#then i would have tagged it that way without hesitation

[eyelessfaces]

peeled back

bob reynolds x reader

it just went through my mind that bob has most likely never had sex sober, and I knew I had to do something with that

summary: He’s never done it sober. He had warned you. He said it like he meant it to be a warning, at least. Had told you he didn’t know how to do this the normal way. Displayed his vulnerability, looking at you like this could possibly ruin something between you. You don’t see it that way. It makes it all the more special. Intimate.

tags: f!reader, smut, handjob, piv sex, soft sex, riding, switching, tiny bit of manhandling, angst, mentions of bob's former drug addiction, hurt/comfort, soft bob, desperate bob, lots of feels and yearning, bob's scrumptious serum-acquired abs

word count: 4.6k

masterlist | taglist | ao3 | @eyelessupdates

buy me a coffee ♡

He’s never done it sober.

His hands are anchored to you like he’s afraid that if they aren’t, you’re going to escape, slip away. Like you’re just a figure of smoke that is going to curl around his fingers to eventually fade out and away and leave him to an empty room where he will have to face himself.

He had warned you. He said it like he meant it to be a warning, at least. Had told you he didn’t know how to do this the normal way. Displayed his vulnerability, looking at you like this could possibly ruin something between you. 

You don’t see it that way. It makes it all the more special. Intimate.

His hand cups your face as his tongue slides back into your mouth, exploring it like he wants to swallow and savor every breath you have to give. A low hum tears from the back of his throat to vibrate into your own when you let your hand slip under his shirt, fingers briefly grazing against his stomach before he stops you, covering your hand with his own to lace your fingers together.

“Let me–”

He doesn’t complete and closes the gap between you again. You’re not entirely sure what he means, but you can’t seem to linger on the thought when you feel his hands settle at your hips; they’re a bit clumsy and tentative as he holds back from letting them roam along your sides in fear he will come across as too greedy, and his hesitation is a stark contrast to the way he had backed you up against that wall in the first place. 

Bob is not quite sure how much is too much, how to handle things without the chemical confidence and buzz that used to make him chase that potent urge – it had only ever been a matter of satiating his needs any way he could, as quickly as he could. 

It had always been a rush to satisfy his own drug addled lust.

It all feels different now, more anchored, more palpable. He draws every action out, savors each of those, gets you impatient, pulls the focus back to you when you try to take care of him and put him first. And you would say something if you weren’t trying to indulge him and let him take what he wants – it’s the first time he gets to take his time, and he’s too eager to discover what it’s like for you to just take that away from him. 

You’re convinced some part of you would feel cruel for rushing it and not letting it play the way he wants it to, even if it involved putting him and his pleasure first.

His hesitation and restraint is obvious and gets you to pull back from the kiss to take a look at his face. His gaze follows when your hands frame it gently, fingers gently brushing back the strands of hair falling over his face. “Don’t overthink it” you whisper, thumb lingering against his cheek. His lips pinch slightly before he nods half confidently, hand cupping your jaw as he presses his mouth against yours once again. 

It flips a switch, sort of. His hand presses against your lower back to pull you closer to his own body as he leads you with him towards his bed, steps blind and clumsy as he walks backwards – he hums into the kiss in startlement when the back of his legs hit the edge of the bed and force him to sit if he doesn’t want to fall all the way and bring you down with him. You can only breathe out a laugh and climb onto his lap after that.

He forces his hands to settle at your hips and stop faltering, eyelids softly fluttering as he looks up at you like he can’t quite believe you’re real. His teeth lightly sink into his bottom lip, gaze roaming along your face when your hands rest at the sides of his neck. 

“I can’t believe you dodged Mario Party night with Joaquin for this” you smile as you let your fingers gently trace along his face – his own busy themselves by lightly fiddling with the hem of your shirt, playing with the soft fabric.

He grins playfully. “A last minute change of schedule isn’t so bad sometimes” he says with a shrug, hands slipping under the garment to find the soft heat of your body – his thumb lightly strokes your bare skin, rubbing small circles under your shirt. You hum contemplatively, hands holding his face.

“What’d you even tell him?” you ask, brushing away a stray strand of his hair.

He sucks in a contemplative breath before he shrugs again. “Just… something about wanting to go to bed early, y’know” he grins.

Your head shakes, a chuckle escaping your lips. “You liar.”

“I didn’t lie,” he counters, defending himself. “Going to bed early doesn’t necessarily mean sleeping” he teases, moving to nuzzle along your cheek, arms wrapping and tightening around your waist.

“Yeah okay,” your hands find the back of his head, fingers sinking in his hair that’s already messy from playing with it while you were making out. You can feel his breath where his mouth gently brushes at the ticklish skin under your jaw, can hear his low, quiet whimper when you grind against his sweatpants as he presses you closer to his own body, can feel the heat of him through the layers of clothes. “Bob” his face lifts to meet your gaze, a questioning hum quietly vibrating between you. “Take your shirt off and lie back.”

His eyebrows raise in startlement, mouth slightly parting before he snaps out of it and eventually nods fervently, fingers already grabbing at the hem of his shirt to lift it over his head and toss over the floor before his back meets the mattress with a quiet grunt. 

“Holy shit Bob,” you gasp, astounded. His throat bulges as he swallows in nervousness when your gaze rakes along his bare torso. “Why’d you hide those from me?” you ask, barely able to contain the awed smile growing over your face as the tip of your fingers brush against his muscled stomach in fascination.

“Oh,” his face is slowly turning red, body growing hotter than he even thought possible under the look in your eyes, a smug grin tugging at his lips. “I uh, I trained this afternoon so they’re–”

“God, this is so sexy.”

A small, choked sound catches in his throat, something between a flustered chuckle and a desperate groan when your fingers teasingly trail down the hard plane of his stomach, muscles softly tensing under your touch. His lips pinch as his gaze follows your hand, trying his best to remain quiet under the feeling of the graze of your fingertips, throat tight with anticipation when they progressively get lower and lower.

His breath catches again, breathing growing thicker when you reach the waistband of his sweatpants, one finger hooking there. You catch sight of the way his brows are knitted in focus when you look up at him before it goes further. “You okay?” you ask, eyebrows raised, hand stilling to give him room to tell you if it’s too much, too fast. 

He nods almost immediately. “Yeah– yeah” he gives you a reassuring smile, momentarily brought back to his senses. He lets out a small chuckle, slightly shifting his position under you to get more comfortable – it’s not easy when it feels like he’s growing harder each second because you’re straddling him and because your hands are teasing so close to where he needs you.

Bob props himself up on his elbows when you pull your shirt over your head and toss it to join his on the floor, not saying anything, just looking, eyes unapologetically roaming along your figure, mouth parting slightly.

“What?” you ask, voice quiet, suddenly a little shy under his gaze.

“Nothing,” he shakes his head with a sincere smile. “You just– you look so pretty.” he barely has time to catch a glimpse of the smile over your face before you grab his and lunge in to kiss him, his back pressing against the bed again. 

His hand instinctively slides to the small of your back, warm and obvious like he’s burning from the inside out. It travels up your spine, slow and careful like he wants to remember the feeling, wants to remember the soft hitch of your breath when his thumb traces along your ribcage and the way your body leans into his touch like it’s only natural for you to – which it probably is, but he wouldn’t know of since he’s never taken the time to linger with anyone else before, to notice such slight reactions beyond the overwhelming fog of the drugs.

Your body shifts above him to the side when your hand snakes between your bodies, trailing back down his abs, mouth ever so slightly pulling away from his own when you feel you’ve reached the thick material of the band of his sweatpants. “Can I…?” you murmur quietly, breath warm against his kiss swollen lips, fingers grazing the waistband.

Bob nods, and it comes with a breathless affirmative spilling out right after, his voice hoarse and unsteady in anticipation. A barely audible sound escapes his mouth when your hand slips under the layers of his clothes, eyes down to follow, make sure this isn’t just a dream or hallucination – the sight alone of your hand buried down there could have been enough to drive him crazy, but the thought escapes his mind when your hand closes around his hard cock, a small exhale leaving his mouth when you start moving, start gently stroking him like you have all the time in the world and all that matters is right there.

“That feel good?” you ask, a proud grin tugging at your lips from how expressively wrecked he gets, that quickly, not from much.

“Yes– Yeah,” he nods, head sinking back against the mattress.

“It’s real tight in there” you joke, voice soft but gently teasing. He lets out something between a chuckle and a groan, his arm flinging over his face to hide the heat creeping up his cheeks and attempt to chase the embarrassment away. You laugh at his reaction, leaning down to kiss his cheek. “Don’t hide, this is sweet” you whisper, nose nudging against his arm, hand still wrapped around him, pumping slowly. “You’re all tense”

He’s so hard it’s almost painful, your palm gliding along his length, thumb sweeping over the sensitive tip, smearing the precum around just to watch him shudder and hiss through clenched teeth. “Shit– Don’t make fun of me, it’s all your fault”

“Well you look so good like this,” you breathe as you drag your lips along the edge of his jaw, your hand still working him beneath the fabric, not that easily from the lack of space there. “Already wrecked while I’ve barely even really started yet”

He moans, the noise quiet but broken, his arm uncovering his face to grab at the sheets, his hips lightly twitching up into your palm like he can’t help himself anymore. “Please sweetheart,” he whines, eyes squeezing shut.

“Yes baby,” you whisper as your free hand hooks in his clothes to grant him more comfort, kissing the corner of his mouth, then his cheek, then the sensitive spot just under his ear. “Let me take care of you”

It feels like less of a torture once you free him of the prison of his own clothes, and he progressively eases into it as you take your time with him, take the time to observe every little shift in his face, every ragged breath that escapes his mouth, every time his lips part as he’s about to say something but the pleasure steals his words.

His fingers dig into your flesh as he clings to your arm, eyes dark and completely gone from the way you’re touching him and the way you’re looking at him – like he’s so much more than the trembling mess beneath your palm, more than just a body desperate for release, like he’s truly wanted for once in his life. 

He’s never had this like this before, never had it slow, intentional, a bit tentative, not just about finishing.

Bob’s hand shifts to slide up to the back of your neck and guide your face back to his, a low hum tearing from your throat when you sense his fingers working at the button of your pants; it's a bit hurried and clumsy as he struggles, and you're forced to pull away just long enough to rid yourself of the rest of your clothes faster. 

He kisses you again like he’s starving for it once you’re back over him again, deeper, needier, body pressing up against yours like the brief moment you've been apart has been unbearable.

Your forehead remains pressed up against his, breath thick with anticipation, skin burning up with desire. “Are you clean or do we need to–”

“The serum cleared me of anything” he nods, fingers brushing along your face, nose gently nudging your own.

“Okay that’s great– okay.”

Your name leaves his lips in a shaky breath when you roll your hips against his, slick and aching, the head of his cock catching right where you’re warmest. His hand digs into your waist, holding you there as his forehead presses against your shoulder. “Fuck– please,” he whispers, voice wrecked, wavering with need. “Stop teasing, I need–”

“You're acting so impatient for someone who wants to take it easy,” you chuckle softly, reaching between the two of you again to guide him where you want him. 

The moment he feels himself start to slide inside, he lets out a small grunt that joins your own exhale. “Jesus, you’re–” his hands tremble on your hips as you work to take all of him in, inch by inch, until your thighs are pressed flush to his. You pause there, letting the both of you adjust, brushing your fingers along the nape of his neck while your breathing evens out. “Are you okay?” he asks, warm hands settling at your thighs, lightly squeezing in reassurance. You nod, steadying yourself, palms resting against his abdomen to brace yourself, hips leisurely starting to move. 

You can’t help but wonder how many times he’s been in this position before, if it’s ever been serious enough to really mean something to him, if it feels as any good without the chemical alteration – if being that close to him in that context used to really meant being that close, if being that intimate really meant being that intimate, if it used to have any more depth than just the physical connection.

His head sinks back into the soft fabric of his bedding with a faint sigh of your name, broad hands firm at your sides, a hushed cussword quietly slipping from his mouth as you ride him slowly. 

“I’ve dreamed of this before” he admits in a murmur. 

Your movements still just slightly, head tilting to the side in curiosity. “Yeah?”

“Not in a weird way. I mean– dreaming about it is probably weird either way” he adds quickly, brows pulling in embarrassment as his lips twist into a self-deprecating smile. “But I’ve thought about you like this for a while” 

You feel your heart thrumming faster with the way his breath catches every time you rock against him, the way his fingers twitch against your skin when you clench around him, the way he holds your gaze like you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

Knowing that he’s been thinking about this before, has been wanting you like this for a while and trusts you enough to admit it could make you crumble faster than you even expected. 

You kiss him again, deeper this time, like you're trying to indulge in the way he initially wanted this to be unhurried, body pressed up against his. 

“That’s more sweet than weird but– you can’t say this and expect me to last a while” you chuckle once you pull away, breath hitching in your throat when his hips tilt upwards to meet the slow grind of your body. 

“That’s not necessarily a bad thing” he grins, lips dragging against your bare shoulder, the tip of his fingers running up along your spine.

“I thought you wanted to take your time,” you say, unable to help the soft gasp that follows, cheeks burning as your face buries into his neck when Bob clutches onto your waist to thrust up into you.

“I do. But it's nice knowing I can make you feel good” he grunts, muffled and short of breath, fingers digging deeper into your flesh, eyes squeezing shut when he realizes what he’s capable of when he’s not numbed by something synthetic, when it’s just him and not him and that painful itch to scratch driven by the drugs.

You keep moving together like that for a while, slow, gentle, but desperate. He lets his hands wander, less hesitant than before, sliding up your back and down again to grip your ass and guide your rhythm, groaning softly into your shoulder with each shift of your hips. There’s a desperation in his hold like he’s terrified that if he loosens his grip even for just a second you might disappear, like this entire moment could be a dream he might wake from too soon like it has been before. 

And when he leans back, eyes filled with desire as he murmurs, “Can I– let me get on top, yeah? Let me do this,” the uncertainty is so obvious across his face, like he’s afraid you’ll say no, that your heart tightens in your chest before you nod, cupping his cheek.

His lips twitch into a faint, grateful smile before he rolls you onto your back like it requires no effort at all – you sometimes forget about the serum and its effects that in some cases turn out to be great perks – you never thought of how useful it could be in that kind of situation, but the thought of how much more it could get to your advantage sparks even more excitement within you.

When he settles between your legs, it’s with a tenderness that almost shatters your soul. He doesn’t push back in right away, he just hovers there, his chest pressed to yours and his hands sliding under your thighs as if to remind himself you’re still real. His lips brush the corner of your mouth as he kisses you, his breath shivering against your cheek like he’s afraid he might ruin this if he moves too fast.

And then he’s inside you again, filling you up with a slow thrust that steals the breath from your lungs. It's deeper this time, his eyes squeezing shut as a shudder rips through him, soft moans escaping your mouths at each gentle drag of his cock. 

His pace starts slow, his thrusts calculated, a hand planted beside your head to hold himself up as his teeth bite into his bottom lip in focus. “You feel so good sweetheart” he murmurs, voice low with desire. His words somehow make you feel as good as his body does, unconsciously clenching around him when you feel them reverberate in the pit of your stomach. 

It doesn’t take long before he picks up on the pace, hips rolling harder against yours like he can’t hold back anymore. Soft gasps and whimpers escape you, nails grazing over the muscles of his back as he fucks you, but it’s only when you open your eyes and catch a glimpse of his face that you realize that he’s crying. 

Not dramatically weeping, not full on sobbing, and he probably thinks that it’s not enough to be noticeable and he can probably get away with it.

“Bob,” you whisper, hands coming to hold his face, fingers instantly brushing along his temple, panic and worry filling your voice as your gaze searches his. “Are you okay? Do you want to stop? We can stop–”

“No– no,” he breathes, voice breaking, head shaking. “I don’t wanna stop” he swallows hard, his body trembling above you, gaze dropping in shame. “It’s just– It feels real and that’s– don’t worry, just– let’s just keep going, please” he nods, trying to swallow the lump in his throat, head turning to the side like he wants to hide any way he can, face flushed and damp.

Your hand cups his cheek, gently turning him back to face you. His tears are warm against your fingertips as you swipe them away, your heart breaking for him when you see his gaze reflecting the overload of conflicted thoughts inside his head when his eyes finally meet yours. “Are you sure? We can take five if you want,” you offer, the tone of your voice poisoned with worry, watching intently when his head shakes and he swiftly wipes the few of the rest of his tears away.

“I’m okay,” he insists with a firm and resilient nod though his voice remains quiet and wavering. “I promise.”

You lean up just enough to press a kiss to his lips, soft and lingering. “I know you don’t believe it, but you’re allowed to have nice things, you know,” you murmur against his mouth. 

His breath shudders out again, hand gripping your waist just a little tighter. “Yeah,” he says, almost like he’s still trying to convince himself of it, lips curling into a small, genuine smile when your hand slides down to the juncture between his neck and shoulder to soothingly rub there.

You feel the shift in him after that. It takes some time before the rhythm and confidence build up again, but Bob catches up on his pace, and soon, the momentary disruption is long forgotten, his thrusts growing bolder, surer, still tender but with more intent now, like he’s actively trying to believe that he deserves it, all of it, and has to make the most of it. 

Your lids fall shut at Bob’s quiet gasps of your name breathed into your ear when you tell him how good he’s doing, coupled with his hand snaking between your bodies to touch you, gently trying to coax it out of you, begging you like you’re not already going liquid beneath him. “Come on baby, please give it to me” 

Your fingers curl against his back, legs wrapping tighter around his waist and pulling him in even deeper. "Bob," you gasp as you arch into him, chasing after his touch. You’re so close it hurts, every desperate drag of his cock inside you feeling just right, every graze of his fingers sending sparks up your spine and heat pooling low in your belly.

"Please," he whispers again, like he's begging for more than just your orgasm, like he's asking for everything he’s ever wanted from you; your trust, your faith, your forgiveness for everything he's ever done and felt shameful for before he got here, right here with you beneath him. 

And you give it to him, you give all of it, you want him to have it all.

Your body tightens around him with a strangled gasp, hand clinging onto his bicep and nails digging into his skin as you let go beneath him, moaning his name as you tremble in his arms, melting into the mattress as it overtakes you.

He’s not far behind. The way your body pulses around him and the broken sounds you make in his ear get him right here. He lets out a groan, hips stuttering when you meet his eyes, the dim light of the room making them appear darker than they are – yet you could swear that for the matter of half a second, you can see a golden glint shine through his irises that disappears just as fast as it went, and then he’s spilling into you, burying his face in the crook of your neck. 

His whole body trembles with the force of it, the muscles in his neck tensing under your fingers when your hands slide up to bury into his hair.

“You’re all sweaty,” you tease breathlessly once he starts to come down, fingers threading into his damp hair, lightly scratching his scalp.

His lips curve against your skin, his chuckle low and warm, vibrating through your feverish body. “So are you,” he murmurs, kissing the corner of your jaw before looking at you again, gaze heavy with affection and something deeper that makes your stomach twist.

You lie like this for a while, tangled limbs buzzing with that funny feeling, your breathing evening as you hold each other, your thumb idly moving back and forth against his cheek.

Bob takes in a breath before he eventually breaks the comfortable silence. ”Sorry about earlier. When I… Y’know,” his voice drops, gets quieter. “Cried” your head shakes, brows pulling, and he speaks again before you can even begin to tell him he shouldn’t have to feel like he has to apologize for that. “It’s just that... I didn’t know it could feel this good,” he admits like it's some embarrassing confession, not even sure it’s something he would be saying out loud in any other context, not sure it would be something worth admitting. “Not just the sex, I mean. You. All of this.” he murmurs. “The… emotional connection”

He shifts, readjusting his position so that he’s lying beside you, still close, giving you space so he’s not smothering you with the overwhelming heat of his body, but most of all so he can face you. 

“It’s always been so quick and insignificant before” your head tilts to the side as you listen intently, quietly brushing away the damp strands of hair falling over his face, silently encouraging him to go on. “And besides the physical reactions it used to be so… numb.” he frowns. You can practically see the gears turning inside his head as he looks for his words, how to express it properly. “Not-special”

You nod, lips pinching into a small smile that wordlessly tells him that you get what he’s trying to say.

“I feel at ease when I'm with you” he eventually admits quietly, tiredly blinking as he looks at you like you’ve been giving him anything he’s ever wanted and needed.

You don’t say anything, maybe from fear that it wouldn’t even begin to compare to the preciousness of his words, so you just kiss him.

“I would want it to last forever if we could handle it. Being like this with you” he says once he pulls away, and he looks like he might almost cry again despite the grin over his face.

You chuckle, your fingertips lightly tracing the edges of his face. “We can always try” you tease playfully.

He snorts a laugh, rubbing a hand over his eyes as he breathes out like a weight has been lifted off his chest. The exhaustion is obvious over his face, like he’s been drained of all energy, blinking the sleepiness away as he tries to fight it, holding on just to not give up on you like this.

You let your hand run through his hair again. “You can rest. I’ll be there when you wake up tomorrow, I’m not going anywhere”

His eyes roam along your face before he nods, not looking to argue, and he smiles, eyes closing in contentment when you kiss his face.

He had never done it sober, but now he has.

—

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[queenshelby]

Just a Dream

Pairing: Dream of the Endless x Reader

Part 21: Mortal Rites (Warning: Fluff and Smut)

TAG LIST: For Dream Fics - Please comment on the fic or message me for tagging.

You got home just after one o’clock. The hospital lights still clung to your eyes like ghosts—too bright, too sterile. You peeled off your scrubs, barely made it to the shower, then wandered to your bedroom in a fog of exhaustion.

And yet… sleep wouldn’t come.

Not yet.

Your body was tired but your mind was too full. Something itched at the edge of your awareness. A memory. A moment. A woman in black—too present, too still. You couldn’t shake it. So you sat on the edge of your bed, wrapped in your robe, thumbing open a book without really seeing the words.

That’s when it happened.

A soft sound, a rush like breath and silk, and then—sand. A swirl of golden grains caught the moonlight, brushing the air beside your bed as if the wind itself had been dreaming.

“Jesus!” you jumped, heart jerking into your throat. “You scared me.”

He was already there, tall and impossibly still, framed by shadows and the faint gleam of his power.

“What happened to knocking?” you said, pressing your hand to your chest. “Or, I don’t know, ringing the doorbell like a normal person?”

His head tilted. “Apologies,” Morpheus said softly. “It was not my intention to startle you. Would you prefer I try again—properly?”

You stared at him for a beat, still catching your breath—and then laughed. He was impossible.

“Try again? What, like step outside, knock twice and wait for me to answer in pyjamas?”

His eyes didn’t so much as blink. “If that would comfort you, yes.”

You laughed again, softer this time, shaking your head. “You’re serious.”

“I am always serious,” he said, stepping a little closer, voice dropping to something almost tender. “But I would also like to stay.”

Your breath hitched again, but not from fear. From the ache of him. The way he looked at you like the world might fall apart if you turned him away.

“Well,” you said, folding your arms but failing to sound stern, “you’re here now.”

He nodded once. “Then, may I kiss you?”

You raised a brow. “You didn’t think to lead with that?”

“I thought it would be presumptuous.”

“Presumptuous,” you echoed, still seated on your bed. “You really have no idea how human courtship works, do you?”

“I understand its structure,” he said evenly, “but not its subtleties. Not when it comes to you.”

That stopped you.

It wasn’t the words—it was the way he said them. Like you were the anomaly. Like every ritual of love, every myth, every rule ever whispered in the dark between lovers… failed to apply the moment he looked at you.

You swallowed, suddenly aware of your own heartbeat. “Well,” you said, patting the space beside you on the bed, “we can workshop that.”

He moved toward you without hesitation, the soft rustle of his coat the only sound in the room. When he sat, the mattress barely shifted, as if the very fabric of the Dreaming cushioned his weight even here.

He turned toward you, slow and deliberate, his eyes searching your face as if memorizing it—not just with sight, but with something deeper. Something ancient.

You met his gaze, lips parting just slightly. “Now would be a good time,” you whispered.

His hand came up—tentative at first—fingertips grazing the curve of your cheek, the line of your jaw. You felt it like a spark, soft but searing, as if your skin had been waiting for that exact touch.

Then he leaned in.

The kiss wasn’t hurried. It didn’t crash into you like a wave—it unfolded, slow and reverent, like a secret finally spoken aloud. His lips brushed yours with devastating tenderness, a hush of devotion in every movement. He kissed you like he was afraid of breaking you. Like you were sacred.

You tilted your head, deepening it, and that was all the permission he needed. One hand slid to the back of your neck, the other anchoring gently at your hip, and his mouth moved with more certainty now—silk becoming fire, restraint bleeding into hunger.

You sighed against him. It wasn’t just desire—it was recognition. A remembering. A returning.

When he finally pulled back, his breath was uneven. So was yours.

Your voice was quiet—breathless still, but laced with certainty. “You didn’t just come here to kiss me though, did you?”

He didn’t answer at first.

Instead, he looked at you like the question itself was heavy with consequence. Like speaking too quickly might unravel the very reason he came. The shadows around him deepened, subtle but noticeable—his silence no longer stillness, but storm held at bay.

“No,” he said at last. “I did not.”

You exhaled slowly, grounding yourself. “So… what is it this time? What endless crisis is knocking at my door—without knocking, I might add.”

His lips twitched, faintly. “You encountered my sister today.”

You blinked. “Your sister?”

He nodded once. “In the hospital. The woman in black.”

Your heart skipped. “Wait—that was your sister?”

“She is Death,” he said, with the kind of quiet that carries the weight of inevitability.

You stared at him. “No. No, she was just… a woman. A weird one, sure, but—she wasn’t even on the surgery team. She—wait.”

It hit you like a dropped tray of instruments. The way the woman had looked at you. Not through you. At you. With knowing.

“She was there for my patient. Sarah Jones,” you whispered.

“Yes,” Morpheus said. “Sarah Jones was meant to pass. And yet she remains… in limbo. In my realm.”

You stiffened. “She’s in a coma.”

“For now,” he replied. “But she was my sister’s to take. Something intervened.”

“And you think it was me?” you said, voice tightening. “Because I saved her? Because I did my job?”

His tone softened. “I do not accuse you. But you were there. And now, my siblings are… concerned.”

You let out a frustrated breath. “God, Dream, there is always drama with you people.”

“Perhaps,” he allowed, and then after a pause, “but I am not here for their worry. I am here for mine.”

Your gaze flicked back to his. “So you’re here to… check up on me?”

“I am here to stay,” he said simply. “Until Destiny returns with the prodigal.”

You stared. “The prodigal?”

He said it softly, like dropping a match into a quiet room and knowing it would burn.

“Your father.”

The words struck something deep inside you—like an echo through bone. You stared at him, your voice caught somewhere between disbelief and dread.

“You’re serious.”

He didn’t blink. “I am always serious.”

You shifted, drawing the blanket tighter around your shoulders, as if it might shield you from truths too old to name.

“I mean… I never knew my father. But you do realise he would probably not approve of this,” you murmured, gesturing loosely between your body and his presence—both closer and more distant than anything else you knew. “Of us.”

A hush followed. The air in the room, already still, felt like it listened.

Dream’s face remained composed, but his voice darkened—low and unyielding. “He does not have to approve.”

That made you look at him.

“I do not answer to him,” he said. “Nor does he answer to me. But until I know what your story’s outcome might be…” He paused, a breath caught in thought. Then, quieter, with something close to pleading—“Please. Let me protect you.”

You stared at him for a beat longer, the truth of it threading through your chest like heat.

“…Isn’t that why I have the stone?” you asked, softly. “That I can call on you when I am in danger?”

“Yes,” he replied. “But it would feel much safer to me if I could hold you in my arms. If I could see you. Feel that you are well.”

His voice was low—measured—but there was something beneath it. A strain. As if admitting this pulled at the ancient threads of his pride.

You felt it in your chest: the ache of being cared for by something that had existed since before language. And yet, he sounded… human.

You shifted slightly beneath the blanket, your voice gentling. “So you’re staying?”

He nodded. “Yes. If you will have me.”

A breath escaped your lips, half sigh, half smile. “You know mortal ritual night isn’t until tomorrow, yeah?”

“I know,” he said. “And I will be at your disposal for whatever you choose to undertake that day. The evening. The morning. All day, if you’ll have me.”

You laughed lightly, warmth curling in your chest. “God, you’re so overprotective.”

Your eyes met his. “And I love you for that.”

The words slipped out before you could second-guess them, but you didn’t take them back. You meant every one. And if it surprised him—if the ancient weight of him stilled for a moment—you didn’t notice. Because you were already reaching for him.

“Now come,” you said, lifting the blanket.

With a fluid grace only he could manage, he slipped in beside you. The bed dipped under his form, but not too much—like even the Waking World itself knew how to cradle his presence. He was cool to the touch at first, but that quickly gave way to the strange heat he carried—like starlight pressed just beneath skin.

He curled an arm around you, pulling you into him as though you were the only tether he trusted.

His fingers brushed up your spine, slow, reverent.

You tilted your face to him, and he kissed you—soft, sure, and long. Not urgent. Just full of presence. Full of meaning. Full of him.

When the kiss broke, you rested your forehead against his.

“When you are ready,” he murmured, “to visit my realm… just speak the words.”

You didn’t hesitate.

“Take me.”

And he did.

With a sigh and the faint rustle of sand in the air, you sank beneath the veil of sleep. The world folded in on itself. And you fell—safe in his arms, carried through starlight and dream, toward the place where only truth could follow.

***

The night passed like a song you half-remembered.

You wandered through the Dreaming beside him—no monsters, no memory shards, no lingering shadows. Just peace. You walked barefoot through Fiddler’s Green, laughter clinging to the wind like pollen. You lay in meadows that smelled of old books and soft citrus. He read to you beneath trees that bloomed with stars. You didn’t speak much. You didn’t have to. There was a rhythm to the stillness there, a safety in simply existing next to him, in a place that felt like it had always known your name.

When you awoke, it was to the scent of warmth.

Coffee.

And sunlight.

Your eyes fluttered open slowly, lashes catching the light spilling in through the blinds. The world was quiet—comfortably so. No beeping machines. No distant hospital chatter. Just morning.

And him.

He was already standing beside your bed, silhouetted in soft gold, dressed down in black—no cloak, no impossible flourish. Just a man. Just him.

In his hand: a takeaway coffee cup. Steam curled from the lid in slow, lazy spirals.

He looked at you like he always did—intensely, endlessly—as though waking was something sacred only you were allowed to do.

“Coffee?” he asked, as if uncertain whether it was the right offering.

“You… went out? To get me coffee?” you asked before blinking again, still caught somewhere between dream and daylight.

Your gaze drifted over him—no swirling shadows, no cloak whispering against reality. Just soft cotton. A black shirt. Black jeans. Black shoes.

“And you’re wearing this…,” you finished, voice thick with sleep and disbelief. “A shirt and jeans? Like a mortal man?”

He tilted his head, expression unreadable. “I wished to blend in.”

You blinked again. “You blended in?”

“I stood in line,” he said, matter-of-fact. “There were… many options. I chose the one you most often request.”

You stared at him, utterly floored. “You stood in line? At a real café? With people?”

He nodded, completely unfazed. “There was a chalkboard with instructions. I obeyed them.”

You gaped. “You obeyed a chalkboard?”

“The rules were clear,” he said. “Place order. Wait here. Give name. Retrieve beverage when called. I did as instructed.”

You choked on a laugh, pressing the back of your hand to your mouth. “You gave them your name?”

“No,” he said. “I gave them yours. It was for you.”

You looked down at the cup. Sure enough, your name was scrawled in slightly wonky capital letters. The barista had even drawn a little star beside it

It was so absurd, so surreal, and yet—your heart squeezed around it. The image of him, silent and mythic, waiting behind a hedge fund intern and a uni student in gym gear, just to bring you your favourite drink.

You looked back up at him, smile spreading across your face. “That is… maybe the most romantic thing anyone has ever done for me.”

“Bring you coffee?” he echoed, mildly offended. “Then, no wonder no one has caught your attention yet.”

You let out a sleepy chuckle, taking a slow sip.

Your smile widened as the warmth hit your chest harder than the caffeine. He watched you closely, and then—curiously—

“So, what mortal rite have you chosen for the day?”

You blinked at him. “Mortal… rite?”

“Yes,” he said, with total seriousness. “The ritual of shared time.”

You almost spat your coffee. “Oh, you mean our date?” You recalled him calling dates mortal rituals before but had totally forgotten about that by now.

He nodded, entirely unfazed.

“God, you’re so formal sometimes.” You tucked your legs under the blanket and set the cup on the nightstand. “Alright then, today’s sacred rite includes…” you paused for effect, “the universe.”

His head tilted slightly, curious. “Be more specific.”

You grinned. “There is an exhibition about dark matter, nebulae, space and time at the local museum I like.”

“I see,” he said. “A mortal attempt to comprehend that which is incomprehensible.”

You smirked, pulling the blanket higher around your waist. “Perhaps, but the tickets I’ve got come with a full-dome projection, terrible seating, and popcorn.”

He considered this. “And what purpose does it serve? Awe? Understanding? Entertainment?”

You shrugged. “All of the above. Plus, I like watching people try to explain the cosmos using PowerPoint slides and dramatic narration. It makes me feel better about being confused.”

He blinked. “You enjoy confusion?”

“I enjoy perspective,” you corrected, tossing back the blanket and swinging your legs over the side of the bed. “I like being reminded that we’re not the centre of everything. That there’s more out there than heart monitors and hospital corridors and broken vending machines.”

You stood, stretched, and padded across the room toward the dresser, pulling out soft clothes for the day. Comfortable layers. Shoes that wouldn’t betray you.

Dream watched you in silence, head tilted slightly, expression unreadable.

“Do you not crave that?” you asked over your shoulder. “Perspective?”

“I do not crave,” he said. “But I observe.”

You glanced at him with a faint smirk. “That’s a very polite way of saying no.”

“I do not require perspective on space and time,” he said, rising now from where he sat, the air around him pulling slightly tighter. “But I understand the need of mortals to seek it. To be reminded they are finite.”

“Well, personally speaking, I don’t think I need more reminders of that,” you said, your voice softer now as you pulled a sweater over your head. “Being mortal isn’t exactly easy to forget. Especially when your boyfriend is so far from it.”

“Boyfriend?”

You froze halfway through adjusting your sweater, arms still tugging at the hem. The word had slipped out without ceremony, without thought. You hadn’t even realized you’d said it until he echoed it back at you.

You turned slowly.

Dream stood exactly where he’d been—tall, composed, every line of him carved in silence—but his expression had shifted. There was no mockery in his voice. No amusement. Only... curiosity. And something just beneath it.

Uncertainty.

You swallowed. “Was that wrong?”

He blinked once. “No.”

You waited. “Then what’s up?”

“I have had many titles,” he murmured. “Lord. Monarch. Endless. Dream. Lover. Even enemy. But never that.”

You smiled gently, stepping into his space. Close enough to feel the cool stillness he carried, like moonlight barely held in skin.

“You’ll get used to it,” you said softly, tucking your hand into his.

He looked down at your fingers laced through his, then back at you—silent for a long beat. Not resisting. Just… absorbing. As if the word, boyfriend, meant more than any title he’d worn across eternity.

You squeezed his hand once.

Then with a teasing lilt, you said it again, deliberately light: “Come on, let’s go, boyfriend.”

The corners of his mouth lifted. Not quite a smile—he rarely gave you those freely. But this was something more precious. A quiet yielding. A rare glint of warmth in the eyes of a god who had called stars to life and grieved alone in endless silence.

“As you wish,” he murmured.

And just like that, the moment held. Mortal and eternal, side by side.

You grabbed your coat, your bag, and your keys. And he followed you out the door—your myth, your shadow, your boyfriend—into the light of the day.

***

The museum was already buzzing by the time you arrived. School groups, couples, old men with telescopes on their lapels, all milling about under banners that read THE UNIVERSE: FROM CHAOS TO COSMOS. You handed the woman at the front desk your tickets and passed one to Dream.

He stared at the slip of paper like it was part of an ancient pact.

“You’re supposed to keep it,” you told him, nudging his elbow.

“I see,” he replied. “It’s a rite of passage.”

You rolled your eyes. “It’s a barcode.”

The exhibition itself was sleek and cinematic—giant illuminated panels, theatrical lighting, dramatic voiceovers, and sound effects that made you feel like you were walking through the womb of a star.

You were enthralled.

Dream… was not.

“That is incorrect,” he muttered, standing before an enormous interactive screen that claimed the Big Bang occurred 13.8 billion years ago.

You turned to him. “Which part?”

“All of it.”

You sighed. “You’re going to be that guy today, aren’t you?”

“They’ve reduced four-dimensional cosmology to a glowing wall chart. It’s almost insulting.”

You gave him a look. “You know the kids can hear you, right?”

At that moment, a little girl standing nearby tugged on her mother’s sleeve, her eyes locked on Dream with eerie calm.

“I know him,” she said, matter-of-fact.

Her mother didn’t look up from her phone. “No, sweetie. He’s just a man.”

“No,” the girl insisted. “I’ve seen him before. In my dreams. He was taller then.”

Dream didn’t move. He didn’t smile. He simply looked at her with something quiet and solemn in his gaze, like the two of them shared a language no one else could hear.

The mother finally glanced over, stiffened, and quickly took her daughter’s hand. “Come on. Let’s go look at the astronaut suits,” she said quickly.

“But that’s him,” the girl insisted, twisting around to keep watching him as she was pulled away. “That’s him!”

You stood in silence for a moment, eyes still on the corner where they vanished.

“…Who was that girl?”

Dream’s voice was soft, measured. “Her name is Callie.”

“Do you know her?”

“I do. She’s spent much of her short life in a hospital. Not yours – another. Not far from here. She finds her way to the Dreaming often.”

“She’s sick?”

He nodded once. “Very. But curious. Clever. And quite fond of the dragons.”

“The dragons?” you echoed. “In the Dreaming?”

“Yes,” he said simply. “And they like her too.”

Your heart squeezed. “Does she know when she is dreaming and when she is not?”

“She remembers enough,” he said. “Children are often less troubled by boundaries.”

You didn’t answer. You just stood still for a moment longer, then slipped your hand into his.

He held it as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

By the time you reached the Cosmic Theater—a full-dome projection room with reclining seats and an aggressively poetic narrator—Dream had already given up on pretending to be impressed.

Halfway through a swelling monologue about the “eternal ripple of spacetime,” you leaned over and whispered, “Are you enjoying this?”

“No.” he said honestly and without filter. “But I do enjoy your company.”

“That was fast.”

“They’ve layered inaccurate visual metaphor over flawed human theory. And the popcorn is too salty.”

You glanced at the bucket in his lap. “You’re still eating it.”

“I’m experimenting with disappointment.”

You laughed into your sleeve.

Then the narration hit its final crescendo: “…And so time, ever flowing, ever ancient, unknowable, has shaped everything we see…”

Dream exhaled sharply.

“Don’t say it,” you warned.

“Their conception of time is primitive.”

“Oh my god—”

“It implies time is linear. Detached. That it merely observes. That is… not accurate.”

You turned to him, deadpan. “Okay. And you know this how?”

He didn’t miss a beat. “Because Time…is my father.”

You choked on a kernel. “Excuse me?”

He turned to face you fully now, voice calm as gravity. “Time and Night are my parents. Before all else.”

You stared. “So… you have parents? You were born?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

You blinked. Unable to say anything else worth saying at this moment.

The lights in the dome brightened as the show ended. A teenager behind you sighed dreamily and whispered, “That was so deep.”

Dream shook his head like a disappointed professor.

You stood, brushing popcorn off your jeans, and offered your hand. “Come on. Let’s go get you something less salty.”

“Thank you,” he said dryly, and you laughed as he took your hand, and you led him out past the cardboard planets and galaxy merch.

“This is the weirdest date I’ve ever been on.”

He glanced sideways at you, solemn. “In a bad way?”

You squeezed his fingers. “No. It’s perfect.”

***

“Where to next?” he asked, as you stepped out into the warm daylight.

You turned toward him, still riding the high of watching him scowl at the planetarium popcorn like it had personally offended him. “Farmers market.”

Dream blinked, expression unreadable. “A market. For farmers.”

You chuckled. “Not quite. A market with farmers.”

“I see,” he said, as though evaluating the very concept.

You slipped your hand into his. “Come on, Lord of Dreams. It’s time to elevate your taste buds.”

The market was in full swing by the time you arrived—rows of canvas tents like wind-battered sails, brimming with local produce, jars of honey, and bread so fresh you could cry. Musicians played by the fountain. Children ran underfoot. The smell of grilled corn and wood-fired pizza lingered in the air like temptation.

Dream took it all in with a kind of resigned patience.

A woman selling organic strawberries waved a sample cup at you. “First of the season! Try one—best you’ve ever had!”

You popped one into your mouth and handed the next to Dream. He inspected it like a precious gem, then took a bite.

“It is… acceptable,” he said at last.

You laughed and nudged his arm as you walked on, winding between stalls overflowing with heirloom tomatoes, handmade soaps, and enough sourdough to feed a revolution. You tasted aged cheddar from a dairy vendor who took his craft far too seriously, dipped tiny skewers into tubs of spiced olives, and drank your second coffee of the day from a hipster cart where the barista had tattoos of tiny celestial bodies curling up his neck.

Dream sipped it once and pronounced it “less offensive than expected.”

You bought a croissant—flaky, golden, filled with warm almond paste—and tore off a piece, holding it up to his mouth like an offering.

He hesitated, then took it with grave reverence, the crumbs catching on his lip.

“Now that…” he said slowly, “…is adequate compensation for the popcorn.”

“High praise,” you teased. And then—because he looked so serious, and because you felt like the world might burst if you didn’t—you leaned in and kissed him.

It was brief. Soft. But it lingered.

“Hey, uhm—”

You startled slightly and turned to find Adina standing beside a display of sunflowers.

She raised an eyebrow, arms crossed loosely. “Enjoying your day off?”

“Yes actually,” you said, smiling a little too fast as she glanced between the two of you.

“So, are you going to introduce me to your… companion?” she then asked and, before you could answer, Dream straightened slightly.

“I am not her companion.”

You blinked. But remained quiet for now. Simply to see where this was going.

“I am her boyfriend,” he then added, as though the word had been passed to him on parchment moments ago.

He said the word like it had a strange taste. As if it didn’t belong in his mouth. As if it was too small for what he felt, but also terrifyingly real.

You glanced at him with amused affection, and stepped in. “This is Morpheus.”

Adina blinked. “Morpheus? Like… the god?”

You shrugged. “His parents are teachers. One teaches history, the other Greek mythology.”

Dream opened his mouth—likely to object—but you shot him a look and cut in smoothly. “So yeah, I guess the name fit.”

Adina nodded, satisfied. “Huh. That’s kinda cool.” After a few more pleasantries, she waved goodbye and wandered off with her sunflowers.

“Morpheus,” she repeated under her breath, the name curling off her tongue like it belonged in a myth.

Dream’s eyes narrowed slightly.

As soon as she was out of earshot, however, he turned to you and said flatly, “My parents are not teachers.”

You fought back a smile. “I know.”

He looked at you like you’d committed some sort of cosmic slander. “They are not even mortal.”

You raised your brows. “I am aware, but do you think I should’ve told her your father is Time itself and your mother is primordial Night?”

He opened his mouth, then closed it again.

“…No,” he admitted eventually. “Probably not.”

You gave his hand a gentle squeeze. “Then congratulations. You’re the proud son of two overachieving academics.”

He stared at you for a long beat.

“Boyfriend,” you added sweetly, just to see what he’d do.

Dream visibly bristled—shoulders tightening like a cat hearing an unfamiliar sound. “…That word feels somewhat imprecise.”

You laughed. “Welcome to mortal romance.”

He didn’t reply, but he didn’t let go of your hand either.

Which, for him, said everything.

He was quiet for a few moments after the Adina encounter, his hand still laced with yours as you wandered past the market’s final row of stalls.

Then, with careful neutrality, he asked, “What comes next?”

You glanced at him, eyes bright. “Now? We get some groceries. Then we go home, cook dinner, watch a movie…”

He nodded slowly, as if mentally organizing the tasks like a royal agenda.

“…and then we have sex,” you finished breezily. “Lots of it.”

He nearly tripped over a crack in the pavement.

You smirked. “I thought you liked honesty.”

“I do,” he said faintly. “I simply… wasn’t expecting quite so much of it.”

“Get used to it, boyfriend.”

He didn’t respond to the title. Not with words. Just squeezed your hand.

***

At the grocery store, you moved through the aisles in a rhythm of domestic ease—pasta, tomatoes, garlic, wine. You were just reaching for a carton of eggs when the nausea hit again.

It came fast. Sharp. Like the air had suddenly gone too thick to breathe.

You paused, hand braced against the fridge door.

Dream was beside you instantly. “You’re unwell.”

You gave a small nod, eyes closed. “It’s fine. It just… comes and goes.”

His brow furrowed as he studied you. “You should see a physician. Or a healer, in the Dreaming.”

You shook your head gently, already recovering. “I’m a doctor, remember? It’s probably just stress. If it doesn’t settle in a few days, I’ll run some tests. Maybe it’s low iron again.”

He didn’t look convinced. His eyes lingered on your face like he was searching for signs you hadn’t noticed.

“Stop worrying,” you said softly, touching his arm. “Humans get a little sick now and then. That’s part of the deal.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just stood very still, as if listening for something you couldn’t hear.

Then, finally, he nodded. But the concern didn’t leave his face.

***

Back at your apartment, the late sun filtered through the windows in amber streaks, casting warm light over your cluttered kitchen. You dropped the grocery bags on the counter and turned on some music—something mellow and slow, with a heartbeat rhythm that made the air feel thick and content.

You pulled out a bottle of red wine, uncorked it, and poured two glasses. When you handed one to Dream, he held it to the light as if it might reveal a hidden truth.

He took a sip—unhurried, thoughtful. Then another.

“I do not mind wine,” he said finally, with great ceremony, as if bestowing a royal pardon.

You grinned. “I’ll take that as glowing praise.”

“There’s something… ancient in it,” he added, examining the glass like it might reveal a secret. “Fermented time. Memory.”

You toasted your glass lightly against his. “Poetic and functional. What more could you want?”

He didn’t answer—just took another sip and watched you with that unreadable gaze as you handed him a zucchini and a knife.

He stared at the vegetable like it had personally wronged him. “You want me to… disassemble this?”

You laughed. “Slice. Not disassemble. Thin rounds.”

He tried. You watched in affectionate horror as he held the knife like it was a quill and proceeded to cut pieces so uneven you could probably assign each slice a personality.

“Okay,” you said gently, sliding behind him. “Here, like this—thumb tucked back. Rock the blade forward.”

He listened. Tried again. It was still a mess, but slightly less tragic. You smiled to yourself. “See? Not so hard.”

He looked at you with an expression caught somewhere between suspicion and quiet fascination. “You’re enjoying this.”

“I am,” you admitted.

He reached for the next zucchini, then paused. With a flick of his fingers, it shimmered briefly—half-sliced itself cleanly in midair.

You smacked his arm with a dish towel. “No magic!”

He blinked, actually blinking, then lowered his hand. “But it would be so much more efficient if you allowed me to - .”

“That’s not the point,” you cut him off.

He brooded.

Pouted, actually.

You handed him another glass of wine. He took it with a mildly put-upon sigh and kept chopping, slower this time, more focused.

You stirred the sauce on the stove, humming. He snuck a glance at you when he thought you weren’t looking.

You caught him.

“What?” you asked, eyebrow raised.

He didn’t answer right away. But then—softly, almost surprised—he said, “You look… content.”

You gave him a small smile and passed him a clove of garlic. “That’s because I am. Now crush this.”

He tried. You had to show him again. He was terrible at it, but so absurdly graceful that it became endearing—like watching a swan try to use a can opener.

You added spices, he poured the pasta into the boiling water (too fast, water splashed, he recoiled like it had betrayed him), and somehow, through chaos and laughter and wine, dinner began to come together.

And then something shifted.

When you leaned over to check the sauce, his hand brushed the small of your back. Light. Unthinking. His eyes were warmer than usual when they met yours.

He smiled.

Not his usual formal, polite ghost of a smile.

A real one.

“I think,” he said slowly, “I am beginning to understand this ritual.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Cooking?”

“This,” he repeated, gesturing to the cluttered kitchen, the simmering sauce, the two of you barefoot and flushed and laughing over vegetables. “It is not just about the food to be consumed, is it?”

You turned to him fully, resting your hand lightly on his chest. “No,” you said. “It’s about doing it together. Enjoying one another’s company”

He studied you for a long, quiet moment.

Then he bent, slow and deliberate, and kissed you once—soft, wine-sweet and grateful.

Dinner was slightly overcooked.

But neither of you cared.

***

After dinner, the two of you moved to the couch, the evening pressing in soft and gold through the windows. The kitchen still smelled faintly of garlic and wine. You tucked your legs beneath you, cradling your half-full glass, while Dream stood a moment longer in the threshold, eyes scanning the room as if memorizing it.

He finally lowered himself beside you, graceful as dusk.

You handed him the remote. “Your turn.”

He looked down at it, then passed it back. “You should choose.”

You tilted your head. “You sure?”

“I insist,” he said, his voice as even as always and you scrolled, then paused on a film you hadn’t seen before—an acclaimed historical drama. One of those slow, heavy, aching epics filled with mud and music and beautiful people staring longingly at each other in candlelight.

You pressed play. “Haven’t seen this one.”

“I was there for the events,” he said softly, settling beside you.

You blinked. “Right. Of course you were.”

He didn’t elaborate. He never did.

You nestled in, leaning gently against him. He let you, his arm curling around your shoulders as though it had always belonged there. The blanket pulled over your legs. The hum of the screen filled the silence.

The movie unfolded slowly—fog-covered hills, men in worn coats writing letters by oil lamp, women gazing out of windows like they could undo war with a single thought. Every frame lingered longer than necessary, the score a slow bleed of strings and silence.

You tried to get into it. You really did.

But twenty minutes in, your eyes drifted.

Dream’s were already on you.

You turned your head slightly. “You’re not watching.”

“I am,” he said, voice low. “Just not the film.”

You blinked. “What, then?”

“You.”

It came simply. Without hesitation. Not teasing. Just truth.

You swallowed. “That’s… distracting.”

“You fidget when you’re bored,” he murmured, gaze steady. “You tap your fingers on the blanket. You lean in when you’re curious. Your pupils dilate when something stirs you.”

You stared at him.

The weight of his gaze was like gravity—slow, constant, inevitable.

He lifted a hand—fingertips brushing your cheek with the gentlest pressure, barely there. “You are infinitely more compelling than misremembered war.”

Your breath caught. Not just from the words, but from the way he said them—like it was a fact, not a compliment. Like it had always been true.

The light from the screen flickered across his face, casting him in amber and shadow. Your heart beat in strange rhythms beneath your ribs.

“You know,” you said softly, “you make it really hard to pretend I’m not completely in love with you when you talk like that.”

His thumb traced your jaw. “Then don’t pretend.”

You let out a shaky breath.

And then you moved.

Slowly, deliberately, you shifted in his lap, your knees sliding to either side of his thighs. Straddling him. Grounding yourself there.

He didn’t flinch. His hands came to your waist like gravity pulling toward the center of all things. You were already breathing him in—his stillness, his warmth, the quiet thunder of his want beneath the surface.

“You really weren’t watching the movie at all,” you whispered, lips inches from his.

“No,” he said, steady as moonlight. “I was watching something real.”

You kissed him.

Not tentative. Not testing.

But deep. Certain. The kind of kiss that says I’m here now, and so are you.

He responded in kind—his mouth moving with aching patience, hands sliding up your spine, thumbs pressing just firmly enough to make you shiver. Your fingers curled in his shirt, pulling him closer. The blanket slipped off your shoulders. The wine forgotten. The screen behind you now only a soft, flickering echo.

You kissed again, and again—deeper each time, your hips pressing closer, the world narrowing to breath and warmth and want.

When you finally pulled back, your lips hovered just above his, your breath brushing his skin. His eyes met yours—dark, burning, endless—and no words passed between you.

None were needed.

You moved first. Your hands slid beneath his shirt, fingers tracing the smooth line of his stomach, the shape of him hidden just beneath his stillness. He didn’t stop you. He didn’t speak. He just watched, motionless, until you pulled the fabric up and over his head.

Then he moved, swiftly, deftly, his hands reaching for the hem of your shirt, fingers slipping beneath the fabric, touching your skin. You shivered, a soft gasp escaping your lips as he trailed his fingers up your spine, slowly, deliberately.

Your breath caught as his hands cupped your breasts through the thin material of your bra, thumbs brushing against your nipples, eliciting a soft moan from deep within you. You arched into his touch, your head falling back as his fingers teased and tortured, his touch sending waves of pleasure coursing through your body.

"Dream," you whispered, your voice hoarse with desire.

Your hands moved to your shirt, pulling it over your head and discarding it. His eyes followed your every movement, like a predator tracking its prey.

You reached behind you, unclasping your bra, and let it fall away. The cool air of the room brushed against your bare skin, and you felt your nipples harden in response. Dream's gaze was intense, his eyes dark with desire.

"You're so beautiful my love," he murmured, his voice a low growl. His hands moved to your hips, his fingers digging into your flesh as he pulled you closer.

You could feel his length, hard and ready, pressing against you through the thin fabric of his jeans. You shifted, aligning your core with him, and let out a soft moan as you felt him against you.

"Lets take this to bed," you whispered, your voice barely above a whisper.

Dream nodded, his eyes dark with desire. He stood, swiftly yet gracefully, and scooped you up into his arms. Your legs wrapped around his waist, and you were enveloped in the scent of him—musk and desire and endless night.

He carried you to the bedroom, his steps sure and steady. He laid you down on the bed, his body covering yours, his weight a comfort against the soft mattress.

The rest of your clothes disappeared as if by magic, his fingers deftly undoing buttons and zippers until you were naked beneath him. You felt a shiver of anticipation run through you as you watched him strip away his own clothes, revealing his lean, muscular body.

He wasted no time, his mouth finding yours, kissing you deeply, hungrily. You responded in kind, your hands gripping his shoulders, nails digging into his flesh. You could feel his heart pounding against your chest, his breath ragged as he explored your mouth.

He broke the kiss, trailing his lips down your neck, his tongue tasting every inch of your skin. "Let me taste you my love," he murmured, his voice a low rumble against your ear. 

Your breath hitched, a soft moan escaping your lips as you felt his hand slip between your legs. His fingers found your clit, rubbing slow, deliberate circles, teasing you until you were squirming beneath him.

"Yes," you gasped, your hips bucking against his hand. "More, Dream. Please."

He chuckled, a dark, sexy sound that sent shivers down your spine. "Patience, my love," he whispered, his voice a soft command. "We have all night." he said, his voice a low rumble. "I intend to savour every inch of you."

His mouth moved lower, kissing and nipping at your collarbone, your breasts, your stomach. Every touch, every kiss, sent shivers of pleasure coursing through your body. Your hands tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, urging him on.

His tongue teased your nipple, swirling around the sensitive bud until you were writhing beneath him. "Dream," you gasped, your hips arching off the bed. "That feels so good."

He looked up at you, his eyes dark with desire and then continued his descent, his mouth trailing kisses down your stomach, his hands gripping your hips to hold you in place. You watched him, your breath coming in short gasps, your body already aching with need.

When he reached the apex of your thighs, he looked up at you, his eyes locking onto yours. You could see the raw desire in them, the intensity that sent a shiver of anticipation through you.

“Open for me, my love,” he murmured, his voice a dark command. “Show me how wet you are for me.”

You hesitated for a moment, a wave of self-consciousness washing over you. But then you looked at him, saw the raw hunger in his eyes, and something inside you melted. You spread your legs wider, revealing yourself to him completely.

Dream let out a low growl, his eyes darkening as he took in the sight of you. “You are perfect,” he whispered, his voice ragged with desire. He reached up, his fingers lightly tracing the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, making you shiver.

“And your scent is intoxicating,” he continued, his voice barely above a whisper.

He settled between your thighs, his hands grasping your hips firmly, holding you in place. His tongue swirled around your clit, slow and deliberate, drawing out a moan from deep within you.

You squirmed beneath him, your hands fisting the sheets as pleasure shot through your body like lightning.

"Oh god, Dream," you gasped, your eyes fluttering closed as you lost yourself in the sensation.

He responded by sucking gently on your clit, his tongue flicking against the sensitive bud. You could feel the heat building in your core, like a slow burn that was spreading outwards. You spread your legs wider, giving him better access, and he took advantage, plunging his tongue deep inside you.

"Yes," you moaned, your hips bucking against his face. "Right there.”

"God, right there," you moaned, your hips moving in time with his tongue, chasing the friction, the pleasure. Dream's hands tightened on your hips, his grip almost bruising as he held you in place, his tongue working you with a skill that was both maddening and divine.

He pulled back, just for a moment, and you whimpered in protest. But then he was back, his tongue lapping at your clit, his stubble scraping against your inner thighs. You gasped, a wave of pleasure crashing over you.

"Please, please, please," you begged, your body trembling with need.

"I need more. I need you inside me," you panted, your body writhing beneath him. He had you so close, so close to the edge, but you wanted him inside you when you came undone.

Dream looked up, his eyes meeting yours, dark with desire and promise. He pulled back, his body glistening with your arousal, his lips swollen from kissing and tasting every inch of you. "Turn over," he commanded, his voice low and hoarse.

You complied immediately, your body aching with need. You turned onto your stomach, your ass in the air, your legs slightly parted.

You felt exposed, vulnerable, but also incredibly turned on. Dream's presence was a heat at your back, his breath hot on your neck.

"Spread your legs wider, my love," he instructed, his voice a low rumble. "I want to see all of you."

You complied, your body trembling with anticipation. You heard the rustle of fabric behind you, and then the first touch of his fingers, tracing the curve of your ass, down the backs of your thighs. You shivered, your breath hitching in your throat.

Dream’s touch was soft, exploring, and you spread your legs wider in response, giving him better access. His fingers trailed up to your core, his touch light and teasing.

"Dream," you gasped, feeling the heat of his hand against your ass. "Please, don't tease me anymore."

Dream finally gave in, his voice a low growl as he lined himself up with your entrance. "As you wish, my love."

You could feel his length, hard and ready, pressing against you. He pushed in slowly, his fingers digging into your hips, his breath hot on your neck. You gasped as he filled you, your body stretching to accommodate him.

"Oh god," you groaned, your hips moving back to meet his thrust. "Yes"

Dream let out a low, desperate sound, his hips moving in time with yours. "You're so tight, my love. So wet," Dream groaned, his voice ragged with desire. He pushed deeper, his hips moving slowly, steadily, filling you completely.

You clenched around him, your body adjusting to his size, to the feel of him inside you. You let out a low, needy sound, your fingers gripping the sheets tighter. "More," you begged, your voice barely above a whisper. "I want more."

Dream let out a low, desperate sound, his hips moving faster, his thrusts deeper. He wrapped one hand around your waist, the other moving up to your hair, fisting in it, pulling your head back slightly.

The position exposed your neck, and he leaned down, his teeth grazing your skin, his lips sucking a bruise into your flesh while you now held on to the headboard of your bed. 

"Dream," you gasped, your body on fire with pleasure. "Please. Harder."

He responded by thrusting into you, deep and hard, his hips slapping against your ass. You could feel every inch of him, filling you completely, stretching you to your limits. The sensation was overwhelming, your body tingling with sensation, your breath coming in short gasps.

"Is this how you want it, my love?" Dream growled, his voice a low rumble in your ear.

"Yes. Yes, that's...oh god," you groaned, your hips moving back to meet his thrust. "Yes, that's it. Please, don't stop."

You felt him pull out slightly before slamming back into you, a low growl escaping his lips as he did. The sound sent a shiver down your spine, and you pushed back against him, matching his rhythm.

Unlike usual, your love making was not gentle, not soft, not a slow exploration of each other's bodies. It was raw, primal, every touch sparking fire, every movement stoking flames.

His fingers tightened in your hair, pulling your head back further, his hips slamming into you like a storm. He was relentless, his body moving with a ferocity that was both terrifying and exhilarating.

“Dream, god, please,” you begged, your breath coming in short gasps. “Please, I need -”

He cut you off with a growl, his hips not slowing for a second.

“I know what you need, my love.”

His free hand moved from your waist to your clit, his fingers circling the sensitive nub with practiced ease. The dual sensation was overwhelming—the relentless thrusts of his length and the insistent rubbing of his fingers, sending shockwaves of pleasure throughout your body.

You cried out, your fingers scrabbling desperately for purchase on the sheets as your body tensed, before reaching for the headboard again, edging closer and closer to the precipice.

“That’s it, my love,” Dream murmured into your ear, his voice hoarse. “Let go for me. Let go of everything. Just feel me,” Dream growled, his voice a dark, raw sound that echoed through your body and, just like that, you gave in. 

"Oh my god yes!" you gasped as your orgasm washed over you, your body convulsing with pleasure as Dream's fingers rubbed tight circles around your clit while his length slammed into you from behind. The dual sensation of his firm thrusts and the insistent pressure of his fingers sent you spiralling over the edge, your vision blurring, your fingers clawing at the headboard, your body shaking with the force of your release.

Dream groaned low in his throat, his body tensing as he felt you come apart around him and the feeling of it sent him over the edge as well. He gripped your hips hard, his fingers digging into your flesh as he emptied himself into you, his body shuddering with the force of his own release.

He pressed his forehead to your back, his breath coming in ragged gasps, his body still joined with yours. Slowly, the feeling of euphoria began to subside, leaving you both panting and sweaty and gloriously satisfied.

His body remained joined with yours, his chest rising and falling against your back, breath gradually slowing as the last tremors of release faded. His lips brushed your shoulder once more, a gentle seal on everything that had passed between you.

The silence stretched comfortably, the air thick with shared heat and satisfaction.

Still, after a long moment, you turned your head just slightly, voice quiet, almost shy.

“…This was different.”

He stilled—just a fraction. Then: “Was I too forceful?”

His voice wasn’t panicked. It was calm. Measured. But beneath it, you felt the weight of his restraint—the tightly wound coil of concern.

You reached back, finding his hand and lacing your fingers with his.

“Oh god, no,” you breathed. “I wanted it that way.”

He didn’t move, but you could feel the tension ease from his body, like a held breath being exhaled into the space between you.

“It was amazing,” you continued, letting your thumb trace slow circles across the back of his hand. “Every second of it.”

He pressed a kiss to the side of your neck, softer this time. Slower. You felt him smile against your skin.

“I like both,” you said. “Some days slow. Gentle. Other days…” Your voice dropped slightly. “Like this. Intense. Consuming.”

“I see,” Dream murmured, his tone quiet and darkly pleased. “Then I will remember.”

He shifted slightly, pulling you more securely against him, his hand splaying across your stomach. Still joined, still close, as if neither of you could quite bear to let go just yet.

The quiet that followed was different now—full, sated, golden.

And utterly yours.

@crispyduckpirate @stranger-chan @hiraethmae

@friendstolobsters @queenofstresss @iamempty13

@marsmallow433 @eveiiiscorner @villain-in-the-dark @boywivlove @anatheladybug

@new-author3 @drunkennunicornn

@sandmanmasterlistblog @phythius @miarabanana @ladyofhisrelam @gemtales

[thatonegirlonhere]

Descendants: Stray Kingdoms Pt 2.

OT8 Stray Kids x F!Reader

You guys asked, I answered. Here’s part 2 to my Stray Kids Descendants AU. I’ve began writing more chapters already so that they can continue to be released without you having to wait a long time in between. Still havnt decided who the main love interest will end up being just yet but time will tell and I’ll figure it out the more I write.

Please enjoy this slow burn with eventual Panty soaking, thigh clenching smut. And as per usual: Eat a snack, drink some water, put a towel down, and get ready to read ;)

Content warning: none yet, just angst.

word count: ~2000

Master list

Lmk if you want to be added to my tag list ☺️

<<previous chapter || next chapter>>

MDNI 18+⚠️⚠️

The Dance of Masks.

A royal ball. Because of course that’s what the school thought was a good idea.

“Integration Gala,” they called it. A welcome dance for the Isle kids. But it felt more like a test. Who would play nice? Who would snap? Who would kiss the wrong person and light the whole kingdom on fire?

You adjusted your outfit in the mirror — regal, elegant, flattering but formal. You didn’t know why you were nervous. Except you did.

Because you didn’t know who you were hoping to see.

⸻

The ballroom was dazzling. Floating candles above your head. Magical music shimmering in the air. Dresses spun in every color, crowns glittered under chandeliers.

And then the isle kids arrived.

Bang Chan stepped into the ballroom like he owned it. A tailored black suit with silver trim hugged him perfectly, open at the collar, hair swept back. He looked like a prince — if the prince was planning a coup.

Minho wore deep wine-red silk, sleek and sharp. He didn’t smile once, but he turned heads just by breathing.

Hyunjin — god, Hyunjin — was in all-black velvet with emerald accents. His hair fell over one eye, his lips glossed and smirking. He looked like a fallen angel.

Felix wore storm-gray and ocean blue, sea glass rings on his fingers. His freckles glowed faintly under the spelllight. Deadly and ethereal.

Jisung, Changbin, Seungmin, and Jeongin looked equally incredible — mischievous, chaotic, too confident. They made the perfect contrast to the polished golden heirs around them.

And then Chan saw you.

He didn’t look surprised.

Just pleased.

He walked right up, holding out his hand. “Dance with me.”

You hesitated.

“Scared you’ll like it?” he teased.

You rolled your eyes — and took his hand.

⸻

Chan’s hand settled low on your waist as he pulled you into the waltz. He moved like he’d done this before — confident, smooth, a little dangerous.

“Who taught you to dance?” you asked, breathlessly.

“My mom once cursed a ballroom,” he said casually. “I watched. Picked it up.”

You bit back a laugh. “So romantic.”

“I can be.”

His gaze dropped to your lips.

“I—” you started.

“Mind if I cut in?” a deep voice asked.

You turned.

Hyunjin.

He didn’t even wait. Just took your other hand and spun you into his arms. Your breath caught.

Hyunjin danced slower, closer. He didn’t smile.

“You looked… overwhelmed.”

“I’m fine.”

He twirled you once, then pulled you back against his chest.

“You’re not like the others,” he murmured.

“Because I’m from Auradon?”

“No,” he said. “Because you’re watching us. Not judging. Not chasing. Just… watching. Like you’re trying to figure out if we’re real.”

You met his eyes.

“And?”

He stepped back, still holding your hand.

“I think you want to believe we are.”

⸻

You had escaped to the balcony. The air inside was too hot. Your heart was beating way too fast.

You leaned on the railing, letting the night wind cool your skin.

Then you heard footsteps.

You didn’t have to turn to know it was Felix.

“You always run off after the second dance?” he asked, voice low and smooth.

“I needed air.”

He stood beside you silently for a moment. Then: “They all want something from you.”

You turned, surprised. “What?”

“Chan wants your attention. Hyunjin wants your soul. Jisung wants your curiosity. Minho wants to win. The others want to survive.”

“And you?”

He looked at you carefully.

“I want to know why you’re different.”

You swallowed.

“I’m not.”

“You are,” he said, stepping closer. “You’re scared. But you didn’t flinch when you danced with us. You didn’t look away when I spoke.”

You tried to look anywhere but his eyes.

And that’s when he reached out — so slow — and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers brushed your jaw.

“You’re not like them,” he whispered.

“And maybe… neither are we.”

⸻

Inside, chaos erupted.

A scream.

The spell-glass shatters.

Gasps. Running. Magic sparks across the air — a flash of red. A flash of green.

Someone set off a cursed relic in the ballroom. Panic spreads. The lights go out.

You turn to run—

Only to be grabbed by the waist and yanked backward just before a chandelier crashes where you’d stood.

Your body hits someone’s chest.

Bang Chan’s voice in your ear: “I’ve got you.”

⸻

You barely remembered how you got back to your dorm.

The ballroom had become a warzone of shattered glass, panicked students, and flying enchantments. Someone had unleashed a cursed relic in the center of the dance floor — and they weren’t just trying to cause chaos.

They were trying to hurt people.

You touched your ribs where Bang Chan had grabbed you, pulling you away just before that chandelier fell. You hadn’t even thanked him.

Your heart wouldn’t stop racing.

And you couldn’t sleep.

⸻

All eight of the Isle boys had been called into the head mistresses office for questioning the next morning.

You sat outside on the bench, jaw clenched, waiting. Not because anyone told you to. But because something in your chest needed to know what would happen to them.

Inside the office, voices rose.

“…you have no proof it was one of us!”

“Bang Chan, calm yourself—”

“Oh, I’m sorry, should we just stand here and let you blame us because we weren’t born on this side of the bridge?!”

Another voice — Felix — cool and deadly:

“If we wanted to hurt anyone, you’d know. Trust me.”

You swallowed hard.

When the door finally opened, the boys filed out one by one — cold stares, clenched jaws, tension in every step.

But Chan stopped when he saw you.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said quietly.

“I wanted to know if you were okay.”

He blinked, just for a second. That cocky smirk was gone. Something tired and real slipped through.

“I pulled you out of the way. That’s all,” he said. “You don’t owe me anything.”

“Maybe I want to,” you replied.

Silence.

And then Seungmin grabbed Chan’s shoulder and pulled him down the hall.

⸻

You expected the boys to lie low.

They didn’t.

Instead, they showed up to combat class like usual.

Changbin destroyed three dummies in a row during combat drills. The instructor didn’t even stop him.

Jeongin sparred like he was aiming to draw blood. Seungmin growled under his breath when another student said something about “monsters.”

Jisung tried to act normal, cracking jokes, but you could see the edge in his laugh.

And Felix? He didn’t speak at all.

You caught Hyunjin watching you across the field. His gaze sharp and unreadable. Like he wanted to say something. Like he didn’t know how.

⸻

That night, you were sitting on your windowsill, hugging your knees, when the knock came.

Three soft raps.

You opened the door.

It was Chan.

He looked different. Hoodie instead of his usual black-on-black glam. No jewelry. Just… him.

“Hey,” he said, voice low.

“Are you supposed to be out?”

“Probably not.”

You hesitated. Then stepped back to let him in.

He walked slowly, glancing around like he’d never seen a room like yours before. Maybe he hadn’t.

Chan stood by your desk, turning your crystal pendant between his fingers.

“You looked scared last night.”

“I was.”

“I was too.”

You looked up at him.

“I didn’t think you’d admit that.”

He smiled faintly. “Most people don’t expect us to feel anything but anger. Fear doesn’t fit the narrative.”

Silence stretched between you.

And then—

“I wanted to say thank you,” you said.

“For what?”

“For saving my life.”

He turned to you, eyes warm. “I told you. You don’t owe me.”

“I didn’t say I did.”

He laughed softly.

“Why are you really here, Chan?”

His smile faded.

“I need to know,” he said, stepping closer. “What side are you on?”

You blinked. “What?”

“If they try to send us back. If things get worse. If we’re blamed again. I need to know if you’re going to be one of the voices calling for it.”

You stared at him.

And whispered: “I won’t let them send you back.”

Something in his shoulders relaxed. Like he hadn’t taken a breath since the attack.

“Good,” he said, stepping even closer.

Now you were chest to chest. Almost touching.

“You terrify me,” you whispered.

Chan’s gaze dropped to your lips.

“You should be terrified of a lot of things,” he murmured. “But not me.”

Your breath caught.

And just when you thought he’d kiss you—

He didn’t.

He leaned in close, his lips brushing your ear, and whispered:

“Good night, princess.”

Then he slipped out the window and was gone.

⸻

You couldn’t sleep.

Again.

Your body still remembered Chan’s warmth, the way he leaned in and whispered princess like it meant something. But more than that — it was the pressure. The tension hanging over campus like a storm cloud, waiting to break.

Someone had cursed the Gala. And everyone still thought it was one of the Isle kids.

You weren’t so sure.

But that didn’t stop the way people whispered when Hyunjin walked past. Or the way they flinched when Felix so much as blinked.

You got up, wrapped yourself in a shawl, and crept into the garden courtyard — barefoot, quiet, like maybe the silence would keep you safe.

It didn’t.

⸻

He was already there.

Hyunjin.

Sitting on the edge of the fountain in an all-black hoodie, head bowed, one hand trailing in the water.

“I should’ve known,” he murmured, without looking at you. “You sneak out more than we do.”

“I didn’t know you were here.”

“Would you have come if you did?”

Silence.

You stepped closer. “Maybe.”

Hyunjin finally lifted his head. And his eyes…

They weren’t cold.

They were shattered.

“I didn’t do it,” he said softly.

“I know.”

“No. You don’t.” He stood, slowly. “You think you do, but there’s always a part of you that’s wondering. Waiting. Bracing for the moment one of us snaps.”

You walked closer, stopping just a few feet away.

“I don’t know who did it, Hyunjin. But it doesn’t feel like it came from you.”

He looked at you like he didn’t believe it.

“Why not?”

You hesitated.

“Because you’ve had every chance to hurt me. And all you’ve ever done is… watch me. Like you’re waiting for me to flinch. Or run.”

His gaze dropped to your lips, then back up again. His jaw tightened.

“You’re not afraid of me.”

“No,” you said quietly. “But I think you’re afraid of something.”

He didn’t answer.

So you added, gently, “What is it?”

Hyunjin exhaled.

And then did something you never expected.

He reached into his jacket and pulled out a small charm — silver, tarnished, shaped like a teardrop. Inside it pulsed a faint green glow.

“What is that?” you whispered.

“My curse,” he said flatly.

Your blood chilled.

Hyunjin stepped closer, so close you could feel the cold coming off the charm in his palm.

“Maleficent put a spell on me when I was born. Said if I ever let someone get too close, I’d lose control. Of my power. Of my heart. Everything.”

You stared at him.

“That’s why you don’t touch anyone,” you realized.

He nodded.

“You’ve never kissed anyone.”

His eyes flicked to yours — and for the first time, you saw it:

Fear.

“No,” he whispered. “And I’m not supposed to.”

You should’ve stepped back.

But you didn’t.

You moved closer.

“Then why are you telling me this?”

Hyunjin looked at you like it hurt to answer.

“Because every time you look at me, I feel the curse stretch thinner.”

Then, so gently it made your breath catch — he reached up and touched your cheek with the back of his knuckles.

And the charm in his hand cracked.

You both gasped.

Hyunjin yanked his hand back, breath shaking. The charm pulsed red, a spiderweb of cracks glowing across its surface.

“I can’t,” he breathed. “If it breaks, I— I don’t know what I’ll become.”

“Then let’s not break it tonight,” you whispered. “Just stay. Just for now.”

He let out a trembling breath.

And nodded.

You sat together under the stars, barely touching. His hand resting near yours. Not quite brave enough to lace your fingers.

But the burn was worse than any kiss.

TYSM for reading!!

Feel free to check out my master list for more of my works!

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[f4ggydog]

shauna x reader: swallow your tears tonight🔞

warnings: nsfw, mentions of noncon, rape aftermath, but Shauna’s the one who raped you, twisted aftercare, extremely dark shauna, toxic relationship

had this little drabble in my head (MIND THE TAGS)

“Did you cum?” Shauna asks with a voice so soft that you’d assume she’s talking to a baby. It’s condescending, and it’s supposed to sting, like pouring soap into a wound.

You nod your head silently.

Shauna’s pleased. The leer on her face says it all.

“Let me see,” Shauna coos.

You instinctively close your legs tighter. This angers the beast, who believes she’s entitled to your body. Shauna stiffens her posture and clenches her fists.

“Didn’t you hear my first command?” Shauna inquires, her voice more brusque. “I wanna have a look.”

“O-Okay,” you whimper a reply. “Just give me a s-second. I’m still overwhelmed.”

“Stalling on me,” Shauna mutters.

She can’t understand what she’s done wrong. In her eyes, she’s done you an absolute favor. Cumming is a sign that you enjoyed it. Cumming means you wanted more. Your orgasm is power to Shauna.

You have to play your cards well. Continue to bluff Shauna and you’ll end up with another four orgasms until your body parts are sore. It’s a shame you’re not much of a gambling enthusiast. Maybe then you’d possess a better poker face.

There aren’t other options in plain view. You spread those legs nice and wide so Shauna can see the evidence of your debauchery. You’re dirty and used up. Your genitalia is aching, redder than a fresh rose from a flower shop.

“Much better,” Shauna praises firmly. “You were lucky enough to get an orgasm from me. A little appreciation would be nice.”

“Sorry,” you mumble. You barely know what you’re apologizing for.

Shauna traces her hand along your inner thighs. She scoops up some sticky residue with her fingers and tastes your release. Shauna hums at the flavor, the price of sweet submission.

You look away, too embarrassed to look your sweetheart in the eyes. She is still your sweetheart, isn’t she? Despite all the nos and all the hesitancy and her insistence that your own body no longer belongs to you, you picked Shauna for a reason.

It’s hard not to love her. It’s hard to peel off the rose-colored glasses. It’s hard to assess Shauna’s flaws fairly. It’s not that you’re too harsh on her. Actually, many circumstances arise where you aren’t harsh enough.

You acknowledge that your treatment isn’t typically adequate. She often treats you like property instead of your own person with values and sets of interests. Yet, leaving Shauna doesn’t feel tempting.

Perhaps you’re afraid she’ll hunt you down and make you pay for your ‘betrayal.’ Perhaps you fret that nobody will listen when you share your story. Maybe the answer isn’t that complex. Maybe you just don’t have the guts to leave. Maybe you are still attached to the image of Shauna she showed you when you both first met.

“You liked this,” Shauna chuckles, analyzing your timid movements. The way your limbs twitch, the way your eyes purposefully avoid her gaze, the way your bottom lip trembles. It’s all amusing to Shauna. Another soul claimed by the devil.

Authority is better than love. Control and dominance are more rewarding than being an affectionate partner. You look extra appealing when you’re sat on your knees with a knife to your neck, rather than riding Shauna freely without restraints.

Shauna presses the bruise on your elbow. She smirks at your wince. She can’t stop receiving minor victories.

“You don’t have to be in denial,” Shauna says. “It’s okay to enjoy this. It’s okay to listen to your body. Your brain’s not caught up. But your body knows what it likes.”

You are unable to handle your body’s reactions. Still, Shauna’s words act as hypnosis. Victims don’t moan. Not according to your girlfriend that knows best. Damsels in distress only cry for help. They don’t eventually succumb to their attacker’s fondling. If you hated it so bad, why were your noises of ecstasy so loud?

“Come here.” Shauna invites you to cuddle. “Don’t be ashamed. It’s natural to cum, especially for someone like you.”

Did she indirectly call you a whore?

“It’s not a trap,” Shauna reassures you, smiling. “Come. We did well today. You’re just blinded by your own worries. I’ll train those out of you soon.”

You crawl over to your mistress and lean on her side. You nibble the skin on your thumb. Your teeth avoid the fingernail. You bite your flesh, determined to draw blood.

“Easy does it.” Shauna pats your back. “You had fun. You had a good time. Don’t overthink it. You’re alright.”

You sniffle.

“Are you dead?” Shauna asks.

You shake your head. Simple answer.

“Are you severely injured?” Shauna questions again.

Again, the answer is no. You start tricking yourself into believing your anxiety is an overreaction, just brainwashed messages from the outside world consuming you. You don’t need to trust anyone but Shauna. She’s your partner. She has the wisdom, the intelligent words.

“Just a bruise,” Shauna notes, pointing at your elbow. “You’re brave though, right? If you’re not weak, you can take a little bruise.”

Shauna scratches your chin.

“And I need you to be stronger than a little mouse scurrying around. You need to have some agency. Your fake boundaries set you back. Your whole fit you throw when I want to touch you sets you back. It’s sad, frankly.”

“I-I’ll do better,” you promise with a stutter.

“Course you will,” Shauna replies. “That’s my good toy. You’ll take everything I give you with open arms. All of it.”

“Y-Yes, Shauna. Yeah…”

“Yeah.” Shauna smacks your outer thigh. “Lay with me. Don’t be a prude. Remember who understands your body best and who’s the one that gives your body what it demands. You’ve been neglecting your body for too long. That’s why I have to own it, not you.”

You don’t feel secure, but you relax into Shauna’s touch regardless. Your situation isn’t stable. However, Shauna’s touch feels like home. You’ll wake up with a knife sticking out of your side. And you’ll forget who shoved it there.

“You’re fine. You’re not hurt. You’re capable.”

Shauna rubs the back of your neck.

“You have to adjust in the beginning, but you get better every time I fuck you. You don’t have a decent mark on you. No life-threatening injuries, no extreme pain. You’re fine. Don’t overexaggerate.”

Shauna reprimands you for flinching by hitting your ass.

“No flinching. My touch isn’t a bad one. Everyone else has an untrustworthy touch. Mine is necessary. Mine is pure.”

Shauna grabs onto your hip.

“You’ll learn. You’ll learn that my touch is superior. It’ll be long days and long nights, but I’ll knock it into that thick head of yours.”

You whine from the cruel comment.

“Go to sleep, Y/N. I’ll have you nice and refreshed in the morning.”

[kunimeowmeow]

Quarrels and Quiet Confessions

pairing: scaramouche x gn!reader tags: fluff, 6nemo mention, scaramouche is bad at feelings, so are you, pining if you squint your eyes, a bit of explicit language a/n: this was stuck in my notes app for a year now lmao. This actually took me longer than expected since the power went out. Anyways, I was trying to find a writing style so I'm really sorry if it's messy and bad. Writing pov's are so hard 😔. I'd love to know your thoughts about this honestly.

A cross-country road trip from Mondstadt to Liyue wasn't on your bucket list this summer.

Yet here you are with your group of besties, squashed together in a run-down minivan that Venti had somehow found a way to rent without raising suspicion. The scent of cheap booze clung to the leather seats, and the backseat windows were smashed. The rickety radio screeched a familiar melody. Heizou lights up instantly and claims it's his jam.

Two minutes in, and he's singing off-key to "Party in the USA." You cackle, Scara snorts, and Venti makes a comment about how he sounds like a dying cat. Aether hunches against the window, his shoulders shaking as he desperately tries to hold his laughter in. Xiao scoffs. Kazuha grins too. He playfully nudges Venti’s shoulder, insisting they just appreciate the wonderful voice Heizou blessed them with. Yet he chortled like a drunk donkey.

It was chaotic. It was madness. But it feels like home.

Hour 1

You love your friends. No cap, fingers crossed. It was the absolute truth. You wouldn’t trade them for anything, even if the world were ending and they were the key to survival. But Scaramouche? That’s a different story.

You’d trade him for a corn kernel without hesitation. And wear that like a badge of honor.

It’s a miracle how you two even became friends. Well, “friends” is a strong word. More like “arch enemies with the same friend group so they’re forced to coexist with each other”. You’re 100% sure your other friends have noticed the tension whenever you two were within 100 feet of each other. But they’d argue that you two would make a cute couple. And they’re pretty persistent with that agenda.

Because in this 3-hour drive to Liyue, Venti had the bright idea to have you and Scara crammed in the backseat, with the multiple luggage you guys brought as company. You curse to yourself. Reminder 1: Venti never has good ideas. Reminder 2: strangle Venti once you get your hands on him.

A light kick landed on your left thigh. You scowled at Scara. He just shrugged.

“Oops, thought it was Aether’s duffel bag,” he says, squinting like the little shit he is.

You raised your brow, “Bullshit. You can see Aether’s bag on the right!”

He glances at the bag you pointed at and sneers. You feel the urge to punch his pretty face. But you’d rather not have a fist fight in a cramped space that two people can barely fit in. So you opted to kick him back.

"I swear, if you don't move your legs, I'll crush them with my foot.”

Scara yelps before throwing a similar scowl in your direction. He rolls his eyes, "Can you, though? You’re weak as fuck. Who’s the one who could barely open the pickle jar last week?"

“That’s because the pickle jar was sealed tight!”

“Pft, excuses,” he says, flicking his wrist like you just bored him to death. “That’s all you're ever good at, aren’t you? Making excuses to hide behind because you kno no one’s backing you up.”

Okay, you’re not beyond throwing punches right now. You grab his wrist without thinking, your nails biting just enough to make him flinch.

"Watch me, you cocky brat. You’re all bark and no bite. Like a little puppy. Besides, aren’t you the one who hides behind a facade because you’re too scared to face your problems?"

Scara’s eyes widen for a split second. A flash of anger flicks through them."Oh fuck you, you motherf—"

"Will you two shut up and stop whining? I’m trying to get some sleep over here." Xiao’s voice was sharp, slicing the fragile veil of arguments exchanged.

You shut up. And so did Scara. He holds up a middle finger in your direction. And you respond with the same gesture. Asshole. You sigh. A little guilt nips at your chest for bringing up his problems. But he brought yours up first. It’s fair game. You glance at him. He glances back.

Yet not a single word was spoken.

It was the same every time you were with Scara. Childish insults. Foul language. Like you two are bound to be a broken record, hurling the same aimless words over and over again. Without having the courage to say what you want to say. It was exhausting. For the other five passengers in the car. And maybe for you too.

You leaned over the second row seat, your head poking between Xiao and Aether. Might as well distract yourself. Heizou looks at you, grinning. “You look like you want to murder Venti,” he comments. You brush him off. Oh, you definitely will. Just not now.

"Remind me again why I'm seated beside him?" You ask Venti, gesturing to Scara as he crossed his arms. He mumbles to himself. Something along the lines of “As if I want to sit next to you too”. Reminder 3: Find an abandoned building you can bury Scara in.

Venti, the bastard drunkard, giggles and replies, "Because you two need to get along, you're always fighting whenever you're together. Besides, it's not that bad to be seated next to him once in a while, no?" You snort. Cheeky brat.

"You two should just start dating already. I mean, you two fight like an old couple," Heizou chimes in with a smirk. Scara glared at him. You did too. You’re definitely adding him to the list of people you’d throw over the Inazuman river. Heizou had the audacity to laugh.

"See? Synchronized actions too."

"I actually think you'd look cute together," Aether says, as he adjusts his sitting position.

"Classic enemies-to-lovers trope," Kazuha chuckles. He eyes both of you through the rear-view mirror. "I think you'd love that Y/n. You're always gushing about how you want a little spice to your love story."

Scara snorts, "Seriously? I didn’t know you were this pathetic."

You snap your head in his direction. "At least I don’t lash out when five-year-olds beat me in Dress to Impress."

Scara glares at you, yet his lips curl upwards. "At least I’m not obsessed with a shit game like Grow a Garden."

"At least I—"

Xiao groans as he covers his ears.

It was nothing out of the ordinary. But you caught his glance in between insults. There was something off with the way he was looking at you. You shiver. You’re familiar with this feeling. It was one you wanted to run away from. Like a coward.

You two gawk and squawk like a broken record, playing the same screeching tune. Did he hate it too? The wailing noise that won’t shut up? Is he also looking for a way to escape this maddening cycle?

Hour 2

"Move over and stop bitching—"

"I swear, if you two are still arguing after a fucking hour, I’d throw myself out of this car”, Xiao cuts them off. His sleep was disturbed for the 3rd time now. “I'd rather hear you two making out than hear you argue about space in the backseat again,"

You roll your eyes. Scara galres at Xiao.

"You know it's serious when even Xiao is shipping you both," Venti laughs. Xiao rubs his brow, as if warding off a headache. "It's so painfully obvious that they like each other. It doesn't take more than 2 brain cells to figure it out."

"Are you calling me dumb?" Scara questions with a raised brow.

"Yes you are. You're an idiot. And so is Y/n"

You tilt your head, bemused. "What—"

"Am I wrong?" Xiao snaps.

You stare at him, jaw wide open. Did he really just ask that? "Of course you are! Scara doesn't like me!"

Xio deadpans with an “Are you being serious right now?” look. "He is literally always by your side."

"Yeah sure. To get under my skin and annoy me."

Heizou smirks. “Defensive, aren’t we?”

Aether jumps in with a wide grin, "At this point, we're just waiting for a confession."

You take it all back. Maybe you don’t love your friends that much. Inhale. Exhale. You reach for the bottled water lying on the ground. The one Venti handed out earlier. You need to calm down for a moment.

"C'mon, stop teasing Y/n. That's Scara's job. You know how he hates it when other people tease what's his" Kazuha smirks.

Scara growls and snaps at Kazuha. "Shut up and focus on the road. You're going to get us killed."

You almost spat the water you had in your mouth. Keyword: almost. Although it wouldn’t be that bad, honestly. These people deserve it. Especially the wannabe detective in front of you. You swallow the water before voicing a protest too.

"I don't belong to him—"

But Heizou cackles and shuts you up.

"Yet".

Venti hollers, holding his stomach. Heizou titters. Kazuha and Aether are giggling. Xiao was laughing too. You groan. Whatever. You’ll let them have their fun.

You returned to the backseat, leaning against the car door. Scara sat beside you. You scrunch your nose in disgust,

“Quit that, I don’t have a choice”, he sighs.

You don’t say anything. Neither does he. You bask in the quiet you didn’t even know was possible. It was fun when you two bantered, but somehow it hurt when you two were silent. You’re profoundly aware of Scara’s proximity to you. Your clothes were touching, and you could hear him breathe in and out. That familiar feeling gnawed in your chest. How you wished you could touch his skin too.

You shot up. What kind of thoughts are those? You wave a hand, as if it would cause them to vanish nd retreat to the depths of your mind. You watched Scara. For once, he was silent. No snarky comments. No nothing.

“Sorry,” you quietly mumble. It wasn’t your intention to speak, but you wanted to say something. Anything. The silence was killing you. Or maybe you missed his voice already.

He looked at you, perplexed. As if he’s seen aliens or something.“You’re apologizing? For what?”

“For bringing up those kinds of shit earlier. Didn’t mean to touch on your problems,” you quietly mumble.

Scara blinks. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. You? Apologizing? Did they crash or something? Is he dead? What kind of reality is this??

He’s quiet. One minute passed. Then two. Then three. He snapped out of his trance and found his voice.

“It’s fine. Don’t bother. We make that kind of comment almost every time. I don’t see why you have to apologize now. Besides, I brought it up first, didn’t I?” he scoffs, masking his bewilderment under layers of sarcasm.

You let out a quiet chuckle, “Yeah, I guess. I don’t know why I even apologized.”

It was still once more. No squabbles. No fights. Maybe the silence was growing on you. You caught the way Scara’s lips curved into a small smile.

Maybe you both wanted the melody to fade, you just didn’t know how.

Hour 3

The car was tranquil. For the first time in the past 2 hours, not a single peep was audible from the two confined in the backseat. Venti snored from the shotgun. Heizou and Xiao were on their Nintendo Switch, grinding Animal Crossing and trading items with each other. Aether was probably asleep. Kazuha was diligently keeping us from crashing.

It was like a miracle from the Archons themselves. Maybe they got tired of all the disputes too. You can almost hear Xiao mutter, “Thank Lord Barbatos the annoying shits behind me shut up”.

You didn’t bother responding, slotting one of your AirPods in your ear. You stare at your fingers as you idly fiddle with the other pair. Kazuha had gifted these to you on your previous birthday. Said it was from someone else. You wouldn’t have accepted such suspicious gifts if not for the custom work that caught your attention.

There was a curious cat meme painted on the case. It looks like it was done by hand too. A smile tugged at your lips at the fond memory. You don’t know if you believe Kazuha or if it’s all bullshit, but oh well. Maybe you’ll try nagging Kazuha next time to figure out this “mystery” person.

You pop the other one in before closing your eyes. It was black. It was soothing. The beat drummed against your ear. You hummed along.

But the music stopped on your right. Your eyes fling open. Scara grins, holding up the other piece.

"Wha— Hey!" You reach out, trying (and failing) to get it back.

"C'mon, let me listen in. I’m bored," he mocks, sticking out his tongue like a loser kid. You groan. You know he won’t stop pestering you until he has what he wants.

"Fine, but don't complain to me later when it's not your type of music. And no, you can’t call it shitty either. You subjected yourself to this."

He chuckles, "I won't". Then a little smirk appears on his face, " Probably".

You roll your eyes, not having the energy to retort. Your head leaned against the window. You close your eyes again.

"Arctic Monkeys, huh? Didn't take you to be a fan," Scara teases. You scowled at him. "Shut up. Can you keep quiet? I’m trying to keep in touch with my inner peace here."

And Scara does. He holds his tongue, letting the music play through. A familiar outro plays, and he pauses. It’s one he knows by heart. One that he has on loop in his own Spotify playlist.

I Wanna Be Yours.

He peers at your hunched form. Were you asleep? His breath caught in his throat when your eyes locked with his. There was silence that followed. But there was something different about it this time. Something he can’t quite name yet, but it’s there. Lingering in the air, rendering them senseless.

Scara’s hand brushes yours. Neither of you pulls away. His touch becomes more confident. He holds your hand, fingers slipping to interlock with yours. You looked away. Stayed silent. But you squeezed back. Scara clears his throat, a shade of red painting his face and neck.

A few minutes pass and his eyes dart back to you. But somehow, you’re already asleep. Long, even breaths and mumbling incoherent things. Admittedly… It was cute.

The car hits a bump. And so does your head. It hits the window, fortunately not that strongly. Scara wonders how that didn’t wake you up. He looks in front. Good. The others were minding their own business. His other hand hesitated, his grip on your hand tightening slightly.

He reached for you, gently bringing your head to rest against his shoulder. He just doesn’t want you to have brain damage. Yeah. That’s all. That’s definitely the reason why he’s doing this. No ulterior motives whatsoever.

He glances at your sleeping face. Is that drool on the side of your lips? He snickers. He’ll have to tease you about it later. For now though… He looks around once more. With no possible witness, he rests his head against yours. A small smile tugged at his lips.

The screeching, the wailing… It vanished. Instead what they heard was a soft melody, carrying the whispers and wishes made in the dark. Finally, the song of you and him has started.

credits to @cafekitsune for the banner!

[elisedonut]

halfway tempted to re tag a few older fics as romantic that were not before

[son-of-avraham]

As I've gotten deeper in conversion, I have increasingly imagined jewish life throughout time. And what I mean by that is...

So when I looked at the Western Wall before this (maybe a few years ago), I just saw a wall. It held no deeper meaning than that. I imagined nothing when I saw that.

But now when I look at the wall or even when I'm praying idly, I'm imagining myself in the temple when it stood there. It's bright outside - a summer day so bright, I think the temple will blind me. A soft wind surrounds me. I'm stood in the middle of a huge crowd of people, simply observing. Women pass by me in small crowds, laughing and talking. Some of these women are wrangling their small children who keep running away, laughing like it's a game. And men walk by smelling of spices. The air is light, the city around bustling with people living fulfilling, meaningful jewish life. The wall now symbolizes that jewish life, and even though it's not just about the temple when I imagine it, it means something to me.

I think that's the result of seeing myself in judaism, turning the "you" into a "we," and I feel about this what I must imagine a married couple feels.

[tuesdayscanons]

Just...a thread where Dev can hear Dale's thoughts asdfghjkl

[free-luigi-mangione]

Yeah, I’m also haunted by carefree Hawaii hottie. Everything we’ve seen of him before December has been overwhelmingly wholesome. Just something about him. He radiates light in a way I’ve never really seen before. I know he’s human and I’m sure he has flaws, but something about that bright big smile breaks my heart now. My stomach twists when people talk about him like he’s already dead.

It’s like that famous painting, a lamb being bitten into by a pack of wolves. He’s surrounded by darkness now. Everything bleak and hopeless. It haunts me that he spent his formative years buckling under the immense pressure from his family and legacy. He managed to break away for a while and now he’s stuck in a pressure cooker situation so intense that I actually worry he might hurt himself. It feels like an injustice of Biblical proportions. Something about him harks back to mythology for me. He’s otherworldly, ethereal.

And I’m rooting for him so hard, regardless of how blunt I sound when I discuss his case (I’m the anon who sent in most of your recent asks discussing the case)

Is it okay if I use an emoji to identify my asks? I’ve enjoyed conversing with you, though I guess we have a bit of an age gap. Gonna sign off with 💚 when I ask you something.

i don't want this to sound like he's a can never do any wrong godsend or anything like that, but he is genuinely so very angelic. i absolutely hate it when people talk about him like he's a part of the past and is now in a true crime documentary and like he's not a living breathing human facing a terrible situation rn

and thank you for supporting him!! we need older people like you around here too, college aged kids aren't always enough for things like this, somebody needs to knock some sense into us sometimes :)

[nooby1332c]

THIS!!! Exactly this!!!!

Mira and Zoey's first thoughts when they see Rumi's patterns were pure horror and self-loathing. Because there's only two ways they know of that Rumi could have them. Either Rumi made a deal with Gwi-Ma before even attempting to open up about her needs to them, or she's a demon imposter who's infiltrated their group for who knows how long. If the first, Rumi has betrayed them in the worst possible way, and how had they failed so much as friends to let her get to that point? If the second, how had they not noticed? How long had the human Rumi been gone? Was she dead? Had she been gone since before they ever met her and their entire friendship a ruse? Had she been taken from them just weeks ago and they'd been so caught up in their own woes they had even noticed?

Celine had been clear; there were only two ways a demon was created. Birth, or choice. They were never victims. You don't just grow patterns one day. It doesn't happen by accident.

Yet the demon wearing Rumi's face came to them pleading. Came to them in the midst of a panic attack, acting for all the world as if she should still be considered friend by the two of them. She was crying. As if she were the victim here.

The way Rumi was talking about fixing things, the way she had never acted like Not-Rumi like, the secrets she'd obviously hiding for a while: it became clear which way Rumi had gained the patterns. She'd betrayed them for a deal with Gwi-Ma. Why? What had she possibly needed that they couldn't have helped her with? She really turned to their sworn enemy first? Before even telling them she was hurting?

Then she shouted and it was demonic and the honmoon rippled. So much work and effort instantly ruined as the honmoon weakened.

She had made her choice. She chose to betray them. Now they had to make theirs, and they had to choose humanity.

She left them first. She chose to become their enemy. Even if they were assuming wrong, and she was actually a demon imposter, she'd chosen to manipulate their emotions and lied over and over and wasn't their friend.

As much as Mira and Zoey wished otherwise, wished it was all a mistake, they didn't know of any possibilities that could make Rumi an innocent in this. So they guarded their broken hearts with their weapons and waited for the fight that never ended up coming.

---

When Rumi came back singing and saving their lives, they had no clue what on earth was happening. But one thing was clear, Rumi was choosing them and to do good, despite her demons. She was letting them in for the first time in their lives, and they were going to trust that for now. Emotional and in-depth explanations could come later.

[sincerelyneo]

i’m not gonna teach your boyfriend how to fuck you | l.mk

“you are the girl that i’ve been dreaming of”

📀now playing: i’m not gonna teach your boyfriend how to dance with you by black kids

❯ summary: Asking your best friend to take your virginity because you have a crush on someone else and want experience is totally normal, right? Mark doesn’t think so. If he’s taking your virginity, it’s not for practice—it’s for him. He’s nobody’s wingman—especially not when it comes to you.

❯ pairings: mark x virgin fem!reader

❯ genre: smut, friends to lovers

❯ words: 5.6k

❯ tags: 18+ minors dni!, corruption kink, loss of virginity, nipple play, fingering, hand jobs, praising, body worship, protected sex, back scratching, brief possessiveness, pet names, reader uses she/her pronouns, swearing, love confessions, just fluffy smut because it’s what i do best lol.

Mark swears he’s a good listener. Considering he’s been friends with Zhong Chenle for years, the world’s most dedicated yapper, he doesn’t really have a choice. He has to be a good listener. But Mark almost does a double take when he hears the words ‘my virginity’ and ‘you’ come out of your mouth.

His best friend. With the biggest, prettiest, most innocent eyes and sweet little mouth that could barely stammer through conversations about flirting—asking him about sex. No. Not just asking. Wanting him.

After nearly choking on his own spit, Mark tries to regain his composure—but fails miserably. Especially when your cheeks flush, and you start chewing on your bottom lip. It’s a crime. No, worse. It’s sin in human form. You’re sin in human form. Looking this cute, blushing like a maniac, like you didn’t just drop that question on him.

“You want me to take your virginity, Y/N?”

You cringe the second he repeats your question back to you. It sounded a lot better in your head—practical, reasonable, totally fine. But now, with his brows furrowed and that ‘are you insane?’ look on his face, you’re starting to think maybe you are insane.

But when you came up with this plan last night, none of that crossed your mind. All you knew was that Mark never says no to you. Ever. Not when you asked him to be your first kiss in middle school. Not when you made him take you to your first frat party. Not even when you guilt-tripped him into helping with your dissertation.

"Look, forget it—" you say, pushing to your feet, desperate to escape your shared living room that suddenly feels way too hot under Mark’s stare. "I totally crossed a line by asking. I’m sure I can find someone on Tinder—"

"No."

You blink. "No?"

Mark wants to curse himself for the hasty reply, but who could blame him? There’s just no way he’s letting you swipe right on some douche bag looking for a quick fuck—some guy who’ll take you to a lousy bar, probably make you pay for your own drinks, and then expect to take your virginity like it’s nothing.

It’s ridiculous. It’s not happening.

Not when you just handed him the opportunity on a silver platter.

“What I meant to say was,” Mark rubs the back of his neck, “Don’t you want to lose your virginity to someone you trust—someone you love?”

You nod without hesitation. “That’s why I asked you. There’s not a single man I trust more than you. And I love you—platonically, yeah, but it’s still love.”

Platonic. 

If Mark could rip that word out of the dictionary, set it on fire, and launch the ashes into space, he would. Anything to stop you from thinking whatever he feels towards you is platonic. Was it platonic when he kissed you when you were eleven? No. Was it platonic when he drove ten miles just for your favourite snack on your birthday? No. Was it platonic when he worked on your final thesis at the same time as his own? No.

And if he’s going to be the first one to have you, it sure as hell won’t be platonic. That’s for damn sure.

His eyes squeeze shut as he sits forward, clammy hands rubbing up and down his jeans. "Okay, so you want me, your best friend, to take your virginity? Why?"

You chew your lip. This was the part of the scenario that kept you up at night—explaining why. How the hell are you supposed to tell someone you want them to take your virginity just so you can be ready for someone else? There’s no handbook, no online forum, for this kind of thing.

So you settle for:

“It’s stupid. A dumb reason. Don’t even worry about it. Will you do it or not?”

Mark gives you a knowing look, exactly like you knew he would. He’s one of those perspective fuckers, especially when it comes to you. Normally, you love it. Right now, not so much.

“Y/N,” he draws out your name, “What happened to me being one of the most trusted men you know? Tell me.” 

You suck in a breath, trying to steady yourself. After all, it’s just Mark. Sweet, kind, nonjudgmental, Mark. 

“I have a crush on my co-worker, Xiaojun,” you blurt out. Mark just blinks, completely still, like he’s trying to process. You, on the other hand, keep rambling. “And there’s rumours that he’s amazing in bed, and he asked me out for drinks this Friday, and I just feel really…unprepared.”

Mark feels his blood pressure spike—because fuck your co-worker, fuck those rumours and fuck that little date your planning to gone on this Friday night. Look, he’s not a prude or anything. Mark knows people fuck on a first date—but not you. At least not you with some asshole making you think you need to be prepared for him.

"If that asshole makes you feel less than just because you're a virgin, Y/N, he’s not worth your time."

You narrow your eyes. "I don’t think your opinion holds any weight here, considering you don’t think any guy is worth my time."

Mark relaxes slightly and smiles at that—because it’s true. No man deserves to talk to you, touch you, kiss you—no one but him.

“Besides,” you perk up again, trying to sound more confident. “This isn’t about what Xiaojun or any other guy thinks. This is about me… being comfortable having sex with someone that isn’t myself.” You chew your lower lip. “I want to be comfortable having sex with other men.”

Mark almost growls, a caveman-like urge pounding in his chest at the thought of you wanting to be comfortable with other men. He’s changed his mind. He’d take the word platonic any day over hearing other men leave your mouth.

“Let me get this straight—you want me to teach you how to fuck, to please other men?”

Your cheeks flush, not just because the idea sounds so ridiculous when he puts it like that, but because it’s the first time you've ever heard him talk like that. Mark is always so careful, so delicate with you, keeping his foul mouth and sex life locked away. But hearing the phrase "how to fuck" leave his mouth in that deep, husky drawl,  sends a pulse right through you, straight to your clit.

You chew your lip again, hesitating. “I don’t know… I just wanna be good... at it… at sex.”

Mark’s head tilts back as he stares at the ceiling, a string of mumbled curses slipping out before his Adam’s apple starts bobbing against his throat. He pauses to think—and so do you. You can’t figure out why he’s interrogating you like this. The proposition is a lot, yes, but if you’d crossed a line and made him uncomfortable, he could’ve just said so, you wouldn’t have taken it personally. There’s no reason for him to poke and prod like this.

Just as you're about to squash this whole thing, Mark speaks again. He looks up at you from his spot on the couch, his brows furrowed like he's still deep in thought, but his eyes, dark and blown wide, pin you in place.

"I'll teach you, Y/N," he says, standing up slowly. "I'll fuck you if that's what you want and if that’s what you're asking me for," he continues, moving closer until he's right in your personal space. "But I won't fuck you just to get you ready for someone else."

"Mark—"

"No, Y/N, I’m talking," he cuts you off, his long, tantalizing finger tracing from your cheek down to your neck before he whispers, "I don’t mind teaching you how to be good at sex with me, angel, but I’m sure as fuck not teaching you how to be good at it for someone else. If I finally get to fuck you, I’m gonna teach you how to be good for me."

Your mouth parts in a soft gasp, just from his words and that innocent touch alone. Mark’s eyes track the movement, and his irises darken with something you can’t quite name—want, lust, need... you don’t know. All you know is that it’s fucking hot, and it almost makes you miss what he just said.

"Finally?" you breathe out.

The corner of Mark's mouth twitches into a smile, and a low, silky laugh slips from him. "Don't pretend like you don't know I want you." His finger slides to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. “You’re too fucking smart to be playing dumb with me, Y/N. You know you could have me on my knees if you just asked. I’d do anything if you just asked.”

You always knew you had Mark wrapped around your little finger, but you never realized it was because he wanted you the same way you’ve wanted him. Yes, you’d only asked him to help you with this plan because you know he struggles to say no to you; but a small, twisted part of you wanted Mark to be the one to take your virginity. Because he’s him—hot, lean, experienced, sweet, loyal Mark. Your Mark. 

It’s all too much. His breath is too warm on your skin, his words too heated, his proximity too hot—he’s too hot. You whimper, and you watch as his pupils soften in response.

“Y/N,” he says softly now. “I need you to use your words to tell me what you want. If you don’t want to do this anymore—because, to me, it’s more than just practice—that’s fine. But if we do... this, us, it becomes real.”

Your mind goes fuzzy. Words? He thinks you have words after just confessing that this—that you—are something he wants? Almost like he senses your hesitation, he nuzzles deeper into your neck, his lips feather-light, dusting over your skin in a way that sets your nerves alight. It’s erotic, it’s intimate, it’s so damn sexy. 

“I’m serious, Y/N.” His voice is soft, breath scorching against your skin, thumb grazing over your collarbone like he’s memorizing you. “I’ve imagined you—craved you—for years. If you want me to take your virginity, I’ll do it. Happily. But I’ll be your first and your last—not Xiaojun.”

The mention of your coworker feels irrelevant now—a distant, meaningless fantasy compared to this. The stupid office daydream you’d clung to seems laughable because the man you thought only saw you as a friend is standing right here, offering himself to you. Completely. Utterly asking to be yours. And who are you to deny him?

“I want this—”

Mark doesn’t waste another second, doesn’t let you finish your sentence—because he’s wasted too much damn time already. Too much time waiting, hoping, aching to hear you want him. Not just need him for something, but actually want him. Crave him. Desire him.

He has to kiss you. Now.

It starts slow, soft, and sweet. Both your mouths take their time exploring one another as his hand tenderly cups your face, holding you to him. But in no time at all, the heat builds, kisses stretching longer, deeper, until it’s not enough for him. Not nearly enough for you. A hum of approval slips from you the moment his tongue grazes yours, and he takes it as permission, sweeping in and taking control.

“I have fucking dreamed about this,” he pants against your lips. “About kissing you. About touching you. Tell me to stop if it’s too much, Y/N.”

Stop? He’s out of his damn mind if he thinks you want to stop. You shake your head against his lips, legs winding around his, and he takes the hint without hesitation. His hands find your waist, lifting you with ease until you’re resting around his hips. His eyes are fully dark now, black, and locked onto you. They never waver as he carries you both to his bedroom.

Mark lays you down carefully, like you’d break if he was any rougher, but his gaze tells a different story—intense, burning, desperate. You prop yourself up on your elbows to look at him, and he just stares, eyes roaming every inch of you like he’s savouring the moment before he ruins you completely. 

You’ve never been this intimate with a man before. Sure, you’re no stranger to your own fingers, to vibrators, and okay—maybe you don’t mind the occasional steamy make out session at a party. But this? In his room, under his stare, is different. You’re not even naked yet, and somehow, you already feel so bare, so exposed. 

“I want to take my time with you, Y/N,” Mark murmurs, as he climbs onto the bed, positioning himself between your legs. He gently pushes you back so you’re lying flat, his body hovering over yours. “I want to savour every inch of this pretty little body of yours... and you’re going to let me, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” you pant, nodding at the same time, and Mark smiles, a slow, satisfied curve of his lips.

His hands slide up your legs, gliding over the fabric of your sweatpants, until they reach the hem. His eyes search yours, silently asking for confirmation, and you nod, breath catching in your throat. He tugs at your pants, so slow, so deliberate, and when they finally slip off, he lets out a low, groggy "fuck" at the sight of the pink lacy panties you’d chosen for this—for him.

You suddenly feel self-conscious, heat creeping up your chest.

"Knew I'd say yes, huh?" Mark coos, his hand tracing the band of your panties as he looks over your body, studying it because it's the first time he’s seeing you like this. Displayed for him.

You blush, squirming beneath him, overwhelmed by how new, how unfamiliar this all feels. Mark senses your discomfort and smiles softly.

"Don’t go shy on me now, pretty girl," he murmurs, "I’m losing my shit knowing you wore this with me."

His hands graze over your hip bone, fingers brushing gently, soothing as they explore the small hint of flesh you're revealing to him. The softness of his touch, of him, makes you ease up just a little.

“I wore the matching bra too,” you say on an exhaled breath.

Mark groans, his eyes closing as he takes in a slow, intentional breath of his own, nostrils flaring slightly. “Did you? Can I see, baby? Please?”

You nod, and those exploring hands of his glide up your stomach, fingers brush over your skin as he tugs the tight fabric of your tank top over your head. When it falls away, you're left in nothing but the matching set. The pink bralette, almost see-through, giving him a clear, vivid view of your pebbled nipples.

"So fucking beautiful, Y/N," he says, his voice strained, almost painfully. "Can you take it off for me?"

You smile, teasing, as your hands find the clasp at the back. "After I went through all this effort to put it on for you?"

He shakes his head with a small scoff of laughter, the sound easing your nerves a bit. That familiar banter, the playful back-and-forth, reminds you why you asked him—why you wanted him to do this in the first place. You trust him. 

“Is this the part where I learn that you’re a fucking brat?” he mutters, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips.

“I can be, if you want me to be.”

Something flashes in his eyes—dark, predatory—and he leans in closer, his tone dropping an octave. “Take the bra off. Now, Y/N.”

And you do, the flimsy fabric slipping from your breasts and meeting the same fate as your sweats and tank. You feel so exposed, which is ridiculous considering how little modesty the bralette was offering in the first place. Still, your hands instinctively cross over your chest. 

"Hey, don’t," Mark murmurs, his hand gently reaching up to move yours, his thumb rubbing soft, soothing circles around your wrist to reassure you. "You don’t ever have to be embarrassed with me, Y/N. If you want to stop—”

"No," you interrupt. "I mean, please... I want this... I want you, Mark. I’m just nervous."

His eyes soften at your words, and he licks his lips. "Can I touch you?"

You nod, and his hands steadily, gently travel up and down your stomach, hovering around your sternum before they rest beneath your breasts. You suck in a breath as his touch lingers. "Can I touch you here?" he asks, and again, you nod. 

Mark’s hands gently cup your chest, the softness and weight of your tits filling his palms. The pad of his thumb teases over one of your nipples (pretty peaked nipples that are practically begging for his mouth) in a steady rhythm that has you arching into him. He continues, flicking over the sensitive bud until he elicits the reaction he wants: quiet, breathless whimpers and tiny darling moans from your mouth.

“You’re so damn perfect, Y/N,” he mutters, his eyes glued to your body as he tests his touches, watching in awe as your eyes flutter, roll, or widen. “So damn perfect for me.”

You moan, and his head dips to the valley between your breasts, his tongue flicking out to trail a slow, heated path up your skin. His mouth, warm and wet, captures your pebbled nipple, sucking and licking with a hunger that makes your body shiver. It’s then that you remember why Mark is perfect for this—he’s experienced. 

“Pretty fucking tits,” he groans, “I’ll fuck these one day. Promise.”

He focuses entirely on your nipples, squeezing your breasts, and you swear you're already on the verge of coming undone for him, writhing beneath him. Terrified it’ll end too soon, your hands cup his cheeks, pulling him away from your chest to capture his lips in a desperate kiss. 

His chest hovers over you, so close to you, but still hidden beneath layers of fabric. His jeans, too tight, too impeding. You want to feel him—skin to skin. It’s not fair. You’re lying here in nothing but your underwear, exposed and vulnerable, while he’s still fully dressed—his clothes a frustrating barrier that keeps you from feeling him the way you need to. You can’t stand it anymore.

Your fingers dig into his shirt, tugging at the fabric, desperate to rip it off and close the damn distance. "Mark," you breathe. "Take it off. Please."

“You want it off, huh?” He teases. 

You’re beyond patience now, body aching for him. “Yes. I do.”

Mark’s eyes darken at the desperation in your voice. He sits up slightly, pulling away from you just enough to shed his shirt, the fabric tugging over his head and revealing the toned muscles of his chest. You can’t help but watch, your eyes glued to the way his hands move, but he’s taking his damn time. Frustrated, you reach for his belt, but he stops you, his hand brushing yours as he undoes it himself. The sound of it unbuckling makes your breath hitch. 

Finally, his jeans slip down, revealing the taut curve of his thighs before he kicks them aside, leaving him in nothing but his black boxers. His bulge is prominent, straining against the tight material, and you swear you can’t take it any longer.

But before you can pounce, before you can touch him and feel him the way you want to, he’s hovering back over you, his body pinning you down, forcing your back flat against the bed.

“So eager, pretty girl,” he muses with a teasing smirk. “But you asked me to teach you, didn’t you? I’m in charge.”

He’s so controlled, so assertive, it sends a flood of need coursing through your body. His hands are back on you, gliding over your now fully exposed body. Well, not entirely exposed—his fingers toy at the edge of your panties, tracing, testing, taunting, as if waiting for your permission. And you’d give him it immediately, only he wants to ride this out, prolong it. 

His fingers move to dip just beneath the fabric, but then he stops.

“I know you said you wanted to be good at this, Y/N,” he hums. “But I want to be good for you. Tell me what you like. Tell me how to touch this pretty pussy.”

Heat floods your cheeks and pools between your legs. From the way Mark smiles, and the fact that he’s cupping you through your underwear, you know he can feel it too.

“I-um—”

“I already told you to stop being shy with me, Y/N,” he says. “Don’t think I overlooked that comment about you getting yourself off. You wanna learn, so do I. Let me be a good boy for you.”

Your eyes lock onto his, and you can see the seriousness. He wants to know what makes you tick, what works for you, what gets you off—wants to be the one to do it. His breath hitches as he studies you, chest contracting with focus. 

“I-I start with my clit,” you instruct, and his fingers follow suit, finally dipping under the fabric he’s been teasing for the last ten minutes right to the spot. You want to feel embarrassed telling him all the dirty ways you play with yourself, but you can’t. He won’t let you feel that way, because, like you said, he’s him—sweet, loyal Mark.

“Fuck, Y/N, you’re dripping for me,” he groans, voice thick with need. “Aching for me, aren’t you, baby?” You nod pathetically. “Then tell me, what do you do to your clit? Teach me.”

“I like small circles,” you whisper, your breath shaky.

“Like this?” he asks, his voice low as he carefully follows your instructions. It’s almost too careful. Too slow. You need more—so much more.

“Faster, Mark.”

His fingers speed up, the circles on your clit growing faster, the pressure he applies intensifies with each stroke. You moan, squirming beneath him, your hips shifting in desperate need for more—more of him.

"Can I try a finger, baby?" he asks, and you nod, wanting everything he has to give right now.

Mark shifts his gaze from your face down to where his hands are stuffed inside your panties. He watches as he trails his index finger up and down your slit slowly until it’s circling around your entrance before finally easing it inside. You gasp, feeling the initial stretch, and his eyes lock back onto yours, waiting for the sting to fade and the lust to take its place again. Once it does, he begins to move, his finger sliding in and out, in and out, faster and faster until your breaths come heavier. 

“Mark,” you gasp on a moan, a thrill coursing through you as he picks up the pace. 

Mark adds his thumb back to your clit, the combination of his fingers easing in and out of your drenched pussy and the attention to your sensitive nerves send waves of pleasure crashing over you. Because cumming has never felt like this—so close, so quick, so desperately needed. Mark must sense your closeness too because his lips quirk, devilish and taunting.

“You gonna cum on my fingers, pretty girl?” he asks, but it’s clearly not a question. The cocky bastard knows you are. “Or should I say finger? Think you could handle two?”

Your mind is incoherent from the pleasure, the foreign stretch of his fingers. Any thoughts you have dissolve into a haze of need, only capable of a frantic nodding at him because you want more, need more, need to cum. He eases in his middle finger, both digits slowing down as you adjust to him. Then, the world around you blurs; all that matters is the rhythm of his fingers and the growing knot forming in your stomach as his pace picks up. Each thrust pushes you closer to the edge, and you can feel the waves of your orgasms building, until it finally, deliciously, crashes over you. 

Your vision blurs, and sounds you didn't even know you could make slip from your lips. All you can hear is Mark's incoherent, muffled praise—telling you how pretty, how perfect, how good you are for him.

When you come down from your high, he’s watching you intently, his hand running through your hair as you refocus back on him with hazy eyes. You’ve never experienced an orgasm like that, and as you notice the strained bulge in his pants, a surge of eagerness wells up in you. You want to return the favour, to please him, to learn how to be good the way you asked him to twach you.

You reach for his boxers, fingers trembling as you strip them off, revealing the thick hard length of him. Your breath catches at the sight of his cock, angry and needy and desperate. Mark looks down at you with his own haze-induced eyes. 

“Please, Y/N.”

The heat radiating from him ignites a fire within you. You take a moment to admire the way he looks at you—hungry, eager. With a newfound confidence, you lean closer, your lips brushing against his skin, ready to give him the pleasure he’s so generously given you. You press soft, delicate kisses to his abdomen, watching as his stomach flexes in response.

You know you probably should suck his cock right now; that’s what you’re supposed to do, right? Almost as if he can sense your hesitation, Mark’s fingers clamp around your chin, forcing you to meet his eyes.

“You don’t have to, not yet, not ever if you don’t want to,” he says softly. “But you can touch it. Touch me, Y/N, please.”

That feels more like your speed, so you wrap a firm hand around his cock, giving it a slow, steady long tug. Mark's head rolls back from where he sits on the bed. Your hands tremble with nerves, this is all so new to you, and you desperately want to please him. But before you can overthink it, Mark’s words soothe your insecurities.

“Yeah,” he breathes out, “Just like that... so fucking good, Y/N.”

He's like a fucking mind reader, because that one comment, that small ounce of reassurance, has you stroking him faster. Your hand moves in a messy rhythm, feeling the weight of his cock in your palm. 

As you continue to stroke him, you start to experiment with different techniques, trying out gentler touches and firmer grips. Mark's reactions are your guide, and you watch as his face contorts in pleasure, his eyes screwing shut as he lets out low groans. He sounds so sexy, you like it, you want more of him like this. 

You feel a sense of power, knowing that you're the one bringing him to the edge. Your strokes become more insistent, your hand moving faster as Mark's breathing quickens. You can feel his cock throbbing in your hand, the veins standing out as he gets closer.  Mark's body tenses, his muscles straining and that’s when suddenly, his eyes snap open. 

“You gotta stop, Y/N,” he growls, his voice low and husky as he pulls your hands off his length. For a moment, you almost feel scorned, but then he adds, “I want to last until I’m at least inside of you...”

You both laugh, Mark's eyes crinkling at the corners as he chuckles, and you feel a flutter in your chest. He gently lies you back on his bed, grabbing a pillow and placing it underneath your hips. As he fumbles with his nightstand, he rips open a condom and slides it along his cock. You can't help but watch, mesmerized by the sight. It’s oddly sexy. Your body responds instinctively, your hips arching upwards as if seeking him out. 

As Mark positions himself between your legs, his head dips down to kiss you. It’s sweet, like the first time, and you think you could get used to them—you want to get used to them. The feeling of his lips on yours, on your cheek, the top of your head. 

When your lips finally break apart, he holds eye contact with you, aligning himself with your pussy. He teases you, brushing against your folds, occasionally grazing your clit—his eyes watching your reaction, a smirk on his lips. Sensitive, he notes. And he has to note because there will be a time for more, a time where he’ll make you work for it. But today isn’t that day. Today is about you and him—together.

“Tap my arm if it’s too much. If you want to stop—”

“Mark,” it’s your turn to be stern now. “Please, just fuck me.”

He smirks, liking this side of you—the impatience, the newfound dirty mouth of yours. Something else to note for next time, he thinks.

Rubbing himself up and down your slit for a final time, Mark presses the head of his cock to your entrance, hips shifting forward to slowly push into you. His nostrils flare, and his teeth clench because he has to be careful, he has to be in control. He cannot—he will not—hurt you any more than he has to. 

So, slowly. Torturously slowly. Mark eases into you, inch by tantalizing inch, until his tip coaxes past the small ring of resistance. You’re so tight—so impossibly tight—that he almost regrets letting you jerk him off before hand,  because he’s already teetering on the edge of cumming from merely the first few inches. He’s waited far too long for this moment; the last thing he wants is to blow his load before he’s even begun to move.

He shifts his focus from his own pleasure to your face, keenly observing for any signs of discomfort. When he catches the slight scrunch of your nose, he leans down to kiss you, wanting to distract you from the sting of you stretching around his cock for the first time.

“You’re doing so good, pretty girl. You were made for me.”

He feels your body relax into the mattress at the praise and your hands wrap around his back, pulling him closer. It’s a silent invitation, a clear signal that you’re okay with more—that you need more.

His hips finally press flush against yours, your legs spreading wider to accommodate him, all of him. Your fingers dust up and down his spine as you get used to this, how full you feel, how complete. 

“Move, Mark,” you whisper barely above a whisper. “Please.”

And he does. He rolls his hips, pulling out of you completely before sinking back in, slow and sensual. You moan—right into his ear, because he’s buried in your neck—and he nearly loses the last thread of control he’s holding onto. Mark quickens his pace, keeping his body flush against yours—like he needs to be as close as possible. Needs to consume you the same way you’ve consumed him for years.

“Yes, Mark,” you cry, your nails raking down his back, scratching, digging, marking into his skin.

“Fuck, Y/N. You feel so good. You have no idea how fucking perfect you are.”

He reaches for your hand, prying it from his back to lace his fingers with yours, pinning them to the mattress. It’s gentle, it’s sweet—it’s so Mark. He fucks you slowly, his hands holding yours as he kisses you. Intimate, tender, and so fucking hot.

You tighten around him, and the squeeze makes something flicker in Mark’s eyes—something determined, something feral.

“I’m gonna cum,” you whimper between ragged breaths.

“Fuck, yes—please,” he groans. “Cum around my cock, pretty girl. I need it. I want it.”

Hearing him just as desperate, just as needy as you, sends you over the edge. Your lip trembles, your lashes flutter, and then—your second orgasm takes over you, ripping a scream of his name from your throat.

It’s the prettiest thing Mark’s ever seen, ever heard—the best thing he’s ever felt. And he swears this moment will be etched into his memory until the day he dies. He holds you close to his chest as you ride your high, feeling every desperate breath you take, swallowing every moan with wet open mouth kisses. And when he senses you’ve finally come down, he chases his own orgasm—greedy for it, for you.

He becomes ravenous for his own release, his hips pistoning faster, harder, as he drives deeper into you. His breaths come in ragged gasps, his chest contracting as his fingertips anchor your hips in place. With every thrust his cock throbs with an almost unbearable intensity until he lets out a low, guttural groan, his body shuddering with pleasure. 

He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his lips brushing against your skin as he whispers your name, over and over again, like a mantra and he spills inside of the condom. 

The room fills with a silence, punctuated only by the sound of your mingled breaths as he comes down. Your hands are still entwined, hearts still racing, and you both can’t do anything but look at each other. Eventually, Mark leans in, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your lips before pulling away. He eases out of you, removes the condom, and tosses it into the nearby trash can.

You watch him as he moves, and when he turns back to you—his gaze a mix of awe and satisfaction—you can’t help but smile.

“You know when I said I loved you platonically?” you ask, and his brows knit together. He looks like he’s about to have a full-blown panic attack, so you quickly put him at ease. “I lied. I actually just love you.”

Relief washes over his face before it melts into a smile. He presses a gentle kiss to your forehead.

“Good. Because, I love you too. Always have.”

[dollgxtz]

Hide and Surrender

Word Count: 5.1k

Summary: A simple game of hide and seek turns way more intense than you thought it would.

“I caught my prey, it’s only fair I get to eat my catch right?”

Tags: sylus x fem!reader, cnc, cunnilingus, predator play, predator x prey, hide and seek with roleplay, restraining, chasing, slightly rough sex, creampie, unprotected sex, overstimulation, forced blowjob

AN: Another fic idea that wouldn't leave my head. Can't remember which Touring in Love chapter it was, but in it Sylus plays hide and seek with us. And I was like, yknow what would make this 100x better? Predator play :3

"What would you like to play? I'll join you."

Those were the words that started it all.

You had half-expected Sylus to scoff at your suggestion, to find you childish for wanting to indulge in a game meant for children. But to your surprise, he agreed without hesitation, not even asking why. There was something in the way he said it, though—something that made your pulse quicken.

"You've played this before, right, Sylus?" you ask, covering your eyes with your hands to demonstrate. "You cover your eyes like this and count to ten. Then you come find me."

A moment of silence stretches between you, thick with something unspoken. Then, warm fingers wrap around your wrists, prying your hands gently away from your face. Your breath catches as you find yourself trapped beneath Sylus’ gaze—two crimson eyes watching you with something unreadable, something dangerous.

Those eyes—burning, searing, all-consuming—lock onto yours with something unreadable, something dangerous. It’s not just amusement or curiosity; it’s something deeper, something that snakes around your ribs and makes it hard to breathe. The way he looks at you is slow, patient, as if he has all the time in the world to take you apart piece by piece, as if he’s already thought of a thousand ways this game will end.

You feel your heart hammering against your ribs, loud, deafening, a traitorous thing that gives away too much.

He tilts his head slightly, as if considering something, as if studying you. The corners of his lips twitch—not quite a smile, but something just as unsettling.

"I didn’t have time or interest for such games when I was a child," he murmurs, his voice low, almost predatory. His lips curl into something between a smirk and a smile, and the way he looms over you makes you feel smaller, caged. "But for you? I’ll learn quickly, kitten."

The pet name slithers through the air, coiling around you, sinking into your skin like a brand. A shiver ripples down your spine, slow and deliberate, leaving a molten trail in its wake. Heat pools deep in your underwear, an unwelcome warmth that you fight to ignore. Your throat goes dry, and you tear your gaze away, desperate to escape the weight of his stare. But it’s too late—he’s already seen it.

A low chuckle spills from his lips, rich and smooth, yet laced with something dark. Something knowing. The sound wraps around you, thick with amusement, but there’s something beneath it, something that burrows under your skin and makes your pulse falter in a way that has nothing to do with fear. It’s dangerous—not because of what it is, but because of how your body reacts to it.

Like a predator toying with its prey.

He lingers, close enough that the heat of him prickles against your skin, close enough that you can see the glint in his half-lidded eyes. Yet, just as your breath catches in your throat, just as the tension coils so tight it threatens to snap, he takes a step back. Barely. Not enough to be safe—never enough to be safe—but just enough to keep you teetering on the edge.

His head tilts slightly, gaze lazy, his voice dipping into something slow, syrupy, dangerously smooth.

"Go on, then."

The words are soft, but there’s no playfulness in them anymore. No lighthearted teasing. Only promise. A single word, unspoken but heavy in the air between you.

"Hide."

There’s definitely no playfulness in his voice now.

Your pulse roars in your ears as adrenaline surges through your veins. Fine. You weren’t going down easy. This was just a simple game of Hide and Seek—nothing more. You force yourself to ignore the way your stomach twists, how your breath feels too fast, too shallow. You're overthinking it. Sylus loves to tease you, to get under your skin, to watch you squirm. He loves making you flustered, and you know that. But still…there's something in the way his lips curled into a smirk before he turned around to count, something in his tone when he called out, that makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end.

"One…two…three…"

The second his eyes leave you, you bolt. Your feet pound against the tile floor as you dash up the stairs, each step groaning under your weight. Your movements are clumsy, fueled by nothing but instinct. You wince at how loud you are, practically announcing your location, but at this point? Who cares. The only thing that matters is finding a place to hide before—

"Ten." His voice is slow, deliberate. You swear you hear amusement laced in it.

You don't stop running. You throw yourself into his room, nearly tripping over your own feet as you spin wildly, scanning the space for the perfect hiding spot. Your chest rises and falls in quick succession, air burning in your lungs. The bed? No, too obvious. Under the desk? Not enough coverage.

Then, you hear it.

"Let's see where my little kitten decided to hide."

Your blood turns to ice.

Without thinking, you dive toward the closet, yanking the door open just enough to squeeze inside before gently—so gently—pulling it shut, leaving only the smallest crack to peek through. Darkness swallows you whole, the scent of Sylus’s cologne thick in the enclosed space, invading your senses. Your back presses against the wall, every inch of you wound so tightly that your muscles ache. Your breath comes in rapid, uneven pants, and you clamp a hand over your mouth to silence yourself.

Your heart pounds violently against your ribs, so loud it feels like it’s betraying you, threatening to give you away. You try to steady it, to slow your breaths, but every little sound—the creak of a floorboard, the soft click of a door opening—sends another jolt of panic surging through you.

Then, footsteps. Slow. Measured.

Getting closer.

You hear him before you see him.

The door creaks open, a slow, deliberate sound that cuts through the silence, sending a shiver down your spine. The room seems to shrink, the air thickening as his presence fills the space. It’s not just the sound of his footsteps—it’s something deeper, something intangible, an unseen force that presses against your chest, making it harder to breathe. Your heart pounds in response, the steady thump-thump-thump filling your ears like a war drum. Even as fear coils in your stomach, there's an undeniable thrill laced within it, a rush of something you refuse to name.

Through the narrow crack in the closet door, you finally see him. Sylus moves with practiced ease, unhurried, precise, like a predator that knows its prey has nowhere to run. His crimson eyes flicker with something unreadable as they scan the room. He doesn’t fumble, doesn’t hesitate. There’s an unsettling certainty to his movements, a quiet confidence that makes your pulse quicken.

His fingers trail lazily along the back of the couch before he crouches, peering beneath it. “Not under the couch, I see,” he muses, his voice smooth, almost casual. But there’s something beneath the words, something sharp, something laced with amusement, as if he already knows exactly where you are.

"Behind the curtains, maybe?" He doesn’t sound like he’s searching. He sounds like he’s toying with you.

He straightens, then shifts his focus to the glass windows, where the heavy curtains hang still. He moves toward them, fingertips grazing the fabric before he suddenly jerks them aside. You tense instinctively, though you know you aren’t there. He pauses, as if savoring the moment, before releasing the curtain and letting it drift back into place.

Your chest rises and falls in shallow, uneven breaths. Your lungs burn with the effort of staying quiet, of keeping still.

Then he turns, and your heart stutters violently in your chest as his gaze lands on the bed. No way he doesn’t already know where you are. No way his senses are that dull. You watch, frozen in place, as he slowly kneels, resting a hand against the mattress as he leans down to inspect the space beneath the frame. He hums softly. "Hmm...not under the bed either."

The moment he stands, you know. His next stop is the wardrobe.

A faint chuckle spills from his lips, low, knowing, as he starts toward you with slow, deliberate steps. Every cell in your body screams at you to move, but you remain paralyzed, pressed against the back of the closet as if you could somehow will yourself into the shadows. You can barely hear over the deafening thud of your heartbeat.

"Y’know, kitten," he drawls, his voice a lazy, syrupy purr that drips with something thick, something dangerous, "the sooner you come out, the gentler I’ll be with you."

Your breath catches violently in your throat. His voice alone sends a jolt through you, a sharp, involuntary response that leaves you feeling raw, exposed.

Then—he stops.

He tilts his head slightly, as if considering something, before abruptly turning away. "Oh right, I almost forgot to check the living room."

This is your chance. Your only chance.

No time to think—just move!

Your body reacts before your mind catches up. With a burst of energy, you shove the closet door open and bolt. The sudden shift from stillness to motion is disorienting, but you don’t stop, don’t hesitate. Your feet slam against the floor as you propel yourself forward, the only thought in your mind being run.

You don’t dare look back.

But then—air shifts behind you.

A sharp inhale. A pivot of movement.

And then—footsteps. Fast. Closing in.

Panic surges through you, raw and electric, as you push yourself harder. Your legs burn, your lungs ache, but you don’t stop. You just have to make it downstairs. Just a little farther. Just a little—

A rush of air. A presence at your back.

And then—a hand. Wrapping around your wrist.

You scream, a sharp, startled sound that barely has time to leave your lips before Sylus yanks you back with a firm tug of your wrist. The sudden force sends you stumbling, crashing into his chest, your breath hitching as his arm snakes around your waist, keeping you locked in place. He’s warm, solid, unyielding, and far too close. His scent—something dark and intoxicating—invades your senses, making your already racing heart hammer harder.

“Found you, kitten,” he murmurs, amusement dripping from his tone. His lips curl into a smirk as he tilts his head slightly, eyes glowing with satisfaction. “I was starting to worry I lost you forever.”

The mockery in his voice is unmistakable, but inwardly, you’re grinning, nearly laughing. This was exactly what you wanted—a chase, a fight, a chance to push back. But you don’t let him see that. Instead, you put on your best scowl, defiance burning in your gaze.

"Your acting’s gotten worse," you spit, jerking against his hold. You bring your knee up sharply, aiming for his groin with all the force you can muster.

But he’s faster.

Before your knee can make contact, a thick tendril of red mist swirls around you, his Evol surging to life in an instant. The energy coils around your limbs like living chains, locking you in place just as he moves.

In the blink of an eye, he shifts, twisting effortlessly, using his grip on you to throw you onto the bed with little more than a flick of his wrist. The mattress dips beneath your weight, and before you can even think of scrambling away, he’s already on top, looming over you, his expression smug, too amused.

You lash out.

Your fist shoots toward his face, but he leans back smoothly, just enough for your knuckles to miss his jaw by mere inches. You shift, twisting your body, using the momentum to kick upward, aiming for his ribs. Again, he dodges—his body shifting effortlessly, as if he already knows exactly what you’re going to do before you do it.

“Tsk, tsk,” he hums, easily maneuvering around another wild swing from you. “You’re getting sloppy, kitten. I thought you were actually trying.”

You grit your teeth, frustration bubbling beneath your skin. You manage to free an arm from the tendrils of mist, and without hesitation, you try to land a punch to his shoulder. This time, he catches your wrist mid-air, his grip tightening just enough to still your movement.

“You bast—” You twist your hips sharply, using every ounce of strength to break free, but he barely even moves. If anything, he looks bored, like he’s humoring you.

Sylus chuckles, low and deep. “You really don’t know when to give up, do you?” His grip on your wrist shifts slightly before he suddenly pushes you down hard, making you gasp as your bodies gravity shifts, forced into submission once again.

You feel your pulse jump when his lips brush the shell of your ear, his voice dropping to something even smoother, even softer, but no less dangerous.

“And here I thought we were just playing.” His fingers tighten ever so slightly around your wrists, his body pressing just close enough to remind you how little control you actually have in this moment. “I guess it’s my turn to get serious, hm?”

Your breath catches.

Something shifts in the air.

"S-Sylus, wait—" you gasp, your words catching in your throat as the sound of fabric tearing fills the room. In one swift motion, he's ripped your shorts apart, leaving your legs exposed to the cool air, the sudden chill a stark contrast to the heat still simmering between your thighs. Your underwear is the only thing left, a flimsy barrier between his intentions and your already soaked folds.

You start to protest, a mix of shock and anticipation swirling inside you, but the words die on your lips as Sylus shushes you softly, his voice a low, calming murmur. "Shh..." he whispers, his breath warm against your skin, sending a shiver racing up your spine.

"All that fighting, and yet you're soaked down here, kitten".

With deliberate slowness, he lowers his head between your thighs, the anticipation building as his lips hover just above the thin cloth. His tongue flicks out, tracing the outline of your folds through the fabric with agonizing precision. Each stroke is slow, torturous, a teasing promise of what's to come, and your protests dissolve into soft whimpers of need.

"An orgasm or two should get rid of that feistiness," he murmurs against you, his voice a rich, dark promise that leaves you trembling with anticipation.

Sylus's fingers deftly hook into the elastic of your panties, pulling the cloth aside with a practiced ease that leaves you exposed to him, vulnerable and aching. The cool air brushes against your skin for a fleeting moment before his mouth descends, and all coherent thought shatters as his tongue finds your aching cunt.

"Ah!"

The first touch is electric, a jolt of pure pleasure that arches your back off the bed, your hips lifting to meet him with a desperate need. His tongue works with a deliberate, maddening rhythm, alternating between long, languid strokes and quick, teasing flicks that have you gasping for breath.

Your hands find their way into his hair, fingers tangling in the strands as you hold him to you, guiding him closer even as your mind spins with the intensity of it all. He doesn't mind in the slightest, his low, satisfied hum sending vibrations through you, drawing a gasp from your lips.

"This—is c-cheating..." you manage to whine between ragged breaths, though your actions betray you as your hips move of their own accord, grinding against his mouth, seeking more of the pleasure he's so expertly giving.

“I caught my prey, it’s only fair I get to eat my catch right?” he says, before continuing his assault on your clit. His words send your head spinning and you suddenly feel like you can barely breathe.

With a renewed dedication, his tongue delving deeper, exploring every inch of you with a hunger that leaves you trembling. The world dissolves around you, leaving nothing but the exquisite sensation of his mouth on you, driving you relentlessly toward the peak of ecstasy.

The sensation of his tongue slipping inside you leaves you reeling, each thrust a masterful stroke that has you feeling drunk on the sheer ecstasy he’s delivering. It’s a skill that seems almost divine, the way he knows exactly how to unravel you, how to make you moan and whine so uncontrollably that it borders on begging.

Your body responds helplessly, hips bucking against him as your hands clutch at the sheets, trying to anchor yourself in the storm of pleasure. His tongue moves with purpose, each flick and thrust pushing you closer to that precipice, until finally, he shifts his focus, sucking on your clit with a precision that sends you spiraling over the edge.

The orgasm tears through you, leaving you breathless and shaking, your cries echoing in the room as you ride out the waves of bliss. But even as you begin to descend from the high, you’re dismayed to find that Sylus isn’t stopping, his mouth still working you with relentless dedication.

“P-please...no more...” you plead, trying to twist away, your body oversensitive and overwhelmed. But he simply adjusts his grip, his hands firm on your waist, holding you in place with an easy strength that keeps you from escaping.

“Still a little feisty, hm?” he teases, a wicked glint in his eyes as he looks up at you. “Like I thought. One more should do.” His words are a promise and a challenge, and as his mouth returns to its task, you know you’re helpless to resist the pull of his mastery, your body already surrendering to the inevitable wave building once more.

"Mgnh...ah..."

And just as promised, the fight within you starts to ebb away, like sand slipping through fingers, as Sylus's tongue continues its relentless, masterful assault. The pleasure builds higher to the point where it almost hurts, a crescendo that leaves you breathless and trembling, unable to do anything but call out his name, your voice breaking as your body jerks and shakes under his skilled touch.

"Sylus!"

The second orgasm crashes over you, pulling you under its tide, leaving you riding the waves of ecstasy until you finally collapse, utterly spent, like a boneless heap of jello. Your chest heaves with each ragged breath, tears of overstimulation gathering at the corners of your eyes, evidence of the intensity that just ripped through you.

Sylus leans back, a satisfied gleam in his eyes as he licks his lips, savoring the taste of you. He studies you with a mixture of amusement and triumph, taking in your ragdoll form sprawled before him. "Going to try and fight me again?" he teases, a smirk playing on his lips.

You manage a weak shake of your head, trying to suppress the smile tugging at your own lips, despite the exhaustion. Damn this slick bastard and his godly tongue, you think, a mixture of exasperation and admiration swirling within you.

"Good, just how I like you," he murmurs, his voice a low purr that sends a shiver through your already sensitive body. His hands move to his belt, fingers working with deliberate slowness to undo it, each click of the metal buckle a promise of what's to come. "Seems you're ready for the last phase of our game," he declares, his dark eyes locked onto yours, filled with a hunger that promises there's much more yet to be explored.

You lay there, your body still humming with the aftershocks of the intense pleasure he had delivered, your eyes heavy-lidded, your breath coming in short gasps. Sylus, ever attentive, noticed your gaze drifting downward, a mix of anticipation and desire in your eyes as you took in the hard and prominent bulge in his pants.

Your cheeks flushed as you realized the effect you had on him, his hard length straining and throbbing against the fabric of his pants, a testament to the pent-up desire that had been building throughout your little "game." He had only eaten you out and yet his cock seemed like it was about to burst and break the zipper.

Sylus finishes undoing his belt, the soft clinking of the metal a rhythmic counterpoint to your pounding heartbeat. The anticipation is electric, a live wire thrumming between you as his pants finally fall away, revealing the impressive length of him. Even after all the times you’ve had each other, his size never fails to elicit a sense of awe.

Your eyes widened as Sylus, with a mischievous glint in his eyes, moved closer, his hard length throbbing in front of your mouth. You shook your head, a silent refusal, playing hard to get, but he was having none of it. With a swift motion, he cupped your chin, tilting your head back and guiding his throbbing cock towards your mouth.

"Open up, sweetie," he whispered, his voice a low command. "Good little prey does as they're told."

Your heart raced as you felt the heat of his cock against your lips, his hands firm on your head, guiding you to take him in. You strained for control, but his grip tightened, and with a gentle yet insistent pressure, he pushed his length past your lips, filling your mouth with his hardness.

You gagged slightly, your eyes watering, but he held you firmly in place, his cock sliding deeper, his hands holding your face still, ensuring you took him all the way down your throat.

"Good girl," he moaned, his voice thick with pleasure. "Breathe through your nose, kitten."

You did as he commanded, your mouth working around his length, your tongue swirling, your throat constricting around him, the sensation of his hardness and the taste of him overwhelming your senses. He began to thrust gently, his hips moving in a slow, controlled rhythm, his cock sliding in and out of your mouth, his moans filling the room.

"That's it," he whispered, his breath ragged. "Take all of me, claim me as I'll claim you."

His words sent a thrill through you, and you redoubled your efforts, your mouth and throat working in unison, your hands gripping his thighs as he used your mouth for his pleasure. But just as you thought he would climax, he pulled out, his cock glistening with your saliva.

"Not yet," he said, his voice hoarse. "I won't miss the chance to claim my freshly caught prey with my seed."

He catches the wide look in your eyes and grins again, a wicked gleam lighting up his features as he moves closer, positioning himself between your trembling thighs. The head of his cock teases your entrance, brushing against your slick folds with a touch so light it sends a tremor of anticipation through you.

"Stay still." he murmurs, his voice a low purr that vibrates against your skin. You nod, breathless, as he begins to push forward, the slow, steady pressure parting your folds and stretching you inch by inch. The sensation is both exquisite and overwhelming, a delicious burn that leaves you gasping, feeling impossibly full as he sinks deeper inside you. You unknowingly tense up, and Sylus pauses.

Sylus's voice, low and soothing, filled the room as he slightly broke from his rough and demeaning role. His hands gently caressing your hips, his body still poised at your entrance. "Might as well relax" he whispered, his breath warm against your neck. "You have no choice but to take it anyways, kitten".

His words, spoken with tenderness and experience, were a balm to your nerves. You recognize this as his way of checking in and reminding you to relax without fully breaking the mood. He began to move with slow, gentle thrusts, his length sliding into you with deliberate slowness, allowing your body time to accommodate his size. "That's it, squeeze around me," he encouraged, his lips brushing your ear. "Feel me filling you, stretching you, making you whole."

The pain began to subside, replaced by a building pleasure as your body accepted his intrusion, the discomfort transforming into a unique blend of sensations. You moaned, a mix of relief and arousal, as he continued his slow, steady rhythm, his body moving in sync with yours, his hands guiding you through the waves of pleasure and discomfort, until the pain was a distant memory, and all that remained was the exquisite sensation of being filled by his hard length.

Your fingers curl into the bedsheets, clutching them for support as he begins to move again, each thrust firm and unrelenting, setting a rhythm that has you moaning helplessly beneath him. The friction is intoxicating, the sound of skin against skin mingling with your cries as you arch into him, your body alight with pleasure.

Sylus's breath came in short, sharp gasps as he thrust into you, his voice thick with desire. "So tight, so fucking wet," he growled, his words a testament to the pleasure you were providing. His hips moved in a relentless rhythm, his powerful strokes driving into your core with a force that left you breathless, your body trembling with each impact.

As the pleasure mounted within you, swelling like a storm threatening to break, Sylus transformed his movements into a slow, torturous dance. Each thrust was languid and deliberate, a teasing rhythm that played your body like a finely tuned instrument. You were on the brink, right at the precipice, but he held you there, tantalizingly close yet agonizingly far from the release you craved.

"Please, Sylus..." you whimpered, your voice a desperate plea, raw with need. "I need to...I need to finish..."

He leaned in, his breath a scorching whisper against your ear, his lips brushing your skin with feather-light caresses. "I'll let you cum, my love, if you tell me who won."

This bastard. Of course he wasn't going to make this easy.

The challenge in his words sent a shiver racing through you, a heady mix of excitement and frustration. You yearned for the release, but admitting his victory felt like a concession too steep. "Fuck you" you spat, your voice caught between resistance and the relentless pull of longing.

Sylus's pace slowed further, each thrust a deliberate tease, his body a contradiction of slow, sensual movements and the raw, simmering desire you could feel pulsing in every inch of him. "Mmm, not quite the answer I'm looking for. Tell me, sweetie," he murmured, his lips trailing down your neck, sending tingling sensations along your skin. "Who won this little game?"

Your body trembled beneath him, caught in the crossfire of need and stubbornness. The sweet torture was a dance of agony and ecstasy, and it was almost too much to bear and you snapped. "You w-won," you finally admitted, the words spilling from your lips like a confession, tearing free as you surrendered to the pleasure he offered, your body arching toward him in a silent plea. "Please...let me cum!"

"That's my good girl," he growled, his voice a low, primal rumble that resonated through your very core. "Now, cum for me."

His pace shifted, each thrust gaining force and urgency, driving deep and hard, a relentless rhythm that pushed you over the edge. Your body convulsed around him, muscles tightening in a wave of release, the climax ripping through you with a sweet, shuddering ferocity that left you breathless and utterly spent. In that moment, the world dissolved, leaving only the blissful aftermath of his mastery, the sweet torture finally giving way to a bliss that wrapped around you like a warm, comforting embrace.

As your body shudders around him, gripping him with the aftershocks of your orgasm, Sylus's thrusts grow more frantic, driven by his own approaching climax. The room fills with the sounds of your combined moans and the rhythmic slap of skin against skin.

His movements become erratic, each thrust deeper and more urgent, as if he's chasing the very edge of his own orgasm. You can feel the heat building within him, a primal energy that seeks release, and you arch into him, encouraging him to finish inside you.

With a final, powerful thrust, Sylus groans deeply, his body tensing above you as he finds his own release. You feel the hot rush of his climax inside you, a flood of warmth that fills you completely, making you feel full. His body shudders, muscles taut, as he pours himself into you, the sensation a sweet, intimate mingling of pleasure and finality.

Sylus, his breath ragged, withdrew from your body with a slow, deliberate motion, his eyes never leaving yours, a silent understanding passing between you. He laid down beside you, his body still humming with the aftershocks of pleasure, his hand gently caressing your sweat-slicked skin, his touch tender and possessive. He peppered kisses on your lips, cheek, forehead and neck before settling next to you.

Both of you lay across the bed, chests rising and falling in sync, the aftermath of your "struggle" leaving a lingering heat in the air. The sheets are a mess beneath you, tangled from the chaos of it all. Your limbs feel heavy, aching from exertion, but there’s still a stubborn pout on your lips as you turn your head to glare at Sylus.

“Not fair!” you huff, breath still uneven. “I should’ve known you’d pull your dirty tricks…You owe me a new pair of shorts, by the way.”

He merely chuckles, the sound deep and rich, and before you can react, he shifts, wrapping an arm around your waist and tugging you flush against his side. His warmth seeps into your skin, the steady rise and fall of his chest oddly soothing despite everything. He squeezes you playfully, pressing his face against your hair as his laughter rumbles through his body.

“I could buy you a hundred new shorts if you wanted,” he murmurs, his tone amused.

You roll your eyes, but you don’t fight his hold. Instead, you melt into him, letting your body relax as you nuzzle into the crook of his neck. His scent is familiar now, something dark and warm, laced with a hint of something uniquely him. It’s comforting, even if you’d never admit it out loud.

For a moment, there’s peace. Just the steady rhythm of your breathing, the warmth of his body pressed against yours, the ghost of a smirk still tugging at his lips.

Then, his voice, soft but teasing.

“I definitely wouldn't mind a second or third round if it ends like this every time. What do you say?” he says, his breath hot against your ear.

Your breath catches, and you pull back just enough to look at him, eyes narrowing in suspicion.

The way his smirk deepens tells you everything you need to know.

[landopoet]

to you, always.

pairing brother's best friend lando x fewtrell!reader

synopsis in which you call lando. and he comes.

warnings 14.8k words of angst, secrecy and brother max.

author’s note heyhey, sorry that i've been gone for a while, life gets a bit hectic and busy at times but i've finally gotten around to finishing this wonderful fic! and i have more fics coming your way soon. hope you enjoy <3

You’re not sure why you’re at this party to begin with. 

Actually, screw that, you knew exactly why— your older brother, Max, made it abundantly clear that he didn’t want you hanging around this specific crowd of people, and you had something to prove. You wanted to show him that you’re no longer the little sister he could push around, you wanted to finally be seen as grown, despite being younger than him.

It was cold outside Mason’s house. Your heels were off, your makeup’s smudged, the girl you came with ran off with some random guy neither of you knew, and you were left stranded in the cold night, somewhere with shitty connection. You tried to call an Uber, but the app won’t work without WiFi and you couldn’t be bothered to go back inside the party to ask for the password. 

Instead, you choose to flick through your contacts, maybe your drunk mind could find someone to drive you home. Mom? No, she’s most likely asleep. Max is an obvious no. You scroll past the random aunts, uncles, cousins, who all live scattered across the world. Then, something sets off in your mind and you find yourself reading Lando’s contact like it was the morning news.

You shut your phone off, sitting down on the curb. Lando. He told you once that he wasn’t your babysitter— like you were too loud, too much, always wanting to tag along with whatever he and your brother were doing. Still, your fingers put in your password and you click his contact again, this time not overthinking calling him.

Maybe it’s because you know he doesn’t care, maybe it’s because you know he’ll come.

The phone rings a few times before he picks up, raspy and tired. “Hello?”

“Lando,” you say, cautiously. 

You give him time to yell at you, to hang up, but he just stays in the silence, waiting for you to speak. “Hello? What’s wrong?”

You sigh. “I’m at Mason’s,” Lando scoffs on the other end. “Can you come get me?” 

Silence. You imagine him sitting on the edge of his bed, jaw tense, chest bare, those goddamn Jack & Jones boxers adorning his hips. Then, there’s movement. “It’s past one in the morning,” he grumbles.

“Yeah, I can still read the time, thanks.” You roll your eyes annoyed. “I knew it’d be stupid to call you, you’re nothing but an arrogant—”

Lando cuts you off, a sharp order coming from his end of the call. “Text me the address.”

“Fuck, I can’t remember,” you drag a hand across your face, ignoring how the cold of the curb slowly seeps in past your short dress and branches out through your skin. “It’s the house in Cherry Hill, the one with the stupid flamingo statue in the front yard.”

“I know it,” he nods, though you can’t see it. “Wait there, don’t go back inside.”

Lando hung up the phone call and pushed a hand through his curls, agitated that he didn’t even hesitate to come get you. He should’ve told you to call someone else, let you sit in the mess you made, but he also knew Mason and parties like that. And how everyone’s eyes naturally gravitated towards you, like you owned every room you walked into. 

He knew what that type of confidence could do, he had seen it happen to you before. And he knows Max would have his head on the front of the Fewtrell residence if he knew Lando refused to help you when you were in need. Or maybe it was just because that irritating warmth in his chest made him crumble every time he was near you. 

It takes half an hour until Lando’s headlights beam on your face. The car slows right next to you. It’s matte black with a booming engine, the one your brother kept hyping up like it was God’s gift to car lovers. Lando leans over the center console to shove the door open. 

The door clicks behind you and seals you in. The cabin is dim, except for the soft glow of the dashboard that casts blue shadows over Lando’s face. His jaw is clenched with every chew of gum he takes as he backs out of Mason’s driveway with one hand on the back of your seat. You can feel the tension in the small space between you two and you feel it even more when Lando finally grazes his eyes over you.

“You’re barefoot.”

His voice is flat, emotionless. 

You look down at your legs, the only thing adding any sort of warmth to them were your thin stockings. “Heels hurt.” 

Lando noticed the way you curled up in the seat, trying your best to keep yourself warm. He rolls his eyes, reaches behind you to the backseat and drops a hoodie in your lap. “Put it on,” he mutters.

You should say something, maybe a snarky remark, but instead you slip it over your head. It smells like him— a mix of lavender detergent, gasoline and Lando’s cologne. It’s big enough that the sleeves fall past the palms of your hands and you curl your fingers in them. “Thanks.”

The car falls quiet for a long while, Lando’s fingers so tightly curled around the steering wheel that it looks like it’s about to snap under the force. You can tell he wants to say something, to yell at you about waking him up, that you’re just some stupid girl who doesn’t know when to stop.

Instead, he sighs and asks, “what the hell were you thinking?”

You roll your eyes even though he can’t see. “Oh, here we go.”

“I’m serious,” his voice is sharp, irritated. “There’s a reason Max didn’t want you at that party.”

“I can handle myself, Lando. It’s just a party.”

Lando lets out a humorless laugh. “Sitting on the curb, alone, with no ride home. You call that handling yourself?”

You don’t answer him anymore, instead continuing to look out the passenger seat window at the streetlights and houses blurring past. You’re not sure what it is, but something feels different about him— he’s not bantering as much, it’s almost like he’s actually worried. 

A few minutes pass before Lando briefly glances at you. “What happened?”

Your eyes glance at his green ones, blinking once before you turn your gaze back outside. You’ve just driven out of the neighbourhoods, so the stars became more evident due to the lack of houses and streetlights. 

“Did someone touch you?” He presses, voice edged with frustration. He continues to chew his gum, his jaw tensing with every bite. 

“Not really.”

Lando exhales through his nose, tilting his head slightly like he’s debating whether to push. He doesn’t. Instead, he mutters, “you’re an idiot.”

You furrow your eyebrows and turn to him. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” he shrugs. “Going to some fucker’s party just to prove something to Max. You think he’ll see you as grown just because you disobeyed him?”

You ball your hands into fists. “That’s not what I–”

“Oh, cut the bullshit, yes it is.” He cuts you off, agitated, annoyed, tired. “I’ve known you for years and you’ve been trying to prove yourself to Max since you were, like, twelve.”

You turn your whole body back towards the door, choosing to ignore Lando’s lecture. It’s almost two in the morning, the sky is at its darkest and you’re feeling too tired to argue with him. Still, he continues.

“News flash, acting reckless doesn’t make people respect you. It makes them worried.”

You stare at him, a tiny smirk on your face. “Are you saying… You were worried?”

Lando’s fingers tighten around the steering wheel. “I didn’t say that.”

“No, you totally did.” You let that tiny smirk turn into a full one, still looking at him. “This is huge. Lando Norris—”

He turns to face the driver's door window, biting back a small smile. “Don’t.”

“—worried about me?” 

He exhales through his nose again, running a hand through his curls, eyes still stuck on the road. “I knew I should’ve left you on the curb.”

“But you didn’t.”

“No, I didn’t.” Lando’s eyes look at yours for a second. He can’t handle looking at you for longer, afraid his facade would fade under the weight of your gaze.

“Why’d you come? If I’m such an inconvenience.” 

His car comes to a silent stop in front of your house. His engine is still running, just so the heat would still circulate and warm your feet. “Because you called.” 

There’s no mocking tone to his voice, no bite. Just the raw truth, like a confession.

You glance at his lips, then back up at his eyes. “I thought you hated me.”

“I never hated you.” He says it like it was obvious.

“You act like it.”

His eyebrows furrow. “I don’t hate you.”

You’re not sure what happened, why you suddenly felt so brave. You bite your bottom lip, leaning over the center console, softly grasping his chin so he looks at you. “Prove it.”

Lando’s breath stutters, just for a second. 

“Fuck it,” he mumbles into your mouth, already having pulled you in for a kiss. 

It’s not careful, it’s definitely not gentle— it’s like a flood. Like it’s something he’s been holding back for too long, something he can’t fight anymore. He kisses you urgently, lips warm and insistent, until your lips part just enough for his tongue to brush against yours, tentative at first, then deeper— demanding.

His hand comes up to cup your jaw, fingers pushing past your hair, angling your face the way he wants it. His other hand is still on the wheel, white-knuckled and tense, like he needs something to hold onto before he loses himself completely. 

Your hands slide up his chest, fingers curling around his collar, pulling him closer and closer, but it’s not enough.

Lando groans into your mouth, a low and frustrated sound, and then he’s undoing his seatbelt, undoing yours. The tension snaps, and next thing you know, he’s pulling you over the centre console and into his lap. His hands trail up your thighs, nesting right at the top of your hips as he continues to kiss you. 

He knows he shouldn’t be doing this, you’re his best friend’s little sister, but god has he been waiting for this. Every time he looked at you for too long, he felt a burning heat in his chest that he couldn’t shake no matter how hard he tried. Right now, he’s getting back all the times he wished he could kiss you, but knew he couldn’t. His hands grip you like he’s trying to memorise the feel of your skin under his fingertips.

Your hips softly grind against him as your hands come up to gently cup his jaw and you pull him in closer. Lando kisses you with hunger, chasing your lips as you pull away to catch your breath. You lean back against the steering wheel, careful as to not make a sound. Lando pushes himself up to kiss you again, but he fails to notice his foot on the gas and revs the engine as soon as his lips crash into yours again. 

Both of you freeze, eyes wide like deer caught in headlights. The streetlight casts a soft, golden glow on Lando as you study his face. And then both of you break out into laughter. 

“You think he heard that?” Lando asks when both of you finally calm down and you rest against his chest. 

You shake your head. “No, he’s a heavy sleeper. But I should probably go.”

Lando nods and helps you climb over the center console, eyes never leaving you. You turn back towards him, placing a gentle kiss to his lips, before reaching for the handle and opening the door. Lando stays parked on the side of the road, just until you’re safely inside your house, and when he sees the door close behind you, his engine revs again as his car pulls away. 

You walk downstairs only to be met by the sound of slamming cupboards, you don’t even have to step into the kitchen to know Max is letting out whatever pent up rage he has on the poor wooden furniture. 

Max, as if he could feel your presence, turns around. His eyebrows are set low, eyes studying your face like he’s never seen it before. You just awkwardly weave past him to rummage through the fridge.

He leans back against the kitchen island, arms crossed and voice calm when he asks, “so how was the party you weren’t supposed to go to?”

You softly slam your forehead on one of the shelves in the fridge. “Fuck.” You rub the hurt skin as you turn around to face your brother. “It was fine.”

“Mhm,” he looks down at the ground briefly, before he looks back at you again. Max tries so hard to look intimidating every time he does this, but he just looks like a sad dad and it takes everything in you not to laugh. “And how’d you get home?”

“Well, nowadays we have these awesome things called cars, right?” You motion turning a wheel with your hands, sarcastically. “You kinda just sit in them and then turn the wheel to go different directions, it’s pretty cool.”

“I’m serious,” he says, stone-faced and frustrated. 

“Why does that matter? I’m home safely, aren’t I?” You turn back to the fridge and take out ingredients for a sandwich.

“It matters because I explicitly told you not to go and because I know you, and because I woke up to Lando’s car outside my window at two in the morning.”

You freeze. Shit.

Max narrowed his eyes. “So? Wanna explain that one?”

“I called him for a ride, that’s all.” You’re not even hungry but you’re making a sandwich anyway, just to give yourself something to do and just so you don’t break underneath the weight of your older brother’s intense gaze. 

Max stares at you, jaw clenched.  “Why him?”

You shrug, spreading the mayonnaise on a slice of bread. “I obviously couldn’t call you and everyone I trust was asleep. And because he actually came.”

“He’s not—” He cuts himself off and starts pacing like he needs to burn the frustration from his limbs. “He’s not the guy you call for help. He isn’t good for this sort of thing, for you.”

You pause your movement, raising a brow at him. “You think I can’t handle Lando?”

“I know you can,” he pinches the bridge of his nose. “That’s not the point. The point’s that he’s not a guy who gives a shit unless it benefits him in some way. He’s cocky, selfish, he was a dickhead to you for, like, as long as I’ve known him.”

You sigh, looking back to your sandwich. 

Max narrows his eyes at your hesitation. “Don’t tell me there’s something going on.”

“There’s not,” You say it fast, too fast, and you’re gripping the butterknife so hard that your knuckles turn white. 

He tilts his head to the side, eyebrows still drawn together as he connects the dots. “You like him?”

“No.” Lie.

Max shakes his head, running a hand along his jaw as he scoffs like the mere idea of you having feelings for his best friend was some sort of betrayal. “For fucks sake. This is exactly what he does, he gets into your head.”

“People change.” You mumble, not daring to look up at your brother.

Max lets out a humorless chuckle. “Not Lando.” 

You don’t say anything, you can’t. Deep down you know he’s right— Lando’s not the type to do relationships. He doesn’t stick to just one girl, you’ve heard him talk to Max about at least four different girls within the same week. You knew it was so wrong, but last night felt so right.

“I swear to God if—” He takes a deep breath and calms his voice, though it’s still laced with aggression when he says, “if he touches you, if he so much as thinks you’re someone to be played with—”

“Max, nothing happened,” the lie slips past your lips so easily that it scares you. “He drove me home. That’s it.”

He gives you one last glance before picking up his car keys from the basket on the kitchen island and walking towards the front door. He opens it, and just before he leaves, he pokes his head out to look at you again. “I’ll be back late, there’s money on my desk for dinner. Make sure to eat and, for fucks sake, take off that fucking hoodie.”

The door slams shut and you pull the sleeves of Lando’s hoodie into your palms, rubbing them together as if it’ll bring you any sort of comfort. Instead it just makes you more worried— an angry Max is a force to be reckoned with and you pray to whoever’s above that Lando can handle it.

Lando can feel Max’s eyes burning into him, despite being under a car.

They’re in the garage, the scent of motor oil and gasoline lingering in the warm air. Max leans back against a workbench, energy drink in hand, while Lando lays on a mechanic creeper and keeps his hands busy or else he’d be fiddling with his fingers and that’s something Max always notices.

He pulls himself from under the car just enough to reach a hand out. “Wrench.”

Max drops it into his hand with added force. “So, you wanna tell me about last night?”

Lando pulls himself fully from under the car, but just as he tries to get up, he bumps his forehead against the undercarriage. “Fuck,” he rubs the hurt skin as he sits up. “What about it?”

“Don’t play dumb with me, Lando.” Max’s jaw tightens. “My sister came home at two in the morning and I woke up to your car outside my house.” 

Lando exhales, getting up from the ground as he wipes his hands on the fabric hanging from his hips. He always worked shirtless with only a flannel tied around his waist and his work jeans on. “She called me for a ride, I picked her up.”

Max tilts his head, accusatory, before taking a sip of his drink. “That’s it?” 

“That’s it.” Lando shrugs, trying his best to hide what he truly feels. He’s fucking terrified of Max, because he knows one wrong word could mean Max socking Lando right in the jaw, no hesitation. 

“She came home in your hoodie,” Max points out. 

Lando lays back down on the mechanic creeper after getting what he needed and goes back under the car. “She was cold,” he says, casually.

“You don’t just give people your hoodie.” 

Lando peeks his head out with a raised brow and a teasing smirk on his face. “What, you jealous or something?”

“You’re not funny.” Max glares at him, unamused.

The curly-haired man disappeared again, working on the suspension system of his older car. “You used to think I was hilarious.”

“Yeah, well, I used to think you weren’t a fucking problem, too.” Max hisses, again pacing the small space of Lando’s garage. “What are you doing, man?”

“What does it look like?” Lando pokes his head out again, confused, wrench in hand.

“It looks like you’re getting too close to my sister.”

Lando clenches his jaw, pulling himself back up from under the car, this time making sure not to hit his head. “I’m not.”

“I don’t buy it.” Max shrugs simply, anger, frustration and betrayal still radiating off of him.

Lando decides he’s done for the day and picks up his tools from the ground, walking over to his workbench. “She needed a ride home, so I drove her home. That’s all.”

Max studies him for a few seconds, trying to find something, anything, beneath the nonchalance that Lando was trying so hard to upkeep. Lando made sure there was nothing at surface level for Max to find.

Because if Max—if anyone— knew that something shifted in Lando that night, that something’s been shifting for way longer than Lando’s willing to admit, Max wouldn’t be standing here making civil conversation— he’d be throwing punches.

“It better fucking be all.” Max hisses again. “You keep your distance. She’s not some random girl you can mess with whenever you please.”

Lando’s stomach twists, like he didn’t already know you were more than just a girl. Lando couldn’t bring himself to say anything other than, “don’t worry, mate. She’s not my type.”

Max doesn’t say anything for a while, just stares at Lando with a look that makes something inside Lando’s chest feel heavy, and walks away.

You’re peacefully scrolling on your phone, watching the newest internet drama, when you hear two knocks on your door, and then another one a few seconds later. You recognised it to be Lando’s knock, the same one he’d do on Max’s door to let him know it was him and not you at his door, back when Max did everything in his power not to spend time with you.

You get up from your bed, feeling how Lando’s hoodie falls down to your mid-thighs when you stand, and open the door. Your eyes widen when it is, in fact, Lando that’s knocking. You grab him by the collar of his shirt and pull him inside your room, peeking your head out to check if anyone saw him. Thankfully, the coast is clear. 

“Are you crazy?” You shut the door behind yourself and turn to look at the curly-haired brunette in your room. “You could’ve got caught.”

Lando steps closer, hands finding their place on your waist while his lips make home at the cusp of your shoulder and neck. “Had to see you,” he mumbles between sloppy kisses to your skin.

Your breath shudders. “Max is downstairs.”

“He’s on a call, ordering food. I have maybe five minutes.”

You push him away, a questioning look on your face. “And you thought the best use of those five minutes was to sneak into my room?” 

Lando grins. “Obviously.”

You shake your head, trying to fight the smile as Lando leans in. “You’re insane,” you mumble against his lips. 

“I’m starting to think you like that about me.”

His hands trail up your thighs, under the hoodie—his hoodie—and up your bare belly. He’s trying to not rush you, to take time and explore this with you. It’s new, for the both of you, and Lando would hate himself if he ruined it just because he’s so eager to have you.

Your back is pressed against the door and you’re softly mumbling sweet nothings into Lando’s mouth when you hear footsteps nearing up the stairs. Both of you freeze, unsure of what to do. Your eyes quickly scan over your room and you immediately shove Lando towards your closet door when you land your gaze on it. Once he’s all hidden, you quickly jump onto your bed, cover yourself with your blanket and try to act as casual as possible.

There’s a knock at your door and then Max peeks his head inside. “You good?”

“Yeah?” You lift your head, resting it against your palm as you lean on your elbow. “Why?”

Max does a quick once-over of your room. “Thought I heard voices.”

“Oh, it’s probably just my phone,” you pick it up from underneath you and wave it in the air. “Do you remember that one super annoying couple?”

Max leans against your doorframe, curious. “Yeah?” He studied the look on your face as you typed something into your phone. “Wait, no way. Did they break up?”

He’s now stepping into your room, sitting down at the foot of your bed as he patiently waits for you to show him. “Fucking finally,” Max laughs when the video ends. “I gotta tell Lando, we made a bet on how long they’ll last, and he lost.”

“Aw, Lando had faith in those two?” You tilt your head to the side, briefly glancing at the closet as you fail at holding back your giggle. “That’s unusual.”

“I know right? That guy barely has faith in anything.” Max gets back up and starts walking out of your room. “Oh, by the way, have you seen him?”

“Hm?” You glance back up from your phone. “Oh, Lando? Is he over?”

“Yeah, we’re watching the race downstairs.” 

“I didn’t know,” you shrug. “Haven’t seen him.”

Max looks at you with narrowed eyes, like he wants to ask something but doesn’t bother. “Alright. We ordered food, come down in 10 if you want some.”

“Cool, thanks.” You shout to him as he closes the door behind himself. You wait another ten seconds before quietly making your way to the closet.

Lando stood in the corner of it, arms folded, scowling. “You owe me for this,” he mutters.

You snort. “Apparently you owe Max, too.”

“Hey, in my defence, the guy talked to me about marrying her and I was rooting for him.” He steps out of the closet, hands immediately on you again.

You giggle, feeling him kiss your neck. “Next time, let’s not make out with my brother ten feet away.

Lando leans in, lips brushing your ear. “Next time, I’m locking the door.”

It’s been a long day at university and you were feeling tired.

What’s worse is that you had to go study for an upcoming test and couldn’t afford to skip another day, so you lazily stepped down the stairs at the front of the facility and heaved a sigh, looking down at your phone. Suddenly, it buzzed with a notification from someone you didn’t expect to hear from.

Lando: Look up.

You lift your eyes, confused, and that’s when you see his sleek, black car, him leaning against the side of it with a soft smile on his face when you see him. He opens his arms and you carefully run across the street to envelop him in a hug. “What are you doing here?”

“Thought I could drive you home.” He pressed his lips to your forehead. “Unless, of course, you’d prefer to walk.”

You playfully slap his arm and place your head back on his chest. “Thank you,” you mutter. 

The drive to your house is quiet, but not awkward. Lando can tell you’re tired from school and he softly places his hand on your thigh, kneading the skin to try and comfort you in the only way he knew how. You could tell he was trying his best to show his affection to you in ways he wasn’t used to– the other day, he called you late at night and asked how your day went, intently listening to every detail you told him. He memorised your coffee order from that time and bought you coffee, that’s now peacefully sitting on your desk, in your room, as you and Lando make out on your bed.

“When does Max get home?” Lando asks, hastily, between kisses to your exposed chest. 

Your fingers are palming the curls at the base of his neck as Lando leaves faint hickeys along your breast. “He said later tonight.”

Lando continues to trail kisses down your torso, pausing at the waistband of your sweatpants. He looks up at you without a word, but as if to ask if it’s okay for him to go further, to not hold back in fear of breaking you. You reach down and untie the drawstring of your pants, watching as Lando’s fingers gently hook underneath the waistband and pull your sweatpants down, fully off of your body. 

You feel bare, exposed, but it’s not intimidating like you thought it’d be. Lando was gentle with you, placing soft bites followed by tender kisses to your thighs, inching closer to where you needed him the most. Your hips buckled upwards, urging Lando to do something to help the ache between your legs.

Just as he’s hooking his fingers under the waistband of your pink underwear, you hear the front door open. Lando immediately rises to his feet and bolts across the hall to Max’s room, pretending that he was waiting for him there to begin with. You lift your head confused and hear Max climbing up the stairs. You manage to shut the door before he reaches it and you rest with your back against it. 

“You in there?” Max knocks once on your door and you hold your breath.

You quickly pick up whatever clothes you can find on your floor and tug them on before opening your bedroom door, face flushed. “Yeah? What’s up?”

“What’s Lando’s car doing in the driveway?” He crosses his arms over his chest, looking at you with suspicion riddled across his features. 

“Oh,” you swallow, harshly. “Uh, I don’t know. He’s in your room if you want to ask him yourself.”

Max gives you a narrow-eyed look, trying to notice anything odd about your appearance. He peeks his head into the crevice of your door and looks around your room, before walking away and you finally let out the breath you were holding, shutting the door behind yourself.

Meanwhile, Lando was sprawled out onto the couch in Max’s room, scrolling through his phone. When Max walked in, Lando sat up. “Hey, you ready to go?”

“Go where?” Max furrows his brows and when Lando mimics a drinking action, Max remembers. “Fuck, the party.”

A few hours later, Lando found himself nursing a glass bottle of non-alcoholic beer on the couch in Lauren’s home.

Lauren was a mutual friend of yours too, so when Max offered you to join him and Lando, you happily agreed. Although, you didn’t account for how hard it’d be not to blab to Lauren about you and Lando’s newly found feelings. She’s telling you something about her current boyfriend, who you failed to find in the crowd, but pretended like you did. In reality, you were looking at Lando. You were admiring the way his black t-shirt hugged his skin tighter around his biceps, the way his curls poked out of his maroon cap and the way the lights from the other rooms cast a perfect shadow on his side-profile.

Meanwhile, he tried his best not to look at you, because Max was right across from him and turning his head would mean Max would follow suit. Instead, Lando watches the other people in the room. He makes the grave mistake of looking at this one girl, Madeline, twice within a few minutes and she took it as a sign to seat herself next to him.

“Hey,” she bites her bottom lip, holding back a smile. “Don’t think we’ve officially met, I’m Madeline.” 

“Nice to meet you,” Lando gives her a faux smile and turns back to reading the label on his beer bottle. It seemed to be much more interesting to look at than the girl touching his arm. 

Madeline tilts her head with a laugh. “I won’t get to hear your name?” 

Lando briefly looks up at Max, who’s standing across the room and urging Lando to smoothly talk his way into Madeline’s pants. He rolls his eyes and looks away, again. “Lando,” he grumbles.

“Lando,” she repeats, seductive. “Nice name.” 

Lando gives her a side-eyed look. “…thanks?” 

She bites her bottom lip again, trying to lure him in, throwing the bait but Lando isn’t biting. He’s uninterested, because each time he looks at Madeline, his eyes drift to the girl standing in the room behind her— you. You’re talking to Lauren, laughing at something she said as you nurse your red solo cup. 

When Madeline leans in, so close to Lando’s ear that her breath fanning against his skin makes it erupt in goosebumps, he feels nauseous. “Wanna go upstairs? There’s a condom in the drawer with your name on it.”

By this point, Max has come close enough to hear the conversation and nudges Lando’s shoulder when he notices the hesitation. Lando looks up at his friend with a confused look. Max’s eyes flicker between Lando and Madeline when he says, “I’ll save your seat for you.”

Madeline smiles at Max’s attempt to help before softly hooking her finger under Lando’s chin and turning him to face her. “So?”

Lando snorts at the thought that just flashed in his mind. “Y’know, Max’s name is also on most condoms, why don’t you take him upstairs instead?”

Lando watches as Madeline grimaces, looking at the two guys before mumbling something incoherent and walking away. The curly-haired man’s eyes immediately fall to you, leaving Max under the impression that Lando’s watching Madeline walk away. 

When Lando looks back at Max, he’s met with a scowl. “What?” He shrugs his shoulders and raises his hands, ready to defend himself against Max’s judgement.

Max sits down on the coffee table in front of Lando, quoting something Lando had said months ago. “Oh, I’d tap that.” He puts on an accent that mimics Lando’s one, but in a way that’s clearly mocking his best friend’s words. 

Lando pinches the bridge of his nose, not sure how to get himself out of this one. “That was ages ago.”

“Isn’t she, like, the epitome of your type?” Max recalls another thing Lando had said late at night in his garage. Lando had, in fact, said that Madeline was exactly his type, but that was back before he tapped into his feelings for you. 

Lando shrugs before he takes another swig of his beer. “Not anymore.”

Max gives him one last look, clearly confused by how Lando could reject Madeline, of all people. “You’re fucking weird, dude,” he says over the neck of his beer bottle and walks away to find something else to drink. 

It’s a few minutes before Lando decides that it’s safe to move from his seat, making a beeline to where he last saw you. The kitchen is empty of your presence, only the faint smell of your perfume lingering in the air. He pulls out his phone to text you and just as he clicks on your contact, he hears familiar laughter coming from the next room. 

He finds you leaning against the doorframe to the dining room, still talking to the girl from before. Lauren locks eyes with Lando and nudges towards him with her chin while looking at you. “I’ll see you later,” she squeezes your elbow and walks away. 

You feel Lando’s touch on your skin before he even gets the chance to talk. It’s darker in this room, less people, higher chances of getting caught— but that’s what makes it more exciting. 

You turn around, back to the nearest wall as Lando leans against the doorframe, mimicking you just moments ago. He crosses his arms over his chest, biceps bulging and drawing your attention. “Smooth move earlier,” you mutter with a little teasing glint in your eye. 

He huffed a laugh. “She was being persistent.”

“Thought she was your type?” You ask, trying to sound casual but it comes out more desperate than intended. Lando gave you a look, small smile and raised eyebrows, as he took a swig of his drink.

After a moment of him checking you out, he mutters, “not anymore.”

“Yeah?” You looked at him with a raised brow. “What’s your type then?”

Lando steps closer to you, hand immediately cupped against your jaw, fingers between your hair as he pulls you in. “I think we both know.” 

His breath fans over your face as he leans in to kiss you, his free hand placing the empty beer bottle on the fireplace next to you. Just as his lips are about to touch yours, someone slams the bathroom door and both of you jump at the sound. 

Both of you turn to look at the direction of the sound, only to be met with a guy stumbling out of the room. Lando drops his head as a laugh of relief leaves his lips. 

He looks around again, cautious, alert. Then, when his green eyes focus on your face again, his pupils dilate just the smallest bit, but you notice it. Lando nudges his head behind him, “meet me out back in ten?”

You nod, biting your bottom lip and he walks off, disappearing somewhere between the drunk crowd of people. 

The ten minutes before you sneak out to see Lando go by slower than anticipated. To pass the time, you decided to tour the house, as if you’ve never been there before— you loiter around the hallways, admiring everything picture and painting on the wall. 

“Oh, hey,” Max’s voice startles you just as you start looking for where the door to the backyard is. “Have you seen Lando?” 

“No?” You furrow your brows, trying to act as confused and offended as possible. “Why would I have seen him?” 

“I don’t know, that’s why I’m asking.” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Anyway, if you see him, tell him to check his damn phone.” 

You watch your brother storm off, heading upstairs and when he’s out of your line of sight, you bolt towards the living room. You squeeze past the numerous people in your way and try your best to find the door to the backyard. 

When you finally step out into the night, the cold air hitting your arms as soon as you do, Lando’s leaning against the wall by the door, in the shadow. 

“You sure no one followed you?” Lando reaches out his hand and you take it, following him behind the side of the house. 

You scoff, “you think I don’t know how to sneak around by now?”

He presses you against the wall, lips immediately on your neck. “Touche.”

The night envelops you two in a blanket of darkness, coolth and risk. Lando kisses down your neck to your shoulder, leaving mild hickeys that’ll go away in a few hours. When his lips find home on yours again, you let your fingers get lost in the curls at the nape of his neck and he pulls you in closer with a gentle hand on your jaw. 

There’s a rustling at the door to the backyard but neither of you are bothered enough to pause and check what it is. It’s only when Max’s voice cuts through the night that both of you halt your movements. “Oh, there you are.”

Lando turns to face Max, using his body to shield you from your brother while they talk. “Yeah? Kinda busy here, mate.”

“I was just gonna ask if you could get my sister home later, I’m going out with Mason for a few hours.” Max spins his house keys on his finger before throwing them towards Lando, and the curly-haired man in front of you catches it with no problem. “You can crash on the couch in my room if you want.”

“Alright, see you.” Lando says with an urgency in his voice that Max takes as a sign. Your brother winks at Lando before disappearing back inside the house. “Christ,” Lando rests his head on your shoulder as he takes a few breaths, adrenaline pumping through his veins at what could’ve gone so wrong so quickly.

“Did he see?” You ask, cautiously glaring over the corner of the house to check if Max was truly gone.

Lando pulled away, his face perfectly illuminated from the left side by the glowing porch light and fairy-lights that adorned the fence behind him. “I hope not or else I’m a dead man.”

“If it makes you feel better, you’d be a handsome corpse.” 

The walk back to your home is short, the cold night enveloping you in a secure sense of calm. 

Lando’s warm hand in yours kept you grounded, meanwhile the stars in the sky built your hope up. Your house comes into view and Lando swings the keys in his hand, whistling a tune only he knew the melody of. 

He unlocked the door and as soon as you heard it click shut, his lips were on yours. You barely made it up the stairs and into your bedroom, tumbling over each other and giggling at the mumbled curse words falling from his lips. 

Once in your room, Lando doesn’t bother to close the door. He’s too focused on how good his hands feel on your hips, how your soft whimpers vibrate in your throat before escaping through the space in your kiss and how long he’s been waiting for this moment. 

It all happens in a blur— one second you’re at your bedroom door, the next you’re laying with your back pressed against your mattress, Lando hovering above you, trailing kisses down your shoulder as he unzips the jacket he gave you and pulls it off your body. 

You’re exposed, nervous and unable to speak when Lando suckles on the skin atop your ribs. His lips burn into each crevice of your flesh, hands heating your hips as they envelop the skin, eyelids closed shut with fluttering eyelashes on his cheeks. 

Lando kisses you like he’s worshipping you— he’s gentle, cautious, exploring your body like it’s a temple and he’s blessed to be allowed to even look at you. 

His tongue runs along the space between your breasts, peppering kisses as he wraps them around your neck, trails them along your jaw until he reaches your lips. Lando kisses you with urgency, with hunger and deep-seated yearning that etched itself into your bones. 

You felt how badly he needed you, how large his hunger had grown, how intensely his craving for you radiated off of his tan skin. 

He’s sloppily kissing your lips, fingers inching closer to the waistband of your panties when he pulls away. “Tell me to stop and I will.” 

“Don’t stop,” you breathe against his lips, barely managing to get a word out before he’s tugging them off of you. 

Both of you are so enveloped in each other, so caught up in the moment, that neither of you notice him in the doorway. 

“What the actual fuck are you doing?” Max’s voice trembles through the room. Lando pulls away from you, eyes wide and glossy, lips parted in a gasp. The hands you had tangled in his curls were desperately trying to find something to cover your body with. You landed on the jacket Lando pulled off of you earlier. 

You’re too focused on not breaking into tears that you don’t notice how close Lando and Max are standing. 

“Tell me this isn’t happening. Tell me you weren’t fucking my sister.” Max’s rageful tone lumbers a fire in his chest that’s only growing bigger with each second he watches the scene in front of him— you, pulling the jacket closer to yourself as you try to get decent and Lando standing shirtless in front of Max, lips puffy from kissing you. It makes Max’s blood boil. 

Lando runs a hand through his hair, taking a breath like he’s trying to come up with something to say— like there’s anything he could say that would make this better. “Max—“

“No, don’t say my fucking name like you haven’t crossed every boundary I’ve set.” Max pushes Lando’s chest.

You watch the fight unfold— Max’s eyes burning into Lando’s, betrayal, anger and hurt painted all over his face. Lando was standing calmly, alarmed but he kept it at bay. 

Lando doesn’t hold back. “I love her.”

The breath in your throat catches and tears prick your eyes as soon as the words leave his lips. Max freezes for a second, long enough for the words to land, hard and heavy. And then—

He swings. Hard.

The punch lands square on Lando’s jaw with a sickening crack. You gasp, standing to your feet almost immediately, but Lando barely stumbles— he wipes the blood from the corner from his mouth and stands upright, rolling his shoulders. 

“You think that makes it better?” Max says. “You think loving her gives you the right to sneak around like this? And you couldn’t come to me? Not a single fucking word.” 

“You wouldn’t have understood,” Lando’s breath is steady, voice sharp. “You never would’ve let me. I was trying to protect what we have.” 

“We?” Max huffs out a humorless laugh. “What about her? You think she needs some arrogant asshole sneaking her around like a fucking coward?” 

“I’m not a coward.” Lando exhales through his nose. “And I’d take a hundred more punches from you than hide this for another day.” 

Max’s fist twitches, like he’s going to hit Lando again, but he doesn’t. His eyes snap to you. “And you just let him? Him, of all fucking peop—“

“She didn’t let me do anything.” Lando cuts in, his tone harsher now that the blame shifted to you. “She chose me just like I chose her. So if you’re going to hate someone, hate me, but leave her out of this.” 

The silence that follows is deafening. 

You’re standing, tears falling down your cheeks. Lando’s still bleeding down his chin, but he doesn’t care— all he cares about now is that Max doesn’t lash out on you for no reason. 

Max’s eyes flicker between the two of you. They’re filled with fury, betrayal, hurt. But mostly confusion. 

Lando reaches his hand out to you as he speaks again, “I didn’t come here to hurt you. But I won’t apologise for loving her.” 

His heart is pounding. He didn’t expect to confess to both the Fewtrell siblings in one night. 

Max just stares at him, jaw clenched so hard like it might snap. “Get out,” he finally said. Not shouting, not loud, just final.

Lando glances at you for permission, fear flashing across his face as if he was asking if this was it. You nod slowly, squeezing his hand three times— one for each word of i love you. “Just give me a moment, okay?” 

He nods, muttering a quiet okay and watches as you lead Max out of your room into the hallway.

 

And now it’s just the two of you. The Max Storm isn’t over, but it hangs above you like a calm thundercloud now. You knew he couldn’t be as upset with you as he pretended to be. 

You saw past his furrowed brows and deep inside, somewhere between his ribcage, was the same boy you grew alongside with, collecting rocks and sticks to make a mud cake. 

Max doesn’t say anything for a while. He just stands there, eyes closed, head resting against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest. 

“Do you remember the treehouse?” You test the waters, standing across from him with your back against the wall. You couldn’t bring yourself to look at him. 

Max sighs. “What about it?” 

“I used to hide out there when you were upset with me.” You admit. “All the heart carvings were me. But the stars on the floor of it were Lando.”

Max’s head snaps up, eyes reading your face. “What?” 

“Yeah,” you laugh a little. “He found me there when looking for you and I was crying. I was like, I dunno, thirteen or fourteen. He climbed up without a word, sat down next to me and started carving.” 

“Why is this relevant?” 

You sigh. “He’s not an arrogant asshole to me when we’re alone.”

“That’s not-“ Max drops his hands, his shoulders sinking. “You’re my sister. I’m supposed to protect you.” 

Your bottom lip quivers as you try your best to keep your composure and to not crack under the weight of your brother’s anger. “I didn’t need you to protect me from him. He listens to me, he– he waits. He’s different, Max, and you just refuse to see it.”

Max runs both his hands down his face, turning his eyes towards the hallway— he can’t get himself to look at you. “Do you love him?”

You inhale sharply, the question catching you off guard. And then, softly, as if you’d crumble as soon as you said it: “Yes.”

That’s what breaks him. Not the intimacy, not the secrecy, but the quiet, unshakeable truth in your affirmation of the one thing he was always most scared of.

He nods once, not shaking the intimidating older brother demeanor, even though he knows you see right through it. “You’re serious about him.”

“I am.” You bite the inside of your cheek, anxiety coursing through your veins faster than the adrenaline of being caught by your brother, in bed with his best friend.

“And him?” Max nods his head towards the door, clenching his jaw at the indirect mention of Lando. “He better be serious about you, too, or else I swear to–”

“He is,” you finish before he can even start threatening Lando. “He’s more serious than I imagined. Maybe even more serious than me. You just– You have to give him a chance, Max.”

Your brother just stands there, a shell of himself compared to how excited he was earlier this evening, at Mason’s party. You worry this will affect your relationship, both with Lando and with Max, and you can’t help but break into a quiet cry. 

You use the sleeve to wipe away a tear off your jaw. “Do you… Do you hate me?”

Max’s shoulders immediately drop, his voice softer. “I could never hate you.”

You swallow hard, nodding your head. “I’m sorry it happened this way.”

He lets out a sad laugh. “Yeah, didn’t expect to lose my best friend tonight.”

You immediately reach out to touch Max’s arm, about to open your mouth to try and better the situation between them, but before you can even mumble a word, Max is pulling away and walking down the stairs. “I need time. I’ll be at Mason’s.” He says as he steps down the last stair, and you stand at the top of them, listening.

The front door closes shut. There’s no slam, just a quiet close of the red, wooden door. It somehow breaks you more than if he had slammed it shut.

Lando waits patiently on your bed, using his T-shirt as a wipe, trying his best to get the drying blood off of his chin. When the door to your bedroom opens, his eyes immediately flash to you and he can tell it didn’t go well. 

Lando closes the distance between you two almost immediately, discarding his bloody shirt to the floor as his arms wrap around you, warm, like home. “Are you okay?” He murmurs against your hair.

You nod with your face still pressed against his chest, fingers curling around him and settling on being lazily draped on his waist. “I will be. Are you?”

His chest rises underneath you, the events of that night hanging heavy in the air around you. “Took a punch to the jaw from my best friend, so… Not exactly my best night. But you’re here with me, that’s all I need.” 

You pull away enough to look up at him, enough to notice the purpling bruise on his jaw and the split in his lip. Guilt coils itself deep inside your stomach. “I’m so sorry,” you whisper, tears pricking your eyes again. 

“Don’t,” he cups your jaw, thumb softly caressing your skin before he pulls you close again, his cheek resting against the crown of your head. “You don’t have to apologise, not for any of it.”

After a few deep breaths and another two minutes of just standing there, holding each other, you pull away. Lando’s heart breaks at the tear stains on your cheeks, but you ignore his sad expression and mutter, “let me clean you up.” 

Lando stands in front of you as you sit on the cupboard, next to the sink, his hands on either side of your spread legs as he stands between them. 

You’re dabbing a cotton pad soaked in antiseptic onto the cut on his lip. “Hold still,” you order him and he raises a brow. 

“Yes, ma’am.” 

You give him a look. “Not the time.”

“Okay,” you dab the cotton against his lip again and he winces in pain, but stays still. “Fuck, it stings.”

“Well, you did get punched.” You point out the obvious, shaking your head with disappointment. “You’re such an idiot.”

The irony of your words doesn’t get lost on Lando— he said the same thing to you months ago, when he drove you home from the party. 

“I know,” he shrugs. “Worth it though.” 

“Yeah?” You ask, a little bit in disbelief. “Getting punched by my brother is worth it?”

Lando puts his hands on your waist, sending shivers up your spine. “If it meant I get to be with you, I’d let him punch me a million times more.”

You roll your eyes, biting back a smile as you continue working on cleaning him up. “You’re lucky I haven’t punched you myself.” 

“Fair,” he grins and tries his best to hold as still as he can. His fingers dig into your skin as a way to keep himself at bay, and with the weight of his touch, you weren’t sure if he was holding back just because of the pain anymore. 

A moment passes— one in which Lando can’t stop looking at your focused face and you try your best not to get too flustered because of it. Your brain has been running a mile a minute since Max caught you and it only now had time to process what actually happened.

“You said you loved me.” You say, cautiously, like you’re scared he’ll tell you he didn’t mean it. That was your biggest worry at that moment— Lando just saying things, not knowing if he meant it. 

“Yeah,” he says it so casually, like his words were weightless. “I did.” 

You halt your movements, dropping your hands into your lap as you look anywhere but at him. “Did you mean it or was it something you said to calm Max down?” 

Lando laughs a little. “If I wanted to calm him down, I wouldn’t have said that.” 

You bite your bottom lip with anxiety and nod, “right.” 

He narrows his eyes, pushing his palms onto the counter as his head dips a bit to see you better. “I meant it,” he says after a moment. “It might’ve not been the ideal way to tell you, but it’s true.”

You place your head on his shoulder, still not looking up at him. The drawstring of his sweatpants gets pulled into your grasp as you fidget with it, not sure if you should ask this, but you do. “How long have you known?”

“I don’t know,” his voice is soft, as if he was afraid of being heard. “It just kinda snuck up on me one day and hasn’t left me ever since.”

You nod, pulling yourself up to continue working on his lip. “Okay.”

“That’s all you’re gonna say?” Lando tilts his head to the side, much like a small, confused puppy would. 

“It’s a lot to process,” you shrug, eyes so focused on his lips that you don’t notice his eyes so glued on your face. “I need a minute.”

“That’s okay.” He smiles, hands finding their place on your hips again. “Take your time, I’m not going anywhere.”

“And you should probably not say that around Max anymore.”

Lando licks his lips with a laugh. “Duly noted. You gonna kiss me or keep playing nurse?”

You raise a brow, finally looking at him— his green eyes are no longer hinting at the sadness of the fight he had with Max and rather a glint of something brighter shines in them, something you’ve noticed only happens when he’s looking at you. 

“Let the lip heal first.” You kiss his cheek but Lando won’t settle for that. 

He cups your chin, softly yet firmly turning you to look at him. “Fuck the lip, I want to kiss my girl.” 

That’s when it comes. 

The moment you two had been dreaming of, yet every time it got close, something got in the way. Lando’s hands traveled from your hips to your jacket, unzipping it to reveal your bare body again. 

“So fuckin’ pretty,” he mumbled against your lips, ignoring the stinging of the cut on his bottom one. No amount of injury would keep him away from you. 

You wrapped your arms around his neck, drawing him in closer. The way he kissed you was addicting— with every passing second it felt like his lips became more of a lifeline for you, like if he were to pull away right now, you’d feel a part of you go missing. 

Your nails softly traced formless shapes in his scalp, sending shivers down his spine as his lips left hickeys beside the ones he had decorated you with earlier. 

His hands settle on your thighs, slowly inching closer and when he triggers a spot on your skin that was particularly sensitive to his touch, your knees try to close but hit his hips instead. He pulled you closer to the edge of the sink, his hold on you so careful like he might break you. 

His lips are still on your neck when he mutters, “wrap your legs around me.” 

You do as told, wrapping your legs around his waist and your arms around his neck as he picks you up, carrying you across the hall to your bedroom. He lays you on the bed again— the door shut this time— wasting no time as he unties his sweatpants. 

You don’t notice him reach over to the drawer of your nightstand, taking out the condom he slipped in from his jacket right when Max came into your room. All hell would’ve broken loose if it had somehow fallen out of the jacket when you wore it. 

You feel him pressing against you and another second passes before you’re gasping at him pushing into you, filling you up. “I know,” he coos, lips softly peppering kisses down your jaw. “You can take it.”

Lando stills his hips for a second, not moving as you take time to adjust. The excitement and anticipation grows so big in your belly that it jolts your hips slightly upwards, making Lando groan at the feeling. 

“I’ll move a bit, yeah?” He looks into your eyes, pushing away the hair that fell messily onto your forehead. 

You nod your head and he pulls out. Immediately, you feel the need for more, for him. When Lando pushes his tip past your folds again, setting a slow rhythm, you whimper softly against his mouth. Lando can’t help but moan quietly, the feeling of your walls around his cock being better than he ever imagined. 

Those nights of his hand wrapped around his length, your name spilling from his lips as he came undone on his own chest were nothing like having you— a whimpering mess— underneath him. 

He speeds up just the smallest bit, adding more force to his thrusts, and rolls his hips anytime they make contact with yours. The sound of skin-on-skin contact and shy moans fills the room. 

Lando’s necklace dangles in your face and, for some odd reason, it turns you on even more. Your hips jut against his and you mutter, “faster.”

The sound of your voice when he’s thrusting into you made Lando come closer to the edge. He speeds up again, fingers digging so deeply into your hips that he was sure would leave a mark. 

You gasp at the feeling of him pulling your hips up towards him with every thrust, your eyes squeezed shut as your mouth parted, loud moans bouncing off the walls of the room. 

“You look so pretty like this,” he kissed your jaw, softly biting down on the skin to earn more pretty sounds from you.

Every word you try to say gets drowned out by your moans or muted by Lando kissing you, and then you feel the pleasure build up so quickly that you’re unable to tell him when you come undone. Lando felt your walls pulse around him tighter and knew to keep the pace, thrusting into you as deeply as he could. 

“Look at me,” he ordered, eyes already looking at your closed ones. When your pupils meet his, you feel him reach down between your bodies and gently rub your clit. “Y’gonna cum on my cock, baby? Hm?”

Tears prick your eyes as Lando speeds up the tiniest amount, drilling into you with all he’s got as his right middle finger draws circles on your aching bud. And then, with a breathy moan, Lando feels you come undone. 

He thrusts a little more, reaching for his high with his lips pressed to your shoulder. You feel a warmth inside you before Lando stills. 

The next few minutes are of you two just laying in each other's embrace, not moving— aside from your fingers in Lando’s hair and his fingers drawing circles on your hips— and simply soaking in the calm after the storm.

It’s been two days since Max’s knuckles made friends with Lando’s jaw.

Mason found it quite funny— he never really liked Lando to begin with, so hearing that he fucked up in Max’s eyes made him that much more motivated to add fuel to the fire. He sat on the couch in his living room, watching as Max played some video game on the playstation. 

Another twenty minutes of uninterrupted gameplay passes before Max’s phone buzzes in his pocket. He’s so focused on the game that he doesn’t even check who’s calling, assumes it’s you, and presses the green button before putting the device up to his ear. “Hello?”

“Hey,” Lando’s voice cuts through Max’s focus on the game. He immediately pauses it, rage building in his chest. 

Max takes a breath, trying to calm down before answering. “What do you want?” 

“I’m thinking of breaking up with her.” 

Max feels his heart drop to his heels. He’s what? 

On the other end of the call, Lando’s got his head in his hands as his phone lays atop his knee. He’s in his car, the already small space getting even smaller as his shallow exhales fill the air. 

He’s parked outside your house where, just five minutes ago, he left you peacefully sleeping.  

Over the last two days he had spent with you— all the slow dancing in the kitchen, the breaths bouncing off each other’s faces from being so close in the morning, the moments where his hands traversed your body like it was land unknown to anyone else but him— Lando realised that maybe he could do this forever. 

And that scared him. 

He’s always been a free man— going wherever he pleases whenever he wants, having no responsibility for anyone else other than himself— but now there’s you. 

Lando’s life feels like it’s split into two parts. The part before you seems free, fun, inviting yet gloomy. Like there’s an essential element of it that’s just missing, thus making his existence in that time seem like exactly that— existing. 

The part after you, though, that part is what’s so new yet scary to him. Rather than existing through his days, he lives them because of you. 

It’s a lot more domestic, this life— waking up in tangled sheets, making and burning pancakes in the morning as soft music spills from the speakers, sitting tangled on the couch as you read a book and Lando played a game on Max’s console. He’s not sure what happened for it to feel so wrong when everything was going so well. 

This morning, Lando watched you sleep. So serene, solemn and still. Your bare chest rose and fell with steady breaths, soft snores lingering at the back of your throat every once in a while. 

He stayed like that— propped up on his elbow, eyes tracing over every inch of your face— until the weight in his chest felt like his ribs were breaking. 

As he was getting dressed, he questioned it. He loves you— hell, he’s loved you for years, but he was too stupid to realise it sooner— and he knows you’re the girl he wants, so why is he running?

He’s quietly making his way down the stairs when he realises that maybe Max was right. Max made it clear that Lando wasn’t the guy for you, that you deserve much better, and while Lando disagreed with it before, he feels like it’s true.

He spent the majority of his later teens and early adulthood with more women than he could count on one hand, not a single one of them made him question his feelings, because there weren’t any. 

But now, with you sleeping soundly upstairs and him standing by the open front door, Lando realises that maybe somewhere in the middle of your blooming relationship, he got too caught up in the delusion to face reality— you deserve someone who won’t walk out on you while you’re asleep. 

For the past five minutes, Lando sat in the driver's seat, clutching the wheel so hard that his knuckles turned white. He didn’t want to call Max about this, but he was the only person in the world that Lando trusted and it was worth a shot. 

“You what?” Max’s voice rang in Lando’s ears. “Are you out of your fucking mind?” 

“You were right, I– I’m not the guy for her.” Lando’s voice sounded so flat that it made Max worried, just the tiniest bit. “She deserves better.”

“Mate, if it’s about what I said, I’ll fucking get over it eventually.” Max is now pacing around Mason’s living room while the blond man just watches him, a glimmer of hope in his eye that Max failed to catch. “But her? She’ll never get over you, Lando.”

“You don’t know that, Max.”

Max inhales sharply, as if he was just about to spew a string of insults at Lando but chose to take the calmer approach. “I do know that, she’s so fucking in love with you that it makes me sick. Do you realise how much you walking out will fuck her up?”

“I thought that’s what you wanted,” Lando’s starting his car now, still hesitant to turn the key. “It’s what’s best for her.”

“Since when do you decide that?” Max huffs a humorless laugh. “At least just talk to her, dude. I’ll get over you two dating but what I won’t forgive you for is walking out on both of us.” 

“Bye, Max.” Lando inhales a deep breath and before his best friend can speak again, he’s ending the call.

The smell of cinnamon, bananas and something burning hits Max’s nose the second he opens the front door to his house. He steps into the kitchen slowly, eyes scanning the mess— flour dusted across the countertops like snow, dishes cluttering the sink, you aggressively mixing something in a big, blue bowl. 

“What are you doing?” 

You halt your movements, turning around to Max with the fakest smile he’s ever seen from you. “Baking. Banana bread, you want some?” 

Max watches as you pull out the banana bread— that looks more like a chunk of coal— out of the oven. “Nah, I’ll pass.” 

He knew not to push, not to ask because, in reality, he shouldn’t even care. You betrayed him as much as Lando did, but you’re his little sister and Max would be damned if he let you set the house on fire with your baking. 

Max took a seat at one of the stools, eyes intently watching you. You never baked, not unless you were trying to occupy your mind by occupying your hands. 

“I talked to Lando,” he says casually, like he didn’t hate the guy. 

He notices the halt in your movements, the knife stilling in the burnt loaf. “Cool,” you shrug. 

“He said he’s ending things with you.” 

“And why do you think that is, Max?” You slam the knife down onto the counter with enough force to make Max jolt. “You got into his head.”

“I didn’t mean for him to take that shit seriously.” Your brother runs a hand down his face. “I was angry, yeah, but that doesn’t mean I wanted him to leave you.” 

“You punched him, that’s not something to take lightly.” You say, a little quieter this time, a little more hurt. 

Max notices the silent glimmer of a plea in your eyes, like you’re asking him what you should do. “You should talk to him.” 

“And say what?” Your voice breaks as tears begin to roll down your cheeks, shoulders dropping. “He left me, Max, he le-“ 

A loud sob echoes in the kitchen and Max’s arms are around you immediately. He caresses your back, softly kissing your head as his arms squeeze you tighter. 

“He’s at the garage, probably hasn’t left all day.” He mutters. “I’m not telling you to go fix it, but if you want answers, that’s where you’ll get them.” 

Max watches your face as you pull away and wipe your tears with your sleeve. “Okay.” 

“Go, I’ll clean up your mess.” Max gives your shoulders a soft squeeze and turns to the lump of coal you called banana bread. 

Lando’s garage had always been his hideout. 

The lights were always on too late and, even from across the street, you could see a sliver of fluorescent glow bleeding out through the cracked garage door. 

You were parked at the end of his driveway. The air, thick and way too warm, smelled like motor oil and rubber, and it reminded you of simpler days— your legs dangling off the workbench while your boyfriend tinkered with something, grease smudging his fingers and face. 

The door was already cracked open, your favourite song quietly playing from the bluetooth speaker at the corner of the room. 

Lando was bent over the engine of one of the cars, back towards you, elbow deep in whatever he was messing with. He didn’t need to turn to know it was you who came in. 

“You left while I was sleeping.” Your voice shook the calmness of his garage— his sanctuary— and he felt it in his bones. “You left and didn’t say anything. You talked to Max instead of me.” 

Lando pulls his hands out of the engine bay and reaches for a nearby rag, wiping his fingers slowly and methodically, giving himself something to focus on before he breaks. 

“I didn’t know what to say.” He finally turns to face you, though his eyes stay glued to the ground. He catches a glimpse of your pink crocs and it makes him smile, just barely. 

“You knew what to say to the guy that punched you and not your girlfriend?” Your voice cracked with a quiet sob. “Do you know what it felt like to hear from my brother that you wanted to end things with me?”

“Listen, I’m sorry,” he draws in a deep breath before continuing. “I’m sorry I disappeared, okay? I just- I didn’t know how to handle it. I needed space to think.” 

“About what?” You bit your bottom lip to stop it from shaking. “About whether or not I’m worth staying for?”

“No,” the word left his lips with urgency, eyes finally looking up at yours. His throat bobbed as he swallowed. 

The silence stretched, the music still playing from the corner of the room like it didn’t care that hearts broke in this room. 

Lando exhaled slowly. “I’m scared.” He didn’t wait for you to ask why. “I’ve never had a good thing like this, I’m scared I’ll fuck it up and ruin it.” 

“You won’t.”

He huffs a sigh of frustration. “You don’t know that.” 

You step a little closer, inching towards the wall Lando built up around himself,  a frail attempt to hide his feelings. Lando raises his eyes from the ground to— finally— look at your face. 

“I know that you’re trying,” your voice cuts through the sharp silence. “I know that I noticed all the things you did for me.”

“What?” Lando blinked. 

“I noticed,” you repeated. “You probably thought I didn’t, but I never mentioned it because I thought you’d stop doing them.” 

You reach out to take his hand, rough and warm, in yours. He didn’t pull away, just looked at you— sad, scared, waiting.

“I noticed how you remembered stupid details about me. I noticed how you’d text me when you couldn’t sleep and pretend it was about something random, when you were trying to subtly let me in. I noticed how you got quieter when overwhelmed, how you’d hold back things you wanted to say. I saw all of that. I see you, Lando.” 

Lando’s grasp on your hand tightened, like it’s the only thing keeping him tethered. He looked up at you. Like your words were light he didn’t know he could stand in. 

“I tried,” he whispered, voice gentle and soft in the way he’d never spoken before— like every word he says drops to the ground with added weight. 

“I know you did,” you nod, eyes teary and locked into his face. “And I loved every bit of it. All the good and the bad. I wasn’t waiting for some perfect version of you, I just want you. The scared and the happy.” 

A silence stretched in the air. Then, he exhaled shakily and spoke again. 

“It’s like… The more I care, the worse I get at this. Like I’m holding something fragile and don’t know how to stop myself from dropping it.” 

“You’re not going to drop me. You don’t have to protect me from you. I choose you and I choose this.” 

He pulled his hand away gently, eyes focusing on anything  other than your face. His jaw clenched, voice low when he mumbled, “I think I need a break.” 

“A break?” 

“Not because I don’t love you,” he quickly added, looking at you with wide eyes before dropping his shoulders. “I do, God, I love you. I love you so much I don’t know what to do with it.” 

You don’t say anything— not a sound— tears falling from your eyes as you gave him a small, bittersweet smile.

Lando watched as you stepped closer, bringing your hands up to his cheeks. You pulled him in close enough to press your lips against the sweaty surface of his forehead, giving a gentle see you later, neither of you sure of when the later is. 

Then, you turned on your heel and stepped out into the night, leaving Lando in his sanctuary of motor oil and gasoline.

The next few weeks feel like they’re moving in slow motion. It’s cruel how grief stretches time.

You kept expecting to wake up one day and feel fine, but it didn’t work like that.

You still reached for your phone some mornings, typing out something before remembering you weren’t talking. The playlist he made for you kept playing on repeat in your earbuds, his hoodie adorned your torso, sleeves pulled over your hands so at least some part of him was still holding you.

You caught yourself looking for him in the small things— when you’d walk out of university, eyes flickering to see if his car was there; when you’d walk downstairs and half-hope he was playing a game with Max; when you’d hear a word or phrase he’d often use and whip your head around to catch a glimpse of him, but he was never there.

It’s like living with a phantom limb– he wasn’t there, yet everything still remembered him.

Your best friends didn't push, Max didn’t mention him. But the silence— the kind that only fills the room after something’s broken and no one knows how to sweep it up— spoke for you.

In the meanwhile, Lando was coping in the only way he knew how.

He skipped hang outs with friends, ditched parties, just to work longer hours in his garage. Stayed until the heater shut off on its own and his hands were numb from the cold. He didn’t talk to anyone for those weeks. He just drowned himself in tasks— changing oil, fixing brakes, changing tires— anything that kept his hands busy and allowed his mind to work on autopilot. 

His phone remained quiet. Once or twice, he clicked on your contact just to see the photo of you two. Thought about sending a voice memo or a meme— something friendly, something you’d tease him for— but he always backed out at the last minute. 

Lando could hide in the garage all he wanted, but one thing remained true: he missed you like hell.

He missed the way you’d talk to him, like he wasn’t something broken. Missed how you’d be his escape from reality, much more than his garage ever was. Missed how easy it had started to feel, until he complicated it.

He kept seeing you everywhere or maybe he was just finding any excuse to take a moment to stop and think of you. He’d catch himself standing in the cereal aisle, staring at the brand you liked most. Or outside a bakery, reading the chalkboard sign that said banana bread in funky script, thinking of how he’d come downstairs in the morning to find you baking it.

Lando tried his best not to feel it— the regret, the grief, the overwhelming love.

Yet, despite his best efforts, he found himself staring at his lockscreen, a picture of the two of you on it. You were asleep tucked into his side, so serene and peaceful that he couldn’t help but snap a picture. He did this on nights he couldn’t sleep.

It was already two in the morning and his mind was running wild, he could’ve sworn he hallucinated a message from you. He checked his phone again, seeing the message and just as he’s about to click on it, your contact pops up on his screen.

Lando doesn’t hesitate to answer, pressing the green button immediately. “Hello?”

On the other end, you’re locked in a bathroom at Mason’s house, mascara running down your cheeks, dress hitched way too high up your thighs. You didn’t anticipate this night to go so wrong when all you were trying to do is move on from wallowing at home.

The party, at some point, became too much. Too many people, too much noise, too many bodies brushing past you like you didn’t exist— except for the one who did notice you and in all the wrong ways. 

Mason caught you in the hallway, snaking an arm around your waist as he led you upstairs to his bedroom. You thought he was being nice, like he had been for the past few weeks. It was only when he started softly caressing your thighs, face inching closer to yours, that you realised his intentions. He didn’t stop, even when you were pushing and screaming at him to go away. 

You found a pause in his movements, kicked him somewhere that distracted him long enough for you to run out of the room and lock yourself in the nearest bathroom. Your fingers trembled when you opened your phone.

There were people you could’ve called. People who would answer and help. But you didn’t want people, only him.

When the phone rang once, then twice, you started doubting your choice of calling him. But then, his voice cuts through the chaos in your mind and silences it all with just one word. 

His voice was rough with surprise, tired, laced with something so familiar yet so distant. 

You didn’t mean to cry again, but it spilled out of you without warning. “I— fuck, sorry. I shouldn’t have called.”

“Wait— hey, no— what’s wrong?” Lando sat up in his bed, alarmed by the trembling of your voice. “Where are you?”

“At a party,” you mumbled, wiping your tears uselessly. “I didn’t know who else to call.”

“I’m glad you called me,” he answered, no hesitation. “I’m coming to get you, text me the address?”

“No, I shouldn’t have called. I— I’m sorry.”

“Give me the address.” Lando says more sternly. You read it out and he repeated it back, like he was memorising it. “Stay there. You don’t have to explain a thing to me, just stay in that room and don’t open the door unless it’s me, okay?”

Then the line went dead.

You sunk to the floor, phone in your lap, arms around your knees. The minutes stretched painfully. Music blared, people walked by, someone knocked once but you told them to fuck off without even glancing at the door.

Then, barely ten minutes since the call ended, you hear a knock. Softer, rhythmic, familiar.

“It’s me,” he yelled over the music. You opened the door and there he was— messy haired, hoodie half-zipped, cheeks flushed like he ran the whole way there.

Lando saw your mascara-streaked face and something in him cracked open. He didn’t ask, not immediately. He just shut the door behind himself, reaching a hand out as if to ask for permission to touch you. And when he pulled you into him, arms shielding you, you let yourself break. 

“I’m so fucking sorry,” you mumbled into his, now tear and mascara stained, hoodie. “I shouldn’t have called you, it’s too soon, I’m–”

“Stop,” his voice was quiet, but firm. He took your face into his hands, guiding your eyes towards him. “You called, I came. I always will.”

“I didn’t wanna be a burden.”

He placed a gentle kiss on your forehead. “You’re not. Not ever.”

Lando tucked you back into his chest again, hand on the back of your head like he’s anchoring you there. “Don’t worry about too soon or too late, I’m here for you. Doesn’t matter when or where.”

You nodded, inhaling shaky breaths until the ache in your chest became small enough to handle. Lando’s eyes traced your face when you pulled away, thumbs softly wiping the mascara from under your eyes. “Who did this to you?”

You bit your lip, not wanting to say anything. But Lando knew you. He knew how to read you, how to understand what you wanted to say even without words. “Mason?” A nod from you was all it took for Lando to mumble for you to stay there as he burst out the door.

The kitchen was buzzing— music hummed low, drinks were being poured, someone laughed too loudly over the sound of ice cracking in the glass. 

Lando stormed in like a force of nature, his shoulders tense and jaw clenched, a fury in his eyes no one had ever seen before, not even Max. 

Lando didn’t look around at the people in the small space. He moved straight to the kitchen counter, like a bloodhound drawn to the scent of something rotten. 

Mason was there, laughing, surrounded by people too excited for the shots being poured to notice the storm. But Max did. The second he saw Lando, he knew something was up. 

“Lando—“ Max’s callout was too late. Lando had already grabbed Mason by the collar and slammed him face-first into the marble. 

The music abruptly stopped, Mason’s yell echoing in the still air. “What the fuck?”

Lando pulled him back and threw him against the fridge with a bone-rattling bang, the bottle of vodka from Mason’s hands clattering to the ground and breaking at their feet. 

“You sick son of a bitch,” Lando snarled, pressing his forearm against Mason’s throat. “You don’t fucking know when to stop, do you?” 

Mason coughed, struggling. “What the fuck are you on about?”

By now, Max had shoved forward and tried to pry Lando off. “Hey, man—“

“You know exactly what,” Lando spat, eyes not once leaving Mason’s face. “You wanna tell Max what you did to his sister? Why she called me crying and couldn’t even say your name without breaking into a sob?”

Max froze. “What?” 

“She didn’t say no,” Mason tried to defend himself, wide eyed and panicked. “She didn’t say anything— She didn’t stop me.”

Lando punched him. Knuckles to cheekbone, sharp and brutal. Mason’s head whipped to the side with a force strong enough to bring him to the ground, blood already blooming from his lip. 

The whole room stood frozen. Lando hovered over the recovering Mason, before shoving him to the ground with his knee between Mason’s shoulder blades. 

“If I hear that you touched her again or even looked her way, you won’t be just bleeding.” Lando promises. 

Then he leaves, as quickly and quietly as he arrived. Mason’s left on the floor with a fuming Max while Lando finds his way back to you, knuckles bleeding and heart racing triple. 

The cold marble of your kitchen islands spreads coolth along your thighs, grounding you to the present, although your thoughts are elsewhere entirely. The kitchen light buzzing above you doesn’t help with the lingering headache from the party or the ghost of Mason’s hands still roaming your body.

You got home ten minutes ago. 

Lando stands beside you, the heat from his body bleeding into the silence like wildfire, even as he zones out into nothing. His eyes seem so far away, jaw clenched with uncontrollable fury.

“Your knuckles are bleeding,” you murmur, barely a whisper. He doesn’t answer, simply stretches out and closes his fist again, before tucking it into his pocket, like he can hide the violence and anger of tonight. 

He looked wrecked, not just from the fight, but from feeling— jaw clenched, lips tight, eyes narrowed in on the wooden floor. 

“I shouldn’t have called you,” you whispered. “It was selfish and too soon, and I didn’t know what else to do.” 

“Stop,” he said immediately, voice too gentle for how rough and broken he looked. He closed the distance between you, and like testing the waters, he placed a hand on the counter beside you. “Don’t ever apologise for needing me. I’ll always come when you call.”

The dam broke a little at that, tears pricking your eyes. Lando’s finger twitched like he wanted to reach for you, but didn’t know if he could. So you reached for him first— fingers curling into the fabric of his hoodie as you pressed your forehead into his shoulder. 

Lando melted around you instantly, arms winding around your waist, pulling you in, holding you against him like you were fragile and precious, and his. 

Neither of you moved for a long time. The house was silent, apart from your quiet gasps for air once in a while. Your heartbeat matched the steady thrum of his and you finally felt like everything was slowly becoming okay again. 

Eventually, Lando pulled away just enough to see your face, but kept you close enough for his fingers to still steadily warm your waist. “Can I clean this up?” He lifted his right hand, nudging his chin towards his knuckles. You nodded. 

He led you to the bathroom and sat against the bathtub’s edge, watching as you hastily looked for the first aid kit. You knelt in front of him, gently cleaning the dried up blood from his knuckles and skin. He hissed once the antiseptic touched an open wound. You didn’t apologise, just looked up and met his eyes, already watching you. “Why?”

Lando turned his head to the side with a questioning hum, “what?”

“You didn’t have to go that far,” you mutter, lowering your eyes to his hand again. “We could’ve just gone home.”

“I did have to,” he shrugged like it was the most obvious thing in the world. 

“You didn’t even think twice, you just went there and…” your voice was quiet, like you’re ashamed. 

“No,” he speaks again, “because it’s you.”

The quiet that settled in didn’t feel heavy anymore— it felt like home again. In the words Lando spoke and the tenderness of your fingers on his wounds, gentle and careful, both of you found your place again. Like two halves of one whole. You were the better half of him and he— of you.

The sun rose outside your bedroom window as Lando lay against your chest and you held him close, with a tight yet tender grip, like he’d disappear if you let go of him again.

“I’m glad you called me tonight,” Lando muttered, lips pressed to your bare chest. “I’m not sure how much longer I would have waited before talking to you again.”

“It was eating me alive,” you admit. “The not knowing whether this was it, whether you’d still want me whenever I saw you next. But I’m glad you do.”

“I always will,” the certainty in his voice, spoken like he knew what he’d feel for the rest of his life, made your heart skip a beat. “Thank you for calling me, again.”

You look down at him, your smile soft and bittersweet.

“Thank you for coming, again.” 

“To you, always.”

[stxrrywoo]

CREEP ── c.sn

synopsis ; you thought that san was this perfect roommate, but that image shatters right before your eyes as you stumble across something you shouldn't have.

pairing(s) ; san x f!reader

☆ ── wc. ; 4.1k ☆ ── genre ; smut, roommate!san, perv!san ☆ ── tw. ; MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!!, cussing, recording w/o permission, dub!con/borderline non!con, unprotected sex, fingering, clit play, kissing, messy/rough makeout, blood, biting/marking, mean dom!san x sub!reader, slight degration, petnames (princess...), stalker(ish) vibes/behavior, mentions of masturbation (f.), power play, manhandling, multiple orgasms, squirting, choking, slight breath play, rough sex, overstimulation, slight dumbification, creampie, obsessive behavior, low-key yandere san, cum eating, lmk if I missed anything! ☆ ── notes ; this one is pretty self-explanatory, but creep gave me such stalker/perv vibes and knew I needed to cook smth up for him. also this is heavily inspired by a fic that was written by @yeonlymine ^^ make sure to go check out their work! lastly, this one is more on the darker side of things so PLEASEEE mind the tags, I beg 🙏

At first, you were so hesitant about having a guy roommate because of all of the horror stories that you had heard online. But San was different. He was sweet, kind, and most of all, always respected your boundaries.

At least you thought he did.

He never entered your room without knocking, even if the door was open. He always made sure to double-check if the leftovers in the fridge were yours before he either ate them or threw them out when he was cleaning. He even asks if you’re okay with him entering your personal space when he shows you something or vice versa.

All in all, he was the perfect roommate.

It wasn’t until that you started getting a little too comfortable around him that it seemed like a switch flipped. You started walking around the apartment without a bra on or even in the shortest pair of sleep shorts you own. Walking to your room with only a towel on when you forgot your clothes in your bedroom after taking a shower or bath.

You started to notice that his gaze would linger on your lips or collarbones that peeked out the top of your oversized t-shirt, sometimes even your exposed cleavage when you wore low-cut shirts. You didn’t think much of it because he never did anything other than stare, and he was an attractive man, so you kind of liked the attention.

Then, a few weeks later, you started to notice that some of your favorite pairs of panties were missing from your laundry. You didn’t think too much of it because you knew that the washer liked to eat your clothes sometimes, so you brushed it off.

That was until you went to San’s bedroom looking for the laptop charger that you had let him borrow. He wasn’t home, so you didn’t think too much about just entering his bedroom.

It was clean and neat, not exactly all that surprising to you, seeing as he was pretty good about cleaning up after himself. Everything was organized and placed with precision, but the only thing that was out of place was his bed. It was unmade, blankets strewn about, and pillows unfluffed, as if he had just been sleeping in it.

You brushed it off, seeing as it was only about ten in the morning, and it did seem like it left in a rush.

Walking over to his bed, you noticed that his laptop was sitting open on one side, the screen black, probably timed out from how long it’s been sitting there. Then you noticed the charger, your charger, still connected to it.

Making your way around the bed, you grabbed the laptop, turned it, and unplugged the cord. You started reaching for the other end, but the screen came to life, and your eyes grew wide at the sight before you.

There on the screen was live surveillance footage. It wasn’t showing places where you would normally have cameras. No, the few rooms that you could see were the living room, pointed directly where you usually sit on the sofa. There were two cameras in the bathroom, one capturing the entire room while the other was pointed into the shower. Then the last one.

It was your bedroom.

Your mouth went dry as you stared at the screen, and questions started to flood your brain. How long had he been watching you? What all did he see? Where were the cameras placed, and why hadn’t you noticed them before?

Like your body had a mind of its own, your hand reached for the device, letting your fingers move the cursor until you clicked on the file icon at the bottom. Your heart started hammering when you saw multiple files inside, all dated.

Scrolling down, you realized that the very first file was dated a few weeks after you had moved in. Going back to the top, you saw that the newest one was dated for just last night. You sat down on the bed after clicking on the file from last night, the ringing in your ears growing louder as you waited for the files to load.

You bit your lip as your shaky hand moved the cursor over the video from your bedroom. The timestamp was all too familiar.

It wasn’t bright in the room, but there was enough light to see what exactly you were doing. You were lying on the bed, legs parted just enough to see your fingers playing with your aching clit. The soft sounds of your moans flowed through the speakers. You had tried to be quiet because you had thought San was in bed, asleep. 

You know you shouldn’t be watching any of these, but you also couldn’t take your eyes off the screen. He had seen so much of you with your knowledge. Heard things that you were sure would never reach his ears. Now you were sure that he knew things that made your stomach turn.

Then the next video played, and it confirmed all of your fears.

It was from earlier that week when you had hung out with San all day long, and he just wouldn’t leave your head long after you’d gone to bed. The only way you could try to relieve the tension was by getting yourself off. You hadn’t even meant to say his name, but you heard it clearly through the speakers. It was quiet, but it was there.

Your face grew warm from embarrassment, and you leaned back as if it would help you not to hear anything. Then you felt the fabric under your fingertips, the lace unmistakable. Turning your head, you noticed that your hand was underneath one of his pillows.

Biting your tongue, you grabbed the fabric and pulled it out, your heart hammering against your ribcage. A pair of your red lace panties hung from your fingers, the fabric was stiff and crusted, like it had been covered in something that had since then hardened. 

A small gasp fell from your lips as it dawned on you as to what he had been doing with them. Dropping the article of clothing, you turned your body and moved some of his pillows, where you found a few more of your missing panties.

You were so caught up in everything that you had just found that you hadn’t even heard the door creak open or it latching behind the person. That was until you heard his voice and your blood ran cold.

“Didn’t they teach you not to snoop in people’s rooms?”

His voice caused you to jump. You slammed the laptop closed and stood to your feet, staring at him like a deer caught in headlights. You swallowed thickly, finger pointing to the now closed device.

“You’ve been watching me.” Your voice wavered slightly, but your eyes never left his.

He didn’t try to deny it, not even in the slightest. He hummed, hands crossing over his chest as he took a step towards you before stopping.

His lack of response frightened you; your whole body shook as you tried to make sense of all of this. You then pointed to the now-unhidden stash of your missing underwear.

“And you’ve been stealing my underwear.”

He once again hummed, taking another step towards you, “You left your clothes unattended in the laundry room. Made it way too easy.”

“That doesn’t mean you can just take my clothes!” You exclaimed, ears burning bright red at the thought of him rummaging through your clothes.

He took another step towards you, slowly closing the distance between you, but instead of moving away like you knew you should, you stayed put. Anticipation bubbling in your chest as you watch him.

“What about the cameras?” You asked, pointing back at the laptop, and your heart squeezed at the smile that tugged on the corner of his lips. It was dark and filled with amusement. 

“You made that even easier.” His eyes darkened as he took yet another step towards you, rounding the bed to stand just a few feet in front of you. “At first, I was sure that you would notice, head always on a swivel, always alert, always expecting something. But just cater to proving your fears wrong, and bingo, I was in.”

Your eyes grew wide as you realized what he meant: “You planned all of this?”

He hummed once more, that smirk spreading further across his lips, “Now you’re starting to use that pretty head, sweetheart.” It was like he was mocking you, but that stupid nickname falling from his lips made your knees weak.

“This is illegal. I could turn this into the police.” You told him, trying to sound threatening, but your voice shook as he took another step towards you.

“But you won’t.” 

Your throat tightened, “I will–”

“You won’t.” His voice was stern, and you hated how it made you clench around nothing. “Wanna know how I know you won’t?” He asked, stalking towards you, his arms falling back to his sides as he neared you.

You wanted to scream at him that you would take this to the cops. That this wasn’t right, and you would move out as soon as you could. That you could ruin the rest of his perverted dreams right here, right now. Yet the moment he was right in front of you, face merely inches away from yours as he bent at the waist, you knew that you wouldn’t. And you hated that the most.

“Because at some point, you hoped that I’d see you. That I’d hear you.” His voice was low, causing a chill to run down your spine. You looked at him with wide eyes, lip caught between your teeth. “Hear you moaning my name, watch you play with yourself wishing that it was my hands instead.”

Your heart nearly stopped as he continued, tears of embarrassment brimming in your eyes. “I wasn’t–”

“Don’t lie to yourself, princess. Would you like me to play the video again?” He asked, his hand reaching for the laptop that still lay closed on the bed.

“No!” You exclaimed, grabbing his arm to pull him away from the device.

“There’s no need to be embarrassed.” He whispered in your ear, warm breath fanning over your skin and leaving goosebumps in its wake. You hadn’t even realized how much closer you had gotten to him until you turned your head, finding his face just a hair away from yours.

You released your hold on his arm and tried to take a step back as your heart hammered in your chest, but you didn’t get too far. San was quicker. He wrapped his arm around your waist, pulling your body flush against his and holding you there firmly.

“Let me go!” You pushed against his chest, but his grip held firm, never wavering, and god, did you hate how that made your gut twist.

“I don’t think I will.” He told you, head dipping down to your jaw, and your body froze at the feeling of his lips brushing over your heated skin. “And I don’t think you want me to either.”

“I do–”

“No, you don’t. If you did, you would’ve moved earlier, and you definitely wouldn’t be rubbing your thighs together so pathetically.” His words made you flinch because you knew he was right, and you wanted to slap yourself for it.

“I am not. Now let me go–” You barely got to finish your sentence when his lips were on yours, his other hand tangling in your hair to keep you in place as you shoved and hit his chest. It wasn’t gentle, not even in the slightest, no, it was punishing and full of raw desire.

Then you bit his lip. Hard.

“Son of a bitch.” He cursed, pulling away from you and bringing his hand to his lip.

“You’re an ass.” You breathed out, once again trying to twist out of his hold.

Then, in the blink of an eye, he had you pinned down on his bed, his hand pinning your wrists above your head. Your breath caught in your throat as you took in the dark and predatory gleam in his eyes as he looked down at you, his bottom lip covered in a thin layer of blood from where you bit him.

“Don’t be a brat. You’re the one who wanted this.” He growled, slotting his body against yours, successfully pinning you completely underneath him.

“I don’t want this, San. Please just let me go.” You cried out, but not because of what he was doing. No, your words had been a lie. You cried because, as much as you knew this was wrong, you found yourself soaking your underwear.

“Really? Then why aren’t you trying to fight against me?” He asked, a knowing smirk spreading across his lips.

He was right. You weren’t fighting against him. If anything, you were submitting to him, just like he wanted, and you hated it. You hated him. Hated the way that he was always right and that he could read you like the back of his hand. But you hated yourself even more because there was a part of you-a dark, deep, and dangerous part of you–that was enjoying this more than you should be.

When you didn’t say a word, he chuckled, head dipping down to your jaw, lips latching onto your skin. Then his hand slipped under the waistband of your sleep shorts, fingers parting your folds and instantly finding your throbbing clit. You tried to speak, scream, anything, but the only sound that left your lips was a pathetic whimper.

His lips trailed down your jaw to your neck, leaving wet kisses in his wake, but he made sure to leave marks. Big, deep red marks he knew you couldn’t hide. His teeth grazed over your jugular as he slid two fingers into your weeping cunt.

“S-San, d-don’t.” You choked out as he started to fuck his fingers into you, his thumb still pressing against your clit in tight circles.

He detached his lips from your skin before hovering over you once more, eyes boring right into yours as he continued to curl his fingers against your walls.

“Tell me to stop.” He spoke quietly, but his actions persisted.

You opened your mouth, but you hesitated. A part of you knew this was wrong, so, so, so wrong, but the other part of you crumbled under the desire that pooled in his dark orbs. Then the words fell from your parted lips, “I can’t. I want it.” Your voice dripped with need.

He smiled, a sinister, triumphant smile. You were right where he knew you’d fall, right where he wanted you. Then his fingers sped up, eyes studying your features as your head fell back, face twisting in pleasure.

You gasped when he released your lips just to wrap that same hand around your throat. He squeezed just enough to make your moans come out strangled—a dark, dangerous grin spreading across his face.

When he moved his hand, you felt him brush over that spongy spot deep in your walls, and shocks of pleasure rippling all throughout your body. You choked out a moan, hips jerking against him. He chuckled, lips finding yours once more in a bruising kiss.

You could barely keep up with his pace, white spots clouding your vision due to the lack of oxygen. Spit spilled past your joined lips, trickling down your cheeks and jaw. San swallowed each and every sound you made as he pulled your body closer and closer to an orgasm.

The lewd sound from your drenched cunt filled the room, making your head spin. A whimper falling from your lips as San bit at your bottom lip, pulling back before releasing it. Your body felt like it had been set ablaze, and the pleasure became almost overbearing as he abused your sweet spot. Another whimper fell from your parted lips, your body tensing under his, ready to shatter entirely.

San watched you like a predator would its prey, soaking in the way your body reacted to his. Your hands gripping at his forearm as he squeezed your throat. Tears spilling from the corner of your eyes as he continued to fuck his fingers deep into you. He knew you were close, your body just begging for that sweet release.

“Cum for me.” He demanded, thumb pressing firmly against your twitching clit, “cum on my fingers and I’ll give you what you really want.”

That was all that was needed for that coil deep in your gut to snap. You came with a strangled cry, body shaking underneath him as he continued to work his fingers into you. His pace never slowing, dragging your orgasm on, watching sadistically as you tried to beg him to stop, but your words came out incoherent. Your nails dug into his forearm as he pulled another, unexpected, orgasm from your still spazzing pussy.

“S-San!” You screamed his name, vision turning white from the intensity, and back arching off the mattress.

Then finally, he pulled his fingers from your abused walls, giving you a chance to breathe. Opening your eyes, you felt your gut twist once more as you watched him stick his fingers in his mouth. His eyes held yours as he made a show of licking every last drop of your juices off his digits.

“You taste so fucking sweet.” He growled, the sound going straight to your pussy and making you whimper. He chuckled, leaning over you once more, “Want a taste?” 

He didn’t even give you a chance to respond before his lips molded over yours, tongue parting your lips, and you let him. You let him invade your mouth, and you mewled at the taste of yourself on his tongue.

“You’re mine, whether you like it or not.” He growled against your lips, free hand wrapping around the waistband of your bottoms and pulling them off your body along with your underwear.

“You’re obsessed.” You gasped out as he pulled away from your body to grab your bare hips, his dark gaze falling to your exposed heat.

He didn’t say a word, just made quick work of his pants and boxers, throwing them somewhere in the room. It wasn’t like he needed to say anything; the way his eyes trailed your bare body and the way his hands gripped your skin was all telling. 

Your eyes widened as you watched him drop a ball of spit on your pussy, a chill running down your spine as you felt it trail from your clit to your entrance. Then his tip was poking at your slit, but not quite pushing in.

“If I’m obsessed, what does that make you, princess?” He cooed, hands tightening on your hips. A choked scream fell from your lips when he buried his cock in your walls with just a single thrust. “You were the one begging for this cock, weren’t you?” 

He berated you as he pulled out to just the tip before slamming his hips back against yours. Your brain started to fog over as he kept his ruthless pace, and a series of incoherent moans fell from your swollen lips. His hand then found purchase on your neck once again, squeezing gently, causing your eyes to roll back.

“Do you still want me to stop, princess?” He hummed, leaning over your body, pushing himself deeper into your walls.

“F-Fuck! No–fuck, don’t stop, please.” You choked out, begging him as your hand grabbed his shoulder, nails digging into his shoulder to try and ground yourself.

“That’s what I thought.” He growled, lips latching onto yours, stealing all of the air from your lungs.

His pace was brutal and relentless, his hips slamming into you repeatedly. The loud sound of wet skin slapping and a mixture of your choked moans and his groans filled the room.

“S-San!” Your eyes squeezed shut as you felt your high crash over you, body convulsing underneath his.

He didn’t stop, he didn’t even slow down, easily throwing your body into a state of overstimulation, tears cascaded down your face, and broken moans left your lips. Your hips jerked when he moved his hand from your neck down to your pussy, fingers finding your clit.

“N-No!” You cried out, reaching down to push his hands away, but he just grabbed your wrists, using them as leverage to fuck into you. He used his other hand to play with your clit, and you felt that coil in your gut tighten quickly, way too quickly.

You didn’t even have a chance to warn him before your body started to seize, your release gushing out of you in waves, drenching San’s cock and the sheets underneath you. San groaned, eyes locked on your dripping cunt as he worked more of your sweet release out despite your pleas for him to stop.

“So fucking filthy.” He growled, lips pulling into that same sinister smirk, and you wished the ground would swallow you whole, but you didn’t have much to think about it before he pressed roughly against your clit once more, “I want you to do it again.”

Then his pace picked up even more, if that were possible, he released your wrists to grab your legs, throwing them over his shoulder. The new angle had you seeing stars and gasping for air. He hit your sweet spot repeatedly, not giving you even a millisecond to catch up.

Your loud moans bounced off the walls, hand pressing against his lower abdomen in hopes of getting him to at least slow down, but he never did. His grip on your hips was bruising, nails digging into your soft flesh, threatening to break skin.

“This pussy is all mine. You’re all mine.” He growled, slamming into you at an animalistic pace, knocking all of the air from your lungs. The posseiveness in his voice had you whimpering, walls tightening around him, “You like that, don’t you? You would like it if I claimed you, wouldn’t you?”

You tried to speak, but all that came out were incoherent babbles and cries of his name. You knew what he meant, your body responding where you couldn’t. Even with the risks, you wanted it, you stopped trying to fight him a while ago.

San bit back a groan when your walls tightened around him, a tell-tale sign that you were close. He bent over you, bending your body nearly in half, pulling a lewd moan from your lips. He fucked you deeper, as if he were trying to imprint the shape of his dick into your walls, and maybe he was.

“Let go, princess, cum for me.” He growled against your lips, “Cum all over my cock so I can fill you.”

You screamed, nails digging into the skin of his biceps as your orgasm tore through your body, causing your vision to nearly black out. Your legs shook violently between your bodies. He surged forward, pulling you into a messy kiss as he came, fucking his seed into your fluttering walls.

It wasn’t until he had gone completely soft that he stopped moving, but kept himself stuffed in your velvet walls. You lay there, breath ragged and hands lying on the bed next to your head as you tried to regulate your breaths.

After a few moments, San stood straight, allowing your trembling legs to fall around his waist. Then he was pulling out of your spent cunt, eyes watching with a sick pride as his cum spilled from your pussy.

“Perfect.” He whispered quietly, a smile that you couldn’t quite place spreading across his lips.

You watched wordlessly as he cleaned you, hands moving with precision before he leaned over your body once more, hand resting on your thigh. Your eyes fluttered when he grabbed the back of your neck with the other hand, kissing you.

It wasn’t sweet nor gentle, but it also wasn’t rough or bruising like the others. No, it was possessive, like he was informing you that you were his and his alone. You tried to kiss him back, your shaky hand reaching to grab his shoulder, but your mind was starting to slip from you.

“All mine.”

That was the last thing you heard before your eyes fluttered shut and your brain was consumed by darkness, hand falling back down to lay on your chest. San pulled away, eyes studying your features with sick satisfaction, knowing that he had you right in the palm of his hand.

And you allowed him to put you there.

© 𝐬𝐭𝐱𝐫𝐫𝐲𝐰𝐨𝐨 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓 | 𝙙𝙤 𝙣𝙤𝙩 𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙖𝙡, 𝙥𝙡𝙖𝙜𝙞𝙖𝙧𝙞𝙨𝙚, 𝙩𝙧𝙖𝙣𝙨𝙡𝙖𝙩𝙚, 𝙤𝙧 𝙧𝙚𝙥𝙤𝙨𝙩 𝙖𝙣𝙮 𝙤𝙛 𝙢𝙮 𝙬𝙤𝙧𝙠

𝐃𝐢𝐬𝐜𝐥𝐚𝐢𝐦𝐞𝐫 : 𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙞𝙨 𝙣𝙤 𝙬𝙖𝙮 𝙖 𝙩𝙧𝙪𝙚 𝙧𝙚𝙥𝙧𝙚𝙨𝙚𝙣𝙩𝙖𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣 𝙤𝙛 𝙖𝙣𝙮 𝙤𝙛 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙢𝙚𝙢𝙗𝙚𝙧𝙨. 𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙞𝙨 𝙥𝙪𝙧𝙚𝙡𝙮 𝙛𝙞𝙘𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙚𝙣𝙟𝙤𝙮𝙢𝙚𝙣𝙩 𝙤𝙛 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙚𝙧 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙣𝙤𝙩 𝙩𝙤 𝙗𝙚 𝙩𝙖𝙠𝙚𝙣 𝙨𝙚𝙧𝙞𝙤𝙪𝙨𝙡𝙮

[jincapableoflove]

A Jar Full of Us | one-shot

Pairing: Jungkook x (f.) Reader

Genre/Tags: best friend! jungkook, best friend! reader, college! au, unrequited love (?), idiots to lovers, best friends to ??? to lovers, angst, fluff, implied smut.

Summary: You never meant for him to find them. Hundred little confessions, folded away, never meant to be read. But now, they’re in his hands. And Jungkook, your best friend, knows everything. But he doesn’t say a word. He just watches you, with that same unreadable expression, like he’s waiting for something. And this Valentine’s Day, you might just have to find out what.

Inspired by: To All the Boys I've Loved Before

Word count: 10.2K+

Warnings: arguments, jungkook is a jerk, misunderstandings (a lottt of it), angstttt, reader and jk are huge idiots, mutual pining, implied smut (its not too detailed so that the story maintains the emotional connectivity), romantic intimacy, tooth-rotting fluff.

MOODBOARD

A/N: HERE IT ISSS! this is the longest fic ive written! tysm for all the support yall have given me in the teaser of this fic. i put out a taglist thinking no one would actually want to be a part of it but so many of yall asked to be tagged 😭 im so grateful! tysm i hope you enjoy reading this as much as i enjoyed writng it. lmk ur thoughts abt it after u read too <3 ALSO HAPPY VALENTINES DAYYY (someone date me pls)

The door clicks shut behind you as you step into the dorm, kicking off your shoes with a tired sigh. The evening air still clings to your skin, carrying traces of laughter and the lingering warmth of Jungkook’s presence.

It had been another perfect night, one filled with inside jokes, stolen bites of each other’s food, and his usual exasperated attempts to get you to study.

Joy, your roommate, is nowhere in sight, giving you the solitude you need. You don’t hesitate. Your steps are purposeful as you cross the room, crouching down beside your bed. With practiced ease, you reach under the frame, fingers brushing against the familiar surface of a small pink, heart-shaped box. You pull it out carefully, as if it were a fragile secret, and place it on your lap.

A soft breath escapes you as you grab a nearby pen and a book, neatly tearing out a tiny slip of paper. The motion is second nature now. Without even thinking, you let your emotions spill onto the paper, crafting a fleeting moment into something permanent.

Tonight’s memory is simple, but it still tugs at your heart. Jungkook had sent you another blurry picture of the moon, captioned with a casual, “Looks kinda pretty, right?” He knew how much you loved the moon how it fascinated you in a way you could never quite put into words. And he had remembered. Of course, he had remembered.

A fond smile tugs at your lips as you write:

Jungkook remembers the little things.

Once the ink dries, you fold the note with care and add it to the collection. The box is almost full now, brimming with countless tiny confessions, whispers of feelings you’ve never had the courage to say aloud. A hundred little moments, a hundred little thoughts, all dedicated to the boy who had unknowingly stolen your heart.

Jungkook.

Jungkook, your best friend, who always saves you the last bite of his food, even when it’s his favorite. Jungkook, who sends you blurry pictures of the moon just because he knows you love them. Jungkook, who insists on studying with you, despite his major being entirely different from yours, just so he can make sure you actually open a book instead of procrastinating.

This little tradition of yours had started as a joke. One night, after an especially soft moment where Jungkook had wordlessly placed his hoodie over your head because you were shivering, you had scribbled on a piece of paper: Jungkook is warmer than the sun.

You had smiled to yourself as you rolled up the paper and dropped it into the box. It had felt oddly nice to preserve that moment, capturing the feeling of it in something tangible. So you did it again. And again. And again.

Until, one day, you realized you had written over a hundred of them.

You hadn’t meant to fall in love. And you certainly hadn’t planned to confess.

But each tiny slip of paper holds a truth your heart refuses to say aloud.

And you're going to keep it a secret forever.

You met Jungkook almost three years ago, during freshman year. The first time you met him, he had been infuriatingly kind.

You had been struggling under the weight of a precariously tall stack of books, barely able to see over them, when suddenly, a few disappeared from the top. Startled, you looked up to see Jungkook grinning at you, effortlessly holding the books you had nearly dropped.

"You looked like you were about to tip over," he teased, his dark eyes twinkling with amusement.

With a playful huff, you had responded, "Maybe I wanted it to tip over."

Jungkook had only laughed, shaking his head. "I'll catch you next time," he had promised.

That night, you had written a tiny note and slipped it into your box: He wants to catch me when I fall, even without me asking.

From that moment on, your friendship grew in ways you hadn’t even noticed at first. Midnight walks and late night study sessions became routine, pulling you closer together with every shared moment. What had started as swapping notes for the one class you had together turned into sharing secrets. Somewhere along the way, before you even realized it, Jungkook had become your favorite person.

The box was almost full now.

You had written so many things over the years, each note capturing a small piece of him, a fragment of your feelings. Some were simple observations:

Jungkook frowns when he eats something delicious.

His hair is always a mess in the mornings. He hates it, but I love it.

His eyes smile before his lips do.

But one night, you had written something different. Something deeper. Something that felt like the truest thing you had ever put to paper.

I love him.

The moment the ink dried, panic had set in. You had almost torn it up, almost removed it from the box as if keeping it there would somehow make it real. But in the end, you had left it. Because the box was safe. No one was going to see it.

Especially not Jungkook.

One afternoon, you came back from your classes, ready to relax and unwind before the stress of exams fully set in. You had been looking forward to a quiet evening, maybe even a movie marathon with Jungkook to take your mind off things for a while.

But the moment you stepped into your dorm, you felt something was off.

Joy was sitting on the couch, sipping her coffee, her expression smug... too smug. A knowing smirk curled at the corners of her lips as she watched you walk in, and instantly, your stomach twisted with unease.

You narrowed your eyes. "What did you do?"

"I did you a favor," she said casually, taking another slow sip of her coffee.

A cold shiver ran down your spine. "What favor?" you asked, dread creeping into your voice.

Joy grinned. "I found that little cute box of yours."

Your heart stopped. "What?"

"Don't look at me like that," she waved a hand dismissively, as if what she was about to say wasn’t about to shatter your entire world. "It was just sitting there collecting dust, and I thought—what a perfect Valentine's Day gift for Jungkook. So…I wrapped it up and dropped it off at his place."

Silence.

A deafening, all-consuming silence as her words echoed in your head.

"You WHAT?!"

Your entire body froze in place, your breath catching in your throat as horror washed over you in waves. Your chest felt tight, your pulse roaring in your ears.

Joy merely raised an eyebrow, seemingly unbothered by the sheer panic on your face. "You're welcome," she said cheekily before promptly sprinting out of the room for her life.

But you couldn’t chase after her. You couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think past the ringing in your ears.

No. No. No.

This couldn't be happening.

Still desperate to deny the possibility, you dropped to your knees and scrambled to check under your bed, your hands shaking as you reached into the familiar space where you had hidden the box for years.

Empty.

It was gone.

The tiny wooden box that held a hundred little moments, a hundred little secrets—your secrets—was gone.

And now it was in Jungkook's hands.

Of all people… Jungkook.

Jungkook lived in an apartment a little further away from your dorm. The second the realization hit, you bolted out the door without a second thought, heart pounding so hard it nearly drowned out the sound of your footsteps against the pavement.

Your plan was simple. Get to his apartment before he did. You knew his habits well enough to guess that he was probably grabbing a late lunch at that fast-food place near campus. If luck was on your side, you still had time.

He hadn’t seen it yet.

He couldn’t have seen it yet.

As you ran, your mind spiralled into chaos, bombarding you with every possible scenario, each one worse than the last.

What if he had already opened it?

What if he read through every single note?

What if he found the one that said I love him?

Your stomach twisted painfully at the thought.

Jungkook was your best friend.

He was your person.

And now, he might know that you wanted to be more than just friends.

The mere thought made your chest tighten as memories of the two of you flashed through your mind. The times you spent together at the arcade, the countless movie nights, the time you and Jungkook had crashed Jimin’s birthday party with a ridiculous amount of booze.

And then…there was that moment.

The moment you almost confessed.

"I wish I could find someone who truly understood me," he had said one night, his voice softer than usual, lost in thought.

And you had almost said it. The words had been on the tip of your tongue, so painfully close—"I do."

But you swallowed them down.

Because what if he didn’t feel the same way? What if saying those words ruined everything?

And now, thanks to Joy, you didn’t have a choice anymore. The truth was out there, sitting in a neatly wrapped box in Jungkook’s apartment.

The thought of his reaction sent your mind into overdrive.

Would he laugh?

Would he think it was weird?

Would he—

Would he reject you?

No. No. No.

You shook your head violently as you rounded the corner, lungs burning from the sprint. You’re going to get there before he does. You’re going to take the box back, and he’s never going to know about it.

That was the plan.

It had to work.

As soon as you reached Jungkook’s apartment building, you barely paused to catch your breath. Your legs ached from running, but panic kept you moving. You made a beeline for the mailbox section in the lobby, frantically scanning the names, searching for his.

Box 109.

You yanked it open.

Empty.

Your stomach sank.

Maybe his roommate took it upstairs? Yeah. That had to be it. Maybe it was sitting untouched on the kitchen counter, still wrapped, still safe, still unseen.

You latched onto that sliver of hope as you rushed up the stairs two at a time, unwilling to wait for the elevator. By the time you reached his floor, your hands were shaking. You raised a fist and knocked on the door, urgency making your knuckles sting.

No response.

You knocked again, harder this time.

Then, finally, you heard shuffling from inside. A few footsteps. The creak of the floorboards. A pause.

The door swung open.

And there he was.

Jungkook.

Standing right in front of you, framed in the dim light of his apartment, wearing an oversized grey hoodie that draped over his frame in a way that shouldn't have been so unfairly attractive. His dark hair was slightly damp, messy from a shower, strands falling into his eyes. His lips were parted in surprise, his brows slightly furrowed, and the expression on his face—confused yet soft, dangerously soft—made your already erratic heartbeat lurch violently.

But then, your gaze dropped to his hands.

And the world stopped.

The box.

The open box.

Your box.

Your secret, sacred collection of unsent confessions, of words meant only for the safety of your own solitude. The pieces of your heart you had never dared to show him.

You felt like you were going to be sick.

No, no, no, no—

"You—" You gasped, barely able to form words, chest rising and falling rapidly as you fought for air. "You opened it?"

Jungkook blinked, holding the box loosely in one hand, fingers curled around the edges as if he had been going through its contents just moments ago. He tilted his head, his expression unreadable.

"Yeah," he said simply, as if the weight of the universe hadn’t just come crashing down on you.

Oh. Oh no.

Your legs wobbled. You had to physically stop yourself from collapsing right there in front of him.

His gaze flickered downward, and you followed it instinctively. In his other hand, he held one of the notes. One of your notes. The handwriting was unmistakably yours, a little smudged, a little rushed, but still legible.

He cleared his throat, then read aloud.

"I don’t know when it happened. But one day, he became my favorite person."

Silence.

It stretched on for what felt like an eternity.

You thought you might actually pass out.

"Jungkook, I—" Your voice cracked, but before you could even attempt to explain, he looked up and met your eyes.

And then, to your absolute horror—

He smiled.

Not a teasing smirk, not an awkward grimace, but a real, genuine, knowing smile. A little shy, a little amused, as if the weight of what he had just discovered didn’t terrify him nearly as much as it did you.

And then—oh god—he spoke again.

"So… do you still think my hair looks best when it’s messy?"

Your breath hitched.

Your brain went blank.

You wanted to scream.

The change was almost instant.

In the days that followed, Jungkook became… different.

Not in the way you had imagined, though.

You had been bracing yourself for a talk, a conversation where he’d tell you gently, maybe even apologetically, that he didn’t feel the same way. Or, at the very least, a moment of awkwardness before things slowly went back to normal.

But instead, Jungkook just… pulled away.

It started subtly at first. He stopped texting as much. The late-night calls that once lasted for hours dwindled into one-word replies and seen messages. The casual lunch meetups, the spontaneous arcade runs, the easy, natural way he used to gravitate towards you in a crowded room. all of it changed.

And yet, despite the distance, he never fully let you go.

Instead, he turned it into a joke.

Like today, when he leaned in far too close for comfort, during your shared class. His voice was low, teasing, the warmth of his breath fanning against your ear.

"So, I’m warmer than the sun, huh?"

You stiffened instantly, your hands tightening around your pen. He pulled back with a smirk, his dark eyes glittering with mischief as he watched your reaction unfold in real-time.

It was unbearable.

He kept doing it.

Whenever you tried to talk to him— really talk to him —he would either dodge the conversation entirely or turn it into something lighthearted, something unserious.

Like the time you finally found him alone, determined to just get it over with, to ask what had changed between you two. Before you could even get the words out, he cut you off with another one of those smirks, his voice laced with amusement.

"So I look best in black? Good to know."

And then he walked away.

That was when you finally got the message.

Jungkook had taken it as a joke.

He didn’t care about your feelings.

It was like the caring, affectionate boy you had known for years had vanished the moment your heart had been laid bare. Like now that the truth was out in the open, he didn’t know how to handle it so he chose to mock it instead.

And worst of all?

He was pulling away from you completely.

The time you used to spend together? Gone. He was hanging out with other people now, filling his days with anyone but you. And when you did manage to cross paths, he only acknowledged you through those insufferable little comments, those cruel reminders of the things you had never meant for him to see.

It hurt. More than you wanted to admit.

Because maybe you had hoped that if he knew how you felt…

He wouldn’t push you away like this.

The next week brought the on-campus career fair an event mandatory for all students. You weren’t particularly excited about it, but at least it was a distraction, something to keep your mind occupied.

Or so you thought.

Because that’s when you saw him.

And he wasn’t alone.

He was walking around with Hana, a junior from your college. They moved easily through the crowd, side by side, completely immersed in conversation. And then, to make things even worse... he laughed.

A real laugh. The kind that made his nose scrunch up and his eyes crinkle, the kind you hadn’t heard in what felt like forever.

Your stomach twisted.

You weren’t expecting him to make it this obvious.

If he wanted to reject you, fine. If he didn’t feel the same way, you could live with that. But did he really have to parade it around like this?

Maybe this was his way of sending a message. Maybe he wanted you to know, without actually having to say it out loud.

A silent rejection.

What a jerk.

These days, you barely have the motivation to attend classes. You go through the motions, waking up, dragging yourself to campus, sitting through lectures. But your mind isn’t really there.

Because no matter how hard you try to distract yourself, the brutal reality of rejection lingers like a shadow, following you everywhere you go.

Jungkook threw away your feelings like they meant nothing.

You should have expected it, right? You should have known this was how it would turn out.

Maybe you were never meant to be anything more than a friend to him. Maybe, the moment he realized you held deeper feelings for him, he got scared. Or worse, maybe he just didn’t care at all.

The thought makes your chest ache.

Jungkook has always been a romantic at heart. You’ve seen it in the way he talks about love, in the way he watches romance movies with a dreamy look in his eyes. But clearly, you were never part of that dream.

And now, because of your stupid feelings, you’ve ruined everything.

You used to be his best friend. The one he joked around with, the one he trusted, the one he leaned on.

But now?

Now he barely looks at you.

And if he does, it's only to throw some teasing remark your way like your feelings were some kind of joke.

The person you were most angry at was Joy.

Not Jungkook. Not yourself.

Joy.

Because none of this would have happened if she had just left that damn box alone.

That day after the box incident, the moment you stepped back into your dorm, she was there, lounging on the couch like nothing had happened. She glanced up as you walked in, a smirk already forming on her lips.

“I didn’t expect you to come back so early. I thought you guys would—” she wiggled her eyebrows—“get freaky after the whole confession, you know?”

She laughed, expecting you to groan or throw a pillow at her like usual.

But then she saw your face.

Her laughter faded. “Wait… what happened?”

You didn’t answer. You just walked past her and sank into the couch, staring at nothing, your mind still replaying every moment from earlier—Jungkook’s teasing, his smirk, his distance.

You heard Joy shuffle closer, her voice softer now. “I… I’m sorry. Did I send the gift too early? Did Jungkook not like it?”

You let out a hollow laugh. “Oh, no, he loved it.” You turned to her, your voice dripping with sarcasm. “Thank you so much for your help, Joy.”

Her expression faltered. “Wait… what do you mean?”

You shook your head, exhaling sharply. “Jungkook probably thinks I’m pathetic now.”

Joy winced. She sat beside you on the couch, guilt written all over her face. “I— I really thought—” she hesitated, chewing on her lip. “I was so sure, though. That boy always had heart eyes for you.”

You let out a bitter chuckle. “Well, now you know he didn’t.”

Silence settled between you both.

And for the first time, Joy didn’t have anything to say.

The next time you see Jungkook, he’s with Hana again.

They’re standing by one of the campus notice boards, deep in conversation. You don’t mean to eavesdrop you’re not even sure why you stop but the moment you hear them talking, something in your gut tells you to listen.

Hana tilts her head, her voice low but clear. “Are you sure she won't find out?”

Jungkook sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “I don’t know… Maybe it's better this way”

Your breath catches in your throat.

Your first instinct is denial maybe they’re not talking about you. Maybe it’s about someone else entirely. But deep down, you know.

As far as you’re aware, there isn’t another she in Jungkook’s life. Not before. Not when you were still close.

You’ve already been replaced.

Your chest aches as you piece it together. He doesn't want you to find out because he's probably in a relationship with Hana now. Because he doesn’t want to hurt you with a direct rejection, he thinks hiding his relationship with her is the kinder option.

It isn’t.

You swallow the lump in your throat and force yourself to step back, turning away from the scene before you can hear any more.

You decide then that no matter how much it hurts, no matter how pathetic it makes you feel, you can’t bear being apart from Jungkook.

Even if he doesn’t love you back.

Even if he only sees you as a friend.

Losing him completely? That’s not something you’re ready for. Maybe you never will be.

So, you do the only thing you can think of.

You wait for him after class.

Your heart pounds against your ribs as you watch the door, your hands clammy with nerves. When Jungkook finally steps out, your breath catches. He looks the same—same hoodie, same soft brown eyes—but everything feels different now.

Taking a deep breath, you step forward.

"I get it, okay?" you say, voice firm despite the way your throat tightens. "You don’t like me. And that’s fine. I hope she makes you happy."

Jungkook halts mid-step.

His jaw clenches. His fists curl at his sides.

"You don’t understand," he mutters.

"Then make me understand, Jungkook," you plead. You take a shaky breath, forcing yourself to keep going, even as your last shred of dignity slips through your fingers. "Can we still be friends, at least?"

Silence.

Jungkook doesn’t reply.

And somehow, that hurts more than rejection ever could.

There's a party happening, hosted by one of the biggest party animals on campus. Everyone is invited, and Joy insists that you go.

After much convincing, you finally give in. You've mended things with her and finally forgiven her. Maybe it wasn’t entirely her fault. Maybe you just needed someone to blame.

You decide to go, hoping for a distraction. Maybe the music, the drinks, and the endless chatter will help you forget, even if just for a night.

But you already know Jungkook will be there.

Probably Hana too.

And that's fine.

You'll just stay out of their way.

The party is in full swing when you arrive with loud music, flashing lights, bodies moving wildly on the dance floor, and the unmistakable smell of booze in the air. Bottles are being passed around, and the energy is electric.

A few friends from your classes spot you and pull you in, offering drinks. You take them all without hesitation, reaching for the strongest ones, letting the alcohol burn away the ache in your chest.

Jungkook is nowhere in sight.

Good. Maybe he didn’t come. Maybe you can actually enjoy yourself tonight.

With the alcohol settling in, your limbs feel lighter, your mind a little hazy. You dance to the outdated playlist blaring through the speakers, laugh with strangers, and let yourself let go just for a while.

But after some time, it all feels like too much. The heat, the noise, the overwhelming buzz in your veins. You slip away from the crowd and make your way to the rooftop, breathing in the crisp night air, letting it cool your flushed skin.

And then you sense someone else's presence.

You turn, your head spinning slightly, and there he is.

Jungkook.

You blink, wondering if you're imagining him, but his gaze is fixed on you, a slight furrow between his brows. There's something like concern in his expression as he watches you, taking in your drunken state.

Your heart stumbles in your chest.

The alcohol makes everything feel lighter, your body, your thoughts, your inhibitions. So when you see Jungkook standing there, looking at you with that unreadable expression, the words just spill out before you can stop them.

“I liked you, you know,” you mumble, swaying slightly. “But now I realize… I was just wasting my time.”

Jungkook doesn’t react. No apology, no denial, not even a flicker of emotion across his face.

He just exhales softly, shoving his hands into his pockets. “You’ll be fine,” he says simply, then turns on his heel and walks away.

Just like that.

The cool night air suddenly feels suffocating, the weight in your chest heavier than ever. You watch his retreating figure, your heart shattering all over again.

The next morning, you wake up with the nastiest headache ever. Your head throbs, your mouth is dry, and your body feels like it’s been wrung out. You groan, forcing yourself to sit up as the hazy memories from last night slowly piece themselves together.

Jungkook. The rooftop. The way he just… walked away like he didn’t care.

You shake the thought from your mind, dragging yourself out of bed. There’s no point dwelling on it. Your exams are approaching, and you need to focus.

Deciding to get some studying done, you head to the library. The quiet atmosphere should help clear your head or at least distract you from the mess that is your life.

But the moment you step inside, your breath catches.

Jungkook is sitting at the table you both used to frequent, completely absorbed in scribbling something into a notebook. For a second, you consider turning around, but then something catches your eye.

He rips out a small piece of paper, folds it neatly, and without hesitation, slips it into a glass jar sitting beside him.

Your heart clenches.

Is it for Hana?

You don’t stick around to find out. Before Jungkook can notice you, you turn on your heel and walk away.

February 10th. Your birthday.

You wake up with a small flicker of hope. Maybe today would be different. Maybe Jungkook had been ignoring you all this time because he was planning something, some kind of surprise. That had to be it, right?

Surely.

So you wait.

By 3 PM, your phone is filled with messages from friends, family, even distant relatives reaching out to wish you. Everyone but Jungkook.

Not even a single text.

The hope that had carried you through the day starts to crumble, replaced by a hollow ache in your chest. You don’t go to class. What’s the point? This might just be the worst birthday ever.

That’s when Joy bursts into your room with a grin.

"You got a package!" she announces, holding out a neatly wrapped box.

Your heart leaps.

Jungkook?

You rush over, fingers fumbling as you tear open the wrapping, only for your stomach to drop.

It’s from your parents.

Disappointment washes over you, but you push it aside. They went through the trouble of sending you something, and you should be grateful. You take a deep breath, forcing a smile as you pick up your phone and call them.

"Thank you," you say, voice steady. Because at least someone remembered.

There was still time.

It was only evening plenty of hours left before midnight. Jungkook would surely text before then. He had to.

Joy, noticing your gloomy mood, tries to lift your spirits. "Come on, let’s go out drinking. Have some fun, at least for your birthday."

But you shake your head. "I’m not in the mood."

She sighs, clearly frustrated but doesn’t push you. Instead, she flops onto your bed, staring at the ceiling. "I hate this," she mutters. "I hate seeing you like this. And I hate him for treating you this way."

Her voice is laced with anger, but there’s something else there too—guilt.

Because deep down, Joy still blames herself.

If she hadn’t sent that gift early, if she hadn’t tried to play cupid, maybe things wouldn’t have turned out this way. Maybe you wouldn’t be spending your birthday like this waiting for a boy who might never come around.

Jungkook didn’t text that day.

He forgot your birthday.

You waited all day, checking your phone every few minutes, hoping for a message that never came. Midnight passed, and still nothing.

The realization settles deep in your chest, heavier than you expected. You feel pathetic.

Pathetic for hoping. Pathetic for waiting. Pathetic for still caring.

It’s the day before Valentine’s Day.

You can’t afford to miss any more classes. You haven’t stepped foot on campus since your birthday, but today, you decide to go.

You have no motivation to see or talk to anyone. You tell yourself that you’ll just quietly attend your classes and head straight back home. No distractions. No unnecessary interactions.

But as soon as you reach campus, you notice a crowd gathering. There’s some kind of matchmaking event happening for Valentine’s Day tomorrow.

Great. Just great.

Everything about it feels like the universe is mocking you, rubbing salt on an already raw wound. Heart-shaped decorations, pink confetti floating in the air, and couples laughing completely oblivious to how suffocating it feels for you.

You try to move past the crowd, but suddenly, someone pushes forward, and you get caught in the chaos. You stumble, losing your balance and bracing for impact—

But you don’t hit the ground.

Because Jungkook catches you.

His hands grip your arms, steadying you out of instinct. His touch is firm and warm, familiar in a way that makes your chest ache.

For the first time in days, you look up at him. And for the first time in days, he looks right back at you.

He doesn’t let go of you immediately.

His grip stays firm, his fingers pressing into your arms like he’s grounding himself, like he’s hesitating. His throat bobs as he swallows hard, his lips parting slightly like he’s about to say something.

The music playing in the background fades into a distant hum. Everything around you slows. The laughter, the chatter, the festival lights it all blurs.

All that’s left is him.

Still holding you.

Your voice barely comes out, a whisper against the space between you.

“Do you even care, Jungkook?”

His hands tighten for a fraction of a second. His jaw clenches. And for a brief, fleeting moment, you think you see something something raw and unspoken flash through his eyes.

But then, like a switch flipping, he lets go.

So fast that you nearly stumble again.

"No, Y/N. I don’t."

His words cut through the air, sharp and merciless.

Then he turns. Walks away.

And you’re left standing there, alone in the middle of a festival meant for love.

This is it.

This is your answer.

Jungkook has made his choice.

And now, it’s time for you to make yours.

You have to move on.

That night, you decide. Jungkook was never meant to be yours.

It’s a painful truth, one you’ve been avoiding, but tonight, you accept it.

Needing a distraction, you start clearing out your closet, pulling out old clothes, forgotten trinkets, anything to keep your hands busy. That’s when you see it.

The pink heart-shaped box.

Your breath hitches.

You had snatched it from his hands that day, barely able to meet his gaze before bolting out of his apartment and driving straight back to your dorm. You had shoved it deep into your closet, hoping that if you buried it away, you could bury your feelings too.

For a moment, you consider throwing it away. What’s the point of holding onto it now? Jungkook knows. He read the notes, saw every piece of your heart laid bare. And in the end, it changed nothing.

Your fingers tremble as you lift the lid.

One by one, you pull out the little folded papers, unfolding memories you once held so close.

"I don’t know when it happened, but one day, he became my favourite person."

"His laugh is my favorite sound."

"I wish he knew how much he means to me."

Tears blur your vision.

You never wanted him to know.

Because you never wanted to lose him.

And now, you have.

The weight of it crashes over you all at once, and before you can stop it, the tears spill over, hot and relentless.

You clutch the notes to your chest as silent sobs wrack your body.

You’ve been holding the pain in for too long.

So tonight, you let the dams break.

And you cry yourself to sleep.

It’s Valentine’s Day.

You feel miserable.

Forget having a Valentine this year, you don’t even have a best friend anymore.

So you stay in bed all day, buried under the covers, refusing to acknowledge the world outside.

Your mind drifts, unbidden, to last year’s Valentine’s Day.

You and Jungkook had gone out for dinner not as lovers, not as anything more than friends, just two people who didn’t have dates. You remember how he laughed at the terrible restaurant music, how he stole fries from your plate like they were his.

You miss it.

No—wait. You shouldn’t be thinking about him.

Shaking off the thought, you grab your Nintendo Switch and start playing, trying to distract yourself.

Then the doorbell rings.

You ignore it. Joy is probably home she’ll get it.

But it rings again.

What is Joy doing?

Then it hits you that she probably stayed over at her boyfriend’s place last night.

With a groan, you push off the covers and make your way to the door. You swing it open, ready to shoo away whoever it is—

But there’s no one there.

Your gaze drops to the ground.

And then you see it.

A singular jar, placed carefully on the doormat.

You stare at the jar, a strange sense of familiarity creeping in, but you can’t quite place it.

Where have you seen something like this before?

Your mind scrambles for an answer, flipping through memories like pages in a book, but nothing surfaces.

With hesitant fingers, you reach down and pick it up, feeling the cool glass against your palm. It’s heavier than you expected.

That’s when you notice the writing on the lid, scrawled in red marker.

"To Y/N."

Your heart stutters.

You blink, trying to steady your breath, but the moment feels unreal—like you’ve stepped into a dream.

It’s only then that you notice the jar is filled with tiny rolled-up notes, crammed inside like secrets waiting to be unraveled.

Your mind starts spiraling.

What is this? Who left it? Why does it have your name?

Your hands tremble as you twist the lid open, the slight pop of the seal echoing in the silence.

You reach inside, fingers brushing against the countless little slips of paper.

With bated breath, you pull one out.

You carefully unroll it, eyes scanning the words scribbled in rushed, familiar handwriting.

"I lied."

That’s all it says.

Two words.

Your breath catches in your throat as your eyes trace the messy yet unmistakable handwriting.

Jungkook.

Your fingers tighten around the note as your pulse quickens.

It’s his.

The realization slams into you with a force that leaves you momentarily stunned.

Your breath turns shallow as the memory crashes into you—

Yesterday.

The crowd. The music. The overwhelming blur of people around you.

You had stumbled, nearly falling, only for Jungkook to catch you. For a fleeting moment, he held you close. His grip was firm, his expression unreadable.

You had searched his face, your voice barely above a whisper.

"Do you even care, Jungkook?"

You had wanted him to say yes. Even a little. Anything to make the ache in your chest feel less unbearable.

But instead—

"No, Y/N. I don’t."

His words had cut deeper than you ever thought possible.

And then he had let go. So fast, like touching you had burned him. Like you meant nothing at all.

You remember the way your heart had cracked, the way he had disappeared into the sea of people, leaving you stranded in the middle of a festival meant for love.

But now... Now you stand here, gripping a jar full of his words.

"I lied."

Your hands fumble as you reach into the jar again, pulling out another note.

Unrolling it with shaky fingers, you read:

"I thought if I pushed you away, it’d be easier for you to move on. But the truth is, I don’t want you to."

A sharp pang strikes your chest.

Your mind reels, and suddenly, you're back at the rooftop party—drunk, vulnerable, spilling your heart out in slurred words.

“I liked you, you know? But now I realize I was just wasting my time.”

Jungkook had stood there, silent, unreadable, his hands stuffed in his pockets.

No apology. No denial. Nothing.

And then, just as effortlessly, he had turned away.

"You'll be fine," he'd said before walking off, leaving you alone in the cold night.

The memory burns like an open wound, and yet, here you are, standing in your doorway, holding the truth he should have told you that night in the palm of your hands.

Your fingers tremble as you pull out the next note.

"I missed your birthday on purpose because I wanted to give you something that lasts longer than a text."

Your breath hitches.

He didn’t forget?

He chose not to text?

A bitter chuckle escapes your lips, but it fades just as quickly as the weight of his words settles in.

You reach into the jar again, pulling out another note, heart pounding against your ribs.

What you didn’t know was that Jungkook had spent hours writing your birthday note.

He had sat at his desk that night, a dozen crumpled papers around him, rewriting the same message over and over, never satisfied. His hands had been shaky when he finally folded the note and slipped it into the jar.

Because words were permanent.

Because he was afraid.

Because deep down, he knew that if he told you how much you really meant to him, he wouldn’t be able to push you away anymore.

And that terrified him.

Your grip on the jar tightens as you pull out the next note.

"I was scared you’d see me in the library that day. And you did. I almost stopped writing. But I wanted to finish this for you."

Your breath catches in your throat as a memory rushes back—

The library.

That afternoon, when you had finally dragged yourself back to campus to study for your exams, you had seen him sitting at your usual table, scribbling something into his notebook.

At the time, you thought nothing of it until you watched him tear out a tiny slip of paper and slip it into a jar.

A jar.

The very same one you now hold in your trembling hands.

Back then, you had turned away, assuming it was for Hana.

But it wasn’t.

It was for you.

Every note in this jar was for you.

Your vision blurs as you stare down at the tiny rolled-up messages still waiting to be read.

He had been writing to you all along.

By the time you reach the last few notes, your hands are trembling. Maybe you can’t even read them through the tears clouding your vision. The weight of all those misunderstandings, every ignored confession, every painful silence, every moment you thought he didn’t care, crashes down on you all at once.

Your breath is uneven as you unroll another slip of paper.

"You thought I didn’t care. But I did. I always did."

A sob escapes your lips, the ache in your chest unbearable.

You clutch the jar against you like it’s the most precious thing you’ve ever held because it is. Because it’s him.

Every unspoken word. Every hidden feeling. Every truth he was too afraid to say aloud.

And now, you finally know.

Your breath catches as you reach the bottom of the jar, realizing the significance there are exactly 100 notes, just like the box you once gave him.

With shaky hands, you pull out the 99th note.

“I was always bad at saying things out loud. So I wrote them instead. I just hope it’s not too late for you to read them.”

Your chest tightens.

You take a deep breath and reach for the last note, your fingers trembling. Slowly, you unroll it, heart pounding in your ears.

“Y/N, will you be my Valentine?”

The paper almost slips from your fingers as your vision blurs with fresh tears. A shaky laugh escapes your lips, somewhere between disbelief and overwhelming emotion.

After everything, after all the silence, the pain, the misunderstandings he’s finally saying it.

And suddenly, all that matters is what you’ll do next.

The moment the words register, you don’t think.

The jar nearly slips from your grasp as you scramble to your feet, your heartbeat hammering louder than the thoughts racing through your mind. Jungkook. He couldn’t have gone far he must have just dropped it off.

You fling the door open, barefoot, barely even stopping to grab your keys. The cold air bites at your skin, but you don’t care. You sprint down the stairs, nearly stumbling in your rush to get outside.

Your eyes dart wildly around the street, your breath coming out in frantic puffs. Where is he?

Then, you see him.

A few feet away, Jungkook is walking slowly, hands in his pockets, head low like he’s already bracing for disappointment. Like he’s already convinced you won’t come after him.

But you do.

“Jungkook!”

He freezes.

You don’t stop running until you’re right in front of him, breathless, clutching the jar close to your chest like it’s the only thing anchoring you to the moment.

His eyes widen when he sees you messy hair, no shoes, trembling hands still gripping his gift like it’s the most important thing in the world.

You swallow hard, voice shaking. “Did you mean it?”

Jungkook looks at you for a long moment, the night stretching between you like a fragile thread.

Then, barely above a whisper, “Yeah.”

Your chest heaves, breath uneven, voice shaking as you clutch the jar tighter.

"You absolute jerk." Your voice wavers, but the anger, the hurt, the sheer weight of everything he’s put you through spills out in every word. "You sat there, letting me think I meant nothing to you. And the whole time, you were—" You shake the jar, almost laughing in disbelief. "—writing these?"

Jungkook doesn’t answer. He just stands there, hands stuffed in his pockets, jaw tight, like he’s bracing himself for whatever you’re about to say next.

"You could’ve just told me, Jungkook. You could’ve just—" You pause, gripping the jar like it’s the only thing holding you together. "Why? Why lie to me?"

He exhales sharply, his voice rough, like he’s been holding it in for too long.

"Because I was a coward."

You blink. You weren’t expecting him to admit it so easily.

Jungkook runs a hand through his hair, looking away. "I thought pushing you away was the right thing to do. If I let you think I didn’t care, maybe you’d move on. Maybe you’d find someone who wouldn’t hurt you like I did."

Your throat tightens. Your fingers dig into the glass of the jar. "You were the one hurting me, Jungkook."

His eyes finally meet yours, and the weight of them almost knocks the air from your lungs. He looks wrecked.

"I know." His voice is barely above a whisper.

"Then why?" Your voice trembles, frustration bubbling over. "Why did you let me think I was chasing something that wasn’t even there?"

His jaw clenches, and for a second, he doesn’t answer. But then, his voice comes, low and raw.

"Because I was afraid you’d realize you deserved better."

Silence settles between you. A silence so thick it presses against your chest, making it hard to breathe.

You stare at him, your vision blurring. You should walk away. You should scream, cry, or do anything. But instead, you do the only thing you can think of.

You reach into the jar, grab a note at random, and shove it into his hand. "Read it."

Jungkook hesitates. Then, slowly, he unfolds the paper. His fingers tremble as he reads the words he once wrote.

"If I had been braver, I would’ve told you every single day how much you meant to me."

He sucks in a sharp breath, gripping the paper like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded. His eyes flick back up to yours, burning with something you can’t quite name.

"Say it now," you whisper.

Jungkook's breath catches. His grip on the note tightens like it’s the only thing keeping him together.

You wait. Trembling, heart pounding, eyes locked onto his. Daring him to finally, finally say it.

He exhales shakily. His voice is low, rough like it hurts to speak, but he does anyway.

"Y/N…"

You don’t look away. Don’t let him run from this.

His throat bobs. His hand curls into a fist at his side, then slowly unclenches.

"I love you."

A sharp inhale cuts through you. Even though you were waiting for it, the words hit like a tidal wave.

Jungkook shakes his head, almost laughing, but there’s no humor in it just raw, aching regret.

"I loved you then. I love you now. And I don’t think there’s a single version of me that won’t love you."

Your vision blurs, the weight of everything pressing down on you all at once.

"Then why—" your voice cracks, "—why did you let me think you didn’t?"

Jungkook exhales sharply, raking a hand through his hair. His face twists with something close to pain.

"Because I was scared." His voice is barely above a whisper. "Scared that if I let myself have you, I’d ruin you. Scared that you’d wake up one day and realize I wasn’t worth it."

Your hands clench at your sides. "You don’t get to decide that for me."

He nods. Swallows hard. Takes a step closer.

"I know." His voice is softer now. "And if I could go back, I’d do it all differently. But I can’t. All I can do is stand here and tell you—"

Your lips crash into his, years of longing and heartbreak unraveling in a single, desperate moment. Your fingers fist into his jacket, pulling him closer, closing the distance like you’ve been waiting forever. Because you have.

Jungkook catches you. His arms wind tight around your waist, grounding you, anchoring you like he’s afraid you’ll slip away again. His grip is firm, unyielding, as if holding you is the only thing that makes sense anymore.

The kiss isn’t soft it’s frantic, raw, filled with all the words you never got to say. It’s a confession, an apology, a plea. His lips move against yours with urgency, pouring everything into it, like he’s trying to make up for every second he spent pushing you away.

Jungkook tilts his head, deepening the kiss, and a shiver runs through you as his fingers tangle into your hair, tugging just enough to make your breath hitch. His other hand spreads against your back, pressing you impossibly closer, like even this isn’t enough, like he’d fuse you together if he could.

You melt. Every wall you built, every ounce of anger, every misunderstanding crumbling, dissolving into the heat of him. The way he kisses you feels like an answer to a question you didn’t know you were asking. Like a promise.

When you finally pull apart, neither of you lets go.

Jungkook rests his forehead against yours, his breath mingling with yours, still uneven, still shaken. His hands remain on your waist like he’s afraid that the second he lets go, this will all disappear.

Your fingers stay curled in his shirt, gripping the fabric like it’s the only thing keeping you grounded.

His voice is raw when he finally speaks, barely more than a whisper. “I don’t deserve you.”

You exhale, shaking your head, the weight of everything still pressing against your chest. Your voice is quiet, but steady. “Then spend every day proving that you do.”

Jungkook lets out a soft laugh one that sounds broken and real, like he can’t believe he’s still allowed to have this moment with you.

“Deal,” he murmurs.

And then he kisses you again.

The door barely clicks shut before Jungkook is on you again, his hands framing your face as his lips crash into yours. There’s no hesitation now, no careful restraint only heat, only the raw, aching need that’s been simmering between you for far too long.

His body presses against yours, pushing you back into the door, and you gasp against his lips. He swallows the sound, deepening the kiss, his tongue sweeping over yours with slow, deliberate intent. He tastes like something addictive like want, like longing, like the kind of hunger that makes your stomach tighten and your knees go weak.

Your fingers tangle in his hair, pulling him closer, needing him closer. His hands roam down, slipping under the hem of your shirt, fingertips skimming along your bare skin. His touch is scorching, leaving a trail of fire wherever he moves. He pauses, his breath ragged, lips barely brushing yours.

"Tell me to stop," he murmurs, voice rough, uneven.

You shake your head, tilting your chin up until your lips ghost over his again. "I don’t want you to stop."

The words break something inside him.

His mouth crashes onto yours again, hungrier this time, more desperate. His hands slide up your back, pulling you flush against him, and you can feel the hard lines of his body, the way his chest rises and falls unsteadily against yours. One hand grips your waist, fingers digging in just enough to make you shudder, while the other slides lower, gripping your thigh and hitching it up against his hip.

A quiet moan escapes you at the feeling, and he groans in response, pressing harder into you. His lips leave yours, trailing a path down your jaw, to the sensitive spot beneath your ear, where he lingers. His teeth scrape lightly against your skin before he soothes it with his tongue, sucking gently, enough to make you arch into him, enough to make your breath hitch.

"Jungkook—" His name leaves your lips in a breathless whisper, and he exhales sharply against your skin, like the sound is enough to undo him.

His grip tightens as he lifts you effortlessly, hands settling under your thighs. Instinct takes over, and your legs wrap around his waist as he carries you across the room. He lays you down on the bed with care, but there’s nothing careful about the way he follows you down, covering your body with his own.

He hovers above you, his breath warm against your lips, his dark eyes searching yours. His thumb brushes over your cheek, then lower, tracing the curve of your bottom lip, his touch unbearably light.

"You’re sure?" he whispers, voice thick with something heady.

Your only answer is a whispered "Yes," breathless, certain.

Something shifts in him at your words. His lips find yours again, but this time, he takes his time exploring, savoring, as if he wants to memorize every inch of you. His kisses trail downward, along the curve of your neck, across your collarbone, his mouth mapping out a path of heat and sensation. His hands move with just as much purpose, slipping under fabric, pushing it aside, fingers tracing bare skin with an intimacy that makes your pulse stutter.

Every brush of his lips, every slow, deliberate touch sends waves of electricity through you, igniting something deep and primal. Clothes are discarded in slow, teasing movements, the heat between you building with every layer that falls away.

His lips ghost over your shoulder, down your arm, over the curve of your breasts, his breath hot and uneven. He watches you, eyes dark with something intense, something almost reverent, as his fingers trace slow, lazy patterns along your bare skin.

"You’re so beautiful," he murmurs, voice filled with something deeper than desire.

You reach for him, pulling him back up, needing his mouth on yours again, needing more. He obliges, kissing you fiercely, like he never wants to stop, like this moment has been waiting to happen for far too long.

His hands explore moving towards your heat, his touch reverent yet possessive, like he’s memorizing every inch of you, like he’s making up for all the lost time. You arch into him, breath hitching, hands gripping onto his shoulders as heat coils low in your stomach.

"Jungkook," you whisper, his name falling from your lips like a plea.

His breath catches, and he exhales shakily. "I’ve got you," he murmurs against your skin, voice barely above a whisper. "I’m right here."

And then there’s no more talking only movement, only passion, only the feeling of finally, finally being exactly where you both belong.

The air is thick with warmth, bodies tangled beneath the sheets, hearts pounding in tandem as the last echoes of your shared breaths settle between you. The world outside might still be turning, but in this moment, it doesn’t exist. It’s just you and him, skin against skin, the weight of what just happened pressing down like the softest, heaviest thing in the world.

Your body is spent, muscles trembling faintly from the aftershocks, but you don’t move. You can’t.

Jungkook is still holding you. One arm draped lazily around your waist, the other tracing absentminded patterns against your back. His touch is slow, soothing, like he’s still trying to convince himself you’re real. Like if he lets go, you might slip away.

You stay like that for a while, chests rising and falling in sync, your head resting just above his heart. The rhythm of it is steady now, no longer racing like it had been just moments ago. Still, there’s a softness to it, an unspoken question lingering in the quiet space between you.

It’s you who finally breaks it.

“So…” You shift slightly, fingers trailing absentmindedly along his chest. “Hana knew about the jar?”

His hand stills for the briefest moment before he exhales a small, breathy laugh. His voice is thick with exhaustion, but there’s amusement in it too.

“She didn’t just know about it.” His fingers resume their slow, idle circles against your bare skin. “It was her idea.”

You blink. “…What?”

Jungkook hums in confirmation, the corner of his mouth quirking up. “Yeah. She was the one who told me to do it—to fill a jar with everything I wanted to say but couldn’t.” He pauses, then adds, “She also threatened to expose me if I didn’t.”

You scoff, though you can’t help the warmth blooming in your chest. “So let me get this straight… You couldn’t tell me how you felt, but you told Hana?”

Jungkook turns his head slightly to look at you, eyes still heavy with sleep, but the amusement in them is undeniable. “I didn’t tell her. She just… figured it out.”

Of course, she did.

You huff, feigning annoyance, but your fingers betray you, tracing soft, aimless patterns along his collarbone. “Still. She knew before I did.”

Jungkook grins, rolling onto his side to face you fully. One hand slips beneath the sheets, finding your waist, pulling you closer until there’s no space left between you. His voice is low when he asks, “Are you jealous?”

You glare at him. “Shut up.”

His laughter vibrates against your skin, rich and warm, before he dips down to kiss you, like he’s trying to pour everything he can’t say into it. When he finally pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, his breath mingling with yours in the quiet.

Then, softer now, more serious, he murmurs, “Are you gonna answer me?”

Your brow furrows slightly. “Answer what?”

Jungkook leans over, reaching toward the nightstand where the jar still sits, its notes untouched except for the last one.

“The question,” he says, retrieving the single unfolded slip of paper. He holds it between you, and even though you already know what it says, your heart still stutters when your eyes skim over the words again.

Y/N, will you be my Valentine?

Earlier, you had left it unanswered, too overwhelmed by everything that had come before it. But now, after everything after confessions, after heartbreak, after finally finding each other again—there’s no hesitation.

You reach out, plucking the note from his fingers. Slowly, carefully, you fold it again, tucking it beneath your pillow like something precious, something worth keeping. Then, meeting his gaze, you whisper, “You never needed to ask.”

Jungkook exhales, slow and shaky, like something inside him has finally settled. His hand cups your cheek, his thumb brushing over your skin like he’s memorizing the moment.

“Good,” he murmurs, voice thick with emotion. “Because I wasn’t planning on taking no for an answer.”

Your breath catches. Not because of his confidence but because, deep down, you realize you’d never wanted to say no in the first place. Maybe you had tried to fight it. Maybe you had convinced yourself that the past had built too many walls between you. But now, lying here in the warmth of his arms, the truth settles into your bones like something that had been waiting for you to accept it all along.

It had always been him.

Your fingers tighten in the sheets as you search his gaze, looking for hesitation, for doubt for something to make this feel less like a dream. But there’s nothing. Just him. Just you. Just this moment you both fought so hard to reach.

Jungkook watches you, waiting, always waiting, his hand still resting against your cheek as if he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

So you close the distance.

You kiss him slowly this time, letting it sink in. The warmth of his lips, the taste of him still lingering, the way he exhales like he’s been holding his breath for years. When you pull away, his forehead rests against yours, both of you breathing the same air, hearts beating in time.

And then, with a quiet, knowing smile, you whisper, “Then don’t.”

Jungkook’s lips part slightly, his expression shiftingas if those two words had knocked down every last barrier between you. And maybe they had. Because before you can say anything else, he’s pulling you against him again, tucking you close, his hand slipping into yours beneath the sheets.

Neither of you speak for a long time after that. You don’t need to.

Outside, the world keeps turning, time moving forward just as it always does. But here, in the hush of your dorm room, wrapped up in him, it feels like the universe has paused just for you.

Not to make up for lost time.

But to remind you that some things—some people—were never really lost at all.

And maybe, just maybe, they never would be.

EPILOGUE : Years Later – Valentine’s Day

The door clicks shut behind you as you step into the apartment, kicking off your shoes with a tired sigh. The evening air still clings to your skin, carrying traces of laughter and the lingering warmth of Jungkook’s presence.

It had been another perfect night one filled with inside jokes, stolen bites of each other’s food, and his usual exasperated attempts to get you to pick a restaurant instead of saying, “Anything’s fine.”

Jungkook is nowhere in sight, giving you the solitude you need. You don’t hesitate. Your steps are purposeful as you cross the room, crouching down beside the bed. With practiced ease, you reach under the frame, fingers brushing against the familiar surface of a small pink, heart-shaped box.

But this time, there’s something else.

Your fingers find the jar, the one that started it all.

You pull them both out carefully, as if they were a fragile secret, and place them on your lap.

Soft footsteps approach. Then, a familiar weight sinks onto the mattress beside you.

Jungkook’s voice is quieter now, fond. “Didn’t think I’d see those again.”

You smile, running a thumb over the worn edges of the box before glancing at him. “I don’t know what made me reach for them.”

He hums, gaze flickering between the objects in your hands. “Habit, maybe. Or fate.” Then, smirking, “You always did have a thing for digging up answers.”

Rolling your eyes, you pop the lid off the jar, fingers fishing out an old note. The paper is creased, the ink slightly faded, but you already know what it says.

"Y/N, will you be my Valentine?"

Jungkook watches you, expectant. “You never actually answered me, you know.”

You exhale a laugh, shaking your head. “Jungkook, we’re literally married.”

“And?” He leans in, teasing. “I’m just saying, a verbal confirmation wouldn’t hurt.”

You scoff but humor him anyway, fingers curling into his sweater as you whisper against his lips—

"Yes, Jungkook. I’ll be your Valentine."

His arms wrap around you, pulling you in. The jar sits forgotten on the floor, the pink box nestled beside it.

Once upon a time, you had pulled it out, searching for clarity. Looking for a sign.

You didn’t realize then you never needed the answers inside.

Because you’d already found them.

Because you’d found him.

And maybe that was the answer all along.

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thank you so much for reading! let me know what u think about it <3

[azullumi]

you're in a crisis !! the crisis being there's only one bed

content tags — featuring: hsr men (not everyone though) | fluff, whatever thing is going in on your relationship, except they have a little crush on you, kind of crack, headcanons | wc: 1.2k

jellyfish notes — guys my phatass cat wont stop hoarding the bed

Phainon is gaslighting himself into thinking that the floor looks the most comfortable even if it actually wasn’t. He absolutely thinks it’s the superior option—sure, his back will hate him tomorrow but at least his dignity remains intact. He avoids admitting that the bed is fine as if he would die the moment he utters his predicament. When you finally drag him to the mattress after what seems to be hundreds of years of insisting, he lies so rigidly he could practically become a table at this point. The barrier of a single pillow between you is a joke. He hates how hyper-aware and sensitive he can be of every shift you make, every rustle of fabric, and when morning comes, he’s a sleep-deprived mess staring at the ceiling. “This is fine. We’re fine. Everything’s fine.”

Anaxagoras sees nothing worth panicking over—he raises an eyebrow at your hesitation. “It’s just a bed,” he says, “the both of us will just sleep on it,” he says. Unless you want to complain, then you should go sleep on the couch or the floor or the bathroom even. It is as simple as that (he’s on that nonchalant sh). The problem is he hoards the blanket as if he owns it. The man literally has it trapped under his weight like a wrestler pinning an opponent and you’re left shivering with what you have, wondering why you ever trusted him.

Before you could even say anything, Mydei is already walking to the couch and flopping down on it. When asked if he’s going to sleep on the bed later, he’ll only say that it’s all yours to have. Discussion closed. If you toss a pillow at him, he’ll catch it without opening his eyes before tucking it under his head—that’s the most you’ll get from him.

You should have known what a little shit Caelus is. He'll opt for sleeping on the floor, right close to the bed where you can completely see him, even though there is a perfectly fine couch over there that is possibly more comfortable than the ground he insists on. He is committed to the bit, escalating his performance into Oscar-worthy height, sprawled all over the ground like a fallen hero in a musical. “The aching," he moans, clutching a throw pillow to his chest like a deathbed prop. “UGH, my back! If only someone is so kind as to offer me something warm… like a bed. This is not directed to you, [Name]. How could I ever be so scandalous and greedy to take something away from you.” Except he’s being scandalous. Is this his way of making you feel guilty? Yes. Is it working? Terribly so.

It’s hard to tell what Dan Heng is thinking at the moment, especially with his silence. But suddenly, he moves with the precision of a mechanical robot, prepares the bed and tells you that you’ll have it while he sleeps somewhere else. However, it takes three logical appeals—“The chair will ruin your back"—, one impulsive grab at his sleeve, and his own traitorous exhaustion before he relents and lies down. It’s a little quiet, don’t you think? Is he already asleep? Apparently not, because the ceiling looks more interesting than any kind of dream right now. Eventually, you’ll find yourself asking him random questions to which he answers anyway until you fall asleep. Dawn reveals him exactly where he started, spine straight, hands folded on his chest, as if he’s some kind of a display. The only evidence he ever moved at all is the blanket now tucked over your shoulders.

Jing Yuan finds some kind of delight or entertainment in this situation. He’s having way too much fun with this, so much so that he teases you so much and you have to smack him repeatedly until he stops—he doesn’t though, and you’re so close to just grabbing his lips with your hand. Grinning, he’ll say: “But why would I sleep on the couch? There’s a bed over there.” or something like, “Oh, you’re sure you don’t want to share?”. In the end, you cannot completely win against him so the two of you end up in the same space, only a few inches apart because as fate would have it, there’s only one pillow too.

Give Sunday a moment to just process and look if there are any other beds in the room. When he finally realizes there’s one and nothing else, yeahhh… flustered at the thought of being on the same bed as you? Maybe, but he still tries to be a gentleman and offers for you to take the bed’s comfort and he’ll look for something to work with for his sleep. He is just so close to cracking—his princely composure fading into nothing as he debates the ethics of sharing versus his very obvious crush. "Perhaps… if we both face opposite walls?" he suggests weakly, like that’ll somehow erase the tension. When you finally tug him onto the bed, he lies so still you’d think he’s in a coffin, hands clasped over his chest like a vampire praying for restraint.

Yeah, you and Boothill are sharing that bed despite you insisting that the two of you would not fit in it. You have no choice at all. And somehow, your crisis went from where to sleep to how to sleep because he moves a lot like he’s in some kind of boxing competition in his dreams. He is a one-man apocalypse—he is both the zombie and the survivor, flipping, rolling, and doing everything but not giving you peace. You ended up kicking him out of frustration, perhaps a little too hard because he nearly fell to the ground—-amazingly, he didn’t wake up. Annoyingly, he just comes back like a boomerang and by morning, you’re a shell of a person, while he stretches like he had the best sleep in his entire life.

That is no problem at all because Blade does not fucking sleep. Somehow, that stresses you out.

Dr. Ratio would sigh and ask whether you prefer the bed, the floor, or the couch (if there is any). Whatever you choose, you’re sleeping there, although it seems kind of stupid to give you the illusion of choice because he’ll scold you if you choose anything else other than the bed. Say what? You’re choosing the couch? Okay, have fun sleeping on the bed. Unbelievable, he has logicked you into submission. And when words fail and you still protest, he lifts you like a misbehaving kitten and drops you onto the mattress (those muscles are not just for display). "Go to sleep," he commands, looming over you like a crazed professor.

With the ever-loving gentleman Argenti, you’re always taken care of and considered by him. He is just insufferably chivalrous. "A flower as delicate as you deserves the finest rest," he’ll say, gesturing to the bed like it’s a throne. He’s draping you in blankets, tucking you under them like you’re some kind of fragile artifact, then afterwards, he prepares to rest on a single-cushioned chair. He will not be swayed no matter what you say, so just go sleep and don’t worry about him.

One bed? No worries, Aventurine will just get another room for himself. No room either? Guess, you’re stuck with him now. “What’s the harm in sharing, friend?” What you imagined to be a night of fine wine and dinner ends up in a mess of pillow-fighting after you threw one directly on his face, to which he retaliated, and you, too, also retaliated until it ended into this chaos. Finally, when you grudgingly settle in and resigned to your fate, lounging on your side of the bed, you fall asleep to the sound of his laugh and his whispered words of goodnight. You’ll wake up baffled, however, as you see him curled on the couch, one arm dangling off, having silently relocated sometime in the night. The audacity of this man to play chivalrous after wrecking the room.

© AZULLUMI. plagiarism of any form and type, stealing, copying, translating, reposting my works on other platforms is NOT permitted.