gliding soothingly between your puffy folds. Soon, you're grinding against his hand. 

“Please,” you beg. “Take it out, take the lime out.”

“Might be too late, angel.” 

“Please try.” 

He relents and wedges three fingers together. The fingertips tease your dilated hole, then his three thick digits slide right in, the ease of it making him groan. The obscene squelching practically echoes as he fucks you with three fingers, and soon he adds a fourth. Your body accepts him, and welcomes the addition of his thumb. Soon his hand is reaching deep inside you, fist and forearm flexing as he searches for the lime. 

“Daddy’s trying, baby.”

Your body hugs his hand. “Please,” you cry, tears running down your face, from pleasure and pressure more than pain. 

“Let me see,” he muses to himself as he withdraws his hand and moves a finger down to your asshole. He teases the rim of it and you feel it open up for him like the rest of your body. Then he slides two dripping fingers in. With his fingers buried in your ass, you feel some relief. You breathe with the rhythm of his fingers, but when you see your belly heaving with each breath, you remember. “Please, please put me back to normal.” 

Ghostface sighs. “Are you sure, princess?” His fingers slide out of your asshole. 

“Yes,” you insist. 

He crouches down, puts your legs over his shoulders, and positions himself with his mask right at your cunt. He rests his dry hand on your belly, and his wet hand grips his mask at the edges. 

Just as he goes to take the mask off, the whole scene melts into a moving mosaic of fleeting thoughts. 

Everything but the pleasure fades away. 

Everything but the pleasure. . . and the feeling of being spread wide open. . . and your legs over someone’s strong shoulders. . .

Yes, there’s a head between your thighs, two strong hands holding you open, and a hungry mouth feasting on you with abandon. He’s grunting into your cunt with his tongue intruding into your deepest places, making your insides hum with need. 

Did Javi never leave? It doesn’t exactly sound like Javi. Javi is far too measured to be so—ohh, God, that feels good. It feels so good, you barely notice that you’re blindfolded. Or that your wrists are tied above your head, securing you to the bed frame. 

He licks up your cunt to suck at your clit, and he does it well. Fuck. A moan slips out, muffled by something damp and lacy. Your mouth is sore and gagged.  Your heart races as he sucks, and your sensitive nub swells with pressure. 

You’re still waking up, and your traitorous hips are grinding into his face. You’re close. His hands are on your thighs. You’re on the edge of climax, trying not to make any sound or sudden movements. 

When his tongue slips down to your asshole, you flinch. You squirm, but the hands hold you still. His thumbs spread your cheeks, and he licks a wide circle around the rim, getting closer and closer until his tongue is teasing your hole. 

Your nose twitches. You sniff the air, and breathe a shameful sigh of relief. It’s not Javi. It’s him. Thank God, it’s him. And it smells like he smoked in your room.

Ghostface pauses to mutter, “Good girl,” and the voice comes from between your legs, and from your right, as though he’s separated from the voice changer. 

And separated from his mask. Wow. You never thought he’d— his warm mouth returns to your ass, and he thrusts his tongue into you. A pit in your gut deepens with each thrust of his tongue. Your eyelashes flutter against the folded bandana that covers your eyes. 

You grunt and whine into the gag, then he begins to rub your clit while his tongue is buried in your ass. Before long, the tension snaps, and your vision goes from black to white. A muffled moan marks the start of your peak. His tongue slides out, and your body jerks with each spasm. 

“Attagirl,” you hear from both directions.

As you finish coming, he lays a cheek on one thigh and a hand on the other, stroking your skin with his thumb. 

“You were on a silver platter, princess. I had to take a bite.” Your nipples harden—you’re naked and your sweat is cooling. “You know how it is.” You don’t try to respond. “Had a feeling you wouldn’t mind,” he taunts. “And ohhh, Pumpkin. We’ve been having *fun*.” 

Can’t exactly ask what he’s been up to with a mouth full of your own panties. But you wriggle and groan in disapproval.  His face lifts off your thigh, and his hands are quick to hold you down and keep you still.

“Yeah, yeah,” he acknowledges your halfhearted effort, and you stop resisting. The fact that you both see through this charade puts you more at ease somehow. 

When you feel his breath on your hip, it’s clear he’s not done, and you’re not mad about it. You’re in a daze—Ghostface is in your room, unmasked. Between your legs. 

His teeth press into your skin, then his lips. He sucks hard, then harder, and the bruising suction makes you throb. You grunt into the panty gag. He releases your skin, then drags his lips to your mound. 

He licks up your mound and presses wet, hungry, open-mouth kisses along your exposed torso, licking upward between each kiss, all the way to your breast where he pauses to suck and moan into it. You whine into the gag as your nipple hardens in his mouth and you gush and throb.

He drags his tongue up your chest, leaving goosebumps in its wake. The closer his head gets to yours, the more clearly you can smell him - his unique blend of pheromones, his sweat, the way it mixes with the weed. 

And then it slaps against you. His cock. Smooth, and warm, and hard against your hip, and your chest swarms with butterflies. You moan softly. His face is in the crook of your neck. He latches on for a suck and the dull pain makes your hips lift, seeking more of his cock. You feel an emptiness, a longing to be filled. 

His bare face nuzzles at your jaw. He drags his lips up your chin, to your cheek, to your ear. 

“Shhh,” he whispers, despite your silence. 

His lips slowly drag toward your mouth, dragging along the gag. With his mouth on your cheek, your lips tingle with an urge. And then he gets there. His mouth lingers, open against yours, his breath, hot and humid, enveloping your lips. His teeth scrape the corner of your mouth. He bites down on the gag while one hand fiddles behind you to untie it. His cock, now on your mound, swells harder against you and Good God, you need him bad. 

With a backward nod, he tugs at the panty gag, then lets it fall away with a vocal exhale, thrusting his stiff manhood against you. The loss of his lips on your face resembles heartache. 

Barely above a whisper, you ask, “what are you doing?” and brace to hear his real voice. 

Instead, his hand seizes your jaw, forcing your mouth wider open. And then he spits in your mouth. You taste it as it slides down your tongue, down your throat, and desire stirs in your gut. 

He releases your jaw. “Daddy needs to hear ya, princess.” He mutters breathily, and it echoes from your right, “Daddy needs to hear you, princess.”

You pull your knees up. He braces a hand behind you against the wall and grinds his stiff manhood against your slick mound. “Fuck,” he whispers, with no digital echo. Then, in both voices, “You want this. . . Don’t you, pumpkin?” He grinds against you, harder. “You want Daddy’s big cock,” he confirms, and you can imagine him nodding. 

“Yeah,” you admit in a whisper.

“Oh, yeah,” he replies. The slow, throbbing grind of his warm cock is devastating so close to where you need it. 

“Please,” you ask. 

“Please what?” he replies. 

“Please,” your chest tingles, “Please, Daddy.”

“Uh-huh,” he thrusts against you nice and slow. So stiff and warm. 

“Fuck me, Daddy,” you plead. 

He pulls his hips back, letting his cock slide and drop to where his tip notches at your entrance. “Who’s gonna fuck you?” 

“You are, Daddy.” 

“Yeah, that’s my girl.” His tip pushes into your yearning cunt. 

“Please, Daddy.” 

“That’s right,” his tone sharpens as he abruptly shoves his length into you, pushing your slick walls apart.  He shudders as he bottoms out. There’s a tingling burn in the stretch, but it quickly fades as your body gives way to the intrusion. And then, the overwhelming feeling is fullness and need for friction. 

His hips pull back, and your legs wrap around him, begging him all the way back inside. He slams into you, and you grunt with the impact as his flesh fills yours again. “Good girl,” he praises. His cock — How did you ever mistake another man for him? He slams in again, making you whole. 

As he fucks you, your thighs tremble, and you whimper, “Daddy,” drawing a groan from him.

He rails in, and slides almost all the way out. Each time, your cunt is pulling at him, begging him back in.  

“Whose little slut are you? ” He asks, his thrusts becoming sharper.  

“Yours, Daddy.” 

A bead of sweat hits your sternum, then your forehead.

“That's my girl,” you hear in surround sound. 

A salty drop falls into your mouth.

“Daddy’s little slut,” he breathes, “can really take a cock,” and the voice changer catches the last half.

He hovers his body lower, closer to yours. A thick steam condenses between you as he pounds you unforgivingly, even from the closer angle. Your chest, your whole torso, you’re all dewy with heat. And his skin, it’s so close, you want to feel it. You neeeed to feel it. 

“Fuck,” you whisper. 

Yearning to put your hand on his chest, you try to wriggle out of the rope and your wrists begin to burn. Your breasts jiggle and jut into the air with the effort.  His chest grazes your tits, and you gasp with the pleasure that seizes your tummy. 

You take a deep breath through your nose, drowning yourself in his masculine scent and the weed that hangs in the air. 

He thrusts sharply and stays all the way in, grinding against you. His chest grazes yours again as he brings his mouth to your ear, and feeling his breath makes you weak. “Cum for Daddy,” he whispers, and his lips graze your temple with another thrust. He raises his volume, catching the modulator. “Cum on this cock, princess.”

“Mmm,” You bite your lip and whimper. 

“One more for Daddy.” His thick, hard manhood drags heavily through your tight, wet channel, then he grinds again after bottoming out. His pubic bone is nudging your front just right. 

“Mmgh,” you whimper, “Daddy,” and the pressure bursts. You whine, overtaken by your rhythmic release, hips lifting into him. His heavy breaths seem to echo to the beat of your climax. 

“Fuck yeah,” he breathes, fucking you through it. “Ohhh,” he thrusts sharply and shudders as he begins to pulse. Your spasming cunt milks his cock. Your heels dig into his back. 

He shoots a thick, hot rope deep into your cunt, and with a slow thrust, another one.  Then his cock cruelly slides out. Your heart falls, and your legs reflexively tighten around him. You whine, “no,” with your desperate cunt grabbing at nothing. 

But it's only a split second before his dripping wet cock shoves into your ass. It’s just in time to pulse again as his girth spreads you open and he claims another hole. “Yeah,” He bottoms out and your whole body heats up. In surround sound, you hear, “Hell yeah.” 

He groans as he pulses, and over a few more beats and moans, the rest of his hot seed floods your guts. Each twitch of his shaft makes you shudder. You let yourself get lost in the warmth.

He breathes vocally as he finishes. Then his nose grazes yours ever so briefly, and you bite your lip. As he slides out of your ass, his breath is humid on your cheek and the corner of your mouth. When his face pulls away, your face feels cold.

He reaches toward the corner of your bed. Then you hear him rustling around as he puts his mask back on. 

“Untie me,” you beg. He gets off the bed. More rustling. When he comes back, you feel his pj pants graze your bare skin and you’re offended. 

He lightly braces a hand on your shoulder as he gets closer to where your hands are tied. The cool metal of his blade hits your palm and gives you a chill. The flat of the knife presses into your skin as he slices part of the rope and it loosens. You free your hands and bring them in front of you to caress the burn marks from your attempts to free yourself. He gets off your bed again. 

“You had company tonight,” he remarks. 

“Uninvited,” you clarify. 

“Ohhhh. *Uninvited*,” he taunts with skepticism. The location of his voice has changed—he’s pacing. 

“Jealous?” You ask.

“No,” he replies. “Want him to bleed out anyway? ” 

“Yeah,” you answer. 

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” 

“He’s not a good guy,” you offer.

“Oh, princess. If he was a good guy, you wouldn’t let him in your pants. . .Wouldn't give it up that easy.” 

“I didn’t–what–If you were here, why didn't you do anything?” 

“Oh, I did a lot. Just not to him.”

“How long have you been here?” 

He ignores the question.  “Tell me, princess. Why would Prince Charming knock you out, and then just. . . leave?”

“I dunno,” you mumble. “But I'm glad he left.”

“Cause he got what he wanted,” Ghostface answers his own question. 

“He didn't even cum”

“Oh, that's not it, princess.” 

“How would you know?”

“Think, Pumpkin.”

You’ve got nothing. 

“There’s gotta be one brain cell left.”  He sits down on the bed to put on his shoes. 

“You're not gonna tell me?” 

He stands up. You hear the woosh of his robe as he puts it on and walks away.

“Wait,” you protest. But he doesn't say a word. His footsteps recede, and you tug the blindfold down to see his robe trailing behind him toward the back door. 

“Asshole,” you mutter to yourself.

When you go to the bathroom, cum is leaking out of both holes, which shouldn’t surprise you. After cleaning up, you get back in bed and keep the blindfold with you. It’s faded green, stiff with sweat. You sniff it. His sweat.  Your chest feels light with forbidden affection. 

Then you’re back to thinking about the question he left you with.

What did Javi want? You push through the shame and replay it all in your head. And then, you see the way he held his wet fingers so carefully as he left, not letting them get contaminated. And it makes your stomach drop. He might be trying to do his job, after all. It unsettles you and keeps you up. 

You curl up under the covers, hugging a pillow. The bandana is wrapped around your hand, pressed against your nose and lips. The scent is comforting. You dart your tongue out for a taste, and find even more comfort in the salty tang. Then ,you take a wrinkled corner of it between your teeth. Your lips wrap around the cloth, and your body finally relaxes fully. You drift off suckling at his sweat. 

April 2025 note: If you enjoyed this part, especially the dream, and you also liked the original Every Inch, you might like my new Michael Myers one shot Wreck.

Thank you for reading! PLEASE READ THIS NOTE

Thank you for being here and sticking with me. I value each one of you. I can't overstate how much your comments and reblogs really help and motivate me. Your asks, too. I love knowing what you enjoyed most.

When people simply demand the next one (ignoring my comments about this at the end of the fic, on the fic masterlist, and in my pinned post) without saying anything about the one they just read, it does NOT make me write any faster or prioritize this story. It's actually pretty demoralizing. I work hard on these and if the only thing Im gonna hear after the next one is NEXT/MORE, what kind of incentive is that for me to do the next one? I'm glad you're excited but acknowledging what you just read is a more beneficial way of expressing it, from the writer's perspective. Please ��️

As for what's next - no promises, no time estimates.

[moscatosin]

🖤 jealousy. mattheo riddle 🖤 oneshot. smut. p in v. eating out (female). swearing. jealousy. slytherin!female. mdni. have a glass of scotch - straight. no editing - sorry (3.5k).

Her name is like a hex, slicing through your skull, setting your blood to a temperature high enough to boil that it crawls your skin like fire ants on a rampage.

Astoria motherfucking Greengrass.

You’ve been back at Hogwarts for less than three weeks and she’s already a thorn in your side that you love to hate. Your cheeks burn not with a soft, rosy glow, but wrath red, like you just want to scream a royal ‘fuck you’ to the universe you’re currently trapped within. Getting ready for what should be party of the year – seventh year – your year; the one you’ve looked forward to since the day the sorting hat chose to make your destiny that of a Slytherin you sigh. Breath hot. The night is already fucked. Not only because this party is being hosted by some pureblood Ravenclaw git that you use to have a friends with benefits thing with back in the day, but because she’ll be there. Little Ms fucking Greengrass. Enough said.

Astoria and yourself back in the day – once as thick as thieves. You had the kind of friendship that other girls would have clawed each other’s eyes out for in envy. You wielded the power and influence if gave you like the elder fucking wand until she strutted onto the platform at Kings Cross after the last summer had passed – all coy smirks and new curves that sucked every male gaze into her orbit, including that of your boyfriend. It seemed the holidays had miraculously forged her into some kind of siren blade – sharp, overconfident, a little lethal; and you? Fuck; turns out jealousy is a rather bitter pill you had trouble swallowing down.

You won’t dare admit it out aloud, but there’s something inside, gnawing away at you like rabid kneazle. It all came about because your boyfriend, Mattheo – the loveable idiot; just had to open his mouth and drool out some comments to his mates about Astoria’s ‘assets’ like some first year who’d just discovered firewhiskey. Then during the first dinner of the semester; he and her were announced as head boy and head girl – surely the pairing was some kind of cosmic fucking joke. How? You’re still asking yourself the same question. His dad’s legacy probably? Perhaps the perfect excuse for the headmaster to keep a watchful eye on him? Either way, Mattheo wasn’t exactly the epitome of academic and social excellence and now that they’re practically glued together, you’re left stewing. Whenever you see them together; your heart beats against your ribs so hard it is almost bruising.

Tonight – the eyeliner pencil you’re holding is about to snap, gripped so tightly between your knuckles they whiten like bleach. Jaw clenched; you growl low into the vanity mirror you’re sitting before; the sound rattling behind your teeth. Drawing a thick stroke across your waterline, you smudge the black kohl with your fingertip and coat a deep cherry red stain across your lips. You spritz at your pulse points that strawberry and vanilla perfume your mother swore was the perfect aphrodisiac when you were a wide eyed first year and having believed her then, now – you still do. Mothers know best, don’t they? Hmm.

“You done yet girl?” Pansy’s smirk cuts through the mirrors reflection; her coffee coloured eyes glinting playfully like she can sense your rage and annoyance and she’s all here for it. You’re ready – almost. You’ve managed two shots of pilfered scotch that Pansy stole off a shelf from Slughorn’s office earlier in the week, a too-sweet raspberry mixed cocktail that you can still taste on your tongue and a few mouthfuls of Lorenzo’s dorm made vodka (which Pansy begged for to help you loosen your screws) which has you teetering on the edge of happiness. So yeah – ready; almost.

To your gaze, the vanity mirror displays back absolute perfection as you take a quick once over of your reflection. Your usually unruly hair ironed as flat as a blade; silver sequined dress you chose for the night clinging to you like a second skin. The backless feature just taunting gravity to fuck with you. One last half shot of vodka to set up your night, you hike the dress up your thighs and slip your panties down in one smooth motion before the dress drops back down to hug your hips seamlessly; almost challenging anyone who may look your way to guess what might be missing. Seriously though – who’d know? Hands sliding across your body for a final check, you grab a hold of Pansy’s and slip into glittery heels which click with every step you take like gunfire as you stumble both tipsy and fierce towards the Astronomy Tower.

Are you late? Always. Fashionably? No less. There’s a third year handing out wearable candy at the entrance and you decide upon a candy ring pop that melts in your mouth as you suck on it and walk in. Someone places a drink in your hand without you having to ask. Immediately, you’re pulled into the parties pulse. Strings of intricate tiny golden fairylights dangle from the roofs rafters, casting a glow across the crowd already dancing that is as soft as a lie. The shadows alone that you’re seeing lure you into a trance. The air hums with the scent of smoked pot – thick and hazy, while the choice of music that is playing throbs through the floors and walls, synching perfectly in time with the hammering of your heart. You swig back the drink in a few gulps; a burn of sweet promise for a good night ahead before you mutter to Pansy that you want to dance. Halfway onto making your way towards the dancefloor, an arm you aren’t expecting but probably should, snakes around the back of your waist, hot and possessive.

“Wondering when you’d show up, Princess.”

Mattheo’s comment sounds like liquid sin, dripping warm along the edge of your law as he dips his head to graze his lips across your neck; kissing your pulse point like he fucking owns it. Immediately, your body betrays you for a split second – eyes fluttering shut, a whimper slipping like an echo from your parted lips; cheeks reddening like a fresh bruise. It doesn’t last long though and you’re able to snap back into reality and shove him a step back with a hand to his chest. How fucking dare he practically ghost you for weeks, spending what seems like ‘quality time’ with the head girl rather than his actual girl and then slink back to you like you’re his default setting? Are you both still an item? Sure, like technically, but with Astoria suddenly in the picture as more than just your friend, you’re starting to feel a little like a consolation prize.

“You know me – I turn up when I want to Mattheo”, you bite out, eyes rolling back so hard they might stick. “Party started at eight baby girl – it’s pushing almost eleven”, he whispers into your ear with a voice like a secret before grinning, lazy and infuriating. “---and what? You’ve been pining for me, have you? I bet Astoria’s company has been keeping you real busy.”

It would be easy for you to rage right now; cast confringo without the aid of your wand and burn the fucking tower down, but Mattheo; dressed in all black from head to toe – tie loose like a noose around his neck you could yank and either treat as a leash or choke him with, makes your entire body hum. The silver rings he has slipped on his fingers, glint like promises of trouble which could ever so easily tangle into your hair and pull just right. You’re a half second from giving in; dragging him somewhere dark and dropping to your knees to please him when her giggle cuts through the party. Astoria’s voice; that high pitched popular girl kind of squeal that makes you want to burst your own eardrums to feel pain rather than hear here again. Fuck Astoria and her presence – seriously. Fuck Mattheo for noticing her and fuck his friends for their stupid boyish banter on how ‘fine’ she is. Fuck you, in the simplest sense, for not having enough alcohol in your veins to pluck up the courage to slap some sense into both of them.

Irrespectively, you don’t wait for Mattheo’s smug repertoire of venom to spit out a reply. Seizing Pansy’s wrist again, your drag her through the swarm of bodies clogging up the party onto the dancefloor with your hips swaying to the music and settle into a pocket of space between a Ravenclaw who has hands that wander far too creepily and a Hufflepuff so drunk her eyes are swimming inside her skull. Attention draws to the two of you fast – mhmm, easy. Pansy reaches across to flick your hair over one shoulder, exposing your neck as a temptation. The glow on you now, dancing with the sparkle of your dress screams touch me and the eyes of the crowd stare your way greedily. It isn’t long before drinks appear in your fingertips brimming with an alcoholic hit you at this point, probably don’t even need.

“On three.” You toss your head back as Pansy counts down and let yet another shot slide down your throat like a molten dream. She rests her forehead against your own, slick with sweat as her fingers weave into yours as she pulls you in closer as the music jumps to a song that’s a little slower and more sensual than anything else already played. A giggle rips from you, half drunk – half mad as the room begins to spin like a kaleidoscope dream. You slur out that Pansy is the worst kind of influence you can have and her smile slices into that of a switchblade before vanishing as a hiss leaks from her lips into your ear.

“Riddle’s watching you.”

In time with the music, you both spin, catching Mattheo’s stare through the smoky haze you’ve become lost within. A predators gaze – unblinking, cutting, intimidating. Astoria’s standing beside him; her nails clawing into the shirt which hangs oh so perfectly across his chest, yanking at the fabric like she’s trying to reel him into her own little realm of desire and hell. She whispers something to him as she smiles; lips like poison darts that fail to work. Mattheo’s eyes don’t even bother to waver – obsidian and crucifying as he swallows you whole. The space and bodies between the two of you seems to dissolve into a smear of glitter infused sweat and you don’t think; you don’t even breath. You let go of Pansy with a little reluctance and reach out for the nearest male body you can find. Cormac McLaggen – fucking perfect. Tugging him in close, you let your body sync in with his own as you move to the music and hope that this arrogant Gryffindor might just be the dull instrument you need to hack into Mattheo’s brain to twist until he bleeds jealousy. Or insanity.

“Looking good girl – sequins suit you.” Cormac’s leer is as thick as tar; his grin that of a wolf’s teeth bared. “Do I get to see what you’re hiding underneath?”

You shift in; hands resting on his shoulders as you bring your lips to his ear. They curl like a lit fuse as your tongue ever so teasingly runs across your teeth slow and deliberate before you expose yourself with a single quiet sigh. “Oh – that pretty little head of yours could just imagine, because wearing anything underneath.”

Like a spark on dry tinder; you rise on your toes and plant a kiss on Cormac’s cheek which is as innocent as anything although you feel the party almost tremble with a quake; Mattheo’s fingers clamping around your wrist to pull you off and away before you even noticed his presence beside you. The hiss lingering from his tongue slices through the air like a slither and before you know it his fingers dig up beneath your chin, forcing your head up to face him. His stare locks into yours and you stare into eyes which are like a black void; shimmering with something akin to rage. Lust. You hear Cormac’s voice behind you barking like a chihuahua that Mattheo’s just kicked but everything is drowned out around you as Mattheo’s hands find their way down to your hips.

“What the fuck? What’s gotten into you tonight?”

You smack his chest, but Mattheo yanks you in closer; your breath snagging like clothing caught on a nail. One of his arms coils compulsively around your waist; his free hand sliding from your hip up your body to the nape of your neck as his fingers begin to tangle into your hair just like how you’d earlier dreamed. His aftershave is different – a little muskier that usual, or perhaps it’s just the way it’s blended in with your own perfume and his teeth begin to nip at the crook of your neck leaving a small mark behind that stings like a brand.

“I was hoping it would be your cock – you know, unless you plan on sharing that with Astoria instead...” “You insecure, jealous fucking bitch”, he manages out with a scoff like chuckle. “I am not”, you snap; close to slapping him. “Alright then – show me. Prove it.”

His words hit you like a ticking time bomb. Prove it? How fucking dare he set off the trigger that makes you flip from sweetheart to fucking savage. The crowd around you begins to whisper – their stares picking at the two of you like vultures circling rotten meat, but you couldn’t care less, because you’ve finally got your boyfriend where you’ve wanted him to weeks. Clawing at Mattheo’s belt you pull the both of you closer; fingertips slipping beneath the hem of his shirt to trace across the muscle of his abs you’ve oh so missed before your lips find his for a car crash kind of kiss – slow at first, timid like a recollection of absolute innocence. Soon enough; the kiss turns into a flood; weeks of oppressed hunger desperate for something to eat. You bite his lower lip, rolling it between your teeth and he grows a husky kind of rumble that belongs in the privacy of your dorms, not here on a fucking dancefloor. Your bodies begin to grind together, instinctively – desperate, your curves cursing the time you’ve been starved of his attention, his affection, his obsession and the crowd of students around you both, a howling chorus of yells and whistles edging you on towards some kind of public release.

Your fingers tangle within his curls, yanking him closer until air is a luxury that you no longer need and Mattheo whimpers like he’s just lost whatever battle he planned on playing with you – instead now happily drowning in the waves you’re pulsing through his veins and across his skin. You rip yourself away for just long enough to mutter that you should both probably find a quieter space instead of fucking on a dancefloor and he smirks; a wildfire in his eyes that silently ask if that’s why you stopped.

Mattheo’s hand is still woven into your hair as you hit the Slytherin dungeons. He hisses the password to let you both in like a curse and the stone wall yawns open like a mouth swallowing you whole as you stumble in. The common room is as quiet as a crypt – you don’t bother to stop and admire it how you usually do. Not tonight. You let him drag you to the boys dorms as your hand remains tightly fisted in his belt; the other attempting to unbutton his shirt as you walk, exposing slithers of tanned skin that make your mouth fucking water. His dorm door is barely shut before you manage to slam him against it; the thud echoing like a gavel. Your kisses turn ravenous. His hands are on you – everywhere; your hips, your hair, your neck, the bare skin of your back where the dress dips so low you may as well not be wearing anything and his digging his fingers into your skin like he’s trying to carve his name as ownership into you.

“McLaggen of all fucking pricks. That’s who you use to rile me up?”, Mattheo spits between kisses. “Oh like you can fucking talk Matty. You think I don’t see your little head girl fucking project trying to sink her claws in.” “Shit – didn’t think jealousy would look this fucking good on you.” “It doesn’t”, you remind him with a hiss, “But you’re mine and she deserves to fucking know it.”

Your hands dive beneath his shirt as you force the buttons still done up to pop beneath the way your nails scrape over the ridges of his chest; exposing scars from quidditch, from fights he’s gotten into that you oh so just want to trace and outline with the tip of your tongue. Mattheo shudders; a crack showing in the wall he doesn’t like to let down, but you use the opportunity to your advantage and yank at his tie like it’s the leash around the neck of a wild beast as you guide him backwards towards the beds in the dorm room. His hands find your thighs, sliding up beneath your dress to find nothing but skin and he chokes out a moan, as his lips curl into a wicked grin.

“Nothing underneath huh? Trying to kill me?” “Trying to own you.”

Your reply counters his own, your voice a raw, rust like scrape as you shove Mattheo hard a few steps until his back hits the bed; the frame creaking like it’s begging for mercy. Crawling over him, your knees bracket around his hips, thighs clamping tight as the heat of both of you sears through his jeans. The dress you’re in is an absolute wreck; sequins scattering like fallen stars across the bedsheets and you lean down, getting close, hair spilling like ink as you nip and suck a few hickey’s into the skin above his collarbone, tasting salt and better yet broken defiance. Grinding your hips against his own ever so slow; you make sure each move isn’t pleasure but torture, forcing his jaw to clench and his breathing to hitch.

“You let that little fucking witch touch you..”, you seethe, “I swear to Salazar, Mattheo – if there comes a time where I can’t fucking have you, no one else can either..”

He let’s out a growl; flipping you over so that your back hits the mattress cold and cool, air punched from your lungs. He hovers above you; using his weight to pin you down before his mouth finds your neck – unruly and cruelly using his teeth to graze, bite, suck; marking you in ways that will last for weeks not days.

“You’re fucking insane to think that I want her.”

His hands tear away at your dress; one coming up to cup a breast through the lacy bra you’re wearing as his thumb brushes across a nipple to have you aching and your back arches; a moan slipping free as your body begins to act like a traitor to the rage that you’re still feeling – ever so slowly turning into lust, want and ecstasy. He grabs your wrists, pinning them above your head; his rings cold against your skin.

“Look, I’m a guy. I’m an idiot. I get that”, he confesses, voice cracking delicately, “But you – it’s always been fucking you.”

Mattheo’s lips hover over your own; not for a kiss, just soft enough to take a breath; sharing a toxic air between the two of you. You still want to hate him. A little more – just temporarily; but hell, your body is screaming for something that rubber or silicone or anything that you own that vibrates could not fucking satisfy. He manages to get his belt undone; zipper down, cock out; spitting into his hand to stroke himself just once before the tip slides in between your swollen moist lips to tease your clit and then slips in, and ugh; it feels like his dick has finally found its home. You throw your head back; bounding and rolling your hips as your lips trickle out more demands.

“Say you’re mine and fucking mean it.” “Fuck – baby – all yours…”

His eyes roll back; you let out a mewl like groan, your nails dig into his shoulders; clawing rivers of red down his arms and just as you begin to lose yourself in what’s happening; he slides out, tossing you half off the side of the bed to pepper kisses along the inside of your thighs; apologising to you in every way he can think of – English, Latin, Parseltongue against your clit that has you seeing more than stars. Your legs shake; body quivering. His face is wet; you’ve come once, twice, thrice as his tongue continues with almost vengeance to try and make you feel good; arms wrapped around your thighs to keep you still – keep you as his, because right now – that’s just it, you and him and hell… Mattheo plans on eating you out until you’ve got nothing else left to give.

thank you to @scribbledlovenotes for the chat about the idea xo

[rikudaa]

₊ ⊹ ᶻz !! The Ones Who Weren’t There !! ␥ Part 1

[BatFam x Alien Stage] x Reader | <<< You are here!! >>>

✮ Epitome: One sibling gone, a family unraveling. A watch still blinking. A city still bleeding. And somewhere unknown, eyes open again.

✮ WARNING!! Contains Themes Of Violent Death, Grief, Psychological Trauma, Body Horror, Emotional Breakdown, Survivor’s Guilt

You were always “the Wayne heir.”

That’s what they called you.

In interviews.

In society columns.

From gala podiums beneath chandeliers brighter than the streetlights in half of Gotham.

“Wayne’s golden child.”

“Gotham’s legacy-in-waiting.”

“Just like dear Brucie.”

And maybe, from a distance, you were.

You gave them posture sharp enough to cut glass. Smiles timed to the flash of a camera.

A vocabulary that made tutors obsolete.

You wore medals. Memorized speeches. Dressed in designer you didn’t choose.

Stood at your father’s side like a perfectly-cast accessory.

You played the part.

Because someone had to.

But every crown leaves a bruise.

What they never saw—what they refused to see—was the weight.

The pressure.

The quiet grief of being measured against a myth no one truly knew.

Bruce Wayne: billionaire, recluse, symbol.

And you? His child.

That’s what the headlines said.

But the whispers always followed.

Sticky little things, clinging to the hem of your reputation.

“Who’s the mother?”

“Some random fling, probably.”

“She was a dancer.”

“Or a thief.”

“Or worse.”

“He only claimed the kid to save face. Bet the DNA didn’t even match.”

They said it in locker rooms. Behind manicured hands at garden parties.

In bathroom stalls when they thought you weren’t in the next one over.

Some said she never existed.

Others swore she was the scandal Gotham forgot.

None of them knew her.

None of them wanted to.

That’s what stung the most.

You learned to hold it all in.

Tucked every rumor behind straight shoulders and ironed collars.

Didn’t twitch when they dragged her name through the dirt.

Didn’t blink when they reduced you to charity.

Because if you did—if you flinched even once—they’d know.

They’d see you weren’t perfect.

And then the whole façade would crack.

You were proud of what you built.

Every accolade. Every sleepless night. Every mission feed you stayed up monitoring long after your homework was done.

You weren’t handed your victories—you carved them out of silence and steel.

But it still didn’t matter. Not really.

Because no matter how high you climbed, someone always reached up to pull you down.

“Just a name.”

“Just a shadow.”

“Just another Wayne with a safety net.”

And on the quiet nights—when the manor felt too big, when the mirrors looked too much like him—you’d wonder:

Would he have claimed me if no one was watching?

Would I still be his if my birth didn’t make the papers?

You never got an answer.

Not one that lasted.

All you had were trophies.

And silence.

And a face that looked more like hers than his—the cheekbones, the sharp eyes, the way your jaw locked when the world felt too loud.

They could doubt you.

They could doubt her.

But you wouldn’t let them erase you.

You earned your place.

And if you had to smile through their ignorance to keep it, so be it.

──── ୨୧ ────

The clock read 3:47 a.m.

You shouldn’t have been awake.

But you were.

You always were—whenever someone was out.

Especially Tim.

You stood by the window with your arms crossed tight against your chest. The glass fogged faintly with your breath as you stared through it, not really seeing anything. Behind you, the manor creaked—old wood shifting with the night. Below, the cave hummed with mechanical life, but too quiet.

No ping.

No signal.

No return alert from the field.

Your gut twisted.

Something was wrong. Off.

And when the cave platform finally hissed to life, you didn’t wait.

The chair scraped back behind you, forgotten. Your bare feet whispered over the cold floors, fast down the corridor, toward the grandfather clock passage that Alfred always told you to leave to Bruce.

But screw that.

Not tonight.

You hit the cave level just as the Batmobile came to a stop, steam hissing from beneath the chassis like an angry sigh.

Bruce stepped out first. His cape was shredded along one side, cowl partially retracted, and his expression—blank. Hardened. The unreadable mask he wore better than any kevlar.

He barely looked at you.

But your eyes weren’t on him.

Because a second later, Tim emerged.

He half-fell out of the backseat, catching himself on the doorframe, one leg dragging like dead weight. His side was soaked in red. The left lens of his domino mask was spiderwebbed with cracks, and his mouth was pulled tight—trying not to show pain, trying not to make this harder than it already was.

He didn’t even flinch when you gasped.

Because he knew this wasn’t new.

Just the first time you saw it this up close.

Your stomach flipped.

“What the hell happened?” you breathed, rushing forward.

Tim tried to wave you off, already lifting a hand like he could still be the professional. Like this wasn’t as bad as it looked.

But it was.

And Bruce answered like he was reading off a grocery list.

“We were ambushed. There were more than I anticipated. It’s handled.”

Handled?

Your eyes snapped to him.

“He’s bleeding. He can barely walk. You call that handled?”

He didn’t even blink. Just kept walking toward the med station like this was routine. Like your brother wasn’t half-collapsing behind him.

That’s when something inside you cracked.

“He’s fourteen, Dad!”

Your voice echoed in the cave, bouncing off stalactites and stone.

“Fourteen! You can’t just drop kids into warzones and expect them to fight like they’re built for this—like they don’t break!”

Tim inhaled sharply behind you. You could feel it more than hear it—the way he straightened, tried to make himself invisible. His way of trying to protect you from his own injuries.

You weren’t finished.

“You did this with Jason too. You threw him into the deep end because he was angry and fast and made you feel like the mission wasn’t crumbling. And look what happened! You broke him—and now you’re doing it again.”

Your throat burned. Your voice was rising, cracking under the weight of everything you’d shoved down over the years. The words weren’t rehearsed. They were erupting.

“They’re not Dick. They shouldn’t have to be Dick.”

Bruce paused at that—only slightly. But you saw it. That tight flex in his jaw.

Still, no answer.

“You raised Dick like a prodigy. Like he was some perfect prototype. And now you expect the rest of them to fill his goddamn shadow just to feel like you’re not failing.”

Tim winced beside you, trying to stand straighter, trying to make this less about him. He never liked being the center of attention like this.

“Hey,” he said gently, “It’s fine. Really. Don’t—don’t do this.”

But you couldn’t stop. Not now.

“They’re not weapons, Bruce.” You turned, almost spitting the words. “They. Are. Your. Sons.”

That hit something. You didn’t know what. You didn’t care.

Your hand reached out—gently, instinctively—and curled around Tim’s arm, pulling him close, shielding him without even thinking.

And he didn’t pull away. Not this time.

He leaned into you. Just slightly. But enough.

Bruce’s voice came after a long, cold silence.

“Go upstairs.”

His tone was colder than the cave floor.

“You don’t understand. This isn’t your responsibility. Stop interfering like you’re part of something you’re not.”

Time stopped.

Your breath caught in your lungs.

Not part of something.

Not your responsibility.

The words carved through you like glass.

“Not my responsibility?” you whispered.

Your hands were shaking. Your entire body felt wired and weightless, like it was all about to collapse.

“He’s my brother. He’s not some field report or mission file or name on a damn roster. He matters. They all matter. You want me to stop treating it like it’s my duty?”

You stepped back. Every syllable hit like it weighed a thousand pounds.

“Then maybe someone should’ve started acting like it was theirs.”

You didn’t wait for a response. There was nothing left to hear.

You wrapped your arm firmly around Tim, and together, slowly, you made your way up the stairs.

His fingers clutched your sleeve. Tight.

•

The kitchen was dim.

Only the faint overhead stove light illuminated the space.

Alfred was already waiting. Of course he was.

The tea kettle was set. A towel folded. A chair waiting, turned just slightly—quiet hospitality in motion.

He looked at Tim. Then at you. And said nothing.

Just:

“Sit, Master Timothy. Let’s have a look.”

You helped ease Tim down gently. He hissed as he moved—shoulder jolting. Blood still seeping under the fresh gauze Bruce must’ve slapped on mid-ride.

You hovered beside him, arms crossed too tightly across your chest. As if that alone could keep you from shaking apart.

Alfred worked in silence.

Sterilizing the wound. Cutting away fabric. Wrapping his ankle. Dabbing blood like it was just another Tuesday.

Tim clenched his jaw but didn’t complain. Not once.

You couldn’t stop watching. Couldn’t look away.

You were supposed to keep him safe. You should have kept him safe.

And now he was stitched and shaking and fourteen.

Finally, Tim broke the silence.

“You didn’t have to yell like that.”

You looked up slowly. Blinking like you’d come up for air.

“You were bleeding, Tim. Limping. And he acted like it was just—routine. Like you were another broken gadget he could toss in the tray.”

He didn’t look at you. Just murmured:

“I am part of the mission. You know that.”

His voice wasn’t angry. It was tired. Like this wasn’t new. Like he’d already accepted it.

And that made it worse.

“You shouldn’t be,” you whispered. “You shouldn’t have to be.”

Alfred finished with the ankle, then placed a hand on Tim’s shoulder. He turned to you, eyes worn but kind.

“I’ll prepare tea. For both of you.”

You nodded numbly.

As he turned, he paused. Reached out and touched your arm—just lightly.

“You did the right thing.”

But it didn’t feel right.

It felt like the kind of right that hurts.

You sat across from Tim, both of you silent for a long time.

Finally, he spoke again.

“You were always the one who held it together.”

You glanced at him. His head was tilted slightly toward the window.

“Everyone else cracked. Eventually. Dick left. Jason… exploded. Damian fights everything. Even Bruce—he hides behind it. But you–”

He looked at you now.

“You never lost it. Not once. Not until tonight.”

Your throat tightened.

You didn’t want to cry. Not in front of him. Not when he was the one hurt.

“How long have you been holding it in?” he asked quietly.

The question hit harder than it should have.

Your lips parted. No words came.

Just a slow, sharp inhale.

Because you didn’t know.

Because it was too much.

Because if you said one word, you might cry.

So instead, you shook your head.

And whispered the only thing that still felt true:

“I just didn’t want to watch it happen again.”

Tim looked down.

And this time, he didn’t argue.

──── ୨୧ ────

The chandelier above the ballroom glittered like the Gotham skyline you used to believe meant safety.

Now, it just looked like glass waiting to fall.

You stood beneath it—spine straight, jaw set, wearing a suit that felt more like armor than clothing. Custom-tailored. Impeccable. Probably cost more than your old dorm’s entire tuition bill. It fit like a second skin.

You hated it.

The press called the gala a success.

A smooth handoff.

Wayne blood stepping into legacy.

“Wayne heir dazzles in father’s absence.”

“Poised, polished, professional—the perfect next face of the Wayne empire.”

And you? You smiled on cue. Laughed where appropriate. Recalled every donor’s name, every senator’s spouse, every board member’s favorite wine. You hadn’t let a single drop of champagne pass your lips.

Because this wasn’t your night.

This was Gotham’s.

And you were the mask it wanted.

Bruce hadn’t come. Not that it surprised you.

A single message through Lucius that morning:

“Can’t make it. They’ll handle it.”

“They.”

Means you.

But you showed up anyway. Like always.

Minor hiccups. A late performer. A too-drunk investor. A passive-aggressive spat between two philanthropists who hadn’t forgiven each other since the Arkham Restoration vote.

You handled it all.

Flawless. Smooth.

Your cheekbones ached from the smile you wore too long.

•

By hour two, though… you felt it.

That pressure. That itch.

Between your shoulders, under your skin, in the way your heartbeat slowed just enough to feel like a warning.

You scanned the crowd. The laughter. The flashbulbs.

Nothing obvious.

But someone was watching. You knew it.

You slipped back toward one of the columns—damn near invisible in the way you moved, like Bruce taught you even when he swore he didn’t.

There stood Damian, planted like a statue in a too-crisp tuxedo. His arms were crossed, chin tilted, gaze cutting across the crowd like a falcon.

“I feel like someone’s watching me,” you murmured.

He didn’t blink.

“Of course. You are the face of the empire tonight,” he said flatly.

You frowned. “Not like that.”

Something in his expression shifted. A flicker of awareness, or maybe concern. He didn’t mock you for it. Not this time.

“…Paranoia?” he asked.

You hesitated. “Maybe. Or something worse.”

He nodded once, subtle and sharp. Then stepped closer.

Not a gesture of comfort. But one of protection.

It was enough.

Moments later, a softer step approached.

Tim, slightly pale under dim lighting, appeared at your side in his tailored suit. The cane in his right hand matched his gait—still healing, still moving slower than usual, but still here.

“Someone say paranoia?” he asked, a tired smile tugging at his mouth. “If so, Im your guy here.”

You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding. His presence made it easier to stand upright.

“You okay?” you asked, keeping your voice low.

He shrugged one shoulder, then bumped his arm against yours gently.

“Better than last night. Bruised ego, not internal bleeding. Progress.”

You gave him a look that was part apology, part exhaustion.

“Sorry for dragging you out here.”

“Are you kidding?” he smirked. “I live for trauma in formalwear.”

But the teasing dropped from his face when he saw yours hadn’t changed.

“You’re not just shaken. You’re… spiraling.”

You looked away.

“Still stuck in last night,” you admitted.

He nodded. No judgment.

Damian, sharp as ever, added:

“You haven’t forgiven yourself.”

You met his gaze.

He was right.

“It shouldn’t have happened. He shouldn’t have been in that condition, and I—”

I should have stopped it sooner.

I should’ve fought harder.

I should’ve been more like Bruce.

Tim’s voice pulled you back:

“You did what no one else did. You stood up to him.”

You exhaled slowly. “And look where that got us.”

•

The party wore on.

And so did the mask.

But when the last guests slipped out, and the lights dimmed amber, and the staff began packing up the night’s illusions…

You told the boys:

“You two go ahead. Get rest. I’m heading back to the dorms soon anyway.”

Lie.

Tim frowned, but didn’t push.

“You sure?”

You nodded.

Lie.

Damian squinted at you like he was reading an autopsy.

“Don’t linger.”

You gave him a faint smile. “Scout’s honor.”

He arched a brow. “You were never a scout.”

“Exactly,” you whispered. “I lie well.”

He looked like he wanted to argue—but didn’t.

The two of them left, silent shadows on marble.

And you?

You returned to the ballroom.

Shoes off. Feet aching. Shoulder slumped.

Backstage.

Behind the curtain.

Where the lights couldn’t find you.

You stared at the empty stage, the echo of music long gone, the faint scent of perfume and champagne still clinging to velvet drapes.

You whispered to yourself—because there was no one else to hear it:

“Maybe I was too harsh.”

The memory slammed back into you. Bruce’s face. That cold, immovable silence.

“This isn’t your responsibility.”

“Stop acting like it’s your duty.”

Maybe he was right.

Maybe you didn’t belong in the cave.

You didn’t wear a mask.

You weren’t trained like them.

You weren’t forged in fire like Jason, or honed like Dick, or born into it like Damian.

You were just… the glue. The peacemaker. The face.

A golden child made of glass, cracking in silence.

Your voice shook.

“I tried. I really—tried.”

But no one claps for the one who prevents collapse.

No spotlight waits for the quiet sibling who stitches wounds, who memorizes schedules, who fills in gaps and covers scars with a perfect smile.

Your knees hit the tile floor before you realized you were sitting. Curling in on yourself like the truth was finally too loud.

You buried your face in your hands.

I wasn’t enough.

I never will be.

──── ୨୧ ────

The ballroom had gone quiet nearly an hour ago.

The glitter was gone. The music was gone. Even the air felt… thin now, like it had forgotten how to hold warmth.

You were alone.

The staff had vanished into elevators and service corridors. The janitorial bots whirred once and died in standby. Even the chandeliers, once a galaxy above your head, now dimmed to tired crystal, their shimmer gone.

No footsteps.

No echo.

Just silence.

You stood behind the curtain, alone in the place that had celebrated your name an hour earlier—alone in a body that didn’t know if it belonged to a legacy or a ghost.

And then your fingers found the edge of your clutch.

Muscle memory.

You pulled out the sensor. That slim, quiet rectangle Barbara had handed you months ago.

“Just in case,” she’d said, clasping it into your palm like a lifeline.

“For nights when no one answers the comms. When your gut starts screaming but you don’t know why. Keep it on you. Always.”

You hadn’t used it.

Not once.

You’d smiled, thanked her, tucked it away.

Because you were the safe one. The responsible one. The one who didn’t go on rooftop missions or dropkick muggers or get shot at in alleys.

But tonight…

Tonight the air felt wrong.

You held the device in your palm. Cold. Lightweight. Nearly forgettable.

Until it blinked.

Once.

Twice.

Red.

Your breath locked inside your throat.

You turned your head—slowly, deliberately. Your muscles tightened. Your shoulder blades felt exposed, like the bones themselves could sense it.

Something was watching you.

But the ballroom behind you was still empty.

The curtains didn’t move.

The marble floor gave no sound.

You stared at the blinking light.

Tapped the screen.

Just to be sure.

LOCATION: This building.

DISTANCE: 28 meters.

MOVEMENT: Advancing.

You inhaled—sharp and shallow.

Your hands started to tremble.

“This is just nerves,” you whispered, trying to stitch reason into your panic.

“Leftover adrenaline. From the gala. From last night. From… everything.”

But the blinking didn’t stop.

Your mother’s voice came back to you, uninvited, rising like smoke in the back of your mind.

“You trust your gut, kitten. Always.”

Selina had said it the night you watched her slip a lockpick from behind her earring.

“Your instincts are worth more than any gadget Bruce ever builds. Gut’s faster than fear. Smarter than pride.”

Back then, you didn’t understand.

Tonight, you did.

You felt it in your skin.

In your bones.

This wasn’t panic.

This was warning.

You stepped into the open hall—slowly, quietly. The soft clicks of your shoes echoed too loud against the tile, even though you were barely moving.

The lights flickered.

Just once.

Then again.

A third time—

Then out.

Gone.

Every bulb along the hallway burst in a single ripple, plunging the space into darkness. The emergency lights stayed dead. Even the backup generators—silent.

Someone had cut power.

Someone had planned this.

No cameras. No signal. No eyes.

You stood frozen for a full five seconds.

Then—

You bolted.

Not because you were brave.

Because you were trained.

Selina’s voice again:

“Never wait to be cornered.”

Bruce’s, colder:

“Escape is a strategy, not weakness. Always have a path out.”

You ran—barefoot now, shoes abandoned behind you. Disheveled clothes, hands trembling as you shoved through a service door and into the staff corridor.

The halls blurred past you. The smell of cheap soap and floor polish burned your nose.

You could feel it.

Someone was following.

Too quiet to hear.

But close.

So close.

You turned corners like a bullet. Hit a stairwell. Took the steps three at a time. Your lungs burned. Your ribs ached.

You crashed through the exit door, out into the night—

Into Crime Alley.

You stopped.

The breath in your lungs died.

Brick. Trash bins. The skeletal remains of an old security light flickering overhead. An alleyway Gotham had refused to clean up, even when the rest of the district got repaved.

You knew this alley.

You shouldn’t have ended up here.

You couldn’t have.

You retraced routes in your head—you didn’t take this path.

The building’s exit shouldn’t lead here.

Unless someone rerouted the doors.

Locked the others.

Funneled you.

Your hands clutched the sensor.

It was still blinking.

“Please,” you whispered, voice shaking, barely audible over your own heartbeat.

“Please, someone…”

Your thumb hovered.

Trembled.

You activated the emergency beacon.

Pulse sent.

Silent. Invisible. Immediate.

But in your heart, the truth had already landed like an axe:

No one’s coming.

If they were, they’d be here by now.

If they cared—really cared—they would’ve answered.

Someone would’ve stayed.

Would’ve seen the way you smiled too hard.

Would’ve felt the silence closing in.

But they didn’t.

And now you were here.

Alone.

In the alley that made Gotham what it was.

Where the myth of the Bat was born.

You swallowed. Turned your back to the wall. Blinked into the dark.

“Just shadows,” you whispered. “Just shadows. Just—”

A sound behind you.

You turned.

And the last thing you felt…

…was the shape of your mother’s voice, echoing one last time through your mind:

“Your instincts are worth more than anything, kitten. The trick is knowing when they’re already too late.”

<<< You are here!! >>>

•Note: dawg this shit is too long and tumblr only limited around 1000 words a post 💀🤚 so I have to divide into two parts. The second part will coming out shortly after I edit the rest of this chapter so enjoy this one first!

Tagging: @lizzyzzn @whaaaaaaaaat111 @hai-there-how-are-you

©𐙚 rikudaa—Please do not repost or copy this content to other websites.

[sramoonlight]

Back in town

What if the Batfam got another version of their spidey?

Content you’ll see here: neglected!reader, yandere!Batfam, spidey!reader, female!reader, mentions of death, ATSV x DC

English it’s not my first language, so please be patient

You are spider woman, you’ve been a spider for two years and even when things go hard you make it worth over and over again

That was always your best power, you won’t gave up easily even if the things go hard, so when a spider person appeared to ask you to join his team you were excited.

You lost your universe because of that.

Homeless, you keep living in Miguel’s dimension, he kinda feels guilty about loosing your home like he did something for you to be in this position, he didn’t

But this was your only home now, even if his guard is up not letting himself be seen as something more than a boss, that men sees you as a daughter and you see him as a father

You never had one, actually, you and your mother were by your own not caring about a male figure who could give you comfort or something like that.

So you clenched into that man like your life depended on it

He keeps acting like he doesn’t care, he does

Maybe that’s why you stopped going on dangerous missions

You lived there like nothing happened, missing your mother and the city you used to protect with your life but there was nothing for you to do, only pretend like you were born there.

And that surprisingly lead you to this moment, the moment where you were walking to find Miguel on his “office” if you can call it that.

You took a deep breath hearing how he was humming a song you don’t know, it’s weird to see him acting that way but sure it’s a thing you should appreciate

— Miguel — You spoke, his humming stopped and he looked down to you, the platform going down slowly.

The way he looked at you showed how he is struggling to find the words, a very rare thing to see from him

He walked to you, his hands wrapping around his waist

— I need to send you on a mission — He said in a sigh, like it was a hard thing to say

— I’ll do it, big man! By why would you not just tell Lyla to tell me? — you chuckled imitating his pose

That sent a weird expression to Miguel’s face.

— There is an anomaly in a dimension without Spider-Man —

You swallowed, that type of missions are the toughest but why would he send you and not someone like Jess to do it?

And he wouldn’t send you to do something if you don’t have a reason to do it.

— What’s the catch? — he bites his cheek, the skin tearing by the way his fangs got into it

— There’s a you in this dimension, she was suppose to be Spider-Woman but she died —

Damn that was tough, you looked down thinking about it

A you that died, but your world kept going without you or maybe it wasn’t, if Miguel is giving you this mission probably is because it’ll give you the chance to save a dimension

Like you didn’t to yours.

Taking a deep breath you took his hand

— I’ll do it, it would be just a flash and I’ll be back — that surprisingly set a smile on his face

He ruffled your hair making you laugh and try to pull him away

— I’ll get going now, see you soon —

You tapped your clock, a portal opening as you crossed it.

And everything felt familiar, you were send to a restroom in a school and you can see it as your old dimension

Different, the colors are darker like you could just hide on the shadows not matter the colors you were wearing.

You checked yourself in the mirror, you’re using an uniform

Is this… Gotham Academy? Damn, the you from this dimension lived at Gotham? You are not surprised she died

And that makes you wonder, Miguel didn’t tell you to hide your identity, that means the corpse hasn’t been found

Your other you is probably there, alone in a dark place waiting for someone to care enough to look for her

Anyways, you patted your cheeks leaving the restroom

There was a smile on your face, clinging into the backpack on your shoulder while trying to look from there

— (Reader)! I was looking for you! — a pair of arms hugged you leading you to your classroom.

The chat was something trivial, luckily, your friends talks too much for you to not say anything out of line and keeping some information for yourself

First, the you on this dimension likes chocolate milk, it isn’t something you’ll drink in your nowadays but damn! You drank just a sip and you can guess why she loved this milk

In your dimension, on Brooklyn, you wouldn’t look at the milk boxes because they would be filled with expired milk, you can feel yourself shiver at the memory.

The day at your new school wasn’t something bad, it does have a proper education and you guess it’s because your family is wealthy enough to pay a good education

Speaking of which, you are dying to have this day done so you’ll get back to your mother! She isn’t your mother, but she would be the mother from this version

Probably she didn’t die in that accident, if you’re wealthy enough to afford this school she wouldn’t be working in a gross street with crime all over it.

And the day was over, you left the school with your friend by your side

— Are you walking home again? Damn, Mr. Wayne doesn’t care about your well-being —

What?

Mr. Wayne? THE Bruce Wayne? Your mother married Bruce Wayne on this universe? What a surprise! And damn good! Not even Bruce Wayne could look away from your mother

— Nah, I prefer walking — you smiled at him, leaving him behind.

Now, Where is the Wayne manor? You looked on your backpack looking for a phone but there wasn’t

Doesn’t she have a phone? That’s a thing you’ll tell Mr. Wayne to give you! Now you think about it, you know he has a problem with adopting kids but everyone left him after turning eighteen

Not even his youngest, the one from that failed marriage with the Al ghul’s daughter cared enough to stay and he was just fourteen.

He is going to be a good dad right? Sure he is, he would probably spoil you every day to gain some love for you.

Typing something on your watch you rushed to press a device on an alley, the little spider bot crawling to hide on a safe place

— Lyla, are you here? — You whispered and the hologram showed at your side

— What is it? — she changed her appearance, a shirt with “I love Gotham” on it

— Can you… could you please look where the Wayne manor is? —

You’re helpless, you sure are.

You entered the manor with slow movements, it’s quite late and you are sure your new step father would be mad about it

You don’t want your first memory with him being scolded, that would be so wrong and bad at the same time

Maybe you could stick yourself on the ceiling and go to your room, wait, no, if there is no Spider-Man here that means there is not canon for you to do your usual things and don’t get caught

Damn you have to walk, and the stairs are just in front of the dinner room where you can hear voices.

Taking a deep breath you prepare yourself, you walked to the stairs

— Miss (Reader)! — it was worth the shot.

— I thought you didn’t attend school, I’m sorry for not picking you up, come here, let’s eat lunch — the butler, an old man took your arm leading you to the table

The chat between everyone ended, they all looked at you like you didn’t belong

That… that isn’t a thing for a loved child to experience.

You sat down, next to an empty seat probably for you mother, she would be so mad when she sees how everyone is looking at you

The butler sets a plate in front of you with food, it was onions on it

You hate onions.

Probably the you from this universe doesn’t mind them, there is no way anyone would make you eat it if you don’t like it

The chats start again like you aren’t eating there, now it feels weird

Is this family the classical evil one from those fairy tales? You are sure in there the step mother is the villain, but Bruce Wayne doesn’t look like a bad person

And suddenly everything clicks.

Your friend complaining about Bruce not caring about your well being, the butler not knowing if you attended school and.. the reason your body hasn’t been found

No one looked for you.

No one care enough about you

So that’s the catch, the you from this dimension is a no one beside your family, they don’t care about you.

You feel bad about her, you sure do, she died and at the last second maybe she thought her family would care about her but there you are, taking her place

But it feels off, you know every Spider-Man has someone for them to rely when they feel bad or someone for them to look up

Was she really this lonely?

Ah, for her it must be this butler

The one who dragged you to the room even if no one wants you there

Probably this man is the only one who cares about you, there only one who would cry when he finds out you are dead.

You rushed to eat, you need to leave this place quickly

— Miss (Reader) be careful, you are going to chock — you didn’t listen, instead you picked up your plate even if the butler looked like he was about to take it from you

And..

You hugged him, tightly

— Thank you, thank you for everything —

You’re sure he would feel bad about not saying goodbye, probably he would think he had to do more for you even a little more

The feeling of having the chance to do something but being unable, you know it, you are not her, and yet this man needs a way to say goodbye.

You left the room running upstairs, you could only hear a voice

— Isn’t she acting weird? —

Let’s get back to you, you followed your intuition to where your room is supposed to be

It happens to be a place filled with spiderwebs and dust, a place you wouldn’t expect you to sleep and see as a safe place.

Opening the door you realize, you are the protagonist of a weird story where Bruce Wayne is the evil stepfather and his kids the villains

It’s too small, small for a whole manor where at least five people live at

— There used to be posters — You whispered touching the small pieces of masking tape left on the walls

You can see a piece of paper left on the floor like it was just teared off

And… in a small corner, where everything seems to find their reason, there is an altar

With your mothers photo

— So you’re dead even in this universe — You mumbled, your hands moved to grab the photo smiling at the view

In your universe, you had photos of her, but when everything disappeared the photos did too and you don’t have the heart to ask Miguel to see her from the computer

You can’t see her face again, but there is something for you to hold even if it doesn’t feel the same anymore

— You wouldn’t let this happen, you would make this girl happy — it feels off,

You know, you just know the you from this world only finds comfort on the idea of living for her mother

She died alone, alone by the thought of what could be.

That gave you an idea

Immediately, you moved across the bedroom looking for something until you found it

A diary.

— Damn, how lucky I am — You smiled opening the small notebook.

“Dear diary, I’m not going to write dear diary everytime I want to write on you, sorry not sorry”

Yeah, that kid is you for sure

“My name is (Reader) (Last name) Wayne, Am I supposed to present myself? Well I did! Anyways, uhm, the life on Gotham is pretty weird”

“My father, he is too much into his own life to care about me and I don’t mind, I mean, I always thought he left us behind but he didn’t know about me and now he’s forced to take care of me, he doesn’t even pretend to like me”

So, you knew? That feels incredibly bad, knowing no one cared about you but still having to deal with it and shut your mouth because you don’t have nowhere to go

Wait.. left us behind?

“Mom is gone, her illness won and I’m trapped here, maybe it’s better than being on a foster home or maybe the same”

Bruce Wayne… he is your biological dad?

That makes you angry, the only way he cared enough to be on your life was when your mother died

No, he didnt, he was forced to

— Motherfucker.. — a whisper left your mouth and you started to read the diary

All night.

When the sun comes up you realized how late you stayed up, and you don’t feel tired at all

Maybe is the feeling of angry, but you can’t even close your eyes and pretend to sleep

You hate this family, you hate them all, they’re pieces of shit who doesn’t care about you at all and you won’t accept them in your life

But it isn’t your life, it’s hers and she would love to be seen

Maybe you are here to get rid of the anomaly, but why not changing it a little? There is no canon to disturb, and Miguel isn’t here.

That’s the thing, you’re a performer, back in you universe you were a legendary actress shines every time she is performing, you aren’t anymore but the way you can make everyone look at you is still there.

You stayed up all night, your eyes moving up and down reading every word and taking it with your heart, stealing pages from the diary and writing things she could do

You took her way of talking.

Even you stayed up looking at old photos of her in galas, standing next to a man that isn’t looking at her at all

Videos where only her silhouette could be seen, it was enough because you only needed to count the steps she takes or the way her shoulders move when she’s breathing

You memorized it all

By the end of the night, when you had to blink to take the tiredness away you looked at those pages where the script was set

“(Reader) (Last name) Wayne is the first blood daughter of Bruce Wayne, the family doesn’t care about her at all and they ignore her til she died, the media doesn’t care about her either, she could be seen on the news but she wasn’t interesting enough to get her own article

She’s dead, she died by an anomaly before becoming Spider-Woman, but she had the lucky chance to get back to life

She’s a star, she takes all the attention”.

That leads us here, you walked to the living room where Dick, the acrobat brother who you read about on the diary was scrolling through his phone

— Dick! — You called him, making him look up a little

That look of not caring a little bit about you, waiting for this conversation to be over so he could get back to his business

You can guess he is looking for something to escape, you won’t let him

He’ll see her.

It happened too fast, you used your stickiness to stand in your hands and for a moment that grabbed his attention

— When did you learned to do that? You can’t even go a four without falling — he is seeing you!

For the first time, he left his phone behind looking at you with curiosity

He cares

— I learned by looking at you! — liar, he doesn’t need to know it’s a lie

And his eyes shined, for a second

— Ah! That’s all, I have to go now — you stood on your feet fixing your clothes and that made him jump out of the couch

— What if we go to grab something to eat I- —

— Sorry, I have plans — you left the room, you left him behind

And he couldn’t take his eyes out of your frame

A thing you discovered reading the diary, the you from this universe accepts when someone tells her to wait and that’s certainly the reason no one sees her

She doesn’t want to look like a brat desperate for attention, you don’t need their validation

And a thing that makes everyone on this family be appreciative it’s the way you can’t take the eyes out of them, Jason? Is too impulsive and his body is huge so you have to look at him

Tim? He was too smart, too smart to fool and you have to keep an eye to him

You can keep counting their abilities but that isn’t the point, the point is.. this version, she had things to make everyone look at her but she was too worried about being a good girl to force their eyes to look at her.

You don’t.

It wasn’t a surprise Dick started to be more in the manor, you ignored his presence

But you shined, reminding him of everytime he used to ignore your presence

The texts were there, he trying to get your attention and replying to the last invitation the you from this dimension gave him.

You are on the living room, your legs pressed into your chest while you write something on your notebook

The anomaly hasn’t triggered any device you placed to know their location, a long mission you’ll have to do if you want this universe to be safe

What a pain in the ass.

— Miss (Reader) — You looked up, the butler was standing there with a glass, chocolate milk

You know the version from this universe likes it, yet you don’t know why it isn’t on its usual box

— Is everything okay? — he sat down next to you, giving you the glass as you took a sip of it

It’s good, not good enough to take it everyday but it is

Ah, wait

Alfred, this butler used to put the milk for you when you felt sad, usually when one of your brothers rejected you again

Does he..? He knows, he knows you aren’t the same

— it is it’s just.. well, I’m thinking about leaving the manor — You whispered, his eyes opened in fear

Not fear, that wasn’t the word, pain?

This man, you’ll break his heart if you leave him behind and that’s what you wanted

— Father won’t look at me, so what’s the point on being here? Once I turn eighteen I’ll leave —

He looked at you, there’s no words for him to say because you know he’ll try to make you stay but at the same time he understands it

He saw you, I mean, she crying too much because of things this family did to her and if loosing you means you’ll be happy

He can take it

…

He can’t.

He leaves your side looking at the glass where you just drank what could be one of your last cups of chocolate milk, how his heart aches at the thought of not being able to wipe your tears when you feel down

He wouldn’t, but he needs to, even if it’s wrong.

So when the sun goes down and he’s trapped on the batcave by Bruce’s side he needs to say it

— One of the children is requesting a little more money to pay an apartment — he said with a straight voice, no hesitation even if it was a lie

— Tell Damian landlords won’t accept batcow — he kept typing without looking at him

An usual thing for him to do.

— Your third child, master Bruce — that got his attention, he looked at Alfred

— Tim is already out of here, he needs to move? — Bruce asked, like it was a thing he couldn’t believe

He doesn’t, actually but that doesn’t matter

— No, sir, miss (Reader) — and that send all memories about his little girl to him

And, for his concern, there wasn’t one he could recall

All of them where the ones he saw her eating dinner, no more, no chatting or something similar to it

He feels bad, he does why doesn’t he remember anything about his little girl?

— She wants to move? Why? She is just.. — Damn he doesn’t remember, that makes him even more guilty

He doesn’t know anything about her, yet he can’t do anything now that she’s about to leave

Only..

He thought, his head moving fast in a way he could think of an answer, he can make her want to stay

Yeah! That’s a good answer, he can do that

Taking a deep breath, he stood up walking to Alfred

— Is she here? — he asked, Alfred looked up to him and something shined on his eyes like it was enough for him to find something

— She left just an hour ago, I’m afraid you’ll have to wait ‘til she comes back — damn, good, he lost his opportunity to talk to you

God bless him, he suddenly feels like he needs to be by your side at every chance he gets

Why? Why on earth when he didn’t care about you before? He doesn’t know, there’s no answer and he doesn’t care to find it, it’s his baby! His only blood daughter.

The way Bruce moved to go upstairs made the butler smile, you wouldn’t leave if you father cares enough to take you back to his arms right?

And when everything was going according to his plan, the box of chocolate milk was about to expire.

Yes, another spider!reader, Can you blame me? This is too good to not do it

Comments and reblogs are appreciated!

[multific]

Soft Hands, Heavy Heart

Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: Bucky tries to pull away, convinced he’s too broken to deserve love.

The rain had stopped, but Bucky hadn’t.

You found him on the rooftop, just after midnight.

His coat was too thin. His fists were clenched. His silence was louder than any thunder.

“You missed dinner,” you said gently.

He didn’t look at you.

You approached him slowly, the cold making you shiver.

You knew better than to touch him without warning, but gods, you wanted to. He looked like a man holding the world together by the edge of his teeth.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured. “Didn’t mean to make you wait.”

“You didn’t.” You paused. “But you’re scaring me, Bucky.”

That made him flinch.

Not at the fear but rather at the thought that he caused it.

“I shouldn’t be near you,” he said after a long moment, voice raw. “I thought I could. I thought maybe I was something new now. But I’m not. I still have… all of this inside me.”

He gestured to himself like he were something dirty. Something broken.

You stepped beside him, arms crossed tightly.

“Do you think I don’t know that?” you asked. “Do you think I don’t see it? The way you wake up sweating, the way your jaw clenches when someone walks too fast behind you. The way you keep apologising for being in the room?”

He turned toward you, pain carved into every line of his face.

“You deserve someone whole,” he said. “Someone who doesn’t look in the mirror and see a murderer. Someone who doesn’t count every good day like it’s borrowed time.”

You didn’t speak right away. Then you stepped in front of him and reached for his hand, his metal one.

He froze.

Then, slowly, his fingers curled around yours.

“You think I love you despite your scars?” you whispered. “No, Bucky. I love you because you still stayed kind. Because even with blood on your hands, you use them to hold me like I’m made of light.”

His throat worked like he wanted to speak but couldn’t.

“You think you’re hard to love,” you added, voice shaking. “But you make it the easiest thing I’ve ever done.”

He looked at you then, and god, you saw all of it. The fear. The need. The way he wanted to believe you but didn’t know how.

And still, he leaned in.

His forehead touched yours. Cold skin to warm.

“I don’t know how to be this,” he whispered. “To be soft. To be loved.”

“You don’t have to know how.” Your lips brushed his. “Just don’t run from it.”

He kissed you then, hesitant at first, like it might burn him. Then deeper, like it was saving him. And maybe it was.

Because when he pulled back, something had shifted in his eyes.

Less pain. More wonder.

And when he pulled you into his chest, your head tucked beneath his chin, you felt it:

The rhythm of a heavy heart trying to beat softer.

Just for you.

~Masterlist~

ˇAO3ˇ

Wattpad

/DO NOT TRANSLATE, STEAL OR REPOST ANY OF MY WORKS TO THIS OR OTHER PLATFORMS/

[bartxnhood]

mayberry | t.o

tyler owens x fem!reader

based on this request: Requesting one, where Tyler and his crew chasing the tornado as casual but there's a twist (it can be a happy or angst ending) what if the tornado they chase was heading to where reader lives, today he was planning on asking her to move on with him after they finished another successful on making the tornado gone yet when he noticed where it was going he drives faster and trying to outrun the tornado.

warnings: descriptions of tornadoes, reader loses her house, blood, cuts.

w/c: 1.8k

requests open

not proofread

Copyright © 2023 bartxnhood. All rights reserved. This original work is not allowed to be reposted on any platform in any format.

✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵

“shes a pistol, ty. hope you can handle her” javier begins, removing his sunnies and leans against his white truck while looking at tyler across the driveway of your mothers house.

tyler smiles to himself at the mention of you. he looks in his wallet, a picture of you and him at a rodeo. you’re wearing his red flannel and white cowboy hat as you kiss his cheek.

a picture he treasured most. no one knew about this picture in his wallet. it was his own little secret, you didn’t even know he had the polaroid.

tyler and you both majored in meteorology throughout your time in college. storm chasers had a limited dating pool. nobody was willing to chase after these monstrous storms in such a way and then return to laugh about it over a few beers.

that’s why he took such a liking to you.

tyler didn't try to hide his feelings first. he would constantly try to convince you to go out with him or do something else, but you would never accept his advances. you didn't believe that you could put up with his ego.

till you began chasing with him.

since then, you saw a side of him that you didn’t know. tyler was a kind hearted man, caring for the people that fell victim to these storms. he was so intelligent that it made you rethink your own decisions, that was rare.

before you knew it, you started falling for tyler owens. the rest is history.

“i’m thinkin bout asking her to move in with me after we get this storm tonight.” tyler confesses to javier, a sly smirk on his face. javier’s eyebrows raise, cocking his hip to the side and crossing his arms.

“you think she’ll say yes?”

tyler presses his lips into a thin smile, stuffing his wallet into his back pocket where it belongs. “i hope so.” he answers, looking up towards the house.

tyler had decided it was time to take the next step with you. he had been thinking about asking you to move in with him for a while now, and he was sure it was the right decision.

he loved you deeply and couldn’t imagine his life without you. he wanted to wake up next to you every morning, cook breakfast together, and spend evenings cuddled up on the couch watching movies.

the thought of you living together filled him with excitement and joy, and he couldn’t wait to see the look on your face when he popped the question.

“guys!” lilly hollers, exiting the rv, running towards the pair. “we have huge activity southeast. we gotta move, now!”

there’s a tension that settled in over the group as they all scrambled to get their things together and radars ready.

tyler’s first thought was you. he takes off, boots stomping in the puddles as he swings the screen door open.

“y/n?” he hollers, taking his sunglasses off.

“up here!” you answer, drying your hair after a shower.

you watch in the mirror as tyler appears in the doorway, “whats up?” you ask, dropping your hand by your sides. “there’s one southeast. big one.” he’s almost grinning hoping to get you excited but his smile drops when you don’t react.

there’s a silence as you begin to rake product through the ends of your hair. “cmon, we don’t wanna miss it. lilly says it’ll touch down in an hour at least.”

“m’not goin” you reply, looking into his eyes from the mirror. “what? whaddya mean?”

“it’s mom” you answer, followed by a sigh. “she’s doing bad again, she’s freaking out over it and i’m just gonna stay with her. the house isn’t in the path so it should be fine” you say, turning to him.

you can see a soft frown on his lips as he looks down at you, “we always chase together.”

you smile sadly, and nod. you let your hand come up and caress his cheek. “i know, darlin. we’ll get the next one i promise.”

you press a quick kiss on his lips, “be safe, baby.” he replies, kissing the top of your head and heading off with the crew.

the atmosphere was thick and heavy with a sense of impending doom as the tornado began to take shape. the clouds churned and wracked, twisting into a massive, menacing funnel cloud. the noise was deafening, a high-pitched roar that seemed to come from everywhere at once.

gusts of wind howled like a beast, tearing at anything in their path. this was no ordinary twister; this was an EF5, the most powerful and destructive tornado there was. it loomed on the horizon, a sinister harbinger of disaster.

tyler, now chasing the storm, was strapped into his well-worn red dodge. his eyes fixed on the churning sky as he chased a massive storm through the southeast landscapes. his truck was a trusted companion, having borne him through countless weather events.

its engine roared confidently as tyler navigated the treacherous terrain, seeking the perfect position to observe the storm up close and capture its raw power. he was fueled by a deep passion for the spectacle of the weather and driven by the adrenalin rush of being in the heart of the swirling chaos.

“you seein this, T?!” boone hollers from the passenger seat. “i’m seein it boone!” he yells back, knuckles white on the steering wheel.

tyler doesn’t remove his eyes from the storm raging in the wheat field, but something feels off. something isn’t right.

“what is it, ty?” javier calls over the radio noticing his decreasing speed. tyler is too mesmerized by the black clouds, he doesn’t reply. “T?” boone calls.

“something’s wrong.” he mumbles, “the path..the path is changing!” he says hurriedly watching the surroundings.

lilly pipes from the backseat, “its moving northwest! heading straight for mayberry!”

“shit.” tyler hits his steering wheel before making a sharp turn, turning around.

“the path is shifting!” boone alerts over the radio.

tyler’s heart launched in his chest watching the twister hurtling towards the small town where you lived. he’d often worried about this, and now his worst nightmare was unfolding before his eyes.

his grip tightened on the steering wheel, and his eyes darkened as he gunned the engine, pushing the red dodge to its limits. he had to get to you, had to make sure you were safe. his mind raced as he calculated how much time he had, the seconds ticking away in an excruciating countdown.

there was no warning, the storm was moving too unpredictably. you should’ve monitored it closer, you should’ve been more prepared.

the house trembled violently as the tornado tore through the neighborhood.

the windows shattered, spraying glass everywhere. the walls creaked and groaned, buckling under the immense pressure of the onslaught.

pictures fell from the walls, their frames splattering on the floor. furniture was hurled around like toys, breaking apart as it smashed into the remaining walls.

“mom!” you holler, staying low to the ground reaching out for her. she takes your hand and you pull her close to your body.

“hold on tight!” you scream.

the two of you huddled together, their screams blending into the cacophony, their eyes wide with terror. outside, the world had become a blur of debris and chaos, the swirling vortex ripping everything apart in its path.

tyler stepped out of his truck followed by boone and lilly. his heart thudding heavily in his chest as he saw the destruction hoping beyond hope that she was safe. but the sight that greeted him was a nightmare. your once-cheerful home had been reduced to a pile of rubble, the remnants of your life scattered among the wreckage. the tornado had ripped through the property, leaving destruction in its wake.

the property wasn’t recognizable, the only way he knew it was your home was your white jeep wrapped around the willow tree.

tyler’s hands come up and run thorough his hair, “oh god..” he breathes. “jesus christ..” boone says just above a whisper.

tyler can’t let his emotions get the best of him. he needed to find you.

“y/n!” he hollers.

“y/n!” lilly screams. “ms.l/n” boone calls for your mom.

tyler pushes his way through the debris, his eyes scanning the rubble for any sign of you.

he continued to pulled lumber, pillars, glass and furniture for what felt like hours. “y/n!” his heart thudding against his chest with every moment that passed. panic clawed at his gut as he continued his desperate search.

finally, he heard a faint sound, like a whimper. he turned, and there you were, buried under a pile of rubble.

his breath caught in his throat as he carefully dug you out, his hands trembling.

as your face came into view, it was smeared with dirt and blood, but your eyes widened with relief as you saw him. “t?” you rasp.

he gently picked you up, cradling you against him like a fragile doll.

"i'm here," he whispered, his voice rough with emotion. "im here, and you're going to be okay."

you wince, standing on the unstable ground. “mom..” you croak, tears brimming down your eyes again. “she’s down there..”

tyler nods, he looks back at boone and was about to go down and search for her but boone stops him. “i got her.”

boone disappears in the pile of rubble, then he emerges with your mother in his arms. “we need an ambulance!”

tyler nods and leaves you with lilly to call for first responders.

“‘m fine, t.” you say, say in the back of the ambulance. “just makin sure..” he whispered taking your arm in his hands and scanning your skin. he needed to make sure you weren’t seriously injured, even though you were just checked out by ems.

“t..” you sighs as he continues, his hand snow on either side of your face moving your head around still checking. “tyler.” you call him again, this time your hands gripping his wrists.

his eyes meet yours, the sign of tears still staining your cheeks. “i’m okay, i promise” you assure, smiling. “jus glad you made it to me, how’d you know?”

tyler shrugs, “the wind started morning north, learned it from you.” he answers, coming to your side and pulling you in.

you stay there for a while, the sirens flooding your ears and the lights illuminating the place where your home once stood. tyler rubs your shoulders and pulls the emergency blanket tighter around your body.

you lean your head against his shoulder and wrap your arm around his. “is now a bad time to ask if you want to live with me?” he looks down at you.

“what?” you look up at him.

and maybe it wasn’t the right time, but he didn’t know if he’d ever get the chance to ask you.

“live with me. hell, bring your mom. i don’t care, just..” he reaches for your hand. “i just know that i love you and i want you around even more than you already are.” he laughs lightly, continuing to rub your shoulder.

“i would love to live with you.”

tyler smiles proudly, squeezing you closer to his side.

“now i just needa marry you.”

[monamipencil]

— (s)exercise | ft. aerobics instructor! soonyoung

⋆ pairings; soonyoung x fem! reader ⋆ genre; smut, crack, fluff ⋆ w.c; 3.4k+ ⋆ warnings; aerobics instructor! soonyoung, pseudo cheating (no cheating actually occurs, it'll make sense i promise), raw sex, creampie, oral (f. receiving), he gets cross-eyed at the sight of tits, multiple positions and multiple orgasms, lots of cursing, they're down bad for each other, he yaps and she listens, talks of kinks in public lmao, mentions of exhibitionism and roleplaying and i have no idea abt aerobics actually :) ⋆ a/n; first soonyoung smut and if u saw this post before, no you didn't (tumblr hates me). minors do not interact.

You check your phone for the address and look at the floor sign. Second floor. Shoving the gadget inside your duffle bag, you shuffle around, looking around for your class. At the end of the floor, a few neon lights flashing aerobics catch your attention. 

You jog towards the door and push it open. To your relief, a few people have already gathered in the room. Strolling the room, you settle down your bag and remove your jacket. 

The room is everything you expect from an aerobics classroom. Well-lit with mirror-covered walls. A platform is at the front of the room, slightly elevated compared to the floor. 

Aerobics doesn’t fall under your general list of interests. The only reason you find yourself here is because of your boyfriend, who suggested this class because he was interested and wanted you to take it up as well. Truth be told, you’re looking forward to this as well. The myriad of benefits root your interest. But your boyfriend’s interest tops everything else. 

A chorus of greetings echoes through the room, and you notice the new arrival. You jog towards the crowd and stand somewhere in the second row. 

And then, you notice him. 

Upturned eyes sparkling with enthusiasm. The most perfect pair of lips stretched into a grin. The white tank top he's adorning displays his strong shoulders and toned arms. He’s beautiful. You force yourself to keep your eyes on his face. 

He looks around the room with a small smile. Your heart skips a beat when his eyes find yours. You smile at him, and he nods, grinning at you. 

“Good evening, everyone. I'm your instructor Soonyoung for beginner classes. I hope you all have a good time here.” He claps, and the women and men around you cheer. 

You're unable to take your eyes off him, drawn by his allure. Before you know it, the class starts, and upbeat techno music fills the room. 

He stands on the platform, starting off with a few stretches. Shoulder stretch, toe touch, side bend, hip rotations. His back faces the class, and he monitors through the mirror. Your heart beats wildly against your rib cage each time you lock eyes with him.

You huff a short breath, following through the exercises. The warm feeling never leaves your chest, and your knees grow weak each time he looks at you. 

Soonyoung is facing the class now. His toned body, drugged with adrenaline, moves effortlessly to the music. You remind yourself to keep your body moving instead of gawking at him. 

Sweat mats his hair to his forehead. A gentle shade of pink settles on his skin, but he doesn’t look tired. Ardor seeps from him, causing you to keep up with his moves. 

Once again, his eyes land on yours. But this time, he lingers longer. You dare to hold eye contact as you mirror his movements. Adrenaline pumps through your veins, and your heart hammers inside your chest. He shifts his eyes towards the others. 

Stray hair sticks to the side of your face, and sweat gathers at your back. But you could care less about everything else now. The room is sweltering, though you don’t know whether to chalk it up to the exercise or your very hot instructor. 

“Alright! 1, 2, 3!” his raspy voice booms as he switches to another move. This involves jumping, and you can't help but ogle his perfect muscles each time his shirt rides up. 

Unbeknownst to you, Soonyoung observes you. More specifically, your eye placement. A smirk graces his lips, but he doesn’t let his gaze linger too long. He tries his best to not let his eyes dip down. 

And so the class continues. 

You get stuck during some moves, and embarrassment crawls on your skin when he double-checks if you are ok. Even through the crowd of bodies, his eyes always find yours somehow. And maybe you are imagining it, but you swear his eyes dipped down to your chest. 

With warmth pooling in your stomach, you try to get through the class. You stare at him. He stares back and smiles. 

“Hi,”

Startled by the sudden presence, you almost spit out the water in your mouth. You manage to swallow it, trickles of the fluid flowing down your chin to your neck. Soonyoung follows the water drop till it reaches your cleavage, disappearing behind your tank top.

“Oh, hi!” you chirp with unfiltered joy but with much regret you bite your tongue right after. He flashes you a grin and steps closer to you, “So, liked the class?”

You nod your head, “Yep! I'm considering to continue here.”

His grin only widens, cheeks puffing up in the most adorable manner. If it weren't for his toned biceps and pecs peeking out through his tank top, you would've paid his cute face more attention.

The other attendees are trickling out of the studio, too immersed in their conversations which reminds you to take off as well. You grab your duffle bag, and flash your hot instructor a small smile.

You open your mouth to bid your goodbye when he cuts you off, “You can stop acting, you know?”

Confused by his statement, you blink and stare at him. All while he tongues his cheek, and leans closer towards you. Your lungs heave, intimated by his proximity.

He takes a step closer and you, a step back. So it goes, till your back hits the wall and he closes the distance between you, pressing his body against yours.

“Soonyoung, we shouldn't do this” you whisper. Yet arousal floods your veins and his body heat wafts to your sweltering skin. With a gulp, you look into his eyes. He moves closer and you tighten your legs together.

A yelp escapes your lips when tugs you to him, enveloping your body with his arms. His muscles press against your body through the material of shirt. His defined arms feel so right around you. And you can't help but drown in his eyes.

His hands drift down, taking purchase on your ass. He kneads them in his hands, pushing you further into his embrace. You give in, wrapping your arms around his neck and connecting your lips to his.

Soonyoung moans at the contact and wastes no time in kissing you back. His tongue darts past your teeth, gliding over yours. The heat of his mouth is a much welcomed one and you feel yourself growing hotter with each passing second.

Your arousal travels down south, making your cunt throb with need and dripping down your folds. Your panties stick to you like second skin, adding to your heightened feelings.

“Soonyoung, someone might walk—”

“Yeah, fuck.” He pulls back, chest heaving with each breath he forces in.

He takes a moment to compose himself before wrapping his fingers around your wrist and guiding you to the door. You grab your bag in a hurry and follow him. But he stops right before and says, “Locker.”

With a chaste kiss to your cheek, he jogs out to the destination. You wait for a few seconds before leaving as well, following your instructor who's a few steps ahead of you.

You barely make it to the door that reads staff only, before you're pulled into the room with a force that knocks breath off your lungs. His hands are all over you again and he kisses your neck and travels up to your lips.

Your lips connect once again. You cherish the softness of his lips and the warmth of his tongue. But it doesn't reach the intensity of the previous one as he reduces them to pecks and pulls away.

Soonyoung locks the door and pulls you further into the locker room. Your eyes dart all over the new space, taking in the silver lockers and the wooden benches. It's well-kept and neat with the smell of some cheap air freshener.

You don't mind it though. Why would you even spare anything else a thought when your hot instructor stands in front of you, removing his barrier of a top?

You take a moment to appreciate the fine specimen standing before you. His abs glisten under the studio lights, giving him a god-like image. He looks like a fucking Greek god.

“Done gawking?” The corner of his lips tug up, smug lining them. His eyes are way darker than what you observed at the start of the class. Lust swirls through his irises, and the thoughts behind them seem to tread nowhere near innocence.

“Come on, give me something to stare at too.”

You scoff and give him what he wants, removing your tank top to expose your breasts, still hindered by the sports bra. His eyes are fixated on them, silently begging you to take it off as well.

The bra comes undone, landing on the floor soundlessly. And, he's on you, like a fiend out for blood. His hands cup your breast, thumbing your pebbled nipples. He pinches and tugs on them, inflicting you with the right mixture of pleasure and pain.

“Fuck, come here.”

He settles down on one of the wooden benches in the middle and tugs you down to perch on his lap. This position gives him the liberty of being face to face with your tits. And he's already cross-eyed at the prospect of having his lips around them.

He does just that, kissing the flesh of your breast before taking one nipple into his mouth. He moans as soon as his tongue greets your sensitive skin, licking all around it. He sucks with a fervor that makes your pussy throb and clench around nothing.

Soonyoung moves to the other one, doing the same but this time, he toys with your other nipple. He flicks the bud with his tongue, and circles the areola. He finishes with a loud pop, looking at the mess he created with a cheeky smile.

You shudder, trying to catch your breath. His dazed visage and hung open mouth prompts you to kiss him. His hands skate up the naked skin of your back, waking goosebumps as he does so. Sweat prickles your skin and your core swelters with an insatiable need. He takes your breath away with his kiss as well breaths life down your lungs.

Something poking your thigh shifts your attention. Fucking hell, did he just throb?

You don't hesitate to wrap your fingers around his clothed cock. It causes him to hiss and whine immediately, hips bucking into your hand for attention. A chuckle slips past your lips and you eye his face, contorting in ecstasy, though you've barely done anything.

Hooking a finger under his waistband, you pull his boxers and tracks down to his thighs. “Shit—” he sounds like he's about to cry. A smirk lines your lips.

You slowly wrap your hand around his length, giving it a few experimental pumps. A plethora of curses fly from his lips, prompting you to thumb his tip. And, just like you had predicted, he gasps and cries out loud when you tease his slit.

As much as you'd like to tease him further, you're way too horny and pent-up. You get up, pulling his tracks down further and let it pool down on the floor. He kicks them off completely before purchasing his hands on your hips.

Wide, lust filled eyes stare up at you. He kisses the exposed skin on your abdomen before pulling down your tights. You help him get rid of it and without any warning, he presses his thumb on your folds. The pads of his fingers rub on the ruined cloth, occasionally grazing your clit.

Soonyoung strips you bare, tossing your panty to rest of the clothes. He kneels on the floor and kisses your mound before traveling further to your core. He tongues your folds, sucking and slurping on your clenching hole before shifting his attention to your clit.

He fixates there, sucking on your little nub with everything he's got. Wanton moans fill the locker room as he flicks his tongue on the bundle. You card your hand through his hair and force him further into your cunt.

Hiking a leg up on the wooden bench, you give him better access to your needy core. “Fuck, wanted to do this the moment you stepped into the studio,” warm breath wafts against your cunt as he mutters, drunk on your essence.

His tongue explores your folds again. He pushes out his tongue and moves his head up and down to lick stripes on your cunt. The brush of his nose against your clit makes you gasp and ride his face as you hold his head still.

He doesn't mutter a word, opting to obey your wishes while you use him for your pleasure. You grind your hips on his tongue, desperately seeking a release. He moves his head in sync with your hips, licking all over your cunt and your hole.

You grow breathless and pace up your speed. Wetting two of your fingers, you bring them down to rub your clit while grinding on his tongue.

Soonyoung leaves imprints on your thighs with his nails, forming moon-shaped marks. You look fucking divine in his eyes right now, and he can only focus on your shut eyes and your lips that form the perfect ‘o-shape.’

Your orgasm washes over you with a shudder and a gasp, “shit.”

Your hips buck into his tongue and your legs quiver, the strength leaving your body slowly. He licks up all your juices before sitting on the bench and pulling you onto his lap.

His cock prods your core, throbbing and oozing with precum. You hold onto his strong shoulders as he rubs the tip on your folds, mixing your fluids together.

“Soonyoung,” you whine and push your tits on his face. He mutters a curse, and pushes his tip in. He slips in with no effort, thanks to how soaked you are. His perfect cock, sitting snugly inside you now.

“Fuck, you're throbbing.”

You bury your head in the crook of his neck, trying not to lose it. He shifts under you, finding a more comfortable position. Curling your arms around his broad shoulders, you press your lips to his in a soft kiss.

You press your chest to his, feeling the searing heat of skin on yours. His hands skate down your back to your ass. He gropes and squeezes them, kneading the flesh.

“Ah—shit, stop clenching.”

Without any warning, he thrusts. It catches you off guard, prying a loud moan from your chest. “Oh fuck, yes!”

“You sound so pretty,” he whines, moving his hips up and down. He drives his cock into you cunt with a pace that gets your mind all fuzzy.

You meet his hips halfway, bouncing up and down on his cock. Your moans sync and the sound of skins slapping fills the locker room. His cock fits snugly between your gummy walls, hitting all the right spots. Your arousal drips down his cock, forming a creamy ring around his base.

While you're drunk on his cock, Soonyoung is entranced by your tits as you bounce on his cock. He wraps his lips around your nipple, savoring how it feels in his mouth. The flicking of his tongue makes you curse and moan his name.

Suddenly, he stops his movement and pulls out. Confused by what he's doing, you quietly observe him. Standing up, he gently pushes you to the locker. The cold metal bites your skin, providing your searing skin some relief.

“Wrap your leg around me,” he mutters, already pulling your leg up to his hips. You do as he asks, wrapping it around his hips while the other stays planted on the ground.

He guides his cock into your cunt again, filling you to the brim. He rubs your clit while thrusting sloppily. You can't help the moans that escape you. He just knows how to make your body writhe in pleasure. His other hand holds your leg as he thrust lazily.

Your moans egg him on and your lower lip tucked between your teeth drives him absolutely crazy. He picks up his pace, driving his cock into your cunt like a wild animal. That paired with his harsh rubs on your clit makes your eyes roll to the back of your head.

“Oh, fuck fuck fuck.”

Your nails dig into his back, as you try to keep yourself grounded. But it's in vain with him moving his hips with expertise and god, his fucking hand on your clit is driving you insane. Your stomach tightens with another impending orgasm. He knows how to make you cum too.

You clench around his length wildly, bringing his climax nearer as well. It hits you sooner than you expect and absolutely drives you off the cliff. Your legs quiver and so does you body, shaking with the intensity of the release.  

Soonyoung fucks you through your high, chasing his own. It doesn't take much time for his cock to throb, spilling ropes of cum inside your cunt. He ceases his movements, breathless and quivering.

He embraces you, resting his head on your shoulder. You comb your hand through his soft locks while trying to catch your own breath.

“Ugh, we need to hit the showers.”

You come back from the shower, changed into new clothes when you notice Soonyoung cleaning the benches and the floor. You feel bad but also can't help the chuckle that escapes you.

The sound makes him stop his cleaning, eyes snapping to you. Your hot, sexy instructor is now replaced by your flushed and tired boyfriend.

He discards the cleaning gloves and rag somewhere and cleans his hands before approaching you. He flashes a grin at you and pinches your cheek, followed by the loud smack of his lips on it.

“So? how was my class? Am I a good teacher?”

“Yeah, it was good. You were good. For both teaching and fucking by the way.”

He giggles, and pulls you into a tight hug. “I love you so much. And are you really considering to continue?”

“I love you too and yes. I found a new hobby,” His grin widens, pink dusting his cheeks.

“Not just aerobics but I also found torturing you very joyous.”

He stops smiling, lips tugging down. You can already hear the whine from miles away.

A whine escapes his lips causing you to smile and laugh. “Stop laughing! I literally would've cum untouched just by looking at you in that fit.”

You pat his head and move to take your duffle bag. He follows behind you, stopping his rant for a second to retrieve his bag as well. Only for a second though.

“Also? where are the staff in this building? I thought we'd get caught multiple times.” You ask, genuinely confused by the lack of souls wandering the studio.

“Slow fridays. The other studios are closed for the weekend except for the gym.” He explains, “and is that another kink of yours? getting caught?”

“You wish.”

“I actually discovered something.” He informs, eyes refusing to look at yours. A shy visage takes over his face and you wonder why he's acting like that. You hum, telling him to go on. 

“I almost creamed myself when you acted like you didn't know me.” Confusion takes over and you stop in your tracks to look at him, incredulously.

“Do you have an abandonment kink or something?” 

“What? No! like—you acted like we were strangers and we were doing something sinful. I'm pretty sure you even said that you had a boyfriend and that you shouldn't cheat him.”

You laugh at his statement and continue walking out of the building with him following you. “First of all, I never said that. Second, I think you like roleplaying.”

It's like a bulb lighted up above his head when you say that and he's struck in realisation for a few seconds. “But roleplay...” his voice dwindles down, realizing it's not the best to talk about kinks loudly in a crowded street.

He clears his throat, and continues in a much lower voice. “Isn't roleplay like dressing up?”

“Yes,” you affirm, “But also like scenarios. Say for example, I can roleplay as the next door milf and you, the horny bachelor.”

“Fuck, can we do that?”

Laughter booms from your chest and you raise your hand to hit his chest. But in the process, your hand grazes his crotch and he's hard.

You both look down at the newcomer. “I think we better get home fast, or we might be exploring your exhibitionism kink as well.”

[amyzworldds]

Part Two: Thirteen Cheers for Fourteen

Masterlist | Part 1

In a whirlwind of hate and heartbreak, Y/N, the lone female maknae of Seventeen, faces relentless backlash from fans, pushing her to leave the group and vanish abroad. After a year of silence, she returns to Korea, forging a solo path with a powerful comeback, while the thirteen boys grapple with her absence. Pairing: Seventeen x 14th member Genre: Fluff, Humor, lil bit of angst

The past few months had flown by in a whirlwind for Y/N. Her solo comeback was locked and loaded—tracks mastered, choreography polished, music video edits finalized. The announcement had dropped a week ago, a sleek press release from her company that sent shockwaves through the industry. News outlets picked it up fast, headlines flashing her name: “Y/N Returns: Solo Debut Set to Redefine Her Legacy.” Carats—those who’d loved her even through the storm—flooded social media with support. “We’re so proud of you, Y/N.” “You’ve always been enough.” “Welcome back, uri maknae.” She’d scrolled through the comments late one night, her chest tight with something she hadn’t felt in years: gratitude.

Seventeen had finished their world tour a month ago, their triumphant return splashed across every K-pop platform. She’d watched clips—Seungkwan’s goofy waves to the crowd, Mingyu’s dimpled grin, Hoshi’s wild energy. They were back in Seoul now, back in the HYBE building, but their paths never seemed to cross. She’d linger by the elevators sometimes, half-hoping to hear Dino’s laugh or catch Joshua’s quiet hum, but it was always silence. She wanted to see them—God, she was ready—but the thought of texting first made her stomach twist. What if they were mad? What if they’d moved on? She’d left them without a word; maybe she’d look like a fool reaching out now.

That afternoon, she’d been halfway out the door with her manager, headed to a meeting, when she froze. “My laptop,” she muttered, patting her bag. “I left it in the practice room.”

Her manager sighed, glancing at his watch. “Hurry. I’ll wait in the car.”

She bolted back into the HYBE building, sneakers squeaking on the polished floor as she darted for the elevator. It dinged open just in time, and she slipped inside, tapping her foot impatiently as it climbed to the fourth floor. The practice room was down the hall—she’d grab the laptop and be out in thirty seconds. No big deal.

She shoved the door open, breathless, expecting an empty room. But then she stopped dead.

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

The Seventeen practice room was a mess of noise and motion, the kind of chaos only thirteen boys could create. Hoshi and DK were mid-argument over who’d eaten the last protein bar, their voices overlapping in a ridiculous crescendo. “You’re a human vacuum, Dokyeom!” Hoshi shouted, flopping dramatically onto the floor. Vernon lounged against the mirror, scrolling his phone, while Seungkwan tried to mediate, yelling, “Can you two shut up for five seconds?” Mingyu and Jun were laughing at something on Mingyu’s phone, and Woozi sat at the table, scribbling notes for Carat Land, their annual fan event just weeks away.

They’d seen Y/N’s comeback news. It had popped up on their group chat a few days ago—Joshua had sent the link with a simple, “She’s back.” The room had gone quiet then, each of them processing it in their own way. “I’m proud of her,” Seungcheol had said, his voice firm but soft. “She’s doing it on her own terms.” Jeonghan had nodded, twisting that old “Hannie” bracelet around his wrist. “Wonder why she hasn’t said anything to us, though.”

“Maybe she thinks we’re pissed,” Dino had mumbled, kicking at the floor. “We’re not, right?”

“Never,” Mingyu had replied, his eyes sad. “She’s still our maknae.”

They’d spotted her laptop earlier—a sleek silver thing left on the bench. “Someone’s gonna come for it,” Wonwoo had said, moving it to the table. They’d assumed it was a staff member’s.

Until the door flew open.

The room fell silent, a collective breath held as thirteen pairs of eyes locked onto her. Y/N stood there, frozen in the doorway, her chest heaving from the run, her hoodie slipping off one shoulder. She looked different—her hair shorter, dyed a soft ash blonde, her face sharper but brighter, like she’d shed a layer of weight. But those eyes—wide, startled, glistening—were the same ones they’d known for a decade.

She stared back, her mouth parting slightly, no sound coming out. ascended into chaos. The boys didn’t move, didn’t speak—just watched her, as stunned as she was.

“Uh…” Y/N’s voice was barely a whisper, breaking the spell. She glanced at the table, spotting her laptop. “My laptop.” She stepped forward, grabbing it with shaky hands, and offered a small, nervous smile. “Sorry, I just—forgot it.” She turned to leave, her heart pounding, her feet itching to flee.

“Y/N,” Seungcheol called, his voice rough but warm, stopping her cold.

She paused, her hand on the doorknob, and slowly turned back. He stood up, his eyes locked on hers, and the others followed—one by one, rising, closing the distance. She didn’t move, couldn’t, as they surrounded her.

“You’re back,” Jeonghan said, his voice soft, almost disbelieving. He reached out, hesitating, then pulled her into a hug. “God, you’re really back.”

That broke the dam. Mingyu was next, wrapping his long arms around her, lifting her off the ground slightly as he laughed, wet and shaky. “We saw the news. You’re killing it, huh?”

“Proud of you,” Joshua added, his hand resting on her shoulder, his smile gentle but teary. “So damn proud.”

Hoshi barreled in, nearly knocking her over with his hug. “You can’t just leave us hanging like that again, okay? We need updates!”

One by one, they piled on—Dino clinging to her arm, Seungkwan sobbing into her hair, Vernon ruffling it with a quiet, “Missed you, kid.” Woozi hung back, but his nod and small smile said everything. DK squeezed her hand, Jun draped an arm over her shoulders, and Wonwoo just stood close, his presence steady and sure.

Seungcheol stepped forward last, cupping her face in his hands. “You’re still ours, you know that? Doesn’t matter if you’re solo. We love you. Always will.”

Y/N’s breath hitched, and the tears came—not the broken, jagged ones of before, but soft, warm ones, spilling over as she looked at them. Her boys. Her family. “I missed you,” she choked out, her voice cracking. “So much. I didn’t know how to—I thought you’d hate me.”

“Hate you?” Mingyu’s voice broke, incredulous. “You’re our maknae. We’d never.”

“We’ve been waiting,” Jeonghan said, brushing a tear from her cheek. “Whenever you were ready.”

She laughed through her sobs, a shaky, real sound, and pulled them closer, the laptop forgotten on the floor. “I’m sorry I left. I just… I had to figure it out. But I’m here now.”

“Good,” Seungkwan sniffled, clinging to her. “Don’t you dare disappear again.”

They stayed like that for a long time, a tangle of arms and tears and laughter, the chaos she’d missed so fiercely. The silence was gone, replaced by their voices, their warmth. She wasn’t alone anymore.

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

The day Y/N’s music video dropped, her phone wouldn’t stop buzzing. She’d barely had time to process the release—her album Unraveled hitting streaming platforms, the sleek, cinematic MV racking up views—when a group chat she hadn’t opened in over a year lit up like a Christmas tree. The culprits? Her thirteen former bandmates, now self-proclaimed presidents of her fan club.

“WHERE’S OUR MERCH, Y/N?!” Hoshi’s message screamed in all caps, followed by a string of tiger emojis. “I need that hoodie with your name on it YESTERDAY.”

“Album too,” Mingyu chimed in. “Signed. Limited edition. I’m framing it.”

“Photocards!” Dino added. “I call dibs on the sparkly one.”

Y/N laughed, typing back, “You guys are ridiculous. I’ll bring stuff over later.”

“Later?!” Seungkwan wailed, voice-note dramatic as ever. “We’re dying out here! Do you know how long we’ve waited for this?!”

She showed up at the HYBE practice room that afternoon, arms loaded with a box of merch—hoodies, albums, photocards, even a few keychains she’d thrown in for fun. The door swung open, and she was met with a chorus of shrieks that could’ve shattered glass.

“IT’S HER!” Hoshi yelled, diving for the box like a kid on Christmas morning. “Gimme, gimme, gimme!”

“Chill, dude,” Mingyu said, elbowing him aside to grab a hoodie. He held it up, grinning. “Look at this—‘Y/N: Unraveled.’ I’m wearing this everywhere.”

Seungcheol snatched an album, flipping it open. “Sign it. Right here. ‘To my favorite leader, love, Y/N.’ Go.”

She rolled her eyes but grabbed a marker, scribbling personalized notes as they crowded around her. Jeonghan slid up, smirking. “Make mine pretty. Something like, ‘To the prettiest handsome man alive.’”

“Dream on,” she shot back, writing, “To Hannie oppa, don’t lose the bracelet.”

Joshua hovered politely, holding a photocard. “Can you sign this one? It’s the one where you’re winking. I’m keeping it forever.”

“Forever?” Vernon teased, snagging his own card. “I’m putting mine on my phone case. Look—bam!” He slapped it onto the back of his phone, grinning. “Now I’ve got Y/N watching my back.”

Minghao, who’d been quietly sorting through the pile, held up a hoodie with her logo and name. “This is cool,” he said, his voice soft but his eyes bright. “Sign it for me? ‘To Hao, the chillest brother.’”

“Finally, some class,” Y/N said, winking at him as she signed it. “Why can’t you all be this calm?”

“Because we’re your hype squad!” DK bellowed, pulling on a hoodie that was a size too small. “Look at me—I’m a walking billboard!”

Woozi, ever the practical one, inspected his album. “This production’s insane. Did you write all the tracks?”

“Most of them,” she said, and he nodded, impressed. “Sign mine ‘To the music genius.’ I’m stealing your tricks.”

Jun grabbed a photocard and gasped. “This one’s holographic! Y/N, you’re too cool for us now.”

“Never,” she laughed, signing it as he danced around her.

Seungkwan clutched his chest, holding up a signed album. “I’m crying. This is my most prized possession. Sign it again!”

“You’re so extra,” Wonwoo said, but he was grinning, slipping his own photocard into his wallet. “This one’s mine. No one touch it.”

Dino pounced on her next, waving a hoodie. “Sign the sleeve! I’m wearing it to carat land so everyone knows I stan you!”

She obliged, laughing as they turned the room into a fanboy frenzy—Hoshi posing with his keychain like it was a Grammy, Mingyu snapping selfies with his hoodie, Minghao twirling her keychain with a rare, goofy grin.

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

That night, her phone exploded again as the boys flooded their Instagram stories. Seungcheol posted a mirror selfie with her album, captioned, “Proud leader moment. Stream Unraveled now—link in bio.” Jeonghan shared a pic of his signed bracelet note, “She’s back, and I’m crying.” Joshua’s was simple: a shot of his photocard with a heart emoji.

Mingyu went overboard—three stories in a row: him in the hoodie, him with the album, him pointing at her photocard on his phone case, “My bias forever. MV link below!” Hoshi filmed himself dancing to her title track, screaming, “Y/N, YOU’RE A LEGEND!”

DK posted a blurry selfie with her in the background, “Caught her slippin’. Support our maknae!” Seungkwan’s was a tearful video: “I’ve waited YEARS for this. Stream it or I’ll haunt you.” Vernon’s was chill—a pic of his phone case with, “She’s fire. Check it.”

Woozi shared a studio shot of him listening to her album, “Respect. Link up.” Jun posted his holographic card, “Too shiny, like her.” Wonwoo’s was a quiet flex—his wallet photocard with, “Always with me.”

Minghao, ever the aesthetic king, uploaded a minimalist shot of the keychain against a sunset, “Her vibe. Stream Unraveled.” Dino rounded it out with a hoodie selfie, “Pi Cheolin approves. Go watch the MV!”

Y/N watched it all unfold, laughing until her sides hurt, warmth spreading through her chest.

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

Her first Music Bank appearance was a blur of nerves and adrenaline. She stood backstage, adjusting her mic pack, when she heard it—a roar from the crowd that sounded suspiciously familiar. Peeking out, she nearly dropped her water bottle.

All thirteen Seventeen members were in the audience, squished into the front row, waving lightsticks they’d clearly stolen from carat land prep. They were loud—louder than the actual fans.

“Y/N! Y/N! Y/N!” Hoshi chanted, jumping like a maniac. Mingyu held up a handmade sign: “OUR MAKNAE SLAYS.”

“Go off, queen!” DK hollered, cupping his hands around his mouth.

Seungcheol, trying to keep some dignity, just clapped like a proud dad—until Seungkwan elbowed him, and he yelled, “That’s our girl!”

Jeonghan waved his lightstick with a smirk, shouting, “You’re prettier than me now!”

“Sing it, Y/N!” Joshua called, grinning ear to ear.

Vernon gave a cool nod but ruined it by screaming, “Woo!” mid-verse. Woozi whistled, sharp and piercing, while Jun and Wonwoo chanted her name in unison.

Minghao stood out, waving a glowstick with quiet intensity, then yelling, “You’re the best, Y/N!”—a rare burst of volume that made her laugh mid-note.

Dino was the loudest, bouncing on his toes. “That’s my twin maknae! Kill it!”

She nearly fumbled her choreo from giggling, but she powered through, her heart swelling. After her stage, they swarmed her backstage, sweaty and beaming.

“You were insane!” Mingyu said, pulling her into a bear hug.

“Sign my forehead next time,” Hoshi begged, pointing at his face.

“Voice was perfect,” Woozi said, nodding. “Remix collab when?”

Minghao smiled, soft but genuine. “You glowed out there. Proud of you.”

Seungcheol ruffled her hair. “Told you—you’re still ours.”

She grinned, surrounded by her thirteen fanboys, their chaos the sweetest sound she’d ever heard.

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

Y/N’s solo album Unraveled was a steamroller. It clung to the top of the charts like a stubborn barnacle, sold out its first run in weeks, and forced her label to scramble for new batches. Fans—especially carats—were feral, hyping her every move and dunking on her old haters with savage glee. “Where’s the ‘talentless’ crowd now, huh?” one tweeted, alongside a clip of her MV hitting million views. “Y/N’s out here proving you wrong, stay mad!” another crowed. She’d scroll through it all late at night, grinning at the chaos she’d unleashed.

The MAMA Awards rolled around, Seoul’s biggest night of glitter and glory, and Y/N was a bundle of nerves. She’d been assigned a solo seat in the third row—standard for a soloist—but Seventeen had other plans. The second she stepped into the venue, all thirteen of them descended like a pack of overexcited golden retrievers.

“No way you’re sitting alone,” Seungcheol declared, grabbing her arm as they swarmed her.

“You look like a lost puppy over there!” Hoshi added, throwing an arm around her shoulders.

“It’s sad vibes,” Mingyu said, pouting dramatically. “We can’t let our maknae suffer!”

The organizers tried to intervene—“She’s scheduled for—”—but Seungkwan cut them off, clutching his chest. “Do you want her to cry? On camera? Is that what you want?!”

Joshua flashed his angelic smile, disarming them. “She’s with us. It’s fine.”

“Family seating!” DK bellowed, dragging her toward their row.

Minghao, ever the voice of reason, chimed in with a sly grin. “She’s basically still Seventeen. You can’t argue with that.”

The staff threw up their hands, defeated, as thirteen dorky boys hauled her to their table near the front. Vernon plopped her between him and Wonwoo, while Jun and Dino fought over who got to hold her water bottle. “It’s mine to guard!” Dino insisted, hugging it like a teddy bear.

“Give it here,” Jun countered, yanking it back. “I’m the responsible one!”

Woozi just sighed, sipping his water. “You’re all embarrassing her on live TV.”

“No, we’re hyping her!” Jeonghan shot back, adjusting his hair in the nearest camera lens. “She’s a star tonight.”

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

The night rolled on, awards piling up, until the big one—Album of the Year. Y/N fidgeted in her seat, sandwiched between Vernon’s chill vibes and Seungcheol’s tense dad-energy. When the presenter opened the envelope, time slowed.

“And the MAMA Award for Album of the Year goes to… Y/N, Unraveled!”

The crowd erupted—cheers, claps, gasps—but nothing was louder than the thirteen idiots beside her. She froze, jaw dropping, as Seventeen leapt to their feet, turning the elegant event into a frat house rager.

“THAT’S OUR GIRL!” Mingyu roared, fist-pumping so hard he nearly knocked over Jeonghan.

“BODYGUARDS, ASSEMBLE!” Hoshi shouted, and they formed a circle around her, each one striking a dramatic pose—hands to their ears like Secret Service agents, faces deadly serious.

Seungcheol barked, “Protect the queen!” and shoved Dino forward to clear a path.

She burst out laughing, stumbling as they “escorted” her to the stage. DK flexed nonexistent muscles, yelling, “No one’s getting through us!” while Seungkwan wailed, “I’M TOO PROUD TO FUNCTION!”

Vernon gave a lazy salute, muttering, “VIP coming through,” as Minghao smirked and whispered, “We’re so extra right now.”

The cameras caught it all—thirteen dorks in tuxes acting like her personal hype squad, while carats in the audience screamed their lungs out. She climbed the steps, still giggling, and took the mic, the trophy gleaming in her hands.

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

Y/N took a deep breath, the laughter fading into something heavier. The spotlight burned, but she felt the boys’ eyes on her, steadying her.

“Wow, uh… I didn’t expect this,” she started, voice shaky. “This album—it’s everything I’ve been through, everything I’ve fought for. I didn’t think I’d make it here, you know? There were days I couldn’t get out of bed, days I thought I’d lost myself forever.”

The crowd quieted, hanging on her words. Back at the table, Seungcheol gripped his chair, eyes glistening. “She’s killing me,” he muttered.

“I’m here because of the people who never gave up on me,” she continued, her voice rising. “My fans—carats—you waited for me, believed in me when I couldn’t. And… Seventeen.” She glanced at them, and the boys erupted again.

“WOOHOO!” Hoshi hollered, waving his arms like a windmill.

“THAT’S US!” DK yelled, jumping so high he nearly fell over Mingyu.

Mingyu cupped his hands, booming, “YOU’RE THE BEST, Y/N!”

She grinned, tears pricking her eyes. “These thirteen idiots dragged me through hell and back. They’re my brothers, my chaos, my home. Seungcheol, who wouldn’t let me quit. Jeonghan, who made me laugh when I wanted to cry. Joshua, with his quiet strength. Jun, who’d prank me just to see me smile. Hoshi, the loudest cheerleader alive. Wonwoo, my silent rock. Woozi, who taught me music is power. DK, my sunshine. Mingyu, who fed me when I forgot to eat. Seungkwan, my drama twin. Vernon, who kept me grounded. Minghao, who showed me calm in the storm. And Dino, my twin.”

Each name hit like a punch, and the boys lost it:

Seungcheol stood, clapping like a proud dad, shouting, “That’s my maknae!”

Jeonghan fanned his face, yelling, “I’m blushing!”

Joshua grinned, calling, “Love you too!”

Jun pumped his fist, “Prank master approved!”

Hoshi spun in a circle, screaming, “I’M YOUR CHEERLEADER!”

Wonwoo gave a rare shout, “Always here, Y/N!”

Woozi smirked, “Music power, baby!”

DK beamed, “Sunshine reporting for duty!”

Mingyu flexed, “Food king forever!”

Seungkwan sobbed, “DRAMA TWINS UNITE!”

Vernon waved, “Grounded and proud!”

Minghao laughed, loud and bright, “Calm storm, that’s me!”

Dino bounced, “Pi Cheolin loves you!”

“I wouldn’t be here without them,” she finished, voice cracking. “Thank you—for loving me, for waiting. This is for us.”

The crowd roared, but Seventeen drowned them out, cheering like they’d won the award themselves. She stepped off stage, and they swarmed her again, a laughing, teary mess of hugs and shouts.

“You made me cry on TV!” Seungkwan accused, wiping his face.

“Speech of the century!” Hoshi declared, spinning her around.

Minghao squeezed her shoulder, grinning. “You named me. I’m honored.”

“Thirteen bodyguards at your service,” Seungcheol said, pulling her into a bear hug. “Forever.”

She laughed through her tears, surrounded by her dorky, loud, perfect family. The trophy was heavy, but their love was heavier—and she wouldn’t trade it for the world.

[meadowfics]

floor is lava

namgyu x american!reader

synopsis: jump rope was one of a few games in your mind

warnings: death, the games

you stand there, heart pounding like a drum in your chest, the jump rope swinging in a steady rhythm before you.

all of the stale air around you is the kind that clings to your skin and makes every breath feel undeserving. well, you're alone in a way you never imagined. you are an american lost in this nightmare in south korea.

your only other friend here is long gone, taken by the mingle game last night.

the girl's face flashes in your mind sometimes, but you push it down, focusing on the rope, the task, the survival. the floor below isn’t just a floor...it’s lava, a death sentence if you miss a step, if you falter. you can’t afford to falter.

its not really lava, but you convinced yourself that it is. lava and a 400 feet drop couldn't have a difference, right? since both lead to death.

beside you, namgyu is off the wall.

the man you’ve uneasily allied with since the maze game, is on his knees, his hands clawing at the ground and in prayer hands as he begs minsu for his necklace of pills.

namgyu's voice is raw, desperate, a jagged edge of panic slicing through the air.

“I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry give it back! i need it!” he screams, his eyes wild, sweat dripping down his face. you’ve seen him like this before, high off whatever he’s been taking, but now he’s crashing,

it’s terrifying.

you thought he was psychotic at first, a loose cannon you couldn’t trust, but now you see it clearer.

he’s not crazy, he’s calculated. every move he makes is about survival, even if it means stepping over someone else’s body to get there.

something in your gut told you to stick with him, that he’d keep you safe, but now, watching him unravel, you’re not so sure.

the rope swings faster, a blur of motion, and the guards in their pink masks stand motionless, their guns gleaming under the harsh lights.

you can feel the eyes of the other players on you, many of them still on the beginning platform, waiting for someone to make the first move.

people still give you stares for being the only outsider in every sense, marked by your accent, your face, your fear.

you can’t think about that now.

you have to jump.

you take a breath, steadying yourself, and step forward.

the rope hums as it cuts through the air, and you time your jump, your body moving on instinct. one, two, three...your feet clear the rope, landing lightly on the track.

the gap in the middle looms ahead, a wide chasm that drops into darkness. y

ou don’t look down.

you can’t.

you imagine the floor is molten, ready to swallow you whole if you miss a beat. the other players watch, silent, their own fear mirrored in your movements. you keep jumping, each leap a small victory, your muscles burning but your focus razor-sharp. you reach the gap, and for a split second, time slows.

you leap, your body arcing over the void, and land on the other side. your heart lurches, but you keep going, jumping until you reach the safe zone at the end.

when you do, you take a big breath of relief. you survived.

you’re panting, legs trembling, when you hear a shout.

something flies through the air, glinting under the lights.

it’s namgyu’s necklace, the one he’s been begging for, the one minsu stole.

it bounces off the track and lands at your feet, right on the safe side.

you bend down, your fingers closing around the cold metal. it’s a locket, small and unassuming, but when you open it, it’s empty. no pills, no nothing. your stomach twists.

namgyu’s voice cuts through the air, sharp and furious.

“i’m coming for it!” he yells, already starting to jump across the track, his movements erratic but determined.

you clutch the necklace, your voice caught in your throat. you want to tell him it’s empty, that there’s nothing left, but fear keeps you silent.

he’s jumping now, his eyes locked on you, his face a mask of desperation and rage. he crosses the gap with a wild leap, landing heavily but still moving, still jumping until he reaches you. he snatches the necklace from your hands, his fingers trembling as he opens it.

the man's face freezes when he sees it’s empty, his breath hitching.

he turns, slowly, his gaze locking on minsu, who’s still at the starting line, grinning like he’s untouchable.

“you took it,” namgyu growls, his voice low and dangerous.

“you took the last one.”

minsu laughs, a high, manic sound, his eyes glassy.

he’s high, you realize, riding whatever was in that last pill.

he steps onto the track, starting to jump, his movements sloppy but confident.

you can see what’s coming, the way namgyu’s hands clench, the way his body tenses like a predator ready to strike.

“don’t,” you whisper, your voice shaking, “please, namgyu, don’t do anything to him.”

he doesn’t listen.

as minsu jumps closer, namgyu moves to the edge of the track, his eyes burning with intent.

“keep jumping,” he snarls at minsu, “or i’ll push you off myself.” minsu falters, his rhythm breaking, but he keeps going, his laughter turning nervous.

namgyu’s hands hover, ready to shove namgyu down that void, and you can’t watch anymore. you step forward, grabbing namgyu’s arm, pulling him back with all your strength.

“stop it,” you hiss, your voice low but firm, “just let him cross.”

minsu makes it across just as the timer ticks dangerously close to zero, stumbling onto the safe side.

namgyu lunges, his hands wrapping around minsu’s throat, squeezing as minsu gasps and flails.

you freeze, horror rooting you to the spot, until the guards raise their guns, their voices barking through the masks.

“stop! now!”

namgyu releases minsu, who collapses, coughing and clutching his neck.

the guards lower their weapons, but the threat lingers in the air.

you look around, your chest tight.

ten players are still on the track, their faces pale, their bodies tense as they prepare to jump.

a terrifying thought enters your mind as you see the players staring at you.

you’re the only foreigner, the only woman.

namgyu turns to you, his expression softening just enough to notice.

“you’ll be okay,” he says, his voice low, almost convincing.

as you look into his eyes, you see the truth.

he’s not promising your safety.

he’s promising his own.

masterlist

authors note: tbh idk where i was going with this one.

[joosthead]

skin || j.k. x f!reader

WARNING #1: explicit real person fiction ahead, dni if below 18. dni if anti-rpf

WARNING #2: explicit rpf/real person fiction content ahead. read at your own risk. dni if anti rpf, dni or read ahead if you simply don’t like rpf lol

₊˚⊹⋆ joost wants to make a song.

₊˚⊹⋆ for @spentandpent’s contest 😅🩷 (2 months late)

₊˚⊹⋆ reader: f!reader. notfamous!reader. normal au a.k.a. reader has an office job and attends university. reader is not dutch

₊˚⊹⋆ word count: 10.3k

₊˚⊹⋆ cw: smut (established relationship, consensual audio recording during sex, f!receiving oral, mirror, ruined orgasm, overstimulation, squirting, vibrator, multiple orgasms, unprotected piv, slight breeding kink, creampie), kind of really porny i can't lie. pwp. crying both out of (momentary) sadness and because cumming 🩷 reader🤝being total crybabies🤝juno

WARNING #3: rpf ahead—don't like it, don't read it. do not repost this on any other platform, screenshots or text alike. do not click ahead if you don’t want to read rpf. do not interact if you are below 18. how to block tags/words on tumblr.

₊˚⊹⋆ track(s) of the fic: “skin” by mac miller, “p power” by gunna

₊˚⊹⋆ junote: vibrator. go big or go home right 🩷 as always @howisjoostfanfictionforfree my partner in filth 🩷 @spentandpent for infecting me w the overstim brainworms 🩷 and lovely @xiaoflan for listening to me complain about this fic ! 😆🩷 i love and appreciate you all 🩷 the art for the header is by one of my amazing best friends <3

18+ only — explicit rpf content ahead, minors dni, anti rpf dni. 4th and final warning!

“Are you ready, mijn schat?” Joost asks in a soft voice, sitting on the edge of the bed next to you. 

“Ready as I'll ever be, Joosti.” 

One of his nicest microphones is set up on your bedside table, wires crossing every which way, his laptop on the ground and hooked up to it.

This was an idea that came about spontaneously, as most things regarding Joost come about; on the train home together, sharing his wired earphones with each other and listening to your playlist of liked songs when Skin by Mac Miller came on. His ears perked up and his eyes brightened at the first few seconds, and you knew you were in for it. 

There’s a woman in the first few seconds—she sounds like she’s having a positively great time, mewling softly, panting in a way that sounds almost like you when Joost is fucking you good. This was on your playlist?!?! You couldn’t fathom a situation where you’d listen to this in public, but here you were, hearing it all as you watched Joost and his mouth drop open a bit. 

Your cheeks warmed and he poked you in the side—“Oh my god,” he said, taking your hand and shaking it. “You know what this means, right?” You shook your head no though you knew the answer—”Our turn!!!!!” He said it so loud that an old lady beside you gave him a dirty look, and he just smiled at her. “Can we? Can we?” 

“Joost.” 

“I just want to hear what it’s like—if I made a song and your beautiful voice was in the background like this or you were my little producer tag.” 

“Very creative,” you laughed, sarcastic. Secretly…you two aren’t exactly public about your relationship. He would post about your anniversaries, your birthday, Valentine’s Day, your vacations; they know you exist, and that he has a long-term girlfriend, but you were so private you were almost elusive. “You want my moan in the back of your song?” 

Something so…obvious under his belt. Something so loud. It was unlike you, and you knew it would never be released, at least not in the raw form he’d likely want it to be in, but it was still something. Something that made your stomach turn in that way that felt good and not scary, even with how rarely you were in the public eye.

You existed in the backgrounds of Joost, Appie, Alanis, Stuntje’s Instagram stories; you existed as a tag of a username, a pixelated and blurred out face in Joost’s photo dumps to protect your privacy. You exist out of the spotlight, in the background, not as the beat of his song, but you figure—it is only a matter of time until you join him in the sun. 

“Who better than you? I want you everywhere, schat. Your moan will become my trademark,” he reasons, and as always—master of persuasion, at least with you. “One time. And it’ll just be between us, okay? Or mostly for me, I love hearing you.” 

You decided in a quick second that you’d do it—all Joost has ever done is protect you, and even with your easily overthinking mind, this sounds fun as all hell to the little devil in your mind that wants everyone to know that he’s yours, you're his. No one else’s. Being possessive doesn’t come naturally in any other part of your life other than Joost. 

“Okay,” you said, resting your head on his shoulder, holding his hand in yours. “Let’s do it, Joosti.” 

“Wahhh—I love you!!!” Joost exclaimed, pressing a kiss to your forehead and going back to happily looking out the window. 

“Mijn meisje,” he says softly, and it makes your stomach turn, the smooth glide of his voice as you lie back onto your pillows. You imagine how it’ll sound in the mp3 file. “Thank you for doing this for me.” 

“It’s not a big deal,” you say, shaking your head. “We would’ve had sex anyway—why not make something of it?” 

“It’s a big deal to me.” 

You nod, “I can imagine.” Joost fiddles with a dial on the side of the microphone, presses a button somewhere else, tidies the wires. “What do you think it’ll sound like?” 

Joost snickers a little to himself before starting— “Agh! Joost! Fuck me harder!” he whines, high pitched and teasing. “Urgh, Joosti, you’re so huge inside of me!” 

“I do not fucking sound like that,” you laugh, slapping him on the shoulder to his barking laughter. “Schat, you’re so tight, I think I’ll cum in three seconds!” 

“Hey!” Joost says, laughing as he leans to you for a kiss. “Okay, it might be the truth but I think it’ll sound good. As long as it’s you, we should win a Dutch Grammy for this.”

Outside the window, it’s rainy; the roof is pelted with the droplets of water of an autumn in Amsterdam, loud and incessant and comforting. Your room in this old house is humid with the moisture, but you’re sure it’s mostly just the two of you and your warmth making it feel so stuffy. 

“We haven’t even made it yet and you want a Grammy?” 

“Why not? I know we’ll get one, don't doubt us,” he grins, slinking off the bed and crouching in front of his computer. Joost’s customary wired earphones are plugged into it and he places a bud in his ear. “Mic check, 1, 2, 3,” he says, Joost Klein style, the sound waves appearing on the screen. “This issssss me and my baby’s recording session number one—“

“Number 1? The only one, Joost.” 

“Okay, okay. Recording 1 of 1. Our ears only.” Pausing a little, Joost gets that expression on his face that lets you know he’s about to say something strange and he does: “Do you think we can make ASMR mouth sounds from this? Dutch kissing ASMR or something?”

“I think we can make more than mouth sounds when it comes down to it.” 

Joost laughs, lifting his computer and placing it on the corner of the table behind the mic; gets up close to it, whispering and tapping on the wood of your bedside table like the people in the ASMR videos you both watch at his behest before bed, “Explain to them what we are going to do, schat,” you laugh and he shushes you, “This is very serious work, we have to be quiet, shhhh.” 

“Uhm…” you say quietly, stifling back a snicker as you get close to the mic from the side. “We’re going to record us fucking—“

“Bad word, schat,” Joost whispers, shaking his head at you disappointedly, “Think about the advertisers.” 

Tapping on the metal body of the microphone, you roll your eyes and start again, “We’re going to have s-word—“

“That’s better.”

“And record the sound from it so Joosti can put it in a song,” you whisper and he nods, mouthing, “Good job!” and giving a thumbs up before he brushes aside your hair to put the other half of his wired earphones in your ear. 

Immediately, you’re met with the sounds of your shared soft breathing and Joost’s hollow tippy taps on the base of the mic. When he goes quiet, the pitter patter of the raindrops upon your roof are loud enough to hear clearly. “I turned up the sensitivity so we don’t have to move it around while we’re recording,” he says, and you nod. 

“I can hear that.” Every single sound and movement you make for the coming hours will be captured on this little waveform. Your voice echoes back to you in your ears, and you scrunch up your face. “I hate my voice.”

“I love your voice, mijn schat,” he says, getting on the bed in front of you. “Sounds even better when you’re saying my name.” Smiling at him, you settle back against your pillows in your prettiest pajama set, a camisole and a pair of loose shorts, both printed with small blue flowers all over. Joost takes the ribbed fabric of your shorts between his fingers, tickling your thigh, “This one is my favorite one.” 

“Every one is your favorite one,” you counter as you open your legs for Joost to sit between.

“As long as you are wearing it, schat—of course,” Joost says, sighing wistfully as he takes the earphones out from both your ears and drapes them on the nightstand. “Are you sure you don’t want to film? You’re so pretty.” 

You roll your eyes as he laughs—it was definitely a topic of conversation after the fact, recording video of it like you have a few times before, just isolating the sound after. You argued that the sound from a real microphone would be better, and he argued, “Why not both?” 

You shut it down, telling him that your room would just become your own personal porn studio if he did both and would never go back to normal, and he died of laughter as the old lady on the train gave you a shocked look and moved away.

No filming. At least not today. 

“Do you want your song, or do you want a video?” 

“That is an extremely hard decision, baby.” 

“Make it before I make it for you.” 

“I want my song,” Joost says, simply and finally, and you nod. 

“You’ll get your song.” 

Joost lies down on top of you and the weight is comfortable as he holds himself up with one hand and cups your face in the other. 

He hasn’t shaved in a few days, his stubble scratchy against your chin as he comes forward and kisses you, soft lips against yours, his body warm and heavy and already grinding his crotch against your center as he slides his hand up your side, bringing up the hem of your camisole. 

You’re hyperfocusing on all the sounds; you’re both quieter than normal, just the smack of your lips against each others, the licking of his tongue into your mouth; the sound of fabric against fabric as he grinds his hips into yours and groans, half-hard already; the shifting of Joost lifting your tank top and exposing your tits to his dilating blue eyes, getting back up off you on his knees. 

Joost runs his knuckles down the curve of your breast and over to the other, making your nipples pebble in the already cooling air, your muscles jumping and leaping with how sensitive you are. “How cute,” he murmurs, and your cheeks burn. There’s something different about him today—if you think about it, if you were a music artist and your girlfriend let you record audio of how good the sex is, you’d be cocky too. 

The confidence looks good on him, a small smirk on his lips as you gaze up at him through your eyelashes and take off your shirt completely, tossing it to the side and lying back again. 

Joost tugs on your shorts and you shimmy them down as he rolls one of your nipples between his fingers, the sensation tying a knot in your stomach with want for him. “Why aren’t you taking off your clothes?” you ask, tilting your head to the side as he lies atop you again. 

“Just want to try something,” he says, placing a kiss between your breasts before he moves over to your nipple, taking it in his mouth and kneading the other breast in his hand. 

Grazing it lightly with his teeth, you let out a small hiss at the sensation before he closes his lips around it and sucks; your mouth drops open watching him as he does it, intent and content with his place on you. You just got him back after a month and a half away in Berlin working on music nonstop—you have an inkling that you both feel like this is where he belongs.

For a while, you both lie there as he mindlessly suckles at your tits, as you play with his hair and pretend like there isn’t a pool in your panties waiting to be addressed further than this—you don’t want to rush him. “Art can’t be rushed,” or whatever he says when he’s too busy editing visuals or tweaking his tracks in progress. 

Stifling back a sigh, you tug at the short hair on the nape of his neck, his tongue swirling around the stiff peak of your nipple. A tiny little mewl lets itself out of your mouth as he laps at it. Pulling back with a pop, nipping at the skin next to it—“Dude…” he starts. “You’re being… so quiet. Is someone a little shy, schat?” Joost grins, kissing you. 

You furrow your brows. You are but you’re not going to get called out by the most outgoing person you know like this. “No, I’m not.” 

“I think you are, you haven’t said a word.” 

“I’m not,” you insist, smiling once you realize that you have the perfect comeback. “You’re just not doing enough to make me say anything.” 

Joost’s entire face changes, falling completely flat with his eyes narrowed at you and you grin. “Oh, I haven’t done enough? Is that what you said, lieverd?” 

“I don’t wanna say it’s not enough. But definitely not enough to give you your Dutch Grammy award-winning sound bite. The pace you're moving, we’ll get a participation trophy at best.” 

“I’m not doing enough—I am lying on your tummy letting you berate me while I suck your boobs, don’t think I forgot about the last month!!!” he exclaims, voice rough and accusatory and silly, smile so wide as he jabs his finger in your face. “Don’t think I forgot!!!” 

“You’re still on that?” you laugh, squishing his cheeks, getting his hair out of his eyes. 

“Duh,” he grumbles. “It’s half the reason why I wanted to do this.” 

“Forgive me, then.” 

There’s been no time for you to call or Facetime him in this past month; only texting and one-sided voice messages from Joost pleading for you to send him a voice memo back but you’ve refused, either willingly or unwillingly. You’ve been so tired, your voice and energy all going to talking to clients and people in real life that you just couldn’t muster the strength to send him back any after a long day—Joost couldn’t call for long either, too occupied with the final touches on the album. 

He asked you one night, sleepy voice rasping about how he just wanted to hear you, and he sounded so hot—you texted back that you couldn’t sound sexy and all he said was that he didn’t care if you sounded sexy. He just wanted you. 

Still, you couldn’t let it happen.

Joost whined all the way up until his train home got to the station; all the way home in the car as you drove him and asked about his work; all the way up to now, pouting with his prickly chin on your bare chest and his arms wrapped around your waist. 

“If that isn’t enough, how far can I go to get my audio clip, then?” Joost asks. 

The both of you are competitive as can be with each other. 

So long ago, you bet him he couldn’t make you cum just from internal stimulation alone—he proved you wrong and then some. He bet you last year (and every year before that you’ve been together) that he could last all of November not cumming—you manage to prove him wrong anywhere from 2-5 days before his birthday on the 10th. Everything is a competition, everything is a game for you two, that’s what makes the relationship so fun. 

If you give Joost an inch, he’ll take a mile, and you know that better than anyone. 

“As far as you think it takes, Joosti.” 

Wordlessly, he gets up off from you and sits on the side of the bed facing the wall, in front of the mirror that’s there now—obtained at a swap meet somewhere in the city and hauled back by you both; standing against your wall, the top rounded in an arch, used mostly for outfit checks and Joost to try on a million different clothing pieces before he decides on things he wears all the time. 

“Sit between my legs, baby.” 

“Why should I do that for you?” 

“Because I want you to do it for me,” he says, looking back at you and patting his lap. “Here. Sit down or none of this will happen.” 

Usually, Joost is never so commanding—he’d rather ask you, sweetly and nicely to please do something for him. There isn’t a demanding bone in his body. And yet…

You take the seat between his legs and look at yourself as he hooks his fingers in the white and lacy waistband of your panties and pulls them down your thighs, down your calves. His lips ghost over the nape of your neck as he watches you in the mirror—Joost is always intense, always strong-willed, but it’s as if he’s come back a changed man.

“I want you to watch me do enough.” 

He hooks his hand under your right knee; you let him bring your leg up and drape it over his, spread wider than you’re used to. The same is done to the other leg; if you tried to close them, you’d be unable to. 

“I’ll get those sounds out of you if it kills me, lieverd.”

The cotton of his shorts, Tears as always; your shared necklaces resting on the chest hair that pokes out of the neckline of his wifebeater—they rub against your backside as you adjust your position on him, Joost’s warm and clothed body making your naked skin feel piping hot. 

He places his hands on your inner thighs, squeezing lightly. There is the feel; of his rough fingertips gliding against your silky skin, dancing across the jumpy nerves of the junction between your leg and the beginnings of the most sensitive parts of you.

“Do you know how hard it was for me not to hear your voice for so long, lieverd?” 

With his gentle hands, Joost spreads you open, exposing the most private part of you to both of your eyes, his chin hooked on your shoulder and looking down directly at it. You almost shrink into yourself, bringing you closer to his chest against your back, rising and falling steadily. In contrast, your breathing is so erratic, you feel as if your lungs might tire. 

The microphone will pick up your labored breathing, as much as you’re trying not to make a single sound; the mirror reflects your furrowed brow back at you as he dips his fingers inside, light and gentle, bringing the wetness back up to circle your clit slowly. 

“Mooi,” Joost murmurs, gazing intensely down at your form in his hands, putty in and between his fingers. “Look at you, hm?” 

You’ve done this so many times—watched as he’s fucked you, in the mirror or when you watch your bodies meeting, over and over again when he fucks into you, cock reaching your deepest parts. But today is something different, you can’t tell why, but it brings hot heat to your chest and cheeks, to see it so clearly. 

You can’t deny it—it’s you in that mirror, it’s you with your legs spread for him, it’s you. 

It’s Joost behind you, a mess of blonde hair, no glasses on today, his rough chin against your shoulder as he pets you slowly. 1982 exposing you, 1983 doing the rest of the work. 

“Als een mooie bloem, mijn lief,” he murmurs, two fingers spreading your lips, another rubbing your clit so gingerly you want to swear at him to go faster, harder, but you know he’ll just do the opposite of your wishes in this mood he’s in. 

“A flower?” you breathe out, and Joost smiles at you in the reflection. Still though, you know your words aren’t what he wants at the moment. 

“Pretty flower,” he says, and the smile is gone. 

The sound—the sound of his fingers rubbing tight circles on your clit, the wetness from your pussy all he needs to do so, not spit or lube or anything else. Just the slickness of the back and forth of his hands on you. 

The rain beats down on your roof, louder now, the backdrop for those filthy sounds coming from you. “You’re still so quiet, I think the mic will capture the rain more than you,” he mumbles into your neck, kissing and nipping at it. ”The quieter you are, the longer we have to do this.” 

“Is that really an issue?” you say, labored through the consistent circles of your clit. You turn away, looking at the side of his face—“Ah, my god,” you whisper, moaning softly as he brings his hand up to your nipple, rolling it between his fingers and kneading your breast. 

“Not really, but I question how much you can take.” 

“I can take a lot, you know that.” 

“If you can take a lot—why are you looking away?” 

He moves your chin gently so you're looking at yourself in the mirror again, and he’s looking at you so intently, pupils so blown out you'd almost think his irises were black. You look down at your pussy to avoid how burning his gaze is; watch as he pets at your entrance, and slides his two middle fingers inside, the stretch warm and all you’ve needed the past several minutes. 

Still you hold it back, chomping down on your bottom lip not to let any sound close to a real moan out—you’ve made the rules for yourself: not loud enough to be usable, the least amount of sounds possible, and the biggest one, proving to be the hardest as he continues…don’t say “Joost.” 

When Joost starts curling his fingers inside of you, pace slow as ever and he grinds the heel of his hand against your clit—you have to stifle a whimper, both at the sound, and the appearance of it, his fingers disappeared inside of you. “You’re really going to do this, lieverd?”

“I never said I’d make getting your song easy.” 

“I like a challenge.” Joost gives you a kiss to your temple and you smile even as he ceases his fingers moving.  “That's why you’re my girlfriend.” 

“Hey,” you giggle, and then stop giggling when he moves his fingers faster and it makes a truly blushworthy squelching noise come from inside you. He does it again—why would he stop, seeing the way your face screws up in pleasure in the mirror at the pads of his fingers on your g-spot? 

For some reason, you expected him to be nice about it, let you have a little break—but two can play this game, you know that well. 

Your wetness is louder than even the rain, his rhythm making the sound almost incessant. “Do you think we could make that the beat?” he thinks out loud and you give him a bewildered expression.

“You…no. One day I’ll understand your thought processes.”

“What do you mean? You already do.” 

You never realized how loud it could be to do any of this. Can people hear you so clearly all the time? Your neighbours, your roommates, strangers. 

The countless times you’ve fucked in backstage dressing rooms, club bathrooms, the backyard—this is what it sounds like? There is no mistaking it. On the audio recording, it’ll be even clearer. Your voice, high pitched and breathy. Joost’s voice, deep and low and rumbling against your neck. 

“How many people do you think, schat? How many have heard us?…I think they would like it, how it sounds when I’m inside you.” You shake your head, heat rushing to your cheeks and the tension in your chest rising at the same time at his words. 

“You're so wet, my baby, and this is only the beginning—what about when you cum? How loud do you think you are then? What will my fans think when they hear this, hm?” 

“Jo—mmm, fuck,” you sigh, stopping yourself from saying his name. 

This shame and arousal growing inside of you—they’re like two sides of the same coin for you, and they accompany that tightening in your stomach, so close to cumming. The impish and petulant devil on your shoulder tells you not to do it so quickly, not to let Joost get what he wants after you agreed so eagerly to this entire thing.  

You screw your face up, thinking of… paperwork and saying bye to Joost at the airport and sad kittens in animal shelters—you have never actively avoided an orgasm in your life, but this is working quite well, and it seems to be obvious. 

“Schat, are you serious right now?” You open your eyes to see yourself and Joost behind you, his lips a straight line, no amusement to be found on his normally jovial face. “What are you doing?” 

“Being a challenge, I thought you knew,” you say, voice more wavering than strong—your eyebrows furrow, a sheen of sweat on your forehead as Joost continues crooking his fingers right into your g-spot. Almost immediately, you lose your focus on keeping your climax away, melting into the pleasure of his thick fingers fucking you open. 

“Say my name, baby, that’s all I want from you.” 

“No,” you say softly, turning your head and resting it back on his shoulder—he knows what you want, and he can’t resist you. “Please?”

Joost looks at you, blue eyes so warm you almost think he’ll give you what you’re asking—a kiss, his lips on yours, but he only gets so close that your noses brush, that all you can do is breathe into his mouth and hope he gets closer. 

You try to adjust yourself, but he holds you in place with his forearms, still thrusting his fingers inside of you, your face contorting in pleasure with every single move he makes closer and closer to your face, tipping you right over the edge, right where your climax is and then—

Nothing. 

As quickly as he moved them, Joost takes his fingers out of you, resting them wet on your thigh as you tense with what you thought was going to be an orgasm, a tidal wave of bliss flowing through you. In reality, the waves subside quicker than usual without him fucking you through it, and the sensation is ruined—almost completely.

Pathetically, you let out a whimper, can’t even let out the moan or the gasp of his name he wants so badly, that’s how miserable it feels. Joost’s never done that with you before—he’s always gotten you to the peak and rode down with you through it, kissing and licking and petting you through it and even past that point, mischievous and pushing your buttons when you swear at him to give you a break from all the bliss. 

“Joost,” you pout, eyebrows furrowed and mouth downturned. “Fuck you.” 

“Fuck me? You weren’t doing what I wanted, schat, why should you get a good one out of that?” Joost scoffs, and though he doesn’t seem too serious, breathing heavily against your back with you, you can’t help but feel like you did something so wrong. “You’re playing too much.”

It makes sense now—he asked you for one thing—one thing. 

Wasn’t much to ask, either. Microphone and equipment straight from his yet to be unpacked suitcase. Joost’s one reprieve from album mode until he’d take the train back for him and Tantu to do a final once over on every single track. This stage in the process takes weeks, sometimes even months—pushing too many buttons on the control panel, their soundboards and computers and plans all prodded and poked and pushed to the limit until the project is the amalgamation of their creative vision and perfection.

This time, you pushed too many buttons; through all of this, you’ve forgotten that Joost has been at home less than 24 hours, that the train ride from Berlin to Amsterdam was 6 hours long with no stops, no wi-fi, no you to soothe his worries, only album preparations far past his self-imposed deadlines and his own thoughts. 

You’re both workaholics—it’s why you get along so well, but it means that you know better than anyone that the last thing you’d want to be after so long is annoyed, and annoyed on purpose at that. 

When he’s as petulant as you’ve been so far, you know that you can get annoyed as well, asking him to just—stop. And he does, but you couldn’t do that for him. Joost has gotten frustrated with you before, sure, it happens enough that you’re not so affected by it anymore. 

But he’s never been so frustrated before that he’s ruined your orgasm. For some reason, the expression on Joost’s face, the heat of the moment, the dull pulse between your legs at both your immense need for him and the emptiness you feel at such a clipped climax has you emotional and overanalyzing the last half hour, every bratty quip of yours, every response from him. 

“I’m really sorry, I know you had a long few days, I shouldn’t have—” Water lines your eyes, and you try to blink it away when you ask in a weak voice, “Are you mad at me?” You feel terrible. Embarrassed. 

Joost meets your eyes in the mirror, eyes widening in surprise at your emotions strung so tight; you break, a tear running down your cheek which you quickly wipe away because you feel like you're making a big deal out of things and it’s just—aghhh!!!!

“No, my baby, of course not,” he smiles, face sympathetic, lips pouting at his baby being so emotional. Such a reaction would usually make you roll your eyes at him, but he’s so sweet, you have to nuzzle closer to him. “Come here,” he says, wrapping his arms around you and letting you curl up in his lap. “You’re so cute, mijn schat,” he coos, giving you a wet kiss on the cheek as he hugs you tight. 

Joost is so kind to you, it makes you feel a bit silly—not in a bad way, just one where you’d never think you’d be sitting on his lap, naked, being comforted about having your orgasm ruined by him. Almost five years of this kindness, you’re not sure you’ll ever be used to it. 

“I just got a little frustrated that’s all, none of it was serious, okay? I thought it would be a little fun for us to try something new like that, but I should’ve talked about it with you before—I’m sorry.” 

“It’s okay,” you say, wiping your eyes a little. “Just don’t look so serious next time, I really thought you were angry.” 

“I got too in the moment, I guess.” Joost moves your hair aside and kisses you on the lips, tender and sweet. “I’ll make up for it, I promise you.” 

With that, you nod, letting him kiss you, letting him suck your lower lip in his mouth and then lick into yours, touch so devastatingly slow it almost makes you whine again with anticipation. Joost places a gentle hand over your throat, giving it a small squeeze, and he laughs when you moan, quiet and stifled into his mouth at the pressure. “You know, you’re very pretty when you’re desperate,” he says softly when he pulls away, and your cheeks burn. 

“I could say the same about you, Joosti.” He noses at the side of your face, and you melt at the feeling of his skin on yours. “Am I not pretty all the time?” you tease, and he rolls his eyes. 

“Don’t start, schatje. Gorgeous, beautiful angel—is that what you want me to say? Lie down and hold your legs back.” 

Quickly, you get off of him and lie back down on the bed on your mountain of pillows, and he takes his place sitting between your legs, wet fingers running through your folds as he takes a look at you, all of you. “Aren’t you pretty?” 

He takes your left hand, kisses your palm then your fingers, then he places it firmly on the back of your left knee. He does the same for your right side, then lies in between your open legs, staring, examining. One finger down your slit, collecting your wetness on the tip—Joost leaves a bite on the meat of your ass, trailing kisses all the way until he kisses over your entrance, over your clit. 

You breathe heavily with anticipation, but still, you find it in you to tease. “Doing a lot of silent things for an audio recording, Joosti.” 

“Not silent—all of it is important, every second.” He shakes his head to 

“Defeats the whole purpose of the audio? Doesn't it?” You smile, flexing your ankles, feeling your muscles stretch as Joost teases your clit with his index finger, makes you open your legs wider. “The whole point is to record how good you make me feel, right?” 

“You want to be silent so badly for me, you want to play around so much—why are you calling me out for it? That I want us to have fun?” Joost rolls his eyes, but then smiles at you, trying to soothe the burn. “I like when you play,” he murmurs, then spits on your pussy, making you full body shiver when you do. “Play even more, let’s make this recording go hours.”

“And I’ll cum all I want?” 

“Careful what you wish for.” Joost rubs the spit over your bud, spreading you with two fingers and petting at it with another. “Als een prinses, schatje. Spoiled.” 

“Spoiled,” you mock, and he shakes his head at you, grinning. 

You probably shouldn’t rile Joost up so much—it’s too late for you to save yourself when he dives in, wrapping his lips around your clit and sucking hard. The spit and silky softness of his tongue make you keen, how good it feels to have him on you, his lips sucking so much, so good, so wet. 

The slide of Joost’s finger inside of you surprises you, how gently he pets against your spot internally as he laps at your pussy; you sigh, having to close your mouth on purpose to not make any sound. He sucks your clit between his lips, tightening, loosening, several seconds passing as he continues the pattern, making you groan with the feeling of him eating you out so well. It’s too much; you cry out when it hits what feels like 10 minutes with his tongue on you, but is really only 20 seconds at most. 

Too much, so good—bucking your hips up, you squirm, futile against his strong hands holding you down by the backs of your knees folded almost to your chest as he drinks you in, the wet sound of his mouth smacking against you so humiliatingly wonderful you could cry. How are you supposed to stay silent now? 

“I’ll never get enough of this, lieverd,” he says before diving back in, lips wrapped around your clit as you moan out at the suction, whining as you hold onto his arms for support, because pushing against him is no use—either way, who are you kidding? The last thing you want is for him to stop, especially after that first “orgasm”. Completely breathless, you stop trying, tired hips back on the damp bed sheets. 

“Good girl, baby,” Joost praises at your defeat, your finally being subdued. The nickname makes you shudder, arousal pooling deep in your stomach, and you squeeze at his arms for some sort of comfort in response. 

Joost nips at the thin and sensitive skin of your inner thigh and it makes you yelp, then he comes back and licks through you again, fucking his tongue inside of you. 

There’s no sense of organization or pattern anymore with what he’s trying to do—he’s lost it. He’s lost it. 

Your climax hits you like a freight train, your stomach and thigh muscles spasming, any control you had—lost. “Mmmf…fuck!” you exclaim, throwing your head back on your pillows as Joost keeps sucking your clit through your orgasm, white on the edges of your vision at how intense he’s doing it. “Ugh… shit!” you cry, panting out when he keeps going.

“It’s only a matter of time until you give me what I want, schatje,” he says in a quiet, sing-song voice, then attaches himself back to you. Your clit is practically numb with pleasure now, and yet, the waves are rolling through you, erratic and wonderfully uncomfortable. 

You laugh out, tears at the edges of your eyes at how intense your nerves feel, how fried they are—“Joost, enough!” and he lets up off you. He sits back up and pouts at you, lips and cheeks wet with your arousal. 

“‘Jooooooost!!!’” He laments, cursing at the sky in jest, and you laugh at how dramatic he is. “The line is ‘Joost!!’ Lieverd! Joost!!!” he says his own name in a weird, breathy moan that you’re half sure really will make it to a final draft of a song of his. 

Holding yourself up, legs open and so wet between them, you purse your lips for a kiss, which Joost gives you. “You said we can make the recording go hours—I’m sure I’ll say it one of these times.” 

“Okay, I’m glad I say the recording can go long—I will need a minute.” As Joost pulls back, you tilt your head to the side; he sounds… strange. Embarrassed, almost, and his cheeks are pink, and he can’t look you in the eye anymore, completely different from your ravenous and intimidating boyfriend from 45 minutes ago.  “I think I came in my pants.” 

“You’re kidding,” you scoff, throwing your head back and laughing.

Joost gets back up off the bed, stands. “Do I look like I'm kidding?” he says, pointing down to the wet spot on his crotch—he must’ve ground against the bed too much, how cute. 

“You haven’t done that since we started dating,” you laugh, watching as he strips off his shorts and his underwear looks just as bad. 

“Well, I did it again. Your fault. This sucks.” Joost shimmies down his boxers, picking them up and throwing them in the hamper; it hangs on the rim, he’s already soft, and he looks at you so dejectedly, then at the ground. You start to say ‘aww’ —he’s so cute and pathetic this way, but he wags a finger at you, saying,  “Do not say ‘aww’ at my dick, you’re annoying,” and it makes you laugh harder until he’s laughing too, climbing on the bed and kissing you sweetly, pulling back only to take off his shirt and then immediately come back to you. 

Laying atop you, he wraps his lips around your nipple, pulling at it gently with his teeth as you wince in the pain and the pleasure. Joost lays his tongue flat against it, laps at it, switches to the other one. 

“I just love you,” he sighs, latching onto you again immediately after, and it makes you smile—insatiable, truly. 

A few moments of this—letting Joost lave over your skin, the stiff peaks of your breasts, sucking hickeys into the meat of them—and he’s ready to sit back against the headboard together. 

Your legs are open and his hand is between them in an instant, running his fingers along your skin. It feels strangely electric…not his fingers on you, but his arm against yours, the side of his sweat-sheened body against your hip, what it feels like to see “Thanks for today” on his collarbone and your name and lipstick mark tattooed on the other side of his neck forever. 

Your thoughts are interrupted by Joost’s voice—“Why aren’t you saying my name, hm?” he says, gazing at your lips, his nose brushing against yours. You press a chaste kiss to his chin as he circles your clit, spreading your wetness around with his fingers. “It’s mean. It is sinister, what you’re doing.” 

“You’re gonna have to work for it, I’m serious.” 

“I will work overtime, I’ll be just like you,” he smirks, and shuts you up when he attaches his lips to yours, slips his middle fingers inside of you, grinds the heel of his hand on your clit as you gasp into his mouth, let him move down and suck at your jaw, your pulse point. 

The concentration it takes not to lose it makes your eyebrows knit together. He murmurs, “Do you hear that, my love? Do you hear how wet I make you?” says it into your open and mewling mouth, the sound of it all—the squelch of your wetness at the behest of his fingers fucking your pussy. You’re beholden to him, and he enjoys it so much. The person you are at work and in life; normally so collected, preferring the comfortable quiet of your life together, now so bold to let him do this. 

“Wat een mooi geluid, mijn meisje. You have me under your spell—what will happen when everyone hears this? Your siren song, hm? Is that what you want? Everyone to know how good I make you feel?” 

The surprise on everyone’s faces that you could sound like this, all because of Joost—goofy, grinning, laughing Joost. Serious as ever about coaxing these sounds out of you as he kisses you slowly, tongue so languid on yours, tempting you, seducing you into giving him what he wants. 

You’re almost delirious, the bubbling of laughter rising in your body as you grip onto his arm, so big, three of Joost’s thick fingers nestled inside of you and curling against your spot, stroking it with no abandon. You’re stretched thin around him, squirming and twitching with the rising peak coming to a head in your body. 

He doesn’t even thrust his middle fingers in and out of you; only keeps them there, deep and to the knuckle inside of your pussy as he curls his fingers inside of you again and again, petting and petting and petting at the most sensitive part inside of you. At the same time, he circles your clit with his thumb—you could almost pass out with how good it feels, how hot you are in this room, rain beating on your roof, his mouth on yours and receiving every single moan and breath you put out. 

The only thing absent is a crackling fire and a bottle of wine to fit the mood, but you can’t really complain. 

“Happy?” he asks, smiling. 

“Joost,” you choke out, eyebrows furrowing as you gaze at him, then close your eyes, touching your forehead to his, clutching his bicep, the challenge to yourself not to say his name all but forgotten. 

“Yeah, baby?” Joost grins—in the pursuit of his craft, your boyfriend has turned evil. 

“I feel like…” you start, face screwed in pleasure, words stolen from you by his curling fingers, confused at this feeling inside of you you’ve never felt before. “I just feel…” 

“What is it, baby?” Joost teases, fucking into you, devilish. “Can you tell me? Can you use your words, like I’ve been asking you to?” 

“I’m gonna…” 

Burning hot and building up and up and up inside of you, in your stomach, in your chest, your tired thighs tensing the knot in your stomach tightens and tightens and tightens until it snaps, hard and fast; you don’t even realize the curses and almost chanting of his name tumbling out of your mouth as you look down and see—

Clear liquid runs down from your pussy, down your ass as you groan out, a punched out moan tumbling from your lips. The wet squelch around his still moving fingers even louder now—oh my god? There’s wetness beneath you now, a small laugh of disbelief coming from Joost as you gush all over his fingers and hand and writhe with your powerful climax, the bed under you wet, the comforter wet, everything wet, and all because of Joost. 

You whine and he nods, smiling at you. “Schatje…I didn’t think it would work…”

“Oh my god,” you whisper, half laughing and half embarrassed at the mess you’ve made, panting and completely out of breath. “This is so embarrassing.”

“Embarrassing?! Mijn schat, that’s the hottest fucking thing I’ve ever seen, I think.” He takes his fingers out of you with a sound that makes you cringe, and holds his hand in the air, fingertips dripping with your wetness, shiny and slick. You had no idea you could even do that, let alone feel whatever white hot pleasure was ripping through you while you did, and you laugh at his amazement with your hands over your mouth. 

“We’ll have to change the sheets again,” you pout once you realize—you just changed them yesterday before he got here, and the other set of sheets is dirty. Ughhhhh. 

“I’ll wash the other sheets—I would change them a million times over if it meant you doing that again.”

“We’ll run out of sheets before that happens, Joost.” He hates changing the sheets, but he’s so desperate for it, obviously. 

“I’ll make new ones,” Joost says proudly, then kisses you. “Please don’t worry about the bed. I’ll take care of it, and to be honest, I would like you to mess it up even more.” Kiss on your lips. Your worries have melted away with it. “You were so good to me, yet I still didn’t get my song. Tell me, why is that, mijn schat? You want me to torture you for longer?” he says softly, kissing you on the lips. 

“It’s not torture,” you breathe out and Joost laughs. “I said your name, what more do you want from me?” 

“It’s not torture? Is that right?” he asks, and you nod, coming up to kiss him again,  “I want to be inside you, lieverd, that’s what I want.” 

Only now do you notice that he’s hard again—the same hand he used to finger you wrapped around his cock, your wetness his lubrication alongside the precum drooling from his tip. “That’s what you’ll get, then,” you say, sweet and smiling and so ready for it even after Joost has had his way with you for what feels like hours now. 

It’s your wetness that’s darkened Joost’s arm hair and the hair on his stomach; your wetness facilitating his sharp sighs as he pleasures himself to the sight of you, the thought of you, the sound of you. 

Beaming, Joost turns away to the side. “If it isn’t obvious to you, the audience,” he says into the microphone in a silly voice. “This is the first time I’ve made her squirt, and she still wants me so bad!! What the fuck!! I am sooo so lucky!!! What amazing sight, wow. Shoutout lieverd, for real!!” Your laugh is sure to be captured in the background, your small “Shoutout Joosti!” too. Joost turns back to you—”My one in a trillion, baby,” a kiss to your lips, your body being laid on the damp sheets again and your legs opening in response. 

“mijn_schatje_loml_voor_altijd_TANTUPLSDONOTLISTEN.mp3” has been running for 1 hour, 33 minutes, 8 seconds, 3 milliseconds—feels like so much longer. Joost lies between your legs again on his stomach, his cheek on your thigh, his calves in the air swinging and happy and him batting his eyelashes at you “innocently.” “Dickhead,” you laugh, knowing he wants to put his tongue on you again, and he laughs too. 

“Your favourite one, though, right?” 

“Yes, my favourite one.” You roll your eyes at his giggles but smile nonetheless at him. “I want you inside me, Joosti, don’t make me wait, please.” 

Joost holds up a finger—“One criticism—”

“Already?!” you exclaim. “What is it?” 

Joost gets up off of you and goes to the dresser to the side of your bed. You tilt your head in confusion—there isn’t much in there he could need for the rest of this, but he seems to be determined. “I think it’s the cutest thing when you call me Joosti and I never want you to stop doing that,” he starts, rummaging through the drawer. “But I think for the sake of the song, or your part in it, it would be better if you just said ‘Joost.’ Can you do that?” 

“I can do that, Joost,” you tease, your perfectionist musician of a boyfriend coming out in full force. 

“Good, good, schat. Now can you say it while I’m using this on you?” 

Joost turns around holding…Ole Reliable, the name you both call a taupe vibrating wand that was your best friend before you two started dating, is your best friend when he’s gone for longer than a month or two and your fingers aren’t enough when you two are FaceTiming…to Joost’s absolute displeasure. When he’s home, it hides in your underwear drawer—but trust, he knows where it is. 

“Be serious, Joost,” you laugh in disbelief. There’s no way that Ole Reliable will be part of this with how much lighthearted vitriol Joost has treated it in the past, calling it his “mortal enemy,” his “biggest competition.” This isn’t real. 

“It takes you like, 3 hours to cum after I’ve made you cum so many times, this will help,” he shrugs, and he’s right. You’re so overstimulated at this point that he’d have to fuck you for longer to get you over the edge, but the vibrator is a bit overkill—it’s powerful, and you’ve made your own legs shake with it countless times, with or without Joost. 

“I think I’ll end up…squirting—ew, I hate that word—even more if you use it.”

“It’s not so bad of a word, mijn schat. And either way—bed is already dirty. Why not go all out so we don’t have to clean up again?” 

Joost makes a good point, and you know he’ll want to see more of your newfound ability later on—minimizing the cleanup later sounds good, so you lie back, open your legs, run your fingers through your wet folds as his eyes widen at your eagerness. “Let’s go all out,” you giggle and he flops on top of you, exclaiming, “Yayyyyy!!!” 

It’s slow, the way he hooks your legs over his thighs, long presses the button of the vibrator, presses it again once so it turns on completely, and then recoils in surprise when he presses the largest button again and again. “Whaaattt the fuck, I didn’t know there were so many patterns in it. That is crazy. You use this?! What is ‘thumping feature.’ There are so many buttons. What…” Joost looks at it in wonder, the vibrations sure to be going through his entire forearm—that thing is strong, and you know it. 

“There are only 2 buttons, Joost.”

“That is a lot to me.”

Cycling it back to the lowest, most tame setting, he places the head on your clit, gentle; you hiss at the waves coming through you, even at the lowest rate it could possibly go. “Do you like that, baby?” he asks, voice low, other hand coming down to slip a finger in your pussy. “You look like you love it.” 

Nodding, Joost takes your hand and wraps it around the handle of the wand, and you hold it against yourself as he jerks his cock between your legs, enveloping the warm head of it in your entrance. It slips in so nice—you’ve been ready for it for hours now, you'd be surprised if it didn’t just slide in. Your eyes roll back, the back of your head hitting the wire frame of your bed, the vibrations coursing through you and his big cock parting your slit. 

“Oh, fuckkk, schat,” Joost moans as he sinks into your soaking wet pussy. “So fucking wet, baby, you feel so good.” 

Breathless, you nod, as Joost glides right in; he’s thick, but you're so wet. Three orgasms and counting for you, it’s so easy now. Angling the vibrator, you move it so you can see it all—how messy it is when he pulls his hips back to adjust how he’s thrusting into you, his pubes and happy trail wet with your juices, the hair on his thighs wet as well. What a mess you’ve made. 

“Oh my god—“ he says, rolling his neck back in pleasure once he finally bottoms out inside of you, the wand pressed against his pelvis just as much as it’s pressed against yours.  Joost bites his lip, shaking his head. Not so much of a mortal enemy, after all, is it? “How do I compete with this thing…” 

“This thing could never be you, Joost,” you breathe, and it’s true. So tired, so happy, you’re a little emotional about it for some reason. 

How he holds you so warm and safe and tight, always, never a question on if he wants and loves you—he always does and always will. In bed together like this, sheltered from the rain in your home together, your cats scratching at the door and a whole life ahead of you; on the train giggling with each other about the middle-aged and elderly side-eyeing his barking and boisterous laughter; in club bathrooms and snow covered curbs and swimming pools in your backyard and the couch downstairs. 

The rest of the world should be envious about what you have, who you hold. Joost, this house, that audio recording, and you, forever. 

“Hehe!” Joost leans over to the microphone and gloats into it, “Me—1! Vibrator—zeroooo! Hahahahah!” 

You laugh—and this, forever. You could never trade this in. 

Pulling Joost in, you kiss him sweet and slow, little thrusts of him inside of you as he moans into your mouth incessantly, every breath of his a whimper, it must feel so good—buried balls deep in your pussy, vibrator against your clit and pressed against the few centimeters of shaft that can’t fit in you when he begins thrusting inside of you sloppily, the hollow clap of his hips against you filthy as you moan out his name against the humming backdrop of the toy you're using together. 

Every nerve in your body winds itself tight around the coil in your stomach as he fucks into you, a smooth and steady rhythm that makes you lose yourself, trying to wrap yourself around him, wanting to devour him whole, wanting to make it so it’s just you and him and no one else in the world, no one outside these walls, no one else. With Joost breathing into your mouth, his sweaty bangs tickling your forehead, the taste of his tongue on yours—there might as well be no one on this earth except you and him. 

“I can't do it, Joost, it’s too much,” you whine as he keeps driving into you—god, you want it so badly, but three and a half orgasms later and you’re entirely spent, letting him do all the work as you moan loudly, no control over yourself or your body. The vibrator is pressed flush against your clit and gets you to the precipice faster than you’d like right now. 

“You can do it, baby,” he coos, and you know there’s no way to get out of this. Either way, you wouldn’t want to, legs wrapped around him, the buzzing of the vibrator such music to your ears, the feeling of his cock driving into you and Joost, a warm and heavy and perfect weight atop you. As you claw at his shoulders, his back, he holds you open with his strong hands, your squirming no match for his strength with every deep seat of his cock inside of you. “I know you can, you can do it.” 

When he says it, you believe it; you have to bite and suck at his neck in order to focus on keeping it together long enough for him to cum, apologizing to Lola in your head at your treatment of her, how she’ll be blooming purple and red by the time the sun rises tomorrow. Joost ruts into you, pressing the vibrator hard to your clit and it’s so…it’s so much, the mattress squeaks with how spirited his hips are against you, loud slaps of skin against skin and your name, his name, intertwined on this wavelength, on this track for everyone to hear. 

“Joost…fuck, Joost!” you cry out again and again, tears coming to your eyes with how hard and fast your orgasm rips through you, repeating Joost’s name like a prayer, an oath, gushing around him and too fucked out to kiss back properly when he licks into your mouth, grounding you back to this bed even as you sob out in pleasure, fat tears rolling down your cheeks at how amazing he’s making you feel. “I love you,” you breathe, blissed and fucked out tears streaming down your cheeks at how good it feels, all open and airy. 

“Why are you all sappy, baby? ‘Cause I’m fucking you so well?” Joost teases, pressing wet kisses to your tear stained cheeks, your mouth bitten red with his nips, his kisses all throughout this. 

“Yes, I love you, Joost,” you sniffle, wrapping your arms around his neck, bringing him closer even if it means the vibrator gets pushed even harder against your aching clit. 

He laughs, continuing his feverish thrusting as he finally gives you the kiss you want. “I love you too, mijn hart.” 

You don’t notice him fumbling around on the side table as he kisses you, bringing the wired earphone from the nightstand back to your ear, your eyes widening in surprise. 

“Do you hear that, mijn schat?” The feedback, his voice, doubled and almost echoing as you hear it in real life and it plays out in your ears, delayed. You have to try and dampen the rest of your senses to focus on what you’re hearing. The slopping of his hips against your ass, the low pitched vibrations of the wand, his voice. 

Joost’s voice that distracts you until you’re snapped out of it by him pulling out, stroking his cock and panting heavily, cheeks and chest and neck pink with exertion, skin shining with sweat. “What are you doing?” you mumble. 

“You’ve already done so much, schat,” Joost breathes, and you shake your head, looking up at him through wet eyelashes. 

“Finish what we started, I want it all.” 

Obediently, Joost nods, inching himself back inside you again; it sounds so wet in your ears, the microphone capturing every gritty detail, every squelch of yours and his. 

“Schat, I wanna…fuck, I wanna cum inside you so bad,” he whines, erratic thrusting with every word, losing it again, losing the practiced, methodical musician that you know so well. Even with his whining, his voice is deep, needy, chanting your name like you moaned his. “Wanna…fuck, I wanna fuck it in you ‘til it takes, I want everyone to hear it, see it, know you’re mine…mine, mine, mine…”

“Yeah, baby?” you smile, his cheek laid against your tits as he grinds against you, then goes back for long, deep strokes inside of you. Joost groans so loud against your skin, spit and sweat on the softness of your breasts; so overwhelmed, he takes your nipple in his mouth and sucks, nipping at you through his own orgasm, stuttering his hips into your pussy.

Warm ribbons of Joost’s cum paint your insides and fill you up so well, your moans finally joining his as he comes down from his high, moaning and sobbing out your name, lieverd, schat, collapsing on your chest and heaving for his breath again as you catch yours once more, satisfied with your recording together. 

“That a good enough song for you, Joost?” you smile, eyes already closing with the bliss of such a good recording session together. 

“Dutch Grammy worthy, mijn meisje,” Joost breathes, and you laugh as he reaches to the side and shuts his laptop, ending your recording. “How about another recording session later?” 

—

A month later and you’re carrying a paper bag of takeout from a few blocks down, earphones blasting a new demo from Joost and Tantu, using the spare key under Tantu’s doormat to get into his apartment from the cold. You set down the bag on the counter of his tiny kitchen, place the key back under the doormat, get three bowls together to split the takeout between, get utensils and glasses of water and what have you before you enter the bedroom studio. 

The takeout fights you tooth and nail; cheap food spilling everywhere, oil and sauce and vegetables on the counter and the rims of the bowls that you have to wipe up with the one (1. ONE!) paper towel left on the roll in the kitchen. Is this what happens when Ruby isn’t in town and they’re in album mode? You figure it must.  

You manage to wrestle it all together precariously, using every square centimeter of the one paper towel you have in your arsenal before picking up all three bowls—two of them nestled in your left arm, one of them held in your right hand. 

The door to the bedroom is closed shut—your arms are full, and you spend a few moments fussing about how to get in without having to go back into the kitchen and set down the food, but you hear Tantu and Joost’s muffled voices through the door. 

“Oh my god, I shouldn’t have skipped ahead—“

“You should've never played it, Tantu!”

“Well, you shouldn’t have kept it on your desktop for anyone to see! With my name on it!” 

You tilt your head in confusion, and then knock on the door with your foot; in an instant, Tantu opens it for you, and you hear, loud and clear: “I wanna fuck it in you ‘til it takes, I w—” before Joost slams the laptop shut and says, “Baby, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry, I—”

2 fics in a few weeks!! lfg!!! i hope you enjoyed!! <3 thank you so much for reading! likes, comments, reblogs always so so appreciated <3 : ) they keep me writing!! askbox anon on hereeee - juno

[cheftsunoda]

party 4 u —cl16 & mv1

charles leclerc x !ex lover reader

max verstappen x !wife reader

(a/n) : reread gatsby for the 80th time and got inspired. i hope you enjoy. george is the readers cousin. working on all the requests rn- love you guys.

word count : 6,365

“…i only threw this party for you”

george pov

When I first moved to Monaco, I didn’t expect to hear jazz echoing through my apartment walls at one in the morning. And yet, here I was — three nights in a row — lying awake in a painfully modern flat in Fontvieille while a saxophone moaned through the night air, accompanied by laughter, clinking glasses, and the occasional cheer, like someone had just won a hand of poker or landed a deal worth millions. At first, I assumed it was just Monaco being Monaco. But then I saw the house.

It wasn’t just a house. It was a palace of light — ivory stone, clean glass, framed by palm trees and ocean views. The parties spilled out into the gardens, down to a private dock where vintage Riva boats rocked gently against the tide. Ferraris lined the circular drive. And at the edge of the property, glowing faintly in the night like a secret, was a small green light, fixed at the end of the dock. It blinked through the dark, across the water — oddly out of place. Quiet, where everything else was loud. Still, where the rest of the estate pulsed with life. I didn’t understand it then. But later, I would. 

—

The night I finally received an invitation, it arrived on thick cream paper slid under my door. No name. Just a time, a date, and a location I could have found blindfolded.

—

The party was unlike anything I’d ever seen. Models lounged on lounge chairs as if posing for fashion editorials. Waiters in black tuxedos carried trays of champagne and caviar. Jazz musicians played on a raised platform, and beyond them, a DJ was already warming up for the late-night shift.

“Mr. Russell.”

I turned to see him, standing at the edge of the garden, in a perfectly cut black suit. Not a hair out of place. But up close, Charles looked… tired. Or maybe just haunted.

“Charles,” I said, shaking his hand. “I wasn’t sure the invitation was real.”

“I don’t invite people who don’t matter,” he said with a small smile. “Come. Walk with me.”

We strolled along the edge of the pool, the party fading behind us.

“I knew your name sounded familiar,” he said. “You’re related to her.”

I paused. “To who?”

“To YN,” he said, as if it were obvious. As if her name were written across the sky.

Her name hung in the air like the smoke from the cigar someone had left behind on a railing.

“She’s… well,” I began, unsure of the boundary I was crossing. “She’s married now. You probably know that.”

“To Max Verstappen,” he said, bitterness bleeding into his voice. “Yeah. I know.”

There was a long silence. He stopped walking and looked out over the cliffside. His eyes didn’t fix on the city or the stars — they settled on that same light, blinking across the bay, barely visible in the distance from this side of the estate.

“Do you see that?” he asked me, pointing. “That light.”

I nodded.

“It’s hers,” he said. “From her dock. I had mine built to mirror it. I thought… maybe if she ever looked across the water, she’d know someone was waiting.”

There was a pause. The music behind us shifted to a slower rhythm. The world seemed to exhale.

“Do you think,” Charles asked quietly, “if I threw enough parties, made enough noise, maybe… one day she’d show up?”

I didn’t answer right away. Because the answer was both cruel and kind.

“She might,” I finally said. “She’s still in Monaco.”

He turned to me then, and for the first time, I saw it. Not the money, not the cars or the charm — but the ache beneath it all.

“Tell her I said hello,” he murmured. “No — wait. Don’t.”

He smiled again, that fractured, wistful kind of smile that people wear when they’re already halfway through a memory.

—

Later that night, I messaged YN. 

Just got in. Staying in Fontvieille… you won’t believe who my neighbor is. Drinks later?

And even as I hit send, I glanced out my own window —at the soft glow of that green light blinking faintly across the dark sea. And I knew. This wasn’t going to be about racing. It was about her. 

And the man who never stopped watching the water for her return.

—

your pov 

I always hear the sea before I see it. It’s the first thing that greets me each morning, soft waves brushing against the cliffs beneath the villa, rising through the open balcony doors in a rhythm that’s become as familiar to me as the beat of Max’s absence. He was gone before I woke up. Again. No note, no goodbye, just the quiet echo of the front door closing and the faint smell of motor oil lingering in the sheets. It’s always like this during race week. There’s no room for softness in his world, only speed and steel. I step outside into the morning light, drawing my robe tighter around my waist as the breeze dances across my skin. Monaco stretches out beneath me — white yachts drifting into the bay, their wakes slicing through the water like ribbons being unwound. The hills behind them are already glowing gold with sun, and the city is beginning to bloom again after its slow, silent winter. And then, I see it.

The light.

Faint. Blinking. Distant.

It’s perched at the end of a dock across the bay much too far to be useful, too strange to be a coincidence. I’ve noticed it before, always late at night when I can’t sleep, when I pace the villa barefoot, aching for something I can’t quite name. I never knew what the light meant. But today, it feels like it’s looking right back at me. My phone buzzes on the terrace table. I already know who it is.

George.

Just got in. Staying in Fontvieille — you won’t believe who my neighbor is. Drinks later?

I smile despite myself. George has always been a soft place to land, all English politeness and thoughtful silences. The opposite of Max’s sharpness, his chaos. I haven’t seen George since Christmas, when we all played pretend around the dinner table and ignored the cracks in my perfect life.

Of course. I could use a distraction.

I hit send. The light blinks once more, steady this time. Like a heartbeat.

—

The lounge at Hôtel de Paris is half-empty when I arrive. George stands when he sees me, and for a moment I forget the years between us.

“Still the most glamorous woman in Monaco,” he says, kissing my cheek.

“And still the smoothest liar in Europe,” I tease.

We fall into our old rhythm — champagne, banter, small talk wrapped in satin. But I can feel something building. George is holding something just behind his smile. He leans forward, resting his elbows on the table.

“Do you remember Charles Leclerc?”

The world stills. My breath catches. God. Of course I do. I remember how his voice dipped when he said my name. How his fingers hovered over mine like they didn’t dare touch. How he looked at me — like I was every sunrise he thought he’d never see again.

I swallow. “Yes. I remember.”

“He’s my neighbor,” George says slowly. “Lives just across from me in Fontvieille. You should see the house — it’s… absurd. Like something out of a dream. And the parties, every night. Like he’s trying to distract himself from something.”

I stare down at my glass.

“He asked about you,” George adds. “Didn’t know I was your cousin at first. Once he found out… well. I didn’t need to ask anything else.”

My heart knocks against my ribs.

“He built a dock, you know,” George continues. “Had it designed to mirror yours. And at the end of it — there’s a light.”

I look up. I don’t try to hide the way my expression shifts. He sees it.

“I’ve seen it,” I whisper.

“Every night,” George says. “He stands there, staring across the water. At you, I think. Or maybe just the idea of you.”

I don’t say anything. Because what could I possibly say?

—

That night, after Max has returned and collapsed into bed, I stand at the window. The city glows below, Monaco sparkling like something on the verge of unraveling. I press my hand to the glass, eyes drawn once again to that single, blinking green light across the bay. I can’t tell if it’s calling me back…or daring me to come closer. But I know one thing for certain…The past has teeth. And it’s not finished with me yet.

—

george pov 

The music was louder near the terrace — bold jazz brushing shoulders with the hum of luxury and secrets. But inside, the sound softened, swallowed by velvet curtains and expensive silence. I found Kika alone in the library. She looked every bit the part — sleek gown, hair pinned like she’d just stepped out of a runway show, drink in hand, lounging on the edge of a leather armchair like the room belonged to her. It probably did, in some way. She always seemed to belong. She raised a brow when she saw me.

“I was wondering when you’d come looking for me.”

I smiled, leaning against the doorframe. “You always seem to know where to disappear to.”

She tilted her glass toward me. “And you always seem to want answers you’re not ready to hear.”

I stepped inside. “You know something.”

Her smile faltered for half a second — just long enough. I crossed the room and sat opposite her, letting the silence settle like dust between us.

“It’s about Charles,” I said.

She didn’t answer right away.

“It’s about her,” she corrected softly. “And him.”

Kika swirled the drink in her hand, the ice clinking like a clock ticking down. “He was hers before Max ever entered the picture. Not officially, not in the kind of way people write about — but in all the ways that matter.”

“And she left?” I asked.

“She had to,” Kika said. “You know how it works. Her family. The image. The politics. Charles was everything she wanted and nothing she was allowed to choose.”

I stared at her. “And now she’s married to Max.”

Kika laughed — a little bitter, a little bored. “If you think marriage erases love, George, you’ve been spending too much time in the paddock and not enough time watching people lie to themselves.”

I looked down at my drink.

“She doesn’t talk about him,” I said. “But I can feel it. Like she’s holding her breath around the very idea of him.”

“She doesn’t talk about him,” Kika echoed, “because she’s afraid that if she does, the dam will break.”

She leaned forward now, her tone shifting, eyes sharper.

“Do you know why Charles throws these parties?”

I didn’t answer. Kika gave me a look that felt almost sad. “It’s for her. It’s always been for her. Every guest, every bottle of champagne, every stupid green light glowing at the edge of that dock — it’s all a signal flare. Just in case she’s watching.”

I leaned back, the weight of her words settling heavy in my chest.

“Do you think she’ll come back to him?”

Kika was quiet for a moment. Then she smiled, soft and complicated.

“I think… if she lets herself feel anything at all, she never really left.”

—

youy pov 

It started with a message from George.

Come by tomorrow around four? Nothing fancy. Tea and old gossip?

I said yes, not because I had the time — Max had meetings, sponsors, a dinner I was expected to sit through — but because George never asked for much. And I liked being with someone who didn’t make me feel like I had to earn my presence. Besides, the rain was coming down in slow, silver sheets that afternoon, soaking the cliffs and muting the sound of the sea. Monaco in the rain felt like something suspended in time — a painting left out in a storm. I didn’t dress up. A soft sweater, silk trousers, hair left loose. I told myself it didn’t matter. That was my first mistake. George’s apartment overlooked the harbor. It was clean, almost surgical, like he didn’t really live there. He opened the door with a nervous smile that didn’t suit him.

“You’re early,” he said, glancing at his watch.

I raised a brow. “You said four.”

“I know,” he said. “Just — come in. Sit. You want tea?”

“I want to know what you’re hiding,” I replied, stepping inside.

He laughed, too quickly. “What makes you think I’m hiding anything?”

“You’re British. You only make tea under emotional duress.”

Before he could answer, the doorbell rang. And that was when I knew. I turned slowly, my heart already racing — faster than it had in years, faster than it ever did with Max. George moved to open the door, and for a split second, I thought I should run. But then the door opened. And there he was.

Charles.

He hadn’t changed. Or maybe he had, but in all the right ways. His hair was slightly longer, curling at the edges. The lines around his eyes were deeper, not from age, but from ache. He wore a cream sweater and tailored trousers, simple and quiet, like he didn’t need the world to notice him — he only needed one person to. And for a moment, neither of us spoke. Rain dripped from his jacket, pooling onto George’s polished floor. He held a single white flower in his hand — delicate, already starting to wilt.

“Hi,” he said.

My mouth went dry. “Hi.”

I didn’t move. Neither did he.

George cleared his throat. “I, uh… I’ll just go check on the tea.”

Coward.

We stood in that tiny sitting room with too much space between us.

“I didn’t know you’d be here,” I said, though it wasn’t entirely true.

“I hoped you would be,” Charles said, voice quiet, steady. “But I didn’t want to force anything.”

I looked down at the flower in his hand.

He offered it to me. “It’s from my garden. Not the best choice, maybe.”

I took it.

“It’s perfect,” I said.

He looked at me, really looked at me, and it was like the air between us shifted. Everything unsaid sat heavy in the space we didn’t dare cross.

“I’ve thought about this moment,” he said. “For years.”

I swallowed. “And?”

“And now that you’re here… I don’t know what to say.”

I smiled, fragile and real. “You could say hello again.”

So he did.

—

Later, George would return with a tray of tea no one touched. The rain would ease off. The sky would open into a strange sort of stillness. And Charles would sit across from me like someone who had forgotten how to breathe, afraid that if he blinked, I might disappear. And I—I would hold the flower in my lap, petals already starting to bruise, and feel something begin to bloom again inside me. Something I had buried beneath vows, race weekends, and careful smiles.

Something with his name. The rain hadn’t stopped. It had only softened — now a light drizzle clinging to the marble streets of Fontvieille, making everything look like it belonged in a memory. George had conveniently vanished somewhere inside the apartment, muttering something about emails and phone calls that didn’t exist. I knew what he was doing. I was grateful for it. Charles stood by the window, hands in his pockets, watching the mist slide down the glass.

“I don’t like tea,” he said, without turning.

I laughed. “You drank it.”

“I drank it because you were there.”

That silenced me. Not because it surprised me but because it didn’t. I looked at him, really looked at him. The way his shoulders sat differently now, heavier somehow. The way his voice had dropped half an octave, like life had carved itself into him.

“I’ve missed the rain here,” I said, quietly.

He turned toward me. “Would you like to walk in it?”

I hesitated. But then I nodded. We didn’t speak for the first few minutes. The streets were nearly empty. The rich don’t walk in the rain — they send their assistants or wait it out behind tinted glass. But there we were, side by side, moving slowly past shuttered cafes and blooming window boxes, both pretending not to notice how close our hands were.

“You used to say you hated the rain,” Charles said finally.

“I used to say a lot of things.”

He smiled without looking at me. “That summer, you always carried a red umbrella. Even when it wasn’t raining.”

“It matched my lipstick.”

“It made you look like you belonged in a movie.”

We kept walking. At one point, I slipped — just a little, my foot catching on the wet stone — and he reached out, instinctively, his hand catching my elbow. His touch was warm even through the sleeve of my sweater.

“I’ve got you,” he said.

I didn’t pull away.

“I was afraid I wouldn’t recognize you,” he said, after a long silence. “That time had… changed you into someone else.”

“And?” I asked.

“And then you laughed.”

He stopped walking. I did too.

“You laughed,” he said again, “and I knew you were still mine. Somewhere.”

The air around us felt still, even as the rain clung to our clothes. My heart was loud in my chest. His eyes held mine like a question he’d been too afraid to ask for years. I didn’t know what to say. I couldn’t. So instead, I reached for his hand. And this time, I didn’t let go. I didn’t know we were walking there until we arrived. One moment we were side by side in the rain, hands barely touching — and the next, we were standing at the tall black gates of a cliffside villa that seemed to rise right out of the sea. Hidden behind cypress trees and ivy-covered walls, it looked more like a dream than a home. As if someone had taken all the fantasies of a boy in love and pressed them into stone and glass. Charles didn’t say a word as the gates opened. I stopped walking.

“You live here?” I asked, breathless.

He glanced over at me, almost shy. “It’s not far from yours. I thought maybe, someday… you’d notice.”

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. We stepped inside. The foyer was quiet, grand in that effortless European way. White walls. Warm oak. A chandelier that looked like dripping light. Music floated in from somewhere — soft piano. I followed him past rooms lined with art I recognized from magazines, sculptures I’d once seen in Florence, and windows that opened straight onto the ocean, the sea stretching out in every direction like something eternal.

“I bought this place two years ago,” he said. “Did most of the designing myself. I wanted it to feel like… something alive.”

“Alive,” I echoed.

He nodded. “Like it was waiting.”

For a while, neither of us spoke. He led me through the living room — two stories high, all soft neutrals and open space — and up a staircase that curled like a seashell. Every room looked untouched. As if someone had spent years preparing them for a moment that never came.

“This is my favorite,” he said, pushing open a pair of double doors at the end of the hall.

It was a library — soft lighting, shelves that reached the ceiling, a single armchair facing a massive window that looked directly across the bay. And there it was again. The green light. Blinking. Waiting. Watching. My throat tightened.

“I put it there for you,” he said, quietly.

I turned to him.

“You couldn’t have known I’d ever come.”

“I didn’t,” he said. “But hope doesn’t need permission.”

The rain had stopped now, but everything still glistened with it — the rooftops, the glass, the sea itself. The entire city looked like it had been held underwater and brought up gasping. I stepped closer to the window.

“You’ve made a world here,” I said. “And you filled it with ghosts.”

He didn’t respond. Just watched me.

“I don’t know if I belong in it,” I whispered.

“You do,” he said. “You always did.”

In the quiet, I could feel the ache between us — years stretched taut like thread. The kind that doesn’t snap. The kind that holds. Outside, the green light blinked again. And for the first time, I let myself wonder what it would feel like to reach for it. Not as a memory. But as a future. After the library, I thought we’d seen the most intimate part of the house.

But then Charles said, “There’s something else.”

He led me down a narrow hallway that curved behind the main stairwell — away from the grand rooms and the sea views. The air was cooler there, and quieter. More honest. The door he opened was simple. Pale oak. No dramatic flourish. Inside, it was nothing like the rest of the house. It wasn’t a gallery. It wasn’t a showroom. It was a museum of memory. Of me. A wide, sunlit space, lined with glass cases and shelves. There were old photographs, carefully framed, some I remembered, some I didn’t even know existed. Candids from that one summer in Saint-Tropez. A photo booth strip from a race after party. A polaroid from a yacht where I’m half-smiling at someone off frame. Him, probably. And then there were the things. A pair of vintage sunglasses I’d once admired in a shop window, he had found them again, in Milan. A perfume bottle in the exact scent I used to wear. A red scarf I lost years ago in the back of a cab in Paris. Somehow, he had found a copy of the book I lent him that summer, still dog eared on the chapter I said made me cry. I stood still. Silent. On a low shelf, I saw a gold ring with a delicate emerald set into it.

My breath caught. “This was—”

“You left it at my apartment. The night before you left for London.”

I touched the glass, fingertips hovering over the memory.

“This isn’t healthy,” I said, but my voice cracked halfway through.

“I know,” Charles replied, quietly.

I turned to him. His expression was unreadable but calm, composed. But his hands were shaking.

“I wasn’t collecting things,” he said. “I was collecting time. Moments. Proof that you were real. That we were real.”

“You don’t need proof,” I said. “I was there.”

“Not anymore.”

That silenced me.

“I thought if I built it all — if I gathered every thread — maybe, someday, you’d walk in and recognize yourself in it. And maybe… we’d find our way back.”

I looked around the room again. Every object shimmered with what ifs. With love held too long in clenched hands.

“Charles,” I whispered. “This is…”

But I didn’t know how to finish the sentence. Beautiful? Heartbreaking? Obsessive? Pure? Maybe it was all of those things. He crossed the room then, slowly, until he was just in front of me. He didn’t touch me. Just stood there.

“I didn’t ask you to feel the same,” he said. “I only ever wanted you to know.”

And in that moment, I did. All of it. The waiting. The building. The aching. The hope was shining like the green light across the bay. The air between us felt too full to breathe. I stood there, surrounded by pieces of my past, feeling more exposed than I ever had. Charles’s eyes were locked on mine, searching, waiting, trembling with something I could barely name. Without a word, he stepped closer, he was slow, deliberate. The space between us shrinking until the heat of him was impossible to ignore. I wanted to pull away. I wanted to remind myself of everything I had built with Max, with my life. But I didn’t. His hand reached up, brushing a stray lock of hair behind my ear— gentle, careful, like he was afraid to break me. And then his lips were on mine. Soft at first, questioning — like two people relearning how to touch after years apart. But underneath that softness was a storm, a desperation, a longing too fierce to contain. I felt the weight of the years between us fall away. The promises made and broken. The dreams that never died. When we finally pulled apart, my breath was shallow, my heart pounding in my ears. Charles rested his forehead against mine.

“I’ve waited for you,” he whispered.

“Me too,” I said, barely above a breath.

The world outside the window — that damn blinking light, the rain-wet city — all faded. There was only this moment. Only us.

—

For weeks, it had felt like a secret suspended in time… stolen moments between Charles and me, wrapped in rain-soaked evenings and whispered conversations. Our affair unfolded like something fragile and forbidden, a delicate thread we both tried not to snap. We met in quiet corners of the city — a hidden café near the marina, a secluded terrace overlooking the Formula 1 paddock, the back room of a gallery where no one looked twice. Charles was different then — more open, more himself. And I could almost forget the world I’d left behind. Almost. Because the truth was always waiting. Max.

The first time I saw him after everything began was like a punch to the chest. We were at a gala, the kind where every flash of the cameras felt like a spotlight on my shame. Max was there, tall, confident, the man who had built our life like a fortress. His eyes swept the room, then locked onto mine. There was something in his gaze that I couldn’t quite read…suspicion? Hurt? Or maybe just the weight of knowing. I could feel Charles tense beside me. Later, as the night grew long and the crowd thinned, Max pulled me aside.

“We need to talk,” he said, voice low but steady.

I nodded, swallowing the lump in my throat.

He didn’t yell. He didn’t beg. He just looked at me, eyes searching, the fight draining out of him. He reached out for my hand, the first time he has touched me in weeks.

“Do you want this?” he asked quietly. “Us.”

I couldn’t answer. Because I didn’t know. Because the heart is a dangerous thing when it’s pulled in two directions.

Back at Charles’s place, the silence between us was heavier than the sea air.

“I saw him tonight,” I admitted.

Charles’s jaw clenched.

“I don’t want to lose you,” he said. “But I don’t want to be your secret.”

—

The night had already stretched thin, taut with everything unsaid. Max wasn’t one to lose control easily, but tonight something broke inside him. We were at our penthouse overlooking the harbor — a fortress of glass and steel, cold and imposing. Charles stood by the window, his back to us, staring out at the lights shimmering on the water. Max’s voice cut through the quiet like a blade.

“So this is him,” Max said, not looking at Charles but speaking to me. “The man you’ve been sneaking around with.”

I flinched. Charles turned slowly, calm but guarded.

“I’m not here to fight,” Charles said. “But I’m not leaving either.”

Max laughed, bitter and sharp. “Of course you’re not. You think you can just walk in and take what I built? What we built?”

Charles met his gaze evenly. “I’m not here to take anything. I’m here because she matters.”

Max’s eyes darkened. “She’s your fantasy, Charles. A ghost you’re chasing across the bay.”

Charles stepped forward, the quiet storm inside him finally breaking. “She’s real. More real than you ever cared to see.”

Max’s laugh was hollow now. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“I know exactly what I’m saying. And I’m done waiting in the shadows.”

Max moved closer, dangerous. “You think I’m just going to step aside? Because you showed up with a fancy house and a light?”

Charles’s jaw tightened. “It’s not the house. It’s not the light. It’s her.”

Max’s eyes flicked to me. “Is it worth it, YN? All this pain? This secret? The lies?”

I swallowed hard, caught between the two men who had shaped my world. Charles’s voice softened, almost pleading. “It’s worth everything.”

Max shook his head, a mixture of anger and something like despair. “This ends tonight.”

—

“Everyone’s dazzled by the mansion, the charm, the green light. But you forget — you built all that on lies.”

Charles’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing. Max’s voice dropped, low and venomous.

“I know about your offshore accounts. The unregistered sponsors. The shell companies hiding money that should’ve gone to the team — and probably a lot of other places you’d rather I didn’t mention.”

Charles finally looked at Max, his eyes dark but steady. “And what if I did?” Charles asked. “Is that supposed to scare you?”

Max laughed, harsh and bitter. “It’s not just me. It’s the entire paddock, the press. Everyone waiting for you to slip. And now you’ve dragged her into your mess.”

I felt my stomach twist. Charles ran a hand through his hair. “I did what I had to. For us.”

“For us?” Max echoed. “You don’t get to use her as a shield.”

Charles stepped forward. “I’m not hiding anymore.”

Max’s glare was ice. “Then maybe it’s time you face the consequences.”

—

It was supposed to be just another race. The sun baked the streets of Baku, the asphalt shimmering with heat, the grandstands roaring with anticipation. I stood above it all in a VIP suite, flanked by cameras and champagne and people who smiled with perfectly practiced ease. But none of them mattered. Only two people on that track could ruin me. Max. And Charles.

Rumors had been circling for weeks — about Charles’s money, about the investigations, about shady ties to foreign sponsors. Whispers of suspension. Disqualification. But nothing had stuck. Until today.

—

I didn’t know what Max had done. Not exactly. But I knew he had done something. He’d been too quiet before the race. Too calm. The kind of calm that makes your skin crawl. I asked him if he was okay. He looked me dead in the eye and said, “You’ll see.”

—

On lap 38, it happened. Charles was closing in on second, tires screaming around the hairpin, when Max’s teammate, a rookie on a two-year contract, desperate to prove himself — suddenly cut across the racing line. A move that made no sense. A move that could only be explained by orders. Charles reacted instinctively — too fast, too much. Carbon fiber exploded across the track. The other car spun, slammed into the barrier. Smoke. Debris. Yellow flags. But it was the radio crackle in the chaos that broke me. Charles’s voice.

“I didn’t see him. I swear. I didn’t—”

And then static.

—

The fallout was immediate. Headlines exploded across the world.

LECLERC UNDER FIRE FOR RECKLESS CRASH.

INSIDER SOURCES CLAIM ONGOING INVESTIGATION INTO ILLEGAL FUNDING.

MAX VERSTAPPEN: “IT WAS BOUND TO HAPPEN.”

No one said Max planned it. They didn’t have to. He knew exactly what he was doing.

—

I saw Charles once, days after the crash, holed up in his estate, the gates locked, the windows dark. He didn’t look like himself. Not the golden boy with the green light in his eyes. Just a man unraveling.

“I didn’t mean to hurt anyone,” he told me, voice barely a whisper. “I only ever wanted a future.”

I wanted to believe him. God, I did believe him. But the world didn’t. And neither did the sport.

—

The days after the crash blurred into one another — soft, grey, and quiet. The kind of silence that feels like mourning, though no one had died. Not technically. But something had. Maybe it was the illusion. The version of me Charles had built his entire world around. I visited him once more. The house felt different. Not grand, not magical — just empty. A shell. He met me at the edge of the garden, by the sea, the green light across the bay flickering faintly through the dusk.

“You haven’t been answering,” he said.

“I know.”

He studied my face like he was trying to memorize it again, afraid I’d disappear.

“You said once that you waited for me,” I said quietly. “But I think what you were waiting for wasn’t… me.”

He blinked, thrown.

“You waited for an idea. A version of me who never changed. Who was frozen in that summer we first met.”

He stepped toward me, panicked. “That’s not true.”

But it was. Because the real me — the me who had grown tired, who had doubts, who sometimes missed Max even in the middle of Charles’s arms — that version made him flinch.

“I needed you to be perfect,” Charles whispered, as if realizing it himself. “Because if you weren’t, then all of this… was for nothing.”

I nodded.

“I know.”

The breeze picked up off the water, cold and salty.

“I thought I could love you the way you wanted,” I said. “But you don’t see me. Not really. You see what you needed me to be.”

His eyes dropped to the ground.

“And Max?” he asked, the word bitter in his mouth.

“I don’t know if I love him,” I admitted. “But he knows who I am. And somehow, he still stays.”

Charles didn’t speak. I reached out, touched his hand once more, gently.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

Then I walked away.

—

The movers came early in the morning. Low voices. Heavy boots. Boxes filled with a life carefully built, now undone. The house echoed with emptiness — a hollow kind of silence that clung to the walls. The garden was overgrown. The green light across the bay was gone, drowned in the thick fog rolling in from the sea. Charles stood in the driveway, watching the team pack away what was left of the dream. And then Max arrived. No warning. No announcement. Just the quiet hum of an engine and the sharp click of expensive shoes on stone. Charles didn’t flinch when Max stepped out of the car. He didn’t even look surprised.

“I thought you might come,” Charles said.

“I wanted to see it for myself,” Max replied, his voice flat. “What’s left of it, anyway.”

I stood just inside the threshold of the house, wrapped in a sweater, hands clenched at my sides. Watching. Not speaking. Max’s eyes flicked toward me. Just for a moment. Then he turned back to Charles.

“You really thought she was going to leave it all behind for you?”

Charles didn’t answer. “You’re not in some storybook, Leclerc. You’re not the hero.”

Charles’s voice, when it came, was soft. “No,” he said. “I’m the fool who believed in one.”

Max smiled without warmth. “You had your moment. You lost.”

Charles stepped forward once, just one pace, his eyes dark and unreadable. “She loved me,” he said, quiet and certain.

“And now she’s coming home with me,” Max replied. “Because no matter how many lights you chase, no matter how much money you throw at the past—some things don’t come back.”

I closed my eyes. And stayed still. Charles looked at me then — really looked at me — like he was still hoping I’d ay something. Anything. But I didn’t. Because I couldn’t. Because maybe Max was right. Or maybe I was just too tired to keep chasing something that had already drowned.

Max turned, gestured for me to follow. He wrapped an arm tightly around my waist, quietly glaring back at Charles. I hesitated. Just long enough for my heart to whisper his name. And then kept walking away. Not with joy. Not with triumph. But with resignation.

Behind us, Charles stayed where he was — unmoving, alone — as the movers took the last box away. The gates of the house swung shut. And the dream ended, quietly, like it always would.

—

georges final epilogue 

I stood by the harbor the day Charles Leclerc left Monaco. There was no press. No goodbye. No scandal headline screaming his name. Just a quiet departure. The kind that didn’t belong to someone who once lit up the coast with champagne and chandeliers. Who threw parties for ghosts and watched the shoreline for a girl who was never really his. He was gone before the sun broke through the clouds. The city barely noticed. But I did. I always noticed. I remember the first time I met him — all charm and mystery, like he stepped out of a dream and into real life. I remember how he looked at her — the way his entire world bent in her direction. And I remember how it all fell apart. Not in an explosion. In silence. In slow, inevitable erosion. She never spoke to me about him again. Not after that day. She returned to Max, to the life she had built. She smiled at the right events, wore the right dresses, laughed just enough to make everyone believe the story had ended well. But I saw it — that flicker in her eyes, just now and then, when someone mentioned green, or rain, or the sound of a Ferrari engine in the distance. I think she loved him once. But love wasn’t enough.

And Charles? He faded from the headlines. The house was sold. The lights turned off. He became just another myth this city buried beneath champagne and secrets. But I remember. Because someone should. Sometimes I walk by the old estate. The one by the water, where the grass has grown too long and the wind whistles through the broken glass. I think of him standing at the dock, eyes fixed on a green light that never really existed — a symbol of a past that could never be reclaimed. We’re all chasing something, I suppose. Some dream. Some version of love. Some perfect beginning we tell ourselves we can return to. But we can’t. So we move forward. Bearing the weight of the past. And pretending it never mattered.

[yesihaveaobsession]

A Well- Tailored Affair

Alastor x female! reader

Summary: Being The Radio Demon's one and only personal tailor has it own perks.

A/N- Sorry I have been gone for quite some time!! But I'm back, I had NOOOOOO idea what to write and this thought came to me mid sleep at like 12am So anyways I hope you enjoy!

ALSO this was gonna proofread because I didn't have time and I missed yall so sorry if it sucks 💀

Being a tailor in Hell was no small feat, especially when your main client was none other than the Radio Demon himself, Alastor. When you first took the job, you didn’t expect it to be much of a challenge working with his specific tastes. But over time, you came to know him like the back of your hand.

Today, he was scheduled for a fitting. He had dropped off a newer jacket last week but he said he had business to attend to and he'd come back next week and that was today. As always, the atmosphere of your small shop—which wasn’t far from the hotel—was calm and cozy. You were currently cross-stitching a dress for Rosie for some type of event in Cannibal Town when, suddenly, the bell above the door jingled. There he was. Alastor stepped inside with his signature grin, accompanied by the hum of radio static. The aura he carried was palpable. The moment he entered, you could feel the air shift.

"Ah, my favorite tailor!" he exclaimed, spreading his arms wide before resting his hands on the microphone in front of him. With a slight tilt of his head, he asked, "Have you missed me?"

You chuckled softly, stepping away from your work and already reaching for the measuring tape. "You were here last week, Alastor. Hardly enough time to miss anyone." You smiled. His grin didn’t falter, though you didn’t notice how his crimson eyes lingered on you longer than usual. Truth be told, Alastor liked you. More than he should, and more than he realized. Part of it was the trust he placed in you to handle his precious suits, which were such a vital part of who he was. But it was also because you treated them with such grace. You knew what you were doing and were exceptional at it. Not to mention, you were one of the rare souls in Hell who wasn’t afraid of him. And lastly, you were undeniably pretty—he thought that too.

"Ah, but a week without your company is an eternity, my dear," Alastor replied. You brushed off his words with a smile. He often gave small, sweet compliments about your work and how he missed you, so this wasn’t anything new. Yet today, his words seemed to carry a different meaning.

You rolled your eyes playfully, motioning for him to step onto the fitting platform. In front of him was a large mirror—he loved checking his reflection to ensure he always looked impeccable. "Alright, charmer, let’s see what we’re working with today. Did you tear another sleeve during one of your dramatics?" you teased, looking from the sleeve up into his eyes.

He let out a melodic laugh. "Guilty as charged! I simply cannot help myself. Life—or afterlife, rather—demands a flair for the theatrical!"

As you worked, your hands expertly adjusted the fabric of his jacket. You noticed his gaze drifting to you frequently. At first, you thought he might be scrutinizing your technique, but no—this was different. His grin softened ever so slightly whenever he thought you weren’t looking. Watching your focused expression gave him an odd fluttering sensation, almost like butterflies in his stomach.

"You’re very precise," he remarked, his voice quieter than usual.

"Kind of comes with the job," you replied with a smile, pinning a sleeve in place. "Can’t have the Radio Demon walking around in anything less than perfection, right?"

"Indeed. And you, my dear, are perfection. I must confess, I’ve never trusted anyone else with my suits. You have an extraordinary talent."

You paused, caught off guard by the bold confession—especially coming from him. "Thank you, Alastor. That means a lot," you said, grabbing the needle and thread.

"And," he added, tilting his head as though studying a particularly fascinating piece of art, "it doesn’t hurt that you’re quite easy on the eyes." Was he kidding? He had to be, right? Your cheeks flushed instantly, and you nearly dropped the pin you were holding. "Oh! Uh, thanks."

He noticed your reaction and chuckled, clearly amused. "Did I fluster you? My, my, how delightful!" Alastor grinned, watching you through the mirror. You cleared your throat, trying to regain your composure. "Stop moving," you muttered, focusing on adjusting the flaps on his suit. You finished stitching up the rip on his sleeve with a clean, neat stitch—it was a relatively easy fix.

The silence grew heavy until he broke it. "You’re one of the only few who doesn’t fear me, you know… It’s refreshing."

"Well, I figured if you were going to do something to me, you would’ve done it already," you replied with a smirk, stepping back to admire your work. Alastor’s grin widened. "Perhaps. Or perhaps I find your company far too enjoyable to spoil."

You shook your head, laughing softly. "Alright, smooth talker, you’re good to go. You can come and pick it up in 24 hours." You watched as he stepped down from the platform, adjusted his jacket, the one he came in with and turned to face you. "Splendid! I’ll be counting the seconds until I see your lovely presence again!" He started toward the door but paused, looking back over his shoulder with that ever-present grin. "Oh, and my dear, do save a moment for tea when I return. I’d like to enjoy more of your delightful company." You smiled, shaking your head. "You better not rip your coat on purpose in the next 24 hours!" you shouted after him.

You heard his laugh echo as he left, leaving you standing in the middle of your shop, flustered and smiling despite yourself. Maybe being Alastor’s tailor wasn’t so bad after all.

[writingforstraykids]

You have the right to remain mine

Pairing: Mob Boss!Minho x Chief of Police!Reader

Word Count: 6589

Summary: You're the youngest Chief of Police in the city’s history. Unfortunately, fate has a twisted sense of humor. Because the kingpin you’ve been chasing across rooftops and back alleys for years? You’re married to him. Lee Minho, your husband of five years, is the elusive, impeccably dressed, frustratingly clever Mob Boss at the top of your most-wanted list. You raid his warehouses. He sends you flowers the next day. He burns down a rival gang's casino, and you make sure the surveillance footage ‘malfunctions.’ It’s a dance - a dangerous, unspeakably stupid battle of law and love. But it's yours.

Warnings/Tags: fluff, angst, betrayal, short mention of blood, guns, they're idiots, suggestive, bickering

A/N: You voted, here it is. The opposite pairing will be posted soon as it's been a close call (yes, it'll be a different storyline)🤭🖤

do not repost, translate, or plagiarize my works in any way here or on other platforms. ©️writingforstraykids 2024 -

Seoul doesn't so much wake up as it murmurs itself into motion - slow, heavy-lidded, and restless beneath a pale, smog-soft sky. The glass buildings catch the low morning light like mirrors trying not to remember the night. Somewhere far below, a siren wails, more tired than urgent, swallowed by the hum of early traffic and the scatter of footsteps on wet pavement.

Your apartment sits high above all of it. Too high to hear the chaos. Too quiet to forget it.

The scent of freshly ground coffee drifts into the bedroom long before you do. You linger by the doorframe, still adjusting your badge and tugging at the too-stiff collar of your uniform, as if somehow you could pull yourself tighter into your role. One hand rests on your holstered sidearm - not out of habit, but because it’s grounding. Something that has never lied to you.

Which is more than you can say for the man in your kitchen.

Minho stands with his back to you, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, the curve of his forearm flexing as he sets your coffee down beside the usual folded napkin.

He’s barefoot on the cool tile, hair still damp from a quick shower, wearing the kind of perfectly worn-in hoodie that screams domestic bliss instead of what it should: most wanted criminal in Seoul. If you hadn’t seen him orchestrate a warehouse bombing with a whisper and a smirk, you’d believe he belonged here.

He glances over his shoulder, one brow lifting. “You’re up early.”

You step fully into the room, the clink of your belt and gear cutting through the silence like warning bells. “Didn’t sleep,” you murmur, wrapping both hands around the ceramic mug he offers without ceremony.

“Nightmares?” he asks, but there’s a gentle note under it, like he's actually asking if you’re okay.

“Paperwork,” you reply, and sip too fast. The burn is welcome.

Minho makes a quiet, sympathetic sound. “Worse then.”

You should leave. You have thirty minutes to make it downtown, brief your team, and pretend convincingly that you’re not married to the man your department has spent the last years trying to hunt down. And failing.

You lean against the counter anyway. He watches you from the other side, arms crossed, mouth curved in something between amusement and exhaustion. You both look like people playing house. Like two civilians exchanging sleepy words in a kitchen touched by sunrise. And maybe, in another life, that’s all you would’ve been.

But in this one?

You’re Seoul’s Chief of Police. And he’s its most slippery, terrifyingly brilliant kingpin.

“What happened at the docks last night?” you ask, too casually, because dancing around it feels worse.

Minho’s expression doesn’t shift, but something behind his eyes sharpens. “You tell me.”

“Two bodies in a van. Bound. Shot clean. Dumped like trash. No prints. No traceable bullets,” you list the facts.

“Sounds like professionals,” he says, tone mild.

You raise an eyebrow. “Your professionals.”

He shrugs, slow and infuriating. “Maybe. Maybe not.”

You exhale through your nose. “You’re making it harder and harder to protect you.”

He steps closer, barefoot pads silent on the tile, and reaches out to brush a non-existent wrinkle from your sleeve. His hand lingers. “You’ve been protecting me, hm?”

“Don’t be cute,” you warn him.

“I wasn’t trying to be,” he grins. His voice lowers. “Do you want me to stop?”

You don’t answer. You can’t. Because if you do, the whole threadbare illusion you’ve managed to drape over your life might finally tear. Instead, you down the rest of your coffee, place the mug carefully on the counter, and turn away - half to grab your keys, half to remember how to breathe.

He follows you to the door, as he always does. Like he’s simply your husband walking you out for work and not the man you're supposed to have handcuffed in an interrogation room.

“I’ll be late tonight,” you say without looking at him.

He leans one shoulder against the doorframe, watching you clip your ID to your uniform. “Working late, or pretending to work late?”

“There’s a task force in town. Federal.”

His gaze darkens just slightly, but his voice stays smooth. “They’re watching me now too?”

“They’re watching everyone.”

He hums softly, a sound that tells you nothing and everything. “Be careful, Chief.”

You pause at the door, fingers tightening around the handle. “You, too. Please.”

There’s a long, slow moment where neither of you moves. Then…

“By the way,” Minho says casually, “if you’re wondering why your office phone’s been making that weird clicking noise-” You turn, narrowing your eyes. He smiles, smug as hell. “I might’ve planted a bug. Just to make sure your new federal friends weren’t getting too nosy.”

“You planted a - Minho!”

He shrugs. “Occupational hazard. Love you.”

“You’re insane,” you hiss, pulling the door shut behind you.

“Text me when you miss me!” he calls after you, voice sing-song sweet.

You pretend you don’t hear it. Pretend that your heart doesn’t twist every time you walk away from him. Pretend you’re not still waiting for the day one of you stops pretending. Because the roles this world has pushed you in are screaming at you to do so.

You're the youngest Chief of Police in the city’s history - sharp, principled, and dead set on dismantling the criminal networks ruining your streets. Unfortunately, fate has a twisted sense of humor. Because the kingpin you’ve been chasing across rooftops and back alleys for years? You’re married to him.

Lee Minho, your husband of five years, is the elusive, impeccably dressed, frustratingly clever Mob Boss at the top of your most-wanted list.

You’ve both agreed (unofficially, of course) to ‘try’ catching each other without actually catching each other. You raid his warehouses. He sends you flowers the next day. He burns down a rival gang's casino, and you make sure the surveillance footage ‘malfunctions.’ It’s a dance - a dangerous, unspeakably stupid battle of law and love. But it's yours.

Five years ago

It was raining the night you married him.

Not the soft kind that politely patters against windowpanes, but the relentless, sideways kind that slams against rooftops and turns gutters into rivers. Thunder rolled across the coastline like it was laughing at you, shaking loose something deep in your chest. Somewhere beyond the glass walls of the hotel room, waves crashed angrily against the breakwater.

The storm was the least reckless thing happening that night.

You stood barefoot on a plush rug in a borrowed suite far from Seoul, hair damp with seawater and adrenaline. Your hand trembled slightly in his as you stared at a man who shouldn't have been touching you - shouldn’t have known you beyond coded messages and surveillance reports. But somehow, you’d spent the last year learning everything about him anyway.

Lee Minho.

The ghost at the edge of every case file. That last name your officers whispered like a curse. The man whose empire grew quietly in the dark, elegant and cruel, all silk gloves and bloody rings. And the man who, six months ago, had cornered you in a back alley after a botched sting and said, “You’ve been chasing me so long I’m starting to think you just like the view.”

And God help you, you stayed to hear what he’d say next.

You never planned for it to go this far. You never planned to see the way he looked at you when you called him by his real name instead of a title. You never planned to care what happened to him when an enemy gang planted a car bomb outside his nightclub, or when he disappeared for three weeks without a word.

You never planned to say yes.

Because when you got to know him, he was nothing but a shy, self-made CEO, wanting nothing but winning your heart. And oh, he had managed to do so so easily.

But then there you were - standing in a hotel room with no witnesses, no priest, no flowers - just the quiet, awful honesty of two people who knew this would ruin them and were still too stubborn to walk away.

“I know this is stupid,” Minho had said, that night, his voice hoarse with something raw and real. “I know what it makes you. What it makes me. But I’ve had people swear loyalty to me with guns in their hands and lies on their tongues. I want something different. Just once.”

You could’ve said no. You should’ve.

But the truth was - you didn’t trust anyone either. Not your deputy. Not the system. Not even yourself, on some nights.

But him? You trusted him to never lie about who he was. And somehow, that counted for more.

So you took the ring.

There wasn’t even a real ceremony that night. Just a whisper. A vow that didn’t make sense outside of the room.

“If they find out…”

“This doesn’t leave these walls.”

“It won’t,” he promised.

“They won’t.”

“We can’t be caught.”

“Then we won’t be.”

You remember the way he pressed his forehead against yours after, breathing like he’d run miles. You remember his hands on your waist, grounding you, reverent. You remember the silence between you - not empty, but thick with something unspeakably terrifying: love, in its rawest, ugliest form.

And you remember thinking, God, this is going to hurt later.

You were right.

Because five years later, you’re standing in your department’s war room staring at a board of photographs and red lines, all leading back to Minho, and pretending your heart doesn’t seize every time someone suggests killing him would be cleaner than an arrest.

Because five years later, every time you kiss him goodbye, it might actually be the last time.

The only hope you have is that no one knows who's the head of the Lee family. Even his enemies don't know his face. He's been careful and it made a legal wedding, one year later, with his public persona possible. It doesn't ease your fear, though.

And because five years later, you still haven’t figured out how to be both the hand that cuffs him and the one that reaches for him in the dark.

The precinct smells like burnt coffee and cheap floor polish. You walk in just after eight, weaving between buzzing desks and half-drained paper cups, your boots echoing off the scuffed tile. The murder board’s already lit up at the far end of the bullpen, center stage, like always. Red thread, handwritten notes, blurry surveillance photos. It’s a mess of dead leads and unsolved violence.

Present Day

Your team is already gathered: Detective Yoon flipping through files with one hand and a granola bar in the other; Jae, your resident tech, is half-asleep behind his tablet; and Songhwa, sharp as ever, is tapping her pen against the board like she’s trying to will the mystery into solving itself.

And at the heart of it all, as always, is one name in bold letters: LEE FAMILY SYNDICATE.

“Morning, Chief,” Yoon calls as you approach. “Coffee’s fresh, if by ‘fresh’ you mean still vaguely warm and legal to ingest.”

“Thanks,” you mutter, already reaching for the pot.

Jae grins at you over his screen. “We’ve been going through the most recent surveillance dumps. Still nothing. Whoever’s running point for the Lee family is either a ghost or some AI experiment gone rogue.”

Songhwa doesn’t look up. “No digital trail, no voice ID, no clean photos. Even the security footage from the port incident last week was jammed the moment they got close to the site. These people move like they know our next move before we do.” You take a long, steady sip of the coffee. Bitter and burnt. Perfect for mornings like this. “They’ve got a strategist,” Songhwa continues. “Someone clean. Disciplined. Not like the other mid-level idiots we’ve hauled in.”

Yoon gestures at the board. “We’ve got, what, forty-seven photos up there now? All suspected affiliates, and none of them confirmed as the one calling the shots.”

You arch a brow. “It’s Seoul. If we put up a picture of every person named Lee, we’d run out of wall and all retire with migraines.”

Jae barks a laugh. “Careful, Chief. You’re a Lee by marriage, right? We’d have to stick your photo up there too.”

Yoon whistles low. “Your husband’s a Lee, right. That’s suspicious enough. Handsome CEO. Vaguely mysterious. What do we know about him, anyway?”

You don’t miss a beat. You laugh, lightly, just the right note of self-deprecating humor, and shake your head. “All I know is he sleeps like the dead and always forgets to take the laundry out of the machine.”

“Classic criminal behavior,” Songhwa mutters dryly, clicking her pen and pinning another blurry face to the wall.

You sip your coffee again to keep your mouth from twitching. Because the last time Minho did the laundry, he used it to sneak a flash drive past your department’s scanner system.

The morning wears on. Names fly. Leads fizzle. You nod in the right places. Pretend like your skin doesn’t crawl every time someone says ‘the Lee syndicate.’ Pretend you don’t recognize the code name from the intercepted email, because it was Minho’s old alias, back before you even knew what he looked like in daylight.

You’re trained to lie. Undercover, interrogations, courtroom crossfire - you’ve lied a thousand times. But this is different. Because this lie wears a ring and keeps a toothbrush next to yours.

“Hey, Chief?” Jae calls, tapping a file. “We’ve got an anonymous tip that came in this morning. Says the next weapons shipment’s going through Jungbu Pier tomorrow night.”

Your pulse flinches. You walk over slowly, reaching for the paper. “Do we know who sent it?”

“Untraceable IP. But the language was… clinical. Precise. Too clean for a street rat. Might be someone on the inside.”

You study the printout. The phrasing is unmistakable - your husband’s kind of clean. If he sent this, it means something’s wrong. You’re not sure if he’s warning you away or pulling you in.

Yoon glances over your shoulder. “You think it’s real?”

You fold the paper and tuck it into the folder like it’s just another lead. “Only one way to find out.” You don’t say more. You don’t need to. You're the Chief. They trust you.

And you? You trust exactly one person.

The man this whole board is trying to catch.

The first time you saw him, you didn’t know his name.

Seven years ago

The nametag on his lapel said ‘Lee Minho’ printed in silver foil beneath a title that sounded important: CEO, Entertainment Group. Vague, polished, safe. The kind of label people wore at charity galas when they didn’t want to be asked real questions. The kind of label that made it easy to forget.

But you didn’t forget him.

You were only a few weeks into your new role then - a freshly promoted detective still getting used to wearing pressed collars and not kicking in doors. You hadn’t even planned to attend the fundraiser that night, but your captain insisted you start ‘rubbing elbows’ with the upper crust if you wanted to get promoted again someday.

So you went. You wore a dress you borrowed from a cousin. You showed up fifteen minutes late. You drank exactly one flute of champagne and scanned the room like you were casing it. Old habits died hard. And that’s when you saw him.

Leaning against the edge of a glass balcony, posture perfect but relaxed, fingers curled lightly around a tumbler of whiskey he hadn’t touched. He was dressed in black-on-black, tie knotted like he hadn’t meant to look that good but did anyway. He looked… effortless…but terribly lonely.

And when his gaze caught yours across the crowd you felt it like a hook beneath your ribs. You should’ve looked away. Instead, you stared back.

You didn’t speak that night. Not really. Just a polite nod when you passed near the bar. A shared glance as some investment banker droned into the microphone about “rebuilding communities” and “strategic giving.” But his presence clung to you like perfume long after you left.

-

You thought about him the next morning. And the next. And then you buried the thought beneath twelve-hour shifts and case files you weren’t supposed to bring home.

You saw him again nearly five months later.

-

Another charity event - this one for arts education, hosted in an upscale gallery in Gangnam. You arrived late again. Alone again. You’d almost convinced yourself that the man from the last gala had been a passing distraction, a moment your brain had romanticized out of loneliness.

Until you turned toward the exhibit hall and there he was - Lee Minho, nametag and all - standing in front of a minimalist painting, head tilted, eyes sharp with the kind of focus people pretend to have when they’re trying not to stare at something else.

Except this time, he didn’t just glance. He smiled. And then he walked toward you like it had always been part of the plan. “You came late again,” he said softly.

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

“I was hoping you’d show up,” he clarified. “But… you’re late.”

You laughed before you meant to. “I didn’t realize I was expected.”

“I didn’t realize I was hoping,” he said, then paused, like he wasn’t sure if it was too much. It should have been. It wasn’t. His voice wrapped around you like sweet honey.

He offered you a drink. Nothing flashy. Just a glass of white wine, dry, good quality. He didn’t ask what you did for work. Didn’t try to impress you. Just asked if you liked the painting behind you. Then another one. Then asked if you wanted to dance.

You hadn’t danced in years. But you took his hand. The music wasn’t even slow, it was jazzy, uptempo, slightly chaotic, but he moved with you like you’d practiced. Like he could read your rhythm before you even found it. And when he laughed, when you stepped on his foot and muttered a curse under your breath, it was this quiet, surprised thing that made your stomach twist in the best way.

You fell before you knew it.

The next six months came like a dream made of soft lights and quiet corners.

-

He took you out to dinner: not places with dress codes, but places that served your favorite food the way you liked it. He made reservations under fake names, but you assumed it was a CEO thing. He never showed up with a bodyguard, never flaunted money. Just handed you jackets when it rained and always asked if he could kiss you first.

He cooked for you in his sleek apartment overlooking the river. Pastas, rice dishes, once even pancakes at midnight when you showed up shaking after a bad day on the job. You liked that he never asked questions you didn’t want to answer. You liked that he listened when you talked, really listened, the way no one else in your life did without scribbling it down in a report.

He took you to bookstores on quiet afternoons, letting you pull him down aisles like he belonged there, like he wasn’t a man made of shadows and carefully constructed silences.

And all the while, you told yourself he was just Minho.

Sweet. Smart. Unexpectedly shy. Mysterious, sure, but so are most men who get rich too young - that’s what you thought. That’s what you let yourself believe.

You didn’t look too closely. Not yet. Because you were happy. God help you, you were happy.

And when he pulled you in at the end of a bookstore date one night, cupping your cheek with reverence and whispering, “I’ve never been good at this, but… I really like you,” - you believed him.

The precinct hums even after dark. Most of your team has gone home, their empty coffee cups abandoned like casualties of war. But you’re still at your desk, hunched over the printout from this morning’s tip, the fluorescent light above you buzzing like it knows you’re lying to everyone around you.

Present Day

You read it again. The location. The time. The language - clinical, restrained, purposeful. It sounds just like him.

If Minho sent it… you don’t know whether it’s a warning or a test. Either way, it’s working. Because your hands haven’t stopped shaking since you folded that paper and told your team you’d look into it.

Your phone buzzes on the desk.

Minnie love🤍: You’re still at the office. Come home. What do you want for dinner?

You hesitate before typing a reply. Minho picks up his phone at home.

My Sweetest Crime🖤: We need to talk.

By the time you reach your apartment, it’s nearly midnight. The city has quieted into its low, breathing hush, traffic down to a whisper, neon lights bleeding softly into the slick asphalt. But inside your high-rise, everything feels too still. Like the air’s been holding its breath for hours.

-

You open the door. Minho’s waiting in the kitchen. Same as this morning. Same hoodie, same mug. But this time, he doesn’t smile when he sees you. He just watches.

You shut the door behind you with a soft click. The quiet stretches, brittle. “Was it you?” you ask, setting your keys down slowly. “The tip?”

His jaw flexes, just once. “You didn’t answer my question.”

“Answer mine.”

He doesn't blink. “Would you rather I lie?”

You cross the room in slow steps, each one tightening the coil in your spine. “You can’t keep doing this,” you say, voice low. “Sending things through anonymous proxies, playing games with my team, with me. It’s reckless.”

He laughs once, hollow. “You think I’m the one being reckless?” You flinch. Minho moves closer, but doesn’t reach for you. His hands stay in his pockets, like he doesn’t trust himself either. “I watched your press conference,” he says quietly. “The one about the task force. You looked the Commissioner in the eye and promised you'd crack the Lee syndicate wide open.” His gaze narrows. “That includes me, doesn't it?”

Your breath catches. “Don’t.”

His voice drops. “Don’t what? Don’t say it? Or don’t make you say it out loud? Don't make it real? Because you just did.”

You don’t answer. You can't. Because it’s not a lie, but it’s not the truth either, and the space in between is where you live now.

He exhales sharply, stepping back, running a hand through his hair. “I gave you the tip to keep your people alive. That shipment is real. And it’s not mine. I don’t touch weapons. But someone wants it to look like I do.”

“Then why not tell me directly?” you snap. “Why go through the back door?”

“Because you’re the Chief of Police,” he bites. “You have a unit listening to your every call, and a federal team crawling through your files. If I hand you anything, they’ll trace it back to me, and you’ll burn with me,” he snaps at you.

That stops you. You stare at him, and for the first time since getting that message, you don’t see the kingpin or the liar. You just see him. The man who once pressed a cup of tea into your hands when your hands wouldn’t stop shaking. The man who folded your laundry without asking and read every book you left face-down on the couch. The man you married in a storm with no witnesses. “You think I can’t handle it,” you say quietly.

“I think you’re already handling too much,” he whispers. “And I don’t know how much longer you can keep pretending this isn’t killing you.” You blink fast. Once. Twice. The burn behind your eyes threatens to spill over. Minho steps forward, slowly now, gaze softening. “Tell me to back off, and I will. I’ll disappear again. I’ll play the shadow you always said I should’ve stayed. But if you still want this, us, then let me help you. Let me protect you the way you keep trying to protect me.”

You don’t move. The silence between you stretches again—but this time it’s different. Not brittle. Just full. Your voice is barely there when it comes. “You said you don’t deal weapons?” He nods. “Then who does?”

Minho hesitates. “Someone who doesn’t care if you’re in the crossfire.”

The case wasn’t supposed to lead to him. You were deep in it by then - twelve months into a city-wide investigation that had quietly escalated behind closed doors. Someone was moving shipments through the underground, laundering money through mid-tier shell companies, consolidating control of the scattered remnants of old gangs and turning them into something terrifyingly efficient.

Six years ago

They called it The Lee Family, but no one knew who was at the head of the table. No clear face. No voice recordings. Just strategy, silence, and power. Until your team intercepted a burner call. Just this one.

It had been scrubbed, distorted, buried in white noise. But you stayed late anyway, alone in the evidence room with your laptop, eyes aching from hours of decrypting audio.

And in the final minute of the file, just for a breath, you heard it. That voice. Low, controlled, almost amused. You knew the moment that giggle you've gotten so used to hearing could be heard - awfully distorted, but unmistakably your boyfriend.

Your whole body locked, ice rolling down your spine like someone had just opened a door in the dead of winter. You hit replay, over and over, but there was no need. You didn’t need audio analysis. You didn’t need your team. You knew that voice.

Because it had said I love you just four nights ago, into the soft curve of your neck.

You don’t remember driving home. Not really. Everything outside the windshield blurred into a smear of neon and tail lights, your breath shallow and uneven, as if the truth had shoved itself into your lungs and refused to let go. You didn’t take the elevator when you got to his building. You took the stairs, fourteen flights, because you needed something to burn the panic out of you before you saw him again.

-

You let yourself in with your key. Of course he’d given you a key. The lights were dim. Jazz played softly through the speakers. He was in the kitchen, barefoot in his favorite black sweater, sleeves rolled up as he plated something warm and slow-cooked. The kind of meal that takes hours. Fuck.

He smiled when he saw you. “You’re early.” You didn’t answer. He stopped in his movements. The air shifted. He felt it - how still you were. How tightly you held your bag to your side. “What happened, my dearest?” he asked, careful now.

You pulled out the USB. Tossed it onto the counter like a knife between you. “You tell me.” He didn’t even look at it. His eyes stayed on you. You hated how calm he was. You hated that part of you still wanted to believe it wasn’t true. “I recognized your voice, Minho. Your stupid giggle,” you said, each word deliberate. “Do you want to lie to me now? Or later?”

Silence stretched thin between you, his shoulders sagging. “No,” he said softly. “No lies. Not anymore.”

Your heart cracked so sharply it felt audible. “So it’s true,” you whispered. “The syndicate. The ships. The shell companies. The things that have been robbing my sleep for months now. All of it - you.” He nodded, just once. Like this, he didn't look like he'd be capable of it. He looked like a wet cat, big sad eyes meeting yours, frustration and fear radiating off him. “And you knew who I was from the beginning,” you said, voice thick now, shaking. “You knew I was a detective. And you still…you still took me to bookstores and out for pancakes.”

His voice barely held together. “I did. I took you to bookstores. I held your hand when you were too tired to speak. I made you laugh when you forgot how.”

You stepped back. “Don’t you dare make this romantic.”

“It wasn’t supposed to happen like this.”

“But it did. And you let it.”

He came around the counter, slow and unthreatening, like approaching a wild animal. His hands were loose at his sides. “I knew you were going to be promoted,” he said quietly. “I knew who you were before you even looked at me that night in Gangnam. I wasn’t supposed to get close.”

“Then why did you?” you asked, shoving his chest. And God, you hated how broken it sounded coming out.

Minho’s voice cracked for the first time. “Because I’d never met anyone like you. And because I wanted, for once, I wanted something that wasn’t made of blood and fear and silence. I wanted you. Even if I only got a few months.”

“You didn’t give me a choice. I should've been able to choose,” you whispered.

“I know,” he said. “And I’m sorry.” He held up his hands in front of you, swallowing softly. “Are you going to arrest me now?”

Silence crashed in like a wave. You could’ve screamed. You could’ve cuffed him. You could’ve walked out and never turned back.

But you didn’t.

Because love doesn’t care what job you have.

And betrayal always cuts deeper when it comes with wine and a quiet jazz track. “I need air,” you whispered, already reaching for the door.

He didn’t stop you. He just stood there in the kitchen, your favorite dish going cold on the counter behind him, and let you leave.

You didn’t plan to go. You told yourself the ache would pass - that if you just focused on work, on the cases piling up on your desk, the headlines, the weight of your badge - you could push him from your chest like a splinter. But Minho had always lodged too deep. Like breath. Like blood.

-

So you showed up at his apartment two weeks later. Just past midnight.

The hallway outside his door smelled like the city- wet concrete, exhaust, something electric in the air. Your hand hovered at the door longer than it should have, knuckles tense, heart rabbit-fast. When it opened, you didn’t say a word.

Minho’s eyes widened slightly in surprise, but not shock. As if he’d known you’d come eventually, but hadn’t let himself believe it.

Neither of you said anything. Not when he stepped back to let you in. Not when he closed the door behind you. Not even when you looked at him like you hadn’t seen color in days.

-

Minho touched you like he remembered every time you’d flinched and softened beneath him. He moved slowly, with a softness that made your throat ache. His lips trailed down your shoulder like he was relearning the parts of you he’d memorized. You let him. You let yourself fall apart in his hands like he was safety, not risk.

It happened in fragments. A kiss that wasn’t a question. Hands that knew their way even after the silence. Your jacket hit the floor. His sweater followed. The sound of your name from his mouth like it was still sacred.

And for a moment, just one, you let yourself pretend that none of this was wrong.

That love wasn’t supposed to be weighed down by secrets and laws and the sharp edge of what-ifs.

Afterwards, the silence pressed in again. Minho’s arms were still around you, his breath soft against your temple, your skin damp with sweat and rain and guilt. The sheets tangled around your waist like a crime scene. You didn’t know when the tremble started, but it had.

-

Your fingers curled into the sheet. Your throat closed. And then the words broke loose in a whisper, as helpless as a confession in the dark. “I shouldn’t have come.” Minho didn’t move. “I’m a cop,” you said, voice splintering. “I’m a cop, and I just—” Your eyes burned. “I shouldn’t be here.”

You pulled away, just enough to sit up, the sheet falling from your shoulders. You wrapped it around you like armor, like it could make you clean again. Your hands wouldn’t stop shaking. You turned away from him, as if that would help.

“I’m a cop,” you said again, weaker now, like maybe if you said it enough, it would undo what just happened.

Minho sat up behind you. The mattress dipped beneath his weight as he reached out and gently cupped your face in both hands, guiding you to look at him. “You’re still a cop,” he said, voice low but certain. “You didn’t stop being that just now.”

Your eyes welled again. You nodded, slowly, painfully. “Yeah,” you choked. “And I’m in love with a criminal.”

Minho’s brow knit. His thumb brushed a tear from your cheek. And then he shook his head, soft, firm, unflinching. “That’s not all I am,” he said gently. “You know that.” You tried to speak. Tried to argue. But nothing came. “If that’s all I was,” he whispered, “you wouldn’t be here. You wouldn’t have come back.”

And you hated that he was right.

Because it would be easier if he was just a name in a case file. If he was just power and blood and silence. If he wasn’t the man who knew how you liked your coffee, who kissed the back of your hand when you couldn’t sleep, who read novels just to talk about them with you. But he was all of that. And you didn’t know how to love him and leave him in the same breath.

So you let him hold your face. And when you leaned into his palm, eyelids fluttering shut, you weren’t a cop. You were just someone in love with a man too complicated to explain.

The banquet hall is dressed in gold. Crystal chandeliers hang overhead, glimmering like a thousand fragile truths. The room is full of sharp suits and softer lies, wine glasses clinking, silk dresses trailing over polished marble. On paper, it’s a fundraising gala for urban renewal. In reality, it’s a nest of money launderers, illegal dealers, and connections so deeply entangled in Seoul’s underbelly they can’t be separated without something bleeding.

Present

You walk in at five minutes past eight - fashionably late, as your husband would say. Your badge stays hidden in your jacket pocket. Your team is already in place - Yoon near the fire exit, Jae posing as waitstaff, Songhwa stationed by the stage. You make your way through the crowd like smoke, your earpiece buzzing softly every few minutes with updates. So far, it’s quiet. Too quiet.

You scan the room again. And then you see him. Minho, in a charcoal-gray suit that fits like it was tailored from shadows, a wine glass in hand and his expression unreadable. He’s alone. Standing just beside a business mogul your department has been tracking for months.

He doesn’t move when he sees you. But his eyes, warm, dark, familiar, catch yours across the sea of strangers. He knows. He knows something's about to happen. “Oh, you fucker, you weren't supposed to be here,” you curse beneath your breath.

“We’ve got movement,” Songhwa whispers in your ear. “Package is leaving the side room. Confirmed: two of the targets are armed.”

You touch your earpiece. “On my count. Three... two...” The music swells, and then fractures.

“Seoul Police! Hands in the air!”

Chaos erupts. A scream tears through the room. People scatter, chairs tip, dishes crash to the ground. Someone draws their gun, shots start falling.

You drop low, gun out, eyes scanning for the shooters. One by the bar. Another by the stage. Civilians run screaming in every direction. The chandeliers sway above like glass hearts about to shatter.

Then, someone draws their gun, much too close to Minho who looks like he's debating if pulling out his own gun is a better option. You raise your gun and seemingly aim at the guy behind him.

You hear it before you see it: the thud of his body hitting the floor, the sharp inhale, the muffled curse of someone trying not to cry out. Another shot follows and the man behind him drops down dead.

Songhwa’s voice cracks in your ear. “Back-up arrived.”

You reach Minho before you even register moving, dropping to your knees beside him as more officers flood the room. He’s on his back, breathing hard, a bloom of red spreading from his thigh. His jaw is clenched, his fingers digging into the fabric around the wound. “I’m fine,” he bites out through gritted teeth, already pale.

“Shut up,” you snap, pressing down on the wound, your hands shaking now. “You got shot.”

He gives you a strained smirk. “Oh, don’t you sound guilty.”

You glare at him, heart pounding. “I am guilty.”

“You gonna read me my rights?” he mutters, eyes fluttering as the adrenaline dips. “Or do I get a hospital ride first?”

You don’t answer. You just press harder and yell for medics.

The hospital corridor is quiet when you push the door open. Minho is propped up in bed, one leg immobilized, IV in his arm, skin pale but calm. His hair’s a mess, and he’s wearing the worst hospital-issued robe known to man. He looks both exhausted and smug. You hate how much you missed him in the four hours since they wheeled him away.

-

You lean against the doorframe, arms crossed. “So… how was your day at work?”

Minho doesn’t miss a beat. “You fucking shot me. That was my day at work.”

You huff a laugh before you can stop it, dragging a hand over your face. “It was your leg, and I was aiming for the guy with the Glock.”

“Guess my thigh looks more threatening than his face,” he huffs.

“Apparently.” There’s a beat of silence. Then, more gently, you say, “You’re not listed as a suspect. Just a guest who got caught in the crossfire.”

His gaze meets yours, something softer behind it. “That's your gift to me?”

You shrug. “What’s more believable than an innocent bystander who got shot at a mob event?”

“Ah yes,” he mutters, closing his eyes, “and to think I doubted your romantic streak.” You smile. Just a little. Then sit down beside him. “You owe me new dress pants,” he says without opening his eyes.

“And you owe me an explanation for why you were anywhere near a known arms broker.”

He cracks one eye open. “I was tracking them. Quietly. Until someone blew the doors open.” You shake your head, jaw tightening. “I told you I’d help,” he adds, more serious now. “Not hide.”

You reach for his hand beneath the sheets. He lets you take it, fingers curling around yours, warm and steady. “I’m sorry for hurting you. But you left me no choice, idiot.”

“Oh, I'll remember the sentiment,” he snorts.

For now, the hospital is still. The police haven’t asked the right questions yet. Your team still thinks you’re the hero who neutralized the threat. And Minho? He’s just another unlucky name on a list of civilians caught in the wrong place at the wrong time.

You both know it’s only a matter of time before the cracks start to show.

But for this moment, just this one, you let it be quiet. Let him be safe. Let yourself pretend that chaos isn’t waiting outside the door again.

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[itoshiierae]

OMG HIII !! May I requestt for hcs of Gym Trainer/Instructor! Iwaizumi Hajime 🥵🫦🫦 THIS MAN HAS ME FERALLL

──★ ˙🧷 ̟ !!

ᡣ𐭩 notes: oh nonnie i 100% feel you on this 😮‍💨 there’s just something about him… like just imagine iwaizumi in a sleeveless dri-fit?? correcting your posture??? i am NOT okay

ᡣ𐭩 cw: suggestive, heavy tension

༯ gym trainer!iwaizumi hajime who steps in when your arm starts shaking; curls his hand tighter around yours as he lifts with you —“don’t lock your elbow… i’ve got you.”

( and he does, but now you’re trying not to pass out for reasons that have nothing to do with exhaustion )

༯ gym trainer! iwaizumi hajime who says, “… stretch properly or you’re gonna start having cramps,” then proceeds to crouch down next to you, holding your thigh in place with one large hand while helping you extend your leg — and you could’ve sworn your soul left your body when he says, “tell me if it hurts”

༯ gym trainer! iwaizumi hajime who catches other guys in the gym looking at you and subtly steps closer; wrapping a hand around your wrist to adjust your grip, while leaning in to correct your form — just enough to say without actually saying: “she’s not yours to look at.”

༯ gym trainer! iwaizumi hajime who tells you, “lock eyes with yourself in the mirror… stay focused,” but then proceeds to stand behind you, and suddenly you’re seeing him in the reflection too.

( well… now you’re sweating for all the wrong reasons )

༯ gym trainer! iwaizumi hajime who never says anything generally inappropriate or crosses the line, but looks at you like he wants to. and that tension??? it’s eating the both of you up while you fought so hard to deny it

༯ gym trainer! iwaizumi hajime who ends your set with a casual high-five, hands you a towel, and murmurs, “good girl… you did well today,” like it’s just another part of your cooldown.

( but all you could think about was the way his voice dipped slightly when he said ‘good girl’ )

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