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takes1 · 7 months ago

Note

i’ve never put in a request before but i read literally all of your haikyuu stuff and i was wondering if you could do something like your asahi x feral!reader but for tsukishima? or even just more asahi or tsukishima stuff would also be cool

tsukki using toys on feral!reader

i love you. here's your present pookie <3

warnings. heavy nsfw, minors DNI

details. fem!reader / rough sex / switchy, mostly dominant!tsukki / mutual masturbation / exhibitionism / voyeurism / use of vibrator / use of dildo / mutual crushing / dirty talk / tsukki loves to tease / flirty!tsukki / friend sex / mostly clothed sex / light choking / 3.3k words

links. my masterlist. more haikyuu. my ao3

Even the way he slid his tie off made you want to drop to your knees and beg him to fuck.

Tsukishima was an alright buddy, but you knew he'd make a much better lover. Maybe it was your delusion, built-up by years of crushing on your closest friend, but there was something about being a mean guy's favorite got you going.

More specifically: soaked, swimming in your raunchy imagination, even investing in some toys to help with the fantasy of it all, most nights.

He had no clue. You were always careful not to look at him more than you had to, to never speak to him too often. It was only thanks to being in the same class that he came over to study, and you got the chance to callous your crush-masking and Calculus III at the same unfortunate time. So fun.

"You study at all yet?" He stretched with a yawn, sore and tired from practice.

"A little," You were usually curt with him when it was just you two.

Today, Yamaguchi opted to work on his serves after practice with his mentor, instead of studying with you two. You nearly cancelled this, but you needed to go over a few concepts with somebody before the quiz tomorrow morning.

Yamaguchi was the best person to bounce off of, so the three of you had better, friendlier chemistry than just you and Tsukishima. You didn't have to fake it as much.

You set your laptop up on your desk and stood, bent at the hips to open up your class materials and take some books out of your bag.

"I didn't have time today," A weight was on the side of your hip, making you stifle a flinch. It was only the side of his leg, from the way he leaned back onto your desk right next to you, "I had to practice at lunch, too."

Another yawn.

They had been busier, lately. Both of them couldn't meet as regularly because they had extra, informal practices.

"Big match coming up?" You clicked to the website and took the soonest opportunity to get away.

You sat down in your chair and kept your eyes on the monitor. You couldn't handle his proximity. You were already wet just from the ride over, having to sit thigh-to-thigh with him on the train. It would be impossible to focus if he kept this shit up.

"Kinda."

The conversation died there. Neither of you tried too hard to keep any discussion alive without Yamaguchi.

He started getting his materials together and paused, then took another few minutes to root around. He glanced around your desk and didn't find what he was looking for.

"You got a pen I could borrow?"

You half-hummed, in the middle of copying down an equation from the screen to your paper.

"Uhh- yeah, yeah. Bedside table. Should be next to the uhhh, the lamp."

Tsukishima watched you for a moment longer, suspicious, but stretched again and pushed himself up to find the pen. To his delight, that was not what he found, when he tried looking through the drawers instead of limiting his search to the surface.

A quick glance back to you- still focused on anything but him, to a level he had grown to understand as simply overcompensation, and he knew he was clear to let his curiosity roam.

"Interesting."

"Wha'?" You mumbled, lazy against your knuckles, a dry, slow blink at your monitor filled with equations.

Long, slim fingers danced over the pink, silicone dildo in the back of your drawer. His grin grew to serious proportions when he found its smaller, surely nosier friend. He could have guessed you were a little freak, but loved this confirmation.

In your attempt to give your retinas a break, you found a spare pen behind one of your notebooks.

"Oh-, hey, I found it," You sighed.

You turned in your swivel chair to face him and see what the delay was about. A flash of pink in his hand made your blood run cold.

"Tsukki!"

You almost tripped scrambling out of your chair, the sound of your call a short and wheezy one, so he had plenty of warning before you were upon him, plastered to his front just like he wanted.

"Put that down!"

His hand flew high into the air, at a height you could never hope to reach- it angered you so quickly, and you felt your face getting hot. That tall bastard utilized his abnormal wingspan at the worst of times.

Frantic fingers clawed his sweater down, but there was no chance you could pull his entire arm down far enough.

From here, you realized he was also holding your smaller vibrator in the same hand. That just wasn't possible without freakishly large proportions.

You screamed, "You're such a fucking weirdo! Put it back!!"

Tsukishima pouted at you, making you think you might have gotten through to him, but like most of his expressions, it was sarcastic.

"Ooooh... I'm the weirdo?"

That one, especially coupled with the eye roll, pissed you off. It wasn't your fault that he was incapable of sexual attraction. You were over-active, sure, and maybe you rivalled the sex drive of a man, but that was your personal business. Up until now, it was stored safe and secret.

"Fuck you!"

You shoved him. And he actually fell back. He wasn't very heavy.

When he hit your mattress, it was a race to recapture your toys that had gotten knocked out of his hand before you could get to them.

You scrapped to get on top of him, weigh him down, and dodged his elbow to reach his wrist-- it was too late. He gripped the thing and you could only then try to pry his hand open.

"Ah-ah-ah," His smirk was so mean, how he found you, in the midst of all your panic, as cute as a button, "What's the magic word?"

"You're never coming over again, you dick," You muttered, fuming, when his fingers just wouldn't be opened.

Tsukishima didn't do much to keep his hand away from you. You held his forearm against your chest because you the most leverage there.

His unrestricted laugh was pretty; scratchy and elevated, watching you try and try again to take your belongings back from him.

Fatigue was getting in the way of your efforts. When he pulled his hand back, over his head, you got knocked off balance and caught yourself, looking down at him.

It distracted you for a moment.

There was something in his eyes you hadn't noticed before, in all your attempts to retrieve your precious toys.

"A little small..." He furrowed his brow, a purse on his lips as he angled it in the light behind you, "Don't you think?"

The hand against your other side made you pause. His thumb, starting to rub you through your uniform, made you shudder.

Why was everything so slow, all of a sudden? You could hear your elevated heart rate, acutely aware of how heavy your breathing had gotten. Tsukishima seemed as though he had always been here, in this state, because he looked you over at a glacial pace.

"Oh- god," You shivered at the realization you were sitting on him, in your skirt.

What had been such a sure reality of never getting off to him again, all at once, became the very reason to do so.

When you looked like you were gearing up to move off of him, smaller, and meeker in spirit, he spoke up through your habitual doubts.

"Stay-," His hand was firm now, gently pushing your weight onto himself, "Stay here."

Hearing something genuine come out of Tsukishima's mouth was so rare that you thought he was joking. You kept trying to rise off of him.

"Hey," He chuckled, but his smile was fleeting.

He set your toys down and used both hands to weigh you down by your thighs. Your uncomfortable expression was mostly confusion.

"Why would I do that?"

You were torn between wanting to take your stuff back and get far away, and the animalistic urge to stay and entertain whatever this was.

His scoff, the roll of his eyes, made your thighs flex, like it always did. This time, he could feel it. But it was confirmation he didn't need, at this point.

"Don't act like you're not into me."

The heaviness of being caught made you sink. It didn't appeal to you to find out why he knew. He was intelligent, after all, and made it his job to notice small things.

Now that it was out in the open, you had no need to lie. A lot less to worry about, too.

Tsukishima smirked at your tiny, defeated sigh.

You glanced to the toys, free for you to take and hide again, but found no desire to do so. You took a good, thorough feel of that soft sweater under your hands. It turned into pushing up under his shirt, and adjusting closer down, open for a kiss, if he felt so inclined.

He sucked in a breath through his nose, restraining himself only once, at that little, dirty roll you did against his cock.

A slow, unsure kiss was soon a rushed and racy battle for power.

Any drop of validation you gave him, whether in sound or feel, was drowned in a charged kind of yearning for more; More of that noise, more of your mouth, more of your body under his starving grasp.

His fingers spread over the plush of your ass, quickly between you and your underwear, spreading you from the back with so much vigor that you whined at all the intensity.

"Mm- yeahh, I know you like that shit," He nestled his kisses against the side of your face, rough and smiley.

You gasped, sharp, at his words and his nails digging lines into your skin.

"Oh my god," You moaned, eyes shutting at how his attention seemed to wrack through you like some sick wave.

In your sudden inability to kiss him back, he ripped open your uniform blouse and sucked hasty bites into your chest.

Finally. He made you feel like you could take anything.

When he sat up, you came with him, and rejoiced in the way he shoved you onto your back, all out of breath and turned on, hovering over you like you were his. That proud expression on your face deserved a few more kisses, he decided.

They were still so rough and challenging to keep up with- especially when you felt him sliding your panties off.

"M-mn," You chased after his lips for a second, not wanting him to pull away so quick.

"I want you to use this," He muttered, and handed you your vibrator- he was keeping it in his pocket, so it didn't get lost in the sheets (as it often liked to).

The sound of that was enough to make you giggle, instantly compliant. But it made you curious.

"Well- what will you do?"

Tentative, you held it without moving- but his hands guided it right where it needed to be. He smirked at your gasps, your thighs flexing hard against him.

"I'll watch," His voice was proceeded by the clang of his belt, zipping out of his belt loops and clattering onto the floor.

Your drunken eyes widened at the monster he pulled out. Yeah, it did make your dildo look small. But it looked natural in his big hand, starting to stroke himself at the view of you, under him.

There was no chance to be coy- he was doing the same thing, even the one to suggest it all. You gave a dreamy sigh, content at the chance to be his cam girl.

His head tilted, eyes lowered to watch your pussy, getting juicier by the minute- so he was a sick son of a bitch, too.

Ever the one to tease, he muttered, "How often d'you think about me?"

That made you warm. You didn't want to say it right away, because even you knew it was getting to be an addiction. It was hard not working one out every night when he was making you horny any time you spoke in class.

"Every day..." You mumbled, eyes still locked on the way he stroked himself, curious to try it for yourself.

He was busy imagining how often you had probably both been masturbating at the same time, with no idea. His hands pushed your thighs up- a nasty, preoccupied gaze on just the way it puffed up your pussy. God, he needed to feel you from the inside.

"Me, too," He admitted. Though it was a dirty thing to say, he said it so flat, in his own little way, as he searched for that dildo. He left out the fact that he jerked off multiple times a day.

"You wanna get that wet for me?"

You hummed, sweet and cute, at the opportunity in front of your face.

Getting it nice and slick in your mouth was just a way to torture him a little more, let him in on what he had been missing- you sucked the thing off a little longer than necessary.

His jaw flexed at the sight, his eyes narrow, intense, just how you liked them.

You grinned as he took it back and cleaned the string of spit from your lip. He sucked it off of his finger like cotton candy.

Tsukishima took the liberty of filling you up with it- watching every little twitch and savoring every whine with so much concentration.

The look of it had him pumping himself a little faster, a little dumb at the sight of you stuffed, already, and dripping onto your sheets. You had been getting off to him every night, then treating him like the dirt under your shoe, for three years?

"I would've been fuckin' you so good- mmnh- freshman year, if you had just been honest with me."

His words made you lose your breath, gasping at the thought of how much you could've helped yourself out, if only things had been different. But, that fixation on his face, all the anticipation leading up to now; you wouldn't have traded it for the world.

You bit your lip at how slow and patient he was, stretching you out all for himself.

"D'you want me to cum?" You asked, tone purposefully candied for him.

There was no hesitation. He looked a little staggered. It was adorable, how badly he wanted to see it happen.

"Fuck, yes."

It took you more effort to hold out, talk, and edge, than it did to give him a show.

You just fell into what you usually did when you got home from classes- this time, with little sounds falling from your lips, and your thighs up the way he liked so much.

The way his eyes clouded over, how he started to relax in the shoulders, and grew breathier at your performance stroked your ego on a deeper level.

"Ah-h!"

His breath stalled at the sudden tension, the gasp on your lips. He was watching you, completely captivated, at your rigid brow and crescendoing sounds.

"Mnn-H-Aahh!" You wished he would touch you, so bad, but it didn't happen. He was too busy studying you.

"Damn," He sighed.

He was taken by the way you came completely undone for him- it made his face soften, made him want to kiss you through it, but he loved watching from right here. It was unbelievably hot.

Though he pulled out that pink obstruction to his real plan, he didn't let you move your vibrator away. He grinned at your reaction, as you were still coming down.

You squirmed at the discomfort, a little panic in your eyes, all to find him enjoying it more.

"A-ahh-! Tsukki--,"

"Ohh- sorry, you thought you were getting a break?" His voice was so sweet, so amused.

He lined himself up with you, sure to lube up in all that extra slickness. It was so deranged and bold that it made you relax, watching in quiet, but whiny captivation, despite needing more time.

"Fuuck," He sighed, a huffy laugh on his lips at how perfect you took him, "God- mmnh-!"

It shouldn't have surprised you, but he wasn't slow, and he wasn't gentle. You supposed you weren't, either. You were both one in the same, too excited and caught up in the rare chance to let loose with a likeminded pervert.

The intensity in his twitchy brow gave way to a narrowed focus on your face.

"Feels so good, (Y/n)."

"Mmnh- call me anything but my- na-me," You sighed, a clip at the end of your phrase as he started using you like his own toy, fast.

He stretched you so good- nothing like your pitiful replacement for him. You couldn't believe he was packing so much, for such a skinny guy.

Though you half-expected him to keep using your name as a means to tease you; he smirked, instead.

"You can- ahh, be my dirty little slut, then-,"

You did say 'anything.' And, to your pleasant surprise, you didn't hate that as much as you thought you would. You still laughed at him, though, because he deserved it. He grinned, unable to take it too seriously, too.

Your recovery period was laughably short. The newness of his cock, the hungry look in his mean face over you, his attitude completely transformed by your body, had you short of breath all over again, wanting more, taking him better with less discomfort.

You welcomed his intensity. This time, all of it, finally wasn't fabricated in your head.

It began to spiral, tightening like a spring in your tummy, into the fundamental need to be railed to another orgasm.

"Harder- please," Your begging couldn't go unrewarded.

It was like he was waiting for confirmation to fuck you as hard as he wanted-- his hand naturally squeezed around your throat, a struggle playing out in his eyes, now, at the way you gripped his arm to keep it there.

He got raspy, breathy, sweat rolling down the side of his face.

Your volume was intense- elation and indulgence all at your liberty, since you were the only people home. Your family trusted Tsukishima, and you were only just now learning that they probably shouldn't.

"F-uck!"

The pretty shock taking your face, coupled with the spasm of your cunt as you actually came twice was all too much for a guy as nasty as him.

That shit was too raw- your gasps, wavering cries, too good for his filthy mind. He was gonna throw all of his porn away as soon as he got home. Next time he needed to cum, he'd take the train here.

He pulled out and absolutely ruined that cute uniform. You were twitchy, panting at all the overstimulation, drenched in sweat, and unable to care right now. He pried his own fingers, slowly, from your neck and lowered to kiss you. It was slower, now, as you both caught your breath.

Coming down with somebody wasn't nearly as sobering as coming down by yourself.

His forehead was slippery against yours, "I'll pay for- ah, your uniform, if I need to."

It was a sweet gesture. You pressed a kiss against his cheek with a laugh, "Just throw it all in the washer."

"Hm," He smirked, an idea taking form behind his eyes as you were carefully stripped of your clothes.

"Let's go again. One more time."

☆VIP☆

@integers @paradoxicalwritings @yuchacco

my masterlist. more haikyuu

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xxsyluslittlecrowxx · 2 months ago

Text

contact: HUSBAND💍💢 (DO NOT OPEN)

[ Sylus x f!reader ]

he asks what you saved him as. you dodge. he lets you—for now. but when your phone lights up mid-breakfast… he sees it. and he never lets things go.

ABOUT | 3.5k. fluff. comedic tension. mutual pining. spiraling girlfailure MC. smug menace Sylus. twins as chaos gremlins

TAGS | slice of life. flirting. banter. phone-based chaos. accidental intimacy.

NOTE : This story came as a request from @someprettyname, who pitched the idea with the perfect mix of chaos, delusion, and romantic doom. I simply couldn’t resist. It’s got Sylus, a cursed contact name, and the kind of spiraling girlfailure energy that lives rent-free in my heart.

IF I'D KNOWN...asking Kieran what he was reading would lead to this, I would’ve done the sensible thing and lobbed my entire cup of tea at him instead. Not hard—just enough to scald. Or, at the very least, shut him up.

“Apparently,” Kieran said, turning a page with the solemn intrigue of someone unearthing a state secret rather than flipping through a lifestyle magazine from the waiting lounge pile, “what you save your partner as in your contacts directly correlates with relationship longevity. It’s, like, a whole study.”

I blinked at him from the edge of the couch, cross-legged, one sock slouched pathetically down my ankle like even my clothes were losing the will to participate.

“That’s not a study. That’s clickbait.”

“It’s neuroscience,” Luke chimed in, somehow making everything worse by sounding confident. He was upside-down in the armchair, legs hooked over the back like a smug little bat. “Oxytocin response, personal language imprinting, affectionate tagging. All linked. I read a paper on it.”

“You read a BuzzFeed quiz,” I said.

“No, that was after,” he replied, contemplative. “To confirm my results.”

I opened my mouth. Closed it. What did you even say to that? Congratulations, you’ve weaponized delusion?

Kieran shut the magazine with a flourish and gave me a look like I was a particularly slow puzzle piece. “So?” he asked, faux-casual. “What do you have Sylus saved as?”

I stared at him.

Then at Sylus.

Then regretted ever being born.

Sylus didn’t even glance up from the holopad he was scanning, thumbs moving in that precise, surgical rhythm that always made me feel like he could disassemble a bomb—or a person—without blinking. He hadn’t said a word the entire time, which only meant one thing: he was definitely listening.

That’s how he operated. Silent observation. Strategic patience. And then—just when you least expected it—the perfect moment to psychologically ruin you.

“I—what?” I laughed. A terrible idea. It came out too loud, too bright. The laugh of someone hiding something very stupid, very unhinged, and very true.

“Oh no,” Luke gasped, kicking his legs in delighted horror. “You’ve got a name. You have a name.”

Kieran leaned forward, eyes glittering like a journalist sniffing out a scandal. “It’s something feral, isn’t it? Like Champ Daddy. Or—God—Meow Meow Murder Man.”

“Excuse you,” I sniffed. “That’s private.”

“That’s not a denial,” Luke pointed out, still upside-down and grinning like he had five seconds before the villain’s lair exploded and he was fine with it.

And then—of course—Sylus looked up.

Just once.

That’s all it took.

No words. Just a glance over the edge of the screen. Brows lifted slightly. That quiet, clinical interest he always wore when cataloguing your emotional weaknesses.

“Well?” he asked, voice low. Mellow. The kind of mellow that made you aware of how sharp the blade was beneath it. “What’d you save me as?”

I died.

Just a bit. Quietly. With dignity.

I smiled like someone caught smuggling twenty kilos of emotional contraband through airport security. “Why do you care?”

“Research,” Luke supplied.

“Curiosity,” Kieran added.

Sylus didn’t say anything. Just kept looking.

Not accusing. Not teasing. Worse—interested. Calm. Patient. Which, from him, was a declaration of war.

I stared back, brain frantically flipping through every lie I’d ever told and wondering if now was the moment to add another.

I didn’t lie. Not really.

But I also wasn’t about to admit that I’d saved him under HUSBAND💍💢(DO NOT OPEN) and set his contact tone to the Onychinus anthem so I’d know—without question—that it was him texting when I was spiraling through my third existential scroll of the night.

I wasn’t proud of it. But I was delusional. Quietly. Tastefully. With a touch of grace.

“It’s just your name,” I said, breezy and innocent. “You know. ‘Sylus.’ Totally normal.”

Kieran snorted. Luke cackled.

Sylus said nothing. Just tilted his head, the faintest degree, like a crow spotting something shiny.

“Hm,” he said.

One syllable. One syllable with the weight of a dossier. Then he returned to his holopad like he hadn’t just slipped a microchip of psychological doom beneath my skin.

I looked at Kieran.

I looked at Luke.

I looked at my tea and considered drowning myself in it.

It was fine. Everything was fine.

I was normal. So, so normal.

So normal that I’d definitely go home tonight and absolutely not open my contacts app.

And definitely not change anything.

Definitely.

…Right?

Wrong.

So, so wrong.

Because two hours later, I was curled on the left side of my bed—the side I insisted I didn’t always sleep on, even though the right side looked suspiciously pristine—and staring down at my phone screen like it had personally betrayed me. Which, to be fair, it had.

HUSBAND💍💢(DO NOT OPEN) glared back at me from the top of my favorites list. Untouched. Intact. So alarmingly unhinged I wanted to launch myself backwards through time and slap the past version of me who thought it was hilarious.

Spoiler: it was hilarious.

Just… not right now.

When I’d first typed it in—on a mission, no less, during a half-sane lull between dodging rooftop snipers and failing to unlock a biometric lock—it had felt brilliant. Like a private joke between me, myself, and the delusion I fed like a very spoiled housecat.

He’d given me a ring. A real one.

Well. Technically it was a repurposed championship ring from some long-ago boxing match, but he’d slipped it onto my finger after a particularly nasty fight and said, “For luck.”

That was it. No heat. No deeper meaning. Nothing even remotely vow-adjacent. But my brain, ever the traitor, had orchestrated a full remix of the wedding march and sent me hurtling into an alternate reality where that gesture meant everything.

So naturally, I immortalized it by saving him as HUSBAND💍💢(DO NOT OPEN) in my phone. The rage emoji was for balance. Because my coping mechanisms were 90% sarcasm, 10% fear of actual feelings.

But now... now he knew something.

Not everything. But enough to make me feel like I was teetering on the edge of a very sharp rooftop, hoping the wind stayed kind.

I turned the screen off, set it beside me, then immediately picked it back up again. Because apparently I had the self-restraint of a soggy napkin.

The name stared back, smug as sin.

I hovered over “Edit.” Didn’t press it. Pressed it. Didn’t save.

God.

What if I changed it now and he somehow noticed later? What if he’d already seen it? A glimpse? An emoji? A vibe?

Worse—what if he hadn’t? What if the twins had just infected his brain with their oxytocin-tagging nonsense and I was the only one spiraling?

…No, that tracked. That sounded extremely me.

I sighed and flopped back against my pillow, which let out a low puff of air like it, too, was disappointed in my choices.

It wasn’t that I didn’t want him to know.

Okay, no. That was a lie. I absolutely didn’t want him to know.

But part of me—some shameful, masochistic fragment that had clearly watched too many fake-dating dramas—wondered what he’d say if he did.

Would he laugh?

Would he tease?

Would he—God forbid—change my name in his phone, too?

And if he did… what would it be?

Nightmare Girl™? Collateral Damage? Do Not Engage Without Caffeine?

Or worse. Something nice. Something gentle. Something that would melt me into a socially anxious puddle of goo I could never recover from.

My phone buzzed once.

I flinched so hard I nearly launched it into the ceiling.

System update.

I exhaled slowly through my nose and said aloud, like I was on some kind of deranged mindfulness app, “It’s just a name. It doesn’t matter.”

Then I shut the screen off, tucked the phone under my pillow like I was putting it down for a nap, and rolled over to the cold, untouched side of the bed.

I didn’t change it.

I could’ve.

But I didn’t.

Not because I was brave. Or honest. Or committed to transparency in modern digital romance.

No.

I didn’t change it because, somewhere in the shame-saturated crawlspace of my delusion-riddled lizard brain…

I wanted him to see it.

And that—more than anything—was the problem.

By the time Saturday rolled around, I had fully convinced myself I was back in control of my life.

Which, naturally, meant everything was about to go spectacularly wrong.

I hadn’t planned on seeing him that day. That was what made it worse. I wasn’t wearing my “emotionally stable and casually indifferent” outfit. I didn’t have talking points. Or backup banter. I hadn’t even exfoliated.

And yet—there he was.

In my kitchen.

Like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Is that… my pan?” I asked, blinking from the hallway, tugging my sleeves down over sleep-wrinkled wrists.

Sylus didn’t look up. Just flipped something sizzling in my non-stick skillet with the kind of precision that suggested he’d done this a thousand times. His hair was still damp at the ends—fresh from a run, or a shower, or a very long, very moody shampoo commercial.

“You said your fridge was on strike,” he replied simply. “I brought eggs.”

He nodded toward the counter. There they were: a full carton of eggs. And toast. And coffee. And—of course—my apron.

“You’re wearing my apron,” I said.

“It was this or ruin my shirt.” He shrugged, unbothered. “You left it hanging by the door. Implicit consent.”

“I use that apron to deep-fry things. It smells like fear and oil.”

He finally glanced over his shoulder, eyes cool, voice dry. “Then it suits me.”

I stood there for a beat, vaguely aware that I probably looked like a stunned Victorian child who’d wandered into the wrong play. My hair was doing something unholy to the left of my temple. My socks didn’t match. One sleeve was half-stuffed into the cuff of my pajama pants like it had given up halfway through getting dressed.

This was not the image of composure I wanted to project.

And yet—he didn’t seem to mind.

He turned back to the stove. Quiet. Focused. Efficient.

Like he hadn’t just let himself into my apartment at 8:30 a.m. and decided to cook breakfast like we did this all the time.

(We did not do this all the time.)

I hovered in the doorway. “Did I… invite you?”

“You said, and I quote,” Sylus began, adjusting the burner with the grace of a man in complete control of both fire and social tension, “‘Come by whenever. Just don’t let the twins in unless you want chaos at dawn.’”

He slid the eggs onto a plate—perfectly done. Soft in the middle. Crisped at the edges. Exactly how I liked them.

Of course he knew that.

I collapsed into a chair and stared at the back of his head like it owed me rent.

This wasn’t the plan. The plan was: avoid prolonged eye contact, and pray the contact-name incident dissolved into the same black hole as every other weird moment we refused to acknowledge.

But Sylus didn’t forget things.

He remembered everything.

Which meant he was either pretending not to care—or waiting. For the right moment. The exact second when dragging it back up would have the most devastating effect.

He handed me the plate without a word. Then set a steaming mug beside it.

“I didn’t know you could cook,” I said, stabbing the yolk before it could pass judgment.

“I can survive.”

“You’re not surviving. You’re thriving. This is suspiciously gourmet for someone who once ate a protein bar he found in the glove compartment.”

Sylus sat across from me, calm as Sunday morning. “I read a manual.”

“You read a manual on eggs?”

He tilted his head. “I like to be prepared.”

I bit into the toast—and hated how much I loved it. Not because it was delicious. But because it felt like something. Like he was already part of things I hadn’t meant to share.

Like I didn’t want him to go.

My phone buzzed from where I’d abandoned it on the end table behind me. I ignored it. Probably a news alert. Or Kieran sending me another random fact about Sylus.

Sylus glanced toward the sound. “Want me to check that?”

My mouth was full. I nodded before I thought twice.

And that was it.

The moment.

The one I would later refer to, in my head, with capital letters and dread: The Beginning of the End.

Because Sylus stood. Walked across the room. Picked up my phone. Turned it over.

And froze.

Just slightly.

Not dramatically. Not enough to trigger outright panic. But enough to notice.

My stomach hit the floor.

He turned, phone still facing him. Not me. Him.

Then he looked up.

Met my eyes.

And smiled.

Not the polite kind.

Not the dangerous kind, either.

The knowing kind.

And he said—

“You’ve got a message.”

Then he walked back. Calm as anything. Sat down.

Placed the phone beside my coffee. Face-down.

Didn’t mention the name.

Didn’t tease.

Just waited.

Like he wanted to see if I’d admit it first.

Like he knew everything.

And wasn’t finished yet.

The room felt different.

Not colder. Not tense, exactly. Just… still.

Like standing at the edge of a lake and realizing—too late—that the water wasn’t calm. It was holding its breath.

Sylus didn’t look at me. Not directly. But his presence was unmistakable—like the steady burn of a fire at your back. Quiet. Measured. Unrelenting.

I kept my eyes on my plate like the eggs were going to offer guidance.

They didn’t.

They just sat there, smug in their perfect seasoning, slowly congealing while I tried not to spiral.

I took a sip of coffee I didn’t need. It burned the tip of my tongue. I said nothing.

He didn’t press.

And that was the problem with Sylus—he never pressed. He simply gave you the silence. Just enough rope to hang yourself with.

“You’re quiet,” he said after a moment.

I shrugged. “You made breakfast. I’m eating it. This is me being grateful.”

He let out a sound. Barely audible. Somewhere between a scoff and a laugh.

“Do you usually eat in tense, stony silence when someone brings you food?”

“Only when they break into my apartment to do it,” I said, eyes still locked on my eggs like they might offer a lifeline.

Another pause. And then—

“You could’ve just told me.”

I blinked. “Told you what?”

I knew what.

Of course I knew what.

But I wasn’t about to hand him the knife and hold still.

He tilted his head. Finally met my eyes.

That look—quiet, analytical—like he didn’t need words to dismantle you. He could do it with patience alone.

“What you saved me as,” he said, simply. “You could’ve told me.”

I swallowed. “It’s not that interesting.”

“Is it not?”

“It’s just a name.”

His gaze didn’t shift. Didn’t push. Just held.

Then he leaned back slightly, folding his arms across his chest. His sleeves were rolled to the elbows—revealing scars, old and clean, and veins etched sharp like topography you didn’t realize you’d memorized until it was right there in front of you.

“I think you’re lying,” he said, not unkindly.

My heart decided now was a good time to audition for a prison break.

“I don’t lie,” I replied.

“No,” he agreed. “But you deflect beautifully.”

My fingers tightened around the mug. “Well, thanks. That’s a weird compliment, but okay.”

Silence again. Long. Weighted.

The toast on his plate remained untouched. I wasn’t sure he’d ever meant to eat it.

When he finally spoke again, it was quieter. No edge. No game. Just… honest.

“You’ve been doing it since the twins brought it up. Every time I’ve looked at you since then, you shift.”

I didn’t answer.

“And you practically gave me your phone,” he continued. “Which you never do. You always leave it face-down on the table. Angle the screen away when we’re close. Mute notifications if we’re in the same room. But today… you handed it to me.”

I cleared my throat. “I didn’t think—”

“Yes, you did.”

I looked at him then. Really looked.

He wasn’t goading me. He wasn’t smug. He wasn’t trying to win.

He was just telling the truth.

A quiet cataloging of all the small things I thought I’d hidden.

Which somehow made it worse.

“So what?” I asked. “What does it matter if I did?”

His brow lifted a fraction. “Depends on what it said.”

I exhaled through my nose. “You saw it.”

“I did.”

My stomach folded in on itself. Not violently. Just… inevitably. Like paper creasing in slow motion.

“Are you going to say something?”

He shook his head once, calm. “I don’t think I have to.”

I pushed my plate aside and stood before I could second-guess it. My hands found everything—table edge, pajama tie, back of the chair—restless, unfocused.

He watched me.

Not like I was fragile.

Not like I was guilty.

Just like he was present.

In a way most people never were.

“Do you think I meant it seriously?” I asked. Unsure whether I felt embarrassed, angry, or just stupidly exposed.

He stood too. Unhurried. Close.

“I think,” he said gently, “you didn’t expect me to see it.”

I nodded once. “So now what?”

Sylus reached for the phone. Turned it over. Tapped the screen once. It lit up. His thumb brushed across the glass, and for one panicked second, I thought he was deleting something.

Instead, he looked down at it.

And smiled.

A faint, private thing.

“I’ve been called worse,” he said. “At least this one’s got a ring to it.”

He handed it back to me.

Didn’t explain.

Didn’t tease.

Didn’t retreat.

Just waited.

And this time…

I didn’t look away.

The silence stretched.

Not uncomfortable, exactly. Just stretched thin—like the hush inside a cathedral, where every thought echoed louder in your own head.

I held the phone in both hands like it might explain itself. Like I could offload all the emotional wreckage of the last twenty-four hours onto one glowing rectangle and be absolved.

But, of course, it didn’t say anything.

It just sat there. Still locked. Still glowing. Still stamped with the one contact name I hadn’t changed.

Still proof.

“You’re not going to make fun of me?” I asked.

The question came out quieter than I meant it to. Fragile. Like thin ice underfoot.

Sylus didn’t move. Didn’t smile. But his voice softened at the edges.

“No,” he said. “Not for this.”

My mouth opened, but no words came.

And because I couldn’t stand still, I drifted. The long way around the table—brushing a chair, skimming the counter—like a satellite refusing to orbit too close.

“I wasn’t trying to be weird,” I said. “Or clingy. Or… intense. It was just a thing. A ridiculous, harmless, no-one-will-ever-know thing.”

Sylus watched me, but didn’t interrupt.

So I kept going. Because stopping meant listening to my own thoughts, and frankly, no thanks.

“It started as a joke. Something I’d change later. But then I didn’t. And then it felt like changing it would mean admitting it mattered.”

I glanced down. The screen glowed back. Still bright. Still damning.

“And I guess it did matter. Just... not in the way I thought.”

He didn’t move.

Didn’t fill the silence with soft reassurances or easy deflections.

But something shifted in the air. A quiet gentling. Like something bracing had eased.

I forced my fingers to unlock the screen. Turned the phone toward him. Slowly. Like peeling back a bandage.

“You can delete it, if it’s weird,” I said. “Or if it crosses some boundary. Or if it makes you uncomfortable. I’ll just blame Siri. She’s always inserting emojis without consent.”

He didn’t take the phone.

He didn’t look away either.

Instead, his fingers reached—not for the screen, but for my wrist.

A light touch. A thumb brushing the inside, where the pulse beats quick and traitorous.

“I’m not uncomfortable,” he said. “I’m… surprised.”

“That I’d be ridiculous?”

“That you’d let me see it.”

I couldn’t hold his gaze after that. Something about the way he was looking at me felt too precise. Not cruel—but exact. Like being traced.

Still, I didn’t step back.

He let go slowly, then reached into his own pocket. Pulled out his phone. A few taps. A swipe.

Then he turned it around.

I squinted.

WIFE 💍❤️ (Don’t pretend you’re surprised)

I stared. Swallowed. Opened my mouth. Closed it again.

“That’s not subtle,” I whispered.

He stepped closer. “It’s honest.”

There was no smile. Not really. But something flickered beneath the surface—quiet, certain, a little dangerous.

The kind of look that said yes, I meant it.

The kind that made you wonder just how long he’d been waiting to say so.

I laughed then. Sharp and breathless and absolutely real.

“You’re insane,” I said.

He shrugged. “You started it.”

I looked down at my screen.

Then back at his.

And finally—at him.

“You really think I wouldn’t want that too?” he whispered.

And that—more than the name, more than the emojis, more than the ridiculous, ridiculous spiral of it all—was what undid me.

Because he did.

God help me, he really, truly did.

And maybe now... I didn’t have to pretend I didn’t want it, too.

thank you for reading, and happy 500 followers!

#love and deepspace #love and deepspace sylus #l&ds sylus #lnds sylus #lads sylus #sylus #sylus qin #sylus love and deepspace #sylus fanfiction #sylus fanfic #sylus fluff

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heesvnqie · 1 month ago

Text

Marked- Nishimura Riki!Niki

pairing: nishimura riki!ni-ki x reader genre: mafia's son x reader, dark romance, smut, angst warnings: dark romance, killing, threatening, stalking. explicit sexual content,unprotected sex (wrap it up irl!), oral (m & f receiving), rough intimacy, overstimulation, possessive themes word count: 7k

The late afternoon sun hung low over Seoul, painting the sky in hues of orange and pink. You adjusted the straps of your backpack, the weight of textbooks digging into your shoulders as you trudged home from school. The day had been long—endless lectures, a pop quiz in math, and the usual cafeteria chaos. All you wanted was to collapse onto your bed and forget the world for a few hours.

Your usual route took you past the underground community basketball court, a sunken concrete slab tucked beneath an overpass. It was a gritty place, with chain-link fences rattling in the breeze and graffiti sprawling across every surface. Most days, you kept your head down and hurried past, the shouts and laughter of the players fading into background noise. But today, something made you pause.

The court was alive with energy. A group of boys moved with practiced ease, their sneakers squeaking against the pavement as they dribbled and passed the ball. You recognized a few faces—upperclassmen from your school, guys who carried themselves with a confidence that bordered on arrogance. But one figure stood out, commanding the court without even trying.

Nishimura Riki. Ni-ki.

Even from a distance, he was unmistakable. Tall and lean, with dark hair swept back from his face, he moved like he owned the space around him. His black hoodie was pushed up to his elbows, revealing forearms taut with muscle as he caught a pass and sank a effortless three-pointer. The ball swished through the net, and his friends erupted in cheers, slapping his back. Ni-ki just smirked, his eyes glinting with a quiet intensity.

Everyone at school knew the rumors. Ni-ki was the son of Nishimura Daiki, the mafia king who ruled Seoul’s underworld. Whispers followed him like shadows—stories of late-night deals, bloodied knuckles, and a family that answered to no one. You’d never had a reason to believe or care about the gossip. Ni-ki was just another face in the hallways, untouchable and distant. Until now.

“Hey!” A voice jolted you from your thoughts. One of Ni-ki’s friends—Jake, you thought, with his easy grin and Australian accent—waved at you. The basketball had rolled off the court, coming to a stop near your feet. “Mind tossing that back?”

You hesitated, your fingers brushing the rough surface of the ball. The group was watching now, their game paused. Ni-ki’s gaze locked onto you, and for a moment, the world narrowed to the weight of his stare. It wasn’t hostile, but it was piercing, like he could see straight through your school uniform and into your thoughts.

“Sure,” you said, keeping your voice steady. You picked up the ball and tossed it back, aiming for Jake. It sailed through the air, a clean arc, and he caught it with a nod.

“Nice throw,” Jake called, spinning the ball on his finger.

You gave a small nod, already turning away, your heart tapping a strange rhythm in your chest. It was supposed to be a simple interaction—ball rolls, you return it, end of story. But your limbs felt heavy now, like the air had thickened around you, like his stare still clung to the back of your neck.

You took one step. Then another. But for some reason, you didn’t want to go. You didn’t want to disappear into your usual routine. Not yet. You slowed your pace just enough to steal a glance over your shoulder, and that’s when it happened.

Ni-ki was still watching you. Unmoving. Unbothered. His expression unreadable, but something in his posture had shifted—arms crossed now, his weight balanced lazily on one leg like he had all the time in the world to stand there and dissect you with his eyes. Not leering. Not curious. Calculating.

Your spine stiffened instinctively, the way it does when someone reads too much without speaking a word. Your hand tightened on the strap of your bag.

Why was he still looking?

“Yo,” Jake nudged Ni-ki’s shoulder with the ball, bringing him back to the present. “You good?”

Ni-ki blinked once, slow. His eyes finally left yours, and in that split second, it was like being released from something you didn’t even know you were caught in.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “Just… thought I knew her.”

You almost laughed out loud at that—because no, he didn’t know you. No one like him knew someone like you. You were background. A quiet fixture of crowded hallways, the kind of girl teachers liked for her silence and classmates forgot existed once class ended. You weren’t the kind of girl mafia sons remembered.

But then again, he hadn’t looked at you like someone guessing. He’d looked at you like someone marking.

You turned the corner, quickening your steps as if distance could blur the strange charge in your chest. You tried to push the image of him out of your mind—the flex of his jaw, the way his dark eyes didn’t flinch, the slow, cool way he moved like danger wrapped in rhythm.

But that night, it clung to you.

Even as you sat in your room, bathed in the low glow of your desk lamp, the moment played on a loop. His eyes. That stare. That pause. That one sentence: “Thought I knew her.”

You stared at your untouched homework, the edges of your math book blurring. You didn’t even notice your fingers had curled into a fist until your knuckles ached. Why had it felt like more than curiosity? Why had it felt like a challenge?

The next afternoon, it rained.

The sky cracked open sometime after lunch, releasing thick, unrelenting sheets that turned sidewalks into rivers and umbrellas into fragile shields. You’d forgotten yours at home, of course, and by the time the last bell rang, your shoes were already squelching with water and your uniform stuck to your skin like second flesh.

You debated waiting it out in the school lobby, but something—some reckless tug in your chest—steered you forward.

So you ran.

You didn’t even realize you were heading the same way again until your sneakers skidded to a stop at the edge of the overpass. Water poured in thick streams off the concrete ledges above, but the court was still alive, the game in full swing.

The same group. The same feral energy.

And Ni-ki, again, in the center of it all.

This time he wore all black. Cargo pants tucked into beat-up combat boots, a long-sleeved black compression shirt clinging to every movement. His hair was wet—soaked from the rain—but it only made him look sharper, the strands falling into his eyes as he ducked and wove around the others with fluid grace.

He moved like someone who’d never known hesitation.

Then, as if sensing you—even before you took a step forward—he stopped mid-dribble and looked up. Right. At. You. Not Jake. Not the others.

You.

It wasn’t subtle. This time, his gaze was deliberate, electric. His chest rose and fell with slow breaths as he held your stare across the downpour. A raindrop trickled down the edge of his jaw, but he didn’t move.

You didn’t either.

Neither of you did.

And then, finally—he smirked.

Just a hint of it, curling at the corner of his mouth. Like he knew something you didn’t. Like he was waiting for you to figure it out.

That’s when Jake turned around and followed his gaze.

“Oh,” he said, grinning when he spotted you. “It’s her again.”

He trotted over, ball in hand, like the sky wasn’t collapsing overhead. “You stalking us now?”

You blinked. “I—what? No.”

He laughed. “Kidding. Chill. You look like a wet cat, though.”

You instinctively wiped at your cheek, not realizing until Jake held out the ball.

“Wanna play?”

You stared. “Seriously?”

Sunghoon, another of Ni-ki's friends shrugged. “Why not? You’ve got the shoes. You’ve got the throw. We’re one short anyway.”

You hesitated. And behind him, you could see Ni-ki watching again, hands on his hips, no smile, just that piercing, burning calm. Something unspoken passed between you. Like he was daring you. And this time, you didn’t look away. You took the ball.

The ball was heavier than you expected. Not physically—no, it wasn’t that. It was the way everyone suddenly looked at you the moment your fingers wrapped around it. Like you’d crossed some invisible threshold. Like you’d walked through a door that wasn’t meant for you but had swung open anyway.

Jake grinned, already jogging backward. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

You didn’t say anything. Just swallowed hard and stepped onto the court, the wet concrete slick beneath your shoes. Your uniform clung to your body uncomfortably, but adrenaline kept your blood warm. Every part of you buzzed with a strange mix of nerves and electricity. You weren’t supposed to be here. But here you were.

Ni-ki hadn’t moved. He stood near the painted three-point line, hands resting on his hips again, gaze trained on you like he was dissecting something dangerous—something unexpected.

And something very interesting.

Jake passed the ball your way with a bounce, and you caught it on instinct. Another guy—tall, hair pushed back with streaks of silver you vaguely recognized from the hallways—guarded you lazily, but the pressure of all their attention made your palms sweat.

You faked left. Spun right. And shot.

It wasn’t perfect. But the ball hit the backboard and dropped cleanly into the hoop.

“Ohhh shit,” Jake called. “She’s not just looks and rainwater!”

Laughter rippled around the court, a few claps, a surprised whistle. Even the guy guarding you let out a low grunt of approval.

You allowed yourself a breath of pride.

Then you felt it.

Eyes on you.

That gaze again.

Ni-ki.

He was watching you with a different expression now—chin tilted slightly, a curl at the corner of his lips, but his eyes were sharp. Amused, but alert. Like a predator seeing something new move through its territory.

He started toward you without a word.

One slow step at a time.

Jake passed him the ball. Ni-ki caught it single-handedly, not even glancing, and then—

He passed it to you.

Not Jake. Not one of the others.

You.

The ball landed in your hands with a satisfying thud. You looked at him, surprised, unsure, heart hammering now for reasons that had nothing to do with the game.

His voice was low, barely above the rain.

“Show me that throw again.”

It wasn’t a challenge.

It was a command.

You stepped back, lined up, and launched it again—this time from farther out. The ball kissed the rim and bounced in, just barely.

Jake cheered like you’d won the finals, but Ni-ki didn’t react.

He just walked toward you, slowly, until you were face to face. Rain dripped from his lashes, down the curve of his jaw, but he didn’t seem to care.

“You play often?” he asked.

You shook your head, trying not to shrink under his stare. “No. Just… used to shoot around at the park near my place. Nothing serious.”

Ni-ki looked at you like he didn’t believe that. Or maybe like he didn’t care. “You have good form.”

That shouldn’t have made your stomach twist. But it did.

“Thanks,” you murmured.

He tilted his head slightly. “What’s your name?”

You hesitated. And he noticed.

Jake called from behind, “Come on, man, let her breathe. She just got here.”

Ni-ki ignored him. “Your name.”

You gave it. "Y/N."

His lips moved around the syllables like he was testing the sound, letting it linger between you.

You felt it in your spine.

“You go to the same school, right?” he asked. “Year below me.”

You blinked. “How do you—?”

“I see more than people think,” he said.

There was no smugness in his tone. Just fact.

You looked away, trying to re-anchor yourself. The game had resumed behind you, sneakers squeaking, laughter rising, but all of it felt like a distant world.

Ni-ki stepped even closer.

“You always take this route home?”

Your head whipped up at the question.

It was casual. Offhand. Innocent, if you wanted it to be.

But there was an edge to the way he asked it. Like he was noting a pattern. Like he was cataloguing you.

Why?

You cleared your throat. “Not always.”

Ni-ki’s expression didn’t change, but the air between you shifted.

“Maybe you should start.”

Your brows lifted. “Why?”

He didn’t answer immediately. And then—

“Because you’ll be safe here.”

That made your breath hitch.

He stepped past you after that like it was nothing. Like he hadn’t just dropped a sentence that left your heart skidding sideways in your chest. The game continued, Ni-ki weaving through defenders with a grace that didn’t belong to teenagers. He was fast, precise, ruthless.

You stood at the edge of the court, watching him dominate the space like he’d been born to rule it.

And maybe he had.

Because you remembered the whispers now.

The late-night conversations you’d overheard between classmates. The rumors that circled his name like smoke: mafia. bloodlines. power. danger.

You’d never cared before. But now? Now he’d looked at you. Now he’d spoken to you. Now he’d claimed you—in the smallest, subtlest of ways.

And a part of you—some deep, irrational, stupid part—wondered what it would mean if you let him. The game ended twenty minutes later. Jake and Sunghoon offered to walk you home, but you declined. You needed air. You needed space to think.

But when you turned the corner, alone again, you saw it— A black SUV idling at the curb just half a block away. Windows tinted too dark. Engine silent. No movement.

You’d seen the same black SUV parked across the street from your school earlier that morning—engine off, driver invisible behind tinted glass. Yoi’d written it off as a parent or staff car. But now… your skin prickled. You turned your head just enough to look back at the court. Ni-ki was already watching. No smile. No smirk. Just eyes. Like a warning. Or a promise.

And this time, you didn’t walk away faster. You walked slower. Because maybe he was right. Maybe you’d be safer under his gaze. Even if that gaze was the beginning of everything unraveling. The air was thicker now.

Not just from the rain, which had slowed to a drizzle, but from something heavier. Something that clung to the back of your throat as you turned onto the main road and glanced—again—over your shoulder. The SUV was still there. Black. Silent. Windows tinted obsidian.

It didn’t move. It didn’t flash headlights or inch forward menacingly like some B-movie stalker scene. It just sat there. Still. Watching.

You tried to tell yourself it was nothing. That maybe it was just someone waiting for a friend. That maybe you were being dramatic. That maybe the blood in your ears didn’t sound louder because your instincts were screaming.

But you’d seen it before. Once. Twice. Now a third time.

Always quiet. Always idle. Always somewhere near you.

It wasn’t coincidence anymore. It was choreography.

You turned back around, kept walking. Faster this time. The rain clung to your socks and made your skirt heavy. Your breath started to hitch in a way that had nothing to do with exertion.

You didn’t want to admit it—but you were scared.

And that pissed you off.

You weren’t the kind of girl who got scared easily. You walked with your keys between your knuckles. You knew how to cross the street twice if something felt off. You texted your friends live updates when taking cabs late. You were cautious, aware, grounded.

But right now?

Right now, you were seventeen years old, soaked to the skin, and walking down a street where something was off and you didn’t have a damn plan.

You pulled out your phone. No bars. Of course.

The tall buildings on either side of the street had always messed with reception here, but today, it felt personal. Deliberate. You didn’t want to run. Running would make it real. So you kept walking. Turned the next corner. Another.

Until you were in a smaller side alley that cut across to the back of your apartment block. You’d taken this path dozens of times before. It was faster, tucked away from the main roads. Familiar.

But tonight, it felt wrong. It felt like silence was pressing too hard against your ears.

And then—

A voice. Low. Cool. Almost bored.

“Why are you walking here alone?”

You stopped so fast your shoe skidded on the wet pavement.

Ni-ki.

Leaning against the rusted railing of the side wall like he’d been waiting there all his life. Hoodie still damp from the earlier game, hair messily flattened against his forehead now. One hand tucked into the pocket of his joggers. The other resting lightly against the concrete.

No panic in his expression. Just a look that said he knew.

You swallowed. “I could ask you the same thing.”

He didn’t answer right away. Didn’t even move. But his eyes flicked behind you—quick, precise, trained.

“I asked you first.”

Your heart thumped once, hard. “Shortcut.”

He clicked his tongue once, low. “Bad one.”

You glanced over your shoulder instinctively, but the SUV wasn’t in view anymore. Maybe it never had been. Maybe that was worse.

“What are you even—how did you know I’d be—”

“Because you’ve walked this route before.” His voice was calm. “I’ve seen you.”

That shouldn’t have sounded like protection. Should’ve sounded creepy. Should’ve sent red flags skyrocketing.

But it didn’t. Because the way he said it…The way he was already stepping forward. It didn’t feel like obsession. It felt like warning.

“You’ve been watching me?” you asked.

His gaze didn’t shift. “I’ve been noticing.”

A beat. Then another. Then: “And you’ve been followed.”

You went cold.

“What?” Your voice cracked on the word.

“I saw it again. The car.” He stepped closer. You didn’t step back. “Same make. Same plates. Same driver.”

“You got the—plates—?”

“Yeah,” he said. Like it was nothing. Like memorizing license numbers was part of his morning routine.

You didn’t even know what to say to that. He looked at you for a long moment. Like he was waiting to see if you’d connect the dots.

When you didn’t, he added, voice low: “They’re not random. And they’re not friendly.”

Your stomach turned. This wasn’t high school gossip anymore. This wasn’t whispers about mafia families or criminal empires behind closed doors. This was real. And it had found you.

“Why me?” you asked, voice quieter than you meant it to be. “I’m no one. Just a student—”

“That’s exactly why.” Ni-ki’s jaw flexed. “Because you’re no one. Easy to track. Easy to grab. No guards. No questions asked.”

His words dropped like a weight into your chest. You’d always hated being invisible. Hated fading into the background. Now? Now it felt like a curse.

“You shouldn’t walk alone anymore,” he said. “Not here.”

You tried to scoff. “So what, you’re offering to escort me every day?”

His eyes narrowed. “I’m offering to keep you alive.”

Silence fell. Thick. Dense. Wet with things neither of you were saying.

Finally, you asked, “Why are you helping me?”

It wasn’t flirtatious. It wasn’t cute. It was raw. Ni-ki studied you for a long moment. And then he said—

“Because the second you stepped on that court…” He paused. Tilted his head. “…you stopped being invisible to the wrong people.”

Your pulse thundered in your ears. He took another step forward. You let him. Now you were toe-to-toe. His height shadowing yours. His fingers brushing the back of your wrist—not enough to hold you. Just enough to remind you he was there. Solid. Real.

And maybe dangerous in a way that didn’t scare you anymore.

“And that's why I’ll walk you home,” he said.

You didn’t stop him. Not when he fell into step beside you like he’d always belonged there. Not when his shoulder bumped yours once, just enough to settle your nerves. Not even when you saw the SUV parked two blocks away, engine idling again—and he didn’t flinch. You walked the rest of the way in silence. But your heartbeat wasn’t quiet. It screamed. Because something had shifted. You felt it in your bones.

Whatever this was—Ni-ki, the car, the look in his eyes when he said you weren’t safe— it was only the beginning. And you had a feeling? You wouldn’t want to go back.

The next morning was gray. Seoul was still damp from the night’s storm, and everything looked washed out—skies dull, roads slick, people moving like ghosts beneath umbrellas.

But it wasn’t the weather that made your skin itch. It was the feeling. That same tightness between your ribs. That crawling sense of being watched.

You kept checking over your shoulder as you walked into school. Each glance was quick. Small. Almost embarrassed. But always there. The black SUV was gone. Or maybe it was just… somewhere else. You didn’t know which was worse.

Ni-ki had walked you home the night before and said nothing else. Not even a goodbye. Just a look—a look that felt like he was memorizing the shape of your front door. As if he was promising he’d remember where to find you.

And he hadn’t shown up this morning. You didn’t know if that disappointed you or scared you more.

You slipped into your classroom early, shaking the rain off your sleeves, and tried to breathe normal. Tried to act normal. But that illusion shattered the moment you opened your locker. Your books were on the lowest shelf, not where they were supposed to be.

Not dropped. Not tumbled. Deliberately placed—stacked neatly, spines aligned, as if someone had arranged them that way.

And on top of the pile, right where your hand would reach first, was a note. You froze. Your heart stuttered so hard it hurt. It wasn’t folded. Just a small, square slip of black paper with silverpen ink in a careful, slanted hand.

“You shouldn’t talk to him.”

That was it. No signature. No context. But you knew. You knew exactly who him meant.

You grabbed the note, stuffed it into your skirt pocket, and shut the locker hard enough that a few heads turned. Your hands shook the entire first period.

You didn’t eat lunch. You didn’t speak much in class. You just stared at the condensation on the window, letting the outside blur as panic curled around your lungs.

This was real. This was happening. And it wasn’t just some distant mafia story anymore. It had found you. In your school. In your locker.

Your skin prickled as your gaze flicked to the hallway. Past the classroom door. He was leaning against the wall, half hidden from view.

Ni-ki.

Not in uniform. Just a black windbreaker zipped up to his throat, hood hanging loose behind his neck. Hair messy from the breeze, hands shoved in his pockets.

He wasn’t looking at anyone. Not speaking. Not moving. He was watching you.

And when your eyes met his, you saw it. He knew. You stood up before you realized what you were doing.

“Bathroom,” you mumbled to the teacher. Didn’t wait for her nod.

The hallway was cold and wide and mostly empty. Your shoes clicked fast against the tile as you marched toward him.

He didn’t flinch.

“Someone left me a note,” you hissed when you were close enough. “In my locker.”

His jaw tightened. Barely. But enough.

Ni-ki looked down the hall, then at the classroom windows above. “What did it say?”

You hesitated. Then: “Not to talk to you.”

A pause.

Then he laughed. Not a loud laugh. Not even amused.

Just… dark. Like someone had confirmed what he already knew.

“Of course they did,” he muttered.

You stared. “Who’s ‘they’?”

His expression didn’t change. But when he spoke, his voice dropped low.

“There are groups that don’t like mine. Rival bloodlines. Idiots playing pretend at power. They like to send warnings when they think someone’s becoming leverage.”

You blinked. “Leverage?”

His gaze landed hard on you. “You.”

You didn’t speak. Didn’t even breathe. He leaned closer. So close his breath brushed your cheek when he said, “You were seen with me. Which means now? You’re not just some student anymore. You’re a pawn. Maybe even a threat.”

You swallowed. “Why? Why me? I didn’t do anything.”

“You existed,” he said. “In the wrong place. At the wrong time.”

“Like the court?” you whispered. He nodded once.

“And now?”

Ni-ki’s voice was flat.

“Now you belong to something. Whether you like it or not.” He said and the silence that followed was deafening.

He straightened, but didn’t move away. Didn’t give you distance. He was still close enough that you could count the lashes on his eyes. Still close enough to feel the low-grade hum that always seemed to follow him, like danger itself bent around his orbit. He studied you.

“You scared?” he asked. You didn’t answer right away. But you didn’t look away, either.

“Not when I’m with you.”

That surprised him. You saw it. Just a flicker. But it was there.

His shoulders relaxed, just barely. His jaw unclenched. He then said,“Good. Because you’ll be with me a lot more.”

You didn’t argue. Not when his hand brushed your elbow as he walked past. Not when he muttered, “I’ll take care of the note.” And definitely not when you realized—you wanted him to.

You weren’t dreaming when you saw it again. The note. Folded this time. Slipped into your bag between classes, right on top of your phone, like someone had timed it perfectly.

“Back away from him. Last warning.”

Your blood turned to ice. It wasn’t just about Ni-ki anymore. This—this felt like a countdown. And you had no idea how close you were to zero. You didn’t go to class. You found Ni-ki.

He wasn’t hard to find anymore. He’d been shadowing you all week. In the hallway. On the walk home. Outside your building. He didn’t follow—he escorted. Silent. Present. Watchful. Always watchful.

You found him leaning against the vending machine outside the gym, half a bottle of Pocari Sweat in hand. His hood was up, his eyes heavy-lidded, bored. But the second he saw your face, he moved.

“What happened?” he asked, instantly alert.

You handed him the note. No words. No overreaction. Just the paper in his hand and the pounding in your chest. He read it once. Then folded it neatly and tucked it into his pocket.

“I’ll handle it.”

“Who is it?” you asked. “Do you know who’s doing this?”

Ni-ki’s jaw clenched. “I have guesses.”

You stepped closer. “Ni-ki—what does this mean? Am I a target? Are they gonna do something—?”

“You’re not a target,” he cut in. “You’re a messenger.”

You blinked. “To you?”

“To me. To my father. To our side of the city.” His voice was tight now, teeth gritted. “They think they can use you to get to me.”

Silence stretched between you. And in that silence, you felt it. The truth. The reason he was always watching. Always near.

Because to Ni-ki, this wasn’t casual. This wasn’t some harmless schoolyard crush or idle fascination. For them, you had become his territory. And someone was threatening it.

“I can’t go home,” you said suddenly. “Not if someone’s following me.”

“You’re not,” he said. “Not alone.”

“I’m serious—”

“So am I.” Ni-ki said. “Pack your things. You’re staying with me tonight.”

Your stomach flipped. “What—?”

“My house. My guards. My rules.” His eyes burned into yours. “You’re not walking out of here without me.”

For a second, you just stood there. Staring. Because this was the moment. The moment where you should say no. Where you should walk away, call the cops, tell a teacher, pretend everything was normal.

But everything wasn’t normal. So you nodded. And Ni-ki didn’t waste time.

His house was a fortress. High walls, private gate, security cameras on every corner. The kind of place that whispered danger and blood and inherited power.

You kept your jacket pulled tight around you as you stepped into the marble-floored foyer. His shoes hit the tile with practiced ease, and you couldn’t help but glance around. Clean. Cold. Silent. Except for him.

He didn’t ask if you were hungry. He didn’t ask if you wanted to call home. He just led you upstairs, past closed doors and narrow windows, to a quiet room at the end of the hall.

“My room’s next door,” he said.

You turned. “Wait—this is your house.”

His eyes met yours. “You think I’d leave you in a guest room on the opposite wing?”

You swallowed.

“I’ll be nearby,” he added. “Just in case.”

“In case of what?”

Ni-ki didn’t answer. And that silence said everything. That night, the storm came back.

Heavy rain lashed against the windows. The room you were in—despite its luxury—felt cold. Like you didn’t belong here. Like you were just waiting to be stolen away again. You couldn’t sleep. And apparently, neither could Ni-ki.

You found him sitting on the windowsill in the hallway outside your door. Hood up. One leg drawn up, the other dangling over the edge like he was thirteen again and not someone raised by a mafia king.

“You okay?” you asked quietly.

He didn’t look at you.

“Couldn’t sleep,” he said.

You sat beside him. Close, but not touching. Rain tapped gently against the glass. For a while, neither of you spoke.

Then, Ni-ki said, “I shouldn’t have let you near me.”

You turned. “What?”

He finally looked at you—and for the first time, he looked unsteady. Not cold. Not unreadable. Just nineteen.

“You didn’t ask for this,” he said. “You were just walking home from school. Just passing the court. Just existing.”

He shook his head.

“And now you’re in the middle of a war.”

Your throat tightened. “I’m not afraid.”

“You should be.”

“I’m not." You paused. “Not with you.”

That changed something. The air between you pulsed. Shifted. Became thicker. And for the first time, Ni-ki didn’t hide it.

His fingers brushed your wrist. Slow. Testing. Not possessive. Not dominant. Just real. And when his hand didn’t fall away, neither did yours.

“You’re not a messenger, anymore,” he said softly. “You’re mine to protect."

The house was too quiet. After the storm passed, a different kind of silence settled in. Not peaceful. Not empty. Just wrong.

You stirred beneath the thick blanket, the silk sheets slipping against your legs as you sat up in the wide unfamiliar bed Ni-ki had given you. Your heart had been beating faster for minutes now—tight, pulsing, anxious. Something was off. The door creaked open. Your breath caught—until you saw him.

Ni-ki.

Drenched in moonlight, dressed in all black, his hoodie pushed back, hair mussed, eyes low and sharp. But there was something new this time. Something alive in his expression.

“I heard something,” he said simply, already locking the door behind him. “Window sensor triggered downstairs.”

You stared. “Was someone—?”

“Gone by the time I got there.”

A pause. His jaw clenched.

“But they left this.”

He held out a small item pinched between gloved fingers. It was a bullet. Wrapped in a torn strip of notebook paper. Your name scrawled across it. Your blood ran cold. You reached for it instinctively, but Ni-ki pulled it back.

“No,” he said quietly. “Don’t touch that. You don’t need that image burned into your skin.”

His hand was steady. But the rage in his eyes was shaking loose.

“Ni-ki—” your voice cracked. “Why are they doing this?”

“Because they can’t reach me.” He stepped closer. “So they’re reaching for you.”

You were trembling now. Not from fear, exactly. But from something heavier. Something sharper. He saw it. And suddenly—he was in front of you. Closer. So close you could feel the hum of his energy through the air.

“You’re not leaving this room tonight,” he said lowly.

You looked up. “Are you staying?”

His breath caught. A flicker of restraint moved across his face—before it vanished.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

The lights stayed off. Just the moon. Just his presence. Just the distance between the two of you shrinking with every minute.

Ni-ki didn’t sit in the corner or keep to the couch. He sat beside you. On the bed. Facing you. Knees touching. And neither of you moved.

“I should’ve told you,” he said, after a long stretch of silence. “What kind of world this is. What kind of person I am.”

“You didn’t need to,” you whispered. “I see it.”

“You don’t run from it.”

“No,” you said, bolder now. “Because I see you, too.”

His jaw flexed.

“You don’t get it,” he said. “Everyone else runs. Or lies. Or tries to use me. But you…" His hand lifted. Fingers brushing against your cheek. So gentle it ached. “You walked into all this and didn’t flinch. You throw the ball back, and you stare straight into the barrel.” He leaned in.

“I don’t know what that makes you,” he murmured. “But it makes you mine.”

The kiss didn’t come immediately. He hovered. His lips inches from yours. Breathing you in. Searching your eyes like he needed permission. Like he needed to know this wasn’t some fever dream built on obsession and fire and bullet threats. You gave him the answer without speaking. And then his lips crushed into yours. It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t gentle. It was the kind of kiss that burned. That seared away hesitation and made your skin come alive.

His hand fisted in your shirt, pulling you close. Your fingers slid into his hair, tugging. His other hand gripped your thigh—firm, claiming, like he’d been holding himself back for too long. You gasped into him, and that was all it took for him to push you gently back onto the mattress. His weight didn’t settle on you completely. He hovered, lips tracing fire along your jaw, down your neck.

“You don’t know what you do to me,” he breathed, voice shaking with restraint. “You don’t know how close I am to forgetting every reason why I shouldn’t touch you like this.”

“Then forget them,” you whispered.

His hand stilled on your waist.

“You sure?”

You nodded.

“I want this,” you said. “I want you.”

Something in him shattered. And when his lips found yours again, it was hunger. Raw and wild. But he didn’t go further. Not tonight. Not yet.

Because Ni-ki didn’t want to take. He wanted you to choose. Not in fear. Not because of danger. But because you wanted him.

You weren’t supposed to be in the hallway in the middle of the night. But something had woken you. Not a sound. A feeling.

Like a wire pulling your spine upright. Like your skin had gone cold, your breath too loud. You slipped barefoot out of the room, hoodie wrapped tight around you. That’s when you saw it. The window down the hall. Slightly open. A shadow slipping through it.

Before you could scream—they saw you.

A man. Tall. Pale. Gloves on. A switchblade flashing in one hand.

Your body froze.

And then Ni-ki was there. It happened fast. Brutal. Precise. Ni-ki moved like an unleashed weapon—silent, fluid, lethal. His hand snapped the man’s wrist, blade clattering to the ground. He slammed the intruder into the wall with a dull thud, one arm pressed tight to his neck.

“Who sent you?” Ni-ki growled.

The man choked. “You know who.”

Ni-ki pressed harder.

“Say it.”

“Jeon—” the man gasped. “Jeon Min-jae.”

Ni-ki’s eyes went dead.

“Wrong move.”

One punch. Two. You turned your face away as blood splattered the floor. By the time Ni-ki let the man collapse, he was unconscious—barely breathing. A guard came running. Ni-ki said only three words.

“Take him out. And handle the mission without me tonight."

The hallway emptied. And then he turned to you.

“You saw everything?” he asked, voice too quiet.

You nodded, shaking.

He stepped closer. You weren’t sure who moved first. Maybe you both did. But suddenly—you were clinging to him, fists in his hoodie, heart thudding wild. And Ni-ki pulled you in like he’d been starving.

“I'm sorry,” he breathed. “You shouldn’t have seen this side of me.”

“I wanted to.”

He froze. You looked up, eyes burning.

“I want all of you, Ni-ki.”

And that was it.

You didn’t remember how you made it back to his room.

Just that your back hit the door, and Ni-ki kissed you like he was claiming your breath. His hands were everywhere—your hips, your neck, your thighs—touching like he was trying to memorize every part of you. Your legs wrapped around his waist. He lifted you like it was nothing.

“I’ve wanted this,” he growled, “since the first time you looked at me and didn’t flinch.” You gasped when Niki didn’t waste time, pinning you against the wall, his body pressing into yours, his lips crashing into yours, hungry, desperate, all teeth and tongue. You moaned into the kiss, hands tearing at his jacket, shoving it off his shoulders, your nails raking his arms, leaving marks he’d feel tomorrow.

“Fuck, you’re hot,” he growled, yanking your dress up, bunching it around your waist, his hands finding your panties, ripping them off with a single, sharp tug, the fabric tearing, leaving you bare.

“Nishimura Riki,” you gasped, but you were already reaching for his jeans, fumbling with the button, shoving them down, freeing his cock—thick, hard, the tip slick with precum, pulsing in your hand as you stroked him, slow, then fast, watching his eyes flutter shut, a low groan spilling from his lips. “You owe me new ones.”

“I’ll buy you a fucking wardrobe, baby,” he said, his voice rough, his hands gripping your thighs, lifting you, your legs wrapping around his waist, your back scraping the wall as he positioned himself, his cock teasing your entrance, slick and hot. “But first, I’m gonna make you scream.”

He thrust in, hard, deep, filling you completely, the stretch a delicious burn that made you cry out, your nails digging into his back, tearing through his tank top. “Niki,” you moaned, your head falling back, his lips on your neck, sucking, biting, leaving marks you’d have to hide tomorrow. His pace was brutal, each thrust slamming you into the wall, the sound of skin on skin loud in the small room, your moans echoing, reckless, raw.

“So fucking tight,” he growled, his hand wrapping around your throat, squeezing just enough to make your head spin, to make you feel him, his other hand gripping your waist, making you clench around him, drawing a moan from his lips. “You love this, don’t you? Love being fucked like this.”

“Yes,” you gasped, your hands in his hair, pulling, your body trembling, the pressure building, fast, overwhelming. “Fuck, Niki, don’t stop.”

He didn’t, his thrusts harder, deeper, his fingers slipping between you, finding your clit, rubbing fast, relentless, pushing you to the edge. “Come for me, baby,” he growled, his lips on yours, swallowing your moans as you shattered, your body convulsing, your vision blurring, a scream tearing from your throat as you came, hard, your walls pulsing around him.

He wasn’t done. He pulled out, setting you down, your legs shaky, but he spun you around, bending you over the bed,

“Not done with you yet,” he said, his voice dark, his cock sliding back into you, the new angle hitting deeper, making you moan, your body still sensitive, trembling. He fucked you hard, his hands gripping your hips, bruising, his pace relentless, the bed creaking under your weight.

“Too much,” you whimpered, but your hips pushed back, meeting his thrusts, chasing the high again, your body betraying you, craving more. He spanked you again, harder, the sting making you cry out, your walls clenching, drawing a groan from him.

“Take it,” he growled, his hand in your hair, pulling your head back, his lips on your neck, biting, his other hand on your clit again, rubbing fast, pushing you over the edge a second time, your body shaking, your moans turning to sobs as you came again, harder, your legs giving out.

He followed, spilling inside you with a broken moan, his thrusts slowing, his body collapsing against yours, both of you panting, sweat-slick, the air thick with the scent of sex. He pulled out, turning you around, his lips on yours, soft now, tender, a contrast to the roughness of before. “You okay, baby?” he murmured, his hands cupping your face, his thumbs brushing away the tears on your cheeks.

“Yeah,” you whispered, voice shaky, your body still trembling, but you felt safe, held, the intensity giving way to something softer, something real. “You?”

He smiled, a rare, genuine smile, his eyes soft, warm. “Better than ever,” he said, kissing your forehead, pulling you into his arms, holding you close, the world outside fading away.

The morning sun rose into a new world.

Jeon Min-jae had been arrested that night—his network crushed.

Ni-ki’s name was cleared.

And you? You didn’t go home. You stayed. By his side. Still tangled in his sheets. Still tasting his kiss. Still safe in the arms of the boy with blood on his hands and fire in his chest.

“You’re not scared?” he whispered against your bare shoulder.

“No,” you whispered back. “You’ll protect me.”

He nodded.

“Always.” And when he said always, you knew it wasn’t a promise. It was a vow. Carved into fate. Written in fire. Spoken like a boy born from shadows who had finally found the only thing he couldn’t live without.

His arms curled tighter around you as sunlight broke across the bruised skyline.

“You’re mine,” Ni-ki murmured.

You turned in his arms, gaze steady.

“I always was.”

And in his kiss — fierce, quiet, and full of fire — you felt it. The promise. The danger. The devotion. Because even after the blood dried, even after the war ended, you were no longer just a girl passing by a basketball court on your way home.

You were his. Forever. Marked.

@heesvnqie | Do not steal, plagiarise, translate, or repost any of my work

TAGLIST:-

@slutofpsh

@laurenalpha123

@dreamiestay

@amortenha

@peonywon

@mitmit01

@heeevangelizesme

@gvni-eve

@yourmomni

@leov3rse

@punchbug9-blog

@rosepetals09 @yenienha

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yellow-daisy-lady · 2 months ago

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That's what I got C: and it's beautifully tragic which perfectly fits how I feel lately thank you for the lovely quiz

working on a new quiz. btw :)

#curses quiz #my quizzes #uquiz #quiz link #uquiz link #beautiful curse #beautiful curse uquiz #man i lost this post for a second there and had to scroll all the way back up in the hopes of finding it again #i loved it #it was so poetic #poetry #poetic #art #pretty words

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doyoulikethissong-poll · 5 months ago

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Songs are never spoiling themselves by mentioning their titles or artists because it's a poll, not a quiz. I'm not gonna bleep out words in the songs as if they are quizzes because I'm not asking if people can guess what it is or where it's from.

Spoilers are letting people know beforehand what it is before pressing play, by naming song title*/artist/lyrics/franchise. (*with the very rare exception of specific song titles like "Smooth". "this song is smooth" is ok 😂)

And while on the subject, to the people who are so "helpfully" providing the info to the ones who wonder what the songs are; please send pm's instead of reblogging with the info. 😫

Please don't spoil.

What point is there for me to spend time in editing the songs and posting them as anonymous audio instead of just linking the full thing from youtube/spotify like all the other music poll blogs you can choose to participate in instead when people will know beforehand anyway? It really would be so much quicker and easier for me = you'd get more polls way more often, but there goes the whole concept of this blog.

Thank you for editing your tags!!!!!! Very appreciated!!!!!!! :) 💖💖💖

#other #faq #qna

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heartsforrain00 · 11 months ago

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hey..👹

street racer!Choso x nerdy!reader

NASTY FRAKY SLOPY MESSY DIRTY SHLOPY JUICY WET CARS SEX🤭 like so basically R is a fan of him and snuck out (she has strict parents and shes a good girl) to the street race and found herself talking to choso after the race (he won of course) and he was falling for her in many ways but he really wanted to fuck and so he took her to his car and sent homegirl to POUNDTOWN AND KEPT POUNDING. because she got that good pussy🤭 yk and he cant get enough overstimulating himself and her but she doesn’t mind. she just has to try and make it home before her parents wake up. good thing its the weekend huh🤭🤭

Send that pussy to poundtown ! - Street Racer!Choso Kamo

warnings: street racer Choso, nerdy Reader, slightly rough sex, Choso having a lot of stamina, car sex, choking, hair pulling, Reader having strict parents, overstimulation, backshots, size kink(bro’s dick is like 11-12 inches).

He can’t get enough of that cunt!/🌽link

Choso Kamo

As usual you were at home studying your ass off for your next quiz. Your parents were strict, so they barely allowed you to go anywhere, even if you didn't have any up-coming quizzes or tests.

You never understood why they were so strict anyways, you passed all your tests, exams, and quizzes, straight A's, top of the class, and they still don't let you get a break.

Crazy thing is you don't even live with them, they just keep in contact with your principal. But you're staying with them for spring break.

“You better be studying!” Your mother snapped as she slammed open your door, standing there with your father right behind her.

You look up from your book and nod . “Yes mother, I am.” You say as you look back down at your book.

Your mother didn’t know if you were lying or not, she was just really stupid to believe her own child.

“Good. You need to be prepared for the test after spring break.” She says, as she looks around your room. “What is with all these goddamn posters of this person ?”

That 'person' was Choso Kamo, a really famous street racer that you have a huge crush on. You didn't know when you developed a crush on him, you saw him on TV and fell in love.

You sigh as you look back down at your book, your mother was always yelling at you for the dumbest reasons possible. Meanwhile your father just stood there and allowed her to yell at you.

She huffed as she turned away from you and slammed your door. One day, that door was going to break off, and you weren't about to take the blame for it.

You stand up and open your door, putting your 'i'm studying, do not disturb' sign on your door and closing it, then locking it.

Sighing as you take out your phone, and check the time. It was 7pm, it was almost time for you to get ready for the street race.

MY BAE(BESTIE<3)

- girl ! where are you ? I'm parked around the corner

read at 7:02pm

you look around as you climb out your window and run towards your best friend’s car. You sighed as you got in and she began to drive off to the race.

When you had finally got there, the race was about to start, and you caught glance of Choso Kamo, he was getting in his car, and starting his engine up.

As soon as the flag went down for the racers to start, Choso started off with incredible speed, and safe to say he won!!

Being the shy person you are, your best friend had to drag you up to Choso, just so you would ask him for an autograph, and hug while you're at it!

You look back at your best friend as she nods, looking over to Choso. “Can.. I get your autograph please?”

You questioned, holding out the journal and pen out to him in case he says yes. He hums as he takes the book and signs it.

‘Choso K.♡’ is what your journal read. He put a cute little heart! You smile as you look back at him.

“Hm, I’ve seen you around, you wanna take a ride in my car sweets ?” Choso questioned as he took your hand in his.

You stutter over your words before shutting up and just nodding. He smirks as he leads you to his car and opens the passenger door for you.

You smile as you get inside the car, and puts the seatbelt on. He hums as he gets in on the other side and starts up the engine.

He began to drive through the neighborhood, his thumb tracing small circles on your inner thigh. He looks at you, asking if he has consent to go further.

Your crush — Choso Kamo, wanted to touch you ? Why pass up such an offer! You nod as he moves his hand up further, stopping in a random parking lot.

“Get in the back seat for me sweets.” He says, as you begin to unbuckle your seatbelt and crawl in the back, him following after you.

He asks for permission to push your skirt up, and makes sure your comfortable, he may be a very messy, and anger-issued person in the streets, but in the sheets, he's sweet and aggressive.

You nod as he pushes up your skirt and moves your panties to the side as you hum. He puts his face between your legs, taking in your scent to his nose.

All he smelled was a sweet cunt that was about to get ravished. To him, you smelled like candy, and sweets all that he loved.

He grips your hips, pulling you closer to his face. His face buried in your cunt, as he sticks his tongue to taste you.

“Shit, you taste so fucking good, sweets..” he murmurs as he comes back up and keeps one hand on your hip, the other unbuckling his belt.

He pushes down his boxers and began lazily stroking his cock. you look back, seeing how big his dick was, that shit wasn’t going to fit in you!

He positions his cock at your entrance, humming as he pushes down on your back, making you arch more.

Your face was pressed against his backseat, as he pushed himself inside of you. “Fuck — you feel so good” he murmurs as his grip on your hips tighten.

He began pounding away at that cunt of yours, making himself pussy drunk. He was pounding away as he gripped your hips harder.

His hair clinging to his forehead as he threw his head back. He just kept pounding, not letting either of you cum, he wanted to savor this moment.

Fucking the cute girl of his dreams? Complete! He just finished his bucket list, but he knows he’ll have to make another just to fuck you again.

“Cho—so! Cu—mming!” You managed to scream out, something that wasn’t just his name, or stupid moans about how good his dick was.

His grip on your hips tightened up, as he pressed his chest against your back, whispering sweet nothings into your ear. “cum for me then.”

He murmured as you listened and finally came on his dick. He soon followed after you as you came. “Good girl”

He pulled back and took the condom off.(don’t ask me when he put it on..) He threw it in the trash can he had in his car and pulled you up.

“I should drive you home pretty. You plan to come to my next race right ?” He questioned as he got back in the front seat after cleaning you up and throwing the rag away.

You nod simply as you lay in his backseat, he hums as he looks through his mirror and drives you back home.

You thank him for the drive and walk off, to climb back into your window, it was 2 in the morning currently and your parents were still asleep.

Or should have been. They weren’t, they were having the night of their lives like you just did!

You yawn as you change and fall right onto your bed, a piece of paper flying out of your pocket. It was his number!

I LOVED THIS REQUEST SO MUCH WHAT AND I’M SORRY IT TOOK ME SO LONG TO DO IT

#jjk #jjk smut #choso kamo #street racing #protection #choso smut #choso x reader #jujutsu kaisen #twitter links #p links #poc reader

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covenofagatha · 4 months ago

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The Psychology of Love (Part 7)

The Bar

Your date with Morgan leads to an unexpected confession

Word count: 5.3k

Warnings: brief smut, fingering

A/N: I'll just go ahead and apologize for the cliffhanger 😅

The bar seems pretty crowded already, despite it not even being that late. There’s a line to get in that stretches around the building, ending right before a small alley. You and Morgan get in line behind a couple who is being very handsy and you and Morgan share a knowing look.

“I know I can’t say much considering how we first met,” she mutters and you snort at the memory of her fucking you in the hallway of a sorority house, “but this is just out in the open.”

“At least save it for a corner inside,” you agree and Morgan laughs. “How was your quiz yesterday?”

She looks touched that you remembered. “It wasn’t bad! I think I probably got a B at least. There were like two questions that I genuinely had no clue on. The professor definitely didn’t say anything about them. Although, there was one girl who walked out crying so I think I definitely did better than her.”

You grin. “As long as you weren’t the worst one. I can’t say I’ve ever seen someone leave an exam in tears.” Not yet, anyway. You think Agatha’s tests might put a few of your classmates over the edge, if those reviews hold any truth at all.

Morgan waves her hand dramatically. “I’ve seen it a few times. Especially in the stats classes I’ve taken.”

“Oh, god, yes,” you groan, your body shuddering. “I hate statistics with a passion. I’d rather do straight up calculus.”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” she giggles, “but yes, I agree. Certainly a few tears after that class. A few of them were mine.”

It’s easy to talk to her, a lot easier than you thought it would be. You wish, not for the first time, that you could just be into her. It would certainly save you a lot of trouble. And overthinking.

“How was the presentation thing you had last night?” Morgan asks and the question almost knocks you off your central axis.

You’re a good girl.

Not much else had been on your mind since Agatha said that to you. She had to know what she was doing by calling you that, she had to. And there was the unspoken promise of waiting a few months for her.

You could. You can.

No matter how hard it might be.

“It was interesting,” you answer, trying to think of details from the actual speaker but all you can remember is how the wine on Agatha’s breath smelled, the way she looked at you, the way her pinkie grazed against yours in the car.

Morgan is talking about the little psychology she knows from the general class everyone had to take in their first year, but all you can focus on is the heat spreading from your cheeks down your neck to your stomach.

The second you had gotten back to your dorm last night, you’d done some googling. Wanda had lifted herself on her elbows to watch you as you typed quickly, bent over your computer, but you’d ignored her as you searched Westview student-professor relationship rules.

The first link was to the Westview University policies and you clicked on it. Scanning the pages, you let out a sigh of relief.

Faculty shall not have amorous relationships with students who are in their classes, or when academic work is supervised by a faculty member over a student, or when a faculty member has or is likely to have academic responsibility over a student.

When you’re out of her class, it would be fine.

But if you have her for grad school, it could get into a gray area, and you’re not sure if that applies to being a research assistant for her either.

You next checked the syllabus for her class. The final exam was on the first Friday of December. Thank god the semester is done early. What will happen after you turn it in and you’re no longer her student?

The fantasy of her taking you out to dinner after implants itself in your mind. Her approving smile as she toasts you with another glass of wine. Maybe her foot resting against your shin because she loves to tease.

And after, she’d take you to her car and press you against the outside of it. Whisper about how she’s been wanting to do this for the longest time and how you’ve been so good waiting for her.

You’re a good girl.

The line grows shorter and you’re almost to the entrance. Morgan is still talking about psychology and you try to tune back in.

“—and I was thinking maybe I could double major in psychology, you know? Like, maybe it’d be helpful with political science. Especially if I wanted to go on and be a lawyer. But even for just being able to relate to the constituents when I run for office.”

You hum. “I could see that being helpful.”

She shrugs like it’s a toss-up. “But I decided to minor in communications. My advisor—and my dad—said it’s a good combination.”

The line keeps moving and you pry off your phone case to grab your ID. You didn’t want to have to carry a wallet around so you stuck that and your credit card behind your case. Morgan’s pants have pockets, unlike your skirt, and while you could’ve asked her to hold your wallet, this seemed effective as well.

The bouncer waves you both in and you step into the bar. Alfie’s just opened about a month ago and it’s clearly the place to be, even on a Wednesday night.

It’s a neat place, you think. Very 1970s, as the theme of the bar is stated. The entire room is encased in a fluorescent orange light, reflected by a mirror-ball spinning on the ceiling, there’s a DJ booth in a corner with a record player on the table and vinyls hung on the walls all around him, the bar itself is in the middle of the room, shaped like a rectangle, with green marble countertops and stools. There’s bottles of alcohol on a shelf jutting from the load-bearing wall that connects the ends of the bar and cool glass panes run from the floor to the ceiling on it. Old music that you know from driving in your dad’s car with him pumps over the speakers.

The main room flows into a smaller one, where there's already people in line for the bathrooms and then there’s a section with disco floor tiles and couches around it. Only a few people are on the floor but they look like they’re having the time of their life.

“This is a cool place!” you yell to Morgan, who has to lean in to hear you over the song and the busy chatter. “Do you want a drink?”

She looks over to the bar top, which is packed like sardines in a can. “I’ll go find us a table while you get us something? I’ll just have one of whatever you get.”

You nod and try to push yourself between two people. You spot some people who look to be your age on the adjacent side also trying to flag the bartender down and you think you might be here awhile.

A lone menu is laying on the counter about a foot away from you and you’re able to slide it over easily with the smooth marble. You hold it up and then away from your body, trying to make out the words in the bright light. They have cocktails, martinis, hard liquor, and wine. Chewing on your lip, you read the cocktail list a few times, trying to discern which would taste the best and which one Morgan would also like.

Fingertips drums on the counter in front of you and you look up to see the bartender standing in front of you. She has long red hair and a tattoo of a snake on her neck that runs down into her black tank top. “Do you know what you want, love?”

You take one last look at the menu. “Can I get two Pink Ladies?” Gin, lemon, grenadine, and orange bitters. Sounds like a good combination, at least better than some of the others.

She nods and turns away to start to make them.

“Fancy seeing you here,” a low voice drawls in your ear and the air around you fills with a familiar scent.

“Professor,” you chuckle, tilting your body to let her slide up next to you. Agatha smirks. You can’t stop your eyes from wandering and taking in her outfit and your jaw goes slack.

She’s wearing a black dress that falls down to just below her knees, high collar, and the long-sleeves are mesh and see-through. It’s tight, hugging her curves in all the right ways. Her hair is pulled back in a low pony-tail, her shorter strands hanging loose. Different earrings from last night hang from her earlobes but they match the rings on her fingers. Her lips are painted red and you try to not stare at them. Her heels are open-toed and you can see the maroon nail polish on her toes, complementing the same shade on her fingers.

It’s a far cry from the casual blazer over the t-shirt and pants she was wearing in class earlier. You started learning about the Biological approach and it was definitely not as exciting as the Trait approach. It felt weird just strolling into the room after last night, just having to act like nothing happened.

But there’s the same classic twinkle gleams in her icy-blue eyes as she looks at you now.

It feels like the atmosphere between you two has changed since last night—it's almost become more level. Like she’s no longer holding all the cards.

“Drinking on a school night?” she asks in the husky voice that makes you shiver.

The corner of your mouth quirks up. “Didn’t seem to bother you last night.”

Agatha’s brows raise at your retort before tossing her head back with a laugh. “Well, that’s because I was there to keep you in check. You know, make sure there weren’t any bad decisions being made.”

If you had taken a chance and kissed her, would that have been a bad decision? Not that you ever would, unless she fully gave you permission, but you still wonder.

“Well, you’re also here on a school night,” you point out and your breath catches when Agatha slides the menu out from under your fingertips, her knuckle brushing against yours.

The bartender puts down two circular glasses with a liquid the color of watermelon pink and a lot of ice. She picks out two straws from the container and slides them into the drinks. You hand over your credit card.

“Do you want to start a tab?” she asks and you sneak a peek over to Agatha before shaking your head. The bartender takes your card and goes to charge it as you pick up your drink and enclose your lips over the straw.

Your professor watches intently as you take your first sip and flavor explodes on your tongue. It’s fruity and a bit sour but there’s only a hint of alcohol that you can taste. It’s not bad.

Agatha taps the menu. “Which one did you get?”

“The Pink Lady.” She hums and reads the description and you take a chance. You hold your drink out to her. “Want to try?”

She smiles slyly and leans over, lips sucking on the straw. Your mouth goes dry. She pulls back and hums, her tongue darting out to lick her lips. “Pretty good,” she decides while you stare at her.

The bartender comes back with your card and jolts you out of your stupor. She looks at Agatha, who orders a whiskey soda.

“Where’s your plus one?” Agatha asks, nodding to Morgan’s drink. “If those are both for you, I think I’d have to report you.”

You snort at her teasing tone and scan the crowd for any sign of your date. “She’s around here somewhere.” You think you see a flash of dark hair from somewhere in the corner.

When you turn back to Agatha, you see that her teeth are slightly gritted, but other than that, she’s the picture of composure.

She doesn’t say anything, so you take a long sip, feeling the alcohol course through your veins, before you ask, “So, uh, what are you doing here?”

“A couple other professors and I thought we’d check this place out,” Agatha says, pointing behind you. You turn to see two men and a woman lift their hands in greetings. You recognize the other woman and one of the men from previous classes. “We do have lives outside of the university, you know.”

“Oh, yeah?” You smirk and her eyes light up. “You’re not just in bed by eight o’clock in pajamas, reading the newspaper or something?”

Agatha scoffs. “How old do you think I am?”

You lean in closer, unable to stop from laughing, and motion around to the bar. “I mean, you were alive in the seventies, weren’t you?”

Her mouth drops open in mock offense and you take your straw between your teeth, smiling at her from around it. She shakes her head like you’re really going to get it, and then warns, “You better be careful.”

“Or what?” you challenge and the air changes.

Instead of being playful, it becomes charged. Agatha’s eyes lock onto yours and the bar fades away—it’s just the two of you again. She bites her lip and you chew on the straw, both of you afraid to break the moment.

Agatha takes a step toward you, one of her hands coming up to ghost over your cheek, and you don’t move a muscle. Her eyes dart over to look behind you and you’re suddenly very aware of the fact that three of her colleagues and your date are somewhere in this very room. At least she can check on her colleagues and make sure they’re not watching.

But it’s like the switch goes off in her head and she backs away. You immediately miss her warmth. She regards you, trying to figure out a comeback, but there’s nothing.

“Here’s your whiskey, ma’am,” the bartender says, putting down a glass of dark liquid down before Agatha. “Do you want to start a tab?”

“Oh, no, I’m okay,” she says and pulls out her card. She takes a long sip and you stare at the liquid that beads on her lips when she puts the glass down and looks at you. “I’d offer you a sip but I’m not sure you could handle it.”

Whiskey has never been your thing; it’s got way too strong of a taste, but you’ll be damned if you let her be right. And maybe you want to show her that you can handle more than she thinks.

So you steal the glass from her hand, brushing your fingers against hers, and take a swig. Immediately, you want to spit it out but you swallow the whole thing and chase it with a gulp of your cocktail.

Agatha looks impressed when you hand her back the glass. “Good girl,” she murmurs and a flush of heat tears through you. The bartender comes back with her check and your professor signs it without even looking down.

She straightens up, holding her glass with her pinkie at the bottom and thumb tracing a line on the rim, and you know that she’s about to leave you.

“For the record,” she starts and you watch her expectantly, “if I’m in bed by eight, I’m certainly not reading the newspaper.”

“Oh?” you rasp, a tingling in your veins. “What are you doing, then?”

Agatha smirks knowingly. “Enjoy your night, hon.”

She breezes past you, leaving you in a cloud of her perfume, the only real indication that she was there.

You pick up both drinks and glide through the crowd to find Morgan standing at a table tucked against the wall on her phone. She looks up when you put down her glass.

“God, that took you forever,” she remarks, taking a long sip. She sighs happily. “This really is a busy place.”

“Yeah, the bartender kept skipping me,” you lie, thinking it’s better not to tell her that the professor you have a massive crush on was holding you up. You can see Agatha through the people standing in the middle of the floor. She’s deep in conversation with the other professors, but every now and then, she’ll look over and you’ll make eye contact.

Each time it happens, you feel a jolt run down your spine.

Morgan peers at someone behind you. “I think that kid’s in my class,” she says, pointing. You turn and it’s a group of boys. You think you’ve seen some of them around campus.

“Do you want to go say hi?” you ask, not sure if that’s what she’s hinting at.

She shrugs. “I’d rather dance.”

“Oh—well, that can be arranged,” you say with a grin and you grab her hand and lead her to the dancefloor. A song that you don’t know is playing so you and Morgan just sway to the beat while still working on your drinks.

Out of your periphery, you can see Agatha now openly staring at you.

Emboldened, and maybe feeling the gin a little, you wrap a hand around Morgan’s lower back and pull her against you. She lets out a little noise but puts her free hand over your shoulder. The music picks up, the beat thumping in your veins, and you and Morgan start moving against each other.

It’s a bit harder with the drinks in your hands and you’re careful not to spill them on each other as you start to grind on one another. It’s not really the right music for sensual dancing, but you two lose yourself in it. Your movements are over-exaggerated because you can feel Agatha’s eyes on you.

Your hand intertwines in Morgan’s hair, your forehead resting against hers, and she leans down to take a sip of your own drink. It’s intimate and Agatha scowls.

Morgan pulls back and spins around and you untangle your fingers from her hair and wrap that arm around her stomach. She rubs herself against you and you shoot Agatha a scandalizing wink, the ability to think twice about anything eluding you.

Agatha swallows the rest of her whiskey in one gulp.

Morgan turns back to you and you know what she’s going to do before she does it.

Her lips meet yours in an open-mouth, sloppy kiss because you’re both a little tipsy now. You hardly feel anything, hardly notice anything except for the buzzing in your head and the heavy weight of Agatha’s glare.

Agatha—

You break the kiss, strands of saliva still connecting you to Morgan, and look over to where you know your professor is.

Just in time to see her slam her glass on the table, say something to her colleagues, and storm out of the bar.

Fuck.

“I have to go to the bathroom,” you tell Morgan, who nods and lets you go. You drop your glass on a random table, ignoring the calls of the people sitting there, and chase after her. You shoulder open the exit door and barely even feel the pain shooting through your arm.

The line outside the bar has dwindled to about five people now and in the distance, you see Agatha. She turns the corner into the little alleyway that you and Morgan were standing by earlier and when you skid to a stop in front of it, Agatha is standing a few yards in front of you, back facing you, arms crossed over her chest.

She’s waiting, like she knew you’d come after her.

You clear your throat and take a step closer. “Are you okay?” You’re not sure what to expect—maybe a declaration of how she feels or maybe she was just feeling sick or overwhelmed—but when she turns around, she looks mad.

Fire burns in her eyes and you feel cold fear dripping in your blood.

“You’re not being very subtle,” she snarls, advancing toward you, but you stand your ground. Whatever you were expecting, or hoping for, was not this. You didn’t think she would be angry.

“What are you talking about?” you ask, bewildered.

Agatha scoffs, her face contorting into something wicked. She is a completely different person than when she came up to you at the bar but there’s something hot about her like this. You get it now—she’s jealous.

You like when she’s jealous.

“Parading around with someone who looks just like me? Dancing like that?” It strikes a nerve, she sees it in your eyes. She smirks. “Tell me that’s not what you’re doing.”

“It’s not,” you say, but your voice wavers.

She steps closer—close enough for you to smell the alcohol on her breath. It’s dark and heavy. Her perfume clouds your senses and your judgment, like it always does.

Agatha leans in, her face right against your ear and if you turned your head even an inch to the side, your lips would touch hers.

But you can’t move.

“Are you sure?” She draws out the sure, making it nothing more than a low hiss, and you fight the urge to shudder.

Agatha pulls back and flicks your chin up with two fingers, a stretched grin making her look mean. You shake your head, refusing to meet her eyes because you’re not sure you’ll be able to stop yourself from doing something that you can’t.

“You said we had to wait—”

“Don’t,” she snaps, holding up her hand. She pinches the bridge of her nose and shakes her head, eyes closing.

What is going on? Why is she doing this?

“Professor,” you breathe, you implore. “Agatha.”

It’s the first time you’ve ever said her name.

It’s a break in the facade you two have been keeping up. The facade that she’s just your professor and you’re just her student.

There’s no way you can go on pretending that anymore.

Agatha drops her hand and looks at you, something dangerous and new written on her face. Her eyes are dark and they make a chill run through you when she claims you with them.

“Tell me you think about me when you’re with her,” she urges, demands, and you’re almost afraid to venture into this otherwise unknown territory.

What happens if you say yes?

“You made that pointed comment about transference outside the pizza place that night,” you rasp. The unspoken words of you already know are brimming beneath the surface—who will uncover them first?

Agatha remains determined and clucks her tongue. “I want to hear you say it.”

You chance a glance down at her mouth and her tongue peeks out to lick her lips. If you say yes, will she give you what you want?

What you both want?

Your heart is pounding louder than it ever has before, so loud you can barely hear yourself whisper, “Yes.”

She finally looks satisfied. Agatha smugly nods to herself in victory, composure settling back over her face, and turns on her heel. Her hair flips over her shoulder, almost hitting you in the process.

You watch her stroll away from you—should you call after her? beg her to stay?—and down the entire length of the sidewalk until she vanishes around the building. You stand by yourself for what feels like hours, just dumbfounded, until finally going back inside in a trance-like manner. Disappointment is cutting a hole into your stomach—you were so close to something.

But then Agatha just walked away from you.

And she knows now that you like her. That you want her. That you imagine you’re with her when you're with Morgan.

She seemed only too delighted in that fact.

The gleam in her eyes, the way she made you say it, like she needed to hear it. Like she didn’t already know how crazy she was driving you, or maybe she just wanted the satisfaction of confirming it.

But you got to her too, no matter how much she pretends to be in control. She was the one who got jealous and stormed out when you were dancing with Morgan.

Morgan, who didn’t even notice you were gone. You find her now talking to the boy she pointed out earlier about their shared class and she barely looks up when you sidle next to her. Your body is on fire, your breathing is ragged, and there’s a throbbing between your legs that is consuming you.

“Are you ready to go?” you whisper in her ear and she glances at you for a mere second. “Maybe we could go back to your place?

At the suggestion in your tone, she perks up. “Ryan, I’ll see you tomorrow?” she says to the boy and he nods, looking a little dejected.

You order an Uber as you’re pulling her out of the bar by the hand and it’s parked out front of the bar in a matter of minutes. You look around one last time for any sign of your professor, but she is gone. Did she text the teachers she was with that she had to run? Or did she just up and leave with no warning, just because of you?

It was risky for her to appear so bothered, but it only makes the pulsing of your clit worse to know that she didn’t care.

The drive back to Morgan’s apartment is only about twenty minutes, and it’s twenty minutes of you squirming in your seat and Morgan giving you a look every now and then.

“You okay?” she finally asks quietly. The driver turns his head slightly to the side so he can make sure to hear your answer over the softly playing music.

You nod. “Yeah, just excited to get back.”

When the car pulls up in front of her dorm building, you throw the door open and get out, barely remembering to thank the driver. You’ll give him five stars later. Morgan struts to the lobby door, key fob in hand.

She had been waiting outside when you picked her up earlier, so you linger behind her while she shoves open the door to the stairs. You take two-at-a-time to the third floor and she walks down the long carpeted hallway to the door at the end.

“Are your roommates home?” you ask, voice cracking.

Morgan slides her key into the lock. “Even if they are, we can just go to my room. This is one of the four-fours.” Four bedrooms and four bathrooms. God, how nice that must be. While you love sharing a room with Wanda, you do wish you had more space a lot of the time.

Especially some private space. And your own bathroom?

“You’re living the life,” you say in awe and Morgan huffs out a chuckle.

The door opens into darkness, the only light coming from the moon in the window, and you carefully follow her to the second bedroom on the left.

She flicks on the light and closes her bedroom door and you take it in. She has a full-sized bed with a mossy green duvet and white pillows, a leafy plant in a translucent purple vase on the nightstand, fairy lights and artificial vines hanging from the walls. You kick off your shoes and feel the soft, plush rug under your feet as you step over to look at the pictures on her walls. There’s a lot of her and her dad, her in town hall meetings, her with friends.

“This is a really nice room,” you breathe. What does Agatha’s room look like? You’re picturing something modern, something upscale. Definitely a lot of psychology books.

Morgan’s hands slide on your hips and you turn around to face her. Her eyes look more green than blue with her eyeliner. You hadn’t noticed that earlier. Her hair is mussed up from dancing at the bar, effortlessly pretty. You cup her cheeks and she smiles, pink lips contrasting with her perfect white teeth.

You pull her to you, mouths meeting in the middle, and you can taste the fruity drink you both had earlier. It’s a soft kiss at first, just tentative brushes against each other, but then you inhale through your nose and smell her perfume.

It’s suddenly Agatha that you’re kissing and one of your hands trails down to her lower back to press her closer against you. The coffee and vanilla and spice—the scent seems darker, almost—swirls around your head and you moan.

Tell me you think about me when you’re with her.

She pushes up your shirt and you gasp at her fingertips on your bare skin. Heat seeps through to your stomach and you grip her closer. Her tongue languidly moves against yours, a stark contrast to the urgency pooling inside you.

How much more of this can you take?

You reach down and tear off your shirt and then hers, your lips immediately dropping down to nip at her collarbone. You feel her chest flare under your mouth and a thrill runs through you.

Tell me that’s not what you’re doing.

Everything is happening so fast. Her scent and taste overwhelms you and you breathe hotly against her pale skin. Her fingers creep up your back and unclasp your bra. She glides it down your arms while you now suck at her cleavage and she gasps.

You’re pulled up by your hair, her lips clash against yours, and you lose yourself in the kiss with your eyes still closed.

Fingers play with the hem of your skirt and when her skin brushes against your lower stomach, there’s a tug from behind your navel to your cunt. Your hands push down her bra over her breasts and cup them, thumbs rolling her nipple. She moans.

I want to hear you say it.

“Yes,” you gasp and she slides her hand down and underneath your skirt. You feel like you’re floating outside your own body, like this pleasure isn’t really yours. How strong was that drink? You can taste it on her breath still, the lemon and the grenadine and the orange bitters. The gin.

Your chest heaves and you see Agatha smirking at you, taunting you with condescending praise about how needy you are for her. You are needy for her—you don’t think there’s anything you’ve ever wanted this much.

She finds your clit over your underwear and presses on it and you keen loudly. Your sounds are swallowed by her mouth and you frantically moan for more. You grip onto her wrist, feeling the muscles tense as she moves to stroke her fingers over your clothed slit.

“Please—fuck,” you groan.

She pushes the gusset of your panties over and skates her warm fingers through your swollen folds and you bite down on her lip to keep yourself from crying out. Her breath catches and she teases your entrance. Your walls are already clenching around nothing, your clit sensitive and aching, and her perfume is just making you wetter.

“Please,” you beg again.

You finally get what you want—her finger pushes slowly into you and your mouth drops open, panting against her lips. It’s good, so good, but you need so much more.

A second finger enters you and your hips jerk.

You’re a good girl.

“Yes, fuck, yes—Agatha,” you breathe and immediately your muscles stiffen. You hear a slight choking sound and your eyelashes flutter open to see a pair of shocked green eyes.

Not blue.

Morgan stares back at you, hurt written all over her face.

Part Eight

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