#missing without delete key | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

cheftsunoda · 1 month ago

Text

young, dumb & in love — ob87

smau + blurbs

ollie bearman x !leclerc sibling reader

charles leclerc x !sister reader

ollie is in love with the youngest leclerc and no one knows except the two of them

fc : fatherkels

not proofread

—

everyonelovesvivi

los angeles, california 📍

liked by charles_leclerc, alexandrasaintmleux, kimi.antonelli & 2,278,174 others.

everyonelovesvivi : LA with my loves @/chanel 🩵 shop the spring ‘25 collection now

—

charles_leclerc : beautiful mon cœur! but when are you coming home?:(

liked by everyonelovesvivi

everyonelovesvivi : getting on the plane soon cha

arthur_leclerc : we better be your first stop

liked by charles_leclerc and everyonelovesvivi

arthur_leclerc : and i expect gifts since i was not allowed on this trip

everyonelovesvivi : guys i was gone for like two weeks but i will see you soon i promise

charles_leclerc : two weeks too long

lorenzotl : ma belle petite soe!

liked by everyonelovesvivi

everyonelovesvivi : je t’aime enzooooo❤️

alexandrasaintmleux : i am so in love with you 😻

liked by everyonelovesvivi

everyonelovesvivi : the actual love of my life

liked by alexandrasaintmleux

charles_leclerc : um im right here ???

everyonelovesvivi : i will make her a leclerc before you do

liked by alexandrasaintmleux and arthur_leclerc

lando : pretty viv

liked by everyonelovesvivi

everyonelovesvivi: aye get this cougar away from me

liked by lando

lando : so you like cougars?🧎🏼‍♂️

liked by everyonelovesvivi

arthur_leclerc : currently having someone ban lando from the internet

liked by lando and everyonelovesvivi

kimi.antonelli : così sbalorditivo🤩

liked by everyonelovesvivi

charles_leclerc : i speak italian too. OUT. NOW.

kikagomes : lordddd you are so beautiful it is insane

liked by everyonelovesvivi

everyonelovesvivi : come gimme a kiss angel

pierregasly : can your brothers put a leash on you? save some women for the rest of us

everyonelovesvivi : no but kika can 😈

liked by kikagomes

arthur_leclerc : going to jump off the nearest bridge now

francolapinto : Qué linda, déjame sacarte y tratarte bien.��😻

liked by everyonelovesvivi

charles_leclerc : @/carlossainz55 what does this mean

carlossainz55 : So pretty. Let me take you out and treat you right.

francolapinto : snitch

carlossainz55 : padel when you get back???

liked by everyonelovesvivi

everyonelovesvivi : obvi carlitos

alexalbon : not without me!!

liked by everyonelovesvivi

everyonelovesvivi: bring my lily

olliebearman : pretty girl

liked by everyonelovesvivi

everyonelovesvivi : such a cutie pie

liked by olliebearman

charles_leclerc : just delete this whole post please. i cannot spend all day scolding people in your comments

arthur_leclerc : i can. keep it up. i like to argue

—

your pov!

I had barely dropped my suitcase in the hallway when the doorbell rang. I didn’t even have time to change out of my hoodie and Chanel slides. I opened the door, and there he was — all curls, crooked grin, and carrying my favorite overpriced coffee order.

“Missed you,” Ollie said, stepping inside before I could even close the door. He leaned down to kiss me, but I dodged.

“Wait—someone might—”

“Vivienne!” Arthur’s voice echoed through the apartment hallway. “Heard you’re back! We brought snacks!”

We. That means both of them.

I looked at Ollie. He blinked. “What the hell is he doing here?” I hissed.

He raised both hands. “You told me they wouldn’t be back until tomorrow!”

“Yeah, well, apparently they lied.”

A knock followed by the sound of the door unlocking. Oh my god. Of course Charles still has a key.

I shoved Ollie toward my bedroom. “Closet. Now.”

His eyes widened. “Viv, I literally just got here.”

“Do you want to die before your next race? Closet. Go.”

He disappeared into my room just as Charles walked in with Arthur trailing behind him, both holding bakery bags and suspicious eyes.

“You look… guilty,” Charles narrowed his eyes.

“I look jet-lagged,” I replied, snatching a croissant. “Thanks for breaking into my home.”

Arthur peered around. “Anyone here?”

I nearly choked. “Why would someone be here?”

“You always FaceTime us when you land,” Charles said slowly. “You didn’t this time. Suspicious.”

“Or I was tired and wanted to shower and sleep without being grilled about my skincare routine.”

There was a loud thump from my bedroom. Arthur’s eyes darted toward the hallway.

“That was… the suitcase. It fell. Clumsy me.”

Charles started walking toward the room.

“NOPE!” I intercepted. “You are not going in there. I have laundry and unpacking and—girl stuff.”

That stopped them. Barely.

Arthur wrinkled his nose. “Gross.”

Charles raised a brow. “You sure everything’s okay?”

Behind me, I prayed Ollie wasn’t currently sneezing in my closet or accidentally stepping on a rogue high heel.

I forced a smile. “Never better.”

—

The door finally shut with a click, followed by the sound of footsteps fading down the hallway. I didn’t move. I waited a beat… two… then sprinted to my bedroom and flung the closet door open. Ollie was half-squatting between a pile of shoes and a hanging rail of dresses, eyes wide, hair slightly sticking up, and holding one of my pink fuzzy heels like it had been his emotional support item.

They gone?” he whispered.

“Gone,” I exhaled.

He flopped onto the floor like he’d just won a war. “I saw my life flash before my eyes when Arthur mentioned noise.”

“You’re the one who stepped on my hair curler!”

“You’re the one who has traps in their closet!”

I smacked him with a throw pillow. He grabbed it mid-swat and pulled me down next to him.

“I can’t believe you made me hide like some side character in a teen movie,” he muttered, resting his head on my shoulder. “I drive just like them!”

“You’re lucky you’re not driven over by my brothers.”

He snorted. “If Arthur ever finds out I was hiding in here, I think he might actually try to fight me.”

“Arthur would lose. But dramatically.”

“And Charles?”

I paused. “Charles would smile politely, go completely silent, and then ruin your life in a hundred passive-aggressive ways over the next five years.”

He groaned. “You’ve got such a terrifying family.”

“You’re the one who wanted to date a Leclerc,” I teased, poking his side.

He looked up at me and smirked. “Yeah. And I’d do it again.”

—

everyonelovesvivi

monaco 📍

liked by lando, arthur_leclerc, olliebearman & 5,277,954 others.

everyonelovesvivi : back home means back on my bs and back with my beloveds

(ty to whoever sent me this meme on twitter ily) (its not worth it😰)

—

charles_leclerc : what is this meme??! i do not understand

liked by everyonelovesvivi, arthur_leclerc & alexandrasaintmleux

charles_leclerc : mon chèri please delete that before ferrari sees it and posts it 5 times

scuderiaferrari : she already sent me it! thanks viv

everyonelovesvivi: ofc admin!

alexandrasaintmleux : missed you sm my angel

liked by everyonelovesvivi

alexalbon : “back on my bs” means beating my ass in padel and then flirting with my girlfriend

liked by everyonelovesvivi and lilymhe

everyonelovesvivi : exactly

lilymhe : love you pretty gal

liked by everyonelovesvivi

kikagomes : you ate that fit down mama

liked by everyonelovesvivi

lando : you’ve been back for what… a week? and i still haven’t seen you😀🔫

liked by everyonelovesvivi

everyonelovesvivi : literally asked you to lunch yesterday and you said you were busy…okay mr celebrity

maxfewtrell : he does it to me too

liked by everyonelovesvivi

lando : oh so its just a lando hate train now???

isackhadjar : belle fille❤️

liked by everyonelovesvivi

charles_leclerc : not you too. no more rookies allowed.

kimi.antonelli : heyyyy viviii😍

jackdoohan : Viv! Dinner sometime??

olliebearman : the prettiest girl in the world

liked by everyonelovesvivi

gabrielbortoleto_ : 😻😻😻

charles_leclerc : god damnit max come get your kids

liked by maxverstappen1 & everyonelovesvivi

—

Ollie’s across the court, spinning the racket in that cocky, show-off way that I would find annoying — if I wasn’t hopelessly in love with him.

“Ready, rookie?” I call out with a smirk.

Carlos snorts. “You’re actually terrifying. You’ve got Charles’ obsession with winning and Arthur’s reckless aim.”

Alex groans from beside him. “Yeah, and somehow that combo always ends with me getting hit in the knee.”

“I don’t aim for you,” I say sweetly, bouncing the ball once. “That’s just a bonus.”

I serve hard, and the ball flies past Alex with satisfying precision. He lets out an exaggerated ugh as he stumbles sideways.

“Can you two not flirt mid-game?” he mutters. “Some of us are trying to survive.”

Ollie jogs up to the net, grinning at me, cheeks flushed. “You’re kind of hot when you’re competitive.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Kind of?”

He leans in, just enough so Carlos can definitely hear, and murmurs, “Okay, really hot.”

Carlos groans dramatically. “This is worse than Charles and his guitar phase. I’m getting flashbacks.”

Alex drops his racket entirely. “Am I the only one who came here to play padel and not witness a make out session?”

I turned to face Alex with a smile. “You’re just mad that you are losing.”

“We’re literally tied,” Alex snaps causing Carlos to chuckle.

—

everyonelovesvivi added to her story!

seen by alexandrasaintmleux, olliebearman, alexalbon & 4,387,345 others.

carlossainz55 : invite someone who knows how to cook (me)

everyonelovesvivi : you just want leftovers

alexalbon : i was shouting KISS the entire time

everyonelovesvivi : not the ideal hard launch situation

alexandrasaintmleux : will keep charles off the internet as long as possible🫡

everyonelovesvivi: u da best

arthur_leclerc : why was “just kiss already” heard in the background???

read at 9:54 am

—

“This is either going to end in an amazing dinner or a fire,” I mutter as Ollie stares at the chopping board like it just insulted him.

“It’s literally a tomato,” I add, nudging his elbow. “Not someone trying to take you out at turn three.”

Ollie side-eyes me with a crooked grin. “You’re one to talk. I saw what you did to the basil.”

“That was artistic slicing,” I say, tossing some into the bowl with flair.

“You looked like you were fighting off demons.”

I shrug, flashing a sweet smile to the camera. “That’s just my process.”

We’re halfway through this Haas x [Brand Name] cooking segment — a crossover no one expected but somehow works. Ollie’s here as part of the team partnership, and I’ve worked with the brand before. Naturally, someone thought putting us in a kitchen together was a good idea.

Spoiler: It wasn’t. But we’re making it work. Mostly.

“You know,” he says under his breath as he reaches past me for the olive oil, “we make a pretty good team.”

I glance at him. “Is that before or after you nearly set the garlic bread on fire?”

“Details.” He grins. “I’d cook with you any day.”

My brain short-circuits for half a second. “Careful. You say stuff like that and the internet’s going to start rumors.”

He leans in just slightly, eyes still on the camera crew. “Maybe I want them to.”

I blink. “Ollie.”

Before I can say anything else, Esteban’s voice comes from behind the monitor. “JUST KISS ALREADY.”

I choke on my laugh, and Ollie immediately goes red, hiding behind a tea towel like it might save him.

The brand rep looks delighted. I already know the clip will be all over social media within the hour. We keep filming, but our hands brush more than necessary. His smile lingers a little too long. My cheeks hurt from trying not to look too obvious.

—

olliebearman

liked by everyonelovesvivi, kimi.antonelli, arthur_leclerc & 1,238,397 others.

olliebearman : wasn’t our weekend but at least i had good company.

onto monaco

—

everyonelovesvivi : i told you not to take that pic until the pancakes came out…they were the real star of the show 😍

liked by olliebearman

olliebearman : picture looks great without them

arthur_leclerc : wait what

kimi.antonelli : ooooo i made it to an ollie photo dump 😻😻

liked by olliebearman

haasf1team : who gave you permission to be this aesthetic?

arthur_leclerc : @/charles_leclerc

everyonelovesvivi : u r so annoying i stg

—

everyonelovesvivi

liked by alexandrasaintmleux, olliebearman, lando & 4,478,295 others.

everyonelovesvivi : “forza ferrari” i yell as they drag me to my padded cell.

watching this team gives me a bellyache. charles find a new team.

—

lando : we need to put this caption on merch

liked by everyonelovesvivi

everyonelovesvivi : “watching this team gives me a bellyache” in Ferrari script? say less

charles_leclerc : i honestly feel like you could come up with better strategy atp

liked by everyonelovesvivi

everyonelovesvivi : def could @/scuderiaferrari put me in coach

scuderiaferrari : go ahead. what do we have to lose?

olliebearman : at least we met a cute puppy

liked by everyonelovesvivi

arthur_leclerc : don’t think i forgot about you bearman

everyonelovesvivi : you are about as intimidating as leo

carlossainz55 : that team gave me a bellyache too

liked by everyonelovesvivi

everyonelovesvivi : so much so that they had to emergently take some of your tummy out

isackhadjar : seeing a whole lot of ollie here???🤨

liked by olliebearman and everyonelovesvivi

—

everyonelovesvivi

paris, france 📍

liked by alexandrasaintmleux, charles_leclerc, lewishamilton & 12,357,022 others.

everyonelovesvivi : a little bit surreal, a lot bit real — proud (and still slightly panicked) to share that i got to design my own collection for @/louisvuitton. every stitch, every sketch, every late night was worth it. i can’t wait to show you what we made— (here are a few sneak peeks while you wait)

thank you again for trusting me @/pharrell & @/louisvuitton. all the love in the world. 💋

—

charles_leclerc : HOW DID I NOT KNOW ABOUT THIS

liked by everyonelovesvivi

everyonelovesvivi : surprise?

charles_leclerc : holy shit, congratulations mon chèri! so proud of you.

liked by everyonelovesvivi

arthur_leclerc : am i a model or am i banned

liked by everyonelovesvivi

everyonelovesvivi : banned due to the fact that you broke into my apartment and ate my leftovers out of my own fridge

arthur_leclerc : understandable

arthur_leclerc : BUT OMG IM SO PROUD OF YOU

liked by everyonelovesvivi

olliebearman : i stood up and screamed so fast i almost fell

liked by everyonelovesvivi

everyonelovesvivi : don’t hurt yourself— i need that beautiful face bruise free when i send you down the runway

liked by olliebearman

zendaya : obsessed already

liked by everyonelovesvivi

haasf1team : team fits??

liked by everyonelovesvivi

kikagomes : OH MY GOD OH MY GOD OH MY GOD

liked by everyonelovesvivi

alexandrasaintmleux : i am literally so proud of you. this is insane!!

liked by everyonelovesvivi

lewishamilton : This is absolutely insane, Vivi. I can’t wait to see the rest! Congratulations

liked by everyonelovesvivi

everyonelovesvivi : the fashion god himself 🧎🏻‍♀️

pierregasly : how much is too much? bc i will be buying the whole collection.

liked by everyonelovesvivi

everyonelovesvivi : not a question a frenchman should ever asked. go wild.

—

My heart was pounding out of my chest but I’d never let anyone see it. I sat next in between Alex, Kika and Lily as we all got our makeup done. Today was the day, the day I unveiled my collection.

“Ms. Leclerc?” I heard the PR girl ask. I turn my head towards her.

“You have some guests. Is it okay to let them back?” she asked, clipboard in hand.

I blinked, surprised. “Of course. Please.”

Almost immediately, the door opened and a flood of familiar voices and footsteps filled the room.

“There she is!” Arthur’s voice rang out, full of excitement as he strode in ahead of Charles. Both of them wore those looks that said, I’m proud but trying not to embarrass you. Charles caught my eye and gave me a smile. “Knew you’d kill it. You look incredible.”

I tried to keep my smile steady. “Save the compliments for after. I don’t want to cry before I walk.”

Lily laughed softly beside me, raising her eyebrow. “If you do, we’ll fix your makeup. No worries.”

More faces followed — Carlos, Lando, Oscar, Pierre, George — half the grid, it seemed, all gathered backstage as if this was a race day pit stop. Many were decked out in pieces from my collection, which I knew Charles had sneakily shared far and wide.

“I said sneak peeks, not wardrobe raids,” I teased Charles, who just shrugged with a grin.

“Brand awareness,” he replied smoothly.

Then Ollie slipped in quietly, without a fuss or fanfare. His calm presence cut through the excitement like a cool breeze. He gave me a soft smile as he moved to stand close by, close enough that I felt the warmth radiate without him needing to say a word.

“You okay?” he asked quietly, just for me.

I met his eyes in the mirror, nodding. “Trying to be.”

He smirked. “You’re about to show everyone the world you’ve been building in your head. That’s pretty damn impressive.”

I laughed softly. “I was hoping you’d notice that jacket with the cropped collar.”

“Maybe,” he teased. “Or maybe I just wanted to see you shine — terrifying and brilliant all at once.”

I caught his gaze a moment longer than I should have, then remembered the room full of people watching us — my brothers, friends, the grid — and pulled myself together.

Arthur plopped into the chair beside me, draping an arm over the back. “She cried over fabric samples last month, but today? Rock solid. Explain that.”

“Growth,” I said, rolling my eyes.

“Delusion,” Lily shot back with a grin.

—

The last model stepped off the runway, and the applause hit like a wave—loud, overwhelming, and utterly real. I let out a shaky breath, finally allowing myself to relax just a little. Backstage, Ollie was waiting, calm and steady as always. Without a word, he reached out, his hand finding mine, fingers curling around gently. The warmth of his touch grounded me in a way nothing else could.

“You absolutely nailed it,” he said softly, his voice low and warm.

I glanced up at him, a small smile tugging at my lips. “Not sure I believe that yet.”

He gave me a slow, confident smile, the kind that made the noise outside feel distant and irrelevant. “I do.”

He placed a small kiss on my forehead. For a brief moment, it was just us—quiet in the chaos—until the door suddenly burst open.

Charles, Arthur, Maman, Carlos, and half the grid came rushing in, their faces glowing with excitement and pride.

“You were incredible,” Charles said, his grin impossibly wide.

Arthur pulled me into a quick hug. “You made history tonight.”

Maman’s eyes shimmered with tears as she held me close. “My brilliant girl.”

Carlos handed me a bouquet, still laughing. “Told you I’d come through with the flowers.”

Lando and Oscar were already bickering over who cheered the loudest, and through it all, Ollie squeezed my hand once more before letting go.

—

I wasn’t nervous until we got out of the car.

Ollie, of course, looked like he’d been born on a red carpet — cool, calm, a hand resting casually on my lower back as if it was the most natural thing in the world. Which, to be fair, it kind of was. Just… not in front of every F1 driver and WAG we know.

“You good?” he murmured as we stepped up to the entrance, where security was checking names.

“Define ‘good,’” I muttered. “My brothers are inside. You’re holding my hand. This is either going to be iconic or catastrophic.”

He grinned. “Why not both?”

The door opened, and in we walked.

The screening room was dimly lit, scattered with couches and plush cinema seats — very “rich people private event” coded. There were maybe thirty people total. Kika and Lily sat near the front, mid-laugh, next to Carlos and Alex. Arthur and Charles were by the snack bar, Arthur already holding two slushies like he was twelve.

And then they saw us.

I felt it happen in waves — the way every conversation subtly paused, every head turned just slightly. It wasn’t dramatic, just noticeable. Like a ripple through still water.

Ollie didn’t hesitate. He gave a small wave with his free hand — as if this was nothing. As if we hadn’t just walked into the F1 equivalent of a family dinner and announced, surprise, we’re dating.

I caught Kika’s eyes first. She blinked, mouth dropping open just slightly. Lily leaned over, said something, and then visibly gasped. Carlos snorted into his drink. Alex gave us a slow, approving nod.

Charles and Arthur? Oh, they froze.

Arthur looked personally victimized. Charles’s brows shot so high I thought they’d fly off his face.

I braced.

And then Charles, ever the dramatic older brother, just crossed his arms and said loudly, “Et depuis quand?”

“Depuis longtemps,” I replied sweetly, pulling Ollie a little closer.

Arthur just groaned and flopped against the wall like the world had ended. “I knew something was up when you posted that video cooking together. You were looking at each other like—like—like it was a rom-com montage!”

“Happy for you, bro,” Lando said, appearing behind them and giving Ollie a subtle high five. “I give it fifteen minutes before Charles starts threatening to run you off the track.”

“He already did that,” Carlos deadpanned.

To his credit, Charles recovered quickly. He walked over, studied Ollie.

“I don’t love this,” he said to me. “But I like him. So… I’ll behave.”

“For now,” Arthur added, pointing a slushie straw at Ollie. “I’m watching you.”

I rolled my eyes, but I couldn’t stop smiling.

—

everyonelovesvivi

liked by olliebearman, alexandrasaintmleux, lando & 5,238,289 others.

everyonelovesvivi : i love my bf

—

haasf1team : our favorite duo

liked by olliebearman & everyonelovesvivi

charles_leclerc : sigh. now that I know I have to see it all over my feed all the time

liked by everyonelovesvivi

everyonelovesvivi : yes but now at least you don’t have to chase half the grid out of my comment section

charles_leclerc : true

alexandrasaintmleux : so cute 🫶🏻

liked by everyonelovesvivi

lando : kind of expected a more emotional reaction from Charles

liked by everyonelovesvivi

olliebearman : if it makes you feel better…at the first family dinner Charles threatened me for 45 minutes while viv and Arthur played fifa

liked by lando, Arthur_leclerc & everyonelovesvivi

lando : yep that sounds like the charles I know

carlossainz55 : FINALLLYYYY

liked by everyonelovesvivi

charles_leclerc : wait how long did you know???

carlossainz55 : like since it happened

charles_leclerc : oh the betrayal

olliebearman : love you forever even if it means dealing with your brothers for that long too❤️

liked by everyonelovesvivi

—

olliebearman

liked by everyonelovesvivi, alexalbon, kimi.antonelli & 2,275,890 others.

olliebearman : i love my gf

—

everyonelovesvivi : my whole world

liked by olliebearman

alexalbon : so proud of you, my child.

liked by olliebearman

charles_leclerc : watch those hands, bearman.

olliebearman : yes sir 🤓

arthur_leclerc : unfollowing both of you for my mental health

liked by everyonelovesvivi and olliebearman

everyonelovesvivi : oh good so I can be thirsty for ollie on my main

liked by olliebearman

charles_leclerc : absolutely not

arthur_leclerc : vivienne i will find the nearest bridge and launch myself off of it

—

🦋🌙🧚🏻🪲🐢🦕🪼

1K notes · View notes

markluvrrr · 3 months ago

Text

mark one shot

☆ starring. mark lee x fem! reader

☆ summary. Mark was having trouble with composing a song for his upcoming solo album. But then it clicked, he was missing something. You.

☆ warnings. MINORS DO NOT INTERACT oral sex (fem receiving) fingering, recording sex, unprotected sex (don't do this), creampie, mark is sexy asf

☆ wc: 1.5k (not proofread. i wrote this in one sitting oops)

ᯓ Mark was hard at work these past few weeks, in between working on his solo album and promoting for NCT Dream, he almost had no time for you.

But nowadays, majority of the time he was in the studio, you were too. You were becoming clingy, but not unbearingly clingy. You just needed to be in the same presence as Mark, or you'd go insane.

You watched as Mark played with a few keys on his keyboard, adding and deleting stuff on the screen. He was producing one of the songs for his album all on his own, and he was having trouble.

"Babe, you should take a break." You call out, sitting up on the couch that was across the room from the desk that had all of the equipment needed to make music.

Mark sighs, taking his headphones off and pinching the bridge of his nose. "I just can't figure out what's missing..."

You hum, understanding how stressful this was for him. He needed to complete the album before the deadline that was fast approaching. "You will Mark, you always do."

He smiles at that, standing from his chair, stretching before falling onto the couch next to you, his head landing in your lap. You play with his hair as he stares at the ceiling, deep in thought. The sound of his breathing steadied your own.

You watched as a light bulb turned on in his brain, and he sits up with a gasp. "I know!"

"What?" You ask, almost as excited as him.

"Uh, I'll need to get your opinion first," Mark starts and you urge him to continue. He hesitates for a moment before finally stating, "I need your moans in the song."

Your eyes widen, almost choking on your own spit. "Woah, lets unpack that..."

"No way your fans would be chill with that, for one. Same with your company, babe." You explained, and Mark listened intently before smirking as you finished.

"It'll be fine, they'll be super quiet in the song, like barely there. I could get away with it. If my fans notice, then they notice." Mark reasons and you sigh in defeat.

"I'm fine with it if you are sure." You smile, kind of excited to do this.

Mark's hand is now on your thigh, looking at you teasingly. "How about we do it now?"

You hadn't been intimate in a while because of Mark's packed schedule. You bit your lip, fuck, you were pent up from all these weeks without him. "God, please."

Mark's hand leaves your thigh and you watch as he reaches over to the microphone he had set up next to the computer, bringing it a little closer and pressing record. "I'll ask one more time, are you sure you're okay with this?" He asks as he settles back next to you.

You nod, smiling lovingly. "Yeah I am, Mark."

His hands trails up your thighs, leaning in and his lips are finally on yours, determined and needy. You bit his lip in desperation, and he opens his mouth enough where you can slip your tongue.

Your hands were bunched on his t-shirt and his hands were under your skirt, dancing on your skin and setting it aflame. When you pull back for air, Mark keeps eye contact as he pulls your panties to the side, his cold fingers brushing your clit making you whine.

"Mark." You whisper breathlessly, your hands now on the hem of his shirt, and he lets you take it off in one swift motion. "Pretty boy."

He blushes at this as he takes your shirt off too, leaving you in your bra. You decide to push your own skirt down, impatience taking over you. "Please, I need you."

"I know baby, just wait." He murmurs, one hand absentmindedly rubbing your inner thigh as the other pets your hair. Then, finally, his hand leaves your thigh and touches you where you craved Mark most.

It started off as light, slow circles on your clit. "You're so wet, baby." He smirks, as two of his fingers now slide up and down your folds, before he dips them into your entrance. "Mmm, more." You moan.

He pushes them inside to the knuckle and starts curling them right where you liked it most. "Fuck, Mark!"

You were soon filled with disappointment when he pulled his fingers out of you. You watched as Mark slid off the couch and sunk onto his knees, pulling your panties down with him, settling his head in your thighs.

You felt his breath tickle your folds before he dives in, tongue lapping at you like a dog in heat. Your hands fly to Mark's hair in no time, turning you into nothing but a whimpering mess.

His tongue sucked on your clit as his fingers curled into you again, hitting your g-spot at every angle. "Ah, fffuck, Mark.." You slurred, pulling his hair harshly, making him groan against you.

Mark could feel your walls clenching his fingers as his mouth does wonders on your clit, and you could feel the tightness in your stomach about to snap. "Mark, I'm gonna..."

"Cum for me, baby girl." He rasps against your heat and one last prod at your g-spot had you seeing stars, moaning loudly as you came undone.

Mark doesn't stop, still devouring you while you shook above him. "Shit, stop, 's too much!" You whimpered.

You had to pull his head back for him to stop, and Mark looks up at you with a dazed grin, his mouth covered in your juices. he looked so beautiful like this.

He licked his fingers clean of your juices, never breaking eye contact, before raising from his spot on the floor. You wasted no time in unbuckling his belt, pulling his boxers down along with his pants as fast as possible.

"I need you inside of me right now." You said desperately, and Mark flipped you over on the couch so that you were facing the wall, back arched, and he was standing behind you.

Mark's hands found purchase on your ass first, giving it a playful smack which made you whimper embarrassingly loud.

Looking back, you watched as Mark's other hand pumped his hardened cock slowly, tip leaking precum, as he finally places it between your folds, rubbing it up and down teasingly.

"Mark, please." You whined, and Mark just chuckled. "So impatient, baby. I'll fuck you real good, promise."

You silently screamed as Mark enters you for the first time in a while, his big cock stretching you painfully as he slowly bottoms out. Soon, the pain fades away. "Can I move?" He whispers, his hand on the small of your back, soothingly rubbing it as he waits.

"Yes." You sigh out as Mark pulls out of you before slamming right back in, making you cry out. He soon finds a good pace that had you gripping the couch and moaning loudly.

"Such a tight pussy, made for me." Mark whispers in your ear, voice raspy, as he leans over you, kissing your neck and leaving marks you were gonna have to cover up before you left the studio. Thank god this place was sound proof and had no cameras.

"Harder," You whined. Mark obliges, and soon your legs were shaking. He thrusts deep inside, you swore you could see the outline of his cock if you looked down. "Oh, fuck, right there!"

Mark was getting close now too, his soft groans turning into desperate moans and whimpers. It was always music to your ears whenever he made those noises. "Cum in me, baby."

"Fuck, you sure?" Mark groans, thrusts getting sloppy as his hand slides down your chest to your clit, applying pressure there. "Please." You moan, and Mark holds his own orgasm off until you cum again.

After a few more moments, the pressure on your clit got too much and your legs were shaking uncontrollably, Mark's hands digging into your hips to ground you as you screamed his name.

"That's it baby, let go for me. You're so beautiful." Mark praises as he finally thrusts into you one last time before releasing inside you.

Your pants filled the room, and Mark pulls out of you before flipping you over. He watches as his cum drips out of your folds and groans at the sight. "Such a good girl."

Mark pulls his clothes back on quickly before grabbing tissues, wetting them with the water bottle on his desk and cleaning you up. He kisses your thighs tenderly while he does.

"I love you, Mark." You murmur as your fingers cascade through his hair. He smiles up at you with those eyes that made you melt. "I love you too."

After you got dressed and calmed down, you and Mark decided to review the audio. Even you found your own moans sexy as you listened.

When Mark added them into the song the next day, you realised he was right. The song did need them, making it so much more seducing like he was trying to go for.

You decided you'd help him out with his music more often after that.

#mark lee #mark lee smut #mark lee oneshot #nct 127 #nct dream #nct #nct mark #mark lee x reader #this might be my best work yet #nct 127 x reader #nct 127 smut #nct dream x reader #nct dream smut

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malum-forev · 4 months ago

Text

Casual

Summary: a glimpse into your secret relationship with Bucky. The one he threw away.

CABNW!Bucky x Agent!Reader

Part 2: More Than Casual?

“This is so, so wrong.” Bucky mumbles against your lips, hands tangled in your hair.

“But it feels so right.” You counter, looking up at the heaving super soldier through your eyelashes.

He wasn’t all wrong. It was heavily looked down upon for a senior member to fraternize with a younger trainee. But who cares when the two of you are under the influence of heavy alcohol and worn out from your most recent mission?

It should’ve ended after that. You were supposed to be a one night stand. But Bucky couldn’t get you out of his mind. And what bothered him the most was that you seemed unfazed.

“Was it not as mind blowing for you as it was for me?” Bucky says in between deep thrusts, the wrinkle between his eyebrow creasing.

“What?” You ask breathlessly. A second ago you were on a mind numbing roll heading toward climax and now, he’s completely taken you out of it with just a couple of words. “What are you talking about.”

He dives deeper, making your eyes roll back. “You’re the best I’ve ever had in decades, and you just acted like I was average.”

You have to stop yourself from laughing. “Didn’t we agree that we were going to keep our little meeting low key?”

“Low key doesn’t mean forget about it completely.” Bucky says with a huff.

Your eyebrows raise. “You want recognition.”

“I want you to admit I’m the best you’ve ever had.” His voice is gravelly, his eyes scan your face like he’s trying to catch every single movement in it.

“And if it wasn’t?” You challenge.

“Then you’d be lying.” He trails his vibranium arm over your skin, leaving goosebumps in its wake.

“How do you know?” You whisper.

“Because I was right there with you, doll.” He smiles against your lips, driving his hips up.

A couple of hookups turned into him leaving an extra set of clothes at your place. Supposedly he only did it to make your meet ups more efficient. But you knew that the Sergeant was lying to you, and to himself. Every morning he’d make his way through your kitchen, making two coffees and cleaning up whatever you’d left the night before.

A few months later, you cleared a couple of drawers for him. And Bucky gladly left his favorite Henley’s at your place along with his infamous leather jacket.

Neither one of you knew what this was but you were having fun. And that’s what counted, right?

You liked moving up the ranks without having anyone undermine your work just because you’re sleeping with Bucky. And he liked not having to be vulnerable in front of other people.

But soon, months turned into years. And before you knew it, Bucky was bringing you flowers every Friday and staying over more days than not.

He’d share his fear of navigating the new world without a clear purpose. And you’d talk about how this job made you feel lonely most of the time.

Your fellow agents would always try to set you up with whoever they knew. You’d politely decline the blind dates, not missing the way Bucky would give whoever would be your potential date, a tougher routine.

And Bucky, well, no one was really trying to set him up with anyone.

But your favorite part was work functions. Galas and charities where the two of you would act like strangers only to go back home to the same address. It was like a game for you two, until it wasn’t.

“Sergeant Barnes,” you nod your head, ordering a cocktail at the bar.

He tilts his head. “Agent.”

You should have known something was off, his eyes were dull and his voice sounded tight. But you assumed it was just because of the setting. Bucky never felt comfortable in places like this.

“What’s wrong?” You ask under your breath.

“Nothing,” his voice is clipped.

A photographer comes close to you two, holding up his camera and getting a picture before either one of you could object.

“Delete that,” Bucky snaps. “Now!”

“What’s gotten into you?” You hiss, waving away the innocent photographer.

“We can’t be seen together.” His blue eyes look everywhere but yours. “It’s not good for my image to be with a former widow.”

Your jaw slacks. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

Sure, Bucky had expressed some interest in running for congress but you never thought he was serious. And between constant missions and Bucky staying back, you weren’t quite up to date with the man you’ve been seeing for three years.

“I hired a publicist,” He shoots a look back to a man standing close to Sam. “He recommends I stay away with my former team. It looks better for my campaign if I focus on the future, rather than the past.”

“The past?” Your breath gets caught in your throat.

Bucky looks down at the floor.

“So us…” You couldn’t finish your sentence.

“Us?” Bucky raises his eyebrows, questioning all those years of you two.

You scoff. “Drop the act, you know what’s between us.”

“Look, these years have been nice,” Bucky gulps. “But we both knew that we were just playing around.”

“Playing around?” You raise your eyebrows, a knot forming in your throat.

“Casual.” He shrugs.

“Was it casual when you chased after me in Bangladesh?” You challenge. “Was it casual when you asked me to stay because you wanted to feel me at night? Was it casual when you said you loved me?”

Bucky finally looks at you. “You have to understand, congress means I can make an impact-“

You finish off your drink. “Listen to me, James Buchanan Barnes, this is the last time I let you speak to me. From now on, we’re strangers—better yet, you’re dead to me.”

“C’mon, it doesn’t have to be like this,” he tries to hold your hand but you escape his soft grip.

“Good luck, Congressman Barnes,” your eyes get glassy. “I hope you get everything you want.”

You never look back, not wanting to let him see how much he hurt you.

Author's Note: hihiiii please remember I posted the first chapter of my book All For The Crown, it's on my page. I'd love it if you guys could take a read and leave me a comment! Thanks as always for all the love! My asks are always open!

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cameronsbabydoll · 16 days ago

Text

BEFORE YOU NOTICED — CHAPTER SIX

WARNINGS — terminal illness (graphic symptoms), miscarriage/child loss, emotional neglect, mental health deterioration, grief, medical trauma, suicidal ideation (non-explicit)

you’re in the living room, curled on the couch, a blanket draped over your knees like it can hold you together. your body feels like it’s unraveling, threads pulling loose with every breath, every cough. the mansion’s too quiet, the glass walls swallowing sound, the city lights flickering beyond like they’re mocking you. your phone’s on the coffee table, screen dark, but you know the voicemail’s there, the one you didn’t delete, the one you meant to erase before rafe could find it. you forgot. you forget a lot now—words, appointments, the way your hands used to feel steady. your nails are coral, chipped to nothing, the color rafe liked when you were someone he saw. you don’t fix them anymore. what’s the point?

you cough, soft, into your sleeve, and check it. blood, dark and sticky, like it’s tired of hiding. you fold the fabric, tuck it under the blanket, and tell yourself you’ll wash it later, like you’ve washed away every stain—in the sink, on the bathroom floor, in the garden where the forget-me-nots are dying. you think of the baby shoes, hidden in the box labeled winter coats, the ones you bought for lily, the child rafe never knew about. you think of the letters in the safe, locked with your birthday, the ones you wrote when you realized you wouldn’t make it to next spring. you think of the silk robe, tag still on, folded in the closet, and the swan-shaped perfume bottles, dusty on the dresser. you think of henry, the chauffeur, his voice from yesterday: you carry too much alone. nobody should have to do that. it burns, that truth, but you push it down, like always.

rafe’s home early for once, 9:12 pm, his keys rattling in the foyer, his shoes loud on the marble. you hear him muttering, something about a deal gone wrong, his voice sharp, distracted. he steps into the living room, his tie loose, his jacket slung over his arm. “you’re up,” he says, not looking, his eyes on his phone, scrolling through messages you’ll never see. “thought you’d be in bed.”

you don’t answer right away, your throat too raw, your hands too shaky. you nod, a small movement, and pull the blanket tighter. he glances at you, brief, like he’s checking if you’re still there. “you look worse,” he says, his voice flat, like he’s stating the weather. “you sick or what?”

“just tired,” you say, your voice thin, like it’s been worn to threads. it’s the same lie you’ve told for months, the one he always accepts. he nods, already turning away, but his foot catches your phone on the table, knocking it to the floor. it lights up, the screen glowing, and before you can move, he’s picking it up, frowning at the notification. missed voicemail, dr. ellis, 3:47 pm.

“what’s this?” he says, more to himself, and taps the screen. you freeze, your heart a stone in your chest, but you’re too tired, too slow to stop him. the voicemail plays, the doctor’s voice clinical, cutting through the quiet like a blade. “this is dr. ellis from st. mary’s. we need to discuss your results. it’s stage four. please call us back when you have someone to bring you. we can’t proceed without support.”

the room goes still, like the air’s been sucked out. rafe’s face changes, his eyes wide, his phone slipping from his hand to the couch. he looks at you, really looks, for the first time in months, his mouth open, like he’s trying to speak but the words won’t come. you sit there, your hands twisted in the blanket, your breath shallow, waiting for him to say something, anything. your world stopped months ago, when the cough turned to blood, when the aches became a weight you couldn’t carry. his is stopping now, and you’re too tired to feel anything but empty.

“what... what the hell is this?” he says, his voice cracking, like he’s choking on it. he steps closer, his hands shaking, his eyes searching yours like he’s seeing a stranger. “stage four? what does that mean? why didn’t you tell me?”

you look at him, your smile gone, your face heavy, like it’s carved from stone. “i didn’t want to bother you,” you say, flat, the words falling like pebbles. “you’ve been busy.”

he flinches, like you slapped him, and runs a hand through his hair, pacing now, his shoes loud against the floor. “busy? are you serious? you’re—you’re dying, and you didn’t tell me because i was busy?” his voice rises, sharp, but there’s something else under it, something raw, like he’s breaking.

you shrug, a small, tired movement, and look at your hands, the coral polish flaking, the sleeve stained beneath the blanket. “you haven’t looked at me in months, rafe,” you say, your voice steady, even as your chest aches. “you kiss my hair, you say i look tired, but you don’t see me. what was i supposed to say? ‘hey, i’m dying, can you take a break from your meetings?’”

he stops pacing, his face pale, his eyes wet, like he’s seeing you for the first time and hating himself for it. “how long?” he asks, his voice low, barely there. “how long have you known?”

“months,” you say, and the word feels like a confession, like you’re admitting a crime. “since the blood started. since i missed appointments. since i wrote the letters.”

“letters?” he says, his brow furrowing, his hands clenching. “what letters?”

you shake your head, too tired to explain, too tired to drag him into the safe, the envelopes, the shoes, the secrets you’ve carried alone. “it doesn’t matter,” you say, and cough, soft, into your sleeve. you don’t check it. you know what’s there.

he kneels in front of you, his hands hovering, like he’s afraid to touch you, like you might break. “it matters,” he says, his voice thick, desperate. “god, it matters. why didn’t you tell me? i could’ve—i don’t know, i could’ve done something, been here, anything.”

you look at him, his eyes wide, his face close, and you see the man you loved, the one who danced with you in a cramped apartment, who laughed when you spilled wine on his shirt. you see the man who stopped seeing you, who chased deals and left notes and kissed your hair instead of your mouth. “you weren’t here,” you say, not cruel, just true. “i didn’t want to beg you to care.”

he makes a sound, like a sob caught in his throat, and presses his forehead to your knees, his hands gripping the blanket. “i’m sorry,” he says, over and over, like it’s a prayer, like it can change anything. “i’m so sorry. i didn’t know. i didn’t see.”

you don’t touch him, not because you don’t want to, but because your hands are too heavy, your body too frail. you think of the garden, the lilies you named for the child you lost, the forget-me-nots crumbling to dust. you think of the shoes, hidden in the closet, the box labeled winter coats where lily’s memory lives. you think of the letters, locked away, the words you wrote when you knew you were fading. you think of the swan bottles, the silk robe, the life you built for a man who didn’t look.

“i’m tired, rafe,” you say, your voice soft, like a sigh. “i’ve been tired for a long time.”

he lifts his head, his eyes red, his face raw, like he’s seeing every moment he missed—every cough you hid, every bloodstain you washed, every night you waited. he reaches for your hand, his fingers warm, desperate, but you pull back, not because you don’t love him, but because you’re too far gone to feel it. “what can i do?” he asks, his voice breaking. “tell me what to do.”

you shake your head, your breath shallow, your heart a quiet drum. “just look at me,” you say, and for the first time in months, he does, his eyes locked on yours, like he’s trying to memorize you before you disappear.

you don’t go to bed. you stay on the couch, the blanket slipping, your sleeve stained, your phone silent now. rafe sits beside you, closer than he’s been in years, his hand hovering, like he’s afraid to break you. you think of henry’s words, you carry too much alone, and wonder if rafe will ever understand. you think of lily, the shoes, the blood you cleaned. you think of the letters, waiting for a day he’ll open them and know. you cough, soft, into your sleeve, and let the blood dry, a mark you don’t hide anymore.

you lean your head back, the city lights blurring, and close your eyes. you dream of a voicemail, repeating, and a man who finally sees you, too late.

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maskedbyghost · 2 months ago

Note

Possessive reader getting a body pillow cover of Simon made for when he’s on deployment for long periods of time and can’t communicate. Like a cat seeing a balloon of itself, man is pissy anytime he’s reminded it exists and gets reader’s undivided attention the moment he’s forced away from them.

You didn’t buy it as a joke. That’s the first thing people get wrong. You weren’t drunk or being ironic or trying to be funny about how much you missed him. You were just pissed off. He was gone again, longer this time, and he didn’t say how long exactly—just said he wouldn’t be able to call often, might not even text for a while.

And you just stood there, nodding like you were cool with it, like it didn’t already burn in your chest thinking about sleeping alone again.

So yeah. You searched “custom body pillow” that night with your jaw clenched and your arms crossed and your phone brightness on full blast, like that was gonna make it hurt less.

You found a site that let you upload any photo you wanted, and you picked that one—him shirtless, sweaty from a workout, giving you the kind of half-smile that made your stomach flip. He’d sent it to you months ago, and you’d never deleted it. Now it was going to be six feet of print pressed up against you under the blankets every night.

And you didn’t tell him. Of course not. You just tracked the shipping, yanked it out of the box the second it arrived, and dressed it in one of his old oversized tees—your favorite. The one he always pulled on when he got out of the shower, the one he always told you looked better on you than on him. It smelled like him. And now so did the pillow.

You laid it down on his side of the bed, adjusted the angle like a crazy person, and stared at it for way too long before you finally turned the light off. It wasn’t even that it made you feel better. You were just so mad you couldn’t have the real thing. If you had to sleep without him, then fine—you’d make damn sure there was no space in your bed left for anyone else. Not even empty air.

He got back weeks later. He didn’t even text that he was on his way—just showed up, opened the front door, and called your name like nothing had changed.

You were halfway through the hallway when you heard him go completely silent.

“Uh,” he finally said, and it was coming from the bedroom.

You turned the corner and saw him just standing there. Bag on the floor, keys still in one hand, mouth half open like someone had sucker punched him. The pillow was still there, obviously. Front and center. Still wearing his shirt. His face was printed life-sized on it.

“Oh,” you said, like you’d forgotten. Like it hadn’t been your emotional support sleep aid for two straight weeks. “That.”

“That?” he repeated, turning to look at you with full-blown betrayal in his eyes. “That’s what you’ve been sleepin’ with?”

“I didn’t exactly have options,” you said, walking past him to flop down on the bed. “You were gone. It was either this or cry myself to sleep.”

“You could’ve warned me,” he muttered, still staring at it.

You snorted. “Would you have stopped me?”

“…No.”

“Exactly.”

He finally tore his eyes off it and looked at you instead, arms crossed. “What, so I leave for five minutes and you replace me with a bloody pillow?”

“I wouldn’t need a replacement if you didn’t keep running off to fight bad guys every other month,” you said sweetly, patting the spot beside you. “Come on, it’s your turn. Might as well take your place back.”

He just stood there, unmoving. “You seriously slept next to that thing?”

“I did more than sleep,” you grinned.

He groaned. “Oh for fuck’s sake.”

“You jealous?”

“It’s a pillow,” he said, like the word offended him. “I’m not jealous of a fuckin’—”

“I rubbed my face on it every night. Talked to it too. Called it baby. You know, just regular relationship stuff.”

He stared at you, completely deadpan, then looked at the pillow again. “You’re sick in the head.”

You shrugged. “You love it.”

“I love you,” he snapped. “That’s the problem. You get away with this shit.”

You smiled like you’d won something. “You bet your ass I do. And if you ever get deployed without warning me again, I’m printing one of those full cardboard cutouts next. I’ll sit it at the kitchen table. Put it in the shower, even.”

He dragged a hand down his face, muttering something under his breath, and when he looked at you again his eyes were warmer. “You’re insane.”

“You love it,” you said, reaching for him.

He let you pull him toward the bed, finally dropping down beside you with a sigh. You tossed the pillow off to the side and straddled his lap like it was your rightful seat, hands on his chest, your grin smug.

He blinked, breath stuttering just slightly, and you watched the red creep up the tips of his ears as your fingers dragged down the front of his shirt. “You’re not allowed to be hotter than me and then disappear. That’s not fair.”

He laughed under his breath, shaking his head. “Jesus Christ, woman.”

“You missed it,” you said, kissing the corner of his mouth. “You missed me.”

“I really did.”

“Good,” you whispered, nose brushing his. “So don’t leave again.”

He kissed you hard, all tongue and teeth. “Make me.”

“Oh, I plan to.”

------------------------------------------

i just can't with these two

@daydreamerwoah @kylies-love-letter @ghostslollipop @kittygonap @alfiestreacle @identity2212 @farylfordaryl @rafaelacallinybbay @akkahelenaa @lovelovelovelovelove987654321 @wraith-bravo6 @tessakate @xocandyy @nightfwn @robinfeldt98 @bunnyxiis

#simon ghost riley x you #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x you #simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x female oc #simon riley imagine #simon riley x reader #simon riley #simon ghost x reader #simon ghost x you

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baigepueckers · 7 days ago

Text

Caitlin Clark X Reader

Pulled for a Chat

It started as a joke.

You were chronically online, a Love Island girly, always reporting to Caitlin on every red flag, sneaky kiss, and insane bombshell entrance before she even had a chance to sit down. She used to mock it…said it was trashy, toxic, peak TikTok brain rot.

And then somewhere between “can I pull you for a chat?” and the third dramatic recoupling, she was hooked.

Now, it was your thing. No distractions. No skipping ahead. Watching it out of sync was a sin on level with cheating. Maybe worse.

So when she left for a four day away stretch with the Fever, she kissed you, dropped her duffel bag by the door and said, “Don’t you dare watch without me.”

You smiled. “I would never.”

You lied.

It started innocently. You were folding laundry, just having it on in the background, telling yourself you weren’t really watching if your eyes weren’t on the screen.

Then disaster. You watched the whole thing. Three episodes. Back to back. No pauses. No remorse. Well…some remorse. You even texted your group chat about the drama like Caitlin wouldn’t immediately sense betrayal the moment she walked in the door.

By the time her road trip was over and she returned, you had deleted browser history like you were hiding something criminal.

Caitlin walks in wearing joggers and that messy travel hair she somehow makes look hot. She dumps her keys on the counter and gives you that little smirk like she’s about to say something she knows will ruin your life in a cute way.

You play it cool. “Good trip?”

She shrugs. “Tired. Hungry. Missed you, baby”

You feel a ping of guilt when she kisses your cheek and curls into the couch like it’s a ritual. She grabs the remote without hesitation.

“Okay,” she says, all excitement. “Let’s catch up. I’ve been dying.”

You freeze. “Totally. Me too.”

She presses play.

You try. Really, you do. You widen your eyes at the dramatic music. You force little gasps and mutter, “Nooo, she didn’t…” like you’re discovering it live. But ten minutes in, you crack.

When the new girl pulls the ultimate betrayal and Caitlin throws her hands up, yelling, “WHAT?! Oh my god, I didn’t see that coming!”…you let out a guilty little snort.

She pauses the episode mid scream. Slowly turns to you. Eyes narrowed.

“You saw this already.”

“No,” you say, way too fast.

“You saw this already.” She’s staring at you like you just told her her dog died. “Y/N…”

You bury your face in your hands. “Okay, but I swore I wasn’t gonna! And then the recap was so long and I was folding shirts and I just…I got pulled for a chat!”

Caitlin looks betrayed. Like, actually hurt. “You watched THREE episodes without me?”

You wince. “I didn’t mean to! It just…happened. One minute I was doing chores, the next someone was kissing in the hideaway and I blacked out.”

She stands dramatically, arms crossed. “This is worse than when you watched The Summer I Turned Pretty finale without me. And that was treason.”

You try to grab her hand, pouting. “I’ll rewatch. I’ll pretend it’s all new. I’ll act shocked. Like, Emmy level shocked.”

Caitlin glares at you for a long moment… and then smirks. “Fine. But you’re sleeping on the couch.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“Oh I would.”

That night, you curl up next to her anyway, a bowl of popcorn between you. Caitlin insists on restarting the episodes. You gasp on cue. She throws popcorn at you when you oversell it. She’s still pretending to be mad…until the new boy walks in and she nudges your foot.

“Okay, wait. He’s kind of your type.”

You scoff. “Please. My type is tall, hilarious, devastatingly good at basketball and addicted to reality shows.”

Caitlin flushes pink. She nudges you again, softer this time.

“Fine,” she mumbles, “but next time I’m gone… you wait.”

You grin. “I’ll just rewatch old seasons.”

“…Without me?”

“I have a problem.”

Caitlin just laughs, pulling you closer, fingers lacing with yours. “Yeah, yeah, yeah” she says, kissing your temple

And that night, you swear again.

This time you mean it.

Probably.

#caitlin clark x reader #caitlin clark #wbb x reader #wnba x reader #ncaa wbb #caitlin x reader #indiana fever #iowa women’s basketball #iowa wbb #wlw yearning #wlw community #wlw love #wlw #pride month #wnba imagine #wnba fanfic #wbb imagine #wbb #love island usa

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deniable-masterpiece · 7 months ago

Text

fusillade | dad!chris evans x son!reader

a/n — okay, i want to start by saying that this has FARTS. if you don’t like that, please, do not read‼️ scrolling is free, let people live, hate will be deleted and not tolerated, etc etc. i waited posting this for the longest time because i haven’t written anything like this before officially and it’s a relatively new kinky exploration. can be reader as any era of Chris, i just imagined him with some sort of beard and dilf look to him since he’s a father in this

summary — Chris tries to enjoy his day off but it doesn’t start the way he expected. The downsides of raising a teenage son lead to some weird resolutions of conflict.

warnings — age gap, incest, farts, face riding, face sitting (chris sitting on reader). 18+ only.

words — 5.8k

oh also, in case you missed it this has farts farts farts farts farts farts farts aaaaaaand some incest oh and farts too. enjoy!

Monday mornings weren’t fun for anyone. The harsh sunlight passing through anyone’s window is the sign of a long day to come, the first light of many fires that start and would continue to burn throughout the week. Even your blackout curtains couldn’t change today’s sunshine. Everything seemed to be in order, the sun had risen, your alarms had gone off at every time they were supposed to, without fail, at their projected volume. The only thing that was out of place in the typical morning routine was you. Your blaring alarms made no difference because they didn’t keep the key part of your morning routine—you—in the loop. Still in dreamland, you enjoyed the wondrous world.

But on the other side of the thin walls in your home, your dad had been rudely woken up on his day off to the sound of your alarm. For fifteen minutes, it rang continuously. It would fade out occasionally, but every five or so minutes, it would return to its loudest volume. And just when he thought it was over, your next alarm would start the cycle over again. It was a closed loop that you had yet to close. He tried giving you the benefit of the doubt. No one wakes up to their first alarm, not when they’re an active night owl, and they usually don’t wake up to their second. Chris knew that your most active hours of the night were past eleven p.m. On the few times that he did stay up late—usually on the eve of his days off—he heard you take multiple trips to the bathroom from inside his own bedroom until he heard the water from the sink running. The last time you used the sink, it would always run longer than the other times because you were usually doing your nightly routine and needed a steady flow. He always laughed at your antics, because they were something he would have to figure out on his own since you would never tell him. For all the times you called him an “old man,” his hearing never really let him down.

Now he wish it had, he wished his hearing loss would accelerate until he became deaf in the same way that the coffee he sipped at would accelerate his process of waking up. He thought that, maybe, just maybe, getting up early on his day off would be the key to enjoying it. He could drown out your sound with last night’s football game or catch up on that show you kept pestering him to watch. He was already enjoying the brief time in which he didn’t have to wear any clothes beyond a pair of boxers. The cool air tickled his body, unfamiliar but not unknowing of the feeling of being able to walk around while freely exposed to the cool air flowing through the house. He felt the need to wear more clothes that he normally might because you got easily distracted by him, more than two dudes living in one empty house should be making you feel. And you tended to stare or fail to get to the point when he was standing before you in his boxers. Chris naively thought it might be because you’re intimidated by his physique, that you haven’t quite reached the same levels of “man” yet and seeing him be so confident with what he naturally had was making you feel insecure. So, for his boy’s sake, he covered up. Being this close to naked was just one thing to enjoy about being awake before you, and maybe there would be more to come, Chris hoped. But no. The annoyingly vibrant alarm tone that echoed from your room was impossible to escape from. Even in the kitchen, down the carpeted stairs and anything in the thick flooring couldn’t stop him from hearing it. The sound itself wasn’t as loud as when he was laying in bed, but it had gotten on his nerves for daring to repeat again. The sonorous, pulse-like ringing matched his quickening heartbeat. It made his coffee-stained teeth grit, he felt like he could easily squeeze the ceramic mug in his hands to bits at the first chime of another alarm going off. One that would last for another fifteen minutes, one that was bound to play again after he waited for this successive round to end.

He swished the last of his typical dark, bitter roast around his mouth before swallowing it, letting it be the warmth soothing his throat that he so desperately wanted to let bile rise from. His stomach flipped with his anger, he was ready to say some unsavory things to you about needing to be more responsible. Even while barefoot, his steps were heavy and hit the carpeted stairs hard. Maybe that would wake you up, but he didn’t know if anything could. All he knew was that your alarm needed to be silenced, and somehow, he could wake you up another way.

On his way to your room, heading to the third door on the left, he saw the door to the bathroom right before it. His stomach twisted and rumbled, already feeling the motions of coffee running through him, but anger made it to shore first and crashed into the front of his head. That damn alarm needed to be turned off.

Chris came into your room wearing a pair of plaid boxers. Deep, navy blue, a size too small for him but that’s how everything seemed to fit even if it was a size up. His figure seemed to show no matter what he wore. His boxers were far from loose, being weighed down by his overfilled pouch for his crotch in the front, the single-button fly keeping the fabric from splitting down the sewn-in gap and letting his girth and balls spill out. And in the back, his oceanic boxers had their limits and Chris’ plump ass bobbed in them. They constantly gave him a wedgie, the fabric digging deep into his crack and his thighs being mostly exposed since the boxers couldn’t even fall low enough, functioning more like boxer-briefs as a result. Grey and black stripes formed squares over the deep blue color, little white squares filling in the middle of each square the intersectional lines made. The lines curving over his cheeks, they were like a netted stress ball. One squeeze and all that fat would just slip through your fingers.

Your hands were the perfect shape to cup something as round and doughy as his ass, sleeping face-up with both arms splayed out in irregularly polar directions. At the bend of your elbows, one pointed towards the headboard above you and the other reached out to your phone. Chris would have taken a picture of that moment—your head turned away from the incoming sunshine and nestled into your pillow, something he would have thought put Sleeping Beauty to shame… while you would have blabbered on about how out of it you look, quick to use the excuse that you can’t control how you sleep to justify why you look so “horrible.” But that word wouldn’t have been the first to come to your dad’s mind when he looked at you. Quickly, his anger towards you goes from a raging sea to a slowly ebbing current. You’re just his baby boy, he could never stay mad at you for getting your beauty sleep! Your phone on the other hand… that nuisance still remained wretched and horrible. It was the cause of all your horrible behavior, like a friend who’s a bad influence, except there is no one else to blame when it caters to you. Chris would have to do the same thing he does to people who harm his boy.

He picked up your phone off the night stand next to your bed. It has been vibrating so much that it was halfway sticking off the stand and would have fallen during the next alarm.

Chris’ thumb hovered over the snooze button. Maybe if he put an irregular break in your alarm’s incessant blaring, it would throw your mind off schedule. An untimed noise would no doubt work in startling you awake. But, he was already in your room. He might as well do it himself, even if he expected you to act like an adult by now and get yourself up and ready. As much as it pained him to admit, this was one of the things he wished you didn’t need him for anymore. He knew that he would be greeted with an annoyed “Daaaaad” and complaining from your end instead of just thanking him for doing what you couldn’t. No, he could already hear the whining in his head that you were “just about to get up,” and that he “never gave you a chance to prove him wrong.”

He hit the stop button, setting that alarm in stone as being done and over with. But what if there were more? He had just sat through two painfully long alarms that managed to wake him up but not you, and then a third from downstairs. If he was going to leave you here, he might as well enjoy a moment of peace and quiet by turning off the rest. Chris went to unlock it and was met with the screen asking for a passcode with a set of numbers appearing, showing that he needed to input a six-digit code to get into your phone. He could have just taken your phone and turned them off as they went, but he knew that if you woke up and saw that your phone was gone, he would have to deal with the complaints about that. Maybe you’d accuse him of snooping, and if he could guess your passcode, he might do it just to see what his boy is up to.

He would have to figure out what the password is, though. Six digits… Chris took a moment to think about it before trying birthdays. Those were common, he used your birth year as his own passcode when you berated him for leaving it without one for the longest time. Maybe you used your own birthday as your password, but it wouldn’t prove to be that easy. The numbers appeared at the top of the screen as he entered them in and just as he finished putting them in, they shook from side to side in error, like the device was shaking its head at him for being so wrong. By nature, he immediately went to the next one in his mind—his. 061381, that was the passcode! He was shocked that you had been so subtly kind to him by making his birthday the password, you remembered.

The lock screen faded to the back as rows and rows of apps and folders cluttered and congregated in front of it. He snickered at some of the folder names being things like “dumb shit” and one folder simply named: “fuck.” His eyes landed on the clock app after a quick scan of your rough home screen—it was nothing like his, his remained the stock layout of all the apps that came with his phone, all still in their original spots with the varying addition of the few apps he needed like banking and the one for the video doorbell installed outside. Clicking on it, he saw you had alarms scheduled until eight in the morning, and it was only six. He turned the seven between now and then off and was ready to set your phone back down when a notification appeared at the top of the screen.

The icon had a little white bird, one of the social medias that Chris wasn’t too familiar with. He would have ignored it since you had already gotten a text from your friend asking about a homework assignment due later today and a notification from some mobile game that was begging you to come back and play it, and he didn’t pay any mind to those. But for this one, the headline grabbed his attention. The first of a bad storm, making this young guy smell my DAD FARTS.

Surely, he couldn’t be reading that right.

While the notification loitered at the top of the screen, Chris’ thumb moved up to it. He clicked it without a second thought, and it redirected him to the app it was sent by. The layout of the app wasn’t anything Chris knew his way around, but thankfully it took him directly to the page and not the home screen. There was only one thing he could do, and it was simple enough: scroll. At the very top was the video with the caption that drew his attention. Chris clicked on the thumbnail of the video, which showed a man squatting over another guy’s face who had an open mouth just below his hole. Chris would have been concerned about waking you up, but if you slept through your alarms, you wouldn’t wake up to a video where the only sound were farts and moans. The video picked up in the moment that the thumbnail showed, the dominant man lowered his ass onto the guys tongue and started farting. He was telling him all of these commanding things that Chris, even as your dad, would never say as a parent. Slowly, the dominant man started replacing his words with grunting and making a plethora of satisfied noises. The man under him was younger, his responses sounded higher pitched and more innocent as the older man’s ass let out farts that were as deep as his voice. The sheer power dynamic was something unlike he’d ever seen. Sure, he had seen his fair share of porn on VHS tapes, and saw guys dominating girls, but it was never to this degree. In his tight little boxers, his dick started to rise.

As he looked deeper into the page, it was clear. The entire page was full of posts about farting and other forms of ass worship, but the caption above each video had one common theme: they were all about dads dominating their sons. It was always a pair of thick cheeks swiping a smaller boy’s head between them. Each video had a caption lingering above it from the point of view of the son or the father, about not telling their mother or being glad that she left so this faux dad and his son could have uninterrupted bonding time. And you were into it, almost every video was liked and saved in some way as indicated by the illuminated heart and blue bookmark at the bottom of each video. His tent only got bigger, pushing the already-cramped pouch to it’s limit. The fly of his boxers held together with one button was parted to show his length underneath. If it weren’t for that button, his girth would have filled the entire space and possibly even slipped through the slit.

But as his dick sprung up, his brows furrowed. Why didn’t you ever tell him about this?

Sure, Chris blatantly fit your niche for sexual gratification but you didn’t want him. Your father. This was just a fantasy you had—probably one of many conjured in your horny head—and he wasn’t asking you to jerk off with him by any means, but just to be communicative. He would like to know the type of guys you’ll eventually bring home—or at the very least, he wanted to be able to give you the freedom to talk about a hot guy passing the two of you on the street. To say “he’s cute,” and your dad could agree. But where did the prospect of guys even come from? His son only ever talked to him about girls. Chris expressed that he would be more than happy to support his son if he was interested in anything other than that, but you insisted that girls were your only priority. But that was a few years ago… and any time he tried to pry and get you to open up to him about your crushes, you seemed avoidant of the topic. Avoidant of him for a reason that was slowly becoming more clear.

There was only one way to handle it. Face the problem head-on. If you weren’t going to open up then he would have to make the first move, even if it was unexpected and possibly unrequited on your part. You partially deserved it—well, mostly, but Chris loved you too much to actually hold you to your faults. He tried to see things in a good light; your alarms were waking him up earlier so that you could spend more time with him, your secrecy and privacy were something to ignore and push past like any good parent knows how to do. You were his perfect little boy who could do no wrong, so this wasn’t a punishment or a rude awakening like you had given him; it was a feast.

So, instead of a slap to the face to awaken you, he did something much more soft and caring. All of those videos he looked at, the so-called “Dad” of each would usually hover over the guy under him or outright sit on his face. To do that, he had to make sure you were on your back, which you already were, his hand gripped your chin and fixed your head turned off to the side, making it so that you were looking directly up to the ceiling. And lastly, he peeled back your sheets and crumpled them up on the opposite side of the bed from where he stood. To his surprise, you slept without anything on at all. The boy he had taught to wear jammies and set and example by wearing loose-hanging fleece pants and a tank top to bed every night had found it more comfortable to wear nothing. To be so vulnerable, it was another side of you that he had never seen.

Chris leaned down and placed his hand on your chest. It stayed there for a second, too stiff to move because if it does go anywhere, it will move down your medial and end up groping areas he wasn’t ready to touch. He let out a sigh and softly spoke to you, “Get up, champ. Come on.”

Chris wanted to you wake up in that moment with his voice, for his irrational parental decisions to be put to rest by you finally fluttering your pretty mother-like eyes open. His stomach started to swirl with anxiety. This wouldn’t mean anything, right? It was payback with a bit of pleasure. You got your mother’s eyes, the same ones Chris stared into and fell in love with. The same shade that leaned into her inherited features and gave him ‘fuck me’ eyes countless times, the same ones she bestowed to you. The ones he saw looking back at him when he looked at the best achievement in his life—his baby boy. But you were lazy, sleeping in, hardly being the boy your dad talked so highly of at family gatherings. You were barely the boy he recognized anymore… when did you start to act like this? What would he say to them now? Would he talk about how bad you were or about his own bad behavior? What if you told them all that he did, after he did this, and he lost you? Well, he better just enjoy you before you leave him anyways, whether that’s for college or another man.

For now, you couldn’t get away from him if he was holding you down. This was like a warm bear hug when your kid leaves for college, it’s like a hug after they get their license and nearly get hit for the first time and you’re less worried about the car and more worried about your bairn. Chris repeated every excuse he could think of and welcomed the new ones that entered the fray to justify what he was about to do. He could never admit that he liked what was going to happen next. No, the tent pitched in his boxers by his painfully hard dick—harder than it had ever been—was because of the porn, not because of his son. It couldn’t be.

Chris placed his bare foot on the edge of your bed, he then propelled himself up and was able to stand next to your sleeping figure with both feet. He had to hunch down a bit so that his head wouldn’t hit the ceiling. Then, he stepped over you so that his feet were on either side of you. His weight shifting on your bed and the creaking of your mattress frame still wasn’t enough to breech through whatever your sleepy head was dreaming about. He tried to align himself with his heel starting at about your shoulders and his big toe ending just shy of your elbow, his front half had the perfect outlook to your room from the highest possible angle. Everything you would never grow into could be seen from up there, including the dust on your ceiling fan.

His mind spiraled as it twisted. The Earth still lingered closely to the sun, so the warm days that were soon to turn cold still needed a reprieve. But both things still orbited around one perfect little center, and in this case, it was you. Chris planted his ass squarely over your face. At first, he hovered. Holding his breath while he felt yours hit against the back of his legs. Each soft breath… so carefree. In minutes, he’d have you fighting for the same air you were about to be cut off from. He hated to admit, even if it was just to himself, that the idea nearly made his boxers prematurely soaking wet.

Chris’ ass was big, and sealed off your face completely when he sat on you. He could feel how your face only impacted the space between his doughy cheeks, and he could feel the fat on his ass—one that’s all smackable plush with no tension to stop any ripples. He didn’t even have to wedge them apart with his hands for them to be wide enough! He fell into one of those “don’t look down” situations where, if he did see how he completely smothered his boy’s face with his ass, he probably would have shot up and made sure you were okay. But you wanted this, this force that he couldn’t give you in every day life. Why else would you turn to porn instead of your dad?

You woke up when the entire weight of your dad was resting on you. He made sure to not absolutely crush you—but who knows, maybe you would like that—since he was well built and covered a lot of your upper body with his thick thighs and ass alone. Now, parking it back on your face, he might actually suffocate you.

“Mmm,” you groaned, your body reflexively trying to stretch and turn the muscles that had been still for hours. In just a few brief seconds, it immediately knew what it was under—your dad’s full moon. “Dad?”

All of your noise was filtered through layers of fat, barely escaping around the mound on top of you. You were talking directly into his clothed ass, eyes staring up the run of his back. Chris could feel your hot saliva and breath already seeping through the fabric and to his skin. He shuddered, but remained cool. Chris reached down and palmed at his tented erection and pressed his other hand on your chest to shift his weight forward to his knees and the supporting hand. He slid that hand down your body and moved the rest of the covers out of the way that he had missed on his first go-around. He wanted to see you, imagining your legs kick while under him. While he was far from that point, you were already chubbing up. You were a bit smaller than your dad and his crown jewels—and he was being generous with ‘small’ because you’re his boy—but it was more reassuring for him because it meant that you were enjoying it.

He was wearing boxers. Something you hadn’t seen him do in a while. The last time you caught him this stripped down was about a month ago when he was preparing to take a shower and had to cross the hall in a pair of his briefs to grab the shampoo he left in his bag. You’re pretty sure he left it in his luggage after a work trip, but that quick glimpse was enough to stop you and your heart for a second as you were heading to your room. You picked up that he might just have been adding extra layers because you felt intimidated by him—by his muscles, his generally wide and commanding physique, and his voice and tone. Little does he know that you don’t want to become a man like him. You want a man like him, a man that makes you feel inferior to yourself.

“Sh-sh-sh,” he made the noise softly with his mouth. “Daddy’s here, and he’s got breakfast.”

Chris sat up straight again after leaning down to reveal your dick, putting all of his weight back on your face with his ass. As if on cue, he let out a relaxed sigh and the first of many farts sputtered out.

A muffled—but expected—protest squeaked out from under him, much quieter than his fart, “Dad!”

Your dad didn’t expect to feel his dick beading with pre-cum as soon as it had. Each moment his dick throbbed hard shifted it up in his boxers ever so slightly and caused the cum to smear against the fabric it was sheathed in. It didn’t help that he occasionally groped his tent, but he had to stop or else he would cum too soon. Hearing your voice from so far away, so devoid of the bratty pedestal you put yourself on, put your father on a power trip.

“Call it a truce. I accept you and you get a little slap on the wrist for making your daddy cranky.” Chris lifted himself up again, moving back this time so he was closer to your headboard. The hand palming his tent lightly smacked the side of your face that wasn’t covered by skin and blue fabric, and you could feel the gloppy pre-cum at the ends of his finger tips. He must have been aching under those boxers to the point that they were wet on the outside. While his tent hung over your face now that he had moved back, it didn’t stay like that for long. You got a break from smelling his farts to smell his equally intoxicating musk before being gassed up by his farts again just moments later.

“It stinks,” you whined underneath his hefty ass. Your hands could have worked their way up to push him off, but he would be too heavy. His ass would be too fat, easy to grab but too hard to hold.

“Good, I know you like it like that. When it’s all… in your face.” Maybe he should keep his dirty talk to the short side of things, but Chris was still learning. Another fart came rolling out that lasted well over ten seconds and made him sigh in relief. He accompanied it after with a stern, “Sniff it, boy."

The smell wafted up to Chris’ nose. You’re right—it stinks. The addition of coffee made his bowels usher out the stirrings of last night’s dinner even quicker. Maybe he shouldn’t have gone all in on a savory dinner last night, because each blast from his ass smelled like that dish left out in the sun for days.

Chris moved again—he couldn’t tell if it was because he couldn’t run the risk of actually hurting you or if he was almost too jittery from this newfound pleasure to know what to make of it. He went from sitting back to kneeling over your chest, hooking his thumbs into the waistband of his boxers clawing up the small of his back, desperate to not slip down and show his ass. Still not enough room for you to escape from under him, but you really didn’t want to, and Chris knew that. All of his clothes bore the burden of having to stretch themselves to fit around his fat cheeks. He gave his tenuously stretched boxers a break by pushing them down past his ass and to his thick thighs. It wasn’t so easy in the front, since he had to push his painfully stiff erection down with the waistband, keeping it that way until they went below his tip. It sprung up, and just the movement against the still air in the room was enough friction to put Chris over the edge. He left his boxers stretched out between his thighs, stretching them even more when he moved back in your direction.

“These are gonna be even worse, boy.” Chris teased. He sat back on your face again. The only difference is that the warmth of skin-to-skin contact was more noticeable. Your dad’s unwashed ass funk was more noticeable than it had been in boxers that mingled the appalling scent of ass sweat and musk with the floral detergent he used to launder the clothes. Your nose was positioned directly to his hole, and that reeked the worst. It smelled rancid and filled your lungs with rank gas, you could feel it quiver at the cold. The tight ring twitched and tightened—the clear sign that Chris was straining to push the next flurry of gas out.

You dreaded what his unfiltered farts would smell like when they didn’t have a thread count to work through. Each fart had no warning as they came out, like a gun that didn’t need to be cocked before firing. The blasts were rapid-fire, shot out with such force that it made it easier to sniff them up as they came out directly against your nose.

He was right this time; they were much worse without some kind of necessary passthrough. The intensity and delivery of them was stronger, thicker as your nose immediately felt the gas burn as it entered your body and traveled down to your nervous system. Each intake made your breathing feel raspy, making his longer farts hard to sniff up in one draw. You had to huff—Jesus, you had to pant—to really get the full effect of some of his farts.

Chris started to welcome a bit of movement into it, making it harder to sniff up all of his gas. Whenever Chris cause a waft of it, he’d move closer and grind harder on your face, but after a few consistent rips with no smell twinging his nose, he would go back to moving back and forth over your face. His hips would thrust forward before rocking back to your forehead, his ass being big enough to not miss a single spot of you.

He parked himself on different parts of your face; your nose when he had to fart, but when he was waiting for the next one to be ready to come out, he moved to your chin and mouth and ordered you to eat him out. He farted in your mouth a few times while you were tonguing his hole, but he laughed it off and just moaned at the feeling of your tongue recoil and mouth twitch in disgust before returning back to his hole. He didn’t really have to check up on your during this, because as long as you were doing what he said, it was enough of a sign to tell him to keep going.

Chris tried to actively avoid his cock during this. The thought running through his head that he was sitting on his son’s face, coupled with a few pumps, might make him cum in a second’s minute. Something told him though that the feeling alone would catch up to him sooner than later, and it did faster than he thought. He wanted to continue, to keep this going, but it wouldn’t be revolutionary if it didn’t break the expected rules. His whole outlook on his son and his sex life had just been changed over the better half of an hour, and this trajectory just felt right.

With a mix falling somewhere between a cry and a moan, Chris shot his load, thick ropes shooting down your torso and his thighs. Some of them nearly made it to your own cock, that’s how hard it made him cum. The occasional spurt landed on your bed in wry sprigs before the short-lived high started to fall, and soon, Chris was sitting on your face. No rhythm, no care, just focused on the post-orgasmic glow of how he felt. It was enough to make him forget that he was sitting on you, letting his full weight rest on you again despite your breathing slowing.

This was supposed to be a punishment, and at this very moment, he had gotten everything he wanted: relief on his day off, worked things out with his son, and he left you hanging when he got up off your face. Chris awkwardly got off of your bed, trying to not accidentally knee you in chest or fall over when he went to stand up, the boxers around his thighs making it a bit difficult to fully use his flexibility to help him. Your cock still stood in the swirl of sheets. He couldn’t deny that you looked so good laid out like that, ready for the taking. He wanted to do more, but it took years to raise you into the man you are. He would turn you into his slut if he hadn’t already, but today was the first step. Chris stepped out of his boxers, reaching down to pick them up and giving you a view of his fat ass. Now that he wasn’t telling you to not jerk off, your hand was already wrapping around your cock.

“I had a moment to think, and you can jerk off with these.” Chris turned and threw his boxers, they landed on your face and you got his with the immediately smell that had just left your nose. It wasn’t as strong, but it was enough. “Your daddy won’t do everything for you.”

And with that, he left the room to let you get to your business. You savored the fleeting sight of his ass as he walked out, shutting the door like you had always asked him to do whenever he barged in. You had a feeling that you wouldn’t have separate rooms for much longer, though. Waking up would be much easier in the future.

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archivegyu · 14 days ago

Text

masterlist

five steps back

kim mingyu x reader || 6k words

The apartment feels too big now, even though it’s the same cramped two-bedroom they’d shared for the past three years. She sits on the edge of their bed—her bed now—staring at the indent on the other side of the mattress where Mingyu used to sleep. His pillow still smells faintly of his cologne, that woody scent that used to make her feel safe when she’d bury her face in his neck during lazy Sunday mornings.

Five years. One thousand, eight hundred, and twenty-six days of shared breakfasts, inside jokes, fights that ended in tearful apologies, and dreams built together like a house of cards that finally collapsed under the weight of reality.

She picks up her phone, thumb hovering over his contact. Kim Mingyu. The photo is from last summer—him at the beach, sandy hair catching the golden hour light, that brilliant smile that could make her forget every worry in the world. His laugh lines are prominent in the picture, the same ones she used to trace with her fingertips when he’d fall asleep first, sprawled across the bed like he owned it, arms reaching for her even in unconsciousness.

The cursor blinks next to his name. She’s typed and deleted twelve different messages in the past week. How are you? Too casual. I miss you. Too desperate. Can we talk? Too hopeful.

Instead, she sets the phone aside and walks to the kitchen, where the coffee maker still has settings for two cups. Mingyu always complained that she made it too weak, but he’d drink it anyway, adding extra sugar and giving her that fond, exasperated look that said you’re lucky I love you without words.

The silence in the apartment is deafening. No more of his off-key humming while he cooked, no more random dance breaks in the living room when his favorite songs came on, no more gentle teasing about her habit of leaving books open on every surface. The quiet stretches and warps until it feels like a living thing, pressing against her chest.

࣪ ִֶָ☾.

Mingyu stares at the ceiling of his new studio apartment, counting the cracks in the paint. Sixteen. He’d started counting them three weeks ago when he moved in, the same day the movers came to split their life into neat, labeled boxes. His things. Her things. The painful negotiations over shared purchases—who gets the coffee table they’d spent hours assembling together, cursing at the incomprehensible instructions while she held the pieces steady and he struggled with the screws?

He’d let her keep most of it. Not out of generosity, but because looking at those objects felt like staring directly into the sun. Every lamp, every throw pillow, every picture frame held too many memories, and he was already drowning in them.

His phone buzzes against his chest. For a split second, his heart races with the impossible hope that it’s her, but it’s just his group chat with the boys. Seungcheol asking if he wants to grab drinks, Soonyoung sending random memes, the usual chaos that used to make him smile. Now it feels distant, like watching life through frosted glass.

He scrolls up through months of messages, finding the ones where he’d complained about being busy with her, canceling plans because she needed him, choosing quiet nights in over loud nights out. The guys had teased him mercilessly about being whipped, and he’d taken it with good humor because it was true. He was completely, utterly gone for her, and everyone knew it.

“You’re different when you’re with her,” Jeonghan had told him once, and Mingyu had taken it as a compliment. He was softer with her, more thoughtful, more careful with his words. She’d taught him patience without trying, shown him that love could be gentle instead of the chaotic whirlwind he’d always imagined.

Now he wonders if different meant losing himself entirely.

࣪ ִֶָ☾.

The grocery store is a minefield of memories. She stands in the cereal aisle, staring at the brand Mingyu always bought—some sugary monstrosity that she’d constantly nagged him about. “You’re going to get diabetes,” she’d say, and he’d grin and add it to the cart anyway, sometimes grabbing two boxes just to make her roll her eyes.

A couple rounds the corner, the woman laughing at something her boyfriend said as he tosses items into their cart with theatrical flair. They’re young, probably college students, and they have that glow of early love, when everything is discovery and promise and endless possibility. She remembers being them, remembers grocery shopping with Mingyu being an adventure instead of a chore, turning mundane errands into opportunities for stolen kisses between the frozen foods and impromptu dance parties in empty aisles.

“Excuse me,” someone says, and she realizes she’s been standing frozen in front of the Froot Loops for five minutes. She mumbles an apology and pushes her cart forward, but everything feels surreal, like she’s moving through water.

At the checkout, the cashier makes small talk about the weather, and she nods along while screaming internally. How is everyone just going about their lives when hers has been completely reorganized? How is the world still spinning when five years of her life have just vanished like smoke?

In her car, she sits with her hands gripping the steering wheel, breathing carefully measured breaths the way her therapist taught her. The engagement ring tan line on her finger has finally faded, but she still finds herself twisting the phantom ring when she’s nervous. Mingyu had been so proud when he proposed, so certain and bright-eyed, like he’d solved some cosmic puzzle. “I want forever with you,” he’d said, voice shaking with emotion, and she’d believed him completely.

Forever turned out to be five years and three months.

࣪ ִֶָ☾.

Mingyu’s sister calls while he’s attempting to cook dinner in his shoebox kitchen. He considers letting it go to voicemail, but Minseo has been worried about him, calling every few days with increasingly transparent excuses to check on him.

“How are you eating?” she asks without preamble.

“Hello to you too,” he says, stirring instant ramen and feeling pathetic about it. She used to cook for him, elaborate meals that filled their apartment with warmth and the sounds of oil sizzling, her humming contentedly while she worked. She’d wear his oversized t-shirts and nothing else, and he’d wrap his arms around her waist from behind, chin hooked over her shoulder, stealing tastes and making her laugh when his stubble tickled her neck.

“Don’t deflect. Are you eating actual food or just surviving on convenience store meals?”

“I’m making ramen,” he admits, and her sigh is audible.

“Mingyu…”

“I’m fine, Minseo. Really.”

“No, you’re not. You’re miserable, and you’re too stubborn to admit it.”

He wants to argue, but what’s the point? His sister has known him his whole life, watched him fall in love so completely that he’d rearranged his entire existence around another person. She’d liked her too, had welcomed her into the family with open arms, treated her like the sister she’d never had. The breakup had devastated everyone, not just him.

“Have you talked to her?” Minseo asks gently.

“No.” The word comes out harsher than he intends. “There’s nothing to say.”

“There’s five years worth of things to say.”

“And we said them. All of them. That’s why we’re not together anymore.”

The silence stretches between them. Minseo doesn’t understand, can’t understand, because she wasn’t there for the slow, painful dissolution of everything they’d built. She didn’t see the way they’d started speaking to each other like polite strangers, didn’t witness the careful distance that crept between them like frost, didn’t hear the fights that devolved into exhausted silence because they’d stopped believing they could fix what was breaking.

“I just think—”

“I have to go,” Mingyu interrupts. “Thanks for calling.”

He hangs up and stares at his sad dinner, appetite completely gone. Outside his window, Seoul buzzes with Friday night energy, but he feels disconnected from all of it, like he’s watching life happen from behind a wall of glass.

࣪ ִֶָ☾.

She finds the box by accident while looking for her winter clothes. It’s shoved in the back of their shared closet—her closet now—behind old coats and forgotten shoes. Her heart stops when she realizes what it is.

Their memory box. They’d started it as a joke during their first year together, saving ticket stubs and photo booth strips and little notes they’d written each other. Over time, it had become sacred, a physical collection of their love story that they’d add to on anniversaries and special occasions.

With trembling fingers, she lifts the lid. The smell hits her first—his cologne mingled with the vanilla candles she used to burn, creating a scent that’s purely them, purely home. Inside, five years of memories lie carefully preserved like pressed flowers.

Movie tickets from their first official date, when Mingyu had been so nervous he’d bought popcorn with extra butter even though she’d mentioned being lactose intolerant. She’d eaten it anyway, not wanting to make him feel bad, and spent the entire movie in mild digestive distress while trying to focus on his running commentary whispered in her ear.

A napkin from the café where they’d had their first fight, a stupid argument about punctuality that had escalated until they were both near tears. They’d talked it out over lukewarm coffee and stale pastries, learning how to disagree without destroying each other. “We’re going to have to figure this out,” she’d said, “if we want this to work.” And they had, for a while. They’d gotten so good at compromise, at bending without breaking, at choosing love over pride.

Polaroids from their friends’ wedding, where they’d danced until their feet hurt and made drunken promises about their own future ceremony. Mingyu had spun her around the dance floor like they were the only two people in the world, dipping her dramatically while she laughed until her stomach hurt. “You’re going to marry me someday,” he’d whispered against her ear, and it hadn’t been a question. It had been certainty, solid as gravity.

A USB drive labeled “Our Songs” in Mingyu’s messy handwriting. Playlists he’d made for road trips, for quiet mornings, for when she was stressed about work. Hours of music that had soundtracked their relationship, songs that would probably make her cry for the rest of her life.

At the bottom of the box, wrapped in tissue paper, is the promise ring he’d given her for their second anniversary. Not an engagement ring, but a placeholder, a symbol of intention. “Someday,” he’d said, slipping it onto her finger, “when we’re ready for forever.” She’d worn it faithfully until he’d replaced it with the real thing, and even then, she’d kept it close, a reminder of when their love was still growing instead of slowly dying.

She holds the ring up to the light, remembering the girl who’d worn it, who’d believed so completely in their future together. That girl feels like a stranger now, naive and hopeful in a way that seems almost reckless. How do you mourn a version of yourself that no longer exists?

࣪ ִֶָ☾.

Mingyu’s mother invites him for Sunday dinner, and he goes because he doesn’t have the energy to make excuses anymore. The family meal feels strange without her there, like a song missing its harmony. His parents had loved her, had already started treating her like a daughter, asking about her work and her family and fussing over her the way they fussed over their own children.

“How is she?” his mother asks carefully, setting down a plate of his favorite kimchi jjigae.

“I don’t know, Mom. We don’t talk anymore.”

His father looks up from his rice. “Maybe you should.”

“What would be the point?”

“Closure,” his mother suggests. “Or… maybe you’d realize you made a mistake.”

Mingyu sets down his spoon, suddenly angry. “It wasn’t a mistake. We tried everything. Counseling, space, compromise—nothing worked. We just… we grew apart. It happens.”

“Five years doesn’t just disappear overnight,” his father says quietly.

“It doesn’t disappear at all. That’s the problem.”

The weight of those five years sits on his chest like a stone. Five years of birthday celebrations and holiday traditions, of learning each other’s languages of love and comfort. Five years of building a life together, making plans, dreaming about children and houses and growing old together. All of it still exists, but in the past tense now, preserved like artifacts from a civilization that no longer exists.

He remembers their last real conversation, the one where they’d finally admitted what they’d both been avoiding. They’d been sitting on opposite ends of their couch, the space between them feeling like an ocean.

“I don’t think we’re making each other happy anymore,” she’d said, voice barely above a whisper.

And he’d wanted to argue, to fight for them the way he always had, but the truth was crushing and undeniable. They’d become ghosts of themselves, going through the motions of love without feeling it, staying together out of habit instead of desire.

“I know,” he’d replied, and those two words had contained the end of everything.

࣪ ִֶָ☾.

The coffee shop where they’d met is exactly the same. Same mismatched chairs, same chalkboard menu, same indie music playing just a little too loud. She orders her usual—medium coffee, oat milk, no sugar—and sits at a table by the window, watching people hurry past on the sidewalk.

She’d been a graduate student then, stressed about her thesis and surviving on caffeine and determination. Mingyu had been at the next table over, phone pressed to his ear, having what sounded like a heated discussion with someone about modeling schedules and photo shoots. When he’d hung up, he’d caught her looking and had given her an apologetic smile.

“Sorry,” he’d said. “Work drama.”

“No problem. I’m just jealous that your work drama sounds more interesting than my academic drama.”

They’d started talking, and one conversation had turned into two hours of effortless connection. He’d been funnier than she’d expected, self-deprecating and warm, asking genuine questions about her research and listening to her answers like they mattered. When her laptop had died mid-conversation, he’d offered to buy her coffee while she figured out her next move.

“I’m Mingyu,” he’d said, extending his hand with that smile that had made her stomach flip.

“Nice to meet you, Mingyu.”

She’d given him her number before she’d fully processed what was happening, saying yes to dinner before her rational brain could interfere. It had felt like destiny, like the universe aligning to put them in the same place at the same time.

Now she sits in the same spot, drinking the same coffee, and wonders if she’d made a different choice that day—left when her laptop died, been too shy to maintain eye contact, said no to dinner—would she be sitting here feeling like half of herself had been surgically removed?

A young couple at the counter catches her attention. The girl is laughing at something the guy said, standing on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek while he orders for both of them. They look so young, so sure of themselves, so completely unaware that love isn’t always enough.

She pays for her coffee and leaves quickly, unable to watch their beginning when she’s still processing her ending.

࣪ ִֶָ☾.

Mingyu runs into Seungcheol at the gym, and his friend immediately starts hovering like a concerned mother hen.

“You look like shit,” Seungcheol says with characteristic bluntness.

“Thanks. Really needed to hear that today.”

“I’m serious. When’s the last time you went out? Had fun? Talked to another human being who wasn’t forced to interact with you for work?”

Mingyu increases the speed on his treadmill, hoping the physical exertion will shut down this conversation. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine. You’re a hermit. A sad, lonely hermit who’s wasting away in his depression cave.”

“It’s been three months, Cheol. I’m allowed to be sad.”

“You’re allowed to grieve. You’re not allowed to disappear.”

Seungcheol hops on the treadmill next to him, matching his pace. “The guys are worried about you. Hell, I’m worried about you. This isn’t healthy.”

“What’s healthy? Moving on like five years meant nothing? Dating someone new before I’ve even processed what happened?”

“I’m not saying date someone new. I’m saying rejoin the world. Remember that you exist outside of that relationship.”

But that’s the problem, isn’t it? Mingyu isn’t sure he does exist outside of that relationship. For five years, he’d been half of a whole, and now he’s trying to figure out how to be complete on his own. Everything he’d enjoyed, everywhere he’d gone, everyone he’d been—it was all connected to her, woven together so tightly that separating them feels impossible.

“She was my best friend,” he says quietly, and Seungcheol’s expression softens.

“I know.”

“I told her everything. She knew me better than I know myself. And now she’s just… gone. Like she never existed.”

“She did exist. That relationship happened, and it mattered, and it’s okay to miss it. But you can’t live in the past forever.”

Mingyu knows Seungcheol is right, logically. But logic and emotion are speaking different languages right now, and his heart is fluent only in loss.

࣪ ִֶָ☾.

She’s sorting through old photos on her laptop when she finds the folder labeled “Us.” Five years of documentation, from awkward early selfies to professional couple photos, chronicling their evolution from strangers to lovers to strangers again.

There’s the picture from their first vacation together, a weekend trip to Busan where they’d argued about directions and laughed until they cried and fallen asleep on the beach. Mingyu’s hair was shorter then, and he looked younger, less serious. She was tanner, more carefree, wearing his oversized hoodie and grinning at the camera like she’d discovered the secret to happiness.

A photo from her graduation, Mingyu beaming with pride as she holds her diploma. He’d been more excited about her achievement than she was, taking pictures from every angle and insisting on celebrating with an expensive dinner they couldn’t really afford. “My girlfriend, the PhD,” he’d kept saying, like her success was his own.

Their first New Year’s Eve together, both of them slightly drunk and completely besotted, kissing at midnight while fireworks exploded over the Han River. They’d made resolutions they’d forgotten by February, promised each other forever in the reckless way that only new love allows.

Halloween photos where they’d dressed as couples costumes that seemed hilarious at the time but look ridiculous now. Christmas mornings in their pajamas, exchanging gifts and drinking hot chocolate. Birthday celebrations, anniversary dinners, lazy Sunday afternoons where they’d documented their contentment without realizing how precious it was.

And then, somewhere around year four, the photos change. Their smiles become more performative, their poses more staged. They’re still beautiful together, still look like a couple that should work, but something essential is missing. The light in their eyes, the natural gravitation toward each other—it’s fading, imperceptible to everyone else but obvious now with the cruel clarity of hindsight.

The last photo in the folder is from their final anniversary dinner. They’d gone to the restaurant where he’d proposed, trying to recapture something that was already gone. They look elegant and mature, but distant, like actors playing roles they no longer believed in.

She closes the laptop and pushes it away, suddenly exhausted. How do you delete five years of memories? How do you decide which moments to keep and which ones to let go? Every photo tells a story of people who loved each other completely, who built a life together with such care and intention, who believed they were writing a love story for the ages.

Instead, they’d written a tragedy.

࣪ ִֶָ☾.

Mingyu’s phone buzzes with a text from an unknown number, and his heart stops when he realizes it’s her. She’s changed her number, probably trying to start fresh, but she’s texting him from it.

I found our memory box. I think you should have some of these things.

He stares at the message for ten minutes, typing and deleting responses. What do you say to the person who used to be your whole world? How do you respond to an olive branch when you’re not sure you’re ready for contact?

Finally, he types: Keep them. They’re yours.

Her response comes quickly: They’re ours.

Were ours. Past tense.

The dots appear and disappear several times, like she’s writing and rewriting her response. When it finally comes, it’s simple: Can we meet? Just to talk?

Every rational part of his brain screams no. Seeing her will only reopen wounds that are barely beginning to scab over. But his heart, traitorous and hopeful, is already saying yes.

When?

Tomorrow? The café on Hongik Street?

The café where they’d had their first date. Of course. Even in ending, they’re drawn to their beginnings.

Okay.

After he sends it, he sits in his empty apartment and wonders if he’s making a mistake. But maybe mistakes are better than the nothing he’s been living with.

࣪ ִֶָ☾.

She arrives early and chooses a table in the back corner, somewhere private where they can fall apart without an audience. Her hands shake as she orders coffee she doesn’t want, and she checks her reflection in her phone screen obsessively, like her appearance matters when her insides are completely destroyed.

When Mingyu walks in, her breath catches. He looks different—thinner, more tired, like he’s been carrying the same weight she has. His hair is longer than she’s ever seen it, and he’s wearing the black jacket she’d bought him for his birthday last year. The one that made his shoulders look impossibly broad and his eyes impossibly warm.

He spots her and hesitates for just a moment before walking over. The familiarity of his gait, the way he moves through space with unconscious grace, hits her like a physical blow. This is the person who used to crawl into bed beside her every night, who knew exactly how she liked her coffee and which side of the bed she preferred and how to make her laugh when she was crying.

Now he’s a stranger wearing a familiar face.

“Hi,” he says, settling into the chair across from her.

“Hi.”

They stare at each other across the small table, and the silence is deafening. What do you say to someone who used to be your everything? How do you make small talk with the person who knows your every secret?

“You look good,” she lies, because he looks heartbroken and exhausted and like he’s been running on empty for months.

“You too,” he lies back, even though she knows she looks exactly as destroyed as she feels.

“I wasn’t sure you’d come.”

“I wasn’t sure either.”

More silence. She fidgets with her coffee cup, and he drums his fingers against the table—the same nervous habit he’s had since she’s known him. Some things never change, even when everything else has been obliterated.

“I’ve been thinking about us a lot,” she finally says. “About what happened. What went wrong.”

“And?”

“I don’t think anything went wrong. I think we just… grew in different directions.”

Mingyu nods slowly. “We became different people.”

“We became the people we were always going to become. We just couldn’t become them together.”

It’s the most honest thing either of them has said about their breakup, and it hangs in the air between them like a bridge they’re afraid to cross.

“I keep waiting to stop missing you,” she admits. “But it’s been months, and I still reach for you in the morning. I still save funny memes to send to you. I still think about calling you when something good happens.”

“I know. I do the same thing.”

“Do you think it’ll ever stop?”

Mingyu considers this, really considers it, and she loves him for taking her question seriously instead of offering empty platitudes.

“I don’t know. Maybe it’s not supposed to stop. Maybe missing someone you loved that much is just… part of loving them.”

The tears she’s been holding back finally spill over, and he automatically reaches across the table before catching himself, hand freezing halfway between them. The aborted gesture hurts more than the tears.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I’m sorry we couldn’t make it work. I’m sorry we lost each other. I’m sorry for everything.”

“I’m sorry too. For all of it.”

They sit in their shared sorrow, mourning not just their relationship but their friendship, their partnership, their planned future that will never exist. They’re grieving the children they’ll never have together, the house they’ll never buy, the old age they’ll never share. They’re saying goodbye to a thousand small dreams and the comfortable certainty of forever.

“I should go,” Mingyu says eventually, and she nods even though she wants to beg him to stay.

He stands, then hesitates. “For what it’s worth, loving you was the best thing I ever did. Even if I couldn’t do it right in the end.”

And then he’s gone, walking out of her life as quietly as he’d walked into it five years ago, leaving her alone with her coffee and her memories and the weight of everything they’d been together.

࣪ ִֶָ☾.

She doesn’t text him again, and he doesn’t text her. They don’t run into each other around the city, don’t accidentally end up at the same parties or restaurants or coffee shops. It’s like they’ve developed a sixth sense for avoiding each other, moving through Seoul like opposing magnets.

Months pass. She gets a promotion at work, starts dating someone new—a kind man who makes her laugh and doesn’t try to replace what she had with Mingyu, just offers something different. Mingyu, she hears through mutual friends, is doing well too. Focusing on his career, traveling more, seeing someone casually though nothing serious.

They’re both moving forward, building new lives on the foundation of who they became during their five years together. The love they shared didn’t disappear; it transformed them, taught them how to love and be loved, showed them what they wanted and needed in a partner. In some ways, their breakup was the final gift they gave each other—the freedom to find happiness in new places.

But sometimes, late at night when the world is quiet and she’s alone with her thoughts, she still reaches for her phone. Still finds his contact, still stares at that photo from the beach where he’s laughing at something she said off-camera. Still wonders if he thinks about her too, if he misses what they had, if he ever regrets letting go.

She never calls. Never texts. Never disrupts the careful distance they’ve constructed between their old life and their new ones.

But she keeps his number. Keeps the photos. Keeps the memory box with all its treasures from a love that was real and deep and ultimately finite.

Because some loves aren’t meant to last forever. Some loves are meant to teach you how to love better the next time. Some loves are meant to break your heart so completely that when you put it back together, you’re stronger, wiser, more capable of recognizing real happiness when it finds you.

Five years of loving Kim Mingyu taught her all of these things.

And maybe, in the end, that’s enough.

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girlinterupptedsblog · 4 months ago

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Run

Warnings: stalking, toxic and dark rafe, scared reader, chasin through the woods, chooking, rafe is threatening reader

Summary: after your car dies in the woods you have feeling someone had been folowing you. in the fear from it you start running through the woods only to find out itsy your crazy ex

pairing: dark rafe cameron x reader

────୨ৎ────

The engine sputtered, coughed, and died.

A sharp breath left her lips as she twisted the key again. Nothing. Just the hollow click of a dead car in the middle of nowhere. The woods pressed in around her, dark and suffocating, swallowing the narrow road she had been driving down. Her hands tightened around the wheel as she exhaled, slow and steady, forcing herself not to panic.

She had ignored all his calls. Every last one.

Deleted his texts without reading them. Blocked his number. Ignored the way his truck always seemed to appear near her house, the way she felt eyes on her even in the most unexpected places.

Weeks. She had gone weeks without him. Weeks without his anger curling around her like a noose, without his voice whispering her name like it belonged to him. Weeks without his hands, rough and possessive, gripping her like she was something he could own.

But deep down, she had known it wasn’t over. Not really.

The air outside was thick and silent. Too silent. She checked her phone. No signal. Of course. Because fate had a twisted sense of humor, and maybe Rafe Cameron did, too.

Her pulse jumped at the thought, and suddenly, the stillness of the night wasn’t comforting—it was terrifying.

A rustling sound. Barely audible over the pounding of her own heartbeat.

She turned her head sharply toward the trees, staring into the darkness, but there was nothing. Just the endless black, branches twisting like skeletal fingers. Her breath hitched as she reached for the door handle, hesitating.

Another sound. This time closer.

A twig snapped.

Something—or someone—was out there.

Her fingers fumbled against the lock, adrenaline flooding her veins. She didn’t wait to think. She shoved the door open and ran.

Branches clawed at her skin, snagged in her hair, but she didn’t stop. Her breath came in short, sharp gasps as she tore through the trees, heart slamming against her ribs. The cold air burned her lungs, but she pushed forward, driven by pure terror.

Then—

Footsteps. Heavy. Unrelenting.

Chasing her.

A sickening mix of fear and something worse coiled in her stomach. She didn’t have to turn around to know who it was. She knew the way he moved, the way he breathed, the way his presence alone could suffocate her.

“Baby.”

His voice, smooth and taunting, cut through the night.

Her body froze against her will.

“Don’t make me chase you. You know how this ends.”

Her feet moved before her brain could process it, but she barely made it another few steps before an arm clamped around her waist, yanking her back against a solid, familiar body.

She kicked and screamed, but his grip was unyielding. One arm wrapped around her torso like a steel trap, the other coming up to fist into her hair, jerking her head back until her throat was bared to him.

"Look at you," Rafe murmured, his voice dripping with something twisted, something hungry. "You really thought you could run from me?"

She whimpered, her hands scrambling against his, nails digging into his skin, but he only laughed—low and amused, like this was all some sick game to him.

"You're shaking," he noted, tilting his head as if he were fascinated by the sheer terror in her eyes. "God, I missed you. Missed this. You always look so fucking pretty when you're scared."

Tears pricked at her eyes. "Please, Rafe—"

"Please what?" His grip tightened, cutting off her words. "Please don't take you back? Please don’t remind you who you belong to? Baby, I don’t think you remember how this works."

She let out a choked sob, legs still kicking, but he only shoved her back against a tree, pinning her there with his full weight. His hand slid up to her throat, fingers pressing just enough to make her breath hitch, but not enough to cut it off completely. Not yet.

"You're mine. Always have been. And no matter how far you try to run, how much you fucking ignore me—" He leaned in, his lips grazing the shell of her ear. "I'll always find you."

A tear slipped down her cheek, and Rafe, ever the sadist, reached up to swipe it away with his thumb. "Aww, baby," he cooed mockingly. "Don’t cry. You should’ve known better than to think you could ever escape me."

She squeezed her eyes shut, chest rising and falling in panicked breaths. She knew now, more than ever, that she had never been free. Not really.

Because Rafe Cameron wasn’t just obsessed.

He was completely, irreversibly insane.

#rafe x reader #rafe imagine #rafe cameron fanfic #outerbanks rafe #dark rafe x reader #dark rafe cameron #rafe cameron imagines #rafe cameron x reader #rafe cameron #rafe cameron imagine #rafe cameron outer banks #rafe cameron fanfiction #rafe cameron one shot #rafe cameron smut #rafe cameron x you #toxic rafe cameron #dark!rafe cameron

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yamumsyadadd · 5 months ago

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consequences

part of the Marquita series. Talks of consent, sexual assault, Jenni’s trial.

It had been odd at home for a few weeks. Your mami and Irene were always talking in hushed voices, both with frowns on their faces. Sometimes random people in suits would be in the living room when you got home.

Olga was busy with the baby, Mami with whatever secret she was dealing with and your mama? You weren’t exactly sure since she had gone radio silent on you.

Alexia knew it was time to have a conversation with you. After Rio was born, she and Jenni had sat you down to have the sex talk. Answering all the questions you had, emphasising not to look up things on the internet again and letting you know that regardless of your sexuality, they loved you.

The conversation they needed to had was around consent. None of your guardians thought you’d be having sex, or really doing anything inherently sexual, but with the trial coming up it was a conversation needed.

You were simply going through the motions. Confused as to why your mama wasn’t talking to you, even why you Tio Rafa wasn’t replying. Your phone was now left at home or in your mamis car more often. You didn’t have social media, something both parents were extremely strict about.

Sometimes you wanted to fight about with them, but then you remembered when Olga let you use her phone and you were scrolling through her instagram, the amount of hate messages, death threats and overall mean comments she received had shocked you.

There were moments, at school with you friends, that you felt like you were missing out because they all had instagram and Snapchat, but you reminded yourself about the awful things said to Olga and you didn’t think you’d cope with that.

The house was eerily quiet when you came home from school. There was no baby noises, or tv. Olga and Rio weren’t in the kitchen, office or in your Mami and Olga’s room. The lounge room was clean, untouched from the cleaner. A apart of you felt forgotten. They had gone out somewhere and forgotten you.

In a major act of defiance, you found your phone and downloaded instagram. To you, this would get their attention, make them feel bad for forgetting you. The ramifications of it didn’t even float in your mind.

It took at least half an hour to figure it out, following a few of your friends from school, as well as your Tia, Abuela and a few of the Barcelona Women’s team members but not your mami, mama or Olga.

You were so wrapped up in discovering how to use the app, you didn’t hear the keys in the front door, or the sounds of both your mami and mama walking down the hallway. It was only when your mama plucked your phone from her hand, eyebrows creased, did you realise they were there.

“Hey!-“

“Since when did you allow her to have an instagram Alexia?” You felt your body fold into itself.

“Never. Marquita, you aren’t allowed instagram. You were told this!”

Both your mami and mama were standing in front of you, mami with her arms crossed and her usual frown, your mama with one hand on her hip, the other looking at your phone.

“Why? Why did you break our trust and make an account. You know how people are, the cruel things-“

“I know! I know okay? I guess I felt left out. All my friends have it, you guys have it. Even Nala had an instagram!”

Your mama sat down in front of you, giving your phone to your mami, “this is a conversation that your mami and I need to have. Without you around.”

“Why are you here?” It clicked in your brain, your mama was here, in February, she was supposed to be in Mexico, playing a game in a few days time.

“We need to have an important, honest conversation with you.” Your mami sat down next to you, grabbing your hand.

“Are you sending me back? I’ll delete the instagram! I’ll do whatever you want but please-“

“Stop, Amor we aren’t sending you back.” Your Mami looked towards your mama, giving her a slight nod.

“Do you remember how Spain won the World Cup in Australia?” You nodded your head, of course you remembered, “there was a moment on stage that something happened. The head of the RFEF did something to me, something I didn’t like and didn’t ask for. Because of this, he stood down and there were charges filed against him and a few others. They were saying some really horrible things to me. About you, about my career and your mamis career.” You could tell she was getting emotional, maybe even a little embarrassed.

“There are certain people in this world that think they can get away with things. Usually it’s men, but sometimes it women too. If you don’t want to do something, hug someone or kiss them or whatever, never let them pressure you. It’s important that if you’re not comfortable, you don’t do it. Even if it’s a feeling in your tummy that you don’t understand, listen to it. You call me, mami, Olga, alba, abuela, or anyone on the team. We will all be there.”

“Okay.”

“Do you understand what we are saying?”

“Yeah. Don’t let anyone make me feel uncomfortable.”

“The same applies to you. If someone tells you to stop, that they are uncomfortable, you stop. Straight away. If someone expresses their discomfort after the fact, you listen, you apologise, you don’t do it again.”

“Okay I understand.”

“The reason” your Mamas voice broke as she spoke again, “I’m here is because we are going to trial. Your mami, Irene, Tio Rafa, Codi, they are all going to talk at the trial, I’m going to talk at the trial. That’s part of the reason I’ve- we’ve been so hesitant on you having social media. These people, they have been really really cruel, so have the people online and neither of us want you exposed to that.”

“Can I tell you a secret?” You asked almost shyly. Both nodded at you, “when I was on Olga’s phone, I went through her instagram. I saw the messages she gets.”

“Yes. It’s not pretty, your mami and I get them too. Alba probably does. All the girls on the team. When you’re a bit older and, um, sexual activity we will revisit this conversation. Do you have any questions about anything?”

You shook your head. At this current time, there were no questions to be asked. It was a lot of information to take in. The thought of kissing a boy or girl, was too much to think about.

“We are just going to have a chat about your instagram and phone privileges. Do you have homework to get done?”

It didn’t take long for the house to become loud again. Olga and Rio walked in right as you started your homework. Olga gave you a kiss on the head as you took Rio from her. Leaving the two of you in the lounge room as she went to join your Mami and mama in their room.

Sometimes you were jealous of Rio. He was just a baby, a baby that had no expectations, no homework, no chores. His only job was to just survive.

A short time later, your mama, Mami and Olga came out of their room. Your mami taking Rio from you and your mama wrapping her arms tightly around you.

“We have all come to an agreement. You can keep instagram on a few conditions.”

“Okay?”

“1. You make that account private. No one is allowed to follow you expect your friends, family and the girls on the team. If you don’t want them to follow you, you don’t have to accept it, but you cannot accept any strangers. Understand?”

A small smile crept on your face, “I understand.”

“Okay, number 2. You have to give the email and password to us. We are allowed to check what you’re looking at, who you’re following and who is messaging you. I know it seems like it’s controlling but it’s for your own safety.”

“Yes! Yes okay!”

“Wait, don’t get too excited. There’s one more thing: every night, at 8pm, your phone is to be in our bedroom. Just because you are getting instagram, doesn’t mean you’ll be allowed to be on it all night.”

You nodded quickly, before launching yourself at your mama and then mami and Olga. They were giving you a taste of freedom, they trusted you and you wouldn’t let them down.

Secretly, you would search your mami and mamas names. Reading the horrible things people said about them made you feel protective over them. They were the best people you knew, the strongest, most loving. It took a lot of self control and conversations with Mapi, but you learned to ignore it.

#woso community #woso fanfics #woso imagine #woso x reader #alexia x reader #barca femeni #fcb femení #jenni hermoso x alexia putellas #alexia putellas imagine #alexia putellas x reader #alexia putellas fanfic #alexia putellas #jenni hermoso x reader #alexia putellas x jenni hermoso #jenni hermoso

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caeliuluru · 5 months ago

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and all i am, is a mess

Summary: Xavier reflects on your relationship for a bit and picks you up from your apartment for your date. He's surprised to find that (1), you just woke up, and (2), you're wearing his sweater.

Title from a misheard lyric from Sweater Weather by The Neighborhood

Tags: Xavier/MC, Xavier/Reader, Fluff (as usual), Established Relationship Xavier/MC, female MC, MC is shorter than Xavier in this one, Filipino MC (if you squint)

A/N: i wanted to experiment with writing xavier's a POV more. idk how i ended up with ~2k words of fluff no plot tho lmao. enjoy~

After a few missed alarms, Xavier finally wakes up. The birds chirp, meaning that at least, it’s still morning. He’s in his own apartment, since he’d went home ahead after you told him you’d be staying out later than usual because of your girls’ night with Tara and Simone. As he sits up to turn off the alarm, he runs a hand through his messy bedhead, missing your heart eyes and the “Xavier, you’re so cute!” you let out whenever you see it.

It’s interesting how you’ve changed him. He thought that he could hide away his solemn devotion to you, that he could present a side of him that was serious, strong, and sincere in a way he was used to. But now, he’s waited so long for you that waking up alone without seeing your adorable, peaceful face (although you’d beg to differ on your looks, he can hear your voice begging him to delete the photos of you with drool), is time too long away from him. It’s childish, he knows. But he misses you.

But…he can bear the feeling for a few minutes more, because you did promise him that the two of you would go out today. Just a little bit more and he’d be able to spend some alone time with you outside of the Hunter’s Association. He’s always reminded you to adjust the part for life in work-life balance, and he’s glad to be a part of the solution.

So, Xavier goes about his routine. He attempts breakfast, looking for something easy to make lest the fire alarm ring, and settles for pork and beans. After a quick shower, he then pulls on his white jacket, black turtleneck, and jeans and brushes his hair, trying to style it in a way that looked both neat and messy. If you liked the wavy bedhead, surely there was a way to have a more presentable version of that? But despite his attempts, he still ends up with his usual hair. Before you, he wouldn’t have exerted this much effort in getting ready, but knowing that he’s seeing you makes him want to look good in front of you. After spritzing on his cologne and grabbing his keys and wallet, he heads to the 5th floor to meet his partner, probably awake and dressed.

Xavier’s about to ring the doorbell, but a glance at your digital lock reminds him— he could just let himself in. He’d reasoned out not using his fingerprint with “special circumstances,” but the look on your face when you told him you had imagined him using it regularly… right. His hand raps on the door thrice, remembering his promise to knock three times to let you know it was him. He chuckles at the memory, and the way you’d reassured him that he’s the only other person whose fingerprint is registered on your door lock.

To his surprise, though, there’s no smell of food, no indication that you were already awake. He calls out your name.

No response.

After removing his sneakers and putting on his house slippers, the hunter scans your kitchen and living room. The kitchen island and coffee table are clean, and the couch is exactly the way you had left it the morning before you both left for work yesterday. While you did enjoy sleeping in, especially when either of you would stay the night at each other’s respective apartments and had nothing to do the next day, you were usually punctual. It was usually you who’d knock on his door first, only to be greeted by a drowsy Xavier who had just woken up.

Perhaps this was a shift.

Xavier, careful to quiet his steps, pads towards your bedroom. In this unique chain of events, he’d gently rouse you from your slumber, kiss your head, and make you a quick coffee before you get dressed and head out on your date with him. You deserved to relax, and the two of you wouldn’t let a little bit of lateness impede your plans for the day, especially when simply spending time in each other’s presence was enough.

He’s about to put his hand on the knob before the door suddenly bursts open and reveals a frantic you with messy hair and pillow marks on your face.

“What— Xavier!”

You look up, head shifting quickly from his casual getup to the ocean blue of his eyes.

“What time is it? I’m so sorry! I overslept because I got home late and—”

He hears you, but then the signals of his brain tune out your panicked rambling as the first thing he sees after your cute expression is your body enveloped in his white sweater, falling past your hips and reaching mid-thigh. The sheer largeness of it on your frame makes you look smaller than you already are, and his eyes flit over to the way the sleeves cover your hands. Stars, you look nothing short of comfy in his sweater, and he’s inches away from carrying you back to your bed so he could cuddle you for the rest of the morning… or the whole day, even.

Now he’s short-circuiting too.

“Xavier!”

You call his attention.

His brain static goes silent. Oh, was he caught in the act?

You look at him with a pout, expecting a response to your embarrassment over being late and unprepared, because you really did like being On Time, and he knows that, so why isn’t he saying anything? Was he mad? The pout shifts to a resigned frown, and he realizes that he has to rectify the misunderstanding so that you don’t end up thinking things that simply aren’t true, even if he finds you adorable, big sweater and embarrassment and all.

“Come on, just wait on the couch, I need to wash up and change my clothes.”

You’re about to step aside him and move to your bathroom when he suddenly picks you up in a princess carry, hearing your surprised “Huh?!” and depositing you onto the couch. He flops on top of you, head right on your chest where he can hear your heartbeat, and embraces you once again, nuzzling into your warmth.

“Xavi…” your voice takes on a softer tone as you watch him get comfortable. “What are you doing? I thought we were going to go out today.”

He hugs you tighter and burrows his head into your chest and the soft cotton. He smells his usual cologne on the sweater, and smiles at the thought of you falling asleep to his scent. “We will. You’re just too cute. I couldn’t resist.”

Warmth also floods into your cheeks at his response. You look down at your boyfriend, very much happy and comfy, then at your hands, hidden under the white sleeves. “Wait…” you realize. Right, it’s Xavier’s.

Your voice fills the air. “When I got home last night, I just took a shower and changed quickly. Your sweater and my pajamas were the first thing I saw in my closet drawer, so I just took those.”

He feels your hands brush his bangs away, probably to check if he was still awake. He nods. “I’m listening.” He looks up to gaze contentedly at you. “I’m glad you got home safe.”

“You’re also glad I didn’t return your sweater.” You point out.

Xavier hums affirmatively, pleased.

Looking for something to do with your hands, you poke his cheek, then switch to pinching and pulling at it lightly.

“This is what I get for my generosity?” he pouts, and you return your hand to the spot on his back before he can grab it. Xavier hears you chuckle, and well, you’re smiling now, too, so that’s a win in his book. He lets himself sink into the plush of your chest, of you and the couch, and there isn’t anywhere else he wants to be.

“It’s called cute aggression, Xav. Gigil,* if you will.” He adjusts himself upward so that he can slot his head into the space between your neck and shoulder.

“Mhm, is that so?”

Xavier continues cuddling you, listening to your breathing and heartbeat. You feel his arms wrap slightly tighter around your torso, and you resign yourself to running your fingers through his moonlight hair, playing with the strands, while your other free hand settles on his back. The noontime sun begins to stream in through your window, and his hair catches in the light. The two of you stay this way for a few more moments before your shoulder starts to feel numb, because as lovely as holding Xavier is, his height means that he is heavier than you are.

Your voice, again, fills his ears, soft and coaxing. “Xavi, this is really nice. But I want to go to the bookstore. and the park, and the noodle restaurant. Also, heavy.” Xavier acquiesces, always weak for your voice (a simp is what you had once called him), and shifts your positions, the two of you moving around on the couch so that you’re leaning on his chest this time, facing him and snug between his legs.

“Was there anything else you wanted to do today?” He tucks the stray strands of hair behind your ear, locking his ocean blue eyes with yours. “Well… I also wanted to play video games when we got home. Hmm... It Takes Two?”

He lets out a quiet laugh. You’re pretty, he thinks, in his clothes and bathed in sunlight and just doing whatever You does. “We can, but we have all the time in the world right here. You should relax.” He brings another stray lock of hair away from your face, and you sigh contentedly.“

Apart from the fact that I’ve kidnapped your sweater, what else is going on with you?”

“Me?”

He takes a moment to think. Was he acting strangely? Was it weird to be so lovestruck by your girlfriend? Notwithstanding the fact that you were wearing his clothes, he’d always find you cute. And do anything for you in a heartbeat. What did you notice? He would respond with something witty, try to recover some semblance of calm and collected Xavier, but the earnestness in his heart makes him honest, and he looks in your eyes again.

“I just missed you.”

“Silly, it was just a night.” “Still. Unless you didn’t miss the person you left behind.” He feels your hand smooth the parts of his hair you played with earlier, and you tilt your head up to kiss him. Upon feeling your lips on his, he returns the kiss. Xavier then moves his hand to your lower back, supporting you as you lean towards him again. Your hand rests on his shoulder while the other cups his face, bringing him closer to you. One kiss becomes two, and three, and you feel his tongue run across your lip before you move away, the two of you already gasping for air.

“Xavier,” He looks at you again, his guiding starlight and the reason he wakes up in the mornings. You feel his hand moving from your arm to your hand, thumb stroking the back of your palm, and you grin. You hope he knows how adored, how loved he makes you feel. “Dummy. Of course I missed you too.” Xavier gives a relaxed chuckle, and pulls you in again for a hug before kissing the top of your head.

Maybe this was devotion too. Sometimes, he doesn’t recognize himself, but if it’s someone that you’re still willing to love and miss— he’s perfectly fine with change.

And this was, a good start to the very good day Xavier and his girlfriend would have.

A/N: *Gigil: Filipino term for cute aggression. that's how i first understood cute aggression anyway so i decided to use my native language haha

divider by @cafekitsune~

#xavier love and deepspace #xavier x reader #xavier fluff #xavier x you #☾ caeli's imagination

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poisonhyuck · 6 months ago

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bf!haechan headcanons

my cutie patootie sigh

bf!haechan who drenches his hoodies / shirts in his perfume before letting you wear them

bf!haechan who buys you a trinket from every country he visits whilst on tour

bf!haechan who pays for the food every time you guys go out. even if you take out your card, he’ll just push your hand away and tap his card instead

bf!haechan who does something specifically sexy / cute on stage when he knows you’re watching then asks you afterwards, “did you see that?”

bf!haechan who randomly takes photos of you and refuses to delete them no matter what

bf!haechan who brags to his members about you as if it’s his second job

bf!haechan who can’t go a minute without being all over you whether it’s hugging you from behind, cuddling up to you, playing with your hair or kissing your neck

bf!haechan who will kiss all of your pimples / moles and tell you how beautiful you are to him

bf!haechan who acts like he doesn’t care about your favourite show but will stand at the door fully invested whenever you watch it

bf!haechan who buys you ANYTHING you want. and i mean anything.

“that dress is cute”

“yeah? does it have your size?”

“yeah but it’s really expensive”

“ordered.”

bf!haechan who will always act cute to get his way and he knows it’ll work everytime cuz yk… who can resist that cutie patootie, definitely not you

bf!haechan who wears a bracelet with your initials on it and a ring with your birth stone

bf!haechan who treats your siblings / cousins so well to the point it gives you severe baby fever

bf!haechan who’ll send you files of his covers whenever you miss him

bf!haechan who always wants you to have a reminder of him. like he’ll buy you little bear key rings or shinchan stickers

bf!haechan who will sit at the claw machine for like 10 minutes just to win a prize for you

bf!haechan who wrote a whole album of songs just for you

bf!haechan who’ll send you photos of random things throughout the day with “this reminded me of you”

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mistressofstars · 6 months ago

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A Lecture on Desire - Part III

Pairing: Kathryn Hahn x Reader

Summary: A lecture on The Price of Salt is supposed to be all about Therese and Carol, but when Professor Hahn locks eyes with you, lines blur. Slow-Burn. Non-magical AU

Word count: 2k

”What else mattered except being with Carol, anywhere, anyhow?“

- Patricia Highsmith, The Price of Salt

Part III

Your hands hover over the keyboard, each key feeling heavier than usual. You’ve drafted three replies and deleted every single one. Nothing feels quite right, polite but not too eager. Eventually, you settle for a reply.

Subject: RE: Glasses

Dear Professor Hahn,

saturday at 2 p.m. works perfectly for me, thank you for the invitation.

I’m glad I could return your glasses; I’d hate to think of you without them.

Kind regards,

Y/N Y/LN

You re-red it. Shit. Did you really just send that? You hit your head against the keyboard in disbelief, that stupid, flirty, awkwardly sincere message is now in her inbox, and there’s no taking it back.

Re-reading it. Shit. Did you really just send that? You hit your head against the keyboard in disbelief, that stupid, flirty, awkward message is now in her inbox, and there’s no taking it back.

You groan into your palms, feeling the heat rise in your cheeks.After a feel minutes you sigh and move the cursor toward the corner of the screen to close your inbox, you just wanted to hide under your blanket.

A notification pops up.

Subject: RE: RE: Glasses

Dear Miss Y/Ln,

I’ll see you at Maury’s Tiny Cove, 3908 Harrison Avenue, Cheviot.

As for my glasses and hating to think of me without them? That’s quite the visual you’ve been entertaining. I hope it wasn’t too distracting.

K. Hahn

You blink, rereading it twice. Three times. The words sink in slowly, her voice practically slipping off the screen, that teasing edge.‘You swallow hard, feeling a strange mix of humiliation and thrill. Did she really just write that?

…

The days leading up to lunch feel impossibly long, each second dragging as your thoughts spin in endless circles. You try to distract yourself , but your mind keeps returning to that email. To her words. The teasing, playful edge in them. You want to stop thinking about it, but you can’t.

It’s Saturday, and you still haven’t figured out how to calm your nerves. It’s like the weight of what’s coming presses on you, no matter how many times you try to shake it off. Lunch with Professor Hahn. The thought alone makes your pulse quicken. You’re about to see her outside of class, outside of the usual boundaries. There’s something so… charged about the whole thing.

You glance at the clock—it’s nearly time to start getting ready. You swallow hard, feeling that familiar flutter in your chest. Time to make a decision. What do you wear to something like this?

Your eyes land on the red sweater you’ve worn a few times it’s simple, but it fits perfectly. The heart-shaped neckline shows off just enough skin. You bite your lip at the idea of Professor Hahn noticing it.

You apply your favorite perfume on your pulse point and on your wrist, letting the familiar scent settle over you. With a deep breath, you throw on your wool coat and reach for the thick scarf hanging nearby.

The restaurant feels warmer than it should. You glance at your watch for what must be the hundredth time. Five minutes past two. She’s late. Or maybe you’re just too early. The thought doesn’t make you feel any better as you fidget with the corner of your napkin, sneaking another glance at the door.

The sound of heels clicking against the floor snaps your attention back to the present. You look up, and there she is.

Kathryn Hahn strides in with an air of ease, as if she owns the room. Her white blouse is crisp, the first couple of buttons undone, hinting at the barest shadow of skin. A navy coat hugs her shoulders perfectly, and her hair falls casually loose, framing her face. Her sharp eyes scan the room until they lock onto yours. Intense. Steady. Unwavering.

You freeze under her gaze, heat pooling low in your stomach as she approaches. When she finally reaches the table, she slips off her coat with a fluid motion, draping it neatly over the back of her chair. The tailored blouse accentuates her figure, skimming over curves that make your throat dry.

Kathryn smirks, sitting down with deliberate grace. She leans in slightly, resting her elbow on the table. Her glasses dangle loosely from the open button of her blouse, the movement drawing your attention to the soft curve of her collarbone and the subtle hint of cleavage revealed beneath the crisp white fabric. Your eyes are lingering for a moment too long before you snap your gaze back up to her face.

“Hello, Professor,” you manage, your voice quieter than you intended, trying not to let your gaze drop again.

Her lips curve further, a touch of satisfaction colouring her expression. “Miss Y/LN,” she replies smoothly, her tone laced with something you can’t quite place.

You swallow hard, gripping the menu like a lifeline as she leans back slightly, crossing her legs.

Her fingers move to the glasses resting at the edge of her blouse. She pulls them free, slowly, painfully slowly and deliberate. The glasses catch briefly against the fabric before she unfolds them with a practiced ease. Sliding them onto her nose, low enough to peer over the frames, her eyes flick to the menu, as if entirely unaware of the way your breath hitches.

The waiter arrives, and Kathryn orders a Greek salad without hesitation. “And Texan Ranch Water,” she adds.

You scramble to order the same salad, your mind still racing over her drink choice. Texan Ranch Water? You scan the menu again, trying to figure out what it is, but before you can, you glance up to find her watching you.

She’s holding her glasses by the tip, her lips brushing the arm of the frame as she waits. Her eyes are locked on yours, her expression unreadable. You squirm under her gaze, heat prickling at the back of your neck.

“Something on your mind?” she asks, her voice low and teasing. Her lips quirk just slightly.

Your face burns. “Just, uh, trying to figure out what you ordered,” you mumble.

“Well, you don’t know what’s in a Ranch Water?? Honey…”, her eyes twinkling with a mix of surprise and amusement. It’s tequila, it’s lime juice,” she says, making a squishing motion with her fingers, “and it’s sparkling mineral water.” She chuckles lightly. “How old are you again? I would have thought you’d know something as classic as a Ranch Water by now.”

You tell her your age, and her smile widens, eyes flashing with mischievous delight. “Really?” she draws out the word, letting out a soft, almost teasing laugh. “That young, huh?”

She leans back again, her eyes never leaving yours, a slow, knowing smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. “Well, sweetheart, there’s always time to educate you,” she adds, her voice drops slightly.

“So, Y/N…” she says, your name rolling off her tongue like melted chocolate. Your eyes widen slightly at the intimacy. “That’s a lovely name. Where’s it from?”

You hesitate for a moment, stumbling over your answer before offering a brief explanation. She listens intently, her chin resting on her hand, her eyes flickering with curiosity and something more playful.

“You’re not from here, though, are you?” she presses, the words slipping out with the ease of someone who knows they’re right. “I can hear it in your accent.”

You nod and tell her about your upbringing, feeling strangely vulnerable under her scrutiny.

The waiter arrives with your plates, interrupting the charged air between you.

Professor Hahn spears a tomato with elegant precision before raising a brow. “Afraid to ask about me?” she says, her tone teasing but pointed.

You swallow, pulling your nervous energy together, forcing a smile. The tension is unbearable, but you manage to say, “Was about to ask.” The smile lingers, a little more confident this time.

Her grey eyes gleam, intrigued by your shift in tone. She sets her fork down and leans back slightly. “Cleveland,” she offers casually. “But I studied in New York. Lived there for years.”

Kathryn’s drink is set down beside her. You watch her pick up the glass, her fingers curling around the rim as she brings it to her lips. Her eyes flick to yours as she takes a sip, and your stomach twists. She sets the glass down.

Without thinking, you find yourself asking, “Can I try it?”

Kathryn looks at you for a beat and without saying a word, she slides the glass toward you, your fingers brushing.

You focus on the faint lipstick stain on the rim of the glass. With a steady hand, you bring the glass to your lips, deliberately sipping from the spot where her lips had just been. The taste is sharp and refreshing, the tequila cutting through with just the right bite.

Licking your lips the taste is lingering as you meet her gaze. Her eyes darken, it makes your stomach tighten. You feel like prey.

“It’s good,” you say, your voice casual. You lower the glass, smiling at her as you hand it back. “I like it.”

“I’ll get you your own then.” She looks over at the waiter, raising her hand slightly and ordering one for you.

Kathryn leans back slightly, her expression shifting. It’s subtle, but you notice the change immediately—her posture straighter, her voice taking on that polished, professional edge. “So,” she begins, her tone a bit more measured, “The Price of Salt… How’s the reading going? You enjoying it?”

”I finished it. It’s a masterpiece, really. How Highsmith builds tension and captures desire… it’s mesmerizing.“

Expression unreadable, ”One of my students posed a question after class and I’m curious to hear your thoughts on it.”

”He suggested that Therese… ” She draws out the name, a soft emphasis as if weighing the idea. “….should have never gotten involved with Carol. That Carol, with all her complexities, is far too… perilous for someone as tender as Therese. And instead, they argued, Therese would have been better off with Richard—the safe, predictable choice.”

You take a large zip from your drink, the emotions bubbling up despite yourself. “Richard is everything Therese doesn’t want to be tied down to,” you begin, the words spilling out faster than you expected. “He’s suffocating. He doesn’t see her as a person—he sees her as some… accessory to his perfect life plan. Someone to mold into what he wants.”

Your voice sharpens but you feel the effect of the drink as you continue, fingers tightening around your glass. “Carol—Carol is dangerous, sure. But she’s also alive. She’s everything Richard isn’t. She’s freedom. She’s, longing, desire … lust.

You pause, your breath quickening as you think about it. “Being with Carol isn’t about playing it safe. It’s about choosing the fire, knowing it might burn you but stepping into it anyway. Because sometimes, the risk is worth it. That’s what makes it so—” You search for the word, your voice softening. “So irresistible. Richard could never be that. He could never make her feel this way.”

You glance down at the table, momentarily lost in your own words. When you lift your eyes back to Kathryn, her expression hasn’t changed. She’s still watching you, her grey eyes locked on yours, unblinking, as though she’s dissecting every word. The quiet that follows feels heavy, thick with unspoken tension, and you realize your heart is pounding.

Her fingers trail along the rim of her almost empty glass before she speaks, her tone impossibly calm. “Miss Y/L/N,” she says, “would you like to continue discussing this in my office?”

The words hang in the air, thick. There’s no mistaking the pull in her tone, no question of what she’s offering—or demanding.

You nod.

Author’s Note: A little homage to some of Kathryn Hahn’s iconic pop culture moments sprinkled in here, couldn’t resist! Next chapter? No more slow burn. That’s all I’m going to say.

#kathryn hahn #kathryn hahn x reader #Kathryn Hahn x you #carol 2015 #the price of salt #cate blanchett #agatha harkness x reader #agatha harkness #agatha harkness x you #agatha all along #agatha x reader #reader insert #professor x student

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