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dior-luxury · 2 months ago

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You Being Super Oblivious Of Them Flirting With You

( ✧ ) ────── boyfriend stories . fluff/light romance - no prns .

- [𝐜𝐡.] 3rd years

- [𝐩:𝐬] slow burn . one-sided pinning (resolved) . light comedy . mild suggestiveness . teasing/banter . slight jealousy

Note: I sat down to write cute flirty headcanons and instead accidentally wrote all of these guys having a romantic breakdown in about their crush being so oblivious about the flirting. 💀 Then I thought they where good and just decided to go with that as the prompt!

Trey Clover

It had been going on for weeks.

Subtle, harmless gestures at first—sharing his homemade treats, seeking you out in the hallways between classes, and always making sure there was a spare seat beside him at Heartslabyul’s long, rose-lined table. You always took it. Smiling up at him, laughing at his jokes, even leaning against his shoulder sometimes when the evenings stretched long and drowsy under the golden canopy of dusk.

And yet.

You were completely, utterly oblivious.

“You’re really good at baking, Trey,” you complimented one day as he handed you a small, ribbon-tied box of matcha-flavored sweets, his personal recipe he never shared. You bit into one, eyes lighting up in delight. “I don’t know how someone like you is still single.”

Trey blinked.

“...Someone like me?”

“Yeah! Tall, dependable, cute smile—you’re like...dad boyfriend material.”

If he had been drinking tea, he might’ve choked.

Dad boyfriend material?!

Despite the polite, affable smile he wore, a faint twitch of disbelief rippled across his temple. Trey had dropped so many hints—letting you taste frosting off his finger in the kitchen, gently brushing your hair out of your eyes when you leaned too close to the oven, even calling you “sweetheart” under his breath when you dozed off during a study session.

And yet, here you were. Thinking he was some domestic teddy bear.

The final straw came during a Heartslabyul tea party, when you reached over to wipe a crumb from the corner of his mouth with your thumb, completely unaware of how red his ears turned.

“You’re always such a mess after eating cake,” you scolded gently.

“You do realize,” he said slowly, looking into your eyes with a rare, unreadable intensity, “that I only ever bring you the first slice.”

“Huh? I just thought I was lucky!” you grinned.

That did it.

He leaned in, lowering his voice as he caged you between the chair and the hedge behind. His gloved hand gently tipped your chin up. “I’ve been flirting with you for months,” he murmured. “How much more obvious do I have to be, shortcake?”

Your mouth dropped open. “Wha—wait, what?!”

Trey laughed softly, finally letting his forehead rest against yours, the tension melting into something warm, golden, and soft. “I swear, you’re sweeter than my tarts and twice as dense.”

Cater Diamond

“Okay, I give up,” Cater announced dramatically, collapsing face-down on the common room couch. “I’ve tried everything, and they still don’t get it.”

From behind his phone screen, he peeked at you sitting nearby, nose buried in a magazine, completely unaware of his suffering.

It had started as a game at first—light teasing, exaggerated winks, the occasional compliment laced with glittering charm.

“Looking good today, babe~” he’d say, snapping a selfie of the two of you while slinging an arm around your shoulders.

“Thanks, Cater! You look amazing too, as always!”

But you always said it like a friend. With zero hesitation, zero fluster, zero realization. You treated his affection like background noise—a quirk of his personality.

Even when he’d rested his head in your lap after a long day and looked up at you with dreamy, sleepy eyes and whispered, “You’d make a perfect boyfriend, y'know... if you’d let me,” you just chuckled and patted his hair.

“Aw, Cater, that’s sweet. You’d be a great boyfriend for someone, definitely.”

Someone.

SOMEONE.

He practically screamed into his pillow when he got back to his dorm that night.

Every day since then had been a desperate escalation. He started bringing you your favorite snacks, styling your hair for fun, sending you good morning texts with pet names like “sunshine” or “my star.” You responded with gifs. Gifs.

Finally, in a move of last-ditch desperation, he planned the boldest romantic gesture he could think of.

Cater rented out the photo booth in town, the one with the glitter backgrounds and soft lighting. He dragged you inside under the pretense of wanting “a bestie shoot,” and waited for the moment the countdown began.

Three…

Two…

One—

He turned, cupped your face, and kissed your cheek.

Click. Flash.

You blinked at him.

“Cater?? What was that for?”

He stared.

“No, seriously. Are you okay? Did you think I was sad or something? You can talk to me, y’know.”

Cater threw his hands up and groaned.

“You’re the one I like!! You! Not as a friend, not as a selfie buddy, not as a human pillow—I like you, you dense little cinnamon bun!”

Your eyes widened. “Wait. Are you flirting with me?”

He looked like he aged five years in five seconds.

“Yes. YES, BABE. That’s what the last four months were. Flirting. Full-throttle, heart-eyes, rom-com level flirting!”

“…Oh.”

A pause. Then, sheepishly:

“So… wanna take another photo? This time, maybe I kiss you on the lips?”

Cater blinked at your soft smile and the way your hand found his.

And just like that, every ounce of frustration melted into sparkly euphoria. “Oh my Seven,” he whispered with a grin. “Finally.”

Leona Kingscholar

Leona was not a man known for patience. In fact, most of the time, he prided himself on getting what he wanted with the least amount of effort. He was sharp, cunning, and confident enough to know that most people would bend over backward just to get a sliver of his attention. So when he set his sights on you—you, with your soft laugh, bright eyes, and completely clueless smile—he assumed it would be easy.

It wasn’t.

It started small. He’d lounge in the botanical gardens where he knew you always came to study. He made sure to growl off anyone else who might sit nearby, leaving the two of you in your own little secluded corner. He'd toss you the occasional compliment, his voice lazy and low.

“Tch. That look suits you, herbivore. Finally got some style.”

You’d blink at him with that warm, clueless grin. “Oh? Thanks, Leona. My friend helped me pick this outfit.”

He resisted the urge to growl. Again.

Then he escalated. He’d sit closer—closer than anyone would consider “just friends.” He'd drop hints laced with suggestion, his eyes narrowing when you remained oblivious. He once even played with your hair, idly running his fingers through it while you yawned and continued taking notes on magical herbology.

It got to the point where Ruggie cornered you in the hallway, shaking his head in disbelief. “You seriously don’t get it? He’s basically marking his territory every time you’re near!”

“Huh? Leona? Nah, he’s just... touchy sometimes.”

Leona nearly tore his textbooks in half when he heard that.

The final straw came one warm afternoon when you plopped down beside him under the shade of a sprawling tree. You smiled and passed him a snack you'd made, and Leona, in a bold move of desperation and hunger for your attention, leaned down and bit into it directly from your hand, eyes locked on yours the entire time.

You just blinked and said, “You must’ve been really hungry!”

Leona threw himself backward into the grass with a groan, covering his eyes with his arm.

“Seven hells, you’re dense,” he muttered.

“Huh?”

He sat up again, eyes narrowed, voice husky. “Do I need to spell it out for you, herbivore? I’m not just hanging around you ‘cause I’m bored. I’m trying to get you to notice me.”

You tilted your head, confused. “But I do notice you…”

“No,” he growled, grabbing your wrist gently but firmly, tugging you closer. “Notice me. As in, I want you. You. Me. Together. You seriously didn’t get that?”

You froze. And then it hit you like a freight train. The closeness, the compliments, the touches, the possessiveness—

“Oh... OH.”

Leona smirked, fangs glinting in the sun. “Took you long enough.”

Vil Schoenheit

Vil was always graceful, always poised, always in control. He calculated every step, every glance, every smile. So naturally, when he decided to pursue you, he did it with the same precision he applied to a stage performance or a red-carpet event. Subtle glances, gentle compliments, a brush of his fingers across your shoulder. It was a slow-burning courtship that he expected would sweep you off your feet.

But instead?

Nothing.

Nothing but your charming smile and occasional, completely unbothered “Thank you, Vil!” or “You’re so sweet!” before skipping off to your next class.

He chalked it up to modesty at first. Maybe you were shy. Maybe you wanted to play hard to get. But by week three, when he sent you a handpicked bouquet of enchanted roses and you gave them to Professor Trein’s cat because “it matched her fur,” Vil nearly fainted on the spot.

So, he got bolder.

One afternoon, he strode into your dorm’s common room while you were curled up on a couch with a book. Wordlessly, he slipped beside you and sat right in your lap, settling as gracefully as ever, legs crossed, arm lazily draped around your shoulders.

You blinked. “Are you tired? You can sit here as long as you need.”

Vil’s eye twitched.

“Tired? No, darling, I wanted to sit somewhere comfortable and charming. Surely you understand the appeal.” He leaned in, his breath tickling your ear. “Or is my lap too forward for your delicate sensibilities?”

You laughed lightly. “Nope! You’re light. I didn’t even notice the weight. Kinda like a cat. A really fashionable one.”

Fashionable cat?!

Vil nearly stood up right then and there, scandalized. But no—he took a deep breath. Composure. Poise.

Until you reached up and started patting his head.

“You’re so pretty, Vil. I hope I can be as pretty as you one day.”

“…I’m not trying to be ‘pretty like you,’ I’m trying to be yours,” he hissed in exasperation, face dangerously close to yours.

You blinked again. “Wait… what?”

Vil’s patience finally snapped like a taut ribbon.

“For the love of all that is radiant—I have been flirting with you for months. I’ve complimented you, made time for you, bought you gifts, and now I am literally sitting on your lap! What more must I do? Wear a sign that says ‘I want to be yours’?”

You gaped at him.

“…I thought you were just naturally dramatic.”

Vil groaned, burying his face in your neck. “You’ll be the death of me.”

You awkwardly wrapped your arms around him, finally catching on. “Wait, so… you like me?”

He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, expression softening ever so slightly. “I more than like you. But you, sweet potato, are so hopelessly dense.”

You laughed nervously, cheeks burning. “I’m really sorry… but, um… I like you too. I just didn’t think you’d like someone like me.”

Vil huffed, but a genuine smile curled on his lips. “Well, you’re mine now. And you’ll never be oblivious again, because I won’t give you the chance to miss it.”

Rook Hunt

To Rook, this was a challenge—a delicious, exquisite one.

He was well aware of how utterly unaware you were. The first time he realized, it was during archery club. He complimented the way your arms flexed as you pulled the bowstring, his tone sultry, his gaze locked on you like you were his prey.

You grinned and said, “Haha, thanks! I’ve been working out my shoulders. Good for posture!”

He tilted his head, lips curled in amusement. “Ah, ma colombe, you are truly a creature of mystery~”

But instead of giving up, Rook only doubled down. He started leaving flowers at your desk with poetic notes—sometimes with metaphors so thick they practically screamed “I am in love with you!”

You just thought it was a Rook thing.

“You’re so sweet! You write such beautiful stuff. Have you thought of joining the poetry club?”

Poetry club…?! Mon dieu, I am baring my soul!

He even tried the "accidental touch" method—fingers brushing yours when passing a book, hands lingering too long during sparring practice. Yet you never reacted with more than a casual smile and a “You okay?”

And Rook? He found it thrilling.

“This unawareness… this resistance… c’est magnifique!” he whispered one day, watching you from the balcony like a Shakespearean ghost. “You are like a doe in the forest, unaware of the eyes that follow you in reverent adoration…”

The final straw was when he kissed the back of your hand under the moonlight after walking you to your dorm. With an air of mystery and drama, he looked into your eyes and murmured, “Bonsoir, ma lumière…”

You giggled. “Wow, you really should join the drama club. That delivery was incredible.”

Rook clutched his chest like he’d been shot, but he was laughing too. Of course. Of course you didn’t get it.

But that just made him want you more.

“I shall make it my mission to pierce through the veil of innocence that blinds you, mon trésor,” he declared to the stars. “You will see me—not as a friend, not as a fellow student—but as the man who has adored you all this time.”

Idia Shroud

It was exhausting trying to flirt with someone who didn’t even realize you were the final boss in their dating sim.

Idia never considered himself bold—not IRL, anyway. Most of his romantic experience came from watching his OTPs go through slow-burn arcs in visual novels or tragic anime love stories. But when it came to you, he was trying. Like, genuinely. In his own glitchy, socially awkward way.

He’d wait outside your classroom “totally coincidentally” with his tablet in hand, acting like he wasn’t tracking your class schedule to the minute. He even upgraded Ortho’s AI recognition software just to find excuses to walk past you more often. He quoted romantic lines from his favorite games to you, hoping you’d get it—but every single time?

You’d just blink. Smile. Nod like he was being cute.

“Oh, that line was so poetic! Is that from a movie or something?”

“B-bro that’s from Stellar Lust IV! The confession scene where the star-crossed lovers reunite under a dying moon! Are you seriously not…? Nvm.”

One afternoon, he got bold. He invited you to his room. That alone should’ve been a confession—no one entered his sacred gaming lair unless they had maximum trust level.

He cleared off a place on the bed, installed RGB mood lighting, even had anime OSTs playing softly in the background. He hyped himself up for weeks for this. He was going to drop a flirt so obvious, even a level 1 NPC could read it.

“So, u-uh, you ever wonder what it’d be like to… y’know… date a genius tech prince who could hack into the city grid just to turn all the traffic lights green for you?”

You tilted your head. “That sounds dangerous… but also kind of cool? Is this part of your new game concept?”

He.exe stopped working.

The blue flames of his hair turned pink for half a second before sizzling back.

He mumbled something incoherent and turned back to his computer, pulling his hoodie so far over his head he looked like a turtle. “N-no, yeah, that was just… haha… worldbuilding...”

He’d keep trying though. One day, he’d craft a cutscene so perfect, even you couldn’t ignore the affection coded into every line.

Malleus Draconia

Malleus was not used to being ignored. Or overlooked. Or, heaven forbid—misunderstood. He was the Crown Prince of Briar Valley, the most feared and powerful student on campus. And yet, here he was, casting ancient spells to conjure glowing roses and coaxing fireflies into hearts over your tea cup—only for you to respond with:

“Wow, Malleus! You always make things so aesthetic!”

He blinked. "Aesthetic?"

“Yeah! Super vibey. You should be a party planner.”

He nearly short-circuited.

This had been happening for weeks. He’d memorized your schedule, just so he could “coincidentally” be where you were. He’d offer to walk you home under the stars, hoping for soft-spoken confessions—but you only asked him if he thought raccoons had hierarchies in their little trash kingdoms.

...You were enchanting. But you were driving him mad.

One day, after finding yet another love poem he’d slipped into your book returned with grammar corrections (you thought he was practicing his prose), he decided on something bold. Direct. Unmistakable.

“Child of man,” Malleus said one twilight evening as you both sat beneath a tree, “if I were to tell you that my heart beats differently in your presence, that the night air tastes sweeter when you laugh—what would you say?”

You tilted your head, thinking. “I’d say you have a really poetic way of saying you like hanging out.”

“I do not merely like hanging out,” he said slowly, brow twitching. “I wish to court you.”

You stared. “Like… on trial?”

“…Romantically.”

“Ohhhh.”

Silence.

“Wait, me?!”

Malleus closed his eyes and inhaled. Patience. He could wait a thousand years more. But hopefully not.

Lilia Vanrouge

Lilia Vanrouge had seen centuries of war, peace, love, loss—and yet nothing, nothing, had prepared him for the sheer unshakable obliviousness that was you.

It started innocently enough.

He’d toss a wink your way whenever he passed by in the hallway. He brought you little trinkets from the village during his off-campus ventures—flowers woven into chains, sweets with hearts drawn on the wrappers, one time even a hairpin shaped like a bat. You had smiled and thanked him with the kind of radiant purity that could blind a mortal man. And then you tucked the bat hairpin in your pencil case.

Your pencil case. Like he was a math worksheet and not a 700+ year old fae trying to court you.

Still, he found it endearing. You were cute in a way that made his ageless heart ache, and he loved a challenge. So he tried harder.

“You know,” he drawled one afternoon, leaning over your shoulder with a voice like velvet, “in my youth, a suitor might serenade their beloved beneath the moonlight.”

“That’s sweet,” you said, eyes on your textbook. “Did they ever get noise complaints?”

He blinked. “...Noise complaints?”

“Well, if it was late and they were singing outside someone’s window… I bet a lot of people weren’t exactly swooning.”

For a moment, Lilia just stared at you. And then he burst out laughing, so hard he had to wipe a tear from his eye.

“You are either brilliantly teasing me,” he chuckled, “or heartbreakingly naive.”

You smiled at him, not understanding in the slightest.

The final straw came when he invited you for a midnight flight—romantic, intimate, just the two of you soaring above the moon-drenched trees. You screamed with laughter and clung to him the entire way, yelling about how cool it was and how friends like him were the best.

“Friends,” Lilia repeated afterward, voice soft and low as you happily ate the little picnic he’d prepared.

You looked up. “Yeah. I’m lucky to have you.”

He sighed with a small, defeated smile, but his eyes were warm. “The luck,” he murmured, “is all mine, dear.”

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bluelockmaniac · 1 year ago

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gojo satoru would be such a pouty, jealous, and petty husband, especially when the two of you have a child.

what do you mean he has to watch you effortlessly lift your giggling baby girl into the air with your arms reaching out, and listen to her delighted squeals as you catch her and tickle her tiny belly? why haven't you ever done that to him? he's sulking, arms folded over his chest and eyes narrowed as if he does not realize the absurdity of his complaint; who's going to be able to lift up a huge man at the ridiculous height of six foot three?

what do you mean he has to watch you both come home from the mall, a shopping bag in your hand as you reveal a matching set of pajamas? his jaw drops, eyes widening in disbelief as you and your daughter emerge from the bedroom adorned in identical hello kitty pajamas, faces covered in masks and cucumber slices perched on your eyes. he slumps further into the couch as you two pose for selfies, looking absolutely adorable together. truth is, he loved hello kitty as much as his child did, he just . . . might have never had the courage to voice it out!

what do you mean he had to return home after a tedious fight, only to find you and your daughter cutely nestled on the couch, watching a movie together while cuddling?! he also wanted to watch boss baby :(

you quietly open the door to your shared bedroom and tiptoe inside, hoping not to wake satoru. to your surprise, you notice he was still awake, lying on the bed with his arms defiantly crossed over the blanket. his lips are jutted out in a pout, blue eyes narrowed as they glare at you.

“well? are you going to read me my bedtime story?”

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mugglebornmarvelite · 5 months ago

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Game Night

Paring: Avenger! Bucky Barnes x Avenger! Fem! Reader (Grumpy x Sunshine)

Summary: Steve’s mandatory game night takes a turn when you and Bucky are paired up.

Word Count: Roughly 1.4k

Warnings: Fluff, banter, friendly competition, implied threats, destroying property (Bucky and Sam), romantic tension everyone can feel, and some overprotective Bucky because that man does not play about his sunshine.

Author’s Note: Sorry for the delay; I was helping my friend with a research project. Ugh, it feels choppy, but I hope this is to your liking, babes ;)

Navigation

Divider by: @strangergraphics

The living room buzzed with energy as the Avengers tried to recover from the chaos of their most recent mission; the munching of chips and clinking of drinks in glasses filled the space.

Peter and you were talking animatedly about the mission, with Peter recounting how he flipped mid-air, webbing a bad guy to a nearby wall.

“I mean, I swear, the guy didn’t see it coming. I was way higher up than I thought, and then BAM!” Peter dramatically mimicked the motion with his arms, sending you into fits of laughter.

“It’s honestly kind of unfair that you can just flip your way out of everything, Pete,” you teased, elbowing him.

He shrugged, all smugness. “I mean, someone’s gotta make the web-swinging look good, right?”

Before you could reply, Steve stood up from his spot, clapping his hands for attention. “Alright, team! Time for some mandatory bonding!”

A chorus of groans erupted from the group, each one from someone hoping to escape Steve’s relentless enthusiasm for ‘team-building’ nights.

“Tonight is Charades.” Steve declared.

That’s when Steve decided to assign the partners. He glanced around the room with a twinkle in his eye and paired you with Bucky, clearly anticipating the fun to come.

You gave Bucky your signature puppy dog eyes, and he looked away with a scowl as he crossed his arms over his chest, not wanting to give in and show that he was happy to be partnered with you.

“Oh, great,” Bucky muttered, rolling his eyes. “This is gonna be a disaster.”

You didn’t let his grumpiness throw you off. “Bucky, come on!” you said, plopping beside him on the couch. “We’ve got this! We’re unstoppable!”

Bucky raised an eyebrow and shot you a skeptical look. “Sure, sure. We’ll see about that.”

He didn’t seem convinced, and as Sam overheard, he couldn’t resist adding his two cents.

"Oh, this is gonna be easy," Sam declared loudly, rolling his eyes. "Grumpy Barnes can’t even smile, let alone act."

"You’re gonna regret that," Bucky shot back, his tone thick with warning.

His words weren’t loud, but they were laced with enough warning that Sam quickly leaned back into his seat, hands raised in mock surrender.

"Okay, okay, I get it," Sam laughed, but you caught the wariness in his eyes. "But not holding my breath, this will be easy."

Then, leaning in toward you, he whispered, “If we lose to that clown, I’m never letting it go.”

You gave him an exaggerated look of disbelief, pretending to be shocked. "Who knew you cared so much about winning?"

Bucky’s lips quirked into the faintest smirk. "Don’t mess this up," he teased.

You winked at him. “You’re with me. How could we lose?”

As the game started, it quickly became clear that Bucky treated charades less like a fun group activity and more like a tactical mission. His intense focus was almost comical, but you fell into an unspoken rhythm.

When it was your turn to act, Bucky’s sharp eyes locked onto you, and after a few gestures, he almost always guessed your clues. When it was his turn, he leaned into the ridiculousness of it all, whether miming a gorilla or pretending to be a ballerina, just to keep your laughter ringing through the room.

By the end of the game, the scoreboard showed a landslide victory in your favor. Bucky allowed himself a small, smug grin as you squealed in delight and launched yourself into his arms, wrapping your legs around his waist.

“We’re the dream team!” you exclaimed, giggling as you clung to him.

“Yeah, yeah,” he replied, though his grip on you was secure, his metal arm effortlessly supporting you. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

Much to everyone's amusement, he carried you back to the couch, where he promptly plopped you into his lap. “You’re comfy,” you declared with a grin, making yourself home.

Sam, clearly displeased, waved a hand in your direction. “This has to be rigged. There’s no way those two didn’t cheat.”

Natasha snorted, leaning back in her chair. “They didn’t cheat, Wilson. They’re just disgustingly in sync.”

Sam grabbed a pillow and chucked it at you. “Sync this!”

The pillow hit you square in the face, and you burst out laughing, holding it in your lap. “It’s just a pillow!”

But Bucky didn’t see it that way. His gaze turned sharp as he caught the second pillow Sam threw mid-air. “If you throw another one at her...”

Sam, of course, took that as a challenge. “What are you gonna do, Barnes?” he quipped, hurling another pillow that you easily dodged.

Bucky’s eyes narrowed. “I’ll give you a five-second head start.”

Sam’s smirk faltered. “Wait, what?”

Without a word, Bucky carefully brushed your hair out of your face, placed you gently on the couch, and stood up. The room went silent as he walked purposefully toward the hallway.

“What’s he doing?” you asked, looking to Steve for answers.

Steve sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose, hiding a smile. “He’s going to smash Redwing.”

Sam’s eyes widened in panic.

“Barnes, you touch Redwing, I swear-” He bolted after Bucky, and the two disappeared down the hall.

Moments later, a loud crash echoed through the compound, followed by Sam’s yelling and Bucky’s retorts.

Natasha chuckled, shaking her head as she leaned back on the couch. “This happens all the time.”

You glanced between her and Steve, bewildered. “Doesn’t anyone stop them?”

Steve shrugged. “Nope. They’ll tire themselves out eventually.”

From a distance, the team could hear the muffled sounds of Bucky and Sam bickering echoing through the compound.

“Touch Redwing, and you’re paying for a whole new one!” Sam’s voice was laced with fear.

“Oh, don’t worry, Wilson,” Bucky shot back, his tone mockingly calm. “I’ll make sure to recycle the pieces. I hear it’s good for the environment.”

A loud thud followed as if Bucky had knocked something over or thrown something against the wall.

“Man, what is your problem?” Sam hollered. “You act like I threw a brick at her!”

“You hit her in the face!” Bucky retorted.

“It was a pillow!” Sam defended himself. “It probably felt like a marshmallow.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Bucky countered. “You don’t throw things at her. Ever.”

Back in the living room, you stifled a laugh as Natasha shook her head in amused disbelief. “It’s always like this,” she said, smirking. “I don’t know why Sam keeps testing him.”

Steve folded his arms, looking like the exasperated dad of the group. “Because Sam likes pushing buttons. And Bucky…well, Bucky only has so much patience.”

Another crash echoed from down the hallway, followed by Sam’s yell. “Oh, come on! That wasn’t even Redwing! That was my lamp!”

“You’ve got terrible taste in decor, Wilson,” Bucky said, completely unfazed.

“YOU OWE ME A NEW LAMP!” Sam shouted.

“I did you a favor.” Bucky said dryly. “So say ‘thank you,’ it's polite.”

You couldn’t hold back your giggles any longer. “Should we...I don’t know, step in?” you asked, looking at Steve.

Steve shook his head, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Nah. Let them hash it out. Bucky’s not actually going to break Redwing. Probably.”

“Probably?” Natasha echoed. “You’re really putting a lot of faith in him.”

From the hallway, Sam yelled again. “THAT’S IT, BARNES. YOU AND ME. SPARRING MATCH TOMORROW.”

“Fine,” Bucky fired back. “But don’t be mad when I wipe the floor with you, bird brain.”

Natasha leaned over to you, her voice low. “You know he’s only this protective because it’s you, right? He doesn’t care this much when we get hit with stuff.”

You blushed, glancing down at your hands. “He’s just…looking out for me. Like a guardian.”

Natasha snorted. “Yeah, sure. Keep telling yourself that, sweetheart.”

Steve smiled knowingly but didn’t say anything.

The sounds of Sam and Bucky’s argument gradually faded as they came back.

Sam was glaring, his hair disheveled, and he muttered under his breath about never forgiving Bucky.

Bucky, on the other hand, was smug, like he had just won a personal victory.

Sam threw himself back down on the couch, muttering something about "not talking to Barnes for the rest of the week," to which Bucky gave a half-hearted shrug.

He sat down beside you, his arm casually draped across the back of the couch. His eyes flicked down to you, and without a word, he reached out to brush his knuckles lightly over your knee.

“You okay, sunshine?” he asked quietly, only for you to hear.

You smiled. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

Bucky’s lips quirked upward, just slightly. “Good,” he said softly. “No one messes with you. Not even Sam.”

The others shared amused looks, but neither of you paid them any mind. Bucky’s protective side made your heart flutter in a way you didn’t quite understand, and you sank further into the couch, curling into his side.

Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed!

Tags: @princess-lil-spidey @sapphirebarnes @mgchaser @sparklystarsandstrawberries @arcadia-smith @rnurse-kole @juliebluehufflepuff @sailorsenshiuranep @alexxavicry @ficcharsimp

If you'd like to be added to my taglist or just ask me, and I'll update it!

Much love x

- Maeve

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freakycore · 5 months ago

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🎧 now playing: queen never cry

ryomen sukuna x fem!reader

sukuna’s queen should never cry. so when he finds her in tears, he’s ready to unleash his wrath— only to be met with a situation he never expected.

sukuna never believed there was a force in this world that could bring him to his knees— until he saw you crying.

the faint sound of muffled sniffles greeted him as he stepped into your shared chambers. his crimson eyes narrowed, searching for the source. then he saw you, perched on the edge of the bed, your face buried in your hands, shoulders trembling with each shaky breath.

his chest tightened, a feeling he didn’t recognize—or perhaps refused to admit—clawing at his heart. who dared to hurt her? his jaw clenched, and his cursed energy began to crackle in the air.

“who did this to you?” sukuna’s voice thundered through the room, sharp and biting, his rage barely contained. “tell me, and I’ll flay them alive. I’ll make them beg for—”

“it’s not a person!” you interrupted, looking up at him with teary eyes.

his fury faltered for a moment as confusion replaced it. he stalked closer, crouching before you so he could see your face. his large hands cupped your cheeks, rough thumbs brushing away stray tears. “then what is it?” he growled.

your lip quivered as you tried to form the words. “i… i dropped my favorite dessert.”

sukuna blinked. once. twice. his expression was blank, but his crimson eyes burned with disbelief.

“you’re crying… over that?”

“yes!” you wailed, fresh tears spilling over. “it was the last one, and i was saving it for today! and now it’s gone!”

the room was silent for a beat. sukuna’s hands dropped from your face as he straightened, his cursed energy dissipating into the air. he crossed his arms, his lips pressing into a tight line as his eyes bore into you. “you mean to tell me i nearly destroyed this entire palace… over a shit of sugar?”

you sniffed, your watery gaze meeting his. “it was a really good shit of sugar..”

for a moment, sukuna said nothing, his temple visibly throbbing as he tried to process the situation. then he let out a harsh, frustrated groan, dragging a hand down his face. “you’re insufferable,” he muttered.

despite his irritation, he reached out and pulled you into his lap, cradling you as if you were the most precious thing in the world. “stop crying,” he ordered, voice gruff but quieter now. “queens never shed tears over something pathetic.”

you let out a soft laugh, burying your face in his chest. “you’re so cute when you’re mad.”

sukuna froze, his scowl deepening. “excuse me?”

“ you heard me,” you teased, tilting your head up to meet his gaze. your fingers lightly traced the sharp lines of his jaw, and despite himself, sukuna leaned into your touch.

“you’re lucky i adore you,” he muttered under his breath, his arms tightening around you protectively. “otherwise, i’d throw you out for being this ridiculous.”

but as much as he grumbled, you knew he wasn’t truly angry. later that evening, when he thought you weren’t paying attention, sukuna disappeared for a short while. he returned with a boxes containing even larger, more decadent version of your lost dessert.

he didn’t say a word as he set them all down before you, his expression carefully neutral. but the slight twitch of his lips betrayed him when you squealed with delight and launched yourself into his arms.

no one makes his queen cry— not even herself.

#sukuna x reader #sukuna fluff #ryomen x reader #ryomen sukuna x reader #sukuna ryoumen x reader #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk fluff

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mrsbarnesblog · 9 months ago

Text

˖˚⊹ just us

➤ summary: a situation between pogues and kooks at the beach made Rafe rethink his priorities

➤ w/c: 1.8k.

➤ warnings: season 4 spoilers, established relationship, mention of the dead turtle, that hoe Ruthie, protective Rafe

➤ a/n: i'm obsessed with season 4, y'all. absolutely in love with everything that's going on and especially with Rafe being in a better place with a girl that he actually likes 🥹 this scene at the beach with turtles just made me sob, so I really need someone to drag that bitch by her hair. sorry not sorry.

masterlist

Your heart was beating with adrenaline from the scene that just happened at the beach, with Topper’s girlfriend almost running over the pogues and being the usual insane bitch that she was. Rafe stood beside you, silent but shaking his buzzed head in disapproval.

Kie was standing on her knees on the sand, in shock, with juice still dripping down her face and hair. She brushed off the help of her friends, instead standing and picking something up from the ground, without hesitation, going towards the group of people around you. They seemed absolutely delighted by the whole situation, laughing, fist bumping each other, and making you want to punch every single one of them in the face.

You didn’t even want to be here in the first place, not with a bunch of people with whom you shared mutual hatred towards each other. Rafe was your only connection with them, and it seemed like even for him it was a bit too much. A fun day at a beach with a little surfing competition, where even Topper and JJ seemed to have some fun together, took the wrong turn way too quickly.

“Look what you did! Is this okay?” Kie stopped in front of Ruthie, reaching out her hand to show something that you weren’t able to see, but by the look on her face it was obviously serious to her. “There was a turtle hatch, you idiots! You drove right over it!” Your stomach twisted at the realization, and you took a step closer to see it yourself.

“Oh my God.” You whispered, catching a glimpse of a tiny dead turtle with a crushed shell laying in the palm of her hand. So little and harmless that the picture of it brought tears to your eyes.

“Don’t look, baby.” Rafe’s deep voice mumbled near your ear, with a warm hand sprawled across your back to try to distract you, but you shook your head, unable to take your eyes off it.

“All right, but it was only one.” Ruthie said with her usual attitude, nonchalantly pointing to the rest of the turtles that, luckily, were perfectly fine. Your mouth opened in disbelief, and you looked at Rafe to see him uncomfortably rubbing the back of his head.

“I’m so sorry, Kie…” You whispered to her, stepping further away from the kooks, eyes drifting again to the dead animal in her hand. No matter how hard you tried to fit in with Rafe and his friends, you could never be one of them if it meant to be a bunch of pompous and cruel rich kids. You thought that, maybe it was time for you to finally admit that.

“It’s not your fault, Y/N.” She briefly looked at you, because despite not being friends, there never were any arguments between you and the rest of the pogues, always keeping cool and friendly with each other. “There’s something wrong with you, people.” Kiara looked back at the kooks with disgust written all over her face.

“I’m leaving, Rafe.” Barely holding back your tears, you looked back at your boyfriend, before picking up your beach bag from the sand and turning around. “I’m sorry again for them, Kie.”

“No, wait, Y/N.” He pushed through the crowd, wide-eyed, quickly approaching you and grasping your wrist. “This is not—“

“I don’t want to be here. I didn’t sign up to hang out with your friends when I started dating you, okay?” You groaned in frustration, attempting to move, but Rafe stopped you. “I don’t even know why we’re here, why you are here, when you clearly don’t enjoy it anymore.”

“Listen, this is not so easy, okay?” He rolled his eyes, but you knew it was not fully directed at you; Rafe was already struggling with trusting those around him, and the fact that you slowly but steadily made him reconsider his current surroundings did not help.

“You are not like them, they are not your friends, don’t you understand it?” The pure desperation was speaking in you, searching for the answers in his eyes. You overheard some people laughing at you, as they were too confident that Rafe would never listen to someone like you, someone from the cut, not even realizing the war that was currently going on in his head.

He was silent, thinking, making his already overwhelmed mind go hundred miles per hour to figure something out, because you were right. The more time had passed, the more the two of you were together, the less Rafe found himself enjoying the presence of his old friends, the less he wanted to do that childish bullshit.

“This dumb fucking bitch almost ran over people and killed an innocent animal because her big ego got hurt, do you understand?! So I’m leaving. Alone or with you.” You almost whispered the last part to him, too scared that he'd not choose you. At the end of the day, you were a pogue, and no matter how much you tried, you would never be good enough for Rafe.

“What did you just call me?” Ruthie arched a brow, now shooting daggers at you.

“I called you a dumb fucking bitch, didn’t you hear me?” You spat, finally having a good enough reason to tell the truth right in her face. “Or are you too stupid to get that through your thick scull?”

“That’s rich, coming for a pogue. It’s just a cycle of life. And if you, losers, are so offended by that, it’s not my problem.”

“A cycle of life? Getting flattened by a truck is not a cycle of life.” Kiara pushed Ruthie with her hand, and it nearly turned into a fight, with JJ standing by his girlfriend's side. You turned away from them, too frustrated and drained to bother listening to the rest of the conversation, your gaze shifting to Rafe, who still held your hand.

“I want to leave. Stay here if you want to, I don’t care. I’m done with them, Rafe.” Your teary eyes met his blue ones, and he shook his head, pulling you closer with your forearms. The mere thought of you leaving him, angry and upset, triggered a whirlwind of panic within him.

“Hey, no, I’m not staying, okay?” Rafe's hands, now much gentler and delicate, touched your cheeks, wiping away a few tears that you could not keep back. Rafe had never been too comfortable with the display of emotions, and he was pretty sure that it was the first time he had actually seen you cry. And he knew how much you had always carried for animals, how you petted every stray cat or a dog on the street, and how you hated any form of violence against them.

The pulsating and aching feeling in his chest at the sight of your tears made him want to drop everything, or rather, eliminate everyone who had upset you, and just hold you in his arms.

“Aw, look at you.” You heard that annoying voice behind you back again, pulling you out of the bubble in which you fell, and turning around, you saw that Kie and JJ were no longer there. Your eyes instantly rolled back as Ruthie looked at you with her usual fake sympathy, crossing her arms over her chest. “Go back to your side of the island, you’re not one of us. Don’t even know why Rafe bothers to bring you here when you’re just another dirty toy to—“

Rafe left your side before she could finish her sentence, looming over her with the most furious expression you had ever seen on his face. Everyone and everything seemed to fall silent for a moment, and you held your breath, unsure what he would do. “Wanna say some bullshit about her? Try to do it right in my face and see what happens.”

“You’re not seriously protecting the pogue. She’s not on our side.” Her smile faded, her eyes now nervously looking between Rafe and Topper, who was standing behind her back.

“C’mon, Rafe…” He started, but quickly shut his mouth as soon as Rafe turned his head towards him with a silent threat. You felt your heartbeat quickening as the atmosphere started to get even more intense. Everyone around you also started arguing and saying God knows what, but Rafe was awfully calm, and it frightened you even more.

You moved closer to them as you made your way through the warm sand, until you were able to place a comforting hand on your boyfriend's back. He was so tense under your touch that it amazed you how the hell he was not shaking because of it. The only times you had ever seen him behaving that way was when people whispered something about his father behind his back.

“It’s okay, Ray.” You whispered, kissing his shoulder and sliding your hand down his back to take a hold of his bicep.

“You’re lucky that I don’t hit women. But if I hear a single word about my girlfriend again, you will regret it, I promise you." Your stomach flattered from the way he protected you, from the way his friends opened their mouths in shock at his words. Even Topper and Kelce were too stunned to speak, sending each other weird glances. “Control, your crazy bitch, Top.”

As if nothing had happened, Rafe stepped back, throwing a protective hand over your shoulders and guiding you away from the group. He was silent for a whole walk towards his truck, only stopping near the passenger door and turning you to face him.

His worried blue eyes were almost shining under the bright and hot sun and you saw words forming in his head and sitting at the tip of his tongue. You waited another minute, while Rafe was focused on your necklace, thinking. His hands found a place on your waist, rubbing circles into your skin, until he finally took a deep breath and looked up.

“You’re right.” He said simply. “I’m not this person anymore. That shit with racing with pogues was fun and all, but I didn’t like what happened today.” You half smiled, nodding and encouraging him to talk. “If—if I want to be like my dad, I need to have my priorities straight. No more of this bullshit, no more fake ass people, yeah? You’re the only one who's been here for me for a long fucking time. You’re the only one who I can trust, baby.”

His hand cupped your cheek, eyes focused solemnly on you, before he lowered himself closer to you to place a kiss on your lips.

“This is the right decision. You’ve overgrown them, you’re a better man now. And i’ll be here for you whenever you need me, I promise. I guess it’s just us now." Your body sagged against his, too wrapped in the comfort of his presence to even care about anything else. Your lips brushed against his, making Rafe groan.

“Just us, baby.”

#rafe cameron imagine #rafe outer banks #rafe cameron #rafe x you #rafe fanfiction #rafe x reader #rafe imagine #rafe fic #rafe cameron x reader #rafe obx #outerbanks rafe #rafe cameron fluff #rafe cameron fic #rafe cameron fanfiction #rafe cameron x you #obx rafe cameron #rafe cameron x female reader #obx x reader #obx fanfiction

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kpopstaytiny · 15 days ago

Text

Say please

Pairing: Bang Chan x F!reader

Word Count: 7251

Genre: smut, fluff, friends to lovers

Warnings: smut (minors DNI), softdom!Chan, sub!reader, oral (female receiving), fingering, edging, dirty talk, pet names (baby, love, sweetheart), unprotected sex, choking, hair pulling, praise!kink, she's a little bratty, cursing, feeling a little homesick, aftercare.

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He's always working until the stars blur outside the studio windows—my night owl, my relentless creator. The hallway smells like soundproofing foam and the air carries the faintest tang of citrus—probably from the half-empty pineapple juice carton I know is perched on his desk—as I raise my knuckles to the door, pausing to listen to the faint click-clack of keyboard strokes before knocking—the familiar weight of a paper bag swinging from my arm, a taste of Australia tucked inside.

His head jerks up, fingers freezing mid-keystroke. For one suspended moment, he just stares—eyes wide, lips parted—like I'm some sleep-deprivation mirage. Then his shoulders drop, tension bleeding out as his mouth curves into that private smile reserved for 1 AM confessions.

“Hey,” his voice is rough with disuse, warm with recognition. “What’re you doing up so late?”

"Says the man who thinks sunrise is a suggestion," I counter, stepping into the familiar cocoon of his workspace. The door clicks shut behind me, sealing us in this blue-lit universe of his making.

“You know I work late.”

“I do,” I close the distance between us, the paper bag in my arm rustling with its precious cargo. "Couldn't sleep." A shrug that doesn't fool either of us.

“And you came all the way here?” His brows rise, voice tipping toward disbelief.

"I went for a walk. Ended up at that 24-hour mart down the street." I gesture vaguely toward the window where neon signs glow in the distance. "Next thing I knew..." The unspoken truth hangs between us—my feet always know the way to him.

His gaze flicks toward the bag on my arm, curiosity softening his features. “That what’s in there?”

“Sort of,” I let the bag swing temptingly. “Not exactly.”

When he takes it, his fingers brush mine—just enough to send a spark up my arm. The moment stretches as he peers inside, then—

"Tim Tams?" His whole face transforms, boyish delight breaking through the exhaustion. "Where the hell did you find these?"

I bite my lip, feigning nonchalance. "They might've fallen into my basket at the international grocery."

"Liar." His laugh is all warmth, no bite. He knows—knows I called three stores, knows I asked Felix where to find them, knows this was never about cookies but about stitching a piece of his homeland into this endless night.

“What’re you working on?” I nod toward his screen, the glow painting his profile in liquid blue. My voice comes out steadier than I feel, trying to shift gears before the moment swallows me whole.

“New song,” he says, gaze flickering back to the monitor. But his voice has changed—slower now, syrup-warm. Not distracted. Inviting.

“Duh.” I roll my eyes, aiming for casual. But it’s too soft. Too fond. “Figured.”

“Wanna hear it?”

I blink. “Seriously?” My pulse stutters like a skipped track. He never shares unfinished work—not when there are still seams showing, not when the lyrics haven’t settled into their final shape.

But tonight, he just nods, easy as anything. “Yeah.” Then he pats his thigh. “Come here.”

For a heartbeat, I forget how to move.

We’ve been closer than this. Done more than this. But this—him pulling me into his creative space, into the part of himself he usually keeps locked tight—feels like stepping over a threshold neither of us named.

I settle into his lap with deliberate slowness, but he doesn’t give me room to overthink it. His arm bands around my waist, tugging me back against his chest like we’ve done this a thousand times. The familiarity of it unravels me more than any grand gesture could.

His free hand moves across the keyboard—click, drag, a flurry of shortcuts—before passing me headphones still warm from his skin. I catch the faint scent of his shampoo as he leans in to adjust the volume, his breath fanning across my temple. Then—play.

The first notes bloom soft and hesitant, piano keys pressed like a question. Layers build: the sigh of strings, a heartbeat rhythm, something that sounds like rain against studio glass. Then his voice—not the polished perfection of recordings, but the raw, sleep-rough version that exists only in these midnight hours. He hums where words fail, fills gaps with melodies that ache with unfinished honesty.

It wraps around me like a shared secret. Like being let inside a dream.

When I pull the headphones down, they catch on the rapid flutter in my throat. “Channie,” I whisper, the nickname slipping out unbidden. “This is… fuck, this is good.”

He’s already watching me, eyes dark with something perilously close to hope. “You liked it?”

“Liked it?” I twist in his lap. “I loved it.”

The grin that breaks across his face could power cities—all boyish delight and sudden sunshine. His hand splays across my stomach, anchoring me as if I might float away. “It’s nowhere near done,” he mutters automatically. “The bridge needs—"

“No.” My fingers find his jaw, turning him back to me. “It’s perfect. You’re perfect.”

The headphones fall silent, but the song lingers in the air between us. My blood hums with it. So does his.

His thumb draws lazy circles over the fabric of my shirt, slow and absentminded. The room feels warmer now. Denser. Like we’re standing on the edge of something unnamed, hearts tipped forward, waiting.

The chair creaks as I shift, my knee bumping the desk. His grip tightens reflexively—not restraining, just keeping—as the monitor lights carve shadows across his face. That damn lower lip caught between his teeth, the flutter of his lashes when my fingers brush his wrist.

I should leave. Let him work.

But then his hand rises, tucking a wayward strand of hair behind my ear. His fingertips linger, tracing the shell before skating down to the sensitive hollow beneath my jaw. The shiver that follows is beyond my control.

His breath hitches in answer, fingers flexing at my waist—not pulling me closer, not pushing away. Just holding on. Just staying.

The screen flickers, casting jagged blue shadows across the curve of his throat as the track stays paused mid-chorus. Neither of us moves to restart it—the song forgotten, the world narrowed to this: the solid warmth of his chest against my back, the way his breath hitches when my head tilts instinctively toward his shoulder.

He looks at me. Really looks. Like I’m the only thing his eyes know how to focus on, like the studio—the city outside, his precious music—has dissolved into static.

I feel it then, that electric hum building between us, live-wire and inevitable.

"You're distracting me." His voice is rough, frayed at the edges like he's been holding the words back for hours.

"I mean," I tease, but it comes out breathless, "you could use a break."

His thumb presses into the dip of my waist, a silent counterargument. "Is that so?"

I nod, too quick. He notices—of course he notices—his lips curving as he tracks the flush spreading down my neck.

"What do you suggest we do, then?" Controlled. Careful. But his gaze keeps dropping to my mouth, betraying him.

My throat tightens. Words pile up behind my teeth, half-formed and trembling.

He reads them anyway. "You're thinking about it," he murmurs. "Right now." Not guessing. Knowing.

My pulse thrums under his touch. “Maybe.”

“Maybe,” he echoes, voice dark with amusement. He leans in, nose brushing mine. “Tell me.”

I stay frozen. Barely breathing.

His thumb grazes my bottom lip, feather-light. “Use your words.”

“You’re—” I swallow hard. “You’re enjoying this.”

His smile is slow, devastating. "Yeah. I really am." His hand tilts my chin up, forcing eye contact. "So tell me. What do you need?"

My hands find his hoodie before I can second-guess myself. Fisting the fabric. Pulling.

Or maybe he moves first.

All I know is his mouth—hot and insistent, the groan vibrating against my lips as his fingers dig into my hips like he's trying to fuse us together. His hand tangles in my hair, angling me deeper as the kiss turns filthy, deliberate. Every slide of his tongue sparks liquid heat down my spine. When I whimper, he smiles against my mouth—just a quirk of lips, but it's enough. He heard that.

"God," he pants when we break apart, foreheads touching, "I've wanted to do that all week."

I can't speak. Can't think.

He kisses me again, softer this time. A promise. "Still distracting," he murmurs.

"Then stop pretending you mind."

And this time—he doesn’t.

The second kiss is all pent-up hunger—weeks of stolen glances and almost-touches poured into the way his teeth catch my lip, how his hands roam my back like he's relearning my shape. I fist his hoodie again, dragging him closer until there's no space left between us.

And I feel it in him too—the moment hesitation shatters. His touch turns bolder, palms skating up my ribs, thumbs brushing the underside of my breasts through my shirt.

I shift in his lap, turning slowly to face him fully—knees sliding to either side of his hips, thighs bracketing his. The movement presses our bodies together in a way that steals my breath, and I feel his hands slip to my hips, steadying me without thinking. His fingers flex once. Then again. Like he's memorizing the weight of me there.

"Fuck," he hisses when I roll my hips.

I don't look away as I reach for his hoodie. His eyes flare—surprise giving way to raw hunger—before he lifts his arms in surrender. The fabric catches on my headphones, the cord snagging around my neck, but neither of us cares.

Not when he's revealed like this: black tank top stretched taut over his shoulders, the muscles of his arms flexing as he grips my thighs. My palms slide down his biceps, tracing the ridges I've missed more than I'd admit.

He watches me look, his gaze heavy. "Better?"

I nod, thumbs brushing the neckline of his shirt, feeling his pulse hammer under my touch. "Much."

His fingers toy with the headphone cord still looped around my neck. “You planning to keep these on?”

"I forgot," I admit, flustered.

"Let me." He removes them gently, tossing them aside without breaking eye contact. His other hand stays anchored at my hip, thumb drawing slow circles that burn through my jeans.

Then his mouth is on mine again, hotter this time, his tongue sweeping in like he's chasing the taste of my laughter. His tank top is soft under my palms, but the body beneath is all hard lines and tension. I push the fabric up, needing skin—

He breaks the kiss with a gasp when my nails scrape his abs. "I thought you were working," I murmur against his jaw.

"I was." His teeth graze my earlobe. "Then you showed up."

I tilt my head back to give him more access. “You make it sound like an inconvenience.”

His laugh ruffles my hair as he nuzzles into my neck. "You're the opposite of that."

My fingers rake through his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan. "That night," I whisper, "it keeps replaying in my head."

His grip tightens. "Yeah?" His voice drops to that register that liquefies my bones. "You think about it too?"

"More than I should."

A beat. Then his hands slide under my shirt—not asking, not hesitating. “Then let’s stop pretending this is just some accidental drop-by.”

His lips crash into mine again—no patience left, no question remaining. Only the sharp creak of his studio chair protesting beneath us as he drags me closer, his hands desperate against my waist like he's been counting seconds since I first showed up in his doorway.

The kiss shifts—slower now, but devastatingly deliberate. Controlled in that way of his, all coiled restraint and simmering intent. As if now that we've crossed this line, he intends to map every inch of it with his mouth, savoring the way my breath hitches when his teeth graze my lower lip.

I feel it everywhere—in the rough pads of his fingers skating up my ribs, in the way his palms mold against my back like he's relearning my shape. Not just touching. Claiming. But always, always asking.

“What do you want, baby?” the words rumble against my mouth, warm with promise.

His voice thrums low—not a command, but an invitation woven in velvet and smoke.

My nails scrape lightly down his shoulders, delighting in the full-body shiver it wrings from him. "I think you already know."

He huffs a laugh, the sound vibrating through my chest where we're pressed together. "Say it anyway."

I trail my lips along his jaw, tasting salt and exhaustion. "I want you."

His grip on my waist goes vice-tight—like those three words just short-circuited his last shred of self-control.

“Then you’d better hang on.”

His hands slide up my back with agonizing precision, slipping under my shirt to brand my skin with his heat. I arch instinctively when his thumbs brush the underside of my breasts, the thin fabric of my bra doing nothing to mute the electric shock of contact.

“Can I?”

The question ghosts across my swollen lips as his fingers pause, trembling slightly against my flushed skin.

I lock eyes with him, my voice ragged. "If you don't, I might lose my mind.”

That pulls a rough chuckle from him—the kind that lives in the space between amusement and utter desperation. "Impatient?"

"No," I breathe, rolling my hips just to watch his pupils blow wider. "Just done pretending I came here for fucking Tim Tams."

The groan that tears from his throat is half-laughter, half-suffering as he lifts my shirt over my head, dragging it off with agonizing slowness. The air between us goes thick and charged, his gaze raking over me like I'm the last sip of water in a desert.

"Still the prettiest thing I've ever seen," he murmurs, calloused hands skimming down my sides like he's committing every curve to memory.

I let him look—let him feel the way my pulse jumps under his touch, the way my body leans in like a compass finding north. My own hands slip beneath his tank, rediscovering the familiar planes of his torso. "You're staring."

“I’ve earned the right,” he says simply, his voice gone gravel-rough.

A pleased hum vibrates in my throat. “You planning to keep me on edge like this all night?”

He tilts his head, eyes glinting with mischief and something darker. “Depends. You gonna ask nicely?”

My palm flattens against his chest, fingers splaying over his hammering heartbeat. “I’ve got better things to do with my mouth.”

His jaw flexes, and I know I’ve got him.

“Gonna be trouble tonight, aren’t you?”

“Only if you’re lucky.”

Something primal flashes in his eyes before he manhandles me closer, the sudden friction wringing a gasp from my lungs. “You tell me to stop, and I stop. You understand?”

“Yes,” I whisper—not submission, but surrender.

“Say it,” his voice drops to that register that liquefies my spine.

“I want this, Chan.”

And God, the way he reacts to that.

The kiss is rough, impatient—a clash of lips and teeth and pent-up longing. His fingers tangle in my hair, tilting my head back with a gentle urgency that sends sparks skittering down my spine. His breath is warm against my mouth, flavored with the faintest hint of mint and something darker, smokier.

“Jeans off.” The command is a grunt, barely more than a vibration against my lips, but it crackles through me like live wire.

I slip from his lap, my knees unsteady as I toe off my shoes and shimmy out of my jeans. The air is cool against my flushed skin, but his gaze is hotter—a slow, deliberate sweep from my bare thighs to the lace clinging to my hips, lingering where my nipples peak beneath the flimsy fabric.

“You really came here with an idea in mind.” His smirk is all wicked amusement, dimple flashing as he pats his thigh. “Come sit again.”

I roll my eyes but obey, settling back against him with a huff. His chest is solid against my back, his heartbeat a steady thrum beneath my shoulder blades. “Like you weren’t thinking the same thing the second I walked in,” I mutter, grinding down just to feel him shudder beneath me.

His breath hitches—a sharp, fractured sound—before his lips brush my ear. “Open.” The word is a whisper, a plea wrapped in velvet. His hand taps my thigh, but his own legs are already nudging mine apart, his cock a hard line against my ass.

“Always so fucking eager,” he murmurs, but his hands betray him, sliding up my sides with agonizing slowness. His fingers trace the lace of my bra like he’s memorizing every stitch, every flutter of my breath. “These need to go.”

The clasp gives way with a whisper, and then his palms are on me—warm, rough from rehearsals, perfect. He cups my breasts like they’re something holy, thumbs brushing my nipples in slow, maddening circles. A moan spills from my lips, unbidden, and his chuckle is dark, triumphant, as his mouth finds the curve of my neck.

“So fucking perfect.” His voice is a growl, low and reverent, as he kneads gently before pinching—just hard enough to make me gasp. “Love how responsive you are. How pretty you look when you fall apart for me.”

His teeth scrape my shoulder, a sharp contrast to the slow, deliberate drag of his hands across my skin—as if he’s committing every curve, every shudder, to memory. "Every sound you make is fucking perfect," he murmurs, his tongue flicking over the spot he just nipped. "Gonna ruin you just to hear how pretty you beg when you're desperate for me."

One hand slips lower, tracing the lace edge of my underwear with torturous patience, while the other stays busy—rolling a nipple between his fingers, tugging just enough to make my hips jerk. A whimper escapes me as I squirm in his lap, but he holds me still, his breath hot against my ear.

“Tell me.” His fingertips trace slow, taunting circles over the damp lace, teasing but never giving me what I need. “Tell me how bad you want it.”

I bite my lip, thighs trembling as his palm presses flat against me, the heat of him searing through the thin fabric—so close, but not enough. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you’re stalling.” His teeth graze my earlobe, his free hand pinning my hip down when I try to rock against him. “Use your words, sweetheart. Or do I need to tease it out of you?”

A frustrated groan tears from my throat as his thumb finally—finally—strokes along my clothed seam, once, twice, the touch achingly light. My nails dig into his thigh, but he tuts, catching my wrist and pressing it to my stomach.

“Hands here. Let me take care of you.”

He doesn’t rush, just traces idle, maddening patterns over my clit through the soaked lace, letting the friction build in slow, torturous waves.

“Chan—”

“Tell me,” he coaxes, his other hand wrapping around my throat—not squeezing, just holding. A reminder. “What do you need?”

I arch, my head falling back against his shoulder. “Your fingers. Now.”

He laughs, low and rough. “Uhm… say please?”

“Or,” I pant, “you could stop pretending you don’t want this just as badly and put them to use.”

His grip tightens—just a fraction—and his breath hitches against my neck. “Fuck, I love your mouth.”

“Then quit admiring it,” I gasp as his thumb presses harder, “and give me a reason to put it to work.”

A growl rumbles through his chest, but his fingers finally slip beneath the lace, stroking through slick heat. “You’re impossible,” he murmurs, though the crack in his voice betrays him.

“And yet,” I twist in his grasp, just enough to meet his eyes, “you’re the one who can’t keep his hands off me.”

His grip tightens on my throat—not cutting off air, just enough to make my pulse hammer against his palm. “Cheeky.” His lips brush my jaw, the words a dark hum. “You really think you’re calling the shots here, sweetheart?”

I open my mouth, but he silences me with two fingers pressing against my entrance—not pushing in, just teasing. “Try again.”

My breath hitches. “Make me.”

“Mm. Wrong answer.” His thumb grazes my clit, so light it’s agony, and I jerk against him. “You want my fingers? Ask. Nicely.”

I arch into his touch, gasping. “I don’t recall you needing an invitation.”

A pause. Then his laugh is rough, warmth bleeding into my skin as his forehead drops to my shoulder. “Fuck, you’re gonna ruin me.” His hips roll up, betraying his own desperation, but his fingers stay maddeningly still—until his teeth sink into my neck, sharp and claiming. “But I’m still the one who decides how this goes.”

His voice drops, velvet and threat. “Imagine how good it’ll feel when I finally let you come. My fingers fucking into you, my thumb right—” A fleeting stroke over my clit. “—here. Getting you ready for me. You’d take me so pretty, wouldn’t you? Let me feel every sweet pulse of you around me? I'd ruin you with how good I'd make it."

I rock against him, pleading without words. "Then do it."

This time, when he slides two fingers in, it’s with aching slowness, curling just there, his thumb circling my clit—too gentle, too much. I clench around him, overwhelmed, and his groan vibrates against my ear. “Always so tight. So perfect.” His teeth scrape my earlobe. “Gonna beg for me yet?”

“No.” The word trembles.

“No?” Amusement laces his voice. His thumb slows to a torturous glide, every pass sending shocks up my thighs. Just as the coil inside me tightens—he stops.

The sound I make is raw.

His grip flexes at my throat, controlling, as his fingers twist deep—one sharp drag—wringing out another moan. “Look at you, baby,” he murmurs, “all worked up over two fingers."

His thumb skims my clit once, twice, and my hips buck. “One word, love.”

I grit my teeth—but my body arches, traitorous, needing.

Chan’s chuckle is dark, knowing, vibrating through me like a struck chord. "Stubborn." His fingers withdraw with deliberate slowness, dragging through my slickness before pressing against my lips. His voice is rough, but there’s something beneath it—warmth, a thread of admiration tangled in the command. "Taste yourself. Then show me how you’d touch yourself if I weren’t here."

I don’t hesitate. His fingers slip into my mouth, and I keep my eyes locked on his, defiant, relishing the way his pupils swallow the dark brown of his irises. The taste of myself is salt-sweet, intoxicating, and I swirl my tongue around his fingers just to watch his jaw clench, his breath hitch. Good. Let him ache too.

A grunt escapes him as his free hand grips my hip, guiding me back onto my feet before steering me toward the couch. He drops into his chair, thighs spreading—a gesture that would earn an eye roll any other time, but now feels like pure provocation. "Go on," he murmurs, voice gravel-rough. "Let me watch."

A challenge. A dare.

His gaze burns as my fingers hook into the lace at my hips, thumbs tracing the delicate edge. I drag the fabric down inch by inch, letting the cool air kiss my skin, letting him see the way my thighs tremble—just slightly. The underwear catches at my knees, and I pause, biting my lip like I might reconsider.

A muscle jumps in his jaw. "Don’t fucking stop."

I exhale a laugh, shaky with anticipation, and step free of the lace, kicking it aside. His stare follows the movement like a brand, searing every exposed curve. The power of it coils low in my belly—the way his chest rises faster, the way his grip whitens on the arms of the chair. This is what control feels like: the weight of his want, the silent plea in the way he spreads his thighs wider.

“Happy?” I murmur, palming myself again, this time with nothing between us.

His voice is wrecked. “Getting there.”

My pulse thrums in my throat, part defiance, part thrill. If he wants a show, I’ll give him one. My hands trail down my body, fingertips skimming my ribs, the dip of my waist—teasing, just like he would. His nostrils flare when I finally brush my clit, my own gasp sharp in the quiet between us. The contact is electric, but it’s not enough, not after the way he wound me tight and left me trembling.

Chan’s fingers flex against his knees, knuckles whitening with restraint. "That’s it," he murmurs, gaze dark and unblinking. “Let me see how pretty you are when you fall apart.”

I bite my lip, arching into my own touch—but it’s hollow compared to the way he commands my body. My hips stutter, frustration coiling hotter.

He notices. Of course he does.

“Problem, love?” That voice, all honey and smoke, curls around me before I even see his smirk.

My breath hitches, sharp in my throat. “You’re distracting me.”

A laugh, low and knowing. “I’m not even touching you.”

“You’re watching.” And God, it’s worse. His gaze lingers like a touch, slow and deliberate, leaving me exposed.

Then he moves—fluid, effortless—caging me against the couch without laying a finger on me. The heat of him radiates through the sliver of air between us. “Admit it.” His breath fans over my lips. “You’d trade every stroke of your own fingers for one of mine.”

I bite my tongue. But my body betrays me, thighs pressing tight together, and his grin turns lethal.

“Beg.” His thumb grazes my lower lip, a whisper of pressure. “Just once. Let me hear it.”

My hands freeze, but his covers mine, guiding me back into rhythm with firm insistence. “Don’t stop yet.” His scent—cool mint and warm vanilla—floods my senses, his mouth hovering just shy of mine.

A heartbeat of hesitation. Pride wars with the ache between my thighs, crumbling under the weight of his stare.

“Please.” The word cracks, raw.

“That’s my girl.” Triumph flares in his eyes a second before his lips claim mine, swallowing my whimper as his fingers sink deep, curling just so. I moan into his mouth, back arching off the couch, but he doesn’t relent—his kiss is fevered, his touch unyielding, and when his thumb drags over my clit, the pressure is perfect.

“You’re close.” His voice is rough against my lips. “I can feel it. That desperate little clench—” A twist of his wrist. “You feel incredible like this—so tight, so eager.”

Then his fingers slip free, glistening, and before I can protest, he’s sliding down my body, breath scorching between my thighs. “But I want to taste you when you come.”

The first lick is slow—agonizing—drawing a broken sound from my throat. His hands anchor my hips as his tongue flicks over my clit, once, twice, teasing. “Fuck, even sweeter than I remembered,” he murmurs, teeth grazing my inner thigh.

“Chan—”

His name shatters into a gasp as his tongue swirls in slow, torturous circles. The couch dips under his weight, his grip firm but not restraining—steadying. Every flick is a promise, every suck a silent mine, until my legs tremble around his shoulders.

“That’s it,” he murmurs against me, the warmth of his breath sending another ripple of pleasure through my core. “Just like that. Let me feel you.”

And God, I do. His mouth is relentless, not in punishment but worship, broad strokes wringing whimpers from my lips. A hum of approval vibrates through me as he glances up, eyes dark.

“You’re shaking,” he whispers, lips glistening. “Gonna come just like this? Just from my mouth?”

Before I can answer, his fingers press inside, one deep, unhurried thrust. The stretch pulls a moan from my throat, but he doesn’t stop—just crooks them there, curling ruthlessly as his tongue circles my clit again.

The orgasm crashes without warning. A sob tears free as I arch off the couch, clenching around his fingers in helpless waves. He doesn’t pull away—gentles his touch instead, working me through it with slow, reverent strokes, lapping up every shudder until I’m limp beneath him.

“Perfect.” His lips brush my inner thigh, my hip, the flutter of my stomach. “So fucking perfect for me.”

When he finally sinks onto the couch and pulls me against his chest, his breathing is ragged, his skin scorching where we touch—proof, even now, that I unravel him too.

His arms lock around me, his clothed body a furnace against my bare skin. The hard line of his cock presses into my hip through his sweats, insistent, impatient. A shudder ripples through him when I shift, my fingers twisting into the fabric of his tank top.

“Still with me?” His voice is rough velvet, lips brushing my temple. The contradiction of him—hands tender as they smooth down my spine, like gentling something wild—makes my throat tighten.

I tilt my head back, meeting his gaze: dark, hungry. “You’re still dressed.” My voice is wrecked, but the challenge in it is clear.

His smirk is slow, deliberate. “Observant.” His palm spreads over the small of my back, pressing me flush against him until I can’t ignore the heat, the way his hips roll once—just once—against me. “You gonna do something about it?”

I don’t hesitate. My hands slip under his shirt, nails skimming the rigid planes of his stomach. He hisses, muscles jumping, but I don’t stop—pushing the fabric up until he growls and tears it off himself in one impatient motion.

The sight of him—bare, sweat-slicked, control fraying at the edges—sends a fresh throb of want between my thighs. My fingers dart toward the waistband of his sweats, but he catches my wrist, grip firm.

“Ah-ah.” His other hand fists in my hair, tilting my head back. “You don’t get to rush me.”

I arch into him, breath catching. “Then what do I get?”

His laugh is dark, delicious. “Everything. Just not yet.”

Then his mouth crashes into mine, hot and claiming, and I taste myself on his tongue—sinful, sweet. His hands roam, gripping my waist, palming my breasts, thumbs teasing my nipples until I whimper into his kiss.

When he pulls back, his eyes are black with need. “Up.” The word is ragged.

I don’t need explanation. Heart hammering, I rise onto my knees on the couch, bracing one hand against the backrest. His fingers dig into my hips as he drags me back against him, his cock a heavy, aching pressure against my ass.

“Tell me you want it,” he demands, teeth grazing my shoulder.

I exhale a shaky laugh. “You already know.”

“Say it.”

I twist to look at him over my shoulder, letting him see the raw want in my gaze. “Fuck me.”

His groan is filthy, broken. “Good girl.”

Then his sweats are shoved down just enough, his hands spread me open, and he’s pushing in—slow, so slow—until the stretch burns and I’m gasping, nails clawing into the couch.

“Fuck—you’re tight.” His voice is rough, strained, as he sheathes himself fully inside me with one sharp snap of his hips. “Gonna take every inch, yeah? Just like this?”

Words fail me. I can only nod, overwhelmed by the stretch of him, the way he fills me so completely it steals my breath.

Then he moves.

The first thrust is punishing—deep enough to blur my vision, to leave me gasping—but he stills abruptly, his body trembling against mine. “Fuck. Need a second.” His fingers dig into my hips, holding me in place, his breath hot and uneven against my neck. Like he’s fighting for control.

I whimper, clenching around him instinctively, and he curses under his breath. “You’re killing me.”

“Then stop being gentle,” I pant, pushing back against him.

A dark laugh rumbles through his chest. “Who said anything about gentle?”

But instead of giving me the rough pace I expect, he rolls his hips in a slow, deliberate circle, letting me feel every inch of him. His hand slides up my spine, fingers tangling in my hair to tilt my head back. “You just came,” he murmurs, lips brushing my ear. “Gonna make sure you feel everything this time.”

And then he starts moving—not fast, not frantic, but with deep, measured thrusts that burn through me like liquid fire. Each one drags just shy of brutal, his hips working with a precision that leaves me writhing. He adjusts my body slightly, tilting my hips up, and suddenly he’s deeper, the stretch bordering on unbearable.

“There.” His voice is raw, lips skimming my ear. “That’s how I remember you. Taking me so perfectly, like you were made for me.”

I arch back against him, nails biting into the couch, and let out a breathy laugh. “Someone’s greedy.”

His rhythm falters—just for a heartbeat—before his grip tightens on my hip, his next thrust slower, deeper. “Oh?” A challenge laces his tone. “Explain.”

“Mmm.” I clench around him, relishing the way his breath hitches. “The way you take what you want. Like you can’t get enough.”

A groan vibrates against my skin as he nips lightly at my shoulder. “And if I can’t?” His hand gentles in my hair, angling my face toward his. “Tell me to stop.”

A lie. A game. We both know I won’t.

“Never,” I whisper.

“That’s what I thought.” His free hand slides down, fingers circling my clit with just enough pressure to make my thighs shake. “But since you’re so observant…” His hips snap forward, punching the air from my lungs. “…let me show you just how greedy I can be.”

And then he does.

No more measured thrusts, no teasing restraint—just pure, relentless possession.

He drives into me with a rhythm that borders on brutal, each snap of his hips forcing me deeper into the couch, the slick, rhythmic sound of skin on skin filling the space between us. My gasp catches in my throat, fingers clawing at the backrest, but he doesn’t slow—doesn’t stop. One hand fists in my hair, arching my spine to his will, while the other grips my hip hard enough to leave marks, anchoring me exactly where he wants me.

"Fuck," I choke out, voice frayed at the edges. "Just like that—God—you feel so good."

A dark chuckle vibrates against my back. "Yeah? Tell me how much you like it."

"So deep," I pant, rocking back to meet him. "Love it when you take me like this—when you use me—"

His rhythm stutters for half a second, a rough groan tearing from his chest. "Christ, listen to you." His fingers dig harder, dragging me onto him with bruising force. "Dripping all over my cock like you’re made for it."

The sound of it—the filthy, wet slide of him inside me—sends heat licking through my veins. My breath hitches, and he notices, lips curling against my shoulder.

"Hearing it turns you on, doesn’t it?" He punctuates the question with a sharp thrust, wrenching a moan from my throat. "The way you sound? The way we sound?"

I can’t answer—not when he’s hitting there—but my body does, clenching around him in helpless, fluttering pulses.

"Knew it," he growls, teeth grazing my ear. "Every time our skin slaps together, every fucking noise you make—you get even wetter. Can feel it." His hand slides between my thighs, gathering slickness onto his fingers before dragging them up to my mouth. "Taste yourself. Taste what you do to me."

I suck his fingers in, moaning around them, and his hips jerk. "Fuck. Keep doing that, and I won’t last."

"Promises, promises," I taunt, breathless.

He laughs—low, dangerous—before hauling me upright against his chest, his arm a steel band around my waist. "Think you’re clever?" His mouth finds my pulse, teeth scraping. "Let’s see how smart you are when I’ve got you on your back."

The world tilts in a dizzying rush as he flips me onto my back, his grip unrelenting. The sweats and underwear still tangled around his thighs are shoved aside in one impatient motion, finally freeing him completely—and then he’s looming over me, all sweat-slicked muscle and dark, devouring eyes.

“Beg me to ruin you properly,” he rasps, voice rough as gravel.

I open my mouth—to taunt, to challenge—but the words dissolve into a gasp as his hands hook under my knees, yanking me toward him with a single, brutal tug. My calves hit his shoulders, hips lifting off the couch, and then he’s there, the thick head of his cock pressing against me with deliberate, taunting pressure.

“Oh—!” The sound punches out of me before I can stop it, my back arching.

He doesn’t give me time to adjust. One sharp thrust, and he’s buried to the hilt, deeper than before, the angle ruthless. The air rushes from my lungs in a broken moan, my nails scrabbling at the cushions as my vision whites out for a heartbeat.

“Fuck,” he grits out, his own breath ragged. “Look at you—spread open, taking me just like this.” He pulls out almost completely, then slams back in, the force driving a cry from my lips. “Gonna ruin you so good, you’ll feel it for days.”

Every drag of him is a live wire, every snap of his hips stealing my breath. I’m pinned, helpless, my thighs trembling where they bracket his shoulders, my moans loud and unchecked.

“That’s it,” he growls, leaning forward to cage me in, his mouth hovering over mine. “Let me hear how much you love it.”

And God help me—I do.

He lowers himself, balancing his weight on his forearms, and the shift makes my legs rise higher, the new angle bordering on too much—too deep, too intense. A whimper escapes me, and he stills, his voice a ragged whisper.

“Touch yourself for me.”

I don’t hesitate. My fingers slide between us, circling my clit in frantic, desperate strokes. His gaze drops to watch, his pupils swallowing every bit of light, and for a heartbeat, he’s utterly still—just the ragged rise and fall of his chest betraying him.

Then he loses it.

His thrusts turn punishing, deep and fast and hard, the slap of skin echoing in the room. I arch beneath him, my voice breaking around his name.

“Chris—”

His rhythm falters. A groan tears from his throat, his hips jerking like I’ve struck him. “Fuck. Say it again.”

“Chris,” I gasp, and he curses, his mouth crashing down to my breast—nipping, sucking, teeth scraping my nipple until I cry out. The dual sensation of him fucking into me and the sharp, sweet pain pushes me higher, my thighs trembling where they’re hooked over his shoulders.

“Come with me,” he demands.

And I do, shattering around him as he follows me over the edge.

The air hangs thick between us, charged with the aftermath. Chan stays buried inside me, forehead pressed to my shoulder, his breaths ragged and warm against my sweat-slick skin. His hands slide down my thighs—gentle now, almost reverent—as he lowers my legs from his shoulders, fingers tracing the curve of my calves like he’s memorizing the shape of me.

I wince when my knees protest, and he stills. "Hurts?" His voice is rough, but his touch is featherlight.

"Worth it," I murmur, brushing damp hair from his brow. He turns into my palm, lips grazing the center, and something in my chest tightens.

When he pulls out, it’s with a low groan, collapsing beside me and dragging me half onto his chest. The studio is a wreck—his hoodie tangled with my top near the mic stand, the armchair shoved out of place from when he’d yanked me toward him earlier. My fingers drift over his sternum, catching on the chain around his neck as his heartbeat slows beneath my touch.

"You’re quiet," he says after a while, thumb brushing my hip.

I tilt my head to meet his gaze. "So are you."

A smirk tugs at his mouth. "Recovering." His hand slides up my spine, possessive even now. "You wrecked me, love."

The endearment slips out like it belongs there, and neither of us acknowledge it. Instead, I nod toward the forgotten Tim Tams on the counter. "Still hungry?"

He laughs, warm and surprised, like he’d forgotten. "Fuck yeah." But he doesn’t move, arms tightening around me instead. "Later."

His fingers trace idle patterns along my arm, mapping constellations only he knows. For the first time tonight, there’s no urgency—just the distant hum of the city and the weight of his silence, heavy with words neither of us will say.

Eventually, he reaches for his sweats, pulling them on with a grunt before crossing the room in two strides. He grabs the paper bag I’d brought earlier, returning with Tim Tams and a water bottle pressed into my hands.

"You’re spoiling me," I tease, cracking open the package.

His lips brush my shoulder. "Taste."

I break a cookie in half, offering him the other piece. He takes it, but his eyes stay locked on mine as he chews—slow, deliberate. "Missed this," he admits, voice so soft I almost miss it.

The chocolate melts on my tongue, too sweet. He watches me swallow like it’s the most fascinating thing he’s seen all night, thumb swiping a crumb from my lower lip. When he kisses me, I taste it—sugar and us and something dangerously close to longing.

He tugs me closer, my back against his chest, my head on his shoulder. His fingers trace slower now, heavier with fatigue. The chocolate lingers on his lips when they press to my temple, but it’s the warmth of him that lulls me—the steady rise and fall of his breath syncing with mine.

I don’t remember closing my eyes.

When I blink awake, the studio is bathed in the blue glow of his laptop screen. Chan’s back at his desk, headphones on, one hand scrolling through waveforms while the other taps rhythmlessly against his thigh. The sight is so ordinary, so him, that my chest aches with something tender.

I smile into the blanket—the same thin, scratchy one he keeps under the desk for nights when the city noise keeps him working till dawn. It smells like laundry soap and him, and for a wild second, I consider tugging him back to the couch.

His chair creaks as he shifts, and for a heartbeat, I think he’s noticed I’m awake. His fingers pause mid-adjustment, hovering over the dial. But the track needs fixing, and after a second, he dives back in—though his foot taps restlessly against the chair leg.

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satoblue · 3 months ago

Text

“A FOOL” — gojo satoru

prank gone… right? | wc: 0.8k

f!reader, established relationship (you are dating), a little angsty but there’s a happy ending i swear, satoru needs to find better jokes, may or may not be your not so typical proposal, he has the worst comedic timing (or timing in general) | dividers made by me

“i think we should break up.”

you turn your head to face him so fast that satoru could almost feel the whiplash you got from the action himself.

“what?”, you ask, genuine confusion written over your features.

he has to stifle a laugh.

this was always the fun part — the confusion. and little did you know what he had up his sleeve. he’s never made a joke to this extent before, but knowing what he has planned, he’s sure you’d have mercy on him this time.

folding his arms over his chest, he leans back on the couch. satoru shuts his eyes, tilting his head with a smirk. “you heard me. i think we should stop dating.”

this is the part where he should’ve stopped right away, noting how quiet it is — too quiet for comfort. as if the warmth within you was snuffed out.

when you speak up with a low “why..?”, so soft like a mouse that satoru could not pick up on the shakiness of your breath, he turns to you, leaning in with a close eyed smile.

“because… we should get married! april fools!”

his voice echoes throughout the room until it falls into dead silence. lips stuck in a grin, he waits for a reaction.

. . . nothing. eh?

when his eyes flutter open, it doesn’t take long for his smile to falter.

there you were, sitting in front of him with a frown, brows knit together and glassy eyed, a tear about to shed any second and run down your cheek.

not on his watch.

“oh, baby. no no no, d-don’t cry! it was just a prank.”

“that’s not funny…”, you sniffle, rubbing at your face and sockets with your fists to fight the onslaught of tears.

his eyes soften, lips downturned, the amusement of the situation gone. he forgets about the somewhat proposal entirely, only focused on you and your disheartened eyes as you cry.

“i know… and please don’t rub your face like that.” he whispers, as if to afraid to speak higher lest you shatter like delicate glass. “you’ll hurt yourself, my love.”

gently pulling your hands away by your wrists, both of his go to cup your wet cheeks, his touch warm and comforting as he wipes away the result of his foolishness.

how could he fix this? he almost broke your heart entirely, even though a small part of him is delighted at how much love you hold for him that you’d have a reaction like this instantaneously — now is not the time to gloat.

“i am a fool…”

“you are.” you pout up at him.

the clenching of his heart releases at the sight of you acting so cute, and he feels something inside his chest flutter. with a small smile, he apologizes.

“i’m sorry...”

he is a fool. a complete and utter fool — your fool. and you were stuck with him and his stupid pranks for infinity because it is ridiculous to think he’d ever leave you. never has the thought crossed his mind — and you weren’t allowed to walk out on him either. like he said, it will always be him in your life.

the both of you sit like that for a few more seconds, staring into each other’s eyes, enjoying the shared company and fleeting touches as satoru tucks your hair behind you ears after the tense moment.

“can i just say something..?”, you speak up.

with furrowed brows, he gives a concerned nod. “yes, of course.”

you grin, the picture perfect definition of the devil incarnate.

“april fools, satoru...”, and your boyfriend feels shivers run down his spine.

silence.

and then another beat of silence.

it takes a while to register in his head. but then, with a hand over his heart, a sound rings out from his mouth, a squawk — one of absolute betrayal and disbelief.

he stares down at your evil smirk with wide, blue eyes as you clean off the residual salty tears with the back of your hand.

the tables have turned, and you have bested him at his own game. but he expects nothing less from the (maybe — if you are not mad at him) future mrs. gojo.

extra:

“you’re so cruel! what happened to my sweet and innocent angel?”

“what can i say? i was tired of being pranked all the time that i turned evil.”

satoru pouts.

“i hope this is a lesson learned to not mess with your queen, joker.”

he sighs, “yeah, you’re right.”

“i know.” you huff proudly. “also, baby, april fools day isn’t today — it was yesterday.”

“…”

“might want to buy a calendar before a ring so you don’t mix up our wedding date too.”

he blinks, suddenly remembering his semi-proposal. “wait, so is that a yes?!”

p.s. — last minute, you thought to say april fools to make it seem like you had the upper hand the whole time because there is no way you’ll ever let satoru know you genuinely cried over this. oh, to be gullible… but now, satoru will never mess with the true master of him, his home, and this day ever again. you won.

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cheapshrimpysheep · 3 months ago

Text

Dating in a Dream - Rook Hunt

SUMMARY: What would his dream be like, exactly the same as in the original story, but with the small detail that he is dreaming that you two are dating?

CHARACTERS: Rook Hunt x Reader 🏹🦐

TAGS: Fluff; GN Reader; In a Relationship (kinda)

WARNING: Spoilers from Book 7 and Rook’s dream (Eng Server)

WORD COUNT: 2.270 words

COMMENTS: This was written as a companion piece to the original dream story, so the parts that are the same as the game are just summarized.

I hope you enjoy 🏹

Dating in a Dream: Idia / Epel / (Rook) / Vil / Kalim / Jamil / Floyd / Jade / Azul / ...

“Aether signal tracking successful.” Ortho says when you land in the new dream, along with Grim, Silver, Sebek and Epel. “We have arrived at the designated coordinates.”

After Silver checks if Epel is feeling okay after the trip from one dream to another, you all realize that you are in the Savanaclaw dorm. Which makes you wonder if you are in a Savanaclaw student's dream.

“AH! Mon amour!” You hear a familiar voice say.

You look and see Rook already by your side. One of his hands holds your waist to bring you closer to him, while the other holds your hand to kiss the back of it. But that wasn't the Rook you knew, he was wearing the Savanaclaw uniform, had freckles and messy hair tied in a ponytail under what looked like a cowboy style hat. You see the dreamer's bird flying over him.

“Any vision of you is a merveilleuse one! To what do I owe your and your friends' visit today?”

“ROOK?!” Epel says in disbelief, but then focuses on something else. “Wait... Doesn't ‘mon amour’ mean ‘my love’?”

“I have a bad and cringy feeling about this.” Idia's voice comments through the tablet.

“You're Epel Felmier, a Pomefiore freshman, I believe?” Rook says without taking his hands off you. “And you're in the Spelldrive Club, if I recall... Are you here to visit our housewarden Leona?”

“Can’t you have a conversation without clingin’ to my hench-human?” Grim complains and jumps into your arms to separate Rook from you.

“Hehehehe. I see I haven't been approved by you yet, Grim.” Rook says amusedly. “Very well, it seems that the journey to prove myself to you and have your blessing continues. Until then, a forbidden love this shall be. He he. Comme c'est excitant!”

“LO- Ugh! Why're you in Savanaclaw Dorm uniform anyway?!” Grim asks. “Your hair's all scraggly, and you've got stray leaves on your clothes... Vil would throw a fit if he saw you like that!”

“Vil?” Rook asks in astonishment. “You mean Vil Schoenheit, the actor?”

You all discover that, in this dream of Rook's, Vil does not study at Night Raven College, but instead at Royal Sword Academy. And he and Neige are like best friends. Rook, extremely excited, starts telling a lot of things about Vil and Neige to the point of quoting an interview with the two of them in full. Until he suddenly says something much louder than usual.

“Would you stop yelling?” Sebek says. “You startled me!”

“Oh, pardon me. I got rather carried away there... I just have so few people in Savanaclaw I can discuss Vil, Neige, and film in general with. Which also makes it a blessing to have someone like (Y/N) by my side.”

“What do you mean?” you ask.

“Oh mon cher, you are as big a fan of Vil and Neige as I am. No one can match my adoration like you.”

“Thank you, Rook Hunt, this was fascinating.” Ortho says. “I'd actually like to learn more about them...”

“Truly?! Why, I would be delighted!”

The others show their discontent to Ortho, but he explains that the more they understand the differences between this dream world and the real one, the easier it will be for them to find a way to wake Rook.

Excited to tell them more about Vil and Neige, Rook suddenly runs into the Savanaclaw building. You and the others run after him because you can't get too far away from the dreamer. You run to the closed door of his room where you hear a commotion inside.

“How is it taking so long to fetch one magazine?” Sebek questions.

“D-don't worry, I'll be right out!” Rook responds trying to hide his concern. “Don't open that door, whatever you do!”

“Mrr! I'm hearin' weird noises comin' from inside.” Grim says.

“Apologies for the wait! I found more things I positively need to show you... Whoa!”

Fearing that Rook might be under attack by the darkness and ignoring his pleas for them not to enter, they break down the door and enter Rook's room. To find a room completely filled with Neige merch on one half of the room and Vil merch on the other half.

Rook laughs in a strange, almost threatening way and says that since they had seen his room they could no longer leave... without joining him in reverently watching DVDs of his favorite actors! So he forces everyone to sit with him to do it. And of course he makes you sit right next to him.

He made you all watch those DVDs for FIVE HOURS!

“The fact that they played arch-enemies just made those final smiles so... so... beauté!”

“Mrah... After marathoning all those movies and stage plays, I'm exhausted.” Grim says in a sigh.

Ortho thanks Rook for all that information and says that it is already very late and that everyone should go back to their respective dorms and get some sleep. Before they leave, Epel asks Rook about the SDC and he replies that Vil and Neige sang together and he just watched.

“We can have another watch party whenever you like. Perhaps we can put that show on next time. Bon nuit, everyone!”

As you all left Rook’s room one by one, you stayed behind to be the last to leave. Maybe you even did it on purpose to see if Rook would do something. And he did.

As soon as Epel leaves and you are about to leave next, Rook suddenly appears in front of you to casually close the door behind Epel.

“I wonder what I did wrong to receive such cold treatment from you, mon cher.” He tells you with a theatrically brokenhearted look. “I understand not getting a bisou de bonjour with so many people around you. But not even a small, discreet bisou d'adieu?”

He gets closer to you and caresses your cheek, looking you sadly in the eyes. Seeing that you don't back away from his touch, he continues.

“Oh, where did I go wrong? What mistake could I have made to receive such a cruel sentence as deprivation of your touch? Is it my bail conquer your love all over again?” He brings his face closer to yours with a seductive smile, and he sees that you don't move away, quite the opposite. “Or should I continue to claim innocence?”

“(Y/N)!” Grim shouts from the other side of the door. “What are you still doing in there?”

“Did something happen?” Silver asked.

“Stop wasting time human!” Sebek complains. “We all must go for now.”

Rook moves away from you.

“Ah... My diligent jailers. You must go with them so that their worries will cease. But I see that you are in good and capable hands.” He takes one of your hands and kisses the back of it before opening the door for you like a gentleman.

And if you thought about taking advantage of that moment to kiss him, you realized that he seemed to be... enjoying his... “punishment”. So you decided to save that possible kiss for later.

Outside Savanaclaw's dorm it was already night and you and the others talked about Rook's dream and how you could wake him up. Epel has the idea of recreating SDC's performance because it was the crucial moment that the darkness was trying to make him forget. Make him remember that Vil actually despises Neige to the point of doing what he did and Rook's betrayal. You, Epel and Grim taught Silver, Sebek and Ortho the dance steps of the choreography of Absolutely Beautiful so you could take the places of the remaining members of the original group.

The next day, you were the one tasked with getting Rook to go to the Coliseum. You sent him a message to meet you in front of it.

The time you had set was approaching, but you couldn't see Rook. He must have been getting ready to surprise you. You looked around as if you really believed you would be able to see him in time. Suddenly you feel a kiss on your cheek. You look, but you don't see anyone. You look back to the other side where he is right there next to you with a smile.

“Greetings and bonjour, mon cher. I'm here as you requested. What can I do for you?”

“I’d like to show you something.” you say.

“Show me something?” Rook smiles. “Coming from you, I wonder with excitement what that might be.”

You take him inside the Coliseum so he can see the replica of the SDC stage up close. You go up on stage to dance with the others and Rook starts to get emotional because a part of him starts to remember that day. The dream begins to distort as if Rook were to wake up, but at that moment two darkness figures appear: Vil and Neige, both in RSA uniforms.

As if it were a real performance, the two of them take the stage after your group and start singing together, which moves Rook again, but in a way that makes him go back into his dream world.

Epel is angered by this and gives Rook a speech about what really happened that day and who they both know Vil really is. His Roi du Poison, their queen is way, way, WAY more poisonous and beautiful! And if he really believes that cheap copy comes even close to the real Vil, and he choosing him over the real one, that makes him more of a traitor right now that he was when he cast that vote for Royal Sword Academy!

And this is what makes the dreams shatter and Rook wake up.

Darkness Vil and Neige try to convince him to back down and accept singing with them, but Rook responds by preparing his bow and pointing an arrow in the direction of the two fake figures. Darkness Vil stands in front of Darkness Neige to protect him.

“What noble friendship you share...” Rook says with tears in his eyes. “And yet that very harmony is proof of my terrible betrayal!”

Rook and the others fight the fake figures and make them melt into darkness.

“Oh, dear pommette! To think I would be woken from my slumber by one bearing a poison that can put anyone to sleep.” Rook hugs Epel so tightly that he gasps for air. “Apologies...” he sobs “Oh, pommette, I can only beg you to forgive my betrayal.”

Epel tells him that he doesn't need to cry, but when he offers him a handkerchief, he realizes that he doesn't have one with him and the two comment on how Vil was right in telling him to carry one. The others talk about their own struggles in their respective dreams so that Rook knows that he wasn't the only one who forgot important things, that this was how those dreams worked to trap them.

“Merci! Oh, merci beaucoup! I cannot thank all of you enough. But there is one of you to whom I owe more than thanks, I owe an apology.” He walks up to you with an embarrassed and regretful face, and he kneels in front of you. “(Y/N), I'm so sorry for causing you so much discomfort. I never hid my love for you, so this part shouldn't have come as a surprise to you, but I can only hope that my behavior has not crossed any boundaries of yours. Please, forgive my shameless audacity. Whatever I can do to be worthy of your forgiveness, please tell me. I will do anything to redeem myself and have a fraction of your trust again.”

He was being so dramatic and still had tears in his eyes that it looked like he was trying to save himself from a death sentence for a horrible and unforgivable offense. The thing is... you like him too... and this was your chance to reciprocate the feeling.

Luckily for you, a simple, almost imperceptible smile from the corner of your mouth is enough for Rook to understand everything.

“Unless...” He stands up and looks you in the eyes with a smirk. “In truth, you enjoyed the experience of having me as your lover.”

You don't need to say anything. Your smile, whatever kind it is, is more than enough for him to understand perfectly. He holds one of your hands. That's how he saw, from the glove he was wearing, that he was still wearing Savanaclaw's uniform.

“In that case,” In the snap of a finger, Rook was back in his Pomefiore uniform and signature bob-cut. “Should we make it real?” he kisses the back of your hand. “Would you be so generous as to make my dream come true, my dear trickster?”

If you try to kiss him, he will stop you with a finger on your lips.

“Non, not yet.” he says despite the pity in his voice. The finger that interrupted your kiss slides to caress your cheek. “As much as I long to discover the wonderful feeling of your lips on mine, this must be something to be discovered in reality, not in a dream. I will wait impatiently for that moment. But sometimes it is this agony of waiting that makes everything so much more special... and intense.”

“ARE YOU DONE OR NOT?!” Grim complained. “Hurry up, we have another dream to go to!”

When you return to the real world, no matter what the state of Twisted Wonderland, Rook will find a way to lure you to a secluded place to finally taste your kiss.

If you would like to read more from me, you can find it in my pinned post: INDEX

#Twisted Wonderland #twst #twisted wonderland x reader #twst x reader #twst imagines #twst fluff #Twisted Wonderland Fluff #Rook Hunt #Rook Hunt x Reader #pomefiore #Dating in a Dream #rook x reader

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rafecameronssl4t · 4 months ago

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Just like his dad || dad!Rafe Cameron x fem!reader

Summary: inspired by this tiktok!!

Wc: 613

Warnings: boob obsessed Rafe hehehhehe

A/n: oh hey guys…. I’ve been here but just took a little break and worked on my other blog @bennyboyfics !!!

MASTERLIST (dad!Rafe au masterlist)

“Look who finally decided to show up,” Topper grins, lifting his glass as Rafe turns his head at the sound of his voice. You approach the table, adjusting your grip on your 1 year old old son, Ralph, who’s nestled in your arms, his tiny fingers curled around the fabric of your dress. His cheeks are rosy from the afternoon sun, and his curious blue eyes scan the table before settling on his father.

“Sorry, traffic was insane,” you sigh, pushing your sunglasses up to rest on your head. The heat lingers on your skin, but the sight of Rafe immediately softens the tension in your shoulders. Rafe is already rising from his seat, effortlessly reaching for your handbag and setting it on the table before leaning in to press a lingering kiss to your forehead. His hand finds the back of your chair, pulling it out smoothly as he waits for you to sit.

“I already ordered your favourite,” he murmurs, his voice laced with familiarity, his lips quirking into a small smile as he watches you settle in. Your eyes flicker with appreciation, and in response, you reach for his jaw, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek. The stubble there scratches lightly against your lips, and before you can fully pull away, Ralph wriggles in your arms, his hands reaching for his dad.

“Hey, buddy,” Rafe chuckles, easily lifting him onto his lap, his large hands securing the little boy against his chest. Ralph babbles in excitement, gripping onto Rafe’s shirt with tiny fists as Topper leans in, smirking. “Man, he really is your twin,” Topper marvels, running a hand through Ralph’s soft blond hair, which sticks up slightly in the humidity.

Rafe glances down at his son, a look of pride flashing across his face as he watches him curiously take in his surroundings. “Yeah,” he hums, pressing a kiss to the top of Ralph’s head. “Poor kid’s already got my bad habits.” You roll your eyes, nudging Rafe’s knee under the table. “Let’s hope he gets more of my patience, then.” Topper barks out a laugh, shaking his head as Ralph lets out a delighted giggle.

As lunch winds down, you grab your handbag, slipping the strap over your shoulder while adjusting Ralph in your arms. His weight is familiar, comforting even, as he nestles against you, his little fingers toying with the fabric of your dress. “I’m sorry, I have to go, baby,” you tell Rafe, your voice tinged with apology as you brush a stray curl from Ralph’s forehead. “I promised Sarah she could look after him today.”

Rafe nods, reaching for your free hand, his thumb absentmindedly brushing over your wedding ring. The simple touch makes warmth bloom in your chest. “That’s fine,” he murmurs, still twirling the band on your finger. “I’ll be home just after three—” But before he can finish, you feel a sudden, familiar tug—Ralph’s tiny hand sneaking under the neckline of your dress. Your eyes widen in shock as you quickly shift him, but not before Rafe catches sight of his son’s wandering hand.

“Ralph!” you gasp, gently moving his chubby fingers away as he bursts into giggles, completely unbothered. Topper, who had been sipping the last of his drink, nearly chokes as he erupts into laughter, shaking his head. Rafe, on the other hand, simply smirks, tilting his head at you with amusement dancing in his blue eyes. “Like father, like son, huh?” he teases, his smirk deepening when you give him a look of disbelief, though the smile tugging at your lips betrays you.

“Unbelievable,” you mutter, shaking your head before leaning in to give him one final kiss. His lips linger against yours just a second longer than necessary, as if he’s reluctant to let you go. “I’m leaving,” you announce, shifting Ralph on your hip as you turn away. But as you walk off, you can still hear Topper laughing behind you, his cackling voice carrying over the chatter of the restaurant.

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tojisun · 2 years ago

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!! smut - minors dni; this is fuckin nastyy so look away or smthn; breeding kink :’3

mmm but simon not realizing he has breeding kink until someone brings it up

they’re out in a bar, chatting quietly even amidst the sheer volume of the weekend crowd, before johnny snorts and bumps his shoulders to simon’s in a teasing manner.

“especially LT,” johnny says, scottish accent even thicker now that he’s intoxicated. “he probably can’t wait to see his bonnie lass swollen with his kids. would probably retire jus’ for the very reason of makin’ her a momma.”

john snorts at johnny’s slurred words while kyle chokes on his drink, coughing quietly, almost politely, until john takes pity on the kid and smacks his back with measured thumps. johnny laughs, loud guffaws blending well with the buzz in the bar, but it’s not like simon noticed.

how could he focus when his mind’s feeding him images of the way you’d look heavy with a babe? or how he’d make it so that you are?

the way he’d fuck you until it takes; your pussy leaking and gaping and full of his cum. the way he’d keep you on his bed for hours, make a routine out of it until he’s repeating it for many days because he wouldn’t risk the chances. then, he can’t stop thinking about the way your body would change, building fat to cushion your belly, your sharp edges turning into soft and pudgy corners. the way you’d be so sensitive, so dependent on him.

fuck.

simon gets yanked back into the reality when he hears john chuckle, low rumbles of disbelief spilling from the puffs of his laughter. simon’s eyes flick up towards his captain and all john does is give him a pointed stare, his eyes crinkled in a surprised delight, before the older man tips his drink into his lips and finishes his bourbon.

simon’s fist closes around his glass of whiskey, and he tries his best to ignore the growing tightness of his jeans.

he can’t wait to file for a vacation leave.

#edited #suns.hc #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley smut #simon ghost riley #female reader #yk that prev post when i said i was ovulating and i said i want his kids? …yea #suns

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ebodebo · 4 months ago

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minors beware!

shameless smut w simon in... (age-gap shit also)

three…

two…

one…

“Too old for you,” Simon remarks as you approach him, mask hiked above his nose. He takes a swig of his bourbon, his disinterest evident.

"So you’ve said," you reply, rolling your eyes slightly before grinning and settling into the stool next to him at the empty bar.

He stares intently at the television in front of him, locked onto a local news channel.

But it’s clear he’s not watching to catch the latest on the new pizza place opening this Sunday or to hear the heartwarming story of the little boy who saved his dog from choking.

It was to avoid you.

"I know you're avoiding me, Simon," you simply say, eyes glazing over his hands that twitch slightly around his cold glass.

"What gave it away?" His tone is dry.

It would have made you run with your tail between your legs at his apparent disinterest if you didn’t know he was interested in you.

Even if he's pretending not to be.

You remember how hard he had gotten when you'd barely even touched him, manicured nails running across his shirt to get a piece of fuzz off, about had him bursting through his cargo pants.

Or when he practically whimpered your name to get him to come.

His issue lies more within himself.

More specifically, his age.

Thinks you should be with someone more your age and not some 'old brute' such as himself.

He basically lectured you all while he was on the verge of release while you were bouncing on his cock.

You laughed in his face.

He came hard.

After that, he left, leaving a note about how he thought it'd be best for you two to stop seeing each other so you could find someone more...what did he say?

"Age-appropriate."

You rolled your eyes at the note because you couldn't care less about how old he was.

You just wanted him.

And so, by God, you'll have him.

"Funny," you remark with a sarcastic tone, narrowing your eyes at his avoidance of eye contact.

He takes another swig of his drink, eyes still laser focused on the news station.

“Why won’t you look at me?” You ask, your frustration growing with each passing moment.

“Afraid you’ll claw my eyes out,” he says in a casual tone.

“I wouldn’t claw your eyes out,” you say matter-of-factly, resting your chin in your palm. “I’d do something more practical like…” You let your eyes scan the bar before lighting up as you spot a metal shaker.

Your eyes move to face him. “…hit the side of your head with that metal shaker,” you tip your head to the shaker behind the bar.

You’re sure you see his eyes crinkle from laughter.

"Ah, very practical," he says with a hint of humor.

"I told you so," you reply with a smile, chuckling at the sheer absurdity of it all.

Simon lets out a gravelly laugh, clearly amused by your delight.

This entire situation is utterly ridiculous, and you both know it.

Yet, instead of feeling uncomfortable, you find it all downright hilarious.

"Simon," you manage to say between fits of laughter, your fingers reaching up to wipe a tear of joy from your cheek.

"Mhm," he responds, briefly glancing at you before returning his attention to the television.

"I want you to fuck me," you say earnestly, shifting from playful to serious in an instant.

Your expression remains straight-faced.

Simon's head snaps around to meet your gaze, his eyes widening in disbelief.

"What?" He replies, his tone straddling the line between astonishment and intrigue.

You narrow your eyes. "You heard me."

His eyes stay fixed on yours, his lip quipping a bit.

"You want me to fuck you?" His voice is low and grumbly, almost arrogant.

"Wouldn't be the first time," you remark, teeth coming out to chew on your bottom lip.

He carefully assesses you for a moment, eyes lazily moving to watch your teeth chew on your lip. "I'm old," he lazily says.

As if that was supposed to deter you.

"And?" You prompt, hand coming to skim his knee over his cargo pants.

He lets out a ragged breath, fingers tightening around his glass of bourbon.

"Better be careful, sweetheart," he mutters through his tight throat.

Your hand moves up to brush against his thigh. "Why's that?"

"You're gonna start somethin' you can't finish," his eyes lock onto yours, dark and desperate.

You lean in closer, your tongue flicking out to moisten your lips, leaving a glistening sheen behind.

"Who says I can’t finish?" You tease, your hand inching nearer where Simon aches.

His breath is unsteady, and his pupils are dilated.

"You should know," you begin, wet lips hovering only inches away from his ear. "I always finish."

And that was it.

The straw that broke the camel's back.

Simon’s undoing, if you will.

His hands moved faster than you could speak as he grasped your wrist, throwing a twenty on the counter before leading you out of the bar and into the parking lot toward his truck waiting nearby.

He opened the passenger door, urging you to get in while he hurried to the driver’s side. With an impatient tug, he yanked the door open and slid into the seat.

“Take your pants off,” he mumbles as he throws the truck into gear to peel out of the parking lot.

“Where are we going?” You ask, your voice brimming with excitement rather than nervousness, as you eagerly slide your pants down and let them drop to the mat on the floor.

“You want me to fuck you,” his voice is gruff as he white knuckles the steering wheel seeing you in your pretty lace panties, easing towards a nearby empty lot. “I’ll fuck you.”

Oh, shit.

Your eyes widen at his straightforwardness, but it’s not from fear; it’s pure desire.

A flutter spreads in your stomach, and heat washes over your body.

“Come here,” he murmurs, shifting his seat back slightly to make room for you.

Without a word, you swing your legs over the middle console to straddle him as your hands reach his shoulders.

"You wear these for me?" He mutters as he snaps the elastic band of your panties back onto your sensitive skin, lips coming to skim against your shoulder blade.

You release a small moan at the sensation, fingers gliding through his hair with ease, a sense of familiarity within the touch. "Yeah," your voice is breathy as your eyes bore into his, awaiting his approval.

"Still so good for me," he breathes against your skin, scooting himself impossibly closer to you.

You can feel him straining through his cargo pants.

Your fingers fumbled from his hair to delicately unzip his zipper, slipping his pants and boxers down to reveal his, as you expected, very erect cock, already leaking pre-come.

"So wet, sweetheart," he gruffs as his finger trails to gently push aside your soaked panties.

Your body jerks forward at the feeling of his rough, cold finger spreading you to accommodate his cock.

"Grab my shoulders," he advises, as he brushes the head against your aching clit before pushing himself into you, your cunt swallowing him whole.

You let out a deep moan at the feeling of him in you while he rips his mask off before leaning forward and capturing your lips in a rough, deep kiss.

His fingers find your waist, digging deep into the fat as he helps you find a good pace.

You're losing your mind, already feeling euphoric.

His grunts merge with your whines, slipping out of both your mouths, sloppily swapping spit and nips from your teeth.

You grip his shoulders tighter as you speed up your pace, grinding and bouncing on him with intention, trying to get the knot in your stomach to finally unravel.

He can't even think straight; all his words are reduced to guttural grunts or quiet curses spilling for his tongue and into your mouth.

"I could be your father," he hisses, a hint of disgust creeping into his voice just as he's about to come.

You don't even focus on what he's saying as you feel yourself edging closer and closer to release, just a little more.

"Please, please," he chokes out, voice shaky.

He's begging, no pleading for you to squeeze him dry.

Drain him for every last drop he has to offer.

And so you do.

You wail as you come, as he throws his head back on the headrest, shaking with relief.

You're still coming down from your highs before Simon mutters a strained, 'Should we go again?'

You let out a breathy laugh, hissing as his cock moves against you. "You sure do have a high libido for an old man," you tease, voice hoarse.

His eyes meet yours instantly, a lazy smirk growing on his lips.

"You have no fuckin' idea."

author’s note: been having sm fun writing these little drabbles...i have SO many more thoughts. just you wait! also, feel free to send me cute little asks on more scenerios you would like to see hehe

wanna join my taglist?

divider by @/saradika-graphics

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dearru · 4 months ago

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do u guys know that one song by doja cat that goes “like fortnite ima need ur skin.” that’s what inspired this. hope u enjoy. | mlist

imagine you, an aspiring singer, starting to date the wildly influential streamer, kodzuken. you two are the definition of a picture perfect couple, and you start to make lots of content together. as a result, your career begins to take off, and kenma’s content grows in popularity,

everything’s great— until it isn’t. the relationship ends up crashing and burning in an embarrassingly public breakup.

people are devastated. video essays are made. diehard fans even claim the split is the equivalent of “parents divorcing.”

it’s a whole ordeal.

but as time passes, the wounds heal. and in true internet fashion, it becomes old news. some people still whisper about how they believe you two are soulmates, but for the most part, kenma’s chat and your comment section don’t get flooded with invasive questions about whether you two will get back together anymore.

fast forward to two years or so after the breakup, you and kenma end up growing in your respective careers. his several business ventures have grown exponentially, and you’re now selling out stadiums.

kenma doesn’t stream as much as he used to when you two were together, but he chalks it up to having to juggle so many different commitments now. fans speculate as to whether or not that’s the true reason, but as a collective, they agree that they’ll take whatever content they can get from the elusive creator.

despite not streaming as frequently, kenma still likes to indulge his audience every once in a while by hopping online. normally, he likes to decide what to play, but every once in a while, he’ll let chat decide.

tonight is one of those nights.

on a whim, he gives in to requests for him to boot up fortnite— an old favorite of his— for the first time in months.

big mistake.

the second he opens the once beloved game, he gets jumpscared by something that even his worst nightmares couldn’t have fathomed.

you.

everywhere.

to his horror, and the chat’s delight, he finds that you’ve become the poster child for fortnite’s newest campaign. your face is on the menu screen, banners of you flash in bright colors, and you’re plastered everywhere in the item shop.

they say men are constantly haunted by the ghost of their first love, and in a cruel twist of fate, it’s a saying that has become ironically true for kenma as he realizes that epic games has made you into a fucking skin.

he debates the consequences of throwing his pc into a wall, but his screen flashes with an overly excitable chat faster than he can make a decision. old fans are freaking out, new gen fans are wondering what all the fuss is about, and someone donates just to type “YOU’RE FUCKED.”

kenma has half the mind to laugh as the notification illuminates his face because he knows the donor is right.

he’s not an idiot. he knows that you’re popular now, but to be so famous that you have your own skin? he’s in absolute disbelief. there’s no way the universe hates him this much. it’s bad enough that you’re on every headline and radio station. now you’re in his favorite video game?!?!

he is so unbelievably, irrevocably fucked.

—a/n: i think that kenma’s viewers are evil and they all band together and emote on kenma with ur skin whenever they see him online.

—a/n #2: has anyone written abt this concept before. pls lmk. i would love to read it bc i giggled so hard when the thought popped in my head HAHAHA.

—a/n #3: guys i don’t play fortnite, watch streamers, or write for kenma at all so pls don’t hate on me ok thx love u

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melminli · 6 months ago

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Dirty Cash (Money Talks)

summary - you had nothing against your colleague, but you weren't stupid enough to be fooled by his innocent smile and appearance since you knew exactly what kind of corrupt person was hiding behind that costume. after all, you were wearing the same one.

pairing: (gong yoo/ji-cheol) the salesman x fem. recruiter reader

word count: 1.4k

contains: talk about gambling + death and murder, sexual tension?, crack and just evil morals tbh

a/n: i watched maybe the first fifteen minutes or so of bullet train, but i thought of the two funny dudes from it while writing this bcuz their dynamic was funny af. also, i will use the actor's name in this fic since the character itself doesn't really have an official one that was mentioned in the series!

You straightened your tie with your free hand while watching your train approach from the side. The station was always pretty empty at this hour, which saved you the jostling and squeezing as you entered. After that, you sat down comfortably with a light sigh - next to the free seat beside your devilishly handsome colleague. “Are you alright? Don't tell me that you had a exhausting day?” he asked you worriedly with his typical innocent smile on his face but you've known the guy for a while now and you knew exactly how dishonest he sounded right now.

You returned his gaze for a second, uninterested, before turning it back in front of you to observe your surroundings from the window. “Exhausting day? Don't make fun of me or I'll punch you in the face,” you replied monotone and Gong Yoo didn't doubt your statement for a second - or Ji-cheol as you preferred to call him since you weren't a big fan of nicknames. “I had a great time punching those bastards in the face one by one. It feels kinda therapeutic, so I'm actually feeling pretty good right now,” you told him, talking about the subject as if you were talking about the weather.

Your colleague grunted with delight at your good news. “And I would never disagree with you on that.” he said and then just watched your figure silently for a while before speaking up again. “Since you're in such a good mood, would you be willing to play a more private game between the two of us?” he suggested, making you look at him in utter disbelief.

“A private game? With you?” you repeated, amused and laughed in his face. “Hell, no. But don't worry, I'll let you know next time I want to get totally screwed by a freaky pervert,” you added, your voice dripping with sarcasm. Which will be, never.

“Come on, don't be like that,” he asked you sweetly. As sweet as the wolf who pretended to be the mother of the seven little goats before he ate them all one by one. “It's just a tiny, harmless game. It's been so long since we've played anything together.” he complained to you earnestly as if you actually cared, and you didn't.

Yeah, you remembered the last time very clearly, even if you would much rather prefer that you didn't. You hummed. “Is that so? Huh. I mean, it could be because you almost killed me in a fucking game of tic-tac-toe the last time, but that's just a theory.” You said with a shrug, clearly still resenting him for that. However, he just rolled his eyes unaffected by your grudge. “But you didn't, right? It was the other guy who got the bullet in his head.” He replied, not even remembering his name. Not that he had to.

You just glared at him while you rubbed your forehead. “Yeah, maybe. But I'm tired of risking my life just because it makes you horny and you can jerk off to it.” You made your feelings on the matter clear. “You know that the whole living on the edge of death thing isn't really my cup of tea. At least try to understand me a bit here, too.”

I suppose she's not entirely wrong, I could give it a try. I never thought about it like that before, did I? He thought to himself in his head as he ran his tongue over the back of his teeth while he pondered. How selfish of me. “So what exactly do I have to do, to convince you?” He asked you while he already had a few ideas in mind.

You grinned. “You know that very well, don't play dumb.” You demanded as you leaned closer to him so that he could hear what you were singing softly. “Money talks, money talks - dirty cash, I want you, and dirty cash, I need you, oh ~”

He raised an eyebrow, not particularly surprised. “So you want to play for money?” He repeated it, not outright rejecting your request. “Don't you have enough of that already? You're really insatiable when it comes to cash and now you want mine, too?” he joked just to get you worked up.

Though, you didn't get the slightest bit offended by what he said. “Can you ever have enough money? Besides, I'm not forcing you to give it to me, am I?” you said with a smile, already knowing that he would agree to your terms. “But if you want me to play with you, I want eight million won for every round I win.”

She's so greedy for someone who is already more than wealthy. “Aren't you exaggerating a bit? Most people don't earn that much in a month,” he continued his act of - whatever this was - because he just loved arguing with you.

“So? We both have the same salary, I know you can afford it,” you said, holding a hand in the air as soon as you felt that he wanted to stretch this unnecessary conversation even more. “You have to decide now what you want to do or I withdraw my proposal again.”

Gong Yoo closed his mouth and started grinning even wider. “You don't even want to know what kind of game I want to play?” he asked curiously, nodding and accepting whatever you wanted as soon as he saw that you actually weren't interested. You couldn't even imagine how gladly he gave in to you at this moment. “All right, I agree with your request.”

You stood up with your briefcase in hand after your station was announced. “Good. Text me when you have something in mind, I'll be there as long as it fits timewise.”

Your colleague continued to watch you with a look on his face that used to make you more than just uncomfortable back in the day - though, it didn't even bother you in the slightest now. “You don't want to accompany me to the...office?”

You smiled while the train started to slow down. “Au revoir, Ji-cheol.” you just said your goodbye to him and stepped out of the doors. You didn't even spare the poor guy a second glance when he waved his hand at you from the window. She can be so heartless sometimes, he thought to himself, even if you were like this pretty much all the time. I'll have to think of something good to ask for in return should I win. I'm definitely not going to hold back when there's this much money at stake.

You didn't give a second thought to anything as you made your way home after a day's work like any normal citizen would do. However, your steps slowed considerably when you noticed a beggar in your field of vision and even though the rest of the crowd ignored the man and his entire existence, you couldn't help but focus your full attention on him. You looked at your watch, I've been off work for a while now. But even then, you couldn't help but notice that he was one of the people on your list to recruit for the game. He'll still be here tomorrow, but I don't mind another round of Ddakji. I love money more than anything - but I'm not doing this job for only that.

“Excuse me,” you spoke to the man with a polite smile on your face, and he only submissively avoided your gaze as he listened to you. After all, one rarely approached people like him and why would they? He held his cup of loose change out in front of him, probably expecting you to give him a small donation, but you wanted to give him so much more than that. Even if the guy didn't know it right now - you wanted to give him another chance in life, so that he wouldn't continue to be just a miserable failure.

You ignored his donation cup. “I was wondering if you might have a moment because I'd like to make you an offer,” you continued politely and the man met your gaze at that. Yeah, you were really looking forward to what was about to happen - after all, you were known for letting your opponent only win if you allowed them to.

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