#when you are a Performer first. everything else second

[edawgz]

ᝰ.ᐟ UNTRUSTWORTHY

𖦹ׂ ₊˚⊹⋆ tommy shelby x fem. reader. ~1.5k words.

❚ ❙ ❘ flirty. implied nsfw. borderline smut. sexual innuendos. rivals.

: ̗̀➛ In a room thick with smoke, sharp glances, and unspoken desire, you challenge each other’s control -- and find yourselves surrendering in ways neither expected. A slow burn of power, wit, and heat, where trust is dangerous and attraction is undeniable.

| masterlist. | peaky blinders masterlist. |

You arrive at the Garrison on a Monday night, dressed like you’ve got nothing to lose and everything to take. Your heels click with intention against the floor, your coat tailored just sharply enough to look like armor, and your chin tilted as if the world should move aside. It usually does.

The pub is a haze of smoke and low murmurs, the kind of place where secrets get traded for whisky and the shadows do most of the talking. You move through it like you belong there -- because you do -- and spot him immediately, seated in the far booth like he was poured into the leather and told to wait for trouble.

Tommy Shelby doesn’t blend in, no matter how quiet the room is. He doesn’t need to. He occupies space the way a fire does -- slow, warm, and slightly dangerous at first glance. The second glance just confirms it.

He catches your eye before you’re halfway across the room, his gaze sliding over you like he’s assessing a fine weapon. He doesn’t nod. Doesn’t smile. He just waits.

You slip into the seat across from him, ignoring the spot he gestured to beside him. That was a test, and you passed.

“Late,” he says, his voice low and even, a hint of steel beneath the smoke.

“Fashionably,” you reply, sliding your gloves off one finger at a time, making a small performance out of it. “Didn’t think you’d mind. Or are you the sentimental type now?”

He takes a slow sip of whiskey, barely a reaction, but the smallest tug at the corner of his mouth betrays some level of amusement. “I don’t. But you will, if you make a habit of it.”

“Lucky for both of us,” you say as you settle deeper into the seat, legs crossed, “I don’t make habits. I make money.”

Tommy leans back, fingers wrapped around his glass, his eyes fixed on you like he’s trying to solve a riddle no one else has quite understood. “Same thing.. at least, in this line of work.”

You smile with the kind of sharp edge that’s gotten you into and out of a hundred deals. “So, this is business then?”

He watches you for a moment, completely unreadable. “You said you had a proposition. Thought I’d let you make it in person.”

“And what if I told you I just wanted to see your pretty face in the flesh?” You hummed as your fingers traced the glass he had set out for you.

He doesn’t bite, doesn’t flinch.. just watches you calmly. “Then I’d ask what you’re really after.”

“Maybe I’m after your horses,” you say, lips quirking slightly as you lean forward.

“You’re not,” he replies without hesitation, his eyes narrowing a fraction.

“Your guns, then.”

“Closer.”

Your smile stretches, slow and deliberate, like a slow draw of a knife. “I want in on the north docks. You’ve been circling them. I already have people inside.”

He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t even glance at the map you slide across the table. “And what do you want in return?”

“A seat at the table,” you say, the words landing like a coin dropped on marble. You wanted to make sure that this exchange was sharp, clear, nonnegotiable.

Tommy’s gaze darkens with something unreadable, and when he speaks, it’s quieter than before. “You don’t want to marry into it?”

That earns a real laugh from you, low and unrestrained. “Jesus Christ, no. I’d rather slit my wrists with a broken teacup.”

There’s a flicker at the corner of his mouth again -- something like approval, or maybe amusement. “Good.”

The word lingers in the air like smoke. “You know... I don’t trust you,” he says, eyes steady.

“And I don’t trust you,” you reply easily, almost fondly. “But I like you.”

He tilts his head slightly with an eyebrow quirked, “You like dangerous things.”

“Only the ones that don’t apologize for it.” You shot back, tilting your head to mimicking him as your eyes met.

That earns something close to a smile from him that was brief, sharp, and gone too soon. “Only the ones that fight back,” he corrected, and it hangs between you like a match waiting to be struck.

You reach for the cigarette he offers without hesitation, and he lights it with the same casual grace he uses to order a killing. His eyes are steady as the flame flickers, the smoke curling around you both like it knows something you don’t yet.

“You always this charming to your 'rivals'?” you ask, taking a long drag.

“Only the pretty ones,” he murmurs, and the way he says it isn’t coy, he just states it like it’s simply true.

You exhale, slow and controlled, watching the smoke drift upward before you speak. “Then I’ll take it as a compliment. Even if it’s manipulative.”

He shrugs, it was the smallest motion, but somehow weighted. “Compliments usually are manipulative... just because they're said doesn’t mean they’re not true.”

“And manipulation’s just conversation,” you say, finishing his thought. “With higher stakes.”

He doesn’t disagree. He just watches you like a man who already knows the next ten minutes and is willing to play them slow.

“You still want a seat at the table?” he asks, voice like gravel rubbed smooth by time.

You tilt your head slightly. “You offering?”

Tommy doesn’t answer. He stands instead, slow and smooth, the kind of movement that’s more command than invitation.

You meet his gaze and hold it. And then, without a word, you rise and follow.

The walk upstairs is quiet.. not the awkward kind of silence, it was something heavier, something full. You don’t speak, and neither does he because there’s no need.

When he shuts the door behind you, it’s not gentle, but it’s not rough either... it’s just final. Like a move in chess that ends the game before anyone else realizes it.

You turn to face him, already knowing how this ends.

“This isn’t about business,” you say, though your voice is softer now, there's less armor, more heat.

“No,” he replies, stepping closer until the space between you feels like a fuse. “Not anymore.”

He doesn’t kiss you like he’s unsure.. he kisses you like it’s the only thing keeping him from unraveling. His hand settles on your waist, thumb dragging upward, and you swear the air in the room bends around the pressure of his mouth on yours.

You respond in a hungry but measured manner, like a woman who’s known want before and never let it conquer her. But Tommy Shelby is not like the others. He doesn’t touch to take, he touches like he’s memorizing, learning, and maybe even earning.

Your coat slips off your shoulders in one clean motion, and you feel his hands on your back, slow and warm and utterly unhurried. He pulls you toward the bed, and when you reach it, he doesn’t throw you down. He just watches as you sit, your blouse half undone, breath shallow, eyes sharp.

“You still don’t trust me,” you whisper again, but the words aren’t a challenge now. They’re something more dangerous.. they're honest.

“I trust this,” he murmurs, and his hand finds your thigh.

The breath you let out is shaky, involuntary. His lips follow the edge of your jaw down your throat like he’s tracing the line of your power. He unbuttons your shirt slower than he has any right to, each one undone with a look that says he’s already undressed you a hundred times in his head.

And somehow, he still wants to take his time.

Your skin is warm under his touch, the kind of warmth that makes you forget yourself. He kisses down your chest, across the slope of your stomach, and when he finally lays you back against the bed, he does it like he’s handling a weapon.. carefully, reverently.

You’re not sure when you stop pretending this is part of the game. Maybe it’s the way his hand slips under your thigh and anchors you to him. Maybe it’s the way he murmurs your name like a secret only he’s meant to keep. Or maybe it’s the way he pauses -- just long enough to make sure you’re still with him -- and then leans in again like he plans to stay there forever.

Later, when the heat has faded and your body hums with something more electric than exhaustion, you rest your head against his chest.

You don’t speak, but neither does he.

His hand strokes slowly along your hip, almost absentminded, like he’s thinking of what comes next. Or maybe he’s thinking about you.

You wonder if this changes anything.

And then he says, voice thick with sleep and smoke and something you don’t dare name, “You’re not walking out of here thinking you’ve won.”

You smirk against his skin. “Like hell I will.”

He laughs, a soft, low sound that rumbles through his chest.

“You’re trouble,” he murmurs.

“And you,” you say, pressing your mouth to his neck, “like trouble.”

His hand tightens on your hip.

Neither of you sleep quickly. But eventually, the room grows quiet again, the city outside breathes, and for now, that’s enough.

[salmalin]

I must agree—Georgine is hands down the most tragic character in Bookworm. Not just because bad things happen to her, but because she dies due entirely to how she was raised. (As opposed to Ferdinand and Myne, who live in defiance of being born to die.) Even worse, she is a victim of the exact things Myne works to dismantle in the system that's been built: isolation of children from external support structures and a severe lack of broad and functional education.

If Georgine had been raised with even a modicum of genuine care (that wasn't from someone she had been primed to hate), she could have turned out so different. If she learned even one (1) coping mechanism, she could have done some good. But she wasn't taught anything that was supposed to serve her, only the idea of who she needed to be. The education system in Yurgenschmidt is locked behind family- and pay-walls, so variety isn't available, isolation is inevitable, and if you're raised in abuse then you won't know anything else.

But let's step back for a second. Let's talk about what makes a tragedy with what is probably the most famous example.

The tragedy of Romeo and Juliet is that they are children, and the adults around them failed them at every turn before, during, and up to their deaths. It's a tragedy because everyone was locked in their traditions, never deviating from their first education, and thus it could not have ever ended differently. Every decision made—those of their family included—were decided in advance by tradition, grudges, and actions that happened before the story even began. In fact, if their romance had been revealed at the start, it might have gotten even bloodier. What's more, even though Juliet throws question at every turn whether they should delay things, put off their marriage, listen to reason, etc., she is ultimately swayed by Romeo by what usually boils down to a single line of dialog. The most tragic part of Juliet isn't even necessarily that she's not educated enough, or doesn't have external support systems—it's the naivety the comes from her youth. She's very clearly a smart girl. But her willingness to assume someone else knows better—someone who was smitten with a relative literally until the moment he laid eyes on Juliet—is very telling. Juliet does not think Romeo to be fickle and naive because she has only known his passion.

The tragedy of Georgine is due to Veronica setting her on this path long before the story ever began. She was never permitted the chance to learn anything beyond what would serve an Archduchess. She was groomed, postured, and set up to win, and then earned only failure due to... not being born with a penis.

But the absolute worst part to me, the most tragic and telling detail of her story, is that Ahrensbach absolutely went to pieces under her hand. So that education her mother gave her? The thing that destroyed her life? It wasn't even halfway decent. No wonder the royal family was so willing to import Ferdinand to teach Letizia when Georgine was right there. Not only was she right there, but she was right there with the right pedigree, the right education, and with experience acting as the current archduchess after the death of her husband. But the Royal Family didn't trust Georgine—or even anyone in her family—to do this. Likely because of her incompetence, pettiness, and inclination towards revenge. The Royals are convinced that their word is law. This is how they have been treated for decades. So simply ordering Georgine to do this would have been enough for them. But they didn't. Not because they didn't trust Georgine to not sabotage Letizia's education, but because no one in Ahrensbach could be trusted to provide it.

Georgine really just did everything she was told, acted how she was raised, performed as she was expected, and took revenge the way she was trained, only to trip over a landMyne at the last possible moment.

i’m sorry i know georgine is like evil vengeful villain tm but i am so sympathetic towards her like that’s my fucked up meowmeow i’m sorry. YES she killed and used and manipulated people but with veronica for a mother and the horrible abuse she went through she’s gonna be fucked up!!! literally everything she ever worked towards her entire life her entire purpose was ripped away from her right before she was able to secure it and she was basically thrown away to be a man old enough to be her father ‘s sex slave and left to rot for years. left to fester. left with nothing but her rage and her cunning and her name sworn faithful followers. what else could she have done. she’s a victim of abuse that wasn’t able to break the cycle of abuse and became an abuser herself but was she even given a chance to break the cycle when everything she ever cared about was snatched out from under her and she was never given any support besides her uncle from afar? she still ended up abusive and vengeful and consumed by hatred but i still feel so bad for her

[dulcevenganzaa]

This Gerard quote from that same article:

How do you like to track vocals? Usually I have the lyrics all written out. Doug and I work so rapidly together, and Rob sits in the back and listens. Doug and I watch each other via camera. We have a system: We do a few passes to get warmed up, but if it hits right away, we do it, then we double it, then we do the chorus, then we double that, do harmonies. Double, double, double. We only punch in the overlaps. It’s us going straight through, and we keep building and building, but I know exactly what I want to do when I am in there. So I might say “stop,” and do a weird harmony on one word. Constantly building. I like getting used to the situation; I don’t dictate anything. It’s why I like performing live and why I think I am really good at it. I look at the room and learn the room, what it feels like to be in the booth. I learn the mic and how it feels to use it. I usually start with a ton of reverb on my vocals, but slowly, the more comfortable I become, it gets completely dry. That helps me to feel like it’s live. When I am singing, I have a ton of room and reverb in my ears, too, because traditionally when doing shows, I am just hearing the room and it’s bouncing off the walls. I am so accustomed to that live sound so I want to feel like I am in a theater in the studio. I have to be inspired; then I am done. And we always cut vocals at night, like it’s show time. Never before nine at night. In the day, I drink coffee and chat, tweak and fix things, and play with new sounds. At night, we are ready—that’s creation time, then we get cooking and we are done around 2 am. From EQ Magazine. January 2011.

[monicaalexandraaa]

The way I dropped everything to read this. Just perfect.

"You meant it, didn’t you?" she asked finally, her voice softer than the wind.

He didn’t pretend to misunderstand, because there wasn’t any use for that. Nothing needed to go unsaid.

“I didn’t mean to say it like that, honest,” he said. “Somewhere between the morphine and the way you looked at me like I wasn’t broken, I knew. Maybe even before that – I don’t know what I’m saying. But yes. I meant it.”

I loved this^ little bit so much. I loved every line really. Them dancing, the morning after, the moment between Harry and his sister and mother, just all of it. I feel so much for this story and I’m in complete awe over it🩷🩷

FRONTLINES: AWAITING - Part Two a harry styles x original character story.word count: 10,068 content warning: mental health struggles, fade to black sex, foreplay, alcohol use, gender norms depiction in 1940s, war discussion

summary: after months apart, Harry and Clare reunite in a London pub, where the weight of their letters gives way to quiet touches, laughter, and rekindled intimacy.

author's note: due to tumblr's limit of lines per post, you are getting TWO new updates from frontlines today - keep an eye out for part three soon! hope you enjoy this as much as I enjoy writing it <3

READ "FRONTLINES: PART ONE" HERE

__________________________________________________

May, 1943 – London

They broke apart slowly, as if neither of them were quite ready to let go.

Clare’s hands lingered on Harry’s arms, her fingers brushing the soft fabric of his uniform, as if testing whether he was real. He looked down at her with something between a smile and disbelief, his eyes still glazed with the kind of relief that only came after long-held hope.

“You look…” he started, pulling back enough to see her, holding her waist as he admired the beautiful dress and the way she wore it. “Like a beginning I didn’t think I’d get.”

Clare smiled, knowing she was blushing already. “I nearly didn’t wear the dress – I thought it would be a bit much, maybe.”

“Glad you didn't decide against it."

It took them an awkward moment to move away from one another, but Harry took her hand in his and lead her back to the table he had gotten for them – just in case she came. He pulled her chair out for her, and she sat, legs tucked neatly beneath the table, a little breathless at the way that she was here.

Clare watched as he sat back down, his uniform pressed, shoulders tight. His complexion was clean; showered and groomed. He moved with much more ease than he had when he left the hospital. Her eyes fell to the scar that ran across his ear to his jaw, not as deep and certainly becoming lighter.

"Did you really iron your shirt just for me?”

He leaned in slightly, eyes melting across her like he had never seen a woman so beautiful. “Spent thirty minutes and burned my thumb. Worth it, though, innit?”

She laughed, the sound light and warm to his ears. She had been so uptight; so to herself in the hospital without allowing anyone in. Except him – he knew that smile, that laugh. But seeing it out here, so freely, was something that he couldn’t believe.

A server appeared and took their order—two pints and whatever was hot from the kitchen. When the server disappeared again, they sat in the soft hum of the pub, studying each other like it was the first time.

“You look better,” she said, leaning her arms against the table.

“I feel better,” he replied, then added more quietly, “especially now.”

Clare’s hand drifted across the table, her fingers brushing his. He caught them gently, lacing their hands together. He glanced down, then back up into her eyes.

“I wasn’t sure you’d say yes," he bit on his lip and flashed he eyes back up to her.

“To the drink?”

“To everything.”

She bit her lip, knowing it may smudge her lipstick, but knowing that she might be doing that tonight anyways.

“I wasn’t sure you would keep your promise to reach out and send a letter,” she admitted. “But I’d kept hope.”

He smiled, nodding to her. “Kept my promise. I’m a man of my word.”

She tilted her head, almost in admiration. “So, what do we do now?”

Harry thought for a long moment. Then, with that half-crooked grin of his, he said, “We find out what peace looks like,” He tilted his head a bit to mimic hers, "But was hoping you'd be okay with doing that together."

Clare fluttered her lashes in blinking, giving a hint of a smile before she nodded. “It would be an honor to do it with you.”

Their drinks arrived, the soft clink of glasses marking the pause between past and possibility. A small silence settled in as they took each other in, more certain now than they had been moments before.

Clare tilted her head again, curiosity flickering across her features. “How was it, being home?”

Harry exhaled, then looked down for a moment at the ring of condensation on his glass. “Strange,” he admitted. “Good… but strange.”

He glanced up at her again, then leaned back in his seat, fingers loosely laced over his stomach.

“My mum didn’t stop crying for a solid ten minutes when I hopped off the train. She kept touching my face like I might vanish. My dad looked like he was going to say something but never did. Just gave me this long look and said, ‘Alright, then,’ like that meant everything.”

Clare smiled softly, listening. She rested her elbows on the table, as improper as it was, and practically leaned into his storytelling.

“My sister tackled me at the station. The kids, they made signs. Bright colors, little figure drawings. My niece gave me a drawing of us holding hands under a rainbow. Nearly undid me.”

He paused as if trying to bring the memory back to his thoughts. There was a gentleness in his voice that hadn’t been there weeks ago. A steadiness that came from standing on his own soil again.

“But it’s hard, too,” he continued. “Because I sit there, watching Beth crawl into my lap, and I can’t stop thinking about the men who didn’t make it back. Dean. All the others. Fathers. Husbands. I came back with burns, a fracture and busted muscle. But I’m whole. I’m breathing. And sometimes that feels like a betrayal.”

Clare reached out, asking for his hand before he fell into her touch.

“You survived,” she said. “That’s not something to carry with shame, Harry. You need to have pride in it.”

“I know,” he murmured, eyes narrowing at where they touched. “But sometimes it still settles on me, in the quiet.”

She let her thumb sweep gently across his knuckles. He looked down at their hands, then back at her.

“And then,” he said, voice quiet now as his eyes lifted back to her face, “I think about you. And this moment. And I remember I’m allowed to want more than just surviving.”

Clare’s breath caught at his realization; she had been planting the seeds for months, wanting him to see the way she saw. It was never bringing the men back, but there would be a significant journey of self-reflection on the way there. 

The room around them faded. It didn’t matter that the bar was filling up, or that jazz players were playing faintly. It didn’t matter that outside the war still loomed like smoke in the distance.

All that mattered was that they sat there in their own company, relishing in each other’s orbits. The time went by so quickly, but so did the drinks. Harry was having a glass of whiskey, Clare having another pint as they watched the way that the soldiers danced along to the jazz.

Women being twirled, men dipping the women into formations and laughing and chattering about the night. These nights felt… stronger, like there was a camaraderie in the room. Everyone in that room had lost something but was gaining this memory now.

Harry leaned across the table, a bit flushed from the whisky and the way Clare kept smiling at him like he’d just said something brilliant.

“You know,” he said, voice low and a little cheeky, “you never let me show you how much better I’ve gotten.”

She raised a brow, intrigued at his statement. “Better?”

He pushed back his chair, not bothering to hide the cocky little grin creeping across his face. “Physically. My legs, my shoulder, I can move. Dance, even.”

Clare let out a small, dry laugh as she took another sip of her drink, “Oh, is that so? I think this may be that soldier who was so full of himself before he got to hospital that I was talking about.”

He extended a hand toward her, palm open and waiting like he had been waiting for months. “Let me prove it to you.”

Clare let out a soft laugh, shaking her head but taking his hand anyway. “You are trouble, Harry Styles,” she muttered.

“Always have been,” He told her, leaning into whisper in her ear, “And it's Lieutenant Styles to you, miss.”

He pulled her close, gentle but sure, and stepped into the rhythm like it hadn’t been months since he’d danced. He moved with that natural swing she just knew he had in him — not flawless, but full of soul and swagger and something she couldn't keep her eyes off. His hips, his rhythm and his feeling of life breathing back into him. His hand pressed warm and firm against her back as he twirled her once, then caught her again with a breathless laugh.

“Harry!” she grinned, with surprise, throwing her head back with a laugh, “you show-off.”

“You’re the one keeping me upright,” he said, then dipped her slightly, just enough to make her squeal and cling to his shoulders. “See? Good as new. All thanks to you.”

The band picked up pace, a trumpet blaring wild and bright, and Harry spun her again, their laughter tangling with the music. Around them, boots stomped, glasses clinked, and the war – for a few rare minutes – felt far away.

As the song slowed, he drew her close, their chests pressed together, his breath warm against her cheek as he let his lips settle next to her ear.

“You look beautiful tonight,” he murmured, loud enough over the music as he pulled her in and swung her around, “Way too beautiful.”

She smiled against the curve of his jaw. “You’re not too bad yourself, Lieutenant.”

They danced, not with an ounce of precision, but with ease. He twirled her once offbeat, but she laughed and didn’t care. He guided her with the same care he had used to hold himself up only months before. But now his body moved confidently, only a slight hesitation in the left leg when he stepped backwards, but she carefully watched, and he knew the limits to push.

“See?” he murmured. “Not bad, huh? I’m not broken anymore.”

She leaned in close, letting her cheek brush his. “You were never broken. Just bent.”

He chuckled, but it was low and dangerous, something smoldering underneath as he let his hand brush away some of the hair from her cheek. “You better be careful—I might start thinking you like me.”

She pulled back just enough to meet his eyes; her lips parted in playful mockery. “You’re lucky I’m still thinking at all.”

The jazz grew louder; the pub spun in warmth and laughter and spilled drink. He bent, whispered against the shell of her ear, as he let the whiskey talk for a moment, “Let’s get out of here.”

She raised an eyebrow, a bit of a shock but not completely abandoning those plans. Something in her burst with a heightened energy that she couldn’t explain; it felt way almost scandalous to feel that way. “Trying your luck, Lieutenant?”

He shrugged, boyish and flushed, a look that was new on him but that fit him so well. It showed how young he was; what he looked forward to. “Only slightly. You came all this way, after all.”

“Do you say that to all the nurses you take dancing?” she teased, her voice warm, pushing on his chest.

“Only the ones I’m hoping to marry,” he said.

She stopped moving. Right there in the middle of the song, her fingers still loosely clasped in his, she froze and looked up at him. Her heart clenched, then fluttered. The music carried on around them, oblivious. He looked just as startled, almost like it was an intrusive thought that shouldn’t have been said.

“Too much?” he asked quickly, running a hand through his hair with a sheepish wince. “I didn’t—I mean, that was meant to be a joke, or-or to make you laugh.”

She blinked, unable to make sense of something as such. In most honesty, she didn’t know that he would say something as such. “No, I—Harry.”

“I’ve just... I’ve missed you,” he said, quieter now. “And I want—I’m,” He paused for another moment, taking in a breath with a humorless laugh, “I just – I just think I’m speaking rubbish now.” 

Clare stepped closer again, the space between them vanishing. She reached for his hand, lifted it between them, and pressed her lips to his knuckles. The scars and all.

“Let’s go to my flat,” she whispered.

Their fingers laced like it was the most natural thing in the world; she grabbed her purse; he grabbed his jacket. The door swung shut behind them, sealing in the smoke and the brass of jazz and laughter, letting the night fall around them like a hush.

The streets were quiet under the haze of wartime curfew, but the lamps still glowed low along the cobbled stone walk. Somewhere in the distance, the tail end of a brass tune drifted out of a pub window before the door swung shut and the city fell back into hush. But they walked the rest of the way in silence, her arm linked through his, her head light with the flow of the alcohol – too many pints, she was certain, and certainty of no words left unspoken.

Clare walked beside Harry, arms folded lightly against the chill. Her heels clicked against the pavement, rhythm steady, but her smile hadn’t left her lips since they stepped out into the night.

Harry glanced over, hands tucked in the pockets of his coat. “You’ve gone real quiet.”

She tilted upwards as she kept moving in rhythm with him. “I’m just thinking.”

“Dangerous habit, I’ve found,” he murmured, bumping her shoulder with his. “What about?”

Clare hesitated. “About how strange it is to feel… happy. After everything.”

He slowed a little, letting the space around them draw in closer to keep them lasting there longer. “Strange, good, or strange bad?”

She gave a small shrug, holding onto his bicep as she pulled herself closer to him. “Strange like I’m not sure I trust it yet. But also like I don’t want it to stop.”

They paused beneath the light of a streetlamp, the air smelling faintly of coal and rain and gasoline. Harry turned to face her, one hand reaching up, brushing a dark strand of hair away from her cheek with a gentleness that felt almost reverent. It was odd to have him standing in front of her; she wasn’t used to seeing him in such a way.

“You know,” he said quietly, calloused fingers moving over the softness of her pink cheek, “you never really think about what you’ll miss most when everything falls apart. The little things. Like this.”

“Streetlamps?” she teased, looking upwards, giggling as she did so.

He chuckled. “No—but that giggle,” He shook his head almost like he didn’t believe he just got to hear her, “The sound of your voice when you pretend you don’t want to laugh at my jokes.”

“I never laugh at your jokes,” Clare said, though her mouth betrayed her, biting on her lip.

“You did tonight.”

She looked at him then, seeing the way that his eyelids dropped almost like he had been placed in a romantic haze of destruction. At the way his eyes softened when he was tired. The fine line at his brow that hadn’t quite faded. The scar still pink along the edge of his jaw, but her eyes were focused on his own green ones.

“Tell me something real,” she said, softer now, “Something you haven’t said in that hospital bed, but something you wanted to say.”

Harry took a breath, then another. Looked past her for a moment, then back again.

Clare stole a glance at him. His hair was ruffled from dancing, and his cheeks were flushed—not just from the whiskey or the heat, but something else. It was something shared. The corners of his mouth curled, just barely, like he was holding onto something too precious to name.

Like he had already said it. Tonight, even.

"You meant it, didn’t you?" she asked finally, her voice softer than the wind.

He didn’t pretend to misunderstand, because there wasn’t any use for that. Nothing needed to go unsaid.

“I didn’t mean to say it like that, honest,” he said. “Somewhere between the morphine and the way you looked at me like I wasn’t broken, I knew. Maybe even before that – I don’t know what I’m saying. But yes. I meant it.”

She bit her lip. Her eyes burned, not from sadness but something stranger. Gratitude, maybe, wonder. How easily something like hope could bloom even here, in the shadow of war. Her heart raced like a schoolgirl with a crush, not realizing what he had been doing to her. Maybe she was so wound up in the sadness that she was looking for comfort in someone that was going to look at her like the stars only aligned in her orbit.

And he did.

“Come on, Loverboy,” she pulled on his arm, back towards her flat. “I want to hear more about it in the private confines of my flat, if you don’t mind.”

Harry bit on his lip as he couldn’t believe what he was hearing, teasing her, “You say that to all the Lieutenants you invite back to your flat, don’t you?”  

“Only the bent ones.”

Their laughter echoed down the cobbled side street as they wove arm in arm, a bit tipsy and entirely smitten.

Harry bumped her shoulder with his as they walked. “You know,” he said, glancing sideways at her, “if I’d known dancing would earn me an invite back to your flat, I’d have learned how to waltz months ago.”

Clare gave him a playful shove, letting her smile on her face even though her cheeks hurt from how much she’d been smiling. “Don’t get cocky.”

“I’m just saying,” he grinned, a chuckle followed. “You’ve got me drunk and dizzy, and I haven’t even stepped inside yet.”

She rolled her eyes. “Dizzy from one dance?”

“Dizzy from you,” he said without missing a beat. Then, after a pause: “And the whisky. But mostly you.”

Clare laughed, her cheeks already pink from the wind and drink. He stopped walking suddenly, tugging her back by the hand with just enough force to spin her halfway into him. She nearly stumbled, and he caught her by the waist, steadying her against his chest.

“You know what I was thinking,” he said, voice lower now, the kind of voice meant only for her in the dark. “If I don’t behave tonight… and I mean really don’t behave—”

“Yes?” she challenged, breathless from the sudden closeness.

He smirked, eyes gleaming. “—I’m blaming it entirely on your legs. That dress. And the fact that I haven’t touched you in far too bloody long.”

Clare gave a scandalized sort of laugh, but it cracked in the middle when he leaned down and kissed her—firm and warm and unhurried. The kind of kiss that made the world tilt just slightly off its axis.

She melted into it for a beat, gripping his shirt, forgetting about the street, the hour, everything.

When she finally pulled back, she was smiling despite herself. “You’re impossible.”

“Not impossible,” he murmured, resting his forehead against hers. “Just wildly infatuated by you.”

She exhaled through a quiet laugh, and with a tug of his hand, she nodded toward the end of the street. “Come on, then. Let’s get you inside before you start saying even more things you’ll regret in the morning.”

He followed, still grinning like he’d won something. “Darling, I’m planning on remembering every word.”

+++

The stairwell echoed with their laughter as Clare fumbled with her keys, Harry crowding close behind her, the smell of him, smoke, beer, and something clean curling around her like warmth on a cold night.

“You live up another flight?” he asked, slightly breathless, one hand on the wall, the other dangerously close to her waist. While his leg didn’t necessary still hurt, he could feel a slow ache in the muscle as it worked. He hadn’t been this rough on it since he returned home.

“Yes, well,” she said over her shoulder, smirking as she finally found the right key before they approached her front door. “Keeps the riff-raff out if you’re up higher off the ground.”

“Oh, is that what I am now?” His breath was close to her neck, playful and slurred with just enough drink to make his voice go soft around the edges. “Riff-raff?”

She turned slightly as the door clicked open, their faces inches apart. “I don’t usually invite handsome men up to my flat, you know.”

Harry’s brows raised as he grinned. “No?”

“No,” she whispered, stepping inside, heart hammering somewhere near her ribs. “So behave yourself.”

“No promises, miss.”

She reached for the lamp near the entry, the soft light casting a bright hue over the cozy sitting room. Harry followed her in, pausing just inside the threshold, gaze flicking to the books stacked near the fireplace, the flowers wilting in a chipped vase, the small, quiet life she’d built for herself.

Then his eyes landed on her again.

“You’re nervous,” she said, teasing, even though her own pulse felt like a drumbeat.

Harry shook his head, pushing his hands through his hair as he licked over his lips, “I’m trying to be a gentleman.”

“Don’t strain yourself,” she said, reaching for his lapel and tugging him forward.

That was all the invitation he needed.

Their mouths met in a kiss that was warm and searching, with a flicker of something deeper, hungrier beneath the sweetness. It had been too long since either of them had done this, and while he knew he wouldn’t forget, he didn’t want to mess up.

His hands found her waist, and hers slipped up into his hair as she sighed against his lips, leaning into the way he touched her like he’d been waiting a lifetime.

“You know,” he murmured between kisses, “I really love what you’ve done with the place.”

“Oh, is that what this is?” she whispered back, laughing softly.

“That and the view,” he said, turning his head to investigate the living room that they hadn’t even approached before tangling in each other, “though it’s getting harder to concentrate on anything but you.”

She kissed him again, slower this time, surer, and when he backed her gently against the wall just inside her flat, she didn’t stop him.

Her back met the wall with a soft thud, and the kiss deepened with a slower, molten, shaped by all the words kind of touch they hadn’t felt during those months apart. His hands were broad and careful at her waist, thumbs brushing up on her belted waist like he was checking if she still felt the same beneath his touch.

Clare’s fingers slid from the curls at the nape of his neck down to his collar, tugging gently at the fabric, needing to feel him, not just remember him. He tasted like alcohol and tobacco and some part of home she hadn’t realized she’d been aching for. His nose nudged hers as he pulled back just enough to look at her.

“I—I didn’t know how much I needed this,” he said, voice low, roughened by restraint. “You. The way you sigh when I touch you like this—” He dragged his fingers along the curve of her ribs, grazing the sides of her breasts just enough to make her breath hitch.

She arched into him, her lips brushing his jaw. “Harry…”

He leaned in again, kissing her like she was air and he hadn’t had a proper breath in weeks. Her coat fell first, shoulders slipping out as he worked at the buttons on her back with slow, deliberate care, letting it puddle at her feet. She pulled at his jacket, and it landed beside hers. Her hands flattened against his chest, fingers curling in the fabric of his unifrom, and he let her feel the thrum of his heartbeat under her palms.

“Still wearing too many clothes,” he muttered, grinning as he pressed open-mouthed kisses down the line of her throat.

“And whose fault is that?” she murmured, fingers sliding to pull it from the tucked position in his belt, warm against bare skin.

They undressed each other slowly, as if memorizing every reveal. A tug of fabric here, a kiss placed just beneath a collarbone there. His hands roamed like he was tracing a map of her body he already knew by heart, rediscovering it with reverence. Her dress fluttered to the floor, followed by the soft rasp of his belt being undone. Their bodies brushed in the in-between moments, bare skin meeting with a heat that made her shiver.

When he finally lifted her, she let out a small gasp, her legs wrapping instinctively around his waist, hands gripping his shoulders.

The wall met her back again, solid and grounding.

Clare’s hands slid up his chest, fingertips brushing over the firm plane of muscle beneath his shirt. His body was warm, alive, and hers to hold. Harry kissed her like he hadn’t in months—like every inch of him remembered what it was to want.

“You drive me mad, d’you know that?” he murmured against her jaw, his voice low and rough, curling hot against her skin. “Months of writing you. Dreaming about you. And now I’ve got you in front of me, and I can’t think straight.”

She trembled—subtly, but he noticed.

“Is this all right?” he asked, hands still careful at her waist, as if reining himself in.

She nodded, breath catching as he trailed kisses down her neck, each one slower than the last. Her back arched just slightly, instinctively, as though her body were waking up to something it hadn’t quite known before.

And then he said it—soft, sinful: “I want to hear what you sound like when you can’t think either.”

Her knees weakened, and the room tilted in a way that made her dizzy. Every nerve felt heightened, tuned to the smallest things—his breath at her collar, his fingers slipping just beneath the hem of her dress, the deliberate pace of his movements like he already knew what she liked, even if she hadn’t known herself.

It wasn’t frantic, it was calculated and firm and solid.

Clare’s lips were parted, pulse fluttering in her throat. She gasped when his hand slid up her thigh, and Harry kissed her again, whispering her name like it was both a question and a promise.

She clutched at his shirt, trying to catch her breath, not quite understanding how her body had turned so completely molten under his touch. It was like nothing she’d felt before—like something unlocking inside her that had always been just out of reach.

“Harry…” she whispered, not sure if she meant to stop him or ask for more.

But when he looked at her, his gaze dark with wanting and still soft with love, she knew—this wasn’t just desire. It was the weight of waiting. The ache of missing. The quiet vow that after everything they’d been through, they’d never have to be alone again.

“Harry,” she whispered again, her nose brushing his temple. “Don’t forget—I’m still a lady.”

He pulled back enough to meet her eyes, mischief gleaming beneath the heat in his gaze.

“A lady, hm?” he murmured, letting his lips trail down the side of her neck. “Funny… I seem to remember a certain lady telling me she liked being pinned just like this.”

She gasped, half-scandalized, half-aroused, and he grinned against her skin, teeth grazing her collarbone.

“I’m not a tramp,” she said, breathless, but smiling.

“No,” he agreed, his voice gravel and silk. “You don’t invite Lieutenants up here often, I heard you.”

Then he kissed her again, deeper now as though the months apart had carved a hollow in him that only she could fill.

She softened in his arms, pressing her face into the curve of his neck as her body adjusted to the feel of his again; his weight, his breath, the solid warmth of him between her thighs. His hands cupped beneath her, holding her like something precious even as his mouth moved against her collarbone, reverent and unhurried.

She could feel it in the way he touched her—not just hunger, but hesitation too, as if he were still surprised she was real. Still surprised she hadn’t vanished.

Clare’s fingers curled against his scalp, her voice low and honest in the dark.

“It’s been a long time,” she whispered. “Since anyone’s touched me like this.”

Harry paused, his lips grazing just beneath her ear. He didn’t pull back—only stilled, letting the moment sit between them like something sacred.

“Same,” he said. His voice was soft, but it held a certain ache. “Longer than I care to admit.”

She leaned back, enough to see his face, eyes wide and searching.

“Not just because of the war,” he added. “Though that didn’t help. I just… I haven’t wanted to, I guess.”

Clare swallowed, the back of her throat tightening.

“I thought it was just me,” she murmured. “That maybe I’d forgotten how to want someone. But then you came crashing into the ward, half-conscious and swearing at every nurse who tried to help—and I couldn’t stop looking at you.”

He laughed quietly, forehead falling to hers. “Well, that’s romantic.”

“I said looking, not liking,” she teased, smiling. “The liking came after.”

He tilted his head, brushing her hair back with the backs of his fingers. “Still. I should count myself lucky. You let me in. And now…”

His hand moved to her jaw, thumb grazing her cheek.

“I don’t want to pretend this is nothing,” he said. “Because it’s not. I don’t want to just have you for a night and then go back to letters and wondering.”

Clare nodded. Her chest ached in the best, most dangerous way.

“I don’t want that either,” she said.

He kissed her again, deeper now, his hand splayed at her back as if to keep her close, as if any inch of distance might undo them. The kiss didn’t ask for permission this time—it was a confession, quiet and steady.

She clung to him, one hand at his jaw, the other splayed across his chest, feeling his heart thrum against her palm. When he walked them toward the bedroom, her arms still looped around his neck, neither of them said a word.

There was nothing left to explain.

It wasn’t just about need anymore—it was about choosing each other, in the soft, unspoken way people do when they’re no longer afraid to be seen.

And when he laid her down and knelt beside her like he wasn’t sure where to begin, Clare pulled him close and whispered, “Start slow.”

He did. And it wasn’t perfect—not in the way novels or films might claim it should be. There were pauses, and soft laughter, and places where his fingers trembled. But there was nothing performative in the way he touched her, nothing careless in the way she opened beneath him.

It was just them. Flesh and breath and every moment they had survived until now, tangled together in a room that finally felt like somewhere to belong.

The Morning After

The morning crept in gently, the kind of light that didn’t demand anything of you—just filtered through the pale curtains that weren’t doing much to keep the light out, brushing against bare skin and the soft rise and fall of breath.

Clare sat at the small table by the window, her knees tucked to her chest, Harry’s shirt falling halfway down her thighs. The kettle had long since stopped hissing, and two mugs of tea sat on the sill, forgotten for the moment.

He stirred in the bed behind her, the sheets shifting with the rustle of his arm moving across the mattress.

“Are you alive over there?” she asked without turning.

There was a soft, muffled sound—half a grunt, half a laugh. “Barely,” he said, voice thick with sleep. “You’ve got a terrible mattress here.”

Clare grinned as she took a sip of her tea. “You weren’t complaining about the mattress last night.”

She glanced over her shoulder in time to catch him blinking at her from beneath the tousled mess of his hair. The sheet had slid low on his hips, and for a man who’d once been bruised and stitched and half-starved when he first arrived in her ward, he looked heartbreakingly whole now.

And entirely, infuriatingly naked.

Harry reached for the mug she’d left him on the nightstand. “Did we lose count of how many times we—"

“Yes,” Clare cut in, smirking. “And no, it wasn’t a morphine dream. It really did happen over and over again.”

He groaned quietly into the mug. “God help your reputation with your neighbors below you.”

Clare stood and padded across the room, hair cascading over her shoulders as she left them in loose curls to make an effortless style over her.

“Oh, I’m ruined,” she said dramatically. “There’ll be whispers. I’ll be branded the sort of woman who brings Lieutenants home, scarlet letter and all that. Scandal of the block.”

He looked up and over at her then, and whatever amusement had curled his mouth faded into something softer; something real.

“I still can’t believe I’m here,” he spoke again, voice quiet.

Clare folded herself onto the edge of the bed, her hand reaching for his. “Neither can I,” she admitted. “When I saw you at the bar, clean-shaven and upright… I half thought I was imagining you. And then you smiled, and—well. That was that.”

Harry squeezed her fingers, leaning against the headboard. “It’s strange. Back home I felt like a ghost in my own house. I could hear my niece laugh and still feel like I was listening from a thousand miles off.”

He looked down, thumb brushing across the back of her hand. “But here… with you… it’s like something settled.”

Clare leaned in, pressing a kiss to his shoulder, the smell of him—soap, sleep, and something warm, making her chest ache in the best way.

“You’re not a ghost,” she whispered. “You made it back.”

Harry tilted his head and kissed her, slow and thoughtful, like he had all the time in the world.

When they pulled apart, Clare gave him a wicked grin. “Still, I’ll never live it down. Bringing a man to my flat on a Friday night.”

Harry quirked a brow. “You want me to leave through the window? Save your dignity?”

Clare laughed and shoved him lightly, standing off of the bed to move back into the kitchen to finish her read of the paper. “Too late for that, Lieutenant. You’ve already ruined a few parts of me.”

Now she returned from the kitchen with the newspaper folded under one arm, the light filtering through the window was pale and uncertain, casting long shadows across the floorboards. The air between them smelled of Earl Grey, toast, and the faint trace of last night’s heat.

Clare climbed back into bed and handed Harry the paper. He sat up, one knee bent, the sheet pooled around his waist. The headline caught his eye immediately with the boldness that always caught his eyes:

MAJOR BOMBINGS CONTINUE IN NAZI-OCCUPIED FRANCE — CASUALTIES RISING.

He unfolded the pages slowly, the newsprint catching at his fingertips, the creases cutting through photographs of crumbled buildings and men in helmets pushing through rubble. Clare leaned back against the pillows, watching him. She didn’t say anything right away—just sipped her tea, waiting.

Harry’s jaw tightened as he scanned the column, shaking his head with disgust at the realities that they lived.

“My God,” he muttered, low and sharp.

“What is it?” she asked gently, even though she could already guess.

“Strasbourg. Rouen. Whole blocks decimated,” he said, shaking his head. “Says they’re targeting munitions and rail lines, but—” He exhaled through his nose. “Families live there. People.”

His hand curled around the edge of the paper.

Clare leaned forward and touched his wrist. “Harry.”

He looked at her then, eyes darker than they’d been a moment before.

“This goddamn war is sick,” he said. “The way they make it sound clean in print. Like a strategy. Like it’s not hundreds of lives we’ll never hear about again.”

She didn’t answer right away. She knew he wasn’t asking for comfort—just trying not to feel the ground shift under him again. He closed the paper, set it aside, and scrubbed a hand through his hair.

“I’m sorry,” he added, softer then as he knew that his emotions had built up. “I don’t want to ruin this. I just—” He looked at her, shoulders tense as he leaned against the pillows with her. “Some mornings it hits harder than others.”

Clare reached for his hand and laced her fingers through his. “You don’t have to apologize.”

They sat like that for a while—still, quiet, the space between them filled with everything they didn’t need to say. Finally, she leaned into his shoulder, kissing it softly as just a way to let him know that she was there.

He turned his head and pressed a kiss to her temple, and acknowledgement that he felt her too.

The war hadn’t ended. The headlines still screamed and burned and bruised. But in this narrow bed, in this quiet flat above a sleepy London street, there was tea, and warmth, and someone to hold onto. And for now, that had to be enough.

“You know,” he murmured, eyes on the ceiling, “there were days I felt lucky to be up there. In the air. The world was just... different from up high. Like all the madnesses below couldn’t quite reach you.”

Clare shifted closer, her chin brushing his shoulder. “Did you love it?”

“Parts of it,” he said. “The flying. The camaraderie. Dean’s terrible singing. Bennett always trying to barter rations for chocolate. It wasn’t all horror, you know? We were just boys trying to feel brave. Sometimes we did—sometimes I thought I was the shit.”

His voice had gone quieter, a wistfulness settling into the edges of it. Clare didn’t interrupt.

“I still dream about it, sometimes,” he said with a smile, not a frown. “Not the worst bits. Sometimes I’m just flying. No mission, no flak. Just sky, just silence.”

Clare’s fingers stilled against his chest. “Do you miss it?”

He was quiet for a long moment. Then: “I miss who I was before it ended.”

He turned his head to look at her, his expression unreadable for a heartbeat. Then he tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, let his fingers linger against her cheek.

“But I wouldn’t trade it. Not if it meant I never met you.”

Her eyes softened. “Harry.”

“I mean it. I don’t know what I believe about fate, or God, or second chances—but you… you feel like all of those things.”

She leaned forward, her lips brushing his in a slow, drawn-out kiss that let her tongue taste the tea on his lips. They lay that way for a while, limbs entwined beneath the covers, hearts steadying against one another.

Outside, the city exhaled. Inside, so did they. And in the hush between breaths, the weight of war and memory gave way, just for the night, to warmth, to closeness, to a kind of peace neither of them had known in far too long.

May, 1943 - 3 Weeks After London

The afternoon lull had settled over the ward. The sheets were folded, supplies restocked, tea cups rinsed and left to dry on a corner tray. Outside the open windows, the sound of a passing tram buzzed low and steady as if trying to calm them.

Clare had stepped away from the nurses’ station for only a moment — long enough to deliver morphine and check in on one of the new admissions. When she returned, she found Margaret and Jean crowded around her end of the desk, heads bowed low in conspiratorial hush.

“Alright,” Clare said, arching a brow, “what are you two whispering about like schoolgirls?”

Margaret, with her red-hair and little shame, looked up with a grin far too wide. Jean held up a folded envelope, distinctly familiar, with Clare’s name written in the bold, looping hand she now knew as Harry’s.

“Someone left her love letter sitting right on the tray,” Jean sang, wiggling it between her fingers.

Clare’s stomach dropped and flipped all at once. “Give me that,” she said, snatching it with a mortified flush already blooming up her neck. “You’ve opened it?”

“Of course we did,” Margaret said, entirely unrepentant. “You left it under the ration forms. It was practically begging to be read.”

“It wasn’t sealed,” Jean added in, defending themselves. “And technically, you shouldn’t be getting letters from former patients unless it’s medical follow-up.”

Clare groaned and pressed the letter to her chest as she took it from the envelope to scan her eyes over his handwriting. “You’re both awful.”

“He says he misses you,” Jean added with a wink. “Terribly.”

“He also says he’s been dreaming of you in that navy dress,” Margaret piped up. “Sounds… intimate.”

Clare looked skyward, resisting the urge to laugh at their antics, wondering if she should just leave or melt into the floor. “My goodness, if you tell Sister Beryl—”

“We wouldn’t dare,” Jean interrupted solemnly. “Not unless she asks nicely.”

The teasing was relentless, but Clare was too warmed by the weight of the letter in her hands to mind.

Harry’s handwriting pulled at her chest, familiar now, like a voice she could hear in the quiet. She had not seen him in just over three weeks, as he returned to Manchester from their solo trip in London. At first, they wrote every other day, their words pouring out across distance like stitched seams, recounting memories, reliving quiet glances, filling the gaps with imagined futures.

But something about ink and paper had begun to fray. It was all too slow, far too distant.

She missed him. Not just the version of him who had been healing and sullen in the ward, but the man who smiled against her collarbone, who read to her in half-whispers and left jam smudges on her breakfast tray.

Three weeks without his voice was beginning to feel like an ache, she found.

He had written this one the night after her last reply had arrived late — “a cruel form of punishment,” he’d called it, and she could picture him sulking dramatically as he penned the words by candlelight. He teased her about forgetting him already, then followed it with something tender:

“Come back to me soon, Clare. I know you’ve work to do and people to look after. But I feel a bit lost without you, if I’m honest. I’d never admit that to anyone else. You, though… you get the truth.”

She’d read that line five times. Six, maybe. Letters just weren’t enough, not anymore—not when she knew what she could have if they were able to spend a life together, just the two of them.

Clare tried to tuck the letter out of sight, but Margaret leaned in across the desk, voice dropping as she eyed her, looking for solid information

“So. Did you really meet him for drinks in London?”

Clare said nothing, just busied herself with aligning the pens beside the logbook.

“Oh, she did,” Jean said, nudging Margaret with her elbow as they took her silence for confirmation. “You should’ve seen her that night — hair done, perfume on, out of uniform for the first time in ages. All for Lieutenant Styles.”

Clare looked up slowly, knowing that if she ignored it, her cheeks may stay a subtle shade of pink rather than a beet red she could feel coming on. “Do either of you ever get tired of speculating about things that aren’t your business?”

“No,” Margaret replied brightly, sitting in her chair, “I’m too much of a romantic.”

Jean smirked, knowing that Clare was being vague for good reason. “Don’t pretend he didn’t flirt with you for a month straight. That man watched you walk away like he was memorizing it for later.”

“You’re exaggerating,” Clare said, trying for a scolding tone that fell completely flat under the warmth of her smile as she recalled going to his bed every single evening; he was always her first, and always her last.

“Oh, come off it,” Margaret said, pushing for more. “Did you sleep with him or not?”

Clare gave a low sigh, hands on her hips; Jean gasped at the other’s question but smiled as she watched Clare struggle with an answer. “You lot are insufferable.”

“That’s not a no,” Jean said, giggling softly.

Clare only raised a brow and went back to organizing the desk, though the small, telling smile tugging at her lips gave everything away.

“You did,” Margaret gasped, clutching Jean’s arm. “You did!”

“I’m not confirming anything,” Clare said, smoothing a stack of charts with far more precision than necessary to keep her hands busy as all she could think about was his hands. “He’s a good man—a gentleman. That’s all I’ll say.”

Margaret leaned in, wiggling her brows. “Was he a very good man?”

“Out,” Clare said, pointing toward the ward. “Both of you. Patients to check, linens to change, mouths to close.”

Jean was still laughing as she stood. “You’re glowing. Genuinely glowing. It’s revolting.”

“Must be the powder,” Clare called after them, smirking as she rolled her eyes. “Or the stress of dealing with children disguised as nurses.”

Margaret popped her head back in. “When’s the next letter due, then?”

Clare didn’t answer. She simply unfolded the one she’d just reclaimed and looked down at the words that still made her chest ache in the best way.

May I see you again soon? I don’t know where I’m going, but I know where I belong. All I know is that I want to see your face when I get there.

She folded it carefully, tucking it into the apron of her uniform, lips curving into a private smile. The other nurses could whisper all they wanted. Some things, Clare thought, were worth being teased for.

May, 1943 - 3 Weeks After London - Manchester

The house had a hush to it that still startled him.

No men shouting over static radios, no bombs whistling from above or below or side to side, no engines humming like angry ghosts in the sky through clouds that wouldn’t give up. Only the sound of the kettle clicking off, the tick of the hallway clock, and his pencil scratching softly against paper in the front room as he viciously wrote.

He sat, half-curled sideways in the armchair by the window, blanket wrapped over one shoulder, letter perched on his knee. A candle flickered nearby, though the overhead light had long since been switched off. He preferred the quiet and the dim when he thought about writing to Clare.

Clare’s most recent letter rested on the arm of the chair; folded, unfolded, and folded again so many times the crease was near worn through.

Harry smiled faintly as he reread the way she’d described how her flat felt without him there — tiny, drafty, and full of too many books. Said she couldn’t look at a cup of tea lately without thinking of how he always asked for a second.

He didn’t even like tea that much. But she always brought it to him in a good mug.

He was in the middle of writing a sentence — I think about that night at the bar more than I should — when the hallway floor creaked.

His sister’s voice floated into the room like an announcement, amused and matter-of-fact: “It’s well past midnight, you know.”

Harry blinked up at her, not wanting to ignore her but always needing to get his thoughts down. Nora stood leaning in the doorway in her dressing gown, arms folded. Her dark hair, always too curly for its own good, was tied up in a loose braid against her back, and she gave him a look only older sisters could manage: part concern, part accusation, and mostly curiosity.

“Mum’s noticed,” she added, crossing her arms as she made her way over, “You’re hardly sleeping. Or when you do, it’s in that chair.”

Harry gave a low sigh, set the letter aside. “Just writing, Nor.”

“Every night?” She asked, a bit pushy in trying to get information from him. He already was quiet, but then he went to war. That changed him more than he’d like to admit; now, he was just secretive, like the one thing that he wanted for himself was just sitting between his own fingertips.

He rubbed the back of his neck. “I’ve got time to make up for, that’s all. Mum doesn’t need to worry.”

Nora’s eyes narrowed. She stepped further into the room, picked up the letter on the arm of the chair and glanced at the handwriting.

“Clare,” she read aloud, smiling as Harry tried to grab the letter back from her; a flush over his cheeks remembers words she mentioned, really only for his eyes. “So, this is why you can’t sleep, then.”

“Don’t start now.”

“Oh, come on. You’re out here smiling at her letters like some daft schoolboy. You’ve read that one a dozen times.”

“Eleven,” Harry muttered, earning a sharp jab to the shoulder.

“I knew something was going on. You’ve been out in the garden scribbling into the wind like you’re composing poetry.”

“I’m not writing poetry,” he said, a bit defensively. “I’m writing back. And she’s not just — she’s not…”

He trailed off, unsure of how to say what he meant. He wasn’t sure how to explain that in a time where everything had been stripped down to survival, Clare had shown up and seen him — not as a soldier, not as a body to medicate and stitch up, but as a man still holding his own guilt and softness in trembling hands.

Nora softened as she handed him back the letter. “You really like her.”

Harry nodded, voice low and raspy then. “She made it bearable in there. And it was never supposed to be more than talk to pass the hours spent in that hospital bed. But—”

“But now you’re smiling at paper like a lunatic,” she teased, cutting him off. Nora sat down on the armrest beside him, “Does Mum know?”

“She’s only asked if it was a girl I was writing. I didn’t answer.”

“She told me she hopes she’s pretty.”

Harry huffed a soft laugh. “She is. Beautiful. In that way where you don’t see it all at once—it’s hard to describe, but she’s one of a kind, I think.”

“My God, listen to you.” Nora nudged his shoulder. “You are writing poetry.”

They sat like that a moment with Harry quiet and Nora nosy before their mother’s voice called softly from the top of the stairs.

“Nora? Is Harry still awake?”

“He’s writing love letters, Mum!” Nora called back softly to not wake the rest of the house, grinning.

Harry dropped his head into his hand with a groan as their mother shuffled down the stairs in her slippers.

“Oh, Harry,” she said, voice touched with laughter as she peeked around the corner. “At least tell me you’ve invited the poor girl to visit. Or is she too busy writing to all her wounded sweethearts?”

“She’s not like that,” Harry said, bristling protectively. “She’s—she’s better than I deserve, honestly.”

His mother softened at that. “Then write her again. And get some sleep. You can’t make a girl fall in love if you fall asleep halfway through the letter.”

“Who says she’s not already in love with him?” Nora teased, looking back at her brother.

Harry said nothing else, he didn’t need to justify anything. Love was something felt but not said—not yet. He just picked the letter back up, unfolded it gently, and smiled. Nora shifted beside him, watching as he carefully refolded the letter.

“So,” Nora said suddenly, her voice sly. “Is she the reason you didn’t come home after that night in London?”

Harry stiffened, pen halting mid-stroke.

“I stayed with a mate,” he replied too quickly, his voice pitched with obvious guilt.

Nora raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “A mate, was it? A mate who wears navy dresses and signs her letters with poetry and lipstick marks?”

Their mum’s voice floated in from the landing, teasing. “She’s the reason he’s been smiling to himself for weeks. That girl’s done something to our Harry.”

Harry groaned at that, shaking his head. “Can’t a man write a letter in peace?”

Nora stayed perched on the chair with him as she continued to tease. “Not when he’s writing love notes at midnight with a face like he’s in a dream.”

“She’s got him shaving and using that cologne again,” their mum added, crossing her arms and smiling back at Harry. “Came home that next day looking like a bloody gentleman.”

Harry set his pen down and turned to them. “Alright, alright. Yes, I stayed with her. And yes, I’m writing her now. And yes—I like her. Quite a lot.”

Nora smiled like a cat who had just figured out how to catch a mouse. “Knew it.”

“She’s special,” Harry said quietly, looking down at the letter again. “More than special. She makes me feel like I didn’t come home ruined.”

Their mother’s gaze softened, Nora glancing at their mother before smiling back. “Then she’s welcome anytime.”

Harry gave a bit of a smile before he gathered his items to make his way back upstairs to his room for the night. As a sister would, Nora followed him toward the stairs, arms crossed smugly. “Bet she made you breakfast.”

“Go to bed.” Harry told her softly, trying to not wake their father and his niece and nephew.

Nora followed, “Bet you didn’t.”

He paused on the landing, turning back to point at her. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you’re in love,” she said sing-song, tapping her temple. “And I’m very clever.”

Harry shook his head, walking off, her laughter trailing behind him. But in the quiet of his room, with her letter still in hand, he let himself smile. Of course she was right; sisters always were.

June, 1943 - 4 Weeks After London

The hospital buzzed behind her. The soft roll of gurneys, the distant murmur of doctors speaking in clipped tones, the hum of a gramophone playing somewhere down the corridor. Clare found her usual spot in the west stairwell, the place where sunlight hit just right around four in the afternoon, and where no one would ask questions if they found her sitting quietly with her hands in her lap.

She pulled the newly folded letter from her apron pocket; something she had kept to read until she needed to most.

My Clare, The rain here smells like oil and chimney smoke. I stood outside for a bit this morning and thought of you. Not just the way your hair looked when it curled from the damp, but the sound of your voice. You’d be telling me off, telling me I ought to come in or I’d catch cold. You’d scold me gently, then bring me tea anyway. I miss that. I miss you.

She traced his handwriting with the pad of her thumb, the words tight and slanted, the ink smudged slightly in one corner like he’d written too quickly and dragged his palm through it. She liked knowing he’d written it in a hurry, like it couldn’t wait to be taken from his thoughts to the page.

You were right. My niece won't stop asking if I brought back anything from London. My sister’s worse. She thinks she’s clever, keeps asking why I stayed the night. I didn’t give her a straight answer at first. Not because I’m ashamed — never that — just... I didn’t want to share what’s mine.

But I finally did, because I found it silly to think that there would be a life when I didn’t want to show you off.

Her throat tightened.

She pressed the letter close to her chest, resting her head back against the cool stone wall. Through the window, the sky was the color of faded violets and ash. She could imagine him out there somewhere beneath it, rain tapping against his window, a cup of tea cooling on the sill, her name in his mouth like a prayer.

Then, a small black and white photograph fell from the creases; her heart stammering at the image before her.

It was of Harry, in his uniform; clean-shaven, smirking just slightly at the camera as if he knew he was being photographed. His sleeves were rolled up, his hair neatly combed, but his eyes — even in black and white — held something warm and laughing. It was a photo from before the accident, before they had met; he was standing next to a plane, most likely at his base camp.

On the back, he’d written in looping cursive:

So you don’t forget what you’re missing. And so you’ll send me one in return.

Her cheeks went hot.

“Absolutely not,” she murmured aloud to no one, but she was already thinking about which dress she’d wear, if she did.

She slipped the photo into her pocket, heart pounding, trying not to smile as Margaret walked in and caught her mid-swoon.

“What’s that?” Margaret asked, peering; she had seen Clare holding the photo before putting it away, which caused her curiosity to heighten.

“N-Nothing,” Clare said, quickly tucking it away.

Margaret narrowed her eyes, tilting her head as she watched her friend be a bit smug and sly. “Was that a photograph?”

Clare turned back to her teacup, taking a sip without another glance. “Mind your business.”

Margaret grinned, taking a seat next to her on the stairwell. “Oh, I will, but only because I want to see it later.”

Clare laughed, the sound soft and private, a little thrill running under her skin at the idea that she had that photo of him now; a photo she could look at when she missed him the most.

“Come on,” Margaret said, nudging Clare’s arm. “Let me see him. I’m sure he’s better cleaned up.”

Clare sighed, but the smile tugging at her mouth betrayed her reluctance. She reached into her apron pocket where she kept most of her letters, and pulled out the folded photograph. Margaret took it eagerly in between her fingers and gave it a once over. She covered her mouth in a bit of surprise.

“Oh,” she breathed. “Clare. He's—he’s gorgeous. He cleans up like a shiny quid.”

Clare rolled her eyes but felt the heat bloom in her cheeks. “He’s alright.”

Margaret narrowed her eyes, grinning. “Alright? That uniform alone is doing half the work. And those eyes—my God. Those dimples.”

Clare reached to take it back, but Margaret held it out of reach. “Nope. Not yet. I’m still wildly without a partner and there isn’t any chance I’m finding my husband in here,” She took another glance before looking at Clare, “Is he worthy of being a husband?”

Clare stilled at her question. “He might be.”

Margaret looked over at her Clare didn’t say anything further. But she didn’t have to.

Margaret handed the photo back with a smirk. “So, did anything... happen while you were in London?”

Clare gave her a look, narrowing her brows. “Nothing I’m sharing with you.”

“Oh, come on,” Margaret begged, “Just a little. Was he—?” Margaret wiggled her brows.

Clare, blushing, lifted her mug to her mouth as she took a sip. “Let’s just say… more than once.”

Margaret gasped, clutching onto her friend’s shoulder. “Clare!”

Clare grinned despite herself, biting back the laughter. “You’re impossible.”

“You’re glowing. Absolutely glowing. And I’m so happy for you,” Margaret said, her tone softening. “I hope he keeps you smiling like that. Especially with all this.”

Clare looked down into her tea. “So do I.”

For a moment, the ward fell quiet again around them. But inside, Clare felt a warmth that carried her well beyond the steam of her mug.

Even in wartime, happiness found a way to arrive.

[redrage71890]

Backing Voice (Yan! KPDH x Fem! MC) Prologue

Synopsis: Among the Huntrix fandom, there has always been a discussion of theories and ideas about a strange voice in every song from the girls. Something of which they have avoided in every interview. But the one behind it is so much more than they could possibly think. Unraveling her secrets attracts attention she’s yearned yet feared for her life.

Genres: Fluff, Angst, Slow Burn (?), Yandere (?)

CW: Slight anxiety/panic attack

Prologue, Part 1

Word Count: 563 A/N: I want to join the fic craze bc I really love this movie and I NEED that sequel. Also I’m only describing MC’s hair style and eye details (plot reasons), everything else in your interpretation!

————————————————————

In the large fandom of the ever popular group HUNTR/X, there has always been a pool of theories and discussions about a certain aspect in there songs.

What is that voice in the background?

Ever since their debut, a haunting yet beautiful voice has always been present in every release down to solos and performances.

Combing through every interview, social media content, and performances, fans have tried to figure out who this voiced belonged to.

Overanalysing each of the girls voices weren’t enough.

Nothing matched to that haunting feeling.

And yet…

It always filled them with a sense of comfort.

————————————————————

”Girls, there is someone I’d like you to meet.”

Curiosity fills the newly formed hunters of the current generation as Celine lead the three of them to the garden. Just at the foot of the tree stands an older women who looked the same age as Celina, though she had a messily tied up bun being held up by a hair pin with noticeable greys along dyed caramel streaks.

Just behind the women was another girl who has a more shaggy appearance judging from the strange uneven cuts of hair around her collarbone and messy fringe covering up her eyes.

The women turns around to meet the other girls with a strange gold rim around her brown eyes.

“Girls, this is (M/N). The previous fourth hunter. And behind her is (Y/N), the new fourth hunter.”

As soon as that was announced, the three girls were filled with shock.

“THERES A FOURTH HUNTER?!”

“For how long?! How come you’ve never trained with us?” Rumi questions. “We’ve had some… complications trying to meet up. The original plan was for Rumi and (Y/N) to meet when they were younger, but things didn’t go to plan.” (M/N) answers with a polite but cold tone. The gold rimmed eyes don’t help them feel better.

”Come on (Y/N), say hi to them.”

Peaking behind her mother that met with the trio of girls, shivering (f/c) eyes with the same intriguing gold rims around. She dressed much more casual, like she just came from lounging on the couch prior.

“Hi… its nice to meet you guys.”

The anticipated softness of her voice struck an unexpected cord in the girls. Something alluring and melodic.

”We’ve decided that (Y/N) will join Huntrix.”

Once those words left Celine’s mouth, the girls swiftly saw the colour drain from (Y/N)’s face.

Slowly turning her head.

”WAIT! WHAT?! YOU SIGNED ME UP FOR THIS?! NO NO NO NO NO! YOU DID NOT CONSULT ME ON THIS MUM! REMEMBER WHAT HAPPENED LAST TIME I TRIED PERFORMING?!”

Her surprising booming voice made the girls take a step back for a bit. Though the three snapped out of their shock when seeing (Y/N). Sweat glistened on her forehead and her breathing was steadily going ragged. She was shaking her mother like her life depended on it.

“No no no. NOT performing. We agreed on that. You’re just taking over my previous position in the Sunlight Sisters, just a backing vocalist.”

(Y/N) froze for a second. Before collapsing onto her mother, looking like she ran a marathon.

“Celine should’ve mentioned that first. Don’t worry honey.”

Rumi could hear (Y/N) muttering inaudible words of gratitude.

But she looked like she was on the verge of tears.

And yet…

Her slowly calming voice struck a nerve of peace in the three hunters.

————————————————————

Edit: just wanna add that I imagine MC’s singing voice either be Leehi or Seori. Also the idea evolved into a yandere story, but its not that bad I swear.

[a-casxandra]

𝗬𝗢𝗨'𝗥𝗘 𝗪𝗛𝗔𝗧!?

𝐋𝐚𝐝𝐬 𝐌𝐞𝐧 : reacting to you having cryptic pregnancy.

a cryptic pregnancy also known as stealth or hidden pregnancy, occurs when a woman is unaware that she is pregnant, until late in the pregnancy, sometimes even until labor begins. This can happen for various reasons, including a lack of typical pregnancy symptoms, misinterpretation of symptoms, or denial of pregnancy.

★｡+ﾟ☆ 𝐗𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐄𝐑 ☆ﾟ+｡★

You’re both just finished a mission and was on the way to the hunter's association, when you double over in pain. You think it’s food poisoning. He calmly carries you before teleporting immediately to the medical wings inside the hunter's association.

Reaction:

At first? Deadpan calm.

“...You’re giving birth. That’s what this is.” He says it like he’s reading it from a technical manual, but his grip on your hand tightens.

Internally, he’s going through every medical protocol stored in his deepspace hunter database. He’s weirdly efficient, guiding the doctors, not letting go of you even once, but he keeps asking:

“Do you want water? Are you afraid? Should I hold your hand?”

Even after the baby arrives, he’ll just stare at it with blank confusion, then gently say:

“It’s... small. Like you.”

Then promptly falls asleep holding your hand, because the shock finally hits him post-event.

★｡+ﾟ☆ 𝐙𝐀𝐘𝐍𝐄 ☆ﾟ+｡★

Irony of ironies—you’re in his hospital, and he’s on a break when it happens. You clutch your stomach, and he immediately runs to you. Zayne kneels beside you, immediately goes full doctor-mode—except he’s not calm.

“Where does it hurt? How long has it been—shit, your pulse is spiking.”

He gets you to the ER fast, barking instructions at the med team even though he knows he shouldn’t be interfering. When they tell him you’re in labor?

“That’s not—there’s no way. That’s not possible. We would've seen it. I would've known.”

He’s shaken. All logic, all science he believes in—thrown out the window. But the second he sees the baby placed in your arms, the tears he didn’t realize were there finally spill.

Later, when it’s quiet, he touches the baby's cheek and murmurs:

“I missed everything… but I’m not missing anything else.”

★｡+ﾟ☆ 𝐑𝐀𝐅𝐀𝐘𝐄𝐋 ☆ﾟ+｡★

You’re at an art exhibit he’s hosting. You collapse in pain, and he freaks out so dramatically that half the press thinks it's performance art.

Rafayel panics. Loudly. hands fumbling, as he tried calling for ambulance.... too bad he's too panicking that he actually called the coast guard instead.

“What’s happening to her?! Do something! You’re doctors—aren’t you supposed to save lives?"

Once told you’re in labor, his first reaction?

“That’s impossible. I’d know, wouldn’t I?!” But then he’s by your side, holding your hand, tears in his eyes even before the baby arrives.

“I didn’t even get to talk to them in your belly... I feel like I missed everything.”

Once the baby cries? He cries too.

And don’t expect him to leave your hospital bed. He’ll cuddle both you and the baby like a sea otter protecting its whole world.

★｡+ﾟ☆ 𝐒𝐘𝐋𝐔𝐒 ☆ﾟ+｡★

You’re helping him review maps of the N109 zone when you double over. You think it’s something you ate. You’re trying to tough it out—until you start bleeding.

He freezes. Just for a split second.

Then he carries you bridal-style through Onychinus HQ like a war just started. If anyone even blinks wrong, he growls:

“Out of my way or die.”

At the hospital, Sylus glares at the doctors, knives in his voice:

“If anything happens to her, I’ll tear this place apart.”

Once he learns it’s a birth? He does not compute.

“...We didn’t even know. Kitten, How the hell did this happen?”

But he doesn’t leave your side. When the baby comes, he just stands over it silently... before muttering:

“You’ll take after her. Not me.”

And then wraps you and the baby in his jacket like it’s armor.

★｡+ﾟ☆ 𝐂𝐀𝐋𝐄𝐁 ☆ﾟ+｡★

You’re watching a Farspace Fleet training session when you suddenly cry out in pain. Caleb catches you before you hit the ground.

Instant military mode. Barks orders. Clears the area. Escorts you to medical like he’s carrying precious cargo.

“She’s in pain. Do your jobs.”

When told you're in labor? his eyes widen. For once, Caleb is silent.

Once he’s alone with you though? His voice softens.

“Pipsqueak.. You’re really about to give birth, huh? I didn’t see it coming… but I’m here. I’m not leaving.”

He holds your hand through every contraction, whispering encouragement, wiping your tears.

And when the baby’s born? He crumbles.

“They’re perfect. You’re perfect. You did this all by yourself… I’m sorry I wasn’t there before, but I will be now. For everything.”

[it's my first time writing a reaction/imagine thingy. Should i do a part 2, when the baby comes out looking exactly like them?]

[littlegochu]

you can take more │ jjk 18+

“sit on my lap, we’re not done.”

pairing: idol jeon jungkook x reader(f)

genre: established couple

rating: 18+, smut

dominant!jungkook, post-concert tension, possessive energy, filthy teasing, pillow humping (he watches), begging kink, denial & overstimulation, thigh riding, oral, tit play & titty-fucking (heavy focus), multiple orgasms, desperate dirty talk, jerking off while watching, messy, controlling sex, teasing aftercare, nipple obsession, he worships you like he owns you

-

The concert’s over, but he looks like he’s still on stage.

Jungkook’s skin glows with sweat, black shirt plastered to his chest, damp hair pushed back from his temples. He’s barely said a word since stepping off the stage, but I can feel it in the way he looks at me—like he’s been wound tight for hours, like the adrenaline of performing wasn’t enough to drain the rest of what’s building inside him.

He doesn’t kiss me.

He just reaches for my wrist. Grabs. Pulls.

No patience.

My heart stumbles. My legs move on instinct. By the time the door to our apartment clicks shut, he’s already on me—pressing me against the wall, his body hot and vibrating with restraint.

“You wore that on purpose.” His voice is gravel low. “You smiled at me from the crowd like you didn’t know what you were doing.”

“I didn’t—”

“You did,” he says, stepping closer. “And now you’re going to feel everything I didn’t let myself give you back there.”

He walks me backward. No urgency in his steps—just heavy tension. I can feel it like static in the air, the kind that clings to your skin and makes your breath catch.

He grabs a pillow from the bed. Drops it on the floor.

“On your knees.”

“Jungkook…”

“You wanna be a tease?” His voice is velvet-dirty, low but sharp. “Then ride that for me. Let me watch what you look like when you’re the one doing all the work.”

The second my knees sink into the carpet, heat crawls up my chest.

The pillow is too soft. It’s not him. And I think that’s the point.

Still, I press my hips down, grinding slowly.

The friction is immediate—dull at first, then sharper, more focused as I angle forward and catch the edge just right. I press down harder. The pressure blooms like a tight ache under my skin. My thighs tense. I do it again.

Behind me, I hear him exhale.

When I glance up, his forearms are braced on his knees, veins sharp. His eyes are locked on my hips like they’re the only thing keeping him from losing it. His breathing is uneven.

“You’re soaked already,” he mutters.

My cheeks burn.

“Keep going.”

I roll my hips faster. The burn starts to spread—low and hot. My clit throbs against the cushion. It’s not enough and somehow too much. I need more friction, more pressure, more of him, but all I get is the edge of cotton and his eyes watching me unravel.

“Please,” I gasp. “Touch me.”

“No.”

“I can’t—”

“Yes, you can. You wanted to tease me? Then make yourself cum.”

The tension snaps.

My legs shake, thighs clenched around the pillow, and the orgasm hits sharp—ripping through my center like a wave that drags everything else with it. I gasp his name. My whole body curls forward as I come apart.

But there’s no release from the tension in the room.

Not yet.

He grabs me by the waist and lifts me like I weigh nothing, dragging me into his thigh feeling he’s already extremely hard and heavy under the fabric of his pants. His thigh flexes beneath me. I shudder as I land on him, still slick, still oversensitive.

“Again,” he whispers.

I grind down—slower this time, but the contact is deeper. His thigh is firm, unrelenting. Every shift of my hips makes the heat spike again.

Jungkook lets out a broken sound.

His hand drags lazily across his stomach, just brushing the waistband of his sweats. I don’t even have to look to know he’s hard.

“You’re doing so good,” he groans. “So fucking pretty like this. Look at how wrecked you get on just my thigh.”

I can feel it coming again—tight and unbearably sharp. I brace both hands on his chest, gasping for breath.

“You’re gonna cum for me again, yeah?”

I nod—desperate, overwhelmed. My body feels like it’s on fire.

And when I do—when the orgasm hits again, smaller but more intense—I cry out softly against his shoulder.

“I need you.”

That’s all it takes.

He stands with me in his arms.

Carries me to the bed.

And fially, finally presses his mouth to mine.

The kiss is deep, hungry. Full of everything he held back for hours. When he pushes into me, the stretch makes me gasp. I’m already too sensitive, too full, too everything.

He pulls back. Slides in again—slower this time.

Every thrust fills me with more than just friction. It’s pressure, emotion, heat, praise—all wound into his voice when he groans against my throat.

“You feel so good. So warm. So tight, baby…”

My body arches.

And he doesn’t stop.

He flips me on my stomach, then back again—legs hooked over his shoulders, grinding deeper, harder, hitting places I didn’t know I could feel. His hips snap harder, hands gripping my thighs, dragging me to the edge.

“You wanted it like this,” he whispers. “You knew exactly what you were doing to me.”

When I cum again, it’s a blur. He follows with a low moan, body trembling as he releases inside me.

But even after, he doesn’t stop.

He lays down beside me, wraps an arm around my waist, and pulls me into his chest.

And his hand?

It finds my chest again.

His thumb drags softly over my nipple, again and again, until I squirm.

“Can’t help it,” he murmurs. “They’re too pretty.”

I laugh—wrecked, breathless.

He presses a kiss there, slow and teasing.

“I meant what I said,” he whispers.

“I’m not done yet.”

-

authors note: i have this queued so ngl its unedited asf and hella rushed

pls comment or lmk in my anonymous requests if ur into fluff, smut, multiple part stories or drabbles it would be a biggggggggggggg help

[norristrii]

IT WAS OBVIOUS.

“Where’s the trophy? He just comes running over to me.” — Oscar accidentally shows too much excitement after his win, revealing your true relationship to your brother and the whole world.

pairing. Oscar Piastri x Norris! fem! reader

warnings. none. AGAIN, IN THE HONOR OF OSCAR’S WIN IN CHINA ‼️🥹 (two posts in one day, crazy ik)

music. The Alchemy by Taylor Swift.

YOU WEREN’T ENTIRELY SURE if hooking up with your brother’s teammate was the best idea you’d ever had—or the worst. But here you were, tangled up in something you couldn’t quite resist.

It all started when Lando and Oscar became teammates. Their friendship blossomed quickly, the kind of bond that seemed effortless. So, naturally, it wasn’t long before Lando introduced you to Oscar. And, well, Oscar caught your eye in a way you hadn’t expected.

He was everything your brother wasn’t—polite, calm, and kind. Where your brother was loud and relentless, Oscar was steady and thoughtful. You couldn’t help but wonder how the two of them could even be friends, let alone teammates.

But the real surprise? You caught Oscar’s eye, too. What began as casual texts and lighthearted calls quickly evolved into something more. Dates, secret meet-ups, stolen moments that felt like they belonged to another world. You didn’t tell your brother for a multitude of reasons. First, it wasn’t any of his business. And second, you knew exactly how he’d react—relentless teasing, endless questions, and a level of overprotectiveness you weren’t in the mood to deal with.

When you and Oscar decided to make it official, it was a quiet decision, just between the two of you. Well, the two of you and your best friend—because keeping secrets from her was impossible. Beyond that, no one else knew. And maybe that was part of what made it so thrilling. The secrecy added a layer of excitement to every interaction, every glance, every touch.

The moments before a race were your favorite. The paddock buzzed with energy, the air electric with anticipation. And amidst it all, there were the secret kisses, the fleeting touches when no one was looking. It was a game, a dance of stolen moments that only the two of you understood. The thrill of it all made your heart race almost as much as the roar of the engines.

Lando's invitation to the Chinese Grand Prix felt like the perfect follow-up to his stunning victory in Australia. You couldn’t be prouder of him, and being here felt like a privilege. The atmosphere buzzed with energy, and you were eager to cheer not just for him, but for Oscar as well—your two boys.

Now, you found yourself standing behind the barriers, shoulder to shoulder with McLaren team members who shared in the collective anticipation. The hum of engines roared in the background as the cars sped around the track, each lap bringing Oscar closer to something extraordinary. His first-ever pole position had already felt like a monumental achievement, but now, with the race on its final lap—lap 56—Oscar was leading. His car, sleek and powerful in its vibrant McLaren orange, glided through the turns with precision, almost effortlessly.

The tension in the air was palpable, but you couldn’t help the smile tugging at your lips as you cheered with the team. Oscar had practically won by now, the gap between him and the car behind him widening with every second.

Standing there, witnessing the culmination of hard work and talent, you couldn’t help but feel overwhelmed with pride—not just for Oscar and his incredible performance, but for Lando, who was right behind his teammate. The cheers around you grew louder as the finish line approached.

The chequered flag waved, signaling the end of the race, and as Oscar crossed the finish line first, with Lando right behind him, a surge of overwhelming pride and joy coursed through you. It was a moment of pure triumph, made even sweeter knowing how much Oscar had struggled during his home race in Australia. To see him claim victory here felt like vindication for every ounce of effort he had poured into this season.

As Oscar parked his car behind the gleaming P1 sign, your gaze never wavered from him. His car came to a halt, and in the corner of your vision, you caught sight of Lando parking just behind, the two McLarens standing like trophies of the team’s efforts. But your focus was locked on Oscar, on the way he climbed out of the car, exuding both exhaustion and exhilaration.

Helmet off, his face glowed with triumph as he threw up his arms in his signature victory pose, the crowd erupting in cheers. The moment was electric, but your heart raced for a different reason as you watched him turn—not towards his team, who stood waiting with cheers and open arms, but towards you.

Oscar’s strides were purposeful, his gaze unwavering as he crossed the distance between you. Your breath hitched when he reached you, ignoring everyone else, his arms wrapping around you in an embrace that was full of relief, joy, and something so uniquely him. You held onto him tightly, feeling the intensity of the moment.

As you pulled away slightly, his face was so close to yours, his brown eyes meeting yours in a way that made the world around you blur. For a fleeting second, there was a pause, a shared understanding, before he closed the gap. His lips met yours in a kiss that was unplanned but utterly perfect—an unspoken testament to everything he couldn’t say in words.

The team’s cheers rang louder behind you, but in that moment, it was just the two of you. The thrill of victory, the secret you shared, and the raw emotion of it all were woven together in that single instant. And for that brief, breathtaking moment, nothing else mattered.

As he pulled away, his voice was quick but steady, the words tumbling out before he turned away: “I love you.” And just like that, Oscar was off, moving to embrace the cheering team members who waited to celebrate his victory. The moment hung in the air for a beat, the rush of emotions swirling inside you.

You didn’t need to think twice about what had just happened. That kiss—bold, unapologetic—wasn’t just seen by the team. It was seen by the cameras, the crowds, and possibly even the entire world. And your brother. But none of it mattered anymore. Oscar had chosen this moment to make it clear where he stood. His love, his support, his pride in being with you—none of it wavered, regardless of what anyone thought. To him, the name you carried meant nothing in comparison to the connection you shared.

As your eyes trailed back to him, now surrounded by his teammates, the warmth of the moment was interrupted by a familiar presence. Your brother was already in front of you, arms crossed, his face set in that classic judgmental look he’d mastered over the years.

You tried not to squirm under his gaze, instead forcing a smile and stepping forward to embrace him before he could say a word. "I’m proud of you," you said quickly, deflecting with a playful tone as your arms wrapped around him.

Lando’s body stiffened for a split second, his eyebrows raised in suspicion, but he eventually hugged you back. "Hmm," he muttered, clearly not convinced but letting the moment slide—for now. You could already see the gears turning in his head, and you knew this wasn’t the end of the conversation.

As the top three entered the Cool Down room, the adrenaline still seemed to linger in the air, blending with the excitement and chatter from the race outside. The drivers were greeted by monitors showing highlights of their performance, the distant roar of the crowd fading into a steady hum. Lando followed a step behind, his usual playful energy evident in the slight bounce of his step as he grabbed a water bottle from the corner table. The tension of the race seemed to dissolve, replaced by camaraderie as they settled in, catching their breath.

It didn’t take long for Lando to break the ice in true Lando fashion. He turned towards Oscar, pointing at him with dramatic flair, his expression mock-serious. “Osc, don’t think for a second I didn’t see that,” he began, his tone accusatory yet laced with humor. The way he gestured, finger wagging as if scolding a misbehaving child, made it clear he was enjoying every second of this.

Oscar, who had just picked up his towel to dab the sweat from his face, froze mid-motion. He glanced at Lando, a mixture of confusion and resignation flickering across his features. “Here we go,” he muttered, almost too quietly to be heard. But he didn’t need to say much. He knew exactly what this was about.

“My poor eyes!” Lando cried dramatically, his free hand flying up to shield his face as if he were genuinely scarred. The theatrics escalated quickly, his voice rising in exaggerated despair as he staggered backward a step for added effect. “I’ll never recover from this trauma.”

Oscar sighed, shaking his head slightly, though the smallest twitch of a smirk threatened to betray his amusement. “Yeah, yeah, I get it, man,” he said, his voice dry but tinged with tolerance—the tone of someone well-practiced in dealing with Lando’s antics.

But Lando wasn’t about to let him off that easily. “I mean, honestly,” he continued, his mock indignation unwavering, “a little heads-up would’ve been nice. You know, like—‘Oh, hey, Lando, I’m about to make the whole world cringe by publicly making out with your sister.’ Something like that. Is that too much to ask?” His grin widened as he tossed the water bottle between his hands, his eyebrows arched in that trademark cheeky expression.

Oscar rolled his eyes, lifting the towel to hide his face for a moment as if shielding himself from Lando’s relentless teasing. “It wasn’t that bad,” he replied, his voice firm but quieter now, as if trying to downplay the moment.

“Wasn’t that bad?” Lando repeated, his voice climbing an octave as he placed a hand to his chest like he’d been mortally offended. “Mate, I think I just lost three years of my life.” His grin made it clear he was enjoying this far too much, but beneath the jest, there was no malice—just Lando being Lando.

Oscar finally allowed himself a small chuckle, shaking his head. “Alright, fine. Next time, I’ll send you a formal invitation first,” he deadpanned, the sharp wit of his retort earning a mock gasp from Lando.

“Oh, how thoughtful,” Lando shot back, finally leaning against the wall as if he’d exhausted his dramatic reserves. But the mischievous glint in his eye remained, a silent promise that he wasn’t going to let Oscar off the hook anytime soon.

The night paddock lay in near silence, the excitement of the day's events now reduced to a soft hum in the background. The dim glow of the overhead lights cast long shadows across the asphalt, illuminating the reflection of Oscar's trophy as he carried it proudly in one hand. His other arm rested securely around your shoulders, a gesture that brought a quiet warmth as the two of you walked side by side.

Lando walked just a step behind, still buzzing with energy despite the lateness of the hour. His natural playfulness was impossible to suppress, and it wasn’t long before his voice broke through the calm, cutting through the stillness with a sense of exaggerated drama. “Soo…” he began, his tone drawing out the word as if he were preparing to deliver a theatrical monologue.

Oscar groaned quietly, already anticipating where this was headed. “Oh no,” he mumbled under his breath, his head dipping just slightly. You felt his arm tighten around you briefly, as though bracing himself for impact, while you stifled a small laugh. Lando was nothing if not predictable.

“You two have a lot to explain,” Lando finally said, his voice laden with mock sternness as he caught up to walk alongside you. His brow furrowed in an attempt to appear serious, but the mischievous sparkle in his eye gave him away. He raised an eyebrow for effect, his gaze darting between you and Oscar as though he were demanding a confession for some unspeakable crime.

Feigning innocence, you tilted your head, a sly smile playing on your lips. “What do you want to explain?” you asked, your voice light and teasing. It was clear you weren’t going to make this easy for him. Even as your heart raced slightly at the idea of confronting the topic, you couldn’t resist the urge to play along.

Lando stopped walking for a moment, crossing his arms as he stood in the middle of the path, looking every bit like a self-appointed interrogator. He narrowed his eyes, his lips twitching as though he were holding back a grin. “You two are like… a thing?” he asked, his words slow and deliberate, emphasizing the weight of what he was asking.

Oscar exchanged a quick glance with you, a small, amused smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He didn’t need to say anything for you to know what he was thinking—this was so typically Lando. As much as the question lingered in the air, it was impossible to take him completely seriously. Still, the tension buzzed ever so slightly beneath the surface, and it was clear that neither of you could sidestep the question for much longer.

But after a few lingering seconds of silence, Lando cleared his throat dramatically, clearly preparing to fill the void. “I mean, it was obvious,” he declared, his tone laced with faux confidence, as though he had pieced it all together from the start.

You couldn’t help but laugh, the sound bubbling out of you before you could stop it. “No, it wasn’t,” you shot back, shaking your head at him. “You had no idea, Lan.”

Lando’s eyebrow shot up as he feigned offense, placing a hand over his chest in mock indignation. “Excuse me? I’m incredibly observant, thank you very much.”

Oscar, who had been quietly amused throughout the exchange, finally chimed in, his voice calm but teasing. “Yeah, right,” he said, glancing at Lando with a smirk. “You only noticed because we made it too obvious today.”

Lando threw up his hands in a theatrical shrug. “Well, maybe. But still. I figured it out. That’s what counts,” he insisted, though the grin on his face betrayed how much he was enjoying winding the two of you up.

You rolled your eyes, giving him a playful shove. “Alright, Sherlock. Sure, you ‘figured it out,’” you teased, unable to keep the grin off your own face. Despite the teasing, there was an undeniable warmth in the moment—a mixture of relief and lighthearted acceptance. Leave it to Lando to turn even the most awkward revelations into something almost comforting.

“But seriously now,” Lando said, his tone softening as he let his teasing demeanor fade away for a moment. He glanced between the two of you, his lips curling into a genuine smile. “I’m happy for you guys,” he admitted, the sincerity in his voice catching you off guard.

Oscar smiled warmly in return, his arm tightening slightly around your shoulders, as if silently thanking Lando for his support. It was a simple moment, but you felt the weight of Lando’s words—his approval meant more than you’d realized.

“Just a bit mad for not telling me sooner,” Lando added, raising his eyebrows as though pretending to scold you. Though the hint of mischief in his smile quickly undermined any seriousness. “You could’ve spared me the whole awkward guessing game, you know.”

© norristrii 2025

[poguehearted77]

Bubblegum Ballerina

Pairing: Dental Student! Reader x Single Dad! Rafe

Summary: Spring rolls around with new beginnings, starting with a new placement for you in a pediatric dentist's office and meeting a patient's handsome (and single) dad.

Just some headcanons unless it should be a full-fic??

Single Dad! Rafe would bring his five-year-old daughter Ella to the dentist ten minutes early because he hates being late and knows that his little girl would do anything to try and stop him from taking her because she hates the dentist. She once even hid his shoes just so she wouldn't have to go.

Single Dad! Rafe would immediately lean over the counter and whisper to the familiar receptionist he'd seen for years, asking about you the second you whisked Ella away and out of sight.

Ballerina! Ella would ramble in her chair to you about her upcoming ballet performance and how her daddy bought her a new tutu because he tells her she's the best ballerina ever.

Dental Student! Reader could listen to Ella's cute stories and pink passion projects for hours but when the dentist entered and it came time to start her cleaning Ella immediately started to fuss, squirming and refusing to open her mouth.

Dental Student! Reader would do her very best to keep Ella relaxed, offering to hold her hand and telling her stories about magical ballerina's that got to dance with fairies as a treat for going to the dentist and staying calm.

Ballerina! Ella hated the mint-flavoured polish and always asked if they had the bubblegum flavour after trying it once and now refuses to have anything else.

Single Dad! Rafe lights up when he sees his daughter running to him with a clean bright smile and a goody-bag that she says you helped pick out for her, making sure everything is extra awesome like she is.

Single Dad! Rafe who nearly trips over his words when he finally gets to speak to you about how everything went, hoping that she wasn't too much to handle, showing that he's well aware of his daughter's anti-dentist antics. He's both happy and sad to hear that Ella has a small cavity, but the joy creeps in when he realizes he gets to see you again soon.

Dental Student! Reader scans Rafe's hands looking for any signs of a ring or implications of a Mrs. Cameron and she's not as subtle as she thought she was when Rafe grins and waves his left hand to regain her attention (but actually to show the lack of a wedding band)

Ballerina! Ella who begs reader to come to her ballet performance so that she can see the new tutu her daddy bought her and watch her dance. Rafe immediately apologizes for her outbursts and insinuates that you're a very busy person but you accept without thinking.

Single Dad! Rafe brings two bouquets of flowers to the recital, one for you and one for his little ballerina who ran off to show all her friends the flowers her daddy got her. Leaving the two of you to talk and address the budding romance between you.

- nsfw! Rafe who hasn't fucked anyone since the divorce struggling to hold himself together when he sinks his cock into you for the first time. Leaning down to whisper filthy praises into your ear.

- Further down the line when things get more serious, the two of you would get a secret kick out of sneaking away from Ella's friends' exhausting birthdays for a quickie in the back of Rafe's truck parked 2 blocks away, reappearing just in time for the candles.

- Single Dad! Rafe who has a tiny little breeding kink and gets hard anytime he thinks about filling your stomach with his cum and knocking you up with his baby. "You'd look so perfect walkin' around the house--tits all big n' swollen, belly round with our baby. Whaddya' think? Hm? You want that for yourself? Wanna be my good little housewife that takes care of our child while I'm at work before I come home n' take care of you?"

[catiuskaa]

𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬.

syn. the nights were mainly made to worship all that we loved during the day —in chan’s case, there’s nothing else, as he crawls back to you, always.

wc. 3.8k

cw. minsung mentioned, chan is a simp, they are whipped for each other, someone has daddy kink (and it’s both of them), teasing, explicit content, oral (f.rec), a healthy dose of marking, protected piv sex (love to see it), soft soft aftercare, fluff + smut convo honestly, and i think that’s all, folks!

req! by annonie right here. i see ur vision pookie, and i hope i did it justice! i fear i maybe did more smut than aftercare…? idk… sorry i took so long too</3. hope you like!

[☆★🤎★☆]

Honey, I’m home.

It’s such a common statement. A way of not only announcing the fact that one’s finally back from the hardships they had to endure during the day, there it be copious amounts of work, bullshit from dumb colleagues who wouldn’t know common sense from a toaster even if it burned their house down, how Jisung managed to forget his lyrics yet again, and his phone is dead, so he has to call his “husband” —his words, not mine— and make Minho bring him his charger to the studio…

Overall, in broad, general sense, the statement is used to express the feeling of welcomeness that being not just back in one’s house, but home, always brings. Not only that, but it too serves as a way of expressing it to whoever waits within those walls of comfort.

And, for the first time in a long while, it so happens that Chan was already home when you arrived.

But there was none of that when you closed the door behind you, took your shoes off by the entrance and headed to his room, knocking on the already open wooden surface.

Chan turns his head first, moving the desk chair on its axis to face you propperly.

“You’re back,” he smiles.

His eyes don’t leave your figure, not as you lean on the doorframe, not as you let out a soft chuckle and finally get close to him.

For some people, love is felt most clearly through touch—the warmth of a hand on the back, a lingering brush of fingers, a head resting on a shoulder. Being touchy isn’t about neediness, but about closeness, about wordless ways of saying “I’m here” and “you matter.” It’s how comfort is given and connection is deepened, in gestures that feel small but speak loudly. Whether it’s an absentminded thumb tracing a palm or a full-body hug after a long day, physical affection becomes the language that says everything else doesn’t have to be said.

That’s how Chan knows something’s up. Because, instead of throwing yourself to his bed face first, ready to tell him about the day you had —common when your day was specially bad—, you make it a point to stand between his parted legs, your hands traveling to his neck, threading in his hair.

You’re biting your lip. He’s one second from cheekily offering to bite it for you, when you finally speak.

“I was scrolling down Twitter in the bus,” you say softly, your voice smooth. His hands travel to the back of your thighs as you keep on speaking, a sheepish smile on your face. “Someone… someone posted something I think it’s funny.”

He blinks. He’s a bit lost now, but you chuckle, seeing it in his eyes.

“It was a reply to a post a stay made,” you giggle, blushing. “About your solo act in tour.”

“What did it say?” He smiles, giggling with you.

There’s a light pause, and in your eyes you’re pretty sure it’s obvious the ginger hesitation from stating what the post said out loud, but then, staring at his eyes, you just let it out.

“I hope someone can give him head to thank him for this amazing performance.”

Chan dies.

It’s the way you say it—soft, almost teasing, like you know exactly what you do to him. Your voice brushes against his ear, low and playful, and something in him just short-circuits. His hands, already resting on your waist, tighten instinctively, fingertips digging in just enough to make you shift closer. Suddenly his pulse is everywhere—thudding in his chest, his throat, and lower. His breath hitches, and he drops his head a little, trying to compose himself, but it’s no use.

Get fucked, ‘honey, i’m home.’

“I liked it. Reposted it, too.” You confess with a soft chuckle. “And then I thought, you know.” You swallow dry, blushing , which almost kills him again. “I can. Matter of fact, I have.”

He hums in response, and tugs you closer, making you sit on his lap.

“Okay,” he chuckles, sinking his head in the crook of your neck, into your hair, and you move your arms around his neck, giggling too. “That’s a way of getting me off my computer.”

“Good,” you tease softly, next to his ear. “It’s late anyways.”

“It’s going to be so much late when I’m done with you,” he confesses in a low voice, not bothering to think if that’s correct grammar or not.

Instead, he presses a soft kiss on your cheek, then your jaw, until he moves back, one of his hands moving from your ass to cup your cheek.

It starts with a single kiss. A soft peck, quick and familiar. Then another. And another. Each one lingers a little longer, his lips pressing into yours like he’s testing the edge of restraint —whether yours or his, he doesn’t really know, merely wsiting to see who breaks first. Secretly, he knows he will.

His hands pull you closer until the chair that holds the both of you groans from the combined weight. When he finally pulls back, just a breath apart, he’s already smiling—low and crooked, like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you.

“I missed you today,” he says, voice rougher than it usually is. Then he’s kissing you again, deeper now, slow and intense, like he’s trying to make up for every second you were apart. His mouth moves with purpose, stealing your breath, and when his fingers slide up your spine, you arch into him without even thinking.

You move from him, peppering kisses all over his face. It’s coaxing, or at least you attempt it that way, until you notice him smirking.

“Don’t tease me,” you whine, pouting.

“Why, princess?” He smiles, faking innocence, letting out one of those squeaky laughs of his. “Something wrong?”

You groan dramatically, hiding your face in his neck as he laughs and holds your body closer.

“You’re a meanie,” you mumble against his skin.

“And you’re blushing.”

You huff. “Meanie.”

His hands stroke your thighs slowly, up and down. “You’d like me even more if I was meaner,” he grins teasingly. “Wouldn’t you, sweetheart?”

Moving away from his neck, you pout again.

“I’ll leave,” you squint your eyes at him, crossing your arms over your chest.

Chan tongues his cheek. He wonders if he can tease you a bit more, which he knows he probably can, but there’s only so much he can resist you. So he licks his lips, smiling at you.

“Really, princess? You’d leave daddy alone, even after what you’ve told me?”

You can’t stop smiling, not as he looks at you like you hung the stars, as your stomach flutters and as your cheeks burn. You try to play it cool, but your laugh comes out a little too breathless, and he definitely notices. The way he touches you doesn’t help either—his hands cheekily going anywhere they want, fingers brushing your arm, his hand resting low on your back like it’s always belonged there. You’re giddy, lightheaded, way too aware of how close he is, how good he smells, how your body is already leaning into his without asking permission. Not to him, exactly —that’s saved for a different night—, but to you, your own brain closing the door behind and leaving you all alone.

“Finally,” you kiss him cheekily. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”

The kisses start playful. You’re still giggling when he kisses the corner of your mouth, then your jaw, and you feel yourself melt against him, warm and dizzy from how good it all feels.

Yes. Home. Finally. Sitting in his lap feels too easy, too natural—like you were meant to be there. And then, without thinking, your hips shift—just a small roll. Unintentional, but nevertheless, the second it happens, you both freeze. His breath catches against your skin. Your cheeks flare hot, the air between you thickening.

Chris lets out a somewhat breathless chuckle next to your ear, threatening to send shivers down your spine. He bites your cheek, teeth not sinking in, but rather like a way of teasing you back. Judging by how your breathing stops and hitched, he stands corrected.

He smirks. The look he gives you threatens to rip your clothes off one by one, undoing you almost entirely. That slow, knowing smirk curls at the corner of his mouth, equal parts smug and hungry.

“Oh,” he says, low and teasing, like he just discovered something dangerous. His hands slide over your hips, firmer now. “You sure you missed me just a little?”

Your face goes warm immediately, and you bite back a smile, ducking your head just a little. Of course he noticed. Of course he’s smirking like that. You nod, sheepish but honest, and he chuckles softly—the sound low and familiar, the kind that always makes your heart do a flip.

“Yeah?” he murmurs, already slipping his hands lower, settling them on your hips like he’s done it a thousand times before. He moves you slowly, guiding your body against his with that quiet confidence he only ever shows when it’s just the two of you.

The grind is subtle, teasing, but the heat it stirs is immediate. You let out a shaky breath, forehead brushing his as your fingers curl into the back of his neck.

“Missed you more than a little,” you whisper, and he grins—cheeky, warm, already leaning in for another kiss that promises he missed you just as much.

“Daddy missed you too, princess.”

His lips find yours again, deeper this time, and the way he shifts beneath you makes your breath hitch. The chair creaks softly under the weight of both your bodies, his hands steady at your hips, but it’s not enough—not anymore.

He kisses you once more, slower, like he’s making a decision, then pulls back just enough to meet your eyes.

“Come here,” he murmurs, voice rough with warmth, and in one fluid motion, he stands, lifting you with him like it’s second nature.

Your legs wrap around his waist without thinking, arms around his shoulders as he carries you the few steps to the bed. The room blurs around you, all focus narrowing to the way his hands hold you, the way your bodies stay close, connected. When he lowers you to the mattress, it’s careful—reverent almost—but there’s a promise in his touch, in the way he leans over you again like he can’t stand being even a breath apart.

The mattress dips under his weight as he follows you down, never quite breaking the kiss, just shifting it—slower, deeper, until it’s all heat and breath and the soft rustle of the bedsheets. Chris’ hands roam, familiar, but still making you shiver.

He kisses you again, deeply, tasting you like a candy he’s been craving to have before he starts trailing those kisses lower. Down your neck, over your collarbone, taking his time, savoring every inch of skin. His hands glide down your sides, smooth and steady, until he reaches the hem of your shirt and helps ease it off with a sudden softness that somehow he always carries and still it makes your breath catch.

He glances up at you as he shifts lower, and there’s something in his eyes—affection wrapped in heat, like he wants to give, not just take.

He watches you the entire time, eyes dark with focus, with want. “God, I love when you look at me like that,” he murmurs, voice rough.

Your hips shift slightly under his hands, your fingers mindlessly scratching his hair, as they lock around his neck.

“Like what?”

“Like I could ruin you,” he says simply, before kissing your collarbone, “and you’d let me.”

His mouth never fully leaves your skin—kisses trailing down your stomach, each one slower than the last, until he reaches the waistband of your jeans. He looks up at you with that teasing glint in his eyes, the kind that makes your pulse trip. “Let me,” he murmurs, voice rough and low, and then he leans in.

You feel the scrape of his teeth first—light, playful—just before his lips close around the zipper. He tugs it down slowly, deliberately. The sound of it lowering fills the quiet between your breaths, each inch building the anticipation curling low in your belly. When the zipper’s undone, his hands take over, easing both the denim and your panties down your hips with a touch so gentle it borders on worshipful. And then he’s leaning in again, kissing the newly exposed skin with a smile against your thigh, like he’s exactly where he wants to be.

When he settles between your thighs, he doesn’t rush. His hands stroke your hips, your thighs, grounding you as his mouth finally finds you. The first touch of his tongue is slow and warm, and the sound you make earns a satisfied hum from him. He keeps going like that—unhurried, attentive—learning every reaction, every twitch of your hips, every moan and every gasp.

It’s not just about pleasure to him. It’s about you.

And when your fingers slide into his hair and your back arches off the bed, he only holds you firmer, as if to say, I’ve got you. I’m not stopping until you fall apart for me.

You shiver and tremble beneath him, letting out heavier moans and whines. He hums, the sound traveling through you, threatening to make you come already.

Your fingers tug his hair, and he smiles against your thigh. “Seems you’re already letting me ruin you,” he bites your thigh, cheeky. “Like when daddy ruins you, princess?”

You gasp at the bite, a shiver running down your spine. His words send a thrill through you, and you can feel yourself growing more excited by the minute. You feel your cheeks flush as you imagine what he's promising.

"Yes, daddy," you whisper, your voice already a little breathless. "Please ruin me, make me yours."

He chuckles, the sound low and husky. "You're such a good girl for me, aren't you?" he murmurs, his lips tracing a path up your thigh, leaving a trail of kisses in their wake. "And you know that I always take good care of my princess, don't you?"

His fingers slide along your inner thigh, his voice dipping.

“Tell me if you want me to stop.”

You shake your head, hand still in his hair. “If you stop now, I swear I’ll kill you.”

Your fingers curl and your nails scratch his back without thinking, and he lets out a soft gasp, his shoulders going slack as he leans into your touch.

“Anything for you, princess,” he whispers, licking his lips, almost drunk on the taste of you, his gaze already completely under your spell. “I’ll give you whatever you want, but please, keep touching me like that.”

He moves up and kisses you, relishing on the moans he swallows that spill from your lips as his hands move to take place where his mouth has just been, his fingers moving, slipping inside with wet ease.

“Oh, princess. You’re close already?” He watches you nod, moaning almost breathlessly, and slows down. He chuckles softly at the sound of your whine, unable to resist the adorable look on your face. "You're so cute when you're needy."

Nibbling on his lower lip, he pulls back just enough to reach toward the nightstand, eyes still on you, lips parted like he doesn’t want to be away for long. He grabs the foil packet and flashes you a look —half teasing, half focused—before tearing it open with his teeth. It’s effortless, practiced, but the sight alone makes your stomach flip.

His smile fades into something softer as he finishes rolling the condom on, hands steady but reverent, like he’s handling something precious. Then he’s back over you, fitting between your legs with ease, his skin warm against yours, his mouth returning to your neck, your collarbone, every place that makes your breath catch. The pace slows for a moment—like he wants to savor it, like rushing would be a waste. His forehead presses to yours, noses brushing, and he whispers your name like it’s a secret, grounding you both in the quiet, electric space between heartbeats.

When he finally presses into you, it’s slow—measured, but deep. You gasp, legs tightening around his waist, and he groans low in his throat, the sound rough and honest. His hands slide under your back, pulling you impossibly close, his mouth finding yours again in a kiss that’s all heat and promise. The rhythm builds naturally, guided by every stuttered breath, low whine, and whispered name, until it’s just you and him.

He builds a steady pace, slowly losing it’s rythm as pleasure takes the lead.

“You sound so… so good… so, so… f-fuck…” he moans against your skin, his body holding you so tight, his movements getting just a bit more desperate and rough as he attempts to hold back, trying to last just a little longer.

“S-so close… I’m so… so c-close…” You moan, desperate, your body shaking and trembling, on the very edge of a release.

His hand finds yours, interlinking your fingers. He whines lowly as you come, his heart pounding and body shaking. He can’t hold back any longer, his body completely overwhelmed by the feeling. He moans your name, every second feeling more intense as you continue to move against him. Holding onto you tightly, he comes not too long after you, almost letting his body fall over yours, unwilling to let you go.

He clings to you, feeling completely raw and vulnerable, his body trembling with the aftermath of such intensity. The world goes black and white, and for the smallest moment, time seems to almost stop between the sounds of your breaths in sync, the trembling of your body, the heat your body lets out… It’s all so intense, in his mind almost impossible to explain or describe.

The two of you stay like that, for a few moments, breathing in sync, holding onto each other as the aftershocks take over. You feel him pull away, and you can feel the loss of him, but in the blink of an eye, he’s right there, condom discarded, but he’s still right there, as he helps you get under the bedsheets. Holding your face in his hands, he kisses you, softly, gently.

He stays close, arms wrapped around you like he needs to keep you there, grounded against him. His fingers trace lazy patterns along your back, and his voice is quieter now, softer.

“You okay?” he asks, brushing your hair away from your face.

You nod, smiling. “Yeah. You?”

He smiles, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Never better.” He shifts slightly, reaching for the blanket at the edge of the bed, draping it over both of you. “How’s that? Warm enough?”

You hum, already melting into the calm of him, nuzzling into his neck. “Mmhm.”

You’re curled up against his chest, legs tangled with his, your breath soft and steady as your fingers absentmindedly trace circles on his arm. He’s quiet—so quiet you glance up to check on him. But he’s already watching you.

That look in his eyes makes your breath catch. It’s intense, unguarded. Like he’s seeing you for the first time and falling all over again.

“What?” you whisper with a smile, almost sheepish under the weight of his gaze.

He shakes his head a little, smiling like a fool, like the feeling in his chest is too big for words.

“Nothing. Just… you.”

You giggle.

“That’s not an answer, mister.”

He laughs under his breath, then kisses your forehead, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.

“Want me to run you a bath?” He offers softly.

You lay your hand over his, stroking the back of it as he cups your face. “Only if you join,” you wink.

His answer is immediate. “Done.”

He shifts to sit up, but not before giving you one more kiss—slow, sweet, like a promise. “I’ll be right back. Stay cozy.”

You hear the soft creak of the faucet turning on, the gentle rush of water echoing faintly from the bathroom. He moves around quietly, opening drawers, setting things down, and humming under his breath as he prepared this little ritual he’s done a hundred times for you.

When he returns to the bedroom, he’s shirtless, damp towel in one hand, and smiling like he just lit every candle in the world just for you. “It’s ready,” he says, voice warm. “Perfect temperature. Bubbles and all.”

You sit up, letting the blanket slip off your shoulders, and he immediately steps forward to wrap it back around you, his hands brushing down your arms with affection. “Want help getting there?”

You nod, and he lifts you easily, bridal style, because of course he does, earning giggles from you. He carries you into the softly lit bathroom, where the tub is already steaming, the scent of lavender and something faintly sweet in the air.

“There we go,” he smiles, helping you in. The water ripples as he steps in behind you, warm and careful, settling in with a low sigh. His arms come around you almost automatically—slow, steady—and you melt back into him with a sleepy grin.

His chest is pressed to your back, his legs on either side of yours, and his chin rests on your shoulder. He exhales deeply, his breath brushing your skin.

The warmth of the water surrounds you, but it’s nothing compared to the heat of his skin against yours, the way his fingertips draw slow patterns along your arms beneath the surface. Every now and then, he presses a kiss to your shoulder or cheek, unhurried, like he has all the time in the world just to love you like this.

Your fingers stay twined with his. You don’t talk much—there’s no need. It’s one of those rare, quiet silences that says everything. He leans his head against yours and lets out a little hum, content.

Eventually, the water cools just slightly, and he shifts, his lips brushing your ear. “Come on,” he whispers, soft and coaxing. “Let’s get you dry before you fall asleep on me in here.”

You let him help you up, both of you dripping and a little giggly as he wraps a towel around you and one around himself. He dries you off gently, his hands sweet and familiar, pausing to kiss your shoulder, the curve of your neck, your forehead.

You step out of the bath, feeling the steam cling to your skin, and glance at him with a sheepish smile. “I just need to pee real quick,” you say, before slipping away toward the toilet.

Bathtub empty, both of you dry and spent, he pulls the blankets down and helps you crawl to bed first, then slides in behind you, pulling you into his chest like it’s instinct. His arms wrap around you again—just like in the tub—and this time, the sheets are warm, the room is quiet, and your skin is still damp in that post-bath glow.

He kisses the back of your shoulder once more before whispering, “You okay?”

You nod, sleepy and safe. “Mhm. You?”

His reply is immediate, low and sincere.

“Never been better.”

Home has never felt so warm.

[☆★🤎★☆]

~kats, who has listened to hozier’s cover of “do i wanna know?” an unhealthy amount of times.

catiuskaa, april 2025 ©

permanent taglist! @svckrpvnch @thatonedarkskinnedsiren @lyramundana @cheeksung @staytinyluva

[cibulovychleba]

To any kcd and hansry enjoyers coming across this post who have seen kcd only in English, I need you to know what you're missing.

Hans Capon is in Czech called Jan Ptáček

Jan has a few name variations in Czech, each less formal (and each more unserious, in my opinion). Like if you're called Jan that's on you IDs etc, but your family and friends might just call you Honza, if you prefer it

The Jan scale goes from Jan > Honza > Jenda > honorable mention Janek, but I'm not sure if this variant is relevant right now

And guess what, Henry calls Hans by these variations, which is so precious to me. Yes, Hans is a noble and yes, Henry refers to him as his lord, but he also calls him Jenda, which is very much giving village boy energy, Jenda the stable boy or something. I think it really shows, on another level, how familiar and close they are with each other, and how the relationship shifts in kcd2, how Hans is becoming Henry's closest first, his lord second, how they are on the same level now, in comparison with kcd1, where they tiptoe in some dialog options around Henry keeping his distance and Hans encouraging him to treat him less formally and rewarding when Henry actually talks back.

Side note, I'm glad at least Henry has available name variant in English people who know him use, as well as in Czech (Jindřich and Jindra – Henry and Hal)

And a cherry on top, the situations when Henry uses a less formal variant of Hans' name are rare, but one of those situations that I've seen in someone else's playthrough was specifically the march to Nebakov turned ambush. When you're attacked and fight back you get periodically prompted to follow Hans and defend him, but if you can't find him, Henry will call out and use Jenda variant. And when Hans gets knocked out and Henry finds him in dirt before facing Žižka, he kneels down to him and calls him Jan, then Ptáček, and when nothing seems to work, he calls him Honza. Which makes me think this is something Henry's mind does when everything goes to shit and he's desperate and the closest person he has left and who he loves is in danger and so he reaches, asking Hans to come back to him, not as a noble with unfinished responsibilities, but simply as his Honza.

And I'm totally normal about that.

Beside all of this

I adore Tom McKay's voice and performance, but also Richard Wágner is so good as Henry, and, his words not mine, his Henry sounds much more sillier, which is a delight. And this is such a Czech-specific appreciation, but kcd2 has many iconic Czech actors and it's honestly so amusing to both see and hear them in a video game.

[santaasi]

bet on you

pairing: james potter x grumpy!reader

summary: james bets you that if he wins his next match, you owe him a date. he wins, of course — but you’re not going to make it easy for him.

warnings: fluff, grumpy x sunshine, no use of y/n, english isn’t my first language

word count: 3.0k

a/n: there are so many of you who followed me for james content after obviously blind so i just decided to give you a little thank u for all your love and support.

ᯓ★ now playing…

niall horan - must be love

"YOU’RE TOO COCKY FOR SOMEONE WHO WAS NEARLY THROWN OFF HIS BROOMSTICK LAST MATCH, POTTER."

Your voice was dry, unimpressed, but James only grinned wider, twirling his wand between his fingers as he lounged on the Gryffindor common room sofa. His Quidditch robes were still rumpled from practice, the fabric clinging in places where the sweat hadn’t entirely dried. His hair — Merlin, his hair — was an absolute disaster, even by James Potter standards, the dark curls damp and sticking up in every possible direction, like he’d flown straight through a hurricane and come out victorious on the other side.

You sat across from him, arms folded tight against your chest, doing your best impression of someone completely indifferent to his presence. The common room was warm, the low glow of the fireplace painting everything in shades of gold and crimson, and yet you wrapped your blanket more tightly around your shoulders, as if that might stop the ridiculous, treacherous pounding of your heart.

James tilted his head, eyes twinkling behind the reflection of the flames in his glasses. Too charming for his own good.

“You wound me, sweetheart,” he sighed dramatically, pressing a hand to his chest. "I was merely faking vulnerability — to lull the Slytherins into a false sense of security.”

You snorted, gaze fixed on the fire. “Right. And I suppose you meant to drop the Quaffle against Ravenclaw?”

James gasped, shoving his glasses up the bridge of his nose in a performance of deep, personal offense. “First of all, I didn’t drop it — I strategically redirected it. And second, I think you underestimate my skills, and frankly, that hurts.”

You rolled your eyes, fully prepared to come up with something scathing in response, but then James — the menace — moved.

He dropped onto the couch beside you with all the grace of a kneazle leaping onto its favorite perch, effortlessly invading your space, his weight shifting the cushions beneath you. You sucked in a sharp breath as his arm draped over the back of the sofa, boxing you in.

A strangled noise escaped your lips before you could stop it. You shoved at his shoulder in a pathetic attempt to create distance, but James only laughed, low and amused, his body warm beside yours, radiating that post-match heat.

That sound — that deep, genuine laugh — sent something fluttering through your stomach, something entirely inconvenient. You clenched your jaw, forcing yourself to scowl harder, hoping to smother whatever the hell was happening inside you.

James, of course, remained completely unbothered. If anything, he leaned in closer, his grin widening. “Plus,” he murmured, voice lilting with amusement, “how can you expect me to play properly when the most beautiful girl in Hogwarts is watching me from the stands, sweetheart?”

Your head snapped toward him, eyes narrowing. His smile was positively criminal — all mischief and confidence, his hazel eyes glinting with unspoken challenge.

James and his bloody charm.

Your frown deepened, but it was becoming harder and harder to hold onto. He looked so pleased with himself, sitting there with his damp curls tumbling over his forehead, a few unruly strands falling into his eyes. Your fingers twitched — traitorous things — itching to push them back, just to feel how soft they were.

Absolutely not.

You turned away sharply, hoping he hadn’t noticed the way your breath hitched.

Damn James Potter.

You needed to think about anything else.

Quidditch.

Yes. Quidditch.

James was a good player — some might even say exceptional (and maybe you were one of them, in the privacy of your own thoughts). But you’d rather kiss the Giant Squid than admit that to his face. His ego was already large enough to smother the entire wizarding world; the last thing he needed was your praise fueling it further.

It was your duty — no, your moral obligation — to keep him grounded. To roll your eyes at his dramatics, to scoff at his flirtations, to challenge him at every opportunity.

Even if, in moments like this, when the firelight danced across his face and his laughter filled the spaces between you, your resolve felt dangerously fragile.

Even if, against all reason and logic, you were already hopelessly, disastrously in love with him.

But he didn’t need to know that.

So you bit your bottom lip, let out a quiet chuckle, and looked back at him with a slow, knowing smirk.

“Right,” you said, voice dripping with amusement. “Because obviously your Quidditch skills depend entirely on me.”

James grinned, delighted, like you’d just paid him the highest compliment in the world.

“Exactly,” he said, nudging your shoulder. “Finally, she admits it.”

You huffed, shaking your head, but even as you turned away, you knew he could see the smile threatening at the corners of your lips.

Damn him.

James leaned forward, that infuriating smirk tugging at his lips again. “Alright,” he drawled, mischief dripping from every syllable. “Let’s make this more interesting.”

You raised an eyebrow, unimpressed, but the way his hazel eyes glinted in the firelight sent a prickle of warning down your spine.

“If we win against Slytherin this weekend,” he continued, his voice low and coaxing, “you have to ask me out.”

You blinked.

What did he just say?

For half a second, your brain short-circuited, your thoughts stuttering to a halt like a broomstick caught in an unexpected gust of wind. But you recovered quickly, forcing out a chuckle that (hopefully) hid the way your pulse had just launched itself into orbit.

“You say that like it’s some kind of real challenge,” you scoffed, tilting your head. “Gryffindor always wins.”

James only shrugged, all casual confidence, but his smirk deepened. “Then you’ve got nothing to lose, do you?” He leaned in slightly, his voice laced with unmistakable amusement. “Unless, of course, you’re afraid.”

You rolled your eyes, exhaling through your nose as you turned to face him fully, arms crossing over your chest. Your faces were too close — close enough that you could make out the faint freckle just beneath his left eye, close enough that you caught the lingering scent of grass and wind still clinging to his robes.

And yet, you refused to back away.

At least outwardly. Inside, your heart was performing a particularly violent tango with your liver at the mere thought of going on a date with James bloody Potter.

“I just don’t think it’s a fair bet,” you replied smoothly, ignoring the treacherous heat creeping up your neck. “Gryffindor wins practically every match.”

James hummed, tilting his head as if considering this, though the glimmer of mischief in his gaze suggested he already had a counterattack prepared. “Alright,” he conceded, pretending to think. “Then name your terms. If we lose…” He paused for dramatic effect, then grinned. “I’ll do whatever you want. No complaints. For an entire week.”

Your lips curled into a slow, wicked smile. “Just like that?”

“Just like that,” he echoed, looking far too pleased with himself.

You feigned deep contemplation, tapping a finger against your chin, though in reality, you were far too aware of the way James was watching you, waiting, expecting you to take the bait.

“That’s quite the offer,” you mused. “But don’t expect me to go easy on you when you lose, Potter.”

James laughed, bright and easy, before holding out his hand. “Shake on it?”

Your fingers clasped his, and the moment your hands met, a strange sort of certainty settled in your stomach — heavy and inevitable.

Because James Potter had never lost.

And somehow, you didn’t think this time would be an exception.

THE DAY LEADING UP TO THE FINAL MATCH FLEW BY FASTER THAN THE GOLDEN SNITCH IN THE DYING MOMENTS OF GAME.

James was a blur of scarlet and gold, barely more than a passing shadow in your periphery. You caught glimpses of him at breakfast — hair even messier than usual, eyes alight with that reckless, competitive fire — before he was gone again, dashing out to the Quidditch pitch to practice some new, impossible maneuver.

He was taking your bet far too seriously.

And you hated the way your stomach clenched at the thought.

By the time the match arrived, the air at the Quidditch stadium was thick with tension and the unmistakable electric hum of anticipation. The whole school had turned out, huddled together under the late spring sky, the Gryffindor stands an unbroken wave of red and gold. And you — against all better judgment — were sitting among them, wrapped in James’s scarf, the same one he’d tossed around your shoulders before the game with an infuriating grin.

"For good luck," he’d said, brushing a lock of hair behind your ear like it was the most natural thing in the world. And then, lowering his voice, he’d added, "Enjoy the view, sweetheart. After I win, you’re in for the most unforgettable date of your life."

Cocky bastard.

Now, watching the game unfold, you realized with a sinking feeling in your chest that James hadn’t been bluffing.

Gryffindor wasn’t just winning.

They were annihilating Slytherin.

And James — Merlin help you — was everywhere.

He weaved through the air with impossible speed, dodging Bludgers with infuriating ease, stealing the Quaffle like it had never belonged to anyone else, and scoring goal after goal as the Slytherins scrambled to keep up.

Then, just because he could, he banked his broom hard, looped right past the Gryffindor stands, and — of course — paused just long enough to wink at you before somersaulting through the air and landing another goal.

Show-off.

You scowled. The worst part was, it was impressive.

By the time the final whistle blew, Gryffindor had obliterated Slytherin by at least a hundred points. The stands exploded — cheers ringing through the stadium, banners waving wildly, students practically falling over themselves in celebration.

Amid the chaos, James ripped off his helmet, ran a hand through his already wind-wrecked hair, and turned — scanning the crowd, searching.

His gaze found yours in an instant.

And then he winked.

Smug. Smug, insufferable bastard.

The taste of defeat curled bitter on your tongue as you shot to your feet, yanking James’s scarf tighter around your neck before storming toward the exit.

Behind you, James’s name was being shouted from every direction, his teammates tackling him in celebration, the crowd chanting in triumph.

And yet — somehow — you knew his eyes were still on you.

You may have lost the bet.

But you weren’t about to make this easy for him.

THE COLD NIGHT AIR CURLED AROUND YOU LIKE AN OLD FRIEND, slipping through the courtyard’s stone archways and brushing against your skin. You leaned back against the weathered wall, staring up at the sky as the first stars flickered into existence — tiny, distant lights swallowed by the vast darkness above. This was your sanctuary, your quiet refuge from the chaos that raged inside Gryffindor Tower.

And tonight, there was plenty of chaos.

Sirius had cranked up the music, turning the common room into a swaying, smoke-filled mess of bodies. The scent of butterbeer and firewhiskey clung to the air, laughter rang out over the sound of a badly tuned guitar, and James — bloody James Potter — was undoubtedly at the center of it all, basking in his victory like the smug, overgrown golden retriever he was.

You had slipped away the first chance you got. You never did well with crowds, especially after a match like that. The noise, the movement, the suffocating heat of so many people in one space — it was too much. You preferred the quiet, the stillness.

But, of course, James Potter never let you have nice things.

You sensed him before he spoke — his presence a familiar, buzzing warmth in the air. And knowing this, he didn’t waste any time.

“So,” came his voice, smooth and laced with amusement. “About that date.”

You sighed, long and dramatic, tilting your head just enough to meet his gaze. He stood in front of you, still wearing that victorious grin, hair a tousled mess from the game, his uniform untucked like he had just thrown his robes aside before heading out to find you.

"I suppose I did agree to this," you mused, drawing out the words.

James nodded eagerly. “You did agree.”

You hummed, pretending to think. “Alright, then. You can take me to Hogsmeade this weekend.”

James beamed, already straightening up. “Brilliant! I’ll pick you up at—”

“But,” you interjected, holding up a single finger, “only if you prove that you’re worth my time.”

James halted mid-sentence. His eyebrows furrowed slightly, and his hand came up to scratch the back of his head — his signature I-don’t-like-not-knowing-things move.

For a split second, he looked adorably confused, like a puppy who’d just been denied a treat. You had to bite the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing.

“What does that mean?” he finally asked, narrowing his eyes at you in suspicion.

You shrugged, pushing off the wall. “Let’s see how dedicated you are, Potter.”

His lips curled into a lopsided grin as he folded his arms across his chest. “Are you testing me?”

“Obviously.”

You took a step closer, your head tilting slightly as you met his gaze. His brown eyes gleamed under the soft glow of torchlight, catching every flicker of warmth from the flames. The moment stretched, charged with something unspoken, something electric.

Then you exhaled, a small cloud of condensation forming in the night air, and added, "Think of this as a trial."

James let out a laugh, shaking his head. “Merlin, you’re a menace.”

You smirked. “What, afraid you won’t be able to impress me?”

James didn’t falter. If anything, he leaned in, closing the space between you just enough that you caught the scent of his cologne — something warm, like cedar and a hint of cinnamon.

Your breath hitched when his fingers brushed against your cheek, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

His voice dropped, smooth as velvet. “Oh, sweetheart, I know I can make an impression on you.”

Your heart lurched, traitorous thing that it was.

For a moment, just one moment, you were completely caught in his orbit. Your eyes flickered to his lips — damn him for standing so close, for smelling so good, for looking at you like that. Heat crept up your spine, and you nearly leaned into him, nearly—

But then you recovered.

Rolling your eyes, you stepped past him, shoulders brushing as you went. “We’ll see, Potter.”

And with that, you left him standing there, his victorious smile turning into something else entirely — something intrigued, something thrilled.

James Potter lived for a challenge.

And Merlin, you had just given him one.

JAMES POTTER TRIED.

He tried so hard.

It started small. He brought you textbooks between classes, even the ones you definitely didn’t need, just so he had an excuse to linger. He saved a seat for you at breakfast, nudging aside a stunned first-year with a casual, “Sorry, mate — reserved.”

Then, he got bolder.

A bouquet of daisies — enchanted to float in perfect formation — drifted onto your desk in Transfiguration, twirling in the air before settling neatly beside your parchment. You watched them with narrowed eyes as James, sitting two rows back, shot you a wink.

At one point, he even physically shoved Peeves aside when the poltergeist attempted to douse you in ink. “Bugger off, Peevesy,” James said cheerfully while you stared, half-impressed, half-mortified.

It was cute. It was infuriating.

The final straw?

A stunning display of desperation: an entire stash of Chocolate Frogs left on your bed, stacked like a damn shrine to your stubbornness.

That was it. Enough was enough.

That evening, you stormed into the Gryffindor common room, where James lounged on the couch with Sirius and Remus. Sirius was draped across the armrest, half-asleep, while Remus read with an air of deep patience, no doubt enduring whatever nonsense James had been spouting for the last hour.

James looked up as you approached, his brown eyes wide, pupils dilating like a puppy seeing its favorite person walk through the door. The firelight caught in his glasses, flickering gold against the lenses. It was annoyingly reminiscent of the night you had made this stupid bet, and that alone made you want to hex something.

He blinked. “Uh—”

Before you could think twice — before your pride could scream turn around and flee — you grabbed him by the front of his shirt, yanked him up to his feet, and kissed him.

The room went completely still.

The kiss was quick but firm, proof of your surrender, of your utter defeat at the hands of James bloody Potter. His lips were warm and slightly chapped from the cold, and for the first time all week, he wasn’t talking. When you pulled away, James looked thoroughly wrecked — eyes wide, lips parted, hair even more disheveled than usual.

Sirius, naturally, ruined the moment.

“Finally,” he muttered with a long-suffering sigh.

James, still stunned, exhaled sharply. “Damn it.”

You huffed, flustered beyond belief. “You’ve won. Come back tomorrow at two. Bye.”

And with that, you spun on your heel, eager to escape before your brain caught up with what had just happened. But James, damn his Quidditch reflexes, recovered faster than you did. His hand caught your wrist before you had taken a full step, and in one smooth motion, he pulled you right back into his chest.

A disgruntled noise escaped your lips as you landed against him.

James grinned down at you, his voice low and maddeningly smug. “Oh, I know.”

You glared up at him, rolling your eyes so hard they might have fallen out of your head — but your lips twitched, betraying you. James saw it, of course. Smug bastard.

Without missing a beat, he tugged you down onto the couch beside him, tucking you against his side like it was the most natural thing in the world. His arm settled around your waist, warm and comfortable, and when he pressed a kiss to the top of your head, you swore your heart forgot how to function.

Sirius groaned. “Great. Now we have to deal with this.”

Remus, without looking up from his book, simply hummed. “Called it.”

James ignored them entirely, his thumb tracing slow, lazy circles against your hip as he returned to whatever ridiculous conversation they had been having before you stormed in.

You didn’t move away.

After all, a bet was a bet.

hey-hey! <3

thank you so much for taking the time to read my work — it truly means the world to me. if you enjoyed it, I’d love to hear your thoughts! comments, likes, and reblogs not only make my day but also inspire me to keep writing. seriously, every little bit of support fuels my motivation!

if you have any requests, feel free to send them in my inbox! I’d love to bring your ideas to life. and also if you'd like to be added to the taglist, feel free to dm me or leave a comment, and I’ll make sure to include you.

thanks again for being here — you’re amazing!

                                     – your santi 🪐

masterlist

[no-144444]

sweating- o.piastri

summary: oscar has been acting strange

pairing: oscar piastri x fem! Brown! reader

୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅

Zak had been worried about Oscar for a while. The far-off looks in meetings, the silence at dinners, the constant stares he was getting, all of it. He’d even been so worried, that he came to you, and you’d told him that Oscar had been just fine at home, so it must be something to do with work. 

It was a strange thing, to be dating your boss’s daughter. Oscar had in fact fallen for you within seconds of meeting you back in 2022, his first visit to MTC, before everything else happened. You, a legal trainee on the McLaren legal team, was the one running him through his contract, and he was very thankful that his lawyer was there to ask questions, because he was just focused on you. As he joined the team, you two got closer. About half way through his rookie season, he finally plucked up the courage to ask you out, and you had said yes. What ensued was a few months of sneaking around until you finally told your dad, who supported you two, but from afar. He liked Oscar, would he have preferred you pick someone that wasn’t his driver, yes, very much so, but he didn’t have a say in your life. You were an adult and if you wanted to go get your heart broken by an F1 driver, that was up to you. The one thing Zak hadn’t accounted for was the fact that Oscar was a sweetheart who was genuinely head over heels for you. He saw it when you were in the paddock, how Oscar smiled a little brighter, how he made you a priority all weekend, how he performed better. 

So what the fuck was going on with Oscar now? 

Zak was worried that he was planning on breaking up with you, or maybe he was just going through some mental roadblocks at work, so he called him into his office. 

Oscar awkwardly took a seat across from him, waiting to be addressed. 

“Are you alright, Osc? You seem a bit… off lately,” Zak asked, nothing but concern in his voice. 

Oscar shook his head. “I’m fine,” he said, but even he knew it sounded wrong. This is really not how he wanted this to go. He was insured of Zak’s worry by the way his brows furrowed. “You can talk to me kid, you know that right? If it’s about Y/n or-”

“It’s not about Y/n,” Oscar assured him. “I’m alright, I promise.”

“Oscar, talk to me, I’m here for you. If you’re going through something-”

“I’ve been trying to figure out how to ask for your blessing!” he admitted, speaking far too loud and far too fast. Oscar looked up to see Zak’s face blank, his jaw slightly dropped. “I’m so sorry-”

“You have it,” he said. Now it was Oscar’s jaw that dropped. “Of course you have it,” Zak’s lips turned into a smile. “She adores you. You clearly adore her. I love you, my wife loves you, my sons love you. Of course you have my blessing.”

He took a deep breath and smiled. “Thank you,” he chuckled. “God, I was terrified.”

“You thought I’d say no?”

Oscar shrugged. “Maybe?” 

୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅

Zak was very happy when he woke up to a call from the two of you, engaged, a few weeks later.

oscarpiastri

liked by pierregasly, zbrownceo, landonorris and 348,928 others

oscarpiastri: awesome season, can't wait to marry this girl though :)

comments

landonorris: OMFG YALL ARE YOUNGER THAN ME PLZ SLOW DOWN -> oscarpiastri: no more papaya rules 🤷

pierregalsy: too young -> kikagomez: bitch -> user92: lmao he's never said that before

zbrownceo: Congrats guys! Can't wait to walk you down the aisle!

charlesleclerc: MY SON IS GETTING MARRIED!!!!!! -> oscarpiastri: thank you adoptive father :)

user93: god she is GLOWING

user12: these are the cutest photos ever!!!!!!!

user8: THE RINGGGGG

lilymunihe: OMG I'M SO EXCITED!!!! ->youruser: OMG LOVE YOUUUUU

user98: they're so in love it's actually sickening

logansargeant: no ring picking creds? -> oscarpiastri: I don't think grimacing at every ring I chose was very helpful -> hattiepiastri: nah, but it was funny

୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅

navigation for my blog :) (masterlist)

[charles-leclerizz]

touch first, talk later

on the runway : max verstappen x fem!reader

inspiration ( warnings ) : smut !! (f + m receiving oral), jealousy, unresolved feelings, possessive energy, ex situationship, bathroom scene,

VIP's in the front row ( taglist ) : MUTUALS GET INSTANT TAGS [@vroomvroomcircuit, @disneyprincemuke, @verstappen-cult, @starkwlkr, @sailing-with-100-ships, @foreveralbon, @ksthegreat]

before the show begins ( synopsis ) :

You left because he never wanted to go public. He just didn’t realise he did, until after you were gone. And now you’re at the same party again. Talking to someone else. And Max is staring like he’s ready to burn it all down.

designer notes : so. apparently I can churn these baby's out at record pace, just know- im sleep deprived. anyhoo, love yall, dont read too fast <33 and wear your seatbelts

The party swirls around you like a golden haze-soft laughter dripping from lacquered lips, heels clicking rhythmically against marble floors, and the murmur of voices blending into a steady hum beneath the bass-heavy music. You feel the warmth of champagne pooling at the bottom of your glass, the sharp bite of citrus lingering on your tongue. The air is thick with expensive perfume and the faint, sharp tang of adrenaline, the kind that always clings to race weekends like a second skin.  

You drift through the crowd, a practiced smile in place, a flicker of fake amusement in your eyes when you exchange polite words with familiar faces. Here, everyone is performing- pretending the world outside these sparkling walls doesn’t exist or at least doesn’t matter tonight 

Then you see him. 

Max. 

Across the room, leaning casually against the bar, dark eyes cutting through the noise with a focus so intense it feels almost physical. It’s impossible to look away.  It’s like the noise around you dims, just for a moment, narrowed down to that stare.  

It’s been months since you left, that night when everything between you unravelled, when you walked away because he wouldn’t say the words you needed, but it feels like no time has passed at all. 

You turn your head away, pretending to focus on the conversation at your side, but you know the weight of his stare follows you-unrelenting, accusing, hungry. Your breath catches, heart skipping a beat you don’t want to admit 

It’s the weight of his stare, that subtle prickle at the nape of your neck that never quite fades when Max is in the same room. You’d hoped the distance would kill it. That after all this time, he wouldn’t still have this kind of hold on you. 

But there he is. Dressed in black, drink untouched in one hand. And you? 

You’re smiling at someone else. 

The guy - what’s his name, Liam? Lucas? - is charming enough. Handsome in that easy, polished way that doesn't set your nerves on fire. He’s been talking for five minutes straight about his classic car collection. You nod, let him touch your arm, laugh when it’s expected. 

But you’re not really listening. 

You’re too aware of Max across the room. Of the way his jaw tenses when the guy leans in. Of the way he hasn’t spoken to anyone else. Of the fact that he’s still watching you - shamelessly, openly, like the entire world could burn down and he wouldn’t blink. 

The music is loud. The room is full. But none of it seems to matter when he starts walking toward you. 

“Hey.” 

His voice slices right through the conversation like glass. 

You blink. “Hi.” 

Lucas-or-Liam frowns. “You two know each other?” 

Max doesn’t answer him. Doesn’t even look in his direction. Just says, “We need to talk.” 

“No, we don’t,” you say as civil as you could muster. 

Max’s nostrils flare. “We do.” 

“I’m kind of in the middle of something.” 

He glances down at your arm where the other man’s fingers rest too casually. His voice drops. “Didn’t realize you liked posers.” 

Lucas-or-Liam looks somewhere between confused and irritated. 

“Max.” Your tone sharpens, but he’s already looking at you again, blue eyes locked in on your contemplative expression.  

You sigh and turn to Lucas, placing a gentle hand on his forearm. “Give me a minute?” 

The man looks confused, but nods. Max is already pulling you away before you finish thanking him. 

Before you can regret your decision, Max’s hand tightens on your wrist, firm but not cruel, and he starts dragging you through the crowd. The noise fades behind you, a muffled roar compared to the sudden sharpness of his presence beside you.   

You follow, breath shallow, heels clicking against polished floors. He weaves you through bodies and laughter and flashing lights like they barely register past his determined pathway.  

Then the bathroom door swings open, and he pulls you inside. The bathroom is glossy and dim, smelling of some fancy cologne and warm wood. He shuts the door behind you and leans against it like he needs to catch his breath. 

You stand by the counter, tapping your foot. 

“I don’t know what you want from me,” you say finally, breaking the silence 

“Why did you leave?”  

Your throat tightens. “Because you never wanted to—” 

“Don’t,” barely moving, simply shifting his head to look at you, “Don’t say that. I did want to. I just didn’t know how to say it. Or when.” 

You search his eyes, looking for the man you thought, knew, you lost. “But you never showed it. Not when it mattered.” 

Max steps forward. Just once, “I wanted to go public. You just left before I could figure out how to say it.” 

Your brows knit. “You think I waited for nothing?” 

“No,” he says. “I think I fucked up. And I want to fix it.” 

You stare at him, every cell in your body buzzing. “Say that again.” 

“I want to fix it,” he repeats, gentler this time. “You were never just casual. You were never a secret I wanted to keep.” 

Your breath catches, and the anger you’ve been holding for months, twists and knits into something rawer. “Then why did you let me go?” 

Max’s jaw tightens. And he treads closer, his feet heavy, magnetised to the bathroom floor. "Because I thought you didn’t want to wait for me to figure it out.” 

You shake your head, the weight of months in that tiny space suffocating once he reached you, sharing each other's air. “I left because you wouldn’t fight for me.” 

He cups your face, thumb tracing the line of your jaw. “I’m fighting now.” 

The distance vanishes in an instant, heat crashing between you. His lips find yours-urgent, claiming, desperate-and you give in to the flood of everything you’ve been holding back. 

Your back digs into the counter, hard wood punishing through thin fabric, and his hands are already on your waist, fingers splayed like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you all over again. 

You kiss him like you’re trying to punish him. 

It’s teeth, heat, months of unspoken things. 

His hands are in your hair, your thighs, lifting you onto the counter like he never stopped memorizing how to touch you. The kiss is messy and bruising and so full of everything he never said that it feels like drowning. 

“Fuck,” he breathes against your mouth. “I missed you.” 

“You didn’t act like it.” 

“I know.” He groans, trailing kisses down your throat. “Let me make it up to you.” 

He sinks to his knees like he’s not even thinking, like gravity just drags him there. His hands push your thighs apart with a roughness that makes your head spin, makes the ache between your legs throb harder. 

“You think I forgot how to touch you?” he mutters against your knee, hands sliding beneath your dress. “You think I don’t still dream about this?” 

Your breath hitches when his fingers brush against the edge of your panties. “Don’t say things you don’t mean, Max.” 

His eyes snap up, dark and blazing. “I mean every fucking word.” 

“You’re not going back out there,” he says, voice low, almost hoarse. “Not with him. Not like this.” 

You grip the edge of the counter, palms pressing flat against the wood. “And if I was never yours to begin with?” 

Max doesn’t even flinch. “You were. You still are.” 

And then his mouth is on you. Through the lace first, dragging a slow, wet stripe with his tongue, teasing the fabric just to feel your hips jerk. Then he pulls your panties to the side, and you forget every damn reason you had for staying away. 

He eats you out like he’s starving, like it’s punishment for leaving and apology all at once. Like he wants to ruin you for anyone else. 

“Oh fuck, Max-” 

He groans against you, hands gripping your thighs tighter as your back arches. His tongue works you over with practiced precision - licking, sucking, flicking the spot he knows makes you come undone. He doesn’t let up. Doesn’t let you breathe. Every time you try to close your legs, he just pushes them wider. 

“You’re shaking,” he murmurs, lips slick, voice smug and dark. “You missed this too, didn’t you?” 

You hate how much you nod. How honest your body is when your mouth won’t speak. 

And when you come, it’s sudden and sharp - the kind of orgasm that rips through you and leaves you gasping, trembling, eyes squeezed shut as your fingers twist in his hair. 

He doesn’t stop until you push at his shoulders, breathless and overwhelmed. 

When he stands again, his mouth is shiny with you, his lips swollen, and his eyes impossibly soft beneath the storm. 

“Say it,” he whispers, fingertips stroking your jaw. 

Your voice is barely there. Your nails barely dragging against his jaw, “I still want you.” 

He leans in close, pressing his forehead to yours. 

“I never stopped.” 

The air between you feels thick now, buzzing with what just happened - your body still humming, your breathing uneven. Max hasn’t moved far. His hands rest on either side of your hips, grounding you, his forehead still pressed to yours like he’s afraid if he steps back, you’ll disappear again. 

You study him in the mirror behind him. Hair tousled. Lips bitten raw. That rare softness in his eyes - the one he always tried to hide when things got too real. 

“You, okay?” he asks, voice low and almost shy now. It’s strange, how quickly the fight melted into this. Into something quieter.  

You nod, brushing a strand of hair from his brow. “You look wrecked.” 

He huffs a breath, half-laugh, half-sigh. “You just ruined me. So… yeah.” 

A beat of silence passes. You reach down, fingers trailing the waistband of his trousers. 

His breath stutters. You loop your knuckles into his belt loops, spinning around until he's in your position. 

“Let me,” you whisper. 

He doesn’t stop you - just watches, swallowing hard, like he can’t believe it’s happening. His knuckles go white on the counter when you drop to your knees, slow and deliberate, right where he’d just been moments ago. 

Your hands work his belt open, your movements gentle. Intimate. You feel him twitch in your palm, already hard and aching. 

“You always looked at me like this,” you murmur, kissing along his length, teasing him the way he teased you earlier. “But you never said anything.” 

“I was a coward,” he whispers, eyes fluttering shut as your lips close around him. 

He’s warm and heavy on your tongue, and the sound he makes, sharp and broken, makes you want to stay down here forever. You take him slow at first, just letting him feel it, letting you feel it, your fingers curling around the base as your mouth works him over. 

“Fuck,” he groans, hand sliding into your hair. Not pulling. Just holding. Like he’s scared you’ll vanish if he lets go. 

You glance up at him, eyes meeting his, and he stares like you’ve undone him completely. No ego. No bravado. Just Max, real and flushed and yours, even if only in this moment. 

You hollow your cheeks, letting him slide deeper, moaning softly around him until his hips twitch and his hand tightens just slightly. 

“Stop,” he rasps, breath hitching. “I’m gonna- ” 

You don’t. You want this. You want to make him fall apart, just like he did to you. 

And when he comes, it’s with a low groan and your name, broken in half across his tongue. His head tips back, eyes shut, chest rising and falling like he’s been sprinting. You swallow everything, hands smoothing over his thighs as he trembles just slightly. 

When you finally stand again, he pulls you into his chest without a word, arms tight around you. There’s no party outside the door. No months of silence. Just this. 

Just him. 

Just you. 

“You’re not leaving again,” he murmurs against your hair. 

You don’t answer. Not yet. 

But you don’t pull away either. You stay there, tucked into his chest and hold him tighter, re-learning every indent of his heartbeat and every undulation of his breath. 

The hallway feels louder than before. 

You step out first, fixing your dress, smoothing your hair. Max follows close behind, his hand brushing your back in a way that would feel casual if it weren’t him. If you weren’t both still vibrating with what just happened. 

You reach the edge of the room. The party is still in full swing - bodies dancing, glasses clinking, music pulsing. The guy from earlier spots you. 

“There you are,” he says, half-smile curling at the ends. “Thought I lost you.” 

Max stiffens behind you, but you rest a hand on his wrist. Subtle. Calming. 

You offer the guy a polite smile. “Just needed a minute.” 

His eyes flick to Max, and then down to where your hand touches his. 

He gets it. 

He nods once, then turns away. 

You exhale. 

Max leans in, voice barely above the music. “So… that was new.” 

You glance at him, amused. “The bathroom thing? Thought we did that one ages ago” 

He rolls his eyes and snakes his hand around your waist, bending down to press his mouth to your ear, “The part where you held my hand in public.” 

You roll your eyes, but your fingers find his against your body. “Don’t get cocky.” 

He grins - that same crooked, boyish thing that always cracked your resolve, always kept you in bed with him an hour later. “Too late.” 

A pause. He tilts his head. “Want to get out of here?” 

[cheol-e-kat]

𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐨𝐦 𝐬𝐥𝐮𝐭𝐭𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬, 𝐟𝐭. 𝐜.𝐬𝐜

the unknown sender one

𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔: 𝒔𝒎𝒖𝒕

summary: seungcheol keeps getting nudes and he hasn't a clue from who, but maybe you do

genre: rivals to lovers, college au

word count: 1.8k

He loved that you pretended to hate him. Every time you had given him side eye in class or avoided him at a party - all fake. Every time he watched you pointedly flirt with someone else in front of him - it was just an act.

He wasn’t jealous, though. Because no matter what you did, no matter what the little performance was for the day, he knew exactly who you really wanted.

⋆⭒˚.⋆

It had started with dirty messages. 

At first he had no idea who was texting him, but they were fun. 

How could he be mad at someone who told him in detail all the ways they wanted him to fuck them - all the random moments in a day when they would rather be sucking his cock than doing whatever they were doing. 

He didn’t think it would last very long, maybe a few days or a week at most. 

But he was surprised when they continued. There were the normal dirty texts, but then there was a photo early one morning. First one photo and then a second one. 

The first was of panties, blue mesh with little white polka dots. 

He had chewed his lip lightly before messaging back. 

[seungcheol]

v cute

Then there was the second photo that had made his cock stiffen. 

He didn’t know what to say because this time whoever it was sending the texts and photos was sitting, wearing the cute panties. Her gorgeous thighs open, and her fingers dipping down between her legs, pushing the crotch of her panties to the side to reveal her very wet pussy lips. 

[unknown]

just for you

His mouth was like cotton. His brain was mush. He could barely think of his own name, much less a message to respond. 

He had jammed his phone in his pocket and left for class. In all reality, he had no idea how he even made it to the right class. 

He barely took notes. You were sitting next to him, thanks to assigned seating and no other reason. 

He was surprised when you even glanced his way during break. 

“No notes today?“ You quipped. 

He shrugged. “Uh, I don’t know.”

You watched him for a moment. “You okay?”

“Yeah, fine,” he mumbled, still thinking about whoever was wearing those blue panties. 

You bit your lip gently. “Do you want to borrow my notes later?”

It was the second unexpected thing to happen to him. You - his rival in almost every class who made no secret of how you couldn’t stand him. You were offering to share your precious notes. 

He glanced at you then. “What?” He asked softly in surprise. 

You sighed. “Do you want to borrow my notes?” You repeated yourself slowly, dragging out every syllable. 

He didn’t care - he just nodded. 

“Okay, but it’s only because you look like someone broke your brain or something,” you muttered with a small smile. 

He nodded because that was accurate. Someone had broken his brain. 

⋆⭒˚.⋆

And they seemed to enjoy it because it became like a morning ritual. Two photos. 

Until one Saturday morning it changed. 

There was just one photo. 

No panties for him to imagine. 

Just her naked pussy. And her fingers shoved inside herself. 

He replied almost immediately. 

[seungcheol]

that’s not fair

He watched the little dots on his screen. 

[unknown]

what’s unfair is that u never show me anything in return 

He scoffed. “What the fuck?” He muttered. It wasn’t that his dick wasn’t hard - it definitely was. 

[seungcheol]

ur asking to see my dick??

He waited again. 

[unknown]

yae cheol show me ur gorgeous cock i know it’s better irl than anything i can imagine

She sent another photo, her breasts, her pussy, everything, like she was waiting to be fucked. 

He bit his lip gently, reading the message over again and staring at the photo. 

[seungcheol]

fuck ur beautiful […]

how do you imagine it?

[unknown]

srsly

[seungcheol]

ya srsly […]

tell me

[unknown]

big and thick […]

perfect pink head that i want to lick and suck and tease 

He groaned as he slid his hand under the waistband of his underwear, pumping his cock roughly.

He was used to a few messages here and there, but not an actual conversation. 

[seungcheol]

i want you swallowing me

[unknown]

mhm i’d love you to fuck my mouth […]

nice and rough

He bit his lip, knowing he was on the edge. 

[seungcheol]

want to fuck your pussy too […]

cum inside you […]

fill you up

[unknown]

knew you were nasty […]

so fuckin perf

He was so close to coming. He shoved his underwear off and sat up to snap a photo of himself. Whoever it was, she wasn’t wrong about him. The only thing she missed was the way precum was dripping down his shaft. 

He hit ‘send’ and finished himself off. He took a photo of that too - his still hard cock standing stiff and his cum covered stomach. 

He sent it. 

[unknown]

fuck ur still hard […]

i want u inside me […]

want you fucking me full bby

He grinned as he used his tshirt to wipe his clean up his cum. 

[seungcheol]

i’d have to know who u are first

[unknown]

u do kno me tho

He chewed his lip lightly. 

[seungcheol]

yea but not really

[unknown]

you’ve seen my pussy 

He grinned. 

[seungcheol]

so i should go around looking for the pussy that matches the photos??

[unknown]

no. you should not 

He had never asked who it was. He kind of liked not knowing, or at least knowing it could be almost anyone. 

[unknown]

maybe we could meet

It had been going on for weeks. 

[seungcheol]

you really want to meet?

He waited for an answer, wondering if she was serious. 

[unknown]

maybe […]

see you later cheollie 

He closed his eyes, trying to imagine what that meant. 

⋆⭒˚.⋆

He met you later that day. For whatever reason you’d decided that working together was smarter than competing, so you’d been meeting for the last few weeks to share notes and practice exams. 

He sat in the normal spot where you met, north campus library, fifth floor, near the windows. 

You were a few minutes late, apologizing as you sat down. He smiled, wondering why you cared about being a few minutes late on a Saturday. 

“Good morning?” You asked as you opened your laptop. 

He nodded. “Yeah, you?”

You nodded, smiling. “Really good,” you murmured. 

He blushed slightly - there was something about the way you said it was a really good morning that made his dick twitch. It felt familiar somehow. 

You sighed softly, typing away. He yawned, waiting for you to tell him which exam you wanted to review. 

You glanced at him. “Cute.”

“I was up late.” He shrugged. 

“Oh yeah? What’s her name?”

He snorted. “Her name is beer pong.”

You glanced up, smirking. “So you’re good?”

He nodded. “Pretty good, yeah.”

You smiled. “Hmm, just pretty good or actually good?”

“Actually good.”

You nodded. “Would you maybe want to come to a party with me then?”

You continued to surprise him. Since when had you ever wanted to be seen anywhere with him. 

“Why?”

“Because there’s someone more annoying than you who I really want to beat,” you said with a smile. 

He rolled his eyes. 

You sighed and looked at him. “Okay, look, please, Seungcheol? I just need a partner for like a few rounds, and if we win, I’ll owe you,” you said, your voice was just the tiniest bit whiny. 

It was cute.

He chewed his lip lightly. “Owe me how?”

“One social favor of equal or lesser value,” you said sweetly. 

It was bizarre, but so was everything else. So he agreed.

⋆⭒˚.⋆

He had seen you out before, and he had maybe been stupid enough when he first met you to try to talk to you, thinking that being competitive over grades didn’t extend to social things. And you shot him down blindingly fast.

But tonight was different. 

You invited him over to pre-game before the party. He had stopped questioning anything you did by then.

After a few shots, of course, he followed you into your bedroom. And when you were straddling his lap, kissing him, your hands tangling in his hair, all he could think was that you were on the cusp of fucking.

Until you leaned back, grabbing his hands and guiding them to your thighs, pushing up your skirt. He swallowed hard when he saw.

No underwear. He looked up at you, biting his lip. “Fuck,” he whispered. 

You smiled, leaning close, lips brushing his cheek. “You wanted to meet, right?”

He squeezed your thighs gently. “You?”

“Mmmh, me,” you whispered.

He hummed. “And I thought you hated me.” He fell back on your bed. 

You traced your hands down his chest. “No, you’re just annoying - smart and so annoying.”

He grinned softly, his hands tracing high on your hip and down lower, his fingers skimming just above your pussy. “How’d you even get my number?”

You sighed softly. “You gave it to me first year.” Your hands covered his, pulling them up to your breasts.

He moaned. “Come here,” he whispered, pulling your hips towards him, wanting to eat you from below. He’d been thinking about your pussy all day, not even knowing it was yours, now he wanted to drown in you. 

He licked up into you, tasting you. 

You moaned. “Fuck, don’t stop,” you whined.

He grinned, adding his fingers, like he had any plans to stop what he was doing to you. 

He loved the sounds you made, all the soft whines and the way you whispered his name. Every word was needy and sweet.

And then you came - you leaned forward, bracing yourself against the wall, mewling his name. “Oh fuck, please - please don’t stop.” You were gasping. 

He grabbed your thighs harder, holding you in place, wanting to taste every drop. And when he let you go, he pushed you back onto the bed, pulling off his shirt and yours. He kissed and licked your tits, sucking them roughly, wanting to leave marks.

When he leaned up, he kissed you and felt the way your legs went around his waist. It was the most perfect feeling. 

He leaned up, looking at you, tracing his fingers along your cheek and jaw. “So perfect,” he whispered. 

You smiled. “You too.” He felt the way your hands traced along his pecs and down his stomach. 

He ducked back down, kissing you more, loving how sloppy and messy it was. 

And when you were both finally naked and his cock was buried in your pussy, he couldn’t help the way he snapped his hips. Or the rough contact his pelvis made with yours. You sounded so wet, he couldn’t help himself. The way you came was so good. So fucking good. 

And when he was finally spent, he felt like he melted against you, pulling you close. He needed to feel your skin against his, even while he slept. 

You were definitely his now.

⋆⭒˚.⋆

a/n: because cheol is always on my mind ^^

⋆˙⟡♡ 𝒌𝒂𝒕

♡ my [master list] if you want to read more

♡ if you want to be tagged in my posts, go [here]

𝐬𝐞𝐮𝐧𝐠𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐨𝐥

angst - [ a ] || fluff - [ f ] || smut - [ s ]

teasers: all but break your heart |୨୧| tonight tonight |୨୧| cold fire (cheol only - attorney au)

|୨୧| drabbles:

co-worker & spanking [ s ] |୨୧| gamer boy [ s ] |୨୧| professor one [ s ] | valentine's day [ f ] |୨୧| 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚙𝚎𝚗 𝚍𝚘𝚘𝚛 𝚘𝚗𝚎, 𝚏𝚎𝚊𝚝. 𝚌.𝚜𝚌 [ s ] #kat_drabbles

|୨୧| fluff:

profound, not sudden [ f ]

|୨୧| oneshots:

bisou bisou request #001 [ s ] ||

|୨୧| series:

obvious affection [ pt. 1 f ] [ pt. 2 f & s ]

𝒂𝒍𝒍 𝒖𝒑 𝒕𝒐 𝒚𝒐𝒖 [ pt. 1 s ] [ pt. 2 s ]

𝒑𝒓𝒐𝒇. 𝒄𝒉𝒐𝒊 [ pt. 1 s ] [ pt. 2 s ]

𝒘𝒂𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒎𝒐𝒓𝒆 [ master list ] [ pt. 1 s ] [ pt. 2 s ] [ pt. 3 f & s ] [ pt. 4 f ]

|୨୧| seungcheol bingo [ all s] :

knotting + marking |

professor (prof. choi, pt. 1) |

monster |

spanking (neighbor seungcheol) |

big dick + hate sex |

forced masturbastion (prof. choi, pt ii) |

voyeurism + punishment |

coffee shop au + forbidden relationship (never let you go pt. 1) |

bodyguard + drunk confession |

anon sex + hair pulling + mask wearing (all up to you part i) |

big dick!cheol + hate sex (choose your own adventure) |

sexual frustration + ex sex |

|୨୧| omegaverse (a/b/o):

alpha seungcheol [pt. 1] [pt. 2] ||

never let you go [master list] [part 1 f & s] [part 2 f ] ||

[ taglist ]

☁︎ @syluslittlecrows [e] ☁︎ @gyuguys [e] ☁︎ @tinyelfperson [e] ☁︎ @unlikelysublimekryptonite [e] ☁︎ @livelaughloveseventeen [e] ☁︎ @codeinebelle [e] ☁︎ @ateez-atiny380 [e] ☁︎ @mingcouper [e] ☁︎ @hanniebub [e] ☁︎ @perfectiondazesworld [e] ☁︎ @scoupshawty [e] ☁︎ @peachytokki [e] ☁︎ @coupsbestleader [e] ☁︎ @fleurloovin [e] ☁︎ @babybae-shisui [e] ☁︎ @asyre [e] ☁︎ @dcrlingyou [e] ☁︎ @yeosayang [e] ☁︎ @nanabananananabatman ☁︎

☁︎ @haik-chu [e - one/multi] ☁︎ @gigglensnort [e - one/multi/priv] ☁︎ @thepoopdokyeomtouched [e - multi/priv] ☁︎ @tokitosun [ e - one/multi ] ☁︎ @stupendouschildnerd [ e - drabbles/one/multi/master list ] ☁︎

☁︎ @living0livia [c.sc - e ] ☁︎

[sooniebby]

ఌ 𝐌𝐀𝐊𝐍𝐀𝐄

w.c › 6k

warnings › face claims. Part 3. Bottom male reader. Brief use of the word “pussy”

plot › you start to date Mingi, learning how much he has wanted you for years while reevaluating your relationship with Yohan

kinks › feminization, friction play, size differences, Noona kink, calls reader “girl”, praise kink

Words to know › maknae (막내) — youngest. Hyung (형) — a term a younger male will call an older male. Jagiya/Jagi (자기야) — “sweetie/baby.” Noona (누나) — a term a younger male will call an older female.

ೄྀ࿐ ˊˎ-

Four years ago

“I heard you.”

Yohan glanced over at you, staring at your back. It was the day of the group’s first performance. The other members were to the other side of the dressing room, doing vocal exercises. You were fixing your tie. Everyone was dressed in school uniforms.

“Heard what?” Yohan asked, tilting his head. He never talked to you unless necessary. While every other member seemed to just fall at your feet—he wanted nothing to do with you.

It took a minute before you turned and looked at him. His eyes widen at the sight. You were on the verge of tears but somehow you were able to glare at him.

You walked over to him, “I heard you say that I must’ve slept with the CEO to get my position in the group.” Your voice was quiet. “I heard you say that Minnie probably hates me because I ‘replaced’ him.”

“Minnie?” Yohan whispered, raising an eyebrow.

“Let me tell you something, Park Yohan.” You leaned over, your breath brushing against his ear. “You don’t have to like me but I won’t take disrespect and I won’t let you tear this group down because you’re upset I’m a better leader than you.

“Besides, a real leader wouldn’t let his feelings get in the way of the group’s performance.” With that, you pulled away, not even sparing him another glance. You moved to where Gaeul was standing and motioned for her to help you fix your tie.

Yohan just stood there, staring at you in shock.

What the fuck?

He couldn’t even think about anything else—mainly on just what else could you have possibly heard.

But he didn’t get to think for long when it was Miracle’s time to perform. The group got on stage and Yohan felt weirdly uncomfortable. Almost all of the members looked at you for guidance—they didn’t even spare him a glance.

As each member got into position, Yohan glanced over at you. Your eyes were soft and resembled a doe. He took note that you didn’t even pay any attention to the people in the crowd but the members, giving each of them a wide smile.

You glanced at him and immediately your softness was gone. You simply nodded at him and fixed your head mic, making sure it was straight.

The metronome in the earpiece ticked before the song burst into the quiet scene. Everything was going well for the most part. While the crowd wasn’t too excited as it was the debut stage—a few people were getting interested.

Every members mic was on but you were certainly the highlight, managing to sing non stop, even singing your ad-libs.

As Yohan moved about stage, he heard the sound of fabric tearing. He didn’t even need to touch his legs to know his pants had ripped. Fucking cheap stakes! The pants were already tight on him, of course they ripped.

He continued dancing while subtly checking where the damage was done. His inner thigh… which was fine until he could tell it spread to the area of his crotch.

For fuck sakes. Yohan debated running off stage so he didn’t flash the audience as he got in a still position during your final chorus. As he mentally cursed himself while thinking of ways to subtly run back stage, you began tugging off your blazer.

You did it subtly enough that it looked as if it was apart of the performance. You didn’t even skip a second as you wrapped your blazer around Yohan’s waist, covering the growing split.

Yohan felt himself stiffen as you rest your head on his shoulder, finishing your line before Kihyun took over for the high note. This part of the song had all of the members frozen beside Kihyun.

Yohan tried to calm himself down as you stayed pressed against him, sacrificing your original position of standing beside him. He didn’t even know how you noticed his pants ripped. Everyone was so focused on completing the performance without a problem.

The rest of the song went fine, ending with each member’s picked out ending fairy. Yohan couldn’t even care too much, way too happy about not flashing anyone. He’d have to complain to the stylist today.

As the crowd clapped, the members released their pose and began to bow, thanking the audience. Yohan was about to say something when the sound of a whimper caught his attention.

He looked to his right to see you bawling…?

You took off your microphone as you covered your mouth to muffle your cries. Hyojin was almost immediately by your side, rubbing your back in comforting circles.

It didn’t take long for Doha to join, patting your head. Kihyun took a moment before coming over. Mingi looked nervous as he covered your body from the crowd’s face, almost like a way of giving you modesty.

Yohan just stared….

His group were comforting you as if they knew you for years now.

What the fuck?

After the group helped you walk off stage and everyone got changed into their regular clothing, Yohan was ready to just go home. He just hated that would still have to see you.

Everyone lived in a shared apartment, two boys in one room each. They had only moved in a few days ago and he was unlucky enough to room with you.

When they reached the apartments, Yohan was confused to see Kihyun taking some boxes away from his room. He walked in to see you on your side of the room, rubbing at your face. You glanced up when you heard him and frowned.

“Park Yohan-Ssi.” You said, he didn’t know how to feel with how respectful you were speaking to him—as if he was a coworker. “I’m switching rooms with Dodo—Doha. It… makes sense.”

“Makes sense?” Yohan asked, tilting his head. “What do you mean?”

You almost looked nervous before shaking your head. “A..anyway, I wanted to apologize… it was rude of me to say such things to you today right before a performance. I made you perform terribly.”

Yohan could only stare at you.

This…

How can someone be this….

He didn’t understand.

“I’ll go now…” you whispered, leaving the room quickly. Yohan didn’t even flinch.

Even if you had just apologized…

You weren’t wrong.

He was fucking up the group’s dynamic.

And it was all because he fucking hated you.

ཆི❤︎ཆྀ

After the 24 hrs performance, you had gained a wider audience than before. Gaeul had mentioned that there was a growth in female fans for you and she was certainly right. It was nice to see some fans that weren’t just thirsting over you but this somehow pushed you into more of the NSFW sphere of Miras.

You had went back to visit Hanniesmira only to see that she had started talking about you more. She had recently reposted another post of you.

The most repost was of a short clip of you at the amusement park. You were showing off the makeup the lady had done.

→ I wasn’t familiar with your game, bottom (Name) enthusiasts…

This account was of what looked to be a Kihyun biased Mira. You didn’t know to feel about there being ‘bottom enthusiasts’ but it was nice to see people appreciating your looks. Lots of comments even just innocently saying that you look great feminine.

You scrolled through some other posts when you came across a video from your debut. It was of the group at a variety show and you were standing together as the host was talking about something.

→ ??? I’ve never seen (Name) act like this before??

You didn’t understand what the Mira could’ve meant when you clicked on the video. It started off small as nothing out of the ordinary happened, just you fixing your position to stand straight. But then the clip replayed, with it zoomed in to your shoulder as you stood beside Yohan. The footage was slowed to show how when Yohan brushed up against you, you practically froze and immediately moved away.

@hanniesmira

↳ you didn’t know? Are you a new Mira?

@dohasflatass

↳ man, it was a whole thing! Yhn and (Name) didn’t interact with each other at all for the first six months

@hanniesmira

↳ six months? Naaaah, they didn’t get close until the group’s second year ㅋㅋㅋ

@hyoojinie

↳ dark times… now Yhn can’t leave (Name) alone ㅎㅎ I wonder why they hated each other so much

Before you could read anymore, Mingi came into your room. You shut off your phone and placed it down. You’d knew that it wasn’t exactly a secret for the fan base that you and Yohan weren’t chummy until the group’s second year.

You had honestly believed you’d never get close to him at all. But after your family emergency back then—Yohan practically changed.

Deep down, you constantly wondered if he would’ve still hated you if you didn’t go through that whole accident. You were deep in thought as you stood up and got into the motion to get ready for a shower.

Mingi being in the room didn’t even register until he suddenly spoke.

“Why can’t I tell anyone?”

You frowned, glancing over at Mingi who was now lying down on your bed. He was watching you get undressed. Even though you always tell him to look away—he doesn’t exactly listen to you anymore.

It had literally only been two days and Mingi acts as if he is your husband.

“It’s not smart. Hannie obviously can’t hear about it right now and it’s not fair to tell everyone but him.” You said, tugging off your boxers. “Just wait until after our album promotion… we’ll get a six month break so hopefully that’ll be a great time for Hannie to handle the news—if he really does like me.”

Mingi sighed. “You’re so naive, Hyung… you’d think you’re the youngest.”

You glared at him. “Just because I’m your boyfriend doesn’t mean you can speak so lax with me.”

“Why not?” Mingi smirked, his eyes glancing down at your bare lower half as you tugged off your shirt. “You’re lucky I haven’t showed you just how little honorifics mean to me. I’d like it if you’d call me Hyung in bed.”

“Mingi!” You whispered, eyes widen as you stared at him in shock. He was kinkier in ways you didn’t think was possible. But then again, you were a virgin… maybe this wasn’t that strange to be average adult.

“Can I take a shower with you?”

“Absolutely not.” You stormed off to the bathroom.

After showering, you came back to see Mingi was still on your bed. He turned his phone off immediately and gave you a grin. You only rolled your eyes, pulling out some pajamas.

You draped the towel on your shoulders as you pulled up your boxers. “Ah, I wanted to tell you something.”

“What?”

“I found a fan account of mines… Itsokokok. It’s so nice to see that I do have a fan account.” You said, glancing over at Mingi. He looked weirdly happy, a wide grin on his lips.

“Really? Of course you’d have a fan account.”

You smiled. “I guess. But, I think I know who runs the account.”

Mingi immediately sat up. “Wha—Ho—Who??”

You turned to fully face him, “Well I always knew the owner was a guy but it was weird how he talks about me. It’s like he knows me so well… but he hardly even responds to comments.” You smiled, walking over to Mingi.

He stared up at you, his eyes wide. You didn’t understand why he looked a bit nervous as you leaned down and kissed his nose.

“Who do you… think it is?” He asked.

“Kim Pilseung.”

Mingi blinked before raising an eyebrow, “who?”

“Kim Pilseung! The guy I signed the album for, I even gave him my number—”

“—excuse me?” Mingi stood up at that confession but you carried on, slipping on your shirt.

“But he hasn’t called me yet. Maybe he’s just shy.” You slipped on your shirt. “But it makes sense! He’s been around for a while—he’d know where to find pre debut videos of my past performances.”

“I’m still confused on why you gave a stranger your phone number.”

“I have two phones.” You said. “A work phone and a personal phone. I just gave him my work phone number.”

Mingi frowned. “What phone number do I have?”

“Work phone. Only my relatives have my personal phone number, I hardly use it because I don’t want a sasaeng to get the number.” You walked over to your night stand and opened the drawer, pulling out a phone that looked considerably older. “My personal! I’ve had it since I was in high school.”

You tossed it back inside, “it’s not like I use it often. It’s quite old, I need to buy a new one.”

Mingi only shook his head. “Anyway, I just want to know who the fuck Kim Pilseung even is. What the hell was he talking about when he mentioned a performance you did with someone else.”

“Don’t speak to me like that.” You said, sending him a swift glare. Mingi quickly straightened his posture as he apologized. “Good. Ah but Seungie was talking about the duo I was apart of. It was me and an old classmate of mines.”

“Seungie?” Mingi asked. “Wait, you were in a duo with a classmate?”

“Yea, cute right?” You giggled. “Mhm. My classmate and I performed together until he debuted in his company. We couldn’t perform together anymore after that. I almost gave up when that happened.”

You grabbed your (work) phone and pulled up your mother’s Instagram. It took a minute as you scrolled through the numerous photos she posted about you until you got to the first ever video she took.

It was another angle of the A.D.T.O.Y. Performance you did back in high school. This angle showed that you weren’t alone on stage but there was another boy beside you.

The caption was a bit crazy, but your mother was just an eccentric woman.

→ my baby performing!!! The voice of an angel, got it from me of course ㅋㅋㅋㅋ edit: Stop messaging me that song is inappropriate, he’s fully clothed!!! And yes, I know His friend is there too… I guess he sounds good too

“His name is Hong Garam.”

“He shares the same last name as you?”

You giggled, “yeah! That’s how we first started talking. Cute right?”

“We find different things cute.” Mingi rolled his eyes. “I’ve never heard of him, I guess he didn’t make it in the business.”

“You’re so childish. He has a stage name. He even—”

“Okay, okay, I care more about this Kim Pilseung. You think he’s the owner of your fan account, why do you care?”

“I want to thank him… is that weird?”

“No… I guess not, but honestly—you don’t need to.”

You frowned, “why not?”

Mingi sighed as he rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I don’t want to talk about another man right now, I was planning on having fun tonight.”

“Fun?”

“Never mind. I wanna sleep, lay down.” He didn’t even wait for you to respond as he pulled you to lay down on the bed. You didn’t even fight it, allowing him to manhandle you into his arms as he cuddled you.

“Minnie… I need to turn off the lights.”

“No.”

As he easily fell asleep, you couldn’t help but think back to the day everything changed between you and Yohan.

Two years ago

You were standing by the bridge, glancing up the moon. It was cool, the April weather finally starting warm up as May was approaching. You had to miss the group’s trip to the amusement park due to a family emergency and you were trying hard to not think about it.

It was silly. It was just an amusement park anyway…

Your gaze was on the water beneath the bride as you stood up on your tippy toes to get a better look.

It was almost calming when you were suddenly tackled to the ground. A loud scream left your throat as you immediately tried to fight against your assailant when you came face to face with… Yohan?

You stared up at him with wide eyes before a frown pulled on your lips. “Yohan-Ssi, what are—?”

“—are you crazy?!”

You blinked. “Crazy?”

Yohan glared down at you as he gripped your wrists. “Were you seriously about to jump? I know everything seems terrible right now but you can’t.. you can’t just leave the others… they’d be crushed.”

“But I wasn’t—”

“—even I’d… I don’t know what I’d do if you were gone.” His voice had gone soft, his grip loosening. “They can’t.. no, we can’t go on without you. I know I’m such a dick and nothing I say can change that but please… let me make it up to you, no matter how many years it takes. Don’t leave us, Hong (Name)… we can be your new family—especially after losing—”

“—Park Yohan, my family didn’t die.” You said, interrupting him.

“Huh?” Yohan opened his eyes, they were surprisingly wet with tears. “But the nurse said they died at the scene…?”

“The car accident wasn’t anything serious.” You shook your head. “I had to come for my mom so they can patch a cut she has on her forehead. Only the car got damaged.” You frowned. “The nurse must’ve gotten me mixed up with someone else.”

“So… your mom and brother didn’t die in a car crush?”

“No. I don’t even have a brother.” You stared at him up, tilting your head. “Besides… there’s a net attached to the bridge, it’d catch me if I really did want to jump.”

Yohan simply blinked. “So… so I…”

“You cared enough to run after me?” You whispered, a slight grin on your lips. “Y’know, this wouldn’t have happened if you visited when the other members came.”

“Oh.”

“Oh.” You laughed. “So, is that it? Will you start ignoring me now?”

Yohan got off of you, staring down at you. He glanced over the bridge—possibly checking to see if you weren’t lying before shaking his head.

“No. I guess I just needed a push to be honest. I meant every word.”

It was your turn to stare at him in shock. Your lips parted as you tried to speak but only a gasp left you.

It was from that moment, that Park Yohan had realized how bad he—no, the group—needed you.

ཆི❤︎ཆྀ

Kim Pilseung still hadn’t called you—you were beginning to think maybe he didn’t want to. But then again, he was shy when speaking to you. Perhaps he was just nervous.

You were in the dance studio with the other members after a long day of practicing. Mingi and Yohan looked to be acting normal so you were semi happy. Though there would be instances of Mingi would purposely touch your waist in ways he’d never done before.

Luckily Yohan didn’t seem to be taking the bait, yet…

“You keep staring at your phone,” Kihyun suddenly said, wiping at the sweat on his neck. “Waiting for someone? Maybe that guy you visited all the time?”

Mingi immediately sat up from the floor, staring straight at you. “What guy? When was this?”

“When Hyung, Hyojin and I shared an apartment together,” Kihyun said, unknowing to the inner turmoil he was sending Mingi into. “Hyung would leave at 10:00 pm sharp and come back with this guy. The guy was always overly dressed—hat and face mask. He wouldn’t even speak, just dropped off a sleepy Hyung before leaving like the flash.”

Hyojin hummed. “I thought he was drugging Hyung but it seems Hyung just has a natural clock.”

You frowned, “that’s a bit embarrassing.” By natural clock, it simply meant your body automatically shut down by midnight. No matter how hard you tried—you would practically drop like a rock into slumber. You only managed to stay up to 12:30 am, once. Back in middle school no less.

“Who was he anyway? You stopped meeting with him right before we moved into double apartments?” Kihyun asked.

“Ah. Hong Garam.” Only Mingi seemed bothered by this while the other members only stared at you in confusion.

“Who the fuck is that?” Doha asked.

“Hyung’s old classmate,” Mingi answered, his face tense as his jaw tightened. Shit, you’d have explaining to do later.

“He’s also Hong Hwan.”

That seemed to cause Hyojin to sit up. “Hong Hwan?!”

Even Kihyun seemed shocked. “Hong Hwan?! I’ve met Hong Hwan and I didn’t even know!” He cursed to himself, shaking his head.

Mingi groaned, “who is that?!”

“Hong Hwan,” Doha answered. “A popular actor. Well he used to be an idol but he’s basically more of an actor nowadays. His group disbanded but he has solo songs.”

“Do you guys still talk?” Mingi asked. “You haven’t been leaving the dorm.”

You nodded. “He’s busy with promotions for his latest drama. I can let you guys meet him when he’s free.”

“I’d love that, Hyung!” Kihyun immediately said, a grin on his lips.

The other members chimed in agreement while Mingi only huffed, shaking his head. You sighed. After a few minutes of brief conversation, Gaeul walked into the studio with a grin on her face.

“Hey, Hey~! So tomorrow you guys will record content but it’ll be different from normal!” She said, giggling in excitement. “It’ll be a roleplay—like a family type thing. There’ll be two parents, three kids and the other is one of the character’s boyfriend.”

“Like a drama?” Doha asked.

“Yes yes. The whole plot is that the parents and younger brothers don’t approve of their eldest daughter’s boyfriend because he looks like a gang member.”

“Daughter? So one of us has to play a girl?” You asked.

“Technically two girls, as there’s a mom. Anyway, we allowed Miras to pick all of your roles! We did a poll on Twitter. So first, the boyfriend will be played by Mingi!”

Mingi perked up at that, “really?”

“Yeah, yeah. Ah, the younger brothers will be played by Yohan and Doha. You can pretend to be any age you want.” She scrolled on her phone as she hummed slightly. “And now for the daughter, Hyojin will be the daughter—is that okay, Hyojin-Ah?”

Hyojin hummed. “I’m fine with it.”

“Great. That leaves (Name) and Kihyun.”

You kinda mentally prepared to be the dad—it was obvious. Miras constantly called you Miracle’s dad! But you never thought they’d vote Kihyun as the mom—he wasn’t the type. Honestly you were shocked Doha wasn’t the boyfriend as his whole assigned persona was a bad boy.

Maybe Miras wanted a little change as well.

“Kihyun was voted as the dad and (Name) as the mom! The van will pick you guys up at noon tomorrow, be ready! I’ll see you guys later.” With that, she left.

You blinked. That was a surprise.

But a welcomed one at that.

The group all went home after that. You expected Mingi to immediately start questioning you about Hwan but he seemed to have forgotten all about it. He only sprawled out on the couch and began watching a random Thai drama. You gave him a quick kiss good night before leaving to your bedroom.

You pulled out your phone and began checking Twitter again, wanting to see the polls. It wasn’t anything too crazy—no one seemed mad at the results. In fact a lot of Miras were excited to see Mingi as a ‘bad boy.’

A few giddy to see Hyojin as a girl.

As you scrolled you came across an older video—it looked to be from the group’s second year. The groups first ever festival performance. You remembered it was for a college festival.

The video looked to be off the ending. Each member was walking to their ending position. The song playing was ‘Sweet Dreams’ so each member got down to the ground and laid their head on the other’s shoulder, pretending to fall asleep.

After the final verse, each member began to ‘wake up’ as they waved at the fans. But when it reached Kihyun, second to last, he didn’t get to get up because your head was still resting on his shoulder. He reached over to tap your shoulder only to find out you were fast asleep.

He immediately began laughing and comfortingly patted your head as the other members turned around to see what was wrong.

You vaguely remembered why you had fallen asleep—it was midnight by the time the performance was over. It was a miracle you even managed to finish the performance when you remembered being sleepy the entire time.

A dip in your bed caught your attention as Mingi appeared beside you. He looked tired as he laid down, patting the spot beside him. You only rolled your eyes but laid down, immediately cuddling up in his arms.

ཆི❤︎ཆྀ

“I think I make a pretty girl.”

You glanced over to see Hyojin already fully dressed in his girl costume. Because his hair was already a bit long, the hair stylist only added extensions to make them reach his shoulders. His outfit wasn’t too feminine by all means. A pink t-shirt and shorts.

He had on light makeup—one a teen girl would normally wear. You gave him grin.

“Cute~ My daughter is cute.” You teased, giggling as Hyojin rolled his eyes. The others were already done for the most part, waiting out in the living room. Filming was taking place in a random house the company rented out.

You were almost finished—the hairstylist simply fixing your wig. Dressed in a more feminine outfit—you wore a fluffy white sweater with a black pants that disguised itself as a flowing skirt.

The wig the hairstylist was putting on you was black that reached your back. It looked cheap but with the curls the stylist put it made it have more volume. Your makeup was minimal and hardly noticeable.

Hyojin hummed, joining you by the makeup stand. “You look like you could be someone’s mom.” He said, laughing when you glared at him through the mirror.

The both of you join the others where a staff member is clipping their mics to their clothing. Yohan was dressed in a soccer uniform while Doha still had on a school uniform with fake glasses.

Kihyun was dressed exactly like a dad. Rectangular glasses sat on the bridge of his nose while his hair was swiped back with gel. He’s dressed in a polo shirt and black slacks.

But they didn’t matter too much to you—your members always looked good. No, who caught your eye was, of course, Choi Mingi.

His blonde hair was shaggy and purposefully messy, a bit of dark eyeliner that sharpened his fox like eyes. He wore a black leather jacket over a white t-shirt and black ripped jeans. He was fixing his clip on mic when he gazed over at you.

You watched as his eyes slowly widen with recognition as he took you in. You felt your cheeks burn as you wanted to look away but kept staring back at him. Did he think you looked good? Hopefully you looked good.

Filming started shortly after Gaeul reminded every one of the plot—you were all free to improvise basically everything. You sat down on the couch near Kihyun, leaning against his shoulder. His arm slid underneath your back as his hand let itself rest at the slight curve of your waist.

Even if you didn’t view Kihyun romantically, you couldn’t help but blush a little.

The little roleplay went fine for the most part, you acted like the ‘mediating mother’ who didn’t necessarily hate the boyfriend while the father and brothers hated him.

It was fun for the most part. Though throughout the roleplay, you could notice a strange tension rising between Yohan and Mingi. You began to watch them nervously as they faked argued. It was started to feel a bit too real with the words they were using.

“And how can you even be good for her—?” Yohan started.

“—Hey, Hey, you act like I’m ten!” Hyojin interrupted.

“Yeah, you’re so controlling,” Mingi chuckled. “What makes you the one who gets to choose for her?”

“Because—!”

“—this so annoying, she’s not worth this hassle. what if I take your mom instead will you still be this angry? She’s hotter anyway.”

Everyone blinked as they stared at Mingi. It took a second before Kihyun realized he should act as he immediately stood up and began spouting some nonsense while you could only stare. You felt hot as you couldn’t even come up with a line but only bury your face in your sweater.

You’d kill him later.

Shooting ended not even twenty minutes later. None of the staff seemed to be mentioning the whole ‘she’s hotter’ sentence. You wondered if they would just edit that out as you handed over the mic to a staff member. Each member looked ready to go home and eat—you included.

You need to take your wig off however so you began walking to the hairstylist when a hand grabbed your sweater and tugged you away. You didn’t even get a chance to scream before you were slammed into a storage closet.

It didn’t take a genius to know who had dragged you here.

“Mingi—can you be a bit gentler next time?” You whispered, sighing softly.

“Sorry, sorry.” Mingi gave you a cheeky grin before slowly guiding you rest your back against the wall. “But you look too good right now… I want to kiss you.”

You blushed slightly. “You look good too.” You shyly whispered, glancing up at him. Your hands slowly reached up and rest on his shoulders, gripping at his jacket before pulling him further down. Mingi didn’t need to be told twice as he eagerly kissed you, his hands grasping your waist.

The kiss was intense, Mingi kissing you like he wanted to eat you. His fingers dug into the waistband of your pants before managing to tug them down. They pooled around your feet as your eyes widen in shock. You pulled away from the kiss and stared up at him in shock.

“In.. in here?!” You whisper-yelled.

Mingi hummed, undeterred as he began pressing light kisses on your neck. “Just this once. I won’t ask for something like this again. Please, Noona?”

Your body shivered at the title, a strangled gasp leaving your throat as he teased the tip of your cock. Wait when did he pull down your underwear? Any part of you that didn’t want to do this was pushed down at the immediate pleasure of him teasing your cock.

No way you can wait until you get home now.

“Okay… just this once.” You whispered.

Mingi immediately began unbuckling his jeans with speed you thought was impossible. He still kissed and nipped at your neck—still careful to not leave any marks. You bit your bottom lip to muffle any moans as he gripped your thighs, lifting you up.

You wrapped your arms around his neck, nervous for how this would work. Wasn’t he supposed to prep you? But he was quite big, how long was he supposed to prep you for?

As you tried to calm yourself down, you felt his cock rub against yours. He had pulled up your sweater to show off your stomach. You shuddered and glanced down to see him line his cock right on top of yours.

“What’s this..?” You whispered, gasping as he began to slowly rub against you. “I thought you… were gonna put it in.”

“In here?” He asked, an incredulous expression on his face. “No way, not for your first time. We can get off like this. Just let me lead, Noona.” You blushed again as you meekly nodded.

His hands slid up to your waist as he pressed his body fully against yours. Your cock was now firmly against his—unable to slip away. Mingi pressed a soft kiss on your collarbone before pulling away just a bit to see your face.

“I’ll make it quick… so they don’t get suspicious.” He said, though you could tell that he would’ve dragged this out if there wasn’t the threat of getting caught. “Don’t make a sound, I don’t want anyone hearing you.”

It was slow at first. His hips bucked forward as your toes curled, his thicker cock dwarfed yours as they rubbed together. It burned a bit as there was no lube to make the friction smoother. Mingi seemed to notice this as he spit into his hand and rubbed it against both cocks. You tried not to be grossed out.

Sex was messy anyway.

He started out slow before speeding up. You almost wished he actually fucked you. This must’ve been how he usually fucks anyway. The tight grip on your waist as he slammed forward, your body shaking from the force.

The pre-cum leaking from your cock began to coat both cocks, allowing for an easier friction. Your voice was beginning to get louder as you buried your face into his neck, clawing at the jacket for some type of purchase.

“I bet you’re tight… so tight, Noona. Next time, I wanna fuck your pussy, can I? Can I, Noona?” He whispered, into your ear, chuckling when you only answered with a high pitched moan. “Do you like that? Calling your hole a pussy?”

His hips suddenly stilled as you cried in disappointment. “C’mon, Noona. I’m doing all the work… you can answer my question. Do you like it?”

You whined before nodding your head.

“Ah, ah, use your words. You’re an adult.”

“So mean…”

“What was that, Noona? You want me to stop?”

“No, no! I…” you whined, your cock aching for release. “I like it.. please I wanna cum.”

“See~” he cooed, “that wasn’t too hard. You’re such a good girl, Noona.”

His nails dig into your skin as he slammed his hips up, your cocks rubbing together once more. Your moans immediately leave you as you feel yourself reach your peak. You cum not soon after, Mingi’s name leaving your lips in a pathetic whimper.

Mingi follows right after, biting down on your bare shoulder. Luckily the cum didn’t reach the sweater. It coated both of your stomachs as he loosened his grip on you. You both breathed heavily as he glanced over at you.

“You really are hotter.” He said, a slight smirk on his lips.

ཆི❤︎ཆྀ

After that whole storage closet incident, you and Mingi have finally felt a bit more comfortable sex wise. In short, you guys were humping each other practically every night. Which led tonight: you were sitting on his lap, wearing only your boxers with a t-shirt.

You had been watching him gaming when he suddenly asked for a reward for beating his high score. You refused at first since you had wanted to go to bed an hour ago but he had begged you to watch him play.

It only took one puppy dog pout before you conceded and allowed him to choose a reward.

Of course the reward was you grinding on top of him. Your ass was directly over his dick. You could tell he wasn’t wearing any boxers underneath his sweatpants. It began to harden beneath your ass as you slowly grind on top of him.

“You’re so sexy, Hyung. I’m not sure if I can take this anymore,” Mingi groaned, reaching over to grasp your waist. You shivered.

“You.. don’t have to… I’m ready.”

Mingi blinked. “Really..? I can..?”

Your hips stopped as you blushed slightly, nodding your head. “Yeah… humping each other is fun but I wanna feel you.. i..inside me.” You thought you’d die of embarrassment.

But that almost seemed to send Mingi over the edge as he immediately flipped your positions to where you were laying on the couch. You stared up at him shock as he pulled down your boxers, your cock flopping free.

You couldn’t help but feel excited at how eager he was. You shyly opened your legs wider so Mingi could have easy access. Just as he was about to kiss your stomach, your phone began ringing.

You immediately shot up, ignoring Mingi’s whines as you reached for your phone. People hardly called you so you always immediately checked. It took a second for the name to fully register but when it did, a grin pulled on your lips.

홍가람

Hong Garam.

Three years ago

Mingi was a bit camera shy when it came to variety shows. He hardly looked into the camera as he just let the other members talk until he was called upon. Because of that, his gaze was focused on the members—mainly you, really.

So he noticed how you practically froze up when Yohan accidentally brushed against you. He’d never seen you react like that before. If he wasn’t on camera he would’ve said something but he decided to do something less disruptive.

Because everyone was standing in a huddle than a line, it was easy for him to slip between Kihyun and Doha to get to you. He stopped though—wanting to make it seem like he was just shifting around. After a minute or so, he moved again, gently pushing you further to the right so he could fit between you and Yohan.

Yohan didn’t seem to notice at all while you glanced over at Mingi, a confused look on your face. But Mingi didn’t look at you, knowing that if he did he would’ve fold immediately. He just stared at the host—pretending he was paying attention the entire time.

If he did glance over at you, he would’ve noticed the slight blush on your cheeks as you smiled to yourself.

The whole idea for a family drama thing was definitely from SKZ lmao. Leading heavily into feminization but Mingi has multiple kinks, just wait and see

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