#to be honest he makes me bark too | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

yanderenightmare · 5 months ago

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♡ TW: nsfw implication, enemies to lovers, kinda bitchy reader,

♡ FEM reader

Thinking about the poor college boy who’s struggling to get used to dorm life and his loud neighbor who isn’t making matters any better.

He has never been shy about telling someone off. People should have the common decency not to blast their infernal music so loud that the entire dorm shakes. And you, whoever you may be, are no exception—he thinks while pounding on your door with his fist. Fuck knows if you can even hear him over your speakers.

But lo and behold and despite all odds, you open up.

“Excuse me, can you turn it down?” His words might be polite, but his voice is anything but—glaring down at you… who quickly turned out to be a girl…

Yeah, definitely not the idiot ass-hat with the shitty body odor he was expecting. But a pretty girl in a short tank top without a bra and booty shorts so tight and short he would think you’d bought them ten years ago.

“It’s eight?” You raise your brow at him, face otherwise dull.

Okay, so you weren't what he was expecting. And sure, it might make his throat a little tight, among other things. But still, he not going to let it change anything.

“Yeah, I’m tryna study.”

That was a lie. He was actually about to go to bed. But he wasn’t about to tell you that. Judging by the way you were looking at him, he’d say you’d just laugh and slam the door in his face. Maybe even turn the volume up to spite him.

Not that telling you he was studying was any better.

“There’s something called a library for that sorta thing,” you drawl.

He’s right—you’re the sardonic type. There’s usually no use fighting with people like you, but still, he must stand his ground and insist, “Yeah, well, I prefer my room.”

You reply in kind, smiling now with a short excuse for a laugh, “Oh, what do you know, me too.”

You’re a little hard to read. That felt like sarcasm, but it wasn’t all that easy to tell. He’s mostly certain you couldn't care less, but at the same time, you’d humored him this long. So, maybe…

“You’ll turn it down then?”

As expected. You just laugh and shut the door in his face.

He stands there for a moment. You must be blowing your eardrums sitting in there. He thinks about knocking again, maybe dropping some of the politeness this time and demanding you turn it down.

But he ends up going back to his room. He decides then to wait another hour, thinking you might come to your senses despite your poor attitude. But at zero point, do you turn your music down by even a single lousy notch.

Lying in his room, he’s hoping someone else might come by and tell you off. That maybe then you’d listen.

But a couple more minutes later, he realizes he can’t wait for that to happen and decides to test his luck again. Abruptly springing from his bed, he marches over to your room. Doing as he did last time, nearly kicking your door in with his banging.

“Oh my god, dude, what is your problem!?” you bark once seeing him.

And his eye nearly twitches in turn. “My problem? Really? You’re one to talk!”

You gape at him, both glaring at the other.

“It’s eight-thirty. What? Is it your bedtime or something?”

“No. But I would appreciate it if I could hear myself think in my own room!”

“Oh? Well, maybe you should call your mommy and cry about it!”

Again, all you do is slam the door in his face. However, this time, you skip the laugh and settle for a simple yet efficient grimace that lets him know you’ll not be answering the door again.

Several days pass. He caved and invested in a pair of noise-canceling headphones. But still, he hadn’t been able to fall asleep when he wanted. But suppose that wasn’t all your fault. To be honest, he’d probably be struggling either way, with or without your music. It’s not easy living in a new place.

It’s lonely, too.

But that can’t be helped. At least not for him. He’s not too good at trying to make friends. And yet, there’s someone at the door.

Three firm knuckle knocks let him know. But who it might be is anyone’s guess. Still, he begrudgingly answers.

“Oh… so this is you, huh…”

It’s you—the hot but nasty girl next door, wearing that same pair of shorts he’s been thinking about every day without wanting to.

You don’t seem too pleased to see him either, even when you’d been the one to knock.

“Ugh…” You look around, scratching the back of your neck awkwardly before gritting your teeth and finally mustering up enough gall to actually spit out what you��d come there for. “You wouldn’t happen to have a screwdriver or something?”

This time, it’s him who raises his eyebrow. “Or something?” he repeats. “What would that be exactly?”

You scoff then, about to leave, grumbling out, “Never mind–” but he interjects before you’re fully turned around.

“Wait there.”

It’s to both of your surprise when he disappears into his room.

He isn’t gone long before he’s back with a screwdriver.

“Here.”

You don’t say anything, just rudely rush to grab it without even looking at him, but when you pull it to yourself, you’re pulled back, stuck to the same spot. He holds onto the other end, looking you right in your shocked eyes.

“You know, it’s customary to say thank you when someone does something for you.”

You look flushed—a little chagrined, maybe—but ultimately, you can’t really argue with it, mumbling out a bitter “Thanks.”

He smiles then, chuckles even. Not nicely. Smugly.

Admittedly, it’s not his best moment, but who can blame him? You haven’t exactly been so nice yourself. Right now, he can tell you almost feel like rejecting his offer altogether, but that refusing at this point would be too petty so you just have to grin and bear it.

It’s actually kind of cute.

“Bring it back once you’re done,” he says, then lets go of you, and off you go, nearly stomping away.

He goes back to studying, shaking his head at you. You can’t have many friends either with that attitude. Suppose you have that in common.

Sometime later there’s a frustrated scream coming from the other room. Then, the sound of a door handle roughly getting yanked, someone storming down the short distance of the corridor before throwing his door open unannounced.

“Your useless screwdriver isn’t doing its stupid job!” you yell in a whine, almost throwing the tool at him where he sits by his desk. It lands in his bed next to him instead.

You look utterly disheveled at this point. Dewy-faced and frustrated, hair a total mess and even hotter still. It’s really unfair. How come a bitchy brat like you looks like that, even when you’re a wreck? It shouldn't be allowed.

“I highly doubt it’s the screwdriver's fault. You positive it’s the useless one?”

This time, you just growl without words before turning on your heel, about to stomp out the same way you’d arrived—but again, he finds himself stopping you for whatever reason he still can’t understand.

“Wait.” He gets up from his chair and picks up the screwdriver you’d chucked. “Le’mme have a look.”

You shake your head with a scoff, “No way. I’m not letting you in my room.”

“You didn’t seem so reserved when you came barging into mine.” Ignoring you, he walks straight past you.

“Wait–” you protest, but he doesn't bother.

He just opens your door and reveals the breakdown you’d had just earlier. Having but one word to ascribe to the scene.

“Wow.”

Suppose you were both in your own right struggling with acclimating to dorm life…

“It’s not my fault I’m not a carpenter or whatever. The instructions said it was simple,” you excuse the mess of planks and screws and bits all belonging to your unassembled wardrobe among all the clothes that are meant to be in it. “They lied.”

He scratches his neck, feeling a little bad for you despite everything. This would take anyone over an hour—probably even more, to be honest. Even if you managed on your own, you’d have a hard time pushing it into place. Not that it’s any of his business. But hey… if he played his cards right, maybe he could get something out of this in the end.

“Alright. I’ll make you a deal,” he says then, folding his arms upon his chest while looking down at you. “I’ll set this up for you.” He leans down, that same smug smile from before plastered on his face as he comes with his condition, “If you promise to lower your music after eight.”

Honestly, with your looks, you could probably knock on just about anyone else's door and ask for their help instead. They probably wouldn’t ask anything in return. But hey, can’t blame a guy for trying.

And to his surprise, you actually seem to think about it. Maybe you’re one of those girls without a clue. You even do this cute thing where you chew your lip in thought, a furrow between your brows.

You look up at him when you’re finished. “Ten.”

You’re bargaining with him now? He was expecting you to say something like fat chance. But no, you’re really that desperate.

He thinks about agreeing but then doesn’t. No, it might be a little scummy of him, but since he’s gotten this far, he might as well keep the act up and stand his ground.

“Eight,” he insists.

And you’re face scrunches as you fold, going down to “Nine.”

But no, following the same logic that had worked for him up until now, he still doesn’t budge. “Eight.”

You purse your lips, and he thinks he’s blown it, that you’re just about ready to bark at him to get the fuck out. But you don’t. Instead, you become even cuter. Giving in with a sigh, “Okay, fine.”

He honestly can’t believe it. Though his face shows no shock, he’s dumbfounded on the inside. He can’t believe that worked. Here’s this chick who all but told him to go fuck himself just a few days ago, now all but begging him for his help. Or no, begging is a strong word, but still.

He has to go back into his room and fetch the rest of his toolbox. Turned out you did need an or-something—a drill. No wonder you weren’t managing. But after a little over an hour of tinkering while you lay on your bed reading a magazine—and at some point asking you if it was okay if he removed his shirt before he died of heatstroke, then bothering you for a drink—it was finally finished.

“Alright, all done.” He announced, and after sliding it into place for you, he clapped his hands together and said, “Ta-dah.”

He then takes a look at his wristwatch, wanting to see how long he’d spent, but comes away with another fun discovery.

“My my, would you look at the time?” he grins again, showing it to you. “Just passed eight.”

It makes him snicker. And not expecting a thank you after that comment, he just gathers his tools and slings his shirt over his shoulder, ready to excuse himself.

“Let me know if you need a cup of sugar, neighbor.”

He’s just about to open the door when you speak up.

“Thanks, but I'm good on sugar, actually.”

Your voice is a little different this time—not annoyed, though not chagrined like earlier either—no, something new. Something that makes him turn around again.

You’ve rolled off the bed, now standing just a short distance away, hips tilted, standing slanted with your arms crossed loosely, wearing those same tight little short shorts he’s never seen you without but could definitely picture on the floor.

Yeah, in his wildest dreams, or so he thought…

“I might need some help breaking in my bed, though, if you’re interested.”

You step closer, sizing him up where he stands, and then you smile, offering him a small coy laugh. “That is, of course, if it’s not already passed your bedtime.”

He swallows thickly—nearly drops the toolbox to the floor but manages to keep his cool, though just barely.

“No, I think I can help you with that.”

♡ BNHA – Bakugou, Touya, Natsuo ♡ JJK – Sukuna, Nanami, Geto, Megumi, Toji ♡ HQ – Tsukishima, Kageyama, Kuro, Iwaizumi, Sakusa ♡ CSM – Aki ♡ BLLK – Reo, Rin, Sae, Karasu ♡ AOT – Eren ♡ DS – Akaza, Sanemi, Genya ♡ WB – Sakura, Kaji

♡ FEM x M INSERT masterlist ♡ GN x M INSERT masterlist

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papayainsectorone · 2 months ago

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Nothing Personal.

summary: you show up after a breakup, not really heartbroken, only to be met with Lando’s usual mix of sarcasm and comfort between teasing banter and shared fries, a way-too-smooth suggestion changes the dynamic

content: 18+!! smut, nsfw, friends-to-lovers, fuck, oral (f!receiving + m!receiving), teasing, dirty talk

word count: 5.4k

pairing: lando norris x fem!reader a thought: new series who dis i clearly cannot overcome my ln4 obsession so... guess who got his own series now lol. i hope you enjoy it!! feel free to hit me up if you wanna be on the taglist alsooo — new divider?? made it myself?? it’s cute right?? let me have my moment walls are way too thin - series

Lando’s couch is still too deep, too soft, and far too familiar. Your legs are flung over his like they always are—like muscle memory—and his hands rest on your shins, thumbs moving in lazy circles while you tear into a box of fries like they personally wronged you.

Somehow, this is the only place that makes sense tonight.

“It wasn’t even good sex,” you mutter, chewing aggressively.

Lando lets out a bark of laughter, tipping his head back. “That’s the worst part.” “No,” you say, pointing a fry at him like a gavel. “The worst part is wasting three months on a man who thought eating you out was some kind of annual treat.”

He groans, dragging a hand down his face. “You’re joking.”

You just glare at him. “I’m genuinely considering writing a Yelp review.”

“Leave a voice note,” he suggests, voice deadpan. “I’ll animate it. ‘Hi, I’d like to report a man for crimes against pussy.’”

You laugh, loud and short, and it echoes into the comfortable silence between you—the kind only years of knowing someone can earn.

Because this? This has always been you and Lando.

Since you were kids sneaking out of karting camps to buy energy drinks and snacks, since you watched his first podium in your pajamas screaming into his voicemail. Since your first heartbreak, when he brought you a single Ferrero Rocher and said, “I’m shit at feelings, but I know this one’s your favorite.”

You were the first person he told when he got his F1 seat.

He was the first person you called after losing your virginity—drunk on cheap cider, whispering into his voicemail like it was a state secret.

When he started getting morning boners, you were the one he told, beaming with this stupid, smug pride.

“Rise and shine, baby,” he’d said, holding up a hoodie in front of his crotch. “I’m a man now.”

You’d almost pissed yourself laughing.

People always assumed there was something more—always. Teachers, teammates, partners. But there never was. You were chaos and sarcasm and trust, not slow-burning desire. The kind of friendship built on late-night FaceTimes and brutally honest advice and knowing exactly how to make each other laugh when it really counts.

It had always been a problem in past relationships.

“Too close,” they’d say. “Too flirty.” But neither of you ever cared.

Because Lando had always been your person. Still is.

You’d crash at his place more often than not—after parties, after races, after long days that didn’t even need an excuse. Sometimes you’d show up with nothing but takeout and he’d just nod and slide over on the couch. No questions. No explanations.

The walls in his flat were thin—paper-thin. You heard the whispers, late at night, from the girls he dated. Their voices just sharp enough to cut through the drywall. "Why does she stay over so much?" "Why don’t you send her home?" "Are you sure she’s just your friend?"

Lando always told you about them. Not to make you feel bad. Just... because he told you everything.

And yeah, sometimes you felt sorry—guilty, even—for being the shadow in the corner of his relationships. But you never apologized. Because it was always Lando and you. You and Lando. Friends. Always friends. The kind who knew the worst and best of each other and stayed anyway.

You knew the way he took his tea. The way his knee bounced when he was nervous. The way his voice dropped when he was pretending not to care. And he knew the song that always calmed you down. The nickname only your dad used. The face you made when you were about to cry and didn’t want anyone to notice.

There was no one else. Never had been.

So it wasn’t exactly surprising that you ended up here—on his couch, legs draped over his lap like it was the most natural thing in the world. Lando sat casually, one hand resting on your shins, the other stealing fries from the carton balanced on your stomach. Your head was tilted just enough to eat, the rest of you sprawled comfortably beside him. In the hallway, your hastily stuffed suitcase waited—silent proof that this was where you always landed when the rest of the world fell apart.

You sigh, flinging a fry into your mouth. “Honestly, I don’t know what I was thinking. Three months and not one orgasm that wasn’t self-made.”

He looks personally offended. “You stayed with someone who gave bad sex?”

“I’m mentally ill,” you say, deadpan.

Lando groans, loud and dramatic, flopping his head back against the couch. “At least you were getting laid!”

You smirk. “Oh, poor baby Lando. Don’t tell me world-famous F1 driver isn’t getting any.”

He squints at you, skeptical. “I’m serious. It’s not like that.”

You arch an eyebrow. “What, the women throwing themselves at you just aren’t your type?”

Lando shrugs, dragging a hand through his hair. “I don’t have time.”

You tilt your head. “You make time to beat Max at sim racing at 2am, but you can’t fit in a blowjob?”

That earns a crooked grin, but it’s softer this time—almost sheepish. “I don’t want hookups. I don’t want it to be… awkward.”

You blink. “Hookups are literally meant to be awkward. That’s half the point.”

He laughs, but there’s something under it. A flicker of honesty. “I mean, yeah, but—I want good. Not weird silences and ‘this was fun, see ya.’ I want someone who knows me. Who won’t make it feel like a transaction.”

You sit with that for a second, caught off guard by the realness in his tone.

And then he looks at you.

And you’re already looking at him.

Something curls in your stomach.

“I mean…” you start, voice quieter now. “You could be getting laid.”

The words are light, teasing on the surface—but they land heavy between you.

Lando doesn’t smile. Doesn’t deflect.

He just blinks. Slowly.

His hand tightens slightly on your shin.

“Don’t fuck with me,” he says, voice low.

You blink at him. “I mean… I wouldn’t necessarily not fuck with you.”

Lando stares at you like you just offered to punch him in the face and hand him a trophy for it. Then he abruptly shoves your legs off his lap and stands, muttering, “I think you’re having a stroke,” as he walks toward the kitchen.

You twist around on the couch, tracking him with your eyes. “Lando. It’s not like I’m in love with you.”

He pauses.

“It would just be—convenient?” you say. “You need someone. I need someone. We know each other. Why not?”

He turns slowly to look at you, like you’ve just asked him to join a cult.

“Why not?” he repeats, incredulous. “I know about a million reasons why not.”

You scoff. “What, do you not think I’m hot?”

He laughs—really laughs. “I’ve known you since you had one front tooth at age seven and would only wear mismatched socks. How could that possibly be hot?”

You gasp, mock-offended. “Wow. Wow.”

He grins. “What? You think I’m hot?”

You shrug, a little too casual. “I’ve obviously had worse.”

That wipes the smirk off his face.

He stares.

You can see the wheels turning behind his eyes—quick math, risk analysis, moral breakdown. His brow furrows. His mouth opens, then closes again. You swear he stops breathing for a second.

Then he says it.

“Fuck… okay, I guess. But we need rules.”

You groan. “Oh my god, Lando.”

“I’m serious!”

��Fine. Rules,” you say, throwing your arms up. “What, like no spooning after?”

“No sleeping in the same bed.”

“No feelings.”

“No one finds out.”

“No drama.”

You point at him. “No falling in love.”

He mirrors the gesture. “No ruining the friendship.”

You reach out your hand and he takes it instinctively, falling into the rhythm of a secret handshake you made up when you were twelve, all palms and slaps and pinky swears.

Your fingers lock one last time and neither of you lets go.

Not right away.

And when he pulls you closer, it’s like gravity.

The smirk fades from his face. Yours too.

You don’t know who moves first, only that his mouth is on yours again and this time there’s no pause. No second-guessing. Just the sharp, charged click of teeth and breath and want.

He kisses you like he’s proving a point.

You kiss him like you’re trying to win.

There’s nothing slow about it. His hands grip your hips like he’s allowed to and yours tangle into his hoodie, yanking him closer as your knees press into the couch cushions. You’re already climbing into his lap when he groans into your mouth.

“Fuck,” he mumbles, lips brushing your jaw. “This is so fucking weird.”

“Shut up,” you breathe, nipping at his neck. “Less thinking, more undressing.”

“Bossy,” he mutters, but he’s already lifting your shirt over your head. You help, clumsy and rushed and laughing a little when you get stuck halfway.

“You’ve done this before, right?” you tease, breathless.

“Not with you.” His voice dips lower, eyes dragging down your chest like he doesn’t know where to land. “Not like this.”

It’s cautious for half a second—his hands smoothing over your waist, the slow drag of his thumbs just under the band of your bra—but the second you reach for the hem of his hoodie, it sparks again. Like pulling a match against the box.

Everything ignites.

Clothes come off in fast, impatient pieces. You laugh when his sock gets caught on the couch. He curses when your belt loops fight back. There’s a short, chaotic scuffle over who gets to be on top—until you push him down with a smug look and he just stares, breathless and flushed, like maybe this was a terrible, amazing idea.

“You’re gonna have to back up all that shit you’ve talked over the years,” you say, hovering above him. “Mr. ‘I’m so good in bed I should get Michelin stars.’”

He groans. “I literally never said that.”

“You literally did. Karting camp. Fifteen years old. You said—quote—‘I’ll be better than anyone she’s had before.’”

His hand slides up your thigh, grip tightening. “Fifteen-year-old me had ambition.”

“Fifteen-year-old you had a big mouth and was barely not a virgin anymore” you grin.

He smirks, eyes dark. “And you’re the one who raved about that guy who said you gave the best head of his life.”

You blink innocently. “It’s not my fault I’m talented.”

“Oh yeah?” he murmurs, dragging you closer by your hips. “Prove it.”

Your smile sharpens.

His laugh cuts off halfway when you grind down on him again, slow and deliberate. One of his hands fists in the fabric of the couch while the other roams up your side, touch hotter now—more confident. Still careful in flashes, like he doesn’t quite know what parts of you he’s allowed to touch, even now.

You lean forward, lips ghosting over his. “Nervous?”

He exhales sharply. “I just… didn’t think the best head of someone’s life would come with a pre-roast.”

“You get what you pay for,” you whisper, and then you slide down his body.

“Fuck,” he groans, tossing his head back.

You pause, breath hot against his skin. “What was that? I thought you were the one with ambition.”

His breath catches when your mouth touches his abs. And again when you look up and raise a single eyebrow—taunting, smug, completely in control.

He grits his teeth. “Okay. I deserved that.”

You hum in response, slow and deliberate. “Damn right.”

Your fingers tug at the waistband of his boxers, and Lando’s whole body goes taut beneath you. It’s subtle—barely a breath—but you feel it.

He’s nervous.

You pause, looking up from where you’re knelt between his legs, hands braced on his thighs. “You okay?”

His eyes snap open. “Yeah. Just…”

“Never imagined me here?” you tease, voice low and laced with a grin.

He huffs out a breath, shaky. “Not like this. Not ever. And definitely not while terrified I’m about to embarrass myself.”

You laugh softly, warm and fond despite yourself. “Relax, Norris. I already know all your worst secrets. One more won’t kill you.”

He rolls his eyes, but there’s gratitude in it—like your teasing steadies him more than reassurance ever could.

You hook your fingers under the fabric again, slower this time. “Let’s get this off, then. Time to see what you’ve been bragging about since puberty.”

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, throwing an arm over his face.

You pull the last piece of clothing down, inch by inch, deliberate just to watch him squirm.

And then your teasing falters—just a beat.

Okay. Maybe not all talk.

He peeks from under his arm, a smirk creeping back in. “You good?”

You clear your throat, recovering. “I’ve obviously had worse,” you echo back with a wink.

He groans like you’ve wounded him.

And then you lean down again—mouth brushing skin, warm and careful, letting him feel your breath before anything else. You start slow. You always do. One hand on his hip, the other anchoring you as your mouth finds him, slow and deliberate and way too confident for someone who’d been joking about this two minutes ago.

Lando’s hand jumps to your shoulder instantly, fingers twitching. “Holy shit.”

You hum, eyes flicking up—pleased, knowing, smug as hell. You’re good, and you know it. And now so does he.

He tries to keep quiet. Tries to breathe evenly. But it’s all unraveling fast—the shift of his hips, the way his mouth falls open with a soft, helpless sound that’s definitely not friendly.

He mutters your name once, like a warning. A plea.

You don’t stop.

You sink deeper, slow and practiced, using your hand when you have to, mouth when you want to. And you want to a lot.

“Okay,” he breathes, voice breaking. “Okay—Jesus—I get it, he wasn’t lying.”

You smile up at him, lips curling around him as you draw him deeper into your mouth. Your tongue flicks over the sensitive ridge just beneath the tip, teasing that delicate band of skin before gliding up to circle the slit. The reaction is immediate—his breath stutters, and he chokes on a moan, hips twitching as he struggles to hold still.

“Oh my god.”

He’s twitching beneath you, squirming, practically begging now—your name spilling from his lips in broken whispers. It’s fast, it’s messy, it’s too good.

Your name again, this time a warning “Fuck... I´m gonna—Jesus—don´t stop” And you don’t stop. You don’t even slow down. If anything, you push harder, chasing that edge with him.

And when he finally breaks—when his hands grip tight, back arching off the bed, curses torn from his throat like a prayer—it’s your name he chants, again and again. Shaky. Wrecked. Reverent.

You pull off slowly, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. Then you crawl up his body, smiling like sin, like you know exactly what you just did.

He looks dazed. Destroyed. Wrecked in the most satisfying way.

“I told you,” you whisper against his ear. “Talented.”

Your body stretches over his as you settle on his chest, breath warm against his skin, heartbeat still pounding under your palm.

Lando's eyes are half-lidded, completely blown out, one hand resting on your lower back like he doesn’t quite trust gravity anymore.

He exhales hard. “Fuck.”

You smirk into his collarbone. “You lost all your other vocabulary, Norris.”

He laughs—short, breathless, still wrecked. “No seriously, that was… I mean, you really do have bragging rights about that.”

You prop your chin on his chest, smug. “Told you.”

His hand slides up to brush lightly down your spine. “How the hell am I supposed to recover from that?”

You grin wider. “Come on. That all you got?”

He blinks at you, mouth twitching. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” you tease, eyes gleaming. “Big talk for years, and now you’re all ‘oh no, I need to lie down.’”

He stares. “I just had my soul removed via your mouth and you’re taunting me?”

“I’m motivating you,” you say sweetly.

He laughs again, one of those quiet, incredulous laughs that bubbles up from his chest. “Well, I was gonna say something cocky but now I’m wounded.”

You raise a brow. “Say it.”

He bites back a smile. “Just thought it was common knowledge that… y’know, eating out is for annual events only.”

You smack his chest. “Twat.”

He’s grinning like an idiot now, clearly pleased with himself even as your hand lingers, half-playful and half warning.

And then—before you can fire back another insult—he moves.

You’re flipped fast, the room spinning for half a second before your back hits the cushions and he’s above you, eyes dark and mischievous.

“Oh,” you say, breath catching.

He smirks, voice low. “Guess what day it is.”

You barely manage to answer before he’s already sliding down your body—slow and deliberate, hands dragging over your thighs, your waist, your hips. You squirm under him, anticipation crackling through your veins.

He kisses the inside of your knee.

You arch a brow. “You’re just doing this to prove a point.”

“Obviously,” he murmurs, lips brushing your skin again, “but I’m also an overachiever.”

His mouth finds your inner thigh and your breath hitches.

This, you realize, is very quickly about to become a competition.

And neither of you plays fair.

He kisses his way down your thighs, hands dragging slow, like he’s taking inventory.

“Still not taking this seriously,” you murmur, but your voice betrays the way your body’s already reacting to him—hips shifting, stomach tensing.

Lando lifts his head just enough to give you a wicked grin. “I’m insulted. You think I don’t rise to a challenge?”

You hum. “So dramatic.”

“I just think,” he says, lowering again, lips brushing close—too close—without quite touching where you need, “if you’re gonna make bold claims about your talents, I should be allowed to respond in kind.”

You squirm as his breath fans over you, and when you go to snap something smug back, his mouth finally meets you over your panties.

Everything derails.

It’s not tentative. There’s no awkward fumble, no hesitation. Just heat. Intention. A surprising kind of focus that makes your breath catch and your hands fly to his curls like instinct.

He hums into you, and you curse softly, head falling back against the couch cushion.

“Fuck, Lando…”

You feel him smile. Bastard.

He slides the fabric to the side and keeps going—slow at first, like he’s mapping out every reaction, every shift of your hips, every sound you make. He starts adding his hands, fingers anchoring you wide open, thumbs brushing soft along your thighs as he buries himself deeper in it.

It’s not rushed. It’s not polite.

It’s intentional.

And it’s driving you insane.

You’re panting now, fingers gripping his hair, one leg hooked over his shoulder because you stopped pretending to play it cool somewhere around the second time he moaned against you.

You manage to glance down once, and the sight nearly finishes you—him, flushed and focused between your thighs, like he’s memorizing you.

“Okay,” you breathe out, voice high and wrecked. “Okay. I take back everything.”

He doesn't stop.

“Lando.”

A flick of his tongue. A curl of his fingers.

You break.

Your hips jerk, your back arches, a sharp cry tears from your throat and you feel everything all at once—your blood rushing, your pulse crashing, the way his name leaves your mouth like muscle memory.

He slows down only when your hands tug at his hair—not to pull him closer, but in surrender.

“Holy shit,” you whisper, dazed, boneless against the cushions.

Lando crawls back up over you, and for a second, neither of you says anything—just panting breaths and the shared knowledge of what just happened.

Finally, he grins, breath still hot against your cheek. “So… just annually, huh?”

You laugh—half-gasp, half-shocked. “You’re an actual menace.”

“And you’re blushing,” he says, full of smug satisfaction.

“Am not.” You give his shoulder a playful smack.

“I mean… maybe we shouldn’t limit that to once a year,” you say, casual but breathless. “Wasn’t exactly terrible.”

He tilts his head, eyes glittering. “Not terrible? Sounded like more than that to me.”

You snort, cheeks warming again. “Okay—fine. It was actually pretty fucking great.”

He rolls onto his back beside you, both of you still catching your breath in the hazy silence that follows.

“You still think this was a good idea?” he asks, eyes on the ceiling.

You turn your head, grinning. “Amazing actually.”

He laughs and it feels like nothing’s changed.

#lando norris x reader #lando norris x you #formula 1 x reader #formula 1 x you #f1 x reader #f1 x you #lando norris one shot #lando norris fic #lando norris fanfic #lando norris imagine #mclaren #mclaren x reader #lando norris x fem!reader #lando norris smut #lando norris #f1 smut #𓊆papayainone𓊇

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missdynamighttt · 6 months ago

Text

head empty, thoughts full of secretary! reader trying to seduce boss! katsuki with all kinds of tactics.

it had started as a harmless crush. at least, that’s what you told yourself when you first landed the position as katsuki bakugo’s personal secretary.

you’d taken the job expecting the usual: long hours, impossible demands, and a hot boss matching with a fiery temper. what you hadn’t expected was how quickly you’d develop a maddening crush on him.

the man was the whole package— infuriatingly good-looking, sharp as a blade, and unapologetically confident. he had a way of dominating any room he walked into, and you found yourself daydreaming about him far more often than was appropriate.

there’s just something about him that’s just... irresistible. maybe it’s the way his tailored suits hug his broad frame, flexing his muscles no corporate worker should have.

or maybe its the way he looks at you, not with false pleasantries or the cool look of someone trying to be liked. it was a raw, unapologetic gaze (glare), one that made your heart race in ways you’d never expected.

fuck, you didn't want to be just his secretary—you were determined to be something more.

so, you began with the basics. a tighter pencil skirt here, hugging your curves just enough to make his eyes linger when you walked by. a blouse with a slightly lower neckline there, where one extra button undone gave just a teasing hint of skin.

every time you walked past his desk, he’d have to force himself to look away from the sway of your hips. every time you bent over to sign a document, displaying your perfect ass, he’d swallow and his jaw would clench.

when you walked in to drop some paperwork on his desk, his eyes lingered just a second too long on your chest before he coughed and barked, “didn’t i tell you to knock?!”

"the door was already open!" you smiled as you walked out of his office, feeling his eyes on your ass. a small victory, but you’d take it.

katsuki was a coffee fiend, obviously. strong, black, and bitter— no sugar or nonsense too, just like his personality. his day didn’t properly start until a steaming cup of coffee was in his hand, the aroma practically fueling his sharp focus and no-nonsense demeanor.

so you started getting coffee for him too, along with a handwritten note with his coffee cup that said: “for the most handsome boss ever!! xoxo, your prettiest secretary,”, before signing your name on it and sliding it onto his desk, meeting his glare.

“you tryna butter me up or somethin’?”

“of course not! just simply stating facts, boss.”

his ears turned red, but he didn’t answer as he took a sip of the coffee. and when you looked at his drawer one day, you saw he saved all the notes you gave him. you counted that as another win.

you “accidentally” scheduled a late-night meeting that required you both to stay in the office after hours. by the time the clock struck 9, the dim glow of his desk lamp was the only light in the room, casting sharp shadows across his sharp jawline.

you took a seat across from him, pretending to review a document, uncrossing your legs deliberately slowly. his eyes flicked to the movement before snapping back to his paperwork, his jaw tightening.

as the silence stretched on, you made your move. leaning back slightly in your chair, you let the tip of your heel trail slowly up the leg of his slacks, starting at the ankle and dragging upward, your movements deliberate and teasing.

katsuki froze, his pen stilling mid-signature as his sharp red gaze shot up to meet yours, the faintest flush creeping up his cheek. “what the hell are you doin'?”

“i think we should go to dinner,” you tilted your head with a playful grin.

his brow twitched, his expression a mixture of disbelief and irritation. “the hell kinda way is this to ask someone out?”

“its efficient,” you said, keeping your tone light as the tip of your heel slides up and down his ankle. “plus, i'm getting tired of you waiting to ask me. and let’s be honest— you’ve been staring at me long enough to know you’re interested. at least a little bit.”

for a moment, he just stared at you, the silence stretching as his jaw clenched and unclenched. then, katsuki let out a low, gruff chuckle, a sound you didn't know you needed to hear.

“you’ve got some nerve, don’t you?” he muttered, leaning back in his chair as a smirk tugged at his lips. “fine. dinner.”

he huffs, pointing a finger at you. “but don’t think this means you’re gettin’ any special treatment outta work. and if you're late, i'll make you do fuckin' inventory for the next damn month.”

“wouldn’t dream of it,” you smiled, already planning what to wear.

‎‧₊˚✧[ it's me, kia ! ]✧˚₊‧ ｡ﾟ•┈꒰ა ♡ ໒꒱┈• ｡ﾟ ‎‧₊˚✧[ more of katsuki ! ]✧˚₊‧

⋆˚࿔ kia's note ˚⋆ posting a little faster because i made some of these while working on older bro's bsf fic!! hope you enjoyed, tempted to make a part two <3

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bryantmoretta · 28 days ago

Text

under observation - jack abbot x PA!reader

a/n: slow-burn! if there’s room for an assistant im finna put them in a story. this has room to grow if the masses are interested. thank you for reading even if you aren’t interested :)

tonight was your first night as a physician assistant in the emergency department of PTMC. you’d been briefed earlier in the week — two attending physicians, five residents on rotation, and the chief of emergency medicine himself floating in from time to time. it wasn’t going to be easy, but it wasn’t supposed to be. that’s what drew you here.

you smoothed down your yellow cardigan over the hospital-approved scrubs, clipped your badge with the bold red ASSISTANT tag beneath your name, and walked out onto the floor just in time for shift change.

you introduced yourself quietly, politely — always with a smile, never taking up more space than necessary. when the flurry of greetings passed, you found your place just off to the side, near the wall, and waited. clipboard in one hand, tablet tucked under the other arm, pen ready.

you’d been told to stick with dr. abbot for the night, though that would change once the team got used to having a PA around. the position was new here, met with a little curiosity — and, if you were honest with yourself, a fair bit of skepticism.

dr. abbot himself didn’t seem thrilled. he clocked you almost immediately from across the room, a sharp glance sweeping over your ID badge and that bright yellow sweater like he wasn’t sure whether you were a med student who’d wandered into the wrong department or a plant sent from upstairs.

“so… what exactly are you doing here?”

you didn’t look up right away. you focused on the clipboard, fingers adjusting your pen.

“oh, um, i’m here to chart patient interactions, monitor labs, send prescriptions to the pharmacy, and process referrals. i can answer general questions so patients don’t have to wait on you. i’ll keep out of the way. i promise. but if i’m missing anything, or the tone’s not right, just let me know. i’m here to make your life easier, dr. abbot. not harder.”

only when you finished did you meet his eyes. you were earnest, that much was clear — and young. not in only years, but also in how you approached things. careful. measured. like you knew you were walking on uncertain ground and were trying not to step too loud.

jack grunted, barely a nod. and then turned away.

the first patient arrived fifteen minutes later.

you did exactly what you said you’d do: found your place in the room but stayed quiet. you kept your head down, your pen moving steadily over the notes. jack forgot you were even there until he started barking about imaging and a calm voice answered, “patient is next in line, dr. abbot.”

his head turned slightly. not quite a double take, but he didn’t say anything. you were already scribbling again.

by the time jack sat down to catch up on charting, he found half his work already waiting for him. he blinked at the screen — no way you’d written that already. but there it was: complete, thorough, clean. better than he would’ve phrased it himself.

he kept watching.

patient after patient. your notes were on time, perfectly structured, waiting for his sign-off. you never hovered. you weren’t loud. you just… worked. with quiet efficiency and an attention to detail he wasn’t used to seeing from someone on their first night.

he was reading through a set of imaging reports when you appeared again, holding out the tablet.

“scans are back for room three. fractured ulna. radiology’s recommending surgical consult — i paged ortho already, but they’ll need a formal handover from you.” you handed him the tablet, already zoomed to the exact image he needed, and walked away.

jack blinked down at the screen. he wasn’t smiling, not quite, but something shifted in his chest.

for the first time in months, he realized, the only thing he’d really done tonight was practice medicine.

an hour later, he dropped a paper bag by your elbow without a word.

you were mid-sip of your coffee when you looked down at the brownie like it might contain anthrax. he coughed, suddenly feeling a little stupid.

“it’s not laced with anything. just… sugar. welcome to the night shift.”

you smiled, small and sheepish. “thank you. i’m usually in REM sleep right now, so this might save me.”

he found himself leaning a little closer, glancing down at the loops and swirls on your clipboard. “you trained to read hieroglyphics?”

you laughed softly, and the sound pulled at something inside him. it was light. honest.

“no, that’s my shorthand. something they taught us in school, easier to take notes if you’re not writing full sentences.” you pointed to a few symbols. “that one’s sedated intubation. this one’s full code. and that’s patient stabilized.”

jack nodded impressed. “you’re already the smartest person in the room on your first night?”

your eyes dropped, cheeks coloring. “oh — no. i’m not the one doing the procedure.”

jack didn’t say anything, but he filed that away. the way you downplayed yourself. the way you spoke with such care. someone had taught you humility like a rulebook. he made a mental note to unteach that — slowly.

“you’ll get used to nights,” he said. “valerian root tea. blackout curtains.”

your nose scrunched up adorably. “noted, thanks dr. abbot.”

later, you approached with discharge papers.

“room seven. 22-year-old with a coffee burn. dr. ellis cleared them for discharge, but i need your sign-off.”

jack took the pen from his pocket, already moving to stand when you gently held up a hand.

“oh — you don’t need to. i can handle the discharge. i’ve got privileges for that. unless… you would rather?”

he paused. studied you.

so careful not to overstep. always deferring.

“you got this one,” he said, signing the paper. “any questions, come find me.”

he wasn’t sure why, but as you walked toward the patient, jack followed, quietly, from a distance. you explained everything in a calm, even voice. scheduled the burn clinic follow-up, handed over a card with the time and address. you showed her how to reapply the cream, even pulled five samples from your cardigan pocket like it was the most natural thing in the world.

he’d never seen a discharge done with that much… care. not on a routine burn.

by the time he returned to the desk, you’d already updated his charts.

all the way to the last patient he literally just watched you discharge.

and jack couldn’t believe it, eight hours ago, he’d been annoyed at your presence. now he was wondering how he’d ever gone without someone like you.

robby showed up at the crack of dawn, squinting against the overhead lights.

“still alive?” he asked jack, eyeing the coffee in his hand.

jack smirked. “barely. but get this-”

he pulled up a chart on the computer, turning it toward robby. “febrile seizure from literally 20 minutes ago. notes were done before i even had time to sit down.”

robby whistled. “you’re saying upstairs was right about PAs?”

jack didn’t answer. he was looking over toward where you sat at the corner station, head bent low, fingers flying over your keyboard.

“she’s efficient,” robby said.

jack gave him a look. one part warning, one part something else.

“you don’t get to poach this one,” he said quietly. “she’s mine.”

#jack abbot imagine #jack abbot x you #jack abbot x reader #the pitt fanfiction

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pearlywritings · 8 months ago

Text

Sometimes the name doesn't matter

synopsis: sometimes it matters that you are his wife. PART 3

pairings: Childe, Neuvillette, Pantalone, Wriothesley x fem!reader (separately)

tw: fluff, established relationship (married/engaged/mated), secret relationship, immortal reader in Neuvi's part

word count: 6.1k+ words

a/n: part 1 and part 2 can be read here!

Childe

Spurred by the whistles and a whip of a coachman three fine white horses are trotting along the snow-covered road, dragging a big sleigh. Made of the sturdiest wood and painted in red and gold, the construction is effortlessly sliding on ice crust, almost lulling you under all those warm blankets and furs Ajax has thrown over your half-sitting half-lying bodies. You are glad to have this instead of jolting in a carriage (not like it’ll even be able to ride through all this snow), sure to have an aching arse even under the thick sheepskin coat, and instead of whatever machinery your lover could’ve gotten his hands onto due to his position - otherwise it wouldn’t have been so romantic.

Resting your head onto his shoulder you sigh blissfully, puffing out a small cloud of warm air. The fluffy-looking firs, tall pines and naked larches are flashing past in a magical gleam of snow-covered branches; you think you see two grayish squirrels chasing one another on a tree on your left.

“Oh, little minxes. A couple of seconds later and that snow could’ve ended up on our heads.”

You giggle at the young man’s comment, taking your gloved hand out of the sable muff and reaching to adjust the hat with earflaps (which he once again refused to tie under his chin) on his head. Before you can retrieve, a bigger hand clad in mitten wraps around yours and brings it to the chapped pale lips. As if spellbound you watch him press a tender kiss just where your ring finger joins the palm - right where the engagement ring is hidden under the thick material.

Now it’s hard to tell if your cheeks are rosy from cold or the swirling emotions.

“A little bit more and we will be in Morepesok,” he says softly, deep pools of his blue eyes staring back at you adoringly. “I can’t wait to share the news with ma, pa, sisters and brothers…”

You know he’s written them a letter right after you said ‘yes” to him, too excited to wait. So excited in fact, that he couldn’t sit still in expectation for the response, so he solicited an impromptu week-long vacation with the help of Pulcinella, and here you are, on your merry way to his home village.

“I can’t wait for that too,” you smile, leaning up to peck his nose, eliciting the same smile from him. “But I worry a little - will they be happy for us? I mean, that it’s me who you are going to marry?”

“Absolutely!” He nods enthusiastically and you have to readjust his hat again. “They all love you very much, I promise you. And if I am being completely honest, mom and Tonia did keep asking me when I intended to make you my wife during the last couple of times we visited.”

“Wait, really? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I was already planning a proposal at the time - didn’t want to spoil it by accidentally letting my tongue loose.”

It’s hard to believe that this man is one of the Tsaritsa’s Harbingers. Childe is surprisingly good at separating his work and off work behavior, turning into a completely normal, maybe just a tiny bit unhinged, young man as soon as his family is involved. You know he’s built this facade to keep them and you away from harm, but you also know it comes from the heart as well.

“Then I can only hope we can bring the female members of your family to the capital soon - I want them to participate in the wedding dress shopping.”

You are immediately gathered into a tight embrace and your laughter is smothered by the fur on his collar. Yes, he is the Eleventh Harbinger, Tartaglia, Tsaritas’s soldier, Childe… But in moments like this he is just Ajax. Your Ajax.

His parents’ house meets you both with the quiet creak of the gates, the barking of two big fluffy malamutes outside, the clink of the horseshoe against the wood on top of the front door, the warmth of a well-heated inside and a bit taller than the last time you saw him Teucer, who runs full speed at his big brother, practically tackling him.

“Big brother is home, big brother is home!”

Ajax joyously laughs, somehow managing to take off his coat and dropping it to the colorful carpet at the front door before hoisting the exclaiming boy into his arms. Kicking off your felt boots to step from the anteroom, you watch with a smile as he squeals when your lover presses his cold cheek to the warm smaller one, squirming in the strong arms.

Not a minute later more of his siblings appear, closely followed by their mom - freckled, with her ginger with gray hair tied in a thick braid and an apron thrown over her green dress, the woman smiles brightly and, letting her children surround their brother, walks to you with arms spread, ready to embrace you.

“Mother, my clothes might be cold,” you try to warn her, but she doesn’t listen, hugging you anyway.

“As if it can affect me! Oh, I’m so happy to see you, my dear. How was your trip? Are you tired, hungry? I’m almost done with lunch, and in the meantime I can ask my husband to throw in the firewood and heat the bathhouse for you two.

“It’s very kind of you,” you smile, wrapping your arms to give her a hug in return. “But I think we’ll wash up in the evening - I really doubt Ajax’s sibling will let him go in the following couple of hours.”

Before she can say anything, a tall, wide man appears from the other room. His beard and hair are gingerly brown with gray too, thick brows naturally furrowed. By the rosy cheeks, the remnants of snowflakes melting on his hair and the choice of clothing you guess he’s just returned to the house through the back door - probably after chopping wood.

Upon lowering his gaze to you, his facial features smooth out.

“If it isn’t my son and a dear soon-to-be daughter-in-law!” His gruff voice booms across the house, immediately redirecting everyone’s attention to you and making you blush. “I knew Ajax was too impatient and would rather come to visit and bring his fiance along than wait for a response letter.”

As he moves to greet you properly and help with discarding the outer clothes, you notice your gingerhead whispering something to his siblings, to which they giggle and throw glances at you. Catching the gaze of your lover, you lift an eyebrow, as if asking ‘should I be concerned?’. But he only shakes his head with a smile and ushers everyone to the dining room.

However, the curiosity is getting better of you, as throughout the evening you keep catching the glances, watch Tonia whispering something to her mom, and the woman giving Ajax a ‘really?’ kind of look, but with a fond smile, and then his dad slapping his back with a boisterous laugh, saying something along the lines ‘I was the same way with your mom too’.

So you confront him once you are left alone in the room.

“Hey, foxy, what’s going on?”

“Hm?” He lowers the blanket that he’s just tucked inside the duvet cover and reaches for the sheets. “What do you mean, bunny?”

“Whatever you’ve been doing,” you put one of the pillows down and reach out for the other as well as the pillowcase.

“And what’s that ‘whatever’ I’ve been doing?” You don’t miss the sly smile finding its way onto his face. You huff.

“I don’t know. You tell me.”

The man hums, tucking the edges of the sheet between the mattress and the bed.

“Nothing you should worry about. I just asked them all to practice a little.”

“Practice?” Cocking your head, you throw both pillows onto the bed. “Wait, did you start planning something for the wedding?”

“Not quite. Rather for after it.”

Confused, but intrigued, you step closer when your lover sits down and beckons you, being dragged into his lap a second later. Blue eyes look at you in an unspoken fascination, as he leans forward to place a kiss to the corner of your mouth, prompting you to loosely wrap your arms around his shoulders.

“Since we are getting married, I deduced that it would be only right for my family to call you my wife. Thus I asked them to get acquaintanced with the term, so they could start doing it as soon as we are pronounced husband and wife.”

You blink at him once, twice. After the third time you exhale, shaking your head, but the lift of your lips doesn’t go unnoticed by your fiance.

“I should’ve known you’d pull something like this, I am not even surprised, let alone mad. But they could just keep addressing me by my name. Plus your siblings already call me ‘big sister’ and your parents made me an honor of acknowledging me as the ‘daughter’. It won’t change much.”

“But it will!” He pouts and you can’t resist the urge to pinch his cheek. “You will be my wife and I want everyone to help me show it! Does it bother you though?”

Looking into those uncharacteristically begging eyes, you really can’t deny him his little antics. Not like you were going to in the first place.

“No, no, I don’t mind, love. Honestly, it's very sweet how excited you are. Makes me look forward to it.”

“Yeah?” Look at him, smiling like a satisfied cat, who's had too much sour cream for its own good. His embrace tightens on you a little.

“Yeah.”

A beat of silence passes as Ajax enjoys the many kisses you pepper to his face, squeezing his eyes shut, grinning, boyishly eager for more.

“Do you think I should ask the whole village to do the same?”

“Ajax, no.”

Nuevillette

“Mother, do you mind helping me a little? I can’t reach over there…

“I’d be delighted, my dear.”

Neuvillette watches with a fond look as you put the tea cup down and stand up to walk closer to Verenata and assist her with whatever the potion maker needs. Your figure is ethereal, clad in the finest fabrics, flowing with every step and gently dropping as you crouch gracefully to hoist the melusine in your arms. From above the rim of his silver goblet the Hydro Dragon can't tear his eyes from the way one of your many “daughters” wraps an arm around your neck and reaches up, while the corner of your lips, which he can see from his position at the table, is turned upwards.

“Mother is so kind and patient,” Laume says just a step away from Neuvillette’s chair. When the man turns his head to look at her, there is Flo standing too.

“Yes, and she is so beautiful,” the other melusine sighs, clasping her hands together. “And she always brings us such nice and comfortable clothes…”

“Monsieur Neuvillette married a wonderful woman,” a couple more melusines nearby agree and there is a warm and fuzzy feeling takes place in the Judex’s chest.

Marriage… Such a beautiful concept humans came up with to validate the union of two. It begins with the wedding - a day full of happy tears and blissful smiles, shared vows to be together in sickness and in health, sweet claims of love and promises of joyful life ahead. Then this very life begins and for beings like you and your husband it’s a long, but welcome trip.

You’ve been claimed by each other for quite some time before the more ‘mortal appropriate’ ritual, and the melusines - the wonderful creatures Neuvillette once took under his wing - were aware and happy for your relationship. And it was actually their idea to hold a wedding too, once Sigewinne naturally asked how the two of you planned to introduce your bond in civil words to humans.

And it was their initiative to start calling you “mother”. With your actions you quickly became one for them anyway, and the girls actively sought your company when it was possible. Thus, such tea parties at the Merusea Village as today are a common occurrence (besides, you always welcome them because it's a great opportunity to dig your husband out of the pile of responsibilities he tends to bury himself under).

However, lately Neuvillette started noticing that when he heard the word leave the girls’ mouths, a strange feeling began rising in his chest. Even though not quite familiar with the concept of jealousy, the Judex was sure it was not the case - he loved when the melusines called you that. So, he could not really put his finger on why the action caused such an indescribable reaction.

He decided to observe. On his walks throughout the city, the man seeked the sights of parents with children to attentively listen and watch while leisurely passing by or stopping at the shopping booths to linger on the scene. He was quick to note that the interactions were hardly different from the ones between you and the girls - kids would call for their mothers in all the same tones: when happy, when asking for help, when seeking comfort and many other typical occurrences he’d seen a handful of times before.

What really caught Neuvillette’s eye was the way the parents behaved. And soon his focus shifted to the married couples instead. As reserved as the nobles seemed to appear, the ones in love still managed to slip a murmured ‘my dear’, or ‘beloved’ or ‘my sweet [Name]’ in their speech. All the things the Hydro Dragon was all too used to call you too, relishing in the image of your loving smile and joyfully crinkling eyes as you responded in kind.

But it is like a waterfall pours on him when a week later, after that tea party where he once again sunk deep in thought, a keen pointy ear makes out a simple word in the crowd.

"Wife"

Male’s heart flutters. The understanding quickly dawns on him, even more so when his eyes find the couple on the other side of the road, - it was no simple term to introduce the partner to the third party. No, the tenderly spoken word was used by that man to address his lover, to softly draw her attention to him, to remind her he is happy she is holding such a position in his life…

At least that’s what kind of puzzle pieces together in Neuvillette’s head. The couple is long gone, yet he is still standing there, hand resting on the handle of his cane and eyes staring into space.

He starts to remember all the sweet names he called you, each and every one stored in his memory with the heart-warming images of your reactions. There are all kinds of those: my love, my pearl, lizzy (affectionate from ‘lizard’; you used to tell him that dragons are just big lizards and it kinda stuck), kisses-stealer, fairy-tail nymph… The man is surprisingly creative with his words when it comes to you.

Sure, he calls you his mate, quite often too, but to his chagrin it has never occurred to him that he could call you ‘his wife’ too! It’s so simple, so absurdly logical, yet it took him weeks to figure out.

Humans are truly fascinating.

When Neuvillette returns to his office in the Palais Mermonia you are already there, lazing on a sofa with a bunch of papers, in which your husband guesses the script of probably another upcoming play of Furina. And judging by the more than a half pages turned you’ve been waiting for him for a while.

When the door closes and the cane disappears in the myriad of sparkling bubbles, you lift your gaze, and a smile immediately lights up your lovely features.

”Neuvi,” You speak softly, getting on your feet and leaving the script behind, “I hoped we’d depart on the afternoon stroll together. So imagine my disappointment when Sedene told me you had left just ten minutes ago! Oh, I knew I’d be late if Lady Furina had kept me for another minute, yet I still hoped I’d be on time…”

As you are approaching him, the Judex remembers the melusine’s words upon arrival: “Mother waits inside”. This makes all his previous thoughts resurface, and when he meets you half-way and reaches for both your hands to place a kiss to the back of each, Neuvillette has half a mind to try out his new discovery.

“Our Archon enjoys your company a lot, and, knowing you, you are not really mad,” you roll your eyes playfully, tiptoeing to peck the tip of his nose, murmuring a quiet ‘hush, let me be a tiny bit indignant’. “And I’d be honored to keep you company for the evening stroll,” and then, after a little pause of hesitation, he adds, “wife.”

He watches as the previously present smile on your face grows even bigger, but after a couple of seconds starts to fade slowly, eyes squinting a little bit to stare at him in hardly-concealed curiosity.

“What was that?”

“What was what, dear wife?”

“This!” As if to emphasize your words you point your finger to his mouth, and it’s Neuvillette’s lips’ turn to curl in a small smile.

“It’s something I hoped to discuss with you,” his gloved fingertips soothingly brush over your knuckles and soon your hand is clasped into his, as the man leads you both back to the sofa. “You see,” he starts when you sit down, “I am fascinated with the notion hidden behind the word ‘mother’ the melusines like to call you. That’s who you are for them both in reality and in terms. I’ve made some observations, and figured that sometimes humans in marriage also use the…familial terms to address one another. It seemed lovely to me and I wanted to try it out with you. What do you think?”

You hum in thought, replaying in your head the way Neuvillette spoke to you twice. It is hard to explain, but you somehow immediately see the appeal and understand why your lover got hooked on it. Seems lovely indeed. You wonder, what if you…

“Will you tell me more about those observations on our evening stroll, husband? Ooh, it does sound wonderful!”

Mark him stunned, but for a moment Judex grows speechless. The violet depths of his eyes swirl with adoration as you clap your hands gleefully, and he knows, that from now on your everyday routine will never be the same

“With pleasure, wife.”

Pantalone

Dancing snowflakes are slowly descending in their tender waltz and are gleaming like the tiniest of gems in the streetlights’, enveloping the already magical winter capital of the Cryo region in a solemn atmosphere. The white cover of the ground is crunching with every step of a passerby and every wheel rotation of the fancy-looking carriages, while the street is a jumble of fur coats and heavy military overcoats, finally breathing life into the afternoon-quiet city.

It’s a wonderful evening, too marvelous to spend it at home, too enchanting to miss the new ballet at the Bolshoy Theater, the true accumulation of the Tsaritsa’ nation’s nobility and intelligentsia. The wonder of Snezhnayan architecture is both the place to rest and enjoy the purest form of art and home to many gossip circulating in society. Some fresh and just hours old, some ancient and undying, like the topic of the Ninth Harbinger’s lovers.

Lord Pantalone is well-known and often-praised for his contribution to the Snezhnaya’s economy, along with extending the Fatui influence all across the Teyvat. But also he is quite famous for the women he appears in public with. It’s always someone new, it’s never the same one as before. Different shapes, different hair, different style - it is impossible to guess the raven-haired man’s tastes. However everybody knew - the Harbinger never entertained the company of the ladies who made attempts to catch his attention. Those ladies themselves say as much.

The Regrator’s companions never open their mouths, never utter a word - at least not when there are people around. There has never been a single name, never a remembered face - all women wear the mask covering the upper half of it, concealing the identity of yet another lucky choice of the rich man.

Never the same woman - always the same mask.

This evening does not disappoint the gathered crowd - lifting their gazes, directing attention to the Harbinger’s personal box, they once again see the notorious mask. The long fringe of wine-red hair is coquettishly framing the ever-lasting piece of leather, similarly flaming lips are tugged in a haughty smile - as if the young lady doesn’t realize that once the night is over, she’s going to be discarded like many others before her. The dress according to the latest fashion trends and the beautiful garnet necklace do not surprise the audience anymore - even known for his love for replacements, Lord Pantalone dresses his partners royally.

The man himself has chosen yet another black costume, with a dark burgundy shirt hidden underneath and bird-shaped garnet brooch on the left side of his chest. Multiple beautiful rings catch the light when he lifts his gloved hand to adjust diamond-shaped glasses, before turning his head and addressing something to his tonight’s escort. She boisterously laughs, saying something in response, but even if attendants tried to strain their ears, they wouldn’t hear anything so far away. Even harder it gets when the third ring of the bell echoes across the theater chamber and both the Harbinger and the woman are forgotten, until the performance is over.

So no one sees when the ring-decorated hand reaches for a smaller female one, fingers sliding under the chintz-covered palm, thumb immediately reaching to tug on the hem of the glove, so the thin cool lips could press against the small patch of bared skin. A glimpse of a smile is what Pantalone gets when you glance at him with amusement playing on your lips.

Always the same mask, never the same woman, huh?

Pride has long slithered into your heart, yet it still lifts its snake-like head every time your act of decisiveness succeeds, happily hissing. Every time it’s a test of your skills, a gamble with the eyes of ones around you, and every time you hit the jackpot, leaving the people guessing, staying the only one in possession of the banker despite the speculations.

As long as Her Majesty Tsaritsa is aware of your existence and the place you occupy next to Pantalone, you are free to do anything you want with his reputation relationship-wise. And he allows it, because should you desire the whole world - he’ll throw it to your feet like the cheapest trinket. One would say it’s because he is prideful too - he knows it’s because he loves his wife.

Loves to the point of entertaining the masquerades she stages whenever the two of you need to appear in public. It plays wonderfully into his possessive nature and desire to keep his precious beautiful wife to himself and helps with the enemies - “changing the ladies” minimizes the chances of putting at risk his one and only. Not like many know of you in the first place.

It’s a win-win arrangement for you as well - there is still an opportunity to cling to his arm, to use his expensive cologne, to play with the rings on his fingers and sneakily make out in a dark corner where no one can see. To be tugged into his lap in the carriage on the way back to his mansion, to have his long fingers undo the strings of the mask, and once the piece of leather falls onto the floor, have the palms slide down the sides of your neck, swiftly fiddling with the heavy necklace, only to let it be, the caress the shoulders, pushing the sleeves down…

…to leave them at the elbows and grab your arms to push your back into his chest as the warm lips press to the juncture between the neck and the shoulder.

And what if you’ve lost your name in the process of this disguising? Having been an actress a long time ago made you used to it. But isn’t it fun to come up with the new ideas for your next performance? Your husband gifts you way too many dresses and jewelry sets - you must find use to all of them! He now has to simply spend a bit more on the wigs and makeup to fit each combination of fabric and gems.

“Did my wife have a pleasant evening?” The velvet voice of the man behind you caresses the ear and you meet his gaze in the full-size mirror in front of you. Amethyst eyes sparkle in the bedroom light and you smile coquettishly, red lips stretching seductively.

“Did she? How could I know?” You tease, reaching to your back to undo the corset, just to be stopped by his hands, fingers digging into the dozens of strings. “And don’t you know, Mr Harbinger, that it’s very offending for the woman, when the man speaks about another lady in her presence?”

“Oh, I wasn’t aware,” he muses, tugging a bit harsher on the ties and making you gasp, “that my dear wife can be jealous of herself.”

“When you know her poorly. Tsk-tsk, what a bad husband you are.”

Pantalone laughs behind you, shaking his head at your untrue words, and you reach to your head to remove the fiery wig. By the time Pantalone is done with your corset, you are done letting your naturally beautiful locks down, sighing in relief from both the released ribcage and hair roots.

The dress, having lost its vital support on your body, falls to the ground next to the wig and quickly becomes forgotten as you two step away from the mirror.

Your husband is still mostly clothed, having only eased out of his coat and unbuttoned the jacket, so you busy your hands with tugging the black article off and then reaching for the gleaming tiny buttons on the shirt. Your figures bask in the warm light of the room as you continue undressing the man - your eyes concentrated on the expensive fabrics, his - on the lovely expression of your face.

“But if you must know,” Pantalone raises his brow, when you look up at him, a much sincere and tender smile lighting up your visage, “your wife loved the evening very much.”

And that’s everything he’s ever wanted to hear. Fingers tangle in your hair, you harshly inhale, and his lips are on yours. Lipstick is smudging, your fingers accidentally catch the silver chain, and his glasses get slightly askew, but it doesn’t matter. His wife loved another thing he’s done for her. The banker’s day has ended in a great profit.

Wriothesley

Fortress of Meropide is a huge metal labyrinth of floors and corridors, where noise is never-ending even in the late hours of the night. The metal box which is the Duke’s office however, is constructed to mute the annoying sounds or else the one inside would have a very hard time concentrating.

Usually, even the ruckus happening outside and the clanking of the heavy machines underneath can’t sway Wriothesley’s attention if he has his mind set on doing the paperwork, even something as boring as bills. Today, however, the man has caught himself multiple times glancing at the clock he’s hung up a couple of years ago - there is no way to tell the time all the way down underwater, true, but it serves him a greater purpose. It helps him count hours and minutes before you arrive.

Tuesdays and Thursdays are the days when you take a half of the day off to come down to the Fortress to meet up with your husband. You both quickly realized that traveling back and forth together in either of the directions (fortress or home in the city) would be way too inconvenient. So, you improvise by visiting him throughout the week a couple of times and then he comes home to properly spend the weekend, having learnt to delegate his responsibilities to the most trustworthy guards. So far you’ve been extremely pleased with the arrangement, and the Fortress’s crew have learnt your face by heart to not cause you any obstacles in reaching your beloved’s office.

Today, nevertheless, something must’ve gone wrong. Pale blue eyes are practically drilling the minute hand of the previously mentioned clock, watching it moving further and further from the tiny 10-minute bar, which should’ve marked your appearance at the top of his stairs. And he gets it, everything could’ve happened, something as trivial as the queue at the pastry shop that might’ve gotten longer today, but when the delay surpasses the half-hour mark, the warden puts his fountain pen down and follows it by the creak of the chair legs on the metal floor.

As he descends down the stairs - each clunking under the heavy soles of his boots - a fleeting thought of you stopping by at the medical bay first is immediately brushed aside - his office is right on the path of entering the Fortress’s main body, and you love your husband too much to let him sulk in his longing.

When he pushes the colossal doors open, eyes instantly start searching the area ahead of him. However, nothing unusual is spotted - two guards are standing at the front of his abode, not even flinching at the unpleasant scraping noise the metal makes; a couple of inmates are walking past them, bowing their heads right as they see the appearing the figure of their warden - Wriothesley simply nods and sends them off with a flicker of his hand; then there is Monglane’s desk with its irreplaceable owner. And no trace of his beloved wife.

Closing the doors behind him, Wriothesley comes up to the guards, inquiring if they’ve happened to see you. Getting a negative response, he hums and starts walking forward, to the corridor leading to the elevator, not bothering with asking the very same questions to Monglane.

With every passing minute, especially while waiting for the elevator, the man starts realizing how impatient he is growing, if the tapping of his foot and crossed arms are not an indicator enough. Even with just one day apart, he’s missed you so awfully much, your adoring smile, your soft voice and cute little giggles, that he feels rightfully robbed since you are not yet in his embrace, showering his face with kisses and then whining pretentiously because he’s forgotten to shave once again. Sometimes you swear he is not a big bad wolf, but a mean huge hedgehog.

He almost stomps inside the cabin the second its doors slide open and pushes the button to the reddening of his fingertip. It is a long trip up to the next level, and he admits he’s tugged on his leather straps wrapped around his arms a couple of times, but Archons, how little it all matters, when, exiting the elevator, he finally hears such a familiar voice. Your voice.

Your husband’s legs carry him like they obtained a mind of their own, following the full of amusement lilt he knows can belong only to you, just to come to a halt next to the wooden boxes piled up on the side of the path.

He can see you, quite clearly, adorned in a cute pair of pants and a shirt, shoulders covered in a crocheted shawl - always ready for the cool air of the Fortress, yet looking so comfy, that Wriothesley can't help but desire to tackle you to the sofa in his office and cuddle this instant. And he would've done just that, if the conversation you've been having didn't catch his attention.

“No, it's wrong again. It's not Britney, it's Brytnneigh.

“But you are saying the same thing!"

"No, it is not B-r-i-t-n-e-y. It's B-r-y-t-n-n-e-i-g-h."

"Slower, please."

In the second voice the warden easily guesses a new guard that has just been employed a couple of days ago. He remembers signing the papers his weekend substitute brought him on Monday. Wriothesley also remembers how the man swore that he’d passed on to the newbie all the information and training he needed to know. But, it appears, he forgot to mention the most important thing…

“Did you make sure to write my name with two N’s?” Your voice is laced with hardly concealed mirth, and, though he can’t see the face of the guard talking to you, your husband is sure the poor young man looks quite miserable.

“Yes, mademoiselle, I did.”

“Wonderful, but it’s ‘madame’, I am a married woman after all. But no worries, I am flattered you think I look so young,” Wriothesley shakes his head with a silent chuckle. He adores you so much, but maybe it really is time to stop your little play of a new inmate, or else he’ll surely have to call for Sigewinne to check on the poor guard.

“And your last name, madame?”

“I am Brytnneigh Deirdrophnea de Troistêtesloup. Do you want me to spell it for you, dear?”

Yes, he really should stop you.

Before you can open your mouth again, you see in your peripheral vision a figure moving. Upon turning your head slightly, you are graced with the sight of your beloved husband, walking towards you with a quirked thick brow, and crossed arms. All you can do is sheepishly smile, waving at him.

“O-oh! Duke Wriothesley, Sir!” The guard behind the registration desk immediately jumps to his feet, squaring his shoulders and saluting at the arrival of his superior.

“At ease, young man,” Wriothesley nods, stepping even closer, practically invading your personal space, icy blue eyes looking at you unblinkingly. “What is going on here?”

“Nothing much, Mr Warden,” your eyes crinkle in the corners, a sight so infectious, that the man’s lips turn into a small smile. “Just a cute old me, ending up in the Fortress for Archon knows what time.”

“M-madame!” The guard exclaims rather loudly, that even your husband turns to look at him. “Even if it's not your first stay here, you shouldn’t be taking liberties with the Duke!”

“No, no, it’s alright,” Wriothesley raises his hand. “She is no longer your headache-”

“Hey!” You elbow his side to the bewilderment of the guard. In his shock he doesn’t even reach for his weapon.

“-I will personally escort this troublemaker inside. And cross out that abominable name out, would you? It’s not her name.”

“It’s not..?” Now Wriothesley really sympathizes with the guy, he looks utterly lost.

“It’s not. But,” a big scarred hand gently cups you under the chin and turns your head more properly towards the guard, “be sure to remember this adorable face very well for the next time. You’ll need that to let her in and out.”

“...out?”

“Yes, indeed. This woman is my wife.”

As the elevator doors slide close and the cabin starts moving down, you turn to Wriothesley and throw your arms around his wide frame, face burying into his chest.

“Are you proud of me for coming up with such a long and difficult name in a single thought?”

“Oh, for sure,” strong arms circle your waist and chapped lips press to the top of your head, “I bet you would be hard-to-catch if you were a criminal. But why did you decide to play such a prank on a poor man?”

“Well… I just wanted to see his face when he found out that I am the wife of the Duke of the Fortress of Meropide himself. Another reason is that there was no guard who knew my face and I doubt he would’ve believed my word. I just got creative with the way of making him summon someone else. You simply got here before anything could happen. Plus, it’s good to keep them on their toes with a job like that. Besides, I did apologize and praise him for his patience.”

At that Wriothesley just sighs and then chuckles, raising one of his hands and threading his fingers through your hair, pressing your head even closer to his chest. He is not even feeling iffy about the lost half an hour of your time together anymore. Because you gave him an opportunity to introduce you as his wife once again.

#genshin impact #genshin impact x reader #childe x reader #childe x fem!reader #tartaglia x reader #neuvillette x reader #neuvillette x fem!reader #pantalone x reader #pantalone x fem!reader #wriothesley x reader #wriothesley x fem!reader #childe #tartaglia #neuvillette #pantalone #wriothesley #genshin impact fluff

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whatsupsonnyboy · 12 days ago

Text

late night talking | Joseph Quinn

PAIRING: Joseph Quinn x fem!Reader

SUMMARY: sex with Joe is awesome, is something from another world, but what's even better is to be wrapped around his arms while spilling both your hearts out

wc: 2.8k

warning: smutyish, fluff, deep conversations, mentions of parental relationships and heartbreaks, basically pillow talk

a/n: i love writing soft Joe, is probably one of my fave things to do among messy Joe and dirty boy... i can't help it, sorry. But this is pretty much soft Joe being vulnerable and honest. Remember this is not a series, but if you wanna read more of this Joe, you can find it here.

oh, sorry if there are typos but did a really quick proofread

Feedback is welcomed <3

request are open | masterlist

The sheets were kicked down to your feet, tangled in your ankles like they’d tried to hang on for dear life but gave up somewhere around your second orgasm. His thigh rested between yours, one of his hands sprawled low on your belly — not doing anything, just being there, heavy and warm and claiming you in the quietest way.

Joe's lips brushed your hairline. You could still feel the echo of him inside you, like your body hadn’t quite figured out where he ended and you began again.

You let out a small, dazed laugh "That was…"

“Yeah,” he murmured, grinning, his voice all rough-edged velvet. “That was.”

Silence swelled, not awkward — never awkward — but thick with intimacy. And something else too. That pull. Curiosity. Like being next to someone you’re still slowly, thrillingly peeling open, layer by layer.

You shifted slightly, resting your chin on his chest, gazing up at him through lazy, post-bliss lashes.

“Can I ask you something?”

His hand started tracing slow circles on your skin. “Anything.

“What’s the… weirdest place you’ve ever had sex?”

He raised an eyebrow, mouth twitching with amusement. “You first.”

You grinned. “Coward.”

“Nope. Strategist. I want to know what I’m up against.”

You bit your lip, feigning innocence, then said, “Okay. I once gave a guy a blowjob in the back of a moving taxi.”

Joe barked out a laugh, head dropping back against the pillow. “Jesus Christ. That’s your opener?”

“You told me I could ask anything!”

“I thought we’d be talking about, like… fantasies. Not your greatest hits.”

You shrugged, smirking. “Same thing, really.”

He looked at you, eyes gone soft and gleaming. “You’re full of surprises.”

“So are you,” you said, letting your fingers graze over the light dusting of hair on his chest. “Like the way you pulled my legs over your shoulders earlier. Didn’t see that one coming.”

He gave a smug little shrug, trying to play it off, but the flush climbing up his neck gave him away. “You were making the softest noises,” he murmured. “Couldn’t not.”

His fingers had gone still on your skin now, just resting. You could feel the shape of him against your hip, not hard anymore but present, like even his body hadn’t fully come down yet. You were still floating, both of you, tethered only by the warmth between your chests and the occasional bump of a knee.

Joe hummed thoughtfully.

“You know what still surprises me?” he said, voice drowsy but amused.

You raised an eyebrow. “What?”

He looked down at you, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “The noises you make when you come.”

You blinked, caught off-guard. “Oh?”

“They’re…” He shifted slightly, as if trying to find the right word. “They’re not loud. Not exactly. More like…” He paused. “You whimper.”

Your mouth fell open in mock indignation. “I do not.”

“You do,” he said, grinning like he’d just uncovered some great hidden treasure. “It’s this… soft, desperate little sound. Like I’m ruining you in the best possible way.”

You let out a helpless laugh, burying your face in his chest. “Stop.”

“Why? I love it.”

You looked up at him, narrowing your eyes, playful but with that ache blooming in your chest — the one that always came when he said something that made you feel seen in that heart-flaying way.

“Well,” you said slowly, “you get all serious. That’s your thing. You go from sweet to, like… possessed.”

He huffed a laugh. “Possessed?”

“Yeah. Like you’re not even in the room anymore. You’re just—lost in it. In me.”

The smirk faded off his face then, just a little, softening into something tender, something reverent.

“I am,” he said. “Lost in you.”

Silence hung there, golden and weighted.

You ran your fingers down his arm, watching them move like you were writing something only he could read. “That’s kind of the magic of it, isn’t it?” you whispered. “All the stuff we can’t hide in those moments. No filter. No charm. Just—pure.”

He nodded, eyes still fixed on you like you’d cracked something open in him. “It’s the realest version of you I’ve ever seen. And I get to be the one who brings it out.”

Your throat tightened, affection swelling in your chest like a tide coming in fast.

“You do,” you said softly. “You really do.”

There was another quiet moment. He reached over to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, his knuckles dragging slow across your cheekbone.

“And you know,” you added, tone light again, “you really don’t have to look so proud when I’m falling apart under you.”

Joe grinned, biting his bottom lip like he was trying to keep the smug in check. “Sorry. Can’t help it. It’s like watching the sun explode.”

You snorted. “What does that even mean?”

“You’re incandescent. And you look at me like I’m the reason.”

You blinked, heart flipping over like a startled bird.

“…Fuck,” you whispered.

He smiled. “Yeah. Fuck.”

You were both quiet again for a minute, but it wasn’t empty. It was full. That kind of silence you only earn with sweat and skin and unguarded laughter.

Joe’s thumb had started stroking your cheekbone absentmindedly, his eyes roaming your face like he was still learning it, like it was a map that kept shifting every time he thought he’d memorized it.

“Honey.”

He said it suddenly, barely a whisper. Like it had slipped out of his mouth before he could think twice.

You blinked up at him, grinning. “What?”

“You called me that. Earlier. You didn’t even realize, did you?”

You frowned, playful. “Did I?”

Joe nodded, eyes gleaming. “Right when I was about to go down on you the second time. You said, ‘Please, honey, please.’ And then you—well. You know what happened after.”

You laughed, half-embarrassed, half-floating again just from hearing him say it like that. “I honestly blacked out for a bit.”

“You were gone,” he agreed, smiling softly. “But that word… it wrecked me.”

You brushed your knuckles along his jaw, still learning the terrain of him. “Why?”

He shrugged, but not casually. Nothing about him felt casual right now. “Because it was soft. And real. Like it came from a place that didn’t have walls.”

You swallowed around the sudden tightness in your throat.

“I think I say things I don’t mean out there,” you murmured, eyes flicking toward the window, toward the world beyond the room. “But in here? With you? It’s all just… true.”

He pulled you in closer, pressing a kiss to your temple.

“I notice things too,” you said. “Like how you always kiss the inside of my knee after you’ve finished. Every time.”

He laughed into your hair. “Didn’t think you caught that.”

“I did. You do it like it’s a ritual.”

He nodded. “It is. Like a quiet thank-you.”

A silence bloomed again, thick with that aching tenderness.

“You said you had fantasies,” you whispered, voice like velvet soaked in heat. “Tell me one.”

He thought for a beat, then gave a smile that curved just slightly wicked. “Alright. Picture this: you in front of a mirror. Big one. You’re on my lap, facing it, legs spread. I’m behind you. We can see everything. Every twitch, every expression, every time your eyes roll back…”

You felt the spark shoot through your body again. Not lust, not exactly. Something more electric. More intimate.

“God,” you said, voice breathy. “That’s so specific.”

“I’ve thought about it a lot,” he admitted. “Ever since I saw you watching us in the window that first time.”

You flushed. “That was your fault.”

“I liked it,” he said simply. “You should know that. I like when you let yourself feel good. Like, really good. No shame, no filter. Just you… unraveling.”

You touched his face again, palm to cheek, a quiet marvel stirring in your chest. “I’ve never had anyone want to know me like this.”

“I do,” he whispered. “Every version of you.”

And there it was again — that feeling. Like the room had shrunk down to a heartbeat, shared between two people who hadn’t known each other long, but knew enough to start telling the truth.

You’d shifted again, now draped half on top of him, leg thrown over his hip, your fingers idly tracing the freckles on his shoulder like constellations.

He was looking at the ceiling, smiling faintly, eyes dreamy but alert. “Okay,” he said, breaking the silence. “Want to hear something humiliating?”

You grinned immediately. “Absolutely.”

“I lost my virginity in a bunk bed. Top bunk.”

You let out a startled laugh, full and bright. “No. No.”

He nodded solemnly. “And it was summer. We were sweating like animals. There was no rhythm, just this chaotic—collision of limbs.”

You were cackling now, face buried in his chest. “How old were you?”

“Almost sixteen. She was a friend of a friend. We’d both lied and said we weren’t virgins, which made it even worse. We both kept trying to act confident but we were terrified. I think I apologized, like, five times.”

You looked up at him, laughing so hard your stomach hurt. “That’s adorable.”

“Mortifying.”

“No, seriously. It’s kind of perfect. Very… human.”

Joe tilted his head, his smile curling softer now, eyes roaming your face. “What about you? First time?”

You wrinkled your nose. “Also terrible. Senior year. He was this cool high school guy every single girl had a crush on”

“Oh no.”

“Oh yes. He had a poster of himself above his bed. Shirtless. Playing soccer.”

Joe wheezed. “Was it good at least?”

“Absolutely not. He didn’t even made a sound”

Joe snorted. “What?”

“It was like—everything dead silence, just the awkward squeak of his single bed and his annoying mini YorkShire barking desperately to a closed door. It was a disaster.”

He was full-on laughing now, hand rubbing over his face. “Thank you. I needed that.”

You smiled, letting the air settle again, that kind of warm hush that follows a good laugh. It slipped easily into something quieter. You reached out and hooked your pinky through his.

“Can I ask something a little heavier?” you asked.

He turned his head, met your gaze with no hesitation. “Always.”

“What’s something that scares you? Like… really scares you. Not spiders or heights. But you, inside.”

He was quiet for a while. You let him take his time.

“I think I’m scared that I’m only good at being wanted when it’s all new,” he said finally. “When everything’s thrilling and bright and easy. But then the shine wears off. And I get… hard to keep.”

Your chest ached at that. Not just because he said it, but because of how clearly he believed it.

“Joe…” you murmured.

“I’m working on it,” he added quickly. “I’m trying to believe people could want the quiet parts of me too. The anxious parts. The parts that shut down.”

You cupped his cheek, leaned in so your foreheads touched. “I do. I like the way you shut down, even. You get quiet, and your eyes get sad, and it makes me want to wrap myself around you and hum until the sadness goes somewhere else.”

He breathed out a shaky laugh. “God, you’re dangerous.”

You smiled, kissed the corner of his mouth.

“What about you?” he asked gently. “What are you afraid of?”

You hesitated, then admitted, “That I’m not enough. That no matter how much I try or how much I work… I could have done better. I could’ve done it differently or give more. I… dunno”.

He didn’t flinch. He didn’t try to fix it. Just pulled you into him, tight.

“You’re enough,” he whispered, “every version of you is perfectly right.”

You blinked hard, heart thudding with something deeper than lust. Deeper than even love. It was recognition.

Then, with a small, mischievous smile, he said, “Also… you snore a little when you sleep.”

You gasped, smacked his chest. “You asshole!”

“I think it’s cute!”

“You are never seeing me sleep again.”

“Too late. I’ve already mentally recorded it. It’s part of your charm. Right up there with your sex whimpers and your YorkShire trauma.”

You dissolved into laughter again, and then quiet, and then that middle space where your bodies just fit. And the night stretched on, a quilt of memories and murmurs and the kind of small, enormous truths only shared in the dark.

The laughter faded, leaving only the kind of hush that feels sacred. Your head was resting against his chest again, listening to the slow, steady beat beneath your ear. You traced a lazy circle on his ribs with your fingertip.

“Can I ask you something?” you said, barely above a whisper.

“Of course.”

“What were your parents like? When you were little, I mean.”

You felt his breath hitch just slightly.

“My mum… she was warm. Always touching—my hair, my shoulders, my back. Even when she was angry, she had this way of holding your arm like she didn’t want to let you drift too far.”

“And your dad?”

He was quiet for a long beat. You didn’t push.

“My dad was… quieter. Stern, sometimes. Not cruel, but distant. Like he was always just slightly outside the room, even when he was in it.”

You nodded softly. “I know that feeling.”

He tilted his head down toward you. “What about yours?”

“My mum’s a hurricane. Beautiful, dramatic, loud as hell. Everything’s a performance, and she hates silence. My dad was the opposite. Gentle, quiet, always reading. I think I spent most of my childhood trying to be small enough for her and interesting enough for him.”

His hand moved gently over your back, soothing without saying a word. You continued.

“They’re still together, somehow. Two very different kinds of loneliness orbiting each other.”

Joe exhaled deeply. “That’s a line.”

You shrugged. “It’s true.”

There was another pause, not heavy, just thoughtful.

“What about heartbreak?” you asked. “Like real, ruin-you-for-months heartbreak.”

He groaned softly. “Do we have to?”

“Only if you want.”

He sighed. “Her name was Claire. We were nineteen. She was… everything, and she knew it. She broke up with me through a letter. A letter. Folded into my coat pocket when I left her flat.”

“Joe…”

“I know. Brutal. It wasn’t even mean, just… final. She said, ‘I love you, but I think I need to love myself more right now.’ Which I now realize is fair. But back then? I spiraled. Didn’t eat for days. Just walked around London listening to Bon Iver like a widow.”

You laughed softly, pressing a kiss to his shoulder. “You poor baby.”

He turned to you, brushed your hair back. “Your turn.”

You smiled, but it didn’t quite reach your eyes. “His name was David. He didn’t really love me, maybe I didn’t even love him either but oh God how much I think I did back then”.

Joe’s brows furrowed.

“At first it felt like something simple, easy. We liked each other a lot. But after a while I realized he didn’t really like me, he just loved the idea of me liking him. Like I was this nice little price he owned just because of existing. But I was so stuck with how he made me feel… The day I finally told him I wanted space, he said, ‘Are you sure about it? You probably going to regret it’ That line stuck. Like a nail.”

Joe’s hand tightened slightly around your waist. “What an asshole…”

You smiled, kissed the line of his jaw. “It’s okay. I pulled the nail out myself.”

There was a long, warm silence after that. You both just… breathed. In, out. In, out. Like being human next to someone who knows your ghosts too.

Then, almost shyly, you asked, “Do you remember when you realized you liked me more than you meant to?”

He gave a crooked smile, eyes glinting.

“Oh, yeah. You were wearing that pink jumper. The oversized one. And you were talking about something—I don’t even remember what—but your hands were moving and your face was all lit up and I remember thinking, Fuck. I really like her. Not just flirt with her, not just sleep with her. I wanted the whole bloody map.”

You were quiet for a beat, smile tugging at your mouth. “For me, it was that night we stayed up texting until 4 a.m. I hadn’t laughed like that in years. And then you sent that stupid meme right as I was trying to fall asleep and I just… I remember hugging my pillow like an idiot and thinking, Oh no. This guy might break my heart if he wanted to”.

Joe looked at you like he was still trying to memorize every version of you — the laughing one, the brave one, the one who pulled the nail out on her own.

After a long moment, he grinned. “Kind of wild how we both survived our tragic love stories just to end up here. Emotionally stable, naked, and definitely over-sharing.”

You laughed, nose wrinkling. “Speak for yourself. I plan to dramatically overthink this entire conversation for the next three days.”

“Ah, brilliant,” he said, eyes dancing. “I'll bring snacks for the spiral.”

You shoved him gently, but he caught your hand mid-air and kissed your knuckles with theatrical tenderness. “For what it's worth,” he added, quieter now, “I like this version of us better. The one where we know better. Love better.”

You leaned in, lips brushing his in a kiss that tasted like safety. “Me too.”

He pulled you in again, limbs tangling with yours like a favorite blanket, and somewhere between your laughter and the hush that followed, you both fell asleep — hearts unguarded, dreams stitched with light.

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serenity-loves-red · 1 month ago

Text

IT STARTED WITH THE CAT DISTRIBUTION SYSTEM

Part 1. Part 2. Part 3. Part 4. Part 5. Part 6. (Current) Part 7.

Cat distribution system featuring Phainon.

In which• The Deliverer of Amphoreus is suddenly transported to your home as a cat.

You returned home late that day. There was an unexpected group work that needs to be submitted by tomorrow morning. So instead of going home by 3pm, you’ve returned home around 8.

Fortunately, you’ve left Blue and Princess enough food and water that’ll last them the whole day.

When you opened the door, you got yourself quite a scare when you almost stepped on an orange fur rag you remembered not having. What you do remember having instead however, is an orange pomeranian.

“Oh my god! Princess!” You exclaimed. “Did I hurt you? Oh gosh, I’m so sorry.” You hurriedly picked him up, inspecting him closely.

When you saw no signs of injury, you quickly gave him few head pats and cooed at him, totally forgetting about your bag you randomly thrown near the door due to sheer panic.

Princess and Blue are much important than that bag to be honest. You’ll just picked it up later or something. First things first is to check on your 2 babies.

Holding Princess securely on your arms, you proceed to walk inside to find your other fluffy roomie.

“Blue?” You called out. “I’m home Blue! Where are you?”

When you felt Princess started to squirm in your arms, you gently lowered him down. He let out few high pitched bark and stuttered few steps forward, as if urging you to follow him.

“You know where he is, Princess?” You asked, curiously. Princess barked in reply.

“You can understand me too, hm?” You laughed. “Well aren’t you smart? Then please do lead the way Your Highness.”

You followed Princess and found Blue pacing back and forth like some kind of stressed mother near your couch.

Upon seeing you trailing behind Princess, he gracefully strutted and rubbed your legs. You heard his sharp meows and hiss but never did he tried to bite your foot.

He must’ve been worried this entire time, you thought correct. If only you can understand his meows, it was full blown combination of both concern and nagging.

Mydei, however could understand. It was chaotic and amusing for him to hear the Mr. Blue Balls the Deliverer get worked up like this.

“Snuggle Gremlin! It’s late, do you know what time is it? *nag nag nag*”

Hmm. That name isn’t that bad. You know what, Mydei shall call you that from now on. He must get back at you for his name somehow.

“Yes, yes.” You soothes Blue who sounded really worked up. “Let’s save that for later ok? I’ll make it up with you after I eat dinner. Promise.”

You picked up Blue who started to melt with your pats. His ears must’ve been really that sensitive, you mused.

Although this situation was supposedly impossible and alarming, Mydei couldn’t lie that somehow this doesn’t feel bad. Oddly enough, just like the deliverer, he felt oddly calm and genuinely happy even thought he just had been here a little to no more than a day.

You saw Princess sat next to your feet. If you remembered correctly, you haven’t given him a bath yet, no? Since he’s going to stay here with you, a proper bath is a must before he is allowed to sleep at the bed with you.

“As for you my little Princess,” you said. “We’ll take a bath together later.”

…What? Did you just-

Mydei quickly snapped his tiny little head towards Phainon, hoping that he must’ve just misheard it somehow. Must have been the wind™️

“Good luck Mydei.” He saw his mouth moved. “May Nikador bless you in this battle.”

“…”

You know what– he takes back everything he just said!

You can’t just do this to him! He may have turned into a dog but he wants to keep his chastity and innocence so don’t you dare put your hands on him!!

Extra

#hsr x reader #honkai star rail #honkai star rail x reader #hsr mydei #hsr #mydei #mydei x reader #hsr phainon #phainon x reader #honkai star rail mydei

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syrecjh · 1 month ago

Text

─★🪐 ̟ !!⋆⭒Battlefield Proposal

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ || katsuki bakugo x reader

The sky is broken.

Gray clouds hang heavy above the smoldering wreckage of what used to be a city center. The wind carries smoke, ash, and the faint smell of ozone from quirk discharge. A building groans as it finally gives in to the damage and collapses with a hollow, gut-punching thud. Somewhere behind you, a car alarm cries weakly into the void like a heartbeat trying to outlive a flatline.

You press your palm to your side where your suit is ripped, warm blood sticking through your gloves. It hurts to breathe. It hurts more to stop.

“Oi,” Katsuki barks, his voice rough like gravel chewed up by flame. He’s just ahead, chest heaving, the angles of his jaw lit by orange flame. There’s soot smeared on his cheek, a shallow cut above his brow, and something in his eyes that makes the marrow in your bones tremble.

“Keep movin’. We ain’t stoppin’ here.”

But he does stop.

Right there—between a fallen traffic light and a crater still sizzling with leftover energy. Sirens echo in the distance. The city's on its knees. And so is he.

You freeze.

“Katsuki?” you rasp. “What the hell are you—?”

His knee hits concrete like a thunderclap. Not from weakness. From intention.

You stare. Time slows.

“Shut up.” His voice is hoarse, heavy with dust and emotion. “Just—fuckin’ shut up a second.”

He’s kneeling, knee pressed into cracked concrete, and his hand is trembling—not from fear of dying, but from the terrifying possibility of never saying what he needs to say.

“There’s no time,” you whisper, throat closing, heart hammering in your ears.

“Exactly.” He looks up at you, raw and real and bleeding from a cut above his brow. “That’s why I’m doin’ this now.”

“No,” you whisper, already shaking your head, blood rushing in your ears. “You’re not—you’re not doing this now.”

His fingers fumble into the blackened edge of his gear—past the broken clips, the dust, the cracked metal—and pull something out. Small. Circular. Bent just slightly from the blast. A ring.

You blink like it’ll disappear if you look too hard.

“I ain’t got another fuckin’ minute to waste,” he growls, voice trembling in a way his hands never did in battle. “Been carryin’ this around like an idiot waitin’ for some perfect time.”

You can’t speak. The air’s too thick. Or maybe your chest is too full.

"And you think this is perfect?"

“No but now look where we are,” he huffs, looking at you like you’re the only steady thing left in this crumbling universe. “If one of us doesn’t make it outta this—shit, if you don’t, if I don't—I need you to know.”

“To know what?” your voice cracks like glass.

He meets your gaze. Fierce. Honest. Like war and worship all at once.

“That you’re it. You always fuckin’ were.”

Your knees give out. You’re on the ground before you realize it, crouched in front of him, tears streaking down your dirt-stained face.

“I’m not saying yes because I think we’re dying,” you whisper, clutching the ring like it’s a lifeline.

“I know.”

“I’m saying yes because I wanted to say it since last winter, and I was just scared and stupid and—”

He leans in. Foreheads collide, noses bump. The kiss is quick, fiery, unfinished.

“Then let’s make it out,” he says. “You and me. Together. Always.”

The wind howls again, shaking windows still barely hanging on. But inside this ruin, in the firelit silence between you both, something whole is born.

Hope.

He slides the ring into your ring finger. His fingers linger there, pressed to your heart. Like a vow.

And then the moment’s gone—because the city rumbles again, and reality snaps its jaws back open.

But you run differently now. You fight harder.

Because the ring is in your finger, warm from his hand. Because your blood runs next to his now—not just in battle, but in promise.

A battlefield proposal.

Born in fire. Held in grit.

And if you survive?

God help the world.

You’ll burn it down together in love.

And one day—when the dust has settled, and the skies have cleared—you'll tell the story of how love asked for forever at the edge of the end.

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gamblersdoll · 10 months ago

Note

Imagine reader being shy about being eaten out but allows Kirishima or kats to finger reader and lapping up the juices on their finger to convince reader into letting them eat her out

fingering, teasing, slight oral

“whyre you so nervous about being eaten, baby?” the red head whispers in your ear, a hand on your plush and soft tummy as he lays with you. “you can be honest, baby.”

“well..” you mumble, feeling katsuki’s hands trail up and down your back and shoulders, an expectant look and sigh. “im not too sure.. maybe about the way i smell most likely.”

katsuki scoffs, a soft smack to your ass and he chuckles at the way you jump softly. “you could work a twelve hour shift and ill still eat that pretty cunt of yours, kirishima is no better.” he kisses your cheek, pulling himself down to your thighs. “relax, i wont do anything you wont want me to do.”

kirishima holds you in his arms, kissing your knuckles and cooing in your ear as he consoles you. “shh, shh. its okay, let blasty know if you dont want this, ‘kay?”

you nod, feeling the blondes fingers hook around your waist band and pulling your cute pink and white ghost shorts down. the air hits your clit, a sigh from your nose and katsuki watches your eyes. “yer so pretty down here..” he mumbles, licking his little fang and he kisses your thigh. “i wont eat you today yet, but just let me finger you, that okay brat?”

you nod again, hearing eijirou chuckle and you both watching katsuki lick his middle and ring finger.

“let me know if its too much, ‘kay?” kirishima reminds you, and you nod in agreement. katsuki watches the both of you, leaning on his elbow as his free arm does the work for him. fingers plunged into your velvety walls, a solemn moan from your lips and hes red in the face.

“god, you sound so wet, little one.” kirishima kisses your ear, lips kissing up to yours and open mouth kissing you. his cock swells, pressing itself against your thigh.

“cant.. cant take it.” you mumble, feigning for your cunt to not come so quick, but both men know you’re lying.

“yes you can, not good to lie t’me..” katsuki reminds, adding his index to the mix. “oh, poor thing..” he grins, grinding his fingers up into your cervix.

kirishima watches, tweaking with your nipples and sucking on one another. katsuki pulls his fingers back, looking at his soaked and glistening fingers and pressing them into his mouth. he groans, his tongue becoming lewd and his fingers go back for more, having you elicit a surprised moan.

“c’mere red.” he barks, kirishima giving you a quick kiss and coming to his level, eyes rolling back when he tastes your juices along katsuki and his tongue. “taste good, doesn’t she?”

“uh huh..” he agrees, biting his knuckles an attempt to hold himself back.

your chest heaves, nodding when they look at you. “eat me, please.”

and you dont have to tell them twice, both men pulling your legs wide apart and the men stick their tongues out simultaneously, lapping up at the creamy slick dripping down the slit that connects your cunny to you cheeks. “taste so f’good..” kirishima mumbles, teeth slightly grazing your cheeks and katsuki chuckles.

“now you’ve gotten him all riled up, brat.” he warns, pulling away and pushing kirishima’s head deeper into your folds. “thats better, eat her just like that. such a good boy, yeah?”

kirishima groans inside your folds, his hips grinding into the mattress and he holds your legs down. “cant help it, tastes so good..”

“thats it, red. make our little girl come, and i might consider you to come as well.”

#dvorahasks #bakugou x reader x kirishima #mha kirishima #bhna kirishima #kirishima eijiro x reader #kirishima ejirou #kirshima eijirou #kirishima smut #kirishima x reader #eijirou kirishima #kirishima x black!reader #bakugou smut #bakugo katuski #kastuki bakugou #bakugou #katsuki bakugou #katsuki bakugo x reader #bakugou x reader #bakugou x black! reader

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sweetbunpura · 4 months ago

Text

Chestnut & Fellow

Help, they've taken over my brain.

Howard Chestnut

Fellow leans back against the bench he’s sitting on, eyes tracking Gidel as he plays around in the pack. Currently, there was a four day break at NRC and the residents of Ramshackle thought to spend the day in Foothill Town. Yuu and Rollo had left to check out the new shops and Skully had disappeared off to who knows where, leaving Fellow to take Gidel to the park. The fox beastman sighs, slouching back against the metal seat as his ear flicks to dislodge a butterfly that had landed on it. While he’s happy for a warm place to rest his head and as many meals as he can eat for both him and Gidel…. School life is not what it was cracked up to be, but he would never want to go back to that life he used to live.

Too many hurt lives and families left behind by his own desires, selfish or not. Fellow closes his eyes and sighs through his nose, but opens them upon hearing someone yell at him and make their way over to him.

“You!” The person is an older man, someone Fellow doesn’t recognize. “You got some nerve to show your face around here!”

The fox beastman jumps up and raises his hands to show he’s not a threat. “E-Excuse me?”

“You heard me!” The man pushes at Fellow’s chest. “My two sons went to spend a day in a park and then they never returned!”

“A-A park?” Fellow’s eyes flick around as he tried to look for an out. “I-I have no idea what you’re talking about, Sir.”

“Don’t try to play coy!” He grabs him by his collar and gets into Fellow’s face. “I know it was you-”

“Excuse me.”

Both men pause and look to the side to see who joined them. Fellow stares at a rather unimpressed Chestnut as he stays there with a few shopping bags in his hands. He has one of his eyebrows raised as he regards the men in front of him.

“What do you want?” The man barks at him.

“Wondering why you’re holding my colleague like he owes you money.” Chestnut flicks his tail. “And also ruining what is a beautiful day out with your very loud and very public fight.”

“He does owe me something. My family.”

Chestnut sighs, places his bags down, and crosses his arms . “Does he? Did you ever get the name of the man who did such a thing?”

“He introduced himself as Fellow Honest.”

“Then this is not your man.” He joins Fellow’s side. “His name is Ernesto Foulworth.”

Fellow tries not to scrunch up his face as Chestnut said that name. The man looks confused as he glances between the pair of beastmen.

“Are you kidding me?”

The con-man shakes his head and sighs. “I’m sorry, Sir, but it appears my twin brother has wronged you.”

“Twin?”

“Yes. I haven’t heard or seen him in years… and I’m sorry he would hurt your family in such a way.” His ears fall. “I hope you can accept my apology in his place.”

The man paused for a few moments before letting go. “…Sorry.”

They watch him leave in a hurry, Fellow waits until he turns the corner before sagging and sighing.

“Did you have to use that name?” “And have you get punched in the face?” Chestnut picks up his bags. “I’ll remember that for next time.”

“…Why did you help me?” Fellow semi-glares at him. “I don’t have anything you want.”

“I wasn’t lying about the ruining a good day thing, Mr. Honest.” Chestnut flicks his tail and presses his finger against Fellow’s forehead. “And not every hand that helps you wants something from you. Now, I hope you enjoy the rest of your day.”

With that, he leaves the area and heads towards the direction of the NRC staff townhouses. Fellow’s quiet as he watches him, his tail curls around his waist as his words weigh heavy on the fox beastman’s heart and shoulders. He doesn't have anymore time to think on it before Gidel comes running up to him and nearly barrels into his legs. He’ll have to worry about that later as he lifts up the boy by his collar and corrects him on not doing that. He tosses Gidel and the kid runs off without a care in the world, Fellow really feels like he needs a drink after today…

#twisted wonderland #twst fic #fellow honest #twst gidel #howard chestnut #twst oc

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wendichester · 4 months ago

Note

Saw this one tumblr post about a soulmate AU where people age until they reach 18 and then stop aging until they meet their soulmate so they can grow old together🥺

I wanted to ask how your take on this idea would be with your favorite spn character

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ til i saw you,

summary. you stop aging at 18, until you reunite with your happily ever after.

pairing. dean winchester x reader genre. fluff ; soulmate au

wordcount. 1080

notes / warnings. very brief mention of sex / this idea is honestly too cute!

You stop aging at eighteen.

Everyone does.

It’s the first thing they teach you in school, right after the alphabet. Right after how to count to ten.

"You will age until your eighteenth birthday," the teacher says, "and then you’ll stay that way until your soulmate touches you. That’s when time will start again. For both of you."

You remember wondering what that touch would feel like. Would it burn? Would it glow? Would the world shift on its axis?

But that was... a long time ago. And you're still here. Still eighteen. Still waiting. Twenty-seven birthdays later.

You wake up on the same mattress in the same little apartment you’ve been calling home for a decade now. Skin smooth, eyes clear, a body that never aches. On paper, you're one of the lucky ones. Immortality is soft on your bones. But it’s hard on your heart.

There’s only so long you can pretend you’re just a late bloomer. People stop asking after a while. They start to look. Whisper. Wonder. You lie. A lot. About your age, about where you’re from, about why you never seem to change.

And maybe the worst part—maybe the cruelest—is how easy it is to fall in love with the wrong people along the way. You’ve done it. Twice. Maybe three times, if you're being honest. But no matter how close they get, no matter how much you want it to happen, nothing changes.

No touch restarts your clock.

Until him.

It’s late when he walks into the gas station. Midnight and humming, the fluorescent lights above your head buzz like insects. You’re chewing gum and half-asleep behind the register when he strolls in, tall and broad and all leather jacket and swagger. He has a look in his eyes that says he’s seen too much and still hasn’t stopped looking.

You barely glance up when he drops a handful of items on the counter: beef jerky, a bottle of whisky, pie.

“Quiet night?” he says, voice deep and rasped, like he’s been singing with gravel in his throat.

You nod. Then look up.

And something... shifts.

It's not a sound, not a spark, not the glowing halo you used to imagine when you were little. It's a feeling. A pull. Your chest tightens like someone’s wrapping a thread around your ribs and tugging—just once. Gently. But enough to make your breath hitch.

He notices. Freezes.

The pie falls from his hand, lands with a soft thud against the counter. You both stare at each other like someone just flipped the universe upside down.

“You feel that?” he asks. And it’s not a line. It’s not casual. His voice is rougher now. Almost afraid.

You nod. Whisper, “Yeah.”

He lifts a hand slowly. Gives you time to step back, to say no, to deny it. But you don’t.

When his fingers touch yours, it’s instantaneous.

Like heat waking in your veins. Like time exhaling. Your heart stutters and then races, faster than it’s beat in years. You feel your skin come alive—blood rushing, lungs expanding, every cell remembering how to move.

And from the way he sways, the way his eyes widen and mouth parts, you know he’s feeling it too.

“Jesus,” he mutters. “I thought—I thought I’d die before this ever happened.”

Your lips curve. “You’re old, then?”

He barks out a laugh. “Let’s just say I’ve been eighteen long enough to miss rotary phones.”

You grin. “I’ve never used one.”

He leans closer. “Wanna come with me?”

You blink. “Where?”

“Anywhere.” A pause. “Everywhere.”

That’s how it begins.

A duffel bag. A backseat. The open road. Dean Winchester drives like it’s a religion and swears like it’s punctuation. He flirts without meaning to, laughs like he’s been starved for it, and kisses you like the world might end at any second.

The first time he makes you come, it’s in a motel room somewhere outside of Denver.

You’re both breathless from running—something about vampires, or maybe ghosts; you didn’t ask, too drunk on adrenaline and the way he’d looked at you in the dark. Like you were already his.

He kisses you soft at first, like he’s afraid he might break you. But his hands are anything but shy. They trail up your thighs, parting them like he already knows what’s underneath. When he finally pushes inside you, it feels like you’ve waited centuries for this exact kind of stretch, that kind of fullness, the kind of groan he makes when you clench around him.

“Fuck, sweetheart,” he rasps into your neck, voice hot and hungry. “You feel like heaven.”

You arch under him. “Then don’t stop.”

He doesn’t.

Being with Dean is nothing like you imagined.

He’s not soft. Not exactly. But he’s gentle in the ways that matter. He makes coffee in the mornings, leaves the radio on your favorite station, kisses the inside of your wrist like a promise. He reads you bedtime stories in Latin just to make you laugh. He teaches you how to shoot a gun and then buys you a strawberry milkshake after because he says it’s “important to balance the badass with the cute.”

And maybe it’s not perfect. You still fight. He still shuts down sometimes, still carries the weight of the world in the slope of his shoulders. But now, when he breaks, you’re there to hold him. And when you tremble, he’s already pulling you into his chest, pressing kisses into your hair, reminding you that he’s not going anywhere.

Not now. Not ever.

Months pass. Then years. You both start to age.

Little things at first. A crinkle at the edge of his eyes when he smiles. The slight ache in your hips when you ride him too long.

But it’s beautiful, this slow unraveling. This proof that it’s real. That you found each other. That time is moving again—together.

He touches the first silver strand in your hair like it’s a miracle.

“I’ve waited a long time for this,” he says, voice thick with feeling.

You cup his cheek. “What? The wrinkles?”

He grins. “No. You.”

And maybe you’ll never know why it took so long. Why fate made you wait. But when he holds you at night, when his breath is warm on your shoulder and his arms are wrapped tight around your waist, you finally stop wondering.

Because your clock is ticking.

And so is his.

And you’ll grow old.

Together.

Just like you were meant to.

ꔛ. navigation 𓂃˖ ࣪ all drabbles ; compatibility readings ; support my work .ᐟ

#dean winchester #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester x you #dean winchester fluff #dean winchester fic #supernatural #.docx #.req

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itneverendshere · 26 days ago

Text

little miss perfect - r.c - (+18) - mommy issues?

pairing: siren!reader x rafe warnings: smut.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

The suitcase hit the stairs with a thud as Rafe stood at the top of the landing, arms crossed, brow tight. His jaw has been aching since breakfast. Since the moment his dad casually dropped a bomb between bites of toast:

“We’re heading to the Bahamas. Two weeks at least. Business.”

Now Wheezie is uggling some pink monstrosity down the hall while Rose barks about sunscreen, and Ward’s checking his goddamn watch like his jet is about to leave without him.

Ward’s office door clicks shut behind him with finality.

Rafe’s already pacing.

“This is a joke, right?”

Ward doesn’t look up from the papers he’s signing, perched behind that over-polished desk, acting like he’s running a board meeting instead of ruining his son’s life.

“You’re seriously leaving me here?” Rafe demands, arms flung out. “Alone?”

“You’re not alone,” Ward says flatly.

“You’re leaving Sarah with her boyfriend and his feral-ass family, Rose and Wheezie are flying out with you—”

Ward looks up. “You’re staying here.”

“With her?” Rafe spits the word like it’s poison. “You’re leaving me in this house with her?”

Ward drops the pen.

“Rafe. Grow up.”

“She’s fucking—” He snaps but cut himself off before he says insane. Because that’s too honest.

Ward stands, his voice calm and curt.

“You want me to treat you like an adult? Act like one.”

Rafe’s laugh is dry.

“You’re punishing me. This is a punishment.”

Ward leans over the desk, pointing a finger.

“I know what you’ve been doing. Sneaking out, drinking till 4 a.m., that whole mess last week with the sheriff’s kid—”

“That wasn’t even—”

“I don’t care, Rafe.” Ward sits back again, “You’re staying here. And she’s staying too. Maybe you’ll learn something from her.”

“Are you—?”

“Responsibility. Restraint. Maybe even self-respect.”

Self-respect? Is he serious? Last he checked, you’re always, always hitting on him.

Rafe made a choking noise in the back of his throat.

“She’s going to teach me self-respect?”

“At least she handles herself. I trust her.”

Rafe stands there, stunned, while his father turns back to his papers.

“If anything happens, you’ll answer to me. That clear? Her dad’s trusting me.”

Rafe opens his mouth and closes it like a fish. The worst part, the part that’s making his stomach flip, isn’t the subtle insult. It’s that tiny, festering voice in the back of his head reminding him, Ward trusts you. Everyone does.

You’re the fucking liability.

His breath can’t get out fast enough, trapped somewhere in his gut, fighting for a way to explode. His whole body itches with the rage that didn’t settle in his chest; it nested there, built a fucking home, laid eggs.

He storms out of the office, the door slamming so hard the frame rattles. He doesn’t give a fuck, let them hear it, let the whole island hear it. Goddamn jet engines couldn’t drown this out.

You.

He hits the stair rail with the flat of his hand, once, twice—fucking Christ.

Ward still looks at him like he’s the dangerous one and you need protecting from him.

Rafe kicks the suitcase Wheezie left at the bottom of the stairs, sending it skidding into the wall with a meaty thump. No one says anything, Rose’s still on the phone, Ward is now locked in his little god-mode tower, and Wheezie’s already disappeared into the car with her headphones in and not a single fuck to spare.

He can feel it crawling under his skin already—his thoughts tangling, his vision going hot at the edges. The way it always happens when his dad pulls this shit: setting traps and calling it structure, locking him in a cage and telling him it’s home.

Now he’s leaving, on a fucking “work” vacation.

With the people he likes. Rafe, the problem child, left behind. Babysat by the girl with the perfect smile and eyes that look straight through him. You’re going to love this.

That meddling little siren—

He shoves both hands through his hair and curses under his breath for good measure..

“No. Nope. I’m not fucking doing this.”

He stays locked in his room like a dog with a shock collar—pacing, spiraling, replaying the morning a hundred different ways. The AC is too loud; his phone is too quiet. He keeps checking his texts like someone might remember he exists.

By the time evening rolls around, the sun has dipped below the trees, and the whole damn house is steeped in that golden-hour glow that makes everything look fake to him, a lie.

He stalks down the hall, ignoring the burn in his chest, when he hears your voice. Soft, different from the way you talk to him, no venom or teeth.

Rafe slows as he reaches the door to the upstairs study, left ajar enough.

There you are, the responsible one, the trusted one with a pristine reputation and a back pocket full of his secrets.

You’re on the phone. Rafe knows that tone. The voice, the one you use when you’re trying not to cry.

He’s only ever heard it once before.

“I’m only calling ‘cause he left,” you murmur. “You knew this would happen. You knew what he’d say again."

A pause.

“No, I’m not coming to see you. I can’t. Dad would lose his mind.”

Silence. Then your voice again, quieter.

“I miss you, too, mommy.”

Rafe goes rigid.

No fucking way.

You're talking to the woman nobody’s allowed to mention, who he hasn’t set eyes on since he was six. The one Ward spits venom over every Thanksgiving and your dad pretends never existed.

Your mom.

Rafe glances down the hall, scared someone might catch him listening, but he’s alone.

You sniff once.

“I’m really sorry.”

You laugh, bitter and small.

“I’m okay. Dad doesn’t know I have this phone on me.”

Rafe’s eyes widen.

The fucking guilt trip you’ve laid on him over the years,, every time he’s thrown a punch, popped a pill, broken a rule, you were always there with that cool stare, your angel act.

Is this finally the one time he gets the dirt on you?

He should’ve heard your little secret, filed it under leverage, and backed off grinning. Fuck knows that’s what you would’ve done if the roles were reversed, you’ve been sitting on his sins for years.

But the more he listens, the more he realizes you’re sounding like a kid trying to piece together something no one ever let you talk about. He presses his back to the hallway wall, and it’s quieter again, but your voice floats out after a beat.

“Mom, you can’t come here, okay? I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

Another pause. Longer this time. Rafe can almost hear her, your mom, through the silence, begging.

You exhale slowly,

“I can’t do this right now. I can’t be the reason everything gets worse again, I’m sorry.”

Rafe fucking hates how it hits him suddenly, it makes sense. All of it. Why your dad keep you close like a doll behind glass, locked up and always smiling. Why you fight for everyone’s attention.

You’re trapped. And while Rafe’s chains are out in the open, loud and ugly and always on display, yours are quiet. Hidden behind good grades and stupid compliments.

He wanted so badly to use this against you, thought it would feel good.

But all he feels is fucking sick.

He thinks about what it must be like to hide something like that, to miss someone that much and never be allowed to say it out loud, grow up hearing that your mother’s name is poison.

To still answer her calls anyway.

He wants to ask why they hate her so much. What she did. Because it sure as fuck doesn’t sound like she abandoned you. If anything, it sounds like she’s the only one still trying to reach you.

He slides away from the wall, guilt trailing behind him when he gets back to his room, unsure if he knows anything about you or your dad, and his at all.

For the first time in years, he wonders....if you’re not the warden, perhaps you’re just another inmate.

Two hours later the smell hits him before he makes it to the stairs—garlic, butter, something frying in a pan—his stomach betrays him with a low, traitorous growl.

By the time he drags himself into the kitchen, you’re there.

Back to him, standing at the stove, pretending you aren’t the root of the migraine drilling through the side of his skull.

“Look who came out of his crypt.”

Rafe rolls his eyes so hard he nearly gives himself a seizure.

“Don’t start shit.”

“I didn’t say anything.” You flip something in the pan with far too much confidence. “Just making dinner.”

Rafe sits into a chair with a thud, arms folded, glare locked on you.

“You’re trying to piss me off.”

You hum, all innocent. “Why would I do that? You told me to stay away.”

He gives you a dead stare, reminiscing about the beach incident.

“’Cause that worked so well.”

You finally turn, holding the wooden spoon, an eyebrow raised.

Your hair is tied up, a few stubborn strands falling loose, skin glowing from the heat of the stove. That tilt of your mouth that always looks like you know exactly what button to push and how hard.

His chest stutters, caught in the middle of what should’ve been a scoff.

Rafe wants to mock your apron or your tone. He could remind you this isn’t your kitchen, or accuse you of trying too hard, lay it on thick and pick a fight to feel something.

But instead, he watches and remembers the way your voice cracked when you said “I miss you, too, mommy.”

The spatula clinks against the pan.

“Smells good,” Rafe mutters.

You turn to face him, brows pinched. “What?”

He shrugs. Doesn’t meet your eyes. “I said it smells good.”

You narrow your eyes, suspicious immediately.

“Did you hit your head?”

He scoffs. “Relax. It’s not a compliment.”

You raise a brow. “Sure sounded like one.”

“It’s not. I’m just hungry.”

“Mmhmm,” you say, lips twitching like you're trying to bite back a smile.

“You’re gonna poison me, aren’t you?”

“If I wanted to poison you, I’d be more subtle about it.”

He’s hyper-aware of everything: how you walk barefoot across the tile, how your collarbone moves when you reach for a glass. Some twisted, domestic fever dream he never asked to star in.

“What?” You ask, “Choke on a bone or something?”

"Shut up,” he mutters, immediately looking away. Liar. Fucking liar.

He pushes his chair back a little and tries to breathe normally.

“You’re jumpy,” you add. “Afraid I laced it with something?”

He shoots you a look that could level a building. He hates how his brain short-circuited for a half-second; some caveman part of him wanted to lunge across the table and—what? Yell? Kiss you? Slam you against the fridge and—Nope. Shut it down.

He stands abruptly. “I’m not hungry anymore.”

“So dramatic,” you chuckle. “No wonder Ward wants me to keep an eye on you.”

That makes him stop cold.

“You think you’re better than me?”

You blink at him, eyes flickint to his face, then to his hands, cataloging the change.

“No,” You chuckle, standing too. Stepping into his space. “I know I am.”

Then you brush past him, unbothered, your shoulder knocking his to prove you can.

He stares at the spot where you were standing, manifesting it to open up and swallow him whole. This is the same girl who covered for him last week when he disappeared for god knows how many hours.

He moves to the sink, runs the cold water until it splashes against the steel, to give himself something to do. Something that doesn’t involve putting his hands on you.

Rafe doesn’t realize he’s standing there like a fucking idiot, halfway to storming out again, until he feels something pull at his wrist.

You.

He looks down, your fingers wrapped around his arm.

Your nails.

Sharp little things, painted red, deep and glossy, reminding him of blood and cherries and everything else that makes his heart pound. You never wore red nails. Never. You chose soft pinks and pearly nudes—colors that whispered innocence, that matched the girl you pretended to be.

Now, when he looks at you, he doesn’t see the entitled lying rich girl who gets under his skin, he sees what you’ve spent your whole life trying to bury under pearls and perfect posture. The mother you’re not supposed to talk about.

He’s thinking about her now too, if you have her voice. If she taught you to cook, or if you taught yourself to feel closer to something that reminded you of her. He wonders if she painted your nails when you were little, and if she’d cry to see them now—red, sharp, dangerous.

“What are you doing?”

They’re done to perfection, to scratch a man’s throat open and then ask why he was bleeding on your shoes. The vision alone makes him gulp, yanking his arm back out of pure reflex, but you reach for him again.

Your fingers slide, nails grazing the inside of his wrist.

Rafe swallows; his legs move before his brain gives permission.

“Jesus,” he mutters, eyes still flicking to your hand. “Are you trying to claw through me or what?”

“Depends on how mouthy you get.”

Nevermind.

Now he’s shamefully thinking about those nails in his skin, dragging down his back, across his throat, catching in his hair, his—He sits down hard in the chair, blue eyes fixed on the plate.

You turn back to the stove like nothing happened, singing to yourself like you didn’t carve your name into him with five little red knives, leaving phantom marks on the inside of his wrist.

The sickest, most humiliating part was that he let you, following you like a fucking dog.

Rafe’s eyes are stuck to your back, watching how your shoulder moves as you stir. He imagines what you’d do if he said something about your family, but he doesn’t know what’s worse—the idea of you fighting him over it or the idea of you not fighting at all.

You turn, carrying two plates, catching him staring at your hands.

“What?”

He fixes his gaze on your face and says, "Nothing."

You place his plate on the table, fingers brushing against the ceramic, nails clicking faintly. That sound is going to haunt him.

Then you slide into the seat across from him, poised and irritatingly pleased with yourself. You pick up your fork, twirling it in your fingers.

Rafe notices the glint of red nail polish flash again, the colour catching light like a fucking weapon.

“How’s the food? I tried making your favorite.”

He moves in his chair, too aware of how warm it is in the kitchen.

Great, another reminder that you know him—better than he’s comfortable with. Favorite dish, perfect bite, cooked just how he likes it, no questions asked.

He takes a slow bite, chews, swallows. Doesn’t look at you.

“Good?” you ask, resting your chin in your hand, elbow on the table, watching him like he’s some kind of experiment you already know the outcome to.

“It’s fine.”

“You’re welcome.”

He shoots you a glare. “Didn’t say thank you.”

You chew slowly, sip from your glass like this is a date instead of a fucked-up purgatory neither of you can crawl out of.

“Okay.”

Rafe leans forward, elbows on the table.

“What’s with the nails?”

“Wanted something different,” you concede simply. “I did file ‘em a little meaner because it’s just the two of us. Gotta protect myself, y’know?”

From what he might want to do if you kept looking at him like that?

Rafe knows it’s bait.

His fingers twitch around the edge of his plate, wanting to meet you toe-to-toe. He almost does, but then you lick a little sauce from the corner of your mouth, a calculated fucking assault.

“Right.” He sits back, creating a much-needed distance. “I’ll sleep with one eye open.”

You raise both brows.

“You want me to look under your bed for the boogeyman?”

“No need,” he says lowly. “He’s sitting right across from me.”

“Funny! Or you could sleep in mine. The door’s always open for you.”

The chair scrapes loudly against the tile as he shoves back from the table, hands flat, eyes burning holes through the wood before he looks at you. He has to climb back into his own body before he can speak.

Your lips part, halfway to laughing.

He can picture them, red, glinting, curling in his shirt, pressing into his neck, leaving streaks on his hips.

“I’d never crawl into your bed. Keep dreaming.”

“Mhmm.” Your chin in your hand. “You almost sound like you mean that.”

Rafe looks away, biting the inside of his cheek so hard he tastes copper.

You stand too fluidly.

“Anyway,” you brush past him with your plate, your voice a knife sliding under his ribs, “the offer stands. Just knock first. Or don’t.”

“Get it through your thick skull already—I don’t want you.”

You give a condescending laugh, “If you say so, Rafey!”

“I don’t!”

Instead of backing down or being offended: “Really?” you purred, voice silk wrapped in razor wire. “So your little shows in the shower weren’t real?”

“What the hell are you talking about?” His voice cracks despite himself.

You slid your nails mercilessly up his chest; his breath hitches, eyes going wide with shock.

“Don’t act all innocent.” Your fingers are tangling in his hair as you press close, moving behind his neck to trap him. “I heard everything.”

Rafe’s eyes dart around, panic and disbelief.

“You—you didn’t—”

Your pretty eyes are glittering with wicked amusement.

“Like I said, I really enjoyed the show.”

The flush is creeping into his cheeks as he tries to process what you said.

“What?”

You nod, unfazed, pulling him closer.

“Yeah. If you needed help…” You continued, “You could’ve asked. I would’ve helped. Bet my hand would’ve felt a lot better than whatever you were doing.”

He wants to kill you, shove you six feet under. Every word you said, every touch, is gasoline on a fire that’s already burning out of control. The line between hatred and something filthy and craving hurt like a motherfucking bitch. It fucking hurts to want you like this.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

You don’t seem unapologetic. “Is that so?”

All he can do is swallow hard, heart hammering.

“I had to get myself off too,” you murmur, “Even if my little toy probably doesn’t compare to yours.”

Your sad eyes lock onto his, the pout tugging at your lips like you’re asking for something; lips brushing against his jaw, a ghost of a kiss that makes him harder than any other girl before.

Rafe closes his eyes, the image flickering in his mind. He doesn’t want to watch but can’t look away. You, alone, needing release, the thought not helping whatsoever. Your mouth parted in a quiet moan that sounded like his name. Hips grinding on something plastic, fake, unworthy — but you were picturing him.

Your lips dip, sucking behind his ear, trailing down his neck with a slow hunger.

His brain registers the sting digging into his shirt and the slick heat of your mouth on his skin, but he does nothing to stop you.

You pull away to whisper against his throat,

“I did it... slow. Took my time. Imagined it was you.”

Suddenly, the image isn’t just words.

It’s him—your hips rolling, your hands clutching, your tits in ragged gasps. The thought of you riding that toy, pretending it was his cock...Shit.

Your hand slides beneath the waistband of his shorts, curling around him through the thin fabric. Rafe's breath comes to a halt, his chest rising and falling in ragged desperation.

“Do you need help?” Your voice is silk.

His eyes flicker down, glazed and stunned, and before he can talk himself out of it, he nods, a stupid little thing under your spell.

Your eyes gleam like a predator who’s cornered its prey.

“Good boy.”

Rafe feels every centimeter of pressure, your fingers through the fabric of his shorts, molding around him like you were getting familiar. It's thin cotton, and the warmth of your palm bleeds through it. You press in, the pad of your thumb over the shape of him through the cotton, deliberately avoiding the tip… until you don't.

He shakes beneath your touch when your thumb finally rolls over the head of him, a stroke with enough pressure to make him sin. The friction forms a damp patch, and his entire body jerks as if he were shocked.

"Aw, poor baby," you coo mockingly.

His hands are gripping the kitchen counter properly now, knuckles pale, chest heaving. You give another slow drag of your hand up his length, and this time you focus on the head, rubbing with your thumb before sliding down again, your fingers wrapping tighter around him.

Rafe lets out a sound—half-breath, half-whine—and your expression turns vicious.

“You need more? Need me to really help you?”

He nods again, helpless. Another dumb nod, dazed and burning alive from the inside out.

You tut, dragging your hand again, letting the heel of your palm press the sensitive spot below his tip. He bucks into it, involuntarily, a breathy moan escaping before he can hold it in.

“All that attitude,and now look at you.”

He wants to shove your hand away, and tell you to stop—but his hips betray him, rocking into your hand like a pre-adolescent.

You brush a kiss along his neck, not matching the filth in your voice. “More?”

His breath hitches. “H-how are you doing this to me.”

A delighted sound escapes you. “This is all you.”

His hips chase something to relieve the pressure building between his legs. Your fingers finally slip beneath the waistband, skin on skin, and he goes silent, a witch.

“There you are.”

You know what you’re doing, stroking him with a rhythm that’s measured. Rafe can’t pretend to have dignity anymore.

“Fuck,” he hisses.

“Thought you didn’t want me.”

“I don’t,” he lies, voice breaking. “I—fuck, stop talking—”

Your thumb drags over the slit, collecting wetness, spreading it as you pump him harder.

“No, you don’t.”

Rafe groans, loud this time, hips grinding into your fist, a mindless thing, breath ragged and fast. His abs clench with every stroke, his vision blurring. He chokes on a breath, mouth dropping open as a guttural sound breaks loose from his throat.

Embarrassingly loud.

Your silence makes it worse; the sounds he’s making sound louder in his head—the wet slide of your palm, his pathetic breathing, the way he whimpers when your thumb brushed the tip.

He cracks an eye open.

Big mistake.

You’re watching him.

He drops his eyes to your hand, your fucking hand, and that’s even worse. Those red nails while your fist pump up and down the length of his cock.

“Jesus Christ,” His throat's dry already, “Fuck—fuck—”

He’s going to come way too fast. He slams his head back against the cabinet again and tries to think about anything else: cold shower, dead puppies, his dad in a golf shirt.

You flick at the head, and he makes a strangled noise—half-moan, half-panic.

“Shit,” he breathes out, “shit, slow down—”

“Why?”

You don’t.

“Oh fuckkkk,” he croaks, panic threading through his tone.

Your knuckles brush the soaked waistband of his shorts.

“What’s the matter? You’re gonna come?”

One more pass of your thumb over the slick crown, and he almost lost it.

“No—no, fuck, I—” he grunts, back arching off the cabinet. He has to breathe through his nose and force himself to lock his knees. “God, I can’t—I can’t—” His voice is nothing, just broken glass and desperation.

“Why not, mhmm? I know you want to.”

He hates you and he’s going to fucking bust, it’s going to be the hardest, most humiliating orgasm of his life.

Rafe lets out a noise, hardly close to a word, a rasp torn from somewhere deep.

"Stop looking at me like that," he mumbles hoarsely.

He bites his lip again, hard, a noise escapes anyway, ugly, desperate—and he ducks his head, breath pouring out in shallow bursts.

“You’re such a fucking—” But the insult dies in his throat when your hand squeezes along him with sinful precision.

“Say it,” you challenge, your breath warm on his neck. “C’mon, baby. Say what I am.”

He whimpers instead, and you laugh amused.

“Thought so.”

And then… You stop, just like that.

Your hand slips away, leaving him soaked and twitching, his cock pulsing against nothing, the denial crushing him. A gasp punches from his chest, and he chases your hand with his hips before he realizes you’re not giving it back.

His eyes fly open, frantic, wild.

“No—no, no, no, wait—what the fuck?”

You’re admiring the mess blooming across the front of his shorts, the trembling in his thighs, the way he looks ruined without even coming.

“W-why’d you—” he stammers, breath breaking apart in pieces, hands hovering in front of him, he doesn’t know what to do with them.

“Next time you try to eavesdrop, do it quietly.”

Shit.

“I didn’t mean to—”

“Yeah, you did. You wanted to be right about me. So congrats, Cameron. Break out the champagne.”

You pull your hand out slowly, letting the elastic snap back, and make a little thoughtful noise as you look at your palm, proceeding to lick it like it’s a trophy.

“Thanks for dessert,” You muse, voice velvet.

What the fuck.

He doesn’t even mean the act itself—he means you.

He curses under his breath, trying to look away. You don’t wait for a reaction, smoothing your clothes like you hadn’t just wanked him off where he stood, and turning toward the hallway. His throat is fucking dry and sore like he’d screamed. He hadn’t, but it sure as fuck feels like it.

Rafe deserved it, he knows it.

He did eavesdrop. He did want to be right. About you, but none of it prepared him for this. For the way you said his name, for the sound of your breath near his ear, for the fucking smile you wore while ruining him.

He looks down at the poor state you left him in, soaked, hard, undone. His chest heaves, sweat on his neck and lower back, body flushed with humiliation and aching want.

Rafe drags a shaky hand down his face, trying to regroup. The arousal is still there, awful and insistent. But underneath there’s something worse—shame burned into every nerve.

He presses the heel of his palm into his eyes.

“Fucking idiot.”

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