#˚ ✦ . . ˚ . . ✦ ˚ . ★⋆. . ˚ * ✦ . . ✦ ˚ ˚ .˚ . .

[gojosconsort]

breaking nanami's restraint

𓂃୨ৎ as a young barista, you tease nanami kento’s calm with shameless flirting because it’s just so fun until one night, he breaks.

𓂃୨ৎ pairing. afab!reader x older!office-worker!nanami

𓂃୨ৎ warnings. mdni. age gap (reader in early 20s, nanami in mid-40s), oral (both receiving), unprotected sex, cum play, dirty talk, begging, overstimulation, workplace setting, degradation (use of terms like "slut")

the café’s bell jingles, and your head snaps up. it’s him—nanami kento, the man who’s been driving you wild for weeks. mid-forties, tailored suit hugging his broad shoulders, blonde hair neat but just tousled enough to make your fingers itch.

he’s so hot, the kind of guy who could silence a room without trying. you’re barely out of college, working this downtown coffee shop to pay rent, and every time he steps in, you feel like you’re burning up.

“afternoon,” he says, voice deep and clipped, like he’s rationing words. he orders the same thing every time: black coffee, no sugar, croissant he picks at. it’s not about the food—you can tell by the way he watches you instead of the plate.

“hey, fancy seeing you,” you say, popping your hip against the counter, letting your skirt ride up just a bit. you’re not shy about it—leaning forward, cleavage peeking out of your low-cut top, giving him a smile that’s more heat than hospitality. his eyes flick down, just for a second, before locking onto yours. it’s quick, but you catch it, and it fuels you.

“usual?” you ask, already knowing the answer. you turn to the espresso machine, swaying your hips more than necessary, feeling his gaze like a weight on your skin. the café’s dead today, just the buzz of the fridge and some soft jazz you picked to set the mood. every move you make is for him—stretching to grab a cup, letting your shirt lift to show a little skin.

he nods, settling at his window table, tie knotted tight. he’s reserved, always is, but you’ve seen the cracks—those brief glances, the way his jaw ticks when you get too close. you want to shatter that composure, make him react, make him want you the way you’re dying for him.

you bring his order over, bending a little too far as you set it down, your hair brushing his hand. “so, you ever gonna mix it up, or is boring your thing?” you tease.

he glances up, expression unreadable. “i like what i like,” he says, flat but deliberate, and you swear there’s a spark in his eyes. it’s enough to keep you hooked.

“bet i could change your mind,” you say, winking, and saunter back to the counter, feeling his stare follow you. you’re shameless—flipping your hair, licking your lips when you catch him looking, dropping a spoon just to bend over and pick it up slow.

he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t blush, just sips his coffee like you’re not putting on a show. but he’s here, isn’t he? every other day, same time, same table. he likes it, even if he won’t admit it.

days went by, and you crank it up. one afternoon, it’s raining hard, and he’s the only one in the shop. you’re wiping tables near him, skirt short enough to make you blush if you cared. “you never tell me anything,” you pout, leaning close enough that your arm brushes his. “what’s a guy like you do all day? save the world? break hearts?”

“work,” he says, not looking up from his paper. “spreadsheets. meetings. nothing you’d care about.”

“oh, i care,” you say, voice low, resting your hand on the table, fingers grazing his. he doesn’t pull away, but his grip on the paper tightens. “you look like you could do anything and make it sexy.”

his eyes meet yours, steady and piercing. “you’re bold,” he says, and it’s not a compliment or an insult—just a fact. but the way his voice dips makes your thighs clench.

“you keep coming back, so it’s working,” you shoot back, grinning. you let your hand linger a second longer before pulling away, swaying back to the counter. you’re buzzing, heart racing, but he just goes back to his paper like nothing happened.

it’s maddening, and you love it.

the touches start small, always you initiating. you hand him his coffee, letting your fingers slide over his, slow and deliberate. he doesn’t react, but he doesn’t pull away either. another day, you’re passing him a napkin, and your wrist brushes his, skin on skin for a heartbeat. his eyes flick to yours, dark and unreadable, and you smile like you’ve won something.

one busy afternoon, the café’s packed, and you’re weaving through the crowd. he’s at his table, and you “accidentally” bump into him, your hip grazing his shoulder. “oops,” you say, turning to give him a coy look. his jaw clenches, just for a second, and you feel a rush knowing you got under his skin.

you keep pushing. wiping down his table, you lean over just enough to let him see down your shirt, pretending you don’t notice. you drop a pen near his chair and take your time picking it up, skirt riding up. every time, he’s stone—calm, controlled, sipping his damn coffee. but he’s here, and that’s your victory. he could go anywhere, but he picks your café, your teasing, your shameless flirting.

one night, you’re closing up, and he’s the last one left. you’re bold tonight, high on the thrill of the game. you lock the door, flip the sign to “closed,” and saunter over, leaning against his table, skirt barely covering your thighs. “you’re gonna miss your train,” you say.

he looks up, folding his paper with agonizing slowness. “i’ll manage.”

you tilt your head, letting your hair fall over one shoulder. “you know, i’m starting to think you like me making a fool of myself for you.”

he stands, towering over you, and for the first time, he steps close—close enough you can smell his cologne, feel the heat off him. his hand brushes your arm as he reaches for his coat, the touch so light you almost miss it, but it sends a jolt through you. “you’re not a fool,” he says, voice low, almost rough. “but you’re playing a dangerous game.”

your breath catches, but you don’t back down. “good thing i like danger,” you whisper, looking up through your lashes.

he holds your gaze, and for a second, you think he might break—might grab you, kiss you, something. but then he steps back, slipping on his coat. “see you tomorrow,” he says, and he’s gone, leaving you trembling and aching in the empty café.

that night, you’re sprawled across your bed, the faint hum of the city outside your window drowned out by the heat coursing through you. nanami’s burned into your mind, his sharp jaw, the way his suit clings to his frame, that maddening restraint in his eyes when you push his buttons.

you close your eyes, and he’s there—tie loose, sleeves rolled up, standing over you in the empty café. your hand’s already between your thighs, fingers slick, but it’s not enough. it’s never enough when it’s him you’re craving.

you imagine him grabbing your wrists, pinning them to the counter, his voice low and rough in your ear. “you’ve been teasing me for weeks,” he’d say, breath hot against your neck. “think i don’t notice?” you picture him pressing himself against you, his fat cock hard and heavy through his slacks, grinding into your hip until you’re whimpering.

your fingers move faster, desperate, but they’re a pale substitute for what you want—him, thick and stretching you, filling you so deep you’d feel it for days. you’d beg for it, you know you would, thighs spread wide on that counter, skirt hiked up, pleading for him to fuck you senseless.

in your fantasy, he’s not gentle. he’d yank your blouse open, buttons popping, mouth on your tits, sucking hard enough to leave marks. you’d arch into him, moaning his name—kento—and he’d growl, finally losing that iron grip on his control.

you imagine his hands, big and calloused, spreading your thighs, his cock nudging against you, teasing until you’re shaking. “this what you wanted?” he’d ask, voice dark, and then he’d thrust in, slow at first, letting you feel every inch, every vein, until he’s buried to the hilt.

your fingers curl inside you, trying to mimic the stretch, but it’s nothing compared to how you know he’d ruin you, pounding you until the café’s tables rattle, until you’re sobbing his name.

you want his weight on you, his sweat mixing with yours, his cock splitting you open while he mutters filthy things about how you’ve been asking for this, how you’ve been dripping for him every time you bent over in that short skirt. you’d claw at his back, legs wrapped around him, pulling him deeper, needing more, always more.

your orgasm builds, sharp and fast, as you picture him coming, groaning low in his throat, spilling inside you, hot and thick, claiming you in a way your fingers never could.

you cum with a gasp, body trembling, but it’s hollow. your hand’s not him, not his fat cock, not his hands or his mouth or the way he’d make you scream. you lie there, panting, wishing he was there to see you like this—wrecked, needy, all because of him.

the next day, you’re wired, the memory of your fantasy making you bold. the bell chimes, and nanami walks in, same suit, same stoic face, but you’re done playing subtle. “hey, you,” you say, voice dripping with mischief as you lean forward, letting your blouse gape just enough. “usual?”

he nods, eyes flicking over you, lingering a second too long. “yes. thank you.”

you pour his coffee, swaying your hips as you move, making sure he’s watching. when you bring it to his table, you lean in close, closer than necessary, your hair brushing his shoulder. “had a long night,” you say, voice low, teasing. “couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

his hand pauses on the cup, fingers tightening just slightly. he doesn’t look up, but you catch the faintest tic in his jaw. “that so?” he says, voice even, like he’s not fazed. but you’re not buying it.

“mmhm,” you hum, resting a hand on the table, fingers inches from his. “kept me up way too late. had to… take care of things myself.” you let the words hang, heavy and deliberate, watching for any crack in that stoic facade.

his eyes snap to yours, dark and intense, and you see it—the bulge in his slacks, unmistakable, growing as your words sink in. his jaw clenches, knuckles white around the cup, but he doesn’t move, doesn’t speak. you smirk, knowing you’ve got him, and saunter back to the counter, hips swaying. “you’re here every day,” you call over your shoulder. “guess i’m not the only one who can’t stay away.”

he stays silent, but his stare burns into you, and you know you’re chipping away at that restraint. you’re not done—not until he breaks and gives you everything you’ve been fantasizing about.

the next day, the bell chimes, and nanami steps in, suit crisp, face as unreadable as ever, but you’re not fooled. he’s here, same time, same table.

that’s all the proof you need.

you’re behind the counter, blouse unbuttoned just enough to tease, skirt clinging to your hips. “usual, handsome?” you call out, voice dripping with intent, leaning forward so he gets a good view.

he nods, eyes flicking over you, lingering on the curve of your chest before meeting your gaze. “yes,” he says, voice steady, but there’s a tightness there, like he’s holding himself in check.

you pour his coffee, making a show of it, bending slightly to let your skirt ride up. when you bring it to his table, you lean in close, your hand brushing his as you set the cup down. “so,” you murmur, low and sultry, “you ever touch yourself thinking about me? ‘cause i sure as hell do thinking about you.”

his eyes narrow, and for a second, you think you’ve got him—his breath catches, just barely. but then he leans back, folding his arms, studying you like you’re a problem he’s solving. “how old are you?” he asks, voice calm but pointed.

you grin, undeterred, propping a hand on your hip. “early twenties. why, you worried i’m too young for you?”

he exhales, almost a scoff, but his gaze doesn’t waver. “i’m old enough to be your dad.”

your pulse spikes, and you lean closer, letting your voice drop to a purr. “even better.”

his jaw tightens, and there it was again—the bulge in his slacks, betraying him. he shifts in his seat, trying to hide it, but you’re already smirking, knowing you’ve hit a nerve. “you’re playing with fire,” he says, low and rough, but he doesn’t get up, doesn’t leave.

“good,” you whisper, straightening up, giving him a view of your ass as you saunter back to the counter. “i like it hot.”

he doesn’t respond, just watches you with that heavy, unreadable stare, but he stays, sipping his coffee, and you know you’re wearing him down, inch by filthy inch.

that evening, you’re closing up, the café dark except for the glow of the streetlights filtering through the windows. nanami’s still there, the last one, lingering at his table with his coffee long gone, pretending to read his paper. you know he’s watching you, and you’re not about to waste the chance. you lock the door, flip the sign to “closed,” and turn up the heat.

you saunter toward him, rag in hand and stop at his table, leaning over to grab his empty cup, “accidentally” knocking over a water glass. it splashes across his slacks, soaking the fabric over his thigh. “oh, shit,” you say, fake-apologetic, grabbing the rag. “let me fix that.”

before he can protest, you’re on your knees between his legs, right there in the dim café. you press the rag to his thigh, rubbing slow, your hands dangerously close to the obvious bulge straining against his pants.

he’s hard—so hard—and you feel a thrill knowing it’s because of you. you look up at him, all innocent, but your eyes say something else. “can’t let you leave all messy,” you murmur, and then, bold as hell, you lean in and drag your tongue over the wet spot on his slacks, tasting the faint salt of the water and the heat of him beneath.

his breath hitches, loud in the quiet, and you feel his thigh tense under your hands. you glance up, and his control’s gone—eyes dark, jaw clenched, hands gripping the table like he’s holding himself back. “what the hell are you doing?” he growls, voice rough, but he doesn’t push you away.

“cleaning up,” you say, all coy, licking your lips as you hold his gaze. you press your palm against his bulge, just enough to make him hiss, and that’s it—he snaps.

nanami grabs your arms, hauling you up and onto the table in one swift move, papers and cups scattering. his mouth crashes into yours, hard and hungry, all that pent-up restraint pouring out. it’s messy, desperate—his tongue claiming yours, teeth grazing your lip, one hand fisting in your hair while the other grips your hip, pulling you flush against him. you moan into his mouth, tasting coffee and him, your hands clawing at his tie, yanking it loose.

“you’ve been begging for this,” he mutters against your lips, voice raw, his hard-on pressing into your thigh through his slacks. “fucking relentless.”

“and you love it,” you gasp, arching into him, skirt riding up as he slots himself between your legs. his kiss is bruising, all control and want, and you’re dizzy with it, with him finally giving in, ready to see how much further you can push him.

nanami’s hands are everywhere—yanking your hair, gripping your hips, his hard-on grinding into you through his slacks. you’re dizzy, thighs trembling, but he’s not done. not even close. he pulls back, eyes black with want, and you see the moment he decides to ruin you.

“you’ve been asking for this,” he growls, voice thick with need. your skirt’s already bunched up, and he doesn’t bother with finesse—his hands shove your thighs apart, rough and impatient, spreading you open. you’re soaked, panties clinging to you, and the way he looks at you, like he’s starving, makes your core clench.

“fuck, look at you,” he mutters, almost to himself, as he hooks his fingers under your panties and rips them down, tossing them somewhere behind the counter. you gasp, but it’s cut off when he drops to his knees, his broad shoulders forcing your legs wider. his hands dig into your thighs, holding you in place, and then his mouth’s on you, no warning, no teasing—just raw, filthy hunger.

his tongue dives into your folds, lapping at you like he’s been deprived for years. it’s messy, wet, obscene—his lips sucking your clit, tongue flicking over it before plunging inside you, tasting every inch of your dripping cunt. you moan, loud and shameless, hands fisting in his hair, pulling hard enough to make him groan against you. the vibrations shoot through you, and your hips buck, grinding against his face, but he holds you down, fingers bruising your skin.

“stay still,” he orders, voice muffled but sharp, and you try, but it’s impossible when he’s eating you out like this, like he wants to devour every last drop. his tongue fucks into you, deep and relentless, then drags up to circle your clit, sucking hard until you’re whimpering, thighs shaking. you’re a mess—slick dripping down your thighs, coating his chin, and he doesn’t care, doesn’t let up, just licks you harder, greedier.

“kento,” you gasp, voice breaking, and he growls, doubling down. he’s sloppy, unhinged, nothing like the controlled man who orders black coffee. his hands slide to your ass, pulling you closer, tongue working you open as he moans into your pussy, like he’s getting off on this as much as you are. you can feel him, hard and straining in his slacks, but he’s too focused on you, on making you feel good.

you’re close, so close, the heat coiling tight in your belly. he knows it—senses it in the way you tighten around his tongue—and he pushes harder, sucking your clit into his mouth, flicking it with quick, brutal strokes. “come for me,” he demands, voice rough against your skin, and that’s all it takes. you shatter, crying out, hips jerking as your orgasm rips through you, slick gushing against his mouth. he doesn’t stop, lapping up every bit, drawing it out until you’re whining, oversensitive, legs trembling.

he pulls back, finally, lips glistening, eyes wild as he looks up at you. his hair’s a mess from your hands, tie hanging loose, and you can see the bulge in his slacks, bigger than before, straining like he’s about to burst. you’re panting, still catching your breath, but you manage a shaky grin. “fuck, nanami, you’re filthy.”

“you have no idea,” he says, standing, voice dark with promise as he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, already reaching for his belt.

“my turn,” you purr, sliding off the table, legs shaky but determined. you drop to your knees in front of him, the café’s dim light casting shadows over his sharp features. his jaw tightens as you reach for his zipper, tugging it down slow, teasing, until his cock springs free. it’s thick, heavy, veins pulsing, and your mouth waters at the sight. he’s bigger than you imagined, and you’ve imagined a lot.

“fuck,” you whisper, gripping him at the base, feeling him twitch in your hand. you look up, meeting his dark gaze, and give him a wicked grin before leaning in, dragging your tongue along the underside, slow and deliberate. he groans, low and guttural, one hand bracing against the table as you swirl your tongue around the tip, tasting the bead of precum there.

you don’t ease him into it. you take him deep, lips stretching around his girth, hollowing your cheeks as you bob your head, sloppy and eager. he’s so thick it’s a struggle, but you love it—the way he fills your mouth, the way his hips jerk slightly, like he’s fighting to stay in control. you push further, nose brushing his pelvis, throat constricting as you swallow around him.

“shit,” he hisses, hand fisting in your hair, not gentle but not cruel—yet. “you’re too fucking good at this.”

you hum, the vibration making him curse again, and you pick up the pace, sucking hard, letting spit drip down your chin. it’s messy, rough, your hands gripping his thighs for leverage as you take him deeper, faster. he’s close, you can feel it—his breaths ragged, his grip tightening, hips starting to thrust, shallow at first, then harder, fucking your mouth like he can’t hold back anymore.

“look at you,” he growls, voice raw, “taking it so well, so fucking greedy.” his words send a jolt through you, and you moan around him, letting him use you, loving the way he’s losing it. he’s rough now, thrusting deep, hitting the back of your throat until your eyes water, but you don’t care—you want him wrecked, want him to break.

his control slips completely, hips snapping, hand guiding your head as he fucks your mouth. you’re a mess—spit slicking your lips, tears streaking your cheeks, but you keep going, hollowing your cheeks, sucking like you’re starving for him. “gonna come,” he warns, voice strained, and you double down, taking him as deep as you can, moaning to push him over the edge.

he snaps, a low groan ripping from his throat as he comes, hard and sudden, flooding your mouth with hot, thick spurts. it’s so much, more than you expected, spilling past your lips, dripping down your chin as you try to swallow it all. he keeps thrusting, shallow now, riding it out, and you let him, milking every last drop until he’s shuddering, grip loosening in your hair.

you pull back, gasping, his cum smeared across your lips, dripping onto your chest, staining your blouse. you swipe a finger through the mess on your chin, sucking it clean while holding his gaze, and he groans again, like you’re killing him.

“fuck,” he mutters, still catching his breath, looking down at you like he’s seeing you for the first time—wrecked, filthy, perfect. “you’re a goddamn menace.”

you grin, voice hoarse. “and you’re still hard.” you nod at his cock, still half-erect, and his eyes darken.

“get up,” he orders, voice low and rough, sending a shiver through you. you stand, legs wobbly, and he grabs your waist, spinning you around to face the table. his hands are rough, shoving you forward until your hips slam against the edge, your palms slapping the surface to brace yourself.

he’s behind you, heat radiating off him, and you feel his cock—hard again, impossibly thick—press against your ass.

“you wanted this,” he growls, yanking your skirt up higher, exposing you completely and you’re dripping, slick coating your thighs. his hand slides between your legs, fingers grazing your folds, and you gasp, pushing back against him. he chuckles, dark and mean. “so fucking wet. you’re desperate, aren’t you?”

“please, kento,” you whine, wiggling your hips, but he slaps your ass, sharp enough to sting, making you yelp.

“not yet,” he says, voice cold, controlled, but you hear the edge in it, the hunger he’s barely reining in. “you’ve been teasing me for weeks, acting like a little slut. you don’t get it that easy.”

his fingers tease you, circling your clit, slow and torturous, never giving you enough. you squirm, trying to grind against his hand, but he grips your hip, holding you still. “beg,” he demands, leaning over you, his breath hot against your ear. “tell me how bad you want it.”

“fuck, please,” you gasp, voice breaking. “i need you, kento, need your cock, please, just fuck me.”

“not good enough,” he says, pulling his hand away, leaving you empty and aching. you whimper, frustration burning, but he’s relentless, sliding his cock between your thighs, letting it glide against your slick folds without entering. it’s torture—his thick length so close, brushing your clit, but not giving you what you need. “say it like you mean it.”

“kento, please, i’m begging,” you sob, pushing back, desperate. “i need you inside me, need you to fuck me so hard i can’t walk, please, i’ll do anything.”

he groans, low and primal, and you feel him line up, the fat tip of his cock nudging your entrance. “that’s better,” he mutters, but he doesn’t move, just holds himself there, stretching you just enough to make you whine. “you sure you can take it? i’m not small, and you’re so fucking tight.”

“i can take it,” you pant, though you’re not sure, not with how massive he feels, but you want it, want him to ruin you. “please, just do it.”

he doesn’t ease in. he thrusts, hard and deep, forcing his cock into you in one brutal stroke. you cry out, the stretch burning, overwhelming—he’s so big, so thick, it feels like he’s splitting you open.

your walls clench around him, struggling to take him, and he hisses, gripping your hips so hard you’ll bruise. “fuck, you’re tight,” he growls, pulling back just to slam in again, rough and unforgiving.

it hurts, but it’s good, so fucking good, the way he fills you completely, hitting spots you didn’t know existed. you’re moaning, incoherent, nails scratching the table as he sets a punishing pace, each thrust jarring your body, the table digging into your hips. “kento, oh god,” you gasp, barely able to speak, and he laughs, low and cruel.

“thought you could handle it,” he taunts, leaning over you, his chest pressed to your back. “look at you, barely taking half.” he thrusts harder, deeper, and you scream, feeling him bully his way into your core, stretching you to your limit. “beg me to slow down.”

“no,” you choke out, defiant even as tears prick your eyes. “harder, please, fuck me harder.”

he groans, like your words snap something in him, and he gives it to you—pounding into you, relentless, the sound of skin slapping skin filling the café. your legs shake, barely holding you up, but his hands keep you in place, fucking you like he’s trying to break you. “greedy little thing,” he mutters, one hand sliding to your clit, rubbing rough circles that make you see stars. “come on, beg for it again.”

“please, kento, make me come,” you sob, so close but not there, his cock overwhelming, his fingers merciless. “need it, need you, please.”

“not yet,” he says, slowing just enough to drag it out, torturing you with long, deep strokes that keep you teetering on the edge. you’re whimpering, pleading, but he holds you there, making you feel every inch of him, every brutal thrust. “you come when i say.”

you’re a wreck, body trembling, cunt clenching around him, and finally, finally, he picks up the pace again, slamming into you, fingers working your clit until you’re screaming, your orgasm crashing over you, gushing around his cock. he doesn’t stop, fucking you through it, chasing his own release, and you’re oversensitive, whining, but he doesn’t care.

“fuck, gonna fill you up,” he groans, thrusts erratic, and then he’s coming, hot and thick, so much it spills out, dripping down your thighs. he keeps moving, milking it, until you’re both panting, spent, your body limp against the table.

he pulls out, slow, and you whimper at the emptiness, his cum leaking from you, pooling on the floor. he steps back, breathing hard, watching you—messy, dripping, barely able to stand—and mutters, “look at the mess you made.”

you try to catch your breath, grinning shakily. “worth it,” you rasp, voice hoarse from screaming his name. but he doesn’t smile back, doesn’t soften. instead, he steps closer, towering over you, one hand gripping your hip to keep you in place.

“you think we’re done?” he growls, voice low and dangerous, sending a fresh pulse of heat through you. his other hand slides between your legs, fingers finding the mess he left, his cum dripping from your swollen cunt. you gasp, oversensitive, as he scoops it up, thick and warm, and pushes it back inside you with two fingers, slow and deliberate.

“kento—fuck,” you whimper, hips jerking as he curls his fingers, shoving his cum deeper, your walls fluttering around him. it’s obscene, the wet squelch of it, the way he’s claiming you again, making sure every drop stays inside. you’re trembling, barely able to stand, but he doesn’t let up, fucking his cum back into you with a focus that makes your head spin.

“you’re gonna keep this,” he murmurs, almost to himself, eyes locked on where his fingers disappear inside you. “every fucking bit of it.” his thumb brushes your clit, rough and relentless, and you cry out, oversensitive but helpless under his touch. he’s not gentle—his fingers pump deeper, harder, like he’s punishing you for how much you want it, how much you’re still clenching around him.

“look at you,” he says, “dripping with me, still so fucking needy.” he leans in, lips brushing your ear, his breath hot. “you’re mine now, you know that? gonna fuck you so full you’ll feel me for days.”

you moan, head falling back against the table, your body arching into his hand. his fingers are relentless, pushing his cum deeper, stretching you, and you’re already building again, despite the ache, despite how wrecked you are. “please, kento,” you beg, voice breaking, “make me come again.”

he chuckles, dark and cruel, and adds a third finger, the stretch making you gasp, his cum and your slick coating his hand. “greedy little slut,” he mutters, but there’s heat in it, like he’s loving every second of your desperation. he works you harder, thumb circling your clit, fingers fucking you until you’re sobbing, another orgasm ripping through you, gushing around his hand, mixing with his cum.

he doesn’t pull out right away, keeping his fingers inside, holding his release there like a promise. you’re panting, limp, his cum still leaking despite his efforts, and he smirks, finally pulling his hand free. he brings his fingers to your lips, smeared with both of you, and you suck them clean without hesitation, tasting him, tasting yourself, eyes locked on his.

“filthy,” he says, almost proud, wiping his hand on your thigh before stepping back, adjusting his tie like nothing happened. “clean yourself up. i’ll see you tomorrow.”

you’re left there, shaking, his cum still inside you, knowing you’ll feel him every time you move, and already craving the next time he walks through that door.

[bywons]

LOVE ON THE ROCKS ⭑ drunk enhypen

𝐎𝐑 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄， 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝖽𝗋𝗎𝗇𝗄 𝗂𝗇 𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗒𝗈𝗎

❪ 𝐌𝐀𝐆𝐀𝐙𝐈𝐍𝐄 ❫ ｡ 𝖽𝗋𝗎𝗇𝗄!enha 𝗑 𝖿!𝗋 1422────── fluff ✿‎ kissing 𝖽𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 贅沢 𖥔

REBLOG ◜⁠‿⁠◝⁠ FOR KISSES

LEE HEESEUNG

heeseung is extra giggly tonight, his cheeks red, tie askew— settling on top of a few loosened buttons and his hair a complete mess.

“baby, come here—” he stumbles through his own hallway, chasing you to the washroom, reeking of alcohol, “where’s my goodnight kiss?”

he finds you by the washroom, grinning so wide his eyes turn into little crescents. arms outstretched, he wraps them around your waist from the back, pulling you flush against his chest.

you turn around in his arms and he immediately buries his face in your neck, pressing a kiss there. it’s wet and clumsy, but full of affection.

“you didn’t kiss me goodnight,” he whines, brows furrowed like it’s a real tragedy, and if eyes could get anything they want, heeseung would be a winner. “fine,” you chuckle, cupping his face and bringing it down to press a chaste kiss on his lips— the fine taste of whiskey and love lingering on him.

he stumbles forward as you pull away for a breather, the tipsy weight of him leaning entirely on you. “more,” heeseung mumbles, eyes fluttering shut as he chases your lips again. “just one more. maybe five.”

you laugh softly, brushing his messy bangs back. “you’re hopeless.” “hopelessly yours,” he grins.

PARK JONGSEONG

“who k-kissed you?” jay sounds furious, cupping your face in his hands as he inspects your lipstick smudged face.

the alcohol in his system really is kicking, and you can confirm it by how oblivious he is to the fact that your red gloss is smudged by his lips. jay’s face is red— both from the wine and your lipstick.

his brows are furrowed like he’s solving a crime scene, thumbs swiping gently under your bottom lip with all the seriousness in the world. “baby, i’m not mad, i’m just… i just need names.”

you burst into laughter, clutching onto his shoulders. “you kissed me, you idiot.”

he blinks, stunned. “me?”

you nod, giggling. “twice. aggressively.”

jay’s mouth parts slightly, as if he just cracked the case, and then his expression melts into a sheepish smile. his hands slide down to rest on your shoulders as he leans forward, lips brushing your forehead. “good,” he murmurs, “i’d beat him up if it was someone else.”

his cologne is warm and familiar, mixing with the sharp tang of wine. his tie is crooked, as he pulls you in, gathering you in a drunk bear hug, pressing his lips on the crook of your neck.

SIM JAEYUN

“jake, put me down!” you gasp, grabbing onto your boyfriend’s shoulders as he picks you up with an uneven equilibrium.

jake is the most drunk person in the party, you could tell by his impulsive decisions and reddened face.

“jake, seriously—put me down!” you squeal, laughing breathlessly as your boyfriend lifts you into his arms like a groom on his wedding night. excep, he’s swaying. a lot.

“but you’re so pretty,” he slurs with a dopey grin, forehead resting against yours. “had to steal you away. just for a sec.”

his cheeks are flushed, hair damp with sweat and the glow of fairy lights dancing in his glassy eyes. his steps are clumsy, zigzagging across the lawn as you cling tighter.

“okay, romeo, we’re going to die—”

your words are cut short by a splash.

cold water engulfs you both as jake stumbles straight into the pool, dragging you with him in a chaotic, soaking plunge.

you surface, gasping and blinking water from your lashes, only to see jake float up next to you, completely drenched but still smiling.

“worth it,” he breathes, reaching over to tuck your hair behind your ear. “’cause now we’re both cool.”

you smack his chest, laughing as he pulls you into a soggy hug, lips brushing your temple. “you idiot.”

“your idiot forever.”

PARK SUNGHOON

sunghoon stumbles into your shared apartment at midnight, kicking off his shoes with a clumsy thud. his blazer is half off, white shirt wrinkled and slightly untucked, and his cheeks are flushed a warm pink.

“baby?” he calls out, voice soft and unsure as he peeks around the hallway. “i missed you so much.”

you’re already there, arms crossed, trying not to smile at the sight of your usually composed boyfriend looking like a sleepy mess.

“how much did you drink?” you ask, guiding him by the wrist to the couch.

“not enough to forget how pretty you are,” he mumbles, collapsing beside you and pulling you into his lap.

he buries his face in your neck, arms draped loosely around your waist. “your perfume’s better than any drink.”

you laugh softly, running your fingers through his hair as he melts against you like a sleepy puppy.

“hoon, you’re really clingy when you’re drunk.”

“only with you,” he whispers, lifting his head to look at you, eyes glassy but sincere. “i love you, can we stay like this forever?”

your heart squeezes as you kiss his forehead. “forever sounds nice”

KIM SUNOO

sunoo clings to your arm like a sleepily, cheek pressed against your shoulder as he lets out a dramatic sigh. “you smell like flowers,” he mumbles, voice soft and syrupy with alcohol. “did you always smell this good, or is the wine making me fall in love again?”

you chuckle, tucking a strand of his hair behind his ear. “you’re already in love with me, remember?”

he blinks up at you, eyes glossy under the fairy lights of the backyard, lips pouting just slightly. “but it feels new tonight. like, i wanna write you poems or name a star after you.”

you cover your smile, heart fluttering at his drunken sincerity. “you’re such a flirt when you’re tipsy.”

sunoo sits up with a sudden burst of energy, wobbling slightly. “wait here!” he stumbles toward the garden, plucks a random daisy, then returns and offers it to you with a wide grin. “for you, my moon and stars.”

you take it, giggling as he snuggles back into your side. “you’re going to regret all this cheesy stuff tomorrow.”

“nope,” he yawns, eyes fluttering shut. “if it’s about you, i’ll mean it even when i’m sober.”

YANG JUNGWON

jungwon’s never drunk. like, ever. but tonight? he’s had three fruity cocktails and half a glass of someone’s mysterious punch, and now he’s standing in the kitchen wearing a colander on his head like a helmet.

“babe,” you start, biting back laughter, “what exactly are you doing?”

he turns to you dramatically, wobbling slightly on his socked feet. “protecting my brain,” he says seriously, poking the colander. “you never know who’s out here trying to read your thoughts.”

you snort. “you’ve been watching conspiracy videos again, haven’t you?”

“they make sense!” he insists, pointing at you with a spoon. “also—” he suddenly softens, spoon clattering to the counter, “you’re so pretty it’s unfair. i’m trying to have deep thoughts but all i think is: wow. she’s mine.”

you step closer, sliding the colander off his head. “you’re ridiculous.”

“ridiculously in love,” he sighs, pulling you into a loose hug, resting his cheek on your chest. “do you think aliens would be jealous of us?”

“probably,” you laugh, carding your fingers through his hair.

“good,” he mumbles sleepily. “they should be.”

you glance down at your drunk genius of a boyfriend and grin. yep. definitely keeping him.

NISHIMURA RIKI

“don’t act like you’re drunk,” you roll your eyes, witnessing the tall boy intentionally falter in his steps in front of you, his skateboard pushed to the side.

he grins up at you, eyes gleaming with mischief. “but what if i was drunk,” he says, voice slurred for effect, “and i still skated better than everyone here?”

you cross your arms. “you’re going to break your neck.”

he gasps, clutching his heart. “have a little faith in your man.”

“my man is an idiot.”

“an adorable idiot,” he adds with a wink, already hopping back on the board, swaying ridiculously. “c’mon, it’ll be fun. pretend i’m wasted and you’re my responsible girlfriend guiding me home.”

“riki,” you groan, trying not to laugh as he rolls in a lazy zigzag down the sidewalk.

“catch me if i crash!” he yells.

you sprint after him, already knowing how this ends—with riki tripping over a curb, both of you in a heap on the grass, and him laughing with that stupidly cute grin, arms around you like it was all part of the plan.

“see?” he pants. “told you it’d be fun.”

and yeah—you kind of can’t argue with that.

스루 ܃ i kinda wrote this fast, so i don't think it's my best work TT nonetheless, i hope you enjoy ! 🎀

© bywons, 2025 div ctto —taglist open ! nets. @/k-labels @kflixnet @k-films

[rafesteddy]

Omg DILF!RAFE and MILF!READER’s recent post was so good, imma need you to consider maybe making one where they’re on vacation and some younger guys try flirting with her, thinking she’s around their age (20’s) and Rafe stepping in. UGH you write beautifully I just can’t

Hi bb!!! Thank you for your ask 🤭💕

+18 -> smut | the two of you steal a night away in Miami. One dinner, one dance, and it all comes rushing back.

𝓭𝓲𝓵𝓯!𝓻𝓪𝓯𝓮 𝓬𝓪𝓶𝓮𝓻𝓸𝓷 𝔁 𝓶𝓲𝓵𝓯!𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓭𝓮𝓻

c/w: slight physical violence (not toward the reader), coarse language, pet name, unprotected p in v, possessive rafe, rough sex, breeding kink, jealousy, ownership kink, teasing, wet and messy, mentions of drinking, POV shift for smut, + dirty talk.

𝓡𝓪𝓯𝓮’𝓼 𝓟𝓞𝓥 𖤐ᝰ.ᐟ𖦹₊⊹

Ｎｉｋｋｉ Ｂｅａｃｈ Ｒｅｓｔａｕｒａｎｔ…

Rafe still couldn’t believe you were here. Miami. Same streets, same salt in the air, same stretch of beach where he used to watch you run circles around him with that mouth of yours and those damn cutoff shorts.

It’d been years, decades even. Four kids later. Half a life lived. And somehow, even today, you still had him looking at you like a fucking lovesick idiot.

You’d spent the whole day on the beach, just the two of you. Max and Winnie had the twins, and he hadn’t asked twice. He needed this. Needed you. The sun. You in that tiny black swimsuit, laughing in the surf, making him ache like he hadn’t been married to you for almost twenty years.

Now, the sky was going dark, and you were sitting across from each other in one of those restaurants you loved. Five stars, full white linen, candles flickering. You in that red dress.

He felt like he was twenty all over. Shit, younger than that. His palms were sweating. Ridiculous, really. Just watching you lift that damn glass to your mouth like you hadn’t already ruined him hours ago.

You sat by the window, bathed in the last stretch of sun, skin glowing, hair falling soft around your shoulders. Every time you smiled, it did something to his chest. Like his lungs forgot what they were supposed to do. And when you shifted in your seat, crossed your legs, glanced his way—he couldn’t stop staring. Didn’t even try.

Shit.

His hands dropped to his thighs. He couldn’t get a grip. Not with you looking like that. You were his wife. He had no business feeling this nervous. Your husband. Your safe place. The father of your kids. But here he was—nervous. Damn near vibrating with it.

It felt like your first date. Like if he said the wrong thing, you might just laugh and walk away.

Except you wouldn’t. You were his. He knew that in his bones. Had known it for years. But it didn’t stop the rush of it now—watching you sip that drink, those bare shoulders catching the light.

Whatever he’d ordered, he couldn’t taste it. Could barely remember what they’d ordered.

The sunset was sinking fast behind you. Throwing everything around you into this perfect glow that made his chest ache. He motioned to the waiter, sharp and distracted.

“Rafe? Are you okay?”

“Not upset, baby. Promise… Just gotta do something.” And he meant it, because if he didn’t get you out there on that beach, in that red dress, with that sun sinking behind you—if he didn’t catch this moment, keep it somehow—he was gonna lose his goddamn mind.

But he wasn’t about to tell you that. Not yet. Not until he had you exactly where he wanted you.

You were already giggling by the time he stood, napkin dropping carelessly on the table.

“Rafe,” you laughed, grabbing your clutch. “What’s goin’ on?”

He didn’t answer—just took your hand, lacing your fingers tight, tugging you gently toward the door. The host caught his eye, nodded with a knowing smile. Rafe hardly noticed. His pulse was still going—loud in his ears, steady, but off somehow.

The air outside hit different. The air had cooled. Still salty, but heavier now—like something was shifting, even if he couldn’t name it.

The sky was already losing color. That soft pink sinking into gray-blue in patches, uneven and fast.

Down near the water, two people walked the edge of the tide, saying nothing. Just dragging the moment out, maybe. Or maybe they weren’t ready to leave yet.

“Rafe,” you said again, each breath coming shallow, chasing the last, laughing even as you kicked off your heels onto the sand. “You’re acting like—” But you cut off when he let go of your hand and stepped back a few feet and lifted his phone. “Oh my God,” you gasped, cheeks warming up as you realized what he was doing. “Baby—”

“None of that, pretty,” he said, thumb hovering over the screen. “C’mon now. Don’t start.” His voice caught a little, that shaky edge of pure want bleeding through. “You look like a goddamn dream right now. Let me have it.”

You covered your mouth, blushing harder, shaking your head in the softest, sweetest way. But it only took you a second. Because he was looking at you like that—like you hung the damn sun yourself—and his voice was full of it, that heat that never failed to melt you straight through.

“Please, baby,” he said again, softer this time. “Need this. Just you. Right here, alright?”

And that was it. Your hands dropped and your smile bloomed as you started to pose—light at first, playful, laughing between shots as the wind caught your hair and the hem of your red dress.

Rafe could barely breathe, thumb snapping the shutter as fast as he could, desperate to catch every second.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, mostly to himself. “You don’t even know…”

But you caught the way he was looking—eyes dark, mouth parted just a little—and your smile shifted, just a touch. A tilt of your head. A sway of your hips. A glance through your lashes that had heat licking straight through his veins.

“Fuck, baby… There she is—” Rafe’s grin hit slow and crooked, heat sparking all the way to his fingertips. "How are you so perfect?”

Every pose, each shift of your hips, and glance through your lashes, you knew exactly what you were doing, and your husband was helpless to it.

“One with you too, baby,” you smiled, extending a hand. His breath caught. He tried to play it cool, huffing a soft laugh.

“Yeah? Yeah, of course.” He cleared his throat, stepping toward you, phone in hand, pretending like this wasn’t unraveling him by the second.

You reached for him, fingers curling in his shirt to pull him in beside you. The camera clicked, barely. You turned before the shutter had even finished, like it didn’t matter, like you already knew what came next. Your lips brushed his jaw—light, quick, but it stopped him cold.

He didn’t think. Just reacted. Mouth on yours before either of you had a chance to speak. He barely even noticed the phone—just shoved it in his pocket, hands already back on you, sliding down to your waist, gripping like he didn’t want to risk letting go.

Everything else blurred. The ocean. The quiet voices nearby. All of it faded the second your lips touched his. There was no restaurant, no phone, no years between you. Just this. Just you, pressed up against his chest, warm and breathless and smiling into his skin like nothing had changed. And maybe it hadn’t. Maybe after everything, you were still those same two kids who couldn’t go five minutes without needing each other.

He kissed you like he meant it—like if he held on tight enough, the world might stop right here.

Ｂａｉａ Ｂｅａｃｈ Ｃｌｕｂ Ｍｉａｍｉ…

The air changed the second you left the beach—hot and heavy, thick with sweat and rum. It clung to him, soaked into his skin. Music was already pounding through busted speakers, something old, too loud, and then there was you, walking in like the night was yours.

You didn’t wait. As soon as the bass hit, you took his hand and pulled him in, laughing, already moving, your body catching the rhythm like it was built into you.

Rafe just stood there for a second, watching. Throat dry.

He wasn’t a dancer. Never had been. But for you? For this—this one damn night that felt like college all over again—he’d do it. Easy. Anything for you.

So he followed you into the crush of bodies, hands finding your hips like instinct.

You started slow, teasing him as you always do, rolling against him in time with the beat, hips grinding back into him, arm slipping around his neck, mouth grazing his ear.

Rafe let you take over, didn’t care who saw. He closed his eyes for a second, pulling you in tighter. It hit him like déjà vu—that first summer in Miami—sneaking out when you’d found a babysitter, slipping into clubs just like this one, you laughing against his neck while he pretended to hate dancing and really just wanted you like this… It hadn’t changed. If anything, you looked better now. Stronger. Warmer. Somehow even more his. Like you didn’t see the tired in his eyes or the gray at his temples. Just him. And maybe that’s why it ruined him even after all these years, you hadn’t stopped choosing him.

You tipped your head back to smile up at him, face flushed, eyes bright with it all.

“I’m gonna hit the bathroom,” you said, your fingers brushing his chest without really thinking.

He blinked, still a little dazed. “Yeah. Okay. I’ll grab a table.” He pressed a kiss to your temple, watching as you disappeared through the crowd.

Rafe made his way off the floor, weaving between groups of bodies until he found an empty booth near the edge. He slid into the booth, chest still warm from the floor, from you. He ran a hand through his hair, pulling his phone out without thinking.

Wallpaper? Changed—immediately. That shot from the beach, you in that damn dress with the sun behind you. Christ. He didn’t even hesitate.

He shot a quick text to the kids—Goodnight. Love you. Be good.

He glanced up—and there they were. Frat boys packed in by the taps, loud as hell, tossing arms over each other like they ran the place. Rafe just shook his head, couldn’t help the smirk. Same Greek letters from his old house. Hell, they probably knew his name, even if they didn’t know they knew it.

And then—you came back out. You had a whole group with you now, girls barely old enough to drink, laughing like you were one of them. And you were right in the center, flushed, glowing, smiling that smile, lighting up your whole face.

You caught his eye, gave a little wave toward the booth, but one of the girls tugged you toward the bar, mouthing ‘just one drink’.

Rafe leaned back, arm slung over the booth, watching. That old twist pulled tight in his gut.

It started slow. One guy at the bar caught sight of you, elbowed his buddy. Then another. The second one’s jaw actually dropped. Rafe saw it. The third leaned in, whispering behind a grin. A couple more straight-up turned around to watch you walk.

His hand curled tighter around the table’s edge. He exhaled, slow, steady. Yeah, he was proud. Damn proud. You looked… unreal. That glow, that dress, the way you moved—no one in the room could ignore you. But that didn’t mean it was easy to watch.

That old edge crept in—possessive, sharp. He’d felt it before. Years ago. Weeks ago. Days even… Too many times to count.

How many nights had it been just like this? You turning heads without even trying. And him standing there, the guy who got to take you home. Except now, there was a diamond on your hand and a couple of kids with his eyes asleep at home.

He laughed to himself—quiet and dry. Took a long drink just to cut the heat. And then he saw the kid. One of them broke off from the group—broad-shouldered, all confidence, that smug, slow swagger of someone who thinks he’s God’s gift.

Rafe clocked him instantly. President type. Probably the type who gave pep talks about leadership and thought a wink and a beer could get him whatever he wanted.

Rafe’s jaw tightened. He stood up, easy, but with purpose. Eyes locked. Let the kid try. Just once.

𝓨𝓸𝓾𝓻 𝓟𝓞𝓥 𖤐ᝰ.ᐟ𖦹₊⊹

You barely made it to the bar before the girls had you fully pulled into their circle—arms linked through yours, laughing, warm and tipsy already.

“We loved your lip combo,” one of them gushed, tugging your wrist toward her. “Tell me what that is—seriously. I need it—”

“—Wait, no, first you have to do my hair. I’m hot as fuck.”

Without thinking, you were sliding your fingers into her curls, twisting them up like second nature.

“There,” you smiled. “Perfect.”

“She’s ours now,” one girl grinned. “Not yours.”

You were mid-laugh, drink halfway to your lips, no idea what was heading your way until it was already there.

You looked up—and that’s when he walked in. Tall, tan, broad through the shoulders. Hat turned backward. Shirt clinging to him, far too tight. He smelled like sweat and weed, cheap cologne layered on top like that could fix it.

Two of his buddies flanked him like backup. One already smirking. One fixing his chain, sizing you up like you were something to claim.

“Hey,” the tallest one grinned, eyes dragging over you. “Didn’t think they let models in here.”

“Ewww,” one of the girls drones. “Leave, thanks. She’s with us—”

“She looks like she could use a real drink,” one of the boys shoots back.

Another cuts in, leaning way too close. “You come here with anyone, princess?”

The tall one grabs your arm this time, wanting you closer. “What’s your major, sweetheart?” His voice dipped, slow, like he thought he was already halfway there.

“I—I don’t go to school here.”

“No way,” one said. “C’mon. Don’t play—”

“FIU? UM?” Another tossed out. “You totally look like a UM girl… That vibe.”

“Yeah, you party here a lot?” The third cut in, resting his hand on your lower back. You opened your mouth, about to answer, but the girls weren’t having it—one shoved a shot in your hand with a wink.

“Take this,” she whispered. “Quick, before they ask if you live in the dorms.”

You barely caught the glass before a voice cut through the crowd—low, sharp, cold enough to crack ice.

“Baby—”

Everyone turned and there was Rafe. Broad shoulders cutting through the bodies, jaw tight, eyes hard as glass. No smile. No play. Just pure, protective heat rolling off him in waves.

One of the guys let out a short, nervous laugh. “Oh shit. Is this your dad?”

Rafe’s brows pinched tight, nostrils flaring in disgust, scoffing at the ridiculousness of the question as one of the girls gasped, clutching your arm. “Damn, babe, is that your dad?” Her voice, intrigued, way too interested if the answer was ‘yes’.

You were buzzed, breath short, pulse hammering—and when you saw him, the grin just happened. You tilted your head toward Rafe, voice sweet as sugar. “No, hun,” you said, laughing softly. “That’s my husband.” And just like that, the air behind you shifted.

Rafe’s arm came around your waist, hard and fast. No sweet little touch. No show for the crowd. His hand spread on your hip, fingers digging in like even air between you might kill him.

You sank into him without thinking—whole body going soft against his chest. Your heart was thudding, your smile stretching so fast you couldn’t stop it if you tried.

“Damn,” the frat boy grinned, not an ounce of sense left in him. “You’re married to that?” He tipped his chin at Rafe, lifted his fist like he expected a bump.

“Well, fuck me,” another laughed. “You don’t look like a wife.”

“You a mom, baby?” One slurred, loud enough to turn heads—voice slick and drunk. “Shit... That’s even hotter.”

Rafe’s laugh broke out sharp and mean, no warmth in it. “She’s got four,” he said, voice low and sharp enough to cut.

“Well, sweetheart… if you ever get bored—” CRACK. It landed clean, fast, and final.

The frat boy staggered, one hand flying to his cheek, eyes wide—like he’d just been snapped out of a dream he had no business having.

Rafe didn’t follow up the slap. Didn’t move. Just stood there, calm and steady, like he’d barely spent the energy.

“You don’t talk to her again,” he said, voice flat and even. “You don’t look at her. You don’t even think about her.”

No threat. No raised voice. Just fact.

He turned to you like none of it mattered. Like the moment was already behind him.

The second his eyes landed on you, something shifted—locked in, grounded. His hand found your waist, pulling you flush to him, thumb dragging slow against your ribs.

“You alright?” He asked, voice low, warm, only for you.

You gave a small nod, still a little dazed, breath catching as it hit you.

“Good,” he murmured.

Then he kissed your temple—slow, steady—his mouth trailing down to your jaw like he needed the reassurance just as much as you did.

His hand found yours next, fingers curling around it gently before he lifted it, slow and deliberate, like showing the world mattered just as much as holding on. The ring caught the light.

“You see this?” He said, voice low and scraped raw. “That means she’s not lookin’. Not tonight. Not ever.”

“We’re sorry—”

“Open your mouth again,” he said, cool and razor-sharp, “it’ll be your last.”

Your breath caught. Your hips shifted instinctively into his hold, body already giving in to him without thinking.

He moved in slow, hand sliding into your hair, mouth brushing your ear. His voice dropped, rough and close. “You have no idea what you do to me.” His hand tightened in your hair—firm and steady—just enough to keep you right there. “And these boys?” He growled, low and rough. “They can sit here all night with their dicks in their hands thinkin’ about you. Won’t change a damn thing.” He dragged his mouth along your jaw, slow. “You’re gonna be in our bed, takin’ every inch of me. Full of me. Understand?”

You couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t speak. Just looked up at him—flushed, giddy, heart pounding out of rhythm.

A helpless smile bloomed across your mouth, too soft and full to hide.

“C’mon, baby,” he said, voice breath-worn and thick. “Let’s get you the fuck outta here.”

Ｔｈｅ Ｌｏｅｗｓ Ｍｉａｍｉ Ｂｅａｃｈ Ｈｏｔｅｌ…

The door hadn’t even shut all the way before Rafe had you; arms wrapping around your waist, spinning you so fast your shoulder thudded against the wood—sharp enough to knock a gasp out of you.

And then his mouth collided with yours, stealing whatever breath you had left.

You whimpered, one hand fisting in the front of his shirt like you were trying to hold your ground, the other already in his hair, tugging hard. He groaned into your mouth. Hips pressing into yours, craving the friction.

He groaned deep into your mouth, grinding his hips into you. “Mine,” he muttered, breath hot and jagged against your lips. His forehead dropped to yours, voice shaking as he growled, “You belong to me, you hear me?”

You could barely speak; barely breathe. Every inch of you was aching. “Yours,” you whispered, voice cracking. “Always yours.”

Then you were in the air. Rafe scooped under your thighs, the other braced tight across your back. You gasped, arms flying around his neck, your heart pounding like it was trying to escape your ribs. “Rafe—”

“— Shut up, baby,” he rasped, lips brushing your cheek as he carried you deeper into the room. “Been waitin’ all fuckin’ night.”

Your panties were already soaked, body burning, barely sure you’d even make it to the bed before he took you. But he made it—barely. He carried you through the room, tossed you down, and mounted you in one fluid motion; knee driving into the mattress, his big body looming above you, hands spreading wide across your thighs.

You looked up at him, breath shallow, chest heaving. And Rafe stared back—like he could never get used to seeing you like this, like he’d never be done worshipping you—it stole your breath, cleaned out your lungs.

“All night you just… Fuck, baby,” he murmured, voice hoarse and thick, “You sat there all fuckin’ night lookin’ like this. I couldn’t stop thinkin’ about your mouth. The taste of you…”

You whimpered, legs falling open on instinct.

“Want you naked,” he said, eyes dark. “Need to see all of you.”

You reached for the hem of your dress but he caught your wrists before you could move; his grip was firm and possessive. “That’s mine to take off.”

You nodded fast; your whole body humming with need as his hand slid slowly up your inner thigh. Rafe paused at the edge of your panties, fingers trapped between skin and lace, tracing just enough to make you tremble.

When he brushed the fabric and you felt him stop; the breath hitched in his chest as he rolled out his neck. “Fuck,” he muttered, eyes locked on the damp spot already bleeding through the fabric. “So damn wet…”

You arched toward his touch, hips shifting like they had a mind of their own.

“M’I teasin’ you, princess?” He asks through a teasing sigh, tracing the wet with his eyes set on yours. You bit your pouted lip, eyes pleading with his. “Hmm… I’ll make you a deal then, yeah? You stop bein’ so wet for me. And, I’ll stop teasin’ you,” he taunts as he peels your panties down slowly—agonizingly so—dragging them over your thighs inch by inch, eyes fixed on every part of you he uncovered. “We both know that ain’t gonna happen,” he mumbles as he tosses them to the floor, his palms coming right back to your skin, sliding up, chasing the heat.

“Arms up,” he murmurs. “Let me see you, sweetheart.”

You obey, lifting your arms as your dress bunches higher. Rafe pushes the fabric up slowly, pausing to kiss your stomach; to stroke his tongue along the curve of your breast, savoring every inch. When he finally tugs the dress over your head, and flung it aside, your whole body trembled beneath him.

He sat back on his heels, eyes sweeping down you like he was trying to memorize the way you looked. “Jesus Christ,” he breathed, his voice raw. “You’re so fuckin’ beautiful. My girl.”

Then he stood, hands going to the buttons of his shirt. Your mouth went dry.

He caught the look on your face and smirked. “Eyes on me, sweetheart,” he said in that low, Southern drawl that always got to you. “Wanna watch me undress?”

You nodded, lips parting. “Good girl,” he hummed.

One button. Then another. He yanked his shirt off without thinking, undershirt right after, like he couldn’t get them off fast enough. You watched the whole thing—watched the way his skin caught the light, the way his chest rose with each breath.

He watched you watching him, grin darkening. “Love the way you look at me,” he murmured. “Like you’re starvin’.”

You reached for him, needing to touch something but he just smirked, stepping back a little as he undid his belt with one hand, slow like he had all the time in the world. The leather hit the floor with a low thunk, and you whimpered.

“Can’t even sit still, can you?” He teased, unzipping his pants slow as sin. “Barely even touched you yet.”

Rafe dragged them down, boxers clinging tight, cock already straining. When he pushed them down and stepped out, your breath caught.

Thick, flushed, his cock hung heavy, and you whined at the sight of it. His gaze darkened. He didn’t speak. Just climbed back over you, slow and controlled, body sliding between your thighs like it belonged there.

He bit down gently beneath your jaw, making you arch into him. “How the hell did I get so lucky, huh?” His hand moved up between your legs—fingers slicking through your folds, slow and teasing. You gasped, thighs jerking. “Fuck,” he groaned. “You want it that bad?”

“Yes,” you whimpered. “Please—”

His fingers circled your clit, barely brushing, just enough to make you reel. “Not yet,” he breathed. “Gotta be quiet for me, baby.” His mouth brushed your ear. “You remember this is a suite, yeah? Everyone’s asleep. But I know how fuckin’ loud you get when I make you cum.” You nodded quickly, breath ragged, hips twitching. “Can you stay quiet?” He asked, voice like gravel. “Can you be good for me?”

“Yes—Yes, I’ll be good.”

“That’s my girl,” he murmured, lips at your temple. “You say that now…”

You reached for him again—traced your fingers down his abs, caught the muscles flexing under your touch.

“Wanna hear you beg,” he rasped, dragging the head of his cock through your slick folds, teasing your clit, watching your body jolt.

“You ready for me, baby?” he asked. “Want this cock?”

“Please,” you gasped. “Rafe, please—I need it—”

He lined himself up—pressing just enough for you to feel the stretch—and held still.

“Eyes on me,” he growled. “Wanna see you fall apart.”

You forced your gaze up, lips parted, eyes wide.

“Fuck,” he whispered, pushing in slow—inch by inch—stretching you open. “So tight, baby. Made for me.”

You sobbed, nails digging into his back as your body fought to take him.

“Shhh,” he whispered, mouth hot at your ear. “You promised me.”

You nodded fast, lips parted, breath held, just trying to be good. Trying so hard not to make a sound.

“That’s it,” he hums, voice low and rough. “You’re doin’ so good. You’re my good girl, remember?”

Another thrust—deep and slow—dragging a choked cry from your throat.

He growled, hips rolling. “You feel that? That’s me, baby. Deep in this perfect little pussy—right where I fuckin’ belong.”

Your body arched, shaking, overwhelmed.

“Please,” you sobbed. “I need—”

“You need it?” He rasped, pace beginning to pick up. “You’ll fuckin’ take it.”

He drove in deep, grinding against your clit, hips slamming again and again.

“Wanna be loud?” He taunted, breath hot against your cheek. “Wanna let ‘em hear? Want every fuckin’ man in this hotel to know who owns you?”

You could barely breathe, let alone answer.

“Shhh,” he murmured, gentler now. “You’re doin’ so fuckin’ good. Just stay with me.”

You nodded fast—submissive, desperate, right on the edge.

“That’s my girl,” he breathed, driving deeper. “Take it all for me. Let me see how sweet this pussy is.”

Your whole body locked—hips jolting, back arching, your orgasm tearing through you hard and fast.

He felt it—felt your cunt clamp down tight, fluttering around him.

“Fuck,” he gasped. “That’s it. Cum on my cock. Let me feel you.”

He didn’t stop. Just kept fucking you through it. “Wanted this, didn’t you?” He growled. “Wanted me to fill you up?” You sobbed against his palm, overwhelmed. “Take it,” he groaned. “I’m gonna give it to you, baby. Every fuckin’ drop.” Your vision blurred, heat crashing through you in waves. “Gonna fuck a baby into you,” he growled. “Keep you full for days.”

Your walls clenched again, another wave building, sharp and uncontrollable, and Rafe snapped. He groaned loud, hips grinding deep, cock twitching as he spilled into you. “Take it all,” he growled, staying buried, driving so deep your eyes rolled back and fluttered shut. You whimpered, too spent to move, body trembling under him.

His breath came hard against your neck, his voice softening with every second. “You’re perfect,” he whispered. “You hear me? Fuckin’ perfect.”

He eased his hand from your mouth to brush your cheek with his thumb as he tilted down and kissed you slow. You kissed him back, never more satisfied, still full of him, clutching onto his body, not wanting to let go.

And he didn’t move—not yet. Just held you open, his cum warm inside you, his voice gentle in your ear. “Gonna keep you like this,” he murmured, smiling against your skin. “Full of me. Just the way I like you.”

You shuddered under him. And in that moment—with his hands on your body, his breath in your ear, and his body still one with yours—you had never felt more his… More Rafe’s.

@rafesthroatbaby | @ietss | @lilithblackkk | @rafecameronsfavourite | @my-name-is-baby | @urmotherlvr | @forgiveliv | @barnesboo1967 | @wtfisastiles | @k4yr14 | @taliescapes | @rafesbuzzcutseason | @sky-44 | @biascriptum | @vanessa-rafesgirl | @lolasangelz | @st8rkey | @lhhlver | @slut-4-rafey | @gri959 | @prettybabyyyy | @sabrina-carpenter-stan-account | @maybankslover | @littlelamy | @buckybarnessweetheart | @angelicameron | @lover-girlyy | @rcameronlova1 | @rafesbabygirlx | @mayanqueenxx | @bimbob1tch | @dylsdaily | @blair-bears-blog | @akobx | @countryclubwhore | @esmerai-artemis | @jkmylove97 | @wtfdudesblog | @livie4lifestarkeyblyth | @yasmin-oviedo | @queen-cs | @floredaqueen | @alexxavicry | @aerie717 | @cokewithcameron | @premiumshitt | @rcameronlova1

[sylusgworl]

NIGHTMARES ft. love and deepspace

“losing you is their biggest nightmare”

notes: hurt/comfort, f!reader, mentions of death and loss, ft. sylus, zayne, xavier, rafayel and caleb

a/n: idk take the pain and leave me alone ;-; i want to cry, protect these boys at all cost. wc. 2.8k . rbs are much appreciated <3 . m.list

rumor has it, that SYLUS, the so-great leader of onychinus has no fears and no weaknesses. he was impenetrable, no one could scratch his outer armor or crush his heart. no one could dare to attempt to, anyway.

one look from him was enough to freeze anyone in place. but oh, what they didn’t know was how you had him in the palm of your hand, and he jumped in there out of his own volition.

as he came home from a long bloody night, the only thing going around in his head was sleep. nothing more.

he didn’t remember falling asleep, only that he was suddenly awake, feeling his evol moving irregularly, sparks of his dark energy going in disarray, leaving his hands and just bouncing all over the room.

he got up, feeling a jab of pain hit his chest. he noticed some cracks, like those one sees in stone or marble. a red light shone from within. 

“sylus!” your bubbly voice reached his ears. you’d just entered and from the sound of your steps, he could understand you were walking towards his room.

don’t come! he wanted to yell, but his voice died in his throat, as the pain became sharper. his evol wasn’t acting the way it should. why? who was behind this?

you opened the door, your elated expression morphing in one of worry, as you dropped your bag to the ground and ran towards his crouching form.

sylus’s legs gave out, his head ringing. you tapped his arm, while calling him repeatedly, but he didn’t answer. better, you didn’t hear his answer.

what happened next was so quick and unanticipated, as you found yourself gasping for air with his hand wrapped around your throat in a violent clutch. he hoisted you off the ground, his black wisps wrapping your body in an iron grip.

sylus watched your struggling form with his crimson eyes veiled in darkness, his consciousness making way for a monster he didn’t know. he tightened his hold on your neck, watching you squirm as you couldn’t breathe, while a part of him, the sane one, watched from the background, unable to come out from the recesses of his mind it’d been cast to.

he let go and you fell to the ground with a thud, lifeless. sylus fell next to you, the energy of his evol completely fatigued. he widened his eyes, finally realising what he had done.

he hoisted himself up with an arm and crawled closer to you. he was now looking at your dormant face, shaking his head. “no, no, no…” he raised your head and rested it in his lap, caressing your cheek lovingly. “wake up, p-please,” he wailed, but of course, there’s no coming back from the dead.

sylus woke abruptly, only to meet the familiar ceiling and, lying next to him, your sleeping form.

he looked at you, your breathing was calm and even, your chest gently rising and falling with each breath.

he touched your cheek and felt your skin against his fingertips.

“mhm… sylus? is everything okay?” you said in a sleepy voice, opening your eyes and snuggling against his chest, pressing a kiss in the crook of his neck, before falling again in a slumber.

sylus was relieved. he tightened his hold around your form, bringing his hand to the back of your head to have you closer, feel you more. you were unhurt. it was all his imagination playing a trick on his exhausted mind. he hadn’t hurt you, and he’d rather die, before even thinking of it.

ZAYNE had been stuck for hours to no end in the hospital, checking patient after patient and tending to multiple surgeries. at around noon, having been in the hospital since midnight, he drowsily walked to the break room, removed his lab coat and hung it somewhere, too tired to even care, proceeding to plop himself on one of the beds. it didn’t take long for him to fall asleep. he hadn’t even realised how tired he was, until his groggy form touched the mattress.

but when he was awakened with a startle, he jolted up, feeling that something wasn’t right.

a fear of unknown source tugged at his heartstrings, as he got up and walked out of the room.

an unusual shadow was cast over the hospital corridors, most of the lamps turned off.

zayne trode with a steady pace, until he reached a room.

it didn’t have a number, nor a name card associated to it. he felt scared for some reason, his heartbeat quickening, as if his unconscious part already knew what lay beyond.

he gulped, before pressing the handle. the room was shrouded in darkness, the only source of light being the gentle glow of the moon.

a single bed occupied the too big of a room.

there, lay your sleeping form. zayne got closer, his hands trembling at his sides, and only stopped when he reached the head end.

your face showed no blemishes, the long lashes grazing the soft skin of your cheekbones, your mouth almost curved up in a dainty smile. 

zayne brought a hand to your forehead, while mumbling “[name]....” so affectionately.

he retracted his hand in shock, then caressed your face again, while a knot formed in his throat and tears welled up in his eyes.

your temperature was abnormally low, too cold for a living person. he pressed two fingers to the left side of your neck, in an attempt to find the artery. silence. no heartbeat detected.

“no, no, no. no…” zayne shook his head in denial, stroking your head gently while knowing in his heart that you were long gone. “love, look at me… w-wake up,” he uttered in a broken voice.

his head was a mess. a chain of whys and hows orbiting and bringing his conscious side to oblivion and destruction.

“zayne? zayne, wake up,” a voice called out to him, one he yearned for and was waiting for. he opened his eyes, a couple of tears rolling down, as he looked at your hazy face.

“[name]?” he muttered, stunned.

“yes, i’m here baby,” your gentle confirmation relieved his aching heart of the pain he’d just gone through.

he found your hand and pulled you down, wrapping his arms around your form, breathing in your scent while gently kissing your neck, sending shivers down your spine.

it was a nightmare. she is here. she is alive.

XAVIER opened his eyes, only to find the whole room had been plunged into darkness.

he sat up straight, trying to make out anything in the close distance, to no avail. the room was pitch black, and he couldn’t see anything, as if he was stuck in a black hole.

then, one bulb of light shone not so far. he noticed he was now standing, not on the bed anymore.

the yellowish light approached him slowly and then, in a cinematic way one would see in a movie or at the theatre, the light increased in volume and blinded his eyes while enveloping the whole space that surrounded him.

xavier squinted his eyes, barring them with one hand from being blinded. the next second he opened them, he saw… you. well, he thought it was you. [name]! he called out, but his throat didn’t emit any sound, as if it’d been sewn shut.

[name]! he tried again, but his voice rang in his mind but not out of his mouth.

you, on the other hand, stood there, eyes fixated on the ground, dressed in your hunter attire but without your battle gear.

xavier was panicking, clutching his throat with his hand, while taking a few steps in front of him.

[name]! he shouted. silence. 

you turned around and walked further, never turning around, as if he was invisible to your eyes.

that’s when xavier started running. he sprinted, one arm spread ahead ready to catch you, the other moving at his side. his irregular breathing and racing heart were nothing compared to the fear that slowly crept up at him, unknown. if he didn’t catch you then, you’d leave him and never return, he thought. he finally got close. just a few more steps. his hand seemed to have finally found yours, but when he grabbed it, you turned around and looked at him with that same vacant expression and eyes veiled with unfamiliarity, emptiness.

all of a sudden, xavier woke up with his heart racing and throat burning. his uneven breath and sweaty hands were the only memento that nightmare left him with.

“baby, are you alright?” your voice reached his ears like a melodious song, he turned his head and cups your face, turning it left and right, checking if what he’d seen was the truth or just a joke pulled by his paranoid mind.

xavier sighed in relief, closing his eyes as you stroked his back and cradled his frightened form in your arms.

“shh it’s alright, everything will be alright, m’kay?” your comforting voice was just what he needed.

you pulled him in a tight embrace, and his heartbeat finally quieted down while following the rhythm of yours. his soft snores followed right after, as xavier finally felt peace, nestled against your body, his home.

the thing RAFAYEL was most scared of was being discarded by you, just like a toy you don’t need anymore, abandoned and forgotten. it was a fear he’d never voice out, not wanting to risk it becoming reality.

that’s one of the reasons why some days he seemed childishly clingy, craving contact with you at every moment of the day. 

it was a complex fear of his. what if you got annoyed by him one day and just decided he wasn’t worth your time anymore? no, rafayel wanted to shower you with his love, so that you’d at least understand his affection and not turn away from him, ever.

rafayel’s status as artist caused an insurmountable amount of stress, but he couldn’t complain, not when he was able to do something he loved so much with no restrictions.

and it’s important to note that, ever since he met you, you’d become the sole source of his inspiration. 

he'd painted you so many times, not to mention the hundreds of finished and unfinished sketches.

and, in the process of completing one of those, rafayel found himself dozing off, his tiredness bringing his soul to another universe.

the only sound audible was the gentle crashing of the waves against the shore, the surface of the water reflecting the silver glow of the moonlight, while the sky painted black hosted little sparkly stars.

rafayel felt drawn to that calm sea at night, the breeze accompanying his movement as he slowly but steadily walked towards the water, his feet dipping in the soft sand, eyes hypnotised by something unknown.

that’s when you appeared. your feet touched the water, and you stood there, feeling the waves come and go, gaze fixated on the faraway horizon.

“babe, is that you?” rafayel called out, stretching a hand towards the blue ocean.

you turned around, lips curving upwards as your eyes met his.

rafayel felt soothed, even after being thrown into that unknown scenery.

within seconds, he was there at your side.

you looked at him, without uttering a single word, but he didn’t mind. he took your hand in his, intertwining your fingers, then pulled you in for an embrace.

except, a second later, his arms wrapped around air, you were nowhere to be found.

“[name]?” he looked around, disoriented.

“where are you?”

nothing. you were nowhere. it was only the vast expanse of sea, and him standing ashore, like a stranded mariner on a faraway island.

“[name]!” rafayel woke up calling out your name.

he looked around, calming down after realising he was sitting in his atelier, canvases and sketchbook pages surrounded him as his chest rose and fell with each heavy breath he took.

he fumbled in his pocket for his phone, ready to call you. you picked up almost immediately.

“raf?”

“baby, i need to see you right now,” he pleaded.

for a couple of seconds he couldn’t hear an answer, only indistinct noise. 

“open the door,” you said, and he jumped to his feet and ran to the door.

“hey baby, miss-” he stopped you mid-sentence, pulling you into his embrace. he dove his face in the crook of your neck, tightening the hold of his arms around your body.

“please, stay,” he mumbled in a muffled tone, and you complied, stroking his hair gently.

you’d noticed how startled he seemed during the call and when he opened the door. luckily, you’d already been close to his studio.

“i’m staying. i’ll always be by your side.”

CALEB missed you desperately, especially after days being mid air. the exhaustion written all over his face worked like a charm as a way to avoid his chatty colleagues. nobody dared to annoy him, not after witnessing his darkening under eyes and irritated air.

to make matters worse, the day he was supposed to go home, you were dispatched on a mission and would return later that night.

he opened the door, welcomed by the cold and silence of his home, put down his bag and headed straight for the sofa, still in uniform, his hat weighing on his head unnervingly.

he looked around, no sign of you any time soon. perhaps that’s what pushed him to get some rest, so that at least he’d have some energy when you got home later that day.

he plopped down and closed his eyes, obscuring them with his hat and slowly drifting into unconsciousness.

as he opened his eyes he was met by the familiar sight of your home in linkon city. 

oh, what a nostalgic sentiment. caleb looked around, his gaze fixating on the small garden, before heading towards the door.

“caleb! come inside, lunch’s ready!” you called out to him in an overjoyed voice.

“alright!” he responded. he’d been missing you so desperately, you now appeared in his dreams. caleb felt elated, to say the least.

the rest of the day proceeded tranquil and mild, you’d had lunch and he was stuck doing the dishes, while grandma scolded you both over silly but intentional squabbles.

in the late afternoon, the two of you walked on the street after getting ice cream, while talking about anything and everything.

you giggled to a joke he made, and caleb wished to trap that giggle in a disc and listen to it every time he missed you. 

“let’s sit over there,” you pointed to a bench, and trotted there before falling down, tired from the walk. caleb dropped down next to you, his lips curved in a gentle smile as he admired your beauty. 

“... what do you think of that?” he was startled from his trance, jolting in his spot as he scratched his head, embarrassed. you’d realised he hadn’t listened to a single word you’d been telling him.

“seriously, you never listen,” you pouted, crossing your arms and turning away from him.

caleb chuckled and slowly coaxed you, ruffling your hair as he apologised.

usually, you’d give in on the spot, never actually able to stay mad at him, as he begs for your forgiveness like a puppy.

but you suddenly got up, your features twisted in a furious look.

“i’ll find someone who listens,” and you walked away, trodding in quick steps and getting further away from him. shaking the previous shock, he frantically went after you, but before he could reach you, an unexpected explosion ruined everything. 

he was pushed back, shielding his face with his arms, his heart jumping in his throat.

he looked up to notice a building which fell down buried everything in debris.

“pips?” he looked around, disoriented.

“[name]?” again, no response.

he ran towards the rubble, his hands crashing against the heavy and broken bricks, hoping, praying you’d be safe after that.

“please, [name]!”

caleb was jolted awake by the ringing doorbell.

he sat up, feeling welcomed by a pulsating headache. damn, so much for getting a rest, he mumbled.

the sudden nightmare surely wasn’t in his plans.

he opened the door with a tired look, as you jumped straight into his arms.

“i’m here!” 

he tumbled backwards, almost falling down from surprise. “pip-squeak? is that you?” 

you cupped his cheeks and nodded, noticing his softening tired gaze.

he pulled you in for another hug, a longer one this time. “i missed you so much,” he mumbled against your hair. you rubbed his back in a soothing manner, whispering a “me too” right into his ear.

© sylusgworl - 2025, all rights reserved / i don't allow anyone to copy, repost on other platforms or sell my works.

[novaimperia]

★ asking roommate!sukuna to give you some space. literally.

“don’t you think if i could, i would have by now?” he fires back in a drawl, rolling his eyes. 

right now, you two are squished together in a dark supply closet in the campus atrium, bodies pressed so tightly there’s barely any room to breathe. you keep hushed, listening out for any shuffling less than a metre from where you are holed up with your roommate; the door’s locked and there’d be no reason to suspect you’re both in here but neither of you want to take the chance.

because, outside the door, is a girl with a furious appetite for revenge. she had seen you in the hallway around the corner and questioned you. apparently, your roommate owed her a date on friday night but he hadn’t turned up. that was the third time he’d made a promise to her he didn’t keep. not one for the drama, you were intent on keeping yourself out of it, but because the universe hates you, she narrowed her eyes and said that her friends saw you and him coming out of a movie theatre that very evening. 

of course she didn’t listen when you stammered that you didn’t plan to be there with him. you just wanted to be dropped off because it was late but then, for reasons you can’t really imagine, he chose to stay. she didn’t believe you. a ping went off. distracted with her phone for a moment, you skedaddled out of there, wanting to keep your head on your shoulders for a little longer. in comical fashion, when turning the corner, you saw the second person she has on her kill list. 

things quickly got out of hand after that. 

he didn’t fight very much when you yanked him in here nor did he seem very surprised to hear that a girl was out to get him. 

“ugh, where did she go?” the scorned woman screeches. “i’m gonna beat that whore up, i swear. she totally stole sukuna from me.”

‘stolen’ man huffs in amusement. you smack his chest.

she must be on the phone. briefly, you wonder how many people are building up hatred for you on campus by the simple virtue of living with the pink haired promise-breaker. guess his reputation is contagious. crossing your figures, you hope this won’t be a regular occurrence. and, showing no signs of leaving, if the frustrated stomping of feet pacing the hallway is anything to go by, your head slumps against sukuna’s chest in defeat. innocent of all charges, you’re not sure why you felt the need to hide, much less with him when he should be facing the consequences of his actions on his own. 

it’s not as if he deserves your protection – the stubborn bastard won’t move back just an inch even though he obviously knows he’s threatening to flatten you out like a bug against the wall with his towering body.

“just text her an apology or something,” you hiss. 

you can’t see it but you do feel his pierced brow quirk up. “i’m not gonna apologise ‘cause she can’t take a fucking hint. woman’s been hounding me since forever.”

“well, maybe you shouldn’t be asking her out and then flaking. ever thought of that?” mumbling against his shirt, you’re forced to breathe him in. he smells of burnt wood, the leather strap of a guitar, and nicotine. it’s both exhilarating and calming; you’re gonna fall asleep at this rate. 

something gentle and calloused brushes your hair away from your face. it lulls you deeper into slumber. his words vibrate against your cheek, a little aggressive with a tinge of vulnerability. “i didn’t. she made those plans on her own. don’t wanna go on a date with her.”

“oh.”

minutes pass. you can’t hear anything outside anymore. neither of you rush out. despite how cramped the fit is, it’s oddly comfortable. on second thoughts, maybe you wouldn’t mind spending the rest of the day here. with him. 

“quit fucking moving; you’re practically humping me a like a dog.”

never mind. 

you flick his nipple in retaliation and yelp when metal meets fingernail. he snorts. a little embarrassed, you retort, “you have a boner pressed right up against my stomach – who’s really the dog here, s’kuna?”

shoving him away, you emerge from the storage closet and take a deep inhale of relatively fresh air. she’s not here anymore. good. hopefully you won’t run into her for a while. you look back. your roommate doesn’t step out, instead he flexes his jaw and rolls his shoulder back, avoiding your eye. the tips of his ears are pink. gruffly, he mutters, “go ahead. wait by my car. i’ll be out in a sec.”

blink. blink.

a sponge smacks into your face when you laugh like a madwoman.

[dragoneyelashart]

not alot, just forever

fluff/ angst/ smut ୨ৎ

a/n: kind of inspired by gilmore girls wc: 8.2k words

the town’s small. not in the cute brochure way, but in the way that everyone knows your last name, and your dog’s name, and what kind of coffee you drink when it’s raining. it’s the kind of place where people wave from their cars, where the hardware store still writes receipts by hand, and where gossip moves faster than cell service.

your café sits on the corner of main and pine, right where the sidewalk cracks from the roots of an old tree no one’s had the heart to cut down. it’s got a crooked front window and a hand-painted sign that’s faded just enough to feel lived in. the inside smells like espresso, warm bread, and whatever candle you remembered to light that morning. vanilla and cedar today, something soft.

you open early. before the sun sometimes. before the bakery next door even finishes their first batch. the regulars come in half-awake, rubbing sleep out of their eyes, trading quiet good mornings and weather talk. you keep the music low. nothing that talks too loud.

there’s a slow rhythm here. the mail truck pulls up at nine. the local high school kids try to sneak in before class, thinking you don’t notice their backpacks and fake IDs. the sheriff always comes by at noon, nods like he doesn’t have time to sit, then stays for twenty minutes.

it’s not flashy. not exciting. but it’s yours. your space, your hands on every corner of it, from the mismatched mugs to the chalkboard menu that smudges no matter how carefully you write.

you built this place like a second skin. like something to belong to.

and even on the days when the sky’s gray and your body’s tired and you want the whole town to just shut up for five minutes, you love it. you love it the way you love an old book. the way you love silence after too much noise.

it’s just past 10 when she walks in.

you don’t even have to look at the clock. you know her footsteps by now, slow, heavy, like she’s already tired of the day. the bell above the door rings a half-second before the scent of outside air slips in with her, warm and full of summer dust.

you glance up. she’s wearing jeans that look like they’ve been through something, cuffed sloppily at the ankle, and a black t-shirt that says i have the dick so i make the rules in bold white letters. subtle, as always.

you roll your eyes before she even says anything.

she catches the look and smirks like she’s already won. “good morning to you too, sunshine.”

“barely morning,” you mutter, wiping down the espresso machine even though it doesn’t need it.

she drops her laptop on the counter table like she didn’t just walk in here with that shirt and expect to be normal about it.

“bold outfit,” you say, eyes flicking back to the phrase stretched across her chest.

she shrugs, sliding onto one of the stools. “had a long night. didn’t really look in the mirror.”

you hum, not sure if you believe her.

her hair’s a little messy, in that “i don’t care” way that actually means she probably spent twenty minutes getting it just messy enough. dark circles under her eyes, but still somehow glowing. she pulls the laptop open like she’s here to get work done, but you already know that’s a lie.

“you actually gonna use that thing?” you ask, nodding to the laptop.

“maybe. depends if you’re interesting enough today.”

“so probably not.”

she grins. “don’t sell yourself short, babe. you’re half the reason i’m even vertical right now.”

you snort. “and the other half?”

“caffeine. spite. sexual tension.”

you don’t respond, but you can feel the heat crawl up your neck. you turn away, pretending to rearrange the croissants even though they’re already lined up.

the café’s in its late-morning lull. a few people are tucked into booths, quiet conversation and the soft clink of ceramic mugs. the sunlight through the windows makes the wooden floors glow, and everything feels a little softer than it should, too peaceful, too golden.

and then there’s her. sprawled out at the end of the counter like it’s her personal front-row seat to your daily performance.

she types something on her laptop. you glance over, probably fake typing, she’s been on the same screen for ten minutes.

but her eyes? they’re watching you.

always you.

you move through the motions, restocking lids, sweeping up stray sugar packets, pulling espresso shots, and you can feel her watching.

not in a creepy way. not in a heavy way. just... there. steady. like background music you’ve started to memorize.

“so what was this long night?” you ask, breaking the quiet.

she shrugs, not looking away from her screen. “went out. stayed out. regretted it halfway through.”

“rough crowd?”

“rough thoughts,” she says, and that’s all.

you don’t push. you never do.

but your fingers slow on the lid stack. and for a second, the silence feels a little too loud.

“coffee?” you ask instead, voice softer now.

she looks up.

“you offering, or trying to get me to pay rent?”

“depends on how annoying you plan to be today.”

“guess you’ll find out.”

you roll your eyes and grab a cup anyway. you don’t even ask what she wants, you already know. you always know.

she watches you make it. you can feel her eyes on your hands, your shoulders, your mouth when you frown at the milk frother.

you try not to let it show, but it’s hard to pretend she’s just another customer when she looks at you like that. like you’re a painting in a museum she keeps sneaking glances at when no one’s looking.

you hand her the cup, fingers brushing just barely.

she takes the cup from your hand, but doesn’t drink it right away. just holds it like it might say something. her fingers tap twice against the lid before she finally lifts it to her lips.

“mmm,” she hums, eyes closed for a second. “you spoil me.”

“you overpay me.”

“you don’t charge me.”

“exactly.”

she cracks one eye open, tilts her head. “that a confession?”

“that’s a mistake,” you mutter, moving back behind the bar.

she laughs, short, a little raspy. it sticks to the air like steam.

you turn toward the sink, rinse out a milk pitcher that didn’t really need rinsing, and she’s still there when you turn around again. legs crossed now, one boot toe tapping against the wooden rung of the stool.

“you sleep at all?” you ask.

“enough.”

“that’s not a real answer.”

“neither was your question,” she says, biting the inside of her cheek like she’s trying not to grin. “you checking on me?”

“no.”

“liar.”

you shake your head, but your lips press into something that’s not quite a smile. she catches it anyway.

“you want half my croissant?” she asks, already tearing it unevenly.

“you haven’t ordered one.”

“semantics.”

she digs into the bag she brought with her , paper, stamped from the bakery two doors down. same one she always swings by before landing here. she slides the smaller half across the counter toward you, crumbs trailing behind like breadcrumbs in a storybook.

you glance at it, then at her. “you didn’t wash your hands.”

“i licked them.”

“you’re disgusting.”

“and yet, here you are.”

you stare her down for a second longer, then take the croissant.

she beams. like she’s won something.

the air in the café is thick with that lazy mid-morning warmth, sun on wood, cinnamon-sugar glaze softening under the heat, the buzz of quiet conversation and distant jazz playing low from the speaker above the espresso machine. you wipe down the counter between customers, slow and methodical. not because you need to, but because it gives your hands something to do.

billie keeps typing now, like she’s suddenly in the mood to be productive. her brow furrows. she chews her straw thoughtfully, even though the drink is hot and has no straw.

“hey,” she says, not looking up, “what’s a better word than bittersweet but, like... not as cheesy?”

you think for a second. “melancholy.”

“too soft.”

“poignant.”

“too smart.”

“complicated?”

she lifts her head, grinning. “you calling me complicated?”

“i’m saying you don’t like big words.”

“i like big mouths,” she says, “and you’ve got one, sweetheart.”

you shoot her a look.

she just winks.

someone new comes in, orders an iced chai and a bagel with too many modifications. you nod along, polite, efficient, not really listening. you make the drink, ring it up, hand it off. they thank you and leave.

when you glance back, billie’s watching again. not sneaky about it. just... there.

you arch an eyebrow.

“what?”

“nothing,” she says, smiling behind the rim of her cup. “you’re just cute when you’re fake-nice.”

“i’m not fake.”

“you hate 80% of your customers.”

“wrong. it’s 85.”

she laughs again, louder this time, and it draws the attention of a woman sitting at the window with her book. you pretend not to notice.

“you ever think about doing something else?” she asks, more casually than you expect.

“like what?”

“i don’t know. something where you don’t have to talk to people.”

you glance around the café, wood counters, low-hanging light fixtures, plants someone gave you two years ago still thriving in mismatched pots. “this is that job.”

“fair.”

she sips again, then rests her chin on her palm. “so you like it here?”

you shrug. “it’s mine.”

“good answer,” she says, voice softening a little. “that’s rare.”

you say nothing, and the silence settles again, not uncomfortable, just full.

like the light coming through the windows. like the sound of spoons clinking on ceramic.

around noon, she kicks off one shoe and folds her leg beneath her. then she pushes her cup toward you across the counter.

“top-up?”

“you’ve had enough.”

“it’s decaf,” she lies.

you stare at her. “it’s not.”

“maybe the real caffeine is the friends we made along the way.”

“that doesn’t make sense.”

“it does in my heart.”

you sigh and take the cup anyway.

“you’re enabling me,” she calls after you.

“i regret everything.”

you bring the cup back, hot and full, and set it in front of her.

she takes it with a mockingly sincere “thank you,” then blows across the top before taking a sip.

“perfect, as always,” she murmurs.

you don’t answer. just keep wiping down the same spot on the counter until it shines.

outside, the sidewalk’s warmed up. you can see the shimmer of heat in the distance, over the roof of the corner store across the street. a couple kids on bikes zoom by, laughing too loud. someone’s dog barks at nothing.

inside, it’s quieter. cooler. more deliberate.

billie’s watching you again. or maybe still.

“you ever take a break?” she asks.

you shrug. “sometimes.”

“you should take one now.”

“why.”

“so i can bother you without you having an excuse to run away.”

“who says i’m running?”

she tilts her head, studying you like she’s trying to solve a puzzle with one missing piece.

then she says, very softly, “nobody.”

and just like that, the moment folds in on itself. not dramatic. not sharp. just a quiet, off-center pause in the middle of a slow day.

you go back to the register.

she goes back to her laptop.

she spins slowly on the stool, back and forth, foot dragging lightly on the wooden rung beneath her. like a child.

“you know you’re my favorite person here, right?” she says after a while.

you pause with your hand on the espresso grinder. “i’m the only person who talks to you.”

“yeah well,” she shrugs. “still counts.”

you don’t reply, just flip a switch. the grinder hums. she watches you like she always does, not just with her eyes, but with her whole body, always leaning in, elbows on the counter like she’s waiting for a secret to slip out of your mouth.

you think about saying something sharp. instead, you grab a clean rag and wipe a spot near her elbow.

“you should actually work,” you murmur.

she sighs, the way she does when she’s about to say something half-serious and ruin the moment. but she doesn't.

instead: “you got a favorite flower?”

you blink.

“what?”

“flower. like, if you had to choose.”

“why?”

she shrugs, lazy. “just making conversation.”

“you never ‘just’ do anything.”

“you’re stalling.”

“i like lilies.”

“classic.”

“what, you expected something weirder?”

“nah,” she says, tipping her head back. “i expected something quiet. like you.”

you glance up.

she’s not looking at you now, just at the ceiling.

the moment stretches longer than you meant for it to. so you cut it.

“i think your laptop just fell asleep from neglect.”

she looks at it like she forgot it was even there.

“honestly, same.”

“what do you even do for a living?” you ask, mostly to change the subject.

“writer,” she says, drawing a little air quote in the sky.

you laugh, “you haven’t written a single word today.”

“i’ve been doing character studies,” she says, gesturing vaguely toward you. “you’re very inspiring.”

“you’re very unemployed.”

she gasps. “slander.”

you shrug. “truth.”

it starts with the rain.

fat drops hammering the windows like they’re trying to get in. you hear it before you see it, the hush of wind curling around the side of the building, the soft tap that builds and builds until it sounds like the sky is cracking open. the street outside is dark and empty, wet pavement glowing in flashes beneath the streetlights. your sign flickers once. holds.

the café is closed.

chairs flipped up on tables. floor freshly mopped. everything quiet except for the hum of the fridge and the storm rolling in above town. you move through it like you always do, towel in hand, mind on autopilot, wiping down surfaces that don’t really need it. the lights are dim, just the low amber ones near the counter still on. enough to see, but not enough to feel fully awake.

and then the door opens.

you hear it, that jingle you know like your own name. and for a second, you think maybe you imagined it. no one should be out right now. not in this weather.

but then she’s there.

billie.

drenched.

her hair’s plastered to her forehead, soaked all the way through. her shirt clings to her skin, black fabric darker with water, jeans stuck to her legs like she waded through a flood. she’s breathing hard like she ran here, though you doubt she did. her boots squeak on the floor.

"you’re closed," she says, but she’s already stepping inside.

"you think?"

she huffs a laugh and pushes the door shut behind her, the sound of rain suddenly muffled.

"thought i’d try my luck."

"what are you even doing out in this?"

she shrugs, like it’s nothing. like she didn’t just walk through a downpour with no umbrella, no explanation, and end up at your door.

"couldn’t sleep."

"so you decided to trespass."

she walks past the front tables, slow and dripping. "you always say that, but you never kick me out."

"you’re getting water all over my clean floor."

she spreads her arms, flashing that cocky grin even as water slides down her neck. "guess you’ll just have to mop again."

"unbelievable."

"consistently."

she peels off her jacket, leather, of course, now soaked through, and drapes it over the back of a chair. she’s shivering a little. you notice it and try not to.

"i’m making tea," you mutter, heading toward the counter. "you’re not getting coffee this late."

"yes, mom."

"keep that up and you’re getting nothing."

"you wound me."

you put the kettle on. the café smells like vanilla and lemon cleaner and storm air, sharp and fresh and oddly sweet. you hear her move behind you, the sound of her shoes coming off, probably. a sigh as she drops into a chair.

you don’t look at her.

two mugs. the good kind. not the chipped ones you give to people you don’t like.

"you okay?" you ask, because the silence stretches too long.

she doesn’t answer right away. just breathes.

"yeah," she says finally, quiet. "just... didn’t wanna be home."

you nod like that makes perfect sense. and somehow, it does.

the tea steeps. you hand her a mug and sit across from her at one of the low tables by the window.

she curls her fingers around the cup like it’s a lifeline. steam fogs up the glass. outside, the rain keeps falling, heavier now. you can’t even see the sidewalk anymore.

for a while, neither of you talk.

just the clink of ceramic. the sound of breathing. a storm outside that makes everything inside feel closer, smaller, quieter.

"you’re not gonna ask me what’s wrong?" she says eventually, looking at you over the rim of her mug.

"no."

she nods, like she expected that.

"you always do that."

"do what."

"give me space. even when i don’t ask for it."

"maybe i’m just polite."

"maybe you just get it."

you don’t respond. the air feels too full again. your tea’s gone cold, but you don’t move.

she shifts in her chair, leans back, eyes tracing the ceiling.

"you ever feel like everything’s just... closing in? like the whole town’s a box and someone’s slowly taping it shut?"

you blink. not sure what to say.

"you could’ve gone anywhere," you say.

she looks at you. eyes darker in this light. softer.

"nah," she says. "just here."

you hold her gaze for a second too long.

then you stand. grab her mug.

"more tea?"

"please."

you walk away. her voice follows, low and warm.

"you’re a softie when no one’s looking."

"shut up."

flashback: the first time she walked in

it was fall. early, before the leaves started to turn.

a tuesday, maybe. definitely slow.

you were behind the counter, wiping down the pastry case and half-listening to the radio. a soft indie track humming through the speakers. it was quiet. the kind of quiet you’d grown used to.

and then the door opened.

billie.

new face. confident stride. a little too loud for the space. sunglasses pushed up into her hair, silver chain around her neck, smirk already in place like she’d been practicing it in the mirror.

"hey," she said, walking right up to the counter like she belonged.

"hi."

"what’s good here?"

"everything."

"bold claim."

"accurate one."

she grinned.

"alright, mystery barista. surprise me."

"you allergic to anything?"

"just commitment."

that made you snort. you hated that it made you snort.

you made her a iced spanish latte with oat milk. handed it over in a to-go cup and watched her take a sip.

her eyes lit up.

"damn. okay. this is actually fire."

"told you."

"don’t get cocky."

"don’t come into my café talking big if you can’t handle the menu."

she blinked. smiled wider. leaned her elbows on the counter.

"i like you."

"you don’t know me."

"yet."

she came back the next day.

and the next.

and the next.

always something different, a bad joke, a new excuse, a worse shirt. but always that grin. always that spark. like she was waiting to catch you slipping. like she wanted to.

and somewhere between then and now, she stopped being a stranger.

and started being something else.

whatever that means.

back in the present, the rain is slowing.

the café feels smaller now. dimmer. she’s curled up in one of the big chairs near the window, tea gone, jacket still damp on the back of another chair.

you’re across from her, one leg tucked under you, fingers tracing the rim of your cup.

everything’s quiet.

"thanks for the tea," she says softly, breaking the silence.

"don’t mention it."

she looks at you, long and unreadable.

"no, seriously. thank you."

you nod.

and that’s it.

almost.

there’s a beat, a breath, where something could shift.

but it doesn’t.

not yet.

but then she shifts forward, slow and deliberate, like she’s testing gravity itself. her eyes search yours, not asking, not begging, just waiting. you don’t breathe. don’t move. until you do.

you lean in.

it’s not dramatic. it’s not sudden. it’s the kind of kiss that feels like it’s been building for years, a question finally answered. her lips are cold from the rain but her breath is warm, and the moment your mouths meet, the storm outside might as well disappear. everything narrows to the press of her hand against your knee, the tilt of her head, the impossible closeness.

it’s quiet. slow. reverent.

when you part, she lingers close, noses brushing.

"took you long enough," she whispers.

"you’re dripping on my chair," you whisper back.

she laughs, and it sounds like something breaking open.

like relief.

like home.

it’s been four years.

billie got out.

not just out of the town, out of the box she used to describe so vividly, the one with the walls closing in. she wrote about it, too. turned those suffocating feelings into paper and ink, pain into poetry, long nights into chapters that other people held in their hands. her first novel hit shelves like a thunderclap. then came the interviews. the book tours. the readings in crowded rooms where people clung to every word she said. she got famous. not explosively, but steadily. like the world had been waiting to hear from her and finally could.

you watched it all from the café.

same sign. same flickering bulb. same uneven table in the corner no one ever wanted except billie.

her name was everywhere, a whisper in literary circles that grew louder until it became a shout: billie. the girl who walked into your life like a storm, then left it drenched and broken behind her.

but you? you were left in the silence that came after.

she didn’t say goodbye.

not a word the next day after that kiss. no phone call, no text, no last look. just gone, like she was never really there.

and that absence? 

you opened the café and found the chair where she sat still damp from her jacket. her cup still on the table, empty. like she’d just stepped out to take a call and never came back.

and maybe you waited longer than you should’ve. maybe every time the door opened for weeks after, your chest hitched just a little. but she didn’t come back. not then. not for a long time. you replayed the last night over and over in your mind. the warmth of her lips against yours, the way her hand pressed into your knee like she was holding onto something too fragile to lose. but the warmth turned cold quickly. the next morning, only a void remained.

your life didn’t stop.

it just got quieter.

it didn’t just hurt. it hollowed you out.

the café felt different after that. the regulars kept coming. tourists in the summer, college kids in the fall. you got a new barista to help with mornings. painted the walls. changed the playlist.

but every now and then, someone would leave a copy of her book on a table. and you’d pretend not to see it.

until you did.

until you read it.

and there you were, in the margins. not named, not spelled out, but unmistakably you. in the taste of spanish latte’s, in the silence between dialogue, in the lines about rain that never felt cold when she was inside.

and it hurt.

because she remembered.

every creak of the floorboards, every clink of a cup felt like an echo of what was lost. you’d catch yourself glancing at the door, half-expecting her to walk back in, drenched and smirking like she always did. but the door stayed closed. the rain fell, but it didn’t wash away the ache. inside you, a quiet storm raged, grief tangled with confusion, love tangled with bitterness.

you wonder if she even thinks about you. if the applause that greets her on stage, the flashing cameras, the whispered praise, do they drown out the memory of that night? or does she feel it too? the loss, the sudden absence that still clings like a shadow?

some nights, the loneliness presses so hard against your ribs you can hardly breathe. you trace the spaces where her fingers used to brush yours, remember the way her laugh filled the room, the reckless hope in her eyes.

but mostly, it’s a dull ache. a weight you carry like a secret, tucked deep beneath the everyday, beneath the routine of opening the café, wiping down counters, making tea for strangers who’ll never know the story you carry.

you tried to move on. tried to believe that the girl who left was gone for good, a chapter closed.

but in the quiet moments, when the world slows, and the storm outside mimics the one inside, you still reach for a ghost.

billie is out there, shining bright and unreachable.

and you’re still here, holding onto the shadow of a kiss that should have meant forever.

some nights, billie lies in hotel beds that smell like bleach and borrowed air, staring at ceilings she doesn’t recognize, wondering what the sky looks like back home.

not the town. not the streets. not the peeling paint on her old apartment door.

just the sky outside your café.

she thinks about the rain.

it always felt different when she was with you. softer. quieter. like it wasn't there to ruin things but to wrap everything in a hush only you and she could hear. the storm that night lingers in her mind more than any interview, more than any standing ovation. she remembers the way your lips felt against hers, tentative, trembling, sure, and how she almost said stay. or maybe don’t let me go. but she didn’t. and the next morning, she ran.

getting out was everything she ever dreamed of. the books. the buzz. the freedom. she doesn’t regret it.

but sometimes she wonders if she mistook escape for healing.

she writes about you. never by name. never directly. but your ghost threads through every chapter. you’re in the spaces between lines. in the quiet barista with gentle hands. in the unfinished love stories. in every mention of coffee and silence and windows fogged by storm-breath.

and no one knows. not really. they think they do. they read her words and imagine someone else. someone flashier, someone louder, someone more tragic.

but it was you.

always you.

she scrolls past the photos of her book signings, smiling faces, hands clutching her novels like they mean something. and they do. they really do. but when the clamor dies down, when the hotel door clicks shut behind her and the minibar hums in the dark, she’s alone.

and in that stillness, she thinks about how you never asked her to stay. how she left anyway. how it was easier to vanish than to risk watching your face fall.

she wonders if you kept the mug she used.

she wonders if you still make tea late at night, for two, out of habit.

she wonders if, maybe, just maybe, you’d want to see her again.

but she doesn’t reach out.

not yet.

because for all the chapters she’s written, that one still terrifies her.

the one where she comes back.

and finds you no longer waiting.

a week passes like fog; thick, slow, heavy.

the town is quieter than usual. even the kids on bikes seem subdued, their laughter dimmed beneath gray skies. everyone’s waiting for something. or maybe mourning something already gone.

the morning of the funeral, the air hangs low. not quite raining, but close, moisture clinging to skin, clouding the edges of windows, making every breath feel heavier.

mr. peterson is gone.

a man whose hands were always smudged with grease, whose voice cracked with too much laughter, who gave away more than he ever charged. he was a fixture in this town. not just a mechanic, not just a neighbor, he was memory made flesh. the kind of person who taught you how to change a tire and how to forgive in the same breath.

you stand near the back of the service, coat buttoned high, fingers knotted tight in your sleeves. the area is full, standing room only. a sea of bowed heads. a tide of grief.

you don’t cry.

not at first.

but when they start reading letters, notes written by kids, old friends, former customers, you feel your chest start to give. like something’s splintering. not all at once. just hairline fractures. soft and slow.

you blink down tears, your throat tight, and when you finally lift your gaze —

you see her.

billie.

she’s near the back. tucked into the shadow of the doorframe. black coat clinging to her body, eyes sharp and distant and aching. she doesn’t belong here, and yet, somehow, she does. she’s the same and not. taller, maybe. more tired around the eyes. her hands are folded in front of her like she’s trying not to shake.

you freeze.

your heart doesn’t beat right. skips. crashes.

she doesn’t see you.

or maybe she does, and she just doesn’t move.

and you don't go to her.

after, the crowd spills out into the misty gray. people hugging, crying, sharing stories in quiet tones. you move with them, pulled along by ritual. but your mind is on her. your skin still humming from the way her presence sliced through the air like a knife.

you don’t speak. you don’t look back. but her shadow follows you home.

you think maybe she’s gone again.

but the next day, you see her.

first it’s just a shape, across the street, moving slow. her hands buried deep in her coat, sunglasses on despite the lack of sun. she walks like she’s listening to old music no one else can hear. then another day. closer this time. standing at the crosswalk. waiting. not crossing. not coming in.

you pretend not to notice.

but of course you notice.

how could you not?

every time the bell above the café door rings, you think it’s her. every stranger with wet hair and tired eyes turns your stomach to knots.

she’s haunting you, and she hasn’t even spoken.

and then, friday night.

the café is dark.

you’ve just mopped the floor. the chairs are up. the last tea cup sits drying in the rack. it smells like lemon and lavender, like peace you haven’t quite earned. you’re locking up. reaching for the switch.

the door opens.

the bell.

your whole body goes still.

slowly, like turning in a dream, you look up.

billie stands in the doorway. wet from the rain. hair curling at the ends. eyes wide, searching.

you can’t breathe.

she’s backlit by the streetlamp, pale gold framing her like something not quite real. water beads along her jaw. she doesn’t speak.

you do.

“we’re closed,” you say, the words flat, automatic.

but it’s not anger in your voice.

it’s fear.

hurt.

history.

she steps inside anyway. closes the door behind her. the bell falls silent. the rain hushes to a whisper against the windows.

“i know,” she says.

you stand behind the counter, both hands gripping the edge. you can feel your heartbeat in your fingertips.

“then what are you doing here?”

her eyes flick around the room like she’s memorizing it. like maybe she’s been seeing it in her head for years and forgot how quiet it really is.

“i couldn’t stay away,” she whispers.

you exhale. sharp. wounded.

“you don’t get to say that. not after four years. not after you left without a word.”

she flinches.

“i know.”

“do you?” you take a step forward, words shaking. “you kissed me and left. didn’t call. didn’t write. just vanished like it meant nothing. like i meant nothing.”

her face breaks at that, creases down the middle like glass spidering beneath pressure.

“you meant everything,” she says, voice low, wrecked.

“then why did you leave?”

“because if i stayed, i wouldn’t have had the strength to go,” she says, eyes locked on yours. “and if i asked you to come with me, you would’ve. and i couldn’t ask you to give this up. the café. your life. you belonged here, and i didn’t even know who i was yet.”

you stare at her.

rain pools at her feet. the floor you just cleaned glistens under her boots.

you should be angry. you are.

but mostly, you’re hollow.

“i waited,” you say. the words barely audible. “for months. i woke up hoping. every day. every day i hoped you’d walk through that door. every day i saved your mug. and then i stopped. because i had to. because you didn’t come back.”

her shoulders tremble. her hands shake.

“i wanted to,” she breathes. “god, i wanted to. every book i wrote, every sentence had you in it. but i scared… i was so scared. of seeing you. of not being what you remembered. of finding you happy without me.”

you say nothing.

the air between you buzzes. too many words. too many memories.

she takes a step closer.

you don’t move.

“i came back,” she says. “because i couldn’t carry it anymore. the silence. the wondering. i needed to see you. even if it hurts. even if you hate me.”

you close your eyes.

because she’s here.

and it hurts.

because you missed her.

and it still hurts.

because part of you never stopped waiting.

and it hurts more than anything.

“i don’t hate you, i could never hate you billie” you whisper.

her breath catches.

you open your eyes and look at her, and she looks so lost. so different. and still so devastatingly familiar.

“but i don’t know if that’s enough.”

she nods. eyes glossy. jaw tight.

“can i sit?” she asks.

“you’re already standing in the past,” you say, voice breaking. “might as well.”

and when she sinks into the nearest chair, small, soaked, shaking, it’s not the reunion either of you dreamed of.

the room is still. too still.

the hum of the fridge in the back is the only sound, low and distant, like a heartbeat underwater. the rain keeps falling against the windows, soft now,more of a whisper than a song. time slows.

you stay behind the counter for a long moment, hands braced against the wood, watching her where she sits,soaking, shivering, small in the big armchair she used to call “her throne.”

she doesn’t look at you.

her eyes are on her hands, clenched in her lap, the knuckles white with strain. her coat is dripping onto the floor. her hair sticks to her cheek. there’s a tremor in her shoulders she’s trying to hide.

you step away from the counter.

cross the floor in slow, careful steps, the echo of your footfalls muffled by the hush. you grab the old throw blanket from the back of the couch,the one customers always fought over on colder mornings. it still smells like lavender and lemon cleaner. you drape it over her shoulders without a word.

she flinches at the contact, but doesn’t pull away.

“you’ll catch cold,” you murmur, voice barely more than breath.

“that’d be fair,” she replies, not looking at you. “at least then the outside would match the inside.”

you sit down across from her, slowly, like the weight of the conversation has aged you ten years. the old table between you is scratched and familiar. there are tea rings stained into the surface. ghostly reminders of better days.

you rest your hands on your knees. open. empty.

she finally lifts her head.

and the moment your eyes meet, it all tightens again, that brutal pull in your chest. her face is thinner, somehow. older. the sharpness around her mouth softened with fatigue. but her eyes are still the same.

still her.

you look away first.

“i made a life without you,” you say softly. “it wasn’t the one i thought i’d have. but i made it.”

her voice cracks.

“i know.”

“and i’m not angry,” you add, even though your throat tightens. “i was. for a long time. but then i got tired. and sadness is quieter. easier to carry.”

she closes her eyes. her chest rises and falls, shallow and quick.

“i hated myself for leaving,” she says. “i still do.”

“then why didn’t you come back?”

“because… i thought it would hurt you more if i did. because i thought you deserved someone who wouldn’t run.” she exhales. “but the truth is, i was just a coward. i was scared that i couldn’t be enough. scared that you’d look at me and see someone smaller than the version you loved.”

you swallow hard.

you want to tell her she was enough. you want to scream that you would’ve followed her anywhere if she had just asked. but the silence has lived between you for too long now. and grief has made your truths quieter.

“i missed you every day,” she whispers. “even when people were cheering for me. even when i stood on stage with my name in lights. none of it felt real. not without you.”

you clench your jaw.

“i watched your interviews,” you say, voice shaking. “i read your books. tried to find myself in the pages. i thought… maybe i’d show up as a line. a place. something.”

“you were everything,” she says instantly, eyes wide. “you were in every line. i just didn’t know how to say it.”

you go quiet.

a breath.

two.

the rain softens.

finally, you whisper, “you broke me.”

her face twists. like you’ve struck her.

but you continue, slow and steady and wrecked: “you broke me, billie. and then you got famous. you got out. and i was still here, trying to remember how to breathe without you.”

tears trace silently down her cheeks.

she doesn’t wipe them.

“i didn’t mean to ruin you,” she says.

“you didn’t,” you reply. “but you didn’t stay to help me rebuild, either.”

she presses her palms to her eyes. breathes in deep. when she drops her hands, her voice is hoarse, broken open.

“do you hate me?”

the question hangs in the air like smoke.

you take your time.

you think about the nights alone. the mornings with no texts. the empty seat in your café. the ache that never left.

and then you think of her laugh. the way her eyes used to crinkle when she was trying not to cry. the way she kissed you like it meant forever.

“no,” you say. “i never could.”

she lets out a sound then, half sob, half exhale.

you lean back in the chair. arms crossed tightly. like you’re holding yourself together.

and she looks at you, through all the time and space and years between you, and asks the only question she’s ever truly feared:

“can you ever forgive me?”

and for the first time in years, you don’t know.

you just look at her.

and feel everything. and nothing. all at once.

you don’t speak for a long time.

her question hovers in the space between you like smoke , fragile, curling, waiting to disappear.

can you ever forgive me?

your fingers twitch against your jeans. your mouth opens, then closes. it’s hard to say the words, not because they aren’t true, but because they are.

you nod.

slowly. once. then again.

and when you finally look her in the eyes, you say, “yeah. i think i already have.”

billie crumbles in the quietest way, her shoulders fold in on themselves, her hands press over her mouth like she’s holding back the kind of sob that doesn’t come from the throat, but from the bones. her whole body shakes, and you don’t hesitate.

you move to her.

kneel in front of the chair, take her hands gently in yours.

she grips you like she might fall through the floor otherwise.

and when you whisper, “come upstairs,” it’s not an invitation out of pity. it’s not because you feel sorry for her. it’s because some part of you, maybe the oldest part, still aches to be close. to know she’s real. to touch the space between you and feel it finally closing.

she just nods.

no words.

just eyes full of disbelief. and hope. and something like reverence.

you lead her to the back door behind the counter, past the shelves of forgotten mugs and the coat you always mean to mend. the stairs creak beneath your steps. they always do.

it’s not a long climb. but it feels like one.

you unlock the door to your apartment and step inside first.

it’s warm. small. safe.

a little kitchen. a threadbare couch. a desk with papers stacked in neat towers. your bed, tucked into the corner, soft with mismatched linens and the weight of years lived alone. plants line the windowsill, stubborn things, thriving despite it all.

she stands just inside the doorway, blinking slowly, like she’s afraid to breathe.

“this is yours?” she asks quietly, eyes scanning the space.

“yeah,” you say. “it’s not much. but it’s mine.”

she smiles , a soft, broken thing , and nods. “it’s beautiful.”

you move to the kitchen, hands shaking slightly, filling the kettle without asking. she sits at the edge of your bed, silent, watching you like she can’t believe this is real.

when you finally hand her a mug, your fingers brush hers.

electric.

she holds it close to her chest, like it’s keeping her grounded. her lips press to the rim, but she doesn’t drink.

“i didn’t date anyone,” you say suddenly, voice barely audible. “all these years. i tried, once or twice. but…”

you shake your head.

“they weren’t you.”

she looks up.

and you see it , the guilt, the sorrow, the overwhelming, all-consuming ache of someone who’s been waiting to hear that and dreading it at the same time.

“i didn’t either,” she whispers. “there were people. parties. places. but i couldn’t… not really. my body showed up. my mouth smiled. but the rest of me was stuck here. with you.”

you sit beside her on the bed.

your knees touch.

you take the mug from her hands, set it down on the nightstand.

and when you turn back, her eyes are full of tears.

“i’m still in love with you,” she breathes. “i never stopped.”

you exhale, shaky.

and you say, “i know.”

then, softer: “me too.”

her hands find yours again.

and when she leans in, slowly, like she’s asking permission with every inch, you meet her halfway.

the kiss isn’t soft, at first.

it’s desperate.

years of silence, of pain, of longing , all poured into the press of her lips, the way her hands cradle your jaw, the way you pull her in like you’ll never let go again. it’s messy. tear-streaked. trembling.

but it’s real.

and when it slows, when your foreheads press together and you both breathe in the same shaky, broken breath , it’s like the years collapse.

she pulls you into her lap, hands splayed at your waist, holding you like a prayer. your fingers slip into her hair, still damp from the rain.

there’s no rush. no expectation.

just closeness. warmth. the quiet joy of a second chance.

you curl into each other under the old quilt. fully clothed. fully wrecked. fully home.

and in the dark, as the storm outside softens into silence, you whisper into the hollow of her throat:

“this time… stay.”

and she nods, voice catching on the promise she makes like it’s sacred.

“i will.”

you don’t remember who moves first.

maybe it’s her hand brushing against your cheek, thumb tracing just beneath your eye like she’s memorizing the slope of you. maybe it’s you shifting closer, letting your nose nudge hers, your breath catching when she doesn’t pull away.

either way, it’s slow. deliberate.

when she kisses you again, it’s different than before , no rush, no desperation. just depth. quiet and aching and full of things neither of you know how to say. her lips are soft, and there’s a tremble in the way she moves, like she’s afraid she might do this wrong, might ruin it somehow. but your fingers curl in the hem of her shirt and you guide her closer, chest to chest, breath to breath.

you feel her sigh into your mouth , like relief, like surrender.

she kisses you like she remembers everything. like her body has held this memory tight and she’s only now letting it resurface. your hands move together in sync, clumsy at first, tugging at fabric more for closeness than for want. her shirt lifts, yours follows, and the air between you shifts , warm skin pressed to warm skin.

her fingers drag slowly along the curve of your spine, reverent. she kisses down your neck, over your collarbone, her mouth whisper-soft, as though afraid she might spook you. you tilt your head back, eyes fluttering shut, breath stuttering as her lips find all the places she dreamed of tracing over and over.

the blanket slides down around your hips. the rain has stopped, but the warmth remains. your apartment glows in soft lamplight , golden and still. she pushes your hair back, presses a kiss to your temple, then your jaw, then your shoulder.

"you’re still the most beautiful thing i’ve ever seen," she murmurs, voice breaking like the words are heavy.

your throat tightens. you don’t answer. instead, you let your body say it , the way you wrap your arms around her waist, the way you guide her down until she’s pressed against you fully, your leg slipping between hers, chests rising and falling in sync.

her hands explore like she’s painting you , palms dragging over your ribs, your waist, the dip of your stomach. her fingers shake, but her touch never falters. her lips find your skin again and again, like she’s trying to memorize the shape of your forgiveness.

you gasp when her mouth meets your sternum, when her fingers trace delicate lines along your side. you feel open. raw. like your heart is resting just beneath the surface of your skin, beating in time with hers.

when her hand trails lower , tentative, trembling , you let out a soft sound, half a gasp, half a plea.

"billie," you whisper, the name a prayer on your tongue. your fingers tighten in her hair, guiding her gaze to yours. there’s no shame in your voice, just aching honesty. "please… touch me."

her breath stutters, like hearing you like this cracks something open in her chest. her hand finds your thigh, sliding up with exquisite slowness, until she’s nestled against you , where the heat between your legs pulses with need and something deeper, more fragile. she pauses, eyes searching yours.

"are you sure?" she asks, voice hoarse.

you nod, breathless. "i need you."

and when her fingers finally press at your sensitive clit, your back arches, not just from want, but from the feeling of being seen. known. forgiven.

she moves with care, every touch a silent apology, every stroke a vow. her fingers pushed deep inside you, your eyes tracing her every move. when she slips her thigh between yours, and you move to meet her, your bodies slotting together in an intimate, aching rhythm.

she moves like she knows your body better than memory, every shift of her hips, every graze of skin, sending heat curling low in your stomach. when her thigh presses between yours and you move to meet her, the friction is slow, electric. it sparks something deep inside you, not rushed, not frantic, just full.

you rock together, breath to breath, skin slick and warm, the rhythm natural, instinctive. her body pressed against yours becomes a tether, grounding and consuming all at once. every roll of her hips draws a whimper from your throat, a sound you can’t bite back, not when she’s watching you like that, eyes dark, focused, like you’re the only thing she sees. billie’s head is thrown back, the feeling of finally having you to herself, driving her insane. pleasure blooms in slow waves. not sharp, but heady. liquid. it builds with every drag of your bodies together, your muscles tightening, trembling, aching for more.

your hands clutch at her, her waist, her back, her shoulders, needing something to hold onto, something to keep you from unraveling completely. and still, she moves with you, against you, as if trying to memorize the exact sound you make when it becomes too much.

you whisper her name like a mantra, over and over, voice breaking around it. her mouth finds your jaw, your throat, your collarbone, every kiss stoking the fire she’s already lit beneath your skin. “billie, fuck, feels so good” you whisper out, running your hands up her chest softly. “yeah? feels good, mama? m gonna have you coming over and over for me,”

a slow kind of desperation, hips rocking, skin to skin, tears slipping down your cheeks as you whisper her name over and over.

"i missed you," you choke out between gasps. "i missed you so much, billie“

she presses her forehead to yours, her hand clutching yours tight above your heads, like she’s holding you together. your legs tighten around her, the tension building.

"i’ve got you my love,” she whispers. “m not leaving now“

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[maxtermind]

i need the next scene of look at how my tears ricochet SOOOOOOO BADDD ITS SOOOO GOOD 😭😭😭 I AM ON MY KNEES 🛐🛐🛐

SCENE 3 :: SHOW ME HOW ↳ look at how my tears ricochet — lewis hamilton ༉‧₊˚✧

★ : pairing :: lewis hamilton x reader ★ : genre :: text au; angst; slow-burn; enemies to lovers(?); arranged marriage you and your husband are nothing more than strangers tied together by a contract neither of you wanted. stuck between cold silences and biting words, you manage to keep the world fooled, but behind the scenes, your walls are crumbling, your carefully guarded defenses cracking. desperate to leave but nowhere to stay. your home was not a place but a person now. ★ : a/n :: so this might be a little confusing, I lost the screenshot I took and had to redo the last conversation from pure brain memory and mine isn't particularly good so :") scene title song!

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[gojosconsort]

what happens in the car, stays in the car !? // nanami kento

𓂃୨ৎ you're the young intern who's been fantasizing about your stoic coworker, nanami, and he's the older, unhappily taken man who finally breaks, pinning you down in his car after drinks to fuck you senseless.

𓂃୨ৎ pairing. afab!reader x coworker!nanami

𓂃୨ৎ warnings. mdni. oral (both receiving), fingering, deep throating, spanking, bondage (seatbelt), edging, age gap, overstimulation, cheating (nanami has a girlfriend), gagging (with tie), creampie, drunk driving (don't do that! it's more of a plot hole), car sex

you’re sitting at the bar, the dim lights casting a warm glow over the polished wood counter, the faint hum of chatter and clinking glasses filling the air. it’s been a long week at the office, and you and nanami, your coworker who’s somehow always got that tired look in his eyes, decided to hit this place to unwind.

he’s in his early thirties, a bit older than you and more experienced in your job, but tonight his tie’s loosened, top button undone, and there’s a slight flush on his cheeks from the whiskey he’s drinking.

you’re in your early twenties, still figuring out the corporate grind, and maybe that’s why you’re drawn to him—his steady presence, the way he carries himself like he’s seen it all but hasn’t let it break him.

you’re both a little buzzed, the kind of buzz that makes your laughter come easier and your shoulders relax. the bar’s crowded, but it feels like it’s just the two of you in this corner, elbows brushing on the countertop. he’s telling you about some client who botched a deal today, his voice low and rough, and you’re leaning in closer than you need to, catching the faint scent of his cologne—something expensive, woody, grounding. you make a snarky comment about the client, and he chuckles, a rare sound that makes your stomach flip.

“you’re trouble, you know that?” he says, his eyes flicking to yours, a playful edge to his tone that’s not usually there. he’s got that half-smile, the one that makes him look younger, less burdened. you grin, nudging his arm with yours, your skin lingering against his for a second too long.

“me? trouble? you’re the one who’s been scowling at spreadsheets all week,” you tease, sipping your drink, the burn of alcohol warming your throat. your knee bumps his under the bar, and you don’t pull away. neither does he.

he shakes his head, but his gaze doesn’t leave you. “you make it hard to stay focused,” he mutters, almost to himself, and you catch it, your heart doing a little stutter.

he’s got a girlfriend, you know that—someone he’s been with for years, someone he talks about in passing but never with any warmth. you’ve seen the way his jaw tightens when her name comes up in conversation, the way he changes the subject. it’s none of your business, but you can’t help wondering what’s keeping him there when he looks so damn miserable.

“what, i’m a distraction now?” you say, leaning closer, your voice light but your eyes searching his. you’re treading a line, you both know it, but the alcohol’s got you bold, and the way he’s looking at you makes it hard to care.

he tilts his head, his fingers brushing against yours as he reaches for his glass, and you swear it’s not an accident. “something like that,” he says, his voice softer now, almost dangerous. his thumb grazes your knuckles, just for a second, and it’s enough to make your pulse race. you laugh it off, but your cheeks are warm, and you’re pretty sure he notices.

“careful, kento,” you say, using his first name like you’ve done a hundred times at the office, but here it feels different, heavier. “don’t want to get too friendly.” you’re joking, mostly, but there’s a challenge in your tone, and he picks up on it, his eyes narrowing slightly.

“too late for that, don’t you think?” he replies, and there’s something in his voice—something raw, unguarded—that makes you wonder how long he’s been holding back. his hand shifts, resting on the bar near yours, close enough that you can feel the warmth of his skin. you could pull back, keep it safe, but you don’t. instead, you let your fingers brush his, just enough to feel the spark.

the bartender slides another round your way, breaking the moment, and you both laugh, the tension easing but not disappearing. you talk about work, about the idiots in upper management, about anything that keeps the conversation flowing. but every now and then, your eyes meet, and there’s something unspoken there.

your drinks are running low, and you’re feeling reckless, the kind of reckless that comes from too much whiskey and the way his knee keeps brushing yours under the bar. you’re the one who suggests it, half-joking, half-daring. “wanna play a game? make this night a little more fun?”

he raises an eyebrow, that half-smile creeping back, and you can tell he’s intrigued. “what kind of game?” he asks, his voice low, like he’s already expecting trouble.

“truth or drink,” you say, smirking, tapping your glass with your fingernail. “answer the question or take a shot. no dodging, no bullshit.”

he leans back, considering, his eyes flicking over your face like he’s weighing the risks. “alright,” he says finally, his tone almost challenging. “you first.”

you grin, leaning closer, your elbows on the bar. “okay, kento. what’s the one thing you hate most about your relationship?” it’s a cheap shot, and you know it, but you’re curious, and the alcohol’s making you bold.

his jaw tightens, just for a second, and you think he’s gonna drink. but then he meets your gaze. “she doesn’t see me,” he says, voice quiet but heavy. “not really.” he doesn’t elaborate, just takes a sip of his whiskey anyway.

your heart does a little twist, but you keep your face neutral, nodding. “fair enough. your turn.”

he doesn’t hesitate. “what’s the most reckless thing you’ve ever done for someone you wanted?” his eyes are locked on yours, and you feel the question like a hook, pulling you in.

you laugh, but it’s nervous, and you grab your drink, stalling. “that’s a loaded one,” you mutter, but you don’t drink. instead, you lean in, voice dropping. “snuck into a guy’s apartment at three a.m. just to leave a note on his fridge. didn’t even know if he’d see it.” you don’t mention it was a dumb college crush, not worth the effort. you just watch nanami’s reaction, the way his lips twitch, almost impressed.

“bold,” he says, and there’s something in his tone that makes your skin prickle. “my turn.”

the game goes back and forth, questions getting sharper, flirtier, the shots piling up. you’re both laughing, but it’s tense, like you’re circling something dangerous. you ask him about his first kiss; he asks you about the last time you broke a rule. he’s loosening up, his usual restraint cracking, and you’re eating it up, every brush of his hand against yours sending a jolt through you.

then it’s your turn again, and you’re feeling bold, maybe too bold. “what’s one thing you’ve always wanted to try but never had the guts to do?” you ask, your voice teasing, but your eyes are daring him to cross a line.

he pauses, longer than before, his fingers tracing the rim of his glass. then he leans in, close enough that you can feel his breath, and says, “something like this.” before you can process, he grabs a shot from the bartender’s tray, holds it up, and says, “new rule. you hold the shot. i take it.”

your brain short-circuits, but you’re too far gone to back down. “what, like, in my mouth?” you say, half-laughing, half-challenging, but your heart’s pounding.

“exactly like that,” he replies, his voice so low it’s almost a growl, and his eyes are burning into yours, no trace of a joke.

you hesitate, but the way he’s looking at you—like he’s starving—makes you nod. you take the shot glass, tip your head back, and let the tequila pool in your mouth, the burn sharp against your tongue. you’re hyper-aware of everything: the bar’s noise fading, the heat of his body as he stands, the way his hand brushes your jaw as he tilts your face up.

he doesn’t break eye contact, not once, as he leans in, his lips hovering over yours for a split second, close enough that you feel the ghost of his breath. then his mouth closes over the edge of the shot, his lips brushing yours, soft but deliberate, as he takes the tequila, his tongue grazing the corner of your mouth just enough to make your knees weak. he pulls back, swallowing, his eyes dark and unreadable, but the tension’s so thick you could choke on it.

“your turn,” he says, voice rough, sitting back like nothing happened, but his hand’s still near yours, and you know you’re both in way too deep now.

the tequila’s hitting hard now, your head buzzing, the world softening around the edges. you and nanami are slouched closer together, the bar’s noise a distant hum, like it’s just you two in this hazy, charged bubble. your thighs are pressed together under the bar, and you’re not sure who leaned in first, but neither of you’s pulling away. the empty shot glasses are piling up, and your laughter’s getting looser, sloppier, every touch lingering longer than it should.

he’s got that look again, intense, like he’s trying to figure out how far this can go before it breaks. the game’s still on, but the questions are getting reckless, dangerous. it’s his turn, and he leans in, elbow on the bar.

“what’s your biggest fantasy in bed?” he asks, no preamble, no hesitation, his eyes locked on yours like he’s daring you to flinch. it’s filthy, the way he says it, and it sends a shiver down your spine, your breath catching.

you laugh, but it’s shaky, and you take a sip of your drink to buy time, your cheeks burning. you could dodge, take a shot, but the alcohol’s got your guard down, and the way he’s watching you—hungry, unguarded—makes you want to match him. you lean closer, your lips curling into a smirk, and say, “you.”

it’s out before you can stop it, hanging in the air like a spark. his eyes darken, and he doesn’t laugh, doesn’t brush it off. he just stares, his gaze heavy, like he’s imagining it right there. “careful,” he murmurs, but his voice is thick, and you catch the way his hand tightens around his glass. “you don’t know what you’re starting.”

you’re dizzy, from the drinks or him or both, but you don’t back down. “maybe i do,” you say, your voice softer now, teasing.

you’re both drunk, past the point of pretending this is just friendly, his tie long gone, sleeves rolled up, and your hair’s falling messy around your face. his hand’s been creeping closer all night, and now it’s resting on your thigh, warm and heavy through your skirt, his fingers pressing just enough to make your pulse race.

“you wanna know why i don’t get along with my girlfriend anymore?” he says, leaning in so close you can feel the heat of his breath on your cheek. his hand tightens on your thigh, sliding up an inch, and it’s enough to make your whole body go weak, your breath hitching. “yeah,” you manage, your voice barely a whisper, “tell me.”

he’s so close now, his lips almost brushing your ear, his fingers digging into your thigh like he’s anchoring himself. “it’s her,” he says, low and rough, the words spilling out like a dam’s broken. “she doesn’t want me. not the way i need. i want—fuck, i want someone who’ll let me take control, who’ll give themselves up to me, let me push them to the edge and beg for more.”

your knees are jelly, your head spinning, and you’re gripping the edge of the bar to keep yourself upright. his words are filthy, raw, painting pictures in your mind that make heat pool in your core. his hand’s still on your thigh, higher now, his thumb brushing slow circles that send shivers up your spine. you try to speak, but all that comes out is a shaky, “kento…”

he pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes heavy-lidded, searching your face like he’s waiting for you to stop him. but you don’t. you can’t. you’re too far gone, your body leaning into his touch, your lips parted, and he sees it—the way you’re unraveling under him. “you get it, don’t you?” he murmurs, his voice a low growl, his hand sliding up another inch, bold and possessive.

you’re weak, completely undone, your heart pounding so hard you’re sure he can hear it. his face is inches from yours, and you’re drowning in the scent of his cologne, the weight of his hand, the promise in his words. you know you’re crossing a line, but right now, with him this close, you don’t care.

he leans back suddenly, his hand slipping from your thigh, leaving your skin cold where his touch had been. “you wanna get out of here?” he asks. it’s not a question, not really; it’s a dare, and you feel it in your bones.

your heart stumbles, but you don’t hesitate. “yeah,” you say. you slide off the stool, legs shaky from the drinks and the way he’s looking at you, and follow him out, the cool night air hitting your skin like a shock.

his car’s parked a block away, a sleek, dark mercedes that screams understated money, and you’re hyper-aware of his presence beside you, his hand brushing your lower back as he guides you through the crowd. neither of you speaks, the silence heavy, loaded. when you reach the car, he unlocks it but doesn’t open the door right away. instead, he turns to you, backing you against the passenger side, his body close but not quite touching, caging you in.

“last chance to walk away,” he says, but you catch the strain in it, like he’s holding himself back by a thread. his eyes search yours, and you can feel the heat radiating off him, the way his hands flex at his sides like he’s itching to touch you.

you don’t walk away. you tilt your chin up, defiant, wanting, and that’s all it takes. he closes the distance, one hand cupping your jaw, firm but not rough, and kisses you like he’s been starving for it.

his lips are hot, demanding, and you melt into him, your hands fisting in his shirt as you pull him closer. the kiss is messy, all teeth and tongue, the taste of whiskey and tequila mingling, and you’re drowning in it, in him.

you arch into him, desperate for more, your body pressing against his, but he’s in control, and he proves it. when you push up on your toes, chasing his mouth, he pulls back just enough to make you whimper, his thumb brushing your lower lip, teasing. “slow down,” he murmurs, his voice a low growl that sends a shiver through you. “we’re doing this my way.”

you’re panting, your body trembling under his gaze, and he’s watching you like he’s memorizing every reaction. his hand slides to your waist, pinning you against the car, and he kisses you again, slower this time, deeper, like he’s savoring it.

you try to arch again, to press yourself closer, but he pulls back just enough to keep you wanting, his lips hovering over yours, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “patience,” he says, and the word alone makes your knees weak, his control wrapping around you like a tether you don’t want to break.

you’re trembling, caught in the push and pull of his restraint, the way he keeps you teetering on the edge with every calculated move. his hand on your waist tightens, fingers digging in just enough to make you gasp, and you feel the hard line of his body against yours.

“you’re shaking,” he murmurs, his voice low and rough, almost amused, but there’s a hunger in it that makes your stomach flip. his thumb traces a slow line along your hip, slipping just under the hem of your shirt, grazing bare skin. “nervous?”

you shake your head, defiant. “not nervous,” you manage, your voice breathy, betraying you. “just… want you.”

his eyes flash, something dangerous sparking in them, and for a second, you think he’s going to kiss you again, devour you right there. but he doesn’t. instead, he leans in, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, sending a shiver down your spine. “you have no idea what you’re asking for,” he says, his voice a low growl, each word sinking into you like a promise. “but you’re gonna find out.”

before you can respond, he pulls back, his hand leaving your waist to open the passenger door. “get in,” he says, not a request, and the authority in his tone makes your knees weak. you slide into the seat, your pulse racing, and he shuts the door with a quiet click that feels final, like you’ve crossed a line you can’t uncross. he rounds the car, sliding into the driver’s seat, and the silence between you is heavy, charged, as he starts the engine.

he doesn’t drive far—just a few blocks to a quieter street, where the city lights are dim and the world feels smaller, just you and him. he cuts the engine and turns to you, his gaze heavy, assessing. “still with me?” he asks, his voice softer now, but still laced with that control that makes your skin prickle.

“yeah,” you breathe, leaning toward him, your hands itching to touch him. you reach out, fingers brushing his jaw, but he catches your wrist, his grip firm, stopping you. your breath hitches, and he smirks, like he’s enjoying how easily he can unravel you.

“not yet,” he says, his thumb stroking the inside of your wrist, slow and deliberate, making your whole body hum. “you don’t get to touch until i say.” he releases your wrist, but his hand slides to your thigh again, higher this time, his fingers spreading possessively over your skin. you arch toward him, desperate, but he pulls back just enough to keep you wanting, his eyes never leaving yours.

“kento,” you whisper, half-pleading, and he leans in, finally kissing you again, slow and deep, his tongue teasing yours until you’re whimpering into his mouth. his hand slides up your thigh, pushing your skirt higher, and you’re melting, completely at his mercy, every nerve sparking under his touch. when you try to press closer, he pulls back again, just enough to make you chase him, his lips curling into that infuriating, controlled smirk.

“good girl,” he murmurs, the words hitting you like a shockwave, and you’re done for, your body trembling, ready to give him anything he wants, right there in the dark of his car.

“you’re so responsive,” he murmurs, like he’s savoring every reaction he pulls from you. his hand slides higher, fingers slipping under the edge of your underwear, and you gasp, your hips jerking instinctively toward him. he pauses, his gaze sharpening, and you feel the weight of his control settle over you like a blanket. “stay still,” he says, his tone firm, leaving no room for argument. “you move when i tell you to.”

you nod, biting your lip, your body trembling with anticipation as his fingers brush against you, teasing, not quite giving you what you want. he’s slow, deliberate, exploring you with a precision that makes your head spin, his touch light but purposeful, building a pressure that’s almost unbearable. you’re already slick, desperate, and he knows it, his lips curling into that smirk that drives you wild.

“you’re so needy,” he says. his fingers trace the edge of your underwear, slow, teasing, brushing the sensitive skin where your thigh meets your core. you’re already aching, slick and hot, and he hasn’t even touched you properly yet. “but you’re gonna be good for me, aren’t you? gonna let me take my time.”

you nod, biting your lip, your body trembling as his fingers hook under the fabric, tugging it aside with agonizing precision. the cool air hits you, and you gasp, hips twitching instinctively, but his other hand presses firmly on your thigh, keeping you still. “what did i say? don’t move,” he orders again.

his fingertip grazes you, feather-light, just along the edge, and it’s torture, the barest touch sending sparks through your nerves. he’s slow, methodical, circling your entrance, spreading your wetness with a deliberate stroke that makes you clench. “so ready,” he murmurs, almost to himself, his eyes flicking to your face, drinking in the way your lips part, the way your chest heaves. “but i’m not letting you have it that easy.”

you whimper, your hands gripping the seat, nails digging in as he presses one finger against you, not pushing in, just resting there, letting you feel the pressure. “kento, please,” you whisper, your voice breaking, but he shakes his head, his thumb brushing over you, teasing your clit for a split second before pulling back.

“patience,” he says, his voice a low growl, and then he’s finally giving you something, his finger sliding in, slow, so slow, the stretch deliberate as he pushes past your entrance. you feel every inch, the way he curls slightly, testing, exploring, his knuckle brushing against your walls as he sinks deeper. your head falls back, a moan slipping out, and he pauses, just holding there, letting you adjust, letting you feel him.

“look at me,” he commands, and you force your eyes open, meeting his gaze, dark and intense, as he starts to move, pulling back almost all the way before pushing in again, deeper this time, his finger curling just right to hit that spot that makes you gasp. when you start to rock your hips, chasing more, he stops, his finger still inside you, and you whine, tears prickling your eyes.

“i said don’t move,” he repeats, his voice firm, his free hand gripping your thigh harder, pinning you in place. “you come when i let you, understand?” you nod, desperate, your body shaking, and he rewards you with a second finger, pushing in alongside the first, the stretch fuller now, making you bite your lip to stifle a sob.

“please, kento,” you beg, your voice a broken whisper, tears spilling over as the pleasure coils tighter, your body screaming for release. he leans closer, his lips brushing your cheek, his breath hot against your skin.

without warning, his pace shifts, his fingers thrusting harder, faster, the rhythm brutal and unrelenting. the wet sound of his movements fills the car, obscene and overwhelming, as he drives into you with a force that makes your whole body jolt.

each thrust is deep, his fingers curling sharply to hit that spot inside you that sends white-hot pleasure shooting through your veins. you cry out, your head falling back against the seat, your hands clawing at the leather as you struggle to hold on.

“kento—fuck,” you sob, your voice breaking, the intensity too much, too good, your body screaming for release. his fingers are merciless, pounding into you, the heel of his palm grinding against your clit with every thrust, sending shockwaves of pleasure that make your vision blur. you’re a mess, trembling, sweating, your hips twitching despite his orders, desperate to meet his brutal pace.

“please, kento, i can’t—i need—”

“no,” he cuts you off. “you’ll wait.” his thumb presses hard against your clit, circling roughly, and you scream, the pleasure so intense it’s almost pain. he’s pushing you to your limit, his fingers relentless, driving into you with a ferocity that leaves you sobbing, your body completely at his mercy.

“look at you,” he murmurs, his lips brushing your ear as he keeps up his punishing rhythm. “crying for me, so desperate. you’re mine right now, aren’t you?” his fingers twist inside you, hitting that spot again, and you nod frantically, tears falling freely, your body shaking as you cling to his words, to his control.

you’re right there, teetering on the edge, the pleasure so overwhelming it’s almost unbearable, your walls clenching tight around his fingers. tears stream down your face, your breaths coming in broken sobs, and you’re so close, so close and he knows—reading every shudder, every gasp, and just as you feel the first wave start to crash, he pulls his fingers out completely, leaving you empty and aching.

you cry out, a raw, desperate sound, your body shaking, leaving you a panting, trembling mess. your thighs are slick, your underwear soaked, and you’re practically sobbing. “no, no, please.”

“i told you,” he says, “you don’t come until i say.” he shifts, his hands moving to his belt, the sound of the buckle clinking loud in the quiet car. your eyes widen, your breath catching as he undoes it with slow, deliberate movements, the leather sliding through the metal with a soft rasp.

“get over here,” he orders, his voice sharp, and you’re moving before you can think, your body obeying on instinct. you lean across the center console, your hands trembling as you reach for him, but he grabs your wrist, stopping you.

“not your hands,” he says, his eyes burning into yours. “your mouth.” he undoes his pants, freeing himself, and you swallow hard, your mouth watering despite the ache still pulsing between your thighs. he’s hard, thick, and the sight of him makes your already shaky resolve crumble.

he guides you down, his hand firm on the back of your neck, not rough but unyielding, and you lower yourself, your lips brushing against him. you’re still reeling, your body screaming for release, but you want to please him, need to, and you take him into your mouth, slow at first, your tongue tracing the length of him. he groans, low and guttural, his fingers tightening in your hair, and the sound sends a fresh wave of heat through you.

“that’s it,” he murmurs, his voice rough, guiding you with a steady hand, setting the pace. “take it all.” you do your best, your lips stretching around him, your head bobbing as you try to match his rhythm, but he’s in control, his grip firm, keeping you exactly where he wants you.

every time you try to speed up, desperate to please, he pulls you back, slowing you down, making you feel every inch of him. you’re a mess, tears and spit mixing, your body still trembling from being left on the edge, but you’re lost in him, in the way he’s using you, in the way he’s watching you with that dark, hungry gaze.

“deeper,” he says, his voice a low growl, thick with want, and you feel his fingers tighten in your hair, pulling you closer. you relax your throat, taking a shaky breath through your nose, and he pushes you down, slow but relentless, his cock sliding deeper until it hits the back of your throat.

you gag slightly, your eyes watering, but he doesn’t let up, his hand steady, holding you there as you adjust. “that’s it,” he murmurs, his voice rough but steady, his thumb stroking the back of your neck like a reward. “take all of me.” your throat constricts around him, the sensation overwhelming, and you’re struggling to breathe, your hands gripping his thighs for balance. he’s so deep now, filling your mouth completely, and you can feel the pulse of him, hot and heavy, as you try to keep up.

he pulls you back just enough to let you catch your breath, your lips slick and swollen, but before you can fully recover, he pushes you down again, harder this time, his hips shifting to meet you. you choke, a muffled whimper escaping. his groans are louder now, raw, and you can feel the tension in his thighs, the way his control is fraying just a little at the edges.

“fuck, you’re perfect,” he mutters, his voice tight, and he thrusts into your mouth, shallow but firm, making you take him deeper with each push. his hand in your hair guides you, relentless, and you’re a mess, spit dripping down your chin, your body still throbbing.

you can feel him tensing, his breaths coming faster, rougher, and the way he’s throbbing against your tongue tells you he’s close, so close you can almost taste it.

just as his hips stutter, a low, guttural sound escaping him, he yanks you back by the hair, hard enough to make you gasp. your scalp stings, and you’re panting, spit-slick and dazed, as he holds you there, his eyes blazing with intensity. “not yet,” he growls, his voice rough, strained, like he’s fighting his own edge as much as he’s controlling yours. “you don’t get it that easy.”

your chest heaves, your lips trembling as you try to catch your breath, but before you can process, he’s moving and gestures to the backseat. “get back there,” he says. you scramble over the center console, your body shaky, skirt still bunched around your hips, and he follows.

he doesn’t give you time to settle. his hands are on you, pushing you down face-first onto the seat, your cheek pressed against the cool leather, your knees tucked under. you hear the soft click of the seatbelt being pulled, and then his hands are on your wrists, yanking them behind your back. the seatbelt strap loops around them, tight and unyielding, binding your hands together.

“stay down,” he orders, his voice low, dangerous, as he kneels behind you, one hand pressing between your shoulder blades to keep you pinned. you can feel the weight of him, the heat of his body, and the rustle of his clothes as he shifts, his other hand trailing down your spine, slow and deliberate, making you arch despite yourself.

without warning, his hand lifts, and then it comes down hard, a sharp smack against your bare ass that makes you yelp, the sting blooming hot and sudden across your skin. your body jolts, but his other hand keeps you pinned, unmoving, and the mix of pain and pleasure sends a shockwave through you, making you clench instinctively. “fuck,” you gasp, your voice muffled against the seat, and you hear him chuckle, low and dark, the sound sending a shiver down your spine.

“you like that,” he says, not a question, his voice rough with control as he delivers another smack, harder this time, the sound echoing in the cramped backseat. your skin burns, the heat spreading, and you whimper, your hips twitching despite his orders to stay still.

he pauses, his hand resting on the stinging flesh, fingers kneading lightly, and you can feel his gaze on you, heavy and assessing. “answer me,” he says, his tone sharp, demanding. “have you thought about this? about me, your coworker, fucking you?”

your breath catches, your face burning as much as your ass, and you’re too far gone to lie, too wrecked to pretend. “yes,” you admit, your voice shaky, barely audible against the leather. “all the time.”

he hums, low and approving, and delivers another sharp spank, this one making you cry out, the sting blending with the throbbing need between your thighs. “good,” he murmurs, his hand lingering, soothing the burn with a slow stroke that makes you tremble. “because i’ve thought about it too. bending you over my desk, making you scream my name.”

he shifts behind you, his hand on your lower back easing up, but the reprieve is brief. “spread your legs,” he orders, and you obey instantly, your knees parting as far as the cramped backseat allows, exposing yourself completely.

without warning, his mouth is on you from behind, his lips and tongue diving into your slick heat with a hunger that makes you cry out. it’s sloppy, relentless, his tongue lapping at you, broad and rough, no trace of gentleness in the way he devours you.

he’s so mean about it, sucking hard on your clit, his teeth grazing just enough to make you jolt, the sensation sharp and overwhelming. “kento—fuck,” you whimper, your voice breaking as you squirm, but his hands grip your hips, pinning you in place, his fingers digging into the tender flesh he spanked raw.

“stay still,” he growls against you, the vibration of his voice sending a shockwave through your core, and you moan, your bound hands twisting uselessly against the seatbelt. he’s merciless, his tongue plunging into you, licking deep, then pulling back to suck and nip at your clit, the wet sounds of his mouth obscene in the quiet car. spit and your arousal mix, dripping down your thighs, and he laps it up, greedy, his stubble scraping your sensitive skin.

he knows exactly what he’s doing, pushing you right to the edge, his lips closing around your clit, sucking hard, then releasing just as you start to unravel, only to dive back in, harder, meaner. “please, kento, i can’t—” you sob, tears spilling down your cheeks, your voice muffled against the seat as the pleasure becomes too much, too intense.

“you can,” he says, his voice muffled but firm, and he doubles down, his tongue fucking into you, fast and deep, his lips smacking wetly against your skin. it’s too much, the sloppy, relentless assault driving you wild, and you’re done for, the coil snapping as your orgasm hits like a wave, crashing through you.

you scream, your body shaking uncontrollably, your hips bucking against his face despite his grip, and he doesn’t stop, licking you through it, drawing out every shudder, every pulse, until you’re a whimpering, oversensitive mess, your thighs trembling, slick and spit coating you.

he finally pulls back, his breath heavy, as he watches you quiver, still bound, completely at his mercy. “that’s one,” he murmurs. you barely have time to catch your breath before you feel him shift, his hands gripping your hips with bruising force, pulling you up just enough to position you how he wants.

without a word, he lines himself up, and before you can brace yourself, he thrusts into you in one swift, brutal motion, his thick cock stretching you so suddenly that you scream, the sound raw and loud in the confined space.

he’s big, impossibly so, filling you completely, and the sensation is overwhelming, your still-sensitive walls clenching around him as your body struggles to adjust. your juices coat him, slick and dripping, making the slide easier but no less intense, and you’re loud, too loud, your cries echoing in the car.

“quiet,” he snaps, and you hear the rustle of fabric before his tie is suddenly at your lips, shoved into your mouth with a quick, firm push. the silk muffles your moans, tasting faintly of him, and you whimper around it, your eyes watering as you bite down, trying to obey.

his hand grips the back of your neck, holding you in place, keeping your face pressed into the seat as he leans over you, his breath hot against your ear. “i said stay quiet,” he growls, his tone low and dangerous, sending a shiver through you even as his cock pulses inside you, buried deep, unmoving for a moment, letting you feel every inch of him.

his hips pull back, slow and deliberate, then slam forward, hard, the force rocking you forward against the seat, your muffled cry stifled by the tie. he sets a punishing rhythm, each thrust deep and relentless, his cock stretching you, hitting that spot inside you that makes your vision blur.

“that’s it,” he murmurs, his voice tight, his hand still firm on your neck, keeping you pinned as he fucks into you, hard and mean. “take it all.” your body is helpless, bound and gagged, completely under his control.

your mind is a haze, completely cockdrunk, lost in the relentless, brutal rhythm of nanami’s thrusts as he fucks you hard into the backseat. the tie in your mouth muffles your moans, but you’re still loud, whimpering and choking around the silk as his thick cock stretches you to your limit, slamming into your cervix with every deep, punishing thrust.

your wrists strain against the seatbelt binding them, your body rocking forward with each movement, face pressed into the sweat-slick leather, your juices dripping down your thighs, pooling beneath you in a sticky mess.

the car is a furnace, the windows fogged up, condensation beading and streaking as the air grows heavy with heat and moisture. sweat clings to your skin, your hair sticking to your neck, and nanami’s no better—his shirt clings to his chest, damp and rumpled, his breath coming in loud, guttural grunts that fill the space every time he drives into you. the sound of him, raw and primal, mixes with the wet slap of his hips against your ass, obscene and unrelenting, making your head spin.

“fuck,” he growls, his voice rough, almost feral, as he pushes in again, deeper, harder, his cock hitting your cervix with a force that makes you see stars. he’s relentless, his hands gripping your hips so tight you’re sure they’ll bruise, pulling you back to meet each thrust, his grunts louder, more desperate, as he loses himself in you.

“look at you,” he growls, his voice rough as he leans over you, his breath hot against your neck. “so fucking dumb on my cock, aren’t you? just a messy little slut, taking it all, crying for me.” his words hit you like a spark, making you clench around him, a muffled sob escaping as the pleasure spikes, sharp and overwhelming.

he slams into you harder, his hips grinding against your ass, and you feel him hit your cervix again, the pressure so intense it’s almost painful, but you’re too far gone to care, your body craving every brutal thrust. “bet you’ve been dreaming about this,” he snarls, his cock throbbing inside you. “getting fucked stupid by your coworker, my fat cock stretching you out, making you drip all over me. you’re such a needy little thing, aren’t you?”

you’re shaking, your mind blank except for his voice, his cock, the way he’s claiming you completely, your walls clenching around him, and he feels it, his grunts getting louder, more desperate. “fuck, you’re tight,” he groans, his thrusts growing erratic, his control fraying. “gonna fill you up, make you take every drop. you want that, don’t you? want me to cum deep inside this perfect little pussy?”

his words, the raw hunger in them, send you spiraling, and you’re done for, the coil in your core snapping as another orgasm crashes through you. you scream into the tie, your body convulsing, your walls clamping down around him so hard it pulls a guttural moan from his throat.

he’s right there with you, his cock pulsing as he slams into you one last time, burying himself deep. “fuck,” he growls, and you feel him cum, hot and thick, filling you, his hips stuttering as he grinds against you, drawing out every shudder, every pulse.

you’re both trembling, panting, the car a haze of heat and sweat, his cock still buried inside you as you both come down, your body limp, completely spent, his cum and your juices mingling, dripping out around him. he leans over you, his breath ragged, his hand stroking your hip, possessive and grounding, as you both try to catch your breath in the sticky, fogged-up confines of the backseat.

he shifts, and you feel him move, his hands gripping your hips again, possessive but slower now. “good girl,” he murmurs, his voice rough, almost hoarse, and before you can process it, he’s pushing into you again, his softening cock sliding through the wet, nasty mess between your legs. it’s sloppy, the slick sounds obscene as he thrusts in, slow and deep, the sensation overwhelming your raw, sensitive walls.

you whimper, high and broken, your body jerking at the overstimulation, every nerve screaming as he fills you again, his cum and yours making everything wetter, messier.

“shh,” he says, but it’s softer now, less a command and more a coaxing, his hands kneading your hips as he rocks into you, lazy but deliberate, savoring the way you clench around him. your whimpers are constant, muffled by the tie, your body trembling uncontrollably, too sensitive, too full, but you can’t stop the way your hips twitch back into him, craving the feeling despite the intensity.

he leans over you, his chest pressing against your bound arms, and you feel his lips on your back, soft and warm, kissing a slow trail down your spine. “so good for me,” he murmurs against your skin, his voice low, almost tender, as he kisses lower, his lips brushing the curve of your back, grounding you in the haze of overstimulation. “look at you, taking it all, so fucking perfect.”

his thrusts slow, becoming more of a grind, his softening cock still buried deep, and you’re trembling, your body a live wire as he kisses down your spine one last time, his breath warm against your skin. he finally stills, his hands stroking your hips, your thighs, soothing the trembling as he stays inside you, letting you both catch your breath.

the car is quiet now, save for your muffled whimpers and his heavy breathing, the air thick with the aftermath, the windows fogged, the leather slick. he presses one final kiss to the small of your back, soft and reverent, before pulling out slowly, leaving you empty, spent, and utterly his in the hazy, sweaty confines of the backseat.

[wovencorpse]

[cams-cult]

—getting ahead of yourself with matt—

“sit down” he demands as you approach your couch in the living room. he backs you up against it leaving you no choice BUT to oblige. “has my girl lost her little mind?” he sighs heavily, kneeling down to get onto your level.

his gaze was wide, stern, hands caressing your thighs as he squeezes them gently. your gaze meets his, your breathing uneven as your heat throbs between your thighs. “m’sorry, matt..” you say softly, taking your bottom lip in between your teeth.

“she’s sorry, hm?” he coos, pouting his bottom lip mockingly. “should’ve thought about that before running that slutty tongue of yours, yeah?” he tuts, standing up to tower over your sitting figure, slowly backing away.

your eyes follow his every move, your body aching to be touched. he stops a few feet away from you, his eyes filled with this unidentifiable emotion. he stands there for a few more moments before lifting his hand and pointing his index finger out signaling for you to come over to him.

without hesitation you stand up, and slowly approach him before he interrupts you, “stop.” he instructs, running his slim fingers through his hair. “crawl over t’me..” he demands. you stop dead in your tracks, your face turning tomato red as you look away from him bashfully.

“look at me” he rolls his eyes, his voice stern yet soft. “what happened to that smart mouth, hm?” he coos, his feet still standing planted in the same spot, keeping his same unidentifiable look on his face. “cmon—be a good girl and do what i tell y’to do..” he bites his lip, crossing his arms as he waits impatiently for you to oblige.

you have no choice but to sink to all fours, your face getting redder by the minute, panties soaked. matt smirks at the sight of you. your flushed skin trembling against the cold floor as you slowly crawl over to him.

you were still hesitant to this, but it fascinated you not knowing what was to come of it. that’s what thrilled you the most about pushing matt’s buttons. never knowing what he was going to do, but knowing he would ruin you so good. it was a win win for the both of you.

you still crawl over to him regardless, your palms flush on the cold floor as well as your knees.

as you finally approach him, he tilts your head up to look at him. “that’s my good girl..” he praises, his unidentifiable gaze now smug. “look at that pretty face—all mine, hm?” he tilts his head to the side, slowly unbuckling his belt. but before he fully unbuckles it, he thrusts his boner to your flushed face. “see what y’did?” he coos, rubbing it against your face, almost like a prized trophy as he backs his hips up.

“is this what you wanted?—to be used like a whore?” his gentle praise facade disappears. “i bet you’re dripping for it..” he scoffs, grabbing your arm and standing you up. he then trails his hand down to your heat, taking a dip into your underwear, swirling his fingers over your swollen nub.

you whimper softly as you lean into his touch, but he quickly removes his hand and shoves you back down to your knees in one swift motion.

“bad slutty girls don’t get to get off..” he growls, as he finishes unbuckling his belt. “suck my cock and think about what y’did” he throws his belt across the room as he pulls his pants down. “y’gonna look so pretty when i fuck that mouth…” he smirks.

a/n: IM BACKKKKK

taglist: @starrii-sturns @sturns-mermaid @emely9274 @hjvi @chrepsi @chrisstomach @izzylovesmatt @mattssslutbby @chrisslut04 @fratbrochrisgf @sturnsxbitvh @grace-sturnz @divinesturn @sturniolo-szn2 @riasturns @chrissweetheart @whore4chris @jensturnss @riggysworld @h3arts4nat @sophand4n4 @lvrsturniolo @trustinsturniolos @chrxsprettygirl @mialovesyouchris @fictionalboysstuff @iloveduckssm @eeyoresturnz @sturniolosymphony @whore4-chrissturniolo @sturnvdds @eviep4l

[stargirlygirl]

I really love your smut gone wrong with lads boys fics! I read all of them and I only main Caleb! I saw your inbox was open and my that I hope you mean you're taking requests. If not, feel free to ignore this and my apologies! Imagine sex with Caleb but reader's very sensitive to the different stimuli. reader asks Caleb to have sex with him outdoors or in the car, basically in a new environment but keeps changing her mind because it wasn't as fun as she'd imagined.

star girl's initial words: thank you so much for requesting!! i love this idea, and it makes me really happy that like my embarrassing/gone wrong moments series so far. i did get a bit carried away, so thanks for your patience! i hope you like this one.

first time car sex with caleb

contains: nsfw, protected sex, p in v, caleb is insistent on consent, 3.3k words

reference p-link ⟶ because of the reference, reader is shy, petite and (somewhat) implied skinny so SORRY my tall girlies

note on watching the p-link: it's on twitter so you need to be logged in to view it

You’ve had the perfect date.

Caleb took you to the local park for a picnic. He made you close your eyes as he guided you to the setup blanket and goodies beneath a cherry blossom tree. The fresh flowers were so fragrant, petals blowing in the breeze and dropping into your food. It made you giggle, picking pink petals out of your boyfie’s braised chicken wings. After you were well-fed, you and Caleb walked around the park, holding hands and talking about whatever came up.

With the sun drawing nearer to the horizon, you two decided to pack up and head home.

The dying sun’s rays illuminate your figures walking to Caleb’s Lamborghini, picnic basket and blanket in arms. Dumping them in the trunk, you head over to the passenger’s side while your lover climbs into the driver’s seat. He’s about to start the engine when you place a hand on his knee and call his name.

You’ve always been sensitive to your surroundings. It made you anxious when it was too loud or if the lights were too intense. Space as well, whether your surroundings were very open or particularly cramped, could trigger your discomfort. It’s something that developed when you were a teenager and became instilled as you matured.

Growing up with Caleb, he knew before you did and has accommodated for your needs since. If you’re at a shopping mall and the incessant music and chatting are getting on your nerves, he’ll pop your earplugs in and regularly ask if you’re feeling better. At events, he’s the first to notice when you become overstimulated and takes you out of the situation, suggesting a short walk or driving you home. He had dimming lights installed in his Skyhaven apartment, so you can choose the light’s brightness whenever you come over. Your boyfriend also avoids long car rides with you because he knows how suffocating the tight space can make you feel.

Caleb gazes at you with slightly raised brows and parted lips, which quickly morph into a warm smile.

“What is it, honey?” He asks lovingly. You squeeze his knee, your teeth pulling at your lower lip.

You’ve just gotten this crazy idea. Something you never thought would come to mind, let alone be considered.

Seeing your hesitation, your pilot pulls the key out of the ignition and tosses it on the dash. He undoes his seatbelt, the fastener clinking as it hits the car’s interior. Shifting in his seat, Caleb takes hold of your hand on his knee and brings it to his lips.

Pressing a light kiss to your knuckles, he murmurs, “You can tell me, pips. I want to hear whatever you have to say.”

Averting your eyes to the hem of your floral minidress, you mumble, “You’ll think I’m weird.”

“No, I won’t, baby,” he reassures you, his grip on your hand tightening momentarily.

Glancing up, you whisper, “I wanna try something new.” Caleb leans over, his head turned to the side so his ear is near your mouth.

“Whaddya wanna try?” He grins boyishly.

Inching closer, your lips brush his ear as you ask tentatively, “Do you wanna do it here?” Your boyfriend just blinks, his mind racing with thoughts of hallucinations.

“What?” He finally mutters, drawing back to gaze at you. His brows are pinched, and you start mentally berating yourself for being a little too freaky with him (as if you could be, but okay).

“We don’t have to, babe! Sorry, I just—”

“No, that’s not it, honey. I’m, uh, confused. What exactly do you want to do in here?” Caleb asks, letting go of your hand to exchange it for tucking a stray lock behind your ear. Your nerves ramp up to a hundred, tingles dispersing across your skin from the contact between his fingertips and the shell of your ear.

Gnawing on your lip, you ramble, “I was just thinking that, you know, like if you wanted to, we could, you know, like—”

“I don’t know, pips. So I need you to tell me what you want,” he cuts you off. “Just take a deep breath and try again, okay?” His tone is gentle, as is the look in his amethyst eyes. You hum in agreement before inhaling fully.

Since you can remember, sometimes you find it difficult to articulate your thoughts. You don’t want to leave a bad impression or step on anyone’s toes. But Caleb’s always been patient with you and prompted you to keep going even when words seem to fail you.

You exhale, “I want to try having sex with you in here.” You add shyly, “Like right now.” It’s quiet for a few seconds, the cricket’s buzz from outside the only sound penetrating the silence. Until Caleb starts laughing at you. His body shudders as he guffaws, his forehead resting on your shoulder.

You pout, “It’s not funny!”

He manages to say through his laughter, “It’s pretty funny.” Wiping his tears away, your lover lifts his head and brings his face to yours. Cupping your cheeks, he nuzzles your nose with his own.

“Why don’t you think about it and get back to me?” He suggests, his thumbs stroking your cheekbones.

You shake your head slightly and insist, “I want to, baby. I really do.” Pulling back, you tilt your head and kiss his cheek lightly.

Caleb sighs, “Right now?” You nod and peck his jaw.

“Don’t you think it’s a bit cramped, honey?” He offers. That stops you in your tracks, urging you to shift back and meet his bright eyes.

You mumble, “If you don’t want to, you can just say so. You don’t have to be nice about it, babe.” Your boyfriend shakes his head, his brow creasing once more.

“I’m not being nice, pips. I need to make sure this is what you really want before we go any further,” he mutters, his jaw visibly tightening. You lean in and place another kiss there, helping to alleviate some of the tension.

You murmur, “I do. I wanna try this with you, Caleb. I know you’ll take good care of me. I trust you.” He nods, eyes searching yours for any hint of doubt. One of his hands shifts to your nape, his fingers toasty and putting you at ease. Satisfied with his analysis, your pilot closes the gap between your lips.

His kiss is slow and passionate, eliciting a sigh from you. Angling your head, Caleb glides his tongue across your lower lip, already hungry to taste you. Granting him access, you two sample each other’s mouths like the finest wine. You’re drunk on the sweet apple pie lingering on his taste buds— the apple pie you made for your afternoon together.

Moaning into him, your hands roam to his shoulders and trail down his firm torso through the white jumper he’s got on. You pull it out of his black trousers, bunching up the hem in your fists. Your lover nibbles on your lip, making you gasp. His lips trace your jaw and the length of your neck, his callused palms pushing your smaller frame into him.

“Caleb,” you mewl softly, your delicate skin caught between his teeth.

Placing a sloppy kiss on your collarbone, he murmurs, “C’mere, honey.” With one muscular arm around your waist and the other looped beneath your knees (fuck the seatbelt), Caleb lifts you over the console and sits you on his lap. All the while, you squeal and hold his neck for support.

His rough hands slide up your bare thighs, their texture leaving goosebumps in their wake. Your dress is pushed up, and your panties are swiftly pulled off and tossed in the back for later. The sudden exposure makes you gasp and bite your kiss-swollen lip. Concern darts across Caleb’s handsome face, his hands gripping your bare hips.

He checks in with you, “Is this okay, pips? Am I moving too fast?”

You shake your head, but he’s not continuing until you mumble, “I’m okay. I want to keep going.” He hums softly, the sound resonating in his throat as he captures your lips in a loving kiss. His fingertips stroke your thigh, drawing circles before sliding across your pelvis. He lingers above your heat, cautious.

“Yes,” you pant, your thighs clenching with need. Caleb palms your cunt; his hand is so warm it makes you melt. His long fingers slip into your wet slit, teasing your hole before circling your clit. You moan salaciously near his ear, your arm draped over his broad shoulders and holding on like your life depends on it. Your thighs tense as he sets a pleasurable rhythm over your swollen bud.

Dropping his head, your lover licks your cleavage, teeth nipping at the fat of your breasts as you buck into his hand. One of your hands shifts to his hair, fingers tangling in his silky locks and tugging. Your ah-ahs are so quiet and sweet, like they’re reserved for Caleb’s ears only (they are; if they weren’t, the colonel might skin someone alive).

Your lover’s fingers slip down your folds and prod at your dripping hole.

He asks drunkenly, “Can I, baby?”

“Mhmm,” you hum breathily.

“How many?” He murmurs, tipping his head back to gaze up at you. His cheeks and the tips of his ears are all red, his sunset eyes hazy with lust.

You whisper, “Just one.” And one loooooong finger it is easing into your sopping pussy. His finger curls and presses against your ridged walls, making your back contort into a beautiful half-moon. Your tits are inevitably thrust into Caleb’s face, and he buries his nose in the valley between them. Breathing you in, your lover repeatedly slides his fingertip against your walls, ripping guttural moans from his otherwise shy girlfriend.

Pressure builds in the pit of your tummy, bringing you closer to the edge of your orgasm. Your thighs clamp around his hand as you squeeze your eyes shut.

You choke out, “F-fuck,” as his thumb rolls over your clit, his middle finger still deep inside of you. Caleb groans into your chest, obsessed with how only he gets to see you like this. Losing composure, on the brink of your climax, biting your lip and trying not to babble out a dictionary of curse words. Pulling back for air, his nose ghosts yours as you seize up around his hand.

You squirt uncontrollably, the clear liquid spurting into his palm and making a mess of your thighs, him, and his leather car seat. Gasps and mewls tumble from your lips, forehead flush against Caleb’s as your body trembles. The pleasure in blinding; it’s like you’ve been dipped into a cauldron, this heat sparking on your skin and seeping into your bones.

“C-Caleb!” You squeak, your clit far too sensitive for the way he’s still circling it.

Knowing passes through you two, and he stops his movements. Slowly, your boyfriend’s finger slips out, and his soaking wet hand retreats from your clenched thighs. Your arousal drips into your skin as the final tremors course through you, making you shake and whine.

He groans, “Fuck, baby.” Your forehead rests against his scalp, eyes half-lidded and unprepared for what Caleb does next.

Raising his damp hand, he licks up from his wrist to his fingertip, tasting your release. He moans; your flavour is his absolute favourite. Your lover sucks on his slender fingers, making you mewl and your cheeks become even redder.

“Caleb,” you pant. His other arm is still tight around your waist, and he squishes you into his solid torso momentarily.

Your boyfriend rasps out, “You alright, baby? Everything okay so far?”

“Mhmm,” you hum quietly while nodding. Once Caleb’s lucky hand is thoroughly cleansed of your delicious juices, he squeezes your knee with it.

Tilting his head back, he beams up at you, “You wanna keep going?”

“Yes,” you whisper. As soon as the affirmation escapes your lips, Caleb bundles you up in his arms and sets you back down in the passenger seat.

“Baby, what’re you—” Your own squeal cuts you off as your pilot pulls the lever underneath the seat and slides you back. You watch as he kicks off his shoes and yanks off his long sleeve before throwing them haphazardly in the back seat. Climbing over the console, Caleb braces himself with one hand on the headrest while the other unbuckles his belt.

He smirks, “A little help, pips?” Nodding, you undo his pants and shimmy them down his thighs. Next, you pull down his trunks, your lover’s erection springing free. You nibble on your lip, eyeing the pre-cum leaking from his flushed tip.

Gazing up, you ask, “Do you have a condom?” He tilts his head to the side.

“In the console.” Turning slightly, you flip open the console and fish around for the little golden packet. You catch it between your fingers and tear through the foil hurriedly. Sliding it down his length, you spit on your hand and pump him a few times.

Groaning, Caleb grabs your chin and tips your head back. You feel so small compared to him, his buff body encasing yours and shielding you from the outside world. His eyes reflect the dusk enveloping the park outside.

He instructs, “Bend your knees up into your chest.” You do as you’re told, grabbing your knees and holding them close.

Caleb mumbles, “Just stay like that, baby,” before adjusting the seat back a bit more.

Getting down on his knees, he strokes himself before dragging his covered tip up your still sensitive slit. You mewl softly, staring at him with the prettiest doe eyes your boyfriend’s ever seen.

Encircling your shoulders with his meaty arm, he murmurs into your hair, “Is it alright if I—”

“Yes!” You moan, the head of his cock dipping in slightly.

You can hear his smirk as he says cockily, “Alright, honey.” Caleb takes his time sliding into you, letting you adjust to his girth before diving in further. When he bottoms out, you feel so full. You always feel so full whenever he’s inside of you.

Your boyfriend just stays there, still, for a minute until you give him the go-ahead, “’M okay. Please. Please move.” Your voice broke a little on the first “please”. He hums before drawing out and sliding back into you. His arm around your shoulders shifts so that his hand grasps your head, fingers threading through your hair. His other hand grips the car seat above you.

Caleb’s thrusts are controlled, but you whimper breathily nonetheless. His current angle is deep, every tap of his balls against your ass forcing the air out your lungs.

Quickly, you notice how cramped it is, between the leather seat with the contrast stitching digging into your plush flesh, to the mountain of man rutting into you. He’s everywhere, his scent singeing your nostrils and body heat bleeding into your muscles.

“Caleb,” you whine, letting go of your knees and palming his chest. He stops immediately.

“What’s wrong, honey?” He asks worriedly, frantic eyes searching for the source of your discomfort. You release your bitten bottom lip and meet his concerned gaze.

You mumble, “It’s really cramped.”

His shoulders slump as he sighs, “Told you it would be, pips.”

“Mhmm, I know.” Pressing on his chest, you try to get more comfortable by shifting down in the seat, your ass now at the edge. Caleb groans as you move, your walls tightening around his length.

“Sorry,” you whisper. Brushing your hair back with one hand, he leans down and kisses your temple.

“S’fine, honey. Do you want me to pull out?” He asks tenderly.

“No! No, it’s okay. I’m okay now,” you insist.

Drawing back, your boyfriend places both hands on either side of you. He thrusts into you at the same leisurely pace, focusing on depth rather than speed. Your back arches as you moan, his tip nudging the perfect spot nestled deep within your drooling pussy.

You keep your knees tucked into your chest, your eyes rolling back with how good he feels inside of you. A high-pitched whimper falls from your lips as his pelvis nudges your clit. Caleb smirks and does it again, intoxicated by the sound of your pleasure.

Your hands splay over his pecs for stability as he starts rutting into you faster. Stuttered moans are forced out of your chest, intermingling with your boyfriend’s low whines. The air is charged with sweat and sex, suddenly stifling. You really wish you two had let a window down before pouncing on each other.

Caleb fucks you even rougher now, turning you into a trembling mess of mewls and whimpers. You can barely breathe with how you’re folded right now. And add to that your lover’s enthusiasm.

Turning your head to the side to avoid his panting on your face, you notice how dark it’s gotten outside. Violet blends with coral and paints the sky. It’s beautiful. And then it’s obscured by your boyfriend’s massive bicep.

Unsure of what to do, you tug on his dog tags. The sudden pull catches your pilot off guard, sending him forward before he grasps the headrest. He doesn’t know whether you meant to play or wanted to stop, but he’s confident that you wanted his attention.

“You okay?” He pants, drawing back and rolling into you with lazy hips. You shake your head, causing Caleb to immediately pull out. His length slaps his abdomen as he cages you in beneath him.

He asks gently, “Was it something I did, honey?” Again, you shake your head.

Reaching up, you hold his freckled cheeks and murmur, “I just feel really overwhelmed right now.” Your boyfriend nods slowly, processing your words with a gulp.

“Alright. Tell me about it, baby.”

You gaze down at the slim space between your bodies, explaining shyly, “It’s just… you’re so big, and the car is so small. I feel like I can’t breathe.” Caleb nods and kisses your forehead before tugging his trunks up. Your eyes snap up in panic, your hands grabbing his as he zips up his trousers.

“I don’t wanna stop,” you blurt out. He stares at you with eyes comparable to saucers.

Then, he sighs, “Honey, what do you mean you don’t want to stop? You’re clearly uncomfortable. You don’t need to force yourself to keep going for my sake.”

You try to reassure him, “I’m not! I’m not, I… I don’t know. I-I mean you’re right, I am uncomfortable, but this feels really good.” However, in doing so, you’re left even more confused about how you want to proceed. Caleb shrugs your hands off and fastens his belt.

“Caleb,” you pout. He shakes his head and leans over, chastely kissing your cheek.

Pulling back, he says sternly, “I don’t know doesn’t mean yes, honey. And I won’t keep going if you aren’t 100% sure about what you want.” Grabbing your knees, he pushes them down so the back of your thighs hit the smooth leather.

“Now,” he exhales. “I’m gonna get your panties out of the back and we’re gonna go home, okay?” You nod, your heart still racing from the adrenaline of your bodies being intertwined moments prior.

Caleb does as he said he would, flinging your pretty lace panties into the front and returning to the driver’s seat with his jumper and shoes back on. He even slides your seat back to where it was before switching on the engine and reversing out of the empty car park.

Hitting the main road, you ask him nervously, “Caleb, can we continue when we get home?”

Palming the steering wheel to turn a corner, he grins, “If you want to, pips.”

You nod energetically as renewed heat pools in your damp panties, “I do, baby. I 100% do.”

embarrassing/gone wrong sex moments m.list

star girl's final words: random lore drop of the day is that i'm 4'9. yep. 145cm tall (cries in short). and wish i was writing from experience (one chance caleb pls on my knees)😔

[dragoneyelashart]

drug dealer! billie hcs ★⋆˙

smut/angst/fluff ୨ৎ warnings: mention of gunplay, spit kink, use of drugs

drug dealer! billie who calls you her favorite customer, always giving you discounts

drug dealer! billie who when you forget to pay makes you suck her dick in compensation 

drug dealer! billie who wears her strap to parties just incase

drug dealer! billie who has girls all over her, but when she sees you she’s moving to make space for you, patting the empty space on her lap so you can sit.

drug dealer! billie who purposely moves around when you’re sat in her lap so you can feel her strap pushing into you

drug dealer! billie who is big on fucking you from behind

drug dealer! billie who always calls you ‘baby’,  ‘mama’ and especially ‘her girl’

drug dealer! billie who makes you gag on her strap and swears she can feel how good your mouth is on her

drug dealer! billie who always praises you for taking her so deep

drug dealer! billie who’s staring you down at a party when she see’s you flirting with anyone else

drug dealer! billie who keeps a gun in the waist band of her pants

drug dealer! billie who would threaten anyone flirting with you with that gun, then later have you on your knees while she trailed the gun down your body

drug dealer! billie who loves when you leave marks on her neck 

“yo billie, who gave you that mark”  “my girl did” she says winking 

drug dealer! billie who licks the drugs off your body, placing it on your tits, thighs and stomach

drug dealer! billie who spoils you with her money

drug dealer! billie who comes to you after a fight + fucks you when she's angry

"you gonna let me take my anger out on you, mama?" she'll say as you're waiting patiently on your knees for her

drug dealer! billie who spits in your mouth before she kisses you like it's a routine.

drug dealer! billie who says "good girl" every time you bring her a lighter, her phone, her gun — doesn’t matter what it is.

drug dealer! billie who has your name tattooed on her thigh, right where only you get to see it.

drug dealer! billie who keeps one of your panties in her glovebox like it’s a good luck charm.

drug dealer! billie who lets you sit on her lap while she counts money, her hand casually gripping your thigh while she multitasks.

drug dealer! billie who only sells to people she likes, and if someone she doesn’t like asks, she just points to you and goes, “ask my girl, maybe she’ll be nicer than me.”

drug dealer! billie who brings you a bag of your favorite snacks every time she drops something off “can’t have my baby starving while she’s getting high.”

drug dealer! billie who makes you ride her strap with her glock on the nightstand.

drug dealer! billie who tells people you’re her wife even though you're not married — yet.

drug dealer! billie who pulls you by the collar and growls, “don’t ever talk to that punk again,” then kisses you like she owns you.

drug dealer! billie who smells like weed, gunpowder, and your perfume, she says she wears it to remember what home smells like.

drug dealer! billie who sends you selfies mid-deal, shirtless in her car, captioned “thinking about you with my dick out lol”

drug dealer! billie who gets into a fight and when you ask “did you win?” she smirks, bruised knuckles and all, “you should see the other bitch… actually, don’t. just look at me.”

drug dealer! billie who tells everyone “this pussy's prescription only,” and you’re the only one with the refill card.

drug dealer! billie who lets you weigh the product on her lap like she’s testing how well you can handle pressure.

drug dealer! billie who tells you, “don’t cum till I say,” then takes her sweet time fingering you, loving the way you beg and whine for her.

drug dealer! billie who’ll have you in the backseat of her car, legs over her shoulders, strap buried deep.

drug dealer! billie who’ll make you choke on her strap with one hand in your hair, the other still texting a client. “keep going, mama — i’m multitasking.”

drug dealer! billie who fucks you with her silver chain wrapped around your throat like a leash, pulling every time you moan too loud.

drug dealer! billie who loves when you wear nothing under her oversized hoodies/ shirts and only finds out when your sat on her lap or she grabs your ass  — “such a slut for me, huh?”

drug dealer! billie who’ll finger you under the table during a deal, whispering, “be quiet, baby, i’m working,” while you’re shaking in her lap.

drug dealer! billie who records you crying on her dick and plays it back when she’s alone, cocky smirk on her lips as she listens to how ruined she made you.

drug dealer! billie who’ll edge you all night then finally fuck you in the morning, saying “only good girls get to cum on my strap.”

drug dealer! billie who won’t tell you where she disappears to some nights, just comes back with bruised knuckles and haunted eyes, muttering “don’t ask, baby, please.”

drug dealer! billie who pushes you away when she’s scared, when things get too good, she starts fights just to convince herself you’ll leave before she gets too attached.

drug dealer! billie who almost gets caught in a raid and calls you from a burner phone, breathless and frantic, “i don’t know if i’ll make it out… just know i love you, alright?”

drug dealer! billie who refuses to sleep next to you after a deal goes bad because she doesn't want to bleed on your sheets — “i’m dirty, baby. you deserve better.”

drug dealer! billie who goes dead silent when you cry in front of her for the first time, then holds your face and whispers, “you know I’d kill anyone who made you feel like this... even if it’s me.”

drug dealer! billie who gets so used to giving everything away,money, product, sex, that when you love her without asking for anything, it breaks her.

drug dealer! billie who makes you promise that if she ever disappears, you’ll leave town and never look for her  “i can’t have you getting hurt just because you love me.”

drug dealer! billie who sneaks into your apartment just to cook breakfast in your kitchen,  eggs burnt, toast uneven, but she’s so proud. “i feed you and fuck you? wife me.”

drug dealer! billie who gets high and gets soft, lays with her head in your lap and lets you play with her hair while she hums whatever song’s in her head.

drug dealer! billie who keeps a stash of your favorite snacks in her glove compartment. “my girl’s gotta eat between rounds.”

drug dealer! billie who rolls joints with pink rolling paper because “you like cute shit,” and always kisses you before lighting up.

drug dealer! billie who lets you wear her hoodie and hat, then posts you on her private story with the caption “mine mine mine.”

drug dealer! billie who always calls you to “come crash at mine” after a long night, she sleeps better when she can feel your heartbeat against her back.

drug dealer! billie who secretly keeps every love note, polaroid, and silly doodle you’ve ever given her, stashed in a shoebox under her bed.

drug dealer! billie who never says “be careful” — just “text me when you get home” — but she means “if anything ever happened to you I’d burn this whole city down.”

taglist: @amara-eilish @bilswifee @iamnicoke @jayjaywetforbils @bittersuitekim @bxllxebxtch @bitchesbrokenpromises @ijustlovemaths @ilovealiceosemann @bilssturns @peytonneilish @chrissv4mp @too-sapphic-to-function @thebluediner @aka-persephone @vijaxx | send an ask or comment if you want to be added to my taglist!

[oscpstri]

the chase | antonelli

antonelli x fem rbr driver!reader, 8,9k

kimi antonelli was always behind you— in the standings, in the starting grid, in your mirrors. everywhere you looked, the curly-headed mop was always there. but while you had a scowl on your face, he enjoyed every moment.

INCLUDES: soft rivals to lovers, SOFT RIVALRY OKAY, reader is a RED BULL driver, use of y/n, set in 2025 but definitely not an accurate timeline, profanity, kimi being a cutie, imagine seb and lewis type rs, this one is not as slow as the max one swear, inaccurate depictions of media day and the press conferences

NOTE: inspired by ONE WAY OR ANOTHER. i think this is my favorite idea out of all of the oneshots in this series. i hope i was able to do it justice. kimi is a cutie (and is talented as hell) and i claim him as my second pick of the rookie litter. congrats to kimi for canada podium! not proof read

( moments series | more KA12 )

People are usually haunted by nightmares— scarring images that keep them up at night, their mind playing tricks on them. Some perceive these as spiders, drowning, losing a loved one. You, on the other hand, are haunted by a singular curly-headed, brown-eyed, Italian who so happened to go by the name of Kimi Antonelli.

You and Kimi weren't exactly Rosberg and Hamilton in terms of rivalry, more 'he pushed me, I pushed him back, he pushed me off the track'. The both of you would never go out of your way to deliberately throw each other off, but if it happened then you wouldn't exactly be apologetic about it either.

This rivalry had been going on ever since the both of you were teammates in Formula 2. While Kimi raced under the Mercedes Junior Programme, you raced under the Red Bull Junior Programme. This called for the development of two very talented, very fast, and very competitive drivers. You finished fifth in the standings and Kimi was right behind you in sixth. And that's how it always was— even until now.

The teams make their way out of the grid— signifying the countdown to your debut Formula 1 race. Your eyes flicker to your side mirror, spotting the annoyingly familiar Mercedes of your former teammate. You qualified P15— not the best start. Kimi, of course, qualified right behind you. He seemed to notice your gaze and stuck his hand out from the top of his halo, waving at you before locking his gaze back in front of him. You roll your eyes at this from under your helmet, only gripping your steering wheel tighter as the red lights start to bounce to life.

This was what you had always dreamed off. And before you knew it, it was lights out and away you did go.

As you cross your first corner, you spot a car coming from behind. You give space out of etiquette, then freeze when you notice car number 12 slip right in front of you. You weren't about to let him have this, not when you were always slightly better than Kimi in everything— qualifying, points, wins.

You were stuck behind Kimi for a few laps, but you were tailing him like your life depended on it. Kimi might have successfully overtaken you, but you weren't about to go down without a fight. You were practically taunting him through his mirrors, taking in every move he made as he bounced around the track defending you. And he enjoyed every moment of it.

Coming up to the chicane, you slightly take your foot off the throttle. Not enough to back off but enough to make Kimi think that you were. He takes the bait, defending the usual racing line. And that's when you put your skills to good use. You go late on the breaks, hugging that outer line as much as physics would allow it, and the car twitches. Kimi jolts in surprise, not expecting the risky move so early on in the game. But then he scoffs once— not in anger, but in recognition. He should've known you would do that— you always did.

You were already past— risky, bold, barely within track limits— but past. You glance at your mirror, noticing the Mercedes get smaller as you push your car to its fastest.

You were going to finish ahead of him again and you wouldn't have it any other way.

Your car comes to a halt in parc fermé. P4 for a debut race wasn't bad, especially when Kimi Antonelli consistently haunted you for the whole two hours. As you jump out, you notice your former teammate moving towards you, helmet in hand and a boyish smirk on his face.

"Good first race," he greets, a shimmer of mischief in his eyes. "You beat me."

You look at him and quirk your eyebrow, expression deadpan. "I always do."

He breaks out into a larger grin before leaving towards the media pen. You shake your head at his antics, sighing unsurprised. You and Kimi were always like this— playful, rivals, next to each other. You were both polar opposites in terms of personality: Kimi was boyish, bouncy, always had a smile on his face. You were relaxed, quiet, masking no emotions. When the both of you were teammates in Formula 2, the media dubbed you as the 'modern day Seb and Kimi'— where he was Seb and you were the iceman himself.

Of course the beauty of Kimi Räikkönen was the fact that he only ever broke down his walls for Sebastian Vettel himself. And this dynamic was perfectly mirrored with you and your former teammate.

As you made it into the media pen, you are quickly directed to the long line of journalists and news reporters ahead. People asked about your feelings towards your debut race, the strategy you used to get to P4 from P15, almost kissing the podium, being the only female driver in Formula 1. All of which were questions you already knew the answers to, prompting you to reply with simple answers that satisfied the question but left them wanting more.

"What can you say about that divebomb move you did on Kimi in Turn 1? That was pretty risky, especially for your debut race."

You blink slowly, pursing your lips as you ponder on the question. "It was risky but calculated. You do what you have to do to be ahead."

The journalist nods at your answer. "Speaking of, are we going to be seeing more of the rivalry you and Kimi have? Or is that something we left back in F2?"

As the mic is pointed back to you, you shrug your shoulders. "I don't know. If he's still as good as he was in Formula 2 then we will."

And before the reporter could ask any more questions, you nod your head curtly and walk away.

Another race week, another round of media obligations. If you weren't a rookie and scared to be sacked barely ten races in, you would probably have already called in sick today to avoid as much of it as possible.

You could appreciate the good questions— the ones about tire strategy, mentality going into the race weekend, initial feelings as you embark on your second ever F1 race. But you could not care less for the stupid ones— one time in F2, someone asked you what your teammate smelled like. You could assure them that you weren't going to be that close to Kimi for you to get a whiff of his perfume.

The Italian only giggled at the question, and when he was asked the same he simply shrugged and replied: "Like apples."

Your perfume was raspberry.

The sea of reporters were already sat down by the time you made it into the room. Your initial plan was to be as late as possible— less time, less questions asked. Of course, you didn't account for the fact that your manager would be banging on your door before your alarm even went off.

The only spot left was on the far-end of the couch next to Max— you weren't complaining. As you sat down, you place the microphone on your lap and the circus begins. You honestly zoned out for a while, the reporters going for Max and Lewis first until a question was brought to your attention.

"Kimi, we've seen since Formula 2 that you've always finished behind Y/N— does this frustrate or motivate you?"

You're brought back to the room at the mention of your name, eyes scanning for the reporter through the brim of your hat.

"Well..." You look to Kimi once he starts talking. The both of you share a look that causes you to smirk lightly and him to smile small. You lower your head at this, fidgeting with the wire that was connected to your microphone.

"It definitely motivates me," he starts, looking back towards the reporter. "I don't think I've ever been frustrated at this fact."

You look up once again, one eyebrow raised at your rival's answer. He looks back at you with a cheeky smile, the same one he always gives you after a question is thrown about the both of you.

Max and Lewis only looked back and forth between the opposite ends of the couch. They didn't really know what was happening, nor do they fully understand the dynamic, but they found it entertaining nonetheless. The reporters did the same, entranced in the child-like tension that comfortably fit in the middle of you and Kimi. They probably even forgot that two world champions were sitting right in the middle of the couch.

"We were in the same car in F2 but it was clear who handled it better," Kimi adds on, tone as if he was stating the obvious. "I mean... she finished ahead of me in the standings so who's surprised."

The sea of reporters chuckle at this, captivated by the rookie's charm. You swear you even heard Max mumble 'just like you and Seb' to Lewis as they both had grins on their face.

The same journalist picks up the microphone, stretching a hand towards you. "Y/N? Anything to add?"

You blink twice before bringing the microphone to your lips, a small smirk settling onto your face. The crowd seemed to hold their breath in anticipation of what you were going to say. Even Max and Lewis did the same.

"Kimi said it best," you start. "He's good, but I'm better."

Fifth race of the season and Kimi was still hot on your tail. The cheeky banter that the two of you had was still prevalent at every media day. Kimi saying you were good at defending, you saying Kimi was good at attacking. It was a back and forth of snarky comments yet respectful compliments on the other's driving— something the media found absolutely entertaining.

You and Kimi almost crashed in Qualifying and the paddock buzzed with eagerness to see what would happen. While you stormed off towards Kimi's car to confront him, the Italian only looked at you with a smirk on his face. His eyes shimmered at your anger, finding the insults you were throwing him amusing.

You had managed to snag P8 on the starting grid, Kimi still behind you in P7. Which is why the both of you were chasing each other for most of the race. It's like the rest of the drivers didn't even matter, because the only person you were fighting was each other. If you led, Kimi would overtake you. If Kimi led, you would fight back.

It's lap 55 and the both of you were still playing tag in your cars. This game starts to irritate you, especially when you were so close to the end of the race. Kimi was in front of you. You almost kissed his rear wing a few times which caused a few angry radio messages from the man himself. He was defending like crazy, not giving you the space or time to do anything about the position you were in.

Until he slows down. Which catches you off-guard, until your eyes narrow. You knew exactly what game this guy was playing.

"Brilliant," you mutter under your breath, trying your best not to just push him off the track due to sheer annoyance.

You were now side by side the Mercedes of driver number 12, heading into the part of the track that is crucial towards who could take the lead between the two of you.

The both of you were going insanely slow, trying your hardest not to be the leading car when the both of you reach the DRS zone. You're getting radio messages from the team telling you to stop what you are doing to avoid a penalty. Toto was probably aging 5 years due to this stunt his rookie was pulling.

"Y/N, there's a car behind the both of you. I suggest you get on with it."

You hear the radio message loud and clear, but you didn't budge. The both of you were going 120 in a 200 zone, posing a great risk to the other drivers who were coming up behind you two.

"Fuck it." You push your foot on the pedal, now in front of Kimi. He reacts to your throttle and goes quick as well, only barely skimming your rear wing.

He was going fast, and you knew that you could play this to your advantage to get DRS. And you did exactly that. Because as soon as you could tell that Kimi had faster pace than you, you take your foot off the throttle and watch as he leads once the both of you reach the DRS zone.

"DRS available, Y/N. That was risky. Never do that ever again."

You smirk victorious at the radio message, immediately opening up your DRS and passing the Italian with ease.

"All in a day's work."

You go on to finish the race in P5, Kimi staggering behind you in P6.

The garage buzzes with post-race exhaustion. You’re perched on a fold-out chair, helmet off, hair a mess, wrists wrapped in cooling packs. Your race suit is unzipped halfway, the navy blue fireproofs clinging to your skin uncomfortably. Someone left a fan on nearby, but it’s doing little to cool the heat radiating off your back.

You close your eyes for a second. Just a second. Until—

"Didn’t think I’d see the great Y/N Y/L/N icing her wrists like a rookie," a familiar voice teases.

Your eyes crack open to find Kimi Antonelli leaning against the doorframe, still in full race gear. He hasn’t even unzipped his suit yet, cheeks flushed from the heat and eyes practically glowing with mischief. The blue Mercedes hat sat atop his head, doing little to calm down the curls he hid underneath.

You scoff, too tired to play along— though the smile tugging at your lips betrays you. "You were in front of me for a long time today. Nice job."

He grins. "Yeah, until you decided to pull that DRS crap."

You chuck a balled-up cooling wrap at him. He dodges it easily, like he’s used to you trying to hit him with things. "You started it."

"Had to win over you somehow." He shrugs, finally stepping inside. He squats in front of you like you’re the car he’s inspecting.

You blink at his wording. You hate that your chest tightens a little, a swell of butterflies threatening to spill in your stomach. His tone softens, eyes flickering briefly to your hands. "Seriously though. You okay?"

You narrow your eyes at him. For a moment, he’s not teasing. Not pulling the rival crap you both have always stuck to since you were in Prema. You shrug. "Just sore. I've had worse."

He stays crouched a beat longer before standing, stretching his arms above his head with a dramatic groan. "Well, sore or not, we’ve got rookie PR in ten. Don’t forget to act like you hate me."

You roll your eyes. "I don’t have to act. You’re exhausting."

Kimi winks. “And yet, you keep chasing me.”

You scoff again but can’t help the grin that slips. "Need I remind you that you're always behind me?"

He shakes his head at your words, turning on his heel. You grab your hat and fall into step beside him as you both head toward the paddock media tent.

"Next time I slow down for DRS, you're going to have to thank me for the free position."

You roll your eyes at his words, adjusting the hat on your head. "I still despise you, Antonelli."

"I know. You've said that since last year."

It was media day yet again and the press conference that came with it was routine— one of those long, slightly tedious panels where all the drivers are lined up behind nameplates, small mic stands individually distributed while trying not to say anything too controversial.

But of course, you and Kimi couldn’t help yourselves.

The sweet interaction you both had behind closed doors last week was long forgotten as the new week rolls around. A fresh set of snarky comments and huffed comebacks rally between the both of you, not caring about the situation you were currently in.

You’re seated two spots apart, with Ollie between you. He looks increasingly alarmed with every back-and-forth exchange. Isack, seated on Kimi’s other side, is trying to hide his laugh behind his water bottle.

"Y/N, what did you think of Kimi’s defensive driving last weekend?" one reporter asks, already smiling like she knows exactly what answer she’s going to get.

You raise an eyebrow, your tone dry. "Defensive driving? More like dangerous driving. He almost brake-checked me into next week."

Kimi huffs dramatically, leaning over in front of Ollie. "Maybe if you weren’t so glued to my rear wing all the time, you wouldn’t have to worry about it."

You blink, then tilt your head. "That's why I'm normally in front of you. You're too slow"

There’s a beat of silence then several muffled laughs. Someone lets out an audible, “God.”

Ollie glances at the moderator helplessly. "Are we allowed to separate them?"

The moderator tries to push forward, but the tension on your side of the panel is unmistakable— sharp enough to cut through the usual PR fluff.

And then, finally, someone asks it.

"Y/N. Kimi. With all this... whatever this is— are you two actually rivals, or is there something more going on here?"

The question lands with a heavy pause. Everyone stares. Charles almost chokes on his water. Lando turns to Oscar like did they just say that?

Your hand tightens slightly around the mic. You glance at Kimi, who’s already grinning like the devil. He raises one eyebrow.

"Well?" he prompts, clearly enjoying the chaos. "Are we rivals?"

You stare at him for a beat. Then smirk, voice monotonous. "We’re not friends, if that’s what you’re asking."

Kimi nods, all mock-serious. "Yeah. She just likes yelling at me, and I like overtaking her."

You roll your eyes at his comments.

Someone in the room coughs out a laugh. The moderator tries, and fails, to move on.

Max mutters something to Charles, who’s very obviously trying not to burst into laughter. Lewis just leans back, watching the two of you like you’re the most entertaining part of his day.

And that’s how the moment ends— no answer, no clarification. Just you and Kimi sitting in your chairs, pretending nothing happened, as if you didn’t just throw the entire room into confused, romantic-tension-filled chaos.

The press conference rolls on, awkward laughter still lingering from the last question. The moderator tries to redirect— asks a question about tire strategy for the upcoming street circuit. Kimi answers smoothly, then it’s passed to you.

“Y/N, are you confident in your tire management heading into the race weekend?”

You nod, keeping your tone cool. "Confident enough to keep my car ahead of Kimi’s... again."

Kimi lets out the most dramatic sigh. "You say that like you don’t spend every lap checking your mirrors for me."

You don’t even look at him this time. "What can I say? You’re hard to ignore when you're that close and that annoying."

Ollie audibly groans. "Oh my god, will one of you just say it?"

Everyone turns to look at him. He throws his hands in the air. "You’re not rivals. You're flirting. This is so much worse than I thought."

Lewis nods from two seats down beside him, arms crossed. "I’ve raced against Seb and Mark. This is different. This is… soft."

Fernando deadpans, "Yeah. Seb never smiled like that when Mark shoved him off the track."

Lando leans forward, mic dangerously close to his mouth. "Just blink twice if you're in denial."

Kimi only shrugs, smile tugging at his lips. "I don’t deny anything. She’s the one who keeps pretending I’m not her favorite opponent."

You roll your eyes, but you’re biting back a smile. "Opponent is the key word there, Antonelli."

The room erupts in laughter. Teasing the youngest in the grid proved to be entertaining. Even the moderator gives up, leaning back with a sigh as the press completely loses control.

George speaks up from the far end, sounding thoroughly done.

"No, see, this is what we’re talking about. That? That tone? That’s not ‘opponent’ talk, that’s ‘I-know-his-star-sign-and-how-he-takes-his-coffee’ talk.”

One reporter manages to recover enough to ask: "So… any final clarification? Rivalry or—?"

You and Kimi answer at the exact same time.

"Rivals."

"Something more."

Everyone gasps like they’re in a high school cafeteria.

You blink, slowly turning your head toward him. Kimi just flashes you that boyish, smug smile.

"What?" he says innocently. "You said it yourself— I’m hard to ignore."

The press conference ends with the moderator’s desperate attempt to bring order and the sound of thirty cameras still clicking. You and Kimi stand from your spot behind the table, still pretending everything’s normal even though you basically declared war and something else entirely on live TV.

You're barely five steps into the hallway behind the media room when a hand tugs on your sleeve.

"Okay. Stop. You. You’re not going anywhere."

It’s Lando, planted dead center in the corridor like a traffic cone in papaya. "You two need to talk. Or confess. Or kiss. Or crash. Honestly, I don’t care anymore, but this 'are-they-or-aren’t-they' is draining. Entertaining! But come on, man."

Oscar appears right behind him, arms folded. "Yeah. I’d say 'get a room' but apparently you’ve got like… a whole media room watching instead."

George leans against the wall, ever the instigator. "This is honestly more tense than when Lewis threw that hat at Nico."

Kimi just blinks at them. "You’re all very dramatic."

You deadpan. "You literally fake-yawned during my answer so I’d look at you."

Max walks by eating something from catering. "You’re both unhinged. If I have to hear "I’m always ahead of him" and 'I'm better than her' one more time, I’m crashing you both out myself."

Lewis appears like a wise dad who’s so done. "Look. I love a good rivalry. Keeps things interesting. But this— this is a rom-com in race suits. Either admit you like each other or we’re making a group chat intervention."

Liam gives you a pointed look. "Don’t even try to act cool. I’ve seen you soft-launch him on your story."

Your eyes widen. "That was his helmet."

"Exactly."

The hallway fills with groans and mock outrage as Kimi chuckles beside you, fully basking in the chaos. You glance up at him, exasperated, but the grin on his face is all boyish charm and zero apology.

He leans just a little closer, voice low. "Told you we’re not subtle anymore."

You shake your head, muttering, "You’re insufferable."

He winks. "But you like it."

And yeah— maybe you do.

Race day and you're already on edge.

Maybe it's the press conference shenanigans. Maybe it's Kimi's stupid, smug, post-conference hallway wink. Or maybe it's the fact that everyone on the grid suddenly decided to become certified couples therapists.

Whatever it is, you helmet feels tighter, the air feels heavier, and you could hear your heart beating in your chest.

"Y/N, radio check. How are we feeling?"

You don't respond immediately, just adjusting your grip on your steering wheel. Kimi's car is beside you on the grid, just one position below you. He was waving at an engineer, bouncy as ever, and you don't know if you want to kiss him or crash him.

Before you knew it, the five red lights go out and you slam your foot on the pedal.

You get a clean launch but Kimi had a faster reaction. The two of you are alongside each other into Turn 1 and you already hated it. You squeeze tighter on the inside, taking a sharper line. He pulls back ahead by Turn 3 and you continue to chase.

Every time he turns, you follow. You're not racing the others anymore— you're locked into car number 12 like it's personal. Like the entire race is just you and him.

Eventually you get past him as he zooms into the pit lane. But that doesn't stop the knot to form in your chest.

Your grip on the steering wheel tightens with every turn. The car hums like it always does but your brain is somewhere else entirely. Somewhere behind you. Somewhere in a black and blue car.

"Antonelli is 0.4 behind you."

You could practically feel him through your mirrors, like a phantom chasing your tail. He had been right there for five laps— patiently waiting for the perfect moment to strike. And you hate that a part of you has started to drive more for him than for the points.

Something had shifted. It wasn't just racing anymore, wasn't just banter and cheeky smirks and toeing the line. He looked and talked to you in the press conference like you were the only one in the room— he always does. And now it's messing with you.

You're faster, better— you know this. But your head's too loud. Your heart even louder.

You brake too late into Turn 9. The rear of your Red Bull twitches and your instinct kicks in. You overcorrect, unsettled by the snap, but the grip vanishes from your rear tires.

You spin.

It's no catastrophic, but it's dramatic. Smoke kicks up as your car hurtles into the wall, sending bits of debris scattered all over the track. You weren't hurt, but you weren't moving either. The engine stalls.

You sit still, breathing hard. Helmet still on, grip like a death lock on the wheel.

"Are you okay?"

You don't bother to reply, just slumped in your seat. Stupid emotions buzzing around in your head like it would explode. You see the marshals wave the red flag and you see the Mercedes you were running from slow down as it passes you. Slow enough that you could tell he was looking. Slow enough that you knew he was debating on jumping out.

You swallow and flick the switches, trying your best to get the engine to fire back. It doesn't.

"Yeah," you finally reply. "Just— yeah."

Your engineer tells you to kill the car. Your brain tells you to scream.

You make your way out of your car, and the world feels a little too loud.

You quickly take your race suit off as you whiz past the pit lane, not even bothering to stay for the entire race. You throw your hat on, wanting to get away from the paddock. Away from the cameras and the pitying eyes.

But Red Bull is Red Bull. There's no hiding in the world champion's garage, not with the interns side-eyeing you and the engineers pretending not to notice the tension bleeding off you like smoke.

You slump down into one of the chairs. Your arms are crossed, foot bouncing, eyes locked onto nothing. Every time you blink you see the moment again— the oversteer, the snap, the runoff, his car.

You were not okay.

And apparently your teammate could tell.

You didn't even notice that you had been glued to the exact same spot for a long time until you catch Max slide into the chair in front of you. The race had ended.

"Want to tell me what that was?"

You blink at him, jaw tight. "Was a mistake. I messed up."

"Well, yeah," he deadpans, adjusting his hat. "But that's not what I meant."

You don't respond. Already not liking where this was heading.

"You and Kimi." He leans forward, lowering his voice. "What's going on?"

You scowl, slumping even more into your seat as if that would hide you from Max Verstappen's stormy-eyed gaze. "Nothing's going on."

"Right. That press conference on Thursday would say otherwise."

You scoff. "Whatever happened in that press conference was utter bullshit and you know that."

"Do I?" Max raises an eyebrow, leaning back into his seat. "Because the way he looked at your replay after the race..."

You snap to look at him, cursing yourself internally for being too eager to know. Max notices this and sighs, "He didn't leave until he saw you get out. George told me he would've gotten out if Toto didn't yell at him not to."

You look back to your spot on the floor, unable to reply.

"He almost swerved too. Dropped down to P11."

Silence hangs between you. A million thoughts raced through your mind and your heart felt like it was going to fall out of your chest.

"You think I threw away points for a boy?" You finally build the courage to look at him.

Max just shrugs, "I think you forgot you were racing everyone else."

You exhale shakily and thank the heavens that Max doesn't push. He just stands up and gives your shoulder a pat. "Sort your head out, Y/N. You're better than this."

As he walks away, you catch sight of the familiar sight of curls and blue lingering near the entrance of the hospitality.

And you decide right then and there that you were going to do this for yourself. No more distractions.

Kimi Antonelli has always been good at bouncing back. Always smiling, able to shake things off, easy to just be.

But lately? Not so much.

You've been quiet. Not cold— but distant. Professional, like he was just another driver on the grid now and not the one you used to glare at from across the room with a sly smirk. You still greet each other but only because you have to. You haven't looked at him longer than two seconds since your crash three weeks ago. And Kimi? He's losing his mind over it.

But it's not like he doesn't know why.

You spiraled after that crash, everyone could tell. He saw it in the way you avoided any form of media, in the way you hid from the paddock, in the way Max helped in pulling you aside, in the way you sat at the next press conference like you were building a brick wall between you and everything else— especially him.

And what did that get Kimi? Messing up.

He locks up into Turn 3 during Q2, tires screeching. He almost scraps the car, giving Toto the time of his life behind the monitors. He even misses the apex in Q3— not once, but twice.

"P15, Kimi," his engineer radios, voice tight. "You okay?"

Kimi stays silent for a beat before finally replying, "Yeah."

He jumps out of the car with a blank expression. He pulls off his gloves with more force than necessary and walks right past the media pen without saying a word. Their PR managers try to call him back, but he doesn't stop, doesn't even look back.

You were the complete opposite.

You pass by on your cool-down lap, securing P4. He watches your car cruise down the pit lane from the garage and the worst part? You don't even glance his way.

Kimi finally feels it. The horrible ache in his chest that maybe this rivalry doesn't feel like a rivalry anymore— just an ending he didn't ask for.

Kimi is finally forced into the media pen for some last-minute interviews. He answers bluntly, no emotion behind his voice as he stares into the void behind the camera. Some interviewers even started to get irritated with the lack of answers, but before they could probe any more, Kimi walks away from the crowd and heads back to the hospitality.

You saw it all. The way his eyes held no spark behind him, the way his voice continued to be flat whenever he talked. You saw the articles and the videos of people trying to piece things together. The timeline from your crash three weeks ago to Kimi's horrendous qualifying session.

You had just seen a clip of Kimi's interview and something in your chest aches— sharp and undeniable.

"Alright, what's going on?"

You flinch slightly at the voice. Max stands a few feet away, arms crossed, expression unreadable. He wasn't angry— but he wasn't casual either.

You quickly pull your headphones off, discreetly turning off your phone and facing the screen down. "Nothing. I'm fine."

Max quirks an eyebrow. "That's not what your face says."

You roll your eyes at his probing. "Seriously, Max. I'm just tired."

He doesn't move. Still watching. Still knowing.

"You've been off for weeks," he says finally. "You barely talk anymore and you look like you're fighting ghosts every time you're in the car."

You look down at your hands, twiddling your thumbs.

"It's not a big deal," you murmur. "Just... dumb stuff."

He scoffs slightly. "If it was dumb, it wouldn't be getting to you this bad."

You don't respond. You know he's got you

Max walks over and takes the seat across from you, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. "It's about Kimi, isn't it?"

You hesitate but your silence said enough.

"I saw the interview," he adds, voice quieter. "Kid's a wreck."

Your lips twitch into something bitter. "He should be."

Max frowns at that. "So what happened?"

You take a deep breath, leaning back into your seat. "I told myself that if I cut him out, I'd drive better. That he was a distraction."

He nods slowly. "And?"

"I almost crashed last weekend."

He sighs, confirming everything he's already pieced together.

"He's still distracting me. Even when I ignore him."

Max leans back in his seat, thinking. "Listen, I’m not gonna play therapist. But it doesn’t go away by pretending it’s not there. And it’s not weak to care about people. Even... annoying curly-haired Italians."

You huff out a quiet laugh despite yourself. "He’s so annoying."

Max smirks. "He likes you."

Your head snaps toward him. "What—"

"He likes you," he repeats. "Like... likes you. The whole paddock sees it."

You stay quiet for a second too long.

"And George told me."

Your eyebrows furrow at this information. "Since when do you talk casual to George?"

Max puts his hands up in mock surrender. "Hey, he's not great but I'll do anything for you. You're like my little sister."

You smile at this, grateful for the support your teammate had.

Max tilts his head. “So... do you like him?”

Your fingers twist in your hoodie sleeve. "I don’t know what I feel when he’s around. But when he’s not... everything feels worse."

Max nods once, like that’s enough.

"Then maybe don’t fight it so hard," he says, standing. "Racing’s hard enough. Don’t make it harder by pretending you don’t care."

You watch as he starts to walk away, and just before he disappears out the door, he calls over his shoulder:

"Oh— and if he hurts you, I’ll punt him into next week."

You grin. "Thanks, Max."

He just raises a hand in acknowledgment, walking out the door like he just saved your life.

Despite Max's advice, you couldn't find the courage to talk to Kimi about it. So for a month, you both ignored each other like the plague and your races just went south from there.

You both would barely qualify in Q3 anymore and you wouldn't be able to make it out of a race without clipping the wall. Kimi was just as bad, getting into bad crashes every other week.

It was horrible. But the two of you didn't do anything about it.

Now it was race day, lap 43, and despite the distance created between you two for the past weeks, that didn't mean he still wasn't behind you through every corner.

Your Red Bull is barely in front. Kimi's Mercedes eats at your slipstream like its oxygen— still constantly in your mirrors, constantly on your nerves.

You tried to focus, but he was always there. And unless you decided to push him off, there was nothing you could do.

He lunges into Turn 7 and you don't give way. Your cars go wheel-to-wheel, leaving no room for each other within the track. Kimi tries to edge ahead on the outside. You squeeze him in retaliation, not enough to send him off but enough to send a message.

But he doesn't back off. He jerks the car forward with one final push and all hell breaks loose. Your front wing clips his rear and you swear you can hear the groans of both Christian and Toto all the way from the pit wall.

The contact is light but enough to shatter your wing and blow his tire. Both cars spin in tandem like a devil's tango, red and blue tangled in smoke and weeks of unspoken words. The crowd screams, marshals scramble, radios go haywire.

Everything is chaos. Everything except the burning in your chest.

You slam your fists on your steering wheel as your car comes to a halt on the gravel.

"Y/N, you okay?"

You don't reply. Instead, your eyes drift to the rundown Mercedes beside you. You see Kimi unbuckle his belt and take his helmet and balaclava off. He stood next to his car, posture stiff, eyes locked on your car.

You rip your helmet off and glare at him through the smoke and dust. And for the first time ever, there's no playfulness in the way you look at each other.

Just fury and heartbreak.

You say nothing. He says nothing. The marshals move in, but it's too late— the silence between the two of you has said it all.

You walk into the hospitality suite still in your race suit, helmet under your arm, jaw clenched so tight it hurts.

The room goes silent. No one knows what to say.

Your crash replay is already looping on the TV— Red Bull and Mercedes in slow-mo carnage. And not the cars the media expected either. The wing clipping, the tire bursting, the spin— you staring at Kimi like you’ve never known him at all.

Max is already there. So is your race engineer, Christian, your performance coach. The air is thick.

Max looks up, stress just as prominent on his face. "What the hell was that?"

You freeze, one foot still halfway in the doorway.

"You want the PR-friendly version or the one where I say I finally lost it?" you bite.

"You're not helping your case either way," he says calmly, but not coldly. Max is firm— older, sharper, not your rival but someone who’s been through every form of paddock chaos. "Look, I get it. You two have history. But this? This was emotional. Not smart."

Your fists clench around your helmet.

"It wasn’t just emotional. He pushed, I pushed back."

"That’s not racing. That’s a vendetta."

Your jaw ticks.

Your engineer tries to pivot. "We’ll review telemetry, see where we can defend the move if the stewards come calling."

But the conversation feels background now. Your eyes flick up to the TV again— frame paused on Kimi staring at your car in the runoff. Helmet on, shoulders tight, and no approach. No apology— just space.

Too much of it.

Meanwhile, Kimi’s being led into a side room. He's still in his race suit, lips pressed in a thin, unreadable line. Toto’s already giving him a look that’s somewhere between concern and disappointment.

"You need to tell me that wasn’t personal."

"It wasn’t."

"Then explain the body language." Toto nods toward the replay. “She looks at you like she wants to kill you. And you just stand there.”

Kimi’s hands curl into fists.

"I didn’t go for a dive bomb. I stayed on the racing line."

"And she didn’t back out either."

He doesn’t answer.

Toto sighs. "You two want to destroy each other, fine. But don’t destroy the cars too. We can’t afford that kind of emotional chaos on track again."

Kimi just stares down at the floor, jaw tense. Because he knows— this isn't just about today’s race.

Media day rolls around once again. The room is packed— cameras, reporters, too many eyes.

You’re seated on the far end of the lineup. Kimi is three chairs away. That’s by design— someone in PR clearly didn’t want another headline.

A reporter clears their throat. "Y/N, let’s start with you. There’s been a lot of talk about the collision last weekend. Do you still stand by your actions on track?"

But even with two drivers between you, the tension is unmistakable.

Max is next to you. Lando’s between you and Kimi. George looks like he’s bracing for impact.

You blink once. Then twice. You lift the mic, voice perfectly neutral.

"I stand by the fact that I raced. The telemetry shows that much."

Kimi doesn’t look at you. You don’t look at him either.

The reporter nods, but presses, "Do you regret the result?"

You hesitate. A beat too long. Max subtly shifts in his seat like he’s ready to shut it down for you.

Finally, you say, "I regret that it ended the way it did. Not that it happened."

The next question is for Kimi. "Kimi, same topic. Anything to say about your part in the incident?"

Kimi grips the mic.

"I raced her the way she raced me," he says simply. "I didn’t intend for it to end in a crash."

"But it did," the reporter counters. "And some fans are saying this has gone from playful rivalry to something... dangerous."

Silence. Another reporter cuts in, sensing blood.

"Which brings up the bigger question— are you two actually rivals? Or is there something else going on here?"

You finally glance at Kimi. He glances back. It's not playful now, not teasing. It’s tired, frustrated, wounded.

You speak first.

"Do you think this way because I'm a female?" you start, voice monotonous. "Carlos and Oscar crashed last week but I don't see anyone else questioning if they fuck behind closed doors."

Kimi says nothing. Carlos raises his brows. Oscar shifts like he wants to disappear. Max? Max exhales through his nose like he’s had enough.

Then Kimi, after a moment, says, "We were teammates once. That’s all."

You nod. "And now we’re not."

Another mic is raised but Max leans forward into his own and calmly says, "Can we move on, please?"

Media day goes by faster than you had anticipated. All thanks to Max being the best older brother figure and flicking off the questions that didn't matter. The night was slowly coming, the sunset casting the sky orange and you were still in an empty hallway with your backpack slung over your shoulder.

You hear the footsteps before you see him. The sound of boots on the concrete echoing through the hallway. You don’t need to look up to know it’s him. You just close your eyes and sigh.

"Kimi, don’t—"

"I’m not here to fight,” he says, voice quiet. Almost uncertain.

You finally glance over. He’s not in his race suit anymore— just a plain black team hoodie, hair still damp from the post-race shower. He looks young. Tired. Like this whole thing’s been eating at him too.

You scoff, eyes looking away. "You’re always here. That’s the problem."

Silence.

"I thought that’s what you wanted."

You blink, caught off guard.

"I gave you space," Kimi says, stepping closer, hands in his pockets. "Because every time I got close, you flinched. Or ran. Or crashed into me." A weak laugh, but it dies quickly.

"So I stopped chasing."

That word. Chasing. He looks down, then back up. His eyes meet yours— tired but steady.

"But I never stopped wanting to."

Your breath catches.

"I’ve always been behind you, Y/N," he says, voice softer now. "On the track. Off the track. I chased because I liked being near you. I liked the way you drove, how you looked at me when you overtook me like you planned it since Thursday." He pauses.

"I like you. That didn’t change. I just... backed off because I thought it was better for you."

You blink rapidly, heart pounding. The silence between you stretches wide and raw. He doesn’t step closer, doesn’t touch you. Just lets it hang there in the air— waiting.

You finally whisper, "So what now?"

He shrugs, but his voice cracks just slightly. "I don’t know. But I’m still here."

You meet his gaze, and this time you don’t flinch. You look at him, eyes soft but unreadable. The words stick in your throat, burning like adrenaline at lights out.

He steps back slightly— not away, just enough to show he’s leaving the choice to you.

And you do something you don’t expect.

You take one step forward. Let your fingers graze the strap of your bag. And you say, just above a whisper—

"Then don’t stop."

You walk past him slowly, your shoulder brushing his. You don’t turn around. You don’t have to.

Because he’s already smiling.

You were slowly getting back to your regularly scheduled programming. You noticed it when Kimi stood closer to you during today's driver parade and when the both of you exchanged glances in parc fermé after qualifying P1 and P2 yesterday.

You were sure the others noticed it too. The tension was warmer, banter almost coming back full force.

Lap 68 of 70. The tension is high, your focus even higher. Your Red Bull dances through the corners, tires screaming, engine humming—you're in P1, with Kimi right on your rear wing.

It’s poetic, almost. The two of you again. No one else in sight, just the ghost of your shared past trailing behind you.

Your race engineer’s voice crackles through the radio. "Two laps to go. Kimi’s got DRS. Don’t do anything stupid."

You don’t reply. You don’t need to. This wasn’t about stupid moves anymore. It wasn’t about payback or proving anything.

Kimi moves up on your inside into the braking zone of Turn 6. You see him in your mirrors— calculated, clean. He isn’t divebombing, isn’t pushing you wide like the both of you used to. He’s asking. Testing.

You defend the corner— not aggressively, but fairly. A line drawn in respect, not in battle. He backs off, just a touch, but he’s still there. You both know he’ll try again. Maybe on the next straight.

Lap 69. You feel him edge closer, the Mercedes getting tow after tow. This time, he takes the outside. You could shove him wide, close the door, cut the apex like you always used to.

But you don’t. You give him space.

You brake early enough to let him choose the line. You even adjust your throttle just slightly— not enough to throw the race, but enough to say I trust you to take it from here.

He does. He slips past, clean as ever. For once, it doesn’t sting.

You chase him for the rest of the lap— not because you’re angry or trying to steal the lead again. But because that’s how it’s always been. You and Kimi. Push and pull. First and second. Side by side, even when you're not.

Final corner. You’re right on his gearbox, but you don’t make the move. Because he earned this one. And because you’ll get him back next time.

Across the finish line: Kimi P1, you P2.

The checkered flag waves in a blur of black and white as you cross the finish line, just seconds behind the silver Mercedes in front of you.

But it wasn’t just the result that had your heart pounding— no, it was him. It was Kimi.

You’d fought each other hard. Clean lines, aggressive braking, zero hesitation. But not a single corner was dirty. Not a single move crossed the line. It was the first time in a long while where it didn’t feel like war. It felt like racing.

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding as you pull into parc fermé, the crowd roaring in the background. The adrenaline hums in your veins as you unclip your belts, helmet still on as you jump out of the car.

And there he is. Standing beside his car, helmet already off, curly hair flattened against his head, cheeks flushed from the heat. Kimi turns when he hears your footsteps, and for a second, neither of you says anything.

Then he smiles. Not the smug one. Not the teasing one. Just… soft. Honest.

You walk up to him and hold your helmet against your hip. "Nice win," you say quietly.

He looks at you like he’s trying to memorize this moment. "Nice race," he replies. "You pushed me."

You smirk faintly. "I always do."

A beat of silence. The air shifts. He opens his mouth, maybe to say more, but the media start swarming. Max claps you on the back. Charles yells something from the pit wall. Someone hands you water.

But Kimi’s still looking at you.

Before he disappears into the chaos, he leans in just slightly—barely audible over the noise. "I missed that. You and me. Like this."

Your chest tightens, but your eyes soften. "Me too."

Max stays standing next to you, a brotherly smile on his face. "You did well, kid."

You smile back. "Thanks, Max."

"And I'm glad you're both good now."

Your eyes slightly go wide at the mention of the Italian, ears turning red. Max notices this and smirks, "No PDA in the garages. And you better not tell him our strategies."

The podium celebrations are over. Your race suit’s half unzipped, champagne still drying on your skin as you walk down the paddock lane toward the team hospitality. Your boots echo against the pavement, the crowd a dull buzz behind you.

Beside you, Kimi walks with his hands holding his helmet. There’s a comfortable silence between you now— no jabs, no standoff tension. Just the lingering heat of a good fight and the electric charge of something that still hasn’t quite been said.

You side-eye him, the corner of your mouth lifting.

"So?" you ask, bumping his shoulder lightly with yours. "You finally happy you finished in front of me?"

Kimi glances over, slow and smug in the way only he can pull off. "Nah."

You raise an eyebrow, turning slightly to face him. "No?"

He lets out a breath that’s halfway between a laugh and a sigh, eyes forward now as you both keep walking. "I’m only getting started."

Your step falters just slightly— just enough for him to notice. He grins, because of course he does.

You roll your eyes, but you can’t hide the way your lips tug upward. "Cocky."

"Confident," he corrects, flicking his gaze toward you. "You’d know something about that."

You hum under your breath, trying not to let the warmth spread to your cheeks. "Guess we’ll see what happens next race."

Kimi slows just a little so he’s behind you for a step or two. “I’ll be right there," he says. "Chasing you."

You don’t say anything, not yet— but your smirk grows just a little wider. You go up to him and plant a kiss on his cheek, running off with a giggle towards your hospitality, leaving him dumbfounded and red in the middle of the paddock.

You're happy. Because for the first time in a while, you want him to.

Lap 71 of 72. The desert track shimmers in the heat, and the Red Bull at the front of the train is holding her own. You.

And he’s behind you again. Kimi Antonelli. The same boy who used to haunt your mirrors, your dreams, your everything.

The same boy you once fought like hell. The same boy you gave space to. The same boy you once let win.

But not today.

Your tires are worn, your fuel light’s flashing, and your team is begging you to bring it home safely. But you can hear Kimi’s car closing in, hear his engine roar on the main straight like he’s trying to rewrite the ending again.

He sends it. Late on the brakes into Turn 9. You cover him off. He goes outside in Turn 10. You tighten the line.

Lap 72. Final lap. He’s still right there. The Mercedes dips and weaves behind your Red Bull, looking for a gap, looking for permission. But this time— you don't give it.

Not out of bitterness. Not out of pride. But because this one’s yours. You earned it.

You hit every apex. Every throttle input is perfect. You’re on the limit, dancing with the car, chasing glory.

And as you round the final corner, Kimi’s still behind. Close. Always close. But behind.

You cross the finish line. You took the gold this time, and god did it taste good.

Your breath’s still heavy when you climb out of the car. Mechanics swarm you, hugs and shouts and celebration— your first win. Champagne-worthy. History-making. Redemption, in its purest form.

You glance sideways— and there he is. Kimi. Helmet off, curlier than usual, grinning like the idiot he is.

He walks up and bumps your shoulder with his. "Happy now? You finally finished ahead of me again."

You scoff, shaking your head, a tired smile on your lips. "You say that like I ever stopped."

He smirks. "I know. I was just giving you time to catch up."

You roll your eyes but the flush on your cheeks betrays you. He leans in just enough so only you can hear—

"I’m proud of you."

He pecks you on the cheek then steps away, letting you take the middle step on the podium where you belong. The crowd cheers and the teams holler.

And even from P2, he never looks away.

[yokoluvv]

I so. very doubt this.

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