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eelliotss · 24 days ago

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— Borrowed time, part 5

‼️Caleb x reader x Sylus. Reader not MC. University AU. Modern AU. Angst angst angst!

Everyone knows Caleb is in love with MC. Everyone. Including you. But that does not stop him from flirting with you, teasing you, keeping you close. And it definitely does not stop you from falling for him—even when you know you’re just a stand-in, a place holder.

“I bet you still thought of me.”

song: party 4 u by charlie xcx [this song has been the main inspiration for this series, so whatever you feel listening go this song, i hope you’ll feel that while reading this series as well]

word count = 9.6k

i appreciate all likes, comments, reblogs, and asks. i may not reply to all of them, but i want you to know that i reread them over and over <3

i cant say im proud of this chapter, and tbh theres so much i hate about this part, but if i dont post this right now, i dont think i ever will, so please be kind, but i appreciate constructive criticisms! if this part felt unsatisfactory, just pretend this update didnt happen lol

ps. thank you so much for over 1k followers??? heres a thousand roses for all of you 😭🌹

part 1 | masterlist

The door creaks open.

The closet’s darkness slips away, replaced by blinding light and loud cheers.

But everything feels distant.

Your breaths are shallow. The warmth of his breath still clings to your skin, the ghost of his lips a lingering echo. His touch—still branded into your waist, your jaw, the hollow between your ribs. Your pulse hasn’t settled.

The air outside is cool, but your skin burns.

You stumble slightly as you step out, Sylus behind you—his shirt rumpled, one button undone. His silver hair is tousled, a little too messy. Your lips sting. You know you look wrecked.

And the crowd eats it up. Whoops and whistles explode around you.

You try to smile. You try to breathe.

But then your eyes land on him.

Caleb.

He’s across the room, half-lit by the cheap string lights, drink forgotten in his hand. His jaw is tight, his expression unreadable—except for his eyes.

They are cold.

Piercing.

It’s not anger. It’s like he’s looking right through you—like you’ve somehow ruined something sacred. Like you’re the disappointment.

Your chest tightens.

And then, just behind him, you catch a flash of movement.

MC.

Her head is down, hair shielding her face, her arms wrapped tightly around herself as she brushes past him, shouldering her way through the crowd.

Caleb snaps out of his trance in a heartbeat. His face shifts—concern overtaking scorn—as he calls after her and follows without hesitation.

And just like every time before, he doesn’t even spare you a second glance.

The cheers fade into static. Laughter turns tinny and distant, swallowed by the ringing in your ears.

It hits you all at once.

The heat. The mess. The press of Sylus’s body against yours. The way you leaned into it. The way you wanted to. The way you let yourself.

And then—MC’s face. Her voice. Her smile when she told you he’s kinda cute, isn’t he?

Guilt slams into you like a car.

It punches the breath from your lungs.

You feel it in your throat, acidic and raw, threatening to spill. A sickening twist coils in your stomach, bile licking at the edges of your tongue.

What have you done?

What did you just let happen?

Your skin crawls. The warmth you felt seconds ago now feels wrong—disgusting. It clings to you like smoke. Like shame.

You wrap your arms around yourself, trying to hold in the nausea curling up your chest.

Sylus says something beside you, low and teasing, but you don’t catch the words.

All you can hear is your own blood rushing in your ears.

And all you can feel is the weight of what you’ve just done. The taste of it. Bitter. Burning.

And the worst part?

You don’t even know who you’re more disgusted with—Caleb…

Or yourself.

You don’t wait for the whispers.

You don’t wait to see if MC turns back or if Caleb says anything at all.

You push through the crowd, pulse hammering in your throat, lungs clawing for air like there’s not enough oxygen in the room, not enough space in your ribs for this many feelings, this much shame.

The door slams shut behind you but it’s not enough.

Not enough to drown out the ghost of Sylus’s hands still on your waist. Not enough to erase the memory of his mouth against yours, hot and unbothered and too real.

Not enough to wipe away the scowl in Caleb’s eyes or the way MC couldn’t even look at you.

The night is too loud. The world is too close. Everything—everything—is pressing in on you.

So you push everything out of your way, scouring to find air.

You don’t think, don’t breathe, just bolt down the steps of the villa, sandals slapping against stone, the wind catching in your hair, stinging your eyes, stealing your balance. You don’t care.

The beach calls to you like a goddamn siren.

You trip onto the sand, knees buckling, breath shaking, heart feral in your chest like it’s trying to break out and leave you behind. You tear your heels off, toss them somewhere you’ll never find again, and march straight toward the water like it might wash you clean.

The ocean crashes louder than your thoughts.

Salt fills your nose. Wind tangles in your hair. The stars above are too bright, mocking. Too calm for the storm splitting your insides apart.

You drop to your knees at the shoreline, water licking at your calves, seeping into your clothes, and you let it. You need it. You need the cold. You need the sting. You need to feel something real.

Because everything in your chest is twisted. Twisted and wrong and out of place.

You lean forward, pressing your forehead against your knees, breathing like each inhale might keep you from unraveling completely. You wish it were just the alcohol. Just a mistake. Just a hazy memory you could laugh off tomorrow.

But you remember it too clearly.

His mouth. The weight of his gaze in the dark. The way his hand didn’t hesitate when it slid against your jaw, when he leaned in like he’d been waiting to taste you all night.

And you let him.

Worse—you wanted it.

The thought turns your stomach. You dig your fingers deeper into the wet sand, nails scraping at the earth, like maybe you can bury the part of you that’s smiling.

Because she’s there.

Somewhere inside you—beneath the nausea, beneath the shame—there’s a version of you curled up, smug and satisfied. A version who watched MC’s face twist, who watched Caleb’s scowl turn cold, and felt nothing but satisfaction.

That part of you is smiling.

You hate her.

Because that part of you—the one that enjoyed it—she’s been quiet for a long time. Always biting her tongue, always watching from the corners while MC took the spotlight, while Caleb gave his warmth to someone else. You taught her to wait. To be kind. To be better.

But god, you’re tired.

Tired of twinkling for people who never look up long enough to see you. Tired of being loved only in parts—when you’re easy, when you’re quiet, when you’re beautiful and harmless.

You’ve always been the supporting character in everyone else’s story. The best friend. The comic relief. The tragic footnote.

So tonight, you wanted to be the villain.

So tonight, she let herself out.

You let her kiss him.

You let her drag Sylus into that closet and tilt your chin up with a smile that begged “ruin me if you want to.”

And she did.

Now here you are, buried in the sand and sea, trying to figure out if the guilt eating at you is heavier than the satisfaction still curling at the edge of your lips.

You’re not supposed to feel this way.

You’re not supposed to want to be seen like that. Wanted like that.

Not at the cost of MC. Not at the cost of Caleb’s crumbling expression.

But you do.

You wanted them to see. You wanted to be wanted. And for a second—you finally were.

And for that, you are repenting your sins, kneeling by the shore and letting the cold eat you whole.

The tide rushes in again, crashing against your skin.

You raise your head, throat raw, eyes burning.

You sit there, watching the waves hit and retreat, over and over, counting the sparkling stars reflected on the ocean surface, until you could not feel your feet.

This is your way of atoning—because you fear the girl curled up inside you, biting on her nails every time a tear threatens to fall. Because the damage she has done once you let her out for a fraction of a moment is irreversible. Collateral.

And because you can’t promise this will be the last time you let her out.

You finally return to your room, dread curling tight in your chest like a vice. Each step down the hallway feels heavier than the last, your body moving on autopilot, mind spiraling with possibilities.

You hesitate at the door. Fingers resting on the knob. You aren’t sure what you’re bracing for.

An angry Michaela?

A tear-streaked Michaela?

A cold, distant Michaela who won’t even look you in the eye?

You don’t know which would be worse.

The knob turns with a quiet click, the door creaking open. You take a breath—slow, bracing—and step inside.

Empty.

The room is quiet. Still.

Her suitcase remains tucked in the corner. A half-drunk bottle of water sits on the bedside table. The lights are off, the curtains drawn. Not a trace of her. Not even the ghost of footsteps.

Somehow, it’s worse than yelling.

You stand there for a moment, motionless, caught in the heavy weight of nothingness.

Then your phone buzzes.

MC [02:46 AM]: Had to clear my head. Be back later.

Short. Punctuated. Not cold, but definitely not warm either.

And with that, you’re left alone.

Surrounded by silence.

Sinking into it.

You sit on the edge of the bed, heart thrumming against your ribs.

You should feel relieved.

You grip the edge of the mattress tighter.

You should be thankful the confrontation didn’t happen yet.

But all you feel is this crawling unease.

Like the silence is just the eye of the storm.

And when she comes back—

You’re not sure which version of Michaela you’ll meet.

And worse—you’re not sure which version of you she’ll find.

You get changed and crawl under the covers, body heavy, soul heavier. The silence is your only companion—thick, choking, unforgiving. You bury yourself into the blankets like they could shield you from the weight of what you’ve done.

Eventually, exhaustion drags you under.

•

Rustling wakes you.

Sharp. Precise. Intentional.

You blink your eyes open, and there she is.

Michaela.

Her back turned to you.

Her suitcase is open on the floor, half-filled. Clothes folded with a neatness that feels hostile.

You sit up slowly, throat dry.

She doesn’t look at you, nor say a word.

You rise. Move toward your side of the room. Get ready in silence. The kind of silence that screams.

Every breath feels wrong. Every second, guilt crawls further up your throat, pressing, choking, aching.

You swallow hard, then try to break the weight as you part your mouth to speak.

Your voice is quiet. Fragile.

“Michaela… last night, I—”

Michaela freezes for only a second before she turns around, face already wearing a smile that feels too sharp, too bright.

“Was such a blast! You gotta tell me all about what happened in that closet!” She winks.

“No—I—”

“Don’t think too deeply into it!” She waves her hand casually, like you’d just brought up a funny memory from a party instead of the reason her bag is half-packed. She lets out a breathy laugh, brushing her hair behind her ear. “It’s college, Yn. People kiss like, all the time. It’s nothing.” Her face drops slightly, but returns back to its beaming state. She reaches for your hands, and her voice lowers down. “It’s just a kiss, isn't it?”

A pause.

“Y-yeah,” you utter.

Her face beams once more as she squeezes your hands. “Besides, he is a pretty good kisser, isn’t he?”

You stare at her. The smile she’s wearing is dazzling—carefully crafted, practiced.

But it doesn’t reach her eyes.

And that hurts more than if she’d screamed at you.

The silence that follows is unbearable.

Eventually, the two of you gather the last of your things and leave the room. You walk side by side, the air between you tight with everything unsaid.

Outside, everyone is saying their goodbyes. Laughter, hugs, last-minute selfies. But none of it touches you. Not really.

You spot Caleb near the car, arms crossed, jaw tight.

He shifts his weight, arms crossed, leaning against the car with that infuriatingly calm expression—like he’s been waiting to deliver a blow.

“Well, well,” he drawls, eyes dragging over your form. “Eventful night, huh?”

You freeze mid-step.

His tone is light, teasing, even laced with that familiar cocky lilt—but it cuts deeper than any insult. Because you know Caleb. You know exactly when he means it. When the smile on his face is just another weapon.

“Hope he was worth the show,” he adds with a smirk. You can’t quite get a read on his face, can’t really understand whether the smirk is teasing, jabbing, or insulting.

You don’t answer. You can’t. So you walk past him without a word.

But he’s not done.

He leans in just slightly, voice dropping low enough for only you to hear:

“I bet you still thought of me.”

It hits you like a slap. You don’t flinch. You don’t give him that satisfaction. But it scorches down your spine, curling into something heavy and sour in your stomach.

All words run dry in your throat.

Because you know you did, and he knows you did.

So, swallowing down the lump in your throat, you quietly climb into the car.

The ride back is a void—quiet and cold despite the sun that floods through the windows.

Michaela sits in the front, headphones in, eyes fixed outside. Her expression is unreadable, a delicate mask of serenity.

Caleb drives in silence, but the tension in his body betrays him.

His knuckles tighten around the steering wheel. The muscle in his jaw ticks every time the car slows.

And yet—despite everything—you still see the way his hand occasionally reaches over to Michaela’s thigh. Subtle. Familiar. He squeezes gently, reassuringly, every time the silence grows too loud.

You sit in the backseat, hands clenched in your lap, stomach churning, heart clawing at your ribcage.

Because somehow, in this cramped little car filled with silence and ghosts, you still feel like the one who doesn’t belong.

•

You finally find yourself back in your familiar space.

The door clicks shut behind you.

Shoes off. Bag down. Keys tossed on the counter.

The silence wraps around you, soft and undemanding.

For the first time in days, you breathe without pretending.

You shower, letting the water scald the memory of Michaela’s laugh off your skin.

You eat something. Actual food. Not alcohol. Not regret.

And for a brief, flickering moment, you start to feel okay again.

Until your phone pings.

A message.

Unknown [6:43 PM]: So?

You freeze.

Every part of you stills—except for your heart, which begins to pound like it remembers the thing you’ve tried so hard to forget since last night.

Something forbidden.

Something thrilling.

Something wrong.

The memory comes back in flashes as guilt claws its way up your throat, hot and unrelenting. It tastes like shame.

You stare at the screen until the words blur.

And then, with trembling hands, you type.

You [6:50 PM]: It was a mistake.

You [6:50 PM]: Don’t text me again.

You hit send before you can think twice.

Your phone slips from your grip, landing face-down on the bed as you bury your face in your hands.

“It was a mistake,” you mumbled.

•

The following days were the most peaceful ones you’ve had in what felt like forever—quiet, slow, and mercifully uneventful. No parties. No whispered gossip. No sharp glances from Caleb or strained smiles from Michaela. Just the soft hum of routine and the space to finally breathe.

You sleep more. Eat better. Enjoying the lasts of your break. You’re rebuilding yourself piece by piece—one uneventful morning at a time.

But the moment you start feeling a little more like yourself, Monday catches up.

The quiet comfort of the break ends the second your feet hit campus tiles. The world spins forward like nothing ever happened.

Michaela acts like nothing ever happened.

She greets you with the same bright smile, the same light giggle, the same affectionate bump of the shoulder. As if that night was just another one of many forgettable college party blurs. As if your lips had never touched Sylus’s. As if her eyes hadn’t dulled the second they landed on you.

And you pretend too.

Because it’s easier that way. Safer.

Later that day, she loops her arm through yours as you walk out of class, swinging your hands between you. “Let’s go shopping after lectures? I need a new outfit or something for the first viewing next week,” she beams.

You nod before you can think too hard about it.

“Oh—” she adds, with that little flicker in her voice that always precedes something calculated, “I invited Caleb too.”

Your smile doesn’t falter, but your stomach twists.

The shopping trip is tolerable at best. Michaela slips into her spotlight with ease—twirling in front of mirrors, holding up dresses with playful pouts, laughing just a bit too loud at jokes that don’t quite land. Caleb sticks close, fingers brushing her waist, whisper her ear when she grins too hard.

But his eyes wander.

You catch him sometimes, gaze flicking to you when Michaela isn’t looking. Just for a second. Just enough to leave that same sour taste in your throat.

You don’t acknowledge it.

You can’t.

Instead, you smile when Michaela pulls you into the dressing room with her. You nod when Caleb asks if you’re tired. You pretend not to notice how her laugh dims a little when he lingers by your side for too long. You go through the motions—lift the hangers, compliment the colors, offer the safe, neutral opinions you’ve mastered so well.

It’s like muscle memory now. Playing your role.

Because if you don’t look too hard, you can almost believe this is normal. That nothing’s changed. That your mouth hadn’t betrayed you. That your silence wasn’t stitched from guilt.

By the time the sun dips below the skyline and the three of you step out of the store, bags in hand and feigned joy in your lungs, you feel wrung out—drained from smiling too much and meaning none of it.

Caleb says something—something teasing, probably—and Michaela laughs like a girl in love.

You stay a step behind them, clutching your bag a little too tightly.

You tell yourself it’s fine.

You tell yourself you deserve this.

Because in this triangle of careful lies and quiet betrayals—

You’re the one who kissed the wrong boy.

And you were the one who almost said yes again.

“Oh! I almost forgot,” Michaela says, as if it just came to her. “You have to come to the premiere next month.”

You blink. “The… premiere?”

She grins. “The film. The one we shot over break? We’re doing a small screening—kind of like a soft launch—for friends and crew.” She swings her shopping bags absentmindedly. “It’s just this tiny old theatre on 12th. Indie vibes, red velvet seats, ancient projector that might burst into flames halfway through—super charming.”

You force a smile. “Sounds cute.”

“You’ll come, right?” she says, looking at you over the rim of her cup. “I already told them to save you a seat.”

You hesitate—but not long enough for her to notice. “Sure.”

She beams. “Perfect.” Then, casually: “Sylus will be there too. I made sure he’d come.”

Your fingers tighten slightly around the straps of your bag.

“Made sure?” you echo, trying to keep your tone even.

Michaela shrugs, but there’s a sparkle in her eyes—the kind that always means she’s saying more than she lets on. “Yeah! I’ve been seeing him pretty frequently these days. Bumped into him a few times after the shoot… had coffee once or twice. He’s actually really funny when he’s not being all mysterious and broody.”

“Oh,” Caleb joins, light and amused. “Him. Great. Can’t wait to hear him brood about cinematography or whatever the hell it is he does.”

Michaela laughs, linking her arm with yours again. “Be nice. He’s actually been really helpful lately.”

“Helpful,” Caleb echoes, quirking a brow as he pops the lollipop from his mouth. “Didn’t realize mysterious bad boys were part of the crew now.”

“He’s not a ‘bad boy’,” she says, rolling her eyes.

She says it lightly, but there’s a deliberate lilt in her voice—a softness, almost flirtatious.

Your grip on your bag tightens, the fabric biting into your fingers.

You nod once, slow. “Didn’t know you two were close.”

She hums. “We’re getting there.”

Then, with a coy smile: “He asked a lot about you, though. Thought that was cute.”

Your chest constricts. The air feels thinner somehow.

“Anyway,” she says, skipping in front and spinning to fully face you, “it’s going to be such a fun night. You should wear that black slip dress—the one you wore to Jenna’s party? You looked so good in that.”

And all you could mutter in response was a short hum along with a smile.

•

The following days were as normal as they could’ve been. Well, aside from the fact that he has suddenly been everywhere.

At first, it was subtle.

A glimpse of him through the glass-paneled door of the editing lab, leaning over a student’s shoulder.

The sound of his voice drifting down the hallway—low, smooth, impossible to mistake.

Then you saw him again, this time in the courtyard. Talking to a group from the business department, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a coffee he barely drank from.

Word spread quickly.

“I thought he took most of his classes online?” someone whispered nearby.

“He does. No one ever sees him around.”

“Then why’s he here now?”

“Who knows? Maybe to complete his last courses before graduation?”

“He’s a business major, right?”

“Yeah, but like… old money business. Scary smart. The kind that makes you nervous to breathe too loud.”

You kept your head down, but your pulse never quite stayed still.

Because every time you caught sight of him, he never once looked your way—

And yet, you felt his presence like it was stitched into the fabric of your day.

He was too composed. Too polished. Too calculated.

And somehow, his silence was louder than if he’d cornered you outright.

“Just a mistake,” you mumble to yourself each time you see his figure waltz by.

But your quiet whispers to calm your nerves didn’t prove to be a very sustainable method.

Not when the universe seems hellbent on rubbing it in.

You see them together.

Once in the corridor outside the media building—her laugh echoing off the walls, his hand casually in his pocket, head tilted down to hear her better. They walk side by side, their pace easy, unhurried.

Michaela looks effortless next to him—bright-eyed, golden, her hand brushing his arm as she says something that makes him smile.

Not his usual smirk. Not the quiet, condescending curve of his mouth he wore like armor.

You stop in your tracks.

Just for a second.

Long enough for Michaela to spot you.

She waves. Cheerful. Unbothered. “Hey babe!”

He followed her gaze and landed on you. The smile on his lips curls up a little higher as you meet his eyes.

“Hello,” amusement coats his voice.

“Hi—”

“I’m probably not going to be free today for our usual hangouts,” Michaela cuts in, turning to you with an apologetic pout. “I asked Sylus to help with some of my work… You can hang out with Caleb by yourself, right?”

Before you can answer, she adds with a dramatic sigh, “Please tell him to chill and that I’m fine—just really busy. He’s been blowing up my phone non-stop these days.”

You force a smile, nodding once. “Yeah. Of course.”

She beams, already tugging Sylus further down the hall.

He casts one last glance your way.

A flicker of something in his eyes—teasing, sharp, unreadable.

As soon as you’re left standing there, caught in the space between their footsteps and your silence, your phone buzzes.

You glance down,

Caleb [4:28 PM]: where are you

Caleb [4:28 PM]: arent we having dinner today

Caleb [4:28 PM]: are you with her? she’s not answering my texts

Your stomach tightens.

You can still hear Michaela’s laughter fading around the corner, Sylus’s low voice murmuring something back.

Caleb [4:29 PM]: nvm

Caleb [4:29 PM]: i’ll find you myself

You don’t even remember agreeing to it.

One minute you’re reading Caleb’s texts with a pit in your stomach, the next he’s striding up to you outside the lecture hall—jaw tense, eyes scanning over your shoulder like he’s half-expecting Michaela to appear.

“She’s with him, isn’t she?” he asks, no greeting, voice clipped.

You blink. “Caleb—”

His expression shifts. He exhales, scrubs a hand through his hair, and forces a smile.

“Whatever,” he says, eyes softening as they settle on you. “Doesn’t matter. You’re here.”

And just like that, the edge in his voice fades.

“Come on,” he says, nudging your shoulder. “I’m starving. Let’s go grab something before I start chewing my own arm off.”

You hesitate for half a second, but he’s already walking ahead, glancing back to make sure you follow.

•

Dinner ends up being at this tiny place tucked behind the arts building—warm lighting, mismatched chairs, the kind of quiet hum that makes everything feel a little softer.

You sit across from him, arms tucked against your chest, still a little shell-shocked from everything.

He notices.

“You’ve been doing that thing again,” he says between bites. “Where your brain goes somewhere else and forgets to take your body with it.”

You snort. “And what thing are you doing right now?”

He leans back, exaggeratedly smug. “Being charming and irresistible, obviously.”

You roll your eyes, but the corner of your mouth lifts. Just a little.

When your food arrives, he pushes his plate toward you with a quiet, “Try this. It’s better than yours.”

You glance at him, suspicious. “You haven’t even tasted mine.”

He grins. “Exactly. That’s how confident I am.”

It’s silly. Stupid, even. But it helps. The knot in your chest loosens just enough to let a small laugh slip out.

And then—just as you’re mid-bite—his voice softens.

“Hey.”

You look up.

His eyes are steady now. No teasing. No act.

“I never really got the chance to say it properly,” he murmurs. “About what happened at the filming set. That night. Everything.”

The clinking of cutlery fades around you.

“I was inconsiderate,” he says. “I thought too little. Acted too harsh. ”

He looks down at his hands for a moment. “I overlooked your feelings. And I hurt you more than I meant to.”

You don’t know what to say.

So you just watch him as he finally lifts his gaze again, softer now. Warmer.

“I guess what I’m trying to say is… I’m sorry.”

The air between you stills.

“Can’t say I really enjoyed the stunt you pulled though,” he jokes.

The dinner continues quietly—less heavy now, more like the old rhythm you used to share with him. Caleb cracks a few jokes, pokes fun at your serious face, and makes exaggerated guesses about the lives of people at nearby tables. You end up laughing more than you expected to.

Then, as you gather your things to leave, he tilts his head toward you with a mischievous glint.

“One drink?” he asks. “There’s this quiet place nearby. They make the worst cocktails I’ve ever had in my life. Thought you’d like it.”

You roll your eyes. “Sounds irresistible.”

He grins. “Exactly.”

The bar turns out to be this cozy hole-in-the-wall tucked behind a bookstore, dimly lit with string lights that look like they’ve been up since 2003. There’s an old piano in the corner no one plays, and the bartender greets Caleb like he’s a regular—which is both comforting and mildly concerning.

The music’s soft. The booths are deep and worn-in. And somehow, the world feels smaller here.

Caleb orders for both of you, raising a brow at you across the table. “Just trust me.”

You don’t. But you drink it anyway.

“You’re smiling,” he points out, pleased with himself.

You arch a brow. “Must be the worst cocktail I’ve ever had in my life.”

He lifts his glass. “To consistent branding.”

You clink glasses, laughter warm between you.

The kind of warmth that sneaks up on you—gentle, nostalgic, easy.

And then, somewhere between the second and third drink, he leans back, eyes softer now, his playful edge melting at the corners.

“You know,” he starts, swirling what’s left of his drink. “I don’t really remember what my parents look like anymore.”

You glance over at him.

“You don’t talk about your family much,” you say gently.

He lets out a breath. It could’ve been a laugh.

“Don’t really have one,” he says. “Not really.”

He lifts the glass to his lips, but doesn’t drink. Just rests it there, like he needs something to hold on to.

“Thankfully, Michaela’s took me in,” he continues. “Thankfully…” he repeats, quieter this time.

Your mood sours from the mention of her name. Of course she would be mentioned.

“She has always been sick since she was a kid. ‘Cause of her bad heart.”

You stay quiet. Let him keep going.

Something in his voice says he needs to.

“It’s always been my responsibility to keep her safe,” he says, almost like he’s reminding himself. “Since we were kids.”

His fingers drum against the glass, slow and steady, like a heartbeat.

“And whenever I failed to do so… well…” he trails off, then smiles, a crooked, breathy thing that doesn’t touch his eyes. “It never really ended very well.”

You feel the weight of those words, the way he tries to tuck pain into them like they’re just another part of the joke.

“He used to remind me constantly… of my purpose…” Caleb mumbles, his voice slowing, slurring slightly. His words are slipping like his grip on the glass—loose, tired, too worn down to hold on.

You watch his eyes begin to dim, heavy with drink and something much older.

“You’re too drunk, Caleb,” you say softly, reaching out to steady the glass before it tips.

He blinks at you. Slow. Dazed. And then his lips part, just barely.

“That I’m just a stray…” he whispers, almost to himself. “If no one needs me…”

His gaze unfocuses for a moment. You don’t think he even realizes he’s still speaking.

Your breath catches.

He’s still smiling, faintly, lazily. But it’s the kind of smile that scourches your chest.

You slide your hand across the table, fingers brushing his. He doesn’t move.

“You should go home,” you murmur.

He doesn’t answer. Just leans further into his folded arms, the tension in his shoulders finally giving out.

You sigh, quietly.

The bar is warm, the night colder. And somehow, without much thought, you find yourself wrapping his arm around your shoulder, whispering half-hearted complaints as you half-drag, half-guide him out the door.

•

The days fly by like leaves lifted off the branches.

Nothing of the past has ever been mentioned ever again—the few days at the film set, the tense atmosphere between you and Michaela, nor the night Caleb slumped into your shoulder, murmuring half-truths through the haze of cheap liquor and old pain.

Classes resume. Group chats return to life. The cafeteria starts serving that awful tomato soup again. You slip back into the rhythm like nothing happened.

But the cracks are still there—just beneath the surface, waiting.

You’re sitting under the shade of a banyan tree behind the humanities building. It’s quiet, peaceful, a little breezy. Your lunch is balanced on your lap, half-eaten. Michaela plops down beside you with a soft “ugh” and a dramatic stretch.

“God,” Michaela says brightly, appearing at your side like she always does—seamlessly, like a breath of perfume. “He’s actually so funny once you get him to talk.”

You glance at her. “Who?”

She tilts her head, playful. “Sylus,” she says, drawing the name out. “He’s been helping me prep for the Q&A tomorrow. Said I needed to sound less ‘pageant’ and more ‘visionary.’ Whatever that means.”

Her laugh is breezy. Too light.

“Oh?” you respond, forcing a smile. “Sounds like you’re getting close.”

“Oh, it’s nothing serious,” she says quickly, tucking her hair behind her ear. “Coffee here, late-night notes there. He’s just so…” She trails off, eyes sparkling. “Interesting, don’t you think?”

You hum. Noncommital.

Michaela doesn’t seem to notice—or pretends not to.

She takes a sip of her drink, then suddenly perks up. “Oh! The premiere’s this Saturday. Are you ready?”

You blink. “Ready for…?”

“The spotlight, duh,” she grins, nudging your arm. “To see yourself on screen, see the scenes you played in come together with the background music. And to see your name in the closing credit!”

You roll your eyes, but it makes you smile. “It’s not that serious.”

“It is,” she insists. “You looked amazing, even in the trailer. You carried that café scene.”

You snort. “I said four words.”

“Yeah, but you felt those four words. I almost cried.”

You laugh together, and for a second—it feels real. Familiar. Like the last few weeks never happened.

“Have you picked an outfit yet?” she asks between bites of salad.

You shake your head. “Was just gonna wear something simple.”

Michaela gasps. “No. You’re not walking into an indie theater full of film nerds in ‘something simple.’ You have to look effortless. Like you’re not trying, but also like… if you were trying, you’d end worlds.”

You glance at her, raising a brow. “That specific, huh?”

“Always,” she says, eyes sparkling.

And for a moment, it’s just the two of you.

Two girls beneath a tree, laughing about dresses and dumb film boys and the weight of appearances.

It feels soft. Safe. Like how things used to be.

And it hits you with a quiet ache.

Because even now, part of you still wants to believe this friendship can survive what’s been done.

That maybe you haven’t already burned the bridge.

That maybe—just maybe—she hasn’t noticed the match in your hand.

The rest of the week passes in quiet, deliberate steps.

Classes blur. The campus grows louder, buzzing with exams and end-of-semester deadlines. Your name gets tagged once or twice in the group chat—reminders about call times, wardrobe, a blurry meme of someone joking about crying during the Q&A.

You try on outfits with Michaela after class, like you promised.

It’s surprisingly normal—her room filled with scattered hangers, half-empty iced coffees, the faint sound of a playlist humming from her speaker.

You laugh. You bicker. You twirl.

And then—Saturday arrives.

The day of the premiere.

It’s just past golden hour when you step out of your building, the sky painted in soft streaks of lavender and orange. The air is crisp. The kind that wakes you up and reminds you something’s about to happen.

The old theatre on 12th is just as Michaela described it—small, a little run-down, with velvet seats that creak and a marquee that flickers every other letter.

There’s already a crowd forming outside. Film kids in too-large blazers and thrifted dresses, professors dressed semi-formal but too cool to act like it, and the crew—all wide-eyed and excited, passing around programs and laughter.

The theater glows in the soft spill of marquee lights, buzzing faintly overhead as you approach, clutching your clutch tighter than necessary.

The car pulls up just as you step onto the red-carpeted pavement.

And then you see her.

Michaela steps out first, the silk of her silver dress catching the light like water. It slips over her frame effortlessly—cool-toned and reflective, like moonlight turned human. Her lips are painted a soft coral, her eyes dusted with shimmer, and her smile—bright, unbothered, breathtaking—lands like a punch to the chest.

Then comes Caleb.

He unfolds from the car in slow, unhurried movements, sleeves of his black dress shirt rolled neatly to his elbows beneath a tailored blazer, the collar unbuttoned just enough to suggest trouble. His hair is slicked back, not too perfect, and a hint of cologne catches the air as he leans slightly toward Michaela, saying something close to her ear.

You feel it instantly—the pull. The heat.

They look like they stepped off a magazine spread. Like they’re here to be looked at. Owned it. Earned it.

Your stomach twists.

But then her eyes find yours.

“Yn!” Michaela beams the second she sees you, waving you over like the oldest friend in the world. Her voice cuts through the crowd with effortless warmth. “You look stunning! Oh my God!”

You force a smile, walking toward her as she reaches out and takes your hand for a brief spin. “See? I told you that dress was the one. Absolutely gorgeous.”

“Thanks,” you murmur.

Caleb’s gaze drifts lazily toward you. His eyes widen slightly, just for a second—subtle, but there. And then that crooked, lazy smile of his crawls up his face like he’s trying not to let it show too much.

“Damn,” he mutters under his breath, voice low, just loud enough for you to hear over the soft chatter of the crowd. “You do look good today, shortcake.”

You don’t turn to look at him. You don’t smile. But your pulse stutters anyway.

Inside, the lights are low and flickering, casting everyone in gold.

You find your seats near the front.

You sit first.

Then Michaela slips in beside you, smoothing the back of her dress.

Then Caleb—his thigh brushing against hers, jacket folding as he slouches back with that usual too-cool ease.

And then—

An empty seat. Reserved with a single placard.

SYLUS QIN

You stare at it for a second too long.

The serif font. The clean white card. The space he hasn’t filled.

People slowly fill the theatre, and the chatter dies down as soon as the introducing speech starts. Cheers and laughter are exchanged as the producer welcomes everyone, and soon, lights begin to dim, the hush rippling through the room like a spell settling.

The first flicker of light sears across your vision—too bright, too sudden. You blink, disoriented.

The grainy opening shot bleeds onto the walls, painting everyone in uneven strobes of white and shadow. Your hands curl into the fabric of your dress.

Then you hear your voice.

Just a small line, off-screen. But it makes your throat tighten.

And then you’re there. You.

A glimpse of your face on camera—too quick, too exposed.

Your stomach flips. A cold rush spreads down your back. You shrink into your seat without meaning to.

The flickering continues—scenes switching with sharp cuts, too fast, too loud. Your eyes strain to follow. The glow of the screen presses against your skin like heat.

You feel it in your temples. In the base of your skull.

A thrum. A pressure.

You try to breathe slower.

But there you are again.

In the corner of the frame. Behind Michaela’s shoulder. Walking across the background, smiling as she delivers a perfect monologue.

You’re always there—but never really there.

Never centered. Never seen.

Just enough to anchor the shot.

Never enough to be remembered.

Your heart races faster.

You glance sideways—Michaela is watching intently, chin tilted just so, the soft rise and fall of her breathing unbothered. Her hand rests lightly on Caleb’s arm.

You try to focus on the screen, but the lights are too much now. The images change too quickly. Your skin feels hot. The sound dips and rises, warping in your ears. Laughter in the film echoes strangely, like it’s bouncing around inside your chest instead of the room.

You swallow down the tightness clawing its way up your throat.

Breathe.

You stare at your knees. At your folded hands.

The screen flashes white again—another cut. Another shot of Michaela framed in golden light, eyes brimming with perfectly timed tears.

And just behind her, out of focus—your figure. Barely lit. Barely there.

You curl your fingers into your dress and force yourself to stay still.

Because if you move—if you flinch, if you breathe too loud—it’ll feel too real.

Like this isn’t just a movie. Like your position in the film is just as it is in real life.

Your breath hitches.

Get through this. Just get through this.

But the room feels too full. Your lungs too tight. Your face too visible under the flickering screenlight.

So, with quivering hands, you quickly excuse yourself out quietly, muttering a soft “I need to use the toilet,” to Michaela.

Your fingers brush her arm as you squeeze past, knees knocking against the velvet seat in front of you.

You don’t look at Caleb.

You don’t dare.

The moment you reach the aisle, you bolt.

The darkness of the theater presses in from all sides, but the exit sign glows red—blessedly real, blessedly distant from the version of you being projected for everyone else to see.

You push through the heavy doors.

Out into the hallway.

Into the quiet.

It’s cooler out here. Dimmer. The hum of the projector muffled by layers of walls.

And still, your hands shake.

Your chest heaves.

You press your back against the corridor and squeeze your eyes shut, willing yourself to breathe again.

To stop hearing the lines you spoke, the laugh that wasn’t yours, the way you stood just out of frame.

You weren’t supposed to matter.

You weren’t supposed to be seen.

But seeing yourself just that—seeing yourself as nothing more than a narrative device—knocks all air out of your lungs.

And so you do what you do best in situations like these.

You walk.

Down the corridor. Past posters for old plays and peeling signs pointing to locked rehearsal rooms. The soft clink of your heels echoes against the concrete, sharp and rhythmic, the only sound in the hush that follows you.

Left. Then right.

You take the stairwell without thinking—something about the way the door hangs open, waiting.

Up.

One flight. Two.

You’re not counting. You’re not really anywhere.

Just moving.

The final door gives with a groan.

And then—open air.

The rooftop is quiet. Dimly lit by a few tired bulbs and the soft haze of city lights glowing from below. The wind brushes past your cheeks, tugging at the hem of your dress, the strands of your hair.

You inhale slowly—deeply.

The air fills your lungs and doesn’t choke. For the first time tonight, your chest doesn’t feel so tight.

You hug your arms around yourself, rubbing warmth into your skin as you move toward the edge of the rooftop. The wind tangles softly in your hair. The quiet is heavier than silence—it’s soothing. Honest.

The sounds of the premiere, the echoes of your lines, the weight of Michaela’s smile, Caleb’s lingering glances—all of it stays behind those concrete walls.

But the moment your shoulders finally drop—the tension unwinding from your spine like thread pulled too tight—

a voice slices through the quiet.

“The movie boring?”

You jolt.

And there he is.

Leaning lazily against the railing at the far edge of the rooftop, one hand resting in the pocket of his black slacks, the other loosely curled around a cigarette he hasn’t lit. The wind toys with the edges of his shirt, untucked and open at the collar, the soft fabric fluttering just enough to hint at the warmth beneath.

His silver hair—bright even under the dull rooftop lights—shifts with the breeze, strands falling across his forehead in that effortless way that should be illegal. The city glows behind him, casting shadows across the hard angles of his jaw, the sharp lines of his cheekbones. His eyes catch yours beneath long lashes, amused, unreadable.

He doesn’t move.

He doesn’t need to.

Just the sight of him—calm, crooked smile in place, posture loose like he’s got nowhere to be and nothing to prove—pulls something taut inside you all over again.

Sylus Qin.

Looking like trouble sculpted in moonlight.

And you walked straight into it.

Your voice stumbles out, more breath than word.

“What are you doing here?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just tips his head slightly, eyes trailing over you in that infuriatingly slow, unreadable way of his.

“Didn’t realize rooftops were exclusively yours now.”

His voice is quiet but laced with amusement, like he’s already enjoying how thrown off you are. The wind picks up, tousling the silver strands of his hair. He doesn’t fix them. Just leans back against the railing again like this is his space now. Like you’ve wandered into his scene.

“I could ask you the same thing,” he adds, gaze settling on you. “Didn’t strike me as the type to abandon your own premiere.”

Your jaw tightens. “It’s not my premiere.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” he murmurs, eyes glinting. “You were in almost every shot. That little background smile of yours really carried the emotional arc.”

You shoot him a glare. He shrugs.

“Relax,” he says, voice dipping just enough to make your skin prickle. “I’m just making conversation.”

And then, without breaking eye contact, he pulls the cigarette back out from his pocket—like he knew exactly when to use it for effect.

You watch as he rolls it between his fingers, slow and practiced, before slipping it between his lips. His eyes flick downward, shadowed beneath dark lashes, as he flicks the lighter.

A soft click.

A brief spark.

Then flame.

He cups the light with one hand, shielding it from the wind, the gesture intimate in its precision. The flame catches the edge of the cigarette, a quick sizzle, and then a curl of smoke unfurls between his lips as he leans back—head tilted, silver hair brushing the collar of his jacket.

He exhales through parted lips.

Smoke spills from his mouth in a lazy stream, rising into the night air.

And for a moment, the whole rooftop smells like sin.

You swallow. Hard.

Because it shouldn’t look that good.

No one should look that good doing something so simple.

But he makes it look like poetry wrapped in gasoline.

Dangerous. Beautiful. Impossible to look away from.

He glances sideways, catching your gaze—then smirks around the cigarette.

“What?” he says, smoke curling past his teeth. “You want one?”

You ignore his question as you cross the distance between you with quiet steps, heels clicking softly against the rooftop floor, until you’re beside him.

Close, but not touching.

You lean forward onto the railing, elbows braced, eyes fixed on the world below. The city stretches beneath you—cars like fireflies, neon signs blinking against concrete, life spilling in all directions.

“Heard you’re pretty close to Michaela these days.”

Words slip out of your mouth before you could stop them—carried off too quickly by the breeze.

Sylus doesn’t respond right away. Just takes another drag, eyes still on the skyline, unreadable behind the soft glow of the city lights and the rising smoke.

“Is that what people are saying?” he asks, voice low, like he’s half-amused, half-bored.

You glance sideways at him, but his expression doesn’t shift.

“She’s been… talking,” you murmur.

He exhales slowly, smoke curling from the corner of his lips. “Yeah. She does that.”

There’s a beat of silence. The kind that leaves your thoughts too loud.

“She seems to like you,” you add, keeping your voice light. “Says you’re funny. Helpful.”

His gaze finally cuts to you, slow and sharp. An eyebrow arches. A slow, knowing smirk tugs at his lips.

“You sound jealous,” he says, voice dipped in something darker. Teasing. Dangerous.

Your breath falters.

“I’m not.”

He hums, low in his throat, clearly unconvinced. Then, he turns—just slightly—enough to face you, enough to make you feel it.

“Could’ve fooled me,” he murmurs, voice barely above the wind.

He leans in, just a bit. Not close enough to touch. Just close enough that the air between you shifts.

“I mean… if you wanted my attention,” his eyes drag slowly down your face, “you didn’t have to bring her up to get it.”

You blink. Hard.

The smirk deepens. He takes one last drag from the cigarette, flicks it to the side, and exhales—

Right past your shoulder, warm and slow, like it was deliberate.

Then he turns back toward the railing, arms resting casually as if he didn’t just turn your pulse inside out.

“Relax,” he says again, voice smooth and cruelly amused. “I’m just making conversation.”

“Fuck you and your conversations.”

“Language, princess.”

The corner of his mouth lifts, slow and smug, like he enjoys your bite more than he should.

He doesn’t look at you when he speaks next—just watches the lights below with that lazy, unreadable calm.

“The deal’s still on, by the way,” he says, almost offhand. “I don’t usually hold my deals this long.”

Your breath catches—but you don’t answer. Not immediately.

Instead, eyes still fixed on the city, you ask quietly,

“What’s it like?”

He glances sideways.

“To smoke,” you murmur, voice soft against the wind. “What does it feel like?”

That catches him off guard.

His smirk fades into something quieter—still sharp, but thoughtful.

He straightens a little, resting his elbows on the railing, eyes narrowed at the skyline like he’s remembering something he can’t touch anymore.

“It’s… warm,” he says eventually. “First few seconds burn. Then it’s just heat in your chest. Makes everything a little slower. A little duller.”

He glances at you again, eyes shadowed beneath silver strands.

“You’d hate it.”

And then, softer—

“You’d get addicted.”

You glance at him, the corner of your mouth twitching. “That confident, huh?”

His smile returns, crooked and slow.

“Always.”

Then—without looking away—he reaches into his pocket, pulls out the pack again, taps it once against his palm.

“Wanna try?”

You hesitate.

Just for a second.

The rooftop wind brushes your skin. The lights below blur like you’re not quite grounded anymore.

“…Okay,” you say finally, barely above a whisper. “Sure.”

His gaze lingers on you for a breath longer than it should—sharp, slow, searching.

Then, with practiced ease, he slips the cigarette between his lips, flicks the lighter, and inhales. The tip glows ember-red. Smoke curls around his face like it belongs there.

He steps closer.

Not fast. Not aggressive. Just… inevitable.

Until your backs are no longer parallel, but aligned.

Until his body is angled toward yours, his hand brushing the railing beside your arm.

Then he exhales—slow, steady—up into the air first, just to show you how.

And before your thoughts can catch up, before your pulse even finds a rhythm, his hand slides around your jaw. Gentle, but certain. Fingers curling under your chin, tipping your face up to his.

“Open,” he murmurs.

And you do.

He leans in—closer, closer still.

Not to kiss. Not yet.

His mouth hovers just a hair’s breadth from yours, and then—

He exhales.

Smoke floods from his lungs into yours, warm and heady and tasting like fire and him.

It hits you all at once—your lips parted against his, the heat of his breath rolling into your mouth, your chest, your nerves. Your hands grip the railing behind you, fingers curling tight.

And just as your knees begin to weaken, just as the smoke begins to burn—

His lips press to yours.

Not soft.

Not tentative.

It’s full, hungry contact—heat and pressure and something sharp beneath the surface. He kisses you like you’re something he earned. Like he knew this was coming the moment you stepped onto that rooftop.

And god, you let him.

His hand slips from your jaw to your throat, thumb resting lightly just beneath your pulse. You feel it hammering there, wild and fast. He deepens the kiss, mouth coaxing yours open further, tongue tracing the edge of your bottom lip like a tease, like a challenge.

You kiss him back.

Harder. Needier. Like you’ve been holding it in.

Like you’re finally letting go.

The smoke lingers between you. In your mouth. Your chest. The heat of it coils through your veins, makes the moment feel reckless, dangerous, electric.

When he finally pulls away, just barely, your lips are still parted—still chasing after him.

And Sylus—

He’s already smirking.

“Told you,” he breathes, thumb brushing your bottom lip.

“You’d get addicted.”

Your breath comes shallow. Foggy. Like you’re drunk—from the smoke. From him.

From the way his voice sits too low in your stomach, too warm in your throat.

You blink, dazed. “What the fuck was that?”

He laughs—low, rich, and dizzying.

“Still want to call it a mistake?”

You don’t answer. Can’t.

Not with the nicotine still curling in your lungs. Not with his breath still ghosting yours.

Maybe it’s the way the air thins between you again.

Maybe it’s the flush that rises to your cheeks when you look up at him and realize he hasn’t stepped back this time.

Or maybe it’s just that dangerous cocktail of heat and haze and the taste of sin still lingering on your tongue.

“I think,” you whisper, eyes flicking to his mouth, “you didn’t teach it properly.”

His gaze sharpens. That smirk falters, just for a second—enough to show the hunger underneath.

“Oh?” he breathes.

You nod. Barely.

He leans in. Slowly. Purposefully.

His hand grazes your waist, his breath brushing your lips—and just when you think he’s going to kiss you again—

He pulls back.

Barely an inch. Just enough to keep you chasing.

His smirk returns, lazier this time. Meaner.

“Didn’t think you’d beg so soon,” he murmurs.

You glare. “I didn’t beg.”

“Mm,” he hums, dragging a finger along your jaw, “Not yet.”

Then—finally—he kisses you.

But it’s slower now. Crueler.

His mouth moves with calculated ease, like he’s studying you. Like he wants to see how long you can last with the tension stretched this thin.

He barely gives you what you want—just enough heat to make your knees unsteady, just enough pressure to make you lean in.

When your hand fists in his shirt, tugging him closer, he lets out a quiet laugh against your lips.

“Impatient,” he mutters, and you feel it—low and hot—right in your throat.

And then he deepens the kiss.

Because he knows you’re done pretending you don’t want it.

And he’s done pretending he doesn’t love watching you unravel.

But in the middle of it all—his fingers sliding under your shirt, your hands fisted in the back of his hair, breaths shared like secrets—

It hits you.

A crack of clarity.

Sharp and sudden, cutting through the haze.

You pull back.

Not far, but enough. Enough to breathe. Enough to speak.

“Why are you doing this?”

His brows knit, just slightly. You feel the shift in him, the quiet tension settling beneath the heat.

You keep going. You have to.

“What will you get out of the deal?”

Your voice is low, but steady. The question tastes bitter in your mouth—maybe because you’ve been trying to pretend it didn’t matter.

But it does. It always did.

He watches you, smoke still clinging to his breath, his thumb pausing on your skin.

And for a moment, he doesn’t answer.

Like he’s deciding what version of the truth to give you.

Like he’s debating if you’ve earned it.

He fully pulls away, the warmth of his body gone in an instant.

You watch as he straightens his spine, smooths down his collar with one hand, runs the other through his wind-tousled silver hair—like he’s putting his armor back on. Like he needs the distance again.

“I’m not playing games,” he says.

His voice is low. Still sharp, but there’s something underneath now. Not heat. Not flirtation.

Something older. Quieter. Worn.

You cross your arms, still catching your breath. “Then what is this?”

He pauses.

You see the flicker in his eyes—a calculation, a hesitation. The part of him that always weighs what to say and what to bury.

Then his lips tug into that same maddening smirk.

“You’re just really pitiful,” he says, voice lazy with mock sympathy.

Your brows shoot up. “Excuse me?”

“Kind of like someone I knew,” he continues, like he didn’t just insult you to your face. His tone is still light, but something about the way he says it—too casual, too precise—makes you freeze.

He doesn’t elaborate right away. Just glances down at the city lights below, cigarette smoldering between his fingers again.

He takes one last drag from the cigarette before flicking it over the edge, watching the ember fall like a dying star.

Then he turns back to you—smirk faded now, voice lower, rougher. Real.

“Let’s just say—” he begins, eyes locking with yours,

“you get to use me to get whatever you want…”

A pause. A slow step closer.

“And I’ll use you to get whatever I want.”

He lets the silence stretch between you, lets the weight of the words hang there like smoke.

“Sounds fair?”

You don’t answer right away.

You just stand there—wind tousling your hair, the taste of smoke still clinging faintly to your lips—watching him.

Watching the way he doesn’t push.

Doesn’t ask again.

Just lets the offer hang in the air like a match waiting to be struck.

Your thoughts spiral—through the flickers of the film, the ache in your chest as you watched yourself play the shadow, Michaela’s bright voice, Caleb’s wandering gaze, Sylus’s mouth on yours, the weight of his hands, the things he said.

And the worst part?

The way all of it made you feel alive again.

Like something inside you had finally stirred.

Like you were tired of being careful. Tired of being quiet. Tired of waiting for someone else to hand you the pen to your own story.

You draw in a breath, meet his eyes.

“Fine,” you say, soft but steady.

“I’m in.”

His smile is slow. Pleased. Like he already knew.

But he says nothing. Just nods once and turns to leave, hands in his pockets, silver hair catching the rooftop light.

You don’t stop him.

You stay there for a moment longer, listening to the echo of your own heartbeat.

And when the rooftop door clicks shut behind him—

You’re still tasting sin.

Still thinking about the deal you just made.

And wondering who, in the end, will really get what they want.

2K notes · View notes

haru-kuneko · 4 months ago

Text

May I also add that criticism can be constructive but also quite a miss or, depending on how it's delivered and who's saying it, it can be straightforward and helpful at the same time. By the way, I also have a post that talks about this called "When (and When Not) To Take Criticism."

I am personally not a fan of publicly roasting someone unless they've asked for it because a lot of times they come off as mean-spirited.

Insulting =/= Criticism

Criticism has to be constructive not Destructive

#criticism #constructive criticism welcome #insults and personal attacks also does not count as criticism

18 notes · View notes

nerdyjaw · 2 months ago

Text

crybaby. | l. ackerman

content warnings (please read before continuing): smut, squirting, reader is strong, degradation, babbling, bottom reader, fem reader, overstimulation, levi makes reader count. mdni.

summary: youre the strongest in the room— until you’re under him, babbling his name like it’s the only thing you know.

age in bio or you will be blocked.

creator notes: hihi its jaww!! gonna hop back on my grind and fill up my drafts with posts so i can have them on standby. so sorry for inactivity 😭😭. this might seem ooc for some people (cause we all know levis a HUGE virgin haha) but just ignore whats canon rn and live in a world where he’s experienced in these fields 😭. highkey had to take inspo from other writers’ styles because i cannot write smut in my own style to save my life. holy fentballs. this one is kinda slowburn but not rlly, its just not straight to the point ifykwim. as always, constructive criticism and feedback is always welcomed and appreciated!!!

you, who has the strength of two blue collared men.

doesn’t cry. doesn’t flinch. doesn’t wince when you hit the ground. does not back down for shit. got slammed during training once and bit through your tongue— yet didn’t even blink.

you don’t even look that strong. to literally everyone, you have the build of someone who minds their business. you look tired. maybe a little mean. people assume they can take you on in a spar and have an easy victory— until they’re thrown over your shoulder with one hand. you lift what needs lifting, does what needs doing, and keeps it pushing.

you and levi met during squad reshuffling. you got assigned to his unit because you had a track record for handling fieldwork solo and keeping a calm head. levi didnt speak much to you at first. just gave orders. short, dry acknowledgements when you executed them well.

but the way you picked up full grown soldiers like paper? the way you carried two jugs of water in one hand, and a gear pack in the other? the way you held formation like a wall?

thats enough to get anyone wrapped, even levi.

one day, during a particularly messy clean - up, he noticed blood running down your leg. you were limping slightly, still hauling equipment. and you looked bored. like it wasn’t even worth stopping over.

“sit down.” he told you bluntly.

“i’m fine.” you attempted to argue.

“i didn’t ask.” he retorted.

so you sat. but you laughed a little.

and that was the start.

after that, he’d call on you more often. partnered you with him during scouting runs. paired you up for drills. you didn’t speak much, but when you did, it was always dry, smart, sharp. simple, just how he liked it.

and then one night, after hours, when the barracks were quiet and your hands were bruised from the day’s work, you ran into him. told a joke that got a small smile out of him. told him goodnight— and actually got a response.

and that was how it began.

levi’s quiet, and you are too. the kind of quiet that has its own rhythm. over time, he learned that you like your tea strong and your bathwater hotter than hell. you learned that he stares too hard when he’s tired, and that he can’t sleep unless something’s covering his hands.

and now he knows you.

he knows how you fold under praise.

how you melt before he even puts anything in.

how your voice gets thin and your breathing starts to skip when he whispers in your ear.

how your legs always twitch when all is said and done.

you’re strong. that’s still true.

but now?

now you’re on the bed, back against his chest, gushing.

“p-please—levi—levi— fuck, —i—i’m gonna— i’m gonna—“

hes fingering you quickly, hitting that spot just right. his other hand’s around your throat— barely pressing. just enough to keep you in place. keep your back arched. keep you open for him.

he watches your face closely. watches your lip tremble. watches your eyes start to roll. and he just tilts his head.

“gonna what?” he asks.

you sob. actually sob.

he pushes in again.

“one.”

your eyes roll. your pussy clenches and squirts, warm and sudden and so loud against his palm it echoes.

he hums.

“there she is.”

you’re crying now. deadass crying, drool on your lips and your hips bucking against his hand, your moans becoming hiccups as your eyes start to flutter.

“levi—levi, please—“

“what?” his voice is low. mean. but calm.

“you wanted more.”

“you wanted to be good.”

“so count.”

you shake your head, whimpering.

“i-i c-cant— levi, i need—i need to—“

he grabs your chin— firm, fingers digging just a little.

“you need to shut the fuck up.” his tone is sharp, slicing clean through the haze fogging up your brain. “youre taking it, that’s what youre doing.”

your breath catches. your body violently twitches. the second orgasm hits before the first even fully fades, and you let out a moan that could genuinely just pass as a scream. you can’t even stop it.

and when you come down, you don’t even really come down.

you crash.

“levi— levi i— hahh— fuhhh— i can’t— please—hahh— fuck, fuckfuckfuck— no more—i—s’too—s’too much—i c-can’t— please—“

you’re slurring every other word, drool clinging to your lips, whole body shaking as he curls his fingers just right and presses down harder with his palm, putting pressure directly on your clit. every time you try to breathe, another moan slips out. it’s like your brain is fried and stuck on a loop.

he just watches it all. listens to you babble and squeal like youve never been touched before.

“then stop running your mouth.”

you let out a high pitched, broken whimper— and it just spurs him on. he doesn’t slow down. definitely doesn’t stop.

you’re twitching, thighs trembling around his wrist, voice climbing up into glassy, desperate moans that barely sound like words anymore. it’s just noise now. messy, choked, wet sounds and the obscene slap of his fingers pumping into you, over and over and over—

“cmon,” he whispers directly in your ear, letting his chin rest on your shoulder. “be good. give me another.”

your eyes roll back, and you squirt for the upteenth time. though, the sound of it is barely coherent through the scream you let out.

oh, and you lose count again.

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deansotherwife · 2 months ago

Text

crossing the line

dean winchester x fem!reader

summary you always knew the tension between you and dean would reach the breaking point...you just didn't think it would be because of a busted a/c unit

content warnings 18+ mdni, nsfw, explicit sexual content, one bed trope (kinda), praise kink, mutual pining, mutual masturbation, dean has a dirty mouth (i'm not sorry), a pinch of possessiveness + if i missed any pls lmk!

word count 2.2k

author's note hi hi! this is the first fic that i've actually sat down and written (also the first time i've written creatively for about 5 years) so kindness and constructive criticism are much appreciated!! enjoy!

📍twin lakes, wisconsin — ⏰ 12:07 am

You'd thought tonight was gonna be easy.

Hot water. A working TV. Two beds. Clean ones. With no mysterious stains. It feels like a luxury resort after the week you've just had.

Until the A/C unit kicks on. And refuses to stop.

You try to tough it out, pulling on a hoodie and tucking the thin motel blankets around you. But the damn thing is relentless—humming and wheezing like it's on its last leg, but refusing to die—blasting cold air directly at your bed.

Across the room, Dean sprawls out with a low sigh, one arm tucked behind his head, the other resting lazily over his stomach. His eyes closed, looking so relaxed, like sleep is already pulling him under.

"You gonna make it over there, Frosty?" he teases, not even opening his eyes.

You glare, pulling your knees up to your chest. "I hate you."

"Mhm," he smirks, low and amused.

Ten minutes later, he's apparently let you suffer long enough. "M'kay, c'mon," he mumbles, patting the space next to him like he's not giving you a choice. "'M tired'a hearin' your teeth chatter."

You don't hesitate, no teasing, no smartass remark, not even a sigh.

Sliding under the covers beside him, you instantly feel your shoulders relax as his heat seeps into you. His body heat is unreal—like lying next to a furnace. You squeeze in close, arms tucked between your chest and his, your cheek resting against the soft cotton of his shirt.

He exhales, his body settling against yours like it always does, his arm coming around your waist automatically, fingers tracing softly up and down your spine. Casual. Familiar.

"You warm enough now, or you wanna get closer?" he teases softly.

"Shut it," you mumble drowsily.

⏰ 4:05 am

The sound of a car door slamming somewhere outside rouses you. Faint, muffled, but loud enough to pull you from your blissful slumber.

What isn't faint is the heavy weight of Dean's arm—still around your waist—anchoring you to him, or the fact that your arms have shifted to rest around his neck, or the way his thigh presses firmly between yours, his hips flush against you.

This isn't new. Sharing a bed with him, ending up like this. It's familiar—comfortable, even. A habit created over time, born out of necessity.

But what is new? The hard, unmistakable pressure of him against your belly, insistent and impossible to ignore, making your pulse quicken.

Your breath catches, the last remnants of sleep dissolving as your senses heighten from the realization you've just made. Your eyes dart up to his face and find his eyes still closed. His features look younger, almost boyish, if it weren't for the stubble, with sleep. His breathing changes, just barely.

Clearly having sensed your movements, his voice is low, rough with exhaustion when he speaks. Barely more than a murmur against your hairline. "Relax."

His hand squeezes your waist, urging you to follow his quiet command. To release the tension in your muscles.

"It's not about you. It'll go away. Go back to sleep."

You want to scoff. Like that's gonna happen.

Because now? Now, you're wide awake. Hyper-aware of every inch of your body that touches his. The way his hand holds your waist like he has every right to. Like he's done it his whole life. Like he'll continue to do it for the rest of it. The way his thigh stays perfectly slotted between yours. Like it's begging you to move against it, the subtle pressure sparking a heat that shouldn't be settling between your legs. And his hard-on, still firm against your stomach. Like it's daring you to do something you've only ever let yourself fantasize about.

Because that ache that's building? It's telling you that you want it to be about you.

Your heart rate increases again. Not from nerves—not really. From want. From need.

You shift slightly.

He grunts. Fingers flexing into your hip, urging you to stay still.

"Don't," he mutters, voice still low and gravelly. Authoritative.

But the way he holds your hip betrays him—tight, possessive, like he needs you to do it again.

You swallow hard, daring to look back up at his face. Your eyes meet his in the dim light of the room.

"Not unless you're ready to cross a line," he adds, voice hushed, as though he's confessing something he can never take back.

That makes you pause—but not because you're unsure. It's because you know exactly what you're about to do.

"You mean, like... this line?" you tease, voice laced with a playful challenge, trying to hide the nervous flutter in your chest. You tilt your head, watching him with a daring look.

You let your hips grind down, ever so slightly, on his thigh—testing the waters. Finding the friction your body has been craving since you heard that damn car door.

Dean's eyes never leave yours, and the air between you thickens—charged with heat, like the space around you finally feels too small. His body tenses, his jaw tightening as he looks down at you, but his lips quirk up in that familiar, cocky grin.

"Yeah… that one," he says, voice thick with approval. And what sounds a lot like restraint.

You let your hips grind down again, a little more forcefully this time, your body craving more of that friction. Your heart hammers in your chest as the heat between your legs intensifies.

"Baby," he growls. "If you do that again," he mutters slowly, barely audible, his voice tight with barely contained desire. His hand flexes on your hip again, a warning in the action, like he's holding back. "You'd better be serious."

You don't respond verbally, but your hips move again—slower. More deliberate. His thigh shifts, pressing up between your legs, giving you more to grind against. Your eyes find his again, and you give him the tiniest of nods.

Dean's breath hitches, and he adjusts his grip on your waist, holding you steady as you grind against him. His eyes narrow, but the smirk on his face never fades. "Yeah? That what you want?" he asks, somewhere between a tease and a dare.

A quiet "mhm" slips from your lips, soft but eager.

"Then do it again," he encourages, his hand hooking under your knee, pulling your leg to hitch further over his hip. "Make yourself feel good."

"Dean," you whisper, your voice barely a breath.

"I've got you," he assures you. "Show me how you wanna be touched, sweetheart," he coaxes, his voice dropping lower.

Your eyes meet his, unsure if you heard him correctly, but your body follows his command without question. You slide your hand down his chest, your palm skimming over the warmth seeping from beneath his shirt before it lowers to your own body. Slowly, purposefully, you trace the curve of your waist, your fingers lingering before slipping under the waistband of your panties.

You don't look at him as you do it. Your focus on the rush of heat pooling between your legs. The second your fingers graze your clit, you gasp—a sharp, needy little whimper escaping your lips. You meet his eyes for a split second, and it's like looking into a storm. Dark, ravenous, and electric. Drinking in every detail of every movement you make.

"Fuck," he breathes. "You're doin' so fuckin' perfect, baby. Sound so pretty," he praises. "Lemme see how you like it."

Your fingers move in slow, practiced circles—just like you've done before, to the thought of him. Dean doesn't move or even blink—he just watches you like he's memorizing every flick of your wrist, every shaky breath that spills from your lips.

"You're so fuckin' pretty like this," he murmurs, voice thick with restraint. "Touchin' yourself for me like a good girl."

Your cheeks flush, but the way he says it—for me—knocks the breath right out of you. It hits you somewhere deep, making that heat between your thighs burn even hotter. You bite your lip, your hips rocking slightly to meet your touch, already aching for more.

"Do it with me," you whisper, breathy, needy, pleading. "Please. Wanna see you."

His jaw clenches. For a second, he doesn't move—like he's deciding if he can handle it. But then his hand slides from your waist down his stomach, slipping into his boxers. His breath catches when he wraps his hand around himself, a low groan rumbling from his chest as he starts to stroke—slow, purposeful, matching the rhythm of your fingers.

"Fuck, honey…" he breathes, his voice unraveling. "You have any fuckin' idea what you do to me?"

You whine in response, your eyes flicking down to the way his hand moves steadily between his legs like he's savoring every sensation.

His dick is thick in his hand, flushed, glistening at the tip, twitching every time he squeezes himself. The sight makes your fingers move faster, rubbing quick circles over your swollen, needy clit, occasionally dipping down to spread your wetness over yourself.

He keeps watching the way your fingers move, eyes dark and hungry. "Just like that, baby," he murmurs, low and hot against your ear. "Doin' so good."

You whimper at the praise; the way his voice only adds to the pleasure.

"You're fuckin' perfect," he praises again, seeing the effect it has on you. His eyes are locked on you like you're the only thing in the universe. "God, I wanna taste you so bad…" he admits, jaw tight. "But seein' you like this? All needy, touchin' yourself while I jerk off to the thought of bein' inside you?"

You moan softly as your body reacts to every word from his mouth, clinging to every filthy word like oxygen.

"Yeah," he murmurs, his voice rough next to your ear, his hand sliding over his cock in long, steady strokes, each one timed to match the rhythm of your fingers. "You'd like that, huh, baby? My mouth on you, makin' you come on my tongue? Or my dick stretchin' you open, fillin' you up 'til you're cryin' for it?"

Your breath hitches, heat pooling between your legs at the thought. The vivid imagery of him doing exactly that has you trembling, your fingers faltering for a moment, your body aching, needing him in a way you can't explain. Your lips part with a quiet gasp as your chest rises and falls.

His lips brush your temple, his voice low and gravelly, as if he can't quite control the words spilling from his mouth. "Thought about it so much," he admits. "Bet you'd be so fuckin' sweet on my tongue," he growls, his voice thick with desire, his breath catching at the thought of it. "Bet I could get you screamin' for me, couldn't I, baby? Fuckin' squirmin' under my mouth while I eat that pretty little pussy like it's the last thing I'll ever taste. Bet I'd have to hold you down. Put an arm across your hips to keep you still, huh?"

You can't help the way your hips jerk forward, desperate for the attention he's teasing you with. "Dean," you whimper.

"Bet you'd make the prettiest fuckin' sounds," he continues, watching the way your body trembles for him. "Soakin' my sheets while I fuck you slow... Bet you'd beg for me to fuck you harder, deeper—until you can't walk, and the only thing you feel is me. Inside and out."

Your back arches, an involuntary gasp spilling from your lips at the thought. You can feel your wetness spreading between your legs, your fingers working faster now, chasing more pleasure, wanting to feel every little thing he's describing.

You feel yourself slipping, but you're too captivated by the way his hand works over himself, so slow and deliberate—each stroke pulls a soft groan from his lips, the muscles in his forearm flexing with every movement.

"You're gonna come for me, baby," he tells you. "Right fuckin' now. Wanna see what that pretty face looks like when you do."

Your heart pounds in your chest, your body shaking from the pressure, and you nod, unable to form words, your mouth hanging open in desperate anticipation. Each circle your fingers make brings you closer and closer to the edge, your body pleading with you to reach it.

Your thighs clench as the first wave of pleasure washes over you, hot and dizzying, and you let out a faint little moan. Your body tenses, arching into his, your breath coming in shallow gasps as your fingers work you through the intense orgasm. Your legs tremble from the sheer force of the release as your fingers push you closer to the line between pleasure and overstimulation.

"Fuck—baby—that's it, that's fuckin' it—" His voice breaks as he follows, head tipping back with a deep, raw groan that rips from his chest, echoing off the walls—his body shuddering, muscles tensing as his release takes over. His body locks up, muscles straining, veins standing out in his arms as his fist tightens around his cock. You watch, captivated, as his hips jerk, stuttering into his hand, thick ropes of cum spilling hot across his knuckles and stomach, each spasm pulling another helpless sound from his throat.

The way his cock throbs in his grip—uncontrolled, demanding—sends another pulse of heat straight through you. Your body, still humming from your own release, trembles all over again at the sight of him falling apart like that, just for you.

His eyes flutter open, heavy-lidded and hazy, and he catches you watching him with wide, breathless awe. You're still panting, trying to collect yourself, your skin flushed and tingling.

"Yeah," he breathes, chest still heaving, his body still trembling from the force of his release. "Next time? Just watchin'? Ain't gonna fuckin' cut it."

i hope you enjoyed my first fic! feedback, asks, and requests are always welcome and encouraged! <3

#dean winchester smut #dean x you #dean winchester x you #dean winchester x reader smut #dean winchester x reader #supernatural #supernatural fanfiction #dean winchester imagine #dean winchester fanfiction #supernatural imagine #˗ˏˋ deansotherwife fics ´ˎ˗#˗ˏˋ deansotherwife writes ´ˎ˗

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galaxywannabe · 3 months ago

Text

Munch O'Clock

Joaquín Torres x Fem!Reader

Summary: Joaquín comes back from his morning run hungry. He really should just let you sleep, but how else is he supposed to make sure his day starts off on the right track?

Warnings: 18+ contains smut mdni. Joaquín being the goofball boyfriend we all deserve. Reader identifies as a woman and has a vagina but there are no other physical descriptors as far as I'm aware!

Word Count: Roughly 2.5k

A/N: Ahhhh okay! So the idea for this came from this post and my addition to it, and then I said fuck it and gave it my best go! And this is that! Constructive criticism is always welcome, and if you have something nice to say about it or you liked it please let me know! It feeds my soul and keeps me writing! Anyways I'm done yammering your ear off, enjoy!

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Joaquín gets up for his daily run stupid early, like, before the sun is even all the way up early, even on his days off. So naturally, when he arrives back at your apartment roughly 45 minutes after he left it, thoroughly sweating through his cutoff t-shirt despite the early spring chill, you're still fast asleep.

You are decidedly not an early riser, even on the days that you really should be, and accordingly your alarm isn't set to go off for another 3 hours - hours you intend to spend blissfully unconscious, dead to the world. That is, until you're startled awake with a yelp as your boyfriend tugs you by the ankles down to the foot of the bed.

The transition from sleep to wakefulness is an abrupt one, the peace of unconsciousness ripped from your grasp in the span of a single second, and as you lift your head to meet the rich, brown puppy dog eyes of your boyfriend, you know there's only one culprit responsible.

“Joaquín, I was sleeping,” you grumble, reaching up to rub the grit from your eyes as his expression turns sheepish.

“I know, mi amor, I'm sorry. You just kicked all the covers off yourself, and you looked so pretty laying there, and then before I knew it…”

He gives you those innocent eyes again, like it was by complete accident that he ended up kneeling at the foot of your bed, your body dragged down the length of the mattress so your pelvis was directly in front of his face. You sigh, already knowing what's about to happen and resigning to your fate - as if it's such a chore being constantly lusted after by your beautiful boyfriend.

“Was there something you needed at-” you turn your head to the alarm clock on your nightstand, the glaring red numbers a cruel reminder of the sleep you should be getting right now, “-5:56 in the morning?”

He hesitates for a moment, chewing his lip as he flicks his eyes between your face and the space between your legs, obviously conflicted. You can tell that he desperately wants to ask, but he's not sure if he should.

He really does look guilty for waking you up, and you feel bad as you watch him actively consider suppressing his desire so he doesn't inconvenience you. You were only being grouchy in a playful way, not actually trying to dissuade him.

You reach down for his hand resting on the mattress by your hip, taking it and squeezing reassuringly. “If you do need something, you can ask me, angel. I was just teasing, I won't be mad.”

He looks up at you, his gaze holding yours as if he's searching for the truth in your words. When he finds it, he seems to relax. His shoulders loosen a little, and there's a more obvious glint of excitement in his eyes as he looks back down at the part of your anatomy hidden by the gusset of your little sleep shorts.

He looks so gorgeous right now, even moreso than usual despite the high standard he sets. The sun is starting to rise, soft rays of light breaking through the blinds of your window and reflecting off his deep brown irises, highlighting the desperation there. He's still absolutely soaked through with sweat from his morning run, dark patches in the grey fabric around his chest and armpits from the exertion, and you can smell the musky tang of it from here, sharp and masculine in your nostrils, 100% Joaquín.

Setting off the whole image, the perfect cherry on top to his already devastating appearance, is the backwards baseball cap on his head, a few dark, sweaty curls flopping through the opening in the front and touching his forehead.

The slightly shy smirk he gives you as he finally decides to make his request is absolutely panty-melting, one big hand coming up to grip your inner thigh beneath the hem of your shorts, warm and possessive. “Breakfast?”

You almost let out a groan, but you don't want him to misinterpret it as anything other than completely positive, so you suppress it. Instead you just give him an amused little smile, anticipation fluttering in your gut as you raise one brow skeptically.

“That's what you want for breakfast, Joaquín?”

He nods enthusiastically, his eyes dancing with humor as he bows to kiss the exposed skin of your thigh gently. “Absolutely. I wanna start my day off right, angel. Gotta get in my fuckin’ Wheaties or whatever, so I can go crush the rest of my day.”

You laugh, shoulders shaking at the ridiculousness of that entire statement, your gaze fond even as you roll your eyes. “Is that what you're gonna tell Sam later, when you meet him down at the ring for sparring? That you've got an extra spring in your step because you ate your girl's pussy this morning?”

“If it means you'll let me do it right now, then yes, I absolutely will tell him that,” he answers, the look in his eyes completely serious despite his smile.

Horrified at just the mental image of such an exchange, you shudder, wrinkling your nose but still finding your boyfriend's desperation amusing. “Ew, no, please no, do not tell him that. I'll let you have it, just please don't tell Sam anything about our sex life ever.”

Joaquín’s eyes light up, a dog with a bone as his fingers skate up your hips to hook in the waistband of both your shorts and panties, stopping short of removing them until he has explicit permission. “Yeah? Deal.”

You can't help but snort, completely enamored by both the excited glint in his eye and the way he's willing to agree to whatever the hell you want as long as it gets his mouth on you. If you were a more scheming woman, perhaps you'd use that to your advantage, but as it stands you can never deny him anything when he looks at you like this.

Some days it's hard to believe you have a partner who wants you so badly all the time, but then you have a moment like this one, where he's on his knees by the end of the bed, still soaked in sweat from his workout but too desperate to wait another second, and you know it's genuine. He couldn't fake that pussy-drunk look in his eyes if he tried.

“Alright then, deal. Go ahead, take what you want. It belongs to you anyways, you know that.”

You'd think you just offered him the keys to the city the way he's looking at you right now, a visible shudder wracking down his spine at your dirty words. He tugs your shorts and underwear down your legs like he's worried you'll change your mind, though over the course of your entire relationship you don't think you've ever given him reason to suspect you would.

The room air is a little cold against the heated, damp flesh between your legs, but in an instant he's so close that his warm breath is there on your skin, chasing away any chill. He looks up at you, waiting like he's giving you one more chance to back out. Like you ever would when there's head from Joaquín Torres on the table.

“Go ahead, amor, have your breakfast. I think we both could call this a great start to our day, yeah?”

It's all the permission he needs, but he doesn't dive in the way he so clearly wants to, the way a person might be expected to given the slightly crazed look in his eyes. Even in a heightened state of arousal, Joaquín is all about savoring things, especially where you're concerned.

He starts with soft kisses on your plush inner thighs, scattering them sweetly on each side, slowly approaching his ultimate goal. Your legs instinctively part further for him, falling open on the mattress in an involuntary reaction to his touch, and he pats the outside of your thigh in approval as he continues to work his way up, his pace unhurried.

Even when he gets there, he still doesn't partake quite yet, pausing to take in a slow inhale, a satisfied rumble going off in his chest at the scent of you. You can’t help but let out a small, flustered whimper, a blush rising to your cheeks; having a man be so unabashedly enthralled by your body is simultaneously incredibly flattering and a little embarrassing. There’s no shame on Joaquín’s face, though, just his half-lidded, hazy stare as he turns his eyes up to meet yours, dragging out the moment as you wait with anticipation for him to begin. Jesus.

Your boyfriend’s a bit of a hyperactive guy, always jumping around with boundless energy, but nothing shuts off his brain faster than eating your pussy. That’s not to say that he’s thoughtless about it - he’s not - or that he's not incredibly skilled at it - he definitely is. It’s just that when he’s doing this, it’s all he’s thinking about, and something about that sets every inch of your body on fire every time.

Either unwilling or unable to hold himself back anymore, your boyfriend lowers his face carefully to your center and licks a long, hot stripe from your hole to your clit, collecting the ample moisture you’ve already produced along the way, tasting it on his tongue. You know he makes a noise of satisfaction because you can feel the vibrations spread pleasantly through your skin, but you can’t hear it over the loud gasp that tears from your lungs, nor over your heartbeat thudding in your ears.

This burst of pleasure should not come as a surprise to you - Joaquín has probably eaten you out more just over the course of your relationship than most women experience in their entire lives, and it’s always incredible - but somehow despite their familiarity, his ministrations on your swollen flesh feel brand new. Rather than dipping low again for another taste, he lingers at the top of you, his tongue flicking against your clit this way and that, quick but gentle, careful not to overwhelm you. It’s a nice sentiment, but when he’s on you like this, it’s pretty much inevitable.

As he starts to work on you in earnest, suckling gently at your bundle of nerves and then shifting down to probe at your entrance to give you a moment of reprieve, you hit an infuriating conundrum. As is your instinct when in the throes of passion, you reach down to tangle your fingers in your boyfriend's hair, both to ground yourself and as an outlet for the restless energy thrumming through your veins. But just when your fingertips should be making direct contact with the soft, silky curls at the top of his head, you feel fabric beneath them instead, and you frown.

An indignant whine breaks from your lips and, god help you, your ever-attentive angel of a boyfriend catches it even in the midst of his favorite activity. His eyes flit up to yours, and his face pulls back just a hair so he can speak without muffling his voice against your folds.

“Okay, querida?” he checks, his voice rough as his tongue flicks out subconsciously to gather some of the nectar shining on his lips.

You're about to grouse and tell him that the stupid damn hat needs to come off, to get it out of your way so you can hold on the way you like, but now that you're actually looking at him you feel indecision rising in your chest. Shit. He looks goddamn incredible like this. His lower face is glinting slightly in the early morning light with your arousal, which is obviously a sight to behold all on its own.

But when you take in the rest of him - the residual beads of sweat from his morning run still dripping down the side of his face, the workout clothes that he's too occupied to notice are sticking to his skin - it's even worse. And that damned hat, as inconvenient as its presence might be, is the most important part of this picture.

It's just some old cap with the air force logo on it, probably pulled from the back of his closet and plopped backwards over his bedhead haphazardly before he left for his run. But goddamn, something about the fact that he's still got it on as he makes out sloppily with your cunt? It's debauched, it's filthy, and it's so incredibly hot.

Your mind spirals over this observation for several long seconds, wheeling between wanting his hair freed and needing the cap to stay on for the rest of his damn life, but to Joaquín it must seem like hesitation because he starts to pull away with concern. You shake your head urgently, reaching out in panic for the back of his head as if to keep his face back where it belongs.

“Shit, no- I mean yes, everything is great! Sorry, I just looked down and got distracted by how pretty you are for a second. Please keep going.”

It's the truth, but you decide not to mention the hat specifically in case he gets self-conscious about it and tries to take it off. He quirks an amused brow at you like you're the biggest weirdo on the planet - which is rich given he's the one who literally woke you up just to eat you out first thing in the morning - but he seems comforted by your reassurance, and with a huff through his nose he obliges your request, getting back to work without another word.

As you watch him fall back into his rhythm, that damned ballcap perched tauntingly over his sweaty curls, you resign yourself to gripping the sheets instead to keep you grounded through the onslaught of pleasure, just this once.

Joaquín makes you come hard on his lips and tongue twice before he's satisfied with his “breakfast”, and then he's dashing off to the shower to rinse off his workout, not even asking you to return the favor like the gentleman he is. As you listen to the water running in the other room, along with the muffled sounds of Joaquín singing off key, you reach your trembling fingertips out for your cell phone.

Despite your whole body still buzzing with the aftershocks of your orgasms, you hastily add about 10 new baseball caps to your shopping cart, making a mental note to order them while he's away on his next mission. Your poor, unsuspecting boyfriend has no idea there's about to be a new staple in his wardrobe, though you have a feeling if he knew the reason, there wouldn't be any complaints.

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#marvel #mcu #captain america brave new world #cabnw #joaquin torres #joaquín torres #joaquin torres x reader #joaquín torres x reader #danny ramirez #falcon

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hairmetal666 · 1 year ago

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Everyone in the league knows about Eddie Munson. He has the makings of a great pitcher, except for the fact that his slider has a 75% chance of sliding too high and his fastballs mostly end up in the dirt. His technique is wild, flailing, unrestrained. Which is why Steve is beside himself when he learns about the trade.

The owners, they think that Steve being the best catcher in the league means he can work with Eddie, settle him, make him a real prospect. Steve's input isn't needed with the decision already made, but Munson--with all his tattoos piercings and leather--looks like he'd rather hock a loogie at Steve than take directions from him.

And Steve is the best in the league, the glue that keeps the team together. They're a well-oiled machine, and Eddie is--Eddie is a squeaky wheel.

They meet for the first time, briefly, in the locker room. He's seen the guy before, of course, but now, like this, he can't help but be intrigued by his pale skin and long curls and brown doe-eyes, his lightly muscled frame. And they're in the locker room, Eddie with just a towel around his waist, exposing his toned chest and stomach and the black swirl of his tattoos.

"Steve Harrington!" Eddie reaches out a hand. "Great to meet you, man."

"You too. Excited to have you with us." The handshake is quick and firm and Steve is trying not to be surprised about how excited and genuine the guy sounds, keep his mind away from thinking of how Eddie is naked aside from the towel.

With only a few weeks until the start of the regular season, Eddie starts pitching to Steve. And Steve, he so expects Eddie to fight and grumble and refuse, that his head sort of spins when, on the first day, Eddie claps him on the back with his glove, says, "where do you want me, cap?" and that's that.

He wants to say that they dislike each other, that they're a bad fit, that Eddie is full himself and refuses constructive criticism.

Instead.

Instead it's easy.

Eddie doesn't complain, doesn't argue, just watches Steve, learns him, takes his advice and notes and implements them as much as he can. They like each other, have an easy rapport, get each other. He's tight with all the pitchers, but Eddie is different. They settle each other.

They're best friends. They hangout constantly. And he doesn't have a crush; he doesn't. It would be unprofessional. They're best friends.

But sometimes, sometimes he thinks he catches Eddie looking at him. It's impossible. Of course it's impossible. Eddie couldn't be into the guy Sports Illustrated called "baseball's Ralph Lauren model" in the intro to Steve's Body Issue photo spread. And it doesn't matter one way or the other because Steve won't make a move. He won't jeopardize the team like that.

They don't touch. He touches everyone on the team, often, and Eddie particularly is a physical guy, but aside from that first handshake, he keeps his distance. Steve's afraid--even though it's silly, he's afraid--that once they start touching, he won't be able to stop, and he can't let that happen.

The team is good, competing for first place in the National League. Eddie's success has made everyone else better.

It's late July, they're in first place in the league, and Eddie's pitching a perfect game. There's only been 24 perfect games thrown in the history of Major League Baseball, but it's the eighth inning and Eddie's doing it.

A pitch goes wild, veers high over the umpire's head. Eddie's shaken, Steve can tell with how his fist tightens compulsively around the ball. The next pitch swings wide, towards the batter's knees.

The count is at 2 balls, no strikes, and he can see, even from behind home plate Steve can see, that Eddie's losing it. He heads for the mound, refuses to let it end like this. He closes the distance between them, has a quick internal debate before he puts his hand on Eddie's lower back. They've never touched, this is it, this is--warmth bleeds from Eddie's skin, through the fabric of his jersey, goes straight to Steve's head.

Eddie frowns. "I don't think I--"

"You're going to do it, Ed. I know. I can feel it." He pats his chest, over his heart. "It's gonna happen."

Eddie's breathing settles and it's only then that Steve realizes he's rubbing circles into Eddie's back with his thumb. He's not sure when he started, doesn't want to stop, loves being able to feel.

"Okay," Eddie says.

"Okay."

Steve removes his hand, heads back to home, still tingling with the warmth of Eddie's body even as he crouches behind the plate.

He closes out the inning with three definitive strike outs. The crowd goes wild.

They take the field for the top of the 9th, the crowd is screaming, ready for this, the energy zipping through every player on the field.

It goes by in a blur. Nine pitches. Eddie's perfect game is wrapped up in nine phenomenal pitches.

As the ump calls the last out, there's a moment of complete and utter quiet in the stadium, Steve's heart a pounding hum in his ears, before pandemonium breaks loose. There's screaming, fireworks, someone is crying--

All he can see is Eddie. Eddie's who's thrown his glove to the dirt, is barreling towards him with a triumphant smile bright on his face. Steve stands, runs to close the distance. He sees the moment that Eddie decides to jump into his arms, catches him easily--will always catch him--but his legs are tired and the momentum gets him, sends them tumbling back into the grass.

They're both yelling, laughing, smiling hard enough to hurt. Eddie's hair has fallen out if its tie, tumbling around his shoulders, and Steve gazes at him, can't help it, in this moment can admit that he's so, so astronomically in love.

It's only then Steve realizes that the laughter's stopped, that Eddie's gazing back. Brown eyes shining bright with happiness, cheeks flushed pink, lips parted. Thoughtless, he reaches up to caress Eddie's cheek.

The team reaches them, streaming around them, yanking Eddie and Steve to their feet. The celebration stretches around them, the moment slipping away. He wants to finish what they started but there are interviews, champagne showers, congratulations, that keep them apart. Sometimes, from across the room, their eyes meet, and there's heat there that's new, that sparks something low in Steve's gut.

Hours pass, and finally he finds himself alone in the locker room. He's just pulled on his t-shirt when the door shuts behind him. He spins, finds Eddie, waiting, watching.

He crosses the room without a word, can't not, not now, not after everything. They grapple for a second, the wanting so strong that it takes a second to settle, to find each other. They kiss hard, desperate, seething with desire.

Steve hopes it never ends and it doesn't, just tapers into soft kisses, gentle nips. He can't bring himself to step away.

"Is this for real ?" Eddie whispers.

"I've been insane about you since the trade."

Eddie's smile is blinding. "I used to have those pictures of you--the ones with the little red shorts?--in my locker in the minors. Feel like I'm living in a dream right now."

It lights him up inside, knowing that Eddie wants him, has wanted him. "Let me take you home and show you just how real it is?"

He snorts, but his dimples deepen, eyes shining. "What a line, sweetheart."

"Yeah well, the baseball field isn't the only place where I hit home runs."

#steddie #steve x eddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #baseball au #teammates to lovers #ficlet #fluff #first kiss #feelings confession #steve thinks he'll hate eddie but he just falls in love with him instead #pitcher eddie munson #catcher steve harrington #i had this idea a month ago and forgot about it #dom/sub undertones in the way that what if steve gently doms eddie into pitching better #what if steve modeled for SI's body issue and what if eddie is obsessed with him the whole time #really playing fast and loose with how major league baseball works

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agneslovestheinternet-blog · 5 months ago

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FUCK YOU, don't leave me

Part One: Paper Thin (Part Two, Part Three, Part Four, Part Five)

Gally x Fem!Reader

You were the first female greenie to arrive in The Glade and your continued feud with Gally is legendary among your fellow Gladers. It’s about to dazzle them even further tonight because it’s bonfire night. Which means you’re both excessively drunk, hopping mad, standing right next to an enormous open flame and contemplating one question; is arson really that bad?

Genre: pure plot, the set up to enemies to lovers

Word Count: 2.7K Read Time: 9.5 mins

Warnings & Info: strong language, brief mention of needles and flesh wounds, underage drinking, Your POV, Movie!Gally, the only Glader slang I use is “shank” because the rest sounds dumb to me (sorrryyyy), minimal Y/N use, you’re not the only girl I added several unimportant OC’s, Thomas is there but the plot of TMR doesn’t move forward

Author’s Note: I was originally going to write this whole fic in one part but then I got too excited and it got really long, so I broke it up. The other parts will be coming very shortly, let me know if you want to be tagged when I post them! This is the first fic I’ve ever posted so all constructive criticism is welcome! The Maze Runner community on Tumblr is amazing & I just wanted to throw my hat into that very talented ring; thx for reading! fun fact: Gally’s name appears 62 times in this fic :)

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I can’t fucking stand Gally. And everyone knows that. Everyone also knows that he can’t fucking stand me. If it weren’t for saint Alby’s most sacred rule, (“Never harm another Glader”), I would’ve split his lip with my knuckles a long time ago.

It started with The Box, obviously. That clanging, rusted, menacing machinery that brings life-sustaining supplies and headache-inducing complications. Like me. 38 months in a row The Box brought up a flushed-faced, wide-eyed, scared-shitless teenage boy. Every month, like clockwork. Until lucky month number 39 when it sent my sorry ass up. The first girl. Since then, The Box alternates between male & female greenies each month. No one has any idea why those who control The Box suddenly decided to make The Glade co-ed. But Gally’s working theory is that it’s to destroy everything they built before me.

He has a well-deserved reputation for having the loudest mouth in The Glade and he wasted no time using it against me, starting on my very first day. The first memory I have of him is watching his tanned face contort with confusion and anger upon opening The Box’s gates and finding me at the bottom.

“Why’d they send a girl?” he’d barked, piercing through me with his gaze even though his question was directed at the several dozen boys standing around him, also peering down at me.

“We’ll just welcome her like any other greenie. Maybe they thought it was getting too rowdy in here with only boys,” Alby had responded calmly, parting the sea of boy’s shoulders as he strode up to Gally’s side. He stared down at me with a much kinder expression on his face.

“I’d like to get rowdy with her,” a boy interjected loudly, sending a cascade of wolf-whistles and whoops through the group around him. I was still lying on the cold metal ground of The Box, dazed and barely aware of what was being said. But at the sound of the whistling I’d instinctively covered my chest with my arms, blocking any sight of the skin exposed above my top. Gally sharply lifted his head to meet the boy’s eyes.

“Stop thinking with your dick, shank. She,” he pointed harshly at me, “is only going to cause trouble,” He turned to Alby and lowered his volume but not his scathing tone. “If you want to welcome her like any other greenie, be my guest. But you know that a change like this could ruin everything we’ve built. Don’t expect any sympathy from me when it does,” He strode off in a huff, grabbing the set of tools he’d abandoned in the grass and going back to his construction site on the other side of The Glade.

That was my first impression of him. At the time, I didn’t know my name, where I was or what was happening but I knew that Gally hated me. And since I didn’t know anything else, I decided that the first thing I would be sure of in this new place was that I hated him too.

It didn’t take long for our fellow Gladers to take notice of our feud and prepare accordingly. It became part of the tour for every new greenie that came up.

“That’s Gally,” Newt would say, pointing out his broad figure as he ordered his crew around with a pointed finger, “And that’s Y/N,” he’d continue, pivoting 180 degrees to the front door of the med hut, where I was helping a bloodied Slicer get inside.

“If you ever see them standing closer to each other than they are right now, run or grab the nearest weapon,” he’d finish with a devilish grin. The Builders and the Med-jacks had an open agreement to keep us away from each other at all times. Whenever a Builder got injured and Gally brought them to the med hut, I would be forcefully told to take my break in my hut. And whenever the med hut needed construction work, Gally would be told to do work elsewhere in The Glade until his crew finished.

Alby had declared bonfire nights to be the DMZ of The Glade pretty early on in our feud. Gally and I have a paper-thin agreement to not start shit, but tonight? Tonight that paper thin agreement goes up in smoke.

I’m sitting on a horrendously rotten log surrounded by the few friends I have that put up with my constant outbursts towards an otherwise pretty popular member of The Glade. Elsie, (the 2nd girl to arrive in The Glade & by default my closest friend), passes me the dusty glass bottle full of Gally’s elixir and I take a hearty swig, my vision already blurry from the first round of passing. The only thing I can respect about Gally is that his concoction gets you fucked up, fast. With all the horrors we all have to deal with at such a young age, (running a functioning town, trying to find a way out of the Maze, hiding from Grievers, trying not to get stung & coming to terms with the fact that we might never know who we are or where we came from), it’s good to have a reliable way to get drunk.

Chuck is babbling a retelling of Minho’s latest run in my ear excitedly when he suddenly comes into focus; Gally. He’s marching up to me, fists balled and face flushed. It took me a lot longer than usual to realize he was coming due to my inebriation.

“Are you fucking kidding me, Y/N?” he snaps, jolting me out of the warm feeling his drink was bringing me. “Hank just told me he has a crush on you. Are you just going to seduce my crew? Or do you need to have the entire Glade under your control too?”

He’s slurring his words slightly and swaying where he stands, telling me he’s probably just as fucked up as I am. Gally rarely drinks from his own supply, so this must be why he has the sudden gall to confront me despite our agreement with Alby. I get to my feet unsteadily, anger replacing my calm demeanor, but before I can speak, Newt shimmies in between us and puts his hands up, metaphorically waving a white flag.

“Gally, mate, you’ve had a few. You don’t want to start something here. Just sleep it off and we’ll figure this out in the morning,” he says reassuringly, putting a timid right hand on Gally’s left shoulder. Newt’s keeping his voice purposefully low as he’s aware half The Glade has started staring in response to the confrontation.

“I’m not talking to you Newt, I’m talking to her,” he snarls, shaking his shoulder out of Newt’s grip, his blue eyes never leaving mine.

“I don’t know why you’d think I’d want to seduce a Builder. You all have the IQ of fruit flies,” I snapped back, my voice coming out far hoarser than I intended it too. At the sound of this insult, the rest of my group of friends get to their feet and several of Gally’s jog over from the other side of the bonfire. Elsie’s hand instinctively grabs my left wrist as Chuck holds onto my right forearm. Gally’s arms are also being held onto by Thomas & Ben, who are exchanging worried glances. Our friends mobilized so quickly that Gally & I barely had time to react. But despite Newt’s pleading & the four pairs of fingernails now digging into our arms, Gally continues.

“Please Y/N, like a guy’s intelligence has ever stopped you from opening your legs,” he chortles, before going in for his finisher, “Just stay the fuck away from my Builders. It’s hard enough to keep them working without some slut parading around The Glade like she’s God’s gift to teenage boys,” he spits, his eyebrows furrowing and his muscles flexing, as he rigorously pulls against Thomas & Ben.

His comment rings in my ears for what feels like an eternity. That choice of insult is vicious, even for Gally. Alby has all but banned that word in The Glade, chastising & throwing in the Pit any poor shank that dares to use it against any of the girls here.

My cheeks are hot and I feel Elsie & Chuck tighten their grip around my arms. Maybe it’s the alcohol in my system or the stress of the day finally coming down on me or the wolf whistles I got this morning for taking my jacket off echoing in my ears or the smug look on Gally’s face or the memory of crying myself to sleep last week or the nods of agreement to his comment by several onlookers, but all of it is too much and something in me snaps. Fuck the agreement with Alby, fuck controlling my anger and fuck dealing with any of this sober; this means war.

Before I’m even fully aware of my own plan, I’m ripping my arms from my friend's grip. Elsie & Chuck stumble to the ground as they call desperately after me. The crowd formed around our altercation parts for me easily as I rack my brain for the easiest way to cause Gally pain. The Glade is spinning haphazardly as I stumble to Frypan’s table with tonight’s feast set upon it. I search furiously for the rusted copper pot that holds the rest of Gally’s elixir.

Thomas and Ben, who are now joined by Newt, Minho, Chuck, Alby and Jeff, are trying to forcefully pull Gally away from the fire, towards The Pit. He is fighting this punishment with the spirit of an angry Griever, his voice echoing continued insults towards me that I can’t quite understand at this distance. Elsie & another Glade girl, Lireale, are sprinting after me, clearing the crowd and scanning the darkened clearing for any sign of me. Gally breaks from his friend's grip and has only a second to take in his surroundings before I’m back next to the bonfire, right in front of him.

I stare into his eyes with as much venom as I can muster, my left hand flat against the bottom of the pot, my right hand tipping it sideways. Months of swallowed anger and dismissed indignation swell in my chest. I take one last look in his eyes before chucking his famous elixir into the flames with as much might as my drunken body can muster.

The bonfire immediately swells to the height of our treehouse, quickly absorbing its new fuel. Gally’s drink has about as much alcohol in it as a bottle of medical antiseptic and I take a moment to drink in the cleverness of the destruction I’ve caused. Gally’s expression has melted from anger to fear.

I win

I watch the orange hues reflected in his wide eyes before feeling the electric shock of stray flames connecting to my body. As I fall to the ground in pain, I feel two sets of calloused hands picking me up and carrying me quickly in the direction of the med hut. My vision is tunneled as I watch two other figures pick up Gally and carry him in the same direction.

We’re going to have to be in the same room for the first time since our friends learned better. And after the stunt I just pulled, he’s going to murder me. I focus on preparing my mind for whatever counterattack he has planned, instead of the searing pain now blossoming in my hands and on my chest.

I come to my senses a little more in the bright med hut as I’m gingerly placed on a cot by Ben and Newt, wincing at the contact of charred skin and coarse fabric. Gally’s voice brings my ears back to reality with a ring. Though he can’t attack me physically through the pain of 2nd degree burns being sterilized, he still finds enough energy to take verbal shots at me.

“Fuck you, Y/N! I’ll be out of work for a week because of this,” he grunts emphatically, voice still slurring. I look up at him through the line of Runners & Builders standing between our two cots, trying to prevent the counterattack he’s in too much pain to plan for now. He’s balling his fists and wincing as Clint uses a damp cloth to wipe gently at the largest of his burns; a large red stripe on his right bicep. Thomas and Hank are standing at his shoulders next to the cot, helping pass supplies to Clint as he works.

“You don’t do anything but bark orders, your crew will be fine without you, shank,” I spit back. “Shank” was often used jokingly and with affection between other Gladers but when Gally and I use it, it sounds more like a slur.

I’m still smiling cartoonishly from the sight of him getting his comeuppance. I can deal with my own pain if it means Gally has to be in pain too. I’m lying on my back as Jeff places an aloe-soaked bandage on the burn I have on my cheek. Elsie kneels next to me, holding my left hand, whispering mixed words of sympathy and scolding that I don’t hear. I’m attempting to stare at Gally, bobbing my head from left to right, trying to move into a position where her head’s not blocking my view.

The med hut is swarming with people. Alby is standing by the door, arms crossed, eyes jumping between Gally and I, getting the story of what happened told to him by Newt and Chuck. The former is in damage-control mode, sticking up for me with an earnest tone and the latter is beaming with pride, unable to contain the excitement in his voice as he recounts how high the flames got. The several large Runners & Builders that formed a human chain in between Gally’s cot and mine are starting to relax and disband, as they finally take in the severity of our injuries. Lireale is passing supplies to Jeff on my left, who’s whispering instructions to her. There are several other lookers-on who snuck in to see the action before Alby started stopping people at the door and telling them to go to bed, lest they lose their right to lunch tomorrow.

“Oh yeah and what do you do, greenie? Besides seducing every poor shank that gets bloodied up enough to have to come here,” he yells back, voice getting hoarse and gaze softening as Clint bandages the site on his arm that he injected the anesthetic into. He sighs with relief at the sight of it kicking in so quickly.

I shouldn’t be surprised this sentiment is what started this mess. Gally is known to rant to anyone who will listen that girls are a distraction in The Glade, and any shank dumb enough to fall for that distraction deserves to be thrown to the Grievers. I’m not the only girl and haven’t been for a while; there’s four more of us he could direct his sexist anger towards. But he never looks at them the way he looks at me; as if my existence itself causes him offence.

“You wish Gally. Is that why you always get your wounds patched up in your hut?” I croak back, my voice starting to falter as Jeff pulls an identical needle containing anesthetic out of my arm. “Afraid you’ll get too riled up if I’m the one stitching you up?” I mumble, my voice barely audible as my eyelids flutter close.

I feel my shirt being pulled off gingerly by Elsie, exposing my bra. Jeff gets to work on a particularly nasty burn going from my collarbone to the top of my right breast. The last thing I see before being lured into a drug-addled sleep is Gally’s blue eyes, tracing my now-exposed figure. Maybe it’s the heat of the burns, or the stress of the pain, but I swear I can see his cheeks flush and his eyes widen before he quickly looks towards the ceiling and succumbs to the sedatives in his system as well. Like I said; Gally doesn’t look at me the way he looks at any other girl. But I’ve never seen that look before.

#the maze runner #maze runner #tmr #tmr gally #gally x reader #gally #gally maze runner #gally x y/n #the scorch trials #maze runner fanfiction #the death cure #tmr thomas #tmr newt #tmr aris #tmr frypan #tmr minho #tmr fandom

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sweetheartspence · 2 months ago

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planetary alignment - s.r

spencer was expecting a day of solitude researching in the library during his day off, not... whatever that was.

pairings: spencer reid x librarian!reader

genre: fluff? i think

cw: swearing, fem reader, not proofread

word count: 1.4k

a/n: this is my first spencer fic! constructive criticism is welcome, please feel free to share your thoughts! this one is third person but i'd like to try out second as well :) dividers by @cafekitsune ! thank you!

Spencer Reid does not believe in love at first sight.

Lust, sure. Infatuation, perhaps. But love?

Love was a whole other problem, an equation he knew by heart and yet had never been able to pinpoint.

It had fascinated him for years, and still did, if he was being quite honest. He's got sticky notes pressed into romance novels, quotes of descriptions underlined and highlighted, Jane Austen and Emily Bronte lining his shelves. He'd long learnt to stop asking about it. Even though it was out of pure fascination, of the drive for learning, people tended to see it as pathetic, as him grasping towards something he would never have. One too many times, he asked, "How do you know if you're in love?" And one too many times, he was met with a fond, exasperated, somewhat condescending smile.

"You just know."

You just know. What a stupid response. That's the kind of response you get from people who aren't educated enough to articulate themselves properly, Spencer thought. Or maybe they thought it was funny, to leave him in the dark. One thing that they understood that he never would. Something that they could have a leg up on, something that they could hold over his head when he had rattled off one too many statistics.

Or maybe it was him, who was too stupid to understand.

And Spencer has learned to be okay with that. It's not like he doesn't have enough to worry about, enough interests to pore over and obsess about and keep him occupied. And that's exactly what he intended to spend his weekend off on: the conceptual mathematics of the planetary system, developed by 16th and 17th century astronomer Johannes Kepler.

Now, Spencer doesn't consider this an obscure topic, per se, but it certainly isn't one that people were tripping over themselves to check books out about at the library. Which means that he's once again found himself in an abandoned aisle of the non-fiction section of the city library, leafing through a somewhat untouched biography. There's a thick layer of dust adorning the cover, and his long, thin fingers run down the pages, marking his progress through the book. And that's when he hears it.

A sneeze, followed by a loud bang, a soft curse, and some unintelligible muttering.

Spencer's curiosity is instantly piqued. A sneeze is nothing to be concerned about in the dusty shelves of the library, but the crash that had followed certainly was. He tentatively makes his way to the end of the aisle, poking his head around the corner.

Sitting on the ground, surrounded by a pile of books, is a woman. Her hair is pushed off her face with a pair of glasses, and she is haphazardly stacking the books, muttering something about how the government needed to reallocate resources and funds. Next to her lays a broken stepstool. Spencer's heart immediately starts to beat faster. She's pretty, even if her eyebrows are currently pinched in a frown.

She looks up at the noise of Spencer's footsteps, and her cheeks instantly color with embarrassment. She hops up from the ground, dusting off her hands on her pants, and offers him an apologetic smile. "I'm so sorry. The stepstool broke right under me. It was a faulty hinge, I think, or the screw might have been rusted..." She trails off, crouching down again to examine the stepstool.

Spencer isn't quite sure why he's still standing here. He's found the source of the noise, determined that no one was hurt, and that no one needs his help. So why can't he force his feet to move? Or his mouth to form words?

The woman looks up again, her cheeks still colored at the realization that he hasn't moved. "Uh- I'm sorry. Am I in your way, or...?" She trails off again, looking adorably confused.

Spencer snaps out of his daze. "No! No, I just- I heard the noise, and I wanted to- to make sure no one was hurt, or needed help, and honestly, I hadn't even realized that anyone else was in this section, considering it's at the back of the library and no one even really comes back here, unless they're looking for something specific, or-"

She cuts him off with a soft laugh. The most beautiful sound he's ever heard, he thinks, and quickly snaps his mouth shut. Now it's his turn to blush.

"Were you, then?" She asks, quirking an eyebrow. She's looking at him with a certain look in her eye, interest, maybe, or fascination, or maybe amusement. He can't quite tell. But she's looking at him, her full attention on his face, her gaze fixed to his eyes. There's a small smile playing at her lips. He finds that he doesn't care what she's looking at him with, as long as she keeps looking at him.

"Was I... was I what?" Spencer asks, a bit stupidly. His brain feels a bit like mush.

"Looking for something specific," she clarifies, tilting her head, flashing him a real smile. Spencer finds he can't breathe for a moment. He holds up the book he had been reading.

"Oh! Uh, yeah," he manages, nodding. "Kepler. Applied mathematics in the planetary system. This one is more of a biography, but I was hoping to find something that includes more of his conceptual work..."

She brightens, straightening up again. "I might be able to help with that, actually," she tells him, and his stomach does some kind of weird flip.

"You... know Kepler?" Spencer asks, unable to contain his excitement. His voice comes out more high pitched than he would have liked.

She laughs, her nose wrinkling. "No, no. I'm- I'm not that smart. I know the system, the organizing system? For the books." She's grinning, and Spencer can't bring himself to tell her that he has the system memorized too, of course.

"Oh, wow," he says instead, giving her a smile that he hopes doesn't look too lopsided. "That would be great."

She nods, abandoning the pile of books in the middle of the aisle, and gestures for him to follow. She walks like she's on a mission, leading him a few aisles down, and running her fingers along the spines of the books. Her hands are much smaller than his. Her nails are painted brown, Spencer notices. Understated, yet well taken care of. They match the aesthetic of the library, and he can't help but wonder what her hands would look like wrapped around his own-

"Here we are!" She says brightly, tugging a book off of the shelf. "I think the whole shelf here is on conceptual mathematics, but this one looks like it's on planetary alignment specifically. Um-" Her brow furrows for a second, and she pulls a second book from the shelf. "I recognize this author, I know he gets a lot of circulation..." She looks over at Spencer quizzically, and Spencer realizes he hasn't said a word.

"Yeah, these are perfect," he tells her earnestly, taking the books from her hands. Their fingers brush for a fraction of a second, and Spencer can't help the blush that creeps up his neck. "I'm Spencer, by the way. Spencer Reid."

He's rewarded with a name. Her name. He rolls it around in his mind, and decides he likes the way it fits into his brain.

"It's nice to meet you," she says, extending a hand for him to shake. He opens his mouth to give his usual spiel about pathogens, but his words die in his throat. Would that be weird to say? He wonders. I don't want her to think that I'm odd. I could just suck it up this once, and besides, there was a bathroom on the way in. I could just shake her hand, and go find the bathroom, and wash my hands-

Spencer's thoughts are interrupted by her smile faltering, and her hand dropping. He curses in his mind. Way to go, idiot. Now she thinks you're weird regardless, and she's not going to want to talk to you anymore, and-

A pager buzzes where it's clipped to her waistband, and she clicks a button on the side of it. She gives him yet another apologetic smile, but this time, it doesn't quite reach her eyes. "Sorry. Duty calls. It was nice to meet you, Mr. Reid." And then she's breezing past him, her hips swaying as she walks away, without looking back.

It's doctor, actually. The words are on the tip of his tongue as he watches her leave, but they never come to fruition. She's out of earshot before he can get his bearings.

Spencer sighs, leaning against one of the bookshelves. He's suddenly not as interested in reading about Kepler.

#criminal minds #criminal minds imagine #criminal minds fic #criminal minds x reader #spencer reid imagine #spencer ried #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid criminal minds #criminal minds spencer reid #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid x female reader #criminal minds x you #spencer reid fluff #mine #my fics!#bea writes >:)

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marsmaximoff · 6 months ago

Text

💔; crimson pain -a different kind of blood

content warning: gn!reader who plays as number 028. (dating) angst. mentions of death, financial struggles, vomit, blood and fainting.

word count: 1935. i got a bit too carried away 😬

author’s note: finally, here it is. i’ve had this idea for so long but the universe wasn’t on my side, it seems. i really wanted to post it sooner 🥲. as always, constructive criticism is welcomed, and i apologize for the mistakes (english is my third language). oh, and tysm for the support on the jun-ho headcanons post! what do you mean over 1000 likes? that is insane 🤧🤧. i hope you’ll enjoy this one too. 🩷🩷🩷🩷

the sugary umbrella lays on your shaky hand, under the excruciating yet unmasked gaze of the soldier. once the ‘pass’ is given, you stand up ready to get out of there. “you made it!” the voice of the one that has become the closest thing to a friend you could have in here relaxes you ever so slightly. “i almost didn’t. can’t believe i’m adding umbrellas to my traumas list.” having chosen the hardest doesn't surprise you much, not with unluckiness being a part of your life since you can remember. “well, im just happy you did. i thought the square was simple, but now i feel like we should have just chosen the triangle instead, you know? take a look at the survivors; most of them chose it and….” his words fade as an eerie feeling takes over your body, like something’s wrong. turning around, you’re met with one of them, staring right at you completely stiff, not even holding the weapon, merely some feet away.

“is he looking at us?” he can sense the uneasiness too, it seems. “let’s just go.” you can still feel his unfamiliar gaze on your neck, sending a shiver down your spine.

the doors opening break the silence and the rare calmness of the room. “player 028?” your body freezes completely. a stomach drop follows, and your heart rate skyrockets. no. nonono. you’ve done nothing wrong. is it the dalgona? the figure was perfectly carved out; you made sure of it. are they gonna kill you? two soldiers stand by the entrance, waiting. with a final glance at your friend, who is most definitely thinking the same, you reach the pink guards. you don’t even know what to say, should you beg for mercy? try to stay as cooperative as possible? “be quick.” what? the other one grabs your arm and begins to lead you somewhere. “i-i don’t-” your hands are shaking. “please, i didn’t do anything wrong...” begging it is. “keep. walking.” the words are almost a whisper, tho demanding. a hint of desperation can be heard as well. “okay, okay, ok-” wait. why did those words- no. you’re going crazy. it’s just the anxiety, the fear.

the stranger takes you to the bathrooms and quickly closes the door. you step back. again. and once more. what now? he wouldn’t shoot you here, right? and why the hell does he look so tense? his hands move to his mask and make it disappear, and with it, the remaining bit of sanity you had.

the nausea from a few seconds ago comes back stronger, maybe you will die today. “jun-ho…” your voice is almost unrecognizable, tho a miracle, given the struggle breathing has become. “what are you doing here?” “i could ask you the same thing.” he’s angry, of course he is, but the hurt in his eyes pains you the most. “no….you need to get out of here.” god. you can feel yourself spiraling. nothing makes sense. “i will. and im taking you with me.” “h-how- when did- i-“ cold sweat has completely taken over your palms. “wait….wait. was it you?…. this morning?” he nods. “i found the damn card they gave you at yours and my brother’s house” what? “in-ho…?” why does everything keep getting worse? “have you seen him?” surely you would remember something like that, “n-no. maybe before the first game…..” you heed your legs’ warning to give up and sit down. “why are you doing this? i dont understand.” it’s not like he could. “they let you out. and you didn’t seek me. you hid yourself. again. i had to learn what was going on from a random man at the station. not you!!” silence between you had never felt this suffocating before, nor the atmosphere so uncanny. “don’t you realize how dangerous this is? they are killing innocent people! haven’t you realized?! 79 have died today. just because of a stupid cookie? what do you think you are doing?! you could have gotten yourself killed! you have no idea how worried i’ve been.” you don’t look at him. this shouldn’t be happening, he wasn’t supposed to find out.

“please, honey. this is insane and you know it. let’s get out of this madness.” the change in his tone of voice is evident, bordering the plea. it’s obvious he’s making an effort to remain calm, to use less confrontational comments. “i can’t.” “yes, you can. we’ll leave the same way i got here, don’t worry. no one will see us.” but you really can’t. you know that well. he sighs, “why didnt you tell me? how could you hide something like this from me? i thought we trusted each other.”

distress seems to have replaced the blood running through your veins. “i would have helped you, always. i can still do it. if you need money, i’ll give it to you, it’s not a problem.” he keeps going after your negative. “i will. we can find another way-” “there isn't.” “of course there is. i have my savings, we’ll use them. i can ask for a raise. mr kim owes me after all this time. and i could do more hours-”

“its not FUCKING ENOUGH!” the sharpness of your words cuts all over his face. pain flows out, dripping a bloody red. more silence. you could drown in it. well, in for a penny, in for a pound.

“my parents’ house is gonna get seized.” a burning throat accompanies the confession. “i messed up like crazy.” the expected embarrassment doesn’t show up, instead, regret does. “it’s not your fault.” how can he say that? “it is. i got them into this, I'll get them out.” “and you think risking your life here is the only way to do it? thats not true. god, why didn’t you tell me?” you rub your temple. “that doesn’t matter now. you-you need to get out, all this is suspicious.” you are not only trying to avoid the question, the guards could notice at any moment. “i told them you were gonna throw up.” “vomit or not you’re still in the bathroom with a player.” for some seconds, the only noise that can be heard is the shatter of your heart. “honey, listen to me. your parents wouldn’t want this. they don’t even blame you, im sure. how could they ever wish for something at the expense of their daughter’s life?” but the guilt is too heavy, too imprinted on your mind. “it’s not about me. if it were my house, i wouldn’t care, but it’s theirs. i would never forgive myself for not doing anything.” “and there are so many things you could do that don’t need you participating in some psychopaths’ games! do you really not see how dangerous and demented this is? please leave with me.” “jun-ho. think about it. if i ended up here, even after they gave us a second chance, it’s because i want to. no one forced me, and i’m old enough to know what i’m doing.” your replies are getting colder, which you hate. but it’s the only way to make him understand. “besides, they’re all kids' games. they’re easy.” you can only hope he won’t sense your attempt at self-persuasion. “they are shooting people. you could be dead. and i would have never seen you again, or known what had happened.” the urge to cry gets stronger with every word, to dive into his arms and finally feel some sort of calmness, warmth, love.

“i’m sorry that i hurt you, that i made you worry and feel like i couldn’t trust you. but i won’t apologize for being here.” “i don’t want you to apologize. i only want you to get out of here and not die.” his desperation has increased so much it’s swallowed your own distress. “i’ve already won two, i can make it to the end.” you refute. but you read him easily, he is planning to get you out without your agreement, somehow.

“please.” now it’s you that pleads. “if you love me, let me stay.”

his eyes widen, you see them watering. his heartbreak drowns out yours. you are aware you’ve never said anything as painful before. it hurts. more than anything they could do to you here. perhaps you are already dead. “how can you ask me something like this?” maybe you’re desperate, or too blinded by the blame that’s rotting on your insides. or perhaps it’s love. “get out of here. stay safe. and don’t tell the police, jun-ho. don’t even think about stopping the games. i need this, don’t ruin it.” god you don’t recognize yourself anymore. how nice it would be to go back when things were easy. when remorse didn’t control yourself, and you were happy with him. “what do you expect me to do if you die?” “i won’t” “you can’t know that! how can i let the love of my life risk it all when i know i could do something?” understanding such perspective is effortless. if it were the other way around, you too would act like he is.

you approach him for the first time, god how you craved it. your hands cup his pained yet beautiful face and a tear drops. “i missed you.” he says quietly, unable to stay angry at you for long. “i missed you too.” you answer back, wiping the tear. “i missed your face, your voice, your touch. i miss your kisses.” things already ache enough like this, so you give in. the kiss is soft, so fragile, like a bit more intensity would make it disappear. “i love you.” he whispers resting his forehead on yours. “i love you too.”

a knock on the door destroys the illusion. shit. “lay on the floor.” “what?” “lay on the floor”, he repeats, walking towards the door while putting his mask back on, “and play along.” the door opens and the same voice from earlier speaks. “what do you think you’re doing in there?” may that unluckiness give you a rest for some minutes. “she passed out. she was taking too long and not answering back so i entered and found her unconscious.” footsteps grow louder. “player 028…. i don’t remember any health issues on the file… fuck.” you stay as still as possible, it sounds plausible, given the stress. “take care of it, i’ll let the boss know. and don’t take longer.” with that, he exits the room, and you thank his unwillingness to deal with sensitive issues.

sitting back up, jun-ho kneels to your level. “you look good for a faint.” a hint of a smile appears on your face. “are you mad at me?” “i was. mostly worried. i don’t like this at all.” you grab his gloved hands. “i’ll be okay, believe me.” he doesn’t. he can’t. “please, be careful. and think about it. if you change your mind, i’ll be waiting.” you won’t. you wouldn’t let yourself. but you nod. “you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me. i hope you’ll carry that with you. i love you so damn much.” his voice breaks, and you tell yourself it’s time to go back, this conversation can only get more and more devastating for you both. you offer the bleeding and broken pieces of your heart. not meaning to cut him this time. and he takes them. how could he not treasure them? you kiss again. it tastes different this time. like farewell.

and when you get out of the room, you both know that was the last time you’ll see each other.

#Spotify #squid game #squid game 2 #wi ha joon #wi ha joon x reader #wi ha joon x you #hwang jun ho #hwang jun ho x you #hwang jun ho x reader #squid game x reader #squid game x you #squid game x y/n #wi ha joon x yn #hwang jun ho x yn #hwang jun ho headcanons #wi ha joon headcanons

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youarewhatyoulove-blog · 1 year ago

Text

the violence of the dog days.

pairing: jeongguk x reader

summary: In the midst of summertime, after a week of neglect, your boyfriend has a way of making you feel even more heated.

you're hot and horny for jeongguk.

rating: mature🔞 (minors please dni)

genre: non-idol au, college au, established relationship, smut, fluff, pwp

word count: 9.2k words of unadulterated smut.

warnings: reader and jeongguk are absolute horny simps for each other, but they're also so inlove, soft boyfriend jeongguk (because yes that is a warning), jeongguk is a law student (oof), overuse of the petname 'baby', reader hasn't been getting it seven days a week😔, switch jeongguk (kinda), hair pulling, hickeys, making out, thigh riding, nipple play (jeongguk is proudly a boob guy), religious imagery because jeongguk worships reader like a god, usage of the words 'c*nt' and 'p*ssy' (because i know some people are iffy about that), cunnilingus (f-receiving), jeongguk is low-key a sadist y'all (in his fantasies), a bit of dom/sub dynamics, prayers for reader because jeongguk's got that big d🙏🏽, unprotected sex, doggy style, degradation, a teeny weeny bit of overstimulation, creampie - like this is just pure smut guys 😬, possessive sex, choking, aftercare, reader kinda hints at having attachment issues (but don't we all).

author's note: 1. please ignore any typos :). of course, i'd appreciate any feedback or constructive criticism. but if you find yourself uncomfortable by any of the themes in this fic, there's no need for hate, just kindly move on. 2. also, this is a lot longer and softer than i intended. this fic was supposed to be purely hard smut, but i fell in love with the characters and their relationship, and some aspects of the story just turned out sickeningly sweet - so proceed with caution.

You're an hour into tossing and turning when you can't take it anymore.

The heat.

With June coming to a close end, the surviving remnants of summer creep in through your bedroom window with barely a whisper of a breeze. It clings to every part of your skin, that ever-lingering humidity thickening the air, and wraps itself around your body like a cloak. For some reason, you thought that scrolling aimlessly through the various apps on your phone would help distract your mind from the muggy weather or maybe, by some miracle, even lull you to sleep.

But it hasn’t—of course it hasn't. Because summer is here to stay, burrowing deep within your bones and making a home there. Each passing minute is a testament to that, insomnia creeping up your spine with ill intent and wriggling into every cranny of your mind until you feel like you're losing it.

Perhaps you are, you think.

Because when the desk fan a few feet away suddenly stops whirring and the fumbling grasp you had on sleep slips from your reach like a fleeting dream in the morning light as a result of it—drifting further and further away—you hit your breaking point. The lack of white noise and cool air blowing your way mounts your frustration into place. It hangs there in the ether like a looming shadow but, unlike your slumber, has no plans of deserting you.

With an annoyed huff, you drop your phone back onto the nightstand for the umpteenth time and kick your leg out from under the duvet.

“Fuck.” You sigh, rolling onto your back.

A thin sheen of sweat lingers on the surface of your skin, causing the sheets to stick uncomfortably to every part of your body. You spread your limbs out like a starfish in some futile attempt to cool them down, hoping that you'll catch a draft, but the action only reminds you of how largely cavernous your bed feels right now.

The space beside you is missing a particular doe-eyed boy and, as your hand brushes over the empty spot, you realize that it's not so much the seasonal heat that's making you feel weirdly restless, but rather Jeongguk's absence. In an inconveniently clingy way, you need his body settled next to you at night, your legs and arms a tangled mess beneath the blankets.

You don't know why that is. Why sleep eludes you like a compass without direction, unable to find its way to you when Jeongguk isn't near. But you don't mull over it or give the thought a foothold to stand amongst the endless anxieties already in your head.

All you know is that cuddling up with him in the evening is perhaps one of your favourite pastimes. Akin to a baby with it's bottle, falling asleep in his embrace is something you've grown incredibly used to, maybe even a little dependent on—like a security blanket or night-light—and there's nothing you can do about it.

Sneaking a glance towards the dim light spilling in from beneath the bedroom door, you picture Jeongguk on the other side. Chances are, he’s still where you last left him. Sitting cross-legged on the couch with a laptop balancing carefully on his lap, eyebrows scrunched together in concentration, as he catches up on coursework.

You worry your lip, the thought of your boyfriend causing your mind to wander...

He looked so good tonight; adorned in a pair of grey sweats and a baggy t-shirt with his tattoos fully exposed. His dark hair was strewn across his forehead, falling into his eyes in a way that made your fingers itch.

You, on the other hand, are sporting an old, oversized shirt you opted to steal from Jeongguk's wardrobe to combat the high temperatures, but it hasn't helped much. The heat still loiters, creeping up the back of your neck and imbuing your cheeks with warmth.

It makes you long for winter, for the bitter nip of frosty ice and pelting rain, and the desire for that inadvertently reminds you of that fucking silver lip ring Jeongguk had gotten recently.

The memory of its cold, metal sting against your lips as he kissed you goodnight sends a distant, carnal hum coursing throughout your veins. It's probably tugged anxiously between his teeth right now whilst he types away, eyes deadset on the screen before him, and the image of that sends you reeling. Makes your skin flush further, yearning to feel its steel bite again.

For some reason, it propels you into motion, skin prickling as you throw your legs over the edge of the mattress without a second thought.

The last thing you want to do is bother his progress or interrupt his work, but selfishly, you persist. That gnawing feeling deep within your chest is too hard to ignore, heart beating voraciously with each step you take because it longs to be satiated by Jeongguk's presence. Your boyfriend is only one room over, just four thin walls separating the two of you, yet still—you miss him, want him.

Treading lightly, you hear the persistent click-clack of his keyboard and the muffled sound of typing only grows louder as you step out into the hallway. The wooden flooring is frigid beneath your feet, a sensation you immediately relish in as soon as the fiery crawl of discomfort across your skin begins to lessen. Your shirt—or more precisely, Jeongguk’s shirt—falls flat from your waist, landing a few inches above your knees, as you wander further into the apartment.

Just as you’d predicted, Jeongguk is all pretzelled up on the sofa, too focused on his work to hear you enter. A few empty bottles of soju and convenience store snacks litter the coffee table, serving as silent witnesses to the length of time he's been out here. He must have dimmed the lights as well because a faint, warm glow shrouds every facet of the room, making him look particularly soft at this hour.

You walk up behind him, wrapping your arms around the length of his shoulders as you bend over the couch's headrest to envelop him in a hug. ”Hey,” You hum softly, pressing a kiss to his cheek.

Jeongguk startles slightly at the contact, shaken from his deep concentration as he angles his head to look up at you. “Shit, baby. You scared me.” He breathes, voice rough from disuse. It rumbles through you like a distant thunderstorm, body vibrating with electricity.

“Sorry,” You murmur, glancing at the assignment he's been working on and tiny pangs of guilt gradually trickle into your stomach. “I didn't mean to disturb you, but-”

“You're not disturbing me.” Jeongguk instantly reassures, scanning your face with a knowing look. “Can’t sleep?” He asks and you nod, burying your face into the crook of his neck. The scent of his body wash immediately encompasses you like a warm embrace, wild pinewood and bergamot invading your senses.

“I thought you’d be in bed by now.” You mumble against his skin, unable to hide the pout in your voice.

Jeongguk frowns, eyes flickering to the time at the bottom of his laptop screen.

Shit, he hadn’t even noticed how late it’s gotten, the hours skulking along the cusp of a new day. He should probably be turning in for the night, head to bed and worry about this project tomorrow, but he’d rather not postpone his responsibilities. Not when you’re staying over the weekend and he could be spending that time with you instead.

“I know.” Jeongguk responds, hand coming up to intertwine with yours. “I’ll be there soon, okay?” He promises, bringing your knuckles to his lips. The featherlight kiss he presses there soothes you like a curative balm.

“Okay,” You relent, untangling yourself from his body. “But, can I stay here for a bit? It’s too hot in there.” You half lie, gesturing towards the bedroom while simultaneously walking over to the kitchen only a few feet away.

“Yeah, of course.” He murmurs, eyes following your movements.

“Thanks, Kook.” You smile, sparing him a glance over your shoulder as your eyes sparkle with mirth. “By the way, your fan broke down again.”

“Again?” He laments, eyebrows furrowed together whilst he runs a disgruntled hand through his hair. “I seriously need to get that old thing repaired or maybe even replaced.” He grumbles to himself, before a guilty afterthought occurs at the sight of you. “Fuck, I'm so sorry, baby. No wonder you couldn't sleep.”

You don't tell him that it's not so much the heat keeping you awake but, more so, him.

“No, don't worry about it.” You settle on instead, trying to dispel his concerns. “It's not your fault.”

This isn't the first time that Jeongguk’s fan has given him problems. He's had the thing since high school; so it’s no surprise that the motor tends to give in every now and then, running a little too hot. He’s been meaning to get the issue sorted, but hasn’t really found the time to do that these days.

“Plus, I'd much rather be out here with you.” You add.

Jeongguk smiles at you so sweetly then, dimples making an appearance, and your body flushes all over, burning once again.

God, what is wrong with you tonight?

You need to calm down, cool down. At this rate, you feel like an overheating engine, bound to crash in on yourself and combust.

Grabbing a glass of ice water from the fridge dispenser, you rein yourself in, distracting your mind with conversation. “I promise not to be a bother though, like you won't even notice I'm here.” You say, before chugging the cold liquid down on the spot, completely ignorant to the way that Jeongguk drinks you in.

A welcome sight is what you are, so cute tonight with your hair all mussed, practically drowning in his shirt. “You’re never a bother.” He responds, mouth going dry when you lean back to empty the glass. The action causes your shirt to hike up, the creamy expanse of your thighs further exposed to his hungry eyes.

He feels his dick stir at the sight.

“How much longer do you think you’ll be?” You ask, wiping your lips with the back of your palm, as you place your cup in the sink and shuffle over towards your boyfriend.

“Uhh…” Jeongguk clears his throat, broken out of his stupor. He turns back to face his laptop, skimming the Word document that's open before him when he feels you nestle into his side a second later. Automatically, he brings a hand down to rest against your leg.

“I’m not sure,” He grumbles, thumb rubbing soothing circles against your bare thigh. The absent-minded touch ignites something in you, skin blazing at the contact, and you try your best to suppress the goosebumps that rise in Jeongguk’s wake. “Maybe another hour or so?” He guesses.

“Oh.” You mumble and, although you fight the disappointed curl of your lips, Jeongguk doesn’t miss the deflated look on your face.

“I’m sorry,” He squeezes your thigh apologetically, frown overtaking his pretty features. “I know it’s been a while since we spent time together.”

A week exactly, you note, but ultimately keep that detail to yourself. After all, neither one of you is to blame for being so busy, constantly caught between work and university.

You think that's maybe the reason you're feeling so needy tonight, body set ablaze by every minor look and touch from your boyfriend. In a way, you're feeling a little neglected since your relationship’s taken the backseat, not by choice but by consequence, and you don’t know how to deal with it.

“It's fine.” You shrug. "It's not like we can help it.”

You try to be nonchalant about the matter, injecting the slightest hint of indifference into your tone, but Jeongguk sees right through you.

He always does.

“Come here.” He says suddenly, voice soft as he shifts his laptop onto the coffee table.

You look up at him, confusion clear on your face.

“What?” You blink, but your question falls on deaf ears because Jeongguk merely uncrosses his legs and pats his lap.

“Come here,” He then repeats and reaches for your waist.

You're uncertain for the briefest of moments, eyeing Jeongguk suspiciously, before you ultimately give in like malleable clay in his soft hands, allowing him to pull you onto his lap with ease. “I've been working for hours.” He grumps once you're comfortably straddling his waist, hands resting on either side of your hips. “Hardly seen you since you got here.”

You hum, pulling your bottom lip between your teeth in thought. It's no secret that you've been spending a lot more time at Jeongguk's place in lieu of your ratty little dorm room. You felt bad about it at first, feeling as though you were invading his space and overstaying your welcome. But your boyfriend couldn't be happier about it. He rather likes the idea of your lives interlocking, melding together as if they were puzzle pieces falling into place. He likes that when he's working, like on nights like this, that you're just on the opposite side of the door, not one phone call or car ride away.

He likes that you're his and he is, equally as much, yours.

“I wanted to leave you to your work.” You explain, curling your arms around his neck. Your fingers absentmindedly play with the ends of his hair that have grown out and the light touch only brings about the memory of how much he has missed you these past few days.

“Well, it's about time I take a break, don't you think?” Jeongguk muses and you become hyper-aware of the way his fingers brush up your spine. “Give my girl some attention…” He trails on, eyes flickering to your lips.

You practically preen at the idea, smiling shyly as you lean into his touch. “I wouldn't object to that.” Your heart patters in your chest, beating wildly at the mere sight of Jeongguk. At the thought of him finally touching you, kissing you, quenching your thirst after this week-long drought. “I've missed you.”

Jeongguk chuckles faintly. “Me too, baby.” He murmurs, perching his head upwards to press his lips against yours.

The kiss is gentle, chaste, his plush lips feeling so featherlight against yours. You almost imagine they were never there to begin with because Jeongguk pulls away before you can truly savour the taste of them.

“You know, you look so pretty in my clothes.” He begins, large hand spreading lazily around your left hip and up your back. “Kinda makes me want to wreck you.”

“You already wreck me.” You breathe without missing a beat.

“Yeah?” Jeongguk rasps, his voice low and a little dark. It sends a thrill straight up your spine.

You nod in response, feeling the heat rush to your cheeks. “No one makes me feel the way you do.” You admit, eyes flitting across his face. It's an unwavering truth—one that simultaneously scares and excites you in this quiet dead of night.

“Can I kiss you again?” The words come out as a breathy whisper; as if you've been holding on to them for too long, as if they're the oxygen you so desperately need to breathe, and Jeongguk tilts his head, bewildered frown on his face.

“How is that even a question.” He gripes, slanting his head in a means to meet your mouth halfway, but you have another idea.

You press into him instead, leaning forward, and set out to peck lovingly along the curvature of Jeongguk’s jawline. He huffs in amusement, endeared by the way you take control. Because, although he’s usually the dominant one in the bedroom, he doesn't mind when you take charge like this. In fact, he's grown to love it. Loves the way you come into your own, toying and teasing with him, until your own actions cause you to grow desperate.

It's one of his greater weaknesses, his Achilles heel, and right now, you want nothing more than to expose it. Unveil a certain side of him. The one that'll see how far you can push before he starts to push back. The one that'll give in and take you right here on this couch after he's entertained your antics for long enough and you finally beg him to fuck you.

Your body practically hums at the thought.

You map out his skin, lips brushing against the surface like you're exploring a new land. Every movement careful, every touch claiming what's yours. And it almost goes to your head—how quickly Jeongguk submits to your mouth’s assault, his body relaxing into the couch like he's letting you have your way with him.

Jeongguk doesn't tell you that he is. That your lips are a holy grail he'd happily yield to.

When your teeth graze lightly at a particular soft spot below his ear, he lets out a small groan, eyes falling closed at the sensation. You feel the sound roll through you, the ache between your legs becoming hard to ignore when you think about the fact that you've roused that melody from his mouth.

It spurs you on, makes you want to hear it again and again. You want to paint the entire column of his neck red and then watch your confession of love fade to a bruised purple in the weeks to come. You want to rediscover all the ways that you can make Jeongguk sing, and the way your body dances to his tune in turn. Your lips lap him up, kisses becoming indelicate with desperation, teeth nipping with intent along his upper jaw, tongue tracing over the skin before you repeat all these gestures twicefold.

You can feel yourself growing wet, relish in the way that Jeongguk's hands tighten around your form. “Shit,” He mumbles and your body crows. Without pause, you shift against his lap and move to the neglected side of his neck, targeting the skin there. You can feel him getting hard beneath you, your core situated right above his growing erection, and it causes a shiver to run down your spine.

You plant a few messy kisses against his throat, nibbling vehemently, but then Jeongguk tuts and pries his eyes open before you have the opportunity to really sink your teeth into him.

“Baby,” He warns, curling a hand into your hair to form a makeshift ponytail. “No marks. I've got a presentation on Monday.” He says and pulls you back by an inch. His movements are somewhat hesitant, voice rough, like he's not entirely sure he truly wants you to stop.

But he has to. He can't afford to show up to class on Monday and present the most important project of his life with hickeys all over his neck.

“Next time.” He promises, but you consider outright ignoring him for a second, even though it's nonsensical, like some twisted form of punishment for a week of neglect.

But it’s Jeongguk—Jeongguk who’s been extra stressed lately about completing his degree. Jeongguk who’s carving time out of working on his big assignment right now—one which, not only counts forty percent of his grade, but could also earn him an internship at one of the top law firms in Seoul if he's lucky enough—all to pay special attention to you.

So, “Fine.” You give in, albeit a little petulantly, and brace your hands against his chest, face feeling flushed. “I’m sorry. I just wanna be close to you is all.”

“I know. Me too.” He rasps, grip on your hair loosening a touch, but not completely. “We don't have to stop though, just don't mark me up.” He explains, free hand rubbing up and down your thigh.

“Okay,” You slide your palms up his chest, feeling the toned muscles tense beneath your touch. “I really love you, you know?”

Jeongguk's eyes soften, a hint of a smile creeping up on his face. “I know,” He hums, tugging at your hair in a way that makes your scalp tingle. “But I don't think it comes close to how much I love you.” He rasps, using his grip as leverage to pull your head backwards until the delicate skin of your throat is exposed. “It's incomparable.” He murmurs, placing a single kiss on the side of your mouth before he travels south, lips peppering across your jawline.

You shiver, hands twisting into the thick material of Jeongguk's t-shirt. You want to tell him that it's not a competition, that you'd love him until the sun stops rising and, even if this one week of distance had been more, you know that he feels the same.

But the heavy palpitations in your chest causes the words to dissolve on your tongue because Jeongguk pulls the collar of your shirt to the side a second later, exposing more of your skin, before he traces a path along your décolletage. He's touching you like a starved man, mouth just as desperate and feverish as you’re starting to feel.

A stuttered gasp escapes your lips, your hands moving upwards, unsure of where to be, when he nips at a particularly sensitive spot. You settle them on his shoulders.

“Jeongguk,” You moan, the tingling between your legs maturing into an unbearable ache.

“I know, baby.” He abruptly pulls away from your clavicle—lips red, eyes blown. “Tell me what you want.”

His demand goes over your head because you don't know what you want; can barely think straight with the lingering feeling of Jeongguk's lips on your neck. With the growing wetness sticking uncomfortably to your panties. With the burning, hot embers laying at the base of your stomach, begging to be set ablaze. And Jeongguk knows that. Knows that you're neither here nor there, only somewhere in the middle, teetering on the line of endless choices. So he lets go of your hair then, manoeuvres your body until you're straddling only his left thigh.

“Don't think about it, baby.” He murmurs, both hands moving to your hips. He guides them back and forth, slow and gentle, with just enough pressure to relieve that desperate throbbing in your pussy. “Just feel.”

And you do, sinking into your own little bubble, a paradise as impenetrable as the gates of heaven. You take your time to grind up against him, moving in tandem with the flow of his hands and a soft whimper climbs up your throat at the sensation of your clit brushing against the firm muscles of Jeongguk’s thigh. You're already so soaked, underwear absolutely sodden from the relentless pendular motions of your pelvis, and when you look down to find a dark, damp spot beginning to stain Jeongguk's sweatpants, you can't help but intensify your movements.

It should be embarrassing, how quickly you've become turned on, how much you're dripping, when Jeongguk's barely touched you, but instead you just feel liberated. Pure power coursing through your veins because your boyfriend has given you the reins, is letting you use his body like a bitch in heat, and it's exhilarating; intoxicating every facet of your mind.

“That's it,” Jeongguk purrs, deserting your hips once you gain momentum to instead sneak both hands up the hem of your shirt.

Your breath escapes its chambers when he trails past the soft curve of your waist and straight to your breasts. “Fuck, you're so beautiful.” He grunts, gaze intent on your every reaction, like he's watching artwork unfold. His nimble fingers circle your nipples, tracing them with the most tantalizing pattern, until they begin to harden.

“Please,” You choke, clasping his shirt in between your fists like it's some sort of lifeline. You're not even sure what you're begging for, pace quickening as you ride Jeongguk’s thigh more aggressively. Every rut forward sends sparks shooting throughout your body, nerve endings alight, and when Jeongguk pinches your nipples between his thumb and forefinger, your back arches in pleasure. A throaty moan penetrates the room otherwise filled with nothing but your uneven pants and the sound of Jeongguk's voice.

“Gonna make you feel so good,” He groans, hands inching towards your shirt’s lower seam. He drags it over your torso, itching for better access to your breasts. Even in your muddled state, you meet him halfway, raising your arms above your head until the damned thing is off and you're left in nothing but your lacy underwear.

You hardly have time to adjust to the humid air hitting your torso, when Jeongguk tips his head forward, enveloping your right nipple into his mouth with reckless abandon. The response is instantaneous, a strangled sob slipping past your lips at the feeling of his warm mouth encased around your stiffened peak. His tongue swipes across your nipple, shockwaves manifesting at the blissful contact, and you don't know how much longer you're going to last—an embarrassing feat you don’t ponder on too much.

Instead, you squeeze your eyes shut, focusing on the attention Jeongguk pays you. Whimpering when the pads of his fingers move to fondle the nipple of your forsaken breast while the other submits to his mouth’s pleasurable torment, each purposeful pinch causing them to tighten all the more. Your skin feels like it's on fire, the warmth of Jeongguk's touch igniting the cinders glowing from deep within your belly. “I-I think,” You swallow, your pussy rubbing deliciously into Jeongguk's leg. “I think I'm going to come soon,” You manage to admit through a repressed whine, voice so strained it sounds foreign even to your own ears.

You don't think you've ever hit an orgasm this quickly. You've never had to. Because you and Jeongguk are like inseparable magnets; every atom in your bodies drawn to each other, always connecting like two poles seeking the other out—never going more than a few days without some form of intimacy. Never mind a week.

At least, not until now.

So when Jeongguk bounces his leg upwards to meet the force of your pussy coming down on his quadricep, adding to the way you slam into him, your clit positively throbbing at the impact, you feel the onset of that familiar coil in your stomach tightening.

“Just let go, baby.” Jeongguk rasps, granting you permission with one final flick of your nipples and then you're coming undone, white fiery heat flooding every fiber of your body, as you cry out his name. Only his name, forever on your lips. You feel the way your entire form convulses, the way Jeongguk helps you through it, flexing his thigh so that you can get the most out of your orgasm, and your hips buck forward—unrelenting and greedy—before they finally ease into a slow rut. Grinding into him until the receding, minuscule waves of pleasure begin to fade.

With the last few clenches of your pulsating core, you slowly catch your breath, muscles slackening as you become pliant in Jeongguk's arms, the weight of your body suddenly too much for you to bear. Your boyfriend holds you tight though, both hands moving to your waist to keep you secure.

Behind the darkness of your closed eyelids; you hear Jeongguk softly murmur your name and feel the way his hand comes up to your face, tucking a few stray strands of hair behind your ear before he cups your cheeks. “You okay, angel?” He asks, voice emerging as a hushed tone.

When you manage to tear your eyes open and give him a soft, affirmative nod, Jeongguk seems satisfied, pressing a delicate kiss to your sternum before he shifts you from his lap and onto your back in one fell, but gentle swoop.

Your head hits the soft leather of the sofa with the aftermath of your climax still lingering against your skin like crackling electricity, fuzzing up your mind. “You think you can take more?” He asks, eyes flitting across your face to get a read on your current state of mind.

You nod your head assuredly, reaching out to make a grab for his body, to bring him closer. “Yeah I can,” You say confidently, arm's snaking up his back to explore the taut muscles that reside there.

Jeongguk is hovering over your body, thigh pressed hotly between your legs, and even though you can feel the rush of arousal, brought on only a second ago, pooling uncomfortably in your underwear—you want more. You want him. “I want to carry on.”

Jeongguk studies your demeanour, casting your body and expression a careful once-over, because he wants to feel you, be in you, wants to make you see stars. But it's only a matter of whether you're able to handle that right now. He has barely had his way with you, but you already look so fucked out, so perfect for him. It makes the blood rush straight to his dick. “You make me crazy.” He rasps, eyes locking with yours as he brings a hand up, tracing his thumb along your bottom lip.

You almost cower beneath his touch, beneath the sincerity of his gaze; appraising the very depths of your being as if you were a delicate treasure, as if he were staring at a god or something of a divine beauty.

Jeongguk thinks that maybe he is; thinks you’re the light, the one thing he’d worship morning, noon and night through blind faith. And there are barely enough words in the dictionary for him to express this notion to you, so instead he settles for “I love you.” Voice as rough as the high tides, but softer than moonlight.

He feels compelled to tell you this every chance he gets, a hopeless slave to his feelings for you. “Like I've never loved anything else in my life.” He continues. It's a quiet confession in the night, not a new one, but the words mean just as much as the first time he admitted them to you.

You feel yourself melt, can't remember ever feeling this cherished. Not since before Jeongguk and hopefully, never after. “I love you too.” You murmur, taking a moment to drink in every detail of the man who has left you restless all night.

Your eyes flicker over the defined cut of his jaw. The delicate curve of his lips and the pretty mole resting just beneath it. The small kissable scar on his cheek. The feathery flutter of his eyelashes. The strands of hair that have fallen over his face, and you retract your hand from his back to push them away.

How did you ever get this lucky?

“So much.” You emphasize and your voice thickens with the weight of your words, spoken from the very depths of your soul. “More than you could ever know.” Because there aren't enough words in the dictionary to get this notion across, so instead you lift your head, planting a firm kiss to Jeongguk’s lips as if sealing a vow, a promise of forever.

Jeongguk receives your kiss like he does with everything else related to you; openly, hungrily. His tongue swipes across your bottom lip—once—twice—and you instantly become pliant under his weight. Your fingers find his hair, tangling into the dark tresses as you deepen the kiss. It’s hot and it’s heavy, and in the distant part of your mind, you register that Jeongguk tastes like peaches, most likely from the alcohol he’s been drinking.

The sweetness of his lips immediately goes to your head; drunk and euphoric, and all grace flies out the window the next second. “Touch me,” You murmur breathlessly against his mouth, fingertips skimming over the nape of his neck. “Please, I need you.”

Jeongguk groans, a husky sound resonating from deep within his throat. “Fuck,” You can feel how rock hard he’s gotten, his erection pressing into your inner thigh and it's making you delirious with need. “I’ll give you anything you want.” Jeongguk rumbles, his mouth forming a wet, messy trek away from yours to embrace the flesh of your breasts.

You want to tell him that it's him, only him you want. Puppeteering your every move, body relinquishing itself to his touch. But you don't. You can't, not when Jeongguk's teeth leave scarlet marks across your chest that render you mute, words evaporating on your tongue like sacramental bread.

“My pretty baby,” He coos tenderly and you fight the urge to rut up against him. “Always so fucking ready for me.“ He praises, kisses traveling southward and it burns, searing, everywhere that Jeongguk touches you. You think you might erupt or shatter, and nothing less, if he doesn't meet you where you really need him to, your cunt begging to be satiated with his fingers, or his tongue, or his dick—anything.

A whimper escapes your lips, an embarrassing, desperate sound hanging in the thick air, as you glance down past your heaving breasts. You watch as Jeongguk abandons your boobs, planting a trail of kisses across the expanse of your stomach, your hip bones—takes the tiny little ribbon on your underwear between his teeth and tugs. The deliberate gesture causes your panty to rise up a bit, ever so slightly brushing against your clit in the process, and you bite down on your bottom lip, holding back an ungodly moan.

You can't take it anymore, all this teasing.

Jeongguk can read it on your face; sees it in the way you swiftly tilt your head back, eyes closed, brows scrunched together. He knows you like the back of his hand, which is how he gauges that you've fallen back into a place of submission—done with the tortuous foreplay, done with calling the shots, done with delaying the inevitable. You want him to fuck you, to use your body the same way you had used his mere minutes ago. And if his dick could get any harder at the thought, it would.

Jeongguk licks his lips, slips a finger into the curve of your waistband as he murmurs, “I’m gonna take this off now, okay?”

You nod your head, not daring to open your eyes to confront the image of Jeongguk's face a mere hair's breadth away from your cunt. It's too erotic. Too much. You feel him drag the thin garment down your legs, a string of arousal following suit, and suddenly feel self-conscious, attempting to close your legs to hide how shamefully wet you are.

But Jeongguk's not having any of that.

He carelessly chucks the lacy material to the side like it’s nothing but a rag, a nuisance, and then grips your inner thigh. “Don't you dare,” He grunts, using his grasp to keep your legs apart, lifting them upwards until your knees are bent to your chest and your ankles are resting over his shoulders, giving him the perfect view of your dripping cunt.

You barely have time to register the ticklish feeling of Jeongguk's breath fanning against your core before he dives straight in, licking a long stripe across your pussy, and your hips instinctively buck up. “Shit,” You mewl, rejoicing in the way his tongue traverses from your slit to your clit, lapping up every drop of arousal.

Jeongguk groans, a sound so low, stemming from the heart of his diaphragm, when he samples that first morsel of your leaking nectar. You taste like heaven, so sweet and unbearably wet, and all just for him.

“So fucking good,” He grumbles, mouth drinking you in. His tongue is unrelenting in its efforts to devour your pussy, and the overwhelming sensation of him slurping and sucking—of him eating you out like a connoisseur tasting the rarest of delicacies—causes frenzied pools of pleasure to ripple within the base of your belly.

He keeps at it, nose brushing against your clit as a byproduct, and after a few minutes the pure, unwavering rapture of Jeongguk's tongue becomes excruciating. A feeling so good, it’s almost too much. “Jeongguk,” You wail, heels digging into the couch as you try to back away from his mouth, but your boyfriend merely hooks his arms around your legs and pulls you closer. Holding you in place; unable to run or escape from the ruthless onslaught of his tongue, from the metal bite of his piercing brushing against your lower lips. “I can't,” You cry, writhing beneath his touch.

With his grip keeping you firmly anchored, Jeongguk brings one hand down to toy with your swollen clit, fingers moving in languid, clockwise motions. “You can,” He grunts thickly, tongue slipping between your folds and prodding deliciously at your hole. “I know you can, baby.” He mumbles in between fucking your drenched pussy with his fleshy muscle.

You shake your head frantically, eyes screwed shut, as you feel the waves of your second orgasm surfacing. “Not like this,” You beg, using your hands to reach down, fingers twisting into his fluffy hair as you desperately try to push him away. “Please, I want you in me.” A sob runs free, your walls pulsating around nothing because Jeongguk is taking his time with you, teasing your opening like he's got all night. But you don't. You're close, so fucking close, you can feel it in the tightening muscles of your pelvis, in the quivering of your legs.

But Jeongguk isn't giving you enough. He isn't giving you what you need. Your boyfriend, in all his hot glory, is taking you there with his tongue, swirling insufferably along your orifice—bringing you right up to the edge of the plank with an ocean of pleasure waiting just below your feet, but then he pulls you back. Drags you from the precipice before you can allow yourself to fall in, and it causes a frustrated whine to escape your lips. You need his cock deep inside, filling you up, pushing you off the ledge and into troubled waters. Your pussy throbs at the very thought. “Please Kook,” You find yourself beseeching for the second time. “I wanna cum with you in me.”

And any thread of composure Jeongguk has been holding on to up until that point, snaps at the pure neediness burrowed within your tone.

He looks up at you; lips glistening, eyes dilated—a mess of a man. But you don't look any better—or, if you were getting a glimpse of yourself through Jeongguk's point of view, never better—skin flushed, gleaming with a fine film of sweat, lips swollen from the way you've been biting them, and all at once, Jeongguk is overcome with the desire to give you everything you've ever wanted.

“Fuck, okay,” He curses, rising to his knees and you force your eyes open at the rough edge tainting his voice, at the overwhelming relief of getting what you wished for. “But it’s going to be a bit of a stretch, baby.” He says, not having prepped you fully. It's been a while since the two of you have had sex and, if he had it his way, he would have given you his fingers first, would have warmed and widened your lubricated walls, to ease the initial discomfort of him entering you.

But you look so pretty beneath him, so impatient, and—“I can handle it,” You mollify, voice a sweet concoction of sultry persuasion.

He nods in response, a curt motion, because if he thinks about how eager you're being, about how you're willing to take a little bit of the pain for the insurmountable pleasure, he might just come right there. Might just think of all the other ways you like to hurt; of the way you'd react if his palm made rough contact with your ass cheeks, or what would happen if he handcuffed you to his bedpost and stuffed you full with a vibrator and butt plug—if he fucked you tonight with no end in sight. He wonders if you'd cry, if you'd beg him for more or want him to stop, sopping and spent. More than that, he wants so badly to find out.

Jeongguk’s dark eyes find yours, their typical doe-eyed demeanour having turned hooded a long time ago. Yours are twinkling with anticipation, watching intently as he pulls his sweatpants down, letting them hang low beneath his buttocks. His cock immediately springs free, slapping against his stomach, and you sink your teeth into your bottom lip at the sight.

“Come here,” Jeongguk's voice carries a jagged intonation, raw and untamed, and breaks through you like crashing waves. But when he makes a grab for your body, his hands are nothing but gentle, hoisting you up onto your knees and positioning you on all fours.

With your ass bared before him, face pressed into the cold faux leather of the couch, Jeongguk smooths a hand down your back, watches with satisfaction as your spine yields before his touch, and then he takes a hold of his dick. Doesn't even bother giving it a few preliminary pumps because he's already painfully hard, precum leaking from the tip as he lines himself with your hole.

He doesn't put it in though.

First, he teases your little cunt with only the head of his length, not fully embedding himself within your warmth just yet. You whimper pathetically at the testing prod, fingers balling into frustrated fists, while Jeongguk watches in awe as your entrance narrows, pleading to be stuffed.

“God, look at you.” Jeongguk groans, eyes traveling from your glistening pussy to the state of your overall servile form.

He places one hand on your hip, fingers digging into the skin there, as he inches just the slightest bit forward, his dick slowly pushing into you. Your mouth parts at the sensation and you shakily prop yourself up onto your elbows, head falling forward with a moan. “So fucking needy, huh.” He goads when you attempt to meet him in the middle, subtly backing up against his pelvis.

“No,” You shake your head as if it's some sort of lie, as if you haven't been thinking about this moment since you stepped over the doorsill of Jeongguk’s apartment earlier. And your boyfriend laughs—he actually laughs—a maniacal, derisive sound that rings in your ears.

“There's no need to deny it, baby.” He drawls like smooth liquor hitting the back of your throat, a silky succour that, for some reason, has you dumbly nodding along. Because Jeongguk’s entering you more now, his dick fighting against the tight restraint of your heat, and you're too distracted by the feeling of it to fully comprehend what he's saying.

“I mean,” He continues, reaching down between your legs to gather the wetness clinging to your folds before he bends over your back, lips brushing against the shell of your ear. “You’d think you've never been fucked a day in your life.” He murmurs, bringing his slick fingers to your level of sight.

You flush instantly, burning at the way your arousal dwells on Jeongguk's digits and forms a translucent web when he parts them into a V shape. “I can't help it,” You breathe shamefully, about to protest that it's his fault for letting you go so long without attention, for not taking care of your sexual needs and making you this susceptible to moments of depravity, when Jeongguk fully entrenches himself into your heat without so much as a warning.

“Aah,” Your jaw slackens at the sudden stretch of his length against your walls, the sensation so unfairly delicious you find yourself clenching around the intrusion with a gasp, and your boyfriend uses the opportunity to stuff his letch-laiden fingers into your mouth.

“Clean them.” He grunts, lazily rocking forward and you choke back a moan, mouth instantly closing around his fingers. Head full of clouds, pussy filled to the brim, you obey. Your tongue licks up the juices stuck to his slim digits, gliding sensually across each one with care, and you vaguely hear Jeongguk curse below his breath, hips grinding into your core. “Fuck, just like that, angel.” He praises, allowing you to suck them clean for a few more seconds before he pulls them from your lips altogether with a lewd pop.

“Such a good girl,” He murmurs lovingly, pressing a singular kiss to your shoulder blade before he straightens to his full height behind you. “Always so perfect for me.”

Jeongguk's hands find your ass again and he gives the supple flesh a few gentle squeezes, savouring the way you whine in response.

“Please,” Your words come out embarrassingly broken and wretched, heart hammering in your chest with want, as you peek at Jeongguk over your shoulder. “Please, no more teasing. Just fuck me.”

“What do you think I'm doing?” Jeongguk asks, eyebrow raised, voice harbouring a hue of cockiness. He withdraws his thick length from your warm embrace at an agonizingly slow rate before thrusting right back in, repeating the motion steadily. “I'm fucking you right now, aren't I?”

You want to cry, your need to come so severe, it's starting to physically hurt.

Your fingers leave deep indents in the couch as you tackle the burning coals of frustration setting every inch of your body on fire. “M-More,” You stammer, feeling a pearl of arousal trickle down your thigh. You're so turned on right now, your mind an empty haze as Jeongguk edges you into oblivion, cunt so wet, you can barely feel the brush of his shaft against your walls anymore. “I need more.”

Jeongguk grins, feels the crown of his cock brush against a particular soft spot, and then decides to give you what you want. Because he loves it when you beg, when you become a blubbering mess beneath him, so cock-hungry, you forget yourself.

Without a moment's pause, Jeongguk pounds into you with unbridled vigour. His hips slap against your ass, the sound echoing throughout the room, and your body jerks forward at the impact. Your core is so drenched he's able to enter you with little resistance now. Emitting a rough, throaty groan, he fixates on how your creamy arousal coats his cock, disappearing in and out of your cunt.

“F-Fuck,” You hiss, your hand reaching back to firmly grip Jeongguk’s wrist for support, but he takes advantage of your extended arm and yanks you up until your back is pressed to his chest.

The new position gives him better access to your front and Jeongguk ghosts a hand around your waist without a second thought, smooths it down your stomach until he reaches your clit. Your body jolts the instant his fingers make contact with the swollen bud, legs quivering with the strength it's taking you to stay upright.

Your boyfriend notices your struggle and hooks his other arm around your waist, his fingertips holding you so tightly you won't be surprised if some bruises appear there tomorrow.

“Fuck, I've missed this.” He rasps, more to himself than you, whilst drilling against your g-spot. But the words affect you just the same as your pussy tightens in response, squeezing him into a death grip, and Jeongguk's hips stutter. “Jesus,” He groans, making a mental effort to stave off his own orgasm, trying to focus solely on you.

You really are going to be the death of him.

He breathes heavily through his nostrils before starting up again, slowly driving into you and his cock burrows so deep, you swear you can feel it in your uterus.

His fingers skim over your clit, tracing the nub ever so slightly because you're starting to flinch from his touch, starting to grow sensitive. And when your head falls back against his shoulder, a choked whine forcing its way out your throat, Jeongguk knows that you're close.

“You gonna come for me?” Jeongguk's lips brush against your temple, his hand deserting your pussy in sympathy to knead your breasts instead. You feel his thumb run over your nipple, static lightning steamrolling across your skin with each sweep.

“I-ah!” You can barely form a coherent sentence, the inklings of even one lucid thought slipping from your empty, fucked out mind as Jeongguk slams into you. He's setting a brutal pace, the noise of skin-against-skin undeniably obscene, but you can hardly find the will to care when the muscles in your abdomen begin to tense. They twist up like a clockwork toy, winding and winding, until Jeongguk hits a particular spot that makes your toes curl, and then you're coming undone for the second time tonight, knees buckling with the sheer force of your orgasm.

It hits you like a freight train, your body spasming. White dots of euphoria blur your vision, the pleasure so blinding, and Jeongguk's hold around your midsection is the only reason you don't collapse right there onto the couch.

“That's it, baby.” He reveres, hips never ceasing their movements even as your walls contract sporadically, determined to fuck you through it. An uncannily pornstar moan spills from your lips, mind and body having finally plunged into the silvery, stormy torrents of your climax, and the strangled sound causes something impossibly primal to rupture within Jeongguk. It thrashes at his chest like a wild caged animal, demanding release, and he recognizes the feeling all too well.

“You're mine, right? ” He finds himself grunting, voice husky with strain. The hand that was attending to your boobs instinctively ascends to your throat, squeezing slightly as he chases his own high, gives in to that grueling streak of possessiveness that only every rears its head when he has you like this—naked and vulnerable—and you groan at the familiar pressure.

You hum, walls clenching around him. “Only yours.” Your own hand reaches up, cuffing around his wrist for support as a tremor runs down your spine.

Jeongguk feels his balls tighten, the knowledge that he’s the sole witness to this side of you, so subservient and docile, sets him off the deep end.

Then you angle your head to the side, joining your lips with his. It's a messy, sloppy kiss, but the intimacy of it all causes Jeongguk's last bit of composure to crack.

He spills into you with a groan, the sound muffled by your mouth, as he rocks forward until every last drop of his seed is snug within your warmth.

The feeling of his cum bursting inside of you, length twitching, causes your pussy to flutter by reflex, milking Jeongguk of every ounce of cum, only suspending their contractions once he's thoroughly depleted.

By the end, you're both a heaving mess; chests rising and falling in unison as you come down, the electric current pulsing through your bodies fading into a comfortable hum.

Your skin is still buzzing, head befuddled, when Jeongguk presses a few lazy kisses across your shoulder—as if to ground you, to bring you back from the constellations he's painted behind your eyes.

“You were so good, baby.” He commends, smoothing the hair at the side of your profile and you can't help the soft, but dopey smile that breaks out onto your face then.

“I've been dreaming about that for forever.” You murmur, submitting to the assault of his lips. Your boyfriend chuckles in return, nuzzling your neck as he commits the smell of your skin, an alluring scent of sex and lavender, to his memory.

“Me too,” He hums, thumb gliding gently across the contour of your waist. Your sensitive pussy throbs at the light touch, rousing from the stimulation; which only reminds you of the unpleasant remnants of arousal coating your inner thighs.

As if reading your mind, Jeongguk whispers against your skin. “Let's get you cleaned up, okay?”

He eyes your figure carefully, waiting for any hint of consent before he leaves you here alone.

You manage to muster a nod and then feel his dick slip from your entrance a second later, withdrawing in a way that makes you cringe and leaves you feeling oddly empty.

“I’ll be right back.” He assures, his lips quickly, but comfortingly, brushing against your hairline. Thereafter, from your peripheral, you see Jeongguk detach himself from your side, pulling his pants back up as he disappears into the bathroom to do what he does best—take care of you.

In the meantime, you resist the temptation to slump back onto the sofa, feeling a hefty load of cum leaking down your thighs. Every muscle in your body feels relaxed, those sparks from earlier sizzling down into sleepy, smoky remnants that weigh you down. Mind a dazed mess, not sure of how much time has passed, you almost give in—the slumber you so desperately sought out at the beginning of the night finally settling into your bones—when Jeongguk walks back into the living room. He's changed into a pair of briefs and is carrying a wet cloth, as well as, a small tube of ointment.

Your body instantly perks up, a little rejuvenated by his presence.

“Hey,” Jeongguk murmurs once he's back in your close vicinity, fingers brushing against your cheeks as he peers down at you with a soft smile.

“Hey,” You tiredly grin back, pointing a finger at the items in his hand. “Those for me?”

Jeongguk hums, draping an arm around your waist to steady you. If you had the energy to freshen yourself up, you honestly would but currently, you can barely keep your eyes open. So instead you lean on your boyfriend—figuratively and literally—clutching onto his biceps as he brings the warm cloth to your nether regions. You hiss a little at the contact, still feeling delicate down there, but Jeongguk handles you with a gentle mindfulness that makes your heart swell. Makes you think back to a little over an hour ago, when you were alone in bed unable to fall asleep because he wasn't there.

And sometimes it worries you. How much you need him. How much something as simple and basic as sleep, needs the warmth of his touch to make its mark on you. How much you’ve grown to love him in the span of a few months, your life endlessly orbiting around him like the earth to the sun. How much the deepest crevices of your soul, where the vile fear of abandonment and instinctual desire to run, relinquish themselves to the light of Jeongguk’s unconditional love.

You watch him toss the used washcloth to the side before unscrewing the top of the ointment. Sigh; as his fingers, tender with purpose, apply dabs of vitamin K salve to your hips where the marks from his fingertips are starting to surface. “Shit, I'm so sorry baby.” He apologizes, the raspy, hushed tone of his voice communicating how guilt-ridden he feels. “I didn't mean to be this rough.”

And, you've never known a love like this. One that rustles through your hair like the wind on the drive down to your parents. One that meets you in the dead of winter between classes, wrapped up in coats and scarves, and coffee as the snow falls. One that kisses you goodnight, hands cupping your cheeks while the street lamps flicker outside.

One that dresses all your bruises.

It makes you want to run in the opposite direction every now and then, fleeing until you forget that you ever knew it could be this good, this safe.

But, staring at Jeongguk and the careful, intricate way he's massaging ointment onto all your black-and-blues, you bury these trepidations away, laying them to rest in the one place they belong—the past.

Because yes, you’ve never had this sort of love before—the seriousness, the commitment.

The emptied-out drawers for your clothes.

The spare toothbrush at his place.

The conversations of a future together—the clear line being crossed from fling to forever.

Even though it's a concept so scary and unfamiliar, and foreign to you—you never want to let it go.

You never want to let him go.

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