#i had to skim through the last half of your ask because there was so much in a wall of text and thats hard for me to read /lh

[kissmxcheek]

Flash & Focus pt.4/?? series masterlist ; part 3

pairing: clark kent/superman x photographer!reader wc: 2.3 k

series description: new to metropolis and the daily planet, you find yourself falling for your deskmate, Clark Kent, who you're convinced will never look your way. a rescue from attempted mugging becomes many late nights spent with superman on your apartment balcony... god why does he seem so familiar?

tags/warnings: the most insane tension w superman ever documented... flirting, that's pretty much it.

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You were severely multi-tasking. And slightly failing at it. After getting the green light from Perry to start working on the city hall attack piece, you immediately started editing the plethora of pictures you caught that afternoon. Thrilling, dynamic shots of the beast attacking City Hall. Superman's dedicated profile as he faces the creature head-on. Dust circling them in a titled, crumbling room. Your second front page of the week was on the line.

However, Clark's dinner-date invitation had your mind preoccupied. Balancing your laptop in one hand and your cellphone on your shoulder, you had Lois on speaker as you chose an outfit for your date.

"I told you it would happen eventually," She mused, "Why do you think I had the two of you sat together in the first place?"

You stopped flipping through clothes and blinked. "That was your doing??"

"Seriously Y/n? A photographer and a writer. You're two completely different departments, you know I had to pull some serious strings to make that happen."

You were right. Lois did run the place.

"Regardless! I need the perfect outfit for tonight."

"You need to get those photos in to Perry. You could show up in a cardboard box and still have Clark at your feet." Lois's voice sounded sure over the phone, but you couldn't stop from spiraling as you threw clothes on your bed and skimmed through shoe options.

As kind as Lois's words were, this would be your first date in months. You were never the dating type. And even if you were, this wasn't just a random date. This was Clark Kent, the man you'd spent every work hour of the last month staring at instead of editing. So, you chose to ignore Lois's vote of confidence.

"Are heels too much?"

Just then, you heard a familiar tapping on your sliding door.

Lois sighed. "Well are you wearing a dress or pants because I-"

"ThanksforyourhelpLois bye!"

Throwing your phone onto your bed, you sped to your balcony like a child, a smile plastered onto your face.

As you faced the glass, you were met with Superman, dramatically laid sideways on your patio furniture.

You opened the door and leaned against the threshold, smiling wide, "Are you lost or something?"

He didn't sit up immediately. Instead, he propped his head up on one hand and gave you a slow, cheeky grin.

“Thought I’d check on you. Y’know, since you were nearly squashed by half of City Hall earlier today. That tends to ruin a Thursday.”

You rolled your eyes, stepping out onto the tiny balcony. “That was barely a near-death experience. You’re just feeling vain from the photos I got of you."

“Oh absolutely,” he deadpanned. "Nothing beats a terrified close-up of me catching a hundred-ton support beam mid-collapse. Flattering.”

You sat down beside him, legs crossed, your ankle bumping against his boot. “I’ll have you know that shot is going to be front page. Again.”

He raised his brows. “Second front page this week?”

You grinned. “I’m getting kind of good at this. You better not start slacking off. I need the drama for content.”

He chuckled, looking out toward the skyline, arms folded behind his head. “I’ll see what I can do. Maybe I’ll let a train dangle a little longer next time," He looked your way, "you know, for the drama.”

The breeze was warm, the air tinged with a mix of city grit and summer promise. You glanced at him sideways, still amused. “So, what’s the real reason you’re here?”

He looked at you. Then, ignoring your question entirely, he asked, “You were smiling when I got here. I want to know why.”

You blinked, and felt your cheeks warm. Because someone had finally worked up the courage to ask you out, but saying that out loud felt oddly… intimate.

So naturally, you dodged with sarcasm.

"What? I can't be happy to see Metropolis's favorite metahuman?" You wiggled your brows but he saw right through you, one of the things you appreciated most.

You stretch your arms above your head with a yawn. “Fine. You really wanna know?”

He nodded, sitting up properly now. The sunlight catches the sharp line of his jaw. He’s too polished for your little balcony, like he was dropped into it from another universe. But somehow, he never made you feel small in comparison. Just steady.

You felt giddy telling him, like a teenage girl again, and couldn't contain the smile on your face.

“Clark Kent asked me to dinner. On a date."

There it was. The reason your heart had been pounding against your ribcage all day.

Superman chuckled, seemingly unsurprised. “He finally grew a pair.”

You scoffed and smiled down at your lap. “Yeah. It was kind of out of nowhere. Right after we got that major story from city hall. He just… asked! I was shocked. Said something about wanting to do it for a while, and then got all flustered when I said yes.”

You told the story looking out at the skyline, unable to meet Superman's eyes, which allowed him the privilege of admiring you in the 5:00 sun setting perfectly on your balcony.

Superman’s lips twitched. You could swear he’s bit back a grin. “Sounds like him.”

You tilted your head, narrowing your eyes. “So, how well do you know Clark anyways?”

“Not well,” he said thoughtfully. “Quiet guy. Good reporter.”

You huffed and closed your eyes. “He’s so much more than that.”

Something in the way you said it, soft and certain, caught Superman's attention because his smile faltered, just slightly, but enough for you to catch it.

You leaned closer, elbow bumping his. “I need your help, actually.”

That perked him up again. “What are friends for?"

You stood with an outstretched hand, inviting him into your apartment. “Are they for fashion advice..?”

He blinked.

“I wear the same suit every day,” he says. “Not exactly Vogue material.”

“And yet you’re the only man I trust with this!" You pause. “Which says more about the other men in my life than it does about your wardrobe, honestly.”

You open your sliding door and stepped inside. “Come on. I need an outfit. First date. Very high stakes.”

He peered in awkwardly. “You’re inviting me inside?”

“Why? Are you going to judge my decor or something?”

He stood, towering over you with that impossibly regal posture but moved forward with hesitation.

You smiled, gentle this time. “Well, welcome to my incredibly glamorous, single-bedroom shoebox. You want to hover or actually use the door?”

He walked through the sliding glass like a normal person. It’s almost funny, seeing Superman try not to bump into your thrifted furniture or step on the stray sock near your coffee table.

He stood by your bookshelf for a moment longer than necessary. You followed his gaze to a framed photo of you and Lois. Your eighteen year old selves, hair cut shorter than it is now, holding guitars up like trophy's.

He couldn't tear his eyes away from your smile, so wide your eyes were shut as if the photo had been taken mid-laugh.

"You play guitar?"

You laughed, remembering college. "Used to. That's my best friend, Lois. Very 'punk rock' back in the day."

He chuckled, settling near the corner of the couch but still sitting upright, like he was afraid he’d break something just by leaning back.

You ducked into the bedroom for a moment, and returned with three hangers clutched in one hand and two pairs shoes in the other.

“Okay,” you said, tossing the shoes onto the couch beside him. “Fashion crisis. Ready?”

Superman raised an eyebrow. “Am I qualified for this?”

“You’re literally bulletproof,” you deadpanned. “I think you can handle a pair of strappy heels.”

You held up the first outfit—a wrap dress in a navy blue, almost elegant. Much nicer than anything he had seen you wear at the office.

“Option one: effortless charm,” you announced, turning slightly for dramatic effect and holding the hanger up to your frame. “If Clark is into girls who drink overpriced cocktails and shop designer, this is the one.”

He tilted his head, considering. “It’s… very date-y.”

“Is that your professional opinion?” you asked, amused.

He shrugged. “You look good in blue.”

You blinked. Then recovered. “Okay, but don’t let that sway you. I need objective rankings here, not flattery from flying men.”

“Not flattery,” he said, quieter this time. “Just true.��

Your stomach did a tiny, unwelcome flip. You ignored it and grabbed the second option—a long, black skirt and fitted maroon blouse.

“Option two,” you say, holding it in against you, “screams ‘I’m a serious journalist-slash-photographer who also knows how to flirt over candlelight.’"

He can't contain his laughter. “That one’s dangerous.”

You grin. “Good dangerous or bad dangerous?”

He meets your eyes. “Good.”

Your throat tightens slightly. You hadn’t expected him to look at you like that—like he sees every inch of you even when you’re hiding behind fabric like armor.

You looked down at the pile of clothes that's accumulated at your feet and sat on your ottoman, defeated. He noticed your frown and leaned forward, so close his knees bumped yours.

"Hey, what's going on? I still haven't seen the third option." He tried to get a smile out of you but it didn't quite reach your eyes.

"These are all wrong. And the third option is...stupid. It's dumb, really. I feel dumb. I haven't been on a date in forever," You hugged yourself with your arms, "It hasn't even started yet and I feel like I've already messed it up."

You mumbled but he heard it all. Every bit of insecurity and self-doubt that dripped from your words. It physically pained him.

"I think," he leaned forward to pull the third hanger from the stack, where a blush pink dress hung delicately, "we should see the third option before we jump to any conclusions."

You looked at the dress, then back at him. You sniffed then stood back up straight, snatching the dress away.

"Glad to see you putting your fashion expertise to use."

He stood up from your couch and admired the room as you changed. With his superhuman hearing, he could hear you softly humming in the next room. The framed photos, loose camera equipment, and the lingering scent of your perfume made Clark feel more at home in Metropolis than he'd ever felt before. You made him feel at home.

You called out from your bedroom, "It's just so...girly."

He stopped, rolling his eyes. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but you are...a girl? Yes?"

He laughed as he traced the petals of the fresh flowers on your mantle, and suddenly, you emerged.

"Ta-da." You announced, flatly. You looked up at him unsurely as you stood unbalanced on your toes. "Ok, but imagine I'm wearing those heels I showed you? Is it okay?"

“You look…” He swallowe. “Perfect.”

You froze. Then snorted. “You’re not allowed to say stuff like that.”

“Why not?” he said, still watching you like you hung the stars.

“Because I’m already nervous enough about this date,” you admitted, softer now. “And hearing that from you of all people? Kind of makes me forget how to function.”

You moved to face yourself in the mirror and he slowly came up behind you. He let his gaze travel from the pink fabric at your fingertips to the pink flush on your cheeks.

“This one,” he said immediately.

You blinked. “Really?”

“Yes.” His voice firmer this time, more certain. “It’s you. You don't need to be someone else, you're perfect.”

You’re not sure what to say to that. So you fiddle with your fingernails instead.

He softened. “Don’t get me wrong, you’d make Clark’s brain short-circuit in any of them. But this one? You'll kill him.”

You looked down, biting your cheek to fight the grin rising up. “Wow. That’s… dangerously close to another compliment. Should I be worried?”

He tilted his head a little, playfulness back in his eyes. “I can pull it back. Want me to start critiquing your sock choices instead?”

You glanced down at your long mismatched socks—one with tiny coffee cups, the other with cats wearing sunglasses.

You shrugged. “Bold fashion is a lifestyle.”

“I can tell.”

The two of you made eye contact in the reflection of your hallway mirror, for slightly too long, before the proximity made you feel dizzy. He stepped back first.

"Well," he scratched his head and looked around, searching for a way to lighten the mood, "my work is here done. Tell Clark he can add 'Fashion Expert' to my profile."

"I'll tell him to add 'narcissist', how's that?" You put your hands on your hips, laughing. "I'm only joking. Thank you for this. Really, I needed it."

“I just don’t want you to doubt yourself tonight,” he said. “You deserve to feel amazing. You are amazing.”

Your heart thud so hard you’re sure he can hear it.

“Remind me again why you’re not the one taking me to dinner?” you teased, trying to lighten the moment.

He laughed, but there’s a flicker behind his eyes.

"C'mon, you're way out of my league."

You smiled, stepping forward and brushing invisible lint from his shoulder. “You’re always full of wisdom when you drop by unannounced.”

He gave you a look. “You love it.”

“I really do.”

The two of you stood in the quiet for a moment, the city muffled behind your windows, the late afternoon sun slanting golden through your curtains.

And then—your phone buzzed from the kitchen. A reminder.

“Shit,” you murmur, glancing at the time. “I need to finish editing these photos before I meet Clark.”

He nodded, stepping back toward the balcony.

“Thanks for coming,” you said, voice gentler now. “I mean it.”

“Anytime.”

He paused with one hand on the railing, turned back over his shoulder. “And hey?”

You raised an eyebrow.

“If he doesn’t kiss you tonight…” He smiled, just a little smug. “You let me know. I’ll have words.”

You laughed. “Will those words be delivered via lightning speed or righteous eye laser?”

“Depends on how it goes.”

And with a gust of wind and a flash of red and blue, he’s gone.

You’re left standing there, hair tousled from the breeze, heart impossibly full.

Because somehow, between the teasing, his kind words, and the way he looked at you—

You felt beautiful.

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a/n: this one is shorter but i felt like superman wasn't getting enough attention ;) hope you guys enjoyed! soooo much tension i LOVE IT

!! - also just wanted to say that i might be mia for a minute.. im having surgery tomorrow and, while i have the next part in the works, it's still very much a rough draft. forgive me! but part 5 will be posted sometime in the next week :)

please comment and reblog and let me know what u think!

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-> part 5

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[bananafieldnotes]

baby love

★ abstract: bo chow’s engaged to the wonderful grace. but seeing you waltz into his shop after so much time apart may change his answer at the altar

content disclosure: smut, black!reader, allusions to segregation, dirty talk, unintentional grace slander, oral (f. receiving), penetrative sex, unprotected sex, spit, canon deviation

author's note: the poll was extremely in favor of a bo chow x reader, and i was feeling inspired to write a little something lusty with a pinch of angst. deviates from canon of course, and the timeline is flexible. hope y'all enjoy! i wrote this quickly and skimmed through to proofread so apologies if i missed anything

Butter. A whole 'nother trip to the store because you didn’t buy enough butter. The cornbread would be nothing without it, and you had no business hosting Sunday dinner without it. And that’s why you pushed through the frustration of stepping back out into the sweltering heat once more, huffing only to yourself so people wouldn’t go around whispering about how grouchy you were. Word ‘round Clarksdale got around like wildfire, and reputations were hard to reconstruct. It’s how the twins kept their status on coldhearted gangsters, and why you kept your lips pursed.

Normally, if you weren’t in a time crunch, you go back to Jiffy’s Grocer on the further side of town. The prices were decent and they treat you like family down there. But it was a hike from your current neck of the woods, and you were racing the clock against the roast chicken you kept in the oven on your dash out the door. Just this once, you’d have to go to Bo’s store.

The people of Clarksdale loved his stores. Business was always booming, and his fiancée knew exactly how to work the whites only storefront. Oftentimes, they’re regarded as the perfect match— and that was exactly why you avoided them at all costs.

It all felt like a million years ago, but it was only eight short years ago when you were calling Bo yours. Every Wednesday for months, you’d swish into his shop, the Black side, ready with money in hand for his priciest vanilla and another sack of flour. He knew you and your grandmother were the ones behind the underground cookie business Mary was running. She got 10% of the profits just for being the face, so that white customers wouldn’t have to contend with the fact that their sweet tooth was being fed by Black women. It was lucrative enough for you not to care.

You were smart with your money, and Bo was too loyal to say anything to anyone. He admired your wit, your drive, your passion. It didn’t take him long to work up the courage to ask you out on a proper date, one with drinking and blues music and half the town watching his hand sneakily graze your derrière. It didn’t matter how different the two of you were under the scorching lights of Mezzanine’s— he was your Bo.

But you should’ve known it wouldn’t have lasted. Bo was too public facing to have a Black wife, and both of you knew it. His white customers would never buy from a Black worker, and he didn’t even like the idea of leaving you to brave the shop on your own. Things were changing in Clarksdale by the day, and he wasn’t gonna gamble on your life.

Choosing the store over you was the end of the whirlwind romance, and the beginning of the whispers from fellow patrons. It no longer served you to shop there, to be reminded of him and his annoyingly handsome face all of the time. And when your grandmother passed, you didn’t dare read the note he sent with the egregiously large bouquet he sent to the house. All curiosity died the second you saw him toting Grace around town, taking her to all the places he took you first. Clarksdale was small, and your only guaranteed respite during the early stages of their relationship was during your grocery shopping.

Crossing your fingers, your gloved hands gently pushed open the front door. It had been years since you last saw him, and today didn’t have to be any different if you were quick enough. You winced at the sharp ding! that alerted your entry. So much for slipping in unannounced. The store was crowded, customers whizzing through pockets of space around others and all the while concealing themselves; your timing couldn’t have been more perfect.

There was a fridge of butter right near the checkout counter, and the line was short enough for you to get out sooner than you could’ve hoped. You grabbed a few extra sticks just to avoid the possibility of repeating history, and you kept your face hidden behind the rim of your hat.

“Here, I’ll take over. Next!”

It was unmistakable, that drawl of his. Goosebumps rippled across your skin as you lifted your chin to see him staring back at you expectantly. He was already searching your every feature when you locked eyes, recognition washing over him in a glacial wave of disbelief. His mouth was left ajar as you placed all the butter in front of him, heat rising to your cheeks. “You’ll catch flies that way, Bo.”

He stuttered, glancing around the room to see if anyone was watching the two of you. “Where did you go?” His voice was just above a whisper, the instability evident is his quiver. Eight years apart and that was the first question out of his mouth.

“You think I wanted to stick around and watch you two live happily ever after? I made changes.”

You were never this stoic with him. Bo was used to the you who couldn’t stand to be apart from him, who couldn’t help but giggle if he looked at you too long. He was used to you using any and every excuse to kiss him, touch him, lick him. Nothing about your cold distance was normal.

Except it was normal. The new normal. He has a new woman in his life to crave him, to love him, to intertwine with him. It couldn’t be you anymore because he’d made sure of that.

“Can we talk?”

You stuck out the exact change for your items, refusing to look him in the eyes again. His eyes were too powerful, their emotion too potent. You weren’t here for him, you remind yourself. Butter. Just butter. “I’d like a small bag if you have one.”

“___. Will you forget about the damn butter?”

You huffed loudly, dropping the money on the counter to grab the butter and make a dash for it. He couldn’t force you to talk to him, and you still had a chicken to baste. “Goodbye.”

Bo knew better than to yell after you. Grace would hear all about his improper power struggle of a woman she knew nothing about. He’d buried his past with you so he’d never have to revisit it; out of sight, out of mind. If only love were truly that easy to manage.

It was nothing but the grace of your ancestors that the chicken hadn’t dried out in the time it took you to get back to your secluded home. You still had about an hour left to prepare for your guests, and it seemed futile against the constant reminder of Bo. These dinners were something the two of you started together as a way of making extra effort to connect with your friends and loved ones. You loved hosting and you loved the glimpse of your future that it brought you. A lifetime of Bo Chow distracting you with kisses and sly touches, helping you clean up since he was a sous chef at best.

The scars on your memories ran deep, but you had mastered the art of pretending they hadn’t. Your friends were careful not to mention his existence which you were eternally grateful for. You healed, you grew new roots. New traditions. A new life, a beautiful one, without. You couldn’t help the Bo shaped storm cloud that lingered every now and then, but you could be ready with shelter.

Gumbo, cornbread, chicken and greens. A freshly baked pecan pie bubbling in the oven. The timer went off just as the first of your friends knocked at the door. You were expecting Sylvie since she was always the first to arrive, but the door opened to reveal no such thing. In front of Sylvie, Annie, Smoke, Simone, Albie, and Michael was none other than Bo Chow. Holding flowers, no less.

“I-I forgot about Sunday dinners.”

Your friends cleared their throats, making their way around him and into your home as he stood at the doorstep gawking at you. “What are you doin’ here, Bo? Don’t you got a store to run?” The hesitation in his response led you to believe Grace was running the store in his place, which only served to make the present moment feel that much more ridiculous. “Say something, don’t just stand there.”

“I shoulda never ended things with us, ___,” he pushed the flowers on you, stepping closer to you underneath the door frame. “Look, I know how this sounds. I know I look like a piece a’ shit comin’ to you like this, but I can’t make the same mistake twice. I still love you, dammit.”

The flowers were the last thing on your mind as he pulled you into his arms and kissed your forehead, sweeping you in his embrace like you were still his. Your friends were surely listening from just around the corner but you couldn’t bring yourself to care. He was holding you again, confessing that he still loves you. Eight years vanished in an instant, all with the soothing sincerity of his voice and the soft juxtaposition of his calloused hands on your body. One dinner wouldn’t hurt.

“I tell ya, I ain’t neva seen nothin’ like it!”

The table erupted in laughter at Bo’s anecdote, silverware chiming against the plates in the background of his story. All was forgiven amidst the chuckles and tears of fellowship, at least it seemed that way. No one took notice of the way Bo was squeezing your hand under the table, or the way he’d whisper a compliment of innuendo in your ear when it was someone else’s turn to speak.

“I like this dress on you,” his breath against your ear made you shudder, eyes threatening to close from the intimacy. “You already know that, though. Bet you remember that night like it was yesterday.”

Time stood still at the memory. The twins invited anyone with a pulse to come celebrate their birthday, and Bo had just bought you a new dress. An elegant sea of lilac satin, squaring your neck and plunging ever so slightly in the back. It cascaded your curves perfectly, framing your physique in a way that made his mouth water every time you moved in it. You’d spent half the night glued to Bo, material of the dress bunched around your hips as he fucked into you frenziedly. Only Stack suspected where you disappeared off to when he plucked a twig from your slightly disheveled hair. You winced at the memory of being so young together.

You felt your nipples harden through the thin material of said dress, the flashbacks of your slippery thighs quivering around his waist too much to bear. It was like you were there again, even just for a fragment of space and time, returning back to the way he ravished you. His lips peppering kisses along the column of your throat, one hand massaging your breast underneath your gown. If anyone saw the two of you it would be the talk of the town, the kind of scandal that was life ruining. But it only fueled the fire between you, thriving on the nerves of someone wandering across you.

It was electric, and it was off limits to think about now. That Bo only lives in the corners of your mind now that Grace has a ring on her finger, and a quick declaration before Sunday night's feast couldn’t change that. It was all talk so far, and it had to stay that way until you saw the walk.

The flush left your face as you sipped on iced tea, pulling the hair away from your neck. Bo could tell you weren’t as unaffected as you feigned, smirking to himself as he took another bite of gumbo. The way you shifted in your seat told tale enough of how the memories had stuck with you, too. Annie chimed in to talk now, looking to Smoke to confirm the details as she drew out her own event.

Bo’s hand rested atop your thigh, discreet and comfortable as he continued talking to your friends. His thumb rubbed against this softer skin of your innermost part, inching dangerously close to the apex but remaining just shy of it. The right thing to do would’ve been to remove it, but you just couldn’t. Your heart hadn’t raced this way since you were last together, tracing every inch of his skin in effort to memorize him.

He slipped into helping you clean up, washing up while you stored away leftovers. Your friends were long gone by the time you finished, and you could feel your heart thrum at the realization that you were fully alone with him. In your house. Hidden under the cover of night, under the protection of magnolia that shielded you from outside judgment.

Bo, who had spent the better part of the night pushing your boundaries, stood across the kitchen towel in hand. The moonlight cast a halo over his bronze toned skin, the Mississippi sun baking him after long days moving shipment. Sun-kissed and lovestruck, he looked up at you.

“I thought my life had to look a certain way, that’s why my parents came to this country. But I don’t want any of that with just anyone, baby love. I’ve been wired to tick all the boxes, and I’ve been racing toward a finish line I don’t even wanna cross no more. Not without you,” he closed the distance between you, careful not to move too suddenly. “This could be our shot. We deserve a second chance.”

It was exactly what you wished he said years ago instead of completely restructuring his life around her. “What about your life with Grace?”

“I told her we were done the moment you left the store,” he tossed the towel over your shoulder to the sink, pulling your hips square against his. “I’d rather be single than with anyone but you.”

His lips ventured forward at a snail pace, eyes darting between yours and your eyes as he waited for you to protest. To push at his chest or turn away. Instead, your breath was baited, anticipating the taste of his mouth on yours again. The exploratory smack of his lips sucking at your bottom one, tugging at it before swooping in for a real kiss. He inhaled sharply as you melted into him, hands cupping his head as you arched against him.

The thin barrier of your dress did nothing to dull the feeling of his chiseled chest against your pert nipples. Something about the warmth of his body on yours clouded your brain with nothing but unholy thoughts, panties dampening as Bo hoisted you onto the counter like you weighed nothing. His tongue swirled around yours as he unbuttoned his shirt, buff arms freeing themselves from the now suffocating article of clothing.

Shirtless under the soft glow of your kitchen lights was a sight for sore eyes. His hair was pushed back, slick with a mixture of product and sweat that made it glisten. “Let me make love to you, baby.”

Bo’s lips abandoned his wet suckling of your lips and trailed down your neck, between the valley of your breast and down your delicate stomach that flipped at the contact. His head disappeared underneath your dress, fingers hooking into your underwear to slide them down your legs. You didn’t know how you ended up sprawled across your kitchen with Bo Chow lapping his tongue at your dripping folds on a balmy summer night. How you went from forcing yourself not to think about him to now, with his head bobbing up and down as his tongue plunging as far inside you as he could reach.

He still knew your body better than anyone who tried to fill his shoes after your heartbreak— and he still derived pleasure from fulfilling you. His whiny groans into your pussy sent vibrations that rocked your nerves as you pulled him flush into the crux of your legs, basking in every lap of his tongue. “Bo” was all you could manage to cry out, gasping as he pried your legs apart to shake his head back and forth as he ate you.

Orgasm was imminent and he knew it in the way your hips rolled, impatient squirms turning into desperate twitching that only climax could subdue. He pulled away with arousal coating his nose and chin, not bothering to wipe as he kissed you just as messily as he was eating you out. You welcomed the kiss, palming him through his trousers as he leaned over your spent frame.

He unburdened himself of those very pants as your fingers thread through his hair, completely taken with the taste of yourself on his mouth. His cock grazed between your lips to gather your wetness before sinking into you, moaning against the side of your jaw. So wet, so warm, so tight. The slick heat of your pussy in the reunion he feared he’d never get.

With all the buildup from Bo’s ravenous slurping, the pressure of him brushing your g-spot tipped you right over the edge, climax pulling you under the current of waves of Bo’s making. The cabinet beneath you shook as he fucked you through the aftershocks, using the creaminess of your orgasm as extra lubricant. He dribbled an extra splatter of spit on your clit just to be safe before stealing forward again, hips rolling in time with his thumb’s circles against your pearl.

Bo was on a mission to make you see the stars, his own high nowhere at the forefront of his mind. “You gon’ cum for me again, honey?”

There were tears spilling out the corners of your eyes as you clawed at his back. “Bo, please, give it to me.” The wet slaps of his skin with each thrust rang throughout the kitchen, enveloping your ears in a vulgar symphony of depravity. He knew better than to switch up anything he was doing, knowing you’d fall apart as long as he kept doing exactly what he was.

And fall apart you did with one last kiss to your sweet spot, muscles tensing up just to go lifeless in the same breath. Bo kept you from falling over the edge of the countertop as your body convulsed with the current of ecstasy running through it. The wind was effectively blown from your lungs in the midst of your rapture, and you gasped for air as you finally cut through the hazy mist of bliss.

“Fuck, ___, I-I’m—” The intensity of Bo’s climax interrupted his own words, heat rippling from his head to his toes as he came in heavy spurts. Rivulets slipped out of you as his cum filled you up more than you could take, adding to the glossy mess that was already there.

He kept his eyes trained on your puffy pussy lips, watching the cum leak out of you as he pulled his pants back on. “D-Don’t…”

Your breath was shaky, heart pounding in your ears from everything he’d put your body through— and what the look on his face told you he was going to do. “Oh, c’mon, baby love. I just miss you ’s all. Lemme give you a couple more.”

And then his mouth was back to sucking at your clit, shamelessly swallowing the salty taste he’d left behind to pull another high-pitched scream from your throat.

Bo Chow was nowhere near done with you.

[clusterrune]

dear anon

[dear anon]

anon youre very brave for coming to me and to respect your wishes this post is for you

youre not a bad person

youre that guy's chosen person and you're helping him improve, youre amazing for that. if he makes you happy and you love him and you two have a good relationship then by all means stay together!

youre not a bad person for being there for someone who did bad things. lots of people have a bad past but that doesnt difine who they are today or could be tomorrow.

you dont need to feel guilt for his past actions, thats for him to work through

if you love your partner, keep loving them. thats what they need.

of course you are always welcome to the choice of leaving if you dont feel comfortable, thats your choice to make and youre free to do so, no shame in that, your comfort and safety matters just as much as his and anyone elses.

youre not a bad person either for having feelings for someone you've known shorter than the time youve known an ex nor a bad person for not feeling anying for that ex, it just means you've moved on.

this could absolutely grow into a healthy relationship for both of you if you let it and want it to.

youre okay anon.

[reignpage]

Frat Boy!Gojo

Cosmopolitan: sober thoughts

Word Count: 6.1k Contents: their first date, cursing, a little angsty, but mostly fluffy, not proofread (barely skimmed this so again, dunno how much sense it makes) Masterlist

“Before you get any bright ideas, just know I’m sharing my location with at least ten people.”

Whistling, the biggest pain in your ass saunters over to you

The moon is full, a big white orb that would otherwise bring you a lot of peace to look at but right now, only pisses you off for reasons you’d rather not spend too much time pondering. Rarely anyone comes around these parts; it’s at the very edge of the city, a half-hour drive from campus, and surrounded by miles of dull, old suburbia. You’re standing in front of a metal gate, slightly taller than you, with vines wrapping around the pickets. It swings slowly with every gust of wind, creaking before it meets the stone wall with a bang.

Gojo grimaces. 

“Seriously, did you have to choose the scariest place in all of Eden? I mean, I respect the commitment to the aesthetic, but this is just crazy,” he grumbles, eyeing the cathedral from its huge marble pillars to the sharp spires piercing the night sky. 

You roll your eyes. Trust him to leave the date planning to you just to complain every step of the way. You’re already regretting playing along with whatever games he’s conjured up this time, but at least you’ve got home turf advantage; you know this place like the back of your hand. There won’t be any surprises happening tonight. 

Without replying, you walk off, heading straight through the gate. 

“Hey, wait! Don’t leave me here. I don’t want to end up as a statistic.”

Shrugging, you say, “If you’re scared, you can go back home.”

When he doesn’t say a thing and follows you, you smile. You win. But that feeling of victory doesn’t last very long because then he starts muttering about the cobwebs and how they’re everywhere, then about the tombstones, how they’re so messy with moss covering the engravings and that ‘the spirits must definitely be like so mad about all that’, and when you don’t respond to any of his musings, he even complains about the eerie music foreshadowing his pending doom, like in Jaws.

There is no music. 

“Where are we even going?” He pokes your shoulder, snatching his hand back faster than you can swat at it. “I thought we were going to, I don’t know, have a picnic under the stars and cuddle on top of someone’s grave, like Mary Shelley did.”

“How the fuck do you even know about that?” 

Gojo lifts one shoulder. “Must have heard it online or something.”

You roll your eyes again — you have a feeling you’ll be doing a lot of that tonight, maybe even for the rest of your life if things go the way your parents plan. When you had first found out the village idiot is the president of the most sought-after fraternity of the most prestigious university in the country, you thought maybe no one else had stepped up. But then you found out he’s a Legacy --the Gojos have governed that fraternity since its conception -- and well, the pieces fell into place. 

Mischief no doubt sparkling in your eyes, you look at him over your shoulder. His eyes are full of suspicion and when they meet yours, he becomes even more doubtful of your intentions. With a grin, you whisper, “We’re going someplace no one will hear you scream.”

“Kinky.”           

That didn’t have the desired effect. How annoying. Though you don’t fail to notice how he moves in closer to you, his warmth radiating to your body through your black, fur cloak. You don’t shift away. 

Gesturing for him to follow you through a gap in a wooden fence, you squeeze through to avoid splinters, pulling at your dress when a piece of lace catches on a nail. Just as you’re about to offer advice on how to contort his body to get through, he climbs over the fence and lands on his feet without stumbling, all in one quick sweep, like he’s who wanders these hallowed grounds at night and not you. 

“What?” He asks when he spots your glare. 

Not even those stupid sunglasses are out of place. Very annoying, indeed. 

“Come quickly,” you bark, fixing your silk gloves to cover more of your skin as the chill settles in. It’s only six in the evening, and yet there’s no hint of light in the broad expanse above you, just the moon and the stars lighting your way, and occasionally your companion’s phone flashlight when he needs to look at what he’s stepped in. 

He laughs. “No one’s ever said that to me before.”

“Do you make it a habit to talk about your sex life with a girl on a first date?”

“You’re the first, so not a habit. Not yet anyways.” 

Screeching to a halt, your hand clutches his elbow to still him. Your jaw is slack and you’re staring, completely disbelieving. “There’s no way this is your first date. You took that girl to the casino.”

Gojo stares off into the distance as he ponders the notion, fingers tapping his chin. Then, he insists, “No, it really is my first date. And anyways, I don’t consider that night a date; she pretty much invited herself along. It was more like I was just taking her to the casino as her escort. Or maybe that does count as a date. If so, then I’ve been on a lot of dates. But none where I’ve actually used the word date. Does that even matter because —“ 

You wave a hand in front of his face to cut off his rambling; he talks way too much. “So, you’re telling me, I’m the first girl you’ve ever asked out on a date? That’s insane, Gojo. You hate me.”

“I don’t hate you,” he protests with a frown.

“You sure acted like you did for months,” you counter. 

He insists, “I don’t hate you. Never did. I just acted out but yeah, I’m sorry. I was a dick.”

Clearing your throat, you straighten up and continue walking. “It’s fine. Water under the bridge.” 

“You sure? ‘Cause I can get on my knees and beg.”

“Don’t tempt me, Gojo.”

He catches up to you and hums a playful tune, his light mood returning; Serious Gojo is gone like he never existed. “Guess that’s what you’re into, huh?”

“You’ll never know,” you snort, pushing a branch away from your face and letting it snap back into his chest, he yelps.

His hand reaches past you, lifting a thicker branch high above the both of you, before leaning close to your ear and whispering conspiratorially, “We’ll see.”

Disregarding the shiver than runs through you, you push on, moving almost on muscle memory alone. Your mind is attempting to distract itself by scanning the area, being careful not to be caught on church grounds after hours, pushing through the woodland to get to the clearing tucked away at the very back, where you go for peace and quiet. 

Truthfully, you have no idea why you decided to have this date here, of all places. This place is sacred. Literally but also figuratively — this is the place you always ran to when the world got a little too loud, a little too busy and bright for you. No one else knows about this haven as far as you’re aware and you always thought you’d do anything to keep it that way. And yet, you’re showing it to him. Actually, guiding him to the place. 

You should have at least blindfolded him so he couldn’t memorise the way. 

Maybe you wanted to spite him by living up to his expectations and being the gothic monster that he thinks you are -- you want to scare him off before he lets his curiosity take him too close to something that might scald him. He needs to be afraid of you. 

Or maybe you recognised that shadow in his eyes, the ones that suggests he’s lost as much sleep about this whole farce as you and thought he could do with a little silence. 

You both arrive at a thick bush, a massive wall of a shrub towering over even Gojo. Behind you, the cathedral is only a blob, lit up by lanterns, whereas you’re both submerged in darkness; there are no streetlamps here. 

“I’m totally going to be murdered here, aren’t I?” He whistles as if to say, ‘it’s been a good life, and I’ll have to just accept my fate’. 

“Yeah, I was lying when I said it was all water under the bridge. I’ve actually been colluding with the devil to sacrifice your white ass.”

Gojo laughs.

He laughs a lot, but rarely like this, you note. He chuckles when his friends do something stupid like push him into the fountain, and he snorts when he reads the most recent article on The Bulletin. But you’ve never really seen him throw his head back and clutch his stomach, at least not with anyone but you. He does it when you get caught texting him under the dinner table, when you give him the middle finger from across the Quad, and that one time you bumped into him in the hallway and almost apologised before you realised it was him.

It’s the kind of laugh that’s infectious, and you hoped every time he does it that you’re somehow immune. However, when he looks at you with a brightening sparkle in his eyes, you realise you’re very much not. 

You clear your throat again. 

“Through here, is a very special place. You must swear you will not desecrate this place, lest the Mother Crone curse you for your treachery,” you announce, wiggling your fingers at him for extra flair. 

Placing a hand on his heart, he stomps his foot like a soldier and swears, “I would never. I will take this secret to the grave.”

Satisfied, you grab the loose part of the hedge wall and pull it aside to reveal the little doorway to your secret hideout. He throws you a side glance before he ducks down and enters. You follow behind him, tucking the disguised door behind you. 

He doesn’t say a thing as you zoom to the side where you grope for something in the grass, right under part of the hedge. When you feel the smooth, cold plastic, you don’t hesitate to switch it on. 

Long wires of fairy lights light up, bulb by bulb, along the top of the hedge and down, like a really wide Christmas tree circling the hidden clearing. You hear him mutter a ‘woah’ under his breath as he scans the area — there’s only one thing here on the flat ground, it’s also lit up fairy lights along the top pole. It’s your most prized possession.

“You have a swing?” He shouts incredulously. Giggling like a child, he makes a run for it, jumping onto one of the two seats where he rocks back and forth on his feet. Then he’s whooping as he swings higher and higher, hair whooshing back and forth as he grins, taking in the cold autumnal air and the growing warmth of the lights. “This is freaking awesome!”

Sitting on the spare seat, you kick your feet gently so you can swing a little. Deep down there was a worry festering within, anxious that he would find this place boring, that he’d scoff at your idea of fun especially on a first date, but looking up at him, still hollering and grinning, you think, that was such a silly thought. 

Gojo slows to a mild back and forth momentum and wonders, “Are you sure I’m allowed to be here? This place seems pretty private, like your own mancave or something. Do girls have a version of a mancave? ‘Womancave?”

In the corner of your eye, you see him clamber down to sit as you answer his question. “I wouldn’t have taken you here if you weren’t allowed, dumbass.”

“Yeah, well, I’m still not convinced this isn’t an elaborate scheme to murder me and hide my body in a grave.”

“Neither.” You shrug. 

He laughs. 

Eventually, you both swing side by side, alternating up and then down. The wind is howling a little, rustling the trees surrounding you and the moon’s obscured by dark cloud. Neither you nor he say anything to break the silence. You were also worried that you’d come to hate his presence in your safe space, finding his tall, lanky presence an irritation, but surprisingly, you don’t mind it. 

It’s nice to have company. 

Especially when that company is keeping his mouth shut. 

“How often do you come here?”

Or not. 

With a sigh, you reply, “Like twice a week. I can’t come as often as I’d like because of all the classes and stuff, not to mention all the wedding planning we have to do.”

“Guess you have it worse than me since I don’t even need to be fitted for a suit; they already have my measurements,” he muses. 

“For whatever reason, it’s always the women who have to plan these things, even though it’s the men that propose.” You accidentally make eye contact with him. “Or at least, that’s how it usually goes.”

Gojo hums, a little sheepishly, before he changes the subject. “So, how did you find this place?”

“We buried my grandmother in the graveyard when I was fifteen. We were close and I took the loss pretty hard. I couldn’t stand all the people pretending they cared so I ran off, got lost and found this clearing. Well, I actually fell through the hedge, but I found it, nonetheless. And this swing was here already. I don’t know how long it’s been here or why it’s here, but it is.”

“That sounds like a fairytale.” He swivels, swinging a long leg over to straddle the seat, facing you as he leans back against the metal chain. “I’m sorry for your loss, by the way. I lost my grandmother too and it was rough.”

You saw that on the news years ago, it was one of those private family events that make the national headlines by complete virtue of the family name. Your parents grieved in public like it was their own loss and you didn’t understand why. Of course, as you got older, you became more and more acquainted with the idea of ‘reputation’ and ‘public image’, but you still feel that same distance to the concept as you did when you were but a child. 

“I’m sorry for your loss,” you repeat back to him.

He shrugs. “It’s alright. I’ve got my gramps. We’re best buddies.”

“You have a lot of best buds, don’t you?” 

Gojo strikes you as the kind of guy who makes friends easily, thought you question the depth of most of those friendships; sincerity is a rare phenomenon in your world. 

“No,” he huffs, “I have Suguru, the girl that gave you my number, and gramps. I have lots of close friends, though.”

Considering his words, you realise you don’t have any best friends. Sure, you have friends you hang out with often, people that share your interest, that you can party with, but none you feel as strongly about as he does with those three people. You can hear it in his voice, the conviction, the pride, the confidence. And when you glance at him, you know he doesn’t even realise how defensive he sounds about his people.

How nice it must be to have someone like him as a friend.

“We could be friends, if you’d like,” he offers, and when you look at him with confusion, he adds, “You said it out loud, silly. You think I’m a good person to be friends with. Which, of course I am. I’m like super awesome.”

You burst out laughing. What he said isn’t even funny and he certainly doesn’t mean for it to be, but for some reason it is. So, you laugh, throwing your head back and clutching your stomach. He makes noises of complaints, telling you it’s rude to laugh at people. That makes you laugh harder. 

“Gojo, be serious for a second. We can’t be friends, idiot,” you push out between puffs of laughter. 

He frowns, lips twitching to fight back a smile at your flushed face. “Why not? We’re getting along fine right now, aren’t we?”

“Yeah, for now. But we’re going to be married. Or at least, we’re supposed to be. And think of all the complications that brings, it just doesn’t provide the conditions for a healthy friendship, especially considering our beginning. Think of all the people in our circle who had arranged marriages. How many of them get along? Like, really get along. Hell! Think about our parents.”

“Well, we could be different. We don’t have to end up like them. We can break the cycle or something.”

You stop laughing.

Something shifts in the air, like the moon’s reappeared, the wind’s slowed down, and his eyes shine just a little brighter. It’s sudden and you almost don’t notice it, almost shrug it off. But there’s a sincerity lingering between you and it demands your attention.

Fixing him a solemn look, perhaps similar to the one he gave you before, you assert, “That sounds an awful like an admission of surrender, Gojo.”

“Maybe it is.”

The speed at which he concedes, the sheer resolution in his eyes and the way he doesn’t falter when he says it all scream at you something you won’t accept. Can’t.

He grips your elbow, his long fingers wrapping around the limb with ease, demanding your attention. The sombre expression on his ghostly face haunts you. It’s like he’s shifted into a different person, into someone years older, a man burdened with great responsibility. 

“I’m sorry. About how I started this year off. I regretted everything I said as soon as I said them. I can’t even remember why I said and did those things, but I definitely don’t have a good reason,” he rasped, a desperation lacing his words like he needs you to understand, like he tosses and turns over it. “I know you’re just as much a victim of this as I am, but I was facing a problem I didn’t know to solve, and I lashed out. At you. At someone who didn’t deserve it. And I’m sorry.”

You reel back, snatching your arm away. His touch burns the way ice does, and you have to rub warmth back into it, despite the layers between your skin and his. The sincerity in his eyes is alien, revealing far more about the ongoings of reality than you can absorb in one night. Confusingly, your heart is pounding to the beat of a song you’ve never heard before. 

This date thing, taking him to your secret haven, giving him the opportunity to see you not as the enemy but rather as a woman was a mistake. It’s all one big mistake. It would have been fine if he had stayed as the Gojo you knew, the boisterous, obnoxious party animal that cares only about immediate gratification. But the man in front of you is not someone you can marry. He isn’t the type of man you can be around and feel absolutely nothing for. 

“I’m hungry,” you mutter, standing abruptly.

He looks up at you, something passing in his eyes, almost akin to disappointment or sadness, and you can’t bear to think about what that could mean, so you simply gesture for him to follow you. 

In silence, you walk back the way you came, using your phone’s flashlight to navigate through the thick haze of darkness. This was a mistake; you let him in for a second, gave him a glimpse into your life, and you aren’t even sure why. Was it because you could hear your mother’s voice telling you to do whatever it takes to drag the man to the altar or because, despite yourself, you actually wanted to see what going on a date with Gojo means? 

Maybe it was both. 

Or neither. 

You’re losing more and more of yourself these days, doing things you’d never thought you’d do for one reason or another, and you no longer even know what you want. Your pride or your family? A marriage with Gojo or the friendship he’s offering? Is there’s a third option.

“What’d you wanna eat?” He asks, rocking back and forth on his feet as he stares up at a streetlight. 

You’ve both made it back onto the main road, the swings a mile away. He didn’t press the topic more, simply walked beside you and pushed branches away like before. 

It’s nearing eight in the evening and your stomach growls. 

“Who said I’m eating with you?”

Gojo rolls his eyes and pokes your shoulder. With a sulky tone, he groans, “Don’t be mean. You’re hungry, I’m hungry, let’s eat. Simple!”

“Can you cook?” 

He beams, sunglasses sliding down the bridge of his nose as he looks at you over them, bright eyes sparkling with what you can only guess to be mischief. You realise you really should think before you speak. 

—

That’s how you find yourself in his frat house kitchen, cloak discarded, hair up and gloves off. His frat members are out, partying, he claims, so the whole house is free. When he suggested it, you looked at him like he was insane, but he only wiggled his brows.

“You scared?” He cocked his head, grinning at you in a way that made you want to punch his teeth in. 

Narrowing your eyes at him, you responded, “No, of course not.”

Gojo bent his arms and rocked his head, making clucking noises that echoed in the empty street. Every note pierced your body, mocking and goading. You knew exactly what he was doing, and it was fucking working, the stupid bastard. Without responding to his accusation, you stomped over to his car and gave him a glare. He fetched his car keys and spun them on his finger with a victorious whistle.

“Grate this,” he orders. 

His kitchen is huge, which is understandable for the size of the house and how many people live here. Apparently, there’s three more kitchens in the damn place, not that you believe even a quarter of the guys that live here know what a cutting board is. The kitchen is surprisingly clean, however. It’s sparkling clean. 

“We have cleaners that comes in every other day,” he chuckles, noticing your looks of complete judgement whilst he boils some pasta. “But we are pretty strict on cleanliness, regardless. And everyone knows, I’m not afraid to crack the whip to keep everyone in line.”

Scoffing, you clarify, “You? Cracking whips? I find that hard to believe.”

He leans against the island you’re stationed at, the sound of water simmering filling the small space between you. Watching you grate the cheese, he hums, fingers fiddling with the lace of your sleeve. He mutters, “I know how to be serious when I need to be.”

You hum too. 

Still fiddling with the fabric, you ignore his wandering hand, fingers slipping under to roll the soft lace between his fingertips. Goosebumps rise on your skin. His touch is tentative, hesitant and gentle — one would think he’s just afraid to snag the fabric, acknowledging the craftsmanship, but one glance up at him, seeing his gaze fixated on your exposed skin more than your sleeve, you know otherwise. 

“Hands to yourself, Geralt.”

“If I’m Geralt, that must make you Yennefer,” he retorts. With a laugh, he pulls away, returning to the stove to tend to the pasta sauce. You don’t realise how much warmth he generated until you feel a sudden draught. 

The smell of frying onions and garlic is delicious and you’re becoming more and more starved by the second. He’s agile, moving swiftly and on muscle memory as he opens drawers and cabinets to gather the things he needs. 

“How often do you cook?” You ask, arm getting tired from the motion of grating the block of cheese.

Gojo shrugs and admits, “Not as often as I’d like. Weekends are for parties and pizza and all the other days, everyone’s doing their thing, studying or whatever, and eating by myself is kinda sad, so I just eat out usually.”

“How is it possible that you eat out so often but still remain so skinny?”

That was apparently the wrong thing to say because the next thing you know you’re being spun around and pressed into the island with a hard body. His arms are caging you in, keeping you still as he grins at you. 

He had thrown his jacket by the door when you both walked in; his biceps bulge as he flexes. They’re so much bigger now, or maybe they were always like that. And he’s pressed so close his Adam’s apple is right in front of you, bobbing when you tilt your head back so you can meet his eyes. 

“I’m plenty jacked, actually,” he brags and to add salt to the wound, he leans down, cheek brushing against yours to whisper against your ear, “wifey.”

You shove him off, snorting at his lame line. He back away with little protest. Trying to hide the heat in your face, you wash your hands, turning away from him completely. 

The rest of the hour passes by in a blink of an eye, and you finally sit down at the dining table across from each other. He’s a decent cook and you pay him a compliment even though it physically hurt to do so. 

“Do you not cook very often?” 

“I make sandwiches and ramen, that’s as far as I know how to do,” you admit with no shame.

He pours you a cup of water and asks, “Do you not have a chef to pre-make meals for you? My father insisted I have one, but I complained to my gramps about the lack of privacy and independence, and he gave up pretty quickly.”

You pause. It’s a stupid question to ask someone, from anyone else it’d drip in condescension, but you know he’s genuinely asking and it’s a valid question, just not one you’re ready to answer. So, with a careful shrug, you say simply, “I’m fine with the way things are.”

Gojo doesn’t sense the tense quiver of your voice, or if he does, he has enough tact to ignore it, so he continues the conversation. He talks to you about what being a frat president entails, and you tell him your experiences as the Treasurer. 

He also shares stories of his friends: the time ‘the gang’ snuck into the gym to put shaving cream in Toji’s locker after he had his room bubbled wrapped down to every single pair of boxers, each and every one of his friends’ drunk habits, and how he’s actually a lightweight so he sticks to beers most of the time but he hates the taste and actually much prefer cocktails. 

“Wait, wait,” you say between laughs, “you drink cosmos in secret ‘cause you don’t want your frat mates knowing their president actually hates beer?”

“Yeah, yeah, laugh it up. But it isn’t my fault those things taste like wheat piss!”

You laugh harder. “They do! They totally do!”

“Has anyone ever said you have a pretty la—“

“Woah!” A voice yells out. “What’s going on here?”

You both turn to look at the wide-open door. Two men walk in, they’re in gym clothes, wide toothy grins on their faces as they stare between you and their president. You recognise them as second years, often hanging around Gojo in pictures or loitering in the Quad. 

One guy, a fake blond, wolf whistles when he sees you. “Satoru, you didn’t tell us you were having a girl over. It’s been a while; we rarely even see your bestie nowadays.”

“Yeah, this is a sight for sore eyes. This place was getting too much hotdog and not enough buns, if you know what I mean.”

When they both guffaw, you grimace. Their voices are grating, like sharp notes, and despite yourself, you cower in your seat. You hate the way they’re looking at you, in half desire and half repulsion — they’re enjoying the sight of a woman in their space, but they don’t know what to make of your attire. Usually, you don’t let people like them get to you, not their comments and not their stares. But something’s different, you’re more sensitive, less guarded. 

“Isn’t she your fiancé? We’ve heard all about her. The girls from Delta Sigma said she dresses like a witch, and well, they aren’t entirely wrong.”

“Get out.”

Three heads turn. Gojo’s standing; you hadn’t seen him move. He’s leaning on his fingertips, head hanging as he stares at his empty plate. No one says a thing. There’s no air in here anymore. Only silence, a grim, gut-wrenching silence. 

They stammer. “H-hey, man. What’s wrong?”

“Get. Out.”

“Come on, we’re just messing around,” the fake blonde chuckles nervously. 

Gojo looks up, slowly, like a creaking door. When his eyes settle on them, they stagger back with the force of his disappointment, and again with his wrath. Though you feel the tendrils of that infinite space between you, you don’t bear its impossible weight. 

With his body tense, veins bulging along his arms, broad shoulders pushed back ready for something you can’t quite grasp in this moment, you realise he really is jacked. And those muscles aren’t just for show or pressing girls against marble countertops. 

As great as it would be to be his friend, it’s even greater to not be his enemy. You didn’t realise it then, but you do now, if Gojo had ever really wanted to make someone disappear, he probably could have done so. 

“You would do well to remember that I, as descendent of the founder of Alpha Phi Delta, have a right to terminate any fraternity brother’s membership without a need for sufficient cause. Just because I’ve never exploited that clause doesn’t mean I’m above it. So, get out. Now.”

Cheeks red and heads hung low, they walk back out without sparing you another glance. 

Gojo sits back down, shoulders still tense. 

The silence hasn’t disappeared, but it has lightened, much more tolerable now. With an uncertainty in your movements, you push your knife and fork together and pat your lips dry. 

“Well, this has certainly been an eventful night,” you say. “I really ought to go, though.”

Gojo nods and takes your plate, leaving to go to the kitchen whilst you freshen up in the bathroom. 

When you come out, he’s already waiting outside with his hands tucked in his pockets, staring up at puffs of clouds he breathes into the night sky. There’s a sombre air around him, like you’re better off not disturbing him, but when he spots you from the corner of his eye, that air evaporates and he beams, literally brightens, practically shadowing the moon. 

“Hey, come on, I’ll drive you to your dorm,” he asserts with a smile. 

And he does. You get into his car for the second time of the night and watch the campus blur past you. Through the ten-minute car ride, he sings along to the pop songs on the radio, bopping his head to every beat like they’re coursing through his veins. 

“You don’t know these songs? Really?” 

He’s completely incredulous, looking at you as if you’ve grown two heads. You roll your eyes and jokingly explain you’re committed to the aesthetic. He finds that funny. The rest of the ride continues wordlessly.

“Alright, this is me,” you announce when he parks. He climbs out the car with you, leaning against his door as you shuffle awkwardly on your feet. “Despite certain parts of the time being…stiff, should we say, I had a lot of fun. Surprisingly.”

A tinge of red colours the tips of his ears. “Yeah, me too. I expected to lose my life, or at least a few limbs, at that graveyard, so I’m pretty happy with the turnout.”

You roll your eyes. “And I’m very happy I’m not covered in pig’s blood coming out of your frat house.”

“No, closest we had to that was the pasta sauce,” he chuckles. 

“Which was surprisingly delicious, by the way. You should cook more often instead of the junk food you eat.”

“Says you?” He pushes your shoulder lightly. “Miss Cup Noodles.”

“Whatever.”

The conversation dies there, laughter fading as both of you eye the doors of your dorm building. You pull your cloak tighter around you, irritated that, even though he’s just in jeans and a plain graphic tee, he’s seemingly unbothered by the temperature drop. 

“You should go in,” Gojo suggests, voice softer, barely louder than a whisper. 

You nod and make a step to go, but then a warm hand wraps around your wrist, tugging you back. He’s carrying the weight of it in his palm, thumb grazing your wrist. There’s electricity thrumming where he touches and you’re about to snatch your hand away before he tightens his grip. 

“Just a second,” he mutters, before pulling out something from his pockets. Something black. 

Your gloves. 

You forgot to put them on, having left them in the kitchen. 

He’s taking his time, smoothing the material over your knuckles, ensuring your fingers are tucked in properly. His thumb lingers on the curve of each finger, exploring the slopes. Your breath hitches as his hands envelope yours completely, his touch deliberate and light and there’s no other way to describe it: it’s positively reverent. 

The glove slide snugly into place, a second skin but they feel new, as if fresh from the machine, still warm. 

You shouldn’t let him reach for your other hand, shouldn’t just watch as he unfolds the other glove, slipping it on with much more care than you yourself had ever done. His eyes are watching the fabric consume more and more of your skin, until they meet the ends of your sleeve, and no skin remains. 

“Gojo,” you breathe out. 

He shakes his head, brows furrowing. “Satoru. Call me Satoru.”

When he finally looks up, your eyes meet and your pulse quickens, quick and short breaths pulling your chest up and down. You didn’t even realise one hand is clutching his shoulder whilst the other remains in his grip. And you certainly don’t notice that you’re standing much closer than before, only a hair’s breadth from finding out whether his lips are as soft and plush as his touch. 

“You smell really nice,” he whispers, thumb running across your knuckles, like he’s willing warmth into your hand. 

You’re so close it only takes one gust of wind to push you together, to taste what a future with him could mean, to seal the first date with something that’ll keep you up at night. Just one kiss, one bad decision and everything could fade away for a second. You could pretend he’s just a boy and you’re just a girl and this is a normal date, that you have a normal relationship and tomorrow you could go back to being arranged lovers. 

His lashes flutter, so long and wispy and you’re jealous. Flickering between your eyes and your lips, you know he’s searching for any sign that you might want this just as bad as he does. You’re craning your head back, back arched to reach him, and when your chest rubs against his for a millisecond, he shuts his eyes with a groan.  

“Hey! If it isn’t Gojo,” a gruff voice bellows.

You step back, gasping for air and desperately smoothing your skirt down as you give a shaky smile to the newcomer. He’s a tall, buff man wearing shorts and carrying a basketball. He pats Gojo on the back, oblivious to the tension, to the way his friend is pouting, grumbling about how he ‘ruined the moment.’

The man looks at you with a friendly enough smile, eyeing your appearance with nothing more than curiosity before he gives you one of those manly nods. 

“Whatcha doing at my girl’s dorm?” He asks. 

Clearing his throat, Gojo answers, “Just dropping my wi—I mean, my friend off. Yeah, just stopping by.”

The guy doesn’t look ready to stop talking. So you take the initiative to excuse yourself with an awkward kiss on the white-haired boy’s cheek and you whisper, “Goodnight...Satoru.”

You don’t wait for him to reply.

Just as you’re about to enter your dorm building, you hear a distinct, “Dude, I totally cockblocked you, didn’t I? Fuck, put that thing away. You’re gonna poke my fucking eyes out!”

You smile just as your phone pings.

[bluepearlss]

Insecurity

E.W x reader, hurt/comfort, jealousy, fluff

Ellie, just out of curiosity, went through your following list one day. She found something that ignited jealousy and... a feeling of unworthiness inside of her.

Divider by @/cursed-carmine

It all started with her innocently checking your profile. Sometimes, she liked to look at your posts and old photos, admiring you while she missed your presence, like the obsessed girlfriend that she is.

Not that she didn't have a whole album in her gallery dedicated to photos of you that you'd be too embarrassed to show anyone; ranging from funny angles to photos of your half-naked sleeping form, and if you ever caught the latter in her phone she'd just say you looked so cute she couldn't resist.

While she was mindlessly scrolling through your "perfectly curated and aesthetically pleasing" profile (it's what you always told her you tried to achieve, yet she'd argue that you're very anesthetically pleasing even in sweatpants and a messy bun), she checked your following list, skimming over it without even reading all the usernames properly.

Ellie has never intended to come off as the controlling and jealous type. She didn't want to scare you off like that. Besides, your relationship was healthy, so she'd easily shut down the mere idea of doubting the trust built between you.

However, something caught her eye. A typical mirror selfie profile picture, with someone standing in the middle and flexing their muscles. After getting a better look, it she realized it's a woman in the photo.

That's when her mind began racing with so many possibilities. You two hadn't ever explicitly discussed what counted as cheating online because it never really rose as an issue.

She tapped the icon with her thumb, bracing herself for what was to come. Most of the creator's videos consisted of her flexing her muscles in nothing but a sports bra and sweatpants that had her boxers peeking out. There were also a few thirst traps here and there. Why the hell would you follow such an account that regularly posts content like that?

Her mind couldn't rest for the rest of the day. She had a plethora of questions she wanted to ask you. But she also needed to ask herself questions. Was she... jealous? Maybe hurt? Or... insecure? She turned the focus back onto you to avoid dwelling on whichever vulnerable emotion had her triggered at the moment.

The next few days, something definitely changed. You were sure of it. The thing is, Ellie didn't want to express her feelings to you yet, so you didn't have a real reason to confront her. Yet you couldn't shake away the feeling that lingered.

The signs grew more obvious as the days passed. Less affectionate touches, checking her body every single time she walked in front of a mirror, just staring with an expression you couldn't quite understand. Almost like a look of... dissatisfaction. She had a tendency to distance herself when she felt down.

To you, all of this came unannounced, which made it harder to pinpoint what she was feeling. Truth be told, she was feeling inadequate and afraid of losing you. Though, the lack of communication on both your ends wasn't helping at all. Because when there's no clear explanations from either of you, your minds get clouded with doubts.

Your last straw was when she clearly avoided most of your physical affection, very much unlike her usual clingy self, and you could swear you started hearing sniffling coming from the bathroom some nights.

What the hell is she doing to herself, and why the hell is she acting so different? That night, you were finally going to get your answers. Subsequently, she'll be doing the same.

"Baby..." Your voice barely above a whisper, though you knew that she still hasn't slept. You waited for her to shift around and face you, but that didn't happen. You'll be patient with her, though.

"Ellie, I need you to tell me what's wrong." As you spoke, your hand came up to her jaw to grab it, soft but firm enough to turn her head.

"Nothing. Just go to sleep."

You didn't like how she was avoiding you. She was barely making eye contact, her eyes glued to the ceiling instead.

Normally, you wouldn't push her, but you had to find out what made her change.

"Talk to me, please. I know something's bothering you, and you've been distant lately..."

She took a deep breath in, her eyes hesitantly meeting yours.

"I don't want you to stay with me out of pity. I'm sure you have options..."

You didn't know how to react. You cocked an eyebrow at her strange response. It was so unexpected and unlike her.

"Ellie, what's that supposed to mean?"

"I'm sure your type is someone who looks... better than me. Maybe taller, stronger..." her eyes began to tear up, which worried you even more.

"Babe, where the hell is all of this coming from?"

Your expression of worry evoked more emotions out of her. It quickly turned into a skeptical one, urging her to explain herself.

"I... I noticed you were following this girl and... I don't know it just... made me feel insecure, I guess."

She finally admitted it. The room fell silent. She began to regret her awkward response, though it did lift a heavy weight off of her chest nonetheless.

Instead of further interrogating her, you let go of her face to grab your phone. You unlocked it and gave it to her.

"Show me." A simple command in a gentle tone. She quickly pulled up your following list and pointed to the profile.

"Ohh, her."

Now she was curious to know your explanation.

"I barely know her, a friend of a friend. One of mine made us exchange socials on a night out. In fact," you quickly moved your finger on the screen, "I've had her posts muted because I'm not interested."

Her expression quickly changed. Relief, finally. But... this left her feeling stupid. She was insecure and doubtful of your trust. She felt like a fool through and through. Which is why unlike what you'd expected, she began sobbing.

"What... Baby, what's wrong? I promise you that's the truth," you urgently spoke while pulling her head to your chest. Even if you didn't understand her reactions, you still wanted to comfort your girlfriend and let her take her time.

"N-no, it's not that i dont believe you..." she quietly spoke between muffled sobs. She anxiously raised her head, and the glossy-eyed look she gave you broke your heart. It hurt seeing the person you cared about the most feeling sad.

So many scenarios played out in her mind, and she felt a wave of guilt wash over her.

"I'm sorry... I'm sorry for overreacting. I just feel so stupid for not trusting you and making this a big deal. I don't know what's wrong with me." She buried her face in the crook of your neck, trying to hide her shame as she cried. You almost cried, too.

"Ellie... darling, look at me, please. " You waited for her to gather courage to do so, then you continued,

"You don't need to apologize for anything. Nothing's wrong with you, please don't talk like that about yourself. I only want you to be sure from now on that you're the only woman I see and love, okay?"

The way you tenderly reassured her and began stroking her hair brought her comfort. She was glad to know that you weren't repelled by her emotional reactions.

She wiped her tears as you continued to brush your fingers through her hair, and then she lay beside you again, this time getting spooned by you.

"You're so beautiful, Ellie. Everything about you is breathtaking. It's not just the way you look, I could name a hundred more things that make you so interesting and special. You're my beautiful and special girl. I mean it."

At that moment, she was on cloud nine. You always managed to make her life better and help her deal with any wounds that would resurface from her past.

[anantaru]

— you ask him "can i sit on your lap?"

including heizou, lyney, wriothesley, alhaitham x gn! reader

꒰ genre ꒱ — fluff, established relationship, a tiny bit suggestive towards the end (wriothesley's part, basically the last paragraph hints at something suggestive)

— heizou

the door to heizou's office was closed behind you two, leaving the rest of the world outside as you laid on a couch while he was practically glued to his office-desk— his countenance focused, absorbed in the current case he was working on.

to some, it might appear as boring when you both spend time like that, but to you it was the exact opposite— not only were you able to work on your own stuff in his office, in fact, you're not getting distracted by anything there, but heizou will always spend the night at your place after he was done with work.

although sometimes, you catch yourself become bored once you've finished up everything you had to do yourself, and immediately decide to walk towards his desk, your eyes holding a secret glow only he was able to understand.

"how far are you?" you ask, "already cracked the case?" tilting your head to the sight before lazily leaning against his desk.

heizou smirks before brushing one hand through his tousled hair, "almost done, heh, i'm almost there,"

you know— you know, you shouldn't bother him while he was busy with solving this case, but watching him actually do it was very much attractive. it's constant in his behavior, your boyfriend was just effortlessly handsome when he skimmed over a case, never seeing the glass as half full— he see it brimming to the top, filled with all his brilliance. 

to add on to that, the both of you couldn't be apart from each other for a long time anyways, it was like watching two magnets, pushing and pulling until they finally clicked back into place.

"can i sit on your lap?" you say in a whispered utterance that was setting his heart ablaze, "i want to watch you solve it," and the way you spoke to him in that sound, heizou's facial features instantly turn softly into kindness, a carefree laugh attached to him.

"you don't have to ask, come here."

heizou instantly makes space for you before guiding you towards his lap, and an immediate rush of warm air rises when he wraps his arms around you, the tension roiling and manifesting into heart-shaped clouds.

now, as a result of being so close to your boyfriend, his slightly sweet fragrance overruns your senses when you rest your head against his shoulder, sighing out through your mouth.

"you wanna help me solve this case, hm?" the man snickers as his palm smoothes along your thigh, "i will do whatever you want if you solve it before me,"

"i can try," you claim confidently and shift on his lap.

a gleeful light falls into his deep, black pupils when you agree, his lips curved up into a smile, "but don't get mad if i beat you!"

— lyney

"see? that's how you hide a card and make it appear again,"

lyney moves his fingers around the pack of cards with such frightening precision that you could evidently witness with fierce clarity that, well, you cannot possibly memorize this magic trick with the confused blur in your eyes— despite the fact that he has shown you the exact same trick three times in a row now.

you sigh out in defeat, your eyes skimming over his hands as you're both sitting on the couch next to each other, "I still don't get it," your words were breathless but liquid with embarrassment, even though there was nothing to be embarrassed about— because you see, lyney would never reveal a trick to anybody, not even to his significant other.

after all, it's a magicians greatest strength to keep their cunning mischiefs hidden away.

in fact, he only offered to show you because he really liked that befuddled look on your face, he finds it so cute, pretty and sweet.

a somewhat devious, but calm smile hovers on his face as he watches you in awe, one hand now lingering on your arm, a silent plea for you to stay.

"hm, you know what? let me look at it from a different view," you grin before tenderly kissing his cheek, "it's difficult watching from the side like that, you know?" then place a small peck on his jaw before working yourself towards his soft lips at last.

"can i sit on your lap?" you say and lyney almost whines at your request, a pretty sparkle on your eyes worsening his condition, your voice barely above a whisper.

on a surface level, you were dating lyney for quite a while now and were utterly aware that he was probably trying to confuse you with his magic tricks, and although you do not welcome it, you also did not mind because letting him confuse you wasn't necessarily a bad thing— since lyney would always become so confident and loving, not to mention excited to show and tell you more about his passion.

he blushes a little, an emotion such as this one was probably one of the only ones a magician of his caliber was unable to disguise.

"of course," lyney takes a deep breath before straightening his posture out, parting his arms so you could easily settle on his lap.

once you're on his lap, he kisses your shoulder before resting his head in the nook of your neck, "i'll start over now, you ready?"

"i am!" you retort back, "i will get it this time," as a lazy smirk spreads across your face before you begin to melt into his embrace.

— wriothesley

for you to be able to see each other as often as possible, you tend to visit wriothesley at work every now and then— sometimes you feel quite lonely since your boyfriend was always occupied with his job, so when you open the door to his office at last, he holds a benevolent presence on his demeanor, mirth possessing his eyes at the pure look of you walking into the room.

and to make this situation even sweeter, wriothesley shows you a tight-lipped, tender smile on his attractive face, delving into the soothing energy you always brought forth in him.

time seemed to stand still as your eyes met, and wriothesley immediately rises from his seat, cheeks flushing brightly, "you're finally here," his voice jovial-alike, so jovial that it set your entire tone for the day, "i was waiting for you, love,"

his walk was quick as he could barely wait to hug you— in fact, you honestly applaud him for how impossibly fast he has reached you as two muscular arms wrap around your body in no time, a silent language of shared passion being spoken.

"i'm sorry that i have kept you waiting, i'm a bit late, aren't i?" with a meaningful smile, you cup his cheeks before stroking the skin with your thumb.

lost in your eyes, wriothesley watches you through a soft look of through his thick lashes, "—oh, yeah? you did? i couldn't tell."

"but now that you're mentioning it, hm, how brave of you to keep me waiting like that," wriothesley utters in a fooling timbre, "—knowing that I've missed you all day," he continues to tease you before guiding you towards his desk by your hand.

on a normal day, the duke would offer you to sit on his office chair just because he finds it cute and somewhat hilarious— in fact, your cuteness in general was off the charts, it practically had its own gravitational pull.

you do not sit down and instead wrap your arms around his neck, "looks like someone's not quite perfect after all," wriothesley jokes in a tone that was warm and inviting, eliciting an immediate laugh from you.

you pout at him, "hey! if that's the case i'm taking my apology back right now,"

half jokingly, you avert your gaze as to tease him for once, although his overconfidence was like a blazing torch, nothing was capable to rush through it.

wriothesley keeps a prolonged eye contact with you so he could intensify the triumph over this situation, watching how you're crumbling first and losing the game, a playful wink adding a touch of humor to his jest.

"ouch, my love, you heart my heart crack right now?" the duke knits his eyebrows together as he kisses your forehead, his voice light with a hint of playfulness.

you roll your eyes, "hmpf, that's what you get."

the air was charged with a gentle, bubbly energy as wriothesley slightly pushes his office chair towards your direction to make you sit down— he believed you must be tired from today, in fact, the night was slowly approaching and he could tell by how often you'd yawn out.

you look at the chair before searching for your boyfriends eyes again, "is it okay if i sit on your lap instead?" you ask shyly, "i want to watch you work," certainly, that look on your face told him all he needed to know,

"—and cuddle," especially with that twinkle in your eyes.

"you sure? i might be unable to sit still," he grins, leaning closer to your ear before pulling you on to his lap, "make sure to keep your eyes wide open for me, no sleeping," wriothesley kisses your cheek, his voice a soft murmur that boiled the blood in your veins.

"working with me can be quite the handful, you know," he claims confidently, yet you weren't new to your boyfriend's manner of speaking— because you see, in secret he was hinting at something way different than you simply sitting on his lap.

— alhaitham

eyes fluttering shut, you lean against alhaitham's shoulder while your knee would nudge against his own ever so often, swaying from left to right.

it's this particular hour of the day again, where your boyfriend would read to you in the park, it's a simple date yet the both of you preferred it above everything else— it's the vibrancy of various petals decorating the nature that was boldly unique to you, surrounding your bodies so delicately and pure that you couldn't help yourself but feel weary due to the dainty scenery.

for some reason, you cannot keep your eyes open this time but proceeded to give your utmost best to keep your fatigue hidden from the scribe's eyes— granting the fact that he had figured it out the second he saw you.

it was utterly unfair, that's what it was, because there was nothing you cherished more then spending time with your boyfriend like that, in midst the sounds of cooing pigeons in the garden as  sun washes the garden with a golden glow.

alhaitham liked it to, especially reading his favorite books to you was something he thought was beneficial to the both of you. most importantly, he noticed how he was igniting an inner smile in your soul, that kind that burns warm and long, he loves that smile, he couldn't possibly become satiated by it ever.

in a fleeting moment, he places his warm palm against your knee, "hey, you're falling asleep," he claims, a little stoic, "we should head home so you can rest,"

no, please no, you yell inwardly before rubbing your eyes— every ounce of your remaining strength was dedicated to maintaining your eyes open and stay within this scenery a little longer.

"it's okay, i am fine, i promise," you panic, then yawn, yikes, what a way for your body to go behind your back.

hand in hand with your weary state of mind, you move your body before standing up to reclaim your energy, "you can keep reading to me, please, it was getting interesting,"

you're attempting to salvage just an ounce of this date, your eyebrows knitting together in displeasure as you yawn out again.

"i love listening to you."

"there's no point in that if you're falling asleep,"

alhaitham takes your hand, delicately pulling your body towards his own as to inspect your fatigued expression, "we can postpone this, the book isn't running anywhere and neither am i," he smiles gently, silently running his thumb along your knuckles so you'd calm yourself down a little, his homely trace sending a shiver down your spine.

without dissembling anything, it wasn't the book you feared to miss out on— in fact, it was about alhaitham himself. as the scribe of the akademiya he had always been busy and it could become very difficult to plan dates in advance.

to note that even after he might finish up his duties for the day a little earlier, he preferred to stay within the warm confines of his home which you did not mind either.

"alhaitham?" you heave out, something unspoken yet profound being exchanged as your body tests the waters by moving forward, "can i sit on your lap? that way i will surely stay awake, i promise."

alhaitham cocks a curious brow at you, "oh, you will?" he inquires as you nod your head, "in that case, please be my guest,"

the scribe shuffles in his seat as he spreads his legs a little, waiting for you to sit on his lap as one of his hands guide you down while the other held on to the beige-colored book.

the scribe looks at you through thick eyelashes, his face wholly relaxed as you loop one arm around his shoulders to steady yourself, your  lips contorting into a deep, happy smile.

"are you comfortable enough?" he asks as you shift your weight from one leg to another, "very much, thank you."

alhaitham holds you by your waist, strong enough that you could leisurely lean back without fearing of actually dropping on the ground. after figuring out a comfortable setting for the both of you, he flips his book open with one hand as your body subconsciously heats up at his tender palm rubbing circles on your waist.

a cool breeze swirls around you both when he resumes to the book like nothing has changed at all, his choice in tone dignified and unwavering as he reads the first paragraph to you, smiling at your sweet face when he notices how you were drifting into a much deeper sleep.

©2024 anantaru do not repost, copy, translate, modify, claim as your own

[sweetheartspence]

౨ৎ booked & busy - s.r. ౨ৎ

you doze off while studying for finals. spencer is there to take care of you.

pairing: spencer reid x grad student!reader genre: fluff content: established relationship, gn!reader, reader is not taking care of themself, spencer uses pet names, tooth rotting fluff wc: 818 a/n: currently suffering through finals and cannot get my brain to focus. so this itty bitty blurb is the product. i wish i had a spencer to make sure i took care of myself. requests/asks are open! my masterlist!!

Your eyes are starting to blur after reading the same sentence for the fourth time, making no more sense out of it than you had the first three times. You're sitting cross legged on the couch, surrounded by papers, articles on the topic you're writing a dissertation on. God, this is your passion, but sometimes you wish you had picked something a little bit easier.

You scrub your hand over your face, sighing and knocking your glasses askew. There's too many big words, and you haven't gotten nearly enough sleep to process all of them. You've been so busy drafting this paper that you haven't been sleeping properly, and Spencer hasn't been around to make you. You chew absently on your thumbnail, shuffling a stack of papers around, trying to find a specific one. Had it even been in that stack? Did you completely imagine that quote?

You sigh again, setting your highlighter to the side. The words are swimming behind your eyelids, becoming little blobs on the page. You're honestly not even convinced they are words. Maybe this author is just making words up, and gaslighting you into believing they're real because of their credentials and the fact that it's been nearly a week since you've gotten a proper rest.

Maybe if you just close your eyes for a moment, you could get them to focus...

---

Spencer is headed back to your shared apartment. He's just gotten home from a long case across the country, lasting nearly a week and a half, and hadn't let you know that he was coming home. He was intending on surprising you, but when he walks in, he finds you fast asleep on the couch, your head tilted back, your mouth slightly open.

Spencer's heart nearly melts in his chest. God, did you have to be so cute? He wonders for a brief moment why you're not sleeping in your bed, but clocks the articles spread out over your lap and the couch. He smiles, and makes his way over to the couch, careful not to disturb you.

Spencer gathers up the papers, stacking them neatly and setting them aside on the coffee table. He gathers you carefully into his arms, tucking your head under his chin, and carries you off to bed.

---

You wake up horribly disoriented. When did you climb into your bed? You blink slowly, reaching up to rub at your eyes. And your glasses are off...

You sit up, looking around the room, blinking blearily, and you see a man sitting on the other side of the bed. He's reading, his fingers skimming along the pages, his lips pursed in concentration. He looks over at you as you sit up, his dark curls falling into his eyes, and immediately his features soften. "Hi, baby," Spencer says fondly, reaching out for you. He wraps a hand around your waist, pulling you to him, closing the book and setting it carefully on the nightstand. The tips of his fingers slide underneath the material of your shirt, tracing along sensitive skin.

"Hi," you say breathlessly, surprised to see him. "You're... home."

"Try not to sound so excited," Spencer smiles, tucking a stray piece of your hair out of your face. This is his favorite way to see you- soft, sleepy, a little lost, and all his.

"I'm- I was studying, and now I'm in bed," you tell him, your eyes widening almost comically. "Christ, I need to finish that chapter of my dissertation, I have pages due this weekend, and-"

"Sweetheart," Spencer interrupts gently. "You need to sleep. You can't do anything while you're this tired. You'll end up having to rewrite the pages anyway, and that's just going to make more work for yourself."

You bite your lip, considering this for a moment. You know he's right, you're too tired to really focus, and the bed is warm and inviting. Spencer is looking at you with those soft eyes, the expression he saves just for you, and you suddenly can't find it in yourself to move away from him.

"Okay," you whisper, tucking your nose into the soft hollow under his jaw. It fits perfectly into the spot, like it was made for you.

"Okay," Spencer repeats softly, placing a kiss on your forehead. "Go to sleep, darling. I'll be here when you wake up, and I'll make you tea, and we can figure out a work schedule for you to get your pages done."

You sigh, nuzzling further into his neck, hiking a leg up to drape it around his thigh. "You're too good to me, you know."

"Just giving you what you deserve," Spencer murmurs, running a gentle hand through your hair. "Go to sleep."

You fall asleep like that, tangled up in one another, the smell of him surrounding you. Old books, rain, and a hint of lemon.

It's the best sleep you've gotten in weeks.

[traveler-at-heart]

Hot and Cold

Summary: Natasha's playing with fire when a new resident joins the Compound.

A/N: Queen of Angst @esposadejoyhuerta asked for the fluffiest, sweetest, tooth rotting story ever and I was happy to deliver, even after they changed their request to inclue jealousy BECAUSE no one can stop me. Love ya, baby!

Another day, another mission. Since last week’s mess, it seems like Fury’s been finding ways to torture the team.

Yes, at the end they were able to retrieve the drive with the data of over twenty enhanced individuals. But so did HYDRA. And now the Avengers are on a race against time to locate them before the Russians do.

Natasha walks to Fury’s office, not excited at the prospect of risking her life to recruit people who didn’t really want to be found.

“Yes?” she says as soon as Fury turns around. He hands over a very heavy binder. “Is this their criminal record?”

Great, a weirdo with a troubled past. Natasha might not make it out alive.

“No, that’s their academic stuff. She’s a scientist. Crazy smart” Fury explains. “Have you heard of Bio-Thermokinesis?”

“No, not really”

“The ability to manipulate the body temperature of oneself and/or others” he recites, having learned the concept just now.

“That doesn’t sound so bad” Natasha says, closing the folder. It’s certainly better than the last few people she had to chase down.

“Yeah, until she induces a heat stroke or hypothermia” Fury scoffs. “We’ve been failing at recruiting these people. It would be nice to have a win. Plus, she could work in the lab with Banner and Stark”

“I don’t think Nerd Club is worth one’s freedom” Natasha mutters, skimming through the file.

“Well, either way, this mission doesn’t requires strenght. It requires charm. You up for it or should I send Hill?”

As Natasha gets to the picture of the target, she looks up.

“I’ll handle it”

—

As usual, you’re carrying more than you can possibly handle. Books, your laptop, a sandwich from the cafeteria, and correspondence from the main office.

By the time you manage to open the door to your office, half of the things in your arms are dangerously close to scattering across the hardwood floor.

“Oh, shit” you mutter when your keys drop.

“Need a hand?” a voice says and you jump back, the rest of your stuff flying across the room. 

“Uh… can I help you?” you say, because the most beautiful woman you’ve ever seen is perched up on your desk, legs crossed and a playful smirk across her striking features.

“Are you Doctor Y/L/N?”

“Yes. How did you…? I’m pretty sure the door was locked” 

Is she a thief? You have absolutely nothing of value, at least not for a conventional burglar. You run every possibility in your mind and then you land on your second least favorite one.

Natasha notices the room getting warmer, probably because of how flustered you got. The file seems accurate regarding your power.

“AC broke down?” she asks innocently, undoing the top button of her shirt.

“Uh… I… I’ll open the window” you say, pushing it and leaning against the window pain. You consider jumping down to escape, but it’s a considerable height. You take a breath, deciding to face the matter head on. “So, which agency sent you?”

“Ever heard of S.H.I.E.L.D.?”

“Yes, that was my first guess” you admit with a sad smile. “What can I do for you, Agent…?”

“Call me Natasha” she says, hopping off the desk. “I’m afraid I am the bearer of bad news… and a generous offer”

“Mmm” you nod, fixing your glasses. 

“A tactical team was sent to stop the purchase of confidential information for 30 enhanced individuals. We were able to obtain it… and so did HYDRA”

“Listen” you raise your hand, taking off your glasses and pinching the bridge of your nose. “I get it. HYDRA and S.H.I.E.L.D. know about me. The thing is, my power isn’t something you can leverage in a fight. I doubt they’ll be very interested in me”

“I think you’re wrong. And it’s not just your ability. Your expertise in science and your genetic makeup can be used to experiment”

“So, is that what S.H.I.E.L.D. wants to do with me?” you sigh, looking out the window. You’re enjoying the view, vaguely aware that life as you know it is over.

“We want to offer you shelter at the Avengers Compound. 24 hour security, top facilities and technology. You can continue your research” Natasha says, trying to make it sound like a great deal.

It brings her back to that time Fury told her it was either work for the US government or end up in the Raft.

Your offer is slightly better, but a golden prison is still a prison.

“Are there any questions I can answer before you make a decision?” she offers with a kinder tone.

“Yeah. Do I even have a choice?”

—

Academic life is all you’ve ever known. Grants were the perfect way to do your research without having to look for a benefactor and expose yourself. You could learn things about your DNA, your abilities, while doing other stuff without anyone noticing.

Now, you wake up and there’s nothing that drives you. You live with people who have exceptional skills, physical prowess, and military training. Their world is avenging, your world is scientific papers and books.

Sure, their lab is nice, but most of the times you end up leaving early, completely unmotivated and feeling empty. 

Natasha watches from afar, and although this isn’t her doing, she feels responsible. She tries to include you in activities she understands, like training, but you’re very obviously not the athletic kind.

Banner is, as usual, isolating himself and Tony speaks nerd, but is barely around unless a mission requires his presence. 

It isn’t until one day that Peter shows up to the Compound that Natasha gets an idea.

“Hi, Miss Romanoff. Is Mister Stark around?” he asks in that shy tone he always uses when he’s around Natasha.

“Nope, not to my knowledge. Do you need anything?” 

“FRIDAY told me to meet him here. He must have forgotten. I guess I better get back to my Biochem project”

Wait a minute.

He’s a nerd.

“Stay” she says, looking him up and down. Peter reminds her of a puppy when he stops completely, as if he learned a new command. “Wait for Tony at the lab. I’ll try to find him”

“You’re sure? I’m not allowed inside by myself” he hesitates, following Natasha.

“Yeah, it’s fine” she types in the access code, and of course, there you are, spinning in your chair.

As soon as you hear the door opening, you stop your movements, almost falling off.

Natasha finds your blush adorable.

“Hey, Y/N. This is Peter. He’ll be around waiting for Tony”

“Oh, hey. Ok, I was just leaving. I’m kinda stuck either way”

“Ordinary Differential Equations?” Peter says as soon as he gets his eyes on your board.

“Yes. Very impressive” you nod. “This is focused on genetic network. I’m trying to determine inborn errors of metabolism”

“Oh, you know? There’s a brilliant Doctor who’s working on that, maybe her paper would be great for you. She’s Y/N Y/L/N”

“Yeah, that’s me” you say, tapping your chin and examining the board. “What is your ability? If you have any? Maybe I can use a different set of data”

“Yes! I would love to, what do you need from me?” Peter says, a little starstruck at finding out you’re one of the most prestigious researchers in the world. 

“For now, a blood sample” you wink at him, adjusting your glasses.

Natasha sits in the back of the lab as you and Peter work together, and you explain every concept to him. This is the first time since you arrived that you don’t look so miserable.

The Russian takes it as a small win when you join her in the common area for dinner.

--

Since Peter found out about your abilities and your permanent stay at the Compound, you’ve been advising him on his project and college applications. Which is a really nice distraction, but it also makes you miss your own college days.

So, even if you’re in a better mood, it’s still hard to socialize with the team.

One day, you enter the lab to find Rogers, Wilson and Barnes looking at a screen, while Natasha types.

“Whoever encrypted this is slightly smarter than me. Only slightly” 

They look away as you drag a chair to focus on your own stuff, a cup of coffee in your hand and a cookie in your mouth.

“Hi…” you wave at them, feeling intimidated as usual.

“Hey, weather girl” Sam winks at you. 

Natasha rolls her eyes and elbows him.

“Ignore him, Y/N”

You can tell she’s getting frustrated, so you inch closer, looking at the code over her shoulder. Placing your hand on her elbow, you silently ask for permission to take over.

The redhead eyes you curiously, but stops typing and moves the keyboard your way. It takes you twenty seconds to hack into the files.

“How…?”

“I used to hack into databases to make sure my name wasn’t on any watchlist” you explain casually. Natasha laughs at that. “Anyway, there you go”

“Thanks, Y/N. You’re my hero” Natasha says, smiling up at you. Her tone makes you blush and you nod, going back to your desk.

“Nice work. We could use your help if you’re free some other time” Steve says as they leave the lab.

“Of course, Capitan” 

—

An intruder changes your mind about training. The threat is handled swiftly and you don’t even have time to hide before F.R.I.D.A.Y. confirms the suspect has been taken into custody

But you don’t even know how to begin to defend yourself, so you come back to Natasha, asking if her offer still stands.

Needless to say, the spy is more than happy to train you. Not just because it means you’re comfortable asking for things, but because Natasha can teach you something that will help you protect yourself.

You start with two sessions per week, which later turns to four, until you’re comfortable with training almost daily.

The rest of the team joins from time to time, giving you advice and helping you when Natasha’s away on missions.

After a few weeks, Natasha notices how your resistance is better and you’re building some muscle.

Only as a professional observation. It’s not like she finds you attractive, with that nerdy charm and toned arms.

One day, as you’re leaving the gym, she checks her bag, cursing when she notices she forgot a change of clothes. 

“Wanna borrow one of my hoodies?” you offer, handing over your NYU sweatshirt.

“You sure?” Natasha hesitates.

“Yeah, I got tons of these. From all the places I’ve done work or research” 

“I’ll give it back” she promises, taking it.

That turns out to be a lie.

A few days later, when you’re folding your laundry, F.R.I.D.A.Y. requests that you join Tony and Banner in the lab. Leaving the basket in the living room, you think nothing of it, nor do you notice that a couple of your sweatshirts are gone.

It all comes to light a week later, when Natasha comes back from a grueling mission. The only thing that will make her feel better is staying in her room while wearing your UCLA hoodie.

She totally forgets about her attire when she answers the door.

“Huh, so that’s where it was” you tilt your head, smiling.

“I…”

“I’m watching a movie, care to join me? It’s one of your favorites” 

“Ok” she nods, surprised that you’re not mad about the stolen sweatshirt. 

Natasha enters your room, appreciating the combination of books, notes and the board with equations. After you apologize for the mess, you offer a place to sit in your bed.

“It looks good on you” you compliment the redhead. Natasha smiles, trying to be nonchalant about it.

“Thank you” 

It becomes a habit, to steal your hoodies.

“Objectively speaking, you don’t actually need them as you can regulate your temperature” Natasha comments one day, digging through your closet. To her shock, she finds a sweatshirt with a sorority logo on it.

“Not mine. A girl I hooked up with in college” you explain.

Natasha rolls her eyes, throwing the garment as far away as possible while pulling a face. You laugh at her reaction.

“Don’t be jealous, Natty. You’re my favorite” you promise, unaware of the effect your words had on her.

“And yet you never let me wear the Harvard one”

“That was my first” you shrug your shoulders.

“First college or first hook up?” Natasha taunts and you laugh.

“A nerd never kisses and tell. Actually, a nerd rarely kisses anyone to being with” you try to joke, pulling out the Harvard sweatshirt from your closet to put it on.

Natasha eyes it, and you catch her intentions a little too late. She inches forward and you stretch your arm back, trying to place the hoodie out of reach.

“Nu-uh” you shake your head, laughing as she keeps trying to steal it. “Natasha, there are like ten other hoodies you  could take!” 

“I want this one!” she insists, jumping. Her body crashes against yours, and you both stumble, falling in your bed. Limbs are tangled and her laugh tickles your ear as she struggles to lift herself up. After a moment, Natasha smiles, looking at your lips. “Gotcha”

You don’t even know what to say, her intense stare making you feel warm -both literally and figuratively - and your heart beats faster when it seems like she’ll lean forward and kiss you.

“Agent Romanoff, there’s an urgent call for you” FRIDAY interrupts the moment. 

Natasha sighs, standing up and looking at you. 

“Catch you later?”

“Yeah” you nod, trying to hide your disappointment.

—

Natasha was gone for a week, and returned with a very bad injury. You heard the news as Steve and Tony were arguing in the kitchen, blaming each other as usual.

“Where…? Is she ok…?” you try to interrupt them, but they’re in the middle of a screaming match.

“Come with me” Maria says, taking you to a whole different wing of the Compound. Since you’ve never been on missions, you didn’t know about the Medbay.

Natasha’s lying in a hospital bed, asleep.

“She’s ok. A guy threw a knife at her, but it was only a superficial stab wound. Doctor said she’ll be discharged tomorrow” Maria eases your nerves. 

Of course, for her it’s easy to say it’s no big deal. Agents are shot, blown up, killed in the field. A little scratch is nothing, especially for Natasha. But you take a deep breath, leaving the Medbay in a rush.

As you lock yourself in the Avenger’s Lab, you make F.R.I.D.A.Y. a simple request.

“Show me the mission’s footage”

—

Natasha’s had worst, truly. But still, her head is throbbing when she wakes up. The doctor discharges her with the instruction to rest for a week. No training either.

The Russian notices a bag with clothes on the chair next to her bed. She finds your Harvard sweatshirt, which puts a tiny smile on her face.

You are nowhere to be found in the Compound when she returns, so she goes to her room to take another nap, the painkillers making her sleepy.

By the time Natasha wakes up to get something to eat, F.R.I.D.A.Y. requests her presence in the lab.

“What is it?” she says, surprised to find you working on a tablet. It looks like you haven’t slept in the last 24 hours, five or six cups of coffee around the various tables in the lab.

“I created a new technology for your suit” you jump right to it. “It has motion sensors that are triggered by incoming threats. That way, if someone tries to sneak up on you, you can either get an alert or program a defense mechanism that can be shot from any part of the suit” 

Natasha takes the tablet, running the simulation. She’s impressed with the level of detail you’ve placed on this and on such short time. She’s about to thank you, but you’re already asleep in the couch of the lab, clearly exhausted from all the work you’ve done.

The sight of your sleeping form makes Natasha’s heart flutter.

—

Movie night is the one tradition you’ve always been on board with. Coincidentally, it’s Natasha’s least favorite. Depending on her mood, she’ll join everyone on the living room, or talk you into watching something else in your room or hers.

Tonight, she stops by once the movie has already started. As usual, you’re on the couch in the far back of the room, your glasses reflecting the screen as you eat some popcorn.

“Hey” Natasha leans over the back of the couch and whispers against your ear, making you jump. Your eyes follow her as she jumps over to plop down next to you.

“You’re not supposed to be doing that with a hole on your side, Natasha” you reprimand. 

“It’s fine” she lies, grabbing some popcorn.

As the movie keeps going, the woman inches closer to you. At first you think she’s settling in her seat, but then her hand spreads on the back of the couch, dangerously close to your neck.

It’s fine. You can handle it.

Nope, you absolutely can’t. Not when you feel Natasha’s nimble fingers playing with the hairs on the back of your neck, her digits alternating between caressing the skin and scratching your scalp.

“You’re hot” she whispers at some point and you turn to look at her, dazed.

“Huh?”

“You feel hot” she clarifies a second later, her eyes looking at your lips. “Is everything ok? Those powers of yours are acting up”

“I’m fine” you nod, looking back at the screen. Aware that you are in fact increasing the temperature in the room, you take a breath and close your eyes, before anyone else notices.

You’re almost back to normal when Natasha stretches and lies across your lap, her left hand squeezing your thigh as the other one begins to trace patterns in your skin.

All while she's wearing your Harvard sweatshirt.

Your only thought is to take it off, along with the rest of her clothes and kiss every inch of her body.

“F.R.I.D.A.Y., is the thermostat broken…?” Tony finally snaps, annoyed at the sudden changes in temperature. “Never mind” 

Everyone follows his eyes as he looks to the back of the room, where Natasha is playing dumb while riling you up.

“Can you two find a room to turn into a sauna and spare the rest of us?” Tony says, which makes your eyes widen, and the room practically turns into a freezer. “Great, now we’re all turning into popsicles. Cap, you’re familiar with the feeling, right?”

“Don’t be so dramatic, Tony” Natasha finally stands up, showing you some mercy. “Come on, detka” 

“Uh, ok” you say, your voice barely a whisper as you allow the woman to drag you back to her room.

As soon as the door is shut, she pushes you against it.

“So, tell me” she says with a playful smile. “How hot do you think it will get here?”

You can only shake your head, speechless. Natasha smiles, kissing you softly. All thoughts leave your head, opening your mouth to give her access. You’ll do anything she asks, anything at all.

“I see” she smiles when the room gets hot. “Good thing we won’t have our clothes on” 

It’s the best sex of your life.

So much so, the fire alarm goes off in the entire Compound.

“Fucking worth it” you sigh as you’re both naked in bed, the water from the sprinklers evaporating from all the heat in the room.

[gayerthanevertbh]

teacher's pet.

chapter vi: the release

n.r masterlist | teacher's pet series

summary: you never thought you'd give in so easily, but you did. especially with the way she looked at you, as if she wanted to take you.

parinings: professor!natasha romanoff x student!reader

warnings minors dni! teacher x student relationship, oral sex (n receiving), dirty talking (from the both of them), g!p natasha, very filthy, flirting (you'll see what i mean), sort of emotional manipulation, age difference (natasha is in her late 30s; reader is in her early 20s), forbidden attraction, dark!natasha, unresolved sexual tension.

note: you've been waiting for this one, haven't you?

The moment Professor Romanoff messaged you, something in your chest fell through the floor. Not violently—no, it dropped like a silk scarf caught in the wind, soft and slow and inevitable. You stared at the name on your screen for a full second longer than necessary, just to feel the weight of it settle. Natasha Romanoff. It still didn't feel real, that she could reach you through a screen, that this version of her—digital, distilled, intimate—was meant for you and you alone.

NATASHA: I'm reading this book called The Queen of Spades. Heard of it?

You didn't. You'd never even heard the title uttered in passing, not once in class, not once in the echo chamber of your literary circle. And yet something about the way she asked made you feel small, like you should have, like you'd already failed an unspoken test. You set your pen down, suddenly hyperaware of the way your fingers trembled and the way your lower lip instinctively tucked itself between your teeth as if your whole body wanted to answer for you.

YOU: no, i haven't. is it any good?

There was a pause—not long enough to calm you, not short enough to ignore—and then her reply came, so casually composed that you could almost hear her voice behind it. That drawl that always held the faintest trace of something foreign. Not quite Russian. Not quite anything. Just her.

NATASHA: Quite getting there, actually. It's late. Why are you still up?

Your throat tightened.

YOU: i have an exam tomorrow

NATASHA: Professor Rogers' class?

There it was. That subtle, almost surgical shift in tone—away from the book and toward you. You didn't know why it made your heart pick up, or why it felt like a touch even though she was nowhere near. You were across campus. Alone in your room. Pages of half-read material sprawled across your desk, the overhead light buzzing faintly above you. And yet—

She felt close.

You stared at the message longer than you should have, your eyes skimming the words again and again, as if there were something hidden in them, something meant only for you, if you could just learn how to read her properly.

You shouldn't be texting her. God, you knew you shouldn't. Not like this. Not after what happened in her office last week—the way her hand had hovered just too long on your thigh, the way her voice had dropped when she told you she was intrigued by you, like the word itself meant something else entirely in her mouth. Something closer to hunger.

Ever since that moment, you haven't been able to stop thinking about her. It wasn't just the way she looked at you—though that alone had the power to keep you awake—but the way her absence had colonized your thoughts. You wonder what would've happened if you hadn't pulled away. If you'd leaned in instead. If she had kissed you.

Would you have told her it was wrong?

Would you have meant it?

You knew the answer. You don't even want to lie to yourself about it anymore. You wouldn't have stopped her. Not because you didn't understand the line between you—but because you wanted her to cross it. Because part of you had been waiting for her to.

And now here she was, past midnight, threading her way into your night like it was nothing. Like it was normal. Like you weren't already holding your breath.

Yearning, you thought. Is that the right term?

"Shit," you mumbled as you got yourself distracted once again and decided to drop your phone and continue reviewing for your exam. By the time the clock hit 12am, you decided to get some sleep. So you turned off your lamp, got into your sweater, and went to bed with the thought of Professor Romanoff in your head. You wanted to look at your phone to see if she had said anything—knowing that she probably did. But the thought of her not saying anything else, that she doesn't need you as much as you needed her, hurts to the core. You sighed heavily under your pillow and watched as the moon rose. It was a cold Sunday midnight, and it felt comforting. 

But what's more comforting is the thought of Professor Romanoff wanting to kiss you again—but this time, on the lips. 

After the exam, you finally went to Peter's party.

You hadn't planned on it—not really. Wanda had invited you the first time, bright-eyed and insistent, and you'd said you were busy. Which wasn't a lie, technically, but it wasn't the whole truth either. Busy meant something else entirely that night. Busy was you curled on the couch with your knees to your chest, phone in hand, texting Professor Romanoff until your eyelids surrendered to sleep and your fingers slackened around the screen.

There had been nothing scandalous about it—just messages, really. Conversations that tiptoed along a line neither of you acknowledged. It wasn't overt. It wasn't confessional. But it lived in that electric hum of silence between replies, in the slow bleed of hours passed just talking. Harmless, maybe. But something about it felt like walking barefoot into a place you weren't meant to be.

Still, you showed up tonight. Not because you wanted to. But because you had to remind yourself—convince yourself—that you still had a foot in this world, that you weren't some ghost flitting through two separate realities.

Wanda was the first to greet you—bright smile, arms outstretched, voice bubbling in that endearing Sokovian cadence. "You came!" she practically beamed. "Finally. Come—have you met Peter yet?"

You offered a noncommittal nod, remembering the brief flash of Peter's face as MJ dropped you off. "He saw me outside, but I don't think we've really met."

Inside, the party was a cacophony of limbs and music and beer breath. Everything felt warm and humid and a little too close. Red cups clinked, someone shouted something incoherent in the distance, and it all made you ache for your phone, like a phantom limb.

"Where can I find some water?" you asked, scanning the chaos for a place to disappear into.

Wanda cocked her head, amused. "Water? Not even one drink?"

"Later," you said, barely audible. "I just need something cold."

The kitchen was marginally quieter, at least less crowded, and you found some comfort in that. Your fingers closed around a chilled water bottle on the counter just as someone stumbled past, jostling you without apology. The bottle slipped—startled from your grip—and you lunged for it too late.

But it didn't hit the floor.

A hand caught it before it could. Firm and steady.

"I've got it," said a voice—warm, gentle, like the start of a Sunday morning.

You turned.

And for a moment, the entire room fell away.

He was tall—ridiculously so—with that effortless, boy-next-door glow, all tousled curls and dimpled charm. There was something wide open about his face. Unthreatening. Like the type of guy who'd apologize for blocking your view at a concert or who said "bless you" every time, without fail.

He smiled, holding the bottle out to you like it was something delicate. "That was a close one. Almost witnessed a tragedy."

You let out a laugh—sharp at first, surprised by it, then softer. "Was it that dramatic?"

"A little," he grinned. "But hey, your hydration journey lives to see another day."

You took the bottle from him, your fingers brushing his. "Thanks."

"I'm Eli," he added, hand now properly extended. You shook it, still a little caught off-guard. 

"I'm—"

"I know," he said before you could finish. "Wanda's told me about you. She says you're smarter than all of us put together."

Your eyebrows arched. "That sounds like something she'd say just to guilt me into coming."

"Maybe. But I believe her. You definitely don't look like someone who enjoys frat basements." he laughed.

You rolled your eyes, but your mouth twitched. "What gave me away?"

"I don't know," he said, squinting like he was studying you. "Maybe it's your... vibe? Is that a weird thing to say?"

"Only a little," you teased.

He grinned again—something bright and sincere in it, the kind of grin that made you want to believe it. You didn't realize it until now, but you were smiling back. You felt it in your cheeks. It had been a while since something like that came without effort.

And maybe that's what made you nervous.

He seemed kind. Genuinely so. Which makes you wonder how dangerous kindness could be in the right—or wrong—hands. Everyone has their own way of being a heartbreaker.

And maybe you were just tired. Tired of chasing shadows, tired of hanging on to every word that came—or didn't come—from someone who made your phone feel like a loaded weapon. Tired of waiting on a woman who never quite said what she meant, who only ever left ellipses where you wanted a sentence.

But Eli was here. Solid. Present. And you did think about Professor Romanoff; you thought that if she messaged now, you would stop talking to this boy and reply to her instead. But you didn't think about her much further and instead smiled at him meekly. 

"You wanna head somewhere quieter?" he asked, gesturing toward a side hallway, somewhere softer than the bass-heavy mess behind you.

And you hesitated—but not long. The pause was there, yes, like a ripple in your chest. But it passed. And when it did, you nodded.

"Yeah," you said quietly. "I'd like that."

Eli led you to the rooftop—up creaking stairs and through a rusted fire escape hatch that protested under his tug—and when you stepped out, the night opened around you like a held breath finally exhaled.

New York unfolded in every direction, lit up like it had something to prove. The skyline blinked and shimmered, an endless sprawl of glass and noise and electricity. It was the kind of view that reminded you that you were a speck in something massive and constantly alive—and for some reason, that thought didn't scare you tonight. Instead, it felt like being gently reminded that you were part of something, even if only briefly.

You stood there for a second, the wind immediately teasing at your sleeves, threading itself through your hair like it had missed you. The air was sharp, cool enough to make you shiver but not enough to move. Somewhere down below, the city went on without you—cars sighing, sirens yawning, laughter rising like bubbles—but up here, it was quiet. Suspended.

Eli set his red cup down on the ledge like it was some kind of offering and glanced sideways at you with a smile that didn't need words. "You look like you've never seen New York before."

You laughed under your breath, pressing your palms to the cold railing. "It's my first time seeing it like this," you murmured, eyes scanning the lights, the miniature world beneath. "It's beautiful."

"Yeah," he said, almost absentmindedly, watching the same cityscape as if it had something personal to say to him. "It really is."

You weren't sure if he meant the view or you. You didn't ask, you rather feel stupid for even thinking that way.

The wind picked up a little, tugging at your sleeves, and you turned to him, watching the way the city light painted faint gold into the edges of his curls. "Where do you go?" 

"Berkeley," he replied. Then, sheepishly: "I know. I'm one of those guys."

You tilted your head with a half-smile. "So—pre-med?"

"God, no. Math," he says as he lets out a small, almost offended laugh.

"Math?" you raised your eyebrows, surprised but not really. "Honestly... yeah. That makes sense. You look like someone who sees the world in numbers."

He pushed his glasses up, a gesture so casually boyish it made you feel like you were seventeen again. "What about you?"

"I go to NYU, I'm taking Literature."

His mouth tugged into a knowing smile. "Wanda told me."

"She did?"

He nodded, slow and thoughtful, his voice dipping lower with the memory. "She talks about you a lot. The first time I met her—at this tiny coffee shop near East 10th—I thought she was a foreign exchange student or something. I go there all the time, and suddenly there she was. I said hi, and she said she only had one American friend, and it was you."

You blinked. You hadn't known she talked about you like that. Maybe you hadn't expected anyone to mention you when you weren't there—least of all with fondness. Something about it made your throat go tight, like you'd been given something and didn't know how to accept it.

You look at Eli. He had the kind of smile that felt like a confession. Kind, sincere, just a little shy in the way it tugged one side of his mouth more than the other. A movie-star smile, but in an indie film. Not the glossy superhero kind, but the kind that appears in soft-lit cafes and stories about people who love quietly. And yet—maybe because of that—he reminded you of Superman anyway. The glasses, the unassuming charm, the good intentions worn plainly on his face.

But you weren't there for good intentions.

Your phone buzzed quietly in your pocket, a phantom tap that wasn't even real—but it didn't matter. You still feel it. Still hear the way Professor Romanoff's name sounded in your head even in silence. You remember the blue glow of your screen at night, the way her words came in broken lines like poetry too afraid of itself to rhyme. She'd say something sharp, or kind, or impossibly tender—and then stop. She'd always stop.

And yet you couldn't stop pulling at the string she gave you, hoping for something to unravel.

You turned away from the ledge, trying not to let that weight ruin this moment.

Eli was watching you—not too closely, not in that invasive way people sometimes look when they want something from you—but just enough to say, I'm here. That was all.

He nudged your shoulder gently with his. "Wanna sit?" he asked, motioning to a patch of concrete near a potted plant that looked like it hadn't seen water since summer.

You nodded, settling beside him.

"I feel like I'm supposed to be more fun at these things," you said. "But I always end up finding the quiet places."

"I think that makes you the smartest person here," he said, and you didn't know whether to laugh or thank him, so you just smiled and let the silence fall again.

For a while, you sat with him like that. Breathing in the city. Feeling something unfold inside you—not quite desire, not quite peace—but something like the beginning of being seen. Really seen.

And maybe, for tonight, that was enough.

As soon as you got home—praying your mother was already asleep, or at the very least too tired to ask questions—you slipped into your room like a shadow. You closed the door behind you softly, as if sealing in the version of yourself that had danced too close to being normal for one night.

Your phone was face-down on the edge of your desk. It buzzed again as you reached for it, but even before you flipped it over, something in your stomach dropped. Cold, sinking. Like guilt. Or like anticipation dressed in its twin.

Six messages. All from her.

NATASHA: Are you ignoring me?

NATASHA: You haven't replied to any of my messages. Are you okay?

NATASHA: Darling, I'm getting worried. You usually text me before 10 p.m. What happened? Are you okay?

NATASHA: Don't tell me you're at a party.

You stared. Not in the words, really, but in the space between them. You could almost hear her voice. Not angry, but tight. Sharp around the edges. She never used the word darling in person. She would only say this through a text or when you two were alone and she's sort of vulnerable, like she needed the extra syllable to cross the distance.

You hesitated, thumb hovering over the screen. Your fingers were suddenly unsteady, caught between telling the truth and something safer. But what would be safer? Would she rather hear you were home studying? Asleep? Still thinking of her?

And what did it mean that you even cared?

You sat on the edge of your bed, unsure why your chest felt tight. Like you were the one who had done something wrong.

Still, you typed.

YOU: I'm so sorry, I was at a party. Don't worry, I'm home safe now.

I was with Wanda and Pietro. I met a guy there. His name's Elijah, short for Eli. He seems nice.

It only took her a minute to reply.

NATASHA: Nice? Every man is nice until he wants to ruin you. A smile is not a promise, it's a warning. 

But I'm sorry—I shouldn't talk to you that way. Did you have fun?

You blinked at the screen. Her words didn't sting so much as they pressed down on you, possessive in a way she tried to wrap in apology. And still, you felt your heart skip.

YOU: I did! I didn't drink though.

Which was true. You hadn't touched the vodka or the tequila Wanda passed around like some rite of passage. You hadn't wanted to. Not because of the taste or the headache, not even the fear of getting caught coming home drunk.

It was her voice. Soft and steady in your head. Don't drink, she had once said, as she poured you a glass of orange juice during office hours, of all things, her thumb brushing your knuckle as she handed it to you. It'll steal your innocence. You don't want to give that away.

Innocence. Like it was something you wore on your body and didn't know how visible it was. Like she could smell it, as if she'd kill anyone who tried to take it from you first.

Lose your innocence? For what?

You stared at the wall for a long moment, before her name lit up your screen again.

NATASHA: I don't like the idea of other people looking at you, especially when you're flushed  and unsure of yourself. It makes you vulnerable. I don't like imagining what they see when they look at you and know you're untouched.

You inhaled sharply.

NATASHA: Do you know what I mean? I shouldn't say this.

The typing bubble reappeared, then stopped. Then again. She was debating with herself in real-time, you thought to yourself in your head. 

NATASHA: Next time... If you go somewhere like that again...

Pause.

NATASHA: —tell me. Please. Just tell me. I'll pick you up, I'll wait outside. I don't care what time it is.

And there it was—that shift. Not the professor, not the woman who gave you reading lists and midterm advice, but the one who texted you like this at midnight—with raw edges and bold confessions she could only offer through a screen. Possessiveness, cloaked in concern. And under that, something even more dangerous: want.

You didn't reply right away, but you didn't delete her messages either. You read them again, and again. Until you could almost hear her breathing them in.

Until you wanted her to say them out loud.

YOU: okay, I will tell you next time.

You were in her office again.

After the weekend—after everything—the room should've felt familiar. It didn't. The space had turned colder in your absence. You noticed it the moment she opened the door and let you in without a word: the air was a touch too sharp, as though someone had left the window cracked open on purpose, letting the chill inside to punish you. Or maybe it was her, sitting like an omen on the couch, half-swathed in shadow, her silence so heavy it made the walls feel like they were leaning in.

You sat at her desk, your fingers trembling ever so slightly as they gripped the pen. The assignment she had given—an essay on the Freudian undertones of Anna Karenina—was suddenly impossible to focus on, not because it was difficult, but because she wouldn't look at you. She was just there, on the couch, legs crossed, a book in her hand, eyes unmoving. She might as well have been a statue carved out of grief and intellect. Beautiful and terrifying and unreadable.

Still, you felt her. Oh God, you felt her.

Her silence wasn't stillness—it was noise. Loud, screaming silence that rang in your ears and scratched at the inside of your chest.

"Are you okay?" you asked her from across the room, the question coming out far smaller than you intended.

She didn't answer. Didn't even blink. She was as silent as a cat, and you hated it. 

"I mean... you haven't talked to me since I got here," you murmured again, this time less a question than a confession. But you didn't get anything, nothing. No flinch, no flick of her eyes. Just the casual, torturous sound of a page turning between her fingers. She was silent the way a storm is silent before it breaks.

You glanced at her. 

Once. 

Then again. 

"Professor?"

And then she spoke—sharp, detached, a little cruel. "Finish your assignment, Y/N."

"I can't when you're ignoring me."

That made her laugh, and you didn't like the sarcasm within her voice. 

"Ignoring you?" she echoed, soft and bitter. "I'm not ignoring you."

"You can't even look at me."

"That's different from a response."

You stood then. You weren't even sure why—something inside you cracked at the center and sent you walking toward her before you'd thought it through. Your steps were hesitant, but your chest burned with the need to close the distance. When you reached the couch, she finally looked up.

And when she did, her eyes—those usually bright, glinting-green eyes—were darker. Not angry, no. Just... fogged. Like she'd buried something too deep and it had begun to leak to the surface. She looked at you the way someone might look at a bruise they didn't want to admit they pressed too hard into.

"I tried texting you," you said, quiet and almost pleading. "But you barely responded."

"I've been... busy." She closed her book, her tone brittle, her eyes suddenly avoiding yours. She laid the book in her lap, fingertips still on the cover like she needed something to anchor her hands. "Y/N," she said softly. "Don't look at me like that."

"Like what, Professor Romanoff?"

There was a stillness then, something too tender and too tense to name. You watched as her lips parted, but no words came.

You should've stayed still, you should've left. Yet you're here, wishing you've done something but what you did next.

You knelt onto the floor. 

It was instinct, not obedience—this slow, quiet collapse before her knees, not because she demanded it, but because your body couldn't do anything else. She looked down at you like she couldn't believe what she was seeing, like something fragile had broken in the center of her chest and she wasn't sure if she wanted to catch it or let it fall.

“I didn’t know any other way to make you see me,” you murmured, your voice catching somewhere between guilt and desire. Your hand crept onto her thigh—tentative, reverent—fingers splayed like you were afraid she might shatter beneath your touch. You let your palm linger, trailing upward toward the heavy metal of her zipper, drawn by gravity and something darker, something magnetic.

Professor Romanoff turned her head and looked at you then—not startled, not quite surprised, but solemn. As if she’d been waiting for this, dreading it, needing it all at once. Her fingers slid into your hair, and then tightened—slowly, deliberately, with just enough pressure to make your scalp tingle. She held you like that, suspended, as if daring you to move.

You didn’t know what you were doing, not really. You weren’t trained for this—this game, this weight, this heat. But you also didn’t want to stop. You didn’t want to run. You didn’t want to regret it later, lying in your bed with your knees curled and your hands empty.

You saw the outline beneath the fabric then—thick, defined, unmistakable. And God, something inside you uncoiled. You bent forward, slow as a prayer, and pressed your lips against the zipper. The fabric was warm from her body. The gesture was almost absurd in its reverence.

She let out a sound—low, guttural, like something she hadn’t meant to give away. A strained moan. A break.

“You don’t have to do this,” she whispered, and there was something genuine in it—something caught between guilt and longing.

“But I want to,” you replied, barely breathing.

And you did.

You moved again, this time with less fear, your hands grazing the soft inside of her thighs, feeling the way her breath hitched, how she almost leaned into it. Still, she didn’t touch you. She didn’t guide you or stop you. She just watched—quiet, waiting, trembling with restraint.

Her legs parted slightly, and then more. A slow invitation. Her fingers moved to her waistband, and she pulled the zipper down with practiced ease, her pants sliding over her hips and down to her thighs.

And then she was there—undressed, exposed, the tension of restraint finally cracking.

Her cock sprang free, heavy and flushed, no longer confined. And you, kneeling before her now, felt the moment stretch—dangerous, electric, sacred. Like everything had changed and could never go back.

And there it was.

The faint outline of her cock under the waistband of her trousers—angry, veiny, and hard. It made your breath catch. You didn't realize how big she was, how much your mouth watered from the way her tip was leaking of pre-cum. Her cock was glistening in arousal, and you wished that you thought about this first—but she felt it, and you knew it. 

Her hand drifted down, fingers brushing your cheek with something that felt like regret.

"You're still wearing your uniform," she said softly, her thumb grazing your lower lip. "Good girl."

You looked up at her, seeking one last moment of hesitation. Her eyes only said please. You wrapped your hand around her length and pulled down. 

"F-Fuck," she muttered as she fisted her other hand, biting into her knuckles. "Fuck—baby, you're going to kill me..."

You leaned forward, mouth parted, and kissed the head of it first—soft, reverent. Her body responded instantly, her hand sliding into your hair, gripping just tight enough to make you feel owned. There was no turning back now, you knew that. As soon as you felt the tip in your mouth, you thought how warm it was. It was too big for your mouth, but you wanted to take it. You closed your eyes as you went a little deeper, and you could feel Professor Romanoff's hips twitching. 

It wasn't about the size or the shape or the speed. It was the weight of it—the act itself. The quiet desperation, the closeness even. The way she exhaled through her nose, trying not to break. You hollowed your cheeks and sucked slowly, carefully, letting her hips rock just a little in time with your rhythm.

"God," she whispered. "You look so—"

She didn't finish.

She just watched. One hand in your hair, the other fisted tight in the couch cushion. Her jaw was slack, head tilted slightly back. You could hear her breath changing. Every soft sound she made—a gasp, a whisper, a low curse—felt like it went straight through you, like you were feeding off the way she unraveled.

"You shouldn't be so good at this," she whispered like it was only meant for her to hear as she sat up straight, her hand not leaving your hair. You pull away from her length as she watches the string of your saliva connected to her tip. 

You start stroking her fast. 

"You like my cock?" Professor Romanoff asked as her chest rises, her other hand suddenly now on your jaw as she pushes the tip back into your lips. "You like this, doll? Hm? Come on, take my cock, sweetheart..."

You pulled back slightly, letting your tongue trace along her veiny length, your voice feather-soft. "I'm only good because it's you."

Her hips bucked—just slightly, involuntarily as you hear her breath choke.

"You're dangerous," she muttered, pulling your head down again, a little rougher this time, but still with that same trembling reverence. "So sweet and so dangerous."

"You're dangerous," she muttered again, breath hitched and eyes half-lidded with something between awe and heat, "so fucking sweet—too fucking sweet."

Your mouth opened wider for her, lips stretched, spit pooling down your chin as you took more of her in, your throat working to accommodate her. She was thick, heavy, pulsing hot on your tongue, and the moment she bottomed out against the back of your throat, your eyes fluttered shut, your hands clutching at her thighs to steady yourself.

Her fingers tangled deeper into your hair and tightened, making your scalp burn just the way you needed it to. "Look at you," she hissed. "On your knees for your professor like a good little fucktoy. My good girl."

A groan tore from her chest as you bobbed your head slowly, swallowing around her with careful, needy rhythm. You were trying to impress her. You wanted to impress her. You wanted to be ruined by her.

She lets her head fall back against the couch with a thud, hips bucking slightly into your mouth. "So fucking eager," she moaned, eyes closed as her breath started to stutter. "Did you think about this all weekend? Huh? Did you touch that little cunt thinking about my cock in your mouth?"

You whimpered around her, your nails digging into the fabric of her slacks as your thighs pressed tightly together, aching. You took her deeper, feeling yourself gagging as you felt the tip of her cock hitting the back of your throat. The truth is, you did think about this moment. But you never, ever, touched yourself for it. Not because you didn't want to, but because you knew that it was wrong. 

"Oh, baby," she gasped, almost laughing, wrecked by the sight of you. "You're fucking soaked, aren't you? All wet and needy in your little uniform, like the filthy little academic slut you are."

You moaned shamelessly and muffled with a whimper.

"That's it," she growled, her hips rolling forward in small, slow thrusts. "Gag on it a little—good girl, yes, just like that."

Tears sprang in your eyes as she fucked into your throat, shallow but firm. You weren't choking—but you wanted to. You wanted the mess, the praise and the way she's unraveling. You wanted to break yourself apart on her and make her forget every other goddamn thing in her life.

She pulled you back by the hair with a wet pop, your spit clinging to her cock in long strings. You were panting, lips swollen, tongue out, desperate.

"Stroke it," she ordered. "Look at me and fucking jerk it, baby."

You wrapped your hand around her again, twisting your wrist, slick and tight, the way you hoped she liked. You glanced up through your lashes. Her chest was heaving now, one hand dragging down her own throat, the other squeezing your jaw hard enough to bruise.

"You like it?" she sneered, voice breaking. "You like Professor's cock?"

You nodded as you furiously jerked off her length. "I love it."

"Yeah? Say it, baby. Say you love my cock."

"I love your cock, Professor," you breathed, licking from the base up to the tip again. "It's so big—too big, I can't—"

"You can," she growled. "And you fucking will."

With that, she pushed herself back into your mouth again, this time with abandon. Her hand guided your rhythm now—harder, faster, like she was chasing something she knew would destroy her if she ever reached it.

"That's it, my perfect little mouth," she hissed, her thighs tensing on either side of your head. "I should keep you under my desk like this, suck me off while I grade your fucking papers. Would you like that, baby?"

You moaned around her, tears running down your face now, wetting your lashes, your lips bruised from how hard you'd been sucking her. You thought about how she would want you under her desk, your mouth wrapped around her cock as she graded your papers. You could feel your core tingling as you thought about it. 

"I bet you'd love it," she groaned. "Being used. Being owned."

Your hands are trembling now, one still working the base of her shaft, the other clawing uselessly at her thigh. She was getting louder, breath hitching, voice cracking as her composure crumbled.

"Fuck, you're gonna make me cum," she warned, her voice ragged, broken. "Fuck—baby—where do you want it? Huh?"

You whimpered again, pulling off with a gasp, pumping her now with both hands. She leans her torso close to you as she removes your hand from her shaft, her hand now jerking her cock. 

"In my mouth, please—Professor!"

"Oh, fuck—" she grunted, one hand tangled in your hair, the other gripping the arm of the couch as she tipped her head back and came.

Hot and thick and endless, spilling her cum across your tongue and down your throat. You swallowed greedily, tears still streaming down your cheeks, moaning as you cleaned her up with your mouth, worshipfully. You didn't think about the time you had to go home, you didn't think about Wanda or Eli in your head. You knelt there, swallowing her cum like it was a job—an assignment. She moans under you as she keeps your head in place, her cum still spilling out from her tip furiously. 

When she finally stilled—her entire frame slack with release, the tremors in her thighs ebbing like the last aftershocks of something cataclysmic—she stared down at you with an expression that made your lungs stall. It wasn’t lust, not entirely, though that still lingered like a pulse between you. It was reverence, perhaps. Or disbelief. The kind of look one reserves for the aftermath of miracles, or for things one knows they’ll never quite recover from. Her breath stuttered, her skin damp with sweat, and yet she looked almost shattered in the most exquisite way, as though undone by something too sacred to name.

You let your head rest against the soft inside of her thigh, chest rising and falling in shallow waves as you tried to find your breath again. Her cock, still glistening and twitching against her lower abdomen, throbbed with the last shreds of sensation. Above you, her fingers moved through your hair—slowly now, reverently—petting, stroking, like you were something breakable. Something owned.

“Look at me,” she said.

Her voice had gentled, but it carried weight. And because it was her, you obeyed.

Your eyes met hers. Your lips were parted, slick and aching, the taste of her still pooling thickly on your tongue. Your pupils were blown wide, eyes fogged in that post-surrender daze that made everything feel liquid, timeless. You were shaking slightly, not from fear but from the sheer immensity of it all—her voice, her want, the ghost of her still inside you.

“I should punish you,” she whispered then, her gaze hardening just enough to make your blood turn warm again, your thighs clench. “You walked in here knowing exactly what you were doing. You came here wanting this, you wanted me.”

You nodded—barely, but it was there. And then, wordlessly, you shifted your weight, rose from the floor and curled up beside her on the couch. You leaned in, not quite touching, your lips close enough to catch the quiet tremor in your own breath.

“I needed it,” you murmured.

And she—God, she smiled.

But it wasn’t a smile meant for comfort. It was twisted in some places, haunted around the edges. A smirk built of conflict, as though some part of her regretted what she’d allowed to happen, and yet another part—stronger, darker—ached for more. Her eyes dropped to your mouth like it was a sin she’d chosen willingly. “That mouth,” she said, voice threadbare, almost reverent. “It’s going to ruin me.”

Then her hand lifted again, slow and deliberate, fingers curling lightly around your throat—not to hurt, not to scare, but simply to remind you. Of what you are to her now. What you’d become. What she’d allowed.

You lean into it.

She inched closer, her lips brushing against the side of your neck. When she kissed you there, it wasn’t gentle. It was a sound—her moan—that reached through your spine and rooted itself there, made you shiver against her grip as you gasped, trembling.

“From now on,” she murmured, each word pressing into your skin like a mark, “you come here. Every day. You come here and you let me have you, again and again. Until you don’t know where your body ends and mine begins, until I’ve ruined you.”

Her other hand cupped your jaw now, firm, possessive. Her forehead touched yours, a closeness that felt more intimate than anything she'd done to you earlier.

“You can’t tell anyone,” she said.

She didn’t need to say that. You’d known it from the moment you sank to your knees in front of her. You’d known the moment her fingers tangled in your hair and held you there. And still, you didn’t care. You didn’t care if this ended badly. You didn’t care if it ended at all. Because for now, you were here, with her. You were in it. And that was enough.

“I won’t,” you whispered.

And that made her smile again—that dangerous, almost unhinged smile. Like she knew just how much power she had over you now.

Like she planned to never give it back.

taglist: @aru-son@ihartnat@blackwidowbabe@snowdrop1026@m4ddie3@ciaoooooo111@mrsrushman @mviswidow @slutforabbyanderson @loch-nesia

[steveseddie]

boy wonder

steddie | rating: t | wc: 999 | cw: none | tags: pre-relationship, steve and eddie recovering at the hospital together, eddie just had surgery, he’s a little high, fluff

for @steddie-spooktober day fourteen, prompt “bats”

read on ao3

“Do you think I’ll turn into Batman?”

Steve looks up from the magazine he’s been skimming through to find Eddie peering at him from his hospital bed. 

The sight of him covered in bandages and hooked to IVs and monitors still sends a shiver down Steve’s spine. But as the days go by and Eddie keeps getting better— looking better, less and less like he’s on the brink of death— it gets easier for Steve to handle it.

He’s surprised that Eddie woke up so soon after his surgery. The doctor said it’d be a while before the drugs wore off so Steve prepared himself to sit here for hours waiting for Eddie to wake up, just like he did after his first and then his second surgery. 

But it’s been less than two hours since they rolled him back into his room and Eddie is already up, eyes half-lidded and words slightly slurred and nonsensical, but awake and alert— and waiting for Steve to reply.

“Um, come again?”

“Do you think I’ll turn into Batman?” Eddie repeats, head lolling to the side to blink at Steve. “You know, ’cause I got bit by bats.”

Normally, Steve wouldn’t argue about superheroes with a nerd like Eddie, but he’s read a few Batman comics in his life and even he knows that’s not right. 

“I’m pretty sure Batman didn’t get bit by bats, Eddie,” he says with an amused chuckle. 

“No, but Spiderman got bit by a spider,” Eddie says, wagging his finger— the one with the pulse oximeter— at Steve like what he’s saying makes perfect sense. 

To him— pumped full of some pretty hardcore drugs— it probably does.  

“Okay,” Steve says, deciding to humor him. He shifts on the chair, leaning forward so that his back isn’t pressed against anything. They cleaned his wounds and changed his bandages before he came to Eddie’s room and by now the numbing cream has started to wear off and it stings. “Well, I also got bit by bats. Does that mean I’ll become Batman too?”

Eddie’s eyebrows knit together in a cute little frown. “There can only be one Batman.”

“And why does it have to be you?”

Eddie thinks it over for a second before propping himself up in his elbows, eyes wide. “I dress in black! And I have bat tattoos!” 

“Well, I have rich parents,” Steve counters with. It’s the one thing he knows he shares with the character. 

“Well, my parents are dead!” Eddie says. It’s probably the drugs’ fault that he sounds so enthusiastic about it. “I win!”

“Fine,” Steve says, rolling his eyes half-heartedly, “I guess you can be Batman.”

Eddie grins, satisfied, flopping back against the bed, his hair fanning out against the pillow. “You can be Robin,” he tells Steve, giving him a lopsided smile. 

“Sure, Eds.”

Eddie perks up and props himself on his elbows again. “Hey, we should dress up as them for Halloween!”

Steve can’t help but make a face. “No way, man.”

“Oh, right,” Eddie says, his smile falling, “we won’t be friends anymore by then.”

Wait— what?

“What are you talking about?” Steve asks, frowning. That makes even less sense than his drug-induced Batman musings. 

“Well, you only hang out with me ’cause we’re both stuck in this hospital,” Eddie says matter-of-factly, “but once we’re out of here, you’ll have no reason to put up with me.”

Steve starts shaking his head even before he’s done talking. He knows Eddie is only saying this out loud because of the drugs but it’s something he must’ve thought about it before. It makes Steve sad to think he’s been feeling this way for the last couple of weeks and Steve didn’t know. 

“Eddie, I don’t ‘put up with you’, okay? We’re friends, I like your company. You’re like, cool and really funny,” Steve says as earnestly as he can. “And we saved the world together! That means you’re stuck with me, man.”

Eddie’s eyes grow wider as Steve talks. He blinks slowly at him as he processes the words before his lips stretch into a big grin. 

“Does that mean we can dress up together?”

Steve’s lips scrunch to the side. “Yeah, no, I’m not wearing a nerdy costume, especially one where I have to wear tights,” he says in a bitchy tone. 

“But you’d look so good in them,” Eddie insists and then leers at Steve, licking his lips before he adds in a low voice— “big boy.”

Steve’s eyes go wide, and just like the first time Eddie called him that, he blushes and forgets how to speak from how flustered he feels.

He’s lucky he’s not the one hooked to a heart monitor right now or the damn thing would’ve started beeping like crazy in time with his stuttering heartbeat. 

He’s saved from having to say anything in response to that by a doctor coming into the room at that moment to check on Eddie, distracting him and breaking the weird tension. It’s a good thing she doesn’t pay any attention to Steve or she might ask why his face is bright red. 

“Hey, Doc,” Eddie says as she checks his vitals. The doctor hums in acknowledgment. “I’m Batman.” 

“Sure you are, Mr. Munson,” she says in a bored tone but Eddie doesn’t seem to care that she acts so dismissively. 

His head lolls to the side and he gives Steve a dimpled grin. “And that’s my Boy Wonder,” he says, eyes warm and molten as they stare at him.

Steve doesn’t know why that makes his heart skip a beat or why it makes his lungs feel like they can’t draw any air in.

Or why he wants Eddie to look at him like that again so desperately that he’s genuinely considering wearing those tights on Halloween after all.

Maybe he should ask the doctor for a check-up after she’s done with Eddie, just to be safe. He thinks he might be coming down with something.

[all-my-love-for-harry]

Something Steady (part two)

pairing; jake seresin x fanboy's little sister!reader

summary; after a rough year, you move in with your half-brother, Mickey, just trying to stay afloat. The last thing you expect is to fall for Jake Seresin—the one guy Mickey told you to avoid. But healing is messy, and somehow, so is falling in love.

word count; 8k (i am so sorry)

warnings; drug use, angst, mention of past SA (nothing graphic), overprotective!fanboy, age gap (reader is twenty-three and jake is thirty-four) violence (mickey pushes jake), emotional breakdowns, sexual themes, no usage of y/n, reader is kind of a little shit but she's hurting, mickey is kinda mean sorry, let me know if i missed something

a/n; part two because tumblr is a little bitch with a word limit!

read part one here

masterlist

The kiss began soft — just a brush of lips, a tentative question.

You leaned into it, fingers curling into the front of Jake’s shirt, heart fluttering as if it hadn’t been broken a hundred times before. He kissed you like he meant it — not to prove something, not to take, but to show. That he wanted you. That he saw you.

And God, it felt good to be wanted like that.

You shifted closer, lips parting against his, sighing into the warmth of his mouth. His hands were gentle but firm, one sliding along your jaw, the other anchoring you by your waist. You deepened the kiss, moving instinctively until you found yourself straddling his lap, your thighs bracketing his as your fingers slid into his hair.

“Jesus,” he murmured against your lips. “You’re gonna kill me.”

“Shut up and kiss me.”

He chuckled softly, pulling you back in. The tension between you sparked like a live wire. The lazy kisses turned deeper, more urgent — heat coiling in your belly as he pressed closer, his mouth trailing down your neck, your breath catching on a whimper. You could feel how much he wanted you in the way his grip tightened, the way he leaned back just enough to look at you.

“You sure?” he asked, breathless.

You nodded, biting your lip, your hands skimming beneath his shirt. “Yeah. I’m sure.”

Jake smiled — soft, reverent — and leaned forward, lips capturing yours again as his hands slid to your waist. In one smooth motion, he shifted, guiding you back against the couch cushions, his body moving to cover yours as he settled between your legs.

And just like that — it snapped.

It wasn’t Jake’s weight, or his mouth, or even the way he touched you. It was the pressure. The angle. The sudden feeling of being pinned.

A flash — dark room, blaring music, the smell of sweat and beer and someone else’s cologne. You were drunk, too drunk. You said no. You said it more than once.

Your breath caught in your throat.

Jake didn’t see it right away. His lips grazed your jaw, hands still gentle on your sides — but your body had already shut down. Your limbs froze, your lungs tightened, and panic clawed its way up your chest like a rising tide.

Then you flinched.

Pushed.

He barely stumbled back before you were curling into yourself, arms wrapping around your legs, nails digging into your sleeves. You couldn’t catch your breath. Couldn’t speak. Your chest ached, your eyes blurred, and all you could do was cry — fast, quiet sobs like a storm breaking through a cracked window.

Jake froze.

“Hey—hey,” he said softly, already reaching for you. “It’s okay. You’re okay. I’m not gonna touch you, I swear—just breathe. Please, sweetheart. Just breathe.” He dropped to his knees on the floor, giving you space, hands up, his voice calm even though his face was tight with worry. “I’m right here. You’re safe. It’s me, it’s just me.”

You pressed your forehead to your knees, breath stuttering. You hated this. Hated that your body betrayed you like this. Hated how Jake was looking at you now — not with desire or even confusion but concern — like he’d walked into a fire and didn’t know where to throw the water.

“I’m sorry,” you choked out, barely a whisper. “I’m so sorry.”

“Hey—no. No, don’t do that,” he said gently. “You didn’t do anything wrong. I should’ve—fuck—I didn’t know.”

You shook your head, teeth clenched. “I wanted to. I thought I could. But then—”

“You don’t have to explain anything,” he said quickly. “Really. You don’t owe me that.”

But you wanted to. You didn’t know why, but you wanted him to know.

“I was hurt. Last year. Something happened and I haven’t been the same since,” you said between gasps. “I thought I was better. I thought if I wanted it, it wouldn’t feel like that again.”

Jake exhaled, chest rising with the effort to keep calm. “Thank you for telling me.”

“I didn’t want you to see me like this,” you added quietly. “I didn’t want to be this girl again.”

Jake moved slowly, sitting on the floor beside the couch, still not touching you. “You’re not this girl. You’re you. You’re strong. And smart. And funny. And spoiled,” he added with a tiny, teasing smirk. “But you’re still here. Still fighting.”

You gave a watery laugh, wiping your eyes. “I ruin everything.”

Jake shook his head. “Not this. You didn’t ruin anything. I’m just… glad you trusted me enough to stay.”

You finally looked at him, mascara smudged, cheeks wet. “You’re not gonna run?”

He gave you a soft smile. “Darlin’, if I wanted easy, I wouldn’t have kissed you in the first place.”

The air in Jake’s living room had settled, heavy with silence and the ghost of something that had almost happened. You sat curled into the far end of his couch, still hugging a throw pillow to your chest like a shield, while he hovered awkwardly in the kitchen, giving you space he wasn’t sure you wanted.

He kept glancing your way, eyes darting to your face every few seconds as he filled a glass of water, set it down on the coffee table, then took a cautious step back like he was handling something delicate. And he was. You were.

“Hey,” Jake said softly, voice a little hoarse. “It’s getting late… Can I drive you home?”

You blinked up at him, surprised.

“Oh. Yeah. Of course.”

You stood too quickly, brushing down your clothes even though nothing was out of place, heart fluttering in a way that wasn’t just panic anymore — it was disappointment. Stupid disappointment.

You knew he was trying to be kind. That this was him being respectful. But part of you, the raw and messy part still aching beneath the surface, couldn’t help but hear something else: He doesn’t want to deal with this. With you.

You didn’t say anything on the way to the truck, didn’t protest when he opened the passenger side door for you, and didn’t make a joke to lighten the mood the way you usually might. Jake kept checking on you through glances, his hands clenched around the wheel like he was holding something back.

The drive to Mickey’s was short, but it felt long.

The silence in the cab pressed in around you, thick and uncomfortable, each of you locked in your own head. You stared out the window, arms crossed tightly over your chest, chewing your bottom lip raw as streetlights washed golden across your skin.

Jake tapped his fingers on the steering wheel.

“I’m really glad you came tonight,” he said finally, voice tentative.

You gave him a small nod, but didn’t look at him. “Yeah. Thanks for… dinner.”

He pulled into the curb outside Mickey’s apartment, shifting the truck into park but not turning it off. For a second you thought he might just say goodbye, send you out the door like it had all been a mistake — a blip, a misstep in judgment. You reached for the handle.

But Jake reached across instead, fingers brushing your wrist. “Hey,” he murmured. “Look at me.”

You hesitated, but did.

His eyes were warm — worried, sure, but still very much Jake — and when he leaned in, you froze for a second, unsure of what was happening. Then his lips pressed to yours, soft and slow, nothing like earlier. It wasn’t lust or hunger or a distraction. It was a promise.

“I’ll call you tomorrow,” he said quietly as he pulled back. “You hear me?”

You nodded, a little breathless, eyes wide and full of something uncertain.

“Okay.”

He watched you climb out and close the door, his heart tight in his chest as he saw your figure disappear into the stairwell without a glance back.

Jake leaned his head against the headrest, exhaled hard, and muttered, “You are in so deep, Seresin.”

And this time, there was no denying it.

The door clicked shut behind you with a soft finality, and for a moment, you just stood there in the darkened apartment.

Jake’s kiss still lingered on your lips — tender and unspoken, but somehow not enough to quiet the churn in your chest. Your mind was still stuck on the couch, the way your skin had gone cold beneath his hands, how fast your heart had raced in all the wrong ways. Not from want. From fear. From memory.

The hallway light cast just enough glow for you to tiptoe past Mickey’s door. He was already asleep — probably with a t-shirt tossed over his face and ESPN murmuring on low volume. You couldn’t decide if you were grateful or annoyed. Maybe both.

You slipped into your room, closing the door quietly behind you. Your heart hadn’t slowed down. Your hands still trembled.

The room looked the same as you left it hours ago: soft throw blanket on the edge of the bed, makeup bag half-unzipped, one sandal still tipped on its side. But it all felt off, like walking back into a life you were trying so hard to outgrow and realizing it still fit too well.

You crossed the room quickly and dropped onto your knees beside the nightstand, reaching beneath it like muscle memory.

Your fingers found the edge of the ziplock bag almost immediately — tucked deep into your luggage, beneath folded sweaters and things you hadn’t unpacked yet because you weren’t sure if you deserved to.

The single pill inside stared back at you like an old friend. Smooth. Familiar. Comforting.

You sat back on your heels, still staring at it, heart thudding in your ears. It would be so easy. So easy.

Your thoughts spiraled faster than you could catch them.

The one time you tried to be happy without it — without needing the blur or the light or the float — you panicked like a goddamn child. You couldn’t even handle one good thing. You couldn’t let yourself be touched without falling apart. What kind of person does that?

Jake had tried. He’d been sweet. Careful. Gentle. And still, you’d broken down. Like glass under a little pressure. Shattered.

And the worst part? You’d seen it in his eyes.

The concern. The guilt. The pity.

You pressed your back to the edge of the bed and sank to the floor, the pill still in your hand, clenched tight like a lifeline and a threat all at once.

You weren’t meant to stop.

That thought came quiet at first. Then louder. Then louder still.

Maybe this was who you were now — someone who needed the edge taken off, who needed the colors brighter and the weight lighter. Someone who couldn’t sit with the hurt unless it was softened by the buzz of molly in her blood and a pulse that wasn’t her own.

Maybe Jake wouldn’t have looked at you like that — like you were glass in his hands — if you’d taken the pill before you went. If you’d just been your usual self. The one that smiled too much and flirted too hard and didn’t let anyone see the cracks.

You turned the pill in your fingers, jaw locked tight.

Maybe it wasn’t Jake’s fault. Maybe it wasn’t anyone’s.

Maybe this was just what you needed to be lovable. Palatable. Manageable.

Your chest tightened. Your eyes stung.

You leaned your head back against the mattress and stared up at the ceiling, letting the quiet swallow you whole. And still, the bag stayed clutched in your palm.

You didn’t cry this time.

You were too tired for that.

Just… quiet. Angry. Hollow.

You sat there on the floor, the cool laminate pressing against your knees, one hand clenched so tight around the ziplock bag it crackled with every tremor of your fingers.

You stared at the pill, willing yourself to just do it. To open the bag, pop it in your mouth, and let the weight dissolve into something you could float through. Just one. Just this once.

You were so close.

Your thumb and forefinger pinched the edge of the seal, nails digging into plastic. Breath held. Mind silent.

Then —

Buzz.

You flinched like you'd been caught. The sound of your phone vibrating against the nightstand felt like a gunshot in the stillness of your room. You froze, eyes darting to where the screen lit up.

Jake.

You stared at his name for a second. You shouldn’t. You really shouldn’t.

But your hand reached for the phone anyway.

You unlocked it with a swipe, and there it was.

Jake: Hey. I know you’re probably not sleeping. Just wanted to say I’m really proud of you. For tonight. For being honest. For letting me in. None of what happened is your fault. Nothing's changed, okay? I still like you. I'm not going anywhere.

You blinked. Then blinked again.

Your throat closed up, like your body was trying to cry but had forgotten how. Your fingers loosened around the bag. The sound of it falling to the floor was barely audible, but it felt huge.

You stared at the message, reread it, then held your phone to your chest and curled into yourself.

He wasn’t going anywhere.

Even after you'd panicked. Even after you'd ruined the moment. Even after you'd tried to push him away — literally and emotionally.

He still wanted you. Not the curated, flirty, high-gloss version of you. But the broken, trying version. The girl with shaking hands and one pill too many.

You buried your face into the bend of your elbow and let out a breath you didn’t know you’d been holding. It wasn’t a sob. It wasn’t even a cry.

It was something smaller. Quieter.

Relief.

For now, at least… you could hold on.

The smell of bacon woke you before the sun had even fully crept through the blinds.

You blinked at the ceiling, eyes swollen and heavy from the night before, your mouth dry, your limbs stiff from where you'd fallen asleep on top of the covers. The baggie was no longer in your hand. You didn’t remember putting it away — only that you'd stared at Jake’s message until sleep eventually dragged you under.

For a moment, you debated staying right there. Pretending to still be asleep until Mickey left. But the scent of coffee joined the bacon, and your stomach answered the call with a low growl that felt like betrayal.

You pulled yourself upright with a sigh, shuffled to the bathroom to wash your face and brush your teeth. By the time you padded into the kitchen, Mickey had plates on the counter and a pan still hissing on the stove.

"Morning," he said without turning, flipping something golden and eggy with more confidence than he used to have. “Didn’t expect you up this early.”

You slid onto a stool at the counter, trying to blink the last of the exhaustion from your eyes. “Didn’t expect you to cook.”

He smirked. “I’m full of surprises.”

You grabbed a fork from the drawer and let your fingers wrap around it just a little too tight. He set a plate in front of you a beat later — scrambled eggs, bacon, and toast, the crusts cut off just how you liked it when you were little. You didn’t mention that. He didn’t either.

You took a bite. It tasted like the past. Safer than you expected.

"So…" he started after a few minutes of companionable chewing. “How was your girls’ night with Phoenix?”

Your spine stiffened just slightly, a muscle twitch in your cheek. It lasted no longer than a blink. “Fun,” you said quickly, stabbing at your eggs. “We just got food, caught up a bit. She’s cool.”

Mickey watched you too closely. You didn’t dare meet his eyes.

“Yeah?” he asked, tone easy but too measured. “You were out kinda late.”

You gave a shrug, tried to keep your voice light. “We went for dessert. Talked a while. Girl stuff.”

A beat of silence. You chanced a glance at him, bracing for the interrogation.

But instead, he just nodded. And that was somehow worse.

He didn’t believe you. You could feel it. He didn’t need to say anything. But for once… he let it go.

"Okay," he said simply, standing to refill his mug. “As long as you’re good.”

You chewed slowly. “I’m trying.”

Mickey paused mid-pour, back turned. Then he nodded again — this time, slower. “I know.”

And he didn’t say anything else.

Just let the quiet settle between you like truce.

[...]

It had been a quiet week.

Unsettlingly quiet, in the way that made Mickey wonder if peace was just the part of the storm where the sky holds its breath. You’d been… better. Not perfect, not sparkling with sunshine and second chances — but better.

You ate breakfast most days. You made your bed. You showered and left the bathroom door unlocked. And tonight, for the first time in forever, you even asked him something.

“Do you mind if I go out?”

He’d been sitting on the couch, a bowl of cereal in his lap and a rerun of Parks and Rec playing on low volume. He blinked, turning to look at you — hair still damp, a soft gloss on your lips, that little silver necklace you always wore catching the light.

“Out?” he repeated slowly.

“Just for a bit,” you said, crossing your arms loosely. “With Jake.”

The name landed with a dull thud in his chest.

You caught it. Of course you did.

“Just as friends,” you added. “Seriously. I wouldn’t lie to you about that.”

You would. You had. But this time felt different.

And weirdly… he believed you.

“Alright,” he said carefully, though the bowl in his lap was suddenly forgotten. “Just text me when you’re heading back.”

You nodded, grabbing your purse. “I will.”

You paused at the door.

“Thanks, Mickey.”

He wanted to say be careful. Or don’t trust him. Or please don’t make me pick up your broken pieces again. But instead, he said, “Have fun.”

And you smiled — a real, soft thing that reminded him of the girl you used to be.

Jake had gone casual again, just jeans and a worn tee that pulled tight around his biceps, waiting outside his truck when you stepped out of the apartment. His grin was immediate.

“There she is,” he said, hand dramatically over his heart. “I was starting to think you’d ghosted me.”

You smirked, walking toward him. “What, and miss this golden opportunity to listen to you overshare about Texas barbecue again?”

“You love my barbecue rants.”

You did. You really did. And God, it was nice — the freedom of it. The choice to show up. The choice to sit beside someone who saw more than just your flaws and bruises.

He opened your door and helped you in, cracking a joke about making a “five-star charcuterie board” when he only had a box of Triscuits and some cheddar sticks at home.

You laughed. For real.

Back at the apartment, Mickey rinsed his bowl and dried it with one of the old dish towels your mom had insisted he take when he moved out. The place was too quiet without the hum of your music or your random questions from down the hall.

He was scrolling aimlessly through his phone when it rang.

Unknown number. Boston area code.

He nearly declined it, but something in his gut told him not to.

“Hello?”

“Mickey?”

A girl’s voice — soft, shaky. Familiar.

“This is Kelly. I’m—uh—I’m a friend of your sister’s. From school.”

He stood a little straighter. “Yeah. Hi. Is everything okay?”

“I—I didn’t know who else to call. I’ve been texting her all week and she hasn’t answered, and she usually does even if it’s just a meme or a thumbs up. I just—she said she was moving in with you, and I was really relieved, honestly. But now I’m not so sure.”

“What do you mean?” he asked, frowning. “She’s here. She’s okay.”

A long pause.

“Mick, has she… told you what happened last year?”

His chest tightened. “She said she had a rough year. That’s all.”

Another silence. Then:

“She didn’t tell you.”

“No. What happened?”

He could hear Kelly breathing. Like she was weighing it.

“She was assaulted,” she said finally, like the words themselves hurt. “At a party. She didn’t report it. I think she was too scared. It was bad. And after that… she started taking molly a lot. Like, a lot. Sometimes I’d find her crying and then ten minutes later she was high and smiling like nothing happened. She told me once it was the only way she could forget.”

Mickey sat down hard.

“I’m so sorry,” Kelly continued. “But you need to know. I was scared she might’ve done something to herself.”

“No,” Mickey said quietly, staring at the wall. “No, she’s—she’s okay.”

But his hand was already shaking when he ended the call.

He walked down the hall slowly, like the floor might fall from under him. Pushed open your door, heart thundering against his ribs.

It didn’t take long to find it.

In the drawer, tucked behind some folded clothes. Not well hidden. Like you didn’t expect anyone to look.

A small plastic bag. One lone, glittering pill.

Mickey sat on your bed, holding it like it might shatter him.

And maybe it already had.

Jake’s apartment was dimly lit, warm in a way you hadn’t expected. Soft shadows stretched across the hardwood floors from the low lamp near the couch. You sat tucked into the corner of the cushions, one leg folded beneath you, a throw blanket draped across your lap. Your shoes were by the door, your fingers toyed with the rim of your glass. You weren’t nervous—not exactly. Just... full. With thought. With the weight of something you’d been carrying for a long time.

Jake sat next to you, relaxed but alert in the quiet way he always was around you, like he was listening for a signal only you could give.

“I talked to my therapist,” you said suddenly, voice low, cutting gently into the silence between commercials on the TV. “About... everything. About what happened. About what I want.”

Jake didn’t move, but his eyes turned toward you.

“I think I’m ready to try again.” You turned to face him fully. “I trust you.”

His lips parted slightly, and his brows pinched just a bit like he didn’t quite believe it.

“Are you sure?”

You nodded. “I want this. I want you.”

Jake didn’t answer right away. He just exhaled, almost like he was afraid to breathe too loudly and shatter the moment.

When he kissed you, it wasn’t out of urgency. It was reverent. Gentle. Like he’d been given a fragile thing and he was determined not to crush it.

His lips brushed yours, slow and warm, again and again, like he was memorizing the shape of your mouth. His hand moved to your cheek, his thumb feathering across your skin, and the way he held you made your chest ache. Like you were precious.

When you deepened the kiss, he didn’t take control. He let you guide the rhythm, only matching your pace when you climbed into his lap, your fingers slipping beneath the hem of his shirt. He let out the softest breath when you touched his skin — not rushed, not greedy, just a soft unraveling.

He asked before every shift — “Here?” or “This okay?” — and waited for your answer, for your body to lean in or pull back. When you nodded and lifted your shirt, he helped you out of it like it was something sacred. His hands never lingered too long in one place, like he was afraid of overwhelming you. They traced your waist, your back, the sides of your ribs, his eyes flickering between your face and wherever he touched, watching every reaction.

And when he laid you back on the bed — slowly, carefully, like laying down something valuable — his voice was soft in the dark.

“We don’t have to go further,” he said, brushing hair from your eyes. “I’m okay with just this.”

“I want more,” you whispered. “I do.”

He pressed a kiss to your collarbone. “Then I’ll follow your lead.”

Clothes came off in pieces. Soft laughter. Hushed sighs. Skin brushing skin in ways that felt more like communion than lust. His weight above you was never too much, his pace was unhurried, his kisses reassuring.

You closed your eyes and let yourself feel—really feel—without fear chasing the edges. It wasn’t perfect. Your hands trembled at times. Your throat caught once when his hips aligned with yours. But Jake saw it. He paused. Kissed you. Whispered, “I’ve got you.”

And you believed him.

When it was over, and your limbs were tangled with his, breath warm against his chest, the ache in your ribs wasn’t pain.

It was peace.

You stayed quiet for a while, tracing circles on his skin with your fingertip. Jake’s arms held you tighter, his thumb brushing up and down your spine like he was still trying to comfort you even though you hadn’t said a word.

“I didn’t think I’d ever be able to do that again,” you whispered.

Jake kissed the top of your head. “Then I’m honored it was with me.”

The Hard Deck was alive with music, the clink of beer bottles, and the low hum of voices rising and falling in waves. Golden sunlight spilled in through the wide doors, casting long shadows across the polished floors as the Daggers claimed their usual corner of the bar. It was casual, easy — except for the way all heads subtly turned when you and Jake walked in together.

Something was different.

You weren’t clinging to each other, but there was something undeniably intimate in the way his hand rested low on your back as he guided you inside. The way your fingers grazed his when you laughed at something he said, soft and secret. The way Jake looked at you — like he’d memorized your features during the quiet hours of the morning and was still stunned to find them just as perfect in the fading light.

It was Phoenix who noticed first. Her brows lifted slightly before she glanced toward Rooster, who had already picked up on the shared glances and barely-hidden smiles. Bob smiled to himself and looked away politely.

Jake had kissed you just before getting out of the truck. One last slow press of lips and a whispered, “Tonight. I’ll talk to him.”

You’d nodded. Your stomach twisted, not from guilt — not anymore — but from nerves. It wasn’t just about the two of you now. Not when your brother had made it so clear that Jake Seresin was off-limits.

Now he was anything but.

But the room’s energy shifted when Mickey walked in.

He didn’t spot Jake and you right away. Not until he reached the bar, then turned, and froze.

His shoulders tensed. His brows furrowed.

You saw the moment it clicked. His eyes darted from Jake to you — the space between you, the comfort, the way your hand was still close to his. The color drained from Mickey’s face, only to come back flushed and angry.

He crossed the room fast.

“Out,” you answered cautiously. “What’s going on?”

Mickey’s nostrils flared. “Don’t do that. Don’t play coy with me, not when I found this—” He pulled something from his jacket pocket and dropped it on the table.

The little ziplock bag hit the wood with a soft, cruel sound.

Your stomach dropped.

“Mick—”

“No.” He pointed at the bag like it was a smoking gun. “I found this hidden in your drawer. You were gonna lie about it, weren’t you?”

Your throat went dry. “It’s old, I haven’t—”

“Don’t lie to me.” His voice cracked with fury. “You’ve been playing us all, huh? Therapy, getting better — that was all a game? Jesus, I should’ve let Mom send you to that goddamn rehab center when she had the chance.”

That landed like a punch.

The words sliced. The way his voice cracked—full of betrayal and exhaustion—made it worse.

You stepped back like you’d been slapped, lips parting. “You don’t understand. That’s old. I haven’t used it, I forgot it was even there—”

“Bullshit.”

And then Jake moved.

He stepped between you and your brother, jaw locked. “That’s enough. Back the fuck off.”

Everyone at the table fell quiet. Even the music in the background felt like it faded.

Mickey’s eyes snapped to him. “You don’t get to talk.”

“She hasn’t even said two full sentences and you’re accusing her like she’s guilty. Like she’s not trying.”

“Oh, what would you know about it?” Mickey took a step closer. “You think this is some game, man? You think you get to swoop in and play hero because you made her laugh a couple times?”

Jake held his ground. “I think you’re angry because you’re scared. And instead of listening to her, you’re bulldozing her.”

“Don’t fucking psychoanalyze me.”

“I’m not,” Jake snapped. “But someone has to stand up for her when you won’t.”

That was the last straw.

Mickey shoved Jake hard.

It wasn’t a casual, drunken scuffle — it was full of months of repressed frustration, fear, and fury. Jake stumbled back a step, fists balling at his sides, jaw clenched like he was two seconds from snapping.

“Hey, whoa, whoa—” Rooster and Coyote shot up, grabbing Mickey by the arms to hold him back.

“Mick, chill out,” Phoenix barked, stepping between them.

Jake didn’t retaliate. His chest rose and fell with sharp breaths, and his eyes stayed locked on Mickey’s. But when he spoke again, his voice was tight and deadly calm.

“I get it. You love her. But I do too. And you’re going to lose her if you keep treating her like she’s some fucking burden.”

You were frozen in place, tears already spilling down your cheeks, breath catching in your throat.

“She’s three months clean,” Jake said, not breaking eye contact. “She’s doing the work. She’s showing up. That bag was forgotten. And you didn’t even let her say it before you made up your mind.”

Mickey’s jaw twitched, and he looked at you. Really looked — and something faltered in his expression. You weren’t defiant. You weren’t smug.

You just looked... small. Shaking. Sad.

For a second, it was like he saw his kid sister again — the one who used to cling to his arm at family parties, the one who once asked him how to ride a bike. And then the memory shattered against the truth of what he saw now: not a brat, not a party girl — just a person trying not to fall apart again.

Rooster loosened his grip. Mickey stepped back.

The bar was still quiet. All eyes on the fallout.

Jake looked to you then. His hand found yours gently, and his thumb brushed your knuckles.

“You okay?” he asked softly.

You nodded, barely.

“I’m taking her home,” Jake said to no one in particular.

Phoenix nodded. Rooster offered a slight squeeze on Mickey’s shoulder.

But Mickey said nothing. His chest still heaved with adrenaline, his expression unreadable as he turned and walked out the back door without another word.

The back door slammed behind Mickey, but none of them moved.

You stood still in the middle of the room, knuckles white around the strap of your purse, Jake’s hand still resting lightly against the small of your back. You could feel the way his jaw clenched, the rapid rise and fall of his chest as he tried to steady himself.

Rooster rubbed the back of his neck. “Jesus,” he muttered under his breath.

“Fucking disaster,” Phoenix said softly, shaking her head. Bob stayed quiet.

A sharp bark of laughter cut through the low hum of the bar. Jake’s hand tensed on your back.

Mickey was back — not walking in, but standing just outside the threshold of the Hard Deck’s open back doors. He wasn’t facing anyone in particular. Just looking out at the ocean, arms crossed, laughing bitterly to himself like the weight of it all finally cracked something in him.

He turned around, eyes bloodshot and shining under the cheap lights.

“I can’t believe this,” he said, more to himself than anyone else. “Of all people... you. I told you to stay away from her.”

“Mickey, man—” Rooster tried, but Mickey held a hand up.

“No. You don’t get it,” he snapped. “That’s my baby sister. My little sister. And I turn my back for one second—” His voice shook. “I knew you were a dick but I didn’t think you were this fucking selfish.”

Jake’s body went still.

The hand on your back dropped. His eyes locked on Mickey’s like they were drawn together by pure gravity. And then, without a word, he took one step forward. Then another. And another, until he was right in front of Mickey — toe to toe.

“Say that again,” Jake said quietly. “I want to make sure I heard you right.”

Mickey squared his shoulders. “I said I can’t believe you’re fucking my baby sister.”

A breath passed. Cold and sharp as ice.

Jake didn’t hit him. Didn’t shove. But the air around him changed — every line of his body tight with restrained fury.

“Don’t you ever say that shit again,” Jake said, voice low but clear as glass shattering. “Don’t you ever reduce her — us — to that.”

“You think I don’t know your type, Seresin? You flirt with every girl who blinks at you and then throw ‘em away the second you get bored.”

Jake didn’t flinch. “Maybe that was me. Once. But it’s not anymore. You know why?” His voice cracked slightly. “Because she’s not just some girl. She’s her. And I would never touch her if I didn’t care — deeply. I’m not here for a good time, Mickey. I’m here for her. For however long she’ll have me.”

Mickey looked away, jaw working like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to punch a wall or break down entirely.

Jake’s voice softened. “I get it. You’re her brother. You love her. You’re scared. But you need to understand something.”

He took a breath, steadying himself.

“I’m not the enemy.”

For a moment, no one moved. The ocean crashed faintly in the background. Somewhere behind the bar, Penny was pretending not to eavesdrop while wiping the same glass for five straight minutes.

Jake turned back toward you and held out a hand. “Ready?”

Your fingers slid into his wordlessly. You didn’t look at Mickey as Jake led you out the door, but the weight of his stare followed you all the way to the truck.

It would take time. Maybe more than either of you wanted.

But Jake wasn’t backing down.

Not from Mickey. Not from you.

Not now.

He didn’t go after them.

Didn’t storm out.

Didn’t apologize either.

Mickey stood frozen under the yellow lights of the Hard Deck, fists clenched so tight his knuckles had gone bone white. His heart was still hammering, jaw sore from gritting his teeth so hard. He felt like he’d just been through a dogfight without ever leaving the ground.

Fucking Seresin.

Fucking Jake.

And her.

His sister.

God, his little sister.

The one who used to ask him to braid her hair when she was eight, who used to send him glittery Valentine’s Day cards when he was away at camp. The same sister who had cried so hard the first time she scraped her knee she nearly made herself puke—and now she was smiling and giggling like Jake was the sun and the stars and every other damn thing in between.

He hadn’t seen her like that in years.

And he hated it.

Because it didn’t come from him.

It came from the one person he’d sworn would never get within spitting distance of her.

“You done?” Phoenix asked from behind him.

Mickey turned, still breathing hard. “What?”

“I said, are you done throwing a tantrum? Or do you wanna keep proving to everyone here that you’re the world’s most overbearing sibling?”

“Fuck off,” he muttered.

“No, I don’t think I will,” Phoenix snapped. “Because someone has to say it. And it’s gonna be me.”

Mickey scoffed, backing away from her. Rooster leaned against the bar behind her, arms crossed, watching Mickey like he was some sort of volatile bomb about to go off. Coyote and Payback had drifted closer, too. Even Bob was there, eyes soft, but serious.

“You crossed a line,” Coyote said gently. “A few, actually.”

“She’s my sister,” Mickey hissed. “You know what she’s been through—well, you know some of it. You didn’t see her a year ago, you didn’t get the late-night calls. I did. And I wasn’t even there. I didn’t know—”

“But she’s not the same girl from a year ago,” Rooster said, cutting in, brows drawn. “She’s not the one crying herself to sleep in a college dorm. You think we didn’t notice? She’s better, man. Stronger. And Jake… Jake’s part of that.”

Mickey stared at him, lips parted like he wanted to argue but the words just wouldn’t come.

“He likes her,” Bob said quietly. “A lot. You saw it too.”

“He’s Jake,” Mickey said, like that explained everything. “He doesn’t do serious. He doesn’t care. Not like that.”

“Then maybe you don’t know Jake as well as you think,” Phoenix said. “Or your sister, for that matter.”

“She deserves better.”

“She deserves someone who gives a shit,” Payback said. “And Jake does. More than we’ve ever seen him give a shit about anything.”

Mickey let out a bitter laugh. “She’s gonna get hurt.”

“She already was,” Phoenix said, voice cracking with sincerity now. “And you know what? She got up. She’s still here. You want to protect her? Then stop assuming she’s broken. Stop making her fight you for every inch of freedom she earns.”

That one hit hard.

Mickey blinked, shoulders curling inward like a balloon slowly losing air. He rubbed his hands over his face.

“Fuck.”

No one said anything for a while.

Then, quietly, Rooster said, “You don’t have to like it. But maybe you need to stop fighting it. Because you just shoved one of your best friends in front of a crowd, and he still didn’t walk away from her. That says more than you think.”

Mickey swallowed hard.

In his head, he could still hear Jake’s voice — quiet, firm, honest.

She’s not just some girl. She’s her.

He looked down at the floorboards like they held all the answers. They didn’t. But the image of your tearful eyes—your shame, your hurt, your betrayal—that stayed with him.

Maybe he didn’t know everything after all.

Maybe it was time he started asking instead of assuming.

You hadn’t said a word since Jake drove you to his place.

Your fingers had curled into the hem of your sleeve the entire ride, knuckles white, like you were holding yourself together by the seams. And Jake… Jake had let you. He hadn’t pried. He hadn’t filled the silence with empty platitudes or told you to calm down. He just kept glancing at you in the passenger seat with that look — soft, worried, patient. The one that made you feel like maybe someone still saw the girl behind all the damage.

Now, you were curled on his couch, shoes off, legs tucked beneath you, wearing one of his old navy sweatshirts that practically swallowed you whole. Your hair was damp from the quick shower he insisted you take the second you stepped into the apartment — he had handed you a towel and your favorite body wash, and quietly said, “I’ll wait out here.”

He had waited.

Now he sat beside you, one arm stretched along the back of the couch, his body angled toward yours like he was protecting you from something invisible.

His thumb brushed over your wrist, slow and gentle. “You okay?”

You hesitated, staring at the TV screen even though it wasn’t on. “No.”

He nodded like that was okay. “Wanna talk about it?”

You shook your head. “Not really.”

“Alright.” He shifted closer, enough that your knees touched. “Then let’s just sit for a while. You don’t have to say anything.”

You blinked back the threat of more tears — you’d already cried enough at the bar, in the car, in his shower. You didn’t have much left, just a hollow ache in your chest and the sharp memory of Mickey’s words slashing through you over and over again.

Jake leaned forward slightly, hand ghosting over your jaw before he cupped your cheek with the softest touch. “You know I’m not going anywhere, right?”

Your breath hitched. “Even if he hates you now?”

Jake gave a crooked, tired smile. “I’ll take it. If it means I get to sit right here with you.”

You looked at him then — really looked. At the creases by his eyes, the way his mouth twitched like he wanted to grin but didn’t want to push you. His hand was still on your cheek, thumb brushing slow, steady strokes.

“I just wanted to be happy for once,” you whispered, voice shaking. “I tried so hard. And the one time I felt happy, it blew up in my face.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” he said, tone suddenly firmer. “Mickey lost his temper. You were caught in the middle. But this?” He motioned between the two of you. “This isn’t a mistake.”

You didn’t respond. Just leaned in slowly, letting your forehead rest against his. He didn’t move, didn’t try to kiss you. Just let you breathe.

Then the doorbell rang.

You flinched, brow furrowed. “You expecting anyone?” Jake shook his head.

He stood up, ran a hand through his hair, and headed toward the door. A second later, you heard the lock click and the hinges creak open.

Then Jake’s voice, low and surprised: “Mickey?”

You stood slowly, pulse hammering in your throat.

“I, uh…” Mickey’s voice came from the hallway, tight and unsure. “Can I come in?”

A long pause. Then Jake stepped aside.

You saw your brother standing just inside the doorway, hands shoved in the pockets of his hoodie, eyes flicking between the two of you. He looked… exhausted. Worn down. There were creases around his mouth that hadn’t been there yesterday.

“I thought you were gonna kill him,” you said, crossing your arms, voice small.

Mickey winced. “Yeah. Me too.”

Jake stepped closer to you, standing just slightly between you and Mickey — not threatening, but protective.

Mickey saw it.

And sighed.

“I fucked up.”

You didn’t say anything.

“I let my fear talk louder than my love for you,” he added. “I didn’t give you the benefit of the doubt. I didn’t listen. I didn’t ask.” His eyes turned to Jake. “And I made a scene and accused you of… things I shouldn’t have.”

Jake didn’t say anything either. Just waited.

“I found the pill. The one in your room,” Mickey said, looking back at you now. “And I assumed the worst. Because I always do, don’t I?”

Tears started to sting again. But this time, you let them fall.

“I’ve been clean for three months,” you whispered.

“I know.” Mickey’s voice cracked. “Phoenix told me. Jake told me. Everyone told me. But I still… I couldn’t believe it until just now. Because I didn’t want to get my hopes up. Because if I let myself hope, and you slipped again…” He shook his head. “I didn’t want to lose you.”

You stared at your brother, seeing the cracks in him for the first time in a long while.

He took a step closer. “I’m not asking you to forgive me right now. But I needed to say it. To both of you.” His eyes shifted to Jake. “I still don’t like this. But I get it now. You make her feel safe. I can see that.”

Jake exhaled slowly. “She makes me want to be better.”

Mickey swallowed. Nodded. “Then take care of her.”

You crossed the room before you knew what you were doing and threw your arms around your brother.

It wasn’t perfect. It didn’t erase everything.

But it was a start.

[...]

It had been five months.

Five months since the night everything shattered and rebuilt itself in one breath. Since your heart cracked open in Jake’s living room, and your brother stormed into it like a hurricane, and the pieces of your life rearranged themselves into something new. Unexpected. Worthwhile.

You stood barefoot in the kitchen of Jake’s apartment—yours too, now, unofficially—wearing one of his old Navy t-shirts and nothing else, swaying gently to the soft hum of the record player spinning in the living room. The smell of freshly brewed coffee drifted around you, and the sunlight poured through the windows, catching in your hair, warming your skin.

Jake came up behind you, arms snaking around your waist, nose buried in your neck. “You know you’re not helping me get ready, right?”

You smiled, leaning back into him. “I’m helping by keeping morale high.”

He laughed, low and warm, kissing your shoulder. “Mission accomplished.”

Your phone buzzed on the counter. You glanced at the screen and smirked. “It’s Mickey. He says brunch is at eleven, and if we’re late he’s ordering without us.”

Jake groaned playfully. “He still makes me nervous.”

You turned in his arms, looping your hands behind his neck. “You survived war zones and flight simulations, but my brother is where you draw the line?”

“He's unpredictable,” Jake teased.

You tilted your head, grin softening. “He likes you now.”

Jake raised an eyebrow. “He tolerates me.”

“He approved of you last week. Remember?” You tapped his chest. “Said, and I quote, ‘I guess he’s not a complete jackass.’ That’s basically a declaration of love in Mickey-speak.”

Jake chuckled, eyes bright. “God, he really said that?”

“Yep.” You leaned up to kiss him. “Right before threatening to kill you if you break my heart.”

Jake smiled into the kiss, then pulled you tighter. “Never happening.”

And you believed him. You did.

Because in the months that followed that stormy night, Jake had been everything. Solid and patient, gentle when you needed it, firm when you tried to retreat. You’d found ways to cope that didn’t involve numbness. You’d stayed in therapy. You’d rebuilt the bridge with your brother, brick by careful brick. And somehow, through it all, love grew between you and Jake like something alive, something tenacious.

Brunch was at your usual spot—ocean view, lemon water, Mickey already three mimosas in when you arrived. He raised his glass when he saw you, grinning. For once, there was no wariness in his eyes. Just affection.

Jake pulled out your chair. Mickey caught the gesture, and instead of rolling his eyes, he simply said, “You’re whipped, Seresin.”

Jake shrugged. “Happily.”

You laughed, pressing your thigh against Jake’s under the table, and for the first time in a very, very long while, you didn’t feel like you were trying to catch up to happiness.

You were already there.

[dearestmillls]

CORRUPTION—r. cameron

᭝ ᨳଓ ՟ WARNINGS: drug consumption, sexual content, mdni 18+.

᭝ ᨳଓ ՟ PAIRINGS: dealer!rafe & princess!reader

You were the perfect princess of figure eight. Your father's the wealthiest man on the island, treating you as if you've never done anything wrong, because you haven't.

You have the perfect grades, a flawless reputation, the kind of girl who says 'yes daddy' and never sneaks out beyond her 11 oclock curfew.

The party was chaos. Music thumped through the walls, neon lights flashing in time with the bass, and the air was thick with smoke, sweat, and something else that made your head spin. You didn’t even know why you were here—you didn’t do parties like this. You were supposed to be the sweet, innocent one. Your father’s golden girl. Untouchable.

But here you were, in a tiny little dress that barely skimmed your thighs, on your way to find the most dangerous guy on the island.

Rafe Cameron.

You spotted him near the back of the yard, leaning against his truck like he owned the place, a beer in one hand and a cigarette dangling lazily from his lips. He was surrounded by his usual crew—Topper, Kelce, and a couple of other guys who all looked like they hadn’t had a sober thought in weeks.

Your heart was racing, but you kept your chin up as you made your way over, your heels clicking softly against the pavement. You didn’t know why your friends had sent you to do this. You’d never bought anything stronger than a Diet Coke. But they’d insisted—said Rafe wouldn’t sell to them anymore after some blow-up last week.

So now it was on you.

“Hey, Rafey,” you said, your voice soft and a little breathless as you stopped in front of him, tilting your head just enough that your glossy curls tumbled over your shoulder. You batted your lashes, playing up the sweet, innocent act that always seemed to get you what you wanted.

The entire group went silent.

Rafe’s eyes snapped to you, and for a second, you felt pinned under the weight of his gaze. He looked you over slowly, his blue eyes dragging down the length of your body, lingering on the curve of your hips, the swell of your chest, the way your short dress hugged every inch of you. His lips curled into a lazy, lopsided smirk, but there was nothing friendly about it.

“Princess,” he drawled, his voice low and rough and thick with something you couldn't place. High, drunk--probably both. “What you doing out here?”

Your cheeks burned, and you suddenly realized just how badly your hands were shaking. You twisted your fingers together, biting your bottom lip nervously as you tried to think of something to say.

Rafe noticed. Of course he did. His smirk widened, and he leaned back against his truck like he had all the time in the world.

You were suddenly very aware of the way his friends were staring at you, like you were a shiny new toy they weren’t sure they were allowed to touch. Topper chuckled under his breath, and you caught the way his eyes lingered on your legs before Rafe shot him a look that could’ve cut glass.

“Leave,” Rafe said suddenly, his voice sharp and cold.

The group hesitated for a moment, exchanging glances, but then they scattered, mumbling half-hearted goodbyes as they wandered back toward the party. Topper shot you a lingering look on his way out, and you shifted uncomfortably, tugging at the hem of your dress.

And just like that, it was just you and Rafe.

“What do you want, princess?” he asked, tipping his beer bottle to his lips as he watched you with those heavy-lidded, dark eyes.

You swallowed hard, your fingers twisting in the fabric of your dress. “My friends… they, um… they wanted something.”

Rafe raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. “Yeah? What’s that?”

“Some coke,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper.

Rafe blinked, then let out a low, dark laugh that made your stomach flip.

“Didn’t think I’d live to see the day.” He stepped closer, his voice dropping lower. “But see, there’s a problem, princess. I don’t usually sell to people like you.”

“Why not?”

“Because girls like you don’t belong here,” he said, his eyes locked on yours. “And I’d hate to be the one to ruin you.”

Rafe stepped closer again, and your breath caught in your throat. He was taller than you remembered—bigger—and he smelled like whiskey and cologne and something darker, something that made your knees weak.

“I’m not scared of you,” you said, even though your voice trembled just a little.

Rafe smiled, slow and wicked. “You should be.”

He let the words hang in the air for a second before he pulled something out of his pocket and held it up—a small bag of white powder.

“I’ll make you a deal,” he said, his voice low and dangerous. “I’ll give you what you want… but you’ve gotta do something for me first.”

Your eyes widened. “What?”

Rafe leaned in, his mouth just inches from your ear. “Just one line, princess. Right here, right now. Let’s see if you’ve got it in you.”

Your breath caught in your throat. This was a bad idea. A very bad idea. But Rafe’s eyes were on you, daring you, and you didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of backing down.

So you nodded.

Rafe’s smile was pure sin as he pulled a small mirror from his truck and poured out a thin line of powder. He handed you a rolled-up bill, his fingers brushing yours just long enough to make your skin tingle.

“Go on,” he said, leaning back against the truck like he had all the time in the world. “Show me what you’ve got, princess.”

You took a deep breath, leaned down, and did it. The powder burned, sharp and cold, and when you straightened up, your head was spinning.

Rafe was watching you with a look you couldn’t quite read—something darker, hungrier.

“Atta girl,” he murmured, his voice low and rough. “Knew you had it in you.”

Your lips parted, but before you could say anything, Rafe reached out and brushed his thumb across your bottom lip, his touch light as a feather.

“You’re not as sweet as you look, are you, princess?” he said, his eyes locked on yours.

You didn’t even realise you were holding your breath until Rafe pulled back, letting his thumb fall from your lower lip. Your heart was pounding so hard you were sure he could hear it.

You wish you could say something—take back a bit of the control that he had ripped away from you—but your brain wasn’t working right and you just stared up at him dumbly.

“What’s the matter, princess? You nervous?” His head tilted as he studied you.

Your fingers twisted in the hem of your dress, and you bit down on your bottom lip before quickly releasing it once you saw his eyes darken at the motion.

You shook your head, curls swishing around you. “No,” you lied breathily.

Rafe chuckled, low and rough and you could feel it all the way down your spine.

“Liar,” he murmured, leaning just a little closer enough for you to feel his breath on your skin.

You swallowed hard, eyes darting anywhere but at his attractive face. “Are we…done here?”

Rafe’s smile widened as he reached out, his large hands grazing yoir waist. “That depends,” he slurred. He was high and drunk, looking at you like he wanted to ruin you.

“Depends on what?” You asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Depends on if you’re pretending to be a good girl,” he said, his eyes locked on yours.

Your breath hitches, and you felt your whole face flush. You were pretty sure your heart was about to explode, and your head was spinning from the coke and the heat of Rafe’s body so close to yours.

“I-I should go,” you stammered, stepping back quickly, only to bump against the side of his truck.

But Rafe didn’t move. He just watched you with that same lazy, predatory smirk, like he was enjoying watching you squirm. “Go then,” He said, leaning casually against the side of the truck.

You hesitated, your hands clenching by your side. You willed your legs to move but they just wouldn’t. Damn them. “Rafe,” You murmured softly, unable to utter anything else.

“You know, I didn’t think you’d even know my name, princess.” Rafe muttered, eyes dragging over every inch of skin exposed from your flimsy dress. “Girls like you an’ guys like me don’t mix.”

Your eyelashes batted in surprise. “Of course I know who you are, Rafey.”

Rafey there was that fucking nickname again. Your voice was light and airy, but sweet like honey. Never had Rafe felt his cock strain so hard against his jeans from just talking to a girl. “What’s that mean?”

“I mean…I’ve heard things about you, you know.” You said quietly, fingers folded in front of you nervously.

Rafe ran a hand through his buzzed hair, a grin appearing on his face. “Mhm? Good or bad things, princess?”

You ducked your head, pushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “Both?” You offered, shrugging meekly.

“You know I don’t think your friends deserve you.” He said lowly, his hands applying more pressure on your waist “You could just hang out with me.”

You wanted to say no. To return to your friends for another hour and then go home and kiss your daddy goodnight before you went to bed. Instead you found yourself, raising to your tiptoes and gazing up at him through your eyelashes. “Okay.”

“Yeah?” He looked surprised but he tried to hide it.

You nodded “Yeah.”

“Rafey!” You whined, hands clinging to his bulging biceps as he rammed into you, your legs hanging around his shoulders. Normally, he only took girls from behind but he needed to see your face as he absolutely ruined you. Tears clung to your long eyelashes, as your eyes rolled back. When Rafe found out that the perfect little princess was in fact not a virgin he was overcome with jealousy.

How dare someone get to you before he did. So, he had to settle for fucking you so hard you’d feel his imprint for the next few days.

“So—fucking tight,” he gritted out, hands scooping under your bare ass to lift your hips off the bed, letting his cock hit deeper with every rushed thrust. “He make you feel like this?” Rafe demanded, every word punctuated with a thrust.

A strangled moan left your lips, as you shook your head. Unable to verbally express your feelings at the moment.

“Words, princess, words.” He said calmly.

You whined in protest as he slowed down to a stop inside you. You still felt overly full but you needed more. You needed him to completely own you. “Please Rafe…” Your hands gained purchase on his head, pulling him closer to your lips but there was no hair to grab. Your hips rutted upwards, wanting him to move.

Rafe pinned your hands over your head, fingers tickling the head post. “Nuh uh. Beggin’ can only get you so far, angel. Tell me you need it—need me.”

“Rafe Rafe! I need you pleaseee.”

His smile turned sinister, “you asked for it.” He pulled out all the way to the tip, then dipped in at full speed, causing you to trash against his strong hold.

It wasn’t long until you were whimpering, “please, i’m so close.” Your cunt sucking him in like a vice.

“Come for me, princess. Come all over my cock like the slut you are. Just wish your daddy was here to see his innocent angel.”

His words caused you to take the last step over the edge. You moaned his name as the climax washed over you, Rafe assisting you through it milking every last drop until you were nothing but a trembling mess underneath him.

He pulled out, stroking himself until he came on your stomach, painting your stomach with his seed. He would’ve loved to come inside you but he was hoping you would want to repeat this. He already got you coked up, if he got the princess pregnant you would hate him. He couldn’t risk it.

“We coulda been doing this shi way earlier, princess if you came out of your tower more often.” He mumbled, smoothing the hair out of your dewy face.

You looked up at him silently, your lips parted into an ‘o’. “This can’t happen again,” was all you blurted, instead of what you really wanted to say.

“We’ll see.” Rafe smirked.

🫧milla speaks—it has been a HOT minute since i actually posted so here’s this xx

[charliemwrites]

Sooooo I learned a valuable lesson last night. Which is not to draft things in tumblr. Because I wrote almost all of this in drafts, was like 15 minutes from posting. And then the app glitched when I changed the song I was listening to and lost everything.

I’m not entirely sure I wrote this version half as well as the original, which is maddening. But please enjoy this next part to the Mister(s) Steal Your Girl (poly 141) series.

Content:Safe/Sane/Consensual Intimacy

You honestly didn’t expect to speak to Kyle again after the bookshop encounter. Sure, you exchanged numbers and he seemed so sincere, but your faith in reading people has been a bit shaken as of late.

That said, you wouldn’t have held it against him if you didn’t. You’d had a wonderful time meeting someone new, even if just for a moment. He seemed like a busy man in a high-stress job, it wouldn’t be a surprise if he looked at your open-relationship-with-a-fiance situation and decided it was too much drama.

But the very next day after meeting him, he sends you a text. Repeating that he had a great time and asking if you’ve already started any of the books you bought.

You try (and probably fail) not to giggle like a schoolgirl every time he texts you. He’s as sweet through the phone as he was in person. Throughout the week, he checks on you (more messages than you’ve gotten from your fiance in a month) asking after your days and nights and generally chatting.

On Thursday at lunch, you ask if he’d like to meet up again, heart clenching anxiously. Nearly throw your phone across the break room when his name pops up as an incoming call.

When you answer, he doesn’t even waste time on a greeting.

“I’d like to take you on a date, luv,” he specifies, voice silky and amused in your ear.

Date one is a nice dinner. He shows up at the door with flowers. You have to take a second to blink away the mist in your eyes.

“Sorry, sorry,” you hurry to say, summoning a smile. “Just no one’s ever bought me flowers. Thank you, they’re wonderful.”

And then you realize that probably sounds pathetic and quickly turn away to deposit them in a vase. (Miss the baffled and almost offended frown on Kyle’s face as that processes.)

At dinner, the two of you toast by tapping your appetizers together. He feeds you bites of his meal from his own fork, and you let him try your wine, giggling at the faces he makes.

The night ends (after dessert, a walk in the park, and a nightcap at a quiet bar) at your front door. Kyle fits a big, warm hand on your waist, pulls you in… and drops a chaste kiss to your cheek.

You try not to let your disappointment show, but he must catch it because he chuckles and gently nudges your face back into position. Graces you with another kiss at the corner of your mouth.

“I want to, darling,” he admits, so close you’re sharing air. “Trust me, I want to. But I need you to know I’m doing this for the right reasons too.”

Touched and a little choked up, you hug him tight, cheek pressed to his chest. His breath stutters. And then his strong arms are curling around you, tucking you in, his whole body becoming a warm haven.

“Can we… can we do this again?” you ask hopefully.

“Darling, I’d take you out tomorrow if you’d let me.”

Date two is bowling, which you find Kyle is actually terrible at, despite being a sniper. You laugh and joke through three games, trouncing him each time. He doesn’t seem to mind losing in the slightest, and even takes you out for a victory ice cream afterwards. You hold hands while you lick at the cone.

Date three, you invite him to a wine and paint night. He seems willing, though unsure. By the end, though, the two of you are giggling and tipsy, paint on your hands and faces. He kisses you against the passenger door of his car, lips soft and gentle. Moans when the tip of his tongue skims your bottom lip.

On date four, you sing to the radio in the car. Blush when you catch him sneaking glances at you, but also notice that he goes around the same block twice. Tease that you’re going to be late if he keeps stalling.

At the end of the night, he sweeps you in close on the dance floor.

“Come home with me?” he asks in your ear.

Your heart stumbles as you nod, cheeks hot.

He barely gets you in the door before pressing you back against it. Fingers in your hair, body one firm line pressed flush to yours. Kissing earnest but not rough, flicking at your bottom lip until you open for him with a soft sigh. He tastes like heaven, like the drinks you shared before this. Your fingers curl into his Henley, tugging him closer, arching your back.

The desire he’s been steadily building in your gut bursts into an inferno. You’re burning all over, can barely breathe. Dizzy with his cologne.

You break the kiss with a squeak when he scoops up beneath the thighs.

“I-I’m too heavy!” you gasp, clinging tight.

“Like hell you are,” he scoffs. “Come back here, I’m not done kissing you.”

You hesitate, taking stock. But he doesn’t feel like he’s straining; didn’t even make that mortifying grunt noise. Feel secure enough to lean back just a bit to check his expression.

There’s not an ounce of effort there. Just liquid dark eyes focused on your swollen lips, tilting his chin to coax you back. You go with a little thrill in your stomach, messier this time, teeth scraping.

He bumps you against the wall on his way to the bedroom. It doesn’t hurt but it makes you laugh against his cheek.

“Love your laugh,” he murmurs into your neck. “Could listen to it all day.”

Somehow that makes you flush more than the hard bulge pressing against your ass. So you shove your tongue in his mouth again to shut him up, breathless at his tongue curling against yours.

You squeal when he drops you on the bed with a little bounce, a brilliant, cheeky smile your reward. Then he tugs his shirt off and your mind goes utterly blank.

He’s a monument of strength and discipline, power in every plane of hard-earned muscle. There are glossy scars peppering his skin, and you’re fascinated as much as you are sad for his pain. He looks like a young god. You’ve seen marble statues half as beautiful as him.

“You’re bloody gorgeous,” you whisper, crawling to the edge of the bed.

He shivers and leans into your palms as they explore up his toned stomach, across the defined lines of his chest and shoulders, down his arms. Leave open-mouthed kisses against long-healed wounds and patches of smooth skin alike, appreciating every part of him.

He uses your interlocked fingers to draw you away, bending to meet you halfway. Speckles kisses over your cheeks and jaw, down to a tender spot beneath your ear that makes you hum. You could melt into him and just float.

He pauses there, breathes you in. “Can I take this off?” he asks, plucking at your shirt. You hesitate, just for a beat — but it’s enough to have Kyle pulling back a little.

“We can stop here,” he offers. “Or we can just keep doing this. Whatever you want, luv, I’m not fussed.”

You duck your head, but he doesn’t let you escape for long, gently guiding your gaze up by the chin.

“Talk to me?” he asks.

“I-I want to keep going,” you say, “I’m just… and you’re so…”

He shakes his head, kisses you quiet. “I’m not anything but a man that wants to make his girl happy. In whatever way she’s okay with, yeah?”

You have to blink away another sting of inopportune tears. Then reach for your shirt and pull it off yourself.

“Bloody hell,” he murmurs, eyes going big.

You flush as he nudges you back, spread out amongst the neat sheets and pillows. His eyes trace every inch of you over and over, hands quick to follow. The contrast of his rough palms on your skin makes you squirm and sigh. He touches you like you’re something special, like he wants to savor you.

He nibbles kisses into your collarbones, lavishes your breasts with tongue and gentle teeth. Works his way down your stomach and stops again.

“Can I take the rest off?” he asks.

You don’t hesitate this time, shifting to give him access to the zipper. His hands fumble a bit when he notices the embarrassing wet patch on your underwear, thumbing at your slit through the fabric.

“Please let me eat you out,” he breathes.

You press your thighs together, nervous. “Y-you don’t have to…”

“I want to, luv,” he answers, eyes barely flickering away. “Fuck do I want to.”

Words desert you, so all you can manage is a jerky nod. For the first time, his patience seems to fray as he tugs your underwear off. Barely gets them down to one ankle before diving between your legs.

He laces sweet kisses along your thighs and hips, slowing as he gets closer and closer to where you want him most. His tongue dips into your slit, just skims your throbbing and sensitive clit. You moan softly. The next swipe of his tongue is bolder, curling at your soaked entrance. He groans into you, deep and animal from his chest and makes you shudder.

“That’s it, baby,” he whispers. “Just enjoy.”

It’s impossible not to when he pampers your cunt so thoroughly. Never rough, never too fast. Like he could spend all night between your thighs. Sucking gently at your clit, thrusting his tongue inside, lapping in perfect, even strokes. You didn’t think you enjoyed oral from the few times you’ve experienced it — but Kyle makes it heavenly.

One of his hands, squeezing absently at your hip, travels down. He presses a finger at your entrance, playing in your slick but not going further. Waiting. You murmur a soft “please” that nearly has him growling.

Even just one finger feels like so much. His hands are bigger than yours. And so deliciously clever. It’s not long before you’re babbling for another, crying out softly when he provides. Two fingers curling and rubbing against your slick, sensitive walls and his tongue swirling around your needy clit — it’s so much. Overwhelming and perfect.

“K-Kyle, ‘m gonna…” you keen, shocked by how quickly it’s building.

Then he hums an encouragement and that little extra bit of stimulation sends you hurtling over the edge. You clench around his hand, hips twitching, grinding against his willing mouth through wave after wave. Not even aware of the noises you’re making until they fade off into soft whimpers of overstimulation.

Kyle eases his fingers from you, drops one last kiss to your hip. The lower half of his face is glistening. If you weren’t still somewhere in the stratosphere, you’d be embarrassed. But right now all you can manage is a quiet, needy noise, reaching for him.

He smiles and crawls over you, the warmth of his body soothing your shivery muscles, easing you through aftershocks. You wipe absently at his chin as you exchange lazy, sloppy kisses. Surprised to find that you don’t mind the taste of yourself; not much different than jizz.

“Give me… another second…” you mumble, head falling back as you catch your breath. “I’ll return the favor.”

Against your leg, you can feel him twitch through his jeans. He feels big. Your stomach clenches with want.

“That sounds bloody amazing, don’t get me wrong,” he answers, voice husky in your ear. “But if you’re up for it, I’d like to feel you cumming ‘round my cock.”

You gasp, not sure if you’re scandalized or even more turned on than before. Both?

“Wait, but I already…”

“I know, I was there,” he teases, kissing your temple. “But I wanna see it again. Feel it proper this time.”

You pause, blinking up at him as you trace your fingers along his ribs. “But isn’t that… I dunno, unfair?”

“Fuck no,” he answers. “I’d spend all night just making you cum if you let me.”

You huff and swat at him. “I think you’d kill me.”

“What a way to go, though, eh?” he chuckles, arching his eyebrows.

You groan, but there’s no hiding your grin. He brushes hair back from your face, cups your cheek.

“What do you say, baby? Let me fuck you good and proper.”

You snort, turn to nip his thumb in relation, but chirp, “yes, please!”

Previous | Next

Masterlist

[giuliannna]

YOUR FIRST MEETUP WITH DEALER ! HAMZAH ࿐

buying drugs for parties isn’t usually your job.

you’re not even sure why you said yes.

you’re more of the type to take whatever you can get out of the stuff that everyone else brings - and more often than not, you sneak some into your purse to bring home.

but when your friends gave you those pleading looks, practically shoving the cash into your hand, asking you to pick up the weed, you caved.

now, here you are, makeup done, lip gloss intact, dress riding high on your thighs, walking through the more deserted, sketchier side of town.

everyone says that he’s the best. hamzah - the drug dealer that people swear by. pretty much anyone who smokes is a client of his, because he’s the only guy who won’t try to bleed you dry. it sounds like he actually cares about the people he sells to.

“he’s super chill, just.. a little awkward,” your friend had warned, laughing as she typed his number into your phone. “you’ll see.”

you feel your unsettled nerves beneath your skin. you pull up the address he sent you - unfortunately, you’re definitely at the right place. your eyes skim the area, noticing only one other car - a porsche, sitting idly in the distance at the far side of the parking lot.

you scroll to his last text: ‘i’ll be around the back.’

glancing up from your phone, you step closer to the building that looks half-abandoned, paint peeling from the edges.

you hover near, shifting your weight, checking your reflection in the screen of your phone. you still look good, even if you feel a little ridiculous standing here, looking this dolled up just for some weed pickup.

you sigh softly and round the corner toward the backside of the building.

the first thing you see is his hair. it’s messy. dark brown curls falling into his eyes. his hoodie hangs loose on his frame. he hears your footsteps and looks up from his phone.

he blinks at you, a little too slow, and you catch the faint red tint to his eyes. he’s high.

“uh, hey,” he says as you approach, voice low and a little hoarse like he hasn’t spoken much today. he rubs the back of his neck, looking nervous, his mouth pulling into a small half-grin. “i’m hamzah.”

you cut him off with a smile of your own. “i know. everyone told me about you.”

he quickly averts his gaze to the ground, his cheeks suddenly blooming pink, a flush that creeps all the way to his ears. he shifts his weight from foot to foot like he doesn’t know what to do with himself.

“uh,” you laugh gently after a beat of silence. “i think i’m here to get something from you, y’know.”

“right.” he coughs. “right. cool. yeah,” he stumbles, fishing into his pocket for a little baggie. his fingers fumble with it, almost dropping it twice before he finally manages to hand it over. “here.”

you take it, fingers brushing his, and he damn near flinches like you gave him an electric shock.

god, he’s a mess.

but he’s pretty.

so pretty it’s kind of unfair - soft features, perfectly carved lips, and deep brown eyes under lashes so long it looks like he’s wearing more mascara than you are. it’s all sort of hard to ignore.

especially when he’s looking at you like he can’t believe you’re real right now, like he’s just hallucinating the new customer of his dreams.

“thanks,” you say, voice a little sweeter than necessary.

he’s still staring wordlessly when you dig into the neckline of your dress, sliding two fingers in. you pull out a folded wad of cash - a little wrinkled, a little stuck-together from sitting against your skin - and hold it out to him.

“that should be enough. keep the extra, if there is any.” you offer with another smile.

his eyes dart to your chest, then to the money, then back to your face like he’s terrified of getting caught looking. he takes it with a shaky hand, fingers bumping against yours again, even more careful this time like he’s afraid to touch you wrong.

“uh - thanks,” he mumbles, clutching the bills tight against his palm, crumpling them.

you glance at him once more, a flicker of amusement in your eyes. he’s just standing there, like he doesn’t know if the transaction is over or if he should say something else - like maybe, he doesn’t want you to leave yet.

“well, i’ll see you around,” you murmur, giving him a quick once-over. “it was.. nice meeting you.”

his mouth opens, like he’s going to say something, then it closes again. he gives a quick, jerky nod instead. his eyes are wide and he looks a little dazed, like his brain’s trying to catch up with the way your presence is affecting him.

“yeah,” he manages. “i mean, you too. it was - yeah. see you.”

you turn, kitten heels clicking softly on the pavement. the weight of his gaze heavy on your back. you can feel it - the way his eyes stick to you as you walk away.

he watches you disappear around the corner, fingers still curled tight around the crumpled bills, not wanting to acknowledge how his heart is skipping beats in his chest.

xoxo giulia

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[incognit0slut]

Much Ado About Nothing (Act III, Scene IV: The Quiet Morning)

The tension between you and Spencer reaches a breaking point the next morning.

Part warning: (18+) breast play, fingering, and some grinding action because he can’t stop himself Words: 1.9k A/n: this might be the quietest smut I’ve ever written, but we need to keep the tension going because it’s good for the drama🤩 i also wanna say that i wrote this in between my pile of work so please excuse me if you see any mistakes or some weird description that doesn’t make any sense. my head is about to explode

SERIES MASTERLIST | MAIN MASTERLIST

You woke up with an arm draped across your waist. Under normal circumstances, you would have jumped at the unexpected contact, but when the memory of last night crossed your half-conscious mind, it shouldn’t have surprised you.

Although you weren’t sure how you ended up like this. The details of the night before were a bit hazy, like fragments of a dream slipping through your fingers. You remembered the intensity, the undeniable pull that had drawn you together, but how it had led to this calm, intimate closeness was a mystery.

The gentle weight of his hand resting on your stomach was a constant reminder of the compromising position you were in. You wondered whether he was awake, or whether he was merely drifting in that blurry space between sleep and consciousness. You couldn’t help but wonder if he even realized how tightly he was holding you.

But then a subtle brush across your stomach made you tense unexpectedly. You felt his warm breath fanning across your skin, a shaky exhale that barely made a sound as it passed through his lips. There was an intake, a pointed swallow, the thick gulp of exchanged air suggesting he was, in fact, already awake.

You shifted slightly. This seemed like the right moment to address what happened last night. The quiet of the morning made it seem like an appropriate time to confront your emotions, to peel back the layers of what was quickly becoming something more real. More than just a lie

But neither of you spoke. Neither of you moved. The only sound in the room was the steady rhythm of your breathing. You lay there, waiting, your mind conjuring up various scenarios of what might happen next. You imagined him awkwardly stumbling over an apology, or worse, bolting out of the room in a rush of confusion and regret. Yet you certainly didn’t expect what came next.

He pressed a hesitant kiss at the back of your neck.

You froze, caught completely off guard. You thought of pulling away, but your body remained still, almost as if it refused to react until your brain processed the rush of emotions flooding through you. For a moment, you felt suspended in time, unable to move, to think, to breathe. But as you felt his tongue trace a warm, delicate line along the curve of your neck, you knew you couldn’t resist him any longer.

You tilted your head, giving him better access to the tender skin beneath your ear. His lips found the spot where your pulse throbbed most visibly, and he lingered there, sucking gently the whole time you squirmed in his arms.

He took your response as encouragement, letting his hand trail along your stomach before stopping at the hem of your shirt. He paused, his hand resting lightly against you as if asking for permission. A moment of hesitation fluttered through your mind, but it didn’t last too long. With a deep breath, you gave a small nod, signaling him to continue.

His palm was warm as he slipped beneath the fabric, tracing soft patterns on your skin. You tensed momentarily at the initial contact, then relaxed into his touch as he gently skimmed along, drawing invisible lines towards the soft skin where your breast met your ribcage. He paused yet again, this time as if he was waiting for any sign from you to stop. But you gave none. How could you stop when every part of your body was trembling with anticipation?

When he realized that you weren’t pulling away, his large palm covered your breast.

You let out an audible gasp.

In all the time you had known him, Spencer was the type of person who approached everything with caution and thoughtfulness, and maybe even a bit reserved. But he was a man full of curiosity, always eager to learn and explore new things, and this time, he was curious about your body.

His hand lingered there, taking in the softness of your skin before his palm molded around the curve of your breast, fingers stretching out to feel the delicate flesh beneath. The pressure was light at first, almost tentative, as if he were gauging your reaction. He then moved his thumb to trace the outline of your nipple, causing it to harden under his touch.

Your skin prickled with arousal as he continued to tease you, brushing over the sensitive peak over and over again until he was satisfied. There was a certain confidence in his movement now, as though he were familiarizing himself with your body. When you arched your back, he responded by pinching your nipple lightly between his thumb and forefinger, rolling it gently, drawing a quiet moan from you.

His own breath was hot and uneven against your neck. You pushed your hips back into him, feeling the firm pressure of his growing arousal against your body. The sensation made you crave more—no, you needed more. Before you could second guess yourself, you pulled his hand away from your breast, only to guide it further down.

His fingers followed your lead, sliding over your stomach and down towards the waistband of your shorts. You felt his breath grow shallow as he realized where you were leading him. He hesitated for a moment, but when you parted your legs for him, his hesitation dissolved. His hand slipped beneath the fabric of your shorts, and with daring boldness, he let his fingers slide under your panties as well.

The moment he made contact with your bare skin, a shiver ran through your body. He ran his fingertips along the length of your folds with genuine curiosity as if he was wondering how you managed to be this wet already. His fingers slid over your slickness, up, down, and then back up again before he found your throbbing clit. 

Your chest began to heave, your hips unconsciously bucking against his hand as he worked over you casually. He circled your clit with slow precision, the pads of his fingers finding just the right pressure to make you gasp. A strained moan escaped your lips, more like a cry of need than anything else, and Spencer seemed to sense your desperation. 

He withdrew his hand from you, and you almost voiced a protest, but it died in your throat as he pushed your shorts down your legs. You quickly helped him, slipping off your panties before you settled back onto your side. But he stopped you, pulling you slightly onto your back so you were half-lying on the bed and half atop him.

Your heart was pounding in your chest as he slowly parted your legs. He positioned one of them over his, leaving you fully exposed. You could feel his ragged breath against your ear as his hand moved down the length of your inner thigh. You squirmed when he finally reached your heat.

He traced the outer edges of your folds, teasing you with light, feathery touches before he slipped lower, finding your entrance. He teased you there, dipping just inside before retreating, a drawn-out moan tumbling past your parted lips. He repeated the motion, each time going a little deeper, until finally, he pushed two fingers inside.

The sensation was immediate and overwhelming. His fingers were long, stretching you in ways that made your toes curl. You watched the way his arm flexed, his muscles tensing as he pumped his fingers in and out of your dripping cunt. He hit a spot inside you that left you gasping and panting, and your desperate hand sought purchase, sliding up behind you. You reached into the soft hair at the back of his head, threading carelessly through the tousled strands as he leaned closer, planting open-mouthed kisses along your neck.

Your moans grew louder, more urgent, as he continued to thrust his fingers deeper. The pressure built inside your lower stomach, and you could feel the unmistakable rhythm of his hips rutting against your ass. He was hard, his cock straining through the fabric of his pants, brushing against your bare skin with every thrust. Another drive of his hips had you clenching around his fingers, and suddenly, the sweetest noise flew past your ears.

A groan. A very small one, hardly above a whisper, but it was rich and coarse.

The sound only heightened your pleasure, and now you were seconds away from shattering. Your grip on his hair tightened as you turned your head towards him. He responded immediately, his mouth capturing yours desperately, a meeting of tongues and teeth that left you both breathless. You clung onto him as his fingers quickened their pace, and all you could hear was the filthy sound your body was making.

Everything was suddenly too much, and before you knew it, the tension coiled within you snapped. A wave of intense pleasure crashed over you, leaving you trembling and crying out against his mouth. Your body convulsed with the force of your orgasm, your inner muscles clenching around his fingers as he continued to drive into you, his hips grinding desperately against your ass.

You were now panting, trying to focus through the haze of your orgasm as you felt the hard length of him straining against his pants. You shifted slightly, arching your back to give him better access, and the new angle allowed him to press even closer. His fingers slipped from you, and he grabbed your hip, using it as leverage to grind himself harder, rutting his hips against you with an urgent rhythm.

With a final, forceful thrust, he found his release as a moan that sounded more strained and desperate, almost like a whine, escaped his lips. His body tensed and then relaxed, the tension melting away as he clung to you, his breath heavy and warm against your mouth.

For a moment, you stayed like that, both of you trying to catch your breath. But then the silence that followed became too palpable, stretching on as neither of you seemed ready to break it. You should probably say something, anything to fill the void, but neither of you seemed able to find the right words.

The quiet grew, and you suddenly became acutely aware of everything around you—how your leg was still draped over his, the feeling of his arousal still pressing against you, and the way the cool air brushed your exposed skin. And somehow, amidst it all, you began to feel a creeping sense of unease.

You began to resent how you had allowed yourself to be swept up in the moment. You began to hate your lack of self-control. When your brain was no longer clouded by lust, your thoughts became clear, and now you felt foolish for letting things go this far, for not guarding your emotions as well as your body.

Spencer opened his mouth, but you didn’t want to hear whatever regrets he might voice. You sensed it in the way he slightly pulled away, the way he loosened his grip around you as if he too was trying to make sense of everything. The last thing you needed was to hear those doubts spoken out loud.

You couldn’t take it anymore. The air felt thick, almost suffocating. The more you stayed there, the more you felt like drowning. It was all becoming too much. So you slipped away from his arms, trying to create some much-needed space between you. You didn’t look back as you headed towards the bathroom.

You didn’t look back as he called out your name.

[theonlyonesora]

The Man Who Married Me

PAIRING: Lewis Hamilton x Reader x Max Verstappen

CH – 19

Monaco was finally quiet.

After the chaos of Saudi Arabia, the headlines, the podium tension, and your forgotten birthday, it felt good to be home. The sea shimmered beneath the sun, tourists were scattered along the marina, and for once, your phone wasn’t buzzing with strategy meetings or post-race data.

Lewis was still in Italy. Meetings, press, Ferrari things. You didn’t ask and he didn’t offer, so you reached out to Max.

You hadn’t seen him since that night in Jeddah, and though part of you told yourself you should create distance, the other part—the louder one—reminded you that Max always made you feel... lighter.

So here you were.

Outside a beachside café in Monte Carlo, sunglasses on, skin warm from the sun, sipping something expensive and sweet while Max, wearing a black t-shirt and those stupidly smug sunglasses, picked at his lunch like it owed him money.

The two of you laughed over something dumb—probably his deadpan impressions of Toto—and for a while, it felt like nothing existed outside this table.

Except the world was watching.

You didn’t notice the first photo. Or the second.

But the internet? The internet never missed.

📸 @monacogirlspy: Is it just me or do Max and (Y/N) look way too good together?? Also, that dress? ICONIC.

📸 @F1SoftLaunches: Lunch date in Monaco?! Max Verstappen and (Y/N) seen having lunch and laughing like they’re in a rom-com?? We’re watching you two 👀

📸 @gridgirlchronicles: If you have daddy issues, you're (Y/N) and Lewis. If you have mommy issues, you're Max and Kelly. If you're just vibing and hot and unproblematic, you're Max and (Y/N). I don't make the rules.

📸 @F1anon_tea: MAX AND (Y/N) IS THE SHIP I NEVER KNEW I NEEDED. They look GOOD together. And also? Same age range. Just saying. #GridGossip #MonacoMoments #RedFlagRomance

You scrolled through the comments later that evening, lying in bed with damp hair from a post-beach shower. Max had texted you a meme about your “soft launch” and then another about “Mommy/Daddy issues supremacy,” which made you choke on your tea laughing.

You texted back: [You]: At least they didn’t call you my boy toy [Max]: Yet. The internet’s just getting started.

Still smiling, you stared at your screen a beat longer than you should have. You and Max. It didn’t mean anything. Not officially. But still… the world saw something. And part of you wondered if they were seeing something you weren’t ready to admit out loud.

Because today felt good. Too good.

.

The screen glowed softly in the quiet of your Monaco apartment, casting flickers of light across the room. You were curled up in bed, hair still damp from your shower, Roscoe already snoring beside you like an old man who’d had too much wine and sun.

Your laptop was propped on your knees, Lewis’s face smiling back at you from the other side —Italy, probably still in that damn villa with the cold lighting and the vintage Ferrari memorabilia in the background.

It started like every other video call lately. Safe. Surface-level. “How’s Monaco?” “How was lunch?” “Did Max behave?”

You paused just slightly at that last one. You knew the question was half a joke. The way Lewis said it—cool, offhand, like it was nothing—but you also knew him. And nothing he said was ever just a joke.

You shrugged, eyes still on the screen. “He’s funny. We had lunch. Talked about the season. Nothing wild.”

Lewis hummed, not pushing. Of course he didn’t. He was good at that—not asking. He had always been more comfortable with your silence than your truth.

“Hmm,” he said, leaning back against the headboard, shirtless, towel still around his neck. His chest was damp, glowing from a fresh shower. Hair tied back. Relaxed. A little too relaxed.

And then… you saw it. A scratch. Long. Thin. Lightly red. Running from the top of his left pectoral, skimming just below his collarbone, right through the lower edge of the lion tattoo.

It was faint—barely there against his tanned skin, but you saw it. You always saw it. Just like you always felt it when the girls left marks on your back, trying to leave a message you’d never read out loud.

Lewis kept talking, but his voice had faded into background noise, like static through water.

You didn’t ask. You didn’t need to. Because you knew.

And maybe he didn’t realize the scratch was visible, or maybe she meant for you to see it—whoever she was. Maybe she wanted you to know she was there, just like the others, just like the ones who never made it past the silence of the screen.

But you still smiled. Still nodded.

Still said, “Yeah, that’s cool.”

Because the moment you actually said it, the moment it left your mouth, it would become real. And you weren’t ready for real. Not with Lewis. Not yet.

You blinked back to attention when he laughed softly.

“…Are you even listening to me?”

You shook your head, trying to look sheepish. “Sorry. Zoned out.”

He chuckled. “I was asking about Roscoe. I miss that little guy.” Your lips curved for real now. Finally, something honest.

“He’s right here.” You angled the camera to show Roscoe lying next to you, all paws and snores, face buried in the blanket like he owned the place.

Lewis laughed, warmth softening his eyes. “Man, I miss that. That’s the real heartbreak of being apart.”

You smirked. “Honestly, he’s the only reason I married you.”

“Wow.” Lewis grinned, placing a hand over his heart like he was wounded. “So it wasn’t for the abs or the world titles?”

“Nope. Just the dog.”

And you both laughed. Because it was easier than crying. Because jokes were safer than truths. Because pretending was the only thing still holding you together.

.

The room was quiet. Too quiet, even with Roscoe’s steady breathing beside you, his warm body against your hip like he knew something was wrong but couldn’t fix it.

You ran your fingers slowly through the folds of the blanket, staring at the ceiling like it might offer an answer, or at the very least, a distraction.

But there was nothing. Just silence. And the damn ache sitting in your chest like a houseguest who wouldn’t leave.

You turned your head toward the window.

The curtains were half drawn, and beyond them, the Monaco night gleamed silver and soft. The moon was out—low, full, glowing like it knew your secrets.

You’d always liked the moon. Even as a child. Even now.

It had a way of making sadness feel beautiful, like pain wrapped in poetry. Even heartbreak, under moonlight, looked cinematic.

Your fingers reached down to gently scratch Roscoe’s side, and he let out a sleepy sigh in return.

“Roscoe, Roscoe, Roscoe,” you whispered, barely audible, like a chant to keep the madness away.

“I’m going crazy.”

It wasn’t dramatic. It was true.

Because this—lying in your own bed, in your own home, feeling like a stranger inside your skin—wasn't what your life was supposed to look like. Not after all the years. Not after all the love.

You had built this life with Lewis. Brick by brick. Race by race. Year by year. And now he was miles away. Physically. Emotionally. And Max?

Max was just close enough to tempt you. Just far enough to never promise anything.

You turned your face into the pillow, eyes stinging.

The moonlight slipped across your skin, pale and slow, like it was trying to hold you. Like it was saying, “I see you. I know.”

And maybe it did.

Maybe the moon always knew.

Because heartbreak never looked as beautiful as it did in silver. And tonight, you were heartbreak in its finest dress.

Alone.

I'm really interested if there's anything you guys want to see in the story, about any specific moment or interaction? I'm feeling generous, before the drama really starts.

TAG LIST: @virtualperfectioncat , @starrgir1 , @the-secret-formulaone, @anunstablefangirl, @tillyt04, @dakotapaigelove, @loadedwafflefries, @forensicheart, @lorena-mv33, @d0llyh3rtz, @teenagetoadghostwobbler, @mizelophsun11, @herdetectivetheorist