#it is not my place to talk to them about this

[neellscapsule]

a resounding heart attack

summary | there are three romance rules you have to follow: don't date coworkers, don't fall in love with flirty people, and never show how whipped you actually are. clark fails the three of them.

pairing | clark kent x wayne!female!reader

warnings / tags | pure fluff with a bit of suggestive stuff (language & actions), but nothing actually happening except lingerie photos that reader does not send but they are from a production :D. reader is a menace but gotham loves her ??? she's actually so cheeky so flirty so everything (just one chance pls). clark is blushing mess especially when it comes to her. mentions to a sad childhood because reader it's literally a wayne ?????

word count | 4.9k

authors note | hi there!! english is not my first language so there might be some mistakes, or not, it can depend :)

i've written this with david!clark on my mind but you can picture him hoverer you want. i also believe in battinson agenda for this specific version of clark :D

THERE ARE LITTLE THINGS IN THE WORLD THAT CAN AFFECT CLARK KENT.

All the types of Kryptonite disturb him in different ways. Red sun weakens him, dulling his strength and senses until he almost forgets what it feels like to be invulnerable. Magic does a number on him too, inexplicable and chaotic, like trying to hold onto smoke with bare hands. Other aliens with tech far beyond Earth’s understanding have hurt him, too. Kara once punched his arm and left it all purple — it healed fast, but it still hurt.  

There are, indeed, little things that can affect him. 

But you? 

You are at the top of that list.

He does not remember his heart beating that fast, almost inhumanly, on the edge of being impossible. Does not remember his cheeks ever being so red, his clumsiness bordering on being considered the dumbest man on Earth. Once he dropped his entire mug of coffee on his slacks just because you called him “Smallville” with that mischievous little smirk. 

Jimmy, Lois and practically everyone just laugh at him, his quirks, but he can't help it.

He can't help how much you affect him. Can't help how much he likes you. 

In his defense, there's no way he was able to not like you. Not only because he —and at least half the population— thinks you are hot. You are hot. Very much. He’s not going to lie to himself about that. The kind of beautiful that doesn’t feel like it was made for the front page of a magazine, but the kind that stuns you mid-sentence because of how effortless it is. You laugh too loudly sometimes, you talk with your hands, and you make eye contact like it’s a dare.

But it’s more than that.

You’re smart. Sharp as broken glass. Your writing is electric, biting in the way that Gothamites tend to be—your byline alone has caused five resignations, two public apologies, and one lawsuit (which the Daily Planet won). Not even Perry crosses you, that must count for something. You flirt with everyone, but with him, it’s different. You save your cheekiest lines, your softest smirks, your most infuriating whispers for him—as if you know how easily he folds.

The worst thing is not that you work together. No. Clark has a complete and long list about the worst —best— part of working with you.

In the first place, is that you share the same space with him. Your desks are pressed together, both of you facing one another, screens lit up, voices low as you trade edits, ideas, and insults. Your heel taps his shoe sometimes—grazing more than stepping. He’s convinced you don’t even notice it, that it’s just a habit, something subconscious.

From his seat, he sees you clearly. Memorizes your expressions like a song stuck on repeat. The way your eyes narrow when something doesn’t sit right. The sharp inhale before you pounce on a lead. You scrunch your nose when someone makes a poor argument, like it physically pains you to hear idiocy. You press your tongue briefly between your lips when you're deep in thought, which he pretends not to see but always does. You smile—oh, when you smile—it hits like sunlight through lead glass. Blinding. Honest. Beautiful.

The two of you share a corkboard pinned to the wall. His side is sparse—some clippings, a "Mighty Crabjoys" movie poster, and a coffee-stained sheet of work hours he never took down. But yours? Yours is filled to the brim, despite not being much space.

A series of colorful letters that spell your name, doodles, a Gotham National University pennant, and a printed photo of a night out with everyone —Lois, Jimmy, Steve, Cat, you, and himself included.

He hears the click of your heels before anyone else does.

It’s the kind of sound that parts his thoughts in two, makes them flutter like loose pages in a breeze. Sharp, rhythmic, deliberate. You don’t walk through the bullpen—you arrive. And every step pulls the air taut around him like fishing line. 

He doesn’t need to look up to know it’s you. His entire body already knows. His hearing adjusts itself before he can think better of it—your heartbeat, lighter than most, steady and confident, like it owns time. Like it’s never once skipped or stalled the way his just did.

You turn the corner and he’s already looking, caught in the act—he knows you catch him. You always do.

You enter the Daily Planet like you own it, and in some subtle way, you do. Not because of your name. You don’t need money or threats to command a room. You have something worse. Charisma. Ease. Danger. Power in a smile that knows it has claws and doesn’t care to hide them.

Your skirt is black and short—unreasonably so. Illegal in several states, maybe. Certainly illegal in Clark’s heart, because it just stopped beating. Your white stockings gleam slightly under the lights, spotless and smooth and devastating. You’ve tucked your ironed shirt into your waistline like some kind of cruel, beautiful war crime. Gold glints from your ears, your wrist, the edge of your collar. Not fake gold, not plated. Real. Heavy. Old money.

You wear your wealth the same way you wear your grin—like a challenge.

You look over, the corner of your mouth curling, and say, just for him, “Good morning, Smallville.”

Smallville.

He could snap the pen in his hand if he weren’t careful. You say it so softly. So wickedly. Like you know. Like you know that he’s already halfway undone and you’re just playing with the bow.

Clark already had your coffee in his hand—he'd been holding it since 7:43 AM, exactly three minutes after he arrived. Two sugars, no cream. Lid slightly ajar because you said it kept the flavor from suffocating. He didn’t really understand what that meant, but he listened. He always listened.

He handed it to you with trembling fingers.

“Good morning,” he says, trying not to clear his throat.

You sit down, smooth the back of your skirt behind you with grace and muscle memory, and lean to the side, setting your bag against the leg of your desk. Your voice is light as you bring your phone to your ear again. He doesn’t mean to listen. But he hears everything. He always does.

“Alfred,” you say warmly. “Yes, I got here. No, no traffic, thank god. Yes, I remembered my meeting with Lucius over the computer. No, I’m not eating fast food for lunch. No— No, I will not talk to Bruce unless he sends Dickie over for the weekend. I already told him that.”

Clark’s cheeks heat just listening to you talk. Not because of what you’re saying. But because of how you sound when you say it. Comfortable. Confident. Unfiltered. Even the way you say Alfred is affectionate and biting at the same time. Gotham to your core.

“Alright, Alfie. Gotta go. No, I’m not drinking too much caffeine. That’s a lie and you know it. Bye.”

You hang up and turn your attention to the rest of the room, sweeping your gaze around the bullpen like a queen taking inventory of her court.

“What’d I miss?” you ask, reaching for your coffee.

Lois, across from you, didn’t look up from her monitor. “You missed Jimmy flirting with Marcie from legal. Again.”

Jimmy Olsen, from the far side of the square of desks, turned his chair with all the mock indignation of someone deeply unashamed. “I wasn’t flirting. I was complimenting her boots.”

“You told her she had the stride of an Amazon warrior,” Lois deadpanned.

“Well, she does!” Jimmy said, throwing up his hands. “That’s empowering. I’m being supportive.”

You sipped your coffee, giving Clark a wink over the rim. “You’re one scandal away from a harassment workshop, Olsen.”

“Pffft. I’ve dated half the women on this floor.”

“Exactly.”

Lois snorted, and Clark tried very hard not to laugh. He tried even harder not to stare.

It was pointless.

You leaned back in your chair, arching slightly as you stretched—your blouse pulling just enough to make Clark look away before he went blind from the effort it took not to look. You tapped your pen against your lower lip as you glanced at the whiteboard across the bullpen.

“I see no one’s updated the lead stories,” you said casually. “So we’re still pretending the mayor’s brother being caught in a LexCorp-funded apartment with two unlicensed bounty hunters isn’t news?”

Perry White’s voice roared from his glass office. “I’m waiting on confirmation before we blast that one, Wayne!”

“Oh, sorry,” you replied, not even looking at him. “I forgot the Planet’s new slogan: ‘Cowards First.’”

Clark coughed to cover his laugh, and Lois shook her head, grinning.

“Do you wake up and choose violence or is it just muscle memory at this point?” Lois asked, not even hiding the fondness in her tone.

“Neither,” you said, rolling your chair closer to the below edge of the desk. Your knees brushed his. He stopped breathing. “I wake up and check if Gotham’s still a hellhole. Then I make myself look nice for Smallville here.”

You smiled at him, devilish. Clark’s mouth opened and closed like a dying fish.

Jimmy leaned over the desk, pointing between the two of you. “This,” he said, “this is why I never bother flirting with you. I don’t like losing.”

“Oh, lover boy,” you purred. “No one even asked you to compete.”

He held up his hands in surrender. “And I never will again. Lesson learned.”

Lois chuckled, returning to her screen. “Good. Maybe now you’ll actually write your piece on the sewage reform bill.”

Jimmy groaned. “Please. Why do I always get the sexy stuff?”

Clark finally found his voice. “Because last time you covered a robbery, you took a selfie with the suspect.”

“He was holding the stolen merchandise!” Jimmy argued. “What was I supposed to do—ignore the story?”

You shook your head with a dramatic sigh. “You’re the reason Perry has a ‘No Selfies at Crime Scenes’ memo pinned to the break room door.”

Clark smiles, ducking his head toward his screen, pretending to reread a paragraph he’s already proofed twice. But your heel taps his shoe under the desk—lightly, casually—and the impact goes straight to his ribcage.

You sip your coffee and sigh happily. “Mm. You got the vanilla right this time.”

“I, uh—yeah,” Clark says. “I remembered.”

“Of course you did.” You grin, crossing one leg over the other. “You always do.”

He forces his eyes to his monitor. His vision is fine, of course. Superfine. He could read microscopic text if he wanted. Right now, though, even large font blurs when you look at him like that.

Lois finally glances up and gives you a once-over. “Did you steal that skirt from a teenager?”

You make a scandalized noise. “Lois Lane. Jealousy is unbecoming.”

“I’m just worried HR is gonna pass out in the hallway.”

“Please. HR loves me. They send me memes.”

Jimmy leans over the divider. “Is it true you threatened that CEO with a bottle of wine?”

You tilt your head thoughtfully. “Technically, I described what a bottle of wine could do in the hands of a woman from Gotham. The threat was implied.”

Lois huffed. “God, you two are unbearable before ten.”

You wink. “We’re unbearable after ten, too. Just more caffeinated.”

A comfortable hum settles into the bullpen after that. Everyone returns to work—Lois muttering to herself, Jimmy editing photos, the low murmur of keyboards and printer hums filling the space. Clark focuses on his article, or at least pretends to. The screen glows back at him, a half-finished headline blinking expectantly. He tries again.

From his seat, he can see you—your expression flickering through a dozen small emotions as you scroll through your inbox, narrowing your eyes, muttering curses at editors, grinning when Jimmy shows you a ridiculous photo of a dog wearing sunglasses. He watches you like a man stranded in the desert watches a thundercloud. With reverence. With thirst.

It’s stupid, probably. This crush. This...thing.

But then again, everything about you is a little bit dangerous. A little bit impossible.

And still—he wants it. Wants you. Wants this part of his life that feels so close to normal, even if it isn’t.

Because you don’t know.

You don’t know who he is. What he is. You flirt with him like he’s just a man. You smile at him like he’s not carrying the weight of ten thousand secrets on his spine. And when your heel brushes his shoe again, just lightly, he lets himself smile back.

Just a little.

Just enough to make it through the rest of the day.

Moving to Metropolis had been a choice . . . unexpected to everyone close to you. Well, you didn't have many close people back on Gotham that weren't your brother, Alfred, and Dick. And Dick was your nephew, so that must say something. 

Growing up as orphans took its toll on you and your brother, but each of you took different paths. While Bruce trained in his youth to become Gotham's vigilante—the glorious Dark Knight—adopting Dick while on it, you had become more of a celebrity, always the center of attention. 

When you came of age, you became a model —while studying multiple careers: you were fascinated with the aspect of having many degrees since you could remember— and it wasn't until you moved to Metropolis several years later that you abandoned your career altogether.

It wasn't that you didn't enjoy it. You really enjoyed being a model. Especially when the shoot wasn't shared—the modeling world was very competitive, and quite exhausting, too.

But it wasn't enough.

You went to therapy for many years. Your brother hadn't been able to be convinced, but Alfred had insisted so much that you had no way of refusing. And it was in one of your last sessions that your psychologist had mentioned something about a new lease on life.

Perhaps she didn't mean exactly moving to another city, but you took it like that.

Gotham had been your cradle and your crypt. It raised you, starved you, scarred you. It made you what you are. But it also stole a piece of you when it took your parents. You were only eight, and you still remember the scream your brother made—guttural, inhuman—as he held your tiny shoulders and covered your eyes. He’d been just a kid, too.

You loved Bruce, deeply. You respected what he became. But the way he chose to fight back… it wasn’t your way.

You had to find your own.

That's how you ended up in Metropolis, with an excellent letter of recommendation (or rather, a favor) that led you right to where you are now. You lived well, combining the money from your last name with your salary, in a safe area, on the top floor of a tall building.

Metropolis differed vastly from Gotham. While Gotham rarely saw a ray of sunlight, Metropolis seemed flooded with it. There weren't as many villains as in your hometown either, but the ones that did exist were either pure aliens or completely enhanced. Meta-humans, they called them.

And here they didn't have a vigilante. They had a hero.

Superman.

Your brother doesn't especially likes him. Doesn't hate him either way. He just wants you safe, and if Superman is there to protect all of Metropolis, then he must be there to protect you as well. 

You don't worry much about it. If it's about burglars, you have a gun, a taser and a pepper spray so powerful that you could be arrested in at least five countries. If it's about aliens . . . well, you had a good life.

Lunch breaks at the Daily Planet were a coin toss. Sometimes, you barely got a fifteen-minute window to scarf down a protein bar between deadlines and chaos. Other times, like today, you managed to sneak out with Lois Lane—two of the sharpest tongues in the city wrapped in designer sunglasses and sarcasm, tucked into a booth in a tiny diner four blocks from the office.

You liked this place. A hole-in-the-wall with cracking linoleum and a grumpy waitress who called everyone “sweetheart” and meant it in a way that could also mean “dumbass.” The coffee was terrible, but the fries? Perfect. Greasy, salty, served on cracked white plates with tiny cups of spicy ketchup. You and Lois had claimed the corner booth months ago, and no one had dared to sit there since.

You pulled your sunglasses off your head, tossing them onto the table as you sank into the squeaky vinyl seat.

“I swear to god,” you muttered, unbuttoning the top of your blouse to breathe, “if Perry gives me one more rewrite on that Luthor piece, I’m going to throw myself out a window.”

Lois smirked over the rim of her iced tea. “He only pushes you because your drafts are so clean. You know he likes to feel like he’s doing something.”

“Yeah? Next time he wants to feel productive, he can scrub the bathrooms.” You stabbed a fry. “He’s lucky I don’t invoice him for every time he makes me put a period after LexCorp instead of Lexcorp.”

Lois’s laugh was soft, knowing, the kind that made her seem lighter than she ever let herself be at work. “You need a vacation.”

“I need a raise.”

“You’re already rich.”

You shrugged. “Doesn’t mean I don’t want Perry’s money too. I’m a capitalist pig. I want your money while we’re at it.”

Lois chuckled again, shaking her head. “Gotham.”

“Damn right.”

It was easy, this. Effortless. You’d always gotten along well with women—grew up around men who didn’t talk about their feelings and a brother who bottled everything up until it cracked through his ribs—but Lois? Lois was like steel wrapped in velvet. Smart, intense, loyal to a fault. You liked her immediately. She reminded you of a fox—sharp, beautiful, and always watching.

You weren’t sure when you’d become best friends. It had just… happened. Shared assignments turned into late-night editing sessions, which turned into wine-fueled gossip nights, which eventually became something deeper. It felt good to have someone like her. 

She didn’t care that you were a Wayne. She didn’t care about Gotham. You were just you to her. You hadn’t had that in years.

“So,” Lois said, her voice carrying that sharp edge she got when she was gearing up to dissect something, “are we gonna talk about it or do I have to drag it out of you?”

You blinked at her. “Talk about what?”

She gave you a look. The Lois Lane look. The one that could strip paint from a wall and force you to confess crimes you hadn’t even committed.

“Oh no,” you said, pointing a fry at her like a weapon. “I am not talking about it.”

“You are absolutely talking about it,” she countered. “Because you’ve been mooning over him like a teenage girl with a crush on her math teacher, and I’m this close to staging an intervention.”

Your entire body went hot, like she’d just shouted the truth to the whole diner. “Lois—”

“Don’t Lois me,” she said firmly. “You are painfully, pathetically, devastatingly whipped for Clark Kent, and it’s embarrassing for both of us at this point.”

You groaned and buried your face in your hands. “I am not whipped.”

“You’re whipped,” she said again, sipping her tea with infuriating calm. “You’re so whipped you buy your outfits based on how you think he’ll react. I saw you this morning. That skirt? That was a weapon of mass destruction.”

You peeked through your fingers at her. “Okay, first of all, I looked amazing. And second of all…” You hesitated, then sighed. “Yeah, maybe I wanted him to notice.”

Lois leaned forward, smug. “And did he?”

You hated that she was making you say it out loud. “He… looked at me.”

“That’s it?”

“Yes!” you hissed. “Lois, it’s Clark. He looks at everyone like they hung the moon. That man probably blushes at Perry when he’s in a good mood.”

Lois laughed so hard she nearly choked on her tea. “Okay, first, I wish I could un-hear that mental image. Second, you’re wrong. Clark doesn’t look at me like that. Or Jimmy. Or anyone. He looks at you like that.”

You snorted, leaning back against the booth. “He’s just… nervous. He’s nervous around everyone. That’s his thing. He’s like a giant golden retriever with anxiety.”

Lois leveled you with another one of her patented, withering stares. “You’re an idiot.”

“Thank you,” you said sweetly. “I work hard at it.”

She sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Y/N. He likes you. He’s just shy. Painfully shy. The man can barely string a sentence together when you’re around.”

Your heart gave an unhelpful little flutter, and you immediately tried to squash it. “Or he’s just… shy in general.”

“No,” Lois said flatly. “Trust me, I’ve known him for years. He’s quiet, but he’s not shy. He’s the kind of guy who’s comfortable letting everyone else take the spotlight. Except with you. You short-circuit him.”

You stared at her, trying to will yourself not to hope. Hope was dangerous. Hope led to heartbreak. And you’d had enough of that to last a lifetime. “You really think he likes me?”

Lois smirked. “I know he likes you. You could cut the tension between you two with a butter knife. Honestly, it’s nauseating.”

You bit your lip, fiddling with your straw. “He’s just… I don’t know. He’s Clark. He’s kind, and sweet, and ridiculously good-looking, and—”

“And you’re crazy about him,” Lois supplied.

“Shut up.”

“You are,” she said, grinning like the devil. “You’re so gone for him it’s painful.”

You shoved a fry in your mouth to avoid answering, chewing furiously. But she wasn’t wrong. Clark Kent had somehow managed to completely undo you. Which was ridiculous, because you’d grown up surrounded by some of the most intimidating, impressive men on the planet. Bruce. Alfred. Hell, you had met the most attractive men on Earth while being a model…

Clark Kent made your heart beat like you were sixteen again.

“He’s so fucking cute.”

“You’re pathetic.”

“Violently.” You popped another fry into your mouth. “Do you think he knows? Like, knows?”

Lois blinked at you over her straw. “Are you serious?”

“I mean… I flirt with him a lot.”

“You practically sit on his desk and purr.”

“He never flirts back.”

Lois put her drink down with a thunk. “Y/N. He stutters when you look at him. He spilled an entire latte on his lap last week because you called him Smallville.”

You tilted your head, considering. “Okay, but—he’s like that with everyone, isn’t he?”

“No. He’s not. He’s awkward, sure, but with you? It’s different. What I'm saying is that Clark Kent is terminally down bad for you. And has been since you showed up at the Planet for the first time in Prada heels and a war crime of a pencil skirt.”

You smiled, teeth flashing. “So you noticed that skirt.”

“Everyone noticed that skirt. Including HR.”

“Still not my shortest.”

Lois rolled her eyes. “You’re impossible. And half the office thinks you’re already dating.”

You blinked. “They do?”

“Of course they do,” she said. “You two sit practically on top of each other all day. You bring him coffee, he brings you bagels, you touch his leg under the desk, he turns the color of a tomato… it’s a whole thing.”

You buried your face in your hands again, frustrated with yourself. “I’m going to die.”

Lois grinned wickedly. “Or you’re going to kiss him. Your choice.”

The walk back to the Daily Planet is slow, heavy with the weight of too many fries and just enough gossip to give the next hour of productivity a fighting chance. You and Lois move together the way you always do—shoulder to shoulder, stride for stride, two women used to commanding space and rarely apologizing for it.

Lois is telling you about a source she has in the Mayor’s office—a guy who apparently sweats like a faucet when asked about Luthor’s latest construction contracts.

“You should see him,” she says, half-laughing as you both round the corner. “One mention of ‘independent oversight’ and the man’s upper lip turns into Niagara Falls.”

You snort, adjusting your sunglasses on top of your head. “I’ll go with you next time. I’ve been told I have a very disarming presence.”

“Oh, you disarm alright,” Lois mutters, pushing open the lobby doors. “Mostly by blowing people’s equilibrium to hell.”

“Why thank you,” you grin. “I do my best.”

You ride the elevator up with the kind of easy silence only best friends share. Lois doesn’t press, not anymore. She’s said her piece about Clark—twice—and now she’s letting the cards fall where they may. Which is good. Because your heart is still somewhere back in that booth, fluttering like a moth caught in a lampshade.

The bullpen is quieter now, the post-lunch lull settling in. Phones ring, keys clack, and the occasional shout from Perry’s office cuts through like a cleaver. Jimmy’s at his desk, editing something with his headphones on. Lois splits off with a “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” and you answer with “That’s a very short list,” earning a wink and a wave as she disappears.

You move through the bullpen with purpose—heels tapping soft but steady—and you’re halfway to your desk when something catches your eye. Or rather, someone.

Clark.

He’s exactly where you left him: sitting ramrod straight, tie slightly loosened now, glasses perched just so, brow furrowed in concentration. From behind, he looks painfully composed. Too composed. The kind of composed that only comes from total panic.

And the screen in front of him?

Well.

That’s your face.

Your body.

A high-resolution photo splashed across his monitor, larger than life. You in pale green lingerie, draped across a white velvet couch, lips parted, hair tousled, gaze direct. The photo is a couple years old, but unmistakably you. From a Gotham editorial that never ran publicly, just teased in hush-hush corners of the internet and fashion magazines. A private, exclusive shoot—back when you still occasionally let stylists talk you into anything.

It wasn’t obscene, not exactly, but it was… suggestive.

Clark Kent is staring at it like it might explode.

You stop walking.

Then, slowly, carefully, like a predator who’s just spotted something delicious, you change course. You drift behind his desk with feigned nonchalance, the lazy curl of a smirk already blooming on your lips. He hasn’t noticed yet. He’s too focused. You almost feel bad.

Almost.

You lean in close. Not too close—just enough. Close enough to breathe the same air. Close enough that he can feel the softness of your blouse graze the back of his shoulder. You rest your chin on the slope between his collar and the thick fabric of his suit jacket. He froze, every muscle going tight as though you’d just hit him with a Taser.

Your voice is warm honey when you speak.

“Well, well. I didn’t know I had a fan club.”

Clark jerks like he’s been electrocuted.

“Y-Y/N—!” His voice pitches up. He fumbles for the keyboard like it might save him, slamming a key—probably Escape, poor thing—but it only zooms the photo in further. Right on your midriff.

You raise an eyebrow, still resting your chin on him like you belong there. “Nice monitor, Smallville. That screen quality’s amazing. Did the Planet get new tech or are you just… investing in some private research?”

“I—No, I didn’t—This isn’t—” he’s turning bright red, hands practically slamming at the keys now in pure panic. The image disappears with a blur of motion, but the damage is done. The shade of him. Scarlet all the way up to his ears. You swear even the back of his neck is blushing. 

You grin, slow and wicked.

“Relax,” you murmur near his ear. “It’s not like I’m offended. I’d say I’m flattered.”

Clark makes a sound that’s somewhere between a cough and a strangled gasp.

You step around his chair, finally moving to stand in front of him. Not that it helps. You’re still too close—just standing, slightly leaning into the wood. And you’re looking at him now. Really looking. Fingers resting lazily on the edge of his desk, eyes soft but unreadable.

“That’s an old photo,” you said conversationally, eyes flicking toward the screen. “At least two years, maybe three. I’m impressed you dug it up.”

He made a strangled noise. “I—I wasn’t—”

“Oh, sure,” you interrupted again, smirking. “You just… accidentally stumbled across me in lingerie on a random Tuesday afternoon. Happens all the time.”

“Y/N,” he said, his voice rough with mortification. “I can explain—”

You tilt your head.

“But between you and me,” you say, voice low, “there are… better views than that photo.”

Clark blinks rapidly, shoulders so stiff they could crack. “Better—?”

You let the silence stretch, letting him squirm just a little longer. Watching him. Watching how hard he tries not to look at your mouth. Your legs. Anywhere but your eyes. He fails, beautifully.

You smile—real slow, like it knows too much.

“I mean,” you shrug, feigning innocence, “if you want an updated photoshoot, all you have to do is ask. I’m very cooperative when properly motivated.”

The sound that escaped him wasn’t even a word. More like a faint, startled noise from the back of his throat.

You straightened up at last, letting him breathe, and smoothed your skirt with a practiced flick of your fingers. “Anyway,” you said breezily, as though you hadn’t just completely destroyed him in front of his own computer. “I should get back to work.”

Clark turned slowly in his chair, wide-eyed and still visibly reeling, his tie slightly askew. “Y/N, I—”

You held up a hand, cutting him off. “No need to explain, Smallville. Really. Just… try not to get distracted, hmm? Perry would hate for you to miss a deadline because you were staring at my legs on a screen.”

You gave him one last, devastating smile before gliding toward your desk, heels clicking softly on the floor. Behind you, you could feel his gaze follow you like a physical thing, hot and helpless and utterly, wonderfully Clark.

Yeah, maybe Lois was right.

[arabellapost]

Hate him or love him?

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁. Pairing: Clark Kent x Reader

Summary: You are not a very big fan of Superman like the other people in Metropolis, but who could guess that the man you dislike that much was your lovely boyfriend? 

Word count: ~ 1.9k ૮ ․ ․ ྀིა

Tags: Sexual content, very dom!clark, sub!reader, rough sex, slapping kink, masturbation!fingering (reader receiving),size kink, mentions of threesome, praising, making out, piv.

Clark hates every article that you write and publish. And it wasn’t because your writing is terrible, but because he hated the fact that you– his girlfriend – were writing an article that destroyed Superman's reputation.

(How ironic is it that you both love and hate your boyfriend?)

You never pass up an opportunity when something involving Superman happens, and even less if there’s a bonus opportunity on your deadline. ‘Thank you, Jimmy, for giving me the opportunity of the month– if not year,’ you think as your fingers move rapidly on the keyboard of your laptop that rests on your lap. 

Recently, Superman has been facing a lot of backlash about the way he saves people. He can save all the people he wants, but never thinks about the thousands of people affected by all the destruction that he causes– a prime example being that he accidentally cracked the walls of the already old apartment building after you tried to interview him. Your apartment building. 

It’s why you are cuddled on his couch, typing furiously on your article that’s set to be published in the next week or so. 

“What are you writing about this time? How are the new factories affecting the air quality in the Metropolis ?” Clark asks teasingly as he sits down with two glasses of red wine in his hands before putting them aside to peek at the bright screen.

You grab the glass of wine and take a small sip before putting it down again. “I wrote that yesterday. It’s done and being reviewed. I'm currently writing about how Superman is just ruining the city instead of actually helping the city.” 

He stays quiet for a few moments, his hand tightening around his wine glass, and before he can reply, you keep talking.  “I am not against the fact that he saves people. He does. The only thing that I downright hate is the fact that while he knows how to save people, he does so by destroying everything else around him.” You rant.

“Buildings are ruined, and now people have to find a place to stay, and they might not have the possibility to afford to go somewhere else. Public Transportation gets destroyed almost every time he fights someone. Not to mention that ever since he came to Metropolis, we have been in constant danger thanks to him.”

Clark flinches a little, not that you would have noticed. Your words are poison that sickened his fragile heart and pierced through his soul. 

“I know you are very good friends with him,” you soothe and smile at him. “Maybe you can talk to him and tell him to be more careful. We aren’t all rich like Bruce Wayne.”

“I…He is not… We are not friends.” Clark stares at your laptop before looking at you with his blue eyes. He decides to close your laptop gently. “You should rest. You will damage your vision if you keep going at it.” 

Your head shakes quickly. “Let me just finish this paragraph, and I am all yours.” 

You see his hand move away, trembling slightly, but it’s barely noticeable.

“And is he not your friend?” You snort, trying not to lose the focus that you kept. “He only accepts interviews from you; it’s easier to acquire an interview with Lex Luther than to have a quick interview with Superman. Which I did. Receive an interview with Lex Luther.”

“What?” Clark whispers, “You- You are going to interview Lex Luthor?” his voice deepens.

You nod as you close your laptop. “Well, yeah. Superman doesn't let anyone interview him, so I will go for the guy who has time for an interview. Besides, he agrees with most of my article.” You smile slightly at your boyfriends. 

Clark finishes his glass of wine, trying to see if the alcohol could calm him down– it’s useless, of course, seeing as he is immune to alcohol. “It's a very bad idea. Horrible Idea”

“I know”

“Then why-”

You cut him off as you put your laptop away. “Unless you give me an interview with Superman, I will interview Lex, especially since I already have the appointment for tomorrow.”

Clark stays quiet; the hand out of your vision is in a fist. He is feeling a lot of emotions, but mostly jealousy; hot, angry jealousy. 

He knew it would be a horrible idea to put you in the same room as Superman, with him being Superman and all. 

He cups your face all of a sudden “I will talk with Superman and try to make an appointment for an interview, okay? Just cancel the interview with Lex.” His voice trembles with anger and jealousy.

“Are you jealous?” You tease him, trying not to laugh “Maybe the alcohol is dumbing your brain down, but let me make it very clear. Lex Luther is not my type. You are.”

“That not- ugh Im not jealous.” His hand moves to your hips. “I know I’m your type.” 

You smile and get closer to him, kissing his neck. “Then why are you getting all of a sudden angry? It's just work.”

“Oh, well, maybe because you hate Superman.”

The words got out of his mouth before he knew it, fuck, he isn’t even thinking about what he’s saying.

Your chuckle calms him down a little bit. “And you say that Superman and you arents friends? Yeah, right.” 

Your lips find his lips, and you kiss him deeply. 

Clark grips your hips and pulls you closer to him, leaning in closer, kissing you passionately and possessively. “We’re not,” he disagrees without breaking away from you.

“Whatever you say, big boy.” 

His hand grabs your hair and pulls you away harshly, so your head is in front of him. You love that he treats you harshly before and during sex. You need it. You grave it.  

His lips make their way to your neck, trying to find the sweet spot to mark you as his. His and his alone, just as he is yours. He marks you possessively,

With his right hand, he rips your shirt open while the left one still holds a tight grip on your hair.  “Don't get close to Lex Luthor.” His voice husky and demanding; hungry to feel your tightness again. Hungry to remind you that only his cock satisfies you.

“What if I do-” He spanks your full ass hard. It stings just the way that you love. His lips never leave your neck, his sucking becomes even harsher as he colors your neck that beautiful red that will turn blue and purple as the week goes on. An unmistakable claim on you.

His patience snaps suddenly. He pulls up and, quicker than you can blink, rips your bra off– he will be replacing it, of course. 

“If you want to keep your jeans functional, take them off. " His voice was full of authority that you didn’t bother arguing against him.

You slowly unbutton the jeans and take them off, showing off the lacey black thong. You enjoy it, the dark gaze that roams over your body.

It warms you, makes you excited. You need him. You need his body on yours, his strong arms caging yours so that you wouldn’t be able to escape him– not that you want to.

He grabs your body and moves you in a way that your ass is facing him while you hold yourself up in all fours. “Don’t you look pretty for me,” he groans and softly moves the thong to the side. “Look at you being all wet for me when I haven’t even touched you yet. Just like you should.”

You lick your lips and moan. His hand roams on your ass, and he starts hitting and spanking you, enjoying the redness that starts colouring your ass. At one point, he got naked. You didn’t know when, and you didn’t care either. Your mind is focused on the sting that Clark’s hand gave up.

You whimpered, arching your back further to him, “Baby, please.” You don’t know what you are begging for. Did you want him to go slower, have mercy on you? No, you surprisingly didn’t want him to slow down his already furious spanks.

Clark’s rough with you, both of you know it, but he never slapped your ass this hard before; maybe it was the alcohol. It needs to be the alcohol.

Another slap, harder this time. Merciless. “I need you to focus, my pretty little thing. Answer me, don’t you think me and Superman look alike?”

You bite your lip so hard, blood might have started to drip out. You didn’t care. You stop caring and only focus on the pleasure he gives you. You didn’t answer him. You don’t want to answer him. His hands stop the spanking, and you whimper. 

His fingers went to your dripping pussy. “You’re this wet huh? Thinking about how he and I have the same features,” He pushes you closer to the couch as he continues to finger you hard. It’s not foreplay. He fingers you like a madman. He’s reminding you that you belong to him. All. Of. Him.

Your whole body shakes when he finds your G-spot, and the orgasm presents itself suddenly and intensely.

“Push that ass out… just like that.” He slaps it again, and you scream, not caring if his neighbours can hear your ecstasy.

He continues to open you with his fingers while he moves closer to your ear. His hardened member is touching your heated skin.

 “Imagine me being Superman. Imagine that is him fingering you while you take it so obediently.” Your pussy clenches once again with every word that spills from his mouth. Clark chuckles, “You’re pussy tightened. I wonder why that is? Didn’t you say you hated Superman?”

“Clark,” your voice came in a whimpering mess, another orgasm starting to present itself again. “I need you,” you look back as he takes his finger off you.

His long fingers are covered in your juices, and instead of licking them, he puts them closer to your mouth. You lick them, tasting yourself.

You focus on licking his fingers clean and don’t notice when he aligns his cock to your entrance. He grabs your arms, never once moving your position, and pulls you to him, hard and ruthless. His erect cock splits you in half, and you have no choice but to let the orgasm take over your body. Oh, you love him using your body.

“Do you think Superman's dick is as big as mine? Imagine being fuck by the two men you obsess over.” Clark groans as he fucks you deeper, his hand moving to your hips. 

Both of your hips started to move. This is heaven.

“Both of our dicks inside of this tight little pussy”, he groans as he drives deeper inside of you.

Your eyes roll back as he finds the spot again and hits it over and over and over again.

“Oh, please,” you moan. “Please, Clark, I want that. I want to feel both cocks inside of me.” The words spill out of your mouth without you knowing what you were moaning about. You didn’t care. Not while being cock-drunk.

Mid trust Clark groans darkly. He looks at your face, which is a canvas of naked pleasure. He felt a dark, twisted, vindictive feeling inside of him as he thrust in and out of your body.

“How do you like Superman dick inside of you right now?”

You’re vision goes white as you cum.

Author note: im still working on my tag list, so please comment if you want to be added!

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁. Masterlist

[gloomwitchwrites]

Salutations, my liege

For 141 what if series..

...may i ask something silly— perhaps.. having a steamy flirt texting with them, and when they asked for a scandalous picture, reader send a rickroll-

...im sorry-

Absolutely you can! Yes, it's a bit naughty, but it's mostly silliness, and making the guys stress for no reason. Because, why not?

For the masterlist and how to submit your own request, click HERE

Task Force 141 x Reader (can be read as gn!reader)

Content & Warnings (mdni): swearing, dirty talk, sexting, humor, pranks & shenanigans, established relationship

Word Count: 1.1k

ao3 // main masterlist // imagines & what if masterlist

John Price

John is at work. But that doesn’t stop him. The texts come in one after the other.

Do you know how hard I am?

Been thinking about you all day.

Can hardly wait for later.

You take my cock so well.

You reply back with equal steam, describing all the ways you want him to fuck you. No detail is left unsaid. It is a lecherous image you paint for him. But fuck is it fun. The man will come home pent up, pouncing on you the moment he’s through the door.

The next text from John comes a full minute later.

Send me a picture.

Send a picture? You could. The potential of his coworkers seeing it over his shoulder isn’t something you’re particularly interested in though. Then again, telling John how horny you are isn’t enough. He might be on you the second he comes home, but you could do with a little roughness. A bit of punishment. Making John turned on and frustrated is always a sure bet you’ll receive what you want.

Opening YouTube, you find the song you’re looking for. A catchy song from the 80’s that’s now a viral trend.

Get ready, big boy, you reply.

You snap a quick, teasing photo. Sending it off.

I’m fucking ready, replies John instantly.

A swoosh, and the link is sent.

You wait. Laugh into your hand. A full minute passes. Then another. Finally, a text comes in.

Send the real thing or I’m coming home early.

You lock your phone, and set it aside, grinning madly as you wait for John to pull into the drive.

Simon "Ghost" Riley

Separation has never stopped you. Simon might be elsewhere, but the two of you find time to indulge in every horny urge.

I’m gonna suck your cock until you look like an empty Capri Sun.

You laugh at yourself for texting him that, but as much as he seems aloof, Simon has a wicked sense of humor.

His response is immediate. You can try.

You snort, fingers poised to type out a return message, but the three little bubbles appear on his side.

Lube up the dildo. Suck it off. Send me a video.

You nearly choke on your own salvia. The idea of that is fucking salacious. And as much as you’d like to, you’re also feeling a bit lazy. You’re cozied up on the sofa, covered by a fluffy blanket. Instead of indulging him, you can be a bit of a shit, poking his buttons because it amuses him as much as it amuses you.

The video you do record is easy enough. It looks like you’re about to do the exact thing Simon wants, but with just a quick edit, the screen fades to black, and a certain 80’s hit appears in its place.

It’s hilarious. Sensational. Gold star to you!

You send it off, locking your phone, deciding that you’ll veg out to some mindless television and go to bed at a decent time for once. Simon doesn’t respond to your text, which is odd, but not unusual.

It’s not until after you’ve made yourself dinner that you find out why.

“You never sent me the video.”

Simon’s voice comes from nowhere. You scream, drop your bowl of pasta, and spin around, wielding the fork like a weapon.

“Where the fuck did you come from?”

Simon shrugs. “I have my ways.”

“Simon,” you warn.

His mouth stretches into the faintest hint of a smirk. “And I thought I’d come for the real thing.”

John "Soap" MacTavish

Johnny is a dog. Hungry. Wanton. If he could, he’d probably live in your skin. Which is why he’s always texting you, sending dirty messages.

Touch yourself. Show me.

You could show him. Snap a few pictures of you pleasing yourself and send them off in intervals to prolong the teasing. It would work him up. Work you up. But there is a better option. An option that’ll drive Johnny crazy—that’ll make him more desperate for what he’s asking for.

You want a picture, you text out.

Aye. Course I do.

Not like he’s gone without. The two of you have exchanged countless photos, and it’s entirely likely that most of the photos saved to his phone are of you. Naughty ones, specifically. Johnny enjoys having them for when he’s gone for long periods of time. A little treat for him, but more like masturbation material.

It’s easy to manipulate a few files, find a GIF online of what you’re looking for. Via text won’t work. You opt for email. It may confuse him, but knowing Johnny, he’ll just be happy you’re sending a naked photo. Not that it is.

It isn’t. It’s you trolling him because he’s always doing it to you.

The email is sent off with a swoosh. You patiently wait, expecting him to reply back with a snarky response.

But when your phone starts to buzz, the screen showing not a phone call but a video chat, you know Johnny means business.

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

My dick is so hard.

You taking it when I come home?

Want to see you bounce on it.

You’re grinning like an idiot as Kyle’s texts come in. Kyle doesn’t usually engage in phone sex or dirty talk over text. This is a bit of a treat, and you’re enjoying it, sending back messages that are just as filthy. Kyle isn’t shy about sex, but sometimes it’s nice to see him squirm.

Send a picture. I wanna see you.

He’s too sweet for his own good. And while you’d oblige him otherwise, you also see an opportunity. Why not poke at him a bit. Have some silly fun. What you send him is not a nude.

And Kyle’s response is not a text but a phone call.

You answer. Put it on speaker.

“Did you just send me a Josh Hutcherson fan cam vid set to a cover of Flo Rida’s ‘Whistle?’”

“Didn’t know you were so hip, Kyle.”

“I’m on social media,” he mumbles. He clears his throat. “I still want that photo.”

“Hm. Yeah. Sure thing,” you reply nonchalantly. Kyle says your name with a sternness that excites you. “Have to go!” you say with a bit too much cheer.

Without waiting for his reply, you end the call, and tucking the phone underneath the pillow as it begins to buzz again.

[azzinator3000]

pure sweet smut after a argument

Camping is supposed to be fun, remember that?

Warning: Minors DNI (Smut)

Okay guys, this is my attempt at writing smut, no idea how yall are gonna take it LOL

The tent was almost bigger than Paige's dorm room, an ample room with a big inflatable bed and enough screens to run an entire streaming service. It was the kind of "camping" only two people who spend their lives traveling for basketball could ever conceive of. It was supposed to be perfect.

It was not.

The day had started with tension that had quickly escalated. Azzi, in her usual way, had thrown her clothes in a pile by her side of the air mattress, leaving Paige to silently and angrily organize her own things into neat piles.

“Your clothes are all over the place,” Paige said, her voice tight and unable to hide her frustration.

Azzi, who was setting up a portable speaker, just shrugged. “Yeah. What’s the big deal?”

“The big deal,” Paige shot back, “is that this is a small space. And your things are everywhere. And it’s...just a mess”

Azzi turned, a playful smirk on her face, leaning against the speaker. “Mess? You're the one who eats chips in the tent and gets crumbs all over our bed.”

“Those are not the same thing,” Paige huffed, crossing her arms, irritation building with the back-and-forth. It was stupid and she knew it was stupid,but when Azzi got messy, something in Paige’s intensely organized brain just short-circuited.

So the day had been a series of these little arguments, little verbal punches that left them both a little bruised. They’d never lived together for real, never had to navigate each other’s messiness, and the constant arguments were wearing on Paige. She was tensed up, frustrated, and retreated into a stubborn and super quiet fury that drove Azzi crazy.

It was late now, the tent illuminated by a small, battery-powered lantern that cast a soft, yellow glow over their makeshift home. Paige was lying on her back, staring at the ceiling, her arms crossed over her chest, as Azzi fiddled with her phone beside her. 

The light, of course, was on. Azzi couldn't sleep unless a light was on (and Paige, of course, couldn't sleep unless it was pitch black)

“Are you bothered?” Azzi finally asked, her voice soft.

Paige grunted. “I’m not bothered.”

“Yes, you are.”

“You know what? Now I am, because you keep asking.”

Azzi sighed, “I just want to know what’s wrong, Paige. You’ve been quiet all day. I want to talk about it.”

“I don’t think you understand, Azzi. When I don’t want to talk, I don’t want to talk”

“But I want to talk to you because you’re annoyed, but you don’t talk to me about the things that are annoying you.” Azzi’s voice was pleading

Paige, in her tensed-up state, just let it all spill out. “I’m bothered because you’re messy. There you go. I’m also bothered because you don’t take me seriously sometimes”

“Well, you don’t take me seriously!” Azzi shot back. “I asked you to leave your iPad on the charger, and now it’s almost dead. It’s a two-way street, Paige.”

Paige sat up and crossed her arms, her biceps flexing, a defensive posture that she knew well. “Do you see me as a responsible adult?” she asked, her voice sharp. “Because I’m the responsible adult here. I’m older than you.”

Azzi didn’t hesitate. “No,” she said. “I don’t see you as a responsible adult. Actually, sometimes I feel like I’m older than you.”

Paige’s breath hitched. A tense silence filled the space between them. “What do you mean?” she asked, her voice tight. 

She was still sitting there, arms crossed, muscles flexing, looking serious and angry and, to Azzi, impossibly hot. She could see Azzi’s eyes, in the low light, lingering on her arms, on her mouth, on the fierce set of her jaw.

 Azzi was getting distracted, and Paige suddenly realized she was too.

Paige’s voice dropped to a lower, the argument slipping away, replaced by a challenge she couldn’t resist. “So you’re a big girl, right? You’re a big, responsible girl who doesn’t need my help, and I’m not a responsible adult. Okay. So what are you going to do if I turn off the light right now?”

Azzi blinked, her eyes wide. “Paige, don’t—”

But Paige had already reached out, her fingers finding the switch.

The tent went pitch black.

The air mattress shifts, and suddenly there’s a warm weight on top of her and soft lips covering hers.

Their faces bump together slightly as Paige’s arms jostle the bed, and it’s dark, so Paige actually kisses somewhere closer to her chin the first time. 

But in the few seconds after, when their breaths are mingling and Paige’s eyes are still closed, her body seems to realize exactly what’s happening. Every nerve comes to life, urging her to pull Paige closer and not let her go, so she slips a hand around to the base of Paige’s neck, puts her knee up to bracket Paige’s hips, and pulls her back down.

The second kiss is magic.

Paige’s hair falls around them, blocking out what little moonlight is diffusing through the tent, and she’s surrounded by the sweet smell of her. Paige presses perfectly against her, a hipbone hitting the most wonderful spot as their chests rub together, and her lips. Her lips. 

They part for air, and Azzi arches up to eliminate the space between their bodies, and Paige lets out a tiny, broken whimper.

“Oh,” She breathes and Azzi drinks it in, tilting her head to deepen their kisses, and then Paige engulfs her like a wildfire.

Like a switch has been flipped, Paige is everywhere at once. Their kisses become hot and open, her hips starting up a steady grind, and she props herself up with one arm while gripping Azzi’s hip with the other.

It’s overwhelming, and suddenly the tent is stiflingly hot. The shower she took earlier did very little to wash off the grossness of being in the woods for the weekend, but Paige somehow still smells amazing, and she tastes so good, and instead of worrying about how thoroughly she’s washed, Azzi loses herself to the rocking motion of their bodies.

She pulls Paige back down, wrapping a leg around her waist, and leaves it up to the universe.

There are moments that are awkward, the mattress is so bouncy that their faces bump together sometimes, and it’s hard for Paige to hold back her strength not having as much muscle mass as Azzi, but it’s so, so good. 

Paige doesn’t even take the time to try to remove their clothes and Azzi’s shirt gets rucked up over her breasts and her bra is pulled down unceremoniously so that Paige can play with her nipples, and she’s eager and a little bit clumsy but it’s more than enough.

When she finally pulls down Azzi’s pyjamas enough to slip her hand inside, Azzi can hear the slick sounds her fingers make as they make contact with her cunt. She’s so wet that she can hear it, and she knows that Paige can hear it, and Paige is whimpering before she’s even been inside her, oh god, Paige is going to be inside her, and it’s all so much 

“Tell me how you want it baby” Paige pants into her neck, slipping two fingers through the wetness between her thighs with little finesse but a lot of enthusiasm. “Tell me” They slip over Azzi’s clit by accident, and she twitches like a live wire. Paige does it again, rubbing broad strokes, and Azzi is pretty sure she’s not going to need much instruction at this rate.

“Two fingers inside, and your thumb fuck!”

She doesn’t get to finish her sentence, because suddenly there are two long digits nestled inside her and Paige’s thumb is resting against her clit.

“Like this?” She whispers, her voice trembling, and Azzi whines.

“God, yes,  move your hand”

Eager to please, Paige obeys. 

Her fingers slip out almost all the way before plunging back in, and it’s good, but it’s just slightly off, the darkness taking a tool on their effectiveness. Normally Azzi would be quieter, let her partner figure it out on their own, but Paige seems to crave the direction. So she pants into Paige’s ear, adjusting her hips.

“Not like..don’t pull out so much, do shallow – fuck, yes, just like that!” She gasps, tangling a hand in Paige’s hair and tugging hard as Paige switches to shorter, deeper thrusts. At Azzi’s enthusiastic response she speeds up, her hand like a piston, every harsh movement bringing her closer, and Azzi can barely think past how good it feels.

Paige is also very clearly enjoying this as much as Azzi. She’s whining in little puffs of air against Azzi’s collar as she fucks her, and Azzi wants to touch her so badly, but she doesn’t want to startle her into losing control when she’s clearly so close to losing it as it is.

And it’s clear that she is, every muscle is tense, one hand working magic inside Azzi and the other tightly clenching a pillow above her head. She makes desperate noises, whispers things into Azzi’s skin that are intoxicating.

 She murmurs about how beautiful Azzi is, how it feels to be making her feel good, how she can’t wait until ��

“Can’t wait until what?” She pants, her voice high and breathy, and Paige groans, speeding her hand up.

“Until I can’t wait until –“

“Tell me.” Azzi demands, and Paige breaks.

“I can’t wait until you come for me, Azzi, I want to feel it, on my hand, on - on my fingers”

And that, apparently, is all it takes. Paige leaves a few circles over her nipple and keeps up her savage pace, and her words hit Azzi at the core of her, down to the quick. That tight, simmering feeling starts to expand, and Azzi’s toes curl in the flannel fabric of the blankets as her back arches.

When she comes, it’s with Paige’s fingers curling sweetly inside her and Paige’s voice in her ear, the salty taste of her skin on Azzi’s tongue and the smell of her hair surrounding them. It draws out longer than usual, Paige still moving her hand with intent, but finally Azzi has to tap out.

“Stop, stop, fuck, I can’t –“ She gasps, tugging Paige’s tangled hair. Paige stops immediately, propping herself up and peering down at her.

“Enjoy yourself mama?”

The question is absolutely absurd, from her side of things.

“You have no idea.” She manages to groan, slinging an arm over her face. It’s partially to give her a few moments to collect herself, and partly because Paige’s gaze is too intense.

Instead she slides a hand down to Paige’s waistband, pulling at it with questing fingers.

“Can I touch you?”

“Go easy” She asks, and Azzi nods.

“Nice and easy, and can you tell me if it’s too much?”

Swallowing, Paige agrees. “Okay.” Immediately Azzi pushes on Paige’s chest gently, until she follows her lead and rolls over onto her back.

“I’m going to take your pants off, okay?” She warns, and Paige nods vigorously, lifting her hips.

Bare. Paige isn’t wearing underwear, and Azzi is staring at the shiny wetness that’s smeared across her thighs, wetness caused by Azzi, she’s wet because of me, and suddenly, the only important thought in her head is taste. Spreading Paige’s legs slowly, she wiggles down the mattress until she’s inches from her clit.

“Is this okay?” She murmurs, reining in the almost overwhelming instinct to have her mouth on Paige right now to make sure she’s feeling comfortable. Paige’s eyes are wide, her mouth open, her chest heaving. Her hand twitches, and she anchors it to her own abdomen.

“Just, slow?”

She nods, lowering her head.

Azzi doesn’t go for her clit right away, she kisses and nips at her thighs, tasting the slick there and trying to keep her pathetic moans at the flavour to a minimum. She makes her way closer to Paige’s center, swirling her tongue slowly all the way, until she finally spreads her open slightly with her fingers.

It’s dark, but she can still see everything she needs to, she runs her tongue around the edges of it, into every fold, tasting and teasing softly. She dips inside her a few times, reveling in the still-abundant wetness there.

Paige’s hips twitch and quiver, but she stays in control of her movements. It doesn't take long until Paige taps on the mattress.

“I’m close“ She gasps, starting to close her legs. The tent is filled with a symphony of both their moans, Paige arches up, her voice cracking as she chokes out Azzi’s name.

As Paige comes back down to earth, catching her breath and almost dropping Azzi from the mattress as she flops back from her arched position.

As they lay together, their bodies slowly cooling and Paige stroking her shoulder, Azzi hears a loud voice in the distance. It comes from a few sites over, at least, probably one of the teenagers they passed yesterday, by the pitch of her voice.

“Finally! For god’s sake, get a room!”

In her post-coital high, rather than being embarrassing, the clear indication that they’ve disrupted half the campground with their romp just makes her laugh. She starts to giggle, and she feels Paige’s chest rumble underneath her as well.

Azzi’s bra is still askew, and her pants are nowhere to be found, and Paige is in a similar state of sweaty disarray, and it’s pretty much perfect.

“Your clothes are still all over the place” Paige says again playfully 

“And whose fault is that, huh Bueckers?”

[sailorsun546]

That's ✨Color Relativity✨ baybeeeee

I see others have mentioned James Gurney and Marco Bucci as great artists to look at for more info on the subject, they are fantastic. If you can get ahold of a copy, Jame's Gurney's book Color and Light is a nice place to start.

A way to study this is to study how light interacts with the environment. All colors that are possible are bound by the color of the light source.

The yellow-orange light of the street lamps casts everything in orange hues. The closer an object is to a light source, the more saturated it is and also the closer to the color of the light source it is.

If we are outside in the middle of the day, things tend to be their local color (that is, their inherent individual color). The "white light" of the sun contains all visible wavelengths of light, so within the bright light of the sun, all colors are visible.

As the sun sets, the color of the light in the atmosphere changes completely.

Suddenly these cacti, that we know are green, are hue-shifted towards orange where the light touches them directly. This can make them brown in places, as green and orange are far enough apart from each other on the color wheel that they begin to neutralize one another. (more on this in a moment)

Let's look under water.

Technically we know this guy is purple, but it doesn't matter because no red wavelengths are making it down there far enough for us to be able to see them. Everything is aggressively hue-shifted towards blue.

Whatever the local color of these fish are is completely overpowered by the green hue of the light (i presume because it's reflecting off a fuckton of algae in the environment and that is making green light bounce around like crazy)

Every object reflects light and that light bounces around and mixes with every single thing around it.

No color exists in isolation. Put a brightly colored object next to a white object and you will see that color reflect of the surface of the white object. That is Color Relativity on a small scale. On the largest scale we're talking about lamps, streetlights, the sun and the moon.

It's time to talk about this thing.

You probably know about Complimentary Colors by now, and Fun Fact: Most commercial color wheels are bullshit because they completely neglect the existence of Magenta. I like the wheel pictured above, so if you want a physical color wheel look for a CMY Color Wheel (cyan, magenta yellow). All other color wheels are wrong. I will die on this hill.

I want you to think of the color wheel as a physical space through which color must pass. Remember how I said orange and green begin to neutralize one another? The closer colors are on the wheel, the brighter the colors that they will mix together. The further apart they are, the "muddier" that mixed color will become. True complimentary colors will completely neutralize into a neutral gray or black. Colors that are only sorta complimentary will make a flavor of brown.

Here is my wheel that I have disassembled. (I wish the colors leading to the center showed a greater variety of desaturation and neutrals, but it'll have to do.) The center is a perfect neutral grey, and as the colors radiate out from the center they get more saturated until they reach the edge, at which they are the most saturated they can possibly be.

When I was a child I was told that "red and blue make purple :) " and every time I tried to mix a nice, bright purple I got a dusty, almost brown concoction. That is because a "true" red and "true" blue are much too far away from each other on the color wheel. The further away from each other they are, the more desaturated your mixture will be.

Take your starting colors and draw a straight line between them. This isn't an exact science, but it gives you an approximation of how bright or dull your resulting color will be. See that little star? Look how much closer to the center, and therefore a neutral, the mixture from Red and Blue is compared to Magenta and Blue.

That's cool, but how does this relate to the cactus from before?

Well we're starting with an object whose local color is Green, and bathing it in Orange light. So, you're mixing green and orange light together. That green object is going to start to look more brown as a result.

To achieve this digitally, you have to take your local color and literally pull it towards the color of the light source. It's like taking a color and scooching it to the left, if that makes sense to anyone at all.

All I did here is take my local color (pink!) and scoot to toward the color of the light source or atmosphere, and adjust my saturation accordingly. I think of color as being in a constant state of tug-of-war across the wheel. If I have a starting point (local color) and a light source color, I know which direction to yank my local color towards.

Lastly, I think this guy's Instagram is a really neat place for learning more about color interactions. I find the more I learn about how light works, and how our eyes perceive color, the better I understand how to apply color in my art.

GOD I hope any of this made sense at all!

[ariestrxsh]

dom!bf!chris x gf!reader x dom!matt

✧˚ · .⭒ content warning: smut, cheating (kinda), lying, getting caught, m!masturbation, oral (m!receiving), unprotected sex, threesome, eiffel tower, light dacryphilia, degradation and praise

✧˚ · .⭒ summary: chris has an unexpected reaction when he figures out the spicy photos you gave him for his birthday were taken by his brother!

gifs by @/vxnitra

dividers by @/enchanthings

album concept creds to @/delilahsturniolo and inspired by @/y2kstarr and her hot pink marathon

[ click to return to track list ]

Imagine

"I don't know how you talked me into this," you chuckled, your eyes flicking up at Matt, your boyfriend's brother. You were lying on your side on your bed in black, lace lingerie, propping your head up with your left hand as you stared into Matt's camera lens.

"This is the perfect birthday gift. Chris is gonna love these," Matt murmured, admiring you through the view finder. You rolled your eyes, trying not to blush.

You'd been going back and forth for weeks about what to do for your boyfriend, Chris, for his birthday, and you'd finally settled on the idea of a boudoir photoshoot. You'd almost hired a professional, but Matt had a nice camera. He agreed to take the pictures, edit them, and get them printed for free, so how could you refuse?

The afternoon sun was peeking through your blinds, casting a golden glow over your body as Matt pressed down on the button, triggering the sound of the shutter to release. He was trying his hardest to maintain his professionalism, but he couldn't deny how much he liked looking at you like this.

"Now get on your hands and knees and pop your leg up," Matt directed you. You did as he said, your red heel pointing towards the ceiling. "Good, now arch your back a little and stick your ass up," he told you.

"Matt!" You exclaimed, your face growing warm.

"Hey, I'm just trying to get some good pictures," he said defensively. "Isn't that what you wanted?" You scoffed, but you followed his instructions. "Fuck. That's perfect. Just like that," he replied in a voice just above a whisper, his eyes scanning over your curves and the way the positions he had you in accentuated them.

It was obvious that he was enjoying this a little more than he should, considering you were his brother's girlfriend. You, too, were enjoying being oggled by him more than you knew Chris would be comfortable with, but you couldn't help the way his words made your stomach flutter.

Matt lowered the camera for a moment, the gears in his head turning about how he could spice up the shoot a bit. "We should do a few where you're on your back, and you spread your legs a little," Matt suggested, taking a step closer to you.

"Spread my legs while I'm wearing sheer, black lace?" You chuckled. "I wanted these to be classy, not slutty."

"They are classy. Relax. It's not like I'm taking pictures of your bare pussy," he snarked back, rolling his eyes and placing his camera down on your dresser.

You could feel your cheeks heat up as that word fell from his lips. You obeyed him, situating yourself on your back and slightly opened your legs.

"Kind of," Matt responded, "I was thinking more like this."

Matt towered over you, grabbing your legs, pressing your knees up against your chest, and spreading them. Your breath hitched as he held you in this position for a second too long. "There. Good girl. Now stay just like that," Matt softly said, reaching for his camera.

He knew what he was doing, calling you that.

He watched your face soften, and your eyes twinkle with lust in response to the way he was speaking to you. You were so grateful to be wearing black, so Matt couldn't see how wet you were getting.

He snapped a few more photos, taking them from different angles and playing around with the flash to see what looked best. Matt lowered his camera again, his gaze dancing over you and taking you in like you were in this position just for him.

"You have goosebumps," he commented, running the tips of his fingers along your arm. You shivered at his touch.

"Yeah, I'm just cold," you lied, hoping he wouldn't mention your hardening nipples.

"You look incredible, by the way. My brother is so lucky," Matt whispered, pointing the camera at you again. As a natural smile curled across your lips, Matt captured another photo of you.

"You know, Chris would kill us both if he knew you took these pictures," you told him.

"Well, it'll be our little secret then, won't it?" Matt replied, a smug grin tugging at the corner of his lip. "If he asks who took them, just tell him one of your friends did it."

A lump formed in your throat before you swallowed it. You didn't like the idea of lying to Chris, but you knew the alternative would be to pay hundreds of dollars to a professional boudoir photographer or to have to admit that his own brother had taken them. You didn't particularly like either of those options, so you knew you had to keep it from him.

"Let's get a few of you on your knees," Matt told you.

"Like this?" You asked, kneeling on the bed.

"I was thinking of having you in that position on the floor while you look up into the camera," he pointed down at a spot on the ground in front of him.

You shot him a skeptical look, standing to your feet. "You want a picture of me on my knees in front of you?"

"C'mon. Chris will love it. Get on your knees," he growled, his voice taking on a more dominant tone. You rolled your eyes, but you listened, dropping down in front of him.

A smirk tugged at the corner of his lip as he peered down at you through the view finder, your big eyes fixed on the lens. His jeans grew tighter the longer he looked at you in this position. He snapped some pictures before reaching down and cradling your face.

"Matt!" You laughed, lightly batting his hand away. "You can't be in the picture at all."

"Relax, baby. This one's just for me," he seductively told you, brushing his thumb over your bottom lip. You knew the way he was touching you was dangerous, but you didn't stop him.

Your heart pouded as Matt pushed his thumb into your mouth, tucking it behind your lips. You gently sucked on it with your eyes locked onto the camera. He snapped a photo of you, smiling as he captured the sensual moment. You couldn't hide the way your cheeks heated up at his gesture, arousal rippling through you.

However, you broke free from the trance he held you in, and you quickly pulled away, the lustful look in your eyes shifting to an annoyed one. "Come on, Matt. Let's get back to the photoshoot," you responded.

"Oh my god, babe," Chris gasped, his eyes widening as he studied the printed photos of you that you'd just gifted him. "These are amazing." He flipped through them, admiring everything - the lighting, the way you were dressed, the poses you were in.

"You like them?" You giggled, batting your lashes as you stood beside him.

"Of course I do. Who took these? They look so professional," he responded. Your eyes widened for a second, and you cleared your throat. You considered lying to him, but you just couldn't, so instead, you just completely disregarded the question.

"I just wanted to do something special for your birthday. I'm glad you like them!" You exclaimed, giving him a peck on the cheek.

"You're the best," Chris replied, setting the photos down on the marble counter and picking you up in his arms. You squealed as he twirled you in a circle and pressed his soft lips against yours.

It wasn't until later that night when he was looking over the pictures of you again that he noticed something about them. He was perched in his gaming chair at his desk, and you were curled up on his bed, sleeping soundly in one of his t-shirts and your underwear.

Chris' eyes flicked over to the mirror in one of the photos. There he was. He couldn't unsee him after that. The man who took the picture. The camera covered most of his features, but Chris would recognize his own brother anywhere.

That's when he noticed the rings he was wearing, the silver jewelry reflecting in the mirror of your vanity, and he knew for sure who the photographer was. He wanted to shake you awake and ask you what the hell you were thinking when having his brother take half-naked pictures of you. Instead, he decided to do the next closest thing.

Matt was in his room behind his closed door. He laid unsuspectingly under the covers in the glow of the lamp on his bedside table, your photo in one hand and his other beneath the blanket, fist wrapped around his cock.

Moans spilled from his lips, filling the empty space of his bedroom as he fervently stroked his length. His breathing and heartrate were both erratic as he fixed his eyes on yours in the picture and the way your perfect lips perfectly engulfed his thumb, remembering how good it had felt in the moment.

That's when the door flung open and Chris stood in the entryway, his jaw clenched and his fists balled up at his sides. Matt jumped, fumbling with the photo and his cock as he tried to conceal what he was doing. Chris approached him, snatching the printed photo out of his hand and taking a closer look at it.

"Are you fucking kidding me? You took these of my girlfriend? I can see why I didn't get a copy of this one, huh?" Chris' voice boomed, breaking his brother out of his fantasies. Matt's heart was still thrumming away in his ears as he tried to think of an excuse, his dick throbbing at the loss of contact.

"I-I just offered to take some pictures for her," Matt defended himself, sitting upright in his bed.

Chris' angry stare bore through him. "Did you fuck my girlfriend?" Chris asked calmly.

"No, dude. I swear. This picture is as far as it went," Matt responded, trying to catch his breath.

"You better not be lying to me," Chris glared at him.

"I know that I definitely crossed a line taking those pictures, but I wouldn't help your girlfriend cheat on you," Matt told him, his voice sounding genuine.

Chris let out a long exhale, his expression softening. His jealousy started to dissipate, his long fingers combing through his brown hair as he stared down at the picture.

"So you didn't fuck my girlfriend?" Chris clarified, glancing up at his brother for a second. Matt shook his head no, his cheeks still flushed with embarrassment from being walked in on.

Chris' gaze fell back to the photo, suddenly feeling a jolt of arousal he couldn't explain. There was a sick and twisted part of him that was hoping Matt had answered that question differently. He flicked the photo back at Matt, hitting him in the arm with the corner of the picture.

"Do you want to?" Chris wondered, nibbling on his lip.

Matt's eyebrows flew up in shock, and his jaw dropped. "Is that a trick question?"

Suddenly, you felt yourself being shaken awake. You groaned, rolling over, eyes slowly fluttering open. Chris was standing over you, his features bathed in the dim glow of the lamp. His head was tilted to the side, and a smile curled on his lips as you started to wake up.

"Hmm?" You grunted, wondering why he was looking at you like that. A few seconds of silence ensued as Chris searched your face, trying to read your expression, the anticipation building.

"So, when were you gonna tell me that Matt took those pictures?" He finally asked.

"Chris. I can explain -" you started to say, but he cut you off, placing a hand over your mouth.

"You don't need to. All you need to do is wish my brother a happy birthday and pay him back for those pictures he took of you," Chris replied, his gaze darkening.

You gave him a perplexed look, knitting your eyebrows together in confusion. Suddenly, Matt came into view, appearing behind Chris.

"Get on your knees," your boyfriend ordered you, "just like you were posing in this picture." Chris released his grip on you and presented you with the photo that Matt had kept for himself. You were at a loss for words. You couldn't deny that it was you and that it was Matt's thumb in your mouth.

"I-I," you started to say, but the words got caught in your throat. "Is this a joke?" You managed to choke out, scoffing and rolling your eyes.

"No. I won't say it again. Drop the attitude and get on your knees," Chris repeated himself through clenched teeth. "If you're gonna play around behind my back, surely you can do it in front of me, yeah?"

You did as he said, climbing off of his bed and kneeling down on the floor in front of his brother. Your stomach fluttered as you heard the sound of Matt's belt buckle falling open. Your gaze dropped to his fingers as he unfastened the button of his jeans and lowered his zipper, the moment happening in slow motion. Your face softened and a look of desire flickered over your expression as he started to reach into his pants for his hardening cock.

Chris could see the change in demeanor, the way you went from bratty to obedient in a matter of seconds as you sat there on your knees, waiting for a cock to be presented to you. He let out a mean chuckle.

"Fucking slut. You love this, don't you?" Chris barked, leaning up against his desk and shaking his head. Your eyes shifted to him for a moment, not sure if you were supposed to be honest or if you were supposed to pretend you hated it. "Come on, wish my brother a happy birthday. I know you want to."

You glanced back up at Matt, your big doe eyes locking onto his. His cock twitched at the thought of what he and Chris had agreed upon the other room. He could hardly wait to show you.

"Happy birthday, Matt," you told him, your voice trembling a bit as you spoke, trying not to seem too excited.

He smiled down at you, his cock springing out of the restrictive fabric. Your eyes shot open as he wrapped his fingers around the base of his length, guiding it towards your face. He reached down and gently tipped your chin up a bit.

The tip was pink and slick with a clear fluid pooling at his slit, and he gently slapped it against your bottom lip a few times, sending waves of pleasure through his cock. He moaned softly at the sensation.

"Wrap your mouth around it," Matt cooed in a sweet voice, placing a hand on the back of your head and pushing his mushroom-shaped tip past your full lips. He slowly protruded his hips, watching his length disappear behind your pout, a guttural moan filling the room.

"Suck," Matt urged you, combing his fingers through your hair and pulling you further onto his cock. You listened to him, creating suction on his sensitive tip. He drove his hips forward more, hitting the back of your throat and watching your eyes glaze over.

"Fuck," Matt moaned as you hummed around his shaft, sending vibrations through his lower body, his head falling back and his lips slightly parting. His grip in your hair tightened as he started to rock his hips faster.

Chris watched from a few feet away, a smug smile present on his face, arousal rippling through him as his body temperature started to rise.

"It's like she was made for sucking cock, huh?" Chris chuckled, his hand flying to the bulge in his sweats. His brother nodded in agreement, his gaze locked on yours as tears formed in your eyes. He'd always secretly fantasized about this, getting head from his brother's girlfriend, but he didn't think it'd actually happen, and he didn't know you'd take it so fucking well.

Matt's breath was steadily growing quicker and louder as you worked your mouth on him, bobbing your head up and down. He peered down at you with a desperate expression, his eyes heavily hooded with lust and desire as the sound of you gagging on him filled the room.

"Choke on it. Good fuckin' girl," he rasped. He was already getting close, his knees growing weak and the knot in his stomach pulling tight. Moans escaped his lips, coming out it a much less hindered fashion. He made a makeshift ponytail with his fist, guiding your movements on his cock as he chased the incredible feeling.

Chris was now openly stroking himself through the cotton fabric as he watched you from a perspective he never had before. He liked watching you give Matt attention, but he couldn't deny that he was feeling a bit deprived himself.

"Stop. Get on the bed," Chris demanded, taking a step forward. You paused for a moment, slipping Matt's length out from behind your lips, triggering a disappointed sigh from him. You stood to your feet before crawling onto the bed, Chris' stare burning through you.

You couldn't quite read his expression or predict what he was going to do next. You weren't sure if he was going to scold you for liking it.

"How would you like to suck me off," Chris started off as he stood in front of you, reaching to unravel the string on his sweats, "while Matt fucks you silly?" Your eyes widened as the suggestion fell from his lips, eagerly nodding on your hands and knees. Your heart raced as well as your imagination, your pussy already clenching around nothing.

"Well, don't seem too eager to fuck my brother," Chris chuckled, surprised by how little coaxing that took.

You watched your boyfriend tug down the waistband of his sweatpants and his boxers, his cock recoiling as he set it free. You could feel the bed shift under Matt's weight as he positioned himself behind you, his hands tracing the curves of your waist as he started to pull down your panties.

Matt removed the flimsy fabric from your lower body, and his hand came down with a heavy smack on your round ass. You let out a startled squeal. Matt watched in amusement as your skin rippled. Chris grabbed onto the sides of your face, steering his smooth, glistening head towards your lips.

"Stick out of your tongue," Chris purred, smiling down at you as his chest rose and fell with his quickening breath. You did as he said, and he started tapping the tip against it, exciting all the sensitive nerve endings in his cock.

As you looked into your boyfriend's eyes, you could feel Matt prodding around you from behind, gently dragging a finger along your slit. "Fuck, you're so wet already," Matt gasped, enjoying that you'd gotten so turned on just from sucking him off.

You circled Chris' swollen, pink tip with your tongue, slowly spreading your legs open further and waiting in anticipation to be filled at both ends. Matt drew his tip along your slick folds, teasing your entrance before roughly pushing it in. Your jaw fell open at the unexpected stretch, and Chris took this as an invitation to slip his cock all the way into your mouth.

Matt grabbed your hips and started pistoning into you at a faster pace, causing you to hum around the other brother's length. Chris moaned in response. You could feel your walls tightening around Matt's thick cock, creating an even more pleasurable experience for both of you.

"Your pussy feels so good," Matt groaned from behind you, buried deep inside. "You're the perfect birthday present, you know that?"

With every snap of his hips, Matt jolted you forward onto Chris' cock, making it twitch in your mouth as your tongue grazed the veins on the backside. Chris knitted his eyebrows together, shutting his eyes and contorting his face into a look of sheer bliss.

You arched your back, taking Chris deeper into your mouth and Matt deeper into your pussy. The lewd sounds of pleasured moans and slapping skin filled your ears.

They each tossed you back and forth in different directions between the two of them as they each picked up the pace of their thrusts. Your vision grew blurry as you started to gag on Chris' length. He stared down lovingly at you, brushing a strand of hair out of your face and caressing your cheek as a tear rolled down.

"Fuck yeah. Look at you. Taking two cocks at once," Chris whispered breathlessly, in love with the sight. They loved sharing you this way, using you as a double-ended sleeve that was molded solely for their collective pleasure.

The way Chris spoke to you and touched you coupled with the feeling of Matt's tip ramming into your gspot over and over again started to send you over the edge. You trembled, your legs and arms growing shaky as you desperately tried to anchor yourself to the bed. You dug into the bedding beneath you, white knuckling the sheets as your orgasm ran its course.

Your pleasure bubbled over as you released. You clenched rhythmically around Matt's cock, coating him in your fluids, his length slipping in and out of you more easily now. Chris knew exactly what was happening, the way your body was responding and the sounds you were making around his shaft.

"That's it. Such a perfect little slut. Cum on Matt's cock for me, hmm?" Chris urged you, witnessing the fight leave your body as you surrendered yourself over to the sensation.

Both brothers came undone at the same time, the pressure in the pit of their stomachs building to a breaking point. Their grunts echoed in your ears as they pumped you full at both ends, their thrusts beginning to slow as they fucked you through the aftershocks.

"Oh, my god," Matt breathlessly chuckled, completely satisfied and still in shock that his own brother had shared his girlfriend with him. They each pulled out of you, their sticky, hot cum leaking out of you and spilling onto Chris' sheets.

"Shit. You're such a good little cock sleeve, aren't you? Just the perfect birthday gift," Chris whispered as he peered down at your face.

"She is," Matt agreed, spreading you open and staring down at your pretty, ruined pussy. He smiled at the way his white substance was still slowly seeping from you with every clench. "The gift that keeps on giving."

a/n: i'm sorry it took me so long to come out with this fic, but i guess it worked out bc it's the triplets' actual birthday today!

[barnesonly]

Illegal

mob!bucky barnes x fbi!reader

summary: You’re an FBI agent sent undercover to get close to the most dangerous mob boss in the city. But the deeper you go, the harder it gets to remember which side you’re really on.

word count: 6,3k

WARNINGS: 18+ explicit content, MDNI— disclaimer: contains dark themes. read at your own discretion! for all the tags/warnings, please check series masterlist since it may contain spoilers.

Chapter Six — „Mess” | Previous | Next

“I guess we’re both liars then.”

It hit you like a punch to the chest.

You blinked. “What…?”

He finally looked at you. Eyes bloodshot, jaw clenched so tight it trembled.

“Promised?” he repeated after you. “You wanna tell me about promises after everything you’ve done?” He sniffed and his eyes rolled upward, not in annoyance, but like he was searching for patience—or trying to hold back tears.

“I gave you everything I had,” he said, shaking his head, almost like he pitied himself for it. “I fucking believed in you. I let you into my world—let you touch parts of me I didn’t even know still existed. And you stood there, looked me in the eye, and lied.”

James stepped back like even standing this close to you made him sick. “So don’t talk to me about promises. You don’t know the first thing about keeping them.”

Your chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven breaths as you tried to steady yourself—tried to keep from falling apart entirely. You placed a trembling hand over your belly, instinctively, protectively. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating.

“What… what happens now?” you asked, voice small, raw. Barely above a whisper.

You weren’t even sure if you were asking about you two or the baby—or both.

“I don’t fucking know,” James said, the words torn out of him. “But we are done.”

Your head shook instantly, fiercely, panic climbing up your throat like fire. You couldn’t lose him. Not now. Especially not now.

“Please,” you whispered, stepping forward, one hand still clutching your stomach. “Please just give me a chance. Please, James—”

But his head was already shaking, the reaction so visceral it startled you. Sharp and immediate. Like the idea physically hurt him.

“No!” he snapped, voice cracking under the weight of it. “We’re done. We’re fucking done—I don’t even know you! You’re nothing but a stranger to me!”

You crumbled under the weight of it all, tears spilling down your cheeks again, your voice barely more than a breath.

“I don’t know what to do now, James… please,” you choked out. “I’m so scared—”

He flinched like it physically pained him. His eyes darted to you, then away just as quickly, like looking at you was too much. Too raw. Too full of everything he used to love and everything he didn’t know how to forgive.

He ran a hand over his face, the weight of it all pressing down on his shoulders until they slumped. You could see it—the part of him that still cared, that still ached for you, even through the rage and heartbreak.

“What’s your deal with them?” he asked suddenly, his voice low, worn thin. “The FBI. What happens if you tell them you’re pregnant?”

You blinked, caught off guard by the question. “They’d pull me out,” you said quietly. “Immediately. I’d be debriefed, moved… probably put under protection somewhere far. They’d make me testify.”

His jaw tensed, ticking with something unreadable. “Because they’d think I’d come after you.”

“You wouldn’t,” you said quickly, firmly. “I know you wouldn’t. But that’s not how they see it.”

„I just put a gun to your head.” he reminded you.

„But you didn’t pull the trigger.”

James nodded, slow and bitter. A pause stretched between you—long, brittle, heavy with things neither of you wanted to say.

“Do it,” he murmured. “Go. Let them take you somewhere safe. Start over.”

You stared at him, heart plummeting. “You’re telling me to disappear?”

“I’m telling you to live,” he said. “Before this gets worse. Before you’re in deeper than you already are.”

You took a shaky step forward. “I don’t want to leave you. Or hurt you.”

He gave a dry, broken laugh. “Little late for that.”

You stood there, breath catching in your throat as the weight of those words settled over you like ash. Final. Irrevocable.

“I can’t just leave,” you whispered. “I know I lost you, I know I did, but James…” Your voice cracked. “I don’t know how to live without you.”

He looked at you then, eyes glassy and torn, like part of him wanted to believe that—but the rest of him knew better.

“There’s no coming back from this,” he said quietly, not even looking at you. “And you know that.”

Your knees nearly buckled. You sobbed, covering your mouth with your hand like that could keep you from falling apart. But it was too late for that. You already had.

James finally looked up, and though his eyes were rimmed red and full of something close to regret, his voice came steady.

“Tell them,” he said. “Go to the FBI. Make your deal.”

You blinked through your tears and shook your head. „I don’t want that.”

“It’s the only way,” he muttered. “They’ll protect you. Protect the baby. That’s what matters now.”

You shook your head. “I don’t want protection—I want you.”

He sniffed, running a hand down his face. The sound he made was barely a breath, but it so much pain and the final crack of something breaking.

“Please…” he said, eyes glistening. “If you want to fix this—then do it.”

You stared at him, heart pounding. Every part of you resisted what he was asking. What it meant.

“It means I’d have to testify against you, James. I’ll put you in more trouble, I—” Your voice was hollow. Shaken.

His eyes closed for a moment. Then opened, steady. Resolute.

“I said do it,” he said. “Say what you have to. Tell them what you know.”

“I don’t want to, James. I meant what I said, I love—”

He gave you that look. Sharp. Cold. The kind that sliced straight through whatever you were about to say. And it shut you up instantly.

You swallowed, stumbling over your own breath. “Please—I… I just don’t want you to suffer. I—”

He cut you off with a heavy sigh. „Show me your phone.”

Your heart stuttered. “What?”

“I need to know what you’ve been telling them,” he said, voice low and grave. “Everything. Right now.”

You nodded without hesitation. There was no point in resisting—not anymore. You reached for your phone with shaking hands, unlocked it, and pulled up the messages. The ones with Mike. The ones you’ve read over and over the past week with a growing pit in your stomach.

Then, without a word, you held it out to him.

He took it from you slowly, fingers brushing yours for a second too long—enough to remind you what it used to feel like when he touched you with care, not suspicion.

And then he turned away. Silence stretched thick as his eyes scanned the screen, thumb slowly scrolling. His jaw flexed, shoulders rigid. You could hear every shallow breath he took.

Each second felt like a lifetime.

He froze for a moment. His shoulders stiffened. His eyes narrowed. Then he read one of your messages aloud, voice low and raw.

“‘He’s still oblivious. I didn’t expect him to be so stupid.’”

He let out a dry, bitter laugh. “Oh wow.” It wasn’t amusement. It was disbelief—hurt, gut-deep and sharp, cutting clean through his chest. He shook his head, the ghost of that dark laugh still lingering as he looked down at the floor. “Nice. Real fucking nice.”

“James—God, I didn’t mean that,” you said, stepping forward, heart lurching. “I couldn’t just message him saying I fell in love with you. I had to say something.”

He turned toward you slowly, eyes blazing. “So instead, you said I was an idiot.”

“No,” you whispered, voice breaking. “That’s not what I meant, Jesus—”

He didn’t answer. Just looked down at the phone again, jaw clenched so tight it trembled slightly.

Another scroll. Another wound.

“‘He’s way too soft for this. Can’t believe he actually runs the city. Fucking loser.”

His voice was quieter this time, flat and gutted. “Fuck.”

You felt the blood drain from your face. “James—”

“You think I’m soft?” he snapped suddenly, eyes flashing as they lifted to meet yours. “That I’m some fucking fool you could manipulate and lead around?”

“No, that’s not—” you started, chest tightening, “…That’s not how I saw you, I was scared, I was trying to throw him off, I didn’t want him to think—”

“That you were falling for me?” he bit, voice sharp and disbelieving. „Yeah I’ve heard that already.”

The silence was unbearable—stretching, suffocating. Each swipe of his thumb felt like another heartbeat you might never get back. He was reading everything now. Every message you’d sent. Every report. Your summaries of his habits, his movements, his past. His triggers. His scars.

He got quieter the deeper he went. No sharp words now. No anger in his voice. Just silence.

A silence that hurt worse than shouting ever could.

His face was unreadable, but you could see his chest rise and fall faster with each second, like he was drowning and trying not to show it. The kind of quiet that only came when the devastation ran too deep to speak.

Then his voice, low—almost numb. “You wrote about my past.”

You swallowed hard. “I—James, I didn’t want to—”

He didn’t look at you. Just kept reading.

“You knew how hard it was for me. You knew what those memories did to me.” He exhaled through his nose, slowly, like holding back something sharp. “And you wrote it down like it was data. Like I was just an assignment.”

„I—I’m sorry.” you whispered.

He handed the phone back to you without a word.

“What else?” he asked, voice flat. “What else did you tell them?”

You blinked, heart pounding so hard it felt like it echoed in your ears. Your throat was dry. You stared down at the phone in your hand for a beat too long.

“There were… files,” you said quietly. “Under your bed.”

His eyes snapped to you then. Sharply. You forced yourself to go on.

“I took pictures of them. Sent them. I didn’t know what they were, just that they looked… important. And you kept them hidden, so—so I logged them…”

He ran a hand down his face like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

“You went through my shit,” he muttered.

You flinched. “James, I didn’t know I’d feel this way back then—please, I didn’t know it’d turn into—”

“You still did it.” His voice didn’t rise. It dropped. “You still chose to do it.”

You looked down. Shame thrilled up your spine, dark and electric.

„God, I was so stupid for not checking you before,” he muttered, more to himself than to you—like the weight of his own blindness had just landed. His hands curled into fists for a moment. His jaw clenched tight. And then, suddenly, he turned and walked out of the room.

You froze for half a second before your legs moved on instinct, following him. “James? What are you—?”

But he was already in the bedroom, pulling a bag from the closet and tossing it onto the bed. You watched, stunned, as he began packing—clothes, a few essentials, everything with the efficiency of someone who’d done this before. Someone used to disappearing.

“James,” you tried again, voice shaking. “What are you doing?”

“You can stay here,” he said shortly, not looking at you. “For now. Until you make your deal with them. Until they send you away.”

Your stomach twisted. “Wait—what? No, what are you talking about?”

He didn’t stop folding. Didn’t stop packing. “You’re safer here until it’s over. Until they relocate you or wipe your identity or whatever the hell they do for people like you.”

You stepped closer, heart racing. “People like me?”

“Informants,” he said, bitter and flat. “Traitors.”

He slung the bag over his shoulder and brushed past you, heading down the stairs like he couldn’t get out fast enough. But you couldn’t stop—you couldn’t just let it end like that. Not without trying.

You followed him, your voice chasing after his retreating back. “What then? What after they send me away? When I start over, when I disappear—what happens then?”

He didn’t turn around. Just said, cold and distant, “I told you. We’re done.”

You swallowed hard, barely keeping upright under the ache in your chest. “And the child?”

He stopped. Right there, in front of the door. Back still turned to you, his shoulders rising and falling with one heavy breath.

“I don’t know yet.”

The door closed shut behind him.

You stood frozen, staring at the space he’d just filled, like maybe if you stood still long enough, he’d come back. Like the echo of his footsteps might turn around. But it didn’t. He was gone.

And then it hit you. All of it—like a flood finally breaching the dam you’d tried so hard to hold up.

Your knees buckled and you sank to the floor, sobbing. Hands pressed to your face, chest heaving, the grief too big for your body. You didn’t even try to stop it this time. You couldn’t. You weren’t sure if it was for him, or for you, or for the life growing inside you—maybe for all of it.

Because he was gone. And somehow, even though he had spared your life, it still felt like you’d lost everything.

———

It’s been three days.

You sat curled up on the couch, hands wrapped around a mug of tea that had gone cold hours ago. You hadn’t even noticed. The TV played quietly in the background—some news channel you weren’t watching, just noise to drown out the silence. Or try to.

Your phone sat beside you on the coffee table, face down, but you didn’t need to check it to know there were no new messages. No missed calls. No change.

You’d called him. Again and again. Every hour, sometimes every half. Just to hear his voice, even if it was only his voicemail. You never left a message. You couldn’t. What were you even supposed to say?

Please come home?

I’m sorry?

I miss you?

He wouldn’t pick up. Not once.

You hadn’t slept. Not properly. The guilt kept you up at night, and the fear clawed at you during the day. You hadn’t made the deal yet. Every time you picked up the phone to call Mike, to say the words—to start the process—you froze.

You were too scared. Too fucking ashamed.

And more than anything, you were so, so lonely.

Your fingers drifted to your stomach again. A reflex. A habit. Not tenderness.

Just fear.

You weren’t ready. You hadn’t planned for this. Every time you thought about what was coming, your mind just… stalled. Blank. Nothing. You didn’t feel strong or maternal or protective—you just felt small. Lost.

And he still hadn’t called back.

You were terrified. Of him. Of the deal. Of the baby.

Of being alone in this.

Of deserving to be.

Evening came and you still hadn’t eaten.

You’d taken a shower. Brushed your teeth. Gone through the motions of pretending you were human again. Slipped into a T-shirt and climbed into bed with the same ache in your chest that hadn’t left for three days straight.

The sheets smelled like him.

You pressed your face into the pillow to stop yourself from crying again when your phone buzzed on the nightstand.

For a second, you stared at the screen like it was wrong. Like it was some trick of your exhausted brain.

James

Calling…

Your breath caught in your throat. You blinked at the screen. Then, with trembling hands, you answered.

“Hey,” you said quietly. A sad smile tugged at your mouth. It didn’t reach your eyes. “You called.”

He didn’t say anything right away. Just silence on the other end. Breathing. And then—

“Did you talk with them?”

You swallowed. Shame already creeping up your spine like a slow tide.

“No,” you admitted. Your voice cracked on it. “Not yet.”

He nodded slowly, even though you couldn’t see it.

“When?” he asked, voice low, careful.

You pulled the blanket higher over your stomach, as if that could shield you from the weight of the question. From what it meant.

“This week,” you promised. “I swear, I just—”

But he cut you off gently. Not out of cruelty—just tired of the excuses. The delays. The way everything felt stuck in place except the clock.

“I don’t care,” he said quietly. “About that right now.”

There was a moment of silence before he spoke again.

“How are you feeling?”

Your lips parted, stunned. You hadn’t expected that.

You blinked up at the ceiling, vision going blurry with the tears you’d been holding back all day.

“I don’t know,” you said after a while. And it was the truth. “Tired. Sick, sometimes. I haven’t really… thought about it much. I’m just scared.”

You heard him exhale softly on the other end of the line. Not disappointment. Just the same kind of fear, maybe. The same unknown.

“I’m so scared, James,” you repeated, barely more than a whisper. Your voice cracked at the end, and you pressed your hand to your mouth like that could keep the rest from spilling out.

There was silence on the other end—long enough to make your heart race again—until he finally spoke, voice low, rough, but not unkind.

“You’re gonna be okay.”

A pause.

“You’ll figure it out. You always do.”

You let out a quiet breath, closing your eyes. You wanted to believe him. You wanted it to mean something more. But all it did was remind you that you’d have to figure it out without him.

Because no matter how soft his voice had been, no matter how it used to feel—safe, solid, home—you knew better now. You’d lost that. Lost him.

You hesitated, the silence stretching again between you both. Then, carefully, like the words might shatter in your mouth, you asked,

“What about the deal… with the FBI. What can I say? What shouldn’t I say—so I don’t cause more problems for you?”

There was a pause. Then a tired, worn-out sigh came through the line.

“I don’t know,” James muttered. “It’s too late for that anyway.”

Your throat tightened. “No—James, I swear I… I’m gonna say just enough. I won’t tell them much, I swear.” you whispered. „I just want to keep you safe,” you added quietly. “Even if you never speak to me again—”

„Take care, okay?” he said. „I gotta go.”

You wiped your tears. „Yeah… Yeah, of course.”

And then he hang up. Just like that.

———

He sat in his car long after the call ended, fingers clenched around the steering wheel like it was the only thing keeping him grounded.

God, he hated this.

Hated how hearing your voice still made something ache inside his chest, even after everything you did. Hated how you cried like that, scared and uncertain and so damn alone, and how every instinct in him still screamed to fix it—fix you. Hated how weak that made him feel.

He didn’t want to talk to you again. He shouldn’t.

But the baby… That changed everything.

It wasn’t about you anymore. Not entirely. It was about this small, quiet life growing because of something that should’ve never happened. And as much as he wanted to hate you, wanted to shut you out completely and disappear into whatever plan he could salvage—

He couldn’t.

Because what kind of man would that make him?

Not the kind he promised himself he’d be. Not the kind his mother prayed he’d grow into. And sure as hell not the kind a child deserved.

James exhaled through his nose, slow and bitter. His father had always said the job came first. That there was no room for softness in this world, no space for weakness—especially not for family. James had watched that man disappear into smoke and blood and late-night deals, coming home only to bark orders and cast long shadows across the kitchen floor.

He swore he wouldn’t be like him.

And yet—

Here he was, driving around the city with two guns under the seat and a kid on the way.

No. He wasn’t going to be that man. He wasn’t going to let the baby grow up thinking love came with locked doors and hushed voices and someone always leaving.

He wouldn’t stay—not really. Not in the way he used to. Not in the way that would’ve made you smile in the mornings or call out to him from the kitchen with your hands on your lower back, aching from the weight of everything.

Because you were going to be sent away.

Because it was safer that way—for both of you. Because the walls were already closing in, and the only thing left to do was damage control.

But he would find a way to be there. Somehow.

He didn’t know what it would look like, or what the rules would be. He didn’t even know where you’d go or what name you’d have by then.

But he would be there.

Not for you. For the baby. As much as he could be. As much as the mess allowed.

———

It was late afternoon when you got there. That weird hour between lunch and dinner when the café was quiet, just a couple students hunched over laptops and the soft clinking of mugs behind the counter. You sat by the window, where the light hit just right—your usual spot. Or at least it used to be, before everything changed.

You hadn’t been here in weeks. Not since before the lies turned heavy and the truth got too sharp to carry around.

Now you sat nursing a lukewarm tea, hands wrapped tight around the ceramic, trying not to look like you were unraveling in slow motion.

Mike was on his way.

You’d called him yesterday. Told him it was about the job. Told him you needed to see him in person. He hadn’t asked questions—just agreed, like always.

You were done playing the informant. Done playing both sides while trying to keep your heart in one piece.

And you were pregnant.

You hadn’t told Mike that part yet. You weren’t even sure how you’d say it out loud without feeling like the world might collapse on itself. It still didn’t feel real. The test, the ultrasound, the nausea, the unbearable exhaustion—sure, they said otherwise. But your mind hadn’t caught up yet.

James hadn’t called again since that night. You hadn’t expected him to. What else could he say after all that?

But his voice still rang in your head. His silence afterward rang even louder.

You told yourself this meeting was about moving on. About safety. About the future. But even now, every part of you was aching from the past.

The bell over the café door chimed.

Mike stepped in like he owned the place, like this was just another day. Another mission report.

You looked up. Straightened in your seat. And waited.

“Hey,” he said, before sliding into his seat. “Didn’t think you’d pick this place. Bit sentimental, isn’t it?”

You gave a tight smile, eyes flicking to the window. “Guess I just wanted something familiar.”

Mike leaned back, draping an arm across the back of the booth like he had all the time in the world. He looked as always—same leather jacket, same easy grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“So?” he asked, fingers tapping lightly on the table. “What’s this about? You said it was important.”

You nodded, swallowing the lump in your throat. “It is.”

He raised an eyebrow, waiting.

You stared down at your tea for a second before speaking. “I’m out.”

There was a pause. A blink. Then his eyes squinted. „Out?”

You swallowed. “I fucked up, Mike.”

“What do you mean? Did he find out or—?”

“I’m pregnant.” You cut him off.

“Holy shit…”

For a moment, there was only silence. Even the usual hum of the café seemed to fade.

You looked at him.. Let him see the fear, the exhaustion, the weight of everything collapsing at once.

“I didn’t plan any of it,” you said quietly. “I didn’t even know for a while. But it happened. And I’m not dragging a child into this mess.”

He blinked, like he wasn’t sure he’d heard you right. “You sure it’s his…? I mean was he the only—”

You let out a bitter little laugh. “Don’t insult me, Mike.”

Mike dragged a hand down his face, trying to process. “Shit.”

“Yeah,” you said. “Shit.”

“We gotta tell the team,” Mike said finally, voice lower now. “You know what that means, right?”

You didn’t answer at first. Just sat there, staring at the window, feeling your chest cave in slowly.

“I know.”

His eyes softened. “Testifying. Full statement. Witness protection. Probably even relocation.”

You nodded once, slow. Like your head was too heavy to move any faster.

“I’ll be gone,” you murmured. “Gone for real this time.”

Mike leaned forward, elbows on the table. “It’s the only way to keep you safe.”

“And the baby,” you added hollowly.

He hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah. That too.”

You exhaled shakily, pressing your palms against the ceramic cup just to keep them from trembling. You had known this was coming. You’d asked for this meeting knowing exactly where it would lead.

But knowing didn’t make it easier. Knowing didn’t stop your heart from aching like something sacred was slipping through your fingers.

You looked out the window again. The sky was turning gray.

“I really didn’t mean it to be like this, Mike.”

“I know,” he said quietly.

„And I’m so afraid.”

„Hey,” he reached for your hand across the table. „You’re gonna be safe, you hear me? We’re gonna make sure of that.”

That didn’t make it better. Because James wouldn’t be there. Not for this part. And the entire idea of safety felt like a punishment.

———

It was late. The sun had dipped below the skyline an hour ago, and the city lights were just beginning to flicker to life. You rubbed your eyes as you stepped out of the cab, exhaustion clinging to your bones like fog. The meeting with Mike had drained you. The decision you’d made—finally, clearly, terrifyingly—was still echoing in your chest like the aftermath of an explosion.

You opened the building door and stepped into the elevator. You were still going back to his apartment—one last time, today. After what you told Mike, all that was left was to pack your things and prepare for the whole process to begin.

The door opened and you barely walked in before freezing in place.

James was standing in the middle of the living room.

You blinked. Once. Twice. “James?”

He turned at the sound of your voice. Looked the same. Tired, maybe. His jaw was tight, arms crossed like he was bracing for something.

You gave a small, surprised smile despite yourself. “What are you doing here?”

“I…” He hesitated. Cleared his throat. “I wanted to see if you’re fine.”

Your breath caught a little. Just a fraction. “You called me two days ago.”

“I know.”

“But you didn’t answer yesterday. Or today.”

“I know,” he said again. Then added, quietly, “I just… I had to think.”

You nodded slowly, setting your bag down by the door, trying not to read into the way his gaze lingered on your face.

“Well,” you said gently, “I’m fine.”

James didn’t look convinced. He didn’t smile. His eyes dropped to your stomach, just for a second. Just long enough.

You wrapped your arms around yourself without thinking.

“I shouldn’t be seeing you right now,” you said after a beat. “I just talked to Mike. Told him everything. It’s not safe.”

“I know that too.”

You tilted your head. “You had your people spy on me?”

He swallowed and avoided your gaze for a moment. “Maybe.”

You huffed—partly amused, but another part of you knew you deserved it.

“So why come?”

He didn’t flinch. Just looked at you with those tired eyes. “Told you. I wanted to see if you’re fine. And the baby.”

You nodded, slow. Your throat felt tight again.

„Do you know where they’re going to move you?” he asked after a beat.

You shook your head. “No. Not yet. Mike will tell the team later. I just need to pack my things and get out of here,” you said, gesturing vaguely at the apartment. Your voice was small, like it didn’t quite belong to you.

The place already felt like a half-empty shell.

You were both silent for a moment. The kind of silence that used to feel comforting between you—shared, warm, familiar. Now it sat heavy in the air, awkward and foreign. Like you were strangers who knew too much about each other.

So you asked, even though it hurt to hear yourself say it. “Are we really done, James?… Is that it? The end?”

He didn’t answer right away. But then his jaw tensed. He swallowed hard and nodded once.

“I can’t trust you again,” he said, voice quiet but resolute. “Not after what you’ve done.”

He stood stiffly in the middle of the apartment, arms crossed like he was trying to hold himself together. Like saying it out loud might split him open.

“But I don’t want to leave this child behind,” James said, voice barely above a whisper.

You looked at him then. Past the anger, past the walls. Past the betrayal. And something in your expression softened—just enough to let it show. The ache. The understanding.

“You don’t have to,” you said gently. “I never wanted to shut you out.”

He let out a quiet breath, eyes darting down to the floor. „But I don’t know how to do this,” he admitted. “Be in their life without being in yours.”

You nodded slowly. “We’ll figure it out,” you murmured. “I mean… it’s not going to be perfect. Or easy. But if you want to be there—if you really want that—then I’m not going to stop you… Obviously. God, you know I care about you.”

He looked up at you again. And maybe for the first time in days, something in his face cracked open—just a flicker of relief, guilt, longing. All tangled.

Then he nodded, too.

„Okay.” His voice came quieter this time. Firm, but tired. Like it cost him something to say it.

“But don’t mistake it,” he continued. “I meant what I said. We’re done. Don’t get your hopes up.”

It landed like a stone in your chest. No cruelty in it, just the kind of finality that made your breath catch.

You nodded, even though it hurt more than you could ever admit.

Because god—you still loved him. Every broken, beautiful part of him. And maybe you always would.

But what could you do?

It was over.

“Will you keep me informed? When you know where you’re gonna move?” James asked.

You looked at him for a long second. Something heavy swelled in your chest—hope, ache, love, all tangled up and choking you. But you nodded. Quietly.

“Yeah. I will.”

He nodded too. Just once.

You looked down, your fingers curling around the edge of your sleeve, fidgeting. The silence stretched—quiet, thick. You didn’t lift your gaze when you said it.

“I really did love you. Still do.”

The words came out softer than you meant, barely more than breath. Like a bruise being pressed. A wound reopening.

There was a pause, then his voice—flat, almost cold.

“It doesn’t matter now.”

But something in it cracked. Just a little. A tremble tucked behind the sharpness, like it hurt him to say it.

He stepped forward. Just a few feet between you now. No warmth in it. No comfort. Just presence. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small black phone—nothing flashy, just functional—and held it out to you.

“Here. It has my other number on it.”

You blinked, confused for a second, before understanding settled in. A burner. Something clean. Off the grid. A way to talk without the Bureau ever knowing.

You took it slowly, your fingers brushing his.

“Thanks,” you said quietly.

He stepped back again almost immediately, like the contact burned. “Only use it if you need something. Or if it’s about the baby.”

You nodded. You didn’t trust your voice.

He turned without another word.

No goodbye. No lingering glance. Just the shift of his shoulders as he headed toward the door, heavy steps muffled against the floor.

You stood there, clutching the phone he gave you like it meant something more than it did—like it was still warm from his hand.

He opened the door and for the smallest second, you thought—hoped—he might turn around. Say something. Anything.

But he didn’t.

The door closed behind him and you were alone again.

———

A week passed.

Everything was settled now—at least on paper.

You had testified the day before. Just like you promised. Just enough. The bare minimum to keep James out of deeper trouble. Enough to close the chapter, but not enough to damn him completely.

They didn’t like it, but they took it.

And now you were being relocated. England.

Some city with gray skies and clean slates, they said. New name. New address. New story. The whole thing felt surreal, like you were watching someone else’s life move on without you.

You were back in the apartment—your apartment, though it didn’t feel like it anymore. The place was quiet, stripped bare, like it never belonged to you in the first place.

You sat on the edge of the bed, one hand resting on your stomach, the other holding the burner phone James had given you.

You stared at it for a moment. Then you opened the contacts and called James. It rang a few times before he picked up. Then you heard his voice, low and rough, like he hadn’t spoken all day.

“Yeah?”

You swallowed. “It’s me.”

A beat of silence.

“I know,” he said quietly.

You nodded even though he couldn’t see it. “It’s settled. I’m leaving next week.”

“Where to?”

“England.”

Another pause.

You could almost hear him shift, like he’d stood up or started pacing. “That far.”

You tried not to sob again. Tried to hold back tears, as if you had any left.

“Yeah. It’s… rather permanent, they said.”

His voice was quieter now. “You okay?”

“I don’t know.”

You let out a small laugh—thin, shaky. It barely passed for one.

“So… you still wanna be in the baby’s life? Even with me being halfway across the world?”

There was no hesitation in his answer.

“Yes.” Firm. Certain.

You blinked, taken aback by how steady he sounded.

“I’ll find a way,” he added. “Doesn’t matter how far you are.”

You sank deeper into the bed, hand resting gently over your stomach.

“I don’t even know what it’s gonna look like yet,” you whispered. “My life. Over there.”

“It’s gonna be okay,” James said quietly.

That made you close your eyes. Not because it helped—but because it hurt.

He still believed in you, even now.

“You say that like I didn’t fuck everything up.”

“You didn’t. Not everything.”

You opened your eyes again, staring at the ceiling. “I did, James. I did. I lied to you. I got involved in shit I shouldn’t have. And now I’m running away to another continent like a coward.”

“You’re not running,” he said. “You’re doing what you have to. For the baby.”

It was quiet after that. The kind of silence that made your chest ache.

“Do you…” You hesitated. “Do you want me to send updates? When I go to appointments or… I don’t know. When something changes?”

“Yeah,” he said. “I do.”

You nodded even though he couldn’t see.

“I’ll get a new SIM when I land,” you murmured. “I’ll text you from it.”

“Okay.”

A beat. Then his voice softened, barely above a breath.

“Take care of yourself. Both of you.”

You swallowed hard.

“I will.”

You hung up. The dial tone faded, and still you sat there, phone resting on your belly like it weighed a thousand fucking pounds.

Silence settled in again. Heavier this time. Thicker.

You stared at nothing.

You were really doing this. You were going to leave the country. Change your name. Start over. Alone.

Well— Not alone. Not really.

There was the baby.

Your baby.

Your hands curled slightly over your stomach. No bump yet. No real signs, not beyond the nausea and fatigue and bone-deep fear that had crawled into your lungs and refused to let go.

God. A baby.

What the hell were you doing?

You didn’t know the first thing about raising a kid. You barely knew how to take care of yourself on the good days. You didn’t have a plan. You didn’t have anyone waiting on the other side of this. Just a new passport and an empty apartment somewhere in England.

And now—this little thing. This tiny, fragile thing that hadn’t asked for any of this, hadn’t asked to be dragged into the mess of your life, and yet was already tangled up in the worst parts of it.

You pressed your palms to your eyes. Tried not to cry. Again.

You weren’t ready.

You didn’t feel like someone who should be a mother.

Not yet. Not now.

Not without him.

But there was no “with him” anymore.

You were on your own.

And you’d have to figure it out. Because no one else was going to do it for you. Because the world didn’t wait for scared girls who fucked up and got pregnant and wanted someone to hold their hand and say it’s gonna be okay.

You were the one who had to say that now.

You were the one who had to make it true.

God, you hoped you wouldn’t mess it up.

Chapter Seven… 💸

series tags (tysm for all the love and support, If you asked to be tagged and I didn’t tag you—you’re crossed out—it means I couldn’t for some reason 💔): @iamthatonefangirl @muchwita @its-in-the-woods @taqmari @opheliabbarnes @rabknowstheend @pineapplechuncks @infinitepersuasion @sweetesharley @adalvsseb @miss-chuchu @nandanandada @globetrotter28 @whorunthemfworld-girls @madlyinlovewmattmurd0ck @ruexj282 @xamapolax @bloodmocha @castawaycreature @wakemeornot @lilylilyyyyyy @rue963 @miirasarchive @fleurenoir @figtreesandmoonlight @steph88x @starstruck-cowgirl @okaytrashpanda @lovely-seb @sinistersnakey @bananaminn @readscreamrepeat @yes-ilovetowrite @g0back2bed @jbuckybarnesimp @zombi3-girlz @paristheonewhoreads @justagirlcalledaddie

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[grrrdino]

your writing style is sooo beautiful <33 would you be able to do a one shot of ellie and reader trying something in sex for the first time so it has vulnerability & comfort? e.g, tribbing, strapping etc. (whatever you choose) i love your work💗💗

ellie strapping you for the first time.

mdni! nsfw!

the light from ellie's old lamp illuminates the left side of her face, and you can see how focused she is. her hands are on your full thighs, even the marks of her fingers pressed into your skin for longer than necessary. she was holding you for dear life.

you never thought this would happen. but ellie seemed pretty into the idea, and once you agreed too, you both ordered the first strap-on. even talked with her about who should wear it first. but it was a weak attempt at trying to turn things around. ellie just told you it would be her.

so now you were resting against the pillows on her bed, the sheet crumpled beneath you, your gasps and moans filling the entire garage like a need. ellie kept her fingers inside you, making the 'come here' motion with them, stimulating.

"almost there, babe."

ellie whispered against your ear, trailing kisses down your neck, near your jaw. she was working on turning you into a needy mess, preparing you. "fuckk, you're dripping." she added.

you were close to cum a second time thanks to her fingers, but ellie pulled away just seconds before; your lips let out a sound of disappointment, of need. you could watch as ellie smiled at that. silent, enjoying it.

you recovered your breath, knees up to your chest, your head against the headboard. you felt inexperienced like the first times with ellie. you saw the moment when she bent down to reach a box under the bed, doing the whole ritual of putting on the strap even over her gray boxers.

"you look..." you whispered, a light blush rising on your cheeks, watching as ellie adjusted the straps and crawled back onto the bed with you.

ellie noticed—you were nervous—more than you thought you would be. she kissed your right knee, spreading your legs again softly as she looked into your eyes. "tell me if it's too much. we don't have to do this if you don't want to." ...

"i'll take it out and have you sit on my face until you're wasted, u know." she whispered.

you smiled, your heart was racing, and shit, yeah, you were nervous, but her eyes dulled any angst in your chest, and you wanted it—wanted to try this.

your hands went to her hair, held in that signature bun, and you stroked it.

"no, no—i'm okay. i... want you inside me." you whispered. relentlessly sly, and ellie let out a low murmur, her eyes darkening, she looked worked up.

in a few seconds, you were settled back into the pillows, your hair spreading like a river over them as you opened your legs for ellie. her fingers returned to your pussy, slow and gentle, smiling halfway down at you, and that was enough to make your legs go numb.

ellie used all the wetness in your pussy and brought the dildo towards your slit, she looked into your eyes for a few seconds before—and with that she began to rub the tip of it up and down, slow and controlled.

"listen to that— you can't imagine how hot you look from here." ellie snorted, her cheeks completely red.

you gasped, your hand on the blanket underneath, spreading your legs wider as you looked into ellie's eyes. she flicked your clit with the tip, running the entire length through your folds to lub everything.

her eyes connected with yours when you finally felt that pressure between your legs, ellie slowly entering you. she didn't take her gaze off you, focused, taking care of you in the process.

"wait..." you moaned as you kept your legs spread, the dildo only halfway inside you. you were trying to get used to the feeling.

ellie leaned into you, supporting her entire weight with her arms on either side of your head. her hips didn't move; instead, her lips moved down to your breasts, beginning to place kisses there...

"easy... you're doing so well, i can feel this pussy squeezing me."

of course she couldn't feel you, but could you blame her? ellie was addicted to the knowledge that she was fucking you like this, her boxers were just as damp as you were, and she was excellent at words when the pleasure messed her head.

ellie's lips swirled around one of your nipples, sucking fervently, her tongue darting out to circle it, her puppy dog eyes never leaving yours.

"look at me, babe. i'm going to lick these tits and fuck you so good, i promise..."

that was all it took to bring your hands to her lower back, pushing against her—letting her know to keep going. your moans were low, trying to control yourself. but it was overwhelming when ellie was fully inside you, stretching you out for the first time. your gasps were in her ear, your arms on her back, holding you up.

"m—move please...ellie." you gasped. and so she did.

she didn't even hide it, reaching up to take your left leg and lift it over her shoulder, starting a deep, slow rhythm.

"taking me so deep, fuck—look at that..." ellie said in an airy tone, panting with her gaze glued to where the deep blue dildo entered you, it looked tight.

both of you couldn't stop looking at each other, not even when ellie started going faster, her hips moving in seconds, taking your other leg to lift it onto her hip, the angle allowing her to go so deep.

and you felt full, as if you couldn't breathe, your insides churned and you had lost your modesty a long time ago, your back arched, your breasts bouncing rapidly with ellie's thrusts.

and don't even mention your moans, high-pitched chants that reached ellie's ears, making her go even faster. "i wanna fill you up, you're so damn beautiful..."

again, the impossible things came out of her mouth, but they only turned you even more, squeezing around the dildo, tilting your head slightly to the side. completely screwed.

"holy— those tits have never looked better," ellie blurted out, and by this point she was loose-mouthed, saying the first thing that came to mind. her hand on your ass, and since it was the first time, she wasn't willing to give you a light spank—even if she wanted to—but you knew her intentions when her hand flexed against one of your cheeks, holding it reverently.

the rhythm was so much that the headboard of ellie's bed began to hit the wall of her room, your face slightly buried in her pillow and you couldn't even warn when you felt your legs weaken, your abdomen contract and your vision completely blurry, a moan with her name decorated the four walls. "ellie! jesus—" you almost screamed.

ellie stopped her pace, a layer of sweat on her forehead, her gaze dropping to your pussy, and with one last thrust she could do nothing but gently collapse on top of you.

her face was buried in the middle of your breasts, eyes closed, still buried in you.

"i swear i love you so fucking much," ellie whispered, as if a switch had been turned off and another on. her lips brushed the curve of your left breast, inhaling.

"next time it's your turn." you whispered against her forehead.

"no way, not when i already know how it feels to fuck you like this." she said murmured.

eventually you knew she would say yes, at the end of the day— this wasn't gonna be the last time.

(okay so i tried to be likeee vulnerable but this turned out to be a little more freaky that i intended, i apologize heh. anyways thank u sm for your req!!!! appreciate it<3 sending u a virtual hug. 🫂)

[majesticaldiscomfort]

Can confirm, I was barbed-wire-birdcage sheltered, thought "sex" was a swear, and never said a single fuckword until I was 17, but I was immensely bitchy because I wasn't allowed to learn about the world through popular books and similar media.

If it wasn't bargain bin or free, it wasn't happening. Library only, and even then, could only access the library at school because going to the city one required me to ask my mom to drive me, which would probably just instigate her into calling me a spoiled brat.

I've spent several years of my adult life trying to do the growing up that my parents never could, and I still to this day learn new things about how to be a mature person.

My first fandom was Undertale, because I was too scared of being bullied by my mom for liking anything up until my late teens, when I knew that I'd be leaving for college where she couldn't pick on me for enjoying something.

Still, though, much of what I've learned in regards to internet etiquette took a lot of trial-and-error, and I made a lot of errors. My ability to think critically didn't develop until my early 20s, despite my good academic history.

I wasn't raised in a religious cult, so much as raised by people who wanted cults who followed them. They settled by remarrying to enablers instead.

...

I don't remember the specifics of what I used to be like to people, but every time I find an ancient DM or relic screenshot, I'm a bit horrified at how I used to talk to people.

It's like finding out the morning after a party that you impulsively got a tattoo while drunk, except instead of being drunk you were just raised to be ignorant and toxic, and instead of getting a tattoo, you burned every bridge you could have had without even realizing you were doing it.

For years I've said that I wished people would just tell me what I was doing wrong, but lately I've been wondering if maybe they did, and I just dismissed them because it didn't fit whatever delusion I held at the time?

Talking to my family over the phone, all these years later, is a headache and heartache nearly every time. There are some good calls, but there are also some calls that ruin my entire week.

I've been studying them through the context of psychology, and comparing them to my present and past behavior, trying to understand why they are the way they are so I can help them get better, too.

And.... god, I know where I got it from, and I feel awful at the thought of having inflicted that on anyone else. I think my parents are too far gone, but I might be able to save my brother, if I could just get him away from their influence.

I realize in hindsight that this post was initially about NSFW fanfics, but I feel that the concept of [limiting access to media being harmful] vaguely applies to [the harm against {learning healthy interpersonal interactions} caused by media censorship] as well.

I mean, reading a critique of a fanfic and seeing how the author responds, as well as seeing how others respond to the author's response, is a good way to learn from other peoples' examples of what to do (or not do)

Needless to say, I missed out on that as a kid. I missed out on a lot of things.

I both hope to prevent anyone else from growing up the same way I did, as well as prevent anyone from suffering from the pain that I reflected onto the world during those awful years.

I doubt anyone from back then would recognize me now, and I honestly don't remember much. I just hope everyone's in a better place now than they were when they had to put up with me.

[ashie-writes]

The lads men as dads✨

N/A: in my baby fever era so wrote small drabbles <3 the men are definitely girl dads that’s non negotiable <3 The babies are either newborns or a few months old! Let me know if y’all want more dad!lads.

Warnings: pregnancy, babies, childbirth… uhhhh pain because of birth, injections in Zaynes.

Sylus

Just moments ago your little girl was born after hours of labor, all the pain and panic you had gone through had suddenly stopped the moment you saw her little face and had skin to skin contact. The pain and tears had become worth it. Sylus stood by you the entire time, refusing to leave for even a second. He kissed your sweaty skin, let you hold his hand and squeeze until you almost broke it. It was so hard for him to watch you be in so much pain, and he wished he could take it all for you.

After skin to skin with your newborn, she was very unsettled as the nurses cleaned and checked her. Sylus first checked if you’re ok. His baby was important and yes he was overwhelmed with the love and sight of her, but you were equally important. “I’m ok, exhausted but ok” You reassure him, giving him a small tired smile.

“I’m so proud of you, so so proud” Sylus cant stop the tears from flowing out.

After a moment, the nurses beckon Sylus over. He walks with shaky legs, eager to finally hold his baby girl. The nurse smiles and gently places the crying newborn into his arms, the moment he holds her, Sylus’ heart skips a beat and the overwhelming feeling of pure love squeezes his chest.

“My little angel… ssshhh it’s ok, your daddy’s got you” Sylus coos, gently moving her to his bare chest.

The moment his little girl hears her dad’s voice, she quiets, suddenly calm in his arms.

Sylus looks at you and back his baby, more tears flowing down his face. For nine months, the literal second he found out you’re pregnant, Sylus spoke to her. Even when she was still yet hardly formed, just a foetus, he would speak to her. Having full conversations about his day or random thoughts that would pop up. When she was able to kick and move, Sylus would interpret that as a response.

“And I said to the dealer that I wasn’t going to pay those prices-“ the baby kicks “Yes exactly, you understand my point.”

You smile softly and gesture him over, “Sylus, she calmed to your voice… I guess you talking to her for months has brought her comfort” you softly whisper, wiping his tears when he finally sits next to you.

Zayne

“It’s ok, love, babies cry when they get their first injections” Zayne reassures, holding your hand for comfort.

You look at him with worry, “But she’s just eight weeks! She’s still itty bitty and I don’t want her to be in pain” the thought of it made you upset, making you hug your baby protectively.

Zayne nods rubbing your back in comfort “It’ll all be ok, she’s a strong baby, just like her mother.” He smiles softly at you, admiring how you’re overprotective of the little one. Zayne understands, he really does, but his daughter is safe in his hospital.

The doctor calls for you and Zayne enter the room but you hesitate. You know your baby needs her jabs to keep her safe but you hated seeing her little face scrunched in tears. Zayne helps you off your seat and secures your baby girl before heading into the doctors office. He knows the doctor tending to your daughter quite well, and that reassures you a little.

“Please take a seat” The doctor said, gesturing to two chairs by his desk.

You sit down, Zayne next to you as he and the doctor talk about the injection. Not paying much attention to them as your baby girl looks around the doctors office in wonder, she has the same green eyes as her father and it shows in how she observes her surroundings.

Zayne keeps his hand in yours as finally the doctor is ready for the injection. Your little one is oblivious as to what’s going to happen as Zayne takes her into his lap instead. It would be for the best, he will keep her still while you’d most likely panic. Same.

“It’ll be over in a few minutes, snowflake” Zayne whispers, kissing her head gently. He flashes you a reassuring smile, also giving your head a gentle kiss.

You watch in anticipation as the doctor administers the first injection, expecting your daughter to start crying… but she says calm. Her little lip quivers as the other two injections quickly happen, softly whimpering as Zayne comforts her, her big eyes tearing up a little.

“There we go, my snowflake, that wasn’t bad was it?” Zayne coos, rubbing her little back in comfort.

“Awww she did so well!” You give her a big fat kiss on her cheek.

“I was talking about you but yes, she did do well.”

Caleb

“Don’t worry, pipsqueak, I got this!” Caleb proudly declares, picking up the crying bundle of joy and placing her gently on the changing mat.

“Are you sure? You’ve been with her all day, let me help” you slowly begin to untangle yourself from the comfort of your bed but before you can sit up, Caleb flashes you a warning glare. Ever since you both came home from the hospital in the early hours of the morning, he’s been taking care of you and the baby, stating ‘You did all the hard work, let me take over now.’

If you both needed something, he’d be right there. Grabbing you water, making the babies bottle, feeding her, giving you food, making sure you’re comfortable and doing his best to ease your pain. Caleb even helps you to the bathroom and back, knowing you’re in pain, he doesn’t want you to suffer alone.

“Stay in bed, you gave birth and need to rest. I got her” Caleb flashes you a smile before he gently coos his baby girl, “Don’t worry, little pips, your dads got you.”

You watch in awe as he changes her, admiring how gentle he’s being. His soft reassurance as he smiles, his eyes exhausted yet so full of love. Caleb had practiced changing diapers when he first found out you’re pregnant on everything and anything. Which included the cat, unfortunately for Fluffy. It turned into a competition for him, to see how fast he can change a diaper and attempt to beat his previous record.

Caleb was excited to become a dad, and he promised he’ll be here for the both of you. He was ready and prepared for the diapers, despite you not being happy to do them. While you dreaded it, the thought of accidentally hurting such a tiny delicate human, Caleb wasn’t worried at all. He was ready for this.

After a few minutes, the baby’s cries died down as Caleb holds his baby girl against his chest. “All clean now, you did so well” he coos at her, kissing her head gently.

He carries the baby to you, softly getting into bed to cuddle you both close. Caleb is silent for a moment, admiring his little girl as she makes soft noises. “Thank you for giving me her, thank you for sacrificing your body for her.. I love you both so so much.”

Rafayel

“Little guppy! Please stay still” Rafayel huffs as his little daughter squirms in the sand with determination to go back into the water to splash her legs.

You watched nearby, sitting on a towel and smiling at the two of them. “Hey, you showered her the ocean, don’t blame her if she wants to be her fishy self” you teased him.

Rafayel frowns as he attempts to paint his little one, wanting to preserve the memory of her being so small. “Well she is my kid.. can you hold her while for a while? I’m almost done.”

With a nod you stand up and sit behind your little one, gently holding onto her as she wiggles in your arms. You can’t help but adore your little one, she tilts her head to the side and gives you a small toothless smile, scrunching up her little nose. Her smile makes you smile, and you can’t help but attack her in kisses.

Rafayel watches the two of you with a soft smile, quickly painting the scene in front of him. Once he was done, he dramatically flops next to you both “I see how it is, I get no kisses or affection… leave me out it’s fine” he pouts and whines. Rolling your eyes you place your daughter on his stomach, watching as she squeals and leans forward to attack Rafayel in gummy kisses. He laughs and reruns the kisses back, holding his little one close.

“What are you doing if she’s dramatic like you?” You wonder aloud, making Rafayel flash you a playful frown as his baby devours his face.

“Me? Dramatic? How dare you. I call it having personality, which by the way, she will have” he declares.

You playfully roll your eyes and join in with her kisses and cuddles. How can you not when they’re being so cute?

—————————

Later that day, you finally look at the painting Rafayel did of your baby. Your heart stops when you see it, the tears well up at the sight. Your baby doing her little toothless, scrunchy smile which melts your heart, and you giving her an identical smile back. Rafayel wasn’t lying when he said she has your smile.

Xavier

Poor sleeping king. Hasn’t slept in days since his little one was born.

It was a tough adjustment, from going to sleeping whenever you both felt like it to suddenly staying up and getting two hours of sleeps at most.

Xavier tries his best to let you rest while he has his daughter, he wants to sleep too but he’s putting you first. To make sure that you get some rest first since you’re the one who gave birth.

And what’s when you wake up from your nap to an oddly quiet house. You panic slightly as you get out of bed slowly, careful to not agitate your sore body. The living room TV quietly plays some baby sleep music that you and Xavier play to soothe the baby, and as you approach, you see Xavier and your baby peacefully asleep.

Your heart clenches at the sight, your little baby safely sleeping beside her father, who has her safely cocooned so she can’t hurt herself. You grab a blanket and slowly drape it over Xavier, tucking him in and making sure your baby wasn’t too hot.

You leave them be, but before you do, you place a gentle kiss on both of their foreheads.

“Sleep well, my babies.”

[elleaitch22]

🖤💋💎🖤💋💎🖤💋💎🖤💋💎🖤💋💎🖤💋💎

The Russians had arrived ten minutes early.

But it didn’t matter to Paige. She let them sit in the chill of the conference room, watching her city, seeing what she owned. She would see them when she was ready. Subtle things like that made power addicting. Power was a performance, and Paige Bueckers was nothing if not dramatic.

The conference room doors swung open at 10:00 sharp. Her black suit was tailored to perfection. Her bun was so smooth it looked like it was molded to her head. Her glock was tucked into the small of her back – unnecessary, but she never went anywhere without it.

A silver signet ring rested on her right hand. It was her favorite accessory, especially when she needed to break something. Nose. Jaw. Ribs. Her left hand was bare except for a black gold band covered in black diamonds.

She had all of Los Angeles and most of the west coast in the palm of her hand. But nothing compared to the feeling of having the most perfect woman as her wife.

The same name she whispered in worship was pressed into the inside of her ring.

Azzi.

She was perfect. Warm, kind, beautiful. Everything Paige’s world couldn’t be.

Her world was dark. Cold. Violent.

Paige was calculated and calm.

The men around her table stood as she walked in. She didn’t tell them to sit. She let them sweat.

KK was to her right. Nika was to her left.

She let her girls do most of the talking, but she was growing bored. She wanted to go home and see her wife.

Her agitation bubbled over. “You bring that weak ass shit to my city again, and I’ll drown you with it.”

Anatoly straightened and nodded. “We apologize, Mrs. Bueckers. It will not happen again.”

She smirked cooly; she had them right where she wanted them. Nika stepped in again. Threats were dressed up as compromises, routes were discussed, payment was finalized.

And then –

Paige heard her before she saw her. Heels clicking in the rhythm she knew better than her favorite song.

When the doors flew open dramatically, Paige didn’t flinch – she didn’t even look up.

Everyone else froze. Sixteen Russian men looked between Paige and the new arrival, afraid to even breathe. KK threw Nika a look, and the Croatian rolled her eyes in amusement.

Azzi walked in like she owned the place. Like she hadn’t just broken about five different rules about “no interruptions” and “not during meetings, Baby. I’m serious.”

Paige heard a huff and smirked as she raised her eyes.

She wore a pair of strappy YSL heels that hadn’t been released yet. That Fenty body shimmer shit that made her shine like a goddess. And her skirt was short, tight, and red.

Wait.

The smirk fell from Paige’s lips instantly.

That fucking dress.

The tight red dress that was short as hell, completely backless, and gave Paige, and everyone else, the perfect view of every curve.

She wasn’t supposed to wear it until they went to their house in Greece next month.

Azzi’s mouth was painted red and turned down in a pout.

“You forgot your phone.” She said, closing the door behind her. “And me.”

Paige closed her eyes and took a deep, slow breath. “You have five seconds to turn around.”

Azzi crossed her arms, brow raising with a playful smirk. “Or what? You’ll punish me in front of your little friends?”

“We’re done here.” Paige said, standing.

Chairs scraped against marble floors. Men muttered gratitude and accented apologies. Ice held the door open. Paige didn’t say a word until the room was empty, and the door clicked shut.

“Azzi.”

Her smirk dropped into a pout again. “You were ignoring me. You ignored my texts. And we were supposed to go to dinner tonight.”

Paige circled the table. Her hands were loose at her sides. Her voice calm. “I told you not to wear that dress, Azzi.”

“You told me not to wear it in public.” Her smirk was back again. “We’re in private now.”

Blue eyes trailed up and down her body. No bra. No panties.

“So, are you gonna fuck me now?”

Paige ignored the comment. “You don’t have anything on under it.”

“I didn’t want lines.” She said with a shrug.

“You don’t get to decide when I fuck you, Azzi. Especially when you’re being a brat.” The blonde stepped closer to her wife. “Where’s my good girl?”

Azzi knew was she was doing. Paige wanted her to roll over and submit. And looking in those deep pools of blue, almost made her. But then, she remembered. “Good Azzi went out the window when you ignored me for fourteen hours and left me pacing in the penthouse all night.”

“You wanted my attention?” Paige asked, voice rough. “Then ask.”

The brunette turned away. “I wanted your attention. Now, I’m bored.”

Paige moved fast. Azzi was shoved against the wall in a flash. One pale hand was braced beside her head, and the other landed on her throat. And tightened. Just enough to make Azzi’s breath hitch and her pulse race.

“Keep going, Az.” Paige murmured, “and I’ll make you cum so many times you forget how to talk.”

Azzi grinned. “Promises, promises.”

Paige didn’t give Azzi a chance to breathe. She spun her and pushed her head down to the table.

She didn’t bother with unzipping the dress or undoing the clasp on the halter. The red fabric was bunched over Azzi’s him.

Her knee slid between tanned thighs.

“God, you’re so fucking desperate, Azzi.” Paige groaned at the glistening apex of her thighs.

Azzi giggled, looking back at her wife. “You’re welcome.”

Without warning, a sting landed on the back of her thigh.

“You wanted my attention. You’re about to get all of it.”

Paige forced her thighs a little wider and dropped to her knee behind her.

Her grip on Azzi’s hips was tight enough to bruise.

Then no warning, no teasing.

Just Paige’s tongue sliding up through her wet cunt.

“Fuck – P – I – shit, okay!” Azzi moaned.

Paige licked into her again, deeper this time. Her tongue slowly circled around her clip before her lips wrapped around it. Azzi pushed her hips back, desperate for more.

“No,” Paige mumbled against wet lips.

Her tongue flicked against her clit, drawing loud moans from her lips. Paige wanted her to cum as quickly as possible.

“God, you’re –” Her breath caught as Paige spat on her opening, diving back in before it could drip down. “You’re so mean.” She groaned.

Azzi was going to come quick, and there was nothing she could do to prevent it.

Paige smirked against her clit. “Still wanna mouth off, Baby?”

“I –” Azzi started. She thought about being good, but then she remembered she had to wait all day for her wife to acknowledge her. “Is that the best you got, Paigey?”

She sucked her clit. Hard.

Azzi’s jaw dropped. Her eyes fluttered. Her head dropped to the table. Her legs shook.

But she wasn’t letting it ago.

Her mouth?

Still running.

“Fuck. You’re gonna have to do better–”

Paige smacked her ass. Once.

Then harder.

Azzi gasped as her hips bucked against Paige’s face.

She was close.

“Count.”

Azzi gritted her teeth. “One.”

Another smack.

“Two. Shit!”

Then another. Red darkened tanned skin – handprint blooming hot across her ass.

“Three.”

Paige’s teeth grazed her clit, and Azzi choked. Her body arched. She clawed at the table.

“Still wanna play?” Paige purred, lips brushing the backs of her thighs.

Azzi didn’t want to play anymore, but she had a point to prove.

“Fuck you.” She whimpered.

“I’m trying Baby, but you won’t be good.”

Paige shoved her tongue back in, flicking ruthlessly against her clit. No break. No mercy. Just faster. Until Azzi was bucking and soaked.

Her orgasm hit fast. Paige felt the way Azzi’s body tightened, clenched, tried to hold it back.

She didn’t let her.

She pulled her closer, sucked harder until Azzi shattered with her back arching and a long, broken cry that echoed through the empty room.

Paige didn’t stop. Licked her through it, slow and rough, until Azzi was trembling and panting and trying to pull away.

Paige stood. Wrapped Azzi hair around her hand. Pulled her upright.

Azzi’s glare was almost convincing. Her thighs were shaking. She tried to stand, but her knees gave out with the first step.

Paige caught her immediately, smirk already stretching across her lips. “Stay up, Baby.”

The brunette huffed, still shaking, still defiant. “Well stop trying to ruin me.”

“You haven’t seen anything close to ruined yet, Princess.” She grinned.

Paige guided her to her desk. She pushed all the papers and spreadsheets aside. She lifted Azzi like she was a piece of paper.

She hissed as her thighs met the cold wood. Paige’s warm hands pushed them apart.

“Stay up.” She said. “Keep your hands behind you.” She finished, pushing her shoulder back until Azzi was leaning on her hands.

She wanted to disobey, but she wanted an orgasm more. Her fingers trembled as the curled around the edge of the desk behind her. Her breath picked up as Paige leaned down. Her lips pressed a kiss to the inside of her knee. Then her thigh. Then higher.

“I’m not gonna be nice this time, Azzi.” She mumbled into her mound.

“You weren’t nice the first time, P.”

“True.” She smirked, fingers moving the spread wet lips. “But now, I’m annoyed.” She moved her tongue up to her clit, circling slowly. “I’m not gonna stop until you apologize.”

She was ruthless. Her fingers kept Azzi spread as she licked in tight, unrelenting circles. Hard enough to tease, but soft enough to drive her insane.

Her fingers twitched, wanting to bury themselves in Paige’s hair, mess up that perfect bun she wore every day.

“Oh.” She moaned loudly. “Oh my God – Paige –” She gasped.

“Say please.”

“Fuck you.”

Paige bit the inside of her thigh. A kind warning.

“Say it. Now.” She pulled back.

Azzi gasped, hips lifting off the desk. “Don’t be an asshole, Paige.” She whined.

She smacked over her bite mark. Hard.

“Say. It.”

Their eyes locked. Defiance blazed in brown eyes. “Make me.”

Paige sucked her clit. Eyes heated as they stayed locked on her girlfriend.

Azzi screamed. Head thrown back, arms shaking as they held her up. Her thighs clenched around her head. Paige didn’t stop. Just kept sucking. Kept licking. Kept flicking her tongue against the same spot that made Azzi see stars.

“Please!” She cried out. Unable to decide if she wanted to look at her girlfriend or throw her head back in ecstasy. “Please, Paige. Fuck. Please.”

“There you are.” Paige said, voice softer. “My good girl.”

Azzi moaned, high, breathless, wrecked.

Her second orgasm rolled over her quickly. Thighs trembling. Hips bucking wildly.

Paige didn’t stop. Refused to let up. Her hands moved to her hips, pressing them into the desk firmly.

She smiled as Azzi’s moans turned to cries, before finally pulling back. She wiped her mouth on the back of her hand. And grinned as she looked at Azzi’s shaking body.

“On your knees.” She said lowly.

Azzi’s eyes were wide and unfocused. “Huh?”

Paige cupped her cheek gently. “You still owe me an apology, Princess.” She smirked as her wife’s breath was caught in her chest. “Now, Azzi.”

The brunette scrambled to the floor. Knees hitting the ground hard enough to bruise.

But Azzi didn’t care. She needed to earn Paige’s forgiveness.

Paige stood above her, calm and steady. She moved slowly and with intention. Her blazer was draped across the back of her seat. She finished unbuttoning her shirt.

Azzi’s mouth watered at the sight of her abs. Large, veiny hands reached for her belt.

“Take your dress off, Baby.” She said, sliding her pants and her boxers down.

The brunette moved quickly – ignoring the stiches popping as she pulled the dress over her head.

By the time she’s settled on her knees again, Paige is stepping into her harness.

“I thought you wanted an apology.” She asked, head tilted to the side.

Paige tugged at her strap, smirking at the way Azzi’s mouth opened automatically.

Her cupped her cheeks with gentle hands. “You came into my meeting. Interrupted me.” She started, voice low, but kind. “You wore that dress. Showed your ass in front of twenty people. And you ran your mouth.”

“But you love when I run my mouth.”

“Only because I love to fuck you until you can’t speak.” She said, thumb brushing over her cheek. “But you still owe me an apology, Azzi. And you’re going to give me one if you want my dick.”

Azzi swallowed.

“I’m sorry, Paige.”

She raised an eyebrow.

Azzi exhaled shakily. “I’m sorry for interrupting your meeting and being a brat. I wore the dress I’m not supposed to. I didn’t respect your time. Or you.”

“Anything else?”

Azzi eyes dropped to her hands.

“I deserve to be punished.” She whispered.

“For what, Baby?”

“I disrespected you. I ran my mouth. I didn’t listen.” Her chin quivered. “I acted like I didn’t know who you are. I’m sorry.”

Paige came to her knees in front of her. She leaned in until their foreheads touched.

“Good girl.”

She helped Azzi up and turned her around. She was gentle as she pushed her to bend over on the desk.

Paige rubbed one hand over her ass, then pulled back, and smack.

A sharp cry tore from Azzi’s lips.

Paige spanked her again. Harder.

And harder.

And harder.

She spanked until Azzi’s thighs pressed together. Until her legs shook and her hips twitched. Until she gasped an apology with each strike.

Her thighs shined with arousal.

“You’re wet for it.” Paige said, running the tip of her strap against her.

Azzi nodded. “Please, please, please.” She whined.

Paige pushed in slow.

“Thank you! Thank you!” Azzi gasped with each inch she pushed into her.

When she was fully seated inside her, she stilled.

“Who do you belong to?”

“You.”

Paige struck her red cheeks again. “Louder.”

“You!” She exclaimed. “I belong to you, Paige.”

She started to fuck her – fast, deep, pulling almost all the way out and pushing back in with deadly precision. Azzi moaned every time the silicone head kissed that spot that had been begging for attention all night.

“Fuck – ple – I’m – fuck – close.” Azzi moaned loudly. Her nails dug into the wood of the desk, needing something to hold on to.

“Come for me.” Paige gritted. “Right now.”

Azzi screamed her name into the table, thighs shaking so much she almost slid off the table.

Paige fucked her through it, stretching the waves out for as long as she could. Until Azzi’s body slumped across the desk.

“That’s three.” She said, kissing at the back of her neck. “Still got two more, Baby girl.”

Azzi didn’t have time to catch her breath before she was begin manhandled again.

As soon as she was on her back and her legs were spread, the strap slid back in.

“Paige!” She cried, walls clenching around the strap.

Her strokes were slow, deep, and absolutely lethal.

Paige pressed their chests together, arms framing Azzi’s head.

“I love you so much, Azzi.”

The brunette sobbed when their lips touched. It was the first she’d gotten since Paige left home that morning.

“Just wanted your attention.” She whimpered, orgasm approaching quickly.

“I’m sorry, Baby.” Paige said, licking into her mouth.

Azzi shattered beautifully. Hips bucked wildly, thighs shook, hand clawed at pale skin.

“That’s my good girl. You’re so perfect, Az. Feel so good.” Paige fucked her through it. “I’m close, Baby. Can you give me one more?”

She shook, eyes closed. And Paige didn’t know if she’d passed out.

She slowed her thrusts.

“Azzi.”

Brown eyes fluttered open.

“Can you give me one more, Baby girl?” She questioned.

Her cheeks were flushed. Breaths uneven. Eyes glossy. But her head jerked up and down with a nod.

“Yes. Wanna be good for you.” She whined, pulling her wife back down to kiss her.

Paige trailed kisses down to her neck as her thrusts picked up again. “Thank you, Baby. I’m so close.”

Azzi took one of the hands by her head and pressed it into her abdomen.

“Fuck, Baby. I’m so deep.” She breathed.

The brunette keened.

“Wish I could fuck you full. Have my baby.” Paige groaned, the thought of Azzi pregnant bringing her even closer to the edge.

She pulled nearly all the way out, hips drawing back slow. Azzi’s walls clenched instinctively, already aching to be full again.

Then Paige snapped her hips forward, hard enough to knock the wind from Azzi’s lungs.

Azzi cried out, mouth falling open – and Paige did it.

Spit in her mouth, smooth and deliberate.

Azzi choked on a moan. Swallowed.

“Good fucking girl,” Paige growled, picking up the pace. She fucked her harder now – steady, deep thrusts that made the desk creak and Azzi’s whole body tremble.

Azzi whined, too overwhelmed to form anything coherent. She was undone, melted, trembling all over.

Paige interlaced their fingers, holding tightly.

“Look at me when you come.”

Azzi met her eyes – possessive, tender, ruthless, and loving all at once.

Then Paige ground her hips just right – the strap dragging across Azzi’s soaked, oversensitive spot – and Azzi screamed.

Her last orgasm tore through her, violent and devastating, her whole body arching off the table.

Stars danced across her eyes.

And then, nothing.

🖤💋💎🖤💋💎🖤💋💎🖤💋💎🖤💋💎🖤💋💎

By the time Azzi finally stopped shaking and came back to herself, her cheeks were wet. She didn’t even remember crying.

She didn’t even realize she was still crying until Paige was wiping her cheeks.

Tears that had fallen from overstimulation were quiet now – slow, unprovoked, almost peaceful.

Azzi lay there limp on the desk, boneless and flushed and sore. Wrecked and remade. Her legs still trembled slightly, her body buzzing with leftover tremors. But Paige was already easing out, already lifting her gently into her arms.

Not speaking.

Not teasing.

Just holding.

It was what she’d wanted all day.

Azzi let her head fall against Paige’s chest as they moved, too tired to care that she was a mess, that her thighs were slick and shaking and probably bruised. Paige carried her like it was nothing. Like she always did.

She didn’t set her down on the couch. She didn’t lay her in bed. She brought her into the bathroom.

The light was soft. The towels were already warmed.

Azzi barely managed a whisper. “You planned that?”

Paige smiled quietly. “I know you. You act like a brat, but you want to be taken care of.” She sat Azzi down on the edge of the tub, kissed the top of her head. “Let me take care of you.”

And she did.

Paige knelt and ran a soft cloth between Azzi’s legs with infinite care. Not rushed, not clinical, just present. She rinsed her off with warm water, pressing kisses to her knees between passes, whispering things Azzi was too dazed to fully absorb but felt like they mattered.

“Good girl.”

“You did so well for me.”

“I got you.”

Azzi’s breathing slowed. Her shoulders dropped. The warmth in her chest gave way to something quieter. Something safe.

Paige helped her into a hoodie that didn’t smell like her perfume but like Paige – cedar, heat, the faintest trace of mint. She handed her a bottle of water and rubbed gentle circles into her back while Azzi sipped it, curled against her in bed now.

Azzi finally looked up, eyes still rimmed red, but soft.

“You’re not mad I interrupted your meeting?”

Paige smirked. “Are you gonna do it again?”

Azzi gave her a faint, smug smile. “Maybe.”

Paige leaned in and kissed her temple. “Then next time, I’m tying you to the desk.”

Azzi’s laugh was hoarse but real.

She tucked herself into Paige’s side. Held. Owned. Safe.

And Paige?

Paige just kept holding her, one hand in her hair, the other tracing her spine, murmuring the kind of love you don’t need to say with words.

🖤💋💎🖤💋💎🖤💋💎🖤💋💎🖤💋💎🖤💋💎

Thank you guys so much for all the love and support and ONE FREAKING THOUSAND of you!!! Love you bunches!! xx Elle

[withlovemark]

THE ORGASM DONORS: YOU HAVE BOOKED MARK LEE!

pairing: donor! mark lee x client! reader | genre: smut | words: 9k+

warnings: STRICTLY 18+

an: just 9k of pure, filthy smut…i’m never making it to the gates of heaven. this idea came to me in a dream (a horny, wet dream) all because i fell asleep to a tiktok of jaemin spinning around in his little orgasm donor hoodie. insane what the mind can do. everyone give it up for the first donor! the birthday boy! my number one boy! mark lee! and my last gift to all of you. have fun reading! — with love, c.

you never thought it would get to this point. not because you were ashamed. but there was something about your twenty something’s, this far into adulthood, and still never having an orgasm that made you feel like your body was broken in a way you couldn’t explain.

you’d done everything — read every self help blog, followed the advice on reddit threads, bought a vibrator, a dildo, the rose toy that everyone said was guaranteed to give you a mind bending orgasm, you’d whispered your needs to your previous partners, even screamed at one or two, but no one ever got it right. no one ever got you there. not even yourself.

it started to feel like a cruel joke. something other people could have, just not you. until your best friend leaned in over lunch one lazy sunday, sipping her coffee and said, “have you ever heard of the neo orgasm clinic?”

“oh god,” you laughed, “like a place that teaches you how to come?”

she grinned, “not teaches. they do it for you. and it’s guaranteed.”

you blinked, “what? so i pay for someone to have sex with me?”

“you pay someone to make you orgasm,” she shrugged like it was no big deal, “wouldn’t be the craziest thing in the world,” she says, sipping her coffee with a sly smirk.

and just like that, a seed of curiosity, or maybe desperation, rooted itself in your chest.

✚ BOOK NOW ✚

signing up was easier than expected. discreet, elegant, clinical but not cold. you filled up the introductory form — name, age, contact information, payment details, then moved onto the deeper intake.

step 1: medical verification. a form requesting a recent full panel STI test within the last month.

step 2: sexual preferences & boundaries. the screen lit up with a list and instructions

check all acts you’re open to exploring with your donor. this does not guarantee they will occur. your donor will review and operate within your boundaries at all times.

you skimmed the list, heart racing just a little and checked the following:

☑️ bondage

☑️ choking

☑️ clitoral stimulation

☑️ domination

☑️ dirty talk

☑️ edging

☑️ fingering

☑️ kissing

☑️ impact play

☑️ nipple play

☑️ oral

☑️ orgasm control

☑️ praise

☑️ rough sex

☑️ spanking

☑️ spitting

☑️ vaginal penetration

you hovered over a few others. degradation? group sex? objectification? you skipped them. not this time. you weren’t here to be humiliated — you were here to figure out why the hell your body kept locking up the second anyone touched you like they meant it.

step 3: why are you booking this appointment?

you had to type. no multiple choice. just a blank box waiting to be filled. your fingers hesitate above the keyboard. then you answered:

i’ve never had an orgasm. not from another person. not from myself. i don’t know what’s wrong with me but i’m tired of pretending. i’m tired of faking it. i want to know what it actually feels like. i want to stop being in my head. just for once. i want to let go.

you hit submit before you could overthink it.

step 4: choose your donor.

you clicked through the digital profile list, fingers hovering each name. each donor were vetted, trained, screened and certified in pleasure — not jut sex. these weren’t porn stars. these were licensed professionals. this was science, chemistry and understanding the human body and psyche. or whatever the website said to make you feel better about booking an appointment.

you hovered each name. a few looked promising. one had nice eyes. one had “mean” listed as a keyword. another had glowing reviews for how “slow and gentle” he was.

but then you saw him — mark lee. top donor. most requested. five-star average across every review. the testimonials read like something between a religious experience and the aftermath of a natural disaster.

“didn’t even know my body could do all of that, my god.”

“sweet, respectful, and somehow still completely ruined me.”

“made me orgasm like i’ve never orgasmed before”

and the most repeated one of all:

“i always book mark when he’s available, he knows exactly what to do. a guaranteed orgasm. every time.”

you didn’t even hesitate. you clicked BOOK NOW.

Neo Orgasm Clinic Consultation: CONFIRMED

Donor: Mark Lee

Date of Consultation: July 29, 2025

you stared at your bedroom ceiling in the dark, heart pounding a little too fast. you didn’t know what to expect. you didn’t know what you’d feel. but for the first time in years, you felt hope. and maybe, if the reviews weren’t exaggerating, you were finally about to find out what it meant to feel like your body belonged to you.

✚ THE CONSULTATION ✚

you almost canceled. twice. was this morally questionable? maybe. was it completely insane? absolutely.

but you still showed up. your nerves were coiled so tight they felt like they’d snap with one wrong move. you’d picked out a simple outfit, nothing too suggestive, nothing too uptight. but still, as you sat in the pristine waiting lounge of the neo orgasm clinic, ankles crossed and fingers clenched around your bag strap, you felt entirely exposed.

everything about the clinic was calm, curated. the lighting was soft and golden, the walls a warm cream, subtle scent of lavender and eucalyptus filled the space. the kind of place that looked more like a boutique spa than a place where orgasms were clinically achieved.

even the receptionist was beautiful. sharp suit, glossy hair, delicate bone structure. his name tag read taeyong. he smiled when you walked in like he already knew everything about you. probably because he did.

“first consultation?,” he asked, tilting his head with a practiced sort of empathy.

you nodded, “is it that obvious?”

he chuckled, “only a little,” he teased, “but don’t worry, everyone’s nervous at first.”

taeyong pulled up your file on his screen, “you’ll be with mark today. he’s just finishing up. shouldn’t be more than a few minutes.”

your heart stuttered at the sound of his name. somehow, it felt heavier now. every second you spend in this clinic feeling more real than ever. this wasn’t a fantasy. this wasn’t a dream bordering into a nightmare. this was real. you were going to meet him…anytime now.

taeyong slid a sleek tablet across the desk, “while you wait, kindly review your file, click agree if no changes need to be made. consent is required for everything.”

you nodded, accepting the tablet and settling back in your seat. you skimmed your file one last time then submitted the form. the screen thanked you and welcomed you officially to the program.

exactly five minutes later, the door on the left of the receptionist table, labeled private suites opened with a soft click. and there he was. the man in the website. the top donor. real human being — mark lee.

you blinked. it was like seeing someone you’d only ever imagined walk into reality — all soft black hair, warm eyes, and a smile that was…surprisingly shy for someone with reviews like his. he was dressed in a simple black slacks and a fitted charcoal blazer, sleeves pushed up to reveal veined forearms and a silver watch. professional, polished, but somehow still boyish. he was speaking with someone. a girl that looked around your age. who’d look like she had just had the best time of her life. then she headed to taeyong and mark turned his focus towards you.

“hey,” he said, walking towards you and offering his hand, “you must be, ms. y/n.” you nod, placing your hand in his. his grip was firm, professional, “i’m mark. come follow me,” he said, guiding you toward the doors on the other side of the receptionist table labeled, consultation rooms, “no pressure,” he adds, shooting you a smile, “just talking today.”

the room felt like a cozy therapist’s office. a plush sofa, a low coffee table, a few plants. no examination table. no cold metal instruments. just comfort. mark sat across from you, legs crossed casually, an open tablet in his lap. he offered you water, asked if you were comfortable, then smiled before getting started.

“alright, let’s talk about you,” he said, voice low and calm, “why you’re here. what you’re hoping to get out of this experience.”

you hesitated. you’re sure he already knows. already looked at your file. but still, saying it out loud felt impossible. the words were caught somewhere between your throat and your pride.

“you can open up to me,” he urges softly, patiently, calmly, “we’re both here for you.”

you nodded, finally finding your voice, “ive…never had an orgasm.” you exhaled, eyes lowering, “i’ve tried…a lot…it just….doesn’t happen.”

mark didn’t blink. didn’t smirk. didn’t do anything to make you feel small. instead, he nodded slowly, like he’d heard this before. like it was okay. like you weren’t a complete helpless case. like you weren’t broken.

“thank you for telling me that,” he said softly, “i know it’s not easy to admit out loud but i want you know something — there’s nothing wrong with you.”

you looked up at him, sighing, “feels like there is.”

“i know,” he nodded, “but trust me, there are a million reasons why achieving an orgasm can be difficult — physical, mental, emotional, trauma-related, hormonal, sometimes just bad luck with partners. but it’s not permanent. and it’s not your fault.”

that made you smile, barely, but it was there. he smiled back, warm and nonchalant, “so, you’re not broken. you’re just…unsolved. that’s where i come in.” you swallowed hard. the warmth behind this words caught you off guard.

he tapped a few notes on his tablet before setting it aside, “here’s how this works,” he said, “you set the pace. we take our time. always. you can stop me and say no anytime. nothing happens without your permission. and we don’t even have to do the session unless you’re completely ready.”

you nodded slowly, processing his words, “okay.”

mark studied you for a beat, “do you want to tell me anything else you might have forgotten on your file?”

you hesitated, thinking, “i think i just…want to stop thinking so much. i get in my head. i start worrying about how i look, how i sound, if i’m being too much or not enough. it’s hard to stay in the moment.”

he leaned back, thoughtful, “so your mind is the roadblock.” he smiled a little, “that’s more common than you think.”

“do you really have a 100% success rate?” you asked quietly.

that made him laugh – not loud, not cocky, just amused in a warm way.

“our stats don’t lie,” he smiles, “but it’s because i take my time, i listen, i pay attention,” his voice dipped, “pleasure isn’t a race to the finish line. it’s a process. one i’d be honored to help you through.”

you felt your cheeks flush. he noticed and softened his voice even more, “you don’t have to decide today but if you’re comfortable, i’d be happy to schedule your first session.”

your pulse quickened, “...yes,” you said, voice barely above a whisper, "i want to.”

his smile returned, warm and sincere, “good,” he said, tapping his screen, “i’ll have taeyong reach out to confirm your appointment date.” he stood up, offering his hand again, “thank you for choosing me.”

you took it and this time your grip was steady, “see you soon, mark.”

Neo Orgasm Clinic Appointment: CONFIRMED

Client: Y/N L/N

Donor: Mark Lee

Date of Session: August 2, 2025

✚ THE APPOINTMENT ✚

you were early. too early. you sat in the same softly lit waiting room, knees bouncing, pulse in your throat. taeyong gave you a knowing smile as he gestured you towards the private suites door and the down the hallway.

“suite 8, he’s ready for you.”

the words made something twist low in your stomach as you walked towards the room. you entered slowly — suite 8 was nothing like you imagined. it wasn't clinical or sterile. it felt more like a luxury hotel room, quiet and warm, wrapped in soft ambient lighting. a large couch sat near the window. there was a bed. there were blankets, clean white sheets and a speaker humming low instrumental music. every detail was designed to ease tension, to invite softness.

you notice him adjusting something on the bedside table, a glass of water, a box of tissues, a towel. and then — mark turned.

“hey,” he said softly, “i’ve been waiting for you.”

he was dressed in black slacks, a black tie and black long sleeve button up, with the sleeves folded up his arms. hot but casual. the entire room, his casual demeanor, made it feel like you’re not at a clinic and just booked a dick appointment like it was a bumble date.

your lips curved, nerves still tangled in your chest, “i-i’m here.”

mark chuckled, not mockingly, but with that same warm, honeyed tone you remember, “you’re cute,” he said simply, “i like that you’re not pretending to be cool.”

you exhaled slowly, “i don’t think i could even if i tried.”

he stepped closer, slow and measured, giving you space with every move, “do you remember what i said during our last meet up?” he asked.

you note how he doesn’t use the word consultation, how he’s trying to make this all seem like it’s a normal hook-up and not a service.

“y-yeah. i’m in control. i can stop you. ask questions. say no.”

“good.” he murmured, his gaze searching yours for a moment longer, “but i’m going to be honest with you.”

his hand lifted, brushing his fingers down your jaw, slow and warm, “tonight, i am going to take control. you came here because your body hasn’t been shown how it deserves to be touched. and i don’t do halfway, sweetheart.”

you swallowed hard.

“so tell me,” he said, tipping your chin up with two fingers, gaze locked on yours, “can i touch you?”

you barely breathed, “yes.”

one of his hands travelled down your arm to your lower back, leaving behind trails of goosebumps in his wake.

“can i kiss you?” he said, eyes locked on yours. your breath caught. you nod.

he didn’t hesitate. mark grabbed your jaw and kissed you — hot, full, unrelenting. he kissed like he owned your mouth. his lips slanted over yours, opening you up, coaxing you open, tongue swept in with purpose — wet, confident, greedy.

you moaned into him, the sound swallowed as his tongue tangled with yours in filthy, practiced patterns. he tilted his head, deepened the angle, sucked softly at your bottom lip only to follow it up with another tongue-heavy kiss that made your spine arch. your hands clutched at his shirt on instinct, dizzy from the pace, the heat, the want.

you feel him smirk through the kiss as he kept going. his hands began to roam, starting at your waist, dragging up your sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts through your shirt, just enough to make you gasp, then down again, gliding over your hips before settling on cupping your ass. his hands gripping tight and hot.

you squirmed, trying to shift closer but he held you steady. dominant. measured. not rushing but not enough to give you relief either. he guided you towards the couch, lips never leaving yours.

“sit.” he ordered, voice like velvet wrapped around steel. you obeyed without thinking. he kneeled between your legs, grabbing your thighs to pull you to the edge. the kiss resumed, but filthier this time, more desperate. he kissed you like he couldn’t get enough, like he wanted to fuck your mouth with his tongue until you forgot what you’re here for.

“you taste so fucking sweet,” he growled, pausing to bite your bottom lip. slowly. sensually. “bet i’ll find out you taste even sweeter somewhere else.” you gasped, trembling. his fingers were already under your shirt, dragging it up inch by inch, “arms up, baby.”

you lifted your arms, dazed, his use of pet names making it feel way more romantic than it should. he carefully peeled your shirt over your head and tossed it aside, hands immediately finding your bare skin, palms dragging up your ribs, thumbs brushing the peaks of your breasts through your bra. you leaned toward him instinctively and he chuckled.

“sensitive,” he muttered, “good. i want every part of you begging.” he kissed you again, harder this time, wet and open, lips slick with spit, you could hardly keep up. every kiss felt like it left you raw. ruined. but craving more.

his fingers toyed with the clasp of your bra, then popped it open easily. he dragged the straps down your arms, slow and teasing, “you’ve been neglected long enough, haven’t you, pretty girl?” he said against your lips.

he trailed his mouth down your neck, sucking at the pulse point until you whined, then he licked lower, over your collarbones, between your breasts, circling your nipples with maddening slowness. his hands stayed firm on your thighs, squeezing, keeping you spread and trembling.

“i want you to stop waiting for an orgasm,” he murmured as he kissed lower, lips just above your waistband, “feel everything. the pressure. the tease. the ache.”

your hands fisted in his hair, pulling him closer, grinding his face on your nipple, “please—mark, i need—”

“i know what you need.” his voice was low, but firm. his mouth still latched one of your nipples, sucking harshly.

“you think you’re the first person to sit here and say they don’t know how to come?,” he laughed softly, switching to the other peak.

“you’re not broken, baby. you’re untouched. and i’m about to change that.”

he hooked his fingers under the waistband of your pants and underwear at once, and then he stopped, eyes locked on yours.

“you trust me to take care of you?”

“yes,” you whispered, breath hitching.

“say it louder.”

“yes—yes, i trust you.”

“good girl.”

he smirked, dragging everything down in one slow, smooth pull, baring you to the cool air. to his heated stare. his eyes darkened as he took you in, and he let out a soft groan, hand gripping your knees to push them open wider.

mark leaned back just though to take in the sight of you — completely undressed, legs parted, breath shaky, lips kiss-swollen, flushed and desperate, beneath the soft golden lighting of suite 8, vulnerable and exposed.

“fuck,” he breathed out, jaw tense, “you’re so pretty like this. spread out for me. waiting.”

you whimpered as his hands slid up your inner thighs, thumbs brushing too close to where you ached, then retreating again. and again. and again. his touch was everywhere except where you needed him most. the ache between your legs pulsed — soaked and neglected, your body betraying how ready it was.

but still, your mind wouldn’t shut up. wouldn’t let you stay there in it. what if i can’t? what if i freeze up? what if he thinks there’s something wrong with me?

and mark knew. he could see. hear it in your gasps, feel it in your tension. that’s why he smirked like that, cruel and knowing. like he was enjoying watching you unravel in slow motion, one nerve at a time.

“tell me how this feels,” he murmured, leaning forward to trail hot, open-mouthed kisses across your collarbone again.

“let me hear you.”

“i—” you gasped, jerking as his teeth grazed a nipple, then soothed it with a slick, wet lick, “it’s—it’s not enough—mark, please—” he hummed against your skin, lips warm as he kissed back up to your throat.

“good. that’s exactly where i want you. i don’t want you comfortable yet. i want you needy. desperate. begging me to touch this pretty pussy.”

and you were starting to be. you could feel the slickness between your thighs, a heartbeat thrumming at your core. still, mark didn’t touch you there. his hands continued their teasing path, caressing your hips, your stomach, your thighs. never slipping between.

his tongue pushed into your mouth again, curling with yours, fucking it slow. one hand tangled in your hair to tilt your head back, deepening the kiss. his other hand slid down—finally, finally—settling just above your mound. the heel of his palm pressed just enough to tease the ache, and you whimpered, hips jerking upward like your body was pleading.

“already soaking, aren’t you?” he murmured against your lips, “and i haven’t even touched you properly.”

“please, please, i need—”

“no.” he cut in, voice sharp, dangerous. “i decide when you get that. you gave me your trust, baby. so let me show you what your body’s capable of when it’s not trying to hurry up and finish just to feel something.”

you whimpered quietly, looking at him with pleading eyes and only then did he let his fingers finally slip lower, gliding through the slick pooling between your legs. you gasped at the contact, but he didn’t go inside. just circled, rubbed, spread. over and over. maddening and slow.

“you’ve been chasing orgasms,” he muttered, placing a hot, wet kiss below your ear, “without knowing where they live.”

you moaned when he dragged his thumb over your clit, gentle at first, then firmer, enough to make you buck your hips. his mouth found yours again, kissing you harder now, every wet slide of his tongue mirrored the rhythm of his hand, slow, controlled, rubbing soft circles around your clit.

and you tried to stay in it, you really did. but before you could focus on the pleasure, your mind tensed again. breath caught. brain whirring. what if it’s not enough? what if i sound weird? what if i can’t let go?

your thighs started to close.

“no.” mark growled, his voice darker now. he shoved your legs apart again, pinning them open, “don’t hide. let me give you what you’ve never had.”

“i’m trying,” you choked, voice high and splintered, “but i-i dont know if i—what if i can’t–”

“it’s building up,” he grunted against your lips, “but you’re in your head. i can feel it”

and then, with no warning, he pushed one finger inside you. your back arched as your walls clamped around him, a quiet sigh slipping from your lips.

“fuck—so tight,” he hissed, pressing his forehead to your shoulder as he pushed deeper, curling slightly.

“you’ve been keeping this all to yourself, huh?” he pumped slow, shallow, his finger curling just enough to make your toes curl with it. then he added another. watching your face like a predator.

the moment your moan cracked through the air, high and broken, your eyes shot wide open, your hand clamping your own mouth, instinctive, terrified of the sound you made.

mark’s entire body tensed. he grabbed your wrist and yanked it down.

“don’t fucking do that.” his voice was rough. eyes wild. not with lust but with something more dangerous. hungry.

“up.” he ordered lowly, voice already thick with arousal. “on the couch. lay back.”

you blinked, dazed, “what—”

“now.”

the command in his tone made your stomach clench. you moved instinctively, letting him guide you, your bare back sticking slightly to the leather as you laid down. he helped spread your thighs wide over the edge. you were open now, fully exposed to him. he hovered above you.

then — he pulled his tie off in one swift motion. yanked it free from around his neck with a harsh flick. and before you could ask what he was doing he pinned your arms behind you and wrapped it tightly around your wrists, the silk biting softly into your skin.

he leaned over you, hot breath against your ear, “do you know what i do when pretty girls like you can’t let go?”

you shook your head, lips parted, eyes blown wide with lust.

“i don’t slow down,” he whispered, “i break them.”

then he looked down at you like a man starving. like a man about to feast.

“look at this,” he muttered, dragging two fingers through your folds again, lightly slapping your pussy, as he positioned himself between your cunt.

“so wet and ready,” he grunted against your aching core.

the first stroke of his tongue was slow. deliberate. — a warm, wet slide right up the length of your slit, ending with a soft suck to your clit that made your hips jump. you gasped, back arching.

mark groaned against you, “god, you taste unreal,” he growled, “i could stay here all night.”

and he meant it. he licked again, then again, tongue flattening against your core, teasing, tasting. his mouth was hot, his tongue devastating, alternating between slow strokes and precise flicks, sucking at your clit just enough to make your thighs tremble. his hands gripped your hips tight, holding you open as he buried his face deeper.

he was good. too good.

but still, that coil of pressure in your belly wasn’t catching. your breath hitched with every swirl of his tongue, but it didn’t crest. it didn’t tip. you kept chasing the edge but never quite reaching it. you couldn’t stop your mind from spiraling. what if this is it and i still don’t come? what if i’m the one person he gives up on? what if i disappoint him?

mark noticed it all. and he was tired of watching you get in your own way.

“i said i’d take my time with you.” he muttered, voice rough as knelt between your legs, towering over your exposed body, chest heaving slightly.

“but don’t mistake that for mercy.”

the kindness in his voice had cooled into something sharper, darker. still controlled. still careful. but this wasn’t the same soft-spoken man who asked if he could touch you. could kiss you. this was the version of him who knew exactly what you needed before you did. the one who didn’t need your trust. the one who commanded it.

you blinked up at him, dazed, lips parted as you struggled to catch your breath. mark was already working on his shirt, buttons flicked open with practiced, irritated speed. like you being like this —trembling and touched and still not broken open, had finally pushed him past whatever professional restraint he’d been clinging to.

“you want to feel something real?” he asked, low and dark as he tugged his shirt off and tossed it aside. his torso was lean, toned, strong, defined muscle under fair skin. veins prominent in his forearms, a shadow of control beneath the surface. you couldn’t stop staring, but he didn’t give you long.

“eyes on me.” he snapped. you flinched and obeyed instantly.

“good girl.” he muttered, already undoing his belt.

“you’re done overthinking tonight. you’re not here to analyze. you’re here to surrender.” he kicked his slacks off in one motion, dark briefs still clinging to his hips, already showing the outline of his cock pressing tight against the fabric. he moved between your legs again, now completely shirtless, he let you feel him. skin on skin. then, his hand came up to grip your jaw, not hard, just firm enough to make you feel it. to keep you grounded in his hold.

“i’m going to rewire that pretty little brain of yours,” he grunted, tone like velvet stretched over steel.

“because clearly, your body’s ready but your head hasn’t shut the fuck up once since you got here.”

you whimpered, nodding under his grip.

“and when you come, it’s going to be because i made it happen.” he continued, dragging the pad of his thumb over your bottom lip, “you’re not going to perform. you’re not going to fake. you’re going to fucking lose it. because i’m going to take it from you.”

then he was sinking to his knees again, this time bringing your legs up to your chest, holding you open like a meal he was ready to devour. the position was cruel. your hands tied behind your back was starting to hurt. but he didn’t care.

“no more playing nice.” he muttered. “you’ve had enough of that.”

and then—he ate.

there was nothing soft about it this time. his mouth latched onto your pussy like it was the only thing that could save him. tongue flat and wide, licking deep and messy, then curling to flick at your clit with precision that made your hips jerk off the couch. you cried out but he only held you down harder.

“stay still.” he growled into your cunt, tongue never pausing, “i didn’t say you could run.”

you couldn’t push him away, the tie tight around your wrist. his grip on your thighs tightened. every stroke of his tongue was filthy, practiced, deliberate. he sucked your clit, then dragged his tongue lower, licking you open, tasting you with obscene, wet sounds that only made the pressure worse. hotter. deeper.

and still — you couldn’t let go. still, that voice in your head whispered too much. what if he’s doing all of this and i don’t come? i bet i look really weird right now. what if i’m really broken?

mark slammed his hand flat over your lower stomach, fingers splayed wide, his mouth unrelenting. and then he pulled back, just for a breath. just long enough to growl, “get out of your fucking head, baby. right now.”

his voice dropped.

“focus on what i’m doing to you.”

then he spit directly on your clit, letting it fall slowly, hot, messy, then immediately sucked you into his mouth like a punishment. it was so hot. a high pitched moan escaped your lips before you could even think about it. he hummed low like he knew it’d short-circuit your brain, the vibration sending shocks up your spine. his fingers slid back inside, fucking you now. harder, faster, rougher, thrusting with a rhythm of your unraveling.

“i don’t care how long it takes.” he snarled, breath hot against you.

“i’ll break you open and fuck the hesitation out of you.”

it was working. the fear was melting into heat. shame into friction. every thought replaced by the overwhelming sensation. you were teetering on the edge of something unfamiliar and terrifying. the pressure was unbearable, intense and unrelenting, like your body was being dragged past the edge whether it was ready or not.

mark didn’t stop. he pulled your clit between his lips again and again, flicking his tongue until you were gasping. curling his fingers over and over again.

“say it.” mark growled. “say you want to come.”

“i—fuck—i want to—mark—”

“louder.”

“i want to come! please—don’t stop—please—”

“come.” his voice demanded, vibrating against your skin. “let. me. have it.”

and then—you broke.

“oh my god—” the words tore out of you, breathless and wrecked, “f-fuck, don’t stop—don’t fucking stop—”

and he didn’t. your hips bucked against his mouth. the rest of the words dissolved into a sob from your throat so raw, so guttural, you hardly recognized the sound as your own. your back arched clean off the leather couch, hands gripping so tight hoping you could tether yourself to the moment as your body seized with sensation.

your orgasm didn’t rise like a tide — it detonated. it wrecked you open. no warning. just impact. a white-hot snap that split through you like a faultline finally giving way under years of pressure. it was too much. too big. too real. like something that had been lodged deep inside your chest your whole life had just ripped free — wild and screaming and glorious. years of silence and shame, of second-guessing and not-quite-getting-there, all flooding out at once.

your thighs clamped around his head, but mark didn’t flinch. he held you there, mouth relentless, fingers tight on your hip to anchor you through every tremor, every aftershock, as you writhed and whimpered and let the orgasm tear through your body. his tongue is merciless, unrelenting. mouth locked on you like he was dragging every last drop of that orgasm out of you until there was nothing left. until you were finally begging him to stop.

when he pulled back, his lips were slick. his face wrecked. his eyes triumphant.

mark licked his lips, “that,” he panted, “was one.”

you blinked at him, tears shining in your lashes, “i didn’t think i could…”

“you can,” he said firmly, brushing your hair back. “you did.”

then he untied your wrists slowly, carefully. but his voice stayed rough, “get on the bed.” he ordered.

“we’re not done.”

he gripped your thighs lifting you easily like you weighed nothing at all, your legs wrapping around his waist on instinct. a silent yelp slipped from your lips as he tossed you onto the bed with a bounce that knocked the breath from your lungs. the sheets were cool against your overheated skin, your body slack and spread open, chest rising and falling like you’d just survived something. or maybe like you were bracing for what was next.

mark’s lips found yours again, hot and claiming. his kiss wasn’t soft anymore — it was deep and consuming, all tongue and teeth and groaned hunger. he tasted like you. he traced a hand up your side, slow and steady, fingertips brushing every rib, every tremble. he was watching you like he didn’t want to miss a single twitch.

“you still with me?” he asked, voice rough around the edges now. lower. thicker. like he was barely holding himself back.

you nodded, dazed. “yeah. just…. holy shit.”

he smirked, “good holy shit or bad holy shit?”

you huffed a breathy laugh. “like… i didn’t even know i could come like that.”

mark’s thumb brushed the corner of your lips, dragging gently across your cheek. his eyes softened, but only for a second.

“that was just the beginning.”

then his expression darkened — not cruel, but hungry. that same deep hunger you’d caught glimpses of earlier, now unleashed. like something inside him had snapped loose the second you shattered and now he was free to do what he really wanted.

he sat back, eyes locked to yours and reached over to the nightstand. you watched as he tore open a foil packet with his teeth. condom. protection. professional. safe. but the way he rolled it on, slow, deliberate, cocky — made your mouth go dry.

your eyes dropped. you finally saw him. all of him. he was long. thick. the flushed tip already glistening with precum. your breath hitched.

“you’re still so wet,” he murmured, dragging his fingers between your folds again, making you jump, “you want more?”

your answer was instant, “yes. please.”

“you want to be fucked until you forget your own name?”

“yes, please—mark,” your hips bucked into his touch, already craving the stretch.

mark leaned down, mouth brushing your ear, his breath was hot.

“i’m going to fuck you now.”

the words made you clench. one hand guiding his cock to your entrance, the other gripped your hip with enough force to bruise.

“breathe,” he reminded, voice steady.

“and keep your legs open for me.”

you obeyed, trembling, aroused, needy. and then — he pushed in. just the tip at first. then inch by inch, he filled you. stretching you open, dragging slowly through your soaked heat, the pressure exquisite and unbearable. your eyes rolled back. your nails clawed into the sheets. when he bottomed out, his hips flush against yours, you couldn’t breathe.

“fuck,” you gasped, “oh my god—mark—” your hands came up to grip his hair.

you were so full. it felt like too much. he stilled there, letting you feel it, the stretch, the weight, the sheer intimacy of being filled by him.

“fuck, you’re tight,” he groaned, jaw clenched.

“you’re gonna hold on, baby? think you’re strong enough to fight me off again?”

and then he pulled out just enough to slam back in, you cried out. back arched. stars bursting behind your eyes.

he started thrusting — deep, sharp, claiming. again. again. setting a brutal rhythm, relentless and unforgiving, pounding into you with full, punishing strokes that rocked the entire bed. his grips on your hips was bruising. his pace was perfect, desperate, controlled, yielding. your moans were raw, punched out of you with every thrust. loud. real. unrestrained.

mark never looked away. watching every twitch of your body, every tremble, every cry of his name that tore from your lips like a prayer.

“you feel that?” he rasped. “your body is already giving in.”

you could barely speak. your second orgasm was building fast, sharp and electric, clawing up your spine as he adjusted his angle just enough to hit that spot, again and again, until you were falling apart beneath him.

“mark—fuck—i’m gonna—”

“come again.” he ordered, voice dark and breathless.

“come on my cock this time. prove to me you can do it.”

your mind shut off completely. no thoughts. no fear. just him. just the way his cock dragged inside you, hitting just right. his hand moved up your body, rough and reverent until his fingers brushed over your chest, teasing. and then his thumb rolled over your nipple. palm cupping your breast, kneading.

his other hand slipped under your back, lifting and forcing you to arch into him. he sucked one nipple into his mouth with a low groan that made your walls clamp around him hard.

you screamed. it was too good. his cock, his mouth, his hands — everywhere. his tongue bit your nipple and you sobbed, overwhelmed, drenched, utterly destroyed.

“you’re doing so good, you don’t have to think. i’ll do it for you.”

he dragged his teeth across your nipple again as his hips continued slamming into you, cock swelling inside you. then he brought his thumb in between your bodies, toying with your clit, rubbing harsh circles until your body couldn’t take it.

your second orgasm ripped through you. just eruption. you clutched his shoulders, mouth open, body convulsing against him as the climax burst out of you with a scream.

“good fucking girl,” he growled, hips not slowing.

“just like that. let it all go for me.”

you did. you had to. your thighs were trembling violently. your pussy clenched so tight around him you heard a curse tear from his throat. he didn’t stop. he rode it. let you sob and shake around him, fucking you through it.

his cock was pulsing and relentless, dragging wet and hot inside you as your cunt fluttered around him, overstimulated and soaked. you were beyond thought. your mind—completely gone. your body—his to command. he held your wrists down. you were a mess of tears and cries and raw nerve endings, and you loved it. you were addicted to the high. wanting every second to last longer.

“mark—please—don’t stop—”

“i’m not” he growled. “’i’m not stopping till your body forgets how to do anything but come.”

he pulled out for a quick second. hands gripping your waist hard before he suddenly flipped you onto your stomach. before you could even blink, he was dragging you up onto your knees, forcing your ass in the air, cheek pressed to the mattress.

“face down.” he growled, voice low, breathless, “ass up.”

you obeyed instantly, mind fogged and floating, body pliant and aching. you didn’t care anymore. you weren’t you anymore. you were his. bent to his will. so cock-drunk. your mind a blank page. he was rewriting your system with every thrust, every word, every sound he dragged out of you.

he shoved your knees apart with his thighs, rough hands spreading your cheeks, and then spat down, watching it drip between your folds. his cock nudged your entrance again, already slick from how soaked you were. you whimpered when he teased the head along your slit, grinding it against your oversensitive clit just to watch you shudder.

he leaned in close, voice a hot whisper against your ear, “gonna make up for all those years no one ever made you come,” he rasped, “every single time they fumbled and failed. this pussy’s never gonna remember that.”

and then—he slammed back into you. you screamed into the sheets. the new angle had him deeper, thicker somehow, hitting that spot so brutally your entire body jolted forward.

“mark—fuck—fuck—fuck!,” you moaned, biting down on the sheets, practically drooling.

he didn’t slow. didn’t pause. just gripped your hips and fucked you, hard and fast, his pelvis slapping against your ass with every thrust. the sound of skin on skin filled the room, wet, filthy, relentless.

“listen to that,” he rasped, voice wild now. “listen to what this pussy does for me.”

you couldn’t respond. couldn’t think. could only feel. the stretch felt sharper like this, more urgent. every stroke had you gasping, choking, keening into the mattress. and then—

slap!

you cried out when his palm landed hard on your ass. not cruel, just enough to make you jolt, to send that spike of heat ricocheting up your spine and straight down again, pulsing into your core.

“yeah,” mark breathed, voice cracked open with need, “you like that?”

you nodded, incoherent words slipping from your lips.

another slap! a little harder.

you sobbed, hips bucking back against him, desperate to meet every thrust.

“that’s it,” he growled, pounding into you harder now, the bed frame rocking under the force, “take it. take everything.”

and then his hand tangled in your hair, yanking your head back just enough to expose your throat, his hands wrapped around it. not tight enough to scare you. just tight enough to own you. your choked out moans filling the air. toes curling so hard you swore you’re about to get a cramp.

your third orgasm slammed into you out of nowhere. your body locked up and shattered around him, your cunt clenching so hard you saw white. he let you go as you screamed into the mattress, every nerve on fire, legs shaking violently as pleasure tore through you, raw and final and unrelenting.

— and still, he didn’t stop. mark held you steady as your body writhed, collapsing from the sheer force of your release, but he was relentless, “you don’t stop until i say you do.”

you whimpered something, his name, maybe, or just a breathless plea, but it didn’t matter. he fucked through your orgasm like a man possessed, chasing the aftershocks, turning them into something new. something sharper. overwhelming. your body trembled beneath him, hips twitching, slick dripping down your thighs, pooling on the sheets. your pussy clenched around him again and again, involuntary, helpless. every drag of his cock sent sparks skittering across your skin.

“you’re shaking.” he groaned, chest pressed to your back now, sweat-slick skin sticking to yours, “gonna make you fucking squirt, baby. i can feel it. you’re right there.”

“no—mark—too much, i can’t do that—,” you try to push him off. try to crawl away. but he was stronger. and he kept his cock pounding inside you.

“yes. you can.” his hand slid down, fingers seeking your clit, rubbing fast and brutal circles that had your legs kicking out, your voice catching in a strangled sob.

“i said face down. ass up.” he reminded you, voice dark and firm as he shoved your head back into the mattress, palm flat between your shoulder blades, keeping you there.

“be good. take it. this is what you came here for.”

the pressure was unbearable, his cock punishing inside you, fingers never letting up on your swollen clit. your mind blanked, eyes rolling back for the umpteenth time and then you reached a high you didn’t even think was humanly possible. something you only saw happen in porn.

a ragged, high-pitched cry tore out of you as your body convulsed, back arching violently before you collapsed into your fourth orgasm. the gush came, hot, wet, explosive. your cunt fluttered and sprayed around him, your thighs trembling uncontrollably as you squirted all over his cock, the sheets, the floor. you could barely process it. your brain had gone static. a glitching signal of pleasure.

“fucking amazing,” mark snarled, hips stuttering.

“that’s it. let it all go.” he pulled out just enough to watch you gush again before slamming back in. your whole body jerked like a live wire. you were sobbing now, overstimulated, wrecked, your hands had give up on clawing at the sheets for something to hold onto. there was nothing. nothing but him.

mark cursed, nearly losing his rhythm, “fucking hell—”

he didn’t stop. he kept pounding into your overstimulated cunt, watching your body convulse under him.

“gonna—fuck—i’m gonna come—” his pace stuttering for the first time, hips faltering mid-thrust. you could hear the unraveling in his breath, raw and uneven. his thrusts turned sloppy, deeper, harder. and then, with a strangled moan, he came. his hips slammed into you one last time, cock buried deep as he spilled into the condom with a guttural groan, body jerking with each pulse. he stayed there, breathing ragged, pressed tight against your back, his body shaking with the force of it.

for a long moment, the only sound in the room was the thunder of both your heartbeats. you were barely on your knees, cheek pressed to the sheets, body twitching faintly from aftershocks, cunt still fluttering around the softening length inside you.

mark let out a long breath, low, shaky. he leaned forward, his chest slick with sweat and your juices, smearing against the curve of your spine as he slowly eased down.

“you okay?” he murmured finally, voice hoarse, frayed around the edges.

you nodded, too blissed-out to form real words, “yeah. just… holy shit again.”

he chuckled weakly, wrapping his arms around your middle and gently easing you down onto the bed. his cock slipped out slowly, and you whimpered at the loss, already missing the fullness. a laugh slipped from your lips anyway, a disbelieving, breathy sound.

you couldn’t move. not in a bad way. more like your body had melted into the mattress, boneless and warm, every muscle humming with aftershocks. your mind was soft, quiet, the storm of thoughts you usually lived in was gone. for the first time in your life, there was peace, full-bodied, deep, radiating out from the very core of you. like something inside had finally clicked into place.

you’d come. you’d actually come. not faked it. not chased it just to please someone else. not brushed against it only to have it slip away. this time, it hit you full force. not once but four times.

the kind of orgasms that emptied you, pulled sobs from your throat and tears from your eyes and for once you hadn’t cared. you hadn’t flinched. you hadn’t shut down or shrunk into yourself, hadn’t tried to perform or hid or apologize. you’d felt it all.

and somewhere in the middle of all that, you’d actually squirted. your thighs had trembled, you’d felt yourself gush around him, soaking the sheets, your mind and body surrendering with no shame. no fear. no filter. you hadn’t know it could feel like that. like being cracked open and remade. like something holy. your cunt still fluttered with phantom pulses, like your body couldn’t quite believe it either. like it wasn’t ready to let go.

mark lay beside you, propped up on one elbow, his other hand already reaching for the warm towel he’d placed nearby. he flipped you over gently, his touch deliberate and slow. like he wasn’t in a rush to be anywhere but right here. he cleaned you up in silence. careful. focused. he dabbed between your legs with gentle, precise strokes, flinching every time you flinched. “sorry,” he muttered each time, almost apologetic.

“you sure you’re okay?” he asked softly.

you nodded, a small smile on your lips, “better than okay…i feel like i just got reborn.”

that earned a real laugh from him this time, “that’s a new one,” he said with a shake of his head.

you stretched, wincing slightly, sore in all the right ways. everything throbbed but in a way that made you feel alive. present. you turned your head to look at him.

“that was… insane,” you murmured, “i mean, you literally had to destroy me to get me out of my own head.”

mark smiled, brushing hair from your damp forehead, “it wasn’t destruction. it was release. you just needed to shut this little guy off ,” he says, lightly tapping your temple, “and stop being scared to let your body feel.”

your throat tightened, not from embarrassment, but from the truth of it. because that’s exactly what it was. you’d let go. fully. completely.

mark grabbed the water bottle from the nightstand, twisted the cap and held it to your lips like it was instinct. “drink. you lost a lot of liquids back there.”

you giggled, then took a few sips, letting him wipe the corners of your mouth with his thumb afterward. it should’ve been awkward. but it wasn’t. it was safe.

eventually, mark rose from the bed and helped you sit up slowly, handing you your clothes one piece at a time. you slowly got dressed. you were glowing, cheeks flushed, lips swollen, eyes bright. alive. awake. soft.

once you were both dressed, mark walked you back to the lounge of the clinic. the lighting had brightened slightly step by step—intentional, maybe, to ease clients back into the world gently.

“thanks,” you said as you walked side by side, your voice a little hoarse, but steady, “for the... comprehensive service.”

his mouth twitched, almost a smile, “neo orgasm clinic prides itself on thorough results.”

“oh, i noticed,” you deadpanned. “i think i saw god.”

mark let out a soft laugh, “i take it your file won’t need another ‘no prior orgasm’ flag.”

you rolled your eyes. “no, i think we can check that one off. multiple times, actually. all thanks to you.”

he cocked his head, the edge of a smirk playing on his lips, “you did the work.”

you snorted, “right. i was just lying there, crying and begging while you—never mind. forget it. you know what you did.”

“professionally, of course,” he said smoothly, “all part of the protocol.”

you looked him up and down, “if that was protocol, i’d hate to see what your personal life looks like.”

his smirk sharpened, almost imperceptibly, “you wouldn’t survive it.”

you raised a brow, “is that a challenge?”

his eyes glinted, “only if you book another appointment.”

you laughed then leaned in slightly, just enough for him to hear, “but seriously, you didn’t just make me orgasm. you made me feel like…like my body finally belongs to me.”

something flickered in his expression, not warmth, not empathy. just... acknowledgment. like a box being ticked. another line in the report. mark’s gaze held yours. there was no smugness, no pride. just warmth. steadiness — a donor who’d done exactly what he promised and only what you needed.

“thank you for trusting the process,” he said simply.

then, with a crooked grin, you added, “i should probably leave a tip. or at least a five-star review.”

he raised an eyebrow in amusement, “tips aren’t required. but reviews help with the rankings.”

“oh, i’ll be specific,” you said, walking toward the door leading to the lounge, “something like: ‘ruined me in under an hour. swore i saw heaven. would recommend.’”

mark tilted his head, quietly chuckling beside you. the door opened. you stepped inside and turned back toward him. “seriously though five star session.”

he nodded once, “glad we could meet your goals.”

you smirked, “gonna be hard to top this one.”

the corner of his mouth curled, sharp and knowing.

“book me again.” he said lowly, voice like velvet, “i’ll try.”

then, offering his hand once more, firm and polite, “it was a pleasure to be your donor, ms. y/n.”

you shook it, firm, “i’ll be your client any day.”

and with one last glance, one last smile, he turned back toward the double doors. and just like that it was over.

✚ END OF SESSION ✚

the door whispered shut behind him, soft and final. you stood in the lounge for a second longer than necessary, trying to get back into reality.

you were still warm. still sore. still…not quite in the world. your legs wobbled slightly, the plush carpet beneath your feet suddenly feeling too soft. too quiet. the silence here was different. this one was polished. the kind that came with good lighting and air purifiers and an undercurrent of expensive professionalism.

you approached the front desk slowly, finding taeyong already tapping away at his tablet, his perfect posture and gel-slicked hair still completely intact, like nothing behind those doors could ruffle him. he glanced up with the kind of smile that had been trained into perfection. not fake. just smooth. comforting. scripted.

“that’ll be charged to the card on file,” he said gently, voice soft enough not to jar you.

you nodded. your voice wasn’t ready yet.

“also, this is for you.” he reached beneath the desk and pulled out a matte black paper bag with subtle silver foil lettering that gleamed when it caught the light:

thank you for trusting neo orgasm clinic with your satisfaction.

you blinked. “what’s this?”

“a small thank-you from our donors,” he said, still smiling, still unbothered — as though this entire exchange was no more intimate than a routine dentist visit. like you weren’t just being fucked to your next life behind those doors.

you took the bag with both hands, still feeling like you were floating slightly outside yourself.

“have a good rest of your evening! we hope to see you again,” taeyong smiled from behind his computer.

you gave him a tired little smile, a soft wave and murmured a polite “thanks,” and turned toward the exit.

you made your way to your car, dropped into the driver’s seat, and opened the bag, curious to see what it holds — inside was a neatly folded hoodie, ultra-soft, white, with bold letters:

ORGASM DONOR

you stared. then snorted. a full bodied laugh punched out of your chest. it was dumb. it was ridiculous. it was perfect. tucked beside it, almost like an afterthought, was a juice box. your laugh came sharper this time.

you popped the straw in, took a long sip and leaned your head back against the seat. let the juice cool your tongue. let the moment wash over you and muttered to yourself, “best. fucking. clinic.”

you pulled your phone out. opened the clinic’s feedback portal. your fingers hovered for a second. then you typed:

released me from the shackles of my mind. came four times. even squirted. lost track of the tears. saw god. 10/10. highly recommend. would let mark destroy me again. professionally, of course.

somewhere behind those pristine white doors, donor mark was already reviewing his next file. another client. another list of goals. another carefully measured beginning.

✚ APPOINTMENT STATUS: COMPLETE ✚

—

18+ only | watch at your own risk | contains mature content

BONUS: #1. #2. #3. #4. #5.

—

an: and the first donor is done! i hope this lived up to the expectation. if you hate it please don’t tell me lmao. this whole entire concept is supposed to be silly! i hope you had fun reading it! please don’t take it too seriously :)

🩺 likes, reblogs and comments are not required but is very appreciated

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[derpy-chats]

I come bearing another new AU: pole dancer Mira, bartender Zoey, and bouncer Rumi. The girls all work together at the same club, and in an effort to get to know Rumi better, the girls offer to teach her their jobs. Rumi learns how to mix drinks from Zoey, dance from Mira, and (in a shocking turn of events) flirts with the two of them RELENTLESSLY.

It starts out simple enough. The girls notice that Rumi is ripped, and Zoey wants an excuse to touch her muscles. So, in a desperate attempt to flirt, Zoey offers to teach Rumi how to make drinks. Rumi, desperate to show her aunt Celine that she can fill in for anyone, agrees without hesitation. Zoey then spends the hour before opening each day teaching her to make cocktails, which Rumi is a natural at because she used to watch the other bartenders when she was a teenager.

Mira wants to spend time with her too, and tells Rumi that she should try pole dancing. Both girls manage to convince her that it's easier to do in a crop-top, and spend the next seven to ten business days frothing at the mouth over her abs. Rumi, for her part, isn't completely oblivious, and decides that it's her life's goal to fluster the two girls as much as humanly possible.

Rumi starts flirting with Mira and Zoey shamelessly, and quickly graduating to more intense things. She manages to catch Zoey in a back room, and pins her against the wall, murmuring that she should be careful because someone at the bar is trying to flirt with her and "no one gets to fluster my Zoey except me", before kissing her nose and leaving to go patrol the bar.

It's a bit more difficult for Mira, considering the other girl is taller than Rumi and much more calm than Zoey. One day, Rumi gets lucky though, and spots Mira sitting alone on a couch. She had noticed some assholes flirting with her Mira, and quickly takes the opportunity to talk to her about it. Mira, for her part, is taken aback when Rumi's foot slams into the couch next to her as she leans close and places a single finger under Mira's chin. "Be careful, sweetheart. I'd hate to have to show off in front of all these people. I don't think they'd want to know the lengths I would go to for you."

Needless to say, both girls want to climb Rumi like a tree, and she is more than willing to let them.

[stabosins4]

me and the infamous Lesbian (@isabellecantread) were in english together sophomore year and she claims to have admired and respected me because i played ukelele and performed my poetry a lot in that class (and also she thought i was a cis guy??? which i still dont and will never believe. i didn't even bind back then. the teacher used she/her for me. do you have eyes girlie.) and we ended up working together on a project, she infodumped to me about naruto, and then came out to me and i didn't hear her (im partially deaf) so the way i actually learned she was a girl was we talked in instagram dms and she sent a video she made about wanting to fuck a character from guilty gear (i think. if im wrong about this she'll kill me. it was a fighting game ok) this is to say im going to live with her and she'll drive me places and we'll lie to resturants and tell them its our anniversary so they give us free dessert

I love how varied and universally weird the circumstances for making lifelong friendships are. Here's this guy I accidentally messaged once and I could not imagine my life without them now. Here's this girl I was so scared of when I met her, I would kill for her and remind her to rest on the regular. Here's this other guy we have so much in common we used to joke we were the same person in different timelines. It took us years to meet in person and I attended his wedding. There are also people who entered my life in absolutely unremarkable ways but changed it forever for the better. It's wonderful how easy it is to find people to love.

[blueberrybirdsworld]

Only tonight 1/5

Summary : Lando Norris expected another loud Monaco party after the Grand Prix, what he didn’t expect was her. Charles Leclerc’s little sister, Eléa, dancing like the night was hers to burn. Radiating a freedom he’d never seen before, she wasn’t the quiet girl from the paddock he was used to.

But as the music pulsed and the drinks flowed, something in her laugh didn’t quite ring right. And when she whispered it was her birthday… everything changed. Now Lando make his personal mission to make her birthday unforgivable.

Genre : fluff, consumption of alchool

Pairing : Lando Norris x Leclerc sister (original female character)

Main Masterlist

Series Masterlist

The music throbbed like a heartbeat through the club in Monaco, pulsing under Lando Norris’s skin as lights flickered in chaotic, electric patterns. Post-Grand Prix parties were always loud, messy, and over-the-top, nothing new. But what was new, very new, was her being there.

Lando did a double take when he first saw her: Eléa Leclerc, Charles’s little sister. She wasn’t supposed to be here. Or at least, not like this.

She was laughing too loudly, perched on high heels and holding a drink that was probably stronger than she realized. A pink dress clung to her like second skin as she twirled in the middle of the dance floor with a guy Lando didn’t recognize.

He blinked.

Was this really the same Eléa who barely spoke above a whisper? The girl who’d barely met his eyes whenever they crossed paths in the paddock? The one who once flinched when he made a joke too loud in the Ferrari motorhome?

She looked…free. Drunk, definitely, but also happy. And Lando had no idea how to feel about it.

At first, he stayed on the edge, just watching. He had seen Charles and Arthur earlier in the night, but they’d disappeared, maybe gone for a drink or talking to someone. Whatever it was, Eléa was alone now. And some guys were starting to notice.

Lando shifted uncomfortably, his jaw tightening as one of them leaned in a little too close, his hand brushing Eléa’s lower back. She giggled and tried to keep dancing, spilling some of her drink as she twirled again, not noticing, or maybe not caring, how the guy’s eyes didn’t move from her body.

That was enough.

Lando moved without thinking.

“Hey,” he said, sliding between them like it was the most natural thing in the world. He placed a gentle hand on Eléa’s shoulder and smiled casually at the guy. “She’s with me.”

The guy frowned but backed off when he saw Lando’s face, recognition flickered. Formula 1 fame did have its uses.

Eléa blinked up at Lando, swaying. “Lan?” she said, and her smile widened like a sunrise. “Lan-doooo!” she sang, poking his chest. “You’re here too! Come dance with me!”

She grabbed his hand, tugging him toward the center of the floor. Lando almost stumbled, caught off guard by her sudden enthusiasm.

“Eléa...hey, wait, wait,wait.” he said, trying to get her attention. “You’re… really drunk.”

She beamed. “Nooo, I’m just a little dizzy. Spinning’s fun. You’re spinning too,” she added, poking his nose.

He laughed despite himself. God, she was adorable. This bubbly, drunk version of her was like someone had taken the quiet Eléa he barely knew and remplace her for a new version of herself.

But she was also vulnerable. And she didn’t see the way people were watching her.

“I think we should get you home,” he said gently.

She pouted, and it was honestly a little unfair how cute she looked when she did it. “I don’t wanna go home. I wanna dance. You never talk to me, and now you’re here, and I like this version of you. You’re nice.”

Lando’s throat tightened. “I’ve always been nice,” he murmured.

“You’ve always been scared,” she teased, then giggled. “Scared my big brother would punch you if you looked at me too long.”

He winced because she wasn’t exactly wrong.

But she was still tugging him into the crowd, still smiling, still trusting him in a way that made his heart ache a little. So he gave in, for a moment. He let her dance, staying close, keeping her steady, always watching the people around them like a hawk.

She laughed too hard when he did a goofy move, almost fell twice but caught herself on his shoulder, and once leaned in close to say something, but forgot what it was halfway through and just rested her head on his chest for a second too long.

He was in trouble.

Finally, when her balance started to really falter and her eyes were getting sleepy, he leaned down and said, “Okay, that’s enough for tonight, superstar. Time to get you out of here.”

This time, she didn’t protest. Just smiled and whispered, “You smell nice.”

He smiled softly and guided her toward the exit, wrapping his jacket around her shoulders.

The taxi pulled into the glowing streets of Monaco, quiet jazz playing softly through the speakers as the driver navigated the winding roads. Lando sat on the left, Eléa curled up beside him in the backseat, her head resting lightly against the window.

He leaned forward toward the driver, speaking low but firm. “Could you take her home, please? Somewhere near the port. You lives with Charles right ? Near the port ?"

“Address?” the driver asked.

Lando turned to Eléa. “Hey… What’s your address? Can you tell him where to go?”

She looked up at him, eyes slightly glazed but full of warmth, then turned to the window, pressing her palm against the glass.

“That bakery,” she said dreamily, pointing as they passed a sleepy storefront. “Maman used to take me there on Wednesdays. They had the best tarte aux fraises in the whole world.”

Lando blinked. “Okay… but that’s not your address.”

“I love that corner,” she added, as if he hadn’t spoken. “One time I fell off my scooter right there, cried for twenty minutes. Charles carried me home piggyback.”

Lando smiled faintly despite himself. “That sounds like him.”

The car rolled on. She pointed again. “Oh! That bookstore! I used to hide there to skip piano lessons. I’d pretend to browse but really I was just hiding.”

He chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “You were a little rebel, huh?”

She grinned, eyes shining. “Tiny rebel. Shy but deadly.”

Lando tried again. “Seriously, Eléa, what’s your building? The name? A number?”

But she just waved her hand, distracted by a glowing bar ahead, its art deco sign lit up in golden lights that spilled across the street like honey. “Oooh! That place looks so fun. Stop the car! Stop, stop!”

“Eléa, wait...” he started, but it was too late. She tapped the window, then reached for the door handle, almost slipping on her heels as she tumbled out onto the curb.

“Merciii, monsieur!” she called over her shoulder, blowing a kiss to the taxi driver before twirling in place.

Lando groaned and paid the fare quickly, muttering an apology as he slid out of the car and chased after her.

She was already halfway to the entrance of the bar.

“You can’t just run off like that,” he said, catching her arm gently. “You're drunk, and I don't even know if this place will let you in.”

“It’s beautiful!” she spun to face him, eyes wide as she looked up at the glowing sign.

Lando looked at the bar. It did look like a lovie set, brass railings, velvet drapes, a jazz quartet playing on a low stage. Inside, people were dressed classier than your average Monaco crowd, sipping cocktails from old-fashioned glasses. It was… surprisingly charming.

“This is a bad idea,” Lando said as she dragged him through the door.

But she was already at a table near the stage, plopping into the velvet seat and waving to the waitress. “Can I get… hmm… everything! One of everything on the cocktail menu!”

Lando slid into the seat across from her, wide-eyed. “Okay, no. Cancel that. Just water. Five glasses of water, please.”

The waitress gave him an amused look but nodded. “Coming right up.”

Eléa was practically bouncing. “Lando, Lando, look! The lights are twinkling! And the piano, oh, that’s such a nice sound, right? It makes me want to learn piano again.”

He smiled. “You’re… really enthusiastic about everything, aren’t you?”

Eléa was twirling her hair when she said, almost offhandedly, “I like happy places.”

He nodded, watching her carefully. “Yeah?”

She smiled, big and genuine. “Mmhmm. And today’s a happy day. You know why?”

He tilted his head. “Why?”

She sipped her water, grinning behind the glass. “Because it’s my birthday.”

The words hit the air like glass shattering.

Lando blinked. “Wait. What?”

She set the glass down and giggled, swaying a little. “It’s my birthday! I’m twenty-two. Isn’t that wild?”

“You’re serious?” His voice was quiet now.

“Completely.” She twirled in her seat, arms spread again. “Happy birthday to meee!”

He stared at her, heart slowly sinking. “You’re out here. Alone. On your birthday?”

Her smile faltered, just slightly. “Well… not anymore. You’re here now.”

He didn’t smile back. “Eléa… why aren't you celebrating it with your friends? ”

She looked away, suddenly fascinated by the candle on the table. “Everyone’s busy. It’s the Monaco GP. Charles had a podium today. Big deal. Big celebrations. I didn’t want to ruin it.”

“You wouldn’t ruin anything,” he said immediately.

She shrugged. “I didn’t even think anyone would remember.”

Lando felt like something had lodged in his throat.

“You don’t have friends here?” he asked gently.

She gave a sad little laugh. “All my friends were in London. I studied there. I moved back here recently but… it’s like starting over. Except worse. Because I’m the sister of Charles Leclerc. You know how that goes.”

He did.

“People only saw Charles,” she went on. “Or Arthur. Never me. I was the background character in their story. Always the tagalong. Even when I tried to make friends, they just wanted to get close to my brothers.”

Lando couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He had never thought about what her life must be like from the inside. From the outside, it looked perfect: Monaco, the Leclerc name, beautiful and sweet.

But tonight, she looked anything but perfect. She looked real. And heartbreakingly lonely.

“Why not spend the night with your family, then?” he asked softly.

She didn’t answer at first. Just stirred the melting ice in her glass, watching the swirl of liquid.

Lando’s chest ached.

“Charles is celebrating with Ferrari. Arthur and Lorenzo are probably with him. It’s the same every year. I don’t even blame them. It’s not their fault the race is always this weekend. But it still sucks.”

Her voice cracked, and she tried to smile through it, but it crumpled at the edges.

“I just wanted to feel special. Even just a little. Even just tonight.”

A heavy silence settled between them.

Then Lando reached across the table and took her hand, gently, slowly.

“You are special,” he said. “You deserve more than this.”

She looked up at him, eyes glassy but focused.

“Then why does it feel like I’m always the one left behind?”

He didn’t have an answer.

So instead, he squeezed her hand tighter.

“I don’t know,” he whispered. “But not tonight. Tonight, you’re not alone. I’m here. And I’m not going anywhere.”

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[choatic-bumblebee-agenda]

No way I'm here putting myself through exposure therapy to desensitize myself to how interacting with a certain person makes me feel 💀