#they are soft and in love and finally together

[luna-azzurra]

Writing characters who don’t know they’re in love

(PS: but literally everyone else does and is so tired)

These characters aren’t clueless, no, they’re not walking around like, “love? never heard of her.” They know something’s going on, they just won’t admit it (not to themselves, not to anyone.) Maybe they’re scared of messing it up, or maybe they think the other person doesn’t feel the same. Maybe they’ve stuffed the feeling so deep even a NASA rover couldn’t dig it out.

Whatever the reason, they’re not avoiding the truth as much as they’re…rebranding it. Calling it “friendship” while giving each other their only jacket and dreaming about each other’s voices like it’s totally normal behavior.

ꕤ They don’t realize it’s love, but they notice everything else. They clock every mood shift, every absence, every little thing. They definitely  know when something’s off.

⇢ “You changed your hair.” ⇢ “You looked upset earlier.” ⇢ “You didn’t text me back and I panicked.” ⇢ “You weren’t at lunch and it felt weird.” ⇢ “Are you cold?” hands over jacket without a second thought

They don’t say “I love you,” but their actions scream it constantly.

ꕤ they get weird when someone else gets close They’re not jealous. No, how dare you think something like that… they’re just keeping an eye out. For safety... Or whatever."

⇢ “Who was that?” ⇢ “Oh, you’re hanging out with them again?” ⇢ “I just think it’s interesting how you never cancel on them.”

They don’t say it, but they hate the idea of being replaced. It stings more than they’re ready to admit.

ꕤ they make excuses to be around each other.

Literally inventing reasons to be in the same space.

⇢ “Wanna study together? I’m struggling with this topic.” (They’re not.) ⇢ “Oh, I was just in the area.” (They weren’t.) ⇢ “You forgot this.” (It’s a single pen.)

They’d rather lie badly than admit, “I just wanted to see you.”

ꕤ  Their friends are so over it Everyone around them is either rooting for them or trying not to scream.

⇢ “You’re in love with them.” ⇢ “That’s not friendship, and you know it.” ⇢ “You made them soup. FUCKING SOUP. Just say you’re married already.” ⇢ “If I have to hear you talk about them one more time, I’m charging rent.”

Friends are the Greek chorus of this situation, like, brutally honest and endlessly tired.

ꕤ  There’s always a moment they almost figure it out That one soft, unspoken beat where the truth almost breaks through.

⇢ Watching them laugh like it’s the first time. ⇢ Seeing them cry and wanting to fix it more than anything. ⇢ Realizing no one else makes them feel like this. ⇢ Thinking, God, they’re beautiful.

Then they blink, panic a little, and go, “Huh. Weird.” And move on. Like absolute fools.

ꕤ  When it finally hits, it’s not cute, it’s catastrophic. Suddenly everything makes sense and feels like too much.

⇢ Flashbacks. ⇢ Internal screaming. ⇢ “Oh no.” ⇢ “OH MY GOD.” ⇢ “Has it always been this obvious??” ⇢ “Wait. Everyone knew?!”

Yes. Everyone. The friends, the neighbor’s cat. You were the only two who didn’t get the memo...

[pellucid-constellations]

If We Talked

Pairing: Bucky x Reader

Summary: After overhearing some choice words between Bucky and his best friend, you make the difficult decision to avoid him. For a week. Bucky loses his mind in the process.

Word count: 2.1k

Warnings: Some angst and miscommunication

a/n: I love this trope!! It was so fun to write a little one and I loveee reading it. I hope you enjoy!! Thank you for reading ily ❤️❤️

Masterlist

~~

You fought off the swell of your throat with tight lips, stirring the contents of the pot with unnecessary care. He was staring at you. He had been staring at you from the moment he came inside, but there was nothing you could do about it—nothing you should do about it. 

The spices from the haphazardly thrown-together dinner were beginning to burn your eyes. This felt awful. The past week had felt awful. 

After overhearing Bucky call you intense, everything you felt was amplified. 

It had been an accident, you being at his apartment at that exact moment. You were dropping by unannounced, but you hadn’t even knocked on the door before his words had vibrated past the locked threshold of the door. And then you had left. 

You had taken great care to be less intense over the past week. This was the first time Bucky had been in your apartment since that day, and that hadn’t been without struggle. He asked to come over several times, even showing up and knocking on the door while you pretended to be asleep. It all felt very juvenile—the ignoring and avoiding and missing calls. But you didn’t know how else to respond. 

You loved Bucky. You loved him and it felt intense, but, apparently, things had moved too fast for him. A few months of dating were not enough. You were too much.

You had told him you loved him for the first time just days before you overheard his confession, so connecting the dots hadn’t been very hard.

You were too much. 

Avoiding him had been made easier by your intense work schedule. You stayed overtime and texted brief excuses. That had worked for a time. But last night, Bucky showed up at your office with a bag of takeout and an uncomfortably furrowed brow, and you knew it was probably time to face this. 

You gave him space for a week, and now it was time to practice being less intense in person. You couldn’t avoid him forever. And it hurt—being away from him for too long. Not that you would admit that. Not now. 

“I don’t know how good this is going to be,” you huffed out a laugh, ladling noodles into two bowls. “It’s a new recipe, and I’m kinda low on groceries.” 

When you glanced up at Bucky sitting on the couch, his smile looked strained. “‘M sure it’ll be great.” 

You replied with a short smile, glancing down at the bowls as you joined him in the living room. You sat far enough away for it to make sense—one cushion over, not halfway in his lap like you used to. The television created a soft backdrop of some show you weren’t paying attention to, but the meal was otherwise silent. 

You missed kissing him.

When he came in, you gave him one quick press of your lips and then darted back to the kitchen, ignoring the feel of his hands on your waist as they rushed to grab you. He was only doing all of that to appease you—the calls and trips to your office and the affection. 

If you let him do what he didn’t want to do, you would lose him. 

“Well,” you prompted, your teasing smile almost wobbling over the bowl. “How is it?” 

Bucky caught your eye from the other side of the small couch. His expression narrowed on your mouth, and then he winced, almost imperceptibly. 

Something dropped in your gut. 

“It’s good, sweetheart.” 

You kept up your smile, but as you turned back to your meal and pretended to watch TV, everything felt final. Your jaw was stiff as you took your next bite, the food tasting like nothing and curdling in your stomach. You hadn’t done enough. You hadn’t given him enough space. He had been so adamant about coming over because this was the end. 

You left your bowl half-filled when you placed it on the coffee table, the smell of it nauseating. The inside of your cheek was bleeding from where you bit into it. 

“Done already?” Bucky asked. He had finished a few minutes before you, his dish next to yours, and his arm looped back behind the couch. He wasn’t touching you. Almost, but not. 

“Yeah,” you replied. The single word sounded unstable, and you cursed your throat for feeling so thick with anxiety. You looked at Bucky from the corner of your eye, only to find his eyes closed and his expression pinched. 

Your lips parted. Were you going to beg? That would only make it worse, surely. Too intense, too much. 

Maybe this would be for the best. Some time for a break would—

“Please, tell me how to fix this.” 

You blinked at the TV, and then you blinked over towards Bucky, lips still parted but no words escaping them. 

A pause as breath was caught in the heaviness of your chest, and then, “What?” 

Bucky moved his tongue to his cheek, leaning forward to prop his elbows on his knees. He was wearing a hoodie today, and it felt so uncharacteristic that you had almost been distracted at the door. 

“I can’t… I can’t lose you, okay? I don’t know what I did, but you gotta tell me or I’m—” his hands came up to run over his head and fall at the nape of his neck. “—just tell me what I did, sweetheart. Please.” 

He turned to look at you then, only a foot of space between you but the distance almost stifling. Your hands clenched atop your knees, and he watched them, eyes flickering to any movement you made. He tracked your unsteady breath, the way your gaze couldn’t stay rooted in one place, and each minute shift in your features. 

“I don’t—I don’t understand,” you offered, because it was the truth. 

Bucky’s jaw rocked to the side. “You barely said three words to me this week. You didn’t want me over—didn’t want to see me. I fought through your building security to bring you dinner, and you looked… Baby, I walked through the door and looked about ready to cry. I mean, you didn’t even—you barely even kissed me today.” 

Your gentle sigh weighed down your chest. You dropped your gaze down to the couch, unaware that Bucky was desperately trying to find himself there, leaning his head down to no avail. This didn’t make any sense. You really couldn’t do anything right, it seemed. 

“It’s just—baby, I thought you said—” Bucky started, speaking in such disjointed sentences you looked up to try and parse them out. His shoulders untensed as you did, but then he said, “Thought you loved me, is that still true?” and the confusing swirl of emotions turned to devastation. 

“I do,” you fervently replied, shaking your head as if that made sense. “Of course I do, Bucky, but you…” 

“I what?” Bucky rushed to get clarification, the vulnerability so clear on his face it made you ache. 

“I thought I was too much for you. I was trying to give you space. I thought you were going to end things tonight.” 

“Why in the hell would you think that?” he exasperated, the words harsh but his delivery of them so gentle. 

You bit into your bottom lip and let out another breath, the pressure on your chest looming down into your ribs. The fists on your knees moved to pick at a loose thread on the couch. 

“I came by on Saturday—to your apartment, I mean. You left your jacket in my car, and I knew you were going to be out late with Sam.” 

“But I didn’t—” 

“I never actually got inside your apartment,” you revealed, knocking your head to the side, still unable to fully meet his gaze. 

A tick of silence passed. 

“You heard me.” 

This was the worst part. It made you seem immature, eavesdropping from the hall of his building. It made you seem immature, and you were also petty because you avoided him for a week. You fought the urge to allow the couch to swallow you whole.

“I didn’t mean to hear you,” you stressed, pulling and tugging at the loose corner of your cushion. “I left pretty quickly. I didn’t—” 

“Hey,” Bucky interrupted. He placed fingers under your chin, forcing your gaze up to his. The concern in his features masked lingering hurt, and you moved your hands into your lap to squeeze them together instead. “What did you hear, baby?”

You flickered your gaze between his eyes. “I’m not mad at you. I understand, you know? I wouldn’t want—” 

“Y/n. What did you hear?”

“That you think I’m too intense. That this—us—is too much, maybe.” 

Bucky kept you in his hold, but he closed his eyes. The hurt melted from his face only to be replaced with something akin to regret. He shook his head slightly, jutted out his jaw, and then he looked at you once again, his features strained. 

“Damn,” he whispered. The fingers under your chin moved to cup your cheek, rubbing soothing shapes there. “Thought you were leaving me, did you know that? Whole time this has been my own fault. God.” 

Bucky shifted forward on the couch until your legs were pressed close. You untucked yours to accommodate him, greedy for the contact despite your confusion, and he only got closer. When his forehead touched yours, you gave in to the burn in your waterline, vision blurrier than it had been. 

“I love you so goddamn much,” Bucky began, moving back only an inch to find your watery gaze. “When I said you were intense, I meant that this is the most I’ve ever felt for someone. That the intensity was mutual. That maybe, at the rate we’re going, it would be too much for you. I was asking Sam for advice—seeing if he thought I should back off.” 

“You?” you asked, the word crackling in your throat. 

“Yeah, me, sweetheart. Not you. I was afraid you were gonna bolt one of these days. I’m not exactly the easiest to get along with, according to quite a few people, and I know that loving you means that I’m probably the worst around you.”

The muscle at the corner of your mouth twitched, and along with it went the stress that had settled in every nerve ending in your body. The tension in your jaw released, your chest began to ease, and the only remaining negative was the sadness at Bucky’s confession—at his fronted vulnerability. 

You reached up to catch his wrist in your grip, and he responded by bringing his other hand up to hold you fully.

“I love you,” you affirmed. Bucky’s own smile was sad. “I’ve never thought about ‘bolting.’ I spent this entire week sad and lonely because I was afraid you were going to leave me. I was trying to show you that I could be… chill, I guess.” 

“Chill?” Bucky repeated with a scoff-like laugh, brows shooting up as he brushed his thumbs along the dampness of your cheeks. “I drove past your apartment every night this week. I used that shampoo you left in my shower just to make my bed smell like you again. I wrote…God, I wrote you this letter because I figured maybe if you got something in the mail—” 

“You sent me mail?” you interrupted. 

Bucky’s face blushed a bashful pink, his mouth open in a defensive smile. “We can forget about the mail, okay? Now that we’re talking it out.” 

“Right. I’m going to check my mail when you leave.” 

“Hey,” he demanded, his playful, pointed look reorienting you to the reason behind the tears now drying on your face. When you settled back into his gaze, Bucky readjusted you in his hands, bringing your head into his shoulder until you were fully in his arms. “I love you, you got that? I’m sorry you heard what you did and thought—thought that wasn’t true. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me. I never want to feel like that again—like I’m losing you.” 

You tightened your fingers into the material of Bucky’s hoodie, taking a moment to relish in his arms around you. You nodded against him, hoping that would suffice, and it did. He kissed the side of your head and leaned back against the couch, bringing you with him. 

“Can’t even check the mail,” Bucky eventually grumbled out. “You’re crazy if you think I’m leaving any time soon.”

[dark-night-hero]

Imagine being Caleb's non-mc significant other. Alpha/Omega verse.

Imagine the Skyheaven Academy was filled with steel towers and crystalline skies. A sanctuary for the elite, soldiers, empaths, and psychics. It was a place for ascension, both in rank and social standing.

Imagine, somewhere among these floating island and shining uniforms, you found love in the most unexpected place. One of the academy's strongest Alpha, Caleb.

Imagine, Caleb wasn't just admired, he was respected. His psychic resonance cut through space like gravity, his instincts honed with near animalistic precision. He was a living symbol of dominance and control.

Imagine and yet he chose you. You, with no second gender. No heat. No scent. No place in the primal biological dance of Alpha and Omega.

Imagine you always thought his love would be enough to silence the whispers behind your back. That it would shield you from the subtle rejections at formal events, the way professors avoided eye contact when grading your reports, the way other Omegas stared at you with sympathy or worse, disdain.

but Imagine the one you could never win over was Caleb's mother. She never raised her voice. She didn't need to. Her disdain was precise, venom hidden beneath the silk. She once told you with a smile that your love was "Admirable" like a child playing dress-up in the clothes of something sacred.

Imagine you kept it together. You always did. For Caleb. But the night you asked him.

"If I were an Omega, would things be different?" His silence spoke louder than any betrayal. He didn't say yes. But he didn't say no either. That's when the crack in your heart began.

Imagine it happened during Skyheaven's lunar convergence. When psychic storms made it dangerous to suppress instincts. The Academy called it "Resonance Week." For most Alphas and Omegas, it was treated with caution. For you and Caleb, it was a test.

Imagine walking in, and the person you love doesn't see you.

Imagine it wasn't because he forgot you.But because instinct buried everything else.

Imagine the door wasn't locked. That should've been the first sign. You stepped into his quarters, fresh from drills, still half in uniform. You thought he might be resting. Maybe already asleep. You thought he might smile when he saw you. But he didn’t.

Imagine the air was thick. Too warm. Mixed with something unfamiliar. And then you saw her. The Omega. Not just any Omega. Perfect. Engineered. Glowing with heat and pheromones like honey and wildfire. And in front of her was Caleb.

Imagine his eyes were dilated. Chest rising and falling like he couldn't breathe. Shoulders shaking under the weight of instincts barely held back.

Imagine you call out his name once. Soft. He didn't hear it. You said it again, louder this time. And then again, a crack in your voice could be heard this time. Still nothing.

Imagine his whole body was just facing the Omega. Tension in every line of muscle. His hands clenched, then flexed, then reached forward.

"Caleb." You snapped. "Don't." That got his attention. But not like you hoped. He turned toward you. And for a second. Just for a second his eyes flashed with something animal. Not recognition. Not love. Threat. Then he lunged.

Imagine the moment he did that, you didn't think. You moved. You threw yourself between them. And it all happened too fast.

Imagine he hit you. Not a punch, not violent. But a shove so forceful it knocked the air from your lungs and sent your back into the wall. Your shoulder cracked against it. Pain spread down your arm.

Imagine Omega flinched behind you. Their scent flared. You stood again anyway, shaking and gasping. "Caleb. Look at me." Your voice broke. "It's me." And finally... Finally his eyes focused. Just a little.

Imagine could see the war inside him. Recognition crawling its way up through instinct. Through scent. Through everything screaming in his blood to claim the person behind you instead.

Imagine his body was trembling. He took a step forward again and you braced yourself. Not because you thought he'd hurt you. But because the truth already had. He wanted you gone. Not Caleb. The Caleb you knew wouldn't. But this thing inside him.

Imagine reaching out, hand against his chest, just over his heart. "Don't do this." You whispered, almost crying.

Imagine the way he twitched like it burned him. But just then was when the security team burst in. It happened do fast. The suppressants hitting him like ice water and he collapsed to his knees. Gasping. Clawing at the floor. His breath caught on sobs he wasn't fully conscious of.

Imagine all you could do was watch. You didn't go to him. You couldn't. Because it hurt. It hurts to see the person you trusted more than anything fall apart like that. Not because he stopped loving you. But because he couldn't even see you through the fog of what he was born to be.

Imagine as you stood still as they carried him away. The Omega too. Quiet. Unshaken. But no one looked at you. After all you weren't the one he tried to touch.

Imagine later on as you sat by his unconscious figure at the infirmary, they would call it an unfortunate misunderstanding. They'd tell you it wasn't his fault. That it was just biology. Stress. Poor timing.

Imagine you understand but none of that really mattered. Because for those few minutes... You were invisible. And love, the thing you built together so carefully broke under instincts weight. Not with a scream. Not with a goodbye. Just a shove. And silence.

Imagine wanting to scream. You wanting to stay. But more than anything, you wanted to believe that what you had could survive biology, tradition, and the crushing weight of instinct.

but Imagine, love doesn't erase the truth. It just delays it.

My love, Caleb,

I loved you fiercely and I never wanted to leave. But I saw it, what lives in you. What wakes when you're vulnerable. What you were built to be.

It's not your fault. This world was made for Alphas and Omegas, and I was foolish enough to think we could rewrite it.

You once told me I was your anchor. But I think I was just a rope tied to a storm.

When you wake up, please don’t come looking for me. Let this be mercy, not abandonment.

Yours, once.

Imagine, you left that night. Going through Skyheaven Academy gates unnoticed. Behind you, the sky burned with silver, and the man you loved slept alone, still dreaming of you. But dreams like love are fragile things in a world built on instinct.

[ⓒdark-night-hero] 2025°

[isabelckl]

texting loser!ellie that you have nipple piercing in class 3

nerdy loser!ellie x popular mean fem!reader

bored in english, you reply to a girl named E you’ve been talking to on an anonymous gay dating app—without knowing it’s that lesbian nerd girl, ellie williams.

texting loser!ellie that you have nipple piercing in class 2

The rest of the month bled together in that soft, glowing kind of way—every day bookmarked by the same routine. E in the morning. E during class. E when you were brushing your teeth or pretending to do homework. You talked about everything. Or nothing.

She kept you sharp. Made you laugh when your head was splitting from school noise. Kept you just distracted enough to forget you were tired all the time. And somewhere along the way, you stopped wondering who she was. Because it felt like she already knew you. Not the polished version people saw. You.

You’d stopped counting how many pictures you’d sent. Nothing technically scandalous. But enough to make her say “i’m not strong enough for this” at least three times a week.

You were on your phone, sprawled out in your usual seat in English—last sub of the day, last brain cell left.

You:

im on my last sub rn. talk to u later :(

E:

don’t think about me too much while you’re in class

You smirked.

You:

oh i will. especially us doing unholy things rn

E:

i’m blocking u.

You:

no ur not. u love it

You were still grinning like an idiot when the classroom door slammed open. Everyone scrambled to pretend they weren’t just throwing paper balls or stealing someone’s chair.

Ms. Alvarez was already holding a clipboard, face grim. “Alright, settle down. We’re starting a new graded requirement today—your final literature project. Half of your term grade will come from this. I’m pairing you up.”

Groans some cheers exploded. You barely registered it, still texting E something about being the main character in a forbidden library romance.

Until you heard your name.

“...and Ellie Williams.”

Your head snapped up, blinking.

A few snickers came from behind you, your friends catching it instantly.

One of them patted your shoulder, barely hiding a grin. “Oh, girl. Should we start worrying?”

You rolled your eyes and didn’t bother to answer.

Then a voice you hated piped up. Some guy you’ve never liked, probably trying to be funny.

“Maybe you could just show her your tits and she’ll do the work for you.”

You turned. Instantly.

“Shut the fuck up,” you snapped. Loud enough for people to hear.

He put his hands up, smirking. “Just suggesting.”

Ms. Alvarez didn’t seem to hear, or maybe she was pretending not to. “You’ll have six weeks. You’ll be required to sit beside your assigned partner during this class for the entire project period.”

Some complaints, some high-fives.

You grabbed your bag, eyes scanning. Ellie was still seated, alone near the front, chin in hand.

You made your way over slowly. She was on her phone, thumb tapping something out fast.

“Hey,” you said, soft and casual.

Her head snapped up. Like, immediately. Her phone vanished into her hoodie pocket so fast it was almost suspicious.

You raised your eyebrows slightly, not saying anything.

“Hey,” she replied, voice a little rough around the edges, like she’d just cleared it.

She blinked once, then moved quickly—grabbing the things from her desk and tucking them into her bag on the floor, her sketchpad sliding in last. Then, without saying anything, she reached out and dragged the desk and chair beside her, pulling them close in one fluid motion. The legs scraped loudly against the tile.

You cleared your throat, lowered into the seat, and placed your bag on top of the desk. One hand stayed tucked in the pocket of your skirt, curled loosely around your phone.

You didn’t say anything else and neither did she.

You both just sat there as Ms. Alvarez started droning about the project.

“This is a character-driven piece. Something with personal stakes. Introspection. Conflict. Subtext. You have six weeks.”

You barely heard her.

You unlocked your phone under the desk.

You:

i just wanna go home now and talk to you

(not being clingy)

You smirked without meaning to, biting the inside of your cheek.

Then waited.

Ms. Alvarez was saying something at the front—project guidelines, probably. But her voice felt like it was coming through a thick wall of static. You just kept your gaze on your screen. Quiet. Expectant.

Still nothing.

She usually replied right away. Even in class. Even with “busy” in her bio.

You stared at the chat a moment longer, thumb hovering over the screen. Not that you were being clingy. Obviously.

You bit your lip and glanced sideways.

Ellie was hunched over her notebook, scrawling notes in the margin like her life depended on it. Her leg bounced under the desk. Her grip on the pen was tight. Too tight. Like it might snap in half if she pressed any harder.

You sighed, leaned back in your seat, and slid your phone back into your pocket.

Your eyes stayed on the front of the room, but you weren’t really listening. Words blurred. The only thing in focus was that weird thrum in your chest. Like something off-key in a song you’ve heard too many times.

After a moment, your eyes drifted back to Ellie.

Her auburn hair was tied loosely at the base of her neck, strands slipping free at the sides and curling against her cheek. Her eyes flicked between the teacher and her notes, sharp and serious, like she was actually locked in.

You stared.

Just for a second too long.

Her brows were pinched in thought. She twirled her pen once, adjusted the way she sat, and pulled her hoodie sleeve down over her hand like she was trying to disappear into it.

You pressed your lips together, fingers tapping soundlessly against your arm as you crossed them tight over your chest, waiting for your phone to buzz.

Ms. Alvarez finally wrapped up her monologue with something about “use your time wisely” and “brainstorming starts now.” Then she sank into her desk like she was already exhausted by all of you.

Ellie cleared her throat, then quietly turned toward you.

She pushed her notebook halfway across the desk, her handwriting a little messy but precise enough to follow. She didn’t look at you at first—just tapped the edge of the page once, offering it like a peace treaty.

You leaned forward, resting your elbows on the desk and your chin on your knuckles. Watching her.

She glanced up, finally meeting your eyes. “Do you have anything in mind?”

You did.

Maybe E.

But you didn’t say that, of course.

Instead, you reached over and plucked the pen from her hand. Your fingers brushed for just a second—warm

You lowered your eyes and started scribbling into the corner of her notes.

Fantasy. Coming-of-age. Drama. Romance. Sapphic.

You underlined the last one.

When you slid the notebook back, she tilted her head at it. Just slightly. Her eyes skimmed the list, and then her lips twitched—barely noticeable. But it was there.

“Sapphic,” she repeated, like she was tasting the word.

You shrugged, eyes flicking up. “Just a suggestion.”

She looked at you again. Not judgmental. Not even surprised.

You raised your eyebrows at her—challenging, almost daring her to say something.

Ellie leaned back slightly. Her voice dropped just a little. “Are you sure?” she asked, voice low and husky. “I mean… you’ve got a reputation.”

You didn’t bother hiding the eye roll that followed.

With one hand, you slid the notebook back across the desk toward her. “You can suggest what you think,” you said flatly. Calm. Measured.

She picked up the pen again and wrote underneath:

Agreed.

You raised your eyebrows again.

That’s it? She just… agreed?

“No suggestions?” you asked, skeptical. “Nothing on your mind? You just agreed we write a sapphic book?”

Ellie didn’t even look up. “Nope,” she said, the pen already back in her hand, sketching something random in the corner of the page. A shape. A line. A loop.

You narrowed your eyes at her, gaze flicking over her blank expression. “Well,” you muttered, scanning her with a mock offense, “I expected something much more from you. I mean, you’re the nerd here.”

That earned a glance—sideways, brief. The corner of her mouth tugged, like she was fighting off a smirk.

“Well, I also didn’t expect you to suggest writing a sapphic book,” she replied, dry.

You tilted your head. “Why not?”

Ellie shrugged. “You’ve got a reputation, remember?”

You didn’t even flinch. Just let out a breathy scoff, leaning forward on your elbows again, voice low but pointed. “I just told our classmate to shut the fuck up because he said I could show you my tits and you’d do the work for me. Do you think I care about reputation?”

That caught her.

Ellie blinked, startled for a beat, then let out a short breath—half laugh, half disbelief. “Jesus,” she muttered, her gaze flicking to yours. “Didn’t know you were like that even in personal.”

You frowned. “Huh? Like what?”

She didn’t answer right away. Just glanced down at the notes again, something unreadable twitching in her expression.

You scoffed softly and leaned back, arms folding across your chest again. Your eyes darted to Ms. Alvarez, who was now busy at her desk, rifling through a drawer.

“And oh, please,” you said, dry. “It’s not like Ms. Alvarez isn’t gay either.”

Ellie looked at you, blinking.

“That’s why she has no husband at her age,” you went on, tone casual like you were talking about the weather. “She likes girls. And the rumors, Ellie—you’ve heard them. She won’t mind reading a sapphic piece.”

You tilted your head, lips twitching.

“I bet she’ll like it very much.”

Ellie stared at you for a moment longer and looked away.

But not before you caught it—that flicker of a smirk, barely there.

She shook her head once, muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “Unbelievable,” and went back to scribbling.

Ellie tapped her pen a few times against the edge of the desk, then tilted her head slightly.

“So,” she said. “What’s it gonna be? Angsty? Enemies to lovers?”

You squinted at her, lips already twitching. Then, without saying a word, you reached out—snatching her notebook and pen in one smooth motion.

Ellie blinked, caught off guard.

You scribbled one word in bold, all caps:

SMUT.

Then slid it back to her with a raised brow and the kind of smug grin you only pulled when you were being very annoying on purpose.

Her eyebrows shot up.

“Smut?” she repeated, slow, confused. “How… it’s not appropriate, I think.”

You bit back a laugh. “Of course it’s not,” you scoffed. “I’m just fucking with you.”

She stared at the word a second longer.

You plucked the notebook back and crossed out SMUT with a dramatic scribble, then started writing again beneath it.

“Anyway, I think something like friends to lovers or whatever,” you said, voice a little more thoughtful now. “It’s the easiest for me to write.”

You kept jotting down rough plot beats, loose ideas—nothing concrete yet. Just bullet points. Your handwriting was starting to drift sideways, slanted and lazy.

When you glanced up again, Ellie was watching you.

Her chin rested in her hand, elbow propped against the desk, eyes steady on your face like she was studying something. Like she was seeing a new side of you. Quiet. Focused.

There was something unguarded about her in that moment. Something soft around the edges. Like maybe—for just a second—she forgot to keep her usual walls up.

You paused, blinking. “What?”

She didn’t answer nor move.

You raised your eyebrows. “Oh,” you said slowly, tilting your head to mirror her. “You’re interested in writing that smut?”

That seemed to break the spell.

Ellie blinked, straightened slightly. “No,” she muttered, her voice low and curt as she grabbed the notebook back from you.

You watched her quietly as she flipped to a clean page and started jotting something down like nothing happened. Like she hadn’t just been staring at you for maybe… kind of a long time.

Her pen scratched against the paper. Her face calm again. Composed. But her ears were slightly pink.

“You’re red,” you said, your voice teasing, a smirk tugging at the edge of your lips.

Ellie didn’t look up. “It’s warm in here.”

You raised a brow. “Right. Sure it is.”

She clicked her pen once—sharp, deliberate—then turned to you with a look so flat it could’ve been carved from stone.

“Better red than desperate for plot-driven foreplay,” she said, completely deadpan.

Your mouth fell open.

“Oh my god,” you breathed, scandalized. “You are thinking about the smut.”

Ellie didn’t respond. Just returned to her notes like nothing happened, but the slight twitch at the corner of her mouth gave her away.

You grinned, triumphant.

You watched her for another beat, amused. “You didn’t deny it.”

Ellie didn’t look up, but her pen paused. “I’m ignoring you.”

You leaned over, voice lower now. “You’re failing miserably.”

That got you a side glance. Brief. Sharp. But not annoyed. More like she was trying not to smile and losing the battle entirely.

You tapped her notebook with your nail. “So, what is this groundbreaking lesbian epic we’re writing?”

“Plot ideas,” she said, clearing her throat. “Since you keep distracting me.”

You hummed, unconvinced. “Am I allowed to see, or are you gonna bite me if I try?”

Without a word, she tilted the notebook your way.

You leaned closer.

There was a character with too many feelings and a bad temper. Another one with trust issues and what looked like “shitty taste in people” scribbled in parentheses.

You frowned, eyes skimming back over the notes. “‘Shitty taste in people’?”

Ellie didn't say anything at first, just twirled her pen between her fingers, like maybe if she spun it fast enough, she wouldn’t have to answer. But eventually, she shrugged.

“Some people keep going back to things that hurt them. It’s realistic.”

You stared at her for a beat. The way she said it wasn’t casual. It wasn’t dramatic either—just honest, like she’d written that trait from experience, not imagination.

You leaned back a little. “Nope.”

Ellie blinked. “What?”

“Nope,” you repeated, already reaching for the notebook. “Too depressing. I’m not writing about heartbreak or sad girls with commitment issues. I’ve got enough of that in real life.”

She didn’t stop you as you turned to a fresh page, clicking your own pen open with purpose. “Let’s try this again.”

You started scribbling, words forming in fast, slanted loops.

Two characters. Childhood friends who lost touch. One returns unexpectedly. Maybe there’s a stupid school festival involved. Maybe someone’s in denial. Maybe they’re both idiots, and it takes a whole novella of almosts before anything actually happens.

You glanced sideways to find Ellie watching your hand move. She didn’t interrupt. Just kept staring like she was trying to match the rhythm of your pen to the shape of your thoughts.

You paused, tapped the page. “This is better.”

Ellie tilted her head. “Friends to lovers?”

You nodded. “Less depressing. More yearning.”

“Yearning is depressing.”

“It’s a good ache.”

She was quiet for a second, then let out a tiny exhale—somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. “Alright,” she murmured. “Let’s write something stupid and soft.”

Ellie took the pen from your hand without asking and leaned over the notebook again, brow furrowed in thought. You didn’t say anything. Just watched her as she wrote—quiet, focused, occasionally pausing to tap the pen against her chin. The sunlight from the classroom windows had shifted, painting her in a late afternoon haze of gold and orange. It softened the sharp lines of her face, caught in the ends of her lashes and the auburn strands slipping from her hoodie.

She looked like a photograph that could blur if you stared too long.

The bell finally rang, loud and abrupt. Ms. Alvarez raised her voice over the sudden scrape of chairs and chattering students, tossing out reminders about deadlines and word count minimums. Nobody listened.

Ellie shut the notebook with a quiet thud and began gathering her things, slipping the sketchpad into her bag and adjusting the strap of her guitar case. You stood, grabbing your own bag from the desk and sliding your phone from your skirt pocket out of habit.

Your fingers unlocked the screen before you could stop them, eyes drifting to your last message to E. Still no reply. You stared at it for a moment longer than you meant to. The bubble of words just sitting there. Unseen. Unanswered.

You let out a breath, sharp and quiet, then turned to Ellie just as she slung the guitar over her shoulder.

“By the way,” you said, holding your phone out toward her, “I need your number.”

She glanced at you, nodded, and took your phone without a word. Her fingers moved fast, thumb flying across the screen before she handed it back and silently offered her own. You typed yours in, quick and neat, and gave it back with a nod.

The room was already half-empty, filled with leftover noise and footsteps in the hall.

You walked out, phone back in your hand, your thumb instinctively brushing over the screen. You opened your messages again.

Still nothing.

Your eyes stayed on it as you moved with the current of students spilling into the hallway—sunlight flickering across lockers and tile. You didn’t notice when Ellie fell in step beside you until she asked, casually, like it was nothing.

“You waiting for someone to text you back?” Ellie said as she walked past, not even slowing down.

You blinked, glanced up—but she was already a few steps ahead, her guitar slung over her back, hoodie pulled up.

You didn’t answer. Just looked down at your phone again, just as a message from E lit up your screen.

Your chest tightened with that familiar tug—the kind you only ever felt with her.

tag list:

@eclipcee8 @darkdanixoxo @chappellroankisser @senjukawaragitr @saverdelrey @appleofmyii @wzcoffeefloomo @fatbootymuncher @oneinameliann @ilahrawr @spiderx18 @vampirq @mioluvzsevika @ff4mi @ggutpunch @ellies-dinosaur @butchchase @bambiaches @velvetinkbym @rhian88 @azxteria @yxsmina @zaunite-516 @sweetshrew @eriiwaiii2 @bluminescent-moon @elliespotion @mascspleasegetmepregnant @dykeissih @babydoll-ivory @summerdaysout @tiedinbows @eilishfike @vixenkii

[straw-berrysoju]

Match Found (18+)

Summary: You didn’t think tonight would end with your brother’s best friend telling you how much he wants to fuck you… but here you are. Thighs shaking. Heart pounding. Fingers soaked. And it’s not even midnight yet.

Or alternatively where one needy night you end up on an anonymous sexting app only to realise this stranger yet familiar person you're sexting is actually your brother's best friend, kim mingyu.

Pairing: Mingyu x female reader

Setting: Sexting app

Word Count: ~ 3k

Themes: Sexting, slow-burn, depraved, intensely erotic, forbidden (brother's best friend)

Warnings: Explicit sexual content, masturbation, voice kink, dirty talk, mutual pining, brother’s best friend dynamic, fantasizing, edging

_______________________________________________________

It starts off harmless. A new app, an anonymous chat. You weren’t even trying to get off tonight — not really.

You just wanted to feel wanted.

You sign up with the name petal.crush, something vague and romantic to offset your restlessness. It’s just a sexting app — no profile photos, no bios, no identifying anything. Just usernames and raw, unfiltered chat.

The tagline was catchy: “No faces. Just fantasies.”

You match within seconds.

Matched with: lowtone.sin

Your screen lights up with the first message before you can even type.

> lowtone.sin:

You clicked first. So you’re either impatient or a little reckless.

Which one is it?

You bite your lip, already smiling at the confidence behind his tone. Typing back feels like slipping into something dangerous.

> petal.crush:

Maybe both.

You planning to do something about it?

> lowtone.sin:

That depends

Are you here for sweet words and flirting?

Or are you here to get ruined?

Your thighs instinctively press together.

> petal.crush:

Ruin me. Slowly.

There’s a long pause. You stare at the screen, anticipation crawling up your spine.

Then finally—

> lowtone.sin:

Good girl.

Let’s start with something easy.

What would I hear if I called you right now?

Would you sound sweet and shy?

Or would you already be wet and waiting?

You suck in a breath.

There’s no point pretending. No coyness left in you tonight. This man — whoever he is — has the kind of tone that makes your stomach clench and your mind submit. You press the mic icon before you can talk yourself out of it.

> petal.crush \[voice note – 0:12]

“I’m not touching myself yet. But I’m aching for it. My panties are soaked. Just from reading your messages”

The response comes fast.

> lowtone.sin:

You’ve got a filthy little mouth for someone who hasn’t even been told to touch yet.

Bet you squirm when someone takes control of you, don’t you?

That tight, needy body of yours probably begs for it.

You whimper — aloud — and type with trembling fingers.

> petal.crush:

You’re right.

I love being told exactly what to do.

I want to be teased, edged, used.

> lowtone.sin:

Fuck.

Get your hand between your thighs. Now.

Over your panties. I want your fingers soaked before I even let you move them.

You obey.

The fabric sticks to you immediately. You slide two fingers up and down the drenched cotton and exhale into the dark.

Your phone buzzes again.

> lowtone.sin:

I want to hear how wet you are.

Show me.

You record again, a soft gasp escaping your lips as you press a little harder.

> petal.crush \[voice note – 0:16]

“I’m dripping. The fabric’s so wet it’s clinging to me. I want to slide them off and touch my bare pussy for you.”

> lowtone.sin:

Not yet

Good things come to desperate girls

Tell me — how often do you touch yourself thinking about strangers?

You bite your lip.

> petal.crush:

Not streangers

Someone specific.

> lowtone.sin:

Oh?

Lucky bastard.

What’s he like?

Your throat goes dry.

Because he’s you. You’ve fantasized about him. That voice — it’s too perfect, too polished. The way he calls you good girl feels familiar in a way that’s wrong and addictive.

You shake it off.

> petal.crush:

Tall. Broad.Big hands. Sharp jaw.Smiles like sin.Looks like he could ruin me in one night and leave me wanting more.

There’s a pause. Then a photo notification.

Image\[jpg.1]

You tap on it, breath catching in your throat.

It’s a hand — his hand — wrapped around a thick cock. His grip is firm, the tip flushed red and glistening. You can see the base of his abs, tight and flexed, veins running across his forearm. It’s cropped — no face, no hints — but god, it’s pretty.

> lowtone.sin:

What do you think?

> petal.crush:

I think I want it down my throat.

> lowtone.sin:

You say things like that and expect me to keep my composure?

> petal.crush:

No.

I want to hear you lose it.

Another voice note comes in. His voice is deeper now — rough, frayed around the edges.

> lowtone.sin \[voice note – 0:28]

“Fuck. If you were here right now, I’d have you on your knees. I’d hold your jaw, make you look up at me while I slide my cock across your tongue. I bet your eyes would water so pretty when I push deep.”

You moan. Loud. Hand slipping inside your panties at last, slick fingers circling your clit in dizzy little swirls. Your legs tremble.

> petal.crush:

I can’t wait. Please.

Tell me what to do. I’ll be so fucking good.

> lowtone.sin:

Take off your panties.

Lie back.

Spread your legs and take a photo for me.

I want to see the mess you made just from my voice

You obey.

You slide them off and grab your phone with one shaky hand, angling the camera down — flushed thighs, glistening lips, your fingers posed teasingly just above where you ache most.

Image\[jpg.2]

You hit send. Instantly.

> lowtone.sin:

Jesus

Look at that cunt.

Bet it’s tight as hell.

You fuck yourself slow or fast?

> petal.crush:

Depends how desperate I am.

> lowtone.sin:

And how desperate are you tonight, baby?

> petal.crush:

I’m so wet I could come without touching.

But I want you to drag it out. Make it painful.

There’s a moment of silence. Then:

> lowtone.sin:

…Fuck.

This is going to sound crazy.

But your voice?

Your photos.

You’re too fucking familiar.

Your chest goes still.

That tone. That rasp. That deep little breath before he speaks.

Your heart lurches.

No.

It can’t be.

You type, hands shaking:

> petal.crush:

Say something. Just one word.

I need to be sure.

He doesn’t text.

He sends a voice note.

> lowtone.sin \[voice note – 0:06]

“Y/N.”

Your stomach drops.

It is him.

That voice, you know it. You’ve heard it a hundred times.

Because Mingyu — your brother Seungcheol’s best friend — has been in your house more times than you can count.

And now, he’s here. Holding his cock. Telling you how good your pussy looks.

Your fingers are still between your legs.

And you’re still soaked.

Your heart is pounding.

You’re sitting in your dark bedroom, soaked fingers trembling between your thighs, staring at your screen like it’s a weapon pointed directly at your chest.

Mingyu.

Your brother’s best friend.

The voice you’ve moaned to in secret.

The man whose towel dropped in front of you two summers ago, whose gaze lingered a beat too long when you walked into the kitchen in your smallest sleep shorts. The man who walked in on you changing and looked—just looked—but didn’t leave for three entire seconds.

Your mouth goes dry.

You wait for him to say something else. Anything.

lowtone.sin:

Say it.

I know you know it’s me.

I want to hear it.

You type slowly, every nerve ending alive.

petal.crush:

Mingyu.

I knew it the second you said my name.

You sound exactly how I imagined when I used to fuck myself to the thought of you.

A pause.

Then—

lowtone.sin:

Holy fuck.

You used to what?

petal.crush:

You have any idea how hard it was living in the same house and pretending I wasn’t soaking through my panties every time you smiled at me?

lowtone.sin:

Tell me.

Everything.

You pause, pulse pounding.

And then you type like you’re possessed.

petal.crush:

The shorts?

I wore those on purpose. I knew they barely covered my ass.

Every time I bent over to grab something, I made sure you were in the room.

Once, I even “accidentally” spilled water on my chest so I could walk past you in a wet tank top.

And that day you walked in on me changing?

I left the door unlocked.

His reply comes fast.

lowtone.sin:

You fucking minx.

I had to jerk off in your goddamn bathroom after that.

I saw your tits. I saw your thighs.

And the way you looked at me—like you wanted me to stay?

petal.crush:

I did want you to stay.

I wanted you to push me against the mirror and fuck me stupid.

Right there. With Seungcheol downstairs.

Another voice note.

You brace yourself before you tap it.

lowtone.sin \[voice note – 0:34]

“I swear to God, Y/N. If I had known you wanted it even half as bad as I did, I wouldn’t have lasted another day pretending. Every time you moaned in your sleep when I stayed over, I nearly lost my mind. I wanted to sneak into your room and make you finish what you started.”

Your whole body jolts.

petal.crush:

I used to fake moan just loud enough for you to hear when I knew you were sleeping in the next room.

I imagined you sneaking in and putting your hand over my mouth while you fucked me into the mattress.

lowtone.sin:

Jesus fuck.

I used to picture you riding my thigh on the couch while Seungcheol played video games right next to us.

Just your pretty little cunt grinding against me, biting your lip so you wouldn’t make a sound.

You moan—out loud—and grab your phone, hand back between your legs.

You don’t even bother hiding it this time.

petal.crush \[voice note – 0:23]

“I’m touching myself again. I can’t stop. I’m picturing your hand over my mouth, your cock buried in me, and your voice in my ear telling me I’m your filthy little secret.”

lowtone.sin:

You are my filthy little secret.

Mine.

No one else gets to hear you like this.

No one else gets to see what I’m seeing.

Another picture arrives.

Image\[jpg.3]

He’s naked now, lying back, abs tight, one hand gripping his cock. He’s glistening with pre-cum, thick and flushed, the kind of cock you want to sink your teeth into.

You whimper.

lowtone.sin:

Let me see you again. All of you.

You slide your shirt off. Fingers trembling, you spread your legs wider and take the shot — body flushed, thighs slick, clit swollen and needy.

Image\[jpg.4]

You don’t even hesitate before sending it.

lowtone.sin:

I want to fuck you against every surface in your house.

Against the washing machine while it rumbles.

On your brother’s bed while he’s in the shower.

On the goddamn kitchen counter while you beg me not to stop.

petal.crush:

I used to imagine you standing behind me while I washed dishes.

Sliding your hand down the front of my shorts and telling me to keep doing chores while you made me come.

lowtone.sin:

I fantasized about making you gag on my cock while Seungcheol watched a movie in the next room.

You’d cry on it. I’d fuck your throat until you begged me to come inside.

And I’d pull out, grip your jaw, and say: “Open.”

You rub yourself harder now, two fingers circling your clit while you picture everything he’s saying.

petal.crush \[voice note – 0:28]

“I’d do it. I’d drop to my knees for you so fast. I’d swallow you down and let you use my mouth. I want it so fucking bad. Please—talk me through it. Tell me what to do.”

lowtone.sin \[voice note – 0:32]

“Slide two fingers in. Slow. Stretch that tight pussy out while I stroke my cock and imagine it’s your sweet cunt clenching around me. Keep rubbing that clit. But don’t come. Not until I tell you.”

You moan brokenly and do as he says.

Fingers curling deep.

Your walls flutter.

You need him so badly it hurts.

lowtone.sin:

How many times have you come to the thought of me?

petal.crush:

I lost count months ago.

lowtone.sin:

What was your favorite fantasy?

You hesitate… then type.

petal.crush:

You bend me over the bathroom sink after a swim.

Your trunks are still wet.

I’m dripping all over the tile.

You grab my throat. You fuck me so hard I can’t even look at myself in the mirror.

And when I come, you keep going.

Until I’m shaking. Ruined. Begging.

He moans — this time in a voice note — and the sound is enough to send you right to the edge.

lowtone.sin \[voice note – 0:24]

“You’re going to be the death of me. You want to be fucked that dirty, babygirl? You want to cry from how good it feels? I’ll give you every filthy fantasy you’ve ever had. Just say the word.”

You hit record with shaking fingers.

petal.crush \[voice note – 0:19]

“Please. Make me come. I’m right there. I want to scream your name. Let me be yours. Just say it, Mingyu.”

lowtone.sin:

Come.

Now.

Be my good girl and make a mess for me.

You explode.

White-hot pleasure tears through your core, every nerve singing. You cry out his name, legs twitching, soaked fingers buried in your pussy as you ride the orgasm out.

You’re a mess.

You can barely breathe.

And then—

A voice note. Raspy. Guttural.

lowtone.sin \[voice note – 0:14]

“Fucking hell. I’m coming—fuck—Y/N, I’m coming thinking about that tight pussy and your filthy mouth saying my name.”

You both go quiet for a minute.

Breathless.

Spent.

But buzzing.

You’re still panting.

Your fingers are sticky with your own slick. Your body’s boneless. Your skin feels too hot, your breath too shallow. The little hum of your phone is the only sound in the room, and you’re suddenly very aware of how quiet it is.

And how loud the truth is.

You just came for Mingyu.

And he just came for you.

Your brother’s best friend. The one you’re not supposed to want.

But God — you want him so bad your bones ache.

The screen glows.

lowtone.sin:

…Still alive?

petal.crush:

Barely.

I think you melted my brain.

lowtone.sin:

Good.

That was the goal.

You sounded so fucking pretty when you begged for it.

I replayed your voice note three times before I came.

Your cheeks flush with warmth that runs straight to your core.

petal.crush:

My legs are shaking.

Like… actually.

You wrecked me through a screen.

lowtone.sin:

Bet you’re all messy and flushed and glowing right now.

Wish I was there to see it.

Would kiss every inch of you. Clean you up with my tongue.

Your breath stutters.

petal.crush:

You’re gonna make me start all over again.

lowtone.sin:

Oh?

You that greedy for me already?

petal.crush:

I’ve been greedy for you since I was nineteen.

Since you walked out of the shower that one time shirtless and dripping and smiled like nothing was wrong while I nearly came just from looking at your waistline.

lowtone.sin:

Holy fuck.

I remember that day.

You wouldn’t meet my eyes.

You were wearing that little white top… no bra.

I had to jerk off in Seungcheol’s bathroom after dinner.

petal.crush:

I knew it.

I remember hearing the water run again and thinking, please let him be thinking about me.

lowtone.sin:

I always was.

Every time I came over, you were the only thing on my mind.

And every time I smiled, every joke I cracked — it was me trying to keep it together.

Pretending I didn’t want to drag you into your room and fuck you until you screamed.

petal.crush:

You don’t have to pretend anymore.

A beat passes.

Then:

lowtone.sin:

I want to ruin you, Y/N.

For real.

I want to see how that pretty mouth looks moaning my name.

I want to taste how sweet you are when you’re trembling under me.

I want to hold your wrists down and fuck you until you're mine.

Your chest squeezes. It’s still hot and filthy between you, but now there’s something else curling underneath it — something heavy and sweet and real.

lowtone.sin:

Remember that party last year?

When you wore that backless dress?

petal.crush:

Yeah. You kept refilling my drink.

lowtone.sin:

Because I couldn’t stop staring.

I wanted to drag you into the guest bathroom and eat you out against the door.

You were laughing, dancing like you didn’t know what you were doing to me.

petal.crush:

I knew.

I bent over on purpose.

Just so I could feel your eyes on my ass.

I wanted to know if you’d finally break.

lowtone.sin:

I almost did.

I had to go home early and jerk off to the image of your bare back and heels.

Imagining how you'd sound if I fucked you in them.

You’re flushed again. Dizzy with need. The ache is back, deeper than before.

petal.crush:

You’re making me wet again.

lowtone.sin:

Good.

Want you wet every time I speak.

Want you to fall asleep with my voice in your head and my name between your legs.

You record another voice note, throat thick with need.

petal.crush \[voice note – 0:18]

“You’re already in my head, Mingyu. I’m aching for you. Touching myself again. Can’t stop thinking about how you’d feel inside me.”

lowtone.sin:

Fuck.

You’re gonna kill me.

You’re perfect. You’re mine.

There’s a moment of pause. His next message is slower, quieter.

lowtone.sin:

We’re not going back after this, are we?

You stare at that sentence, heart pounding. You type slowly, surely.

petal.crush:

I don’t want to.

I don’t want to pretend I don’t want you anymore.

I want this. You.

Even if it’s wrong.

lowtone.sin:

Then it’s us.

No more secrets.

No more pretending.

petal.crush:

You gonna come see me?

lowtone.sin:

You better leave the door unlocked.

Because I’m coming over tomorrow night.

And I’m not leaving until I’ve had your legs around my shoulders and my name in your throat.

Your whole body tingles.

petal.crush:

You sure you can handle me?

lowtone.sin:

Baby, I’ve been waiting for this for years.

I’m gonna make sure you never forget the first night we stop pretending.

And just like that, you're already aching for round two.

Even if it hasn't even begun yet.

__________________

Author's note: This idea has been in my head for a while now so I had to let it out. I originally planned to write a sexting smut that felt more authentic to the story, as this is set on a sexting app, I wanted to include all the elements to it like actual images(just as one does in smaus), audios of them moaning or whimpering yk, short video clips and all but I realised I'd get reported if I did that so I had to keep it limited to words. Hope y'all liked it still. This format was a new one and I struggled a bit with it but still enjoyed working on it nonetheless.

[authorchariot]

> ENTRY: ITS_ALWAYS_THE_QUIET_ONES

RATING: explicit

CATEGORY: top gun: maverick (2022)

PAIRING: bob floyd x afab!reader (mc's call sign is 'pez'.)

EST. READING TIME: 37m 0s

INDEX TAGS: (not actually) unrequited love, cock-warming, friends to lovers, love confessions, masturbation, not beta read, oral sex, pov second person, size difference, size kink, vaginal sex

SUMMARY: after the mission with mav, you find bob drunk at the resulting party at the hard deck. as a designated driver, you take it upon yourself to get him home and into bed safely but staying composed proves harder than expected

ACCESS MATERIAL ON AO3 OR BELOW

The Hard Deck is louder than it's been in weeks. Rooster and Hangman are fighting over the jukebox. Payback's halfway into a dramatic retelling of the mission to a captivated circle of admirers, punctuated with exaggerated hand gestures and Maverick's quiet chuckling. Fanboy's mixing questionable liquors together like he's auditioning for a bartending job no one asked for. It's celebration in full swing. The mission's done. Everyone's alive. Everyone made it home.

And Bob — quiet, dependable, sweet, baby-faced Bob Floyd — is drunk.

He doesn't look it at first. But you can see it in the tilt of his shoulders, the soft pink in his cheeks, the vague squint he gives the bottles behind the counter like he's trying to read through a fog.

You spot it from across the room. You've been watching him on and off all night. Not in a creepy way— At least, you hope not. Just in a way that's...careful. Curious. Quiet. Like you always are with Bob. Because if you let yourself feel it too hard — the pull, the fondness, the way he talks with his hands when he's excited — you might never stop.

You've had a drink; just the one. You're a designated driver tonight. That and watching Bob lose his balance trying to sit on a barstool has very effectively sobered you up. You finish your water, nod to Phoenix and move across the bar like the world isn't tilting just a little because he's looking at you now.

Why?

Because you've had a thing for Bob Floyd since the first day you saw him fiddling with the collar of his flight suit, too quiet for the room but, damn, if he didn't hold his own in the air. Because he always remembers how you like your coffee. Because he asked how your dog was doing after his surgery, even two weeks later. Because he makes you feel seen.

"Hey." You say gently, sliding into the space next to him. "You good?" He blinks at you. Then his face lights up; not like a flash but a slow dawn that warms everything it touches.

"Pez." He says, soft and too fond for how casual he tries to sound. "You're here." You smile.

"Been here the whole time, Bob." He looks at his drink like it's betrayed him.

"Oh. Yeah. Right."

You glance him over. His collar is a little crooked and his glasses are ever-so-slightly askew. His usually neat hair is slightly mussed and there's a half-moon mark on his palm where he's been gripping his glass too hard. He's not swaying. But he's definitely drifting. You rest a hand lightly on the edge of the bar.

"How many have you had?" He frowns.

"Three. No— Wait. Hangman said the one he gave me didn't count 'cause it was pink."

"That doesn't sound right." Bob leans closer and squints at you.

"You smell like mint."

"That'd be the gum I've been chewing instead of drinking." You reply, amused. "Come on. Let's get you out of here." He straightens. Sort of.

"I'm fine."

"You're adorable." You correct. "But also definitely tipsy and I'd rather you didn't fall asleep like last time."

"I didn't fall asleep, I—"

"You nodded off against the jukebox for twenty-three minutes." He considers this.

"It was playing Fleetwood Mac." You arch a brow.

"That's your excuse?" He almost looks offended.

"I like Fleetwood Mac." He mumbles. You can't help it; you laugh. And, across the bar, the other Dagger Squad pilots exhale in collective relief like finally. It goes unnoticed by you.

You help Bob off his stool, a drink forgotten in his hand, and he goes to steady himself on the edge of the bar but misjudges the distance. In trying to recover, the remnants of his last beer spill all over his uniform shirt, making it cling to him like a second skin.

"Woah!" You grab onto his shoulders. "You okay?" He stumbles slightly as he tries to catch himself, hands reflexively reaching out to hold onto your arms for support. His cheeks turn a bright shade of pink as he feels the cold beer seeping into his shirt, looking down at the mess with embarrassment.

"Sorry..." He murmurs and you haul him upright.

"Don't apologise." You glance across to see Phoenix chuckling and shaking her head. "I think I need to take you home though." He laughs nervously, pushes his hair out of his eyes and tries to straighten his glasses.

"Yeah... Yeah, that might be a good idea." He leans against you for support as you start helping him to the door. You yell over your shoulder that you're taking him home, wishing the rest of them a good night. Some of the Dagger Squad murmur something you don't quite hear as you reach the door, pushing it open and stepping out into the cool sea breeze.

He takes a deep breath, trying to clear his head, as you help him out to the parking lot. You open the passenger-side door for him and he near-collapses onto the car seat. "Thanks for doing this." He says softly, looking up at you with those sweet, grateful eyes. You watch him fumble with his hands as he tries to buckle himself in.

"Stop being so damn polite." You smile, shutting the door and rounding the hood to get in the driver's seat.

The drive to his is short but pleasant. Well, if it wasn't for the scent of beer slowly sinking into his shirt and your car seat. The windows are rolled down and you can feel the wind on your face. Neither of you talk but it's a nice silence, like the two of you are just content in each other's company. You like it that way. Like you don't have to fill the silence to be comfortable; you can just co-exist.

You like the relationship you have with Bob; it's easy and natural. You just feel...at home with him, like you don't have to pretend to be social or talkative. But there's always that warmth that buzzes just below the surface when he catches your eye or when he smiles. Or when he laughs. Or when he fiddles with his glasses. Or when he does literally anything.

Safe to say, you like him a whole lot; pretty much since you were brought on board for the Dagger Squad.

But you don't want to say anything because what if it makes things weird between you? What if he's not into it and everything just gets awkward? What if you accidentally gush about how gorgeous he looks in his uniform and he thinks you're an absolute creep for admiring the way his shirt stretches across his broad shoulders and the way his pants hug his ass perfectly? He probably already knows and just pretends not to for exactly the same reasons. He probably knows and has also made up his mind that you're not really the one for him. He would've said something by now if he was into you but he hasn't so he probably isn't. It's not something you like thinking about.

Finally, you pull up to his house and park outside. You get out, open his door and stand there, just in case he needs the support again.

"I'm fine. I'm good." He starts to protest before immediately losing his balance and grabbing onto your arm. "Actually..." Rolling your eyes, you hang onto him and close the door.

"C'mon, let's get you inside, mister." He leans against you as you walk up to his house. He's so warm and he smells good, despite the spilt beer. He's wearing that aftershave his mom got him for Christmas again. It's citrusy and sweet but still masculine and fresh. He smells amazing.

When you haul him up the short flight of stairs and reach the front door, he digs his hand into his pocket and struggles to get his keys out for a moment. He must try to insert the key into the lock a good three times, each time stabbing the door just shy of the lock.

"Can't seem to..." He mumbles and you gently place your hand over his, guiding the key into the lock with a satisfying click, turning it and opening the door.

"There we go." You smile warmly and he stares at you for a moment, swallowing hard, before grabbing onto the door frame and stepping inside.

Once inside, you turn the light on and close the door behind you. He kicks off his shoes and pats down his chest. His uniform shirt is still clinging to him, now sticky from the spilt beer. His nose crinkles as you unlace your shoes and place them on the rack.

"Gotta shower..." He slurs softly. By the time you stand up to look at him, he's already halfway done unbuttoning his shirt. Your eyes flick down over the angles of his collarbone and, before you can look further, you avert your eyes.

"Okay, which way's the bathroom?" You ask a little too quickly.

"Upstairs, first door on the left." He points vaguely towards the stairs before continuing to unbutton his shirt, shrugging it off and pulling off his undershirt. He's always so conservative with his clothes; never wearing anything too revealing. Hell, even at the beach, he wears a shirt when the rest of the squad is more than happy to run around half-naked. You look back from the stairs to find him shirtless and it's almost impossible to look away.

God, he's gorgeous, almost to the point where it's at odds with his sweet, boyish smile. Strong shoulders, perfect biceps, broad chest, narrow hips; he could be carved out of granite and you wouldn't even be able to tell the difference— You shake the thought from your head before it can take root.

He tosses his shirt on the floor and yawns. "You don't have to wait for me or anything." He says and you bring yourself back to the present, your eyes flicking back up to his face. You just pray, in his inebriated state, that he didn't just catch you eyeballing his bare chest.

"No, I don't need to go to the bathroom, Bob. I'm taking you up because I don't trust you on the stairs." You tell him and he protests weakly but you help him up anyway.

When you reach the bathroom, he leans against the sink for support and you have to look away as you notice the veins in his arms and hands become more pronounced from the pressure. Maybe that one drink you had was a little stronger than you thought. God, what would those fingers feel like in your mouth? Or in your— "You gonna be okay in the shower?" You ask him and he runs a hand through his hair.

"Mhm. I'm not that drunk." He assures you. "You can go watch TV or something." He reaches down to unbuckle his belt and you pin your gaze to the floor.

"I-I'll stand outside the door just in case, alright?" You manage and he gives you that wonderful, lopsided smile that makes the tips of your fingers tingle.

"Alright." He reaches down for his belt and you almost slam the door shut, stepping back to lean against the opposite wall. You let out a slow exhale. You're heart's going a mile a minute.

Distraction. You need a distraction; something — anything — to get your mind off what it would feel like to have your lips on his or your tongue on his neck or your hands on his chest... Heat pools in the pit of your stomach; a desperate, deep-seated ache. You pull out your phone and start flicking through your socials, trying to find something else to focus on but it's no use.

You hear the shower hiss to life and you can't help but think about what he'd look like if you poked your head in for just a moment; shiny from the water, dripping with soap suds and wreathed in steam. Goddamn... But you couldn't breach his privacy, betray his trust, like that, especially while he's drunk and vulnerable. Even thinking about it feels like a betrayal but you can't get the thought out of your head and the aching between your legs only grows stronger.

Maybe you should've let someone else bring him home.

Eventually, the shower turns off and the bathroom door opens, letting out a cloud of steam as Bob steps out, a towel wrapped around his waist as he uses another to dry his hair. His skin gleams in the low light of the hallway, flushed pink from the hot water, damp hair falling in front of his face. He's being unknowingly, impossibly cruel.

"Better?" You manage, somewhat breathless.

"Yeah. So much better." Thankfully, he doesn't seem capable of noticing your — very obvious — attraction to him right now. He positions his glasses back on the bridge of his nose as you push off the wall and onto your feet, your own knees slightly weak.

"C'mon, let's get you to bed, yeah?"

"You don't have to baby me, Pez. I'm sobering up now." He responds softly but lets you guide him anyway, his hand dwarfing your own. He's still a little unsteady on his feet as you reach his bedroom.

You stand by the door, leaning against the doorframe, looking over his bedroom. There are certificates lining the walls and pictures of him and his parents at birthdays and holidays. It makes your chest feel tight. He walks over to the dresser and pulls open a drawer, rifling through to pick out a pair of loose sweatpants. As he pulls out a pair, the towel comes undone from around his waist and pools on the floor. Your eyes go wide and you jerk your head away but not before getting a perfect view of his round, peachy ass. This is cruel and unusual punishment but you're too weak to complain.

Once he's pulled on the sweatpants and slid into bed, his hair still damp against the pillow, he takes off his glasses, folds them up and places them on the nightstand before looking at you as you linger in the doorway, looking awkward and out-of-place. "C'mon." He mumbles sleepily. "It's late and you're tired too." He weakly pulls back the covers on the other side of the bed; a silent invitation. One you want to jump at. But you can't.

He's drunk and not thinking straight and you don't trust yourself. Not that you'd touch him; never that. But you're devastatingly wet and you already know you need to take care of that and you can't do it next to him. To take your mind off that thought, you grab a glass and fill it with water from the bathroom sink before placing it on the nightstand.

"I'll sleep downstairs. Just yell if you need anything, okay?" You tell him and he nods, a flicker of disappointment flashing across his face.

"Okay... Thanks for taking care of me." A smile curves at your lips as you brush a couple of damp locks out of his face. It brings you some modicum of relief, just that little bit of tender skin-to-skin contact.

"No problem." You sigh longingly, almost ruefully. "Night, Bob." You turn on your heel to leave the room and he catches your wrist with a hand, making you stop in your tracks.

"Hey, could you stay?" He asks, voice small. You turn back to look at him over your shoulder. "Just until I fall asleep?" Your heart melts in your chest as you turn back toward him.

"Sure." You sit on the edge of the bed, holding his hand and brushing your thumb over his knuckles. He looks up at you, eyes lidded with exhaustion. His fingers tighten around yours slightly and you feel your pulse racing.

Finally, his fingers loosen on yours as his eyes drop shut. You let out a soft sigh, releasing his hand and rising from the bed. You watch him for a moment, considering, before leaning down to brush a kiss to his forehead. "Sleep tight, Bobby."

You turn off all the lights and head back downstairs. You set up a little bed for yourself on the couch and slip out of your uniform, laying back against the couch cushions in your t-shirt and underwear.

After a moment, you find your hand drifting down between your thighs, pressing your fingertips against the gusset of your panties. It's absolutely sodden. You sigh in defeat, sling one leg over the back of the sofa and push the gusset of your panties to one side, sliding your fingers inside yourself with a sigh, pressing your thumb to the hood of your clit and working in slow circles. With your free hand, you grab a pillow and press it over your mouth to muffle the soft moans that fall from your lips despite knowing that Bob is probably dead to the world right now.

You finish yourself off quickly; imagining it's his fingers buried inside you, his tongue drawing slow, languid circles around your clit. The only sound is the buzzing of the fridge in the kitchen and the soft whines you try to drown out behind the pillow pressed against your face.

As soon as you're done, you pull your underwear back on properly and collapse onto your side, huddling into the blankets, cheeks flaming with heat. You're a mess for him but he can't know that, even if the rest of the Dagger Squad does.

Finally, the sun rises and you pack up the blankets and pillows you'd used before pulling on your pants from the day before. You yawn and stretch before heading into the kitchen to turn on the coffee pot. Your stomach rumbles. After all, you haven't eaten since before the party last night.

Looking up, you check the clock above the fridge. About 10 am. Not too bad.

While rummaging around for the creamer, you stumble across a carton of eggs and a packet of bacon about to go out of date. Pulling them out, you grab a skillet from a nearby rack and set out to make some breakfast.

Upstairs, Bob rubs the sleep from his eyes and replaces his glasses, the glass of water from the night before thoroughly drained throughout the night. He pulls back the covers, swings his legs over the side and pulls on a t-shirt before heading to the bathroom. When he comes back out, he pads down the stairs, drawn toward the scent of bacon and eggs wafting from the kitchen.

You hum to yourself as you flip the bacon over, the eggs growing crispy around the edges but the centre staying soft and jammy. You notice Bob leaning against the doorframe out of the corner of your eye, staying quiet as he watches you work. It's domestic, comforting and you find yourself wishing you could do this for him every morning. Finally, you turn to face him and he smiles warmly. Thankfully, he doesn't seem hungover.

"Morning." He says softly, voice a little lower and scratchier from sleep.

"Morning. How'd you sleep?"

"Like a brick." He responds with a small smile, pushing away from the doorframe and walking further into the small kitchen. His voice drops to a more serious tone "Thanks for taking care of me last night. And for making breakfast." He pauses by the counter, looking at you appreciatively. "You didn't have to do all this."

"I know." You reply simply. He pauses before he quickly looks away, grabbing some plates and cutlery from the cupboards and drawers.

"Need any help?" He asks gruffly, setting the plates next to the stove.

"No, I'm nearly finished here." You turn off the heat and plate up the bacon and eggs before setting the empty skillet on the cool side of the stove. "Order up."

You carry the plates over to the small table in the corner of the kitchen. Bob digs in eagerly, making appreciative noises between bites. The food is simple but perfect; exactly what he needs after shifting a good amount of alcohol the night prior. You set a couple of mugs down on the table and pour the coffee before sitting down to tuck into your own breakfast, humming in satisfaction.

You eat in relative silence, stealing glances at each other over the rims of your coffee cups and between forkfuls of bacon and eggs. The morning light filtering through the window casts a warm glow over his features. He looks peaceful — content, even — sitting across from you, like this is something you do on the regular. You wish it was regular. You want these quiet mornings with him; sharing coffee in comforting silence, surrounded by the scent of fried eggs, the silence only broken by the soft chirping of birds outside.

"Thanks." He says again. "For everything."

"Really, it's fine." You laugh softly, clearing your plate and setting it to one side with your cutlery. He does the same, leaning back in his chair and taking a long sip of coffee.

"Y'know, you're really good at this." He murmurs, the words half-muffled by his coffee cup. "Taking care of people, I mean."

"I try my best. Especially when I know it's someone who deserves it." You reply easily as if it's just common knowledge. Perhaps you said too much but it's early and the atmosphere is cloying; peaceful and almost romantic as it is. He stares at you for a moment before taking another sip of his coffee and sliding his plate under yours, putting his cutlery on top. "Bobby, you're a really good guy." You say, staring down into your coffee.

"You think so?" He asks and you nod. There's a pause before he clears his throat. "Would you— Can I— Can I tell you something?" You nod again, lifting your gaze to meet his as he mutters something under his breath. "Okay..." He takes a deep breath, steeling himself. "I think you're amazing. And not just because of how you were on the mission or taking care of me last night or making breakfast..." He sets his coffee cup down, hands tapping restlessly on the side of the table. "I just think you're amazing. Just...as a person." You just stare at him for a moment before heat creeps along your cheeks and you smile widely.

"I think you're amazing too." He relaxes slightly, scrubbing a hand along his face, as you get up to take the dishes to the sink. When you cross the kitchen again, he's worrying his bottom lip between his teeth.

"So... Hypothetically..." He starts, not daring to look up at you as he picks at a loose thread on his t-shirt. "If a guy hypothetically really liked you — like really, really liked you — what would he need to do?" You turn around to lean against the table, looking pensive.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean..." He leans forward, resting his elbows on the table. "If he wanted to be with you, like, properly. Not just friends or whatever... What would he need to do to make you notice him? To make you...want him?" He asks, voice wavering slightly. There's a flutter in your chest as you stiffen slightly. Oh, God. Oh, fuck. Don't fumble this—

"Well, he'd have to be smart and kind and compassionate and have a good sense of humour." You press your lips into a thin line as you think. "He'd have to be...a little awkward and be kind of bad at dancing but great at literally everything else." You pause and he moves forward slightly.

"And...what else?" He asks and you turn your head to look at him. He looks so open and vulnerable but not in the way he was last night. This is open and honest and completely aware. Suddenly, it dawns on you; he wants this just as much as you do.

"He'd have to be a WSO, he'd have to wear the dorkiest glasses I've ever seen in my life and...he'd have to be called Bob Floyd." His breath catches. "And if he wanted me to notice him, to want him, he'd just have to be himself and I'd be all his." He just stares at you owlishly as if he's finally come to the same realisation that you did just a few seconds before. You reach out to brush a couple of stray hairs out of his face. When he doesn't pull away you turn to face him fully before leaning down to press your lips to his in a gentle kiss.

The second you kiss him, he's done. Finished. Over. His heart is completely yours and he never wants it back. Your lips are soft and warm, just like your smile, and he parts his lips slightly, inviting you to deepen the kiss. You take it; slowly inching your tongue into his mouth and tasting the bitterness of the coffee, moaning softly. God. You can't make that sound. His brain short-circuits. That one small, needy sound from you against his mouth has blood rushing south and he stands up, wrapping his arms around your waist to pull you closer.

He lifts you onto the dining table and you loop your arms around his neck, fingers playing with the hair at the nape of his neck. "Bobby..."

"Shh..." He whispers against your mouth, warm hands roaming your body, touching you like he's dreamed of doing a million times. He pulls back just long enough to take off his glasses and set them aside. Then he's kissing you again, deeper this time. It takes you by surprise. You never thought he could be this...passionate. You always figured, if you ever got this far, you'd be coaxing it out of him, bit by bit, encouraging him with little kisses and your fingers in his hair.

Instead, his hands are firm on your waist, tugging up your shirt just a little to feel the warmth and softness of your skin, as he kisses you like it's all he's ever wanted to do. It steals the breath from your lungs and it has confessions falling from your lips between deep, hungry kisses.

"You don't know...what last night...did to me..." You murmur breathlessly against his mouth and he groans, hands sliding under your shirt.

"Tell me." He's pushing your shirt up further and further, exposing more and more of your body to the golden sunlight gliding in through the open blinds.

"When you took off your shirt and...when you cam out of the shower and... And I saw so much of you... And I wanted all of it..." You manage. He's panting hard and you swear you can hear his heart hammering against his ribs.

"You wanted me?" He asks and you nod, running your hand down the centre of his chest, feeling the quick rise and fall of his breath.

"Mhmm... Once you fell asleep I had to... Had to come downstairs and...take care of myself..." You admit, heat rushing up your neck to spread across your cheeks. He stops for a moment before tugging your shirt off completely and sliding a hand into your hair, kissing you fiercely. You mirror the movement, clinging to him, as you kiss him back with a familiar hunger that roots itself between your legs.

He's losing his mind, control slipping. He steps between your legs, pressing closer, and you can feel him through his sweatpants. He feels perfect; pressing against your thigh desperately. "Bobby..." You move to whisper in his ear. "I need my mouth on you."

"Jesus." It comes out as a soft hiss. "You want to..."

"Please."

You— You don't have to..." He breathes but he's already reaching for the tie of his sweatpants. He wants you to. He wants you to want to.

You push him back gently so you can push off the table, guiding him back into his chair.

"I know I don't have to." You kneel on the worn linoleum between his feet, rubbing your hands along his thighs. He's straining desperately against the front of his sweatpants. "I want to." You tug at the tie of his sweatpants before curling your fingers into the waistband and tugging them down. He lifts his hips and you pull them down and off but, when you sit back to look at him—

Holy Mother of God.

"Wh-What...?" You just stare at him owlishly because, God, if that isn't the biggest cock you've ever seen in your life. Thick, throbbing, leaking... And you thought his body was slightly at odds with the personality of sweet, shy, wallflower Bob Floyd but this? This takes the cake.

"You never told me you had a..." You trail off, reaching up, struggling to wrap your fingers around the girth of the thing. It twitches, precum beading at the slit at even the slightest touch and rolling down the shaft.

"A what?" He asks hoarsely. He looks self-conscious but he has no reason to be. Your mouth waters as you feel him pulsing against your palm.

"Just...big..." Words fail you. His cheeks heat up and he swallows hard.

"You like it?" He asks tentatively and you nod slowly before rising higher on your knees.

"God, yes." No more words. You need to taste him.

You run the flat of your tongue from root to tip and a sharp intake of breath stutters in his throat.

"Ohh, my God..." His hands instinctively grab onto your hair but he doesn't pull, just resting there, as you lick along the underside of his shaft. When you reach the top, you swirl your tongue languidly around the head before taking it into your mouth. "Sh-Shit..." His head falls back against the chair with a soft thud.

He can't believe this is happening. He's jerked off a hundred times to the thought of you doing this but the reality is so much better; you, knelt between his legs, in his kitchen, sucking him off like you were born to do it.

You take more of him into your mouth, tentatively testing how much you can take. He groans lowly at the sensation of your tongue sliding along the underside, watching you with lidded eyes as his thick cock disappears between your lips. You press your head down until you feel the tip touch the back of your throat and you gag slightly before pulling away. You're panting, lips wet with saliva, and just watching you sends a shiver down his spine, toes curling against the lino. "Do that again... Please..." It's almost a beg and you can't deny him or yourself.

You lean back in, sliding down until it hits the back of your throat. Now you know how far you can take him, you cover the rest of his shaft with your hand, easing the slide with more spit as you work him over. His fingers tighten slightly in your hair, only to keep him tethered to the moment. He can feel every inch being worshipped by your greedy mouth and talented hands and his hips start to thrust upward involuntarily. "God, just like that..."

You fall into a steady rhythm, peering up at him through your lashes, and you feel another spurt of pre hit your tongue as he meets your gaze, completely mesmerised. It's almost embarrassingly clear how much you love having him in your mouth; his cock hot and thick and pulsing on your tongue. The wet sounds of your mouth and the sight of his cock sliding between your lips are driving him wild and he can feel that familiar feeling deep in his core. He gives your hair a gentle tug. "Hey..." You pull away, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand.

"Mhm?"

"I'm...getting real close." He warns you, his voice strained with effort. "If you don't want me to...finish in your mouth, you should probably stop now." Still, his hips are flexing, desperately trying to fuck your hand. You take a moment to decide before flicking your tongue over the head and his hands fly to curl around the seat of his chair, nails digging into the wood. "God...! I mean it... I'm...really close..." He gives you one last warning.

"Do it." You tell him, dragging your tongue along the cleft at the underside of the head, still stroking along his shaft, your fingers slick and shining with a mix of precum and saliva.

That's all it takes.

With a deep groan that rumbles from deep in his diaphragm, he cums hard, his hips jerking uncontrollably as his eyes roll. You lean back to watch with satisfaction as thick shots of white spurt from his cock, making your hand slicker as you stroke him through his climax. "That's it, Bobby." You encourage him softly as he unloads onto your hands and his stomach. He's panting heavily, his body shaking, as the last few shots of cum ooze down his shaft. Your gentle praise and the feeling of your spit-slick hand only intensify the pleasure.

When he opens his eyes, he sees your face pressed against his inner thigh as you gently squeeze the base of his cock, gazing up at him adoringly. He runs a shaky hand through your hair, still trying to blink away the white spots dancing in front of his eyes. "That was... Holy shit... I..." You smile and press a kiss to his hipbone, nuzzling his thigh, as he tries to find words in the jumbled mess of his orgasm-addled brain. "You... Bedroom... Yes, bedroom." He manages breathily and you nod, getting up from the floor and letting him tug on his sweatpants again before you eagerly pull him upstairs.

On the way up to his bedroom, you pull off your jeans and underwear before collapsing onto his bed with an excited giggle. Bob quickly joins you; pulling off his shirt and stained sweatpants, his body hovering over yours. You bite your lip, running your hands appreciatively over his body as you sit up slightly to kiss him, finding warm, firm muscle under your palms. He deepens the kiss, parting your lips with his tongue and exploring your mouth hungrily. But, before he can get too lost in the moment, he pulls back, heavy breaths making his chest heave.

"Wait—"

"Mhm...?" He looks sheepish.

"I don't do this often so I— I-I don't really have condoms?" Your heart melts. "Do you still want me to..."

"I still want you to." You glance down to find him already hard again, running a fingertip down his abdomen and watching his cock throb eagerly. "I trust you to pull out." You tell him and he nods quickly.

"I'll pull out." He tells you, kissing you again before leaning back on his toes. "I promise, I'll pull out."

Large hands find your thighs, lifting them until your toes touch the headboard, essentially folding you in half and leaving you completely exposed to him. "God, you're so perfect..." He whispers under his breath, holding you in place as he lines himself up, his cock sliding deliciously against your aching, swollen pussy. "Look at me. Look at me." He urges and you lay your head back against the pillows as he slowly pushes in. He feels absolutely massive but it's not painful; just this pleasant, warm ache that seeps through your body as you stretch around him. You grab onto his biceps for support as his fingers wrap around your ankles, holding your legs up. You're so tight around him, it's almost unbearable. He can feel every swell and curve of your inner walls squeezing around him. Your brows knit as he sinks in deeper, your fingers squeezing his arms.

"B-Bobby!"

"God, it's so good..." His eyes drift shut as he tosses his head back, starting to move slowly, deliberately rocking his hips against yours. The position is just perfect; hitting all the right spots all at once with every deep, purposeful stroke.

Strong fingers dig into your ankles as he slowly starts to pick up the pace. "You like this?" He asks, sweat beading on his brow as he looks down at you. You open your mouth to speak but all that comes out is a breathless whine. "Fuck, you're so tight..." He huffs through his nose as he targets that sweet spot inside you over and over, drawing these adorable, breathy whimpers from you. Your back arches, hands moving to claw at his broad shoulders.

"Please... Feel good... Feels so fucking good..." You pant out and he nods, his hips snapping forward. The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room as he pounds into you, rutting against you desperately.

"I... I didn't know you'd be into..." He murmurs.

"Wh-What...?" "I didn't know you'd...like my... My dick so much..." He leans down, spreading your legs a little wider, as he kisses along your neck. His skin is warm and damp with sweat as he presses against you., his breath hot on your skin. You grin lopsidedly as tears of pleasure prick the corners of your eyes.

"I-I like them big..." You manage and that draws a low, near-animalistic sound from him as he drives into you with renewed vigour. The headboard bangs against the wall with each thrust.

"You like them big..." He repeats and you nod, whining as he hammers your sweet spot with pinpoint accuracy.

"Mmhmmm... I didn't...think you'd be so...big... O-Ohhh... It's so fucking good, Bobby..." You manage and he wraps your legs around his waist, coiling his arms under the small of your back, hugging you against him. His thrusts turn shallow but stay deep, your bodies pushed together from shoulder to hip. You hook your arms over his shoulders, nails raking red lines up his back.

Who would've thought that Bob Floyd — sweet, kind, nerdy, adorable Bobby Floyd — would fuck like an animal? You never expected it but, Christ, does it feel right.

You nuzzle his hair, breathing in the scent of him; yesterday's aftershave lingering on his skin, sweat breaking out all across his body. "Love having you like this..." You murmur in his ear and he nods.

"Mhmm... I love it too..." His thrusts grow slower but no less deep; each movement designed to draw out the pleasure, make it last. He stretches you out and fills you up perfectly, holding you through all of it, eagerly soaking up every moan, plea and whimper you give him. He's rubbing up against the deepest part of you now, the crown of his cock sliding perfectly against the swell of your cervix.

"B-Bobby... You can't...cum inside... You'll...knock me up..." You remind him and his arms tighten around you but he doesn't stop.

"I know... I'll pull out, promise..." But, even as he says it, he feels the heat mounting and he desperately wants to finish inside you. His hips keep rolling against yours in a deep, steady rhythm. You drag your nails across his shoulder blades, your body clenching down around him, throbbing around him rhythmically because, deep down, you'd love if he could cum inside you, leave his mark. But you can't take that risk.

He gives you a few more slow deep thrusts before pulling back to look at you. His hair is plastered to his forehead, face flushed. "Gonna pull out now, okay?" He pants out and you nod as he pulls out just in time, sandwiching his cock into the crook of your thigh and grinding against it until he cums, decorating your body with slick, white ribbons that ooze across your skin. You run your fingers through his hair as his orgasm hits, his arms clenching around you, hanging onto you for dear life.

Finally, his body goes slack. He's panting heavily, tilting his head up to claim your lips again in a soft, slow, lazy kiss. He rolls over onto his back, pulling you with him so you're lying on top of him. He's still semi-hard against your thigh but he's given you all he can for now so you sit up and sink back down onto him before curling up on top of him, enjoying the feeling of having his huge, softening cock nestled inside you. He lets out a low groan, gathering you up in his arms, fingers drawing idle patterns along the small of your back. "Gonna keep it in?" He asks softly and you look up at him.

"Is that okay?"

"More than okay." He presses a kiss to your forehead. "Makes me feel close to you... Comfortable?" You nod and rub your nose against his.

"Mhm. You?"

"Perfect."

A soft silence settles over the room, almost jarring after the slamming and slapping and moaning from just a few moments ago. But you aren't complaining.

You card your fingers through his sweat-damp hair, pushing it away from his face.

"You wanna talk about what just happened?" You laugh softly before sobering. "And where we go from here?"

"Mhm." He hums thoughtfully. "You mean like the 'was this a one-time thing' talk? Or the 'do you regret it' talk?" His thumbs rub the small of your back soothingly.

"Both." He takes a breath and you feel his chest rise beneath you.

"It wasn't just a one-time thing for me." He says softly, his eyes searching yours. "I don't do this kind of thing lightly, y'know? I wanted you and I still want you. But, if you're not on the same page, that okay too. We can still just be...friends, if you want." God, he's too sweet for his own good sometimes.

"And you don't regret it?"

"God, no." He answers, arms tightening around you possessively. "Best sex of my life. No regrets here." He lifts a hand to play with your hair nervously. "Can I be honest?" You nod and he sighs heavily. "I think about you a lot. More than I should. Like you're in my head, under my skin. And I... I want to do this again. With you. Only you." He swallows hard, finally meeting your eyes again. "So where does that leave us?"

"Like friends with benefits or...?" You trail off and he makes a noncommittal sound.

"I mean, we could do that." He says slowly. "But, if I'm being completely honest, I don't want it to be just that? Friends with benefits implies casual and what we just did? It didn't feel casual to me." You cup his face and run your thumb along his cheekbone. "I like you. A lot." He turns his head to press a kiss to your palm. "But if that scares you off, I understand." Without a word, you lean forward, licking your way into his mouth, kissing him slow and lazy. When you break apart, you're both breathless.

"Honey, I've been wanting to ask you out for months. I just didn't know where to start." You admit and his eyes widen.

"Really?" A huge grin spreads across his face. "Why didn't you?" He laughs softly, pressing another quick kiss to your lips. You find yourself laughing with him.

"According to the rest of the squad, I've been dropping hints left, right and centre and not even subtle ones at that!"

"In my defence, I thought you were just being friendly." He replies and you laugh softly against his lips. "So... Can we date? Please say yes."

"I'd like that a lot."

"Thank God." His arms squeeze tight around you. "Should I take you out properly sometime? Coffee, dinner, all that stuff?" He traces your bottom lip with his thumb.

"It'd be nice, yeah." You reply and he gives you that sweet, beaming, boyish grin.

"Then it's a date. How about tomorrow night? We can grab some dinner and maybe catch a movie if you're up for it?" You nod and ruffle his hair lightly.

"That sounds perfect. But first..." You roll your hips against his, a gentle reminder that he's been inside you for the better half of ten minutes. "Can we do that again?" He wets his lips and rolls you back over onto your back, leaning down to press kisses to your neck.

"Mhm. As many times as you want."

Bob's call sign may be just 'Bob' but, in your head, it's 'Tripod'. Sweet, shy Bobby 'Tripod' Floyd.

TAGLIST: @ingoldthewizard @judeval @my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction @starwarskawaii

[minutelyfreaked]

simon riley x fem!reader smut blurb. nsfw below. mdni.

so, simon is a big guy.

like hugeeeeee in every sense of the word.

he takes a huge pride in towering over you, finding the way you peer up at him endearing. he loves to grip your chin and guide your lips to his for a deep kiss. his large hands are almost always on you, traveling long paths across your figure. his hand engulfs yours as he threads your fingers together. he always finds a way to press his large stature against your back, reminding you of how big he is.

something about how much bigger he is than you just really gets him going.

even as he presses your bare front into the mattress, cock pressing lightly at the entrance of your cervix, the position put an emphasis on the size difference between the two of you. his legs trapped yours as he looped his arms under your body. his head was tucked next to your ear as he pressed deeper.

he's been at it for hours, manhandling you into several different positions as he collect numerous orgasms from your overwhelmed cunt. he abused your clit with his tongue as he prepped your vice like hole for his girthy dick. once he fully stuffed his cock in your pussy, he was a goner. he just held you down and memorized the feeling of your warm, soft, cunt wrapped around him.

"is here 'bout right, lovie?" simon muttered into your ear, groping at your bare skin. he was pressed against the spot that caused your toes to curl and eyes to roll back. one of your hands was wrapped around his wrist as you weakly tried to escape the deepness of his thrust.

"simon-simon, i can't..." you tried, but couldn't quite get out the full sentence because of his depth.

"can't what, hm? gotta be a little more specific," he responded, palming over the slight bulge in your stomach. this called you to cry out his name as tears welled in your eyes.

"you're so big, si. 's almost too big," you slurred out as his cock stirred in your guts. he all but moans at your words, lips marking the side of your neck.

"'s neva' too big," he mumbled with a gruff snort, one of his hands slowly slid down your front, making its way to your overstimulated bundle of nerves. his slow circles had your back arching deeper into the mattress, his front pressing further into your back.

he was everywhere. he was all you could smell, hear, think of, and feel. his touch set your nerves into a frenzy, causing your senses to go haywire. you couldn't move away even if you wanted to as he held you firmly in his grip.

his thrusts began to turn brutal as he pressed most of his weight onto you, properly fucking you. his pace was nothing if not consistent, each thrust as quick and deep as the last. your thighs shook as another shattering orgasm ripped through you, juices coating both of your lower halves as simon finally chased his high. he nearly sent you into overstimulation before he came, painting your velvet walls white.

he allowed the two of you a few moments to calm down. he moved to massage your hips and lower back as you laid there, exhausted from his thorough fucking. you could feel his release dripping out of your worn pussy, painting your folds a milky white. simon hums at the sight, overly pleased with himself as he moved to massaging your thighs.

he sat between them, kneading the supple flesh of your thighs while watching his drip from your center. one of his hands left your thigh in favor of scooping his cum on to his fingers and pushing them deep into your cunt. he scissored his fingers a couple of times before pulling his fingers away, stuffing them into his awaiting mouth. the flavor brought a lustful spark to simon's eye as he gripped your thighs and dragged you to the edge of the bed.

"what'd ya say to one more round, love? just one and i'll leave you be," he said, already kneeling to be eye level with your core.

and who were you to say no?

— writing smut is a lot harder than i thought it would be omg.

( sincerely, gwen. )

© minutelyfreaked 2025 —do not repost, plagiarized, or falsely claim my work. likes, comments, and reblogs are welcome!

[himasgod]

Would it be to soon to ask for a "where you suddenly stop giving them attention" part with the third years?

THIRD YEARS X READER

Where you suddenly stop giving them attention

Cater was living for your affection.

Seriously, you were his favorite notification. You always knew how to brighten his day, a kiss on the cheek before class, selfies together, random “thinking of you~” texts that made his heart skip. He acted all chill about it, but inside?

He was twirling his hair, giggling and kicking his feet like a teen in love.

So when you stopped? When your texts slowed down to dry busy rn, when you walked past him without that sparkle, when you skipped Magicam photos for days? Cater noticed. At first, he played it off with humor.

"Whoa, my number one fan vanished! Was I canceled and no one told me~?"

He scrolls back through your message thread at night, wondering if he said something wrong. Tries to post a cute story hoping you’ll react. Even sneaks by your class to “casually” spot you.

And when he sees you — head down on the desk, dark circles under your eyes, shoulders trembling, it hits him. You didn’t stop caring. You just stopped having the energy.

He walks right in, pulls you up from your chair, and takes your hand. You barely react, exhausted, letting him lead you. He brings you to the empty pop music club room, shuts the door, and wraps you in his arms.

"You don’t have to smile for me, kay? You don’t have to be “on.” Just be real with me, babe. I’m not going anywhere."

You finally let go and cry a little, muttering “I’m sorry” into his hoodie. He hugs you tighter.

"Nah, none of that. You gave me real love, and I’m keeping it. So if you need a break, I’ll be your filter. I gotchu."

Leona had long since decided that affection wasn’t something he needed. Or wanted. Or deserved.

But then you came along. With your sleepy kisses. Your hands in his hair. Your little “I missed you, lazybones” messages. Your way of plopping down beside him like you belonged there. It made him soft. He hated it. He loved it.

So when it disappears, when you stop curling up next to him during naps, when you barely say “hi” in the hallways, when the only messages you send are “Sorry, can’t today. Too tired”, Leona’s first instinct is annoyance. He’s gruff. Snappy. Sulking like a big cat who’s been denied his favorite sunspot.

"So that’s it? Done spoiling your prince, herbivore?"

But he doesn’t press it. Not yet. Not until he finds you passed out in the botanical garden, curled under a tree with your bag still slung on one shoulder. You don’t wake up when he calls your name.

He kneels beside you, frowning, brushing your hair out of your face. Your skin is warm. Your body limp with exhaustion. And suddenly he sees it, the sleepless nights in your eyes, the way you’ve been dragging your feet through the week. This wasn’t you ignoring him. This was you falling apart.

When you finally blink awake he doesn’t let you speak. He just pulls you against his chest, sighing into your shoulder.

"You idiot. You think I need all your attention if it costs you this much?"

You try to explain, apologize, but Leona tightens his hold and cuts you off.

"You gave me something warm for the first time in a long damn time. You think I’m gonna throw that away because you forgot to say “good morning” a few days?"

"Next time, just tell me you’re burning out. I’ll carry you if I have to. I’ll drag your overworked ass into bed myself."

And he does. He carries you to his room like it’s nothing, tucks you under his thickest blanket, and curls around you.

"You spoiled me rotten, herbivore. Let me spoil you back."

Vil took note the second it started.

The first time you didn’t compliment him. The first time you didn’t send your good morning text. The first time you passed him in the hallway, eyes on your phone, and didn’t so much as glance up. He noticed. He always noticed. But he didn’t act on it immediately. He gave you space, told himself you were probably dealing with something. That it was just a phase. He wasn’t going to be the clingy insecure type. And yet…

"Why haven’t they noticed my new look? They always say something…"

"They haven’t visited the dorm in over a week. Why?"

The questions start to pile up in his mind, and with them, a tightness in his chest he hates admitting is worry. When he finally seeks you out, you’re in the library, fast asleep over books, dark circles under your eyes, your lunch untouched beside you. And everything clicks. It wasn’t about him. It was about you. Pushing yourself too hard again. Giving too much and leaving nothing for yourself.

Vil lets out a sigh and gently wakes you. You blink at him, confused, guilty, already trying to explain. But he stops you with a finger pressed to your lips.

"Enough. You don’t owe me affection when your body is falling apart."

He takes your hands, helps you stand, and brushes the hair out of your face.

"You’ve been overworking yourself again. Look at your complexion. Look at your posture. Have you even slept properly this week?"

You shake your head, ready to apologize again, but Vil frowns and holds your face with both hands.

"You showered me in love when I needed it. Now let me return the favor."

That evening, he takes you to Pomefiore. Runs you a bath with herbs for your fatigue. Makes you a skin treatment himself. Feeds you something warm, nothing fancy, just what you need. And when you lie down, eyes drooping, he sits beside you with a book and reads aloud until you drift off.

The next morning, when you wake up and whisper, “Sorry for worrying you,” he only scoffs.

"You’re lucky I love you… Because darling, letting yourself fall apart is never a good look. So next time, tell me. You don’t have to be perfect — just let me in."

You were his safe place. That’s it.

Idia had never, ever been good with people, but somehow, you slipped through him like a virus. You installed yourself into every part of his daily life: calling him nicknames, hugging him out of nowhere, holding his hand even when he flinched like a malfunctioning Chatgpt.

So when you stop showing up to his room after class, when your daily “I love you, you nerd” texts vanish into silence, Idia panics. But he doesn’t know how to confront you. Not directly. So he goes through his mental folders.

"Did I say something cringe? Did I scare them off? Oh no. Oh fuck—what if they’re ghosting me?!"

He pings you in-game. No reply. He messages you on Magicam. Nothing. Eventually, he decides to do something terrifying: he leaves his room. He finds you half-asleep in a corner booth, head down on your arms, a tray of snacks beside you. You look pale. Tired. Your phone buzzes with unread messages, mostly from group projects. And his. He shuffles over, hoodie up, hands in sleeves.

"Hey… hey… you okay?"

You lift your head, dazed. When you realize it’s him, you try to smile, but it comes out cracked. “I’m sorry, I just… forgot to reply. I’m so tired.”

Idia sits beside you. He just pulls his sleeve over your hand and gives it a squeeze. "You’re running out of stamina, huh? You chuckle weakly. “That’s one way to put it.”

"You don’t have to be good all the time just for me. But next time, let me know, okay? I can carry the team for a while."

Then he gently drapes his oversized jacket over your shoulders.

Lilia always used to tease you a little about how much you pampered him.

"Another treat? You’re going to spoil me rotten, little one. I might start expecting this every day~"

He would laugh, flutter his lashes, feign dramatic swoons every time you brought fixed his hair without warning, or clung to his arm calling him “old man.” But the truth? He loved it. Every second of it.

So when all that stops? When you start pulling away with tired excuses and absent eyes, when your touch disappears, your laughter fades, and your texts become “sorry, I’m busy” Lilia notices. Of course he does. He notices everything. At first, he jokes about it, as usual.

"Ara~ have I lost my most devoted fan? Say it isn’t so"

But you just smile weakly, wave him off, and walk past him. And Lilia stays behind, lips still curved, but eyes narrowed. Concerned.

He doesn’t chase after you, he waits. Watches. He sees how you stumble over your steps in class, how you barely eat. And suddenly, everything makes sense. You weren’t ignoring him. You were burning out.

The next time he sees you, you're dozing off, a stack of notes on your lap and your pen still in hand. He crouches beside you, brushes a strand of hair from your face, and whispers. "Silly human… You give and give until there’s nothing left. And now you’re forgetting to take care of yourself."

He doesn’t wake you. Instead, he scoops you up in his arms and takes you to his room. He sets you on the bed, tucks you in, and sits beside you. Humming something low. And when you finally stir awake, blinking at him with confusion, he just smiles.

"You stopped spoiling me… so I’ll spoil you now. Rest, darling. I’ll watch over you."

Malleus had never known what it was like to be loved in the small ways.

Not just respected or fond like Lilia, Silver or Sebek, But openly loved, with warm hands brushing his hair, with nicknames whispered, with kisses on the cheek followed by playful grins and “did you miss me prince?”

That’s why, when it suddenly stops, he doesn’t know how to process it. You no longer greet him with your usual bright voice. You stop reaching for his hand. You avoid going to Diasomnia. He doesn’t get angry. He doesn’t even speak of it at first. He just watches.

"Have I displeased you?" He asks himself this more times than he’d ever admit.

At first, he assumes it's distance — that perhaps your heart had grown bored of him. But then he begins to see the truth, your slowed pace, the way you rub your eyes and mumble apologies without reason. You weren’t pushing him away, you were exhausted. So one night, he appears outside Ramshackle, as he used to do in the beginning when your bond was still new. You hear the gentle knock, and when you open the door, there he is.

"May I come in, child of man?"

You nod tiredly, and let him sit beside you on the edge of the bed. You try to explain. Try to apologize. But Malleus just shakes his head, placing a hand over yours.

"You gifted me a kind of love I never imagined I’d have. You do not need to apologize for needing to rest. But I ask you this. Do not shut me out. Let me carry some of your burdens, if only a little. Let me stay beside you, even in silence.·

You feel tears sting your eyes, but Malleus simply leans forward, pressing his lips to your shoulder.

"Even if you have no strength left to call me “my prince,” I will still be yours."

Trey never asked for much.

He wasn’t the kind of guy to expect grand displays or dramatic affection. But ever since you started spoiling him, slipping love notes into his apron pocket, kissing his temple while he baked, calling him “sweetheart” when you thought no one was listening, he’d gotten used to it. Too used to it.

So when you suddenly go quiet, when your touches vanish and your little “I brought this just for you” moments dry up, Trey pretends not to mind. At first.

"Everything alright? You’ve been… quiet lately. Busy?"

You nod. Tell him not to worry. That you’re just tired, that homwork's overwhelming you a bit. He doesn’t push. But it nags at him. He watches how your shoulders slump, how you chew your lower lip while working through assignments, how your phone lights up with unread messages you don’t even glance at.

And one afternoon, when he sees you curled up, asleep with a half-eaten snack and your notebook clutched to your chest, something in him clicks. He sighs softly, kneels beside you, and gently takes the notebook from your arms. He sits down pulling out a small container from his bag. Inside is your favorite treat. One you once made together. He leaves a note beside it:

“For when you wake up. You don’t have to do everything alone. I’m here too.”

When you wake up hours later, groggy, you find Trey still sitting across from you, reading calmly, as if nothing ever happened. But when your eyes meet, he smiles, the kind of smile that says “You don’t owe me anything, but I’m not going anywhere.”

And later, as he walks you back to your dorm, he gently bumps your shoulder.

"Next time you feel like the world’s too heavy, tell me. You’ve always been sweet to me… Let me return the favor, yeah?"

Rook noticed the change before anyone else in all the 3 parts.

He always noticed you. The way your eyes lit up when you saw him. The rhythm of your voice when you called him, the tender way you touched his arm when you thought no one was looking. Your affection was art. And he had memorized every stroke of it.

So when your energy faded, when your “good mornings” dulled to distracted nods, when your hands stopped reaching for his, Rook didn’t need an explanation. He read your body like poetry. At first, he gave you space. Like a hunter watching from a distance. But Rook isn’t passive. He’s passion incarnate. And watching the light fade from you? It ached.

So one afternoon, when you sat alone in the library, head heavy in your arms, unmoving, he couldn’t stay silent. He approached quietly.

"Mon cherie… what burden weighs your wings so deeply?"

You flinch and try to sit up, but he kneels beside your chair, taking your hand gently. You open your mouth to speak, but all that comes out is a tired whisper. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to ignore you.” Rook kisses your knuckles.

"Ah, no. Do not apologize for enduring. You have not ignored me. You have simply... forgotten to care for yourself."

You shake your head, tears building, shame rising, but he hushes you with a finger to your lips.

"You who gave me such beauty, such devotion, how could I abandon you now, in this moment? Let me cherish you now, ma lumière. Let me carry you."

He lifts you as if you’re made of petals and takes you somewhere quiet. He wraps you in blankets, brings you tea, brushes your hair.

"Rest, my treasure. You gave your light to so many — now let me be the one to shine for you."

[behidethetrees]

Hiccup as your boyfriend!

Pairing: Hiccup Haddock x fem! Reader

Contents: Lover boy hiccup, fluff, toothless mention <3

- You had known of hiccup since you were a kid. He is the son of stoick the vast, but he didnt act like it. He was clumsy, often tripping over his own two feet. Always causing chaos when he tried to help fight, and just wasnt cut out to be the next cheif of berk.

- Hiccup admired you from afar. He watched you as you trained, as you flicked your long hair back from your sweaty face and often adjusted your oversized viking hat that he thought was adorable. The determined look on your face and the way you swiftly moved through the air onto the ground with your sword caused a lump in his throat and his eyes to widen. As much as he loved watching you, he hated what you were training for because little did you know, or anyone knew, he had a dragon of his own.

- The day that you realized he just might be something was the day he saved you from a dragon. You were pinned down and helpless when a large dark figure flew over you and you felt human hands grab your waist. You were quickly thrown into the air, You noticed it was Hiccup that had grabbed you and sat you on a dragon that blended into the dark night sky. You hugged his back tightly, "Hiccup!" you screamed. “Its okay! Let me show you!” He yelled back. He flew you all through berk on his night fury and your fear slowly started to fade away. Since then, you and Hiccup became inseparable. Your new friendship surprised everyone that knew you and the boys in berk that wouldn’t leave you alone scoff out of jealousy. Hiccup had taught you that dragons werent dangerous, everyday you went with him to visit his night fury, toothless. Toothless showered you with affection just like he did with hiccup. In return, you taught hiccup skills for fighting and hunting. You two spent many days walking together in the forest, flying around, laughing. But you’d never forget the day you finally kissed him. His soft chapped lips were so sweet it gave you a toothache. The way he melted into your kiss and held your face in his hands like thats all they were made for.

- Hiccup is all about you. He carved your initials everywhere like his sword, the side of his helmet, on his gear. He is so loyal to the point he hates even being around another girl. He makes sure to ALWAYS mention he has a girlfriend. He is constantly talking about you to anyone, even if they had heard him a million times already. He talks about your days together, your accomplishments, how much he loves you. He often slacks off during tasks because his mind is so occupied with thoughts of you.

- Hiccup is big on physical touch. He loves to put his arm around your shoulder and hold you close as you two walk, grab your waist and pull you into a kiss, hug you from the back and bury his face into your neck. little things like fidgeting with your hair, with the fur on your clothes or holding hands. Everytime you two cuddle, he caresses your face and looks you in the eye, saying the sweetest things you've ever heard in the gentlest tone. He loves feeling close to you.

- Hiccup is fiercely protective over you. Hes also quite possessive, he watches everyone like a hawk, making sure no one gives you weird looks or talks down on you. The one time someone did, He almost got toothless to kill them until You stepped in. He knows you can defend yourself but he doesnt let you. He loves to take care of you and a part of his brain goes crazy at the thought of him not being there for you. He loves showing you off, twirling you around and kissing you in public, he loves showing that the most beautiful and strongest girl in berk is his.

- The little things matter to Hiccup. Doing absolutely nothing with you means absolutely everything to him. Embracing each other in silence meant more to him than anything this world could offer him. He kept everything that reminded him of you. your knife, a piece of your clothing, rocks that you picked out, The small doodles you would randomly give to him were in a neat stack beside his bed. every night he would go through them and softly smile, you often did things for him and it made it easier for Hiccup to sleep at night Knowing you thought about him and loved him.

- Hiccup loves long talks. You two sit on the edge of a cliff, watching the dragons fly and the clouds move while talking about anything ranging from funny jokes to deep, intelligent conversations. But with these conversations, Hiccup often feels like you’re too good for him. Youre so smart and brave and strong, He felt like he wasnt any of those things. He tends to overthink too much and hurt his own feelings, he needs constant Reassurance. Whenever you hold him, twirling strands of his hair with your finger, Saying words that sends unexplainable amounts of joy to his heart, He lets himself believe everything will be okay.

- Hiccup never had a clear view of his future. For the longest time he thought he was meant for failure and yearning for love for the rest of his life. but the course of his life took a drastic turn when he met toothless, he became the first viking to train a dragon. It took an even bigger turn when you found your way to Hiccup. He became the luckiest man in the world. Hiccup looked at you as the sun shined on your smooth skin, the sound of your soft breathing as you slept on toothless’s side with your little fingertips touching his hand, he knew you and his dragon was all he would ever need.

Requests!

A/N: hellloooo…? Remember me guys…? Im back!Its been a long year away i missed you guys! im currently obsesssing over the httyd live action so i decided a short cute hc would be perfect for my comeback <3 my obx and long fics WILL return dont worry guys, hope you enjoy!!!

[reminiscingthesea]

Part three of yandere stalker Phainon x nerdy reader !!

A/N- i don’t know how many times I’m gonna say this, but ty guys sm for all the support and love ive been receiving under comments!! I really enjoy reading them!!

Part 1 and part 2!:

Warning- Contains smut, reader is inexperienced, insecure thoughts, foul language, manhandling, AFAB reader

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It had been some time since that incident, and it was safe to say, you were truly shaken to your core. Luckily, your boyfriend best friend Phainon was here to help keep yourself safe during such difficult times. He walked with you to your lectures, even if it meant being late to his, he accompanied you whenever you went out, especially at later hours, he messaged you everyday, asking things like how you were, what you ate, if he needed to come over, if you needed a cry or a laugh. The two of you spent hours on the phone, too. Going to sleep on call and waking up to burning hot phones and a time reader that read- “7:46:50”- He was truly too good for you, and it made you doubt yourself. Did he truly like you? Was he still giving mixed signals? Was he doing this out of the kindness of his heart, or because he felt as though he had a duty to as your best friend?

.

.

“.. Phainon, you’re too good to me- taking me out to dinner at such an expensive restaurant and not letting me pay you back? I really don’t deserve this, your kindness..” You spoke timidly, keeping your eyes down on your plate of delicious, well seasoned food- which was lobster Thermidor with a side of cute, buttery bread buns that were oh-so soft. You felt a small rush of heat dust onto the skin of your cheeks as Phainon gently interlocked his hand with yours from the other end of the table, leaning his head down to get a glimpse of your face, a small, loving smile gracing his lips.

“C’mon, don’t say that.. we’ve grown so close together over these past few months, and it’s nearly the end of the semester, you know I like treating you to nice places for dinner.” He spoke softly, rubbing the back of your hand with his thumb, before continuing. “I like treating my closest to dinner, and you’re very close to me, [Name]. Never forget that.”

You looked at him with slightly widened eyes now, taking in his deep words. Was this his way of confessing his love for you? No, it couldn’t be. Phainon treats all of his friends to lunch and dinner, but not normally at a price like this..

“I don’t know what to say, Phainon.. I’m so, so grateful to you, you’ve helped me so much. But please listen to me. Don’t waste your time on someone like me. You deserve someone better, prettier, outgoing- I just make things awkward between us since I’m not as chatty with you, I..” Sighing shakily, you looked at him with tears welling in your eyes. “Just please, tell me how I could ever repay you.. you’ve saved my life countless of times, I’m truly indebted to you..”

Phainon looked back at you with an equally as sad look, he looked like a kicked puppy who was left in the rain by its owner.

“I understand that such traumatic events will alter your view on your worth, make you feel bad about yourself. But [Name], when I tell you that you truly mean so much to me, I mean it. You don’t have to believe me right now, but I’ll wait. Albeit, sadly. But as long as it takes, I’ll wait.” How he wanted to confess to you right then and there on the spot, but he himself had his own doubts that he just couldn’t wrap his head around as to why he had them.. he had removed every obstacle in his way- your bullies, Mydei, danger- and had your trust and respect for him. So why now was he so hesitant? Was all of this for nothing? Was he worried you’d reject him due to your beliefs on how he’s too good for you?

Even then though, he had a small thought at the back of his head that told him ‘Don’t confess, and you’ll only hurt her more.’

You could only nod and carry on with the rest of your dinner, a somber, dejected look on your face, and he copied too. The rest of your dinner was awkward to say the least. Neither of you looked each other in the eyes, only sneaking quick glances when the other wasn’t looking, nor did the two of you talk, until the bill came- to which Phainon paid the whole sum of 10,500 credits, as you gave him a pouty look from across the table.

As the two of you walked out and begun making your ways back to campus, you clutched his wrist delicately.

“Phainon. I promise to pay you back, okay? Just don’t reject it, please..”

To this, Phainon could only laugh quietly and turn to face you fully. ‘You could pay me back with your love’ he thought to himself as he began speaking.

“Oh, fine. Since you’re so stubborn and such a sweetheart, I’ll let you pay me back. But! At a discounted price of 50% off. I don’t make the rules.”

You sputtered slightly and shook him, shaking your head.

“50%?! I can’t pay you back only 50% of the money you spent on me today!” You exclaimed, a crazed expression on your face as you tried to get him to change his price to a higher one.

“Oh? 50% isn’t a good enough percentage? Oh fine, since you’re such a good negotiator, I’ll let you pay me a maximum of 25%! A minimum of 0%, is allowed though.” He teased lightly, winking and grinning as he saw your face morph into a more frustrated one.

Suddenly, you shoved a bunch of credits to his chest and grabbed his hands to clutch them

“Look. I wanna do something nice for you to pay you back. I won’t let you win this either- so just take the credits and this’ll all be over.” You concluded confidently, as the pair of you reached your campus’ entrance and walked right in. You had a dead-set, stubborn look on your face as you walked back to your dorm, and Phainon could only laugh in adoration as he stuffed the credits into his wallet.

“Oh alright fine! You win! I’ll stop ruffling your feathers and let you pay me back tenfold. But just know, I’m gonna be spending even more money on you next time! And ah-ah-ah! Don’t even think about taking it as an opportunity to pay me back even more, I won’t let it happen!” He declared loudly in the otherwise empty hallway besides the two of you standing outside your dorm room. ‘He’s so perfect..’ you pondered to yourself quietly, before flashing him a small, sweet smile. But there was a hint of sadness behind it, and Phainon saw.

But before Phainon could talk to you further, you quickly said your goodbyes and waved him off, before disappearing into your dorm room.

Phainon stood there, an unreadable look on his face as he stared at the now closed door in front of him. How badly he wanted to break that door down and make you love him just as he loved you. But he simply, couldn’t bring himself to do so.

How pathetic of him.

.

.

.

Sitting at his desk, he opened his computer screen to monitor your activities through the camera in your room. It was something he hadn’t done as often as before, considering how much closer the two of you became over these last few weeks. Though, he made a mental note to sneak in another camera from a different part of your room, just for better… angles. The mirror might be a good option!

However, the sight that absolutely blessed his dirty little eyes of faux purity, was truly a sight to behold.

It was you, on your bed, with nothing but a shirt on. Your panties were long discarded on the floor, and so too was your bra, assuming it was the soft blue pair of underwear laying on the floor just a few meters from his bed.

Immediately, blood rushed to his cock as he pulled it out from his shorts, quickly rubbing his hand up and down over its generous length, his thumb gently teasing his tip, the same way he gently rolled it against the back of your hand before. His mouth agape, eyes lidded as he continued watching the footage reverently.

But what got him really going, was when you brought two fingers to your pussy, which he obviously couldn’t see considering the camera’s placement on your headboard behind your bed. But it had an elevated view, so he saw how the two fingers gently eased their way into your cunt slowly, whilst your thumb teased at your clit.

“F-fuck..! fuck, so- mmghh…” You moaned softly, rocking your hips to no specific beat, as your finger on your bud worked harder to provide more stimulation. But after a few moments, your loving moans turned into whines and whimpers of frustration and sadness. Phainon, who was edging himself to hear your moans, heard this change, causing a pout to adorn his gracious face.

“Oh, [Name].. you must be having so much trouble trying to please yourself… if only I was th-“

“If only you were here, Phainon… you’d make me feel so good….”

Oh.

oh.

To this, Phainon immediately stood up from his desk, eyes widening and face flushing. The shock was enough to send him over the edge, cum spewing onto the table in front of him. He bent over the table, his head tilted upwards to look at his computer’s screen as you continued your strings of moans of pleasure, but also sadness. He began rubbing his cock, now hot, sticky, and even harder, much faster now, your moans and his creating a beautiful symphony.

Finishing with a gasp, he buried his face in his arms, breathing heavily. However, you were still touching yourself, moaning weakly, trying to reach your peak of pleasure like the guy behind the camera, but nothing.

“..Poor [Name].. unable to please herself without my guidance?..” He whispered softly to himself, slowly getting up to his full height and looking down at the computer screen of you pathetically trying to please yourself, whilst also murmuring degrading comments about yourself in the process.

“Nobody gets to hurt what I love. Not even yourself.. I will show you my love for you, [Name].. I’ve been stupid enough to deprive you of it for so long…” His fingers gently caressed your form on his computer screen, a hint of sadness behind them.

He knew what he had to do. He had to show you his soaring love for you, a love that knew know bounds, a love that he starved of you by his own insecurities. He hurt you, and he was going to change that.

He began cleaning his desk.

.

.

You sobbed pathetically into your pillow, you couldn’t do it. God, you were so bad at everything, even at pleasing your own cunt. You couldn’t even do it yourself, you needed someone- someone who you probably doesn’t even like you-. Feeling the wetness of your cunt beneath your ass now, you let out a shaky sigh, on the verge of bursting into even louder cries of frustration and disappointment.

Amidst your tantrum, you heard loud, firm knocks on your dorm room’s door. Scrambling to get your clothes back on, you messily made it to the door, not caring about your appearance besides having some clothes on. Your hair was a mess, your face was flushed and wet with tears, your lips and legs quivering as you opened the door to see Phainon.

“P-Phainon- I’m sorry I don’t look good-“

“Let me in, [Name]. We need to talk.”

He pushed himself past you as you closed the door, before his hand met your wrist and pulled you close to him, pinning you against the wall near a table. Your vision became blurry as your eyes darted across the room in shock. Phainon’s hand cupped your face, turning it to face him fully as he spoke.

“I’ve held this for too long. [Name], I love you. I’ve loved you this entire time. And I know you love me too, you were just too scared to say it. Ever since… ever since we met, I’ve always thought about you, the things we’d do together as a couple. Kisses, romantic dates, cute things.. I need you. And you need me too. You’re perfect for me, and I’m perfect for you.” His voice was quiet and husky as he spoke, his face so close to yours, your lips almost touching his as he spoke. Your eyes widened, tears brimming in them once more, your mouth agape.

“Ph..Phainon.. I love you- I love you so much- you don’t know how happy I am to hear this I-“ Without thinking, you crashed your lips against his, capturing him in a soft kiss. You’ve never kissed anyone before, but this felt right, as he reciprocated just as fervently. Phainon then deepened the kiss, his tongue sliding into your mouth as he pinned you harder against the wall, his knee coming up between your legs, his hand tangling into your hair.

You could only moan softly in response as you grinded needily, helplessly, against his knee, seeking the pleasure you’ve been so starved of all this time. With a few deep gasps of air from you and him, his mouth took refuge on your neck, his head burying in the crook of it as he mouth began sucking and leaving large love marks on the soft skin.

“Gonna show you my love for you, yeah? Gonna fuck it into you for being such a good girl and waiting all this time for me..” He picked you up off the floor, your arms wrapping around his neck, as your legs wrapped around his waist, before carrying you back to your room.

He laid you down on your bed carefully, before peeling your clothes off, one by one. His touch was worshipping, reverent, his eyes never leaving yours. He smiled softly to himself as he took your pants off, breaking his gaze with yours as he glanced at your panties, the same light blue ones that were discarded on the ground just a few minutes ago.

As he peeled off your panties, revealing your glistening cunt to him, he threw it aside, along with the rest of your discarded clothes on the floor besides the bed. He took his shirt off, making way for his muscular, defined torso and body. You swore you saw stars in that moment, heat creeping up onto your face as your hand unconsciously lifted up to caress the firm skin there. Phainon chuckled, breaking you out of your stupor.

“Like the view?” He teased playfully, a smug, but loving grin on his face as your eyes met with his once more. He lightly took your hand and interlocked it with his, before coming back down on you and kissing you softly, his hair tickling your cheeks as he did so. Whilst you were so caught up with the kiss, you didn’t catch his free hand running up your thigh, creeping near towards your ever growing, wet pussy, teasing the sensitive flesh around it.

You squirmed as his toned, but slim fingers began teasing the entrance of your cunt’s hole, almost rimming it with the pad of his fingers, before gently siding them in.

“Phainon!~” You gasped sweetly, holding onto his hand tighter as his fingers worked their magic within the gummy walls of your hole. Your hips jerked slightly as his thumb rubbed the ever-so sensitive bud of your clit in circular motions. He smirked to himself as he felt your walls tighten so nicely around his fingers, it almost made him cum again, as he thought of how much tighter you’d wrap yourself around his needy, greedy cock later on. But he had to prepare you first. After all, what’s love without passion and care?

His fingers then began increasing the speed of their thrusts, curling up gorgeously within you, hitting such sweet spots, making you squirm and whimper in pure pleasure. Tears began flooding the shape of your eyes once more, moans being robbed from your throat as his thumb worked even quicker ministrations against your clit. The knot deep within you grew tighter, so so tight, about to snap- until his fingers curled deeply and hitting a sensitive spot in you- before you moaned his name loudly- squirting and coming undone right then and there, all over his hand.

You saw white for a few moments, your gaze glassy as you came back to reality through Phainon’s hand gently stroking your arm.

“Look at you.. so needy and desperate for me.. you squirt like a whore, but you seem inexperienced” He mused to himself, basking in how your expression changed from pure ecstasy to embarrassment and slight shame.

“I am inexperienced, so what? You think someone like me’s gotten game before..?” You replied hastily, a slight bite behind your tone as you spoke, to which, Phainon only smiled apologetically.

“I’m not shaming you, I’m more than honoured to be your first. I’ll never let you forget this.”

He pulled his fingers out, which were now coated in your secretions and slick, before licking them clean, ravishing the taste. Then, he pressed a chaste kiss against your cheeks and lips, as his head began pressing sweet kisses along your collarbones, going down, down, down, until his face was met with your sopping, heavenly pussy. He’s always wanted to taste you like this. Make you squirm in delight and pleasure as his tongue would work wonders against the skin of your beautiful cunt.

He didn’t wait for a response as he dived right in, his warm tongue coming out and rolling against your clit, making you jerk your hips up again in delight and satisfaction. He roughly held them down with his hands on each bone, before lifting your legs up over his shoulders for better access. He revelled in the way your thighs tightened around his neck, closing in as his tongue inserted itself into your dripping pussy’s hole, making quiet slurping noises against the flesh, bringing his hand back to stimulate your poor clit again. Your movements and squirms only made him eat you out quicker, more devoutly, aiming to please you and only you as you drew closer to falling over the edge.

“P-phainon- Phainon! I-I can fucking feel it I- please..” He could tell you were coming closer to the edge once more, and the ministrations of his tongue and fingers only quickened in response. Your hand gripped onto his pearly white locks tightly as you grew even closer to cloud nine. And then, with a sharp jerk of your hips against his head, you came all over his mouth with a loud cry, throwing your head back in delicious pleasure, your hips grinding against him as his tongue obediently lapped against your pussy, taking in all of your smooth, rich, sweet cum, coating his lips like lip gloss. He hesitantly pulled away from the comfort and warmth of your pussy and legs, carefully setting them back down on the bed, caging him in, his hand caressing the soft skin of your trembling thighs.

“You taste amazing.. you need a taste of yourself.” He whispered against your ear now, bringing his head up and kissing you again, your essence invading your tastebuds; a foreign taste.

“Phainon, wanna make you feel good too..” You spoke sweetly, getting up and pushing Phainon down into a sitting position. He moved to a side of your bed, as you got off and got onto your knees, beginning to remove his pants hastily.

“Someone’s desperate” He teased again, spreading his legs for your better access as you pulled his pants down, now staring at the giant bulge protruding through his boxers. You then pulled them down, before being met with his girthy, thick, big cock, which bobbed against his abs. In a nervous daze, you grabbed it with you hand softly, kissing the angry red tip that leaked sweet precum all over it.

“It’s really big..” You whimpered, slowly stroking his length, tightening your hand around it for more pleasure. Phainon laughed faintly, grabbing onto your hair, his grip tightening slightly as you jerked him off faster, his head lolling back a little.

“Gonna make you feel good too..” You promised, before slowly taking in his whole dick in your mouth, your cheeks puffing out from his great size, as it filled up your throat. With soft gags and moans, you began sucking him off, tightening your mouth and throat around him and bobbing your head up and down.

To this, Phainon moaned your name loudly, throwing his head back as he pushed his length further down your throat, pushing your head deeper, his grip on your hair becoming even stronger. Just as he dreamed, you looked up at him with those beautiful, teary eyes of yours as you’d suck him off, mouth full of him, your sounds of struggle and gags playing a part in sending him over the edge.

“Fuck.. you suck cock like a whore too, you’re so- fuck, ah~.. good at this, aren’t you? I’ll p-pay you back… tenfold-“ He uttered loudly as he was nearing his peak of pleasure. Feeling his cock pulsate in your throat, you tried sucking him off faster, until his thick, warm, gooey cum filled your mouth, to which you immediately gagged at, taking his cock out your mouth and gagging slightly. The taste wasn’t something you were used to, of course not. So as you coughed up the cum, Phainon lifted you up off your legs and onto his lap, rubbing your back as you coughed up.

“Shh.. you sucked me off so fucking good. Wanted to make me feel all good too? What a sweetheart, hm?.. You want my cock to fuck your sensitive, tight pussy? Yeah?” He continued praising you as he moved the two of you back to the head of the bed. He was now sitting beneath you as your hands met with the headboard above your bed, your face leaning right next to the camera there.

But he wasn’t worried about that right now, as your legs caged him by the his sides next to his hips, your pussy just above his cock.

“P-Phainon.. what if it doesn’t fit?” You asked worriedly, now taking in his full length with your eyes as you looked down at him and his cock, your eyes meeting his face, which had a look of love and affection painted onto it.

“You’ll be fine, you’ll take me in just good, y’hear?”

With enough reassurance, Phainon held your hips as you slowly, carefully, aligned your cunt’s entrance with the head of his cock, and gently lowered yourself onto it. You cried out as he stretched you out, feeling his whole size fill you up within a matter of seconds. And once you had fully engulfed his cock, you bottomed out, crying in pleasure, almost about to cum just from the feeling of his cock inside you.

“See, taking me like a champ. Now, start riding me, just move your hips like that- yes, fuck.. you’re so good…”

You rocked your hips, moving up and down on his cock, pants of pleasure coming out of your mouths, your own eyes rolling back at the pleasure as you rode him. You sped up your riding to let him cum quickly, still eagerly wanting to please him just as he did with you before. As he moaned in pleasure and held your hips with a bruising grip, he looked up at you with pure reverence and admiration in his eyes. The way your eyes rolled back, or closed in pleasure and determination, the way your hair fell over your face, the way you bit your lip in pleasure, trying to hold back your moans.

But he could see you were growing restless and tired as you bounced and rode him quickly, trying to make him feel good.

“Phai..non.. I’m so tired- I’m sorry- couldn’t make you feel good..” You sobbed pathetically, your voice soft as you sniffled in familiar frustration, the ache in your thighs and hips growing less dull and quiet, and more pronounced and intense.

At this Phainon shushed you gently, coaxing you to move a bit and change your position, so that you weren’t hunched over the headboard, and instead, sitting over him, cock stilled within you. He then, without a word, lifted you effortlessly by your hips, as if taking you off his cock, before slamming you right back down onto it, his tip now hitting the spongey sweet spot within you. You threw your head back in shock and surprise, a cry of pleasure ripping from your throat as tears ran down your cheeks, your mouth agape. But he wasn’t done, as he now kept moving you up and down manually on his cock, feeling his high coming back, as well as yours with how you tightened around him in the cuddling embrace of your slick, warm, gummy walls. Even louder moans and cries sounded from you, all the more desperate and pleasing as you both drew closer. His groans mixed with your cries like a hymn sung by the divine angels above.

Then, with a final upwards thrust of his hips into you, you collapsed over him, both of you cumming onto one another. He felt your warm cum coat his cock, as his own thick seed painted your walls comfortably. Panting against his chest, you couldn’t help but grind weakly against him in overstimulation and tire, moaning tiredly.

Phainon breathed out a sigh of relief and pleasure, before lifting your head up to look up at him.

“We’re not.. we’re not done yet. You’re gonna feel every last bit of my love for you, [Name].”

With that, he pulled out and flipped you over onto your back, so that you were beneath him once more. He grabbed your limp feet and put them over his shoulders as he inserted his dick into you once more, eliciting a loud moan from you in response. He interlocked his hands with yours as he fucked you like this, taking pure delight and pleasure in the way your face contorted into a bonny look of delectable bliss. Your tongue lolled out as your eyes rolled back yet again, sweet, pornographic moans ringing out from deep within your throat as he fucked you hard and fast. You truly could feel the love behind his hard thrusts as he hit you in all the right spots with his greedy, monstrous cock, which would elicit even louder moans from you. You cried out in even more overstimulating pleasure as you came again, shattering into pieces as he placed a soft kiss against your one of your ankles next to his head on his shoulder, making you squeeze around him like a glove.

And then, just as he was about to cum in you, he pulled out and spew his release all over your tits with a laugh, painting your pretty breasts with his load.

“Oh dear.. I’ve made such a mess, haven’t I? I’m so clumsy, let me clean it up for you..” He voiced, his tone mocking and playful as he leaned down and stuck his pink tongue out once more, before licking and sucking one of your nipples clean from his cum, fondling and tweaking the other with his other hand.

“A-ah!~ Haah..~ Phai- fuck!… Phainon please-!~” You sobbed out, unable to take even more pleasure and satisfaction as he sucked on your sensitive nipple, pulling it out with a satisfying ‘pop!’, creating a more reddish colour to its skin, before moving onto your other tit, licking it clean of his cum as you whined his name arousing-ly. It was all enough to make you cum again with an exhausted cry, your back arching upwards off the bed.

“You’re so fuckin’ pretty, [Name], my perfect girl.. love you so much, doll.. you tired now?..” He asked hotly against the shell of your ear again, peppering sweet kisses against the skin near it. Unable to speak properly, you simply nodded your head and wrapped your arms around him, pulling him down next to you on the bed, cuddling him and letting his warmth comfort you, as the smell of sweat and sex lingered in the air around you. But the two of you didn’t care at the moment, only holding each other, with Phainon spooning you and rubbing your sore legs.

After a while, you both came back to your senses from your dazes on cloud nine, looking at each other with love in your eyes.

“I love you, Phainon..”

You cupped his face in your hands, rubbing his cheeks and squishing them, making his lips pucker out. You kissed his silly looking lips, and Phainon could only smile in response.

“I love you too, [Name]. But right now, we have to clean ourselves up, we stink.” He joked lightly, his tone now taking up its more lighthearted and bright side. He giggled as you whined about being too tired and sore to move.

“Don’t worry, I’ll carry you, silly” He then picked you up delicately in a princess carry, taking you to your bathroom and setting you down on the edge of the bathtub, before turning the water on and filling it up with warm water. He then, with your permission, added in some of your bath soak- a sweet vanilla scent- and mixed it all in until the water turned all bubbly and pretty. Dipping you in first and following through, with a sigh of satisfaction at the warm water, he pulled you towards him and let the warm water soothe both of your aches and sore spots.

“Thank you..” You mumbled quietly, giggling as he started washing your hair for you with your bottle of shampoo, following suit with his own hair.

“You’re gonna smell like vanilla and strawberries once you get out of here, Phainon” You joked playfully, causing him to pinch your cheek softly

“I wouldn’t mind. At least I’d be able to have your scent all over me where ever I go”

Laughing quietly, you let him pamper you, massage the knots and kinks from your back and thighs as the two of you would wash each other. Each of you putting the other’s hair into a soft bun as the conditioner was added in.

“You look silly, Phainon” You giggled, seeing the tiny ball of sopping white hair sit atop his head due to him having shorter hair than yours.

“Only for you, my love” He responded, kissing the top of your head and tucking it into his chest as the two of you sat in the heat of the warm waters.

.

.

After some time, Phainon got out to clean up the mess you two had made on your bed- to which you protested until he’d simply shut you up with a kiss and tease you about how cold it was outside the water. Not before long, he came back into the bathroom with a towel around his waist, and another in his hand. Picking you up, he patted you dry with the towel, with teasing, lingering touches in some areas, and wrapping the towel around your form, leading you to your now spotless, fresh smelling room.

“Sorry, I don’t have any clothes for you..” You spoke ashamedly as he helped you dress up into some lighter clothes now, to which he only responded by smiling slightly.

“I’ll be fine with wearing my other clothes, unless, you want me to sleep naked?” He now had a smug little grin on his face, but you knew his words held no actual lust behind them as his eyes were full of a familiar kindness and love.

“You know, I wouldn’t mind the view, but I don’t want you waking up with a fever in the morning.”

And with that, you were both cuddling in your now cleaned bed with new sheets and all. He had his sweatpants on from before, as well as his shirt, and you had your comfy pajamas on. He spooned you as he did before, tucking your head under his chin in the crook of his neck as you drifted off slowly to the feeling of his soft, pink lips peppering sweet kisses all over your face, his legs and arms tangled with yours.

“I love you, [Name]. I’m so glad everything worked out in the end..” He breathed out, before succumbing to the land of dreams himself, feeling the nighttime air of the open window gently making its way in and cooling down your room.

You were all his now, as he has always been yours from the start.

[sugarandspicewriting]

This is What it Sounds Like

Summary: During the opening night of the comeback tour, Rumi is nervous about her step back into the spotlight after revealing her demon heritage. Years of suppression and shame won't go away just with a song, and Mira and Zoey are starting to notice cracks in their fearless leader.

Warnings: Hurt/Comfort, self hatred, self mutilation, hallucinations.

A/N: Did anyone else hate that Mira and Zoey went to attack Rumi and then they just never discussed it again. Not on my watch. 2.9k words. Also please send in requests for the Huntrix girls.

Rumi thought she would be over this. 

The dressing room was just like all the others they had gotten ready in over the years. Same lights, same buzzing chaos. The only real difference was that this time, Rumi wasn’t alone. Mira and Zoey—her two closest friends, the people she loved more than anyone in the world—were right there with her.

And her patterns were on full display. 

After the disaster at the IDOL Awards and the chaotic Saja boys concert that followed, Rumi didn’t dare to look at her social media, leaving the task of posting to Bobby. The crowd was under the influence of the now banished Gwi Ma, so the demonic powers of the Saja boys were forgotten, but the image of Rumi’s patterns remained.

They looked different now. Where there had once been bruised-purple striations, there was now a faint pearlescent glow. But when Rumi looked in the mirror, all she could see was that ugly violet stain—and two orange irises staring back at her.

“I’m so pumped to finally be back on stage! Aren’t you, Rumi?” Zoey chirped, slurping noodles through a mouthful of Huntrix-branded ramyeon.

The sound snapped Rumi out of her trance.

Somehow, while she��d been zoning out, the dressing room had come alive. Stage managers were muttering into walkie-talkies about last-minute lighting adjustments. Stylists fluttered around them, brushing glitter onto shoulders and blotting lipstick. Zoey and Mira were seated on the couch, scarfing down instant noodles like they were still trainees.

“So pumped!” Rumi echoed with a forced smile, flinching as a makeup artist dabbed body glitter onto her shoulder—right over the soft shimmer of her patterns.

The strain in her voice didn’t go unnoticed by Mira, as her eyes narrowed slightly.

“Are you sure?” she asked, rising to her feet. “You don’t sound sure.”

Zoey looked up too, concern etching across her face as she joined Mira’s side.

Rumi’s throat tightened. Her eyes stung. The bustling energy of the room was only making things worse.

And then—warmth.

“What’s wrong Rumi?” Zoey whispered softly. Rumi felt the ghost of her breath tickle her ear. 

During their hiatus, the girls had talked—really talked. Rumi had told them the truth. Her father was a demon, though she knew nothing else about him. Celine had come up with the plan to conceal her patterns, and once the Honmoon was sealed, they were supposed to fade completely.

She had been afraid—terrified—that once the truth was out, Mira and Zoey would turn on her.

But instead, they held her tighter.

“You’re more than your patterns Rumi,” Mira had said. "What makes you different is what saved us.”

After that night, Rumi felt closer to her girls than ever before. 

But somehow, every time she closed her eyes, she saw them raising their weapons to her. Their eyes afraid. Their voices cold.

“How could we be together if we don’t know your lies from your truths Rumi?”

Every dream since then had been haunted by demon versions of her friends, taunting her onstage in the dark.

“So sweet, so easy on the eyes, but hideous on the inside.”

“A demon with no feelings don’t deserve to live”

“We see what you are.”

“You’re a demon. A mistake.”

“Rumi?”

Mira’s voice called out to her, slicing through her memories to pull her back into the present like a lifeline.

They had talked it all out right Rumi shouldn’t still be feeling this way. 

She let a single tear roll down her cheek. 

“I’m just- I'm just nervous about what the fans will think is all. They don’t know what these patterns mean, what if they think I’m a monster?” 

Just like you did.

Zoey gently cupped Rumi’s cheek with one hand. With the other, she traced the line of a pattern near Rumi’s eye—light, reverent.

“The fans…” she murmured, trailing her finger down to the edge of Rumi’s neck, “will think you’re beautiful.”

“Just like we do,” Mira added, leaning in to press a kiss to Rumi’s shoulder.

Rumi felt herself relax under their affections. The memory of that awful night slipped back, fading into the corners of her mind like smoke.

She pulled away and grabbed one of the others' hands in her own. 

“Thanks guys.”

They smiled 

“Now let's go kill this concert!”

-

Rumi performed flawlessly 

The first concert of the Huntrix tour was a huge success. The crowd was electric, singing along to every lyric, waving light sticks in synchronized patterns. The newly sealed Honmoon shimmered in the air above the stage, glowing brighter with every cheer.

Then the post show interview came. 

Bobby had scheduled a major sit-down with one of the top entertainment networks as part of their comeback rollout. Since the group’s apparent disbanding during the chaotic IDOL Awards, fans had been desperate for answers. Even with the tour announced, rumors had swirled—fighting, betrayal, broken contracts, heartbreak.

The interview was going smoothly. The girls hit every mark—smiles in place, well-timed laughter, easy banter with the host, heartfelt (but vague) answers about their “hiatus.” It was textbook media training. They were doing everything right. All that was left now was to wrap it up and say a goodbye to-

“Rumi, can you tell us about the marks on your skin?” 

The question cut through her like her blade. She froze. Smile plastered on, suddenly hollow. Her mouth was dry. Her breath caught in her chest like a trap had sprung. She couldn’t move.

“Rumi?’ The interviewer asked again after a pregnant pause. 

So sweet, so easy on the eyes, but hideous on the inside.

You’re a demon. A mistake

The voices weren't real—they never were. But they echoed anyway.

Rumi prided herself on being kind. Steady. Controlled. But now something hot and ancient stirred inside her—rage that burned like it had during her confrontation with Celine. A primal anger that whispered,they’re afraid of you. They hate you for what you are.

“The marks,” she said, visibly tense, hands clenched in her lap. Her voice taught like a wire about to snap “They show what I am. What I’ve been through. And if people want to call me names because of them, fine. But I won't apologize for surviving.”

Her voice wavered slightly on the last word. Only Mira and Zoey saw the Honmoon—hovering faintly over the room—ripple with a sudden flush of pink.

Zoey gently put her hand on her knee, grounding her.

“What she means,” Mira jumping in smoothly, “is that Rumi’s always been the strongest of us, these patterns just prove it.”

“Oh, well—of course she is! The fearless leader of Huntrix!” the interviewer said quickly, eager to move on. Offstage, Bobby looked like he might pass out.

The rest of the interview passed in a blur. Rumi remembered smiling, waving at the fans through the camera. She hoped it looked real. She hoped it was enough.

-

Later, back in the greenroom, the makeup was off but the ache remained. Rumi sat on the edge of the couch, shoulders hunched, staring at her reflection in a darkened vanity mirror. The patterns on her arms shimmered faintly in the low light.

The room was quiet now. Zoey and Mira had gone to change into their normal clothes. Bobby was somewhere talking to press. For the first time all night, Rumi was alone.

And that’s when the singing began.

A soft, familiar melody—off-key, slightly warped—floated from the hallway.

Takedown, takedown

Takedown, down, down, down

Her heart stuttered.

No one was supposed to be here.

She frantically looked around, telling herself that this wasn’t real. It couldn’t be. Gwi Ma was gone. They had defeated him after the IDOL awards.Zoey and Mira loved her.

They had promised. They had promised, right?

A faint purple glow caught her eye—coming from the corner where the vanity mirror stood. 

Part of her still hated looking in the mirror.

She whipped her head around anyways and ran over to see her reflection. There they were. To her horror a grotesque, distorted image of Mira and Zoey looked back at her. Their eyes held nothing but contempt and malice. Their voices rang out with the words that haunted her every waking moment. 

“Cause I see your real face and it's ugly as sin

Time to put you in your place 'cause you're rotten within

When your patterns start to show

It makes the hatred wanna grow outta my veins”

They dragged their hands across the Honmoon and summoned their weapons pointing them at Rumi. Only then did she notice her own reflection.

Her patterns were dark again, like a bruise and angry. Her irises blazed orange. Her hands had transformed into purple claws. Sharp teeth. Horns curling from her scalp.

No. No. No.

This isn't happening. I won't become this.

The patterns on her face pulsed with angry light, as if resisting her panic. With a guttural cry, Rumi dragged her claws across her face, desperate to tear the patterns away. They remained—untouched. Her skin, unmarred. The glow intensified, mocking her.

Her scream tore through the room as she summoned her blade from the Honmoon, raising it above her head—shaking, wild-eyed—ready to strike.

“RUMI NO!”

Zoey burst into the room and tackled her just as the blade came down. They tumbled to the floor in a tangle of limbs and tears. Rumi panted, trembling as she looked into Zoey’s terrified eyes.

“Rumi!” Zoey sobbed, holding her tightly. “What were you doing?!”

Rumi couldn’t answer. Her breath came in ragged gulps as she pushed Zoey off her with a grunt and ran back to the mirror.

Her patterns were back to their iridescent shine. But her face bore angry red scratches from her claws—evidence of her breakdown.

Zoey hurriedly got up from the floor and ran over to her. She grabbed a tissue from the vanity and dabbed at the few drops of blood that had managed to break through Rumi’s skin and gently stroked Rumi’s hair with trembling fingers. 

“Rumi, what happened?” she whispered, barely louder than a breath. “You really scared me.I thought we said we’d talk about how you’re feeling… not keep it all in again.”

Rumi trembled. The hallucination still clawed at the edges of her mind. 

“You don’t know what it’s like!” Rumi blurted out. Her voice rose to a yell “You have no idea how it feels to look in the mirror and not know if you’re the monster everyone fears!”  

Zoey gasps at Rumi’s outburst. 

The door creaked. Mira stood in the doorway, half-dressed, expression hard to read.

“What’s going on here?” she demanded, eyes zeroing in on Rumi’s torn face. “Rumi what the hell happened to your face?”

Zoey’s soft sniffles caught both of their attention. Tears were softly falling from her eyes. 

“Zoey,” Rumi said, realizing what she had done. “I’m sorry- I didn’t mean to-”

Mira quickly crossed the room and wrapped Zoey in her arms, pulling her protectively to her side.“Come here,” she murmured, gently brushing Zoey’s hair behind her ear. Then she turned to Rumi. Her tone softened, but carried weight.

“Rumi... I don’t know what happened to you during that interview, or just now. But yelling at Zoey? After everything? That’s not okay.”

Rumi looked down, ashamed.

“But…” Mira continued, more gently now, “I do know that something’s eating at you. I saw it in your eyes. I felt it when you spoke tonight. You’re scared. And you're hurting. I get it.”

She brushed Zoey’s hair back, soothing her.

“But you’re not alone. You don’t have to claw your way through this by yourself. That’s what we’re here for. But if you shut us out—if you lash out at us—it’s going to feel even worse.”

Mira’s eyes softened.

“Please don’t make us feel like we’re losing you again.”

Rumi didn’t respond. She couldn’t.

Mira turned with Zoey in her arms and guided her toward the door. Just before leaving, she glanced over her shoulder.

She didn’t close it.

Rumi hoped that meant something. 

She collapsed onto the couch, breathing in silence.

She looked at the mirror again.

This time, her reflection didn’t taunt her. It simply stared. Her face was back to normal—but the scratches, the wild eyes, the fear—they were all real.

She touched the claw marks on her cheek.

What if it happens again?

 What if next time they’re not there to stop me?

 What if… I become the thing I’m trying to protect them from?

She curled her arms around herself.

And the Honmoon shimmered faintly, pulsing like a heartbeat.

-

Rumi liked going to the rooftops at night. 

Looking down at the city made her problems feel smaller—almost manageable. She watched the Honmoon shimmer in the sky above the skyline, its glow dancing in the same colors as her patterns. The wind kissed the exposed skin on her cheeks, making the fading marks there sting.

Huntrix had finished the second night of their world tour just a day ago. Rumi should’ve been resting.

But she couldn’t stop thinking.

What if the episodes kept coming back?

What if she could never truly feel the love Mira and Zoey had for her? What if she ruined it—again?

Her eyes welled with tears as she tugged at the sleeves of her jacket, trying to hide the patterns on her arms. Since she’d upset Zoey, she’d gone back to covering them. She couldn’t bear to let anyone see them right now.

“You always did pick the dramatic spots,” came a soft voice behind her.

Rumi didn’t turn, but she knew it was Mira.

“We brought snacks,” Zoey added, holding up a convenience store bag like it was a peace offering.

“I got those spicy shrimp chips you like,” she said, nudging her playfully. “I also… might’ve eaten half the bag on the way up.”

The girls sat on either side of Rumi, thighs touching. They were all silent for a moment. Rumi sat as still and rigid as a statue. She was afraid that any sudden movement would break her and show.

Mira’s hand on her thigh was all it took. 

“I keep seeing it,” she whispered. “That moment… after the IDOL Awards. When you both—when you raised your weapons at me.”

Zoey tensed beside her. Mira closed her eyes.

“I know you were trying to help,” Rumi said quickly. “I know. But… something in me keeps going back to it. My brain replays it like it’s proof. That the people I love most once thought I was dangerous enough to stop.”

Her voice cracked.

“And then the dreams started. That hallucination in the greenroom? It wasn’t the first time. It’s always you two. But wrong. Demonic. Cruel. Singing Takedown like it was written for me. Telling me I’m a mistake. That I’m rotten inside.”

She wiped her nose on her sleeve.

“And the worst part is… I believed them.”

Mira exhaled slowly.

“You weren’t you in that moment. You were hurting. Overwhelmed. We thought we were losing you.” Zoey said softly.

Rumi shook her head and let out a sob. “But you still aimed at me!”

Mira reached for her hand—slowly, like approaching a wild animal. She waited for Rumi to flinch. She didn’t. 

“We didn’t know what else to do,” Mira confessed. She placed her hand on Rumi’s cheek and gently turned her head towards her. 

Zoey leaned her head on Rumi’s shoulder. “You saved us, Rumi. You saved everyone. And you still think you're the villain of the story.”

“Because I was the villain of the story,” Rumi said, voice breaking. “We’re hunters. We’re supposed to kill demons. So what does that make me?”

She looked down at her covered arms, her voice barely audible. “My whole life I was told these patterns were wrong. That I had to hide them. That once they were gone, I could finally start living the life I pretended to have. But they’re still here—and now I know they’ll never go away.”

Her breath hitched.

“How could I ever expect you to love me when I can’t even stand to look at myself in the 

The silence that followed was thick. Unmoving. The only sound was the wind brushing past them.

Mira was the first to speak.

“Rumi… when we first saw you with patterns, we were scared. That part’s true. We were confused—because we were raised to fear demons. Raised to believe they couldn’t be trusted.”

Rumi flinched, but Mira didn’t let go.

“But even more than that, we were taught to rely on each other. To love each other. And we know you, Rumi.”

She reached over Rumi’s legs, gently took Zoey’s hand, and laced their fingers together. “So if you’re part demon? That doesn’t change a damn thing.”

Zoey shifted closer. Her voice was soft, but unwavering.

“I don’t love you despite your patterns, Rumi,” she whispered. “I love you because you fight through every reason you were told not to. Every lie. Every fear. You wake up and try again. That’s who you are.”

She kept one hand in Mira’s, and with her free one, gently placed Rumi’s hand over her chest.

“This? You already have it. All of it.”

Mira leaned in and put her forehead on Rumi’s. 

“We were told to fear demons our whole lives. But I’ve never met anyone with more heart than you,” she murmured. “You carry your pain like armor, but you’ve never once used it to hurt someone. You don’t scare me, Rumi. You ground me.”

She brushed her lips softly against Rumi’s temple.

“We don’t want the version of you that’s hiding. We want you. All of you. Patterns and all.”

[acrosstheujiverse]

About Last Night…

【📂】 summary: every time you drink with choi seungcheol, you ask the same question—“what do you think of me?”—and every time, he laughs it off with a smile and calls you his precious friend. you pretend it doesn’t hurt. but after one blurry night that you can’t quite remember, everything starts to shift. he looks at you differently. lingers longer. and maybe, just maybe, he’s been waiting for you to ask him the same question—sober. 【🖇️】 pairing: oblivious!seungcheol x flustered!reader. 【💿】 genre: friends to lovers, slow burn, FLUFF (with emotional tension). 【🧺】 tags: mutual pining; drinking; drunken confessions; drunken kiss; teasing; soft angst; idiots in love; DIMPLES; (slight) jealousy. 【📦】 w/c: 2.4k+

📬 — author’s note ！i wrote this back in 2022 (11.05) and i'm FINALLY releasing it. °՞(ᗒ╭╮ᗕ)՞°

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“earth to (y/n)~” 

you were staring again.

“if you stare any harder, he might catch on fire.”

hands cupped around your face, elbows resting on the cafeteria table, gaze glued to the boy sitting across from you.

“is this some kind of psychic courtship ritual?”

choi seungcheol.

your crush. your classmate. your friend. the worst combination of all three.

he was lazily spinning his drink bottle between his hands, distracted, and completely unaware that your brain was currently running a highlight reel of all the ways you had accidentally—but very much wholeheartedly—fallen in love with him.

he was good at everything: basketball, speeches, essays, leading your class like it was second nature. he was sharp, reliable, annoyingly handsome, and then, to balance it all out, he also whined like a toddler when he was hungry and sulked when someone beat him at cards.

he was so full of contradictions, so good at getting under your skin, and so stupidly oblivious to your feelings.

... or maybe he wasn’t. maybe he knew. but if he did, he sure as hell never acted on it.

“i swear, the way you look at him... if he doesn’t get the hint soon, i will start drawing hearts in his notebook for you.”

“shht–! don’t jinx it, jeonghan!” 

jeonghan’s words finally pulled you out of your trance.

you blinked, cheeks warming, and sat up straighter.

he chuckled, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe you, then let out a long, dramatic sigh. “why do i feel like i’m the third wheel here?”

you always picked him first for group projects. always sat beside him at lunch.

always ended up next to him during class outings, festivals, dinners, parties.

it wasn’t even a conscious choice anymore. it just happened.

people had started teasing you about it. you always brushed it off with a laugh—blaming familiarity, comfort, convenience. anything but the truth.

but the truth followed you anyway—especially when you drank.

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your hangout tradition with seungcheol was sacred. casual, cozy, and dangerously routine. cheap drinks, shared snacks, music humming low in the background, conversations that dipped in and out of serious and silly.

and every time you drank together, the same thing happened.

“cheol,” you slurred, cheeks warm, breath just a little too quick, “what do you think of me? do you... have feelings for me?”

you always asked that question. like clockwork.

and he always answered the same way. voice syrupy-sweet, tipsy grin stretching across his face.

“my (y/n)-ieee~ you’re a very precious friend of mine. i like you sooo much. my friend~ hehe.”

you wanted to scream.

friend. precious, sure. but friend.

you groaned, dropping your head onto the table. he flashed you those dimples — his signature, unfair, heart-ruining dimples.

those damn dimples. i should’ve brought shades so i wouldn’t have to see them, you thought, bitter and foggy.

“ugh. again?” jeonghan’s voice filtered in, dry and unsurprised.

he dropped into the seat beside you with all the ease of someone flipping open a well-worn book. he didn’t even bother pretending to be surprised anymore.

“jeonghaaan,” you mumbled, half-whine, half-sob. “i’m losing my mind…”

“you’re losing your liver first,” he said, plucking the drink from your hand like a babysitter. “and for what? the same damn heartbreak on loop?”

“well. i’m not gonna argue with a drunk person,” he added, patting your head like a tired cat. “but honestly, (y/n)... you do this every time.”

you turned your face slightly to glare up at him with bleary eyes. “’s not like i plan it…”

“but you do it,” he said, gently. “like muscle memory.”

you blinked slowly, words swimming. “maybe if he knew… maybe… maybe then…”

“what? he’d suddenly realize he loves you back?” jeonghan asked, not unkindly.

you winced. “that’s mean…”

“it’s honest,” he said. “and i’m saying it now while you’re too drunk to remember how mad it made you.”

you opened your mouth to argue, but the door opened.

familiar laughter. light, effortless.

your body stiffened. even drunk, even dulled, your senses still caught her the way a wound catches salt.

“uh-oh,” jeonghan muttered under his breath, sipping his drink like it was tea. “she’s here.”

younghee.

seungcheol’s childhood friend. the other person he was close to—so close it made something in your chest twist.

she breezed in like she owned the air around her, sliding into the seat beside him as if it were hers. her arm looped around his like it belonged there. her head rested easily on his shoulder.

he didn’t flinch. didn’t move away. just smiled—those dimples again—and let her stay.

your stomach twisted.

you told yourself it was fine. they were practically siblings. they'd known each other forever.

but she didn’t act like a sibling.

she touched him like it meant something. whispered things that made him laugh. she always knew where to stand, where to lean, how to fold herself into his space.

and the worst part? he let her.

he looked happy.

and it made you feel ridiculous. childish. petty.

but the jealousy still bubbled up anyway, thick and sour.

jeonghan followed your gaze, then sighed like this was his personal soap opera. “you really know how to pick a time for your breakdowns.”

“sh-she’s… so close,” you muttered, slumping further down into the table, as if it might swallow you whole.

“they grew up together,” jeonghan reminded you gently. “she’s always like that with him. it doesn’t mean—”

“i know,” you said, too quickly. too loud.

you winced at yourself, then tightened your grip on the edge of the table. “i know that. but…”

but you hated how easy it was for her. how she never had to wonder what she meant to him. how she wasn’t you.

“i feel like a joke,” you whispered.

jeonghan didn’t respond. didn’t need to. he just stayed beside you, one hand resting on your back. steady. quiet. there.

and across the table, seungcheol smiled like nothing had changed.

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jeonghan spotted you the moment he walked into the bar.

he didn’t even try to hold it in.

“oh, no way,” he laughed, loud enough for three tables to turn. “you’re actually wearing them.”

you didn’t look up. just raised your drink and sipped like nothing was out of the ordinary.

he slid into the booth across from you, eyes gleaming. “indoors, (y/n)? really? in public?”

“i’m committed,” you said coolly, pushing your sunglasses higher up the bridge of your nose.

“to being a menace?”

“to my healing.”

he snorted. “sure. healing from what? weaponized dimples?”

you didn’t respond—mostly because he was absolutely right.

and then, like fate had a sense of humor, seungcheol arrived. he placed his drink on the table, looked between the two of you, and paused.

“(y/n)... why are you wearing sunglasses? we’re indoors.”

you didn’t flinch. didn’t even blink. you simply pushed the frames higher up the bridge of your nose, silent.

he blinked at you, waiting.

you stared straight ahead, lips pressed into a flat line.

i shall never see those dimples of his ever again, you thought firmly. they’re simply too dangerous. i can’t take any chances. i might fall for him again… and again… and again.

he tilted his head, a lazy smile tugging at his lips. “you seriously not gonna answer?”

“they’re prescription,” you said flatly.

“prescription sunglasses?”

you shrugged. “light sensitivity.”

jeonghan snorted so loudly he nearly choked on his own spit. you kicked him under the table. he doubled over, wheezing.

“worth it,” he coughed, wiping a fake tear from his eye. “you’re so dramatic. god, it’s inspiring.”

seungcheol just laughed, flicking your forehead. “you’re unbelievable.”

“i’m a survivor,” you muttered. “barely.”

and like every other night before this one, you sank back into the comfort of routine.

still too scared to shatter it.

still too scared to see what might be waiting if you did.

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you cursed jeonghan silently as you stared at your phone.

jeonghan🍻: hey, i’m gonna have to bail tonight. not feeling great. sorry, (y/n).

you frowned but said nothing.

across the table, seungcheol picked up his phone, unlocking it without thinking. the group chat was open.

he cleared his throat and read aloud, amused: “‘guys, seriously sick. gonna crash early. no hangout for me.’”

you glanced at the screen just as seungcheol scrolled. the next messages appeared:

seungcheol🍒: dude, you ok? feel better soon. jeonghan🍻: thanks man. (y/n), you owe me one ;)

jeonghan always hated missing your hangouts—but he hated your tortured heart even more.

and you were certain: he bailed tonight on purpose.

to give you space. to give you a sign. to push you, silently, toward the confession you kept holding back.

you rolled your eyes, lips twitching at the thought of his sneaky little plan.

seungcheol looked up, flashing that lazy smile, dimples and all.

“guess it’s just us then.”

you nodded, heart thudding, knowing tonight wouldn’t be like any other night before.

a few drinks in, you settled into the booth beside him, closer than usual. your knees brushed under the table, a quiet spark passing between you. your hand hovered near his, fingers twitching, until your pinky grazed his. once. twice.

on the third touch, your finger lingered.

his eyes found yours—steady, patient. you held his gaze.

“i think i’m gonna kiss you,” you breathed, voice barely louder than the music.

his breath caught too.

no laughter. no teasing. only a quiet, “then do it.”

your lips met clumsily, soft and short. a spark ignited—something crackled beneath your skin.

your heartbeat thundered in your ears.

instead of pulling away, your eyelids grew heavy. your head tilted, settling gently against seungcheol’s shoulder.

he let out a faint chuckle, warm and quiet, as you slowly slipped into sleep.

his fingers found yours under the table, squeezing softly, like he didn’t want to disturb the fragile moment.

“sleep tight, (y/n),” he whispered.

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you woke up the next morning with a pounding headache and one vivid flash burning behind your eyelids—the kiss.

your phone buzzed sharply against the table.

seungcheol🍒: we’re still on tonight, right? usual spot.

you stared at the screen, heart pounding. panic bloomed in your chest.

was it real? or just a drunken dream?

“ughhh,” you groaned, running a hand through your hair. “why don’t i remember?! this can’t be happening!”

you promised yourself you’d stay sober.

but one drink turned into two. the two became three. and somewhere in the blur of warm lights and soft laughter, you asked again, voice barely steady: “cheol… what do you think of me?”

he tilted his head, eyes amused but serious. “you always ask me that.”

you blinked, confused. “what?”

“every time we drink,” he said, voice low. “you ask me that question.”

your heart skipped a beat. “and you always say the same thing.”

he smiled, but it was small. almost sad. “do i?”

you stared at him, desperate. “cheol…”

then a flicker of mischief crossed his face—a smirk just barely there—and you pointed at him, eyes wide. “YAH—CHOI SEUNGCHEOL!! you remember something, don’t you?!”

“maybe.”

you rolled your eyes. “i hate you.”

“no, you don’t.”

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you were already seated when he walked in—library quiet, sun warm across your table. he waved at you, dropped his bag into the chair across from yours, and settled in like it was routine. like this was just another afternoon.

his phone buzzed.

he glanced down, smiled faintly, and picked it up. “hey, younghee. yeah, no, i can’t today. rain check?”

a pause.

“mhm. okay. take care, kid.”

he hung up, set his phone down, and turned back to you.

your expression must’ve betrayed you—because something in his eyes changed. softened. sharpened. knowing.

“what?” he asked.

you shook your head. “nothing.”

he tilted his head. “you’ve always been weird about her.”

“i’m not—”

“you are,” he said, without judgment. “and it’s okay.”

you stayed quiet, unsure if denying it again would make it worse.

“she’s like family to me,” he continued. “like a little sister. not someone i’ve ever liked like that. not even close.”

your breath stalled.

“but you…” he looked at you then, really looked. “you’re not like that.”

you blinked.

“just wanted you to know,” he said softly. “i figured maybe that’s something you needed to hear before anything else.”

the warmth in your chest spread slowly.

quiet. certain.

you nodded. “thank you.”

he smiled.

“now,” he said, leaning back, “wasn’t there something you wanted to ask me?”

and so you did. “cheol?”

“yeah?”

you took a breath. “what do you think of me?”

he set his pen down. leaned back. looked at you fully. “don’t ask me again unless you want the truth.”

your heart skipped. “…i do.”

his smile was soft, almost shy—but it didn’t waver. “then here it is: i’ve been falling for you for a long time.”

your fingers trembled slightly on the table, still curled around your iced coffee. your heartbeat was wild in your chest.

he wasn’t teasing. wasn’t hiding behind dimples or laughter.

just him.

and his answer.

“you’re not drunk, right?” you whispered.

“not even a sip.”

you nodded slowly. “good.”

“you okay?” he asked.

“yeah.” you let out a shaky smile. “just... kinda hard to believe i’m not imagining this.”

his hand brushed over yours, warm and steady. “you’re not imagining it.”

you laughed under your breath. “can i say something embarrassing?”

“please do.”

“i’ve liked you for so long it stopped feeling like a crush. it was just... you. always you. all the time. everywhere.”

his grip tightened gently. “you think that’s embarrassing?”

you looked up. “it’s not?”

“(y/n)...” he leaned in. “i’ve been waiting for you to ask me sober.”

you blinked.

he smiled. “you asked so many times when you were tipsy. i wanted to answer differently. but i didn’t want you to forget.”

“i’m not gonna forget this time,” you said, voice steady.

“good.”

and then—finally—he kissed you.

not clumsy. not rushed. not a maybe.

his lips found yours with quiet certainty. it was soft, slow, but deepened like gravity had always been pulling you toward this moment.

your fingers curled into the sleeve of his hoodie. his hand cupped the back of your neck.

and when he pulled back, just barely, his voice dropped: “no more pretending, okay?”

you smiled.

“okay.”

- fin.

[...epilogue]

[charles-leclerizz]

wrong room

on the runway : lando norris x fem!reader

inspiration ( warnings ) : Smut !!! (male receiving!oral sex, (un??) protected p in v sex , light dominance, Lando being a little possessive, mutual pining, soft dom!Lando energy, swearing, teasing, light voyeuristic vibes (friends nearby), mild praise kink, overstimulation), and lots of suggestive jokes.

VIP's in the front row ( taglist ) : MUTUALS GET INSTANT TAGS [@vroomvroomcircuit, @disneyprincemuke, @verstappen-cult, @starkwlkr, @sailing-with-100-ships, @foreveralbon, @ksthegreat, @ccupcakqs]

before the show begins ( synopsis ) : What starts as a summer getaway at a friend’s villa turns into something a lot hotter when Lando walks into the wrong room - and finds you in his old hoodie, watching F1 replays. You’ve always been friendly, never close. But maybe the hoodie wasn’t the only thing you’ve been holding onto.

designer notes : well, hopefully it was worth the wait <33 . would ya'll be mad at me if I told you I haven't started chapter 3 yet? nah, cause I'm feeding you guys so well?? ok anyway, remember to wear your seatbelts. love you

The villa is carved into the hills of Côte d'Azur like a dream - terracotta tiles, arched windows, the sea glittering just beyond a blur of lemon trees and white parasols. It smells like salt, sunscreen, and freshly crushed mint. Laughter carries from somewhere deeper inside the house, floating up and over the vines crawling across the exterior walls. 

You shift your bag higher onto your shoulder and knock on the already - slightly - open door. It creaks as it swings wider. 

“Hello?” 

No answer - just music thumping softly from an unseen speaker, and the echo of distant conversation. 

You step inside. 

The marble beneath your sandals is cool. Someone’s kicked off flip - flops by the stairs. There’s a bikini drying over the back of a chair. You already know this isn’t going to be some luxury hotel - style getaway. It’s a shared house. A friend - of - a - friend kind of trip. Half of you doesn’t even remember who invited you - just that you needed the break, and this was close enough to what you craved so you said yes 

“Hey! You made it!” 

A voice - familiar - cuts through the quiet. You turn just in time to see your friend Luca come down the stairs in a pair of swim shorts and sunglasses pushed back into his curls. 

“Finally,” he grins. “You’re the last one here. Thought you bailed.” 

“I almost did.” You lift your bag with a huff. “Traffic was disgusting.” 

He helps you with your things, leads you into the living room where it smells like watermelon and something vaguely alcoholic. A few people are sprawled out on couches or clustered around the pool deck visible through the wide - open French doors. 

And then - of course - he’s there. 

Lando. 

He’s leaning back in one of the lounge chairs, a beer dangling from his fingers, legs stretched out in lazy confidence. Tan lines on his thighs, sunglasses pushed low on his nose, jaw still sharp even in the golden hour haze. He looks over when he hears your name. 

You haven’t seen him in maybe six months. You’ve never really been friends, but you’ve always hovered in the same social circle. Occasionally at the same parties, invited to the same post - race get - togethers, orbiting each other without ever really connecting. 

But now he’s looking at you like he recognizes something new. 

He nods, subtle. Gives you a half - smile. “Didn’t know you were coming.” 

You shrug. “Didn’t know you were either.” 

“Good surprise, then.” 

You’re not sure how to respond to that - so you just smile, polite, and follow Luca further inside. 

Your room’s upstairs, small but bright. There’s a ceiling fan and a tiny ensuite and just enough room to dump your suitcase across the bed without tripping over it. You unpack slowly, letting the noise of everyone else filter up through the open window. Somewhere below, Lando laughs - low and lazy - and you feel it like a fingertip dragged down your spine. 

You should be immune to him by now. He’s Lando Norris. A walking thirst trap with dimples and the most unserious sense of humour known to man. But there’s something about here - the off - duty version, the sun - drenched version, the one who isn’t surrounded by engineers or cameras - that makes it feel… different. 

Less like a boy on posters, more like a man below your window, dipping his feet into the pool. 

You shake your head and change into something breezy: cotton shorts, a crop top. When you finally go back downstairs, the sun’s just beginning to dip below the treeline, casting long shadows across the pool deck. 

People are already drinking. Someone’s pulled the Bluetooth speaker out again. There are half a dozen towels draped across every surface. 

Lando’s still by the pool. This time, he’s in the water, arms resting on the ledge, talking to someone. His wet hair curls a little at the ends. His back is freckled from the sun. You shouldn’t be looking. You are. 

He glances up just as you sit down. 

You pretend not to notice. 

Later, when you’re carrying two Aperol's back to your lounge chair, someone bumps your arm on purpose - gently, just enough to make the glasses slosh. 

“Careful.” 

You turn. 

Lando again. 

He takes one of the drinks from you before you can say anything. 

“That was for me,” you lie. 

“Too slow,” he grins, and sips. 

You narrow your eyes. “Are you always this annoying, or is it just the heat?” 

“Don’t pretend you don’t love it.” He takes another sip, gaze drifting over your legs where you’re standing in the late - day sun. 

You cross your arms over your chest, aware of how the top you're wearing hugs tighter now that it’s clung to your sun - warmed skin. 

“Is this your game? Steal drinks and flirt with every girl who makes eye contact?” 

“Only the ones who used to ignore me at parties.” 

You blink. 

“I didn’t ignore you.” 

“You never said more than two words to me.” 

“I didn’t know you,” you protest weakly. 

He smirks. “You still don’t.” 

There’s something in the way he says it - open - ended, inviting. Like he’s offering a chance. 

You roll your eyes and sit down, forcing the tension in your jaw to loosen. “You’re trouble.” 

“I try.” 

He settles into the lounge chair next to yours, shoulder brushing yours briefly before he tilts his head back to the sun again. 

The rest of the evening blurs into the kind of contented, alcohol - soft haze you only get on the second night of a trip like this - just enough comfort to start relaxing, not yet enough routine to feel bored. 

Dinner’s grilled and eaten outside. Someone plays bartender and makes the drinks far too strong. You laugh more than you expect. Lando doesn’t hover, but every time you glance over, he’s already looking. 

You should go to bed early. 

You don’t. 

You stay long enough to watch him light sparklers with a lighter he shouldn’t have, teeth catching on the cap of another beer. Stay long enough to feel the way his laugh drags across your skin from halfway across the patio. Stay long enough to admit - to yourself, at least - that maybe this time, you do want to know him. 

By the time you’re back in your room, showered and curled up on the bed with your phone in one hand and your sleep playlist in the other, you’re warm from more than just the heat. 

The last thing you see before you shut your eyes is the faint blue light of a replay clip of Lando’s onboard from Monaco. You didn’t even mean to open it. But your vague connection the world of driving means that you, just like the drivers, are addicted to watching race replays like a lullaby. You let it loop anyway - quiet, steady - as you fall asleep in a hoodie you stole from a driver party two years ago. 

You barely remember that it’s his hoodie. 

It’s hotter the next day. The kind of heat that makes everything feel heavy - time, clothes, thoughts. 

You wake up in the late afternoon, the bed tangled with your sheets and limbs, your skin still warm from the residual heat of the day before. The villa is quieter now. Most people must already be outside, and when you crack your window open, you catch the sound of a speaker playing something bassy and upbeat, mixed with the distant splash of pool water and a few hollered laughs. 

You take your time getting ready, pulling on the only clean swimsuit you packed without thinking. It’s cute, functional enough - but maybe a little revealing. Maybe not what you’d wear if you didn’t know who else would be outside. Maybe it’s stupid how long you spend in front of the mirror tugging the straps into place. 

When you finally head downstairs, the sun hits you like a wall - too much too fast, and all of it golden. The pool glimmers. Someone’s set out snacks, there’s a melting bowl of fruit beside a stack of half - read paperback books, and a cooler full of drinks wedged under the shade. 

And of course - he’s there. 

Lando. 

Lying on a towel just at the edge of the pool. Board shorts low on his hips, eyes squinting up from behind his sunglasses. He’s propped up on one arm, lazily sipping something bright orange through a paper straw. He’s laughing at something someone’s saying off to the side, curls stuck to his forehead, skin flushed just enough to tell you he’s been out here a while. 

You try not to look. You fail. 

He notices. Doesn’t say anything - just tips his chin up in a sort of wordless greeting. 

You set your towel down two chairs away. Not beside him. Not directly across. Just… within view. 

“Someone’s late to the pool party,” he calls after a moment, voice lazy from the heat. 

“I needed sleep.” 

“You needed to make a dramatic entrance, you mean.” 

You roll your eyes but smile. “You think everything’s about you.” 

“Everything is about me,” he says, deadpan. 

You stretch out on your towel, trying not to notice the way his eyes drift down your legs, then flick quickly away again when you catch him. The air feels thicker than before - or maybe it’s just your skin, suddenly too aware of every inch of exposed surface. 

Fifteen minutes later, you’re already sweating. The sun beats down mercilessly, and you sit up, digging through your bag for your sunscreen. You squirt some into your palm and reach for your shoulder - and that’s when his shadow falls across you. 

“You’ll never reach your back,” he says casually. 

One minute Lily and Kika where beside you, the next they weren’t.  

You blink up at him, “Thanks for the concern.” 

He holds out a hand. “Give it here.” 

You hesitate. Then place the bottle in his hand, trying not to think about how broad his shoulders look from this angle. He kneels behind you on the towel, the lotion cools against your overheated skin. 

His touch is… careful. Gentle at first. He smooths the sunscreen between your shoulder blades with slow, deliberate strokes, his thumbs brushing the curve of your spine before dragging back up again, just before the thin tie of your bottoms. His hands are warm and wide, fingers pressing slightly harder with each pass, until you're leaning into the sensation without even realising. 

“This, okay?” he asks, voice low - not teasing anymore, just… close. 

You nod, barely trusting your voice. 

He doesn’t stop. Works the lotion into your shoulders, your neck, fingertips grazing the strap of your swimsuit before pulling back just shy of scandal. You feel your whole - body hum, strung tight like a wire. 

And then - just as suddenly - it’s over. 

“All good,” he says, voice a little rougher than before. 

You exhale. Try to swallow. 

“Thanks.” 

He shrugs, tossing the bottle back toward your bag. “Don’t want your burning. Would ruin your dramatic entrances.” 

You laugh, light but shaky. “Wouldn’t want that.” 

You stay in the shade for most of the afternoon, half - reading a book you can’t focus on. Every time Lando walks past - dripping wet from a dive, towel slung around his shoulders, alcohol bottle in one hand - your eyes follow him before you can stop them. 

You don’t talk again. Not properly. But there’s something shifting now. You feel it in the way he looks at you longer than he should. In the way your fingers brushed his wrist earlier when he handed you a strong cocktail and didn’t pull away. In the way you can still feel his hands on your skin, hours later. 

Something’s changed. 

And you’re not sure which one of you is going to do something about it first. 

You can’t sleep. 

The villa’s quiet now - except for the creak of floorboards, the occasional pipe knocking in the wall, and the soft echo of wind sliding through open windows. Everyone else is either passed out drunk or tangled up in someone else’s sheets. The hallways feel like a lull, soaked in summer and moonlight. 

You’re curled up in bed, too warm to get under the covers, wearing nothing but the old, oversized hoodie and a faint sunburn still blooming across your thighs. You didn’t mean to put this one on - it was just at the top of your bag. Familiar, soft, slightly too big. 

Lando’s hoodie. 

You don’t even think he knows you kept it. One of those late - night party things - he tossed it to you on a balcony and never asked for it back. 

You’re not planning to see him tonight. Not thinking about the way he touched your back earlier. Not thinking about how he looked at you like he wanted to touch more. 

Your phone’s propped up on a pillow, volume low, screen lit with one of his old Silverstone onboard replays. There’s something soothing about it. The smooth rhythm of the track, the flick of the steering wheel in his gloved hands. He’s in control. Sharp. Focused.  You wonder what it’s like to make him lose that focus. 

The door creaks open. 

You sit up fast, yanking your blanket over the bottom hem of your hoodie. “What the - ” 

“Shit - ” a familiar voice mutters. “Sorry. Fuck.” 

Lando. 

He’s shirtless, in just sweats, hair a little damp like he showered but didn’t bother to dry it. His eyes are slightly wide as he sees you, as if his brain’s still catching up with what he just walked into. 

“I thought this was - ” He looks over his shoulder. “That’s not - yeah, this is definitely not my room.” 

You should say something - ask why he’s even trying to come in when most people are already knocked out for the night. 

But his eyes are stuck on your hoodie.  His hoodie.  You’re half - curled up, one leg bare up to the thigh, the hem bunched at the top of them, collar slipped low enough to show your collarbones and just a hint of skin underneath. 

“You wear that often?” he asks, voice a little hoarse. 

Your heart kicks up, fast. 

“You gave it to me.” 

“Didn’t think you kept it.” 

You shrug, hoping your face doesn’t give too much away. “Didn’t think you wanted it back.” 

He steps further into the room - slow, quiet - until he’s leaning against the inside of your door and shutting it softly behind him. 

You look at him.  He looks at you. 

Then, finally, he speaks - quiet, but direct. 

“You’re not telling me to leave.” 

You swallow. 

“Do you want me to?” you ask. 

His voice is lower now. “No.” 

You shift on the bed, pulse starting to hammer in your ears. “Then don’t.” 

He stands there for a second longer, like he’s giving you a moment to change your mind. And then he’s walking forward. 

He stands at the edge of the bed, eyes dark in the low light. One hand lift - slow, deliberate - and pulls at the blanket until he brushes your knee from where it peeks from under the hoodie. 

“You look good in that,” Lando says, voice soft, hoarse. 

You smile, lips parted. “Thought you said it wasn’t yours.” 

He huffs a quiet laugh. “Was trying to stay sane.” 

“Why?” 

He leans in, fingers tracing up your thigh, grazing higher until your breath catches. “Because if I thought about you in this hoodie too long, I’d do something stupid.” 

Your hands fist into the sheets. “Like what?” 

“Like this.” 

He kisses you hard - not rushed, but urgent. Like he’s been waiting, wanting, and now that he has you, he’s not wasting a second. You meet him halfway, fingers threading through his damp curls, hoodie riding up over your hips as he shifts between your knees and deepens the kiss. 

His hands slide up your bare thighs, slow and reverent, thumbs dragging soft circles. You gasp into his mouth when one hand cups the back of your thigh, spreading you further apart so he can settle between them. 

“Still not telling me to leave,” he murmurs against your skin, lips trailing along your jaw. 

“I’d kick your ass if you tried.” 

The room is barely lit by the faint glow of the bedside lamp. Shadows drape the corners, but the air is thick with heat - your heat, his heat - heavy enough to make every breath feel sticky and urgent. 

Lando’s sitting on the edge of the bed, bare chest rising and falling slowly, muscles tense as he watches you. The oversized hoodie you’re wearing - his hoodie - hangs loosely, but every inch of skin you show feels like a dare. 

You flip over his lap to kneel in front of him, heart hammering hard against your ribs. His cock is already hard, proud and aching beneath the loose sweats he’s left hanging low on his hips. His breath catches when you reach out, your fingers warm as they close around him over the fabric. 

“You sure about this?” he asks, voice low and rough, eyes dark and hooded with want. 

You smile, cheeks flushed and lean in closer, tugging down his waistband, “You’re the one who walked into the wrong room.” 

His hands find your hair before you can even move - gentle but insistent, threading through your curls as you lean forward, mouth parting to tease the tip of him. He groans softly, air escaping through his clenched teeth, and you know this is going to be slow, deliberate. 

You take him into your mouth, starting light - teasing with your tongue, lips barely brushing the sensitive head. His fingers tighten in your hair, nails grazing your scalp, holding you in place even as you pull back, just enough to make him desperate. 

“Fuck, you’re driving me crazy,” he rasps, his hips pressing forward instinctively. 

You hum around him, licking a slow stripe from base to tip, sucking just enough to pull a deep moan from his throat. His hands tighten, gripping the sheets as you bob your head slowly, tasting him, swallowing every hitch of breath he makes. 

When you take him deeper, your throat tightens, the stretch delicious and thrilling. He gasps, hips jerking up just a little, and you feel it - the pulse of his arousal, steady and strong. You slow down, using your tongue to circle the head, flicking the underside with precision that sends shivers through him. 

“God, you’re so good,” he mutters, voice barely above a whisper. 

His free hand slips to your waist, pulling you up close, and you wrap your arms around his thighs, holding him steady. You want to hear everything - every ragged breath, every curse falling from his lips. 

The way his hips start to grind forward against your mouth, desperate for more. 

His fingers dig into your hair, tugging lightly, and you take it as permission to go deeper - slow, steady, careful. You feel his body tense, muscles flexing as he rides the wave you’re building, his breath hitching in ragged bursts. 

When his hips jerk sharply and he releases a low growl, you swallow him down fully, holding him there as long as you can. He curses your name, gripping your hair harder, and when he pulls away, his lips are swollen, breathless. 

You look up, cheeks flushed, and meet his eyes - glazed, heavy with want and need. 

Without a word, he reaches out and pulls you to your feet, hands on your waist firm and sure. His mouth is back on yours instantly, a kiss that’s both desperate and possessive, teeth grazing your lower lip as he pulls you backward onto the bed. 

His hands roam your body with purpose, sliding beneath the hem of the hoodie, fingers finding bare skin with reverent curiosity. You arch into his touch, heart pounding as he trails kisses down your neck, over your collarbone, whispering soft promises between each press of his lips. 

He moves with slow, sure confidence, pushing the hoodie up over your head and tossing it aside like it’s been burning him all night. 

“You’re all mine,” he breathes, voice thick. 

You shiver, overwhelmed by the warmth of his hands, the heat radiating off his body as he trails down your stomach, palms flat and sure. His fingers brush the waistband of your shorts, hesitating just a second before sliding beneath. 

Every nerve ending in your body sings as he removes your shorts and panties in one smooth motion, exposing you completely. 

He kisses the inside of your thigh, lips soft and warm, fingers tracing lazy circles around your hip bones. 

When he finally parts your legs, his eyes darken, focused, hungry. 

He leans in and presses a kiss to your clit, teasing with his tongue in long, slow flicks that make you bite back a moan. 

His mouth wraps around you, warm and wet and demanding, and you clutch his hair, hips rocking forward into him without thinking. 

“Shh,” he murmurs against you, voice low and serious. “Gotta keep it down.” 

You bite your lip, nodding, desperate to keep quiet but drowning in the sensation of his tongue and mouth working magic. He hums, flicks his tongue faster, and you feel the coil tightening deep inside you. 

His hand slides between your legs, fingers teasing your entrance, brushing just the tip before pulling back to focus on your clit again. 

You’re trembling, breath coming in short, desperate gasps, hands grasping at his shoulders as he pulls you closer. 

When you come, it’s a shattered, stifled cry buried in his neck, fingers digging into his scalp as your body clenches around his mouth. 

He holds you through it, slow and steady, until you’re shuddering and soft again. 

Then, gently, he pulls back and grins up at you - wild, messy, utterly undone. 

“You taste like everything I want.” 

You laugh breathlessly and push him down, straddling him as his hands settle on your hips. 

You take your time, rolling your hips, sinking down slowly, savouring every inch. 

His hands grip your waist tight as you ride him - slow, deep, unrelenting. 

The only sounds in the room are your gasps, his moans, and skin sliding against skin. 

You lean down, kissing him hard, teeth clashing, tongues tangling as you move together - a perfect, messy rhythm. 

When he’s close, you bite his shoulder, smile against his skin, and whisper, “Not so quiet now, huh?” 

He laughs low and growls, “I’m not gonna last much longer.” 

You pick up the pace, bouncing harder, nails gripping his chest as he buries his face in your neck, fingers clutching your hips. 

And when he comes, it’s explosive - deep, guttural, his body trembling beneath you as he spills inside you. 

You ride out the waves together, panting and slick, limbs tangled. 

When it’s over, he pulls you close, pressing kisses along your jaw and whispering, “That was worth walking into the wrong room.”

The morning spills into the room like warm honey. 

Golden light streaks across the sheets, catching on dust suspended in the still air. Outside the window, someone’s already put music on too loud - something distant and summery and muffled by the thick villa walls. But in here, it’s all quiet. 

You shift under the covers, muscles pleasantly sore, skin warm from where Lando’s body presses into yours. He’s still half - asleep, one arm flung over your stomach, curls mussed against the pillow. You breathe him in sunscreen and sweat, salt and something softer. Like linen and heat. 

His hand tightens slightly at your waist, thumb brushing absentmindedly against your hip bone. It’s the kind of touch that says he's still here, even in his sleep. 

You turn toward him, nose brushing his jaw. 

“Lando,” you whisper, low and quiet, just to see if he’s awake. 

Lando hums sleepily as you kiss his chin. “Mmm, you’re up early.” 

“Not really,” you mumble. “I think it’s nearly noon.” 

He groans. “We should hide. Stay in here all day.” 

You smile. “You drooled on my pillow.” 

He growls softly, burying his face in your neck. “Could be worse. Could’ve been your chest.” 

You laugh, legs tangling with his. “You’re disgusting.” 

“Last night you said I was talented.” 

“I said you were decent.” 

He grins sleepily against your skin, voice still thick. “You came twice. At least give me ‘skilled.’” 

You roll your eyes, trying not to smile too hard - but you’re glowing, skin flushed from more than just the heat. 

His hand slips lower, resting over the swell of your ass, fingers tracing lazy shapes again. You’re not doing anything, not going anywhere. It’s rare - to feel like this. Not just satisfied but settled. 

Until -  

“OH MY GOD.” 

The door slams open, and you flinch, instinctively yanking the blanket up to your chin. 

Lando groans so loudly it’s borderline feral. “No. Nope. Out.” 

Oscar is standing in the doorway, already in swim trunks and a bucket hat, holding a protein shake in one hand like a fucking trophy. Squinting into the light like he can’t believe what he’s seeing. 

“I KNEW IT,” he yells, pointing at you both. “Fifty bucks, bitches!” 

You blink, dazed. “What - ?” 

“I told Lily it would happen before the weekend was over,” Oscar continues, stepping just one inch further into the room like he’s inspecting evidence. “She said you’d pussy out. Guess who was right.” 

You blink. “Wait, you two - bet on us?” 

Oscar shrugs. “I’ve seen the way he looks at you. And then you started wearing that hoodie again. It was obvious.” 

Lando rolls over and shoves a pillow over his head. “Oscar I swear to God - ” 

“Hey, don’t blame me, you could’ve been subtle. But noooo, you had to be all hoodie and eye fucking by the pool.” 

You groan. “How long were people watching us?” 

Oscar snorts. “We have eyes.“ 

“Congrats, by the way,” he says, like he’s handing out a wedding gift. It’s when he sips at his gym bottle and hisses, you realise there’s probably tequila in there, “Try not to traumatize the maid staff.” 

And then he’s gone. 

The door clicks shut again. 

Silence. 

You both stare at the ceiling for a second before bursting into laughter. 

Lando turns toward you, dragging you under him again, smirking like an idiot. “We are never living this down” 

“I kinda don’t care” 

He hums, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “You gonna wear that hoodie again?” 

You grin. “Only if I want everyone to know what I let you do to me last night.” 

He pauses. Smirks. 

“Bold of you to assume I’m not wearing it next.” 

You shove him lightly, laughing, as he tackles you back into the sheets, messy and warm and unbothered - a little wrecked, a little teased, and a whole lot in trouble. 

But somehow, it feels kind of perfect. 

meet the models after the show ( epilogue ) :

It’s the last morning at the villa. 

People are packing. Doors opening, zippers skimming across tile. Half - melted iced coffees line the kitchen counter, and someone’s already yelling about who stole their charger. 

You’re still in Lando’s bed. 

Still in his hoodie. 

Still not ready to move. 

He walks back into the room with two mugs in hand - both his. One is basic ceramic with your initials scratched in red nail polish. The other says World’s Fastest Slut in hideous bubble font. 

He doesn’t even flinch when he hands you that one. 

“You’re really still wearing that thing?” he says, nodding to the hoodie swallowing your frame. 

You raise an eyebrow and sip your coffee. “You say that like you weren’t staring every time I wore it.” 

He shrugs, dropping onto the bed beside you. “Just surprised you never took it off.” 

You smirk. “Why would I? It’s comfy. Smells good. Annoys Oscar.” 

“Ah,” he nods, mock serious. “You stayed in my hoodie out of spite.” 

You hum. “Mostly. Partially because it makes my legs look good.” 

His gaze drags down. “Can confirm.” 

You blink. “You gonna tell Oscar that ?” 

“Absolutely not. He’s been insufferable since he ‘won’ a bet that didn’t exist.” 

You laugh, and he leans forward, catching your chin gently with his fingers. You try not to smile, but he leans forward and nudges your knee with his. 

“You’re still coming back to mine after this, right?” he asks, casual, but his tone softens halfway through. 

You blink. “Did I say I was?” 

He gives you that look - head tilted, lashes low, mouth twitching like he’s holding back something cocky. “You didn’t have to.” 

You take another slow sip of coffee. “Hmm. That so?” 

He leans in closer, fingers brushing the hem of the hoodie as he murmurs, “Only condition is… if you keep stealing my clothes, I get to start stealing your time.” 

You snort. “That was corny as hell.” 

“Did it work?” 

You meet his eyes, and yeah - it did. 

You set the mug down and pull him toward you, letting him kiss you slow, like the world isn’t about to start moving again. His hand curls over your thigh, his smile warm against your lips. 

When he pulls back, you sigh into his shoulder. “Okay. Fine. I’ll come back with you.” 

“Knew it,” he says smugly. 

“On one condition,” you add. 

He raises a brow. 

“I keep the hoodie.” 

Lando grins, eyes half - lidded. “Deal.” 

You settle back into the bed, sun rising behind you, the sound of car engines and goodbyes faint in the background. But here, it’s just him. You. And the hoodie you’re never giving back. 

[dearmisshoney]

when stone hungers

synopsis. taking the gardening gig at the malfoy manor turns out to be more than just pulling weeds and trimming bushes. the old security guard warned you about the haunted statues, but you’ve brushed his counsels as mere stories to boost the popularity of the tourist attraction. what happens when you’re trapped in the intricate maze of the manor, hunted down by a lust-filled cursed statue?

pairing. cursed statue! draco malfoy x reader

content/mdni. DUB-CON. fem!reader, gardener!reader, cursed statue!draco, victorian man!draco, repressed!draco, kinda soft!draco, dom!draco, possessive!draco, weeping angels!au type of statue, maze chase, a bit of horror (?), monster-fucking (you fuck his human form tho), blindfold usage, oral (m and f receiving), public/maze sex, dirt/pavement fucking, doggy style, slight size kink, teasing, allusion to humiliation (m receiving), overstimulation (f receiving), praise, dirty talk (bad attempt at victorian speech), name-calling (darling, good girl, my sweet, my gardener), raw sex, thoatpie, creampie, tons of plot (5k is just plot and build-up)

word count. 7k

a/n. have you ever wanted to fuck a statue? I GOT YOU! smut and a dash of horror? I GOT YOU x2. first draco fic! my lovely @draco-malfoys-lovergirl, sorry for taking so long! feedback and reblogs are deeply appreciated!

“so the side garden and the maze, right?”

“yes, miss.” the old man confirmed immediately, nodding his head in agreement as well. “please start with the garden, as our guests will see that first.”

indeed, when the malfoy manor will be open to visitors, fully converted into a tourist attraction, the side garden will reach their eyes first. the maze, positioned at the back of the manor, somewhere more reserved, will only be explored — if ever — together with a tour guide.

“the maze is terribly overgrown, but do not stress yourself too much. there’s a small chance for it to be open to the public.” he mused, pursing his lips towards the end in an attempt to stifle a laugh. “kids will definitely get lost in it.”

“i understand. then i will make my way to the garden and work my magic.” you gave the old man a crooked smile before bowing slightly, signaling your departure.

“good luck with that!” he smiled back at you, his gesture flying to his eyes and making them turn into two curved lines. “and, miss. be careful with the statues!”

a small chuckle escaped your lips, but you brushed it away with a sway of your hand. “i am sure the haunted statues will let a master do her work in peace.”

bowing your head towards the man one last time, you bid him goodbye. picking up your wheelbarrow — full with your gardening equipment, you headed to the side garden to assess the situation.

the job advertisement did not lie.

the garden, long abandoned, was in terrible shape. the flower bushes were overgrown, yet somehow still blooming despite the obvious lack of care. weeds were sprouting everywhere, enveloping and capturing the legs of the few benches.

some vines even latched themselves over the statue in the middle, crawling over the stepping stone and curving all over the name plaque. the shoes of the statue were surprisingly clean, but that might be because of the birds attacking it and picking at its feet.

birds were definitely attracted by this statue, as the shoulders and even the hat were covered in white stains of poo.

“here is young master…”

your gloved hands, already equipped for ripping weeds and other unwelcomed plants, rested on the plaque, caressing over the wild vines and, then, ripping them away from the surface.

the polished stone of the plaque was finally breathing, hit by the warm sun after being drowned in leaves and lianas for god knows how long.

“… draco malfoy.”

the inscription was now clear to your eyes and you muttered the name with such familiarity, like you’ve known the young man for ages.

but you didn’t, really.

you had to look up at the statue to register to whom such a name belonged. squinting your eyes, you raised your gaze from below your hat’s brim and pierced his own.

it was quite the tall statue, the young man keeping a straight and unwavering posture. he was of noble lineage, that was quite clear from his expensive victorian attire — the coat draped over his shoulders, although sprinkled with bird poop, was fabulously sculpted. his fingers, clad in big rings which would’ve definitely bought a house in today’s time, were perched on his sturdy fingers. every detail of his hands was visible to the naked eye thanks to their position, placed one over the other on the handle of a cane.

and his eyes… so soulless, yet so full of wonders. the colours were not captured into the cold muddy stone, yet his gaze was drawing you in, hypnotizing you and calling you to explore their depths.

there was no depth, as the sculptor couldn’t possibly imitate the intricacies of the human eye. yet, his eyes made your feet move closer to his, made you step on the stone platform and stop before him. his eyes made you crane your neck upwards to meet his face once more.

his eyes made your gloved hand touch his face and caress that freezing, lifeless stone.

“you must’ve been very popular with the girls, master draco.”

your tone was not full of jest or mockery. you were sincere. if you, a modern woman, found his statue attractive, surely ladies in the victorian era were swooned by his alive version.

“were your eyes piercing green?” you mumbled to yourself, contemplating on his eye color as you carefully danced across his cheek with your fingers. “or maybe a deep chocolate brown?”

the stone could not answer back to such questions.

“or a nice electric shade of blue?”

you were now close to him. too close.

your nose bumped into his stone one and, in that moment, you realized how crazy you must look from the outside. you retracted your hand immediately and jumped down from the stepping stone, putting some distance between you and the statue.

“gosh, maybe i am the haunted one.” you say out loud as you smack your own head, trying to bring you back to reality and do the job you were actually hired to do.

picking up the weeds you’ve removed from his plaque, you throw that into one of your giant garbage bags. fastening the gardening apron tighter around your hips, you drop into the front pockets your shears and your little trowel and began rehabilitating the garden.

all under the statue’s fixed gaze.

•••

“and the last one.” you finished counting the garbage bags as you throw the last one into your wheelbarrow. it drops nicely next to the other three bags you’ve previously placed, deflating atop of the pile like a mushed cherry.

your tools were nicely spread across one of the benches there, your apron now empty and easier to carry around.

making your way to the statue, you plop yourself down on the platform, butt seated right next to the plaque. you extended your left hand to the side of the stone, fishing for your water bottle, as you admire the work you’ve done.

the garden was looking so much better than before and, with a bit of aftercare, you’re sure it will be blooming beautifully for the opening ceremony. for now, the nicely trimmed bushes, the uprooted and cleaned-up weeds, and the shoveled soil will do.

“good work, girl!” you congratulated yourself as you opened the bottle, unscrewing the cap with one hand and bringing it to your thirsty mouth. dipping your head backwards, ready to savoir the by-now lukewarm water, you hit something rigid with the back of your head.

“ugh– ouch…” you instantly jumped forward, raising from your make-shift seat and turning to inspect the obstacle.

the statue.

you could’ve sworn you were not that close to the statue, as the edge of the platform was still some inches away from the body. and you were right, the distance between the margin and the sculpted shoes was big enough, but you seem to have missed the extended arm of the statue.

his right hand was looming forward, as if young master malfoy was placing his palm against the head of his trusty subordinates.

“thank god it didn’t shatter.”

you were grateful the stone was not damaged by your sturdy head. technically, it was impossible for it to break from a mere strike; practically, the statue was so old, even such a movement could ruin it. you came closer, carefully analyzing the hand, grasping it in your own naked one and feeling around the stone.

it seemed fine. unharmed.

“i might as well clean the poo off of you, no?” you sigh, knowing you’d have to sacrifice your last gulps of water to wash away the dried-up spurts of excrements from the statue.

but you did, going up again on the platform and splashing the stains with your water bottle. thankfully, the bird poo appeared to not be as hardened as expected, flowing down together with the liquid and leaving behind clean stone.

“there, there, young master.”

some poo was adorning his top hat, but your stature did not allow you to reach them. and you find that the hard way, as water actually splashed lower, over draco’s face and away from his hat.

“ooops, my bad.”

you were speaking to the statue like it was a real human being, apologizing for drenching his face in water and even frantically searching for your cloth to dry it.

“we can’t have this beautiful smile drown, hm?” humming, you dabbed up all the water, revealing his upturned lip corners to you.

“all good! and handsome as ever.”

and with that you departed from the statue a second time that day, eagerly packing up your tools and dropping them next to the garbage bags. your water bottle joined them too, a clear reminder of your unclenched thirst.

“bye, bye, draco! hope you like your rejuvenated garden.”

with a brief goodbye and a childish giggle, you pushed your wheelbarrow on the exit path of the side garden, ending your first day as the rehabilitation gardener of the malfoy manor.

•••

“young master malfoy, we meet again.”

you almost laughed when you came back the next day and saw another statue of draco. you’ve finished with the side garden yesterday, a place which was built with draco malfoy in mind — or so the old man told you.

so why was a similar statue in the maze?

perched upon a similar platform, with a similar plaque, was a similar man.

it was definitely draco, you could recognize his facial features by now. his outfit was the same as the one from the side garden — the expensive coat, the top hat, the dress pants. even the cane was present in this sculpture.

the pose was different.

for once, the cane was no longer positioned in front of his body. it rested nicely alongside his frame, supported by his left hand. his right hand was bent and kept over his chest, holding between his ring-clad fingers his hat. his head was no longer sheltered, and you could now see how nicely his hair framed his features.

“the old guy said your eyes were bluish, even grey in certain moments of the day.”

you were now accustomed to stepping on the platform and forcing yourself into the statue’s personal space. you shamelessly cupped his face, like you were ready to rotate it downwards towards you, but it was stone — statues don’t move. so you had to rotate your own to meet his straightforward gaze.

“they might have been gray, but not this lifeless gray, surely.”

you thumb at the warm stone, heated by the radiant sun, tricking your mind into thinking that the man before you was somehow real. but it wasn’t. this was all just your imagination reconstructing the young lord with the bits and pieces you found around.

“and he said you had blond hair.”

your hand moved to the nape of his neck, but there were no strands of hair which you could’ve touched. the stone carvings of his haircut were stuck to his scalp, another reminder of his inanimate state.

“oh, your hat has poo on it.” the hat, which was not on his head like in the previous statue, caught your attention.

the edge had a familiar shit stain on it, and it made you wonder if birds had preferred spots to strike.

“let me get that before i start my work.”

with a bit of water and a tiny cloth, you rubbed away the stubborn stain and made the hat match his clean attire. “no stains for you, draco.” you finally reported like he was your boss, raising your gaze one last time as if the stone could offer its approval.

the statue remained unmoving and expressionless, but his downward gaze was fixated on his top hat. as if young master draco watched over your work and took in your efforts.

that was good enough for you, so you’ve moved away from the statue and straight back to your gardening duties.

as you’ve began shaping the hedges of the maze, you’ve completely skipped over the vine-covered plaque at the feet of the statue.

indeed, you now knew the name of the young master, so there was no curiosity left in you. but if you’ve just taken a peek at it you’d have realized that something was not adding up.

beneath the lianas, another name was carved into stone: lucius malfoy.

was the name wrongly placed? or… was it the statue?

•••

“no way it’s already this late?!” as you elevate your head from underneath the hedge, with weeds plucked in both hands, you are hit with a darkening sky and a rising moon.

“shit.” you dropped the plants in your open garbage bag and instantly pulled at the edge of your gardening gloves, turning them inside out so your skin remains clean.

“keys, keys, keys, where are the damn keys?” you start frantically searching your pockets for the keys to the main gate of the place, praying and hoping you have them on you.

the security guy at the entrance surely locked up the place an hour ago, now peacefully snoring in his little hut. security cameras are not yet installed so he won’t know you were locked in until the very morning.

your pockets were empty.

“no, no, no, this is unreal. maybe i dropped them somewhere around here?” you ducked and searched around the dirt on your hands and knees, trying to sniff out the keys like some trained dog.

but they were not around here.

“the statue maybe?” you had left most of your equipment there, as the center of the maze allowed you enough space to store them... and a sitting spot.

you hurried your steps towards the statue, turning lefts and then rights to reach it. you’ve memorized this part of the maze with how many trips you’ve made back and forth. and lo’ and behold, you did reach the center of the maze in record time, the statue of draco malfoy greeting you with his usual expressionless face.

“draco, dear, have you seen some keys?” you asked the statue like it will respond, so nerve-wrecked by the situation that you don’t even take into account the absurdity of the question.

of course, the statue did not answer, holding the cane in his right hand and the hat with his left, close to his torso, just like before.

the last ray of sun, paling with the arrival of the night, did help you one last time, glimmering the metal part of the keys at draco’s feet. you rushed to them relieved, thanking the universe for not abandoning you in these godforsaken times.

“gotcha.” clutching the keys, you pull them towards you with excitement. only to realize that a good chunk of them was stuck beneath the stone shoes of the statue.

stuck beneath the stone shoes of the statue?

“what the actual fuck?”

and you pulled again, this time with more force, tightening your fingers around the metal object and putting all your force into freeing them. all that to no avail.

“what are they doing there to begin with? is this some sort of sick prank?”

you kneeled down, legs bent and digging into the cracked pavement, as you grounded yourself to channel more power into your grip. you tried again, tugging at the keys underneath the stone foot with every muscle of your body.

nothing.

“shit.” you sprang up from your kneeling position, abandoning the keys at once to find some kind of tool to help you get them out. “maybe a crowbar? there should be one here, no?”

turning your back completely and strutting down one of the four pathways, you mentally go through all your tools to decide which one might act as a jack. maybe your big shovel can help you raise the statue someh–

your body slowed in its tracks when your ears registered footsteps behind you.

thank god, the security guy realized you were still inside and came to get you. his footsteps resonated louder and louder, a strong indicator the person was approaching you.

what was his name again? david?

“david, sir, i am so gla­–” and you stopped completely, readying yourself to turn around and face the man.

that did not happen, as strong, manly arms slide along your body, trapping you in a harsh lock. one hand dipped along your waist, nestling nicely across your lower abdomen, while the other snaked up to your jaw, forcing you to keep your gaze forward.

you tried to turn your head around and see the man behind you, but your face was gripped tightly by ring-clad fingers, digging into your cheeks and leaving marks into your skin.

“don’t move, darling.”

“w–who are you? let me go!”

you struggled against his arms, elbowing the body behind you in an attempt to escape. but he was unwavering and rigid, like stone.

“you know me, darling.” he whispered mysteriously against the shell of your ear, warm breath fanning across the side of your neck as he was closing in.

“what the fu–” ck is wrong with you? that’s what you were about to say, but the clattering of a foreign object onto the pavement made you stop and gaze down.

a cane.

a very familiar cane dropped down onto the pavement, clicking twice before going silent against the stone. a very familiar cane which was no longer of stone, but of a dark wood.

there was only one man who possessed such an object…

“d­–draco?”

“bravo.” draco breathed the praise as his lips were zeroing into your skin, careful pecks falling onto your neck soon after.

“b–but you’re stone! you are not real.” you try to use reason to understand the situation, but the not-so-innocent touches of his made your brain uncooperative. your lips, smashed into one another by his fingers, barely allowed a whimper to escape as draco’s kisses arrived at the base of your neck.

“–oh, but i am quite real, my sweet.”

his voice unfolded against your skin, low and silken, steeped in something archaic, something belonging to a century long buried. the tone of his speech carried the tidy rhythm of nobility, but there was a lazy, indulgent pitch to it now — like a predator who had finally cornered his prey.

his hand moved slowly — possessively — from your stomach to the edge of your hipbone, resting there as if to lay claim. his fingers, still clad in cold rings that clinked faintly against your apron, brushed the skin where your shorts had shifted.

you shivered under the contrast of cool metal and warm breath.

“this– this isn’t possible…” you muttered, even as you twitch into him, instinct fighting every logical thread unraveling in your mind.

“really?” draco’s lips curled into a smile against your skin, teeth grazing lightly across the tender curve where your neck met your shoulder.

his voice, sultry and low, rumbled like thunder muffled under layers of velvet. you could feel the press of his body now — warm, firm, unmistakably human.

nothing like the freezing statue you had pressed your palms against yesterday.

“i’ve been watching you…” he murmured, dragging his lips down the arch of your throat, his hand on your hips squeezing tighter, possessive. “these couple of days.”

his words left a trail of heat far worse than the sun ever could.

“i knew you were trouble the moment your little hands touched my face… so soft, so curious.” his hand now moved over the lower straps of your apron, thumb toying with the fabric and slowly tugging it loose.

his voice dropped further, molasses-thick with old aristocratic charm. “do you know what it does to a man, to be frozen in time, starved, only to be worshipped like that?”

“i–i didn’t know—” you stammered, but he silenced you with a soft tut.

“oh, you wound me.” his voice wrapped around you like ivy, his darkened tone churning that coil in your tummy.

his teeth grazed your collarbone once more, and his hand dipped underneath the loose apron, down past your navel, fingers ghosting over the waistband of your shorts. his touch sent jolts through you, as unreal as the whole moment.

“you kept me clean. touched me like i was a god. spoke to me like i was a man. which do you want me to be now, hm?”

you gasped when his hand dipped beneath, fingers unerring, arrogant. you could barely keep upright, held up only by the hold of his arms and the way he crowded your body against his own rigid one.

“i– you are not real.” you shook your head in disbelief, still refusing to accept that the statue was alive. and, above all, full of desire for you.

you could feel his hands, warm and calloused, and his cool rings tease the skin beneath your waistband, palming your lower abdomen and feeling around for your undergarments. you could feel his lips still glued to your skin, now leaving open-mouthed kisses along your throat.

you could feel his clothed cock digging into your ass, the stiffness of it a reminder of his previous stone-being.

“must you deny the truth?” he growled behind you, his wandering hand stopping to scratch at your skin in frustration. “i am of flesh, just like you are.”

“then show me! let me see you.” you too exhaled in frustration, demanding to be turned around and shown his true, alive form. you tossed and turned in his grasp again, forcing your hands on his own and trying to pry them away from you.

“that i cannot do, darling.” his hands only became more rigid around you, muscles flaring beneath his coat and stilling your revolt.

“shall your eyes lay on me, i turn to stone.”

and there it was, the core of his curse. as long as your eyes are on him, he will remain a stone statue, frozen in time in the position he last occupied. with your eyes averted from his frame — just like the situation now — he was alive and capable of every human thing.

“l–lies…”

“check for yourself, my sweet.” he surrendered, sighing into your neck before jutting your head to the side, enough to glance back at the stone platform on which he previously stood. for good measure, draco did step to the side as well, shielding his form from your own wondering eyes.

your orbs were graced with the familiar view of the maze’s center, with the stepping stone and the four pathways it fostered. but there was no statue to welcome you. the pedestal was empty, like a sculpture was never there to begin with.

your keys were still there, but no longer obstructed by a foot. they shine less than before, now with the sun completely gone from the sky.

“b–but how?”

the reveal felt heavy on your shoulders, making your knees buckle under the weight of the cruel truth. you kept blinking and blinking, wishing the scenery would change and draco the statue would appear back on the platform.

but that didn’t happen.

“i walked.” draco answered your rhetorical question, humming against your skin in an attempt to soothe your anxieties.

“first from the garden–”

oh. this pedestal wasn’t his to begin with.

“–to this platform. then, i just stepped down when i saw you were leaving.”

his last words were dripping with something dark, possessive, venomous. “why leave me, darling?” draco gripped your jaw tighter, keeping it in place, as he saw your face sliding towards him.

wishing to see him. wishing to paralyze him.

“i thought hiding your keys was a splendid idea.” he mumbled more to himself than to you, analyzing his failure of a plan. “i should have claimed you from the start.”

“you are not real.” you whispered again, trembling now. but it wasn’t from fear alone. his words, so dangerous and possessive, made your insides combust with arousal.

draco chuckled darkly against your skin. “still in denial?” he said. “even when i am touching you. holding you. wanting you.”

his hand slid lower, right on top of your panties, and you felt the pads of his fingers ghost against the slick heat between your thighs. you jerked instinctively, a moan catching in your throat, and he grinned against your neck — you could feel it, the pride blooming in that twisted, noble heart.

“l–let me see you.”

“can’t do, my sw–”

“let me see you turn to stone, then i will believe you.”

draco stiffened. you could feel the tremor that ran through his body. not out of anger, but of reluctant fear.

"you wish to see me… undone?" his breath faltered for a moment. “to gaze upon me and strip me of my human form?”

you nodded as best as you could, hoping he would comply to your request.

“i need… proof.” you whispered. “i need to know you’re not a dream i’ve conjured.”

he went quiet. too quiet.

then — half-heartedly, with the weight of a century behind his breath — he spoke, voice barely a rasp. “then have it.”

draco’s arms fell away from you slowly, dragging against your skin like tamed serpents. his body slipped away from your own, away from your warmth, and the moment he did... cold rushed back in.

you turned.

the first thing you saw was the flash of his eyes — steel-gray, like a storm you’d only seen in paintings. like the sea itself had been frozen mid-tempest.

then, stone.

it happened in a blink.

his eyes — once alive, calculating, devouring you — were now glazed with eternal silence. his lips, once curled with hunger and twisted flirtation, were now unmoving. perfect. cold.

his hand was reaching out to you still. but it was rigid now.

draco malfoy stood before you, just as he had the first day you saw him. carved in grace, haunted in stillness.

the only sign he’d ever moved was the position of his body: arms half-raised, chest slightly arched forward, like he was trying to reach you. like he was begging you not to leave him after your little test.

you stumbled back, almost falling on your butt against the pavement.

the truth of it — of him — finally slamming into your chest like a blow.

the statue was alive. and he wanted you.

“no.” you breathed, horror wrapping around your lungs, making your breaths heavy with fear. “no, no, no…”

you backed away, but the statue — draco — stood watchful, haunting. you could feel his presence even now, humming under the skin of stone. waiting.

and if you dared to blink–

you didn’t wait to find out.

with a gasp stuck in your throat and adrenaline lashing through your veins, you ran.

you ran back into the maze, cutting corners, clipping hedges, ignoring the way untamed branches clawed at your arms. you ran like he could follow — and maybe, just maybe, he would, the moment your eyes left him long enough.

because now you knew: he was never just stone.

your legs moved before your thoughts could catch them. every twist and turn of the maze felt unfamiliar now, foreign, menacing. the very same hedges you’d lovingly pruned now loomed like walls.

like a prison.

a shiver crawled down your spine, even before you heard the snap of twigs behind you.

he was following you as your eyes were no longer on him.

you turned sharply down a narrow corridor of green. left, right, right again. you had to get out. had to get to the entrance. but the hedges all looked the same. you could barely see where your feet landed as dusk drowned the world in navy blue.

then — a whisper.

“running from me, darling?”

your heart was pierced by a spear of fear, making your legs loose balance and divert you from the path. you turned the left corner with urgency, hoping to at least lose draco in the maze.

his voice was near. too near.

luck was not on your side. as you bolted again, crashing through a thicket of untrimmed ivy, you emerged into a clearing.

and a terrifying dead end.

he stepped out from the neighboring hedge, moving with the careful grace of a man who had learned to treasure each moment of motion. like someone who’d spent too long unable to move at all.

his haunting voice hit you before his frame did, bouncing around the greenery and shooting straight into your core.

“found you.” it was velvet-laced steel, refined and dangerous, still soaked in that archaic drawl that made your knees tremble.

you backed up until your spine hit the hedge behind you and you curled into yourself, bending your arms in front of you to make a make-shift shield. that only aided him, your eyes now blocked by your self-made barrier.

draco advanced slowly — not like a man chasing, but like one collecting what was already his.

“you can’t escape me.”

your arms did little to protect you as you feel his body heat on yours, his breath fanning over the exposed skin. and when you remembered his weakness — your eyes — and tried to break away your shield, he immediately plopped his hat over the top-half of your face, covering them completely.

“nuh, nuh, we can’t have that again, can we?”

draco’s long fingers ghosted over your temples, adjusting the brim of the top hat so it sloped lower over your face, further obscuring your eyes. it was his own — victorian, dark velvet — worn during centuries of stillness. it smelled like him: old parchment, mossy rain, secrets pressed into stone.

but it wasn’t enough.

“no peeking.” he said, and you could hear the smirk in his voice now; closer, lower, dripping with victorious delight. “i’ve just got you back.”

you felt the rough tug of fabric being untied; your gardening cloth, pulled from your belt loop. a moment later, it joined the hat, knotted securely around your eyes in practiced, possessive movements.

like a blindfold.

“there. now you may believe me with your body, if not your sight.”

you gasped as his lips found your collarbone again, this time, hungrier. he kissed like he had waited decades to know the taste of flesh, wetting your exposed skin with spit and need.

"touch me more." he murmured, voice crumbling into gravel and satin. “like you did before. every meeting, hands on my face, on my hands… do you have any idea what that did to me, darling?”

you didn’t get the chance to answer.

draco pushed you back gently, letting you feel the hedge at your spine, the dirt soft beneath your knees as he guided you down. he knelt too, with a reverence that belonged to old traditions.

“i have dreamt of this...” he confessed, the edge of his coat brushing your thighs. “when night fell and the world turned its eyes away… i imagined you like this. on your knees. kneeling for your master.”

your fingers trembled as they reached out — found him. warm, alive, impossibly real beneath your palms. your careful touch was redirected by his own hands to his pants, encouraged to explore. to find the hard outline of his cock straining behind the buttons, itching to be freed.

and when you expectantly prodded against his crotch, the protruding bulge left you rubbing your thighs together in anticipation.

“you feel it?” he said softly, breath hitching as you cupped him fully in your palms. “flesh. not stone. and all for you.”

with careful hands, you undid the buttons. thankfully, the victorian attire had an easy-to-open mechanism. his cock sprang free in seconds, hot and heavy against your palm. it twitched when you wrapped your warm fingers around him, a bead of precum sliding along down to your digits.

“good girl.” he purred, one hand tangling in your hair, the other bracing against the hedge behind your head. his hat was long forgotten on the pavement, falling on your way down to this kneeling position.

but the hat was no longer a concern, as your sturdy cloth was blocking your eyes just right.

“taste me. take what you’ve longed for.”

there was no point in denying the want surging inside you, the dryness of your mouth which was only curable by draco’s messy cock. so you opened your mouth and pressed the head to your tongue, slow and teasing, admiring the weight it had.

he hissed sharply through his teeth, head lolling back from the feeling.

“ah—fuck.” draco rarely cursed, but it rolled off his tongue naturally. “so warm. so perfect.”

you swirled your tongue around the head, tasting salt and something ancient beneath the surface — like stone kissed by summer storms. draco’s hips bucked immediately, the feeling of your wet muscle making him groan loudly, but he quickly regained composure.

always the aristocrat. even undone.

“steady, darling…” he muttered, breath ragged. “we’ve… all the time in the world.”

his fingers tightened in your hair as you bobbed lower, taking more of him into your mouth. you could feel the tremble in his thighs, the tightness in his heavy balls, the way centuries of restraint tried not to shatter in your grip.

“beautiful.” his voice cracked. “you were always meant to kneel before me.”

the maze around you was silent, save for the sloshing sounds of your mouth and draco’s barely contained moans — quiet, strangled, like he still couldn’t believe he was free to make them.

you hollowed your cheeks, sucked harder.

“oh—” he choked, head thudding gently forward against the hedge. “yes. just like that. my sweet little gardener. worship me.”

and you did. breathing through your nose, you lowered your head fully onto his cock, making draco hit the back of your throat oh so unceremoniously.

your broken chokes, your drooling lips, your twitching hands, they all contributed to the sensation, making draco grip your scalp harsher and tug at the roots of your hair.

“you are bloody divine.”

he cursed again, one last string of aristocratic filth, and came in your mouth with a gasp like the cracking of old stone — loud, desperate, reverent. you swallowed it all, never once opening your eyes beneath the cloth, savouring the creaminess of his release.

like stone, you stayed still, nose-deep into his navel, welcoming his hefty spurts of cum into your hungry mouth. his legs were trembling, his hips were jutting back and forth with extasy. but alas, draco stilled shortly after, breathless yet aroused beyond compare.

when he pulled out moments later, his touch was gentle on your face as his fingers instructed you to open your mouth. to let him see his seed completely swallowed.

“my good girl.”

but your reward was far from over.

draco leaned down, pressed a kiss to your covered temple — a gentleness so jarring after the feral way he’d just used your mouth. and then you felt it; how his cock twitched again, not even finished with you.

not even close.

“turn for me.” he murmured, lifting your chin with two fingers. “face down, arse up. there’s more i must claim.”

you obeyed without further complaints, breath caught in your throat as your body moved. the hedge behind you scraped your shoulder as you shifted, the cloth over your eyes still snug. your knees found the hard dirt again, but this time, your chest lowered too, forearms braced beneath you as you arched your back and presented yourself to him.

you heard him groan behind you — truly groan.

deep, rough, primal.

“look at you.” he breathed. “so obedient. you’ve no idea what that does to me.”

he knelt behind you, one hand smoothing down your spine like a sculptor reacquainting himself with his abandoned statue. you gasped when his other hand slipped to your waistband, pulling your bottoms down to your knees in one go.

and then, with considerate care, right between your thighs — two long, aristocratic fingers dipping into your slick folds, already drenched with arousal and need.

“so wet.” he murmured, voice thick with disbelief. “all this for me?”

you could only whimper in response, hips grinding back into his hand, asking for more.

draco slipped a finger inside — just one — curling it expertly, teasing the gummy spot that made you see stars behind the blindfold. then another joined, his knuckles gliding with ease as he fingered you open, slow and rhythmic, relishing every soaked sound your cunt made.

“draco– please–”

he leaned forward, hot breath brushing your ear. “i know what you need, dear.”

yet the fingers left you. you nearly cried from the loss, pushing your hips back in an attempt to reconnect with his digits. but they were replaced immediately by the blunt, aching head of his cock, nudging your entrance. you arched further, offering yourself like a prize.

and draco took you like he’d earned it.

with one smooth thrust, he sheltered himself inside, forcing a plethora of moans from the both of you. his grip on your hips turned bruising, holding you steady as he bottomed out, hips flush to your ass, balls close to your clit, cock buried deep where only he belonged.

“fuck.” he hissed, bending over your back as his hips began to move. “so tight. so bloody warm. you were made for this. made for me.”

the pace he set was punishing — precise and powerful, years of immobility fueling each thrust. you clawed into the soil, gasping, whining and whimpering, the stretch of him making your body quake with need.

he held your hips like a man anchoring himself to reality, to you. his cock drove deeper with each thrust, the sound of skin slapping and wetness growing louder, filthier. then he reached down and found your clit, rubbed in merciless circles, as he plowed into you harder from behind.

“say it.” he growled, voice ragged. “say you’re mine.”

you choked on a moan. “yours– draco. i’m yours–!”

“yes, yes, you are.” he thrust harder. “mine to fuck. mine to deflower in the dirt if i so wish. mine to keep.”

soon, your orgasm hit like lightning — white-hot, rolling through your limbs and stealing your breath away. you came around his cock with a cry, pussy clenching so tight it drew a broken, gasping moan from him.

draco wasn’t far behind. he slammed into you once, twice, trice — then spilled another load deep inside, heat flooding you, his cum thick and scorching against your velvety walls. his hands trembled on your body, his breath heavy with relief and admiration.

“mine forever.”

when he pulled out, slow and attentive, your cunt ached from the loss, pulsing to be filled again and again. his fingers trailed your thighs, rubbing around your entrance and smearing the mess he’d made of you. spreading the sticky mixture of your bodies around in utter admiration.

“you bewitched me.” he spoke from behind you, accusing you of witchcraft like he wasn’t the one cursed to be half-statue.

be it jest or fact, you had no moment to respond as his mouth, hot and wet, latched onto your puffy cunt.

“w–wait, draco.” but he didn’t listen, clutching your hips again and forcing you to stay still as he lapped up your release.

he moaned low against your cunt, the sound guttural— unrefined — like a man slipping the leash after centuries of stillness. his tongue moved like he was painting scripture onto your folds, worshipping, devouring, humming with dark delight.

“oh, fuck— draco.” you gasped, unable to do anything but rut your hips back against his face, face collapsed over the dirtied pavement. he growled in approval, fingers digging into your thighs, spreading you wider, eating you deeper.

his tongue lapped up every drop of your combined slick, every pulse of arousal still leaking from your quivering pussy. he didn’t miss a thing. not a tremble. not a twitch.

and if you tried to squirm away, overstimulated, crying with need, he dragged you right back, nose buried between your cheeks and taunting complaints on his lips.

“no.” he muttered darkly. “you don’t run from this. not when i’ve waited centuries to taste you.”

his voice was muffled by your flesh, filthy and fervent. the sharpness of his accent cracked around the vowels like he was losing himself, becoming undone in the most deliciously undignified way.

then he lifted his face from your core just enough to speak clearly.

“you've ruined me.” he said, breathless. “made me fuck like a peasant on the dirt. like i’ve never known silk or propriety. i’m humiliating myself for your cunt, and i don’t even care.”

you let out a helpless sound, somewhere between a sob and a moan, his confession making your cunt drool more on his tongue.

he licked another stripe through your folds, groaning like it hurt. “do you understand what that means, darling? aristocracy runs in my veins.”

briefly tonguing your leaking entrance, he then continued. “but all it took was a gardener with gentle hands and sweet words to make me rut into the grass like i’d forgotten my title.”

draco dragged your hips higher, adjusted your knees against the soil like he was aligning art — then sucked your clit into his mouth and moaned as he did.

you screamed.

your thighs quivered like leaves in a powerful wind. your hands clawed at the hedge in front of you. and still he feasted.

draco malfoy, the statue who had once stood cold and untouchable, now on his knees, face buried in your dripping cunt, completely captivated by the taste of you.

and all you could do was sob his name into the dusk, voice wrecked, as your second orgasm crashed over you. he didn’t stop until your legs collapsed and your body went boneless in the dirt; his lips shiny, chin slick, and expression wickedly dazed.

then, finally, with all the self-satisfaction of a man who had just claimed divinity, he leaned down to whisper in your ear.

“take accountability, my darling.”

©dearmisshoney 2025. do not copy, translate, or claim any of my writings or works as your own.

tags: @theodoresvalentine, @cafechichay, @lov3notts, @nottslove

[uncuredturkeybacon]

𝚊𝚌𝚌𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚕 𝚕𝚊𝚞𝚗𝚌𝚑 || 𝚔𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚒𝚗 𝚡 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛

in which you and kate didn't mean to soft launch

The morning before game day feels exactly like every other morning in the second year of your WNBA career — slow, sleepy, quiet. Kate’s already up before you, slipping on her hoodie and pulling her hair into a lazy bun as she pads around the kitchen, humming some vaguely familiar country song. You watch her from your spot on the couch, half-asleep under a blanket you never remember unfolding, cradling a mug of coffee she definitely brought you without asking. That’s just how it is. That’s how it’s always been.

Since Iowa. Since sneaking hand-holding on buses and late-night FaceTimes during long road stretches. Since the tears when her name was called on draft night and the breathless laughter when yours followed a few picks later. Since the Valkyries took you both — different teams at first, then finally, together again. Five years now. Two as pros. One married. But no one knows that part. Not really.

The league knows you're close. Your teammates definitely know. Close can be everything and nothing all at once. Best friends. Roommates. Ride-or-dies. Married? That one’s been just yours.

Until today, maybe.

You’re walking into Chase Center like you always do. Grey sweats, Jordans, one AirPod in, badge swinging from the lanyard they gave you your rookie season. Kate’s already gone in ahead — she always stops for every staffer she knows, and she knows all of them. You hung back, scrolling on your phone, texting your brother something dumb about his fantasy football team. Normal. Easy.

You don’t even realize someone’s filming her until you round the corner and hear her voice first — bright, full of that familiar midwestern cheer, just a little too excited for a morning shoot.

“Man…,” she’s saying, face animated. “A little dramatic right now, you know.” Her eyes are wide, her dimples deep.

“Do you have a favorite?”

“Chelley’s my favorite,” she says, head tilting, right hand clotting the strap of her backpack.

“Who do you want next off the island?”

She laughs, not wanting to name any names, left hand sliding out of her pocket to cover her face. 

“I think there’s a specific person who has caused a little bit of drama  in the villa and she might need to go. No names.” And when she laughs, there it is — silver. Not flashy, not big, not center-staged, but unmistakable. Her wedding band.

“Understood.”

“See you guys!” She walks away, jogging up the steps, waving goodbye to the woman like they’re old friends.

You take a breath. Step forward. The same girl turns toward you, phone already lifted. “Hey! You mind if I ask you something quick?”

You shrug. Smile, keep it casual. “Shoot.”

“Do you watch Love Island?”

You laughed, short and dry. “Unfortunately.”

“Unfortunately?”

“I get pulled in every time. It’s, like, a toxic little ritual now.”

You moved your hand to mimic a spinning wheel—an endless cycle—and for just a second, your left hand slipped out of your pocket. The camera caught it. The light it. The dainty silver band, delicate against your skin, practically glowed under the overhead light near the door.

It was barely a second. But it didn’t need to be more than that.

Your team wins the game, able to lock the other team on defense, making their lives harder. 

That night, you drove home in silence together. Her hand on your thigh. Your fingers loosely wrapped around hers. The night sky bled over the Bay Bridge as the stars glistening the skyline, and you rolled the windows down just enough to smell the salt in the air. It felt like the calm before the storm.

You lived in a quiet apartment near the marina. Two bedrooms, open kitchen, soft white walls lined with framed jerseys and photo booth strips from a million years ago. Home.

You were in the kitchen reheating pasta when Kate wandered into the living room, phone in hand. “Babe?”

“Mhm?”

She sat on the couch, brows furrowed. “Did you check TikTok yet?”

You frowned, spooning pesto around the bowl. “No, why?”

“Uh…” She turned the phone toward you. “We’re kind of blowing up.”

You set the spoon down and walked over, wiping your hands on a dish towel. The WNBA’s official TikTok account had posted a video captioned,

“Two bombshells have entered the Arena. Kate Martin & Y/N Y/LN give us all the Love Island USA tea!”

The clip was barely a minute long, clips switching between you and Kate. Her laughing. You denying it. But what the fans noticed wasn’t your answers.

It was the rings.

The comments were already in chaos.

Kate blinked at you, mouth half-open like she was trying to laugh but hadn’t quite committed. “So…”

You leaned over the couch arm and kissed her temple. “So.”

“You think they’ll let us stay mysterious after this?”

You reached for her hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. “They’ll try. But I think the ring did the talking.”

She looked at you. Really looked. The way she did when you said I do in front of three people on a foggy hike during a vacation, both of you crying like idiots. The way she did after the draft, waiting for your name to be called, heart thundering.

“I don’t mind,” she said finally. “I kind of… like that they know.”

You smiled. “Me too.”

Your phones buzzed again and again that night. Mentions. Edits. Old clips from college resurfacing. Conspiracy-theory TikToks unearthing that one photo of you holding hands in the background of a locker room celebration your senior year.

You let it all happen.

For the first time in five years, you didn’t rush to shut the door behind you.

You sat on the couch together, legs tangled, bowls of pasta growing cold. Kate pulled you close, tucked her face against your shoulder, and sighed softly into your hoodie.

“Wife,” she murmured. “Guess the secret’s out.”

You kissed her hair. “About time.”

[hellowoolf]

something, somehow, someday

chapter 4: close to you | prev | next | series masterlist

series summary: you know you will love satoru for the rest of your life, but when you wake with his cursed energy in your navel there is no option but to flee. what future is there for a child of a god? at 18 satoru is without you, and you make off with a piece of him you hoped he'd never meet.

pairing: secret baby daddy!gojo x reader

tags: secret child trope, angst (lots), eventual fluff, eventual smut, hurt/comfort, a lot of yearning :P, chapter specific: SMUT, unprotected piv, creampie (sorry), fingering,

a/n: thank you guys for your responses on the poll! this one is more than double the average length of the other chapters (~8k) and i plan to keep that convention from here on out. i hope you enjoy this one >:)

18+! minors dni <3

~~~~~~~

it is a funny feeling, YOU find, making your life new with a thing so familiar. to open your door so often and find satoru standing there, letting him bring food and splaying himself on your couch, walking with him in the heavy mist at dusk, it fills your lungs like smoke, the nostalgia thick and cloying. you remember all of it, it comes back to you embalmed.  

but the differences between now and your time together in high school demand your attention in equal measure. your son, for one: though it’s impossible to find the sight of him with his father unnatural given how obvious their relation is. with their backs turned they move the same, too, something between them irrevocably tied. you had forgotten the way satoru wrought blades of grass between his fingers when he laid in it until you had to clean both their palms of chlorophyll.

nonetheless your affection for satoru is much more hulking a thing than it ever was, supplanted by the tangible aftermath of the ways you used to love him. when takara lets him pick him up, grips to his collar as satoru balances him on his hip, you are defenseless. the softest parts of you win out. 

still, neither you nor satoru make any attempt to name the arrangement you’ve come upon. he is resolutely your child’s father and has stepped into that role with grace, and there are artifacts of your intimacy—his hand on your lower back, brushing your hair from your shoulder blades, an almost kiss, once—but mostly you let the joy of your child consume your time. 

and it shouldn’t bother you. you remember feeling so certain in high school that letting him fuck you was enough, that to love him quietly was a privilege. you suppose you still mostly believe that. but there are moments when takara is asleep and satoru lingers in your kitchen, and the want flares bright then. you are at a loss watching him leave with that look on his face, like he’s afraid you’ll ask him to stay and terrified you’ll let him leave. you sometimes wait a moment before locking the door behind him.

jujutsu tech stands like a graveyard around you, so full of memory the buildings almost sag. you haven’t been back here since the night takara came to you.

“oi!” satoru bellows from across the courtyard, hand high and wagging. 

takara holds a grip on your pant leg, one blue eye peeking out. you feel him loosen a little when he sees his dad, and then refasten when megumi and tsumiki emerge behind him. 

when satoru first suggested you both come to meet them you had hesitated. you were honest; there was something final about this last introduction. there would be nothing else left for each of you to keep separate from the other, your lives entirely reconnected. satoru had laughed at you in that way that makes your heart turn, and that sound was all it took for you—weak to him—to agree.

satoru comes rushing to takara, scooping him from behind you and holding him to his side. takara screeches, half afraid and half delighted. tsumiki walks to you without hesitation, little hand held out for you to shake. 

“it’s nice to meet you,” she says. her smile is soft, a little secret, but you can tell she is pleased with herself for her manners. you smile back.

“it’s nice to meet you, too.” 

she looks up at takara in satoru’s arms and waves. takara is frozen, too shy to move, so satoru takes his chubby wrist and waves it a little. tsumiki giggles. “they’re like twins.”

you lean in a little conspiratorially. “i know. i carried him for nine months and have nothing to show for it.”

she giggles behind her hand before turning to her brother. “don’t be rude,” she admonishes.

megumi cannot hear her, it seems. he’s watching takara paw at satoru’s shirt, turning in his hold as gojo points to the various buildings to explain what they are. to himself, or maybe to you, megumi whispers: “it’s so freaky.”

tsumiki scoffs lightly and goes to elbow him but you can only laugh again, louder this time. he may not be related to satoru but he was certainly raised by him. “you are exactly as satoru described,” you admit.

megumi furrows his brows and crosses his arms. yes, so furious, satoru had said once. “how exactly did he describe me?”

“as a little shit,” satoru offers, one palm now cupped over takara’s ear. megumi’s mouth falls open a moment before making a fist with each hand and bringing them in front of him. satoru only rolls his eyes and uses his knee to knock his arms out of place. megumi practically growls something about i’m really gonna do it someday and tsumiki taunts back at him: you’re such a liar!

oh, but that look on satoru’s face, he is so pleased. his eyes squint with it, you can almost see the satisfied breathing of his cursed energy, satoru is happy. it makes you beam at him and his breath catches when he sees it. 

takara wriggles out of his grip and stations himself at your legs again, but doesn’t hide this time. tsumiki is completely enamored, cooing again, “hi, takara!”

takara sucks in a little breath. “hello.”

tsumiki claps her hands together and looks up at you and gojo. “can we show him around? please?”

“what is there to show?” satoru asks.

“the training room, our old bedrooms, the koi fish—”

your eyes widen. satoru’s gaze flits to you, frantic, and you smirk, the tiniest thing. the koi fish? you mouth. satoru’s cheeks flush pink as he shakes his head slightly, but the damage is done, he knows. tsumiki is still listing menial places across campus.

you squeeze takara’s shoulder. “what do you think, bubba?” he looks at you, owlish, and then at tsumiki, before nodding. she takes his hand with a pleased squeal and the three putter off together.

satoru stands boyish before you as you straighten again. he tends to keep his blindfold off around takara—whether to keep from frightening him or for a more profound reason you don’t know—but he is bared to you without it. he knows exactly what you’ll say, lifting a hand as he turns and starts towards his office: “don’t.”

you skip to catch up with him. “oh, no, i think i have to.”

“i’m just a friend to nature.”

you howl. “you’re just as dishonest as you always were.”

he doesn’t dignify that with a response, pushing into his office and letting you inside. the walls are a dark wood, mostly bare save for the few bookshelves bloated with old novels and records and manila folders. a handful of pens scatter across the desk, like he’d needed to finish a sentence urgently before standing. there’s a record player on the windowsill, fuzzy with dust but clean in places around the arm. it looks like he’d used it recently for the first time in years. most of all it smells like him, mint and cedar and sugar, and you almost double over sick with it. 

satoru settles into his chair as you trace a finger along the spines of his books, his eyes igniting your back but you refuse to turn, you want him to watch. “you’ve done a great job with them,” you admit.

“you think so?”

you just barely twist your head over your shoulder to show him the sincerity on your face. “of course i do.”

he runs a hand through his hair. “they seem to like takara.”

you turn fully now to lean your back on the shelf. “everyone likes takara.”

he chuckles, fond. “yeah, i guess so.”

the sounds of this place are so startlingly the same, you think. the serenity is strange and charged, but nonetheless campus was always quiet enough to hear the wind through the leaves. you hear it now as you flip through mission files and reports: special grade, special grade, grade one, special grade, suguru geto. you put them down.

“is it weird to be back?”

you nod, gesturing around the room. “i’ll admit i was hoping for more of a welcome. is nobody else here?”

“yeah, i asked them to give us the afternoon so takara wouldn’t be overwhelmed for his first time.”

you pout, mainly to bare your lip to him but there is truth in it, too. “nobody wanted to see me?”

satoru shakes his head. “i wanted you all to myself,” he admits. and it’s teasing, easy, he says it like it doesn’t cost him anything, but you know he is like you: he almost never says something he doesn’t mean.

“how did they react when you told them?”

“that i have a son? kept a secret by his villainous mother?”

your eyes narrow but you’re grinning as you respond: “yeah.”

he cocks his head and kisses his teeth. “yaga said he was disappointed in you.”

“for leaving?”

“no, for letting me…” he smiles, wolfish for a second before it fades into something friendlier, “for giving me the opportunity.” you laugh, a bark of a sound, halfway humiliated. you nod him on. “and shoko was the one who found you, so, there wasn’t anyone else to tell.”

your hand finds your arm and you squeeze your bicep once, twice, swallowing around the tragedy in his confession: that all the people you used to know here are gone somehow. you hadn’t visited haibara’s grave since you left; nanami helped you lug a stone out by the stream and you grew flowers around the base, yellow pansies and red carnations. you remember kento pointing to them in a flower language book so you could conjure them properly, remember the promise you made not to tell a soul what they meant. 

the memory must show on your face, because satoru says then, “i still water those flowers you made by haibara’s grave.”

you smile at him, watery and real. you add on, “and feed my fish,” and he laughs like a surrender. 

you move to the record player just behind him and he swivels his chair to follow you. something seizes in your belly at the feeling of him scrutinizing you, the weight of his looking a leaden thing against your skin. you thumb through the few vinyls resting in the window before stopping on one. the words stick to your teeth like honey but you spit them as best you can: “this is mine.”

you hear satoru stand and look over your shoulder. frank sinatra’s close to you: the sleeve is long stained and yellowed, waterlogged in one corner, but the record inside is pristine. 

you remember the first time your grandmother taught you how to play her gramophone. her hands guided your smaller ones across the pavilion, down to the plateau; it was old and rusted, even then, something she’d bought second hand as a girl. but she had collected hundreds of records, they made piles throughout her home, and every afternoon you selected one to play. close to you was her gift to you when you entered jujutsu tech.

of course, you never had a record player. all three years it sat unused on your desk, a remembrance, still smelling like the tatami from her living room. she had told you once that sinatra taught her how to speak english, which you mostly believed; her english vowels opened with the syrup of the american east-coast, and she held each word a moment too long, like it took a great deal of effort not to sing them. 

you run your knuckles along the sleeve, feeling the still-familiar places where the gloss has faded and the paper catches. you hardly notice how close to your back satoru has drifted until he reaches around you to remove the record and situate it on the player. you freeze, his looming figure warm around you, his arms brushing your shoulders as he fiddles with the tone arm. you hope he can’t feel your heartbeat through your spine, but it rushes so deafening in your ears you cannot discern either way.

it could happen to you crackles to life from the speaker and you feel like you’ve been swallowed by space, on the cusp of a wrinkle. you wonder whether time has really suspended around you or if it’s only this, this song and this man at your back. your breathing is uneven and satoru does not step back, head craned a little to bring his chin closer to your shoulder. 

slowly, almost self-consciously, he braces each hand on the sides of the windowsill, keeping you surrounded. 

“it’s been so long since i’ve heard this song,” you whisper. the melody chimes and swings around the violin and you cannot help but tilt your head back a little into satoru’s chest, overcome with the ghost of the music as it hangs above you. satoru lets your weight lean slightly into him, unmoving.

“i hope it’s okay that i took it.” his voice rumbles through your bones before you hear it. you nod and it scrapes against his sternum. the friction stirs something in him, you think, because then he’s bringing a hand to your stomach, fingers long and splayed across your entire torso, and he rests his cheek fully on the back of your head. it would almost look like you were dancing if you began to move, but neither of you seem willing to risk it.

“do you ever wonder what it would have been like?”

you don’t need him to clarify. “all the time,” you confess. the sun moves behind the clouds outside, and you catch a moment of the both of you in the reflection. 

his hand tightens around your middle, holding you against him. the song threatens to end but he keeps his arm banded around you. “are we friends now?”

you laugh softly. “i honestly don’t know.”

he nods before bringing his other hand to your chin. he spreads the pads of his fingers, feeling the shape of your jaw, looking for something, for you. “would you let me kiss you, if i asked?”

“yes,” you say, but it comes out more breathless than you intend. your thighs press together and you’re sure he notices with how his hips cage you in, but he only hums, removing the hand around your chin. 

“it’s a bad idea,” he breathes, but still his nose brushes at the juncture of your neck and your shoulder. you shudder and nod. it is. 

and despite how badly you want him, you do not turn and demand it. it’s so precarious now, and with satoru in takara’s orbit you cannot run again, a chain fastened from your rib to his. you know fucking him would be a reckless idea now, but god, he presses one, slow kiss to the bared skin of your shoulder and your body remembers him. his hips press just slightly further into your ass as he sighs onto the same spot, his breath cooling the heat of his lips where they branded you, his cock alive and right there. but the both of you know it: you are cowards. he untangles himself, and you let him sit back in his chair before moving.

~~~~~~~

SATORU is certain now; you are going to kill him. his grave will be beautiful, he thinks, flowery and green and alive with your energy, but his autopsy will have your name all over it, your lipstick.

he supposes, for his part, that much of your proximity is his fault. a stronger man wouldn’t have stayed in your apartment past takara’s waking hours, used his hands to guide you on the sidewalk, held your hips to his cock in his office windowsill earlier today. and satoru has lived a life of self restraint, has been a shackled man to his own whipping post, but he has found himself helpless to the feeling of your body on his skin.

he had been so irreparably hurt when he saw you in the park that day, or at least it had felt that way at the time. something grew in him then, a tumor with teeth, and he was certain it could never feel the same with you as it once had, that he would withhold something precious from you forever in some lasting spiteful act of defiance. and nevermind the fact that even hours later he moved to hold you, could barely restrain the instinct to kiss you again, was never even angry: for about 24 hours, satoru was sure that he would never be in love with you again.

but even the sharp canines of that wound have dulled with weeks of your presence. the smell of you on your couch when he lays on it, the afternoon scenery of you playing with takara in the park curtained by your vines, your laugh in his office, by your door, in his head. you are an apparition haunting him, one he can touch, and it’s killing him. 

and he knows he should not pursue anything with you. he knows you know this, too. your nebulous reconnection is unsteady at best—a strange amalgam of your old intimacy and the people you’ve become—and access to takara is too important to him to risk. and neither of you would say this, but the fact of your leaving in high school remains a reminder that at any moment you are capable of disappearing again. it’s something satoru always loved about you, actually. you make your own life wherever you step. what a beautiful thing you are. 

he feels ridiculous for thinking of you as often as he does. but how could he not? he visits at least daily to spend time with his son and you are always there, a vision. he sees you in takara, too, his little love. when he tries to explain how to use limitless, takara bears down into himself, thinking to the point of exhaustion. he has gotten that from you, satoru knows.

but it wasn’t a conscious thought that satoru has begun falling back into love with you—or, really, that he has plummeted into the well of it—until today, seeing you laugh with megumi . tsumiki had pointed at you from behind your back: she’s so pretty! and he had nodded without thought, proud as if you were his to boast for. and then, your teasing voice nipping at his heels as he brought you to his office, he realized that he was yours. he should have known some time in the thousand minutes he’s spent feeding your koi.

the smell of your cooking wafts into your living room as he reads to takara on his lap. you’re humming that song from earlier, it could happen to you, and the domesticity makes him beam like an idiot. yes, he thinks, that’s about the most succinct way to put it; he is an idiot for you. takara points to the page and reads a sentence himself.

“yes!” satoru encourages.

“don’t yell,” takara says, patting satoru’s leg as though he’d worked himself up.

“yessir.”

“come in to eat!” you call from the kitchen. takara scrambles to the sound of your voice and satoru is no better. the three of you settle to the table, takara’s legs dangling in his chair, and satoru knows he shouldn’t but he presses his foot to yours under the table. you give him a look, fleeting and knowing, but you don’t move. takara eats exactly the way you do, and satoru wonders whether you’ve noticed.

“what time do you go into work tomorrow?”

“i’m opening, actually, so i’ll head to the cafe early,” you grumble. “i’ll take my lunch break at 8 to take takara to preschool.” 

satoru shakes his head. “i don’t have any missions until the afternoon. why don’t i take him?”

“i don’t have an extra key for you.”

“he could sleep over,” takara offers, barely looking up from his food. you look startled by the suggestion, at first, and satoru is sure he looks much the same, but when the shock subsides he cannot help the little grin that tugs his lips up. you cock your head minutely, but he’s known you long enough to know you mean: don’t push it. 

“bubba, there isn’t enough space,” you explain. 

you had told satoru early on that you started in a one bedroom, fixed a nursery in most of it and fit yourself on a twin bed in the corner. when the owner of the cafe retired, though, she had let you have the place. you made enough now to scrape by with two bedrooms; satoru remembers how dignified you were to recount the whole thing, how hard it was not to kiss you when you smiled in your own self-satisfaction. 

“why can’t he sleep in your room?” takara asks. satoru smiles bigger, nudges your foot under the table. 

“because he…can’t.” you’re becoming flustered now and it only thrills him more.

“i really would like to take him,” he offers, though the sincerity is cut with the sound of his smirk.

you run your hands over your face, mumble out a little groan that softens into a hum at the end, but still your foot doesn’t move away from the press of satoru’s under the shadow of the kitchen table. 

“don’t you need to get home to megumi and tsumiki?”

satoru is beaming like he’s already won. he has. “they have a sitter.”

your head tips back as you say, mostly to the ceiling, “fine. but you’re sleeping on the couch.”

and truthfully he doesn’t mind much at all. he is voracious for more time with takara, for more time in your space, for benign moments you might take for granted. he wants to brush his son’s teeth at night and fix his hair in the morning. he taps your foot one more time: thank you. and you nod, almost imperceptibly: you’re welcome. 

~~~~~~~

as much as YOU might have resisted it, there really was about an hour or so when letting satoru sleep on your couch seemed like a good idea. it felt, if you can admit it, easy, the both of you moving around one another as the evening twilight overtook the windows. and it was so plain to see on takara’s face that he was pleased, too, to have you both here. sitting on the edge of his bed together as you tucked him in, watching his first few moments of sleep, made space for a new sort of intimacy. when satoru reached for your hand in the dark you did not pull away.

of course, you regret it now. maybe you’ll regret it forever. by the time you’re brushing your teeth you know you have made an error of cosmic proportions. some time between settling blankets on the couch and joining you in the bathroom satoru had unbuttoned most of his shirt and removed his belt, sidling next to you at the sink with the spare toothbrush you gave him like you weren’t a moment from dropping dead on the counter. you’re too afraid to look at yourself in the mirror; you already know your cheeks are red, that he can feel the rush of your blood in your jugular from inches away. 

“you seem uptight,” he says, though it comes out foamy around the toothpaste in his mouth.

“i’m not used to having people over.” you can’t look anywhere but the porcelain of the sink, too petrified of what you’d say if you looked at him in full. you remember this afternoon in his office and shift on your weight a little.

“you don’t have a lot of sleepovers?” he asks through a grin.

you’re so focused on not making eye contact with him in the mirror that you answer him honestly. “i don’t have any.”

you hear his toothbrush stop. he spits in the sink before leaning on it to face you. “what do you mean you don’t have any?”

you take a deep breath before turning. god he’s so pretty, even more stunning like this, a little unspooled. “what do you want me to say? i’ve never had anyone else to take care of takara. it’s not like i can…” you don’t even know how to end that sentence.

the teasing look leaks from satoru’s face slowly. he asks you with more earnestness than you think you can stand: “have you not had sex since high school?”

it’s not even fully out of his mouth before you’re pushing past him and out of the bathroom but he is relentless behind you—he always was—and you feel him an inch from your back as you walk towards your bedroom door.

“wait a second—”

“satoru, i’m not talking about this with you.”

“no, but i’m being serious.”

“so am i!” you turn at your door and try not to shudder at how close he is. his eyes glow in the low light, a man made of comets.

“i just,” he huffs a little, “i feel bad, i guess.”

“what?”

“well you—you’ve been taking care of takara alone all this time and you haven’t gotten…you haven’t gotten to do—”

“satoru, i don’t need your pity about my sex life, okay?”

“but that’s my point! it’s not just about your sex life, it’s—it’s everything.” he ruffles the back of his head, almost embarrassed, you think. “i feel bad that you’ve been alone all this time.”

you kick your heel against the door behind you to ground yourself. “it’s my fault, isn’t it?” and it comes out a little small, more pathetic than you’ve ever heard yourself. satoru buckles with it.

“baby,” he starts, and you think his hand flexes to reach for you, but you put your palm on his chest to keep him in place. he hasn’t meant to call you that, you know, the endearment from years ago clawing back, finding purchase on his tongue. his heart murmurs like a bird behind his shirt.

“listen, i—i don’t need you to pity me for a decision i made. especially because i don’t regret any of it.”

he breathes out quick, almost angry, but you know not at you. before either of you can stop him, he holds your wrist to keep your hand on him, thumbs your pulse on one side. he does this a lot, you think. you wonder if he knows that you can feel his heartbeat, too, through the pads of his fingers. and there’s a moment, among the sounds of your breathing and the creak of the floorboards under his feet, when you think it is all over, that you’ll let him kiss you against your door. earlier today you felt like a coward for denying him, but that self-flagellation has waned. no, it takes a great deal of courage now to press your hand more firmly into him, to not rise onto your toes and suck at the skin under his jaw.

“goodnight, satoru,” you whisper, and shut yourself into your bedroom before you lose your resolve.

the night is cruel to you. it feels very much like sleeping with a black hole in your living room; you cannot ignore the thought of him draped over your sofa, body too long to fit comfortably. even with your eyes closed you can feel him from a room away. 

you toss under the covers, try to at least become entangled enough in your sheets that you cannot rise from your bed to check on him. you hope he’s fallen asleep by now, that you’re the only one left in this apartment awake.

being alone in the dark gives you more time to think, more time to resolve a decision you cannot yet name. you have been so insistent that to become ensnared again by satoru’s pull would be a mistake, let him leave you at the windowsill, stiff armed him at your door. you wonder whether any of it matters in light of the fact that you are utterly in love with him. of how much consequence could the physical distinction be now? in truth, you can’t tell whether you are freeing yourself from an obsolete stipulation or looking for any reason to abandon it.

in the blue midnight streaking through your curtains you can admit to yourself that a part of you, the fleshy part that wants for things, is simply too afraid that you need satoru more than he needs you, and to reconcile that is a task too treacherous to ask of yourself. what of the moment when, slick with sweat and the smell of sex, you move to kiss him again and he turns away? it’s all hypothetical, of course, but still it plagues you like a memory. and you suppose you have no reason to fear it at all; he has made clear enough that he wants you. 

it almost feels ridiculous to pine so excruciatingly over the father of your child. you’ve already done all of this before, no less as a teenager, and somehow now, a self-actualized adult, you hesitate and turn your knees in. you flip onto your other side with a huff. you’re only in a tanktop and shorts but you feel like you’re suffocating, or worse: something from inside of you is threatening to come loose.

you wonder whether he’s waiting for you in your living room. what a horrific thing to wonder. 

you creak open your door slowly and pad out.

it looks like satoru has given up on sleeping already. he’s sat upright, head tipped over the back of the couch and legs spread, an arm hanging over his eyes. you know he can hear you—you think he might have heard the moment you decided to come out—but he waits for you to address him.

“satoru,” you whisper. at last, he lifts his head, eyes sleepy but undeniably pleased to see you. he pats the spot next to him on the couch as he assesses your mild state of undress and you settle there, facing him. “i can’t sleep.”

he shakes his head. “i can’t either.” though he doesn’t look all that displeased, certainly not as he bends over to collect your legs and drape them over his lap. you let him. you let him drag one enormous hand up your bare leg, too, and he stops just below the knee but still you watch as goosebumps follow his fingers. your body is traitorous but you can’t find it in you to mind.

“when did we get so weird, huh?” he asks you.

“how do you mean?” “sometimes it feels like it used to feel,” he thinks about how you may take that a moment longer, “when we used to be friends.” you nod slowly. “sometimes it feels like i don’t know you at all.” 

honesty looks so pretty on his face. his eyes are slightly narrowed but they’re no less auroral, his lips slightly swollen on the bottom as he bites them between breaths. he points at your nose. “and sometimes, you make that face at me, and i—fuck i mean what am i supposed to do with that?”

you scrunch your nose. “what face am i making?”

“i mean you look—jesus, i don’t know.” he runs a hand through his hair, mussing it further, before continuing, “i just wish you wouldn’t keep thinking in your head.”

you can’t help but laugh softly, bumping your foot into his stomach. “where else am i supposed to think?”

he flails at the sound of your giggle but his lips turn up. “i don’t know! i just spend so much more time now wondering what’s going on in your head. i want to know.” and then, to devastate you further, you imagine, he adds: “you used to tell me.”

you slide a little further into the couch, lay more of your legs’ weight on his lap. he lets his hands drift up to your kneecaps now. “okay, satoru,” you relent. “what do you want to know?”

“you’ll tell me anything?”

“i suppose that’s what i’m offering, yeah.”

he grins. “okay…” he taps his finger on his chin and you snort. “are you still afraid of me being in takara’s life?”

“a little. i’m afraid for both of you. but he…he loves you now, i think. ultimately i’m glad he can know you.”

“what about in your life?”

“what about it?”

“are you glad i’m in your life again?”

you smile, wry. “i think so. even though you torment me and make me spill my secrets.”

he puffs his chest and tugs your legs further into him. you’re almost in his lap, a few inches from it, but whether you notice is a question he decides not to ask. “do you still trust me the way you used to?”

“yes.” you do.

“do you still like me as much?”

“in what way?”

“all of them.”

“you’re greedy,” you whisper.

something punches from satoru’s lungs but you cannot discern what comes out. he says only: “yes, i am. answer me.” 

with a defeated breath you shrug. “yes.” 

his hands have both stalled on your knees, each thumb an omen breaching the threshold of your thigh. your skin twitches, you think, but you can’t look away from his face. he looks like he’s released one foot over the edge of some decision, you can see one teetering moment in the air, and then the resolve sets in.

“do you know how much i still want you?”

your heart kicks. “no,” you confess.

his hands remember themselves again, gripping up your legs higher, higher, now with purpose as they swing around his hips and move you to his lap. straddling him you can feel how hard he is already and you’re certain he can feel your wetness through your shorts, the slick is humiliating and so much. you whine a little and it comes out through your nose. his cock twitches.

“not today in my office?” his right hand cups the back of your neck. “not an hour ago?” your chest rises and falls, stumbling over itself. “you don’t know?”

and you have no faith in your voice now so you only shake your head as much as his hold will allow. he presses his hips into you just once, a fleeting indulgence you’re unsure if he even intended, but you whine again and it looks like it hurts him. 

“let me show you, baby,” he coos, but it’s desperate, too, a prayer into your lips as he brushes his nose against yours. “just one more time.”

you haven’t even finished nodding before you’re kissing him, both of you groaning into the other at the sheer relief of the feeling, his hands grabbing for anything he can reach: around your back, your tit, the globes of your ass to grind you down against him. the fabric of your shorts catches on your clit as it swells and you moan something awful in the back of your throat.

he kisses you like all six years apart demand it, like he can feel how long it’s been in the truest sense, like all at once the wanting has frayed his nerves and your lips cauterize the veins. he bites your lip to make you gasp, taking the opportunity to lick into your mouth as it opens.

you grind your clit onto him again, rubbing little circles on his tip through your clothes and he pants with the pressure. 

“satoru,” you whine, and he ruts up, harder.

“oh, say my name like that again,” he pleads, lips trailing down from your lips to your neck. his tongue streaks hot against your skin, sucking and biting and grinding you onto him like his cock is inside you already.

“satoru,” you repeat, and it comes out clearer without his tongue on yours but just barely. 

“fuck.” he rips your tank top off before attaching to you again, leaving hickies in the hollow of your throat, down over each breast, before taking a nipple into his mouth and laving his tongue there.

your moans almost come out like hums, all strung together, and he preens at the sound of them. you can feel the damp spot on his pants growing as you spread your slick, each wet kiss on your chest demanding a new wave from you. 

“i don’t even need to prep you, do i? you’re already so f–fucking wet,” and he punctuates it with a gyration of his hips that would have made you scream had he not clamped a palm over your mouth. 

you’re almost deaf with the rushing sound of blood in your ears but still you crane to hear him, each filthy utterance a precious thing you covet as he ruts up into you. if you were in your right mind you might find it funny that the experience of dry humping him feels so profound but as it is you can think only of the feeling of his veins through two layers of fabric.

despite how he may have goaded at you he brings one hand down your navel and under your shorts, feeling through your folds and spreading the honey of you further. your mouth is fully dropped open but his hand is large enough to cover it.

“oh, baby—yeah, that’s it, grind on it—you’re dripping for me.” he says it in that pleased way that makes him sound like an animal. you roll your hips onto the pads of his fingers and pleasure shoots up your spine at the rub of them on your clit, around your entrance. he circles his middle finger once before sinking it in and you keen. he holds you still with his other arm, nose pressed to your ear now as he whispers in it.

“f—fuck this pussy is so fucking tight.”

your hole flutters and sucks his digit in and he revels in the grip as he fucks you on it slowly. you try to bounce yourself faster but he squeezes your middle again, bites your pulse as it bumps in your neck. he murmurs there: “let it last,” using his hold to swivel your hips on his hand. your nails grip to his shoulders, surely making marks through his shirt but he lets you, frenetic and buzzing like he gains as much from touching you as you do.

the heel of his palm presses up onto your nub and you bow into him further, and he takes the movement to press another finger alongside the first. something searing and hungry licks up your spine, you’re close already, but there’s no indignity in it. you tug on his hair to bring his face to yours again, pulling back from the hand clamped over your mouth to lick behind his teeth, moaning into his mouth. “cum for me baby, come on,” he encourages.

your eyes squeeze shut as you come undone, heat spasming around his fingers as you soak him to the wrist. “fuck, f–fuck, that’s it,” he curses, mainly to himself, you think. you’re only half-lucid as you come down but you feel him pull his fingers from you and lick them clean, groaning softly around them.

“fuck me, satoru, please.”

his hair doesn’t move as he nods, stuck now to his forehead damp with sweat. neither of you have the patience to remove anything else, simply tugging your shorts to the side and his cock from his pants before you’re dripping right over it. his tip catches on your entrance and you both go half-boneless with the feeling.

when you sink onto him you feel a little like you did in his office earlier in the day. like time has stopped, or maybe like it has all arrived at your fingertips, like you’re everywhere. you remember this feeling, a little bit, but it’s also undeniably new. the stretch burns but you hardly feel it, taking no time before sitting on him to the hilt. your head drops to his shoulder, little pants into his neck, and he lets out a shaky breath.

“fuck you’re so fucking tight, baby, this pussy was made for me,” he chokes into your ear. you each have a handful of the other between your fingers, the lines of your palms tattooing him even through his uniform he still has mostly on. you hope his brand you the same.

all it takes is one, slow pull of your hips before he’s rutting up into you again, not so much ruthless as intense, deep and pregnant with meaning and so precise you wonder whether he’s using his six eyes to assess the inside of you. with one hand he holds your face to his ear to consume your moaning that way. you whine and when he shudders, bucking harder, you whine again.

“o–oh, these sounds are mine, this pussy is mine,” he stutters. the squelch of your cunt sucking him in seems to only encourage him, and you make yourself wetter just hearing it.

“it’s so good, satoru,” you whine.

he laughs softly, manic, “yeah?”

and you only wail quietly again. with each snap of his hips you thrust yourself down, clit throbbing and catching on the little white scratch of his pubic hair, and his other hand, still handled on the plush of your ass, rubs you harder as you move. you vaguely hear your little ah! ah! ah! but mostly you can feel the pleasure building again, can feel the vein down the underside of his cock as you wring him harder.

“hah–i won’t–fuck–i won’t last if you keep squeezing me, baby.”

you only feel encouraged, sliding deeper, revelling more in the slip of your slick as it floods out of you.

“ah–-i’m close, i’m close,” you breathe.

“fuck yeah, i wanna feel you cum on my cock, let go for me.”

and you do. have you ever really denied him? your mouth drops open in a silent scream as your hips buck wildly, the pleasure seizing you from the inside out. satoru moans feeling you ride your high, panting into your ear, “tell me to pull out.”

you shake your head, little smile creeping over your face as he fucks you through your high. “isn’t the damage already done?” you ask breathlessly.

and he can only laugh for a second before his hips stutter and still, pulling you into him like he wants to crawl inside of you and live in your stomach

“fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck.”

his cum is so hot as it fills you, and so much, your own orgasm jolting you again, exulting in the feeling. 

he drops his forehead to your shoulder now, sweat of your collarbone meeting the beads on his hairline. the sounds of your breathing mix, too; your cum and your hands and your warmth, all of it intertwined with his, maybe forever. he kisses you one more time, sated now, along a hickey he’d left on your neck before. you return one to the corner of his mouth.

he doesn’t say anything when he sits up straight again, supporting the wings of your shoulders with his hands. there is only that look on his face, a cousin to the one you saw the first day he found you and takara, but so recognizably relieved this time: everything is different now.

~~~~~~~

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