#so all turns are leading back to the same ending | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

jongst4r · 2 days ago

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lab partner (p. sunghoon)

in which being paired with sunghoon leads to way more than just classwork.

pairing: mean!dom!sunghoon x sub!fem!reader || wc: 10.3k || cw: smut! public sex, degradation, teasing, humiliation, praise, fingering, oral (f. rec), p in v, unprotected sex (don’t.), dirty talk, use of petnames, swearing, marking, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, making out, a little angst (and a liiiittle fluff if you squint), a tiny bit of sir!sunghoon, sunghoon is mean but not that mean, mentions of enhypen’s jay and jake, le sserafim’s yunjin and txt’s taehyun || warnings: +18 content, mdni!!! || a/n: when i first started writing this i thought of it as a short drabble but…….i got a bit carried away

you sigh when you walk into class.

yunjin’s seat is empty, her bag nowhere in sight. she had texted you thirty minutes ago: “not going to class, i feel awful 💀 good luck with bio, text me later! <3”

you had replied with a string of panicked emojis, but it was too late already. yunjin was your lab partner, the only reason you got through this class every week.

you walk towards your seat at the end of the class and set your notebook down quietly, half-hoping the teacher would just let you work alone. but then you hear your name.

“since miss huh and mr. sim are absent today, you’ll be paired with mr. park.” you freeze.

you glance sideways, in an attempt to avoid eye contact, but sunghoon is already looking at you.

of course he is.

he’s lounging back in his chair like he owns the place, one arm slung lazily over the backrest of jake’s empty seat, a lollipop in his mouth, smirking like he just won something. your stomach sinks.

you’re not friends. you’ve barely spoken outside of group assignments and hallway glances. but sunghoon is… insufferable: he’s always teasing you for no reason, calling you “quiet girl” or “shy thing” when he passes you, brushing too close when he doesn’t have to.

and worst of all? you’re weak to it.

he shifts to the empty desk beside yours with a loud noise, dropping into the seat like it’s a sofa. the moment he settles, he turns to you with that same slow, lazy smirk that is always adorning his face.

“hi, princess,” he says, voice low and mocking.

you turn your head, immediately pulling your textbook closer. “hi.”

“aww,” he hums sweetly. “don’t be shy! we’re partners now.” he leans in just enough for you to feel the warmth of his breath near your cheek. “guess you’re stuck with me today, huh?”

as the teacher starts explaining the lesson you’ll work on today, you try to focus on your notes — really, you do, but it’s impossible when you feel his eyes on you. watching, enjoying every second of your suffering.

“you always sit so straight,” he murmurs after some time. “so… proper. bet you’ve never even skipped a class.”

you don’t respond.

he grins. “i like good girls.”

your breath catches and you grip your pen tighter, silently praying that your cheeks don’t start burning. but then you feel it, his knee nudging against yours under the desk, casual and deliberate. you gulp.

and he notices.

“are you nervous, baby?” he whispers, voice almost too soft to hear. “or is that just how you always behave when i’m near you?”

your cheeks burn instantly.

“s-stop talking,” you mumble, flipping the page in your book too hard.

he chuckles, low and amused. “god, you’re cute.”

you try to focus on the lecture, eyes fixed on the whiteboard, but it’s no use. every time you glance at sunghoon he’s watching you with that amused smirk, like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you.

his knee presses lightly against yours again and your breath catches, heart pounding in your chest. you clamp your hands over your notebook, pretending to write, but you haven’t written a single word. how could you when sunghoon is right beside you, legs spread out, one hand hidden under the desk and dangerously inching closer to you?

at first, it’s subtle. the light brush of his fingers against your knee like it could’ve been an accident. like he’s giving you the chance to pull away. but you don’t, you can’t. it’s like your body’s frozen.

his fingers linger there, just barely grazing your skin. then, a little bolder this time, he drags the tips up and down slowly, just once, making it clear that this is intentional. he knows exactly what he’s doing, and he knows what it’s doing to you.

your spine stiffens, thighs tensing slightly. the air between you grows thick, tense, filled with unspoken things. you still don’t look at him. you can’t. if you do, you’ll fall apart right there at your desk. instead, you stare blankly at the whiteboard, at the scrawled words you’re supposed to be copying, but they blur and shift out of focus with every inch his hand moves.

then, just when you think you might explode from the anticipation, he leans in, close enough that you can feel the warmth of his breath near your cheek, even smell the faint trace of cologne on his shirt.

"keep your eyes on the board," he mutters under his breath, voice low enough only you can hear. “act like you’re paying attention, got it?”

your thighs twitch as he caresses your skin, higher this time. and you try to focus, really, you do, but as his fingers go even higher and graze your inner thigh it’s impossible.

"what, cat got your tongue?" he smirks, watching you squirm. “you’re so quiet all the time, but look at you now. sitting here like a good little toy while i do whatever i want.”

your cheeks burn. you bite down hard on your lip to stay silent, but he notices — of course he does.

“you like this, don’t you?” he says, leaning in, his mouth brushing your ear. “you pretend to be all shy and innocent, but i know you're soaking through your panties for me.”

your breath hitches, and that alone makes him chuckle.

“pathetic,” he whispers, cruel and amused. “you’d let me do anything to you as long as no one else finds out, huh? sitting here letting me touch you like this in class, acting like you’re not loving every second of it.”

his fingers press higher, centimeters away from your panties, and you flinch, grabbing the edge of your desk, knuckles white. he grins.

"aw, baby. scared someone’s gonna notice?" he teases. “maybe they already have. maybe they’re watching you fidget and wondering what’s got the shy girl squirming in her seat.”

you shake your head, breath trembling.

he tsks. “you can beg me to stop, yeah?”

you should be pushing him away. you know that, but your body reacts before your mind can catch up, just like it always does around him.

it’s not the first time he’s done something like this, he knows exactly how to get under your skin. like the time his hand lingered on your waist a second too long when he passed behind you in the library. or that morning in gym class when he caught you staring at the veins in his forearms and raised an eyebrow like he could see right through you.

he never says much. he doesn’t have to. a smirk, a look. the way he leans just a little too close. he’s been breaking down your defenses one touch at a time. you had told yourself that he was just messing with you, that he didn’t mean anything by it. but now his fingers are brushing higher, his breath hot against your cheek, and you're letting him. and the worst part? you want this.

“just what i thought,” he mutters. “such a filthy little thing when no one's looking.”

and then he smirks again.

“stay quiet for me, sweetheart,” he whispers, eyes fixed on your red cheeks. “or i’ll make you beg out loud.”

his fingers hover just above your soaked panties for a moment, the slowest tease. then, with deliberate cruelty, he slides two fingers past the thin fabric, pressing against your wetness. your breath hitches sharply and you squeeze your eyes shut, trying to hold back the rush of sensation. sunghoon smirks, watching your reaction like a predator watching his prey. he presses those fingers gently at first, just brushing your clit over your soaked panties, teasing you mercilessly.

“you’re so damn wet for me,” he murmurs, voice dripping with satisfaction. “didn’t think the shy little thing would be this desperate.”

you can feel the air hitting your cunt as he pulls your panties aside. then, without warning, he pushes his fingers inside you, slow and teasing, just a little, curling with precision, searching for that perfect spot that makes your body tremble. your back arches off the seat before you can stop it, a strangled moan caught between your lips.

he waits for you to adjust, watching how you shiver beneath his touch, then presses deeper. two fingers sliding inside with a wet, slick sound muffled by the desk. he moves them in slow, steady strokes, curling and twisting just right to stretch and fill you, making you clench instinctively around him.

“you like that?” he whispers, voice low and husky. “that’s just my fingers, baby, and you’re clenching already. just imagine what else i could do to you if you let me.”

his other hand isn’t passive; it slips under the hem of your skirt, creeping up your thigh with feather-light touches that contrast the deep motion of his fingers inside you. his fingertips find your clit, circling it slowly, teasing in small movements that make your hips jerk involuntarily.

you try to stay still, to not give him the satisfaction, but your whole body betrays you, every flick and press on your clit is pushing you closer to the edge.

sunghoon’s voice drops even lower, thick with amusement. “you like that, don’t you? you like being stretched and touched like a filthy little toy. you’re so desperate you’d let me do this even here, in class, with so many people around us.”

his fingers flick harder over your clit now, and you whimper, trying to bury your face in your arms on the desk to hide the noise you can’t control. but it’s no use. he curls his fingers deeper, rubbing that perfect spot inside you in perfect rhythm with the relentless teasing on your clit. your legs shake, your breath becomes ragged.

“look at you clenching,” he murmurs. “so needy. are you gonna cum just from this? from being fingered like a cheap toy where anyone could see?”

you try to speak, to utter any word you can think of, but you just can’t bring yourself to do it, knowing your voice will be filled with desperate need. so you nod helplessly, your hands gripping the edge of the desk with so much strength it almost hurts.

“you really are my dumb little thing, huh?” sunghoon whispers, chuckling. “go ahead, baby. cum for me. be a good girl.”

and you do — hard.

your whole body shakes, walls pulsing around his fingers, slick dripping down onto his hand. he coos mockingly, fingers still working you through it, riding out your orgasm. your thighs tremble, overstimulated, and you bite down hard on your lip to keep any sounds from slipping out, jaw clenched. he finally pulls his fingers away, slowly, like he’s savoring every second of your dirty encounter. then brings them to his lips, sucking them clean with a smirk that makes your brain short-circuit.

"you taste so fucking sweet," he murmurs in your ear, chuckling as if he’s not just completely ruined you in the middle of class.

your heart is still racing, vision hazy, and you're too dazed to even think. you shift in your seat, thighs sticky, trying to fix your skirt with shaky fingers. the world feels like it’s moving in slow motion. you can’t focus, can’t breathe, can’t believe what just happened, and how easily he’s acting like it was nothing.

you’re still catching your breath when the bell rings. you don’t look at sunghoon. you don’t dare to. you just grab your bag and sprint out of the classroom. or at least, you try, because you don’t even make it two steps before you feel cold fingers curling tightly around your wrist.

sunghoon.

“where do you think you’re going, angel?” he mutters, voice sharp but laced with amusement. “you thought i was gonna let you get away with the little show you pulled in class?”

you glance around the empty hallway, but no one’s around. still, the risk of someone hearing him makes your breath hitch.

sunghoon wastes no time and tugs you down the corridor, pulling you into an empty class without asking. he shuts the door behind him with a quiet click.

“you know,” he murmurs, cornering you, “i’ve never seen someone try so hard to not moan. you were shaking, baby.”

his hand drags slowly down your side, fingers grazing the curve of your waist, and your body responds before your brain can catch up, a sharp shiver runs down your spine. the back of your knees nearly give out when your hips brush the edge of a desk behind you.

"so sensitive," he adds under his breath, eyes flicking down like he’s already imagining what he’ll do next. “what am i gonna do with you now, hm?”

you look at him, cheeks still flushed. your heart is pounding so hard in your chest you swear he can hear it. your back hits the edge of the desk, anchoring you, but your legs still feel shaky beneath you.

“you liked it? that cute little act of yours?” he chuckles, breath ghosting over your jaw.

you don’t answer, you can’t. your lips part, but no words come out, only the soft hitch of your breath as he moves closer.

sunghoon leans in, mouth against your ear. “you’re such a desperate little thing when I touch you. and you like it when i talk to you like this, don’t you?”

your thighs press together instinctively, breath catching in your throat. god, you wish you could say no, but your body betrays you. and he knows it.

his hand snakes under your skirt again, fingers gliding over the soaked patch he left behind earlier, pressing lightly, just enough to make you gasp.

"good girls don’t act like this," he whispers, voice dark and close against your neck. "but you? you sit there, all innocent, begging for it without even saying a word, looking at me with that pretty face."

your thighs clench around his hand, hips twitching forward before you can stop yourself. he notices and grins, slow and wicked.

"ohhh," he coos, dragging the word out like it tastes good on his tongue. "you like when i call you that? pretty? my pretty little mess."

heat floods your cheeks, your chest, your stomach, everywhere. your hands grip the edge of the desk behind you, trying to ground yourself as his fingers slowly tease your clothed entrance. he presses a cruelly gentle kiss under your jaw before pulling back just enough to look into your eyes.

“i bet you’d let me mark you up right now. wouldn’t you?”

you swallow hard, unable to meet his eyes.

he hums, satisfied. “go ahead then. ask me.”

you hesitate. your lips part, then close again. your heart is hammering so loudly you can barely think. and then…

“…please.”

it’s barely a whisper, but it’s there. soft and desperate.

sunghoon smirks. “god, i’m going to ruin you.”

he dips his head to your neck, and when his lips finally latch on, sucking just hard enough to leave a mark, the sharp pull of pressure makes you moan. your fingers clutch at his shirt without thinking.

"shh," he murmurs against your skin, dragging his lips over the spot he just marked, only to suck again, slow, deliberate, knowing exactly what he’s doing to you.

then he trails kisses along your jaw, infuriatingly slow. your head tips back, exposing more of your throat, and he takes his time, tasting every inch like he owns it. you cling to him, hips shifting, trying to chase some kind of friction, but he just chuckles at the way you bite your lip to keep the whimpers in.

by the time his hands move up to knead your breasts over your shirt, thumbs brushing over your nipples through the fabric, he knows.

you’re already gone. your head’s spinning, body humming with overstimulation, and then—

“on your knees,” sunghoon snaps, voice low and sharp.

your body reacts before your mind catches up. you drop immediately, knees pressing into the cold classroom floor. your heart pounds in your chest. you asked for this — wanted it. wanted him to treat you like you were nothing but a toy he could use.

sunghoon barely looks at you as he walks past, shrugging off his shirt and tossing it carelessly over a chair. he takes his seat on the edge of the desk, legs spread, towering above you.

"look at you," he scoffs, gaze dragging slowly down your body, lingering on the way your thighs press together. "always so desperate. bet you were soaking the second i called you 'pathetic' earlier, weren’t you?"

you nod, shame and arousal twisting your mind. your cheeks burn, but you can’t help the way your thighs twitch, seeking friction.

sunghoon chuckles, darkly. “of course you were. little freak.”

he beckons you with two fingers, and you crawl over slowly, like a good girl — because that’s what he wants you to be. when you reach him, he grabs your jaw, tilting your head up until you eyes meet his.

“say it,” he orders.

you blink, confused. “say what?”

his grip tightens slightly, not enough to hurt, just enough to make you listen. “say you like when i treat you like this. say you like being my dumb little toy.”

your breath catches. heat floods your cheeks again, feeling ashamed, but not enough to drown the arousal that’s eating you alive. your lips part. “i… i like it.”

“louder.”

you swallow.

“i like it,” you repeat, voice shaking. “i like when you’re mean to me.”

sunghoon smirks and leans in just enough for his breath to graze your lips. “good girl.”

he pulls you up to straddle his thigh, the pressure of his muscle against your heat making your legs tremble. one hand slipping between your legs, cupping your heat through the fabric of your panties.

“already wet,” he mocks, laughing softly. “you’re pathetic. you know that?”

you nod, moaning softly as his fingers press harder. he moves your panties aside with ease and runs two fingers through your folds — slow and lazy, like he has all the time in the world.

“so needy,” he mutters, teasing your clit with the pad of his finger. “and for what? i haven’t even touched you properly yet.”

you whimper, trying to rock your hips against his thigh for some relief, but his other hand lands on your waist, holding you still.

“nuh-uh,” he scolds. “you don’t get to move unless i say so. you’re my toy, remember?”

you bite your lip, nodding quickly.

sunghoon hums, satisfied, then he finally slips a finger inside. he does it slowly, curling it just right. your back arches immediately, breath hitching.

“god, i fingered you twenty minutes ago and you’re still tight,” he groans. “and you’re clenching like you’ve never had anything inside you. pathetic.”

“sunghoon—” you moan, but he cuts you off with a glare.

“that’s sir to you right now.”

you shiver, voice barely above a whisper. “yes, sir…”

he adds another finger, stretching you out, fucking you slowly, deliberately, like he’s enjoying watching you fall apart inch by inch. your moans get louder, needier, and you cling to his shoulders, hiding your face in the crook of his neck, trying to hold yourself together.

he leans in, lips brushing your ear. “you gonna cum again just from my fingers, pretty?” he taunts. “gonna make a mess like the filthy little girl you are?”

your body trembles, your legs starting to shake. you’re right on the edge, and he knows it.

“c’mon, beg for it.”

“please,” you whisper, desperate. “please let me cum, sir. i need it—ple—”

you moan louder as sunghoon’s fingers sink deeper inside, slow and cruel, keeping you right on the edge. your hips keep twitching but he doesn’t let you move, just keeps you there, needy and whimpering in his lap.

“please,” you breathe, voice wrecked. “please, sir, i’ll be good—just—please fuck me.”

he tilts his head, smug as ever. “you sound so pretty when you beg,” he mutters, pulling his fingers out and watching your body tremble. “makes me want to ruin you even more.”

you’re nodding before he even says anything else, like you’ll agree to anything if it means he will finally fuck you.

sunghoon stands up, undoing his belt with slow, deliberate movements. “on the desk,” he says. “face down.”

you are quick to obey, bending over the cool surface.

he chuckles, pulling your skirt around your hips and shoving your panties down. “fuck…” he groans, watching your dripping folds. “you’re so fucking wet, angel.”

your knees buckle at the sound his voice. you feel the heat of him behind you. and then you feel it, the thick head of his cock pressing against your entrance. you whimper when he just rests there, not pushing in, just waiting.

“tell me who you belong to.”

“you,” you whisper.

“louder.”

“you. i’m yours, sir.”

that’s all it takes.

he thrusts into you in one hard, deep motion and you cry out, your hands scrambling for grip on the desk as he fills you completely.

“fuck,” sunghoon groans behind you, snapping his hips again, harder. “you feel so fucking good like this. tight little cunt just made for me.”

you moan helplessly, cheek pressed to the desk, eyes rolling back as he fucks into you with deep, punishing thrusts. he grabs your hips, dragging you back to meet him with every stroke, skin slapping loudly in the quiet room.

“god, listen to that,” he laughs, breathless. “so fucking wet. all that begging and whining, just to get split open like this.”

you can barely answer — the pleasure is too much, the stretch too good. all you can do is whimper and moan and let him use you like you wanted.

“you’re clenching,” he growls, voice right by your ear now. “you’re gonna cum for me, baby? gonna cum on my cock like a good fucking toy?”

“yes—yes, sir, please—”

his hand snakes around your waist, fingers finding your clit, rubbing tight, fast circles in perfect sync with his thrusts.

“c’mon, show me what a good girl you are.” he whispers.

your orgasm hits hard, it’s almost overwhelming. your whole body locks up, walls pulsing around him, crying out his name like a prayer.

“that’s it,” he groans, fucking you through it. “make a mess for me. that’s my girl.”

he keeps going, deeper and sloppier now, chasing his own release. and then you feel him twitch inside you, the low growl in his throat as he buries himself deep into you and cums hard, filling you completely.

for a moment, after he’s finished, there’s just heavy breathing and the sound of your heartbeat pounding in your ears. he pulls out slowly, fingers trailing lazily over your heated skin as he leans down to leave a warm kiss along your spine.

“look at you,” he murmurs with a smirk, voice low and teasing. “all wrecked because of me.”

you bite your lip, face burning. you don’t dare move, not trusting your legs to hold you up yet. your heart is still racing, your body trembling slightly. sunghoon stays there for a bit longer, eyes looking up and down your back like he’s memorizing the view. then he straightens, tucking himself back into his pants and adjusting his belt with ease. you hear the familiar click of the buckle, but you’re still trying to collect yourself.

“don’t think this is a one-time thing, angel,” he says, voice full of amusement. “you’re mine now, and I’m just getting started.”

you finally glance over your shoulder at him, still bent over the desk, lips parted to say something, but the look he gives you steals every thought straight out of your head.

his smile is wicked. “aw, don’t look at me like that,” he coos, taking a step closer and gently fixing your skirt over your hips. “you’re the one who begged for it, remember?”

you let out a shaky breath, swallowing hard.

“god,” he laughs softly, running his thumb over your swollen bottom lip before leaning in close, voice brushing your ear. “you should see yourself right now. all flushed and fucked out, it's adorable.”

“sunghoon…” you murmur, unsure if it’s a warning, a plea, or just his name falling from your lips like muscle memory.

he hums in response, then tilts your chin up so your eyes meet. “you’ll be thinking about this all day, won’t you?”

you blink at him, still dazed, still aching. and he knows.

“you should, you look pretty when you’re thinking.”

before you can reply, he plants a surprisingly soft kiss on your cheek and turns toward the door. as he opens it, he glances over his shoulder, smirk still playing at his lips.

“try not to get too distracted in our next class, princess.”

then he’s gone, unbothered, like he didn’t just ruin you completely and leave your legs shaking.

and you’re left standing there, heart pounding, lips tingling, and one very real problem: how the hell are you supposed to walk out of this classroom like nothing happened?

you take a second to fix your skirt, smooth your hair, wipe at your cheeks with the sleeve of your shirt. you take a few shaky steps toward your backpack, grabbing your phone with a hand that’s still trembling slightly. you open your messages, ignoring the chaos reflected on the screen — messy hair, flushed cheeks, glassy eyes — and click on yunjin’s name. there’s a half-typed message from when you first walked into class. you delete it and start over.

you: do you think you’ll be sick tomorrow too?

you: just asking

you: no reason

you: like maybe don’t rush to get better. rest up. hydrate. sleep lots. drink tea. rest. a lot.

you stare at the screen, lips pressed tight, and then add:

you: seriously. please be sick again.

your thumb hovers over the send button.

you think of sunghoon’s voice in your ear, the press of his lips to your cheek, that stupid smirk as he walked out like he didn’t just rearrange your guts. you think about sitting next to him again, about his hand on your thigh under the desk.

you hit send before you can regret it.

and you immediately regret it.

then you press your face into your hands and let out a groan, muffled and entirely helpless.

you're in so much trouble.

you told yourself it was just a phase.

just hormones, just bad timing.

but it’s not just that.

you dream about sunghoon. think about him at night when you’re alone, hand between your thighs, biting your pillow to stay quiet while his voice echoes in your head.

you hate that he’s the one who makes you feel like this. hate that he’s cocky, careless, cruel.

it’s been three weeks since that day and you can’t stop thinking about him. not when he keeps on touching you, not when it feels good, too good, so good you can’t even think.

three weeks of sneaking into bathrooms during study period, of sitting in his lap in the back of the library as his cock is deep inside you, of biting your knuckles to stay quiet while his fingers ruin you during class.

three weeks and he still hasn’t kissed you. not really. only bitten lips and bruising touches and words that make your legs shake.

and even though you know it’s wrong, know you should pull away, your body is already choosing for you.

just like it always does when it comes to him.

yunjin came back the next week after the incident, and the teacher still kept you paired with her for “consistency,”. you didn't protest. you couldn’t.

but that wasn’t an impediment for sunghoon. he hasn’t stopped teasing you since that first time. if anything, he’s gotten even worse: touching you shamelessly on the hallway, whispering filth against your ear during group discussions, acting like it’s funny how easy you are now.

it always starts the same way now: a look across the classroom, a tiny twitch of his lip when you make eye contact, and then, after the bell, that slow, deliberate walk past your desk as he brushes his fingers along your arm like it’s an accident. but in reality it’s a silent demand: come.

today is no different.

now you’re alone again — he told you to stay after class, so you did. you always do.

the door clicks shut behind him. he doesn’t say anything at first, just leans against it, looking you over like he’s bored.

“you wore that skirt on purpose,” he says, voice low. “didn’t you?”

you shift in your seat. “no.”

he laughs, dry and mocking. “you’re such a bad liar.”

your cheeks burn. your legs press together under the desk.

he walks toward you slowly. one hand rests on the back of your chair, the other ghosts over your thigh.

“you know i’ve had to sit through two full periods with my cock hard because of you?” his fingers grip your jaw, tilting your face toward his. “i bet your panties are already soaked,” he murmurs. “you’ve probably been aching all day, waiting for me to do something. am i wrong?”

you swallow hard, he grins.

he leans closer, breath brushing your cheek as his hand slides higher up your thigh, warm through the fabric of your skirt. “what’s the point of pretending?” he murmurs. “we both know what you came here for.”

your breath hitches. you want to tell him it’s not true, that you just stayed because he asked, but your thighs are already tensing, betraying you. your heart is pounding in your ears, and he knows. he always knows.

his fingers push the hem of your skirt higher, dragging it up until it bunches around your hips. he grins when he sees your panties.

“lace?” he scoffs softly. “you really did dress for me.”

you shake your head weakly, but it’s useless. he slips a hand between your legs and presses his fingers against the damp cotton, rubbing slow circles over your clothed clit until your body jolts.

“fuck,” he whispers. “you’re soaked already. pathetic.”

your lips part in a breathless whine. he’s not even inside you yet and you’re already trembling. you should stop this. you should tell him you want more than this. but when his fingers hook under the waistband and slide your panties down, you lift your hips without thinking, letting him pull them off.

“spread,” he orders simply, and you do — knees falling open for him, desk chair creaking quietly under you.

sunghoon turns you around and sinks to his knees in front of you, eyes heavy-lidded, focused. you feel the cool air against your skin, the heat of his breath as he leans in.

“look at you,” he mutters. “needy little thing. you’d let me do anything, wouldn’t you?”

you nod before you can stop yourself. shame blooms in your chest, but it’s drowned by the ache between your legs.

his fingers trail over your folds, light and teasing, avoiding where you need him most. you let out a soft, desperate whimper, hips twitching.

“aw,” he says mockingly. “you want it so bad you’re shaking.”

he finally drags a finger between your folds, slick coating his skin. then another. slow, deliberate. and then he pushes one finger in — just past the knuckle — watching your face twist as you try not to moan.

“tight,” he murmurs. “always so tight for me.”

he fucks the finger in deeper, curling it slightly, then adds a second. the stretch stings, but you take it, thighs trembling on either side of him. his thumb brushes over your clit at the same time, and your back arches.

“sunghoon—”

he tsks. “keep your voice down, baby. unless you want someone to walk in and see what a mess you are.”

your mouth clamps shut, eyes shut with the effort of holding it in. his fingers work faster now, hitting that sweet spot, rubbing circles over your clit in rhythm.

“look at you,” he breathes, almost to himself. “clenching around me like a whore. you gonna cum just like this? from my fingers again?”

you nod frantically, tears spilling as your thighs twitch and your stomach tightens.

he grins, cruel and beautiful. “do it, then. cum for me. be my filthy little thing.”

you do — choking on the whimper you can’t hold back, body locking up around his fingers as your orgasm crashes through you. you barely hear the wet sounds echoing in the empty room, barely feel the drool on your chin or the tears on your cheeks.

he keeps moving, even as you twitch and gasp, overstimulated. he only slows when you collapse forward, clutching his shoulder weakly.

his voice is low against your ear. “god, you’re so easy now.”

you’re still trembling when his fingers finally slip out of you, coated and glistening. your panties lie discarded on the floor. your fingers weakly gripping the fabric of his shirt as if it’ll keep you grounded, as if you’re not seconds away from falling apart again at the mere sound of his voice.

sunghoon doesn’t give you time to recover. he stands slowly, wiping his fingers on your inner thigh like you’re just a napkin for his mess, not a girl barely holding herself together.

“you always do this,” he mutters, brushing your hair behind your ear with mock gentleness. “act so shy around everyone else, all quiet and sweet… and then the second we’re alone, you’re dripping for me.”

your eyes flutter shut at the sound of his voice. he knows exactly what he’s doing. he knows the way his words make you ache, how every cruel nickname, every degrading comment, digs deeper than just lust. you don’t want to enjoy it, you don’t want to need him, but the proof is between your legs, soaking the chair beneath you.

“you don’t even try to pretend anymore,” he goes on, voice dropping lower. “you just sit there and take it like a good little toy.”

your stomach twists at that, shame and arousal knotted together. you should say something, anything, but all that slips past your lips is a broken, quiet, “sunghoon…”

his hand grabs your chin, fingers digging in just enough to make your breath catch. he tilts your face up until your eyes meet his. his expression is unreadable.

“what?” he asks.

you blink at him, dazed. “i… i can’t—”

he cuts you off with a slow shake of his head, and suddenly he’s moving again, dragging your chair back just enough to make more room. you realize what he’s doing.

his belt clicks open with a soft sound. your breath catches in your throat. you swallow hard. your legs are still spread, panties still off. and he’s staring at you like he already owns you, like he knows he can do anything and you won’t stop him.

because you won’t.

he approaches you as he strokes himself lazily, his other hand curling around the back of your neck, face inches away from you. he doesn’t kiss you. he never kisses you. but his breath is warm against your lips, and for a second, it feels almost intimate.

“you gonna let me fuck you right here, angel?” he whispers. “right on this little classroom, where anyone could walk in and see you like this?”

your body betrays you again. your hips twitch, a soft noise slipping out of your throat.

he grins.

“thought so.” he mocks, reaching for your hips to carry you and sit you on the desk. you watch him kick his lips as he spreads your legs, slowly, teasingly.

he pushes himself forward slowly, the tip of his hardened dick teasing your wet folds, making your breath hitch. your hands grip the edges of the desk like you’re trying to hold yourself together, but all you can think about is how close his face is — how those thick, dark eyebrows furrow in concentration, the sharp line of his jaw, the way his eyes flicker down to your chest before locking back with yours.

sunghoon doesn’t notice the way you look at him. or maybe he does, but chooses to ignore it. his gaze never softens, never lingers on your mouth.

he’s never kissed you. never once. it’s an unspoken rule. but you want it. you want to press your lips to his, to taste him, to make this whole mess feel real. you want to catch him off guard, to break the rules between you both even just once.

but you don’t say a thing. you just watch him, eyes tracing every inch of his face, memorizing the way his breath stutters as he pushes deeper inside you. the slow stretch, the way his body fits against yours.

his hand tightens on your neck, pulling you forward just a little, and his voice cuts through your thoughts.

“look at me,” he orders, voice low and rough.

your eyes snap back to his, and you nod, barely able to breathe.

“good girl,” he says, starting to move again, slow and relentless.

and still, no kiss.

he doesn’t slow down; if anything, his movements grow more deliberate, more possessive. every thrust presses deeper, setting fire to your nerves, pulling a gasp from your lips. you lock your hands behind his neck, fingers tangling in the soft strands of his hair at the nape, needing to hold him still even as he owns every inch of you.

“you’re so tight,” he murmurs, voice low, rasping with hunger. “always so fucking ready for me, no matter how many times i fuck you.”

the way he says it makes your skin flush with a mix of shame and pride. you can feel the muscles in his jaw clench, his breaths shallow, desperate. your eyes catch his, dark and intense, searching yours like he’s trying to memorize the exact moment you lose yourself beneath him.

the rhythm between you shifts, faster now, harder. it’s raw and urgent, like the world outside doesn’t exist. your body arches instinctively. his hands grip your hips, steadying you.

“you’re mine,” he growls low, almost possessively. “nobody else touches you like this. say it.”

your head drops forward, breath ragged, but you manage the words. “i’m yours.” there’s something in the way you say it that makes his grip on your hips tighten just a little.

his face lowers toward yours, eyes dark and intense, flickering with something you can’t quite name. your heart hammers louder, the desperate hope still lighting inside you — is he going to…?

he stays close, so close you can feel the heat radiating from his skin, the roughness of his breath mixing with yours. your eyes flicker to his mouth, lips slightly parted, so tempting, so close. you want to lean in, to close the distance, but your throat tightens and you stay still, waiting for him.

instead, his voice drops to a whisper, thick with raw need. “say it again. louder.”

your voice breaks as you repeat, “i’m yours.” this time more certain, more desperate. and when you do, you see something soften in his eyes, like maybe, just maybe, he’s finally letting you in.

then, without warning, his mouth brushes your cheek. and you want so badly to reach up and pull him closer, you want him to kiss you. god, you want it so badly it feels like your chest is on fire.

and without thinking, you lean in, closing the small space between your faces. your lips brush his, as if asking for something more than the roughness of his thrusts. you want him to kiss you, to break through that invisible wall he’s built so carefully.

but the moment your lips meet his, he pulls back sharply, eyes wide and mocking, a cruel smirk twisting his mouth. “what the hell?” he sneers, his voice dripping with disbelief and amusement. “are you serious right now? i thought you knew we were just fucking. you thought i was your boyfriend?” he mocks you.

he’s still inside you, his hands gripping your hips as if to remind you who’s in control, but his tone is cold, sharp, degrading. the way he looks at you, like you’re some naive fool for expecting anything more than this raw, physical mess.

your lips part in silent shock, the sting of his words almost worse than the sudden withdrawal of his warmth. your body trembles, caught between the want to pull him back and the shame that knots in your chest. he’s right, isn’t he? this is just sex. nothing more.

you don't say anything, not even when he stays inside you, still using your body like nothing just happened, like you didn’t try to kiss him, like you didn’t embarrass yourself in the most humiliating way possible.

you let him finish.

you keep your eyes shut and your jaw tight, nodding numbly through the last few degrading words he spits. and when it’s over, you dress quickly, quietly. you don’t look at him. you don’t let yourself cry until you’re already out of his sight.

and after that, you stop answering.

you ignore his messages. you switch seats in the library. you walk the other way when you see him coming down the hallway. you leave him on read. you don’t even let yourself look at him, no matter how much your chest tightens every time you hear his voice. you pretend he doesn’t exist.

and at first, he doesn’t seem to care. he’s always been cold, indifferent. you tell yourself it’s nothing. he’ll find someone else to bother. he probably already has. maybe it’s better this way.

but a week goes by, and you can feel the shift.

he’s off. the smug, lazy confidence he always carries is gone. not completely. of course, he’s still sunghoon, still handsome and untouchable and a little cruel, but he’s… tense. short-tempered. eyes flicking to you in class like he’s daring you to meet them. leaning back in his chair like he doesn’t care, but tapping his pen like it’s the only thing keeping him from snapping.

he doesn’t understand what happened, why you stopped letting him fuck you, why you’re not melting under his words like before. why you won't even look at him. he doesn’t ask, not directly. he’d never lower himself to that.

but you feel it every time he shifts behind you. every time you catch him staring at you. every time he mutters your name and you don’t turn around.

he’s going crazy, and he doesn’t know what to do about it.

you, on the other hand, are just trying to feel like yourself again.

the shame still sits heavy in your chest, and some nights it creeps into your dreams, that moment where you leaned in, where he pulled away like you disgusted him. but it’s quieter now. it doesn’t hurt that much, it’s like a bruise already starting to fade.

so you keep ignoring him. and he keeps unraveling. and both of you pretend it doesn’t matter.

but it does.

badly.

it’s friday again. you hurriedly walk down the hallway, it’s your last class of the week and you can’t wait for it to be over. to not have sunghoon’s presence near you.

you slip into the classroom, eyes scanning for yunjin first — but she’s nowhere to be found. your breath stutters, and you look to jake’s usual seat.

empty.

you stomach twists. “not again…” you whisper.

you don’t even think. you cross the room fast, heart in your throat, voice low and almost shaking as you reach your teacher’s desk.

“sorry,” you say, breathless. “is there any way i could… maybe join another group instead?”

she looks at the room. “but mr. park is also—“

“i-i know he’s not paired either, but we’ve already worked together and sunghoon is—”

you catch the mistake the moment it slips from your mouth. you shouldn’t have said his name. you shouldn’t have looked up.

but it’s too late.

you feel his eyes on you, burning from across the room. when you glance, just briefly, you see him sitting with one arm slung lazily over the back of his chair, gaze fixed on you like he’s trying to figure out whether to laugh or rip the desk in half.

he heard you.

he heard everything.

and he’s pissed.

not just irritated, it’s not the usual smirk, not the cocky eye-roll, but jaw tight, knuckles clenched, tongue pressed hard against the inside of his cheek. like your rejection, your plea not to sit beside him, cracked something in him wide open.

but the teacher hums distractedly and waves her hand toward the front of the class. “sure, sure. go sit with jay and taehyun today.”

you thank her quietly and turn without looking back.

sunghoon doesn’t say a word, but you know he’s fuming.

the bell rings, sharp and sudden. your heart hammers in your chest as you gather your things, eager to escape before sunghoon can corner you.

you run out of the class. you slip past the rows, weaving through the crowd with quick steps. but just as you reach the exit door, a rough hand clamps down on your wrist. you don’t have to turn around to know it’s sunghoon, of course it’s him.

before you can pull away, he yanks you backwards and pushes you into the nearest empty classroom. the door slams shut behind you with a solid thud that echoes in the small space.

he closes the distance between you fast, cornering you against the door. both hands are pressed at the sides of your head, his chest heaving, eyes blazing with a mix of frustration and something you can’t quite name.

“why the hell are you ignoring me?” his voice is low, rough.

he’s mad. really mad. but he’s not yelling, not mocking you. it’s something else, like he’s barely holding himself together.

“you’re acting like i’m some fucking stranger,” he says, voice shaking just a little. “like none of this means anything. you don’t get to just disappear.”

you can see the tension in his fingers, the way his shoulders are tight, like he’s holding back everything he wants to say.

“you don’t answer my messages, you don’t even look at me.” he growls, eyes snapping back to you. “this silence is fucking killing me.”

the air between you thickens, heavy with everything left unsaid.

he takes a step back. “what the fuck did i do?” he spits, voice rough, shaking with frustration. “i don’t get it. i’m not your boyfriend, i don’t owe you shit. so why the hell are you making me feel like this? like i’m losing my fucking mind over you?”

his hands slam down on the desk, rattling the wood. his eyes burn into yours, dark.

“i’m mad, yeah. mad because i fucking want you, and you’re pretending i don’t exist. like you don’t want me at all.” his voice drops lower, rougher, rawer. “but goddamn, i can’t fucking stand it.”

he steps closer, chest nearly touching yours, breath hot and uneven. his fingers curl around your wrist, tight enough to leave marks but not enough to hurt. his grip is possessive, demanding, like he’s claiming you.

“do you even know what you’re doing to me?” his voice cracks just a little, like the anger is barely holding back something more dangerous. his eyes burn into yours, but there’s not a trace of the usual mocking, just pure, burning frustration.

he drags you closer, until there’s no space left between your bodies, his chest rising and falling against yours in a rhythm that matches the pounding of your own heart.

“you’re driving me fucking insane,” he growls, voice rough and ragged, “and i don’t understand why you’re doing this. ignoring me like i’m some stranger, like i don’t exist.” his breath fans over your skin. “i’m not used to feeling like this,” he admits, voice dropping to a rough whisper that’s almost too vulnerable for him. “mad, desperate, like i need you more than i need air.”

he tilts his head, searching your face like he’s trying to find an answer buried deep inside you, a reason for the cold silence, for the way you pull away without saying why.

“i’m not going to let you shut me out,” he says, voice hardening again, “not when everything you do it’s fucking killing me.”

his hands slide from your wrist to your waist, gripping you like he’s afraid you might disappear if he loosens his hold. “so stop pretending you don’t want this too. because i know you want me.”

his eyes darken. for a moment, the fierce edge of his anger softens, almost as if he was shutting the wall he’s built around himself.

“tell me,” he breathes, voice rough and low, “just say something. anything.”

without waiting for an answer, without giving you time to pull away, his face drops closer to yours, his breath warm against your skin. his lips hover just inches from yours. and then, he presses his mouth to yours. it’s not soft, just a fierce, desperate kiss that speaks of all the confusion and want tangled up inside him.

his hands tighten on your waist, holding you close as if he’s afraid you’ll slip away the second he lets go. the kiss is rough, urgent, like he’s trying to pour all his frustration and need into that one moment, needing to know if you’re there with him.

when he finally pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, breaths mingling, eyes searching yours for any sign of what you’re feeling.

“please, angel, please…” he whispers.

for a second, you stay frozen.

sunghoon is begging. begging for you. you finally look into his eyes, your breaths mingling. you stay there for some time, just looking at each other. you try to gather your thoughts, to decide whether if this is correct or not.

but it’s sunghoon, sunghoon who is desperate for you. and you’re so weak when it comes to him.

without thinking, your lips part, and you lean in, closing the last fraction of space between you.

your kiss is fierce, wild, everything you’ve been holding back crashing forward at once. your hands dig into his hair, pulling him closer as his lips move urgently against yours. the kiss full of anger, frustration, need.

he groans into your mouth, one hand slipping from your waist to cradle the back of your neck, his grip fierce but desperate, like he’s finally got what he’s been chasing. your bodies press together, heat rising between you as the world fades away

the second his tongue slips past your lips, everything inside you ignites. his hand tightens on your waist, pulling you impossibly closer, crushing you against him. your fingers thread through his hair, tugging him deeper into the kiss, desperate for more, wanting to lose yourself. his breath hitches, low and ragged, as his hips press harder against yours, the unmistakable hardness on his pants being even more obvious.

his hands slide lower, exploring the curve of your back, tracing your hips with a rough, claiming touch. every movement is possessive, filled with that maddening mix of desperation and control, and you ache for it. every brush of his skin, every bruising grip making you tremble.

you break apart just enough to gasp, his name barely a whisper on your lips, and he responds by crushing you into him again.

“fuck,” he mutters, voice thick with need, “i’ve been dying to do this. to have you like this.”

his breath is hot against your jaw as his hands wander higher, slipping beneath the hem of your shirt, palms pressing hard against your bare skin. the rough touch of his fingers sends shivers down your spine, he grips you tightly, fingers digging in possessively.

his mouth trails down your neck, biting and sucking with fierce hunger, leaving a trail of small hickeys. you arch into him, the ache between your legs growing unbearable as his hands explore the curves of your body.

your hands slide beneath his shirt, tracing the muscles of his back, desperate to feel every inch of him. he pulls away, unbuttoning his shirt and throwing it to the floor. your fingers clutch at his hair, pulling him back up to meet your lips, in desperate, gasping kisses. his mouth is rough and demanding, tongue slipping inside, tasting you, claiming you with an urgent need that matches your own.

he grinds against you, his hard length pressing insistently between your thighs. you let out a moan, your body aching for more. his hands roam lower, teasing the sensitive skin just above your waistband.

“tell me you want me, please,” he growls against your lips, his voice low, “say it, or else i’m gonna lose my fucking mind.”

you gasp against his mouth, voice trembling but fierce, “i want you.” your hands tighten in his hair, pulling him closer as the heat between you grows. “i’ve wanted you from the start.”

his eyes darken with hunger, lips curling into a wicked smirk before he suddenly dips his head, leaving your mouth with a trail of kisses down your jaw, neck, until he reaches the sensitive skin just below your ear. his breath fans hot as he murmurs, “good girl.”

without warning, his mouth moves lower, teasing your collarbone, then glides down over your chest. his fingers are quick to unbutton your shirt, brushing your skin, exploring, while his tongue flicks against your pulse point, slow and deliberate, making you shiver. you arch into him, biting back a moan as his lips find the sensitive skin beneath your bra.

“fuck,” he growls, voice thick with need, “you’re so fucking pretty, angel.”

his mouth leaves a trail of kisses down your torso, and before you can catch your breath, his lips part to tease the bare skin at the waistband of your pants, making you moan. he chuckles below you, kissing your hip before sliding your pants and panties down in one swift motion. you hear him groan as he spreads your thighs, finding your dripping cunt.

he looks at you before moving, looking for a sign of discomfort in your face, a sign that you don’t want him. but when you moan as he licks his lips, he takes it as a confirmation. he wastes no time, his tongue slips inside your folds, licking slow circles that make your knees weaken. his hands grip your hips firmly, holding you steady while his mouth claims you.

you bite your lip, eyes closed, letting out soft, shaky moans that only urge him deeper. his tongue moves with a fierce determination, exploring every sensitive inch with a skillful precision that makes your body shudder. the warmth and wetness, the slow, deliberate flicks and strokes, it’s like he’s memorizing you, learning exactly how to drive you wild.

your hands thread into his hair, pulling him closer as your hips instinctively push down against his mouth, desperate for more. as his tongue flicks your clit your breath hitches, and you can’t hold back the ragged moans spilling out.

“f-fuck, sunghoon,” you gasp, voice thick with need, “don’t stop.”

he hums, three low sound vibrating against your skin before he quickens the pace, his tongue darting expertly, teasing, flicking, pressing just right to make your body tremble. every touch sends sparks through your veins, building a heat that threatens to consume you whole.

his hands tighten on your hips, grounding you even as your world spins. “you’re mine,” he murmurs against your skin, voice rough but soft all at once, “only mine.” you nod desperately as you moan even louder.

it takes him just a few more licks for you to cum all over his mouth, a loud cry leaving your lips.

you’re still gasping, skin flushed and slick with sweat, as sunghoon kisses your stomach, his mouth still tasting you. your thighs tremble slightly. it should be perfect — finally, he kissed you, finally, he’s touching you like he wants you, not just your body.

but something inside you is already unraveling again.

his voice is rough when he speaks, low and satisfied. “are you gonna ignore me again after this?”

you freeze. he’s still between your legs, still licking softly at the sensitive skin of your hip, but your whole body tenses at the question. you don’t answer. you can’t.

sunghoon sits up slowly, running a hand through his hair. his eyes trail lazily up your body like he’s memorizing the mess he made, but then he sees your face, the way your mouth is parted, your eyes somewhere else entirely — and his smile falters.

“…what?”

you blink, forcing yourself look at him. your shirt is open, your body exposed, but somehow you feel more vulnerable than naked.

you don’t know how to explain it. how to tell him that you want more than this. that the kiss was good — god, it was so good — but it wasn’t enough. because you’ve tasted the softness beneath his cruelty, and you want it again. you want all of him, not just his mouth or his hands or the way he ruins you against desks and walls.

you want the sunghoon who looked at you like you mattered. like you hurt him when you started evading him.

you wrap your arms around your chest, shielding yourself. you hesitate. the words sit heavy in your mouth. you want to ask, was it just sex again? will you kiss me after this? do you even care that i stopped talking to you, or are you just pissed because you lost your control over me? “i just…” your voice breaks before you can finish.

his brows furrow. “you just what?”

“i don’t want to be the only one who cares.”

the words hang between you like smoke, fragile and heavy.

sunghoon blinks, like he didn’t hear you right. “what the hell does that mean?”

you laugh, a bittersweet feeling on your chest, and shake your head. “of course you don’t get it.”

his jaw clenches. “no. say it.”

you look up at him, eyes burning. “you act like i’m just… a thing to you. a body. something to fuck whenever you feel like it. and then you lose your mind when i pull away, like i’m the one being unfair.”

he stares at you, face unreadable. “i never said you were a thing.”

“you didn’t have to,” you whisper. “you made it pretty clear.”

his silence is loud, too loud, and you hate how fast the tears rise. you blink them back, but one slips free anyway. you wipe it away before he can see.

he notices, his expression shifts.

he meets your eyes for half a second. “listen, i… i’m not good at this shit.”

your chest aches. “so what is this to you, then?”

he’s silent again. and that silence answers your question before he ever can.

you nod, pressing your lips together. “okay, great.”

“no, don’t do that,” he says sharply, stepping forward. “don’t shut down now.”

“why not?” your voice rises, unsteady. “you can’t say what you want. you won’t tell me what this is, what this means to you. and i’m just supposed to keep letting you use me like i don’t feel anything?”

he recoils slightly. like your words landed harder than he expected.

you shake your head, tears stinging now. “i liked you. i like you. even when you’re mean, even when you laugh at me, even when you’re cold. and i hate myself for it.”

“you think i don’t care about this? about you?” he asks, slowly, like the words are foreign in his mouth.

you exhale shakily. “i know you don’t. you only kissed me because you were mad. because you didn’t like that i was ignoring you. it wasn’t because you—”

“stop,” he says, harshly. “just… stop.”

he steps back, running a hand down his face like he’s trying to scrape the feelings off. then he walks to the side, dragging a hand along the edge of the desk, pacing like he’s trying not to explode.

“i don’t know how to do this,” he says finally, voice low. “i’ve never—fuck.” he looks at you. “you think i don’t care, but the second you stopped looking at me, it felt like i was going insane, it fucked with my head.”

your breath catches.

“i was angry because you weren’t there,” he goes on, jaw tight. “i was angry because i thought you were done with me, and i didn’t know why.”

you look at him. “so why didn’t you just say something?”

“because it’s easier to pretend i don’t care,” he says quietly. “it’s easier to pretend it’s just sex than to admit you’ve been in my head since the first time i looked into your eyes.”

your heart stutters.

he walks back toward you slowly, stopping just in front of you. his fingers brush your cheek, soft this time, unsure.

“i don’t know what the fuck this is,” he admits. “but i don’t want to lose it.”

you blink up at him, lip trembling. “sunghoon…”

he leans down, this time gentle, and presses his forehead to yours. his eyes close.

“i don’t know how to do this right. but i don’t want you to ignore me again. i don’t want to go back to not having you.”

your lip trembles.

he takes a deep breath. “i kissed you because i wanted to, but because i couldn’t not. because i was going crazy needing to feel something from you that wasn’t distance.”

you close your eyes too. your arms slowly lower, unfolding from around yourself. your fingers find his skin.

“i just want to stop feeling like i’m the only one falling.” you whisper.

a pause.

“you’re not.”

you let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding.

you stay there like that — foreheads pressed together, his hands finally soft against your waist, your bodies close.

and for the first time, it feels like maybe this isn’t just sex.

255 notes · View notes

modanisgf · 2 days ago

Text

NEEDY , MEGAN SKIENDIEL .

"GOOD AT OVERTHINKING WITH MY HEART."

in which a certain double date gets brought back to light, leading to a jealous y/n.

☆ PAIRING(S) : megan skiendiel x fem!reader

☆ WARNING(S) : kissing, corny ending lowk im sorry.. 😭

☆ TAGS : wlw, established relationship, fluff, angst??, jealousy, wc: 995

masterlist

request from this ask! :)

megan knew it was over when daniela started talking about her past double date. the atmosphere was calm and lighthearted before, daniela going on about one of her exes. some of the other girls chimed in as well, turning the quiet room into one full of laughter. it was all harmless, all up until daniela remembered something megan and lara had tried to bury.

“hey, wait. remember when lara and megan went on that double date?” daniela added, barely getting the words out through her laughter.

“oh my god.. that was so bad. i can’t believe megan went back to that guy after he locked her in his car.” lara replies, laughing through each word as well.

“shut up.. it was a one time thing, i was going through it.” megan mumbles, rubbing her temple in annoyance.

meanwhile, y/n was forcing a laugh from beside megan. to be entirely honest, something about megan going on a double date irked her. obviously, it was before they were together but megan and y/n had been friends for years. why did megan never tell her? were they never close enough for that kind of conversation? y/n just had her eyes fixed on the floor in front of her, trying not to show any emotion. the girls had moved on by now, but she still felt this sinking feeling in her chest. y/n just sat back, scrolling on her phone with her jaw clenched. she felt bad for reacting this way, but something about the date made her entire mood change.

megan noticed a shift in her girlfriend's mood, the girl beside her finally putting her phone down once she noticed megan looking at her. megan grabbed y/n’s hand, interlocking their hands before leaning close to her girlfriend.

“is everything okay?” megan whispers, leaning near y/n’s ear.

y/n just nodded, moving her hand away from megan’s. the action made megan frown, she knew something was up. but as time passed on, y/n kept talking like nothing had ever happened replying to megan like they were just acquaintances. megan just sighed, laying back as her girlfriend and group members talked. she wasn’t exactly sure how to address the situation, she knew y/n was mad at her. it wasn’t a great feeling, being ignored by the person she cared about most. so she made it her mission to get y/n alone.

megan dropped a hand onto y/n’s shoulder, grasping it firmly before leaning in close to her ear again.

“i want to talk to you, please tell me what’s wrong.” megan murmurs, the closeness of the two making y/n groan in annoyance quietly.

“fine,” she whispers back, “only because you being this close to me is making me nervous.” she says, mumbling the last part under her breath.

megan had heard her though, a smile making its way onto her face.

“meet me in my room in a second?” megan suggests, to which y/n nods.

megan had left first, stating she needed to call her brother about something. y/n going next five minutes later, saying she had to use the bathroom. she opened megan’s door as quietly as possible, closing it the same way. y/n was met with a seemingly distressed megan, she felt sort of bad. but she couldn’t get the double date out of her mind.

“y/n, please talk to me. why are you ignoring me?” megan asks, her hand reaching down to hold her girlfriend’s waist, the latter choosing not to protest megan’s touch this time.

“i wasn’t ignoring you on purpose, i just felt a little off.” y/n assures megan.

“y/n, there’s something else i can tell.” megan presses, gently.

“it’s stupid..” y/n mumbles, her girlfriends face softening at her words.

“if it bothered you that bad, it’s not stupid i promise.” megan replies.

y/n didn’t notice at first, but megan’s reassurance made her lips curl up into a smile. her hands made their way up to megan’s neck, holding onto the girl as if she was going to disappear. y/n held megan closer to her, laying her head down into the crook of her girlfriend's neck.

“to be entirely honest, daniela bringing up your double date made me feel weird.” y/n confesses.

“feel weird as in… jealous?” megan replies in a teasing tone.

y/n just groans, “no.”

“whatever you say n/n.” megan says, laughing a bit.

“but trust me, i promise the date was forever ago. lara dragged me on that date to try and get over someone.” megan murmurs.

“to get over who?” y/n asks, her eyebrows furrowing in confusion as she looks up at megan.

“you. i wasn’t sure if you liked me at the time, and i didn’t wanna ruin our friendship. but even when i was on that date, all i could think about was you.” megan replies, laughing at the sight of y/n trying not to smile.

“were you thinking of me, especially when he locked you in that car?” y/n jokes, earning a groan from megan.

“yeah, i can’t believe we went on a second date..” the black-haired girl mutters.

the two laughed about it now, the tension returning once they stopped. y/n was staring at megan now, taking in all of her features.

“you’re so pretty.” y/n mutters, receiving a smile from megan.

“thank you.” megan replies quietly, staring down at y/n’s lips.

her eyes trailed on the girl in front of her lips for a good minute, before she brought her other hand up to hold y/n’s face.

“can i kiss you?” megan asks softly, to which y/n just gives a small nod.

megan leaned in, tightening her grip on y/n’s waist. the kiss was gentle but short, a nervous look on megan’s face once they pulled away.

“i love you.”

“i love you too.”

#katseye #katseye x reader #katseye imagines #katseye x female reader #megan skiendiel x reader #megan skiendiel #megan katseye #megan katseye x reader #wlw

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batsandbirdbrains · 12 hours ago

Note

Bear with me as I set the stage:

Reverse robins AU, BUT they come in around the same timeframes relative to one another. Duke is Bruces ward (until his mom gets better) for about half a year before damian enters the picture, steph is around like 2 years after, and tim gets in the picture like 3 months after steph ect, ect

THIS LEADS to Bruce HAVING SUCH BAD EMPTY NESTING SYNDROME (after jason moves out of the mannor) THAT IT LEADS TO HIM adopting an 8 year old dick and baby sitting a- like 6 year old babs on patrol when he's NEARING FIFTY. Behold my vision. It's beautiful.

He's an experienced parent by now but BY GOD none of his children have been JUGGLING KNIVES at the dinner table. Is he too old for this? He might be too old for this.

He can keep up with Dick but he also needs his "old man naps" (as duke calls them) and his knees aren't what they used to be

He is, in fact, too old for this. And so all his other kids take turns keeping Dick with them at their respective homes because Bruce was in way over his head thinking he could handle another kid.

But Dick still likes Bruce best so he escapes more often than not and ends up crawling through Bruce’s bedroom window, smacking him in the face with Zitka, and announcing, “I’m home!” as he crawls into bed with Bruce.

“I thought you were staying with Tim for a couple days?” Bruce asks, his voice scratchy, but he makes sure Dick is covered by the blankets and tucked in snugly.

“I wanted to come home. I like Timmy, but I like you best.”

And that makes Bruce grin like an idiot, his eyes closing as he falls back asleep.

It doesn’t occur to him to ask if Tim knew Dick had come back home. And it really should have, because this happens every other week when one of his kids says they’ll take Dick for a couple days.

Tim calls him in a panic at 5:30 the next morning, and Dick groans and smushes his face into Bruce’s chest. Tim is freaking out the second Bruce holds the phone to his ear, but Bruce doesn’t really pay attention to the words.

“He came home, he’s fine. See you for dinner,” he says quickly in a groggy voice. Then he hangs up without waiting for a response, and tosses his phone aside to cuddle Dick closer to his chest.

“Timmy’s a worry wart,” Dick whines, yawning loudly.

“I know,” Bruce mumbles, placing a hand on the back of Dick’s head and smoothing down his hair. “It just means he loves you. Now let’s go back to sleep.”

“Shhh,” Dick shushes him, moving a hand up to cover Bruce’s mouth.

Bruce laughs, pats the back of Dick’s head again, and they both go back to sleep until a more reasonable hour.

#asks #dick grayson #bruce wayne #fic prompt

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ash5monster01 · 2 days ago

Note

Hi lovely! Could I please get some chicken wings extra hot to dine in, with a house salad and water?

Order #11

Now Serving!

Main Course: Steve Harrington x FemReader

Ingredients: 18+, MDNI, smut, angst, language, oral - fem receiving, dirty talk, no use of protection, fighting, p in v, some fluff, semi toxic relationship, reader has a nickname.

Meal: Steve Harrington angst/smut, second chance romance, and one bed.

Total: $25.05 = 2.5k words

Menu - Masterlist

The worst thing about being Steve Harrington's ex was still sharing the same friend group. Normally people break up and avoid the other, but in your case it wasn’t that easy. Every hangout, party, and future plan included the other. That even meant the group vacation you were on now. Robin’s bright idea of bringing the whole gang to a beach. So all of you crammed into the car and made the long drive to Michigan beach where you guys would share the summer rental.

It’s dark when you pull in, the late arrival leaving you only the moon and stars to guide you to the house you were all going to share for the long weekend. Johnathon ended up with all of his and Nancy’s bags slung over his limbs, struggling through the door that Nancy opens empty handed. Robin and Steve get on each end of a cooler and you eye his abandoned bag, choosing to leave it behind, and grab Eddie's bag instead. You weren’t even sure why Eddie packed considering he told the group he was determined to sleep on the beach every night. By the time Vickie had her and Robin's bag in her arms, you were all clambering through the door of the run down rental.

“It’s not that bad,” Robin says as she flicks on the light switch. There’s a narrow staircase leading to a loft and a single loveseat beside an even smaller kitchen. Different doors cover the walls and on a simple count you can easily see there aren’t enough rooms to accommodate all of you.

“Nancy and Johnathon take the loft, we’ll all be fine down here,” Vickie urges and Nancy looks to Johnathon who clearly doesn’t care, he just wants to set down all the bags.

“That leaves me to beach guys, gonna find me a nice dune,” Eddie grins, stealing his bag from your arm and slinging it over his shoulders. He slides open the porch door and sucks in the lake air. You’re certain he is crazy.

“Me and Vickie are good with either of the two rooms,” Robin says, peering into the similarly sized and decorated bedrooms. You watch as realization dawns on Steve’s face, a heavy red covering his skin. From embarrassment or anger, you’re not sure.

“Wait, where does that leave me and Honey?” he asks, using a nickname he once claimed on his own. Yet the simple term had stuck, the entire friend group resorted to using it and trapped you in the memory of him.

“Either you share the room or you take the couch buddy,” Nancy tells him before relieving Johnathon of some of the bags and following him up the narrow staircase. Steve guffaws like neither was an option and then the cherry on top is when he realizes his bag was the only one not brought in.

“You got to be kidding me, I get the bedroom,” he starts for the door of the room but you are quick to move yourself in front of him, tossing your bags onto the bed.

“Sorry Harrington, already put my stuff in it,” you tell him, turning with crossed arms and uninterested in any of his bullshit. You were aware you both argued like toddlers but you couldn’t be bothered.

“That’s not fair, we both know you left my bag in the car on purpose, so that doesn’t count,” he counters back, arms crossing to match your own. By now your friends had given up on the antics between you two, moving onto their own unpacking.

“I left it in the car cause I stopped cleaning up after you a long time ago,” you sneer before entering the bedroom, refusing to back down and let him hold one over you in any way. You didn’t care where he slept at this rate, just as long as he would admit defeat.

“See you’re still perfectly good at acting like a bitch,” he says, eyes pointed and you gasped. Yet before you could get in another word, he was stomping outside to retrieve his bag.

Finally alone you begin to unpack a few necessities, changing into your pajamas, and ready to sleep the car ride and fight off. You let your guard down, which proves to be a mistake when Steve stomps back in, dumping his bag at the foot of the bed, stripping to his boxers, before crawling into it. You glare from the dresser where all your toiletries were now neatly organized on top. The both of you are clearly too stubborn to back down from this.

“I’m not leaving,” you tell him, partially over the fight and ready to just ignore him. He shrugs his shoulders like no matter what you did it didn't affect him.

“I don’t care what you do, but I’m sleeping in a bed whether you like it or not,” he tells you and you shake your head, annoyed with him but too tired to fight. If he wanted to share then so be it.

Flicking off the lights you crawl into the bed, careful to stay to your side and get under the covers. In the now pitch black room you realize how silent the rest of the house was. The majority of the group probably annoyed while they tried to settle down for the night and the two of you were fighting as usual. Something in your heart softened, guilt pooling in your stomach because you hated being the burden due to your relationship with Steve.

“I don’t understand where we went wrong,” Steve whispers into the dark and you can just barely make out the curve of his nose as he says this. You want to pretend to be asleep but he knows you're awake, he still knows everything about you.

“Me either, I figured we annoyed each other more than we loved each other,” you tell him and you can feel the bed dip as he rolls over to face you. It’s still dark enough you can barely see his expression and you’re thankful for the shield it creates between you both.

“Yeah but we had our good moments, just one day the fights and the romance stopped balancing each other out,” he says and you nod even though he probably can’t see it. The truth was, you always had bickered like this but it was always followed up by something hot and romantic. His outbursts ended in wet kisses and your nitpicking always ended with you pressed under him. One day the fights continued but the rest never followed.

“If it’s any consolation, I really wanted it to be you,” you tell him, surprised with even yourself for admitting this. What’s even more shocking is when Steve’s hand reaches forward to caress your face, almost like he was trying to remember what it felt like.

“I’m sorry I called you a bitch,” he offers and you laugh despite yourself. The gesture is kind and for a moment you can remember the thrill of what it was like to love him.

“I’m sorry I left your bag in the car,” you return and now you both laugh, a peace offering for now. Maybe by the time you both woke up tomorrow that would go away, but for just this moment it was nice.

“Is it bad that I still enjoy fighting with you?” he asks, finger tips burning into your skin and suddenly it doesn’t seem funny anymore. Instead flashes of his lips against your skin and delicate touches fog your brain. Sharing a bed with him had not been such a good idea after all.

“Depends, is it still bad that every time we fight I want to kiss you after?” your words surprise even yourself, but Steve doesn’t flinch. Instead he’s suddenly so close, knee nudging between your own as his head tilts down.

“No, because I do too,” and just like that his lips are pressed against your own, a need drawing you two together until there isn’t any shared space between you both. On instinct his whole leg wedges between yours and you grind down onto it like the hundreds of times you have before. He tastes exactly the same and it makes you wonder how long it’s been since the last time you kissed.

“Fuck, this can’t be real” he utters, rolling over top of you, hands roaming your body like it was trying to remember exactly how you felt. It was all too familiar but you couldn’t stop, not even when his kisses began to trail along your neck and chest. One time you assured yourself, one and done.

“Yeah well, we’ve been in worse positions,” you mutter, trying to mask the heavy pants that leave your mouth due to the feel of his lips and hands. He had wedged himself between your legs and you could already feel his growing length through his boxers, nudging against your heat in just the right way.

He let you have the last word, getting lost in the feel of your skin and the taste of your mouth. You were still warm, welcoming, and addictive. He wanted to admit to himself this would be the last time but he was certain there would never be a last taste of you. Even if you began to go at each other in the morning, somehow he would always find himself right back here. Doing the motions like he had a hundred times before, meeting the roll of your hips, and tugging the hem of your shirt. Up and up until you break apart long enough for him to toss it somewhere in the room.

“Wow, did they get bigger?” he asks, voice cocky and heavy as he palms your breasts the same way he always has. You roll your eyes and smack his shoulder lightly which only makes him laugh. It feels familiar and way too comfortable. Yet everything with him always was, even the fighting.

“Funny because I was just about to ask if you got smaller,” and he glares but in the playful way that he knows what you said isn’t true, but he would still prove you wrong anyway.

“Yeah, I’ll show you small,” he grumbles before taking one of your nipples into his mouth. You can’t help the moan that bursts past your lips and you can feel his grin on your sternum as he travels to do the same to the other breast.

It should be embarrassing how wet the action makes you but you were past embarrassment when it came to him. Instead you accepted your fate and fisted the sheets as his mouth traveled down your stomach and to the tops of your hips. His familiar and long fingers dip into the waistband of your shorts and panties, tugging at them in one big fistful until you lift your hips long enough for him to tug them off. He stares dreamily at your glistening core and you almost hate how vulnerable it makes you. It’s hard to read the look on his face, a mix of desire and maybe something hopeful.

“I missed this,” he says in a tone that’s kinder than he’s been in a long time. You want to respond, share with him you still care, no matter how much you yell at him. Yet the feel of his lips gently kissing your swollen clit strangles any sound that wants to leave your throat. You have missed him, your body has missed him.

“Please,” is all you can utter before he delves into your folds, eating you like a man starved. Your body shakes from the intense sensation all at once, the long bridge of his nose nudging your clit and his tongue swirling and tasting every part of you he can. You feel unstable and your hands leave the bedsheets and tangle into his hair. The action earns you a throaty moan vibrating all the way up to your chest with how good it feels. It had been so long since you had cum from someone else’s touch.

“Steve, I-I’m close,” you half cry, legs shaking from their new place on his shoulders and to your dismay, his actions slow down, stealing the building orgasm and torturing you in the end. How unfair and cruel he could be.

“Sorry Honey, but I need you to finish on my cock before I die,” he says, lips covered in your slick that his tongue pops out to taste. You whine as he lifts himself from between you and strips the boxers off. He’s still just as long and hard, almost heavy as the angry red tip of his length grazes along the bottom of his abdomen. It looked painful which is why it’s no surprise he’s quick to drag the tip of himself through your folds for some relief.

“Fuck me Steve, please,” you beg and he needs no other words to comply, sinking into you in one quick thrust. A small scream leaves your mouth and his hand is quick to clamp over it, trying to stay as still as he can to keep from finishing too soon.

“Gotta be quiet baby, we’re supposed to hate each other, remember?” he says and it shouldn’t be as hot as it was, it shouldn’t have made you squeeze down on him and make him tremble above you. It does all those things anyway.

“Fuck, dirty girl,” he mutters before kissing you deeply and rocking his hips up into your own. He hits that spot only he has ever been able to reach and that building orgasm returns. You can taste yourself on his lips and he only pulls away to pound into you quicker and harder. It becomes difficult to hold in your whines and cries, his hand returning to your mouth while the other rubs quick circles onto your clit.

In a sudden flash your orgasm strikes you, your body jolting as you cum harder than you ever have. Steve hips stutter, curses leaving his lips as he undoubtedly finishes behind you because of how hot it was. You’re both a sweaty and dirty mess, neither even ashamed you had gone from almost murdering each other to this. His body lays heavy atop of your own, quick pants from both your mouths becoming the only sound in the room.

“God nothing is better than makeup sex,” he mumbles, pressing a kiss to your shoulder and you snort. He would always be the same old Steve.

“Yeah, is that your excuse for constantly driving me nuts?” you ask and you don’t even have to look to see the roll of his eyes.

“No, I just do that since you’re always getting on my nerves,” and something about his words assures you this is how it’ll always be with the boy still buried inside of you.

Yet the most shocking part is that it doesn’t bother you, not even a bit, and instead makes you love him a little bit more.

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ariaste · 3 days ago

Text

A Not-Really-Brief Explainer on What "Unreliable Narrator" Means

Hello, Interview With the Vampire/The Vampire Lestat fandom. It has come to my attention that some of us are a little foggy on what an unreliable narrator is, what they do, what they intend, and what the rest of us are trying to say when we talk about them.

I've noticed recently this is leading to some of you feeling hurt, upset, worried, stressed, or preemptively disappointed about the next season. I want to allay some of these concerns by helping us to all get on the same page real quick.

EDIT: Literally as I was rereading the draft of this and about two minutes away from posting it, a friend of mine DMed me a link to a really great essay that @munecabrava posted yesterday which is ALSO about unreliable narrators in IWTV. (Fistbump, great minds think alike!) You should read that one as well as this one, and at the end of this essay, I will tell you WHY you should read both. I thought briefly about not posting this because her essay is already so good and makes the important points and clarifications necessary for the ongoing conversation in fandom, but... Look, I spent three hours writing this, ok? I don't want to just dump it in the trash 😂

ANYWAY. Essay below the cut:

First of all, when we say "unreliable narrator" we are NOT saying "liar" -- that is only one of many different ways that narrators can be unreliable.

Every first-person narrator (that is, an "I" narrator, as in "I went to the store") is unreliable. Period. This includes you, and it includes me, and it includes every single person who has ever lived. This is unavoidable. The opposite of "unreliability" is "objectivity," and there is no such thing as strict objectivity when it comes to a human being -- that is why there are so many structures in place in the sciences in order to help reduce bias, and why it is nearly impossible to ever fully eliminate bias.

This is such a crucial point to wrap your head around, so repeat after me: Every first-person narrator is unreliable. Every human being that has ever lived is an unreliable narrator. Let me show you an example.

Suppose you're at the bank. A bank robber comes in, and there is a kerfuffle. Everyone is safe, but the bank robber escapes with a bag of cash before the police get there. They ask everyone there to provide a description of the robber. You say he was wearing a turquoise shirt and a black hat, but you don't know if he had sunglasses or facial hair because you only saw him from the back. Another person says he was wearing a dark blue shirt. Another person says he was bald with a dark grey hat and his shirt had an elephant on it but can't remember the color. Another person can't remember his clothes at all, but they say he had a bandage on his hand, and he had a white goatee--or maybe it was a KN-95 mask? They're not sure, they only got a quick glimpse of his face from the side.

All of this is unreliable narration, because even when we're trying to tell the truth, we don't all perceive colors the same way (blue shirt? dark blue? turquoise? Elephant or no elephant?), and we all focus on different details while not noticing others (bandage on his hand, hat versus hair, mask vs goatee). There are also elements of bias present in what we've been trained to expect (for example, everyone reported that the bank robber was a man, possibly because the majority of bank robberies we see in movies and in news headlines are men; what if it turned out that it was just someone with a masc haircut and masc clothes?) as well as in our technical skill in some types of assessment (one person says the robber was 5'5, another says he was 6', another says "idk, normal height?", another says "really tall").

Especially in moments when your brain isn't at its best (such as in moments of danger, trauma, illness, physical/mental exhaustion, emotional distress, dehydration,or simple just-woke-up-and-haven't-had-coffee-yet), it is impossible for us to notice and remember every detail. So that's already one layer of unreliability: The simple sensory perception and interpretation of facts.

There is also another layer of unreliability, which is how we express those facts to a listener after the fact. Sometimes this impulse happens overtly (such as intentionally framing the bank robbery in a comedic way or otherwise downplaying the events when you tell a loved one so they don't freak out). Sometimes it happens really subtly and subconsciously (such as the word choice involved in describing the bank robber's shirt was "turquoise" instead of "sky blue", or glossing over the part where you were scared because you need your crush to think you're brave and cool).

For the vast majority of people, the expression of facts also gets distorted to some degree because they are filtered through a strongly emotional lens. For example: Your partner asks if you have time to unload the dishwasher sometime today; you privately gnash your teeth and end up telling your therapist that your partner is nagging you all the time, just like your mother, why do you always surround yourself with people who nag you constantly--

You're not lying here; you're expressing a very real and valid emotional truth, which is that you have a history of getting your toes stepped on in this way, and today your toes got stepped on again, and that was upsetting.

But you are also being an unreliable narrator -- does your partner nag you constantly, or did this just hit a sore spot and set you off? Was this situation actually identical the way it used to be with your mother, or were there differences? One absolute and incontrovertible difference is that in those formative experiences with your mother, you were a child, but in this current situation with your partner, you're an adult. "It's just like with my mother" is unreliable narration because now you have agency -- but the feelings are still real; your genuine emotional experience is one part of the whole truth.

Saying that you're being an unreliable narrator in this situation is absolutely not saying that you're lying, it's simply saying that there are pieces missing and that we have not yet arrived at the Objective Factual Truth. For example, if we ask your partner what happened, they're going to be an unreliable narrator because their experiences are filtered through THEIR emotions and THEIR mindset -- in this case, their unreliable narration might be, "On my way out the door to work, I was mentally planning what my One Daily Chore was going to be when I got home, so I asked my partner what their schedule was like, since sometimes they're busy. They thought about it for a second while I was putting my shoes on, then said they'd do the dishwasher, so I'll plan to take the trash out. :)" Upon being confronted with your version of events, their response might be genuine surprise and apology that this interaction came across as nagging -- such a possibility sincerely did not occur to them, and they didn't even see your upset face because they were busy tying their sneakers.

If we think about this too hard and allow ourselves to get existentially despairing about it, we start crying about things like, "But if everyone is an unreliable narrator, then how do we figure out what the truth is??? Does truth even exist? Is anything real? Oh god, what if nothing is real!?!"

Shhhh. It's okay. Truth does exist, and we can figure it out. We do that by triangulating the approximate truth through multiple viewpoints. You know this already! Imagine the last time some Drama happened in your friend group: Amy is talking shit about Beth, but Cathy claims that Derek was the one really at fault because of what he said to Esi, and so on and so forth -- the only way to untangle the bullshit and figure out what actually happened at that horrible sleepover you missed is to ask everyone for their side of the story.

And that's basically what IWTV/TVL s3 is going to be doing. I guarantee you it is not going to be about "proving Claudia lied", nor "throwing Louis under the bus", nor 100% condemning Armand for the full blame of absolutely everything that has ever happened, nor saying "We should believe Lestat more than everyone else, because he's telling more of the truth. :)" He's not. He is 100% not. He is not telling more of the truth. This is not the vibe. This is not what unreliable narrators are about. At best, he is providing a different angle on the shared truths that he has in common with the others. It's about gathering more data, not erasing or discarding past data.

Imagine that all of these characters are standing in a circle around a table, and there is a big pile of Stuff on it. Each of these godawful vampires, beautiful princesses with a disorder, poor little meowmeows et al describes everything that they can see -- some of them describe similar objects if they're standing nearby each other and have nearly the same perspective on the pile, but there are always going to be something they can't see because it's on the other side. That's unreliable narration. Even if everyone is telling the exact honest truth according to their perspective, they've only got part of the story.

In order to find the full, real truth of all the items that are on the table (or all the details of what happened during a Situation), you need everyone's cooperation in order to get a full description (and you need them to stop yelling at each other for two seconds and throwing around accusations about how that thing got on the table in the first place and whether perhaps SOMEONE could shed light on where their favorite hat disappeared to, by the way, HMM???). Once you herd these cats into some semblance of organized narrative threads, then you collect all the bits and pieces, verify the facts by comparing them against each other, and piece the truth together like a jigsaw puzzle.

When unreliable narrators are emphasized in fiction, the narrative is constructed with the expectation that you will be participating -- that you will want to participate and that you will enjoy participating and that the reason you're here is for the purposes of participation. It's like showing up to a murder mystery dinner or a D&D session or, indeed, a jigsaw puzzle session at your friend's house: Your host is implicitly expecting that when you accept the invitation, it's because you're interested in being part of the day's enrichment activity. You're not just being handed the jigsaw puzzle or the murder mystery already solved, because that wouldn't be much fun and it'd defeat the purpose of the puzzle, wouldn't it? You're not walking into D&D to find the boss battle already finished and all the sidequests completed. The fun part is doing the thing and figuring it out. You're MEANT to be figuring it out.

It's not about whether someone inherently Is A Liar or not. It's about doing the detective work to figure out when they told the truth, and how, and why, and what they missed, and what they saw that no one else did, and if maybe they did intentionally fib at some point, and who they fibbed to (someone else? or just themself?), and what their reasons and motivations were for fibbing, and why fibbing worked better than honesty in their pursuit of getting what they want, and what the nature of their fibbing says about them as a complex wonderful fascinating person with depth and nuance and a soul.

Basically, you're supposed to be Daniel Molloy about it. And you have to be Daniel Molloy about it, because the actual Daniel Molloy is also an unreliable narrator who might not hand you the whole truth wrapped up in gift wrap with a bow -- and even if he claimed to be doing so, are you really going to trust him without thinking for yourself and doing a careful rummage? He might have gotten something wrong. He might have forgotten something by accident or by vampire amnesia, or he might have left something out on purpose because it didn't fit the narrative he chose, or he might have gotten distracted by Armand standing across the room looking gorgeous and totally did not listen to the words that were being said to him. He too is an unreliable narrator, and you're SUPPOSED to check his work and call him out when he fucks up.

That's the game. That's the game. Unreliable narrators are an personal engraved invitation for you to engage in an enrichment activity. No one else at this gaming table CARES about solemnly cracking out the labelmaker and putting a neat little label on The Supreme Liar Of All Liars Who Is The Most Bad Because They Lied Most; that's not the point! That's not the game! (And even if it was the game, locating the Supreme Liar would be something delightful and exciting and a FUN PRIZE, not a furious and damning moral judgment. In this house, we love a Supreme Liar. That's ur local poor little meow meow.)

In conclusion: Everyone is an unreliable narrator. Unreliable narration is not the same thing as lying. The whole point of unreliable narrators is to rotate them in your mind and chew on them, and they'd rotate in a really boring way if they told the whole perfect objective truth all the time -- it'd be like chewing on plain boiled chicken instead of adding spices and flavors and texture. Fiction is an enrichment activity, and puzzles are fun.

Thank you for coming to my TED talk, I hoped this helped people.

EDIT: Okay, so, as mentioned at the beginning, @munecabrava wrote an excellent Unreliable Narrators and IWTV essay yesterday. Your homework assignment is to read her essay and compare/contrast with this one as if both she and I are unreliable narrators (because we are, on account of both being human, even though we're both genuinely and sincerely attempting to explain the same concept in good faith). This is practice for you in the kinds of questions you can ask about two different, parallel accounts: What truths match up? What does my essay emphasize or leave out? What does her essay emphasize or leave out? What hints are there in her essay about having a background as a scholar? What hints are there in mine about having a background as an author? And so forth.

Now get out there and play some games with the text. I love you.

#interview with the vampire #the vampire lestat #iwtv #amc iwtv #iwtvl

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prettydaisygirl · 1 day ago

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congrats on 1k! 🌼 ♡ "your eyes are so pretty" and ♡ "dance with me" with us and them!rafe?

hi honeyyyyy thank you so so so much for requesting for us and them, genuinely my favorite thing to write. I adore them and this au just lives forever rent free in my mind. i hope you mind mind the direction i took this chapter in, i have to try and fit them within the plot lmao <33

Us and Them (zombie au): bonus chapter (for my 1k celebration)

Rafe Cameron and "your eyes are so pretty"/"dance with me." ✿ 743 words

cw: zombie apocalypse and all associated warnings, fem!reader, pre-established relationship, rafe being kind of an asshole

rafe cameron masterlist

°˖✧✿✧˖°

Rafe makes you aware of his presence with a brush of his hand over the back of your shoulder before his arm settles there, and his body takes its place next to yours in front of the fire.

You turn your head, straining to look at his hand on your shoulder. His palm is rough and warm against your skin, and you can feel the fabric of his jacket against your back. You slowly turn back to him, his eyes waiting for you when you finally look in his direction.

“Rafe?” You ask his name as a question. He’s never voluntarily touched you like this before, and this seems… forward.

“Your eyes are so pretty.” He says, his free hand moving to brush a strand of hair away from your forehead. You freeze, your breath hitching, and your heart takes off like he’s triggered your fight or flight. You watch as his eyes move to your lips, tracing the shape of them before he meets your gaze again.

You stutter through some kind of a response, though you don’t know what you actually manage to say. Rafe smiles, leaning closer, and you feel the warmth of his breath against your face.

“C’mon,” his voice is in that deep, husky drawl, and you take his offered hand without a second thought. He pulls you to stand, fingers interlacing with yours. You stand in front of him like a deer in headlights.

“Rafe, are you okay?” You ask, giving him a once over as he stands in front of you. He looks fine, other than the kind of lovestruck look that’s taken over his normally dark face.

“‘m fine.” He blows you off with a flick of his hair away from his forehead and he squeezes your fingers. “Dance with me.”

“What?”

“Dance with me.” He repeats, tugging you closer. One of his arms wraps around your back, and your hands find his chest, not quite pushing yourself away but not letting yourself relax into him either.

He pulls you into an awkward sway. Well, awkward for you. He moves like he’s been dancing since the day he was born. And, you suppose he probably has, his wealthy upbringing likely having him in dance lessons as a child. Or, that’s what you’re choosing to believe as he moves with grace and you move like a bull in a china shop.

He steadies you, leading you in a waltz that has your head spinning. In this moment, you aren’t worried about zombies, about the End, about raiders or death or losing your supplies. You can only focus on him, and the way he slowly leans closer and closer. If you move up on your toes just the slightest bit, you could almost-

A kick to your leg wakes you with a jolt and a cry of pain. Your eyes shoot open and dart up to look at the perpetrator, only to meet Rafe’s eyes again. They don’t look at all like they did just a moment ago in your dream.

Not sweet, not lovestruck. Just the same annoyed, dark look gracing his features like usual. He sneers.

“Get up, it’s your turn to keep watch.”

You cover your face with your hands for a moment, slowly coming back to the world of reality and consciousness. You can’t get the image of Rafe moving closer out of your head, the way his lips hovered above your own, oh so close.

“Fuck.” You say under your breath. The last thing you need right now is to have some childish crush on the asshole who is supposed to protect you.

Except he’s not always an asshole. And he does protect you, he’s stuck by your side longer than you ever thought he would, far longer than he’s needed to. He’s been with you this whole time, never wavering even when you’ve been “stupid.”

You find yourself watching him as you settle down with your back against a tree to take watch. You find your eyes lingering on the muscles of his arms and the stubble on his jaw. You hate the way heat begins to bubble low in your gut.

Shit. You have a fucking crush on Rafe.

You lean your head back against the tree, ready to start wallowing in your newfound revelation, when Rafe’s voice catches your attention again as he settles into the sleeping bag.

“And stop mumbling my name in your sleep. Fuckin’ weird.”

Fuck.

°˖✧✿✧˖°

#daisy's 1k follower celebration #daisy's writings #rafe cameron #rafe cameron zombie au #us and them #rafe cameron x reader #rafe cameron series #rafe cameron fic #rafe cameron smut #rafe cameron outer banks #rafe cameron x you #rafe cameron fanfiction #rafe x you #rafe series #rafe x reader #obx rafe

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bnhaobservation · 2 days ago

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It was always really creepy to me how All might and Gran Torino too never seemed to take an interest in how Tomura ended up in Afo’s hands. Or to what happened to Koutaro. I don’t think I remember them doing any research on the Shimuras, which… is horrifying. They just found out the son of their dead mentor/friend was horribly killed, and then they never mention it again? Besides, they thought Afo was dead for five whole years, and neither of them thought about checking on Koutaro before? Really?

Then they find out that his child was likely kidnapped and turned into a Villain by the guy they were trying to protect the Shimuras from and still nothing? Not even some sense of guilt?

Instead we get Gran stating that it’s basically all Tomura’s fault.

What’s even more ridiculous is that his mentors researching what happened would have been the perfect link for Deku to grow some interest earlier on Shigaraki. And also to finally realize Heroes are fallible.

A child with a heroic heritage, becoming a villain. All of his old kindergarten teachers and neighbours state that he used to be a perfectly normal, even kind child. What could’ve possibly happened?

They don’t care because already back then BNHA revealed its stance about Villains.

In the hospital All Might thinks at Tomura and is troubled by how ‘his master’s own kin lost himself so much in evil’ aka he doesn’t think he could have been a poor kid that got manipulated by an expert manipulator, no, he can’t accept someone related to his master isn’t on a righteous path.

He still wants to find the boy but then it’s clear he’s unsure about what he’ll do after. Gran Torino tells him he must not search for him because if he sees him as anything less than a Villain no good will come from it because no matter who his parents are, he’s a dangerous Villain.

In short neither of the two is seeing Tomura as a manipulated kid, they’re seeing him as ‘Shimura’s grandson’ and as a ‘Villain’. They don’t care about how or why Tomura has became a Villain, they don’t care how All for One had clearly lead him to that path, they only care he’s a Villain now.

All for One tells him Tomura hates him and that he has engineered Tomura and All Might’s meetings. It’s clear All for One has manipulated the situation and very likely has manipulated Tenko but they don’t care. It’s the same thing that Horikoshi has Shouto saying ‘dad was a madman! Our family was screwed up” but when you burned all those people to death… that was your choice.’

Basically for them Tomura chose to become a Villain, all that All for One could have done to encourage/manipulate him into this direction is irrelevant.

Gran Torino searches for Tomura with the express intention to murder him.

He tells him he has to ‘quit trampling all over Shimura’s memory and that his very existence hurt Toshinori so much and made everyone suffer’ (Chap 277). Later, with Midoriya, he’ll lament it should have been him the one who made the kill and that killing can be another way to save someone so Midoriya shouldn’t forget that (and therefore should kill Tomura). (Chap 309)

Gran Torino only has a brief moment in which he realizes he and Shimura made a mistake with Kotarou, because it’s Kotarou who implanted his own hate for Heroes in Tomura but that’s it (Chap. 281).

In the end even Nana will encourage Midoriya to kill Tomura and note that if her original plan was to have him arrested, well, at that point that would always lead to Tomura’s death as Tomura killed people and so he would be sentenced to death.

Long story short, there was never the intention to let Tomura live, there was only a minor discussion if Gran Torino should do the kill, justice should do the kill or Midoriya. And All might conveniently washes his hands clean of all this and let others deal with it. Not even his vestige will help Tomura, it’ll be only Nana’s vestige who’ll do so and, in the end, only to use his soul against AFO because Tomura was going to die anyway.

As for them believing AFO was dead… In Chap 57 Gran Torino speaks of him being back like of an obvious fact and while All Might complains he can’t understand how he survived with such wounds, he doesn’t really argue much. He doesn’t tell him ‘hey, but we checked his vitals and he was dead!’ to the point it was possible to assume they never retrieved his body, hence they couldn’t really check his status and possibly this was the original plan and only afterward Horikoshi decided to show that they indeed retrieved his body and could tell he was dead but it’s not the first time the story makes poor decisions about its continuity.

Anyway yes, they washed their hands clear with Kotarou, they feel they did the right thing by respecting Shimura’s decision and, as said before, this part already showed BNHA stance toward Villains. It’s all their fault if they became Villains, there are no extenuating circumstances and society and Heroes are definitely not responsible for such things.

It didn’t matter what happened to Tomura, if he was manipulated, blackmailed, threatened or whatever, he shouldn’t have given up to evil, he should have chosen to die. After all we see it also with Aoyama. Tsukauchi says he feels sympathy for him but hey, the boy turned his back to decent society when AFO told him if he weren’t to obey he would kill him and his parents! He should have totally left himself and his parents killed and stick up for society! It’s all Aoyama’s fault! (by the way the FAQ said Aoyama still turned himself in to the judicial system, which is why he had to leave U.A. high. Basically even though he risked his life he still did some juvenile detention)… and Himiko couldn’t survive without going to jail because otherwise she won’t take responsibility so much better to kill her off.

BNHA isn’t a story that has compassion. If you’re a Villain, you’re a Villain. Tomura was right in his speech, the system rejected them and the Heroes don’t understand what this means, don’t understand how could this push him into becoming a Villain (Chap 281). The scene in which Midoriya tells him he can’t forgive him and Tomura tells him he can’t forgive them is emblematic of this…. But then Horikoshi sided with the Heroes and just wanted Tomura to be wrong and so we got the ending we got.

So yeah, it’s sad and it’s horrible no one cared for Tenko or Kotarou but that’s basically the logic behind the story. At the end society is a little more caring because it has understood a little better the concept of collective responsibility but that’s it. There’s nothing done for who’s a Villain, there’s just prevention so that less Villains will be created but society DO NOT TAKE RESPONSIBILITY for the harm it has done, there isn’t a single reform in this direction, not even in the jail system which was declared by the manga to violate human rights. But hey, it was the party connected to Villains who claimed this so let’s ignore it.

I personally hate all this but I guess there’s no helping. This is the world Horikoshi created, one that didn’t really care about helping/reforming his Villains and where if someone does so much as be willing to hear them out (before they’re sentenced to death) it’s viewed as a GIANT SIZE deal.

Thank you for your ask!

#Shigaraki Tomura #boku no hero academia #mha meta #bnha meta #bnha critical #bnha spoilers #Yagi Toshinori #Torino Sorahiko #Shimura Nana #Shimura Kotarou #Ask #paesagex

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pressgforgoodgirl · 2 days ago

Text

One and the Same - Chapter 1

Summary: Hosea sparks a conversation with you regarding your animosity toward Arthur. Arthur joins Charles on a trip into town to chase a lead. Along the way, Charles questions Arthur, suspecting you are playing a deeper role in Arthur's recent mood and withdrawal than the surface reveals.

Pairing: arthur x female reader with she/her pronouns

a/n: wooooh chapter 1! Please feel free to ask to be added/removed to my taglist. See series description (linked below) for warnings/tags!

prologue

series masterlist and description

Crack.

You wiped your brow as the splitting maul came to rest on the ground, firewood slowly beginning to accumulate in disorganized heaps around you. The sun was beating down on you relentlessly, the noon sun affording little shade.

“How’d things turn out yesterday?” Hosea asked, approaching you.

Yesterday. God. The thought of it all still made you sick. Arthur’s ‘holier than thou’ stunt, the way he had blamed you for the job gone wrong, and his words still ringing in your ears.

I’ll turn fully righteous if it means not bein’ damned to eternity with you.

“Oh, just dandy, Hosea. Ya know, what a great idea, sending Arthur and me. We get along just, so well. Arthur couldn’t stand the mere thought of me taking charge and blamed me for our failure after nearly getting us caught. Do you know I almost got jailed because he got so bent out of shape about doing ‘what’s right.’ I think we came out with a nickel I found on the floor of the saloon. Don’t worry, I put it in the box. Didn’t bother trying to split off ‘my share.’” You raised your hands in mock surrender, releasing a loud huff as you raised the maul to split another piece of wood.

The steel head met the wood with a resounding crack as your anger split the piece clean through.

“It’s interesting…” Hosea begins, hand coming to rub his chin in thought. “The way you frame things.”

“Oh, and what is it Arthur told you really happened? How did he frame things?” You avert your gaze down to grab another log, standing it on its end before you. Hosea waits for the maul to come down upon it before speaking, knowing you would have buried his words underneath the next splitting crack had he spoken too soon.

“I haven’t spoken to Arthur since you got back, truth be told. Just… something I’ve noticed. The way you view yourself against the world. Never ‘us versus them,’ but as if it was you alone battling nature, perhaps even the whole of creation.”

You scoff indignantly, frustration now boiling into red hot anger. “You don’t know a thing about me. You’re no mind reader, and you sure as hell weren’t there yesterday to see what happened. It doesn’t take a philosopher to know that Arthur doesn’t care about anyone but himself.”

“If that’s your view of Arthur, you don’t know him at all.”

“And so be it,” you spat, now positively fuming. You were sure if you spent one more minute around Hosea the maul would end up somewhere you might both regret. With what reason and restraint remained, you buried the axe into the stump. “Good day, Hosea.”

Arthur took another long drag of his cigarette, watching you as you hiked up your skirts and stomped away, leaving Hosea, hands on his hips, wearing a small, almost sad smile Arthur couldn’t quite read.

Good day.

It had almost made him laugh audibly, the paradox of manners against the rage you were barely holding back from their recipient. And yet, your words once again twisted through his chest like a knife. Arthur doesn’t care about anyone but himself.

God, he couldn’t stand you. It was as if a divine entity was feeding you all the perfectly cruel words to say, perhaps as atonement for his wrongdoings. Here he thought he had been getting his life back on track, trying to make up for a life of sin and pain. And yet, here you were to deliver more. And why you? What was it exactly he had done?

His thoughts were interrupted by Charles announcing his plans to take a brief trip into town, something about a lead. In need of a distraction, Arthur offered to join, which Charles gladly accepted.

“Heard rumors about a wealthy family with too much money for their own good living somewhere beyond the town. I wanna see what else we can learn, maybe plan a hit. Still not sure where exactly it is, or how well it’s guarded,” Charles explained as they guided their horses toward the main road.

“Could be a good one,” Arthur replied, basking in the chance to occupy his mind with something other than you.

And yet, his relief was short lived.

“Heard your last lead didn’t turn out so well,” Charles commented. His tone of voice didn’t indicate he was merely making fun of Arthur, and certainly not criticizing him. Rather, it was one of curiosity. Charles had noticed Arthur’s silence, withdrawal, and the occasional, seemingly inexplicable, irritation that bubbled over. Of course, he and every other member of your gang knew that you and Arthur didn’t get along. But he was just starting to piece together how much you bothered him.

“No, it sure didn’t,” Arthur muttered back, hoping Charles would soon change the subject.

For a moment he allowed silence to fall between them, but Arthur’s answer hadn’t been enough.

“It’s her, isn’t it?”

“Charles, not now,” Arthur groaned.

“It’s not good to keep things bottled up, Arthur. Whatever your frustration is, it seems to be building up. Wouldn’t want to see anyone getting hurt.”

Arthur bit back his protest, knowing that Charles meant well. And hell, he was probably right. But at the moment, he couldn’t bring himself to be so vulnerable as to share his recent thoughts of righteousness and morality, wondering what could be left of it within him. Not wanting to ignore Charles, however, he gave him a simple look, a nod of the head. “I’ll think on it.”

Charles knew not to push any more, instead turning his eyes to the road ahead as the town was just coming into view.

next chapter - coming soon!

taglist: @puppipills @murrl @gnarledbonez

#arthur morgan #red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 #arthur morgan x female reader #arthur morgan x reader #rdr2 fanfic #rdr2 arthur #arthur morgan fanfiction #arthur morgan fan fiction

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ashleydire · 3 days ago

Text

TSAMS THEORY

just a little theory I had after watching todays Tsams episode, this one to be exact-

So…if every time Sun gets angry, he just turns off his emotions, so then does that mean every time he gets angry, he’s becoming more like Dark sun? Because if he’s becoming more like Dark Sun then he might pay more attention to the words Dark Sun told him every time they met. He might turn against moon and pay attention to what Nexus said and why he went insane then start feeling the same way he did, leading him to ALSO be more like Killer Sun, who might talk to Sun making him have more reasons to become a villain

What are the chances that Sun could end up like that???

OMGehat if, either to spire Moon or just for revenge for being “mistreated” all that time, he brings back Nexus and they work together along with Killer sun and Dark Sun!?!?

#Dark Sun #tsams #sun and moon show #the sun and moon show #fnaf #sams #five night at freddys #moon #moondrop #sun and moon #sibling fights #TSAMS THEORY #theory #Sun and Moon fight #Suns villian arc #Nexus #killer Sun #Sun theory

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bumblesimagines · 17 hours ago

Text

Imagine:

Meeting Sophie Sheridan

Request: Yes or No

Pronouns: He/Him/His, M!Reader

~~~

Kalokairi was a little Greek island along the Aegean Sea where summer seemed never-ending and the sights were to die for. The water was beautiful, bright turquoise blue, and the sand was warm and golden, scattering along the shores and leaving trails up the old, worn limestone staircases leading up to the Villa Donna hotel and nearby homes.

(Y/N) couldn't help but snap a picture of every little thing: from the occasional stray cat that meandered across his path with the stride of a king to the sight of the shimmering, rolling waves rocking the boats at the dock. Kalokairi was a hidden gem, and one he wouldn't have come across had his old high school friend not heard of it from her aunt.

"It's jus' your style, (Y/N)," Harper almost slurred through her drowsiness, nursing a hangover that left her accent dipping into the thicker side. Whatever pain meds she'd taken had certainly been working, maybe more than they should've. "An unknown place in the middle of nowhere waitin' to be discovered by some random twenty-year-old with a dream to do fuck all."

Loud, repetitive honking pulled his attention away from his camera to peer up at the pale aquamarine jeep rolling down the dirt road toward him. It came to a quick, screeching stop, and the driver hopped out, shutting the door with a slam and peeling the sunglasses from their face. An older, slightly disheveled woman greeted him with a wide, friendly smile, her fingers lightly tugging at the frizzy blonde strands sticking all over the place.

"You must be (Y/N)! I'm Donna, the owner of Villa Donna.. obviously." She chuckled, a little flushed, and stepped toward him with open arms. "Bethan mentioned you'd be staying. God, how is she? I haven't seen her in forever."

Donna reached down to grab his luggage, waving away his attempts at helping before she hauled it into the backseat of the jeep. He grinned, slipping his bag from his shoulder and setting it beside the suitcase a little more delicately. He climbed into the passenger seat, buckling himself in with the worn, flimsy seatbelt and adjusting his camera's strap around his neck.

"She's doing well. She's got a grandbaby now, actually."

"A grandbaby?!" Donna exclaimed as she plopped down in the driver's seat, her mouth agape with a gasp. "Her daughter's just a year older than Soph! A baby at twenty? I mean, I had Sophie at twenty-three, but raising a kid so young is-" She blew a raspberry, twisting the steering wheel around to turn the jeep around and head up the same hill she'd come down on.

(Y/N) hummed and watched the scenery pass them by. "The Fletchers aren't exactly known for good decision-making, are they?"

Donna tilted her head back with a hearty and knowing laugh, her shoulders shaking and even a little snort slipping through. "No, no, they aren't." She cackled, adjusting her sunglasses until they rested over her eyes again, her mouth outstretched into a big grin. "We all suspected her daughter was Mr. Peters, not that little boyfriend of hers. Or- I guess he's her husband now, isn't he? What little shits we were back then."

(Y/N) couldn't say he'd met plenty of hotel owners in his lifetime, but if they were all as genuine and funky as Donna Sheridan, (Y/N) wanted to meet many more.

"If you're not spending your youth being a hot mess, you're not spending it right. I spent my early twenties with my girls singing at different pubs across England while we were studying at Oxford. I planned on travelling the world... and had Sophie here on Kalokairi." Donna chuckled, soft and warm. "My advice for a kid your age? Do whatever the hell you want, but do it with protection, alright?" She laughed again, carefree and light.

The jeep came to another screeching stop once they reached the long staircase leading up to the hotel. (Y/N) already felt out of breath looking at the nearly endless stairs. With a deep, semi-unsure inhale of air, he hauled his suitcase into his arms and followed Donna up the stairs, who had a pip in her step that was hardly phased. By the time they reached the top, he was trying to pretend he wasn't struggling to breathe as he took a moment to lean against the railing overlooking the cliff's side.

"It gets easier with time," Donna assured him with a little, teasing smile, reaching down to take the luggage once more and dragging it along with her. He followed after her, hoping the ache in his legs would ease in a couple of hours. "So, there's a little cafe further down this way and a bar across from it that sometimes has live music. Feel free to explore the island. I'd offer to give you a tour, but I'm always busy doing one thing or fixing another."

Donna led him into one of the many buildings surrounding what appeared to be a spacious outer courtyard. Despite the chipping paint that exposed stone and wood beneath, or the loud way the stairs creaked under weight, or the notable lack of air conditioning, there was something overwhelmingly inviting about Villa Donna.

Perhaps it was the authenticity; they weren't pretending to be something extravagant or overpriced. They were welcoming guests into a space without taking away from the normalcy of the locals.

His room was decently sized, just the bedroom and the swinging doors leading to the small bathroom that sounded like they'd fall off at any second. He roamed his eyes over the pale baby blue walls around him (and assumed blue might've been Donna's favorite color, considering it was everywhere) before he approached the double bed and set his back down on the mattress.

There was a wooden desk painted in a thin coat of white pressed against the wall just below the window, and a beige-colored loveseat set at an angle in the far corner of the room. There were paintings on the walls that he presumed to have been painted by locals, adding more color to the amount of blue around.

Donna flicked one of the switches by the door, and the ceiling fan whirled to life. "I'll let you get settled in. Let me know if you need anything," She told him, holding the door open as she spoke. "Don't hesitate to ask for help or anything like that, and- Oh! Sophie, come here!" Donna stuck her head out of the room and motioned with her arm.

Leaning back, Donna tugged a young woman into the room. She was nearly identical to Donna, from the golden, wavy hair that reached to their lower backs to their round, naturally flushed cheeks from all the activity they did, to the way they dressed. While Donna sported faded overalls and a white shirt, Sophie wore faded shorts and an off-shoulder white shirt with the olive green straps of her swimsuit showing. She smiled, practically the same warm and welcoming smile as her mom.

"This is my daughter, Sophie. She's my little helper around the island. She could even give you a tour, if you're interested, right, Soph?" Donna's voice dripped with affection whilst she spoke of her daughter, her fingers trekking gently through the ends of Sophie's wild, frizzy strands and carefully undoing any knots that'd formed.

"I'd love to!" Sophie nodded, her eyes big and twinkling, before her smile turned flustered. "If- if you're interested, of course. We, uhm, we don't get many tourists, so it's always nice to show someone new around."

"And skip out on chores," Donna muttered under her breath, her eyes crinkling when Sophie rolled hers before she planted a kiss on Sophie's temple and shot him a friendly wink. "Enjoy your stay!" With that, she shimmied past her daughter, her voice and footsteps growing distant.

"Are you a photographer?" Sophie asked with a tilt of her head, lingering in the doorway until he slipped the camera from around his neck and offered it to her. She grinned, hurrying forward in small steps after nudging the door shut, and took the camera into her hands with curiosity. "Are you going to school for it?"

"I wish." He laughed, a hint dry. "My parents wouldn't dare pay for a 'hobby' or something 'useless', in their words. If I go to school, it'll be for a 'serious' degree; otherwise, they won't give me a single penny to help out with any student debt."

She frowned at his words, a hint of sympathy in it, before she raised the camera to her face and angled it toward him. She snapped a picture with a growing smile and lowered the camera, her lips slightly puckering and eyes flickering around for the button to look at the picture.

He chuckled under his breath and stepped closer to her, catching the faint smell of sea salt and vanilla clinging to her waves. He pointed to the button, and she clicked it, a small 'ooh' coming from her mouth when she noticed the other pictures he'd snapped.

"Donna mentioned you were born here?" (Y/N) moved toward the bed, his hands working on unzipping his luggage and beginning to put his belongings away in the worn, wooden dresser with chipping paint. Sophie nodded, her gaze locked on the camera as her feet led her to the edge of the bed. "Must've been quite the childhood."

"Oh, yeah," Sophie laughed, somehow making it sound melodic and pretty, and raised her head. "I'm pretty sure I learned how to swim before I learned how to walk."

She giggled and tucked her legs in, her vibrant blue eyes (that he was fairly certain were the same color as the beautiful shimmering ocean he could see from the small balcony) watching him intently while he moved around the room. "I went to school on the mainland, though Mom taught me a couple of things, too. The locals are basically family, and Mom's friends visit whenever they can. I had... a lot of fun growing up."

(Y/N) hummed, a little smile growing on his face. "Must mean you're an excellent tour guide."

Sophie beamed and shot up from her spot on the bed, her sneakers thumping on the floorboard when she approached and swung the camera's strap over his head so it hung from his neck once more before she took his wrist and led him back outside into the warm sunlight. She giggled excitedly and tucked her hair behind her ears, whirling around to face him once more.

"So, this place was once supposed to be the site of Aphrodite's fountain, the goddess of love. And, they said, if you drank the water, you were supposed to find true love and perfect happiness. Which- doesn't that sound like the dream destination for weddings or anniversaries? I keep telling Mom she should promote Villa Donna like that- or, promote it at all but.." Sophie blew a raspberry. "You know how moms are."

(Y/N) snorted quietly and followed the energetic girl across the courtyard, listening as she pointed out the cafe and bar Donna had mentioned, as well as smaller shops he could visit in his free time.

There was a shop selling fresh fruits and vegetables, another selling dairy products primarily from goat's milk, and one tucked away a little out of sight, run by an older woman selling jewelry and other various handmade items. Everyone they passed by was friendly, all smiles and quiet greetings, though they seemed more interested in speaking with Sophie than him.

He barely minded, focused more on snapping pictures of the swaying branches or anyone willing to stop and pose. Sophie encouraged it, calling over those she knew and getting them into position for him. Everyone looked more than happy to please her and chuckled quietly at her glee while they walked away. (Y/N) understood it; Sophie's joy was infectious.

With a wide smile, Sophie led him to a staircase nestled in the trees that led down to one of the beaches and pointed out to one of the rocky cliffs. "You ready for the Kalokairi initiation?"

"I have a feeling you made that up."

Sophie only grinned and peeled off her shirt and shorts, carefully setting them on the sand. She took off the sneakers and set them beside the clothes, her eyes glinting with a challenge he couldn't resist. Gingerly, he set his camera on top of her clothes and slipped his shirt over his head before letting her take his hand once more and lead him up the sandy and rocky path to the top of the cliff. It wasn't tall enough to ignite a lot of nerves, but there'd be some decent air time.

"I've made all my friends do this jump." She told him with a mischievous little laugh. "It'll be fun, I swear!"

(Y/N) had a feeling his time in Kalokairi would be one grand adventure thanks to her.

#x reader #x you #x y/n #x male reader #x male!reader #mamma mia #mamma mia x reader #mamma mia x male reader #mamma mia x you #mamma mia x y/n #sophie sheridan #Sophie Sheridan x male reader #Sophie Sheridan x you #Sophie Sheridan x y/n #Sophie Sheridan x reader #donna sheridan

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