#I ACHE FOR UR SECRETS..

[scarletooyoroi]

???

Did a part of Ekanomiya really get into Fontaine? This architecture is a deadass match up. LOL

Oh the amount of questions I have about this.

[intertexts]

also really funny to me that i wasn't very interested in most pd ships until new haven wards. ghostkicks insane qprisms obviously but now i'm like over here shaking and sobbing thinking abt evildead & ghostknife & all their dreadful intricate messy bestfriends little polycule. as mallard conway calls it.

[shy9-29]

ONE NIGHT STAND ⟡ psh

professer sunghoon x collage student ୨ৎ

⟡ synopsis: You let a stranger ruin you one night — then he turned out to be your professor. Now every class feels like foreplay. ✉️ wc. 10350 ⚠️ tw smut, explicit sexual content, unprotected sex (wrap ur willies), professor/student relationship, one night stand, fingering, oral (m. receiving), spanking, dirty talk, handjob, overstimulation, spit kink, possessiveness, jealousy, public teasing, rough sex, aftercare, slight angst, emotional manipulation, implied age gap, power imbalance, strong language, alcohol use (basically just porn)

genre. smut, (mdni!) romance, drama, angst, forbidden love, slow burn, erotica, university au, power dynamics, emotional tension, secret relationship, student/professor romance

It’s your last night of summer. Tomorrow, you move into your dorm, trade your parents’ house for a tiny twin bed and a stack of syllabi. So tonight — just for tonight — you want to forget about responsibility. About expectations. About the version of yourself you’re supposed to become.

The club is loud and packed, the bass from the speakers deep enough to rattle in your chest. Lights flash red and purple overhead, casting shadows that move across the crowd like ghosts. Bella clutches your wrist, pulling you deeper into the sea of people with a giggle.

“You’re not allowed to be shy tonight,” she shouts over the music, leaning close so you can hear her. “It’s your last night of freedom. Go flirt with someone. Get drunk. Maybe get laid.”

You roll your eyes, laughing despite yourself. She’s already halfway to drunk, her glossy eyes and flushed cheeks proof of that. But she’s right. You didn’t dress like this to be a wallflower. You came out in a tight black dress that hugs your curves just right, your makeup smoky and bold, your legs aching slightly from the heels you swore you wouldn’t wear and did anyway.

You make your way to the bar to order something — anything — that’ll warm your throat and lower your inhibitions just a little. That’s when you feel it.

Eyes on you.

You turn your head slightly, pretending to scan the crowd, but you already know exactly where it’s coming from.

He’s sitting at the bar alone. A half-finished whiskey glass in front of him, one elbow resting lazily on the counter. His hair is dark and parted just enough to fall over one brow. Clean-cut, but not preppy. Dressed in all black — a simple shirt, watch glinting at his wrist, rings on two fingers. His posture is relaxed, but his gaze?

Intense.

You don’t know how long he’s been looking at you, but he doesn’t look away when your eyes meet. He doesn’t smirk, doesn’t wink. Just watches. Calm. Curious. Like he’s waiting for you to make the first move.

Your heart skips a beat.

You look away first, pretending to fidget with your phone as you wait for the bartender. But your pulse is racing, and you can still feel his gaze burning into the side of your face.

“Vodka soda,” you say when the bartender finally notices you. Your voice is slightly unsteady, and it annoys you.

You don’t look back until the drink’s in your hand — and when you do, he’s still watching. But this time, he’s moving.

Straight toward you.

You freeze. Instinctively fix your hair. Sip your drink too fast. Then he’s there, standing beside you at the bar like he’s been invited.

“First drink of the night?” he asks, voice smooth as silk, low enough that you have to lean in to hear him.

You glance up at him — and now that he’s close, you can really see him. Sharp cheekbones. Full lips. Eyes so dark you’re not sure where iris ends and pupil begins.

You try to play it cool. “Second.”

He nods once. “Good. First would’ve meant I was a little early. Second means I’m right on time.”

You raise a brow, trying not to let your smile show. “For what?”

He leans in slightly, and you catch the faintest whiff of cologne — warm, musky, expensive. “For meeting you.”

The line should be cheesy. It should make you roll your eyes. But it doesn’t. Maybe it’s the way he says it, like he actually means it. Or maybe it’s the way he’s looking at you, gaze flicking from your lips to your eyes like he’s cataloging the way your mouth moves when you smile.

You take another sip of your drink. “Do you always hit on girls at bars?”

“Not always,” he says, not missing a beat. “Only the ones who can’t stop looking back.”

Your cheeks heat instantly. He saw that?

Before you can come up with a response, he extends his hand. “Sunghoon.”

You hesitate — just a second — before slipping your hand into his. His grip is firm, but not too tight. Warm. Steady.

You tell him your name. He repeats it back to you like he’s tasting it.

And then he leans in again. “Let me buy you your third drink.”

You’re not drunk — not really — but there’s a buzz in your blood, a warmth that runs deeper than alcohol. It’s in the way Sunghoon keeps watching you, the way his eyes drop to your lips every time you speak. His voice is steady, smooth, but there’s something beneath it — a restraint. Like he’s holding himself back.

You talk. About nothing, mostly. Music, favorite cities, late-night cravings. You learn he’s a little older, but he doesn’t say exactly how much. You don’t ask. You don’t want to ruin the spell by making it real.

At some point, you end up on the dance floor. You didn’t plan to — you never really dance — but he takes your hand without asking, and suddenly you’re there, surrounded by pulsing lights and bodies and heat.

He doesn’t keep his distance. One hand finds your waist. The other drifts low, fingers brushing just beneath the hem of your dress. He moves slow, but deliberate — his chest against your back, his lips ghosting near your ear.

“You’re dangerous,” he murmurs, voice low, breath hot against your skin.

You laugh — breathless. “Why’s that?”

“Because I don’t usually do this either.”

You turn your head just enough to meet his gaze. “Do what?”

He leans in. His mouth grazes your jaw, then your cheek, then finally — your lips.

It starts soft. Testing. His hand slides around your hip, pulling you closer, and then he kisses you deeper — fuller — like he’s been waiting all night for it. You don’t even realize your fingers have curled into his shirt until he pulls back just slightly, lips still brushing yours.

“My place is five minutes from here,” he says. “Say the word.”

You hesitate for half a second. Not because you don’t want it — but because you want it too much.

“let’s go,” you whisper.

The ride to his place is a blur — fast, silent, electric. He doesn’t touch you in the car, but his knee brushes yours, and it feels more intimate than anything else so far.

His apartment is clean. Minimalist. Expensive-looking. You barely notice any of it.

Because the moment the door clicks shut behind you, he’s on you.

His hands cup your face as he kisses you again, harder this time. Hungrier. He backs you against the door, lips crashing into yours like he can’t get enough.

Your fingers slide into his hair. His hands drop to your hips, then lower — gripping the backs of your thighs and lifting you effortlessly.

You gasp against his mouth, legs wrapping around his waist. He carries you like you weigh nothing, walking you through the apartment until you’re in his bedroom.

He drops you gently onto the bed, standing over you for a second. His chest rises and falls with every breath. He’s looking at you like you’re the only thing in the room — like he’s starving and you’re the meal.

“Still okay?” he asks, voice rough.

You nod. “Please.”

He smirks — just a little. “Take off your dress for me.”

Your breath catches. But you do it — slowly, fingers slipping beneath the straps and easing it down your body.

Sunghoon watches the whole time, not blinking.

You’re left in nothing but a lacy black bra and matching panties. You start to reach behind to unhook it, but he stops you.

“Let me.”

He steps forward, kneeling onto the bed between your legs. His fingers find the clasp, and the bra falls away. His eyes darken.

“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath, leaning down to kiss between your breasts. His hands trail up your sides, thumbs brushing over your nipples, and you arch into him.

“You’re gorgeous,” he whispers, mouth dragging lower, tongue flicking across one nipple before sucking it into his mouth.

Your back arches, a soft moan slipping past your lips.

His hand moves between your thighs, fingers tracing over your panties. You’re soaked.

“You want my fingers?” he asks, voice low, teasing.

You nod — desperate now.

“Say it,” he murmurs, lips brushing your neck. “Tell me what you want.”

“I want your fingers,” you breathe. “Please.”

And that’s all it takes.

He pushes your panties aside and runs two fingers along your slit, groaning at how wet you are. Then he slides one finger in — slow, deep — and your body trembles.

“Shit,” he breathes. “You’re tight.”

He adds another, curling them inside you, hitting that spot that makes your toes curl.

Your hips start to move with his rhythm, grinding against his hand.

“Touch yourself,” he says suddenly. “I want to see you do it.”

You hesitate, flushed, but obey — hand slipping between your legs to rub slow, needy circles over your clit while he pumps his fingers in and out of your pussy.

The sounds — wet, messy, obscene — echo in the quiet room.

You’re close. So close.

“Come for me,” he says, lips against your ear. “Show me how pretty you look when you fall apart.”

And you do.

You’re still catching your breath when Sunghoon pulls his fingers from your dripping cunt, glistening with your orgasm. He brings them to his mouth, lips curling around them without breaking eye contact.

“Taste so fucking good,” he murmurs. “Could eat you for hours. But right now…”

His voice trails off as he sits back on his heels, tugging his shirt over his head in one fluid motion. His chest is toned, lean muscle carved beneath smooth skin. His belt comes next, then his zipper—

And when he pushes his pants down, your mouth goes dry.

Holy. Shit.

He’s big. Thick. His cock hangs heavy between his legs, hard and flushed, a single bead of precum glistening at the tip.

You stare, stunned for a second, and he notices.

His mouth curves into a dark smile. “Too much?”

You shake your head, eyes locked on his length. “No. Just…” Your voice trails off, and you bite your lip. “Big.”

He groans softly, palming the base of his cock. “Come here, baby. Let me feel that pretty mouth.”

You crawl toward him, sinking to your knees at the edge of the bed. He stays standing, hand stroking his cock slowly as you settle in front of him.

“Spit on it,” he says, voice rough. “Then use your tongue.”

You obey. Spitting into your palm first, you rub the wetness over the head of his cock, then down the shaft. He hisses under his breath, hips twitching.

Then you lean forward and press a slow, open-mouthed kiss to the tip.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, hand slipping into your hair. “Such a good slut.”

You wrap your lips around him, tongue swirling over the sensitive head before sinking lower. He’s thick — you can barely fit him in your mouth — but you try, inch by inch, letting your saliva drip down to make it easier.

Sunghoon groans, fingers tightening in your hair. “Fuck, just like that. You look so fucking good on your knees.”

You moan around him, and the vibration makes his hips jerk. You bob your head slowly, using your hand to stroke what you can’t fit, drool running down your chin.

“Look at me,” he commands, voice like gravel. “Eyes on me while you suck my cock.”

You lift your gaze, lashes wet, cheeks hollowing around his length. He growls.

“God, that mouth. I could fuck your throat all night.”

He starts to guide your head, setting a rhythm — slow but deep, letting you feel every inch. Your throat tightens around him, but you don’t pull away.

“You like this?” he mutters, voice ragged. “Like choking on my cock like a desperate little slut?”

You moan again, louder this time, and he groans — head falling back for a second before he looks down at you again.

“Bet your pussy’s still dripping,” he says. “Bet you’d let me bend you over right now and fuck you until you forget your name.”

You whimper, sucking harder, desperate for his praise — for more of that filth spilling from his lips.

Then suddenly, he pulls back. His cock slips from your mouth with a wet pop, and you blink up at him, confused.

“On your hands and knees,” he says. “Now.”

You scramble onto the bed, body aching for more, cunt still pulsing from your earlier orgasm.

Sunghoon climbs behind you, running a hand down your back, then up again — slow, possessive.

Then—smack.

You gasp as his palm lands on your ass, the sting sharp and sudden.

“Too much?” he asks, even as he squeezes where he just spanked.

“No,” you whisper. “Do it again.”

He groans. “Fuck, you really are perfect.”

Smack. Again — harder this time. Then he soothes the spot with his palm, leaning down to murmur against your ear.

“I’m gonna ruin you,” he breathes. “Stretch this tight little pussy open with my cock, fuck you so good you’ll still be shaking in your dorm tomorrow.”

You moan — loud, desperate — pushing your hips back against him.

“Please, Sunghoon,” you whimper. “Need you inside me.”

His voice is a low growl. “Beg prettier than that.”

You shudder. “Please. Want you to fuck me. Want your cock, please—”

He growls again — deep, raw — and grabs your hips, lining himself up.

You feel the head of his cock slide through your folds — slow, teasing — dragging against your already-sensitive clit before he lines up at your entrance. He pauses, both hands gripping your hips.

“Deep breath, baby,” he murmurs. “I’m not small, remember?”

You barely have time to nod before he pushes in.

Your gasp is instant. He’s thick, stretching you open inch by inch, and the burn is sharp in the best way — the kind that makes your back arch, your mouth fall open, your eyes roll back. He goes slow at first, letting you feel every inch, and your body clenches tight around him, trying to adjust.

“Shit,” Sunghoon groans, voice strained. “You’re so fucking tight—trying to suck me in.”

He bottoms out with one final thrust, hips flush to your ass. You cry out, gripping the sheets.

“Too much?” he asks, voice low.

“N-no,” you stammer. “Just—so full.”

He leans over you, chest pressed to your back, mouth right by your ear. “You can take it. And you will.”

Then he pulls back — just the tip — and slams back in, hard enough to make you moan. He starts moving, hips snapping forward, fucking into you with smooth, relentless strokes. The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room, mixing with the filthy wet noises coming from between your legs and your own desperate moans.

Sunghoon’s grip on your hips is bruising. He fucks you like he owns you, like you’re his toy and no one else’s. He leans back just enough to admire the way your ass bounces with every thrust.

“Look at you,” he mutters. “Taking all of me like a good little slut. You were made for this cock.”

You whimper, trembling, already close again — the stretch, the pressure, the filthy words all pushing you toward the edge.

“You gonna come again?” he asks, breathless. “Already?”

You nod, too far gone to answer properly.

He slaps your ass again — smack. “Say it. I wanna hear you beg.”

“Please,” you gasp. “I’m gonna come, Sunghoon—fuck, please let me.”

He growls, pounding into you faster. “Come for me. Now.”

You break.

Your second orgasm crashes over you hard, clenching around him like a vice, and he doesn’t stop. Keeps fucking you through it, unrelenting, merciless. Your arms give out, and you collapse onto the mattress, trembling and whimpering.

But he doesn’t let up.

“Oh, we’re not done,” he pants. “Not even close.”

He pulls out suddenly, and you barely have time to catch your breath before he flips you onto your back. He grabs your legs, spreads them wide, and lines himself up again.

“Want to see your face this time,” he murmurs. “Want to watch you fall apart.”

Then he thrusts back into you, hard and deep, making you cry out. Your body is already too sensitive, your pussy still fluttering from the last orgasm, but he doesn’t care. If anything, he likes how overstimulated you are.

“You feel that?” he grits out. “How your pussy’s still squeezing me like it never wants to let go?”

You nod frantically, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes. “Too much—fuck—it’s so much.”

“But you’re taking it,” he says. “Taking it so well.”

He fucks you like a man possessed, like he’s trying to carve himself into your memory. Every thrust hits deep, the angle perfect, and your legs start to shake.

“I can’t—” you choke out. “Gonna come again—”

He grabs your throat — not hard, just enough to hold you in place. His other hand finds your clit, fingers rubbing fast, merciless circles over the swollen bundle of nerves.

“Yes, you can,” he growls. “You’re gonna come again. You’re gonna soak my cock. I want to feel you milk me.”

You shatter.

The third orgasm hits you like lightning — hot, electric, impossible. Your vision blurs, body writhing beneath him, voice cracking into a broken moan as your pussy clenches around him like a vice.

But he still doesn’t stop.

Sunghoon fucks you through it, hips slamming into yours, jaw clenched like he’s holding back everything.

“Fuck, I’m close,” he groans. “Wanna come all over this tight fucking pussy. You want that, baby?”

You nod, unable to speak.

“Where?” he grits out. “Tell me.”

“Inside,” you whisper. “Please—come inside me.”

His eyes darken.

He slams into you one more time and groans deep in his chest as he spills inside you — hot, thick, and endless. You can feel it, the way he pulses inside your overstimulated cunt, and it makes you moan all over again.

He stays there for a moment, both of you panting, sweaty, trembling. Then he leans down and kisses you — slow and deep, like he’s trying to remind you that he can be gentle, too.

When he finally pulls out, your thighs are sticky, trembling. You’re completely wrecked — legs spread, sheets soaked, lips swollen, hair a mess. And Sunghoon just looks at you like you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

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

You nod, exhausted. “That was… insane.”

You wake up sore.

Between your legs, mostly. Every shift of your thighs reminds you exactly what happened last night — the ache, the stretch, the way he didn’t stop even after your legs were shaking. You wince a little as you turn over.

The bed beside you is empty.

Sheets crumpled, slightly warm, but no Sunghoon.

You sit up slowly, the duvet slipping down your bare chest, blinking against the morning light that filters in through half-open blinds. The room’s unfamiliar. Sleek. A little too neat to feel lived in.

Strange. Isn’t this his place?

Your clothes are scattered across the floor, but none of his are. No signs of a toothbrush on the bathroom counter. No jackets hanging by the door. No photos. No clutter.

Airbnb, maybe. Just a place he rented for the weekend.

You frown as you rub a hand over your eyes. Your head is foggy, still wrapped in the lingering haze of alcohol and sex. You try to piece together last night — the way he looked at you at the party, the feel of his fingers, his mouth, his cock — and then… it’s all just heat and noise and black.

You don’t even remember falling asleep.

You sigh. Hard.

Your phone’s nearly dead, and the time glares back at you: 11:02 AM.

Classes start tomorrow. Perfect.

No note. No message. Not even a name.

You don’t even know his last name.

You pull your dress on — wrinkled and inside-out — and shove your heels into your bag. You call an Uber before you’ve even finished brushing your hair with your fingers.

The car is quiet. You don’t talk.

You lean your forehead against the window, eyes half-lidded, sore and still a little hungover, the ache between your legs throbbing in time with your heartbeat.

One night stand. That’s what it was. Nothing more.

Still… you can’t help thinking about him. About the way he looked at you. The way he kissed you. The way he—

You shake your head.

It was one night. You’ll never see him again.

Tomorrow, university starts. Time to focus on new things.

You have no idea what’s coming.

You’re late.

Of course you’re late.

Your phone had died overnight, and you’d barely dragged yourself out of bed in time to throw on the cleanest outfit you could find and rush across campus with half-brushed hair and your coffee still in a to-go cup. Your legs are still sore, your thighs brushing uncomfortably with every step, and you haven’t stopped thinking about last night.

Or him.

The guy you let wreck you in a stranger’s bed. The guy who disappeared before morning. The guy you’ll never see again.

Right?

You shove open the door to the lecture hall, breathless.

“Sorry, sorry,” you mumble as you slip inside, your voice echoing faintly. The place is massive — a hundred seats, maybe more — and every single one of them is already filled with someone more punctual and better-rested than you.

You find a seat near the middle, head ducked, ignoring the stares as you slide your bag off your shoulder and collapse into the chair. You’re still trying to catch your breath, sipping your lukewarm coffee, when a voice carries from the front of the room.

“Glad you could finally join us.”

Your stomach twists.

That voice—

No way.

You blink.

Then slowly — so slowly — you look up.

And your heart stops.

There he is.

At the front of the room, standing beside the projector screen with a laptop open on the podium, is him. Black button-up, sleeves rolled just enough to show his forearms. Sharp jaw. Cold eyes.

Sunghoon.

Your one-night stand.

Your mystery man.

Your professor.

You blink again, hoping you’re hallucinating. That you’re still in bed. That you’re still dreaming.

But he just stares back at you — a flicker of recognition in his eyes, so fast and so subtle that if you didn’t know, you’d miss it.

He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t react.

He just says, cool and calm, “As I was saying — welcome to Modern Media Theory. I’m Professor Park. This semester, I expect you to show up on time, be prepared, and keep your personal lives out of my classroom.”

You go still.

The air in your lungs vanishes. Your cheeks burn.

He didn’t just fuck you.

He’s your professor.

And he’s pretending nothing happened.

You don’t hear a single word of the lecture.

Not a single one.

Your eyes stay locked on him the whole time — on Professor Park — trying to reconcile the man in front of the class with the man who had you bent over a bed less than twenty-four hours ago.

He’s even more handsome when you’re sober. Clean lines. Sharp cheekbones. That same deep voice, now filled with authority instead of filth. It should be illegal to look that good in front of a classroom.

And the worst part? He acts like you’re no one.

Not a glance. Not a flicker of amusement or recognition. Nothing.

You spend the next ninety minutes trying not to squirm in your seat — from nerves, from heat, from the dull ache still between your thighs. His voice carries over the room in calm, measured tones, talking about frameworks and theory and authors you can’t even remember, because all you can think about is his hand gripping your throat, his cock in your mouth, his voice in your ear telling you to beg for it.

By the time class ends, you’re practically vibrating with frustration. The students file out one by one, chatting, oblivious, until finally the room is empty — except for you.

And him.

You wait until he’s closed his laptop before standing.

He doesn’t look up. “Class is dismissed.”

“Yeah,” you say, voice tight. “I got that.”

That makes him pause. Slowly, his eyes lift, meeting yours. The coolness in them is surgical. Detached.

You swallow. “So… you’re a professor.” He doesn’t react. “Looks that way.” Your heart pounds. “You didn’t think that was something worth mentioning last night?” Sunghoon tilts his head, finally closing the distance with his eyes, not his body. “You didn’t ask.”

You laugh — sharp, disbelieving. “Seriously?” He slides his laptop into his bag. Calm. Controlled. Like this is nothing to him. You take a step closer. “You just left. No note. No text. You didn’t even tell me your last name, and now I find out you’re standing at the front of my class like nothing happened?”

He sighs — not guilty, not even annoyed. Just tired.

“Look,” he says. “Last night was a mistake.”

The words hit like a slap.

“A mistake,” you repeat, voice flat.

“Yes.”

He zips up his bag and slings it over his shoulder, then finally — finally — meets your gaze with something resembling emotion. But it’s not warmth. It’s not regret. It’s caution. “You didn’t know who I was. I didn’t know who you were. But now we do. And nothing else happens. Understood?” You blink at him. “That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

“Sunghoon—”

“Professor Park,” he corrects, firm. “From now on, in this room, on this campus — you will refer to me as Professor Park. You will not speak of last night. And you will not treat me like anything other than your professor.”

Your throat tightens. “So that’s all I was to you?” His jaw flexes. Just once. “I’m not here to discuss feelings,” he says. “I’m here to teach.” He moves to leave, but you step in his path.

“One night,” you say quietly. “That’s all it meant to you?” He pauses. Doesn’t look at you. Then—

“Yes.”

And then he walks past you, out the door, gone before you can even breathe out the response stuck in your throat.

You’re alone. In your first lecture hall. On your first day. Still sore. Still remembering. Still burning. And now you can’t stop thinking about him. Not because he touched you. But because now, he won’t.

You practically collapse into your dorm room chair.

The walk back from class did nothing to calm you down — not with your thoughts spinning and your thighs still sore. You’re halfway through Googling Is it illegal to hook up with your professor if you didn’t know he was your professor when the door swings open and Lily walks in, dropping her tote bag with a sigh.

“Please tell me you didn’t fall asleep in the middle of class like I almost did,” she groans.

You shake your head. “No. I… had Modern Media Theory.”

Lily perks up instantly, eyes wide. “Wait—wait—don’t tell me you got Professor Park?”

You freeze.

She gasps. “You got Park? Are you serious?”

You just blink at her, unsure how to answer.

Lily throws herself onto your bed dramatically. “Oh my God. Half the campus is obsessed with that man. Like, seriously. Even the guys think he’s hot.”

You say nothing. You can’t. You’re still trying to figure out if this is hilarious or humiliating.

“And people say,” she lowers her voice like she’s sharing top-tier gossip, “he’s huge.”

You sip your water slowly, hiding the way your breath catches. Yeah. You wouldn’t need rumors to confirm that. You still feel it.

You try to play it cool. “Huge how?”

Lily looks scandalized. “Y/N. Please. You know how.”

You choke on your water, coughing as Lily bursts out laughing. “Seriously! That man has big dick energy like—actual BDE. Someone in second-year swore he stretched her friend so bad she couldn’t sit for two days.”

You look down at your lap. Yep. Sounds familiar.

“Didn’t know the media department had this kind of drama,” you mutter.

Before Lily can reply, Kitty walks in with a protein shake and zero chill.

“Wait, are we talking about Professor Park?”

Lily lights up. “Y/N has him!”

Kitty gasps. “No way. The hot one?”

Y/N stays silent. Kitty throws herself into the chair across from you.

“I heard he’s really good in bed,” Kitty says casually, like she’s talking about the weather. “Like, life-changing. My cousin said her roommate slept with him at some faculty party or something—pre-semester—and she still can’t shut up about it.”

Your jaw clenches.

Yeah. He is.

Too good. Too cocky. Too unforgettable.

You cross your legs without thinking — a weak attempt to soothe the ghost of last night’s ache still pulsing between your thighs.

“Anyway,” Kitty says, oblivious, “you’re lucky. Most profs are ancient or weird. If I had Park as my first Monday lecture, I wouldn’t even be mad.”

Lily grins. “I wouldn’t even miss a class. Ever.”

You force a tight smile. “Right.”

They move on to some other topic — campus events, party rumors, who hooked up with who — but you barely hear it.

Your mind’s still stuck on his voice. His hands. The way he called you a good little slutand then looked right through you the next day like none of it mattered.

Your friends think he’s a fantasy. You know he’s a mistake. And yet, you can’t stop thinking about him. Still sore. Still remembering. Still wanting more.

“Y/N… can we talk?”

His voice is low, almost gentle. You turn around and he’s standing there — in the doorway of your dorm, hands in his pockets, eyes unreadable.

You don’t say anything.

Sunghoon steps closer, slow and careful, like he’s afraid you might run.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “For being so cold. Yesterday.”

You cross your arms over your chest. You want to be mad — you should be mad — but all you can do is stare at him. The way his jaw clenches. The way his voice dips when he talks to you, like you’re the only one in the world who can hear him.

He sighs and rubs the back of his neck. “I didn’t know what to say. I panicked.”

He’s inches away now. You can feel the heat of his body, the scent of his cologne — clean, warm, familiar. He reaches out slowly, fingertips brushing your wrist, trailing up your arm like he’s checking if he’s allowed to touch you again.

“I haven’t stopped thinking about you,” he murmurs. “About that night.”

Your heart pounds. His touch burns.

“I wanted to forget,” he admits, voice rough. “But I can’t.” Your back hits the wall. He cages you in without touching you — one hand braced beside your head, the other hovering just inches from your waist. His breath fans over your skin.

“I still remember how you sound,” he whispers. “How you taste. How your body felt under mine.” You shiver. Your eyes flutter closed, just for a second. “I should stay away,” he breathes. “But I don’t want to.” His lips are so close. His mouth hovers over yours, not touching, not yet — just letting the moment drag out, all heat and tension and want. You reach for him first.

Your fingers curl into his shirt. He groans into your mouth when you kiss him, slow and desperate, hands grabbing at each other like you’ve both been starved. His body presses against yours and you feel it immediately — hard, hot, eager. Just like before.

He lifts you easily, and your legs wrap around his waist like instinct. His mouth moves down your neck, sucking hard enough to make you gasp, and you tug his shirt up, frantic.

“I missed this,” he murmurs. “Missed you.” Your hips grind against his, and he groans again, rutting forward like he can’t help himself.

“I’m gonna take my time with you this time,” he says against your skin. “Gonna fuck you slow… make you cry for it…” He lays you down, starts kissing down your body, eyes dark with hunger. You moan his name.

“Sunghoon…”

But then—You wake up.

Your sheets are twisted around your legs, your body damp with sweat, and your hand is fisted tightly in the fabric of your tank top like you were reaching for something. Your chest rises and falls with shallow breaths. You stare at the ceiling.

He wasn’t here. He didn’t say anything. It was just a dream. And now you’re even worse off than before.

You don’t say anything the next time you walk into class.

But you don’t have to.

Your skirt is shorter than usual — just enough to ride up when you sit down — and your legs are crossed deliberately, slowly, as you ease into your seat near the front. No tights. No leggings. Just skin and confidence.

You feel his eyes on you the second you walk in.

He doesn’t look at you directly — of course not. He’s smarter than that. But you can see the way his jaw tightens. The way his fingers hesitate on the mouse before clicking to the next slide. The way his throat bobs when you shift in your seat and uncross your legs, only to cross them again.

You rest your chin in your hand, eyes locked on him like he’s the only thing worth watching.

Sunghoon keeps talking.

But now, there’s a pause between his sentences. A slight rasp in his voice. A subtle glance in your direction every few slides, never lingering too long — just enough for you to catch it.

You smile.

It’s not like you’re doing anything wrong.

You’re just a student in his class. Listening. Participating. Sitting there in a skirt that barely brushes your thighs, biting your lip every time he says something remotely commanding.

“Pay attention,” he says at one point, when a group in the back is whispering.

You straighten in your seat, lifting your eyes slowly.

“I am, Professor,” you say, soft and sweet.

His eyes flicker.

You don’t miss the way his grip on the podium tightens.

By the end of class, you can feel the tension radiating off him in waves. His sentences get shorter. His lecture speeds up. His eyes don’t meet yours again.

When the students begin to pack up, you move slower than the rest. You lean forward, elbows on the desk, letting your skirt ride up even higher as you adjust your bag. You can feel his stare this time — heavy, hot, lingering.

You don’t look at him. Not until the last of the students file out and the door swings shut behind them.

Then — and only then — you turn your head, lips curled into the faintest smirk.

“I liked today’s lecture,” you say, casual.

He exhales slowly, not moving from behind the desk.

“Did you.”

You stand, swinging your bag over your shoulder, stepping just close enough that the air between you feels like a challenge.

“I liked the way you said my name during attendance,” you murmur. “You sounded… tense.”

His eyes are sharp, unreadable. “You think this is a game?”

You shrug. “Isn’t it?”

He doesn’t move, but the heat in his stare makes your skin prickle. “You’re playing with fire.”

You take a step back toward the door, still smiling.

“Then burn me.”

And just like that — you’re gone.

Leaving him standing there, pulse racing, jaw clenched, hands braced on the desk like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.

You can feel his gaze on your back the whole way down the hallway.

You don’t expect him to follow you.

You think he’ll stay behind like always — composed, in control, untouched by the things you do just to watch him flinch.

But the second you turn the corner into the empty hallway, you hear it.

Footsteps. Fast. Heavy. Determined.

Before you can fully register it, a hand wraps around your wrist and yanks you back — hard. You gasp as your back hits the wall, your bag slipping off your shoulder, your heart slamming against your ribs.

Sunghoon towers over you, eyes blazing.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

You blink up at him, playing dumb. “Walking.”

“Don’t,” he snaps. “Don’t play games with me.”

You tilt your head, letting your skirt shift just slightly higher as you shift your weight against the wall. “You’re the one who said it was nothing, remember? One night. A mistake.”

His jaw tightens. His hands are still gripping your wrists — not hard, but firm enough to make your pulse stutter. His body is so close you can feel the heat rolling off him in waves, caging you in.

“You wore that on purpose,” he mutters, eyes dropping to your legs.

“Wore what?” you ask sweetly.

He scoffs, low and dangerous. “You think I haven’t noticed? The skirts, the looks, the way you sit front row with your legs wide open like you want me to do something about it.”

You stay silent — because he’s not wrong.

Sunghoon leans in closer, voice like a growl in your ear. “You want to get fucked over a desk, is that it?”

Your breath catches.

“You want your professor to lose control,” he continues, his mouth just shy of touching your neck, “to bend you over the nearest surface and remind you exactly how good it felt to be ruined by me.”

You’re shaking now — but not from fear.

From how badly you want him to do it.

Your voice is barely a whisper. “Then do it.”

He freezes.

You swear you see the moment something in him breaks.

Sunghoon grabs your chin, tilting your face up to his, and crashes his mouth onto yours.

There’s nothing soft about it — no hesitation, no pretending this is still something he can control. It’s heat and teeth and frustration, his tongue sliding over yours with a groan like he’s been holding this in for too long.

You gasp as he lifts you, your legs wrapping around his waist instinctively.

“I shouldn’t be doing this,” he mutters against your mouth.

“But you are,” you whisper, tugging his hair, grinding down on him.

And fuck, he’s already hard — painfully hard, pressing against you like he’s seconds from snapping all over again.

“I tried to forget you,” he breathes, dragging your skirt up.

“You didn’t,” you whisper. “Neither did I.”

His mouth crashes onto yours again, more desperate now — hands sliding up your thighs, pushing your panties to the side like he can’t even wait to undress you.

“You think teasing me was a good idea?” he growls. “You think I don’t know what you’re doing when you act like a little slut in my class?”

You moan. “Then teach me a lesson, Professor.”

His eyes burn.

“Oh, I will.”

Sunghoon doesn’t take you to his office.

He doesn’t even bother finding a classroom.

He kicks open the door to the nearest supply closet — small, dark, barely wide enough for the both of you — and presses you against the wall before it even shuts behind you. His mouth is back on yours, rough and hungry, hands everywhere, grabbing and pulling like he needs to feel all of you at once.

“Turn around,” he growls against your lips.

You obey, chest heaving as your hands brace against a metal shelf full of paper and printer ink. He pushes your skirt up roughly, revealing the soaked fabric clinging between your legs.

“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath, dragging his fingers up your inner thigh. “You were dripping through this during class?”

You moan when his fingers brush your slit, teasing the soaked fabric. “I couldn’t help it.”

“You wanted me to see, didn’t you?” he says darkly, yanking your panties to the side. “Wanted me to lose it in front of everyone and fuck you over the desk.”

You whimper, pushing back against him.

“You have no idea what you’ve done to me,” he mutters, pressing two fingers inside you without warning.

You cry out, gripping the shelf tighter as he curls them deep inside you.

“So tight… shit, you’re perfect,” he groans, fucking you slow and deep with his fingers. “Still so wet for me. You missed this cock, didn’t you?”

You nod frantically. “Yes—God, yes.”

He spanks you once — hard — and you gasp, the sting sharp and delicious.

“Say it properly.”

“I missed your cock, Professor.”

He groans low in his throat. You hear the sound of his belt, the zipper, the shuffle of fabric. Then his hand returns to your waist, and the thick head of his cock presses against your entrance.

You barely get a breath in before he thrusts inside.

“Fuck—Sunghoon—!”

“God, you take me so well,” he hisses, slamming into you again, and again, until you’re gasping with every thrust. “This is what you wanted, huh? To be bent over like a bad student and filled up with my cock?”

You can’t even answer. He’s too deep. Too thick. Stretching you open so perfectly your knees almost buckle.

He grabs your hair, pulling your head back just enough to whisper in your ear.

“Not gonna stop this time. You’re gonna take it all.”

And you do.

Every thrust slams into you, the sound of skin on skin echoing in the tiny closet, filthy and raw. Your walls flutter around him with every stroke, clenching tight like your body’s desperate to keep him there.

You don’t even care that you’re in a damn supply closet — not when he’s fucking you like this, like he’s punishing you and worshiping you all at once.

“Can feel you squeezing me,” he groans. “You’re close, aren’t you?”

You nod, crying out when his hand slips between your legs and rubs circles against your clit, fast and unforgiving.

“Cum for me,” he growls. “Let me feel it.”

You break with a scream, your orgasm ripping through you like fire — legs shaking, walls spasming around him, soaking his cock as he pounds you through it.

But he doesn’t stop.

“Too much—!” you whimper.

“You can take it,” he growls. “One more. Be a good girl.”

You’re already too sensitive, your body twitching with every thrust, but the way he fucks you — like he owns you — has you falling apart again.

“Please—Sunghoon—!”

“That’s it,” he pants, thrusting even deeper. “Such a good little slut for me. Letting me fuck you where anyone could walk in…”

You cum again — hard, sudden, your moans cut off by the hand he slaps over your mouth as you scream into his palm.

His hips stutter.

“Fuck—gonna fill you up—fuck, take it—”

You feel him twitch inside you, hot and thick, and then he’s spilling into you with a deep, broken moan, his cock throbbing as he presses deep and stays there, panting against your shoulder.

You both stay like that for a moment.

Breathless. Sweaty. Soaked.

Then he pulls out slowly, and you both groan at the mess — his cum dripping down your thighs, your panties ruined, the air thick with sex.

He zips up without a word. You adjust your skirt with shaking hands.

“You’re a fucking menace,” he mutters, running a hand through his hair.

You smirk over your shoulder. “And you’re weak.”

He glares.cYou wink. And you leave him there — still flushed, still catching his breath, already addicted again.

The next morning, you walk into class like nothing happened.

Your skirt’s a little longer today. You’re not wearing lip gloss. You even show up on time, quiet and composed.

But nothing feels the same. Sunghoon doesn’t look at you once during the lecture.

Not when you raise your hand. Not when you bite your pen. Not even when you catch his eye on purpose and hold the stare. He acts like you don’t exist. But you know better.

You can feel the tension in the way he paces the front of the room. The way he rushes through the slides. The way he won’t call on you even though your hand’s been raised for five minutes. He’s avoiding you. And it’s almost funny, how obvious it is.

When class ends, you take your time packing up, but he’s already halfway out the door. He doesn’t wait. Doesn’t glance back. Doesn’t say a word.

Coward.

You don’t chase him. You don’t have to. Because two seconds after you step into the hallway, your friend Lily grabs your arm with a smirk.

“You look like you got wrecked,” she whispers, dragging you to the side. “Don’t even lie. You’re glowing.”

You roll your eyes. “I’m just tired.”

“Bullshit,” she grins. “Is this about Professor Park?”

Your heart stutters. “What?”

“You’ve been acting weird since the semester started,” she says, narrowing her eyes. “And don’t pretend you didn’t notice how he was looking at you the other day. I was two seats behind you. The man looked like he was about to explode.”

You say nothing. Your silence is enough. Lily’s eyes go wide. “No fucking way.”

“Keep your voice down.”

“You fucked him?!”

“Lily.”

“Oh my god,” she gasps. “Was it hot?” You hesitate. She laughs. “That good, huh?”

“I don’t wanna talk about it.” She ignores you. “Okay but like… is what they say true?”

You raise an eyebrow.

“I’m serious,” she whispers. “Is he… huge. Like huge. Like, wreck-your-life huge.”

You don’t respond. You don’t have to. Her eyes go wider.

“Wait. He is, isn’t he?!”

You just shrug, lips twitching.

“And really good in bed?” she adds. “Like, dangerously good. Like… ruin-you-for-everyone-else good.”

You don’t even try to hide the way your thighs press together.

“Jesus Christ,” she mutters. “No wonder you’ve been walking funny.” You slap her arm. She laughs louder. “You lucky bitch.” You groan, covering your face. “It was just a one-time thing.”

“Uh-huh. Sure.” You want to believe it.

But then you get to your next class and open your laptop, and the first thing that flashes through your mind isn’t the lecture — it’s the way Sunghoon’s hand had clamped over your mouth while you came around his cock.

And when you pass him in the hallway later — by accident, this time — he barely glances your way.

But his jaw clenches. His hand balls into a fist. And you know he remembers. You bite your lip as you keep walking, not looking back. You don’t need to. You already know he’s watching.

Class is halfway through when Sunghoon finally breaks.

You can feel it before it happens — the way he keeps glancing your way, how his words are sharper than usual, how his hand keeps flexing on the desk like he’s trying to hold himself together.

You’re sitting near the front again. Of course you are.

Legs crossed. Skirt riding just a little too high. Innocent face like you’re not begging to be noticed.

And he does.

“Y/N,” he says, voice casual. “Can you help me with something for a second?”

Heads turn. You blink up at him, playing your part perfectly.

“Sure, Professor.”

You rise slowly, adjusting your skirt with deliberate care, and walk to the front like you’re not already soaking through your panties. You can feel the stares on your back, but all you care about is his.

His jaw is tight. His eyes flick down your body once — fast, hungry, dangerous — and then he steps back, motioning toward his desk.

“Over here,” he murmurs.

You round the desk, heart pounding as he opens a drawer, pretending to rifle through it.

“I need you to grab—” he starts, but you cut him off with a look.

“Don’t lie,” you whisper, stepping closer. “You just wanted me near.”

His breath hitches. “You’re insane.”

“You asked for help,” you say sweetly. “I’m just being a good student.”

Your hand brushes over the front of his pants — and sure enough, he’s already hard.

He grabs your wrist. “We’re in the middle of class.”

You look up at him, eyes wide and innocent. “So stop me.”

He doesn’t.

Instead, he groans — low and harsh — as you sink to your knees behind the desk. The rest of the class is quiet, heads buried in their notes or staring at the projection screen. No one even notices you’re gone.

No one can see.

Your fingers undo his belt with practiced ease, and when you free his cock, you have to stifle a gasp.

You forgot how thick he is.

How heavy he feels in your hand.

How your mouth waters at the sight of it.

“You’re fucking insane,” he mutters again, voice strained now.

You pump him slowly, dragging your hand up the length of him, thumb teasing the slit at the top. He’s hot and pulsing in your grip, already leaking, and it takes everything in you not to take him in your mouth.

But you want him squirming first.

You tighten your grip slightly, stroking him slow — too slow — watching his stomach tense, his breath catch.

“You like when I touch you here, Professor?” you whisper.

“Fuck,” he mutters, gripping the edge of the desk. “Keep your voice down.”

“You like when your student gets on her knees for you in the middle of class?” you tease, twisting your wrist at the top just how he likes.

His hips twitch.

You speed up, stroking him faster now, loving how he’s biting the inside of his cheek to keep quiet. He looks down at you once — just once — and you see it in his eyes.

He’s right there.

You lean in, spit on your hand, and stroke him harder — faster — and he curses under his breath, head falling forward.

“Shit—Y/N—stop—gonna—”

You don’t stop.

You squeeze, twist, stroke him right through it, and he cums hard in your hand, biting his lip so hard you think he might bleed. His cock twitches as you milk every last drop, your hand warm and wet with him.

You look up at him, breathless.

“Still need help with anything?”

He glares down at you, chest heaving, eyes wild.

“You needy girl,” he whispers.

“And you’re obsessed,” you whisper back, standing and licking your palm clean with a slow swipe of your tongue — just because you can.

His eyes darken like he wants to drag you under the desk and fuck you right there.

But he doesn’t.

He swallows, adjusts his pants, and turns back to the class like nothing happened.

You walk back to your seat with your legs trembling — and the biggest fucking smile on your face.

He calls you to his office after class. Not right away — no, he waits a full ten minutes after the room clears, like that’ll somehow make this less obvious. You knock once, and when you step inside, he’s leaning against his desk, arms crossed, jaw tight.

“Close the door.”

You do.

“Lock it.”

You hesitate, then click it shut behind you. He exhales sharply. Doesn’t look at you.

“We can’t do this anymore,” he says, voice low. You blink. “Can’t do what?” He glares. “Don’t play dumb.”

“I’m not,” you shrug. “You’ll have to be more specific. Do you mean the part where I made you cum in the middle of a lecture? Or the part where you let me?”

His jaw clenches. “Y/N.”

You take a step closer. “Or do you mean the one-night stand? The closet? The fact that you begged me not to stop?”

“Stop.” His voice cracks on the word. You smile sweetly. “You dragged me into this. Not the other way around.”

“I’m your professor.” He runs a hand through his hair, frustrated, desperate. “This has to end before we get caught. Before I lose my job. Before—” You cut him off by sliding between his legs, standing so close your thighs brush his. His hands are still clenched at his sides, like he’s holding on to the last bit of control.

“Then why did you ask me to come here?” He says nothing.

“You could’ve ignored me. Failed me. Told me to stop. But you didn’t.” His eyes lock onto yours, burning with something darker than anger.

“Because you can’t,” you whisper. “You don’t want to.” His breathing is ragged. “That’s not the point.” You lean in, voice softer now. “So make a rule. Try.” You watch him fold, just a little. He grabs your waist and spins you — suddenly, roughly — pinning you between him and the desk.

“No more games,” he says, voice low, lips inches from yours. “No more teasing. You come to class. You do your work. You don’t speak to me unless it’s about the course. Understood?” You raise your chin, defiant. “And if I break the rules?” His grip tightens. “Then you won’t like the consequences.” You smile, slow and wicked. “I think I will.” He growls under his breath, turning away like he needs the space, like he can’t breathe when you’re that close.

You take one step toward the door. Pause. Glance over your shoulder. “Oh,” you add innocently, “I won’t be wearing panties next lecture.” He doesn’t move. But his fingers twitch. And when you finally leave the office, you know you’ve already won.

You knew he wouldn’t last.

Sunghoon made it exactly three days before he cracked.

You showed up to every lecture like the perfect little student.

Took notes, nodded along, answered questions.

Sat right in the front, of course — legs crossed, skirt a little too high, no panties underneath.

You saw the way his eyes lingered.

The way his voice faltered every time he called on you.

You didn’t even have to touch him. Just existed. And watched him unravel.

So really, you weren’t surprised when class ended and he barked your name in front of everyone.

“Y/N. Stay behind.”

You fought your smile. Nodded. Waited.

The second the last student left, he grabbed your wrist and yanked you toward his office — not saying a word, walking fast, grip tight like he was scared he might change his mind.

The door slammed shut behind you. Locked. And then he shoved you against it.

“I told you to stop,” he growled. You smirked. “But you didn’t want me to.” He kissed you before you could finish the sentence — all tongue and teeth and frustration, like he hated you for what you did to him. His hands were already under your skirt, shoving it up, confirming exactly what he’d been suspecting all week.

“No fucking panties,” he muttered against your lips. “You really are a little slut, huh?”

“Only for you,” you whispered. That’s what did it. He spun you around, bent you over the desk without warning, and shoved your legs apart with his knee. You gasped at the cold wood against your cheek, his hand pushing down between your shoulder blades to keep you there.

“No teasing this time,” he hissed. “You want to play games? Fine. But you’re not leaving this room until I’ve ruined you.” You whined when you felt his fingers glide between your folds — soaking wet, dripping for him already.

“Fucking knew it,” he growled. “You like being used, don’t you?” You nodded desperately. He spanked you, hard. “Use your words.”

“Yes, hoon, yes—!”

He groaned and unzipped his pants so fast it was like he’d been holding back for days. Probably had. You felt the thick head of his cock press against you, tease your entrance, and then— He rammed into you.

No hesitation. No warning.

Just one rough, brutal thrust that had you screaming his name against the desk.

“God—Sunghoon—”

“That’s Professor to you,” he growled, grabbing your hips and slamming into you again.

You were soaked, your body clenching around him like it couldn’t get enough — and you couldn’t. His cock stretched you so deep, so perfectly, it was like your body was made for him. He fucked you hard, fast, filthy — the desk creaking under the weight of it, your nails clawing at the wood, his name falling from your lips like a prayer.

“Thought you could tease me?” he hissed in your ear. “Sit in my class like a good girl and pretend you’re not dripping for me?” You moaned — helpless, breathless, aching for more.

“You don’t get to tease me,” he growled. “You don’t get to fucking win.” He fucked you harder, his cock slamming into your soaked cunt with punishing thrusts, the sound of your bodies echoing off the walls like it was the only thing that mattered. You could feel him everywhere — hands, hips, voice — all of him taking and taking and taking. And then his hand snaked around your front. Two fingers on your clit. Fast, rough, no mercy. You sobbed.

“Too much—!”

“Take it,” he snapped. “You wanted this.”

Your body was already on edge — too sensitive, too full, too overstimulated — and you shattered around him with a scream, legs trembling, pleasure ripping through you like lightning. He didn’t stop. He kept fucking you through it, not slowing down, not letting up, chasing his own release with the desperation of a man possessed.

“I’m gonna fill you up,” he growled. “So deep you’ll still feel me in the morning.”

You whimpered, overstimulated and aching and still somehow needing it.

“Beg for it.”

“Please—fuck—fill me up—need it, please—” That was all he needed. He cursed, shoved deep one last time, and came with a low, broken groan, spilling inside you so hard you could feel it flood your insides — hot, thick, endless.

You stayed there — bent over, legs shaking, completely ruined — as he caught his breath behind you. And then, when he pulled out, his cum dripped down your thighs and onto the floor, and you knew this was it. There was no going back now. He was yours. And you were so far from finished. 

It had only been three days. But you missed him like it’d been weeks.

He was sick — a bad fever, rough cough, too weak to teach, let alone sneak off to fuck you breathless behind his desk.

Still, you called. Every night.

At first, it was innocent. How are you feeling? Are you redtng enough? Do you need anything?

But tonight, something was different.

His voice was lower. Rough from congestion, but still laced with that dark, velvety tone that made your stomach flutter.

“I miss you,” he rasped into the phone. Your breath hitched. “I miss you too.” You were curled under your blankets, phone to your ear, nothing but a t-shirt and your own restless thoughts keeping you company.

“What are you wearing?” he asked suddenly, voice a little more awake now. Teasing. Familiar.

You bit your lip. “Just your shirt.” He groaned quietly. “Fuck.” There was silence for a beat — hot, heavy.

“Touch yourself for me.”

Your heart thudded.

“Sunghoon—”

“Please,” he whispered. “I need to hear you.”

Your hand slipped beneath the covers before you could think twice, fingers grazing your thighs, your core already warm and aching. You let out a soft sigh, just for him.

“That’s it,” he murmured. “Let me hear you, baby.”

“Are you…?” you breathed.

“Yeah,” he said, voice strained. “Got my hand around my cock right now. Thinking about how wet you probably are.”

You whimpered. He knew what to say. Even sick. Even over the phone. He had you melting with nothing but his voice.

“Are you teasing yourself?” he asked. “Or are you already fucking those fingers in deep like I would?”

“Just rubbing,” you gasped. “It’s so sensitive.”

“Wish it was my mouth,” he growled. “I’d suck your clit nice and slow. Keep you spread open and messy for me.” You moaned louder now, fingers working faster, thighs shaking.

“I miss your tongue,” you whimpered. “And your cock. I miss everything.” He groaned again, breath stuttering. “I’m close. Just thinking about you falling apart for me.”

“I’m gonna come,” you panted. “Sunghoon, I—”

“Do it,” he whispered. “Come for me, baby. Let me hear it.”

And you did — hard, trembling, breath catching as your orgasm crashed over you like a wave.

You heard him gasp, a deep, raw sound on the other end. Then silence. Just heavy breathing. You clutched the phone tighter, flushed and buzzing.

“I can’t wait to fuck you when I’m better,” he said finally, voice thick and low. “Gonna make up for every night I couldn’t touch you.” You smiled, cheeks warm. “I’ll hold you to that.”

“Good,” he whispered. “Now go to sleep, baby. I’ll dream about you.”

And you did — still aching, but content. Because even when he wasn’t here, he still was.

It didn’t happen all at once. It was little things. The way his voice softened when he said your name, even when he was pissed. The way he always made sure you got home safe, even if it was just a quiet Text me when you’re in bed.

The way he kissed you when no one was watching — not hurried, not hungry. Just… like he wanted to remember it.

You didn’t mean to fall for him. You knew what this was. A mistake. A fling. A secret that could ruin both your lives. But somehow, between the stolen glances and the late-night fucks in his office, you started to feel it. That pull. That ache. It wasn’t just lust anymore. Not for you. So when he texted you at 11:42 PM — come over. need to blow off steam — your heart stupidly fluttered.

And when you showed up at his apartment, when he pulled you in without a word and kissed you like he missed you, you let yourself believe, for just a second, that maybe… maybe he felt it too. You made love that night. Not rough. Not fast. Not like every other time. His hands were gentle. His kisses slow. His body moved with yours like you were something precious — not just a girl he wasn’t supposed to touch.

And afterward, when you curled into him, bare skin against bare skin, you whispered it before you could stop yourself.

“Sunghoon.”

He hummed, half-asleep, arm draped over your waist.

“I think I’m falling for you.”

Silence. Not a breath. Not a blink. Just… nothing. You turned your head to look at him. He was wide awake now.

“Y/N,” he said carefully. Too carefully. Your chest tightened. “Say something.”

He sat up, rubbed a hand over his face. “You weren’t supposed to—” You pulled the sheet up around your chest like it could protect you from the sharpness of his words.

“Wasn’t supposed to what?” you asked quietly. “Catch feelings? Think this meant more than just… late-night texts and quick fucks between lectures?”

His jaw tightened. “You knew what this was.”

“Did I?” You blinked at him, heart splintering. “Because it didn’t feel like just sex.”

He didn’t look at you. And that told you everything. You swallowed hard, throat burning.

“You don’t feel anything for me?”

He paused. And then he shook his head once. Quick. Cold.

“I can’t.”

It hit like a slap. You nodded slowly, forcing down the sting. “Right. Of course.”

“Y/N—”

“No, I get it,” you said, getting up and grabbing your clothes. “You’re just my professor. And I’m just the dumb girl who thought maybe this was something.”

You didn’t wait for him to say anything else. You didn’t look back. Because if you did — if you saw even an ounce of regret in his eyes — you’d break. And you were already breaking. 

You didn’t go to class the next day. Or the next.

You stopped answering his texts. Left them on read. Blocked the number, even — not because you didn’t want to see them, but because you knew you would.

And you were done giving in.

He didn’t love you. He didn’t even like you, not really. To him, you were just a distraction. A body. A pretty little secret to keep him entertained. You weren’t going to be that anymore.

So you went quiet. Silent.

You didn’t show up to his lectures, didn’t sit in the front row in those too-short skirts, didn’t flirt with your eyes across the room. You handed your assignments in online. You stayed invisible. And for a while, it worked.

You didn’t cry anymore. You didn’t dream about his mouth on your skin. You didn’t ache at night thinking about the way he used to look at you like he needed you.

You even let Lily drag you to a party.

He wasn’t there. Of course he wasn’t. Why would a professor hang out with freshmen? But someone else was. He was tall. Soft brown eyes. Big hands. Good Looking

Nice.

You let him kiss you. Let him press you against the wall. Let him fuck you in some stranger’s bedroom with your skirt bunched around your waist.

It wasn’t like Sunghoon. Not even close. But it was something. And for a few minutes, it helped you forget. Until the next morning — when you checked your phone, and saw his name lit up the screen.

Park Sunghoon [3 messages]

Where are you?

You missed another lecture.

Y/N, please.

You stared at the screen for a long time. And then you deleted them. Sunghoon was losing his goddamn mind.

The first day you skipped, he told himself it was nothing.

Maybe you were sick. Hungover. Avoiding him. Whatever.

By the third, he was pacing in his office, checking the attendance sheet, rereading your last assignment just to see if there was a hint — anything — in your tone.

By the fifth, he was showing up to dorm buildings and walking past study halls just to maybe catch a glimpse of you. He didn’t know what the fuck was happening to him. You’d said you were falling for him.

And he’d brushed it off. Because he was scared. Because it wasn’t supposed to happen. I mean, what was he thinking? Fucking his student relentlessly thinking she wouldn’t fall for him? But now? Now he realized he’d been lying to himself the entire time. He missed you.

More than just your body. More than the games. He missed your laugh. Your attitude. Your soft little sighs when you fell asleep against his chest.

He missed you. And when he saw you again — two weeks later, walking across campus in a low-cut top and short skirt, laughing with some guy he didn’t recognize — it hit him like a fucking truck.

You were moving on. And he was still stuck in the night you left. He waited until the guy walked off. Then followed you.

“Y/N.”

You stopped. Turned. Your expression shifted from surprised to cold in half a second.

“I’m busy.”

“Can we talk?”

“No.”

“Please—”

“You made it clear how you felt,” you said, voice sharp. “Don’t backpedal now.”

“I didn’t mean it like that—” You crossed your arms. “You meant it enough to let me walk out.” He hesitated. “You blocked my number.”

“You said it was just sex,” you snapped. “So why would I stay?” He looked at you — really looked at you — and something in his face cracked.

“I was scared,” he admitted. “That’s not an excuse. But I didn’t know what to do. I’m your professor. I could lose everything.”

You stared at him, trying not to let your heart soften.

“And now?”

He stepped closer. Slower this time. Careful, like you might run.

“Now I don’t care,” he whispered. “I’d risk everything if you’d just look at me the way you used to.”

You looked away.

Because you still wanted to.

But he’d already broken you once.

And you weren’t sure you could let him close enough to do it again.

You lay there in the dark, chest heaving, body limp from everything he’d just taken from you — and everything you’d given him.

You didn’t speak. Neither did he. His hand rested on your thigh, thumb stroking absently over your skin like he wasn’t ready to let go yet. Like if he kept touching you, maybe you wouldn’t disappear again. You should’ve pulled away. Should’ve said this doesn’t change anything. But it did. It changed everything.

And when you finally found your voice, it was quiet. Fragile.

“You can’t keep doing that.”His thumb stilled. “Doing what?”

“Acting like it’s nothing one second, then showing up the next like you’d burn the world down for me.” He turned toward you, arm curling around your waist.

“I would,” he said simply. “Burn it all down.”

Your chest tightened. “Then why did you let me go?”

He exhaled, forehead pressing gently to yours. “Because I thought I had to.”

“But you don’t now?”

“I can’t let you go again,” he whispered. “Not after that. Not after this.”

You searched his eyes.

And this time, you didn’t find silence. Didn’t find cold. You found regret. Longing.

Something that looked too close to love to ignore.

“Say it,” you breathed. “Say it wasn’t just sex.” He didn’t even hesitate.

“It never was.”

The breath you’d been holding spilled out all at once, shaky and full of every broken piece you’d been holding in since the start. You closed your eyes, voice cracking.

“Me either.” He kissed your temple, your jaw, your lips — slow and reverent, like he finally understood what he’d almost lost. And when he pulled you against him, wrapping himself around you like a shield, you knew something had shifted for good.

This wasn’t a game anymore. This wasn’t a secret. This wasn’t a one-night stand stretched into months of denial. This was real. And this time, neither of you was running.

was so horny writing this (send req)

perm taglist 🏷️ @kristynaaah @firstclassjaylee @chvconn3 @wonzzziezzzz @sheseung @blvengene @gvtdoll @a3r4-for3ver @sunghoon-cam @luvksnn @aaaaarmiiiiin @blckorchidd @gyulune @zerere @marimariiisblog @pinknjm @bloomiize @flwwon @ziiao @heelovver @sxie-txt

💌 perm taglist request

[colouredbyd]

hey, can i request a poly!marauders fic where remus ends up hurting reader so bad durig a full moon, like lots of angst and obviously u can pick a fit ending. i love ur writing, ur so talented!!

Secrets Have Teeth

poly!marauders x fem!reader

synopsis: A prank gone wrong shatters the quiet trust between four lovers, leaving behind wounds deeper than any scar. In the aftermath, two broken souls face the wreckage with guilt clinging to skin and silence weighing heavier than blame. When forgiveness finally flickers to life, it does not erase the pain but dares to ask if something softer can still survive.

warnings: graphic injury, blood, post-transformation trauma, emotional breakdown, panic attacks, guilt, bathing scenes (non-sexual), intense regret, betrayal, depiction of self-loathing, partial nudity (non-sexual), heavy angst, complex grief, subtle references to recovery and healing. basically The Prank but with some comfort

w/c: 10k

a/n: this was abit challenging to write but i loved the idea <3

masterlist

Secrets are heavy things. They press against the ribs, nestle deep in the cavity of the heart, whispering their weight into your bones. 

You’ve carried theirs for months now, cradled in the hollow of your chest like something fragile, something dangerous. It lingers in the spaces they leave behind, the silence that drips from their mouths when they think you’re not listening. 

It’s the way Remus flinches when you touch his hand sometimes, the way his eyes flicker with something haunted, something raw.

It’s James, all restless energy and tight-lipped smiles, his gaze skittering away from yours at the end of every month like he’s afraid of what you might see there.

It’s Sirius, with mud caked on his boots and leaves tangled in his hair, laughter too bright, edges too sharp.

You know them. You know them like you know the lines of your own palms, the shape of your own breath. You know the way James’s voice softens when he’s apologetic, how Sirius’s grin goes crooked when he’s lying, how Remus’s shoulders tense when he’s afraid.

But this is different. This is not a harmless prank or a secret rendezvous. 

This is something that twists in the pit of your stomach, something that grows between them like tangled roots, thick and unyielding.

You feel it most in the silences. Those quiet moments where the world narrows to the space between heartbeats, and the air feels heavy with something unspoken.

You see it in the way they look at each other sometimes, as if speaking without words, as if deciding what not to say.

You wonder if it’s you. If you are the fracture in their perfect, unspoken language. If you are the secret they cannot share. It claws at you, fangs of insecurity sinking deep. 

Because you see it—the way their eyes meet across rooms, quick glances like unspoken conversations, the way they slip away without a word, leaving you in the warmth of the common room fire, staring into the flames as if they might hold the answers.

You’ve tried to ignore it, tried to be patient, but patience is a fraying thread, and you feel it unraveling more and more each day.

You hate it—the way your mind spirals into questions you don’t want to ask. Are they tired of you? Are you a burden? Something to be set aside while they run off to do God-knows-what in the dead of night?

You imagine them whispering secrets you aren’t privy to, huddled together under the weight of something important, something sacred, and your chest aches with the hollowness of being left behind.

Sirius still kisses you like you are his favorite sin, hands tangled in your hair, mouth all heat and promise. James still pulls you onto his lap with that bright grin of his, fingers tracing circles on your hips as if he’s trying to memorize the feel of you. Remus still holds you like you’re fragile, cradles you against him with a gentleness that feels like both love and apology. 

But it’s not enough to quiet the questions. Not enough to drown out the whisper of doubt that lingers in the back of your mind.

You start to second-guess everything. The way Sirius’s gaze sometimes flickers away when you ask him where he’s been. The way James laughs off your questions with a joke or a grin, always deflecting, always distracting. The way Remus looks at you with eyes full of ghosts, haunted and hollow, like he’s holding back an ocean of secrets.

It gnaws at you, eats away at your resolve until you can’t tell if you’re being paranoid or perceptive.

Sometimes, you catch them whispering in low voices, huddled together in the corners of the library or just outside the common room door.

They fall silent the moment you approach, smiles too bright, voices too loud, shifting to jokes and easy laughter as if nothing at all is wrong.

But you see it—the way Sirius’s hand will linger on Remus’s shoulder, the way James’s fingers brush against Sirius’s arm, a silent promise, a wordless reassurance.

You feel like you’re chasing shadows, hands grasping for something that slips through your fingers every time you get close. You want to ask them. You want to demand answers, to force them to share whatever it is they’re keeping from you. 

But you don’t. Because some part of you is afraid of the answer, afraid of what it might mean if you tear down the walls they’ve built and find yourself standing alone on the other side.

So you wait. You wait and you watch, heart heavy with the weight of secrets that are not yours to keep, wondering if there will come a day when they finally decide to let you in—or if the door will remain locked, the key hidden away in whispered conversations and midnight disappearances.

Because secrets are heavy things. And you are tired of carrying theirs.

The day unfurls like fraying ribbon, slipping through your fingers faster than you can hold on. There’s a heaviness to it, a weight pressing against your shoulders as you move through the halls, weaving between groups of students who laugh too loud and talk too fast.

Marlene walks beside you, her voice a gentle hum, but the words blur together, softened by the roar of your thoughts.

You think of them—of Sirius’s sharp grin and James’s steady hands, of Remus’s soft-spoken words and the way his eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles. You think of the way they’ve always been yours, and you theirs, a tangled mess of limbs and laughter and quiet whispers beneath the covers. You think of the way it feels like coming home, like belonging.

But lately, there’s been something else.

A flicker of something that passes between them, a look, a whisper, moments that pull tight like thread, snapping back before you can catch hold of it.

It’s the late-night disappearances, the hushed conversations that end the moment you step into the room. It’s the way Sirius’s eyes dart away from yours sometimes, how James’s smile falters, how Remus’s hands shake when he thinks you aren’t looking.

You try to brush it off, try to bury it beneath logic and trust and the weight of their love. But it festers in the quiet moments, slipping in through the cracks when you’re alone, curling around your thoughts and whispering things you don’t want to hear. It’s loneliness, sharp and unyielding, and it grips tight, leaving bruises where you can’t see them.

Marlene’s hand finds your arm, squeezing gently. “You alright?” she asks, voice softening at the edges.

You blink, dragging yourself back to the present, to the corridor stretching out before you and the sunlight slanting through the windows. “Yeah,” you lie, the word sticking to your tongue like tar. “Just tired.”

She hums, unconvinced, but doesn’t push. You’re grateful for it. The silence stretches out between you, comfortable and warm, and you let it hold you for a moment, let it cradle you in something soft and unspoken.

But the weight is still there, pressing at the back of your mind, a whisper of something fragile and breaking.

By the time you reach the dormitory, the ache has settled low in your bones, a steady thrum that makes you want to curl into yourself and hide from the world.

Marlene offers you a soft smile and a quick hug before she disappears down the hall, and you watch her go, feeling the space she leaves behind like a phantom limb.

You push open the door, and the warmth of the room spills out to greet you, soft and familiar. The fire crackles low in the hearth, and the soft murmur of conversation drifts through the air. For a moment, you just stand there, watching them.

Sirius is sprawled across the couch, his head in James’s lap, eyes half-lidded as James’s fingers card gently through his hair.

There’s something unguarded in the way he leans into the touch, the tension bleeding out of his frame with each gentle stroke.

James is murmuring something soft, too low for you to hear, and his other hand is resting on Sirius’s shoulder, grounding him.

Remus is curled up in the armchair, a book spread open across his lap, fingers idly tapping against the spine in rhythm with whatever thought is playing behind his eyes.

He looks peaceful, brow unfurrowed, mouth softened at the edges. It’s a rare thing—to see him unburdened, unbothered—and you don’t want to break it.

You linger in the doorway, watching them, and for a moment, it’s enough just to exist there, on the edge of something beautiful.

But then Sirius glances up, his gaze catching on yours, and his eyes brighten.

“There she is,” he drawls, a lazy smile stretching across his lips, though you can see the way his hand trembles where it rests against James’s knee. “Wondered when you’d come back to us.”

You force a smile, stepping into the room, the wooden door groaning behind you. The space is warm with the soft glow of lamplight, and you take in the tangle of limbs, the way Sirius leans so comfortably against James, the way Remus’s long fingers are still pressed into the spine of his book. It looks like belonging, like home.

And yet, you can’t shake the feeling that you’re standing on the edge of it, fingers curled around the windowsill, peering in.

You clear your throat, and three heads turn towards you, Remus’s eyes softening the instant they land on your face.

He’s the first to rise, marking his page with a quick slip of parchment before crossing the room in a few long strides. His hands are warm when they cup your face, eyes searching yours with a tenderness that nearly unravels you.

“What’s wrong, darling?” he murmurs, his thumb brushing lightly across your cheekbone. His gaze is steady, achingly gentle, and it makes something splinter in your chest.

You lean into his touch, your hands wrapping around his wrists. “Just a bad day,” you whisper, voice catching at the edges. “Wanted to be with you. All of you.”

There’s a flicker of something in his eyes—guilt, maybe, or something darker—but it’s gone before you can name it. He nods, presses a soft kiss to your forehead.

“We’re right here, my love,” he says softly. “Always.”

You hear movement behind him, and Sirius appears at his side, James right behind him, both of them looking at you with expressions that tighten the knot in your chest.

“Come here,” Sirius says, and you’re pulled into the warmth of their arms, the scent of cedar and smoke and something distinctly theirs flooding your senses. It’s grounding, familiar.

But beneath it, the ache lingers. 

When Remus pulls away, his hand is gentle at your back. “Come on,” he murmurs, voice soft as spring rain. “Let’s get you cleaned up, yeah?”

His eyes are warm, and the softness there unravels you completely. You nod, and let him lead you towards the bathroom, his touch a tether in the quiet.

The bathroom is softly lit, shadows dancing along the tiled walls as Remus moves about, turning the tap and letting steam fill the space.

He turns back to you, his hands finding yours, guiding you gently to the edge of the tub. “Let me take care of you,” he whispers, voice like something sacred.

Steam curls at the edges of the mirror, blurring the reflection into softened shapes and tender echoes. The bathroom is awash with warmth, the flicker of candlelight catching on water droplets that gather and run down the tiles like tiny rivers.

The tub is filled nearly to the brim, wisps of lavender and cedar curling through the air, softening the edges of everything sharp and jagged.

You stand there, arms wrapped around yourself as Remus’s hands work at the buttons of your shirt, fingers deft and gentle.

He doesn’t rush, doesn’t fumble, just unfastens each button with practiced ease, his gaze steady and patient.

When the last one comes undone, he slides the fabric from your shoulders, and it pools at your feet in a whisper of cotton.

James is already rolling up his sleeves, his eyes never leaving yours. There’s something unyielding in his gaze, an anchor that keeps you grounded even when the world feels like it’s fraying at the edges.

Sirius is beside him, leaning against the sink with his arms crossed, a grin softening into something tender as he watches you, eyes bright with a fondness that makes your heart twist.

“You’re staring,” you murmur, voice soft but unsteady.

Sirius’s grin widen just a bit, a sliver of moonlight breaking through the clouds.

“Can you blame me?” he drawls, pushing off the counter to step closer. His hands find your shoulders, warm and grounding.

“We’ve got the most beautiful girl in the world standing right here. You expect us not to look?”

Heat flushes your cheeks, and you look down, eyes catching on the curve of your bare feet against the tile.

Remus’s hands come to rest on your shoulders, gentle and grounding. “Hey,” he murmurs, voice soft and achingly tender. “Look at me.”

You do, slowly, and his gaze is steady, unyielding. “You know we love you, right?”

It’s a simple question, one you’ve heard before, one you’ve answered a thousand times.

But tonight, the weight of it settles heavy in your chest, and you swallow hard, your throat bobbing with the effort. “I know,” you whisper, though it wavers at the edges.

Sirius’s fingers brush your cheek, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “I don’t think you do,” he says softly, and his voice is raw, stripped down to something real. “Not really.”

There’s a pause, thick and heavy with unspoken things. James steps forward, his hands settling at your waist.

“Whatever that pretty mind of yours is telling you, it isn’t true, darlin', you know that, right?” he whispers, the words slipping through the quiet like a prayer.

His thumb strokes gentle circles into your hip, grounding and real.

You nod, not trusting your voice, and James’s smile softens at the edges. His hands guide you to the edge of the tub, and Remus’s hands are still at your shoulders, steady and sure.

“In you go, darling,” he murmurs, and you let them guide you down into the water, warmth curling around your skin and washing away the chill.

The water laps softly at your shoulders, steam curling around your face. Remus kneels beside the tub, rolling his sleeves up to his elbows.

“Lean back,” he says gently, and you do, letting your head rest against the lip of the tub as he scoops water into his hands, drizzling it over your shoulders.

James is at your other side, his hands gentle as he brushes back your hair, fingers carding through the strands with a tenderness that makes your breath catch.

Sirius perches on the edge of the tub, one hand resting lightly on your knee beneath the water. His thumb strokes lazy circles there, his grin soft and unguarded.

They work in tandem, hands moving with practiced ease, soft murmurs passing between them as they pour water over your skin, rub gentle circles into your shoulders, your arms.

It’s reverent, unhurried, like they have all the time in the world just to be here with you.

“You’re safe here,” Remus whispers as his hands brush over your collarbones, his eyes steady and sure. “With us. Always.”

But your breath catches, fingers curling against the edge of the tub. Safe. Always.

The words hang heavy in the air, thick with meaning you want so desperately to believe. “For keeps?” you whisper, and the question is so small, so fragile that it barely breaks the surface of the silence.

Sirius’s hand stills on your knee, and he leans in, eyes dark and unflinching.

“For keeps,” he answers, and the promise hums between you all, ancient and unbreakable.

His thumb resumes its gentle circles, grounding you back into this warmth, this moment.

A grin breaks across his face, wild and free, and James lets out a breath of laughter, his hand squeezing yours beneath the water. “See?” he murmurs, voice low and warm. “We’re not going anywhere.”

You nod, the knot in your chest unraveling just a bit, the warmth of their hands grounding you, tethering you to this moment.

For a while, it’s just that—the gentle lap of water, the steady rhythm of their hands, the murmur of their voices threading through the quiet. They wash away the ache, the doubt, until there’s nothing left but warmth and the soft thrum of belonging.

And for once, you let yourself believe it.

You close your eyes and lean into the warmth, the steady rhythm of their hands soothing the ache in your chest.

But then, James’s hand splashes against the water, breaking the stillness. His eyes flicker with something bright and mischievous.

“Would you look at that?” he grins, flicking a bit of water towards Sirius, who jerks back, sputtering.

“Oh, you absolute menace,” Sirius huffs, eyes narrowing with playful fury.

Before you can blink, he’s scooped a handful of water and splashes it back, catching both you and James in the crossfire.

You squeal, hands coming up to shield your face, but the damage is done—water drips from your lashes, and James is laughing, full-bodied and unrestrained, the sound filling the bathroom with unrestrained joy.

Remus, who had been standing up to grab towels, turns back to see water arcing through the air, James slinging droplets at Sirius, who’s now fully on his knees beside the tub, splashing back with reckless abandon.

His eyes widen, a hand on his hip. “You lot are absolute children, you know that?”

“Only sometimes,” Sirius counters with a grin, flinging another handful in Remus’s direction. “We’ve got to keep it interesting, haven’t we?”

A flicker of laughter escapes you, and Remus’s stern expression softens, though he rolls his eyes. “I’m gone two minutes, and you’ve already started a war.”

James shrugs, unbothered, droplets dripping from his hair. “What can we say? We’re efficient.”

Remus sighs, grabbing a towel and shaking his head, but there’s a smile tugging at his lips. “You’re all impossible.”

“And you love it,” Sirius quips, leaning back with a splash. Remus just shakes his head, moving to your side with the towel, his eyes softening as he meets yours.

“Come on, darling,” he murmurs, voice warm and steady. “Let’s get you out before these two flood the whole place.”

The night slipped away in a haze of warmth and whispered jokes, Sirius launching playful jabs at James, who retaliated with splashes that left the room echoing with laughter.

By the time Remus pulled you from the water and wrapped you in soft towels, your heart felt lighter, the fog of your earlier doubts dissipating under their hands.

The four of you ended up tangled in blankets, Sirius still chuckling softly at some joke James had made, Remus’s arm curled around your waist, his breath steady and warm against the back of your neck.

You drifted off like that, wrapped in them, feeling—if only for a moment—that maybe everything really was as perfect as it seemed.

But morning brings clarity. You wake to the soft light filtering through the curtains, the space beside you empty but still warm. The muffled sounds of conversation drift from the common room, low and hurried, punctuated with soft laughter.

You follow the noise, rubbing sleep from your eyes, and catch sight of them huddled together—Remus’s face drawn and pale, Sirius leaning in, his hands gesturing wildly, James with a hand on his shoulder, firm and grounding.

They don’t notice you at first, too caught up in their whispered words and secretive glances. You hover in the doorway, something heavy and unyielding curling in your stomach.

It’s not the first time you’ve seen them like this—locked in some private world that you are not a part of. But this time, it’s different. This time, you can’t shake the feeling that whatever it is, it’s breaking them apart.

When James catches your eye, his expression shifts—softens—but there’s something guarded there, too, something that makes your breath catch.

Remus straightens, running a hand through his hair, and Sirius plasters on a grin, too bright to be real.

“Morning, love,” Remus greets you, his voice softer, wearier. “Did you sleep well?”

And just like that, the walls go up again.

Whatever it was, whatever they were discussing, it’s hidden behind their smiles, and you feel it like a bruise.

You smile back, but it feels hollow. “Yeah… I did.”

But doubt settled in your bones, curling thick and unyielding around your heart. Something was wrong. And for the first time, you were sure of it.

You dressed quietly, Marlene’s chatter a distant hum as she twisted her hair into a knot and rambled about Quidditch practice. Your hands worked methodically, tying laces, fastening buttons, but your mind was elsewhere.

Something was off. You could feel it in the pit of your stomach, the gnawing unease that hadn’t left since the whispers and the lingering glances.

You tried to shake it off as you made your way to breakfast, but it lingered, curling around your ribs and pressing tight.

Classes dragged. Potions felt endless, Slughorn’s voice fading into the background as you stared blankly at your bubbling cauldron. Transfiguration was much the same—McGonagall’s sharp eyes missing the way your quill stopped moving halfway through her lecture.

Even Charms, which you usually enjoyed, was nothing more than a blur of flicking wands and murmured incantations.

By midday, you found yourself wandering through the courtyard, the chill biting at your cheeks as you made your way toward the edge of the castle grounds.

That was where you usually found them, tucked away from prying eyes, sprawled out beneath the trees or leaning against the stone walls, thick scarves looped around their necks and laughter dancing in the air.

But when you approached, there was no laughter. Just low voices, hushed and clipped. You stopped short, slipping behind a stone column, heart hammering in your chest.

You knew it was wrong, but curiosity rooted you to the spot.

“…tonight, then?” Sirius’s voice was the first you recognized, low and edged with something you couldn’t place.

“Has to be,” James replied. “Full moon, and if he’s right, Snape’s already sniffing around. Bloody idiot’s got a death wish.”

Remus didn’t speak, but you could hear him—his sigh, heavy and weary, like he’d aged ten years since you’d seen him at breakfast.

You peeked around the edge, just enough to catch sight of him leaning against the stone, arms crossed over his chest, eyes shadowed and distant.

He looked exhausted. Worse than yesterday. Worse than last week.

“Full moon?” you whispered to yourself, brows knitting together.

Why would that matter? And why would Snape be sniffing around? You racked your brain, but nothing came up. Nothing that made sense.

Then, footsteps—too light to be James or Remus, too quick to be Sirius.

You shrank back, just in time to see Severus Snape stride up to them, black robes billowing out behind him. You clamped a hand over your mouth, confusion sparking like wildfire in your chest.

Snape? With them? They hated Snape. Always had. There was the incident with the Potions classroom first year, the hex Sirius threw at him in third, the prank James had pulled just last term.

And yet, here he was, standing just a few feet away, chin lifted defiantly as he glared at Sirius.

“You’d better not be lying, Black,” Snape sneered, voice dripping with disdain.

Sirius just smirked, crossing his arms over his chest. “Would I lie to you, Snivellus?”

“Just be there. Midnight. Near the shack.”

Snape’s eyes glittered with something sharp and dangerous. “I will.”

You barely heard the rest, heart thundering in your chest.

The shack? Midnight? What the hell was going on? Your mind whirred with questions, none of them landing long enough for you to grab hold. But there was one thing you knew for certain.

You were going to follow them.

Whatever this was—whatever they were hiding—you would find out. You had to.

Night came slow and heavy, the castle settling into stillness as you pulled on your cloak, heart thrumming with anticipation and something else. Fear, maybe. Or desperation.

You slipped through the corridors on silent feet, weaving between shadows until you found yourself near the Entrance Hall, waiting. Watching.

They moved in silence, slipping through the doors one by one. First Remus, his shoulders hunched, eyes downcast.

Then James and Sirius, their footsteps softer than usual, expressions set and grim.

Whatever Sirius had told Snape, James and Remus clearly didn’t know about it—the tension rippled off them, sharp and electric.

You waited until they were halfway across the grounds before following, your breath clouding the air as you hurried to catch up, careful to stay hidden.

You ducked behind a tree, watching as James pulled something from his pocket—a small, rounded object that glowed faintly in the moonlight.

He pressed it against a knot in the tree, and the branches stilled, frozen mid-sway.

You sucked in a breath as they disappeared beneath the roots, vanishing into shadow.

Remus had looked like he was seconds from collapsing, his steps unsteady, shoulders taut with strain. James and Remus didn’t seem to know about whatever Sirius had told Snape—it was clear on their faces, etched in their tension and the way Remus’s hands shook slightly as he vanished into the darkness.

Whatever lay beyond that entrance, you were going to find out. Even if it broke you.

The night stretched out heavy and silent, moonlight bleeding silver across the grounds. It felt colder than usual, the kind of chill that seeped into bones and lingered there, whispering unease with every breath.

You shivered as you waited, huddled in the shadows just beyond the Entrance Hall, heart pounding in your ears. It was a reckless idea—mad, really—to follow them out here.

But you couldn’t ignore the coil of dread tightening in your stomach, the way it had wound itself around your ribs ever since you’d heard them talking near the courtyard.

They moved in silence, slipping through the great doors one by one. First Remus, his shoulders hunched and eyes downcast, like he was carrying the weight of the world on his back.

His footsteps were slow, hesitant, and you could almost hear the strain in his breathing from where you hid.

Something was wrong—you’d known it for weeks—but tonight, it clung to him like a shadow.

You waited until they were halfway across the grounds before you moved, your breath clouding the air as you hurried to catch up, careful to keep your distance.

You waited, breath held tight in your lungs. That’s when you saw him—Snape, creeping through the shadows, eyes alight with that familiar, hateful gleam.

He moved with purpose, hands shaking with adrenaline as he approached the now-frozen branches of the Willow. He stopped just shy of the entrance, glancing around before taking a tentative step forward.

Before he could slip inside, James appeared, blocking his path, wand raised and voice sharp. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Snape sneered, lifting his chin. “Black told me. Said there was something interesting inside. Something you three have been hiding.”

James’s eyes flashed dangerously. “You’re not going anywhere near there.”

“What, afraid of what I’ll find?” Snape taunted, his voice a venomous whisper.

James stepped closer, the tension snapping taut between them. “I’m warning you, Snivellus. Turn around. Now.”

Snape glared, fists clenching at his sides. “Why? So you can keep covering for your precious friends? Or maybe it’s because you’re afraid of what your little club is really up to.”

James didn’t flinch, his wand steady and gaze unyielding. “Last chance.”

But Snape didn’t back down. He only smirked, the kind of grin that made your skin crawl. “I guess I’ll just have to find out for myself.”

He took another step forward, but James moved quicker, wand tip sparking with light. “Expelliarmus!”

Snape’s wand flew from his hand, clattering against the frozen earth. For a heartbeat, everything went still—no wind, no whispers, just the heavy thud of your heartbeat crashing in your ears.

“That’s enough,” came a voice from behind them.

Sirius stepped into view, arms crossed over his chest, expression caught between amusement and something sharper. “Didn’t think you had it in you.”

James didn’t lower his wand. “What the hell were you thinking, Sirius?”

Sirius shrugged, the ghost of a grin tugging at his mouth. “Just a bit of fun. Snivellus is always poking his nose where it doesn’t belong. Thought I’d give him something to find.”

James’s jaw clenched, eyes narrowing. “Are you out of your mind? Remus is in there! What if he got in? What if he saw?”

Sirius scoffed, waving a hand. “James, please. He wasn’t actually going to get inside. It’s just a bit of a scare.”

“A scare?” James’s voice rose, disbelief cracking it. “You think this is a fucking joke? He could have died, Sirius. Remus could have killed him—and it would have been your fault!”

Sirius’s smile faltered, but he didn’t back down. “Well, he didn’t. You stopped him.”

James took a step forward, wand still in his hand, knuckles white around it. “You’re not listening. You don’t get to just...just throw people into the line of fire for fun. That’s not a prank, Sirius!”

Sirius’s eyes flashed with something dark, but he swallowed it back. “You’re being dramatic.”

“Am I?” James shot back, voice trembling with fury. “Remus doesn’t even know. You did this behind his back! I swear, if he finds out—”

But before he could finish, a sound broke the argument—a low, guttural growl that rumbled from the depths of the shack, primal and raw.

You froze, heart leaping into your throat. It was followed by another, more desperate sound.

“Remus,” you whispered under your breath, fear coiling tight and sharp in your stomach.

You slipped through the tangled roots, heart lurching as you reached the back of the shack.

Its wooden slats were splintered and rotting in places, gaps wide enough for you to catch flashes of movement inside. Shadows flickered across the walls—elongated and monstrous, twisting with the flicker of lamplight.

There was a small hole, nearly hidden behind a stack of fallen branches, just large enough for you to fit through if you were careful.

You hesitated, breath clouding in the frigid air, before steeling yourself and crawling through. Your hands scraped against rough wood, splinters catching on your palms, but you ignored the sting.

The shack groaned under your weight as you landed inside, breath catching in your throat. It was dark, the air thick with the scent of dust and something metallic that made your head swim

Your breath puffed white in the cold air, heart pounding, every instinct in your body suddenly screaming at you to stop—to leave, to turn around, to run. Something was wrong.

Inside, the shack was musty and dark. Dust hung thick in the air, floating in the moonlight that poured in through the cracks in the boarded windows. Broken chairs lay in jagged pieces, shadows clinging to every surface. It was too quiet.

You rose slowly to your feet, brushing dirt from your knees.

Your eyes scanned the room—empty. No sign of Remus. No sign of anyone. Only the stale scent of old wood and something sharper, metallic, and wrong.

Then—from outside—you heard it.

Yelling.

You turned your head toward the front of the shack.

“What the hell did you think you were doing, Sirius?” James’s voice, loud, shaking.

Snape’s voice cut through: “You’re all bloody mad—”

“You brought him here? To this place?!” James roared. “You think this is a game?! You told him how to find Moony?!”

A scuffle. Scraping feet on frozen earth. Something breaking.

Then Sirius, laughing—a harsh, ugly sound. “It was a prank, James! A joke! He wasn’t supposed to actually come!”

“A joke? A bloody joke?! He could have died, Sirius! Or worse—Remus—”

The argument grew louder, more violent, their voices crashing against each other like waves. You blinked, unsettled, heart pounding harder now—not just from what they were saying, but from something else. Something inside.

You turned, the hairs on the back of your neck rising.

Why had James been so desperate to keep Snape away? What was so dangerous, so hidden inside this shack?

You took a slow step back, suddenly aware of how thick the air had become. Your fingers twitched toward your wand, but you didn’t know why.

Then you felt it.

A shift.

A presence behind you.

The breath caught in your throat.

You turned.

And the world split in half.

The wolf stood there, bathed in shadow and moonlight. Towering. Muscled. Massive. Its amber eyes gleamed like twin suns, fixed solely on you. Its breath came heavy, the sound guttural and animal and wrong.

You didn’t understand.

You couldn’t understand.

Then it moved.

Fast. Too fast.

You screamed as its weight slammed into you, hurling you backward. You crashed to the floor, your head cracking against the boards with a sickening thud. Pain exploded across your vision, stars blooming behind your eyes.

You barely had time to breathe before it was on you.

Claws tore through your coat, then your skin. Blood spattered the walls. You screamed again, voice raw and terrified. The wolf’s snarl was deafening, fangs snapping inches from your face. You scrambled, twisted, tried to crawl away, but it was no use. Another rake of claws—your shoulder. Your side.

You sobbed, pain white-hot and everywhere.

From the front of the shack, you heard the door shake violently.

“Moony!” James’s voice, frantic. “Moony! No!!”

“She’s in there!” Sirius screamed. “She’s in with him!”

You kicked, thrashed, felt blood soaking into the wood beneath you.

The shack shook from the weight of them slamming into the door.

“Open it! Open it!” James was screaming.

You tried to call out—but your throat barely worked, raw with terror and smoke and blood.

“Remus, Stop!” Sirius shouted, voice cracking.

“It’s her—it’s her!” James bellowed. “Moony, no, no, no, no, gosh!”

But the wolf didn’t stop.

It kept going.

And you lay there, barely breathing, praying they would break the door down in time.

You stumbled back, heart slamming against your ribs, and the beast—Remus—stalked forward, claws scraping against the wooden floor with each step. His eyes—those eyes you’d known for so long, gentle and warm—were wild now, feral with hunger and rage.

He lunged, the force of it sending a gust of wind spiraling through the room. 

“Remus!” you cried, voice cracking with desperation, but there was nothing human in his gaze—just the moon’s curse and the monster it carved from him.

He turned, shoulders heaving with each breath, and for a moment, you swore you saw something flicker in his eyes. But it was gone in an instant, replaced by that primal hunger.

He snarled again, saliva dripping from his fangs, and you scrambled backward, mind racing for an escape.

Your back hit the far wall with a thud, dust and debris scattering from the impact. Remus prowled closer, head low, eyes locked onto yours like prey.

You were shaking, adrenaline burning through your veins as you searched frantically for a way out—any way out. But there was nothing. Just you and him, trapped in the confines of this cursed shack.

The breath rattled from your lungs as he lunged again. 

Agony burst across your stomach as claws tore through you like paper. Your scream shattered the silence.

Blood spilled hot and fast, soaking your clothes, splattering across the floor. Another slash—your thigh, deep and unrelenting. Your vision fractured with pain, body writhing beneath him as you tried to crawl away, but he pinned you easily.

Claws dug into your ribs. Fangs grazed your shoulder. You could hear your own heartbeat, deafening, drowning everything else out. The air stank of blood and sweat and the sharp edge of death. You sobbed, barely able to breathe, choking on the taste of iron and fear.

Then—the shack door burst open with a splintering crack.

Sirius came first, Padfoot in full form, fur bristling, eyes blazing.

He threw himself at the wolf with a savage growl, tackling Moony off you with all his strength.

The force of the impact sent them both crashing into the far wall. You were left gasping, blinking through blood and splinters and shock.

James followed—Prongs—before shifting back mid-step, falling to his knees at your side.

“Hey. Hey, no, no, no,” he breathed, voice shaking, hands hovering over your wounds like he didn’t know where to touch, where to start. “You’re okay. You’re gonna be okay.”

But you weren’t. You could feel yourself slipping, the cold creeping in.

You turned your head just enough to see the trail of blood stretching behind you, the smear of crimson across the wood. Your hand twitched, fingers stained red.

The last thing you saw was Sirius, still fighting tooth and claw to hold Remus back, and James’s face—ashen, eyes wide with something between guilt and horror.

You were here because they kept secrets. And secrets are heavy things to carry.

-

You woke to pain.

It throbbed in waves, hot and pulsing and sharp, blooming in your abdomen and thigh. Every breath was a struggle, every inch of movement a riot of agony beneath your skin.

The air was cold, sterile, heavy with antiseptic. The ceiling above you was white stone, too clean, too quiet. The scent of blood clung to your skin. You blinked, your vision swimming, your mouth dry and thick with the taste of iron and betrayal.

And then—realization. It hit like another wound. Remus. The wolf. Lycanthropy. That’s what they had been hiding. That’s what James had refused to tell you, what Sirius had laughed off, what Remus had always tucked behind those sad eyes and hollow smiles.

You remembered it now—his eyes, glowing in the dark; the snarl that tore from his throat; the claws, the fangs, the way the pain swallowed you whole.

He had mauled you.

The door creaked open with a quiet groan, and James was there in an instant.

He nearly stumbled into the room, hair wild, eyes wild, like he hadn’t slept. His chest was heaving as he rushed to your side, voice already breaking.

"You’re awake—thank Merlin—" He dropped to his knees beside the bed, reaching for your hand but hesitating at the last second when he saw the bandages wrapped around it. "You—you're okay. You're safe now. We got you out. We—"

But before he could finish, Sirius was in the doorway, shoulders tense, face pale and drawn.

One step in—and James turned on him like a storm breaking.

"No. No, get out."

Sirius flinched. "James—"

"No!" James shoved him, not holding back. "She’s bleeding, Sirius! There was so much blood—I couldn’t—I didn’t know if she was breathing—"

Sirius’s voice cracked. "Jamie, please—she’s my girlfriend too—"

James slammed him back against the wall, rage surging.

"Don’t fucking 'Jamie' me right now, Sirius! Remus is out there asking where she is, completely clueless about what happened—what the fuck are you gonna tell him? Huh? You gonna say you brought Snape In as a prank, and instead our girlfriend snuck into the shack and got ripped apart?"

"Is that what you’re gonna say?”

Sirius flinched like the words had struck him in the face. His eyes were glassy now, guilt etched so deeply into the hollows of his cheeks it looked like it might never leave.

His lips parted as if to defend himself but there was nothing firm behind the breath he drew in. Nothing solid enough to hold against James’s rage.

“I didn’t know she followed—” he tried, voice trailing off into silence like it couldn’t bear the weight of the truth.

“But you knew what that shack was,” James snapped, louder now, voice raw and fraying. “You knew what Moony was. You knew what would happen.”

They were so close now they could’ve been mirrors of fury and betrayal. Chest to chest, heart to heart, breathing like it hurt.

The kind of closeness that had once meant brotherhood, now sparking with something jagged and breaking.

“You think saying she’s my girlfriend too makes it better?” James’s hands were shaking and his mouth twisted like he was choking on grief. “You endangered all of us—Snape, her, Moony—because you wanted to mess around like it was a fucking joke.”

Sirius tried to speak again, but his voice came out cracked and too soft to stand on. “I didn’t mean—”

“You never mean to,” James said, and this time it wasn’t a shout. It was something worse.

His voice dropped into that space where hurt lived, where betrayal was a living thing in the room.

“That’s the problem. You never think past the spark of it. It’s always a fire to you, isn’t it? A dare, a thrill. And now she—”

You were sitting up now, breath catching like it didn’t know how to move through your chest anymore.

Their voices filled the room like smoke, thick and impossible to swallow, and still they didn’t see you. Still they didn’t stop.

The anger curled in you like a second pulse, slow and volcanic, fed by the sound of your name twisted in their mouths like an afterthought.

You looked down at your body, at the map of pain they’d drawn across your skin, at the bandages tight around your arms and side and thigh.

You reached for one with trembling fingers and peeled it back slowly, too slowly, like your body was a secret you weren’t supposed to see.

The wound beneath was deep and still red-raw, an angry thing that refused to scab. You stared at it, not blinking. As if staring long enough would make it make sense.

As if blood had a language you could finally understand.

What stared back at you were jagged, red scars, the kind that didn’t heal clean. Bite marks turned purple at the edges, cruel crescents sinking into your skin like the moon had tried to eat you alive.

Deep gashes crossed your side in a brutal lattice, torn flesh barely held together by uneven stitching and the trembling hands of someone too late. A shudder rolled through you, slow and relentless, like something crawling beneath your skin.

You would carry these forever.

Your hand rose to your neck, fingers ghosting over the place where you remembered teeth grazing bone, where the pain had cracked you open from the inside.

You didn’t need a mirror to see it. It was carved into memory. A sob caught in your throat, not loud, but sharp enough to hurt.

"Get out," you said, your voice low and cracked like dry earth before the storm.

They didn’t hear you. They were still yelling, still wrapped in their own pain, their own shame, drowning in the echo of their guilt while you sat there bleeding.

"I said get out!" your voice shattered through the room like glass, and the noise stopped instantly.

The silence rang.

They turned to you slowly, like they’d just remembered you were there, like it hadn’t occurred to them that the thing they were fighting about had ears and a spine and a soul.

James took a hesitant step forward, his eyes soft with apology, but you met him with something he hadn’t seen in you before. Not fear. Not even heartbreak. Just fury, quiet and precise, the kind of anger born from betrayal that simmers instead of explodes.

"You kept this from me," you said, each word dragged from somewhere deep, somewhere scorched.

"All of you. You let me walk in there blind. You let me bleed for a secret that was never mine to carry."

James opened his mouth but no words followed. Nothing could. His guilt hollowed him, but you didn’t care. Not anymore.

Sirius looked wrecked, his hands twitching like he wanted to reach for you, but your eyes stopped him cold.

You didn’t want to see his sorrow. You didn’t want to be comforted by the hands that led you to the edge and watched you fall.

"I almost died because of your secrets," you whispered, and though your voice trembled, it rang with steel. "Because none of you trusted me enough to tell the truth. You called it love, and then you let me be devoured by it."

They were silent. Boys made of noise, finally quiet. And somehow that silence was louder than their shouting ever was.

You looked at the door, then back to them, the air around you sharp as broken promises.

"Out," you said again, quieter now, but it cut deeper for it.

Neither of them argued. They didn’t beg or explain or try to fix what had already bled too long. They just turned, slowly, and walked away.

The door shut behind them with a hollow click.

And the silence that followed was unbearable.

Not because it was empty.

But because it sounded exactly like the moment you realized you were alone.

It echoed louder than the shouting, louder than the pain, louder than the memories still clawing at the edges of your mind. The silence didn’t offer peace—it rang like a scream swallowed too late, like the lingering howl of something wild and ruined.

You sat there in it, trembling, your hands shaking in your lap, the gauze dark with the slow seep of blood.

You stared down at them, fingers twitching like they didn’t belong to you, like maybe none of this belonged to you, not the pain, not the scarred skin, not even the breath you were struggling to draw in.

Each inhale scraped your throat like broken glass, each exhale trembled beneath the weight of everything they never told you.

The tears came suddenly—choking, ungraceful things, messy and aching. They clawed up from somewhere you hadn’t known existed, from the place where trust once lived.

They spilled past your defenses, soaked your cheeks, made your chest rise and fall in ugly, shuddering sobs.

You pressed a trembling hand to your mouth to trap the sound, to make yourself small, but the grief pushed through your fingers anyway, raw and human and desperate.

You didn’t want to be here. Not in this bed, not in this room, not in the body that remembered every second too well.

You didn’t want to be near that shack, or that truth, or those boys whose love had been too conditional, too secret, too much like a trap. Not when it all still clung to your skin like smoke, like something scorched into you that wouldn’t come off, no matter how hard you tried to forget.

You swung your legs over the side of the bed. Pain flared like fire beneath your skin, sharp and blinding, but you gritted your teeth and bit down on the sound.

You forced yourself upright, spine shaking, the world tilting like it didn’t know where to place you anymore. You reached for the nightstand, knuckles white around the edge, and steadied yourself against the weight of gravity and grief alike.

Madam Pomfrey would return soon. She would ask questions—about the bite marks on your shoulder, the blood staining your sheets, the torn muscle stitched back into place like fabric.

Dumbledore would be informed. Whispers would curl through the corridors. Rumors would spread, sprouting like weeds in spring. You could already hear them.

You didn’t want to lie. You weren’t sure you even could. But the truth? The truth was worse.

The truth was a monster’s name whispered behind closed doors.

The truth was betrayal in the shape of friendship.

The truth was pain that had no neat answer, no punishment that could make it make sense.

You took a step. Then another. Every motion dragged behind the last like you were underwater, like your body was remembering how to exist and failing.

It hurt in places you hadn’t thought could ache—bone-deep, nerve-deep, the kind of hurt that didn’t just throb but screamed.

You passed the mirror near the infirmary door and caught sight of yourself.

You stopped.

Your reflection stared back like something unrecognizable. There was dried blood in your hair, matted at the roots like rust. Bruises bloomed along your collarbone and down your arms like ink spilled under the skin.

The bandage over your ribs had darkened, blood soaking through in slow, patient circles. Your lips were cracked. Your eyes—God, your eyes.

You looked like a ghost still wandering the world, too stubborn or too broken to realize it had died.

You turned away before you could recognize yourself, before your reflection could speak back all the truths you weren’t ready to hear.

You didn’t know where you were going.

You just knew you couldn’t stay.

The hall was dim and quiet, cloaked in the kind of stillness that only came long after midnight had folded over the world. The torches burned low, their flames flickering soft shadows across stone, and even the portraits lining the walls seemed to sleep, their painted eyes closed or turned away.

Your footsteps echoed in the emptiness—slow, uneven things that barely registered, like the castle itself was trying not to notice you. Each step jarred your side, sharp pain flashing behind your eyes, blooming like lightning beneath your skin.

One hand clutched your ribs, your breath catching each time your heel met stone.

Maybe you should’ve stayed in bed. Maybe you should’ve screamed louder when it happened. Maybe you shouldn’t have followed the sound at all.

You could trace every mistake in your mind, each one lit like a torch in the dark, but none of it mattered now. Not really. Not when the damage was already done. Not when the blood had already soaked the floor, your skin, your memory.

You were already bleeding.

You made it to the end of the corridor before the tears found you again, rising from the pit of your stomach like a storm breaking loose. You crumpled without grace, back to the wall, forehead pressed hard to the cool stone as if it might hold you together.

You didn’t bother to stifle the sob that slipped from your mouth, cracked and breathless. Let the castle hear it. Let the ghosts carry it through the walls, let them whisper your name into every corner of this place. Let every brick and beam know exactly what had happened. Let the truth echo where their silence had lived.

You were in this mess because people you loved had looked you in the eye and decided you didn’t deserve the truth.

And through the sobs, through the broken air and the trembling of your limbs, that thought was the one that stayed.

This didn’t have to happen.

You could’ve stayed safe. You could’ve stayed whole. But they let you walk in blind. They let you bleed for something that was never yours to carry.

Pain flared again, a cruel spike up your side, white-hot and dragging like a knife pulled slow—but it was nothing compared to what twisted beneath your ribs.

You pressed your palm to your stomach, to the bandages under your robes, and for a moment you hoped the sharpness would ground you, keep you tethered.

Instead, it felt like drowning, like trying to breathe through water, through memory, through the echo of a scream that wouldn’t stop playing behind your eyes.

You thought of the Shack. Of the way the air smelled inside, coppery and wrong. You thought of the creak of old wood under your feet. Of the sound his bones made when they broke—sharp, wet, unforgettable. Of the stillness just before the scream shattered the world.

And you broke.

The sob that tore from your throat wasn’t soft. It was jagged, ugly, ripped straight from the center of you. Another followed, then another, and then you were falling—knees folding, back sliding down the stone, until you were curled on the cold floor, cheek pressed to it, chest heaving with each desperate breath.

Your body shook with the force of it, and still the sound came, raw and real and unrelenting.

It was too much. Too much to carry. Too much to name. Too much to bury beneath bandages and silence.

You didn’t even realize you were whispering his name until it left your lips.

"Remus…"

Just a breath. A ghost of a sound. But it shattered something in you. Cracked the dam wide open.

Because he didn’t know. He didn’t know what he had done.

And somehow—God, somehow—that made it worse.

That you had been ripped apart by someone who would never remember. That the hands that once traced poems into your skin had unknowingly rewritten you in blood.

That the boy who looked at you like you were the first star he’d ever seen was the same one who had carved your name into the floorboards with claw and fang.

You curled in tighter, arms wrapped around your ribs, trying—failing—to hold yourself together. But everything inside you was unraveling. Your breath hitched, broken. Your fingers trembled like your bones were afraid. You could still feel it—all of it.

The weight of him, wild and terrible. The heat of breath on your neck. The moment skin gave way.

You remembered his smile. The one he saved just for you. You remembered how his voice softened when he said your name, like he couldn’t believe it belonged to him for even a second.

You remembered how he once said, “You shouldn’t love me.” And now you knew why.

Because teeth remember hunger. Because wolves don’t ask permission. Because even the gentlest boy can disappear beneath the moonlight.

But oh, God, you hated that he didn't know. That he would wake up in the morning with his soul intact while you were left stitching yours together in the dark.

You pressed your hand to the wound at your side, felt the throb of it echo through your whole body. You wanted to forget. You wanted to go back. You wanted him to be anything but the thing that had hurt you.

You didn’t know where one ended and the other began.

The boy and the beast. The hands that once brushed your cheek like a promise, and the claws that had torn through your skin like paper. The mouth that had whispered your name like it meant something—and the one that had bitten down to the bone. It was all the same now.

One shape, one shadow, stitched into the fabric of your memory with blood and betrayal. You couldn’t separate him from it. You weren’t sure you wanted to.

You pressed your forehead to the cold stone wall, the chill biting into your skin, but it was nothing compared to the fire still burning inside you. Your tears came hot and fast, streaking your cheeks, scalding your lips.

You tried to swallow them back, to bury the noise, but your body wouldn’t obey. You wanted to scream. You wanted to disappear. You wanted to tear yourself apart just to match the way he’d already broken you open.

But all you could do was sit there. And feel it.

You hated him. You loved him. You hated that you loved him. You hated that the boy who had once kissed your temple like it was sacred was the same one who’d left you bleeding in the dirt.

Maybe if they'd told me, you thought bitterly, each word laced with salt and fury, I wouldn’t have followed that sound.

Maybe if they’d trusted me with the truth, I would’ve run the other way.

Maybe if I’d known what he was, I wouldn’t be standing here trying to forgive something that nearly killed me.

But they hadn’t.

So now you knew.

Remus was a wolf.

James and Sirius were liars.

And you were just the wreckage left behind.

The pain grounded you for a moment. Not enough. You remembered James shouting. Sirius pleading. Both of them drowning in their own guilt and still too proud to hand you a life raft. They hadn’t told you because they were afraid. Not for you—but for him.

You meant less than the secret.

You were an acceptable loss.

You forced yourself to stand, legs trembling, hands white-knuckled against the stone. You thought your knees might give out, but you didn’t care.

You had to see him. You had to know. If he still had your voice in his bones. If anything in him recognized the destruction he’d left behind.

You limped through the hallway like a shadow. The castle around you was too quiet, too still, as if it knew something had gone terribly wrong and was trying not to breathe.

Your side ached with every step. The bandages beneath your robes were warm and wet, and you didn’t want to know if it was fresh blood or just the old wounds leaking again. It didn’t matter. You felt hollow. Not empty—stripped.

You walked past the portraits, but none stirred. Even the ghosts seemed to shrink from you. Maybe they recognized you now. Not as a student. But as someone touched by death.

And then—shouting.

Ragged, desperate. Voices you knew.

Your heart twisted violently, nausea rising. You quickened your pace despite the pain, your breath hitching with every step. The ache in your chest sharpened as you turned a corner and—

Remus was screaming.

James had both arms locked tight around him, teeth grit as he struggled to keep Remus from hurling himself down the corridor.

Every inch of Remus's body fought against him, wild and unhinged, as if the rage had torn through muscle and bone and made something feral of him all over again.

"You brought Snape?!" he shouted, voice cracking with disbelief. "Are you fucking serious, Sirius?! You brought him—there—knowing what I am?!"

Sirius didn’t move. He stood like a statue, hands shoved into the pockets of his robes, jaw clenched, eyes hard.

"I didn’t think he’d actually go in," he said flatly. "I thought he’d get scared. Turn back."

"You thought—?" Remus’s breath hitched, then came out in something like a growl. "You don’t get to think, Sirius. You don’t get to gamble with that."

He thrashed in James’s arms again.

"And where the fuck is she?! Why is no one telling me where Y/N is?!"

James held tighter.

"Moony, don’t—"

"Don’t what?" Remus twisted around to face him. "Don’t ask why no one will look me in the fucking eye?! Don’t ask where the girl I—" His voice caught, strangled in his throat. "Where is she?"

And then he saw you.

The world stopped moving.

You stood at the far end of the hall, pressed against the stone wall like it might hold you up if your legs gave out. Your shirt was torn at the shoulder. The bandages had come loose. Blood had soaked through. A thin line of bruising curled along your cheekbone. The mark on your collarbone—his mark—was dark and angry and violet.

Remus's gaze dropped to your arms, your limp, slow steps. Then back to James.

"I did that," he whispered. The words seemed to strike him in the throat. "Didn’t I?"

James looked at the floor. That was answer enough.

Remus folded to his knees like his body had finally realized the weight of the truth. His hands hit the ground. He stared down at the stone like it might split open beneath him.

"Tell me I didn’t," he murmured. "Tell me I didn’t do that. Please, James. Tell me I didn’t do this."

No one spoke.

"Tell me I didn’t hurt her," he begged, louder now. "Tell me I didn’t—"

"You don’t remember," you said.

Your voice didn’t echo. It didn’t need to.

Three heads snapped toward you. But you only looked at him.

Remus's breath caught. He looked like he’d been stabbed.

"I—I don’t remember what happens," he stammered. "I never do. I wake up, and I’m—covered in blood, and I never know if it’s mine or someone else’s and—"

He clawed at his own sleeves, nails digging through fabric, through skin, desperate to feel pain that might match what was screaming inside his chest.

James tried to steady him, arms still locked tight around his shoulders, but Remus tore away with a howl that didn’t sound human.

“I tore her apart,” he gasped, voice wrecked. “I—I felt it—I smelled blood—I wanted it—Merlin, I wanted it—” He curled forward like the words had gutted him, fingers clutching at his head.

“I should be locked up. I should be dead.”

“No,” James said firmly, stepping forward, but Remus flinched and scrambled back like he’d touched fire.

“Don’t—don’t touch me—I’m not—I’m not safe—” He looked at you again, and this time, he really saw you.

Your limp. Your wince. Your bruises and the slow, shaking breath you took just to stay standing. His entire body stilled. Then: he crawled backwards, hands raised, like distance might erase the horror.

“I hurt you.”

Your name was a sob in his throat.

“I hurt you—I knew I would—I told them to keep me away—I told them—fuck—”

“Remus,” you whispered.

He looked away.

“Remus,” you said again, louder this time, voice cracked but sure.

“I’m a monster,” he choked out, voice barely more than a strangled whisper. “Don’t come near me. Please—I’ll hurt you again. I will.”

You took a step forward anyway, ignoring the scream of pain in your leg and the sharp crack of your ribs.

Every breath was a jagged knife, but something inside you refused to stay still.

“I said don’t!” he roared suddenly, flinching hard enough to slam his back against the cold stone wall. His hands flew up to cover his face, as if he couldn’t bear to see the damage—your pain, his pain, everything shattered between you.

“Please. I’ll ruin you. I ruin everything. Don’t—please—”

But you couldn’t stop. You wouldn’t stop.

Each step was a struggle, your body trembling with exhaustion and fear. Five staggering steps. Then you dropped to your knees in front of him, breathless and broken, the room tilting around you.

And then, without thinking, you wrapped your arms around him.

Every muscle tensed, every breath caught in his chest. For a long, endless moment, he didn’t move at all.

You were warm. Solid. Real. Against the ruins of his skin, against the guilt that was tearing him apart from the inside—you were alive.

And you were holding him.

He tried to pull away, voice frantic and raw. “No—no, don’t—I don’t deserve this—I hurt you—”

“I know,” you whispered softly, your voice a fragile thread in the silence, sinking into his hair, his chest, every ragged breath he took. “I know.”

He started to cry again—violently, uncontrollably. The kind of sobs that wrench a person apart from the inside out. His body shook like he was trying to shake free from some invisible weight dragging him under. His breaths came in ragged, broken gasps, each one tearing at his chest with fresh agony.

You could feel the rawness in him, the shattered pieces trembling just beneath the surface. And still, you held on tighter, as if your arms could somehow keep him from falling all the way apart.

“You’re not a monster,” you whispered, your voice low and steady, a lifeline thrown across the storm.

You said it again, over and over, even when his head shook so hard it seemed like it might come off his shoulders.

Even when he whispered, so broken it barely sounded like words, yes I am.

Even when his fingers clawed at the floor, desperate and frantic, as if tearing at the ground could tear him out of his own skin.

“You’re not a monster. You’re not a monster. You’re not.”

Your words became a chant, a prayer. You said them so many times you thought your throat might break.

But still, you kept saying them. Because if you didn’t, who else would? If you didn’t believe it for him, then how could he ever believe it for himself?

Then, slowly, painfully, he collapsed into you. It was as if he’d been falling forever, and for the first time he found something to catch him—a place to land, even if it was fragile and trembling beneath the weight of his grief. His body sagged against yours, heavy and defeated.

You cradled his head in your shaking hands, fingers threading through his hair as though anchoring him to the world. You held him through the sobs, through the storm, through the unbearable silence between each tear.

“I forgive you.”

And again.

“I forgive you.”

Your voice cracked, raw with all the tears you hadn’t even realized were falling down your cheeks. Your throat burned like fire from saying it so many times. Your bandages pressed painfully against his skin, a sharp reminder that your body, too, was broken. But still, you said it—because someone had to say it.

Because sometimes forgiveness is the hardest thing to give and the most necessary thing to hear.

“I forgive you. I forgive you. I forgive you.”

Remus broke completely. His arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you close as if you were the only solid thing left in the world.

His face buried deep in your shoulder, muffling the desperate whispers of I’m sorry that spilled from his lips like a litany, like a prayer, like a curse he couldn’t undo. The weight of those words hung heavy between you, suffocating and real.

Maybe some wounds could never fully heal. Maybe some mistakes could never be undone. But you held him anyway, steady and sure, even when your own body trembled with pain.

Because sometimes, love is the only thing strong enough to hold two broken people together when everything else falls apart.

He didn’t look up. His head hung low, shoulders trembling with a quiet, desperate shudder. His breaths came in ragged gasps, shallow and uneven, like the air itself was betraying him.

Your fingers found his face, trembling as you gently cupped his cheeks, warm beneath your cold touch.

For a moment, he froze—still as if your presence was something fragile, something he wasn’t sure he deserved.

“Look at me,” you whispered, voice soft but firm.

You pressed your forehead to his, breath mingling, heart pounding loud enough you were sure he could hear it. “Remus. Please. Look at me.”

Slowly—agonizingly slow—his eyes lifted, meeting yours.

What you saw there nearly shattered you.

It wasn’t guilt. Not even horror. It was grief. Endless, bone-deep, all-consuming grief.

Like he had already buried you somewhere inside his mind and didn’t know how to find his way back to the living world. Like a weight pressed so hard on his chest he couldn’t breathe without breaking.

You cupped his cheek, thumb brushing a tear away as it slipped silently down his face.

“It’s okay,” you whispered, voice trembling but steady.

His breath hitched, caught somewhere between hope and despair.

“It’s not,” he croaked, voice raw and broken.

“But I’m here.”

You let the silence stretch between you, letting your touch be the anchor in the storm of his pain. Letting the quiet speak the words you both couldn’t say aloud.

Then, with a gentle nudge, you reached up and helped him to his feet. 

He didn’t speak. Didn’t question. Just followed as you led him down the corridor, your fingers laced with his, your steps slow and uneven.

He swayed as he stood, unsteady, eyes still glassy with unshed tears. He didn’t let go of your hand.

You didn’t let go of him either.

Your fingers laced through his, and you took a small step forward. He followed. Another step. Another.

You guided him through the corridor like that, hand in hand, limping slightly with each movement but refusing to stop. His steps were heavy, dragging, as if every footfall carried the weight of what he’d done. But he followed you.

When you reached the bathroom, you nudged the door open with your shoulder and led him inside.

The light was dim. Everything smelled like old tile and lavender soap. The only sound was the drip of a tap and the hush of your breaths. You turned the knobs with aching fingers, letting warm water spill into the tub, steam curling into the air like a kind of gentleness neither of you had known in days.

He stood by the door, unmoving.

You stepped toward him again, slower this time, and reached for the hem of his shirt.

He flinched.

“I can go,” you said, voice low, careful.

He looked at you—just looked—and then, finally, shook his head

You peeled the tattered shirt off his frame, revealing bruises and scratches and old scars that mapped out years of hurt across his skin. You didn’t flinch. You didn’t look away. You undid the buttons of his trousers, helped him step out of them, folding them into a soft pile on the counter.

He didn’t speak. He only watched you with wide, haunted eyes, as if each tender movement was something he couldn’t understand.

Like he didn’t know what to do with this softness.

You reached for his hand again.

“Come on,” you said quietly. “It’s warm.”

He let you guide him into the tub. The water rose around him, lapping gently at his arms and shoulders. He shivered—not from cold, but from everything.

You knelt beside the tub, dipping a cloth into the water, wringing it out. Then, slowly, you brought it to his skin.

You washed him the way you’d cradle something delicate.

You ran the cloth down his arm. Across his shoulder. Behind his ear. Over his chest, where his heart beat wild and trembling under your hand.

You bathed him in silence, each movement slow and deliberate, as if you could wash away the weight of everything between you. Your hands trembled slightly as you carefully wiped the dried blood from his fingers, tracing the lines of his knuckles where the skin was torn and raw.

You cleaned the sweat that clung to his brow, cool and sticky beneath your touch. Then you pressed your palm gently over his heart, feeling the faint, uneven thud beneath your palm—a stubborn, fragile reminder that it was still beating, still alive.

He didn’t meet your eyes. Didn’t say a word. Just sat there, water swirling around him, eyes distant and unfocused, lost somewhere far away, in a place you couldn’t reach—yet.

But you promised yourself, silently, fiercely, that you would reach him. No matter how long it took. No matter how many walls he built around himself.

He was still there when you finally broke the silence. Your voice was soft, almost fragile, like a whisper carrying through the fog.

“I wish someone had told me,” you said quietly, not daring to meet his gaze. “I wish you had told me.”

Remus tensed beneath the water, muscles knotting, and you felt it through your fingertips. You wrung the cloth between your fingers, heart pounding with every second of silence that stretched between you.

“I don’t care how painful it would’ve been,” you added, voice steadier now, more certain. “I deserved to know.”

He exhaled slowly, as if the words themselves carved into him. “I didn’t want you to see me that way.”

Your tone sharpened, the raw hurt breaking through your calm. “You didn’t get to decide that for me. You don’t get to protect me by lying. Not when it nearly killed me.”

The weight of those words fell heavy into the space between you. For a moment, the only sound was the faint drip of water from the cloth.

Then his eyes lifted slowly, meeting yours for the first time in what felt like forever—fragile, vulnerable, full of everything he’d been too scared to say.

“I didn’t think you'd ever look at me the same,” he whispered, voice cracking under the weight of his fear. “If you knew.”

A bitter laugh escaped your throat, sharp and sudden, breaking the tension.

“You think I don’t see you now? You think I’m not looking at you, right now, with every part of me?”

He swallowed hard, eyes flickering with something almost like hope.

“I see you, Remus. All of you. I see the way you flinch from love like it’s a blade. I see the grief carved into your silence. I see the boy who would rather bury himself than risk hurting someone else.”

Your gaze dropped to your hands—wounded, trembling, wrapped in ragged bandages—and the pain in your voice was honest, unfiltered. “But I also see the boy who never trusted me enough to tell me the truth. And that… that hurts more than any scar.”

He looked broken, hollowed out in a way that left your chest aching, but he didn’t turn away. Didn’t close his eyes. Instead, his voice came, raw and low.

“I’m sorry,” he said, voice barely more than a whisper. “I should’ve told you. I should’ve trusted you.”

You nodded slowly, the weight of your words settling between you like a fragile promise. “Yes. You should’ve.”

The steam from the warm water curled around your faces, softening the harsh edges of everything unsaid, blurring the sharp lines of pain into something almost gentle.

For a long moment, neither of you moved, just breathing in the shared silence. Then he leaned forward, his forehead resting lightly against yours, a quiet gesture that spoke of tentative hope and fragile trust.

“I want to try,” he murmured, voice barely above a whisper. “If you’ll let me.”

Your own voice trembled as it broke free. “Start by telling me everything.”

He nodded again, slower this time, like anchoring himself to the present. And with that, something shifted—an opening, a fragile thread weaving back between you.

And this time, he did.

It came slowly at first, like drawing words from the marrow of his bones—halting, rough, like he’d forgotten how to shape language without flinching.

He told you what he could remember from that night—shards of memory coated in blood and fear, barely coherent. He told you what it felt like to lose himself, to slip out of time, to wake up in a skin that didn’t feel like his own.

The nightmares that curled around his ribcage. The silence that tasted like penance. The months—years—spent learning how to live without letting anyone close enough to see the damage. How he'd convinced himself that silence was kindness, that distance was protection, that truth was a luxury people like him couldn’t afford.

And still, you listened.

You didn’t interrupt. You didn’t turn away. You let his voice break against you like waves on a cliffside, let him collapse into pauses and shake through the parts he couldn’t finish. You held the silence between his sentences like it was something sacred. Even when it hurt.

Even when it cracked open something raw and old inside your chest. Because somewhere inside you, you knew—this wasn’t just a story he was telling. It was a confession. A quiet unraveling.

Not everything was said. Not everything could be. There were still silences he couldn’t break open and wounds you weren’t sure how to touch. But it was a beginning. A single stone placed in what might one day be a bridge.

And still, there was so much more.

The things Sirius had done—reckless, cruel, even if born of desperation—hung in the air like smoke that would not clear. You had not spoken to him since it all unraveled. You were not sure what you would say.

You didn’t know if Remus would ever find it in himself to forgive Sirius, or to trust him again. Some things fracture differently. Some betrayals do not bleed clean.

And James, with his steady eyes and soft-spoken guilt, had kept his own silences. Even he, who had always tried to protect you, had made choices that left you cut open.

All three of them had lied in different ways. Lied in the name of protection. Lied out of fear. Lied out of love. And those lies still lingered in the spaces behind your teeth. You hadn’t even begun to decide what to do with that.

You knew, deep down, that some scars would not close. That no amount of tenderness could undo certain kinds of damage. That some trust, once fractured, might never return in the shape it once held.

You had changed. They had, too. And now you would have to figure out if those new shapes could still fit beside one another without splintering again.

You would have to grieve what you’d lost—who you’d been before all this. You would have to learn how to trust again, not just them, but yourself. Your instincts. Your worth. You’d have to forgive the parts of you that stayed too quiet, too long. You would carry this with you, no matter how far you ran—these bruised memories, these broken truths—but you didn’t have to carry them alone anymore.

Healing would not be a soft road.

There would be nights you’d wake trembling. Days the anger would rise without warning. There would be guilt, and fear, and moments when you weren’t sure if you could keep choosing to stay.

But there would also be mornings, slow and gold. There would be laughter again, strange at first, then easier. There would be cups of tea gone cold on the windowsill. A hand held out when you least expected it. A voice calling you back when you wandered too far.

But you also knew this. You were no longer alone in it.

You helped Remus out of the tub when the water turned cold. He was quiet, pliant, letting you wrap the towel around his shaking shoulders. His head tilted toward yours as you led him through the dim apartment, your steps slow but steady, his breath catching in the hush between rooms.

You found him a fresh shirt, helped him into bed without asking, and tucked the blanket over his trembling limbs. He lay still as stone, but his fingers found yours. And held.

You sat beside him, watching the moonlight shift across the floorboards, and for a while, neither of you spoke.

When Remus finally turned to face you, his expression was soft with exhaustion, but something in his eyes had steadied.

He took your hand again, thumb grazing the inside of your wrist like he was trying to memorize the rhythm of you.

“Do you think,” he asked, his voice just above a whisper, “there’s a chance for us? After everything?”

The question lingered between you. Not desperate. Not demanding. Just honest.

You took a breath and met his gaze. “Yes,” you said. “I do.”

His hand tightened gently in yours. He closed his eyes for a moment, like he was letting that answer settle inside his chest.

Then he looked at you again, quieter this time.

“For keeps?”

You blinked, heart rising painfully. You didn’t hesitate.

“For keeps.”

a/n: this is so over the place, i am so sorry anon </3

[sixeyesonathiel]

love & war — ares!gojo x aphrodite!reader

part 2 of all’s fair. 18+, YEARNER gojo, LONG HAIRED GOJO I REPEAT, LONG HAIRED GOJO. jealous & sort of possessive gojo, he breaks your wedding ring. cunnilingus while u sit on ur throne, squirting.

the feast is decadent.

ambrosia drips like honey from silver goblets, pooling at the edges like nectar too sweet to swallow. laughter rings through the marble colonnades of mount olympus, reverberating against pillars gilded in gold, lilting and hollow—like a song sung too many times, a chorus with no soul. but the gods don't care for meaning. they care for spectacle.

and tonight, you are the show.

you sit at hephaestus' side, spine straight, expression the picture of benevolence. the torchlight catches in your hair, setting it aglow like strands of molten gold. the chiffon draped across your body slips just so—revealing the curve of your thigh, the soft swell of your shoulder, the shadow between your breasts. suggestive, never vulgar. worshipped, never touched.

you tilt your goblet, fingers tracing the rim like you're tuning a lyre. your lips, red and warm, brush the edge but never drink. your eyes flutter closed as apollo's laughter crescendos, and you feign delight—mouth curling in a smile that could bring mortals to their knees. beside you, your husband remains silent. his hand is steady on his chalice. he forged the ring on your finger with hands calloused from fire and fury, and yet you wear it like it's forged from spider silk—a fragile thing, breakable.

and you don't look at satoru.

not at first.

but oh, you feel him.

his presence seeps into the room like smoke. the god of war is leaned lazily against his throne across the hall, the picture of restraint. clad in armor darker than midnight, trimmed in crimson, his white hair is tied back by a ribbon dyed red, trailing down his back like a war banner, a declaration. but his restraint is a lie.

his goblet remains empty. always empty. he drinks nothing tonight—not wine, not ambrosia—because it is only you that he hungers for.

his blue eyes, pale and gleaming, fixate on you. they don't waver. not once. they drink in every movement of your fingers, every curve of your smile, every deliberate flutter of your lashes. he watches you toy with your ring like it's a sin he's yet to commit. he watches you lean closer to dionysus, watches your laugh tilt toward apollo, watches your bare foot slip from under the tablecloth like a secret invitation. it's cruel. deliberate.

it's punishment.

your favorite dress, ruined. your thighs, bruised. your lips, bitten and left cold in a tent heavy with the stench of blood and iron and war. he kissed you like a man possessed, like a god starved. then he left you aching.

and now?

he aches.

not with the sharp, glorious pain of battle—but something worse. duller. quieter. the kind of ache that sits beneath the ribs and gnaws like hunger, like longing.

when the feast ends—when wine-soaked laughter fades into sultry sighs, when silk rustles and marble floors grow slick with pleasure—you do not rise.

you stay seated in your throne, golden and still, carved like a statue of temptation by hands far crueler than fate.

you wait.

and like always, he finds you.

you don't hear his footsteps. only the subtle shift of air. the softest rustle of a crimson sash brushing against bronze armor. then the press of a shadow curling into yours like a secret.

“that's twice now,” his voice comes low, smoked silk and sharpened edge, curling around your spine. “once on the battlefield. now here. you like making me wait?”

his tone holds accusation—but the way he looks at you, moonlight caught in those cerulean eyes, it's not anger. it's reverence. it's ruin. it's worship.

he looks like war incarnate dressed in restraint—white hair tied back by a ribbon the color of spilled blood, pale skin brushed faintly gold beneath olympian firelight, armor kissed by countless hands but pierced by none. and he looks at you like he's starved. like he would gut himself if it meant dying with your name on his lips.

your lashes lower, slow. you don't turn to face him yet. you let the pause bloom between you, heavy with all the words you shouldn't say and all the touches you're not allowed to crave.

then—deliberately—you twist to meet him.

your gaze is lazy, liquid, the wine having turned your movements feline. your dress slips like a sigh over your thighs. your lips curve just enough to wound.

you reach to press a palm flat against his chest, over the gilded armor. his heat hums beneath it. a mortal man would be scalded.

“you ruined my favorite dress,” you murmur, voice hushed and sugared. your fingers curl, tracing the seam between plates of gold. “and left me in a tent that smelled of blood and glory and you.”

he breathes in sharply, jaw ticking once—just once—but it's enough. enough to unravel you.

his exhale is quiet, but charged, like the hush before a battlefield scream. his chest rises with restraint, sinewed muscle tense beneath his black tunic, straps of armor left discarded at the threshold like a promise he intends to break.

he steps forward. slow. deliberate. like the way fire creeps, hungry and patient. another step. then another. the weight of him warps the air. heat blooms in your lungs.

your hand stays raised between you like a shield, but your wrist trembles, traitorous. it remembers the weight of his grip, the way his fingers once mapped constellations into your skin. your mind whispers no. your pulse chants yes.

his eyes flicker—not to yours, but to your hand. to the ring.

“and you think this—” his voice, low and hoarse, curls at the edges like smoke, “—wearing this ring makes us even?”

he slides his fingers beneath yours, not with force, but with reverence. with fury disguised as grace. he lifts your hand like it's an oath he's been denied. like it's home.

he doesn't meet your gaze. his attention stays pinned to the band of gold—hephaestus' craftsmanship, forged in fire and jealousy, fitted for a goddess who never wanted to be possessed.

he looks at it the way a warrior looks at a wound he cannot close. as if it mocks him. as if it dares him to tear it off with his teeth.

his thumb ghosts over it. slow. scalding. like a brand.

you inhale, lips parting to say something cold, something final—but your voice crumbles before it can reach your tongue. all that leaves you is a whisper, soft and shaking, “you shouldn't even be touching me.”

his head lifts.

his eyes—blue, impossibly bright, like the sky just before it breaks—lock onto yours. and they don't just look. they consume. scorch. drink you in like a man dying of thirst, parched from years of wars he didn't win, undone by a beauty he was never meant to hold.

you feel it then, the tremble in the air between you. like something sacred cracking. like prophecy catching fire.

“then stop me.” he says.

his voice isn't loud. doesn't need to be. it's low, rough like gravel but sweetened with reverence, a thread pulled too tight, fraying at the edges. and it tugs at something inside you—something soft, something ancient.

your fingers twitch in his grip. not to pull away. gods, never to pull away. but to stay. to linger. to clutch the fleeting moment like it might fly from your grasp if you dared to blink.

you don't stop him.

instead, you tip your chin up, just slightly. prideful. defiant. divine. and you raise your hand higher between you both, baring the delicate line of your wrist like an offering on an altar. like a lamb to the slaughter. like a challenge written in perfume and silk.

“go on, then,” you whisper, lashes lowered like a veil. the words curl out of you like smoke, like honey laced with venom. “break another rule.”

and he does.

not with rage. not with thunder.

but with reverence.

he sinks to his knees—not like a soldier kneeling before his commander, not like a penitent before a god—but like a man who has already decided that he would rather burn at your feet than live untouched in another's arms.

the marble floor groans under him. the sound is quiet, but it echoes, somehow—sharp and cold, like the world remembering how to breathe.

his white hair, bright as new snow and wild as flame, slips loose from its ribbon and cascades around his face like falling starlight. it brushes against his cheeks, glows silver where it catches the lamplight. divine. disheveled. ruinous.

his hands are warm when they cradle yours. calloused from centuries of war, yet careful. trembling, just barely. he lifts your fingers like they might dissolve in his palms.

he bows his head to the ring—hephaestus's ring, forged in fire, in resentment, in the echo of zeus's command—and kisses it. once. twice. the third time, his lips linger.

then—he bites.

there's no warning. just a clean snap. metal splits beneath his teeth like fate surrendering. the ring breaks. falls. its fragments scatter across the marble like shattered promises.

and you exhale, shivering. not from fear. from recognition.

his mouth finds your bare finger again, lips dragging slow over skin where the band once sat. his teeth press again—gentler now, but no less possessive. he doesn't break the skin.

but the mark blooms anyway.

golden ichor wells to the surface. one drop. warm. pure. precious. it gleams like molten starlight, catching the flicker of torches. it doesn't harden, but it remains—a glimmering, radiant mark that pulses like a gem, impossibly beautiful against the curve of your skin.

no forge. no chains. no vows.

only power. only him.

his ring. your ruin.

he doesn't move. doesn't rise. just kneels there, his mouth hovering over your skin, his breath soft and reverent like a prayer whispered at the altar of something sacred. his eyes flutter closed, and there's a tremor in the air between you.

he lifts his head just slightly, the weight of his gaze pulling you deeper than any touch could. his voice breaks the silence, low and broken, the words crackling with something raw.

“this... is the only semblance of a ring i can give you.” he murmurs, as if the words are both a gift and a confession, an admission of a longing that has no end.

it carves through you like lightning.

you should pull away. remind him of the vows you wear like shackles. of your station. your symbols. that zeus did not gift you to hephaestus out of kindness, but as a solution. a ceasefire.

but instead—your hand lifts. as if guided by something older than reason. you cradle his face in your palm, thumb brushing the sharp angle of his cheek. your golden ichor paints him—bright against pale skin, like warpaint. like a claim.

“you'll get me killed one day.” you say. the words float out of you soft and slow, silk soaked in prophecy.

he laughs, low and broken and full of something starved.

“only if someone gets to you before i do.” he turns his head, catches your fingertip between his lips. kisses it. reverent. ruinous.

his lips trail down your wrist, slow—like he's savoring not flesh, but fate. your breath hitches. somewhere behind you, the world still feasts. but here, in this quiet ruin, it's only the two of you. the war god, and the goddess he was never meant to have.

“do you want me to stop?” his voice cracks, a threadbare rasp that trembles with something dangerous.

you don't answer, not right away.

your body shifts, the fabric of your chiton whispering against your skin, slipping like liquid gold, pooling at your hips, revealing just enough to stoke the fire smoldering in his gaze.

his eyes darken, pupils swallowing the blue entirely, consumed by the weight of you.

satoru, the untamed. satoru, the one who has never known restraint. satoru, brought to his knees by the soft curve of your thighs.

you lean down, your breath warm against his ear, lips grazing the shell, barely there. “then kneel properly.”

and he does.

the groan of his armor is deafening, the pressure of him against you—heat and steel—his forehead against the crest of your hip, his nose tracing the curve where skin is softest, most vulnerable. his hands, large and calloused, find the firm flesh of your thighs, not with the intention to mark, but to learn, to remember. every small movement you make, every breath you stifle, he maps them, tattooing them in his mind like a strategy, like war.

his tongue flicks, slow, deliberate, not a conqueror's claim but a prayer. grateful in it’s intensity.

you arch into him, your back a taut bow, the world blurring for a moment as the weight of his touch splits you in half.

the torchlight bathes your skin, casting molten gold over the sweat-slick column of your throat, the flutter of your lashes so delicate, like wings caught in the flame. your fingers twist in his hair, not guiding—never guiding—just holding on.

as if you fear the heavens might tear him away from you, pull him from your reach.

he notices. of course, he does.

satoru, who feels the tremor before the spear flies. satoru, who senses the precise moment an enemy's resolve crumbles to dust.

his hands slide upward, fingers finding the curve of your waist, thumbs pressing into the soft hollows beneath your ribs. it's a question without words. a question only you can answer.

and you do.

you roll your hips once, sharp, precise, and his groan cuts through you, the sound shaking your bones, a crack of thunder in the silence of the room.

“satoru—”

your voice breaks, a whimper caught between prayer and curse. the ceiling above, painted with the gods' own hands, seems to sway with the weight of it—or maybe it's just your vision, blurry at the edges.

he pulls back just enough to catch your gaze, a smile curling at the corners of his lips, glistening, intoxicating.

“louder,” he demands, voice as dark and thick as smoke from war-horns. “let them hear.”

you kick him, weakly, a distant protest, your heel sliding off his pauldron with a dull clang.

his laugh is ragged, breathless, a sound that rattles the air between you then he dives back in.

no hesitation. no mercy. just hunger, raw and relentless, like he's been dreaming of this moment for centuries. his hands grip your thighs, fingers pressing into the soft flesh hard enough to leave marks, hard enough to remind you who you belong to. his mouth moves with the kind of skill that comes from obsession—from nights spent imagining exactly how you'd fall apart for him.

and oh, you do.

It builds slow, then all at once—a coil tightening in your stomach, your back arching off the throne, your fingers twisting in his hair like you're clinging to sanity itself. you bite your lip hard enough to taste ichor, but it's no use.

the world simply narrows to heat and pressure and the slick drag of his tongue and you break.

a choked gasp rips from your throat as your back arches off the throne, thighs clamping around his head like a vice. golden ichor spills—not the slow trickle of a wound, but a flood, a surrender, dripping down his chin, painting his lips in liquid radiance.

he doesn't pull away.

he drinks.

greedy. reverent. as if this—your ruin, your release—is the only ambrosia he'll ever crave.

when he finally lifts his head, it's with a slow drag of his tongue along your inner thigh, savoring every drop. his breath fans hot over oversensitive skin as he surveys his handiwork—your trembling limbs, your heaving chest, the mess glistening between your thighs.

“look at you,” he murmurs, voice wrecked. his thumb swipes through the gold streaking your skin, smearing it like war paint. “all that pretty composure, shattered.”

your cheeks burn in embarrassment as you kick at him again, but it's weak, the force gone, the desire too heavy.

he catches your ankle with ease, his grip unyielding. his lips pressing to the arch of your ankle, tender, almost reverent. then his teeth find it—sharp, a bite.

you jolt beneath him, a shiver running through you like lightning.

“still sensitive?” his voice is dark with satisfaction, low and predatory. he runs his tongue along the mark he's left, soothing it, his mouth just as cruel as it is tender. “good.”

a/n : ares gojo brainrot so bad i wrote this instead of continuing my wips... dunno if i made some misconceptions since im not that invested on greek mythology but if i did yall can expect my apology video w/ tears 😔✌🏻 first time actually trying to write smut omg dont jump me i did my best... part 3 someday idk

[lowkeyren]

—reject me not!

in which : when your sudden confession catches blade off guard, his response comes across as a rejection. though he realises his mistake, and tries his best to make things right. (...it gives the whole hq a headache)

slight humor, idiots in love, mutual pining, misunderstanding, you tease him w/o realizing (n he gets back at u hehe), reader is a stellaron hunter, stellaron hunters wingwomen!!!, art by @/kkuekkue on x. reblogs are appreciated! please enjoy <3

wc: 4.2k // hm secret santa? HOHOHO @mikashisus, rayray!! u might pull ur hair out at some parts idk :joy: happy reading n merry christmas my little elf xx

"i think i like you."

the words leave your mouth quicker than your brain can second-guess them. 

blade freezes mid-step, his back visibly stiffening. when he turns to face you, his sharp, cold eyes betray a fleeting glimmer of surprise, perhaps, or confusion —but it disappears as quickly as it came.

he stares at you, his eyes widening just slightly, the faintest crack in his carefully maintained composure.

but then, his lips part, and all he gives you is a single, flat response.

"i see."

two short, dismissive words. not a smile, not a frown —just two clipped words. you tilt your head, expecting some form of elaboration, but instead he just turns on his heel, his coat swishing behind him as he starts to walk away.

(what you don’t see is the way his hands curl into fists as he walks off, how his steps falter just around the corner, or the way he presses a hand against his chest to steady the sudden, overwhelming ache blooming there.)

…must this guy really be so blunt?!?!!

you sigh, a little laugh escaping despite your current situation. of all the possible responses you could’ve imagined, ‘i see’ definitely wasn’t one of them. you shake your head, a part of you wonders if elio is watching, silently laughing at your predicament right now.

it’s fine. really. you should’ve known better than to think he’d say anything different.

though the big problem now is, blade knows about your silly crush on him, so facing him in the future is going to be a total nightmare that you’re not ready to accept. you can already feel the embarrassment creeping up like it’s going to suffocate you.

“where's [name]?” 

blade steps into the base. silver wolf, tucked in the corner, engrossed in her console, raises a hand in greeting without looking up. blade nods in acknowledgment, before replying to kafka, "i went ahead of them," his voice sounds a little more strained than usual, before quickly turning to make a beeline for his room.

but kafka, ever perceptive, senses something’s off. she tilts her head with a smirk, "bladie, did something happen?"

he denies it with a quick shake of his head before slipping past her. having no other option, she resorts to… unconventional methods. 

with a flick of her wrist and a soft, almost melodic whisper, she purrs, "listen to me.”

the moment those familiar words hit his ears, a wave of calm washes over him, and against his will, he halts mid-step. "now tell me what happened, will you?"

he sighs and he rubs the back of his neck. “take your time, bladie.” after a long pause he speaks again, "[name] said they... they liked me."

kafka watches him closely, a grin slowly spreading across her face. "and then what happened, hmm?" she teases.

out of the corner of his eyes, he sees silver wolf perk up at his words, but he pays her no mind as his thoughts are too tangled in what he’s about to say next, the words barely scraping past his throat.

...

the next hour consists of him being ‘lectured’ by his fellow coworkers.

he tries to tune out the barrage of teasing, but something about  “bladie, that's not how you reciprocate,” to “ain’t no way bro fumbled that badly,” managed to stick with him, unfortunately. (he looks over to firefly standing to the side, but she only giggles and shakes her head at him.)

but really, how was he supposed to tell them that he panicked? that he was so stunned by your confession, so overwhelmed, that he could barely form a coherent sentence? that his awkward, dismissive reply wasn’t rejection, but a pathetic attempt to mask his own vulnerability?

the thought of you avoiding him, of thinking he doesn’t care, makes his chest ache with a pain he hadn't experienced for the past few centuries. 

blade makes a mental note to find you as soon as possible. he doesn’t know how to explain himself, not entirely; words have never been his strong suit, but somehow, some way, he’ll make it up to you.

later, you return to the base, your steps hesitant as you walk in. the moment you enter, the group falls silent, all eyes snapping to you. there’s an awkward stillness in the air, like they were caught in the middle of something. your gaze sweeps over the room, and it lands on blade. when you lock eyes with him, a flush creeps up your neck, and you quickly avert your gaze.

"excuse me!" you blurt out and almost sprint to your room.

...do they all know?! this has to be the most embarrassing day of your life.

you agreed to meet kafka at a bar near your current mission to discuss your next task. the magenta haired woman had mentioned it casually when you’d asked, cryptic as usual, only revealing that the task was important but leaving out certain key details —such as conveniently leaving out the part about blade being there too, of course.

(“bladie,” kafka’s voice took on a singsong lilt, her playful smile unmistakable as she glanced at him. “you’re going to use this chance to make it up to them, ‘kay?” 

blade only kept his eyes trained on the entrance, silently waiting for you to arrive.)

running late, your prior mission having dragged on longer than expected, you found yourself hurrying to the bar, weaving through the sparse but lingering foot traffic of the evening.

after what feels like hours, you finally make it to the bar. stepping in, your eyes scan the room for kafka, when suddenly, a man steps right into your path.

the man smiles warmly, though you could tell he’s had a few to drink tonight. his tone is friendly, with just a hint of flirtation as he strikes up a conversation, casually asking if you’d be interested in grabbing a drink sometime.

he’s polite, respectful even, and there’s nothing about him that feels overly forward or aggressive —just a man who’s trying his luck, that’s all. still, you can't help but feel a slight annoyance at the timing.

as you try to figure out a way to decline his invitation, you remain oblivious to blade’s gaze —specifically, how it's fixed on you, or rather, more pointedly on the back of the man’s neck.

“you’re going to snap his neck if you keep looking at him like that.” kafka’s voice cuts through the tension, her tone teasing as she watches the exchange from the side.

“i don’t like what he’s doing,” blade mutters, his voice low and filled with an edge that suggests far more than just mild annoyance.

kafka chuckles softly to herself, already knowing where this is headed. it’s not an outright confession of jealousy, of course —he would never admit to something as petty as that, and she knows better than to push him on this one. 

nevertheless, she still catches it, her lips curling into a knowing smile. even if blade would never call it jealousy, it’s enough to push him into doing something completely out of character —something he’ll never, ever do (until now).

kafka notices immediately. her eyes widen just a fraction before she sets down her wine glass with a graceful motion, amusement dancing in her eyes. and perhaps to make sure he doesn’t look too foolish, she decides to play along and help him act the part.

a sharp clang of glass hitting the table catches your attention. your brows knit in confusion; you glance over instinctively, your eyes meeting kafka's for a brief moment. her expression is unreadable, but the faint curve of her lips makes you wonder what’s really going on.

curiosity pulls your gaze lower, to the drunk figure slumped over at her table, seemingly drunk, his head resting heavily on his arm. the spilled drink pools on the floor beside him, glinting under the dim light. 

at first, you only catch a glimpse of dark, tousled hair, streaked faintly with deep crimson at the ends —so strikingly familiar it makes you pause. then, as your eyes trace over the sharp line of his jaw and the stiff set of his shoulders, realisation dawns on you. 

wait a second.

your jaw nearly drops as you piece it together. the man lying there, seemingly drunk out of his mind, is none other than the last person you would want to see right now.

blade.

your gaze darts between him and the polite man still standing awkwardly in front of you. blade, on the other hand, never lets his guard down, so this... state of his? unprecedented. 

apologetically, you offer a small smile to the man before rushing to blade’s side, urgency in every step as you push past the tables, heart hammering in your chest.

blade’s eyes subtly flicker over to you as you approach, and you can almost sense the slightest shift in his demeanor, the thought of you giving your time to someone else, especially someone so... ineffectual —grates at him.

he swallows the ugly feeling down his throat. perhaps he’s let this irked him more than it should. but it’s too late to back out now that you’re standing right beside him, the weight of your presence making the tension in his chest only more pronounced.

as if on cue, kafka’s voice breaks the silence, “as you can see, [name], our dear bladie here has gotten himself a bit... roughed up,” she says, casually catching the wine glass that had been teetering on the edge of the table.

her lips curl into a playful smile as she glances at blade, whose jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. “drinking doesn’t seem to suit him, wouldn’t you agree?” kafka continues, her tone light but unmistakably amused. her eyes flicker between the two of you, as if she’s thoroughly enjoying the situation unraveling before her far more than she should.

you blink, momentarily thrown off by the unexpected scene. your worry only deepens as you shift your attention back to blade, who remains uncharacteristically silent, his head now resting on his arm as though he really had overindulged. 

“blade,” you say softly, your voice carrying just the slightest edge of concern. “what happened?” 

before he can answer —or before he’s forced to lie —kafka chuckles, waving a hand as if to dismiss your worry. 

“oh, nothing serious. he just got a little too carried away with his drink.” she leans back in her chair, a sly glint in her eye that you’re too preoccupied to notice. your gaze falls back to blade, his hair slightly tousled.

without thinking, you reach out, gently brushing a strand strand from his forehead. his eyes flutter open at the contact —those striking, sharp eyes you’ve always found yourself drawn to, dark yet you can’t bring yourself to look away from. 

you notice the faint redness creeping across his cheeks and the line of his jaw, down to his neck. his skin hot to the touch under your fingers. “you’re warm,” you murmur softly, assuming the alcohol is to blame.

if only you knew the warmth searing through him has nothing to do with alcohol and everything to do with you. 

“ah,” kafka hums, pulling you out of your thoughts. “it seems something urgent has come up that needs my attention.” there’s an unmistakable glint of mischief in her eyes. “i’ll leave you two to it.”

you glance at her, startled. “wait, what about—?”

“don’t worry about it,” she interjects, already getting up from her seat. “the bill is already on my tab.” 

well, that wasn’t what you were about to ask anyway! 

a sly smile curls her lips, and she tilts her head ever so slightly. “hmm, it’s rare to see him like this. [name], you’ll take good care of him, won’t you?” her tone is light, but the underlying implication is clear, leaving you flustered as she turns on her heel, striding off, leaving the two of you alone.

blade leans heavily against you, his tall frame making it an awkward challenge to keep him upright as you guide him out of the bar. one arm is slung over your shoulder, while his other hangs haphazardly against his side.

his head is tilted forward, strands of his dark, crimson-tipped hair brushing against your cheek, and you can feel the warmth radiating from him —whether from his predicament or his proximity, you’re not sure.

you shift your grip, looping an arm around his waist for better support, and his body tenses slightly under your touch. for someone playing the part of drunk so convincingly, he’s strangely aware of your every movement, his hand tightening just faintly on your shoulder when you stumble over a crack in the pavement.

“blade,” you murmur under your breath, trying to shift his weight more evenly as you inch forward. “you’re not making this very easy, you know.”

casting a glance his way, you’re met with a low, almost lazy hum in response. his expression is nothing short of a hazy indifference, though you swear you catch a flicker of clarity in his eyes —a brief, focused intensity that seems out of place, before he looks away.

you can feel the heat of his breath against your temple as he wavers with every step. the night air is cool, but the warmth radiating from his body is undeniable, pressing against your side in a way that sends an unexpected shiver down your spine. the closeness between you feels almost intimate in a way that will surely have you screaming into your pillow later that night. 

as you continue down the empty street, blade’s mind races; this is his chance. he knows it. he should say something now, anything, to make it clear —to tell you how he feels. (and how it’s been eating at him for longer than he cares to admit.)

this is it, the moment he’s been waiting for, but all he can do is breathe in the scent of your skin and the warmth of your touch. the sensation is all too familiar, like the pounding in his chest —but this time, it’s not from the heat of battle.

just how much longer he has to deal with this utterly insufferable feeling?

it’s worse now, because as you navigate through the halls of the base, he’s beginning to wonder if this is what it means to care for someone —to be vulnerable. 

“here,” you say softly as you stop in front of the door to his room.

he doesn’t want this moment to end. 

you glance at him then, finally meeting his eyes, and the look in them knocks the breath from your lungs. they’re hazy, yes, but there's a sharpness beneath the mask of drunkenness, a quiet intensity that makes your heart beat a little faster.

you clear your throat, breaking the silence. "do you need anything else?"

"no," he answers, almost reluctantly. "i’ll be alright."

a twinge of disappointment surges through you. right… it was foolish to expect anything different. he’s already rejected you, and you can’t help but feel a bit ridiculous for thinking it would be any other way.

you stand there for a moment, the silence between you growing thicker with each passing second, before you force yourself to nod, your voice soft as you try to mask the heaviness in your chest.

“goodnight then."

just as you turn to leave, you feel a sudden pull on your hand, your wrist tugged back with surprising gentleness.

"wait," blade suddenly says, and this time, there's no mistaking the sincerity in it. "thank you.”

his bandaged hand rests over yours, and a soft breath escapes you; flustered, you open your mouth to respond, ready to brush it off.

"oh! It's no pro—"

but you’re cut off before you can finish. he raises your hand, pressing his lips to the back of your palm in a soft, lingering kiss.

"—blem..."

your voice falters slightly as a rush of warmth spreads through you. every nerve in your body seems to spark awake all at once, making you hyper-aware of the spot from where his lips brushed against your skin. you freeze, your breath caught in your throat, unable to do anything but stand there, your hand still resting in his.

then, as if nothing happened, he steps back into his room and shuts the door behind him, leaving you standing there, still processing the unexpected moment.

safe to say you got little to no sleep that night. you roll over, staring at the ceiling, a soft smile tugging at the corners of your lips. it feels ridiculous, embarrassing even, how many times you've replayed that scene in your head every time you close your eyes.

you couldn’t help but smile to yourself like a fool. 

(“so bladie, how’d it go?” / “...”) 

you hadn’t even planned on leaving the base today, let alone stepping foot into the brightly lit chaos of an arcade, but silver wolf had insisted —no, nagged, until you caved. and somehow she’d managed to drag blade (of all people) along, her smug grin all too telling as she pushed the two of you together and skipped off to “go play some gachas”

now, you stand awkwardly by blade’s side, the flashing lights casting a colorful glow over his impassive face. it’s hard to ignore how out of place he looks, his dark coat, sunglasses, and the mask covering his lower face a stark contrast to the lively atmosphere. 

yet, somehow, he doesn’t seem to mind the sharp sounds of arcade machines beeping nor the kids screaming in excitement. he just stands there, hands in his pockets, watching you fumble with a stack of game tokens.

“you look thrilled,” you mutter, a sarcastic tone in your voice as you glance at him.  it’s strange, though —there’s something oddly endearing about the way he’s standing there, the dark lenses of his sunglasses reflecting a faint outline of your own face. you catch yourself staring for just a moment too long, wishing you could see beyond the lens, wishing you could read his eyes—

you shake the thought off, it’s all just wishful thinking.

behind the shield of his sunglasses, blade’s eyes tracked your every subtle movement, almost unconsciously. he caught the way your expression softened as you turned toward the claw machine, how your lips curved ever so slightly when your gaze settled on that… thing.

it was maddening, how effortlessly you held his focus, how even a trivial moment like this could stir something deep in him. he told himself it was nothing, but the tightening in his chest said otherwise. 

he wasn’t one to indulge in sentiment, yet something about the way you stared at that silly plush made him restless, made him want to do something about it, if only to keep that smile on your face a little longer.

would your smile grow brighter if that plush were in your hands? 

“let’s go.”

“to where…?” you asked, glancing back at him, the curiosity evident in your voice.

he didn’t answer immediately, but you felt the familiar tug at your hand once again, gentle and insistent, as his gaze slips toward the claw machine where you had been staring earlier.

it’s not hard to imagine the scene as a sweet little moment, with him focused on the claw machine, trying to win you a plush like a doting partner would. 

with a soft click, the claw tightens around the plush, and before you can react, it’s being lifted out of the pile, swinging toward the prize chute. you can't help but stare as he pulls the soft toy from the machine with a sense of quiet satisfaction.

(you pocket the rest of the tokens. guess he won’t be needing those…  for a first-timer, he sure got lucky —must be beginners' luck, huh?)

you blink, slightly impressed. “wow, you’re good at this,” you remark, unable to hide the surprise in your voice. 

without a word, he hands the plushie to you. 

you tilt your head slightly, a bit unsure. “for me...?”

“it's yours. take it." he looks to the side; suddenly thankful for the mask —if it weren't for that, you'd surely see the crimson tint creeping up his cheeks right now.

you hesitate for a second longer before reaching out to take it, your fingers brushing against his, a tingle of heat pulses through you, leaving your hand feeling strangely warm.

“th-thank you," you manage to spit out, and your eyes dart away, suddenly very aware of how close he is. surely, this isn’t good for your heart!

the twilight sky stretches wide, the clouds are heavy, and you’re looking oh so earnestly at him. his heart beats a little faster, louder now, as if his body knows exactly what he wants but refuses to let him act on it.

but then, he blinks —once, twice; snapping himself back to reality. he can feel the space between you growing smaller, your presence growing closer.

his eyelids flutter shut instinctively.

and then, the soft press of your lips against his cheek.

a soft sigh escapes him, and his eyes crack open. if you could see his expression right now, you'd catch the vulnerability that flashes in his gaze. he swears he can feel the warmth of your kiss in his very bones.

though not quite the kiss he imagined… it was something. (re: you got his hopes up)

the shock of your own actions hits you like a wave. you swallow thickly, “sorry —i'll go find silver wolf.” avoiding his gaze as you fumble with the tokens in your hand. "i… i’ll pass the extra tokens to her."

without waiting for a response, you turn and hurry off, your pulse pounding in your ears, praying that the ground would swallow you whole.

that night, you lay in bed, the plushie clutched tightly in your arms. the softness of it contrasts sharply with the rush of confusion filling your chest. 

why was he being so kind to you? after everything, after the way he rejected you just a few days ago, it made no sense. his actions felt contradictory.

you try to push the memory of the kiss out of your mind; impulsive decisions… often lead to mortifying outcomes. though when you glanced at him afterward, you could’ve sworn his ears were tinged with red, just peeking out from beneath his hair. nevermind, it’s probably your mind playing tricks on you.

blade, who’s as cold as the frost-kissed dusk, walks beside you through the lively festival, his dark coat a striking contrast to the vibrant reds and greens around you.

the faint scent of roasted chestnuts and spiced cider fills the air, mingling with the sound of distant carolers. he doesn’t say much, but there’s something about the way his gloved hand brushes yours, intentionally or not —that makes the chill in the air feel less biting.

you swallow, focusing on the festive stalls ahead, the decorations glittering in the night. “you don't have to stick around, you know. i can manage by myself.”

his steps slow just slightly, and he turns his head toward you, finally speaking. “you think i’d just leave you here?”

the words catch you off guard, and you fumble for a response. “i-i just meant—”

“relax.” he interrupts, a faint, almost imperceptible smile tugging at the corner of his lips; his hand grazing yours again. this time, his fingers linger for a moment longer, almost as if testing the waters, before retreating back into the safety of his pocket.

your cheeks flush, and you pretend to be deeply interested in a nearby stall selling hand-knit scarves. just then, his voice cuts through the festive hum. “last week… when you said you liked me,” he starts, and your breath catches.

you whirl back to face him, your heart pounding. “don’t worry about it! really, i—”

“i wasn’t rejecting you,” he says, with an unexpected gentleness in his gaze. “i like you too, [name].”

blade removes his coat, the fabric warm against the cold air as he drapes it around your shoulders, pulling you closer. you stumble, your hand instinctively pressing against his chest to catch your balance.

you look up at him, your breath quickening, as his face draws closer, his eyes locked on yours with that familiar intensity. you let your eyelids flutter shut, lips trembling, heart pounding in your chest as the space between you narrows.

but instead of the kiss you were anticipating, you feel the gentle warmth of his lips brush against your forehead.

your eyes snap open in confusion, only to meet his smirking face. oh... this asshole!

“what?" he teases, his tone deceptively casual. “you seem pretty eager,” his voice drops an octave, hand gently tilting your chin as he leans in just close enough for you to feel his breath against your skin.

you glare up at him, your cheeks flushed with embarrassment. the way your lips quiver, unable to hold his gaze for long; the fact that he actually adores that flustered expression on your face... well, that’s when he realises. he’s too far gone.

what a dumbass lmfaoo

MASTERLIST.

[importantpuppystarfish]

Total Mass Destruction of Wonyoung!

Male reader or Y/N x Wonyoung

Warning: Very much hardcore & rough, humiliation, degrading, whipping, BBC, extreme deepthroat, total mess in facefucking, pissing & gangbang (in pt2)

Note: please this is all just a fantasy for reading and stuff, this can be uncomfortable to read so if ur weak hearted or a fluff enjoyer, typically do not read.

part one:

Wonyoung, the gorgeous Kpop idol, with her stunning visuals and captivating stage presence, she has millions of adoring fans around the world.

But she has a naughty secret - she's obsessed with big black cock. Her stash of videos consists entirely of BBC gangbangs. She fantasizes constantly about being stuffed and breed by multiple strong black men. Her skinny Korean frame aches to feel the immense girth and length only they can provide. Yet she keeps this side of herself hidden from her cutesy idol image.

While in the US for her group's performances, Wonyoung can't hold her curiosity any longer. She decides to go to a popular nightclub known for bringing out the biggest, blackest cocks in town. Her heart races thinking about finally living out her fantasy. She slips out of the hotel after wearing a revealing outfit to show off her famous figure, ready for anything.

Wonyoung is not a virgin anymore and has already been intimate with her own family members, satisfying her brother and father already. Now she burns with desire for something new - the bbc which she sees in porn videos.

She sees a huge smart guy approaching her. He's wearing a suit and handsome.. The guy welcomes Wonyoung to the area and asks her if she is new and where is she from.

Wonyoung's heart leaps as she spots the imposing figure of the well-dressed, rich-looking black man. She steps closer to make out his deep, rumbling voice.

"Oh I just arrived here from Korea," Wonyoung responds sweetly with a flirtatious bat of her eyelashes. "My name is Wonyoung. And you?"

She can feel something stir behind his suit as he looks down at her body up and down. A knowing grin spreads across his face.

"Pleasure to meet the beautiful Korean princess Wonyoung," he purrs, extending a large hand. "I'm Y/N."

Wonyoung gets excited when she hears his deep voice and sees his big hands… Wonyoung replies "Pleasure to meet u too. What do you do?"

"I'm a business and an influencer from California," Y/N says mysteriously, sending Wonyoung's interest soaring even higher. She realizes the guy must be very more richer than her.

Wonyoung feels his hot breath on her ear and shivers. "How old are you beautiful?" he asks, raising an eyebrow.

"19 and you?."

Y/N grins. "19? Haha I actually expected that. You do look like a young teenager." Y/N chuckles. "A girl should be curious about a man's age. I'm 35 but don't let that fool you, I've got the stamina of a much younger man."

"Interested to go and eat something somewhere private?" He whispers, his voice husky.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

As they develop a positive relationship, Y/N takes Wonyoung to an upscale sushi restaurant where they enjoy a private dining experience. He orders expensive champagne and sushes her questions about herself while blatantly checking out her body. Wonyoung flirts shamelessly in return, feeling giddy and alive. She's living out her fantasy – seducing an older, wealthy black man. By dessert, his hand rests high up her thigh under the table. Wonyoung doesn't know whats coming next.

As they have few conversations on the date, y/n takes Wonyoung to his place after the date. They enter the luxurious penthouse. Wonyoung's eyes widen at the view of the city and how rich Y/N is.

Wonyoung follows Y/N into his stunning penthouse, amazed by the opulence. She turns in a circle, taking it all in – the floor-to-ceiling windows, marble floors, expensive artwork on the walls.

"Your place is incredible," she breathes out. Y/N leads her to his bed. Wonyoung is amazed to see such a huge bed. Wonyoung asks if he stays alone.

"Yes sweet thing, I stay here alone." He confirms, sitting down on the edge of the huge bed and patting the space next to him for Wonyoung to join. "My last few girlfriends couldn't handle being with an older, successful black man. They ran scared."

Y/N gives Wonyoung a smug look, his eyes roaming over her body possessively.

"Oh damn? How many girlfriends do u have?", Wonyoung asks curiously. "Let's see… I lose count after a dozen or so. Different women but they all want this but couldn't handle me." He gestures down at his crotch, bulge visibly straining against his pants. "I'm assuming you don't get intimidated easily?"

He reaches out to trace a finger lightly along Wonyoung's thigh.

As Wonyoung sat near him. She feels so small next to him. "Haha, I only had sexual stuff with my own brother." Wonyoung says.

Y/N's eyebrow shoots up at Wonyoung's admission but a hungry look fills his eyes. "Is that right? Your own brother eh?"

He grabs her chin firmly, tilting her face up to look at him. "And what about your daddy? Did you play with him too?" He asks bluntly, his deep voice sending a shiver down Wonyoung's spine.

"You're quite the naughty girl aren't you?"

"Wait how did u know? Yes…but i didnt feel like mentioning it.." She admits sheepishly.

Y/N chuckles darkly, clearly thrilled by Wonyoung's confession. "Baby you don't have to hide anything from me. I love that sweet little mouth of yours has been used so much already."

He pulls her closer by the hip until she's straddling his lap. "Mmm and now I get to use it."

One big hand cradles her jaw again as he draws her into a deep interracial forceful kiss, staking his claim on the young Kpop idol.

Wonyoung kisses back deep. They start french kissing. It's Wonyoung first time kissing with a black guy.

Y/N groans against her lips, tasting her sweet innocence. As he explores Wonyoung's mouth, his large hand slides under her top, palming one of her perky breasts over her bra.

The contrast between Wonyoung's petite frame and Y/N's muscular form is stark as they kiss. She sits tiny and delicate on his lap, his dark hand standing out against her fair skin as he fondles her. Their mouths move hungrily together, Wonyoung's small lips parted allowing his tongue inside. She clings to his broad shoulders as they French kiss, her face flushed with excitement. Y/N devours her young lips, clearly dominating the kiss, making it clear who is in charge.

Y/N grabs Wonyoung tighter. She feels his strong arms wrapped around. She can feel his chest too. Wonyoung feels so small, so breakable in his arms.. Y/N tears her outfit. Wonyoung is shocked as her outfit gets torn so easily, also it was very expensive.

"I'm going to ruin you darling…" Y/n growls, making no move to stop the destruction of her outfit.

"B-but Y/N…this is Gucci!" Wonyoung exclaims in shock, referring to her ripped top.

Y/N laughs at her. "I've got hundreds of thousands of gucci outfits more expensive tied up in this place and those clothes would also look good on you but still they doesn't suit you. Naked does."

He stands suddenly, holding Wonyoung by the wrists, he pushes Wonyoung on the bed and tears off all her clothes.

Wonyoung starts to feel uncomfortable as her outfit is totally torn and destroyed. Lying there completely exposed beneath Y/N makes Wonyoung feel incredibly small and vulnerable. His dark form looms over her petite frame as he begins unzipping his pants, freeing his massive, throbbing erection.

"You're u scared and skinny.," he purrs, kneeling between her thighs. "I'm gonna tear you apart now."

He runs his fingers roughly over her inner thighs, gradually moving closer to her folds.

Y/N is way too strong for Wonyoung. She feels like a fragile sex doll in front of him. He could easily crush her with his fingers. Wonyoung gets scared.

"Take it inside ur mouth!" y/n grins. Wonyoung opens her mouth welcoming the huge giant black length.

Y/N guides his engorged tip to her lips, a drop of pre-cum glistening there. As Wonyoung parts them obediently, he slowly pushes forward, his thick shaft entering her mouth.

"Good girl…" Y/n praises, the heat of her mouth enveloping him, her tiny tongue trying to accommodate his girth. He groans out in pleasure, a hand cradling the back of her head.

Inch by inch, Wonyoung feels him stretching her oral cavity to its limit. Saliva drips down as y/n invades her throat. y/n seems determined to make her choke and gag on every inch.

Despite Wonyoung's best efforts, Y/N's enormous size proves too much for her mouth. With a wicked grin, he sees that his full length cannot fit.

"Aww…" y/n drawls mockingly, pulling her head forward to try shoving the final inches in. She chokes and gags as her lips reach the base of his shaft, tears welling in her eyes from the effort.

"Looks like your little mouth just can't take all of me can it?"

Y/n withdraws from her mouth, a thin string of saliva breaking as his tip pops free. Wonyoung gasps for air, coughing and wheezing as she clutches her throat.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Wonyoung's eyes go wide with fear as Y/N ignores her discomfort, forcing his colossal rod back into her mouth. She feels powerless to stop him as the massive rod stretches her oral cavity to its absolute limit. Her lips are crushed beneath his girth, saliva dripping down in abundance. Tears stream down her face as she gags and chokes repeatedly, her muffled cries stifled by his relentless thrusts.

Each deep push into her mouth bruises her throat, leaving her feeling used and violated. She tries in vain to push away but he holds her head firmly in place, intent on violating her mouth regardless of the agony he inflicts.

Y/N sets a brutal pace, fucking Wonyoung's mouth without mercy now. His powerful hips snap forward, driving his black beast into her throat over and over with such force the bed shakes. Her whole head bobs along with his thrusts as he uses her mouth like a cheap fleshlight.

Wonyoung's eyes bulge as she feels him strike the back of her throat on every downward plunge. She's completely at his mercy, gagging and retching with each deep invasion. Saliva dripsdown her chin and chest in waves, drool puddling beneath her as she's ruthlessly facefucked without concern for her wellbeing. He pays no mind to her choking cries, consumed by his own pleasure as he claims her innocence in the most degrading way.

She can't breathe. She tries to pull back but he holds her head down, pushing further.

"Don't fight it bitch, be a good slut and take this cock." Y/N growls and reveals his dark side. His grip tightening as he forces her head down even deeper.

"You wanted this when you let me tear those clothes off slut!."

He looks down cruelly as tears stream down Wonyoung's red, splotchy face. Ignoring her pained gasps, he continues his aggressive facefucking, determined to break her.

"That's it, choke on this dick you little whore. You're learning your place aren't you?"

Wonyoung is choking hard now. Her eyes rolling back a bit. She tries to grab his arm but he slaps her face hard. Y/n continues facefucking her.

Y/N seems to enjoy the feel of Wonyoung's tiny hands attempting to push him away, so he decides to punish her further. His free hand strikes her inner thigh, leaving a red handprint on her delicate skin.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"No using hands slut, mouth only."

He resumes his brutal pace, his hips pounding against her as he splits her mouth more wide open out of her limits. She's completely at his mercy, her body shaking and convulsing from lack of air. Saliva and tears mix on her face in a sad puddle. Each thrust makes her body lurch but he pays it no mind, intent on using her pretty face to satisfy himself.

"Look at you…a total mess already…and we're just getting started…" he taunts with a twisted grin.

Her vision starts to blur, she feels lightheaded and dizzy…

As Y/N reaches his limit deepthroating her, Wonyoung feels hot jets painting her tongue and throat, his seed pouring into her stomach without pause. Simultaneously, a warm, bitter liquid fills her mouth - it's his piss. He shows no mercy, marking every inch of her young mouth.

"Drink it up," he demands, holding her head in place as his fluids overwhelm her senses. She struggles weakly beneath him but cannot escape. His piss mixing with his load, it's too much, she has no choice but to swallow or drown.

"Mmm wow, you've proven your mouth belongs to me." Y/N pulls out, leaving Wonyoung gasping for breath. Wonyoung starts coughing continuously.

Wonyoung gasps for air desperately, her throat raw and hoarse from Y/N's brutal use of her mouth. She coughs and retches, trying to expel the bitter tastes coating her insides.

Her eyes water as she glances up at him, a mixture of fear and humiliation shining back. She shakily tries to push herself into a seated position, her hands bracing on the bed.

At this moment, Y/N rises from the bed and casually strolls over to a closet in the corner of the room. He returns with a wicked-looking leather whip and a coil of thick rope in hand. Wonyoung's eyes widen in terror as she sees what y/n just bought, her body shuddering.

"Now that you've tasted a sample, it's time for the real fun to begin." His voice is dark and promising punishment.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Wonyoung scoots backward on the floor, away from him, her vulnerability evident. She tries to speak again but only a raspy whimper escapes her swollen, used lips.

Wonyoung tries to run away. She understood its her fault to seduce black guys and shes not in the level for taking them ---- but its too late.

Y/N laughs cruelly as Wonyoung tries to flee, easily grabbing her ankle before she can get far.

"Oh no you don't."

He yanks her back roughly, sending her crashing to her belly on the floor. Pinning her down with his knee, he reaches for the rope.

"Stay still for me darling." He commands, his expression serious.

Before she can escape or struggle again, he binds her wrists together behind her back with tight knots. She thrashes beneath him but it's no use - the rope holds firm.

"You shouldn't try to leave when I've made it clear you belong to me now."

Wonyoung trembles, knowing her punishment is coming and shes fully tied up. Wonyoung looks at him pleadingly, her eyes wide with terror and regret. "Please sir..don't…" she whimpers, tugging at the rope binding her..

Y/N's eyes gleam with malicious delight at Wonyoung's pitiful begs. "You should have thought of that before that pretty mouth of yours tempted me."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He brings the whip cutting through the air and smashes her backside with a loud smack. Red welts immediately rise under the harsh lashes as she cries out in a mix of pain and shame.

Another strike rains down, harder this time, and he watches the young girl screaming. She is completely at his mercy now, helpless and vulnerable as he carries out his dark desires.

The pain is intense but Wonyoung knows she has to obey. With each subsequent strike, Wonyoung's cries grow louder and more raw. Her high pitched wails fill the room, laced with agony and defeat. As the whip bites into her tender flesh again and again, her voice cracks and breaks.

"AHH! !" She sobs, her body shuddering violently. Each new cry echoes off the walls, a haunting symphony of torment. Her throat begins to burn from the excessive screaming but she knows she must keep counting or face even worse consequences.

Y/n now positions Wonyoung to fuck her.

"Please…be gentle…" Wonyoung begs with her broken voice.

He pulls back up to stare down at her with a wicked grin. "Gentle isn't what you need."

"Ready or not, here I come."

With a single powerful thrust he plunges into her innocence, ripping through her barrier and making her cry out sharply in a combination of searing pain and fullness. This time Y/N continues still to whip her chest & tits.

She cries, the whip has marked her deeply. Her chest is now all red and bruised from the harsh lashes. Wonyoung near faints from the relentless pain and punishment. Her throat gets raw from screaming.

"Look at the beautiful mess I made of you." Y/N groans approvingly, pausing to take in the damage he's inflicted.

Wonyoung's cries turn to weak whimpers as she hangs limply, on the brink of unconsciousness. Her mangled body shakes beneath him.

"Still with me cutie?" He taunts, reaching down to run a gentle finger along her jawline.

Ignoring her pathetic state, Y/N begins to move within her, the wet slap of flesh echoing off the walls. He starts a brutal rhythm, using her sore, torn holes without care or concern for her welfare.

He leans down to bite down hard on her shoulder to muffle any louder sounds, savoring dominance over the broken girl.

Wonyoung screams at the top of her lungs, the pain unbearable. She loses consciousness, hanging limply now. Y/N continues fucking her anyway, not caring about her state.

Wonyoung's lack of response and only screaming only fuels his sadism further. He grips her hair, yanking her head back at an uncomfortable angle as he drives deeper.

With a more deep thrust, Y/N forces his entire length brutally into Wonyoung's tiny, ravaged pussy. She's so weak and unconscious that she doesn't fight back. The extreme intersection of his rod inside her stretches her to her limits causes Wonyoung's inner walls to tear painfully.

Y/N does not finish and doesn't pulls out. Wonyoung is a destroyed mess. She's out cold. Y/n seems to continue tearing Wonyoung inside apart, not stopping even once. Wonyoung's insides feel like mush.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Y/N's sadistic bloodlust knows no bounds as he continues mutilating Wonyoung's innermost depths without mercy. Her inner walls are in tatters beneath his relentless pounding. Thick fluid drips down his length each time he withdraws just to spear her open body again and again.

"Fuck yes…take it u little whore," he roars, oblivious to anything but causing her maximum pain. His heavy sack slaps against her destroyed entrance with every brutal thrust.

He doesn't care that she's unconscious, barely holding together. The lewd wet sounds of tearing flesh fill the room including Wonyoung's crying noises. When he eventually does tire, it's not from exhaustion - just a wicked hunger satiated, if only temporarily.

Finally as Y/n reaches his own limits, spending himself, Y/N feels victorious as his hot seed fills Wonyoung's mutilated core. Wonyoung is totally breeded by y/n, her pussy full with his seed. Yet his cruelty isn't finished.

He aims to Wonyoung's face and begins to urinate directly onto her mouth & face. The warm liquid rains down, mixing with his cum flooding her mouth, nose, eyes. It's a brutal, degrading bath that shows just how little she means to him beyond a receptacle for his waste.

"Drink it up you filthy bitch!" He demand to Wonyoung cruelly, not stopping until he's emptied himself over her bruised and broken features. Wonyoung faints and collapses at the moment.

Even unconscious, Y/N's property must endure his most base impulses. With a final kick to her side, he withdraws from her violated body, leaving her a bruised, torn, piss-soaked mess.

He wears his clothes back with a satisfied swagger. The room reeks of their depravity now. Crumpled ribbons of rope and discarded clothes litter the floor. Y/N pauses, bending to retrieve his phone and snapping a pic of her broken, unconscious form before she regains consciousness to ruin it further.

"Enjoy your nap, princess." He purrs mockingly. "When you wake, things will only get worse."

With that chilling promise hanging in the air, he lets himself out, eagerly anticipating round two. Wonyoung is all his now - a plaything for his darkest desires.

part two:

1 hour later, Wonyoung starts to regain consciousness. Her body aches and stings all over. She can feel something warm and sticky dripping from…down there…

As her hazy eyes open, the world spins dizzily. A dry, cracked tongue flicks across parched lips trying to find moisture. The scent of sex and urine assaults her nose, the source immediately clear as she gazes down at her violated body.

Y/N's seed and piss trickle from swollen, wounded folds. She cries at the burning pain radiating through her pussy, each throb a harsh reminder of the beast who'd used her so brutally while she was unable to stop it.

"Oh god…" she whispers, the words barely audible.

She sees the restraints around her hands still tied…She tries to move but every inch of her body hurts.

Her heart pounds as the sound of footsteps approach, dread filling her to the core.

"Good, you're awake." Y/N says, voice dripping with malice as he reenters the room. "Miss me?"

This is far from over...he's just getting started. 9 friends of y/n enters the room. All are BBC and giant compared to wonyoung.

Wonyoung's eyes go wide with pure terror as she sees the group of imposing black men file into the room, their massive sizes dwarfing her skinny frame. She shakes her head frantically, whimpering "No, please no…"

Y/N grins wickedly at her panic. "Looks like I got you a little party, cutie."

The men lick their lips as they approach, their massive rods clearly visible through their pants. Wonyoung thrashes against the restraints, her body shuddering. She knows she cannot handle any more but she is completely at their mercy now.

One of the men kneels down, forcing her chin toward him. "You gonna be a good girl and open up?" He asks menacingly.

1 of them grabs her chin roughly, another one unbuttons himself. Wonyoung feels like she's going to pass out again just from the sight of them. 3 of them come closer, pulling off their shirts. She see their ripped muscles. One of them speaks up "You ready to be used like a hole? .. Others start touching Wonyoung's pure naked body, hungry to taste and eat her.

Wonyoung trembles violently as the trio of hulking men expose their chiseled physiques, beads of sweat glistening on tanned skin. She tries to shrink away from their roaming hands but there is nowhere to hide, trapped as she is.

"Please, no more…I can't…" she begs through choked sobs.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"We gonna destroy every last hole, girl."

Panic overwhelms her as they position themselves, the leader at her mouth, another at her sore pussy, and a third readying to claim her backside. They smirk down at her maliciously, ready to make her break completely.

3 more friends join, making it 12 total. They start untying Wonyoung's ropes and drag her to the middle of the room. She's completely surrounded. 2 of them grab her arms and legs to hold her down. She tries to struggle but their strength is unprecedented. They start to fuck her now.

Wonyoung cries out as the men overpower her tiny frame between them, rendering her limp body immovable as they use her limbs as they wish. She's sandwiched between 3 of them now, each plowing into a different hole without care for her screams and pleas to stop.

"Getting tighter!" One grunts as he pummels her raw entrance.

"I like it when she fights!" Another laughs, gripping her throat with a hand.

The room echoes with the lewd smacks of flesh colliding, the acrid smell of sex, Wonyoung's loud screams of horror and exertion thick in the air.

The additional men take turns at her mouth and backside, stretching her limits impossibly further. She feels like she's being torn apart as they claim every inch relentlessly.

The men laugh manically as two of them force her legs back towards her head, exposing Wonyoung completely.

"Get ready slut, you wanted this," one growled before spitting on her exposed holes.

To her horror, two of them position themselves at her asshole (rear entrance) and pussy simultaneously. There's no preparation, no mercy. With a brutal thrust they drive into her at once, tearing her apart with the double penetration on both her pussy and asshole at the same time.

Wonyoung's screams become a hoarse, wailing shriek. Her body convulses, sensation overwhelming every nerve. More agony than she ever thought possible. Just when she thinks it can't get worse, a third man slides his tip into her mouth, silencing her cries.

The mens begin moving in rhythm, the friction and impactsend white hot pain shooting through her core. She feels like a ragdoll being used, stuffed full by these giant cocks. They pound without pause, grunting and swearing. Her limp body shakes violently beneath them.

Now as the triple penetration initiates, Wonyoung's scream reverberates through the room, raw and primal. The men work methodically - fucking her mouth, fucking her pussy, and fucking her asshole.

Slowly but surely they force their impressive girths into her tight holes. She feels utterly and completely full beyond anything imaginable. Hot shafts glide alongside each other within her, the thin walls separating her holes offering no resistance anymore as they violate every depth.

"Fuck yes, stretch that pretty little whore out!" One of them roars, savoring the vice-like grip of her body accommodating three beasts simultaneously.

Wonyoung's vision blurs from the intense sensation. Her insides are being rearranged, the men's powerful thrusts sawing in and out of her in a grueling rhythm. They use her mouth, pussy and ass as one connected pipeline, their movements synchronized to maximize her suffering.

"Damn…so fucking tight…gonna pop these bitches…" another grunts, picking up speed.

Wonyoung has never been so utterly and completely taken, stuffed to the limit in the most depraved way imaginable.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Wonyoung's screams morph into wordless cries of torment and agony as her body is pushed to its extreme limits. Her voice cracks and give out from the intense overstimulation. She's little more than a ragdoll sandwiched between the mass of men, taking them all simultaneously.

2 cocks in her mouth, one in each hand, another 3 in her pussy, and 3 more stretching her anus - a total of 10 dicks claiming every hole at once. She's being utterly and completely ruined.

Her mind goes blank as she's pounded without mercy. The men above her use her lifeless form like a fucktoy, their flesh meeting with obscene squelching sounds. Each deep thrust draws more whimpers from her lips, her body shaking from the force of it all.

Wonyoung has shattered. Her spirit lies in tatters, beaten down by the relentless barrage of man meat. She no longer tries to resist or escape - she simply accepts, knowing she cannot fight back against these numbers. She's just a vessel for their carnal pleasure now.

Her holes feel utterly devastated and destroyed after taking 10 dicks simultaneously. The delicate tissues have been stretched beyond limits nature intended, left raw, swollen and bleeding from the brutal stretching.

Wonyoung can hardly feel anything besides a deep, throbbing ache - her nerves overwhelmed into hypersensitivity.

The constant gangbang fucking is unbearable, yet the men show no signs of stopping. Her holes are totally ruined permanently and torn apart. Slick fluids mix and drip down her thighs as wet, sloppy sounds fill the room with lewd evidence of her defilement.

It feels as though she'll never be whole again after this - that she'll carry the memory of this violence forever etched on her wounded flesh.

As Y/n takes his length out from Wonyoung's anus after fucking it deep, he starts to deepthroat her mouth as he slaps her face roughly, letting Wonyoung taste the insides of her own anus.

The dehumanizing "gawk gawk gawk" sounds she makes send a shiver down his spine, knowing he broke her completely.

He forces her head to bob faster on his length, face twisted in dark delight. The other men cheer at the spectacle, still pounding away at her ruined holes.

She simply accepts whatever they do to her mouth like a mindless automaton.

Y/N feels close. "Get ready for your last order, pet." He says coldly before shoving her head down hard, holding her in place as he reaches his climax directly into her throat.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

4 friends roughly grab Wonyoung's arms and legs, holding her down on the floor.

Wonyoung offers no resistance as the men seize her limp limbs, pinning her prone body to the cold floor. Her breaths come in short, ragged gasps, her voice hoarse and sore from screaming and gagging.

With her held down, all the men exchange hungry grins, their eyes manic with depraved delight.

One gives the signal - it's time.

They all target their hard length across her face, specifically her mouth. Wonyoung feels them swell, knowing what's coming next.

"Get ready for your shower, whore," Y/N growls.

The first hot jet strikes her chest, warm liquid running down her tits. Others join in, raining down on her face, in her hair, over her used, abused body. She's powerless to escape as they mark their territory.

"Let it all out boys, drench her!" a voice calls out.

Streams of yellow join the torrent, the humiliation complete as they piss on Wonyoung like an animal. Tears well up again but don't mask the shock etched on her features. She's utterly degraded, soiled and saturated from their release and waste. A used, broken toy left discarded on the floor.

As the hot, bitter liquid splashed over her face and body, Wonyoung tried to turn away but the men kept her pinned down firmly. Her face was instantly drenched, eyes stinging from the onslaught. Piss trickled into her gasping mouth and nose, choking her.

She shook her head from side to side but it only served to spread it through her silken hair.

As more and more hot liquid continues to fill her mouth, Wonyoung is forced to drink all of their urine spilling over as she tries to consume it all. Wonyoung closes her eyes, surrendering completely now.

She feels the warmth spreading through as she gulps down load after load, the smell of urine now thick in her nostrils. It's disgusting yet something about submitting to this vile act makes her body tremble.

The men laugh and high-five as she dutifully drinks their offerings, leaving her belly bloated and full. She's their obedient little toilet, and a dark part of her responds to pleasing them this way. When they finally finish, she lies there panting, piss dripping from her mouth, hair totally wet, face totally full of piss.

Wonyoung's body trembles uncontrollably, her legs spread and shaking. Her holes are gaping open, lewdly stuffed with ropes of white seed oozing out to mix with the spent yellowed streams covering her.

She feels raw, used up, and yet…alive.

As she lays there exposed, dazed eyes drifting shut, she knows she's changed irrevocably by this brutal encounter. A dark, insatiable hunger stirs within her now craving more. More humiliation, more depravity - does wonyoung still yearn for it?

[monicfever]

could we have some frank boyfriend hcs please? love ur writing !! <3

frank castle as your boyfriend. 𝜗𝜚 hc’s

r e q u e s t e d ♡

cw ᝰ .ᐟ gender neutral reader ,, sfw ,, it’s frank castle so 🤨 mentions of blood and stuff

FRANK AS YOUR BOYFRIEND . . . loves quietly. fiercely. like it’s carved into him. he’s not the type to write poems or whisper sweet things — but he brings you coffee before you wake up and keeps his arm around you in every crowded room. he remembers how you take your tea, what shirt you sleep in, the exact sound you make when you laugh too hard.

frank doesn’t fall in love. he commits to it. like a vow. something permanent. he watches over you the way most people breathe — effortlessly, constantly, without needing to think. puts himself between you and danger before you even register that something’s wrong. it’s not dramatic for him — it’s just instinct.

watches bad action movies with you and critiques the gun work the whole time. “that’s not how recoil works.” “no way that guy walks away from a wound like that.” but when you laugh at him for it, he gets all smug. “just saying. i could do it better.”

frank’s not invincible. he carries grief in his ribs and guilt in his spine. sometimes it catches up with him. some nights he won’t come to bed. just sits on the floor beside it, back to the wall, eyes dark. like if he closes them, he’ll lose everything. including you. he doesn’t talk about his past much. doesn’t talk about feelings either. but when he holds you it’s with this kind of aching gentleness, like you’re the last good thing in a world he doesn’t trust anymore.

he never asks for anything, but he always lights up when you touch him first. when you kiss his shoulder without warning. when you reach for his hand. like it catches him off guard, every time — the idea that someone like you could choose someone like him.

he always drives. always. he won’t say it out loud, but he needs to be in control — needs to protect you, even from a fender bender or a bad intersection. keeps one hand on the wheel and one on your thigh, thumb brushing back and forth. sings quietly when his favourite old songs come on. you almost miss it the first few times.

has a quiet little grunt-laugh when you get sarcastic. never full-on laughs — not the belly kind — but it’s a sharp exhale, a crooked smile, head tilted like “you got me.”

“you tired?” you’ll ask, and he’ll grunt something half-hearted. “i’m good.” but then he’s pulling you in, pressing his face into your neck, one heavy arm around your waist like a shield.

he doesn’t say i love you much. but he shows it in the way he always notices when you’re cold, the way he drives a little slower when you’re in the passenger seat, how he keeps an extra sweatshirt of his in your closet like it belongs there. frank listens when you talk. keeps your words tucked away like secrets. remembers names you mentioned once, the kind of books you like, the way you bite your lip when you’re about to cry but don’t want to.

he’s not scared of bullets or pain or anything that can be solved with his fists — but he gets scared of you leaving. scared that you’ll wake up one day and realize you deserve someone softer. someone safer, someone cleaner. so he’s careful. careful not to break things, careful not to raise his voice. careful not to bleed too close to you, even when he’s hurt.

keeps a toolbox in your apartment before he ever brings a toothbrush. fixes that squeaky cabinet door without being asked. rehangs your shelves, patches your drywall, silently wires your lamp so it stops flickering. doesn’t make a big deal about it — just hands you a cup of coffee after and kisses your forehead like it’s nothing.

does your dishes without saying a word. folds laundry with sleeves tucked in and socks matched. gets grumpy if you try to help while he’s in the zone. “i got it,” he mutters, brow furrowed like laundry’s a mission he must complete correctly. then he’ll look over and gently nudge you onto the couch. “sit. rest.”

like taking care of you is just part of his day.

he doesn’t sleep through the night, but he tries not to wake you. gets up quietly, makes tea in the dark. reads worn paperback thrillers with a flashlight like he’s still out in the field. but if you come find him — sleepy and barefoot, rubbing your eyes — he just opens his arms. pulls you into his lap, tucks his chin over your head.

gets oddly proud when he teaches you how to shoot. or fix a leak. or throw a punch. grins when you hit the target, calls you a natural. but the truth is he never wants you to have to use any of it. he’d burn the world down before he let something hurt you.

keeps a knife in the drawer by the bed. one in the glove compartment. one taped under the coffee table. it’s not paranoia — it’s habit. he was trained to anticipate the worst. but when you ask him about it, he softens. “just in case,” he says, hand resting on your back. “nothing’s gonna happen to you.”

he’s the kind of boyfriend who always knows when something’s off. even if you’re smiling, even if you say you’re fine. he notices when you’re quiet for too long, when your shoulders are tight. doesn’t push — just pulls you close, rubs slow circles into your back.

won’t ever tell the world what you are to him, but he keeps a photo of you tucked behind his driver’s license. always checks on it before he leaves for anything dangerous. you’re his anchor. his reason. he’s not a man who believes in second chances — but somehow, you are his.

he cooks like he’s back in the marines. efficient. fast. always enough for leftovers. but over time, he starts adding things just because you like them. makes your eggs how you like them, even if he doesn’t eat that way. tries your weird coffee orders without complaint. grumbles when he actually likes it. “too sweet,” he says, but finishes the whole thing.

when you fall asleep on the couch, he carries you to bed. always. tucks the blanket around you, kisses your forehead, brushes your hair back with hands that have broken bones and pulled triggers — but only ever touch you like you’re made of silk. then he lays beside you, arm wrapped around your waist, breath evening out to the rhythm of yours.

still wakes up too early. still checks the locks. still sits with his back to the wall in restaurants, even when it’s just brunch on a sunny sunday. but now he does it with your hand in his, thumb tracing soft, absent-minded shapes across your knuckles. he doesn’t say it, but his body speaks for him: i’ve got you.

he keeps things simple. practical. doesn’t like clutter. but then your books start piling up on the nightstand, and your sweater ends up on his desk chair, and your perfume lingers in the bathroom air — and he doesn’t move any of it. not even once. instead, he adds to it. a second toothbrush. a pair of slippers in your size. a grocery list stuck to the fridge that says “your coffee” in his blocky, all-caps handwriting.

he won’t say i miss you when you leave for a few days, but he’ll text to ask where you keep the cereal. then follow up with “never mind, found it.” when you come home, the bed’s made, the dishes are done, your favorite blanket’s draped over the couch. he doesn’t know how to say i missed you, so he just lives it.

he starts to laugh more. not loud, not often — but the kind that makes you freeze for a second because it’s real. usually when you tease him. or when you trip over nothing and pretend it was “parkour.” that little huff he gives, the crinkle by his eyes — it feels like a gift every single time.

he does that thing where he kisses the top of your head every time he walks behind you. in the kitchen, brushing your teeth, putting on your shoes. just a soft press of his lips to your crown.

you’re the only one he lets bandage him. he’ll brush off broken ribs like they’re nothing but sits still when you press alcohol-soaked cotton to a split knuckle. watches you like you’re something holy. like your hands could undo every war he’s fought.

reads labels now. like, really reads them. checks if the cereal has too much sugar. makes sure the medicine doesn’t interact with the one you take. won’t admit it, but he googled the skincare brand you use to see if it was safe.

refuses to let you carry heavy groceries. like, absolutely not. you once tried to bring in two bags and he took them out of your hands mid-step. “what the hell are you doin’?” he said, annoyed, already loading up his arms.

doesn’t like crowds, but he’ll go anywhere with you. leans down and says “stay close” in your ear, hand low on your back the whole time. doesn’t let go until you’re home again.

he won’t dance. won’t sing. won’t go to parties. but he’ll hold you in the kitchen, swaying slightly to the radio while you hum into his chest. that, he’ll do.

major dog person. duh. doesn’t care that he’s tough. doesn’t care that he’s seen things — nothing melts him like a dog wagging its tail. he’s the kind of guy who’s out in the yard throwing a ball, talking in that low, soft voice that only dogs get to hear. “go get it, buddy!” and you almost can’t believe it’s him saying it.

makes sure your car is always in running condition. not just oil checks, either. he replaces your windshield wipers, cleans the headlights, checks the tires — all without you asking. it’s like his way of protecting you, even when he’s not around. he knows it’s a small thing, but it’s one more way to make sure you’re taken care of. you get a flat tire? frank’s there in a second. doesn’t matter what time it is, doesn’t matter if he’s just gotten home after a week-long job. he’ll grab the tools, roll up his sleeves, and take care of it — no problem.

when he gets home after a mission, he’s quiet at first. but then he’ll slide into bed next to you, pull you close, and breathe you in like he can’t quite believe he’s back. “missed you.” he’ll whisper, voice hoarse, like it took everything out of him just to say it.

when you’re quiet, lost in thought, he notices. doesn’t pry, but always checks in with a low “you alright?” just so you know he’s paying attention.

frank is actually really into music, but only plays it when he's alone with you. he has an old guitar stashed in a corner of the apartment and you’ll catch him strumming it softly in the mornings before either of you are fully awake.

whenever you’ve had a bad day, he’ll quietly take care of things around the house — extra dishes done, the laundry folded without you asking, everything wiped down and cleaned up. not because he has to, but because he wants you to feel like home, like you have one less thing to worry about. he doesn’t say anything about it; he just silently goes about it while you take a nap or relax.

he’s sentimental about your things. you’ll catch him carrying around a keychain you gave him, or putting a postcard from your last vacation on his fridge. it’s subtle, but there are all these little pieces of you around his place — items that remind him of you, things that carry a piece of your heart.

good at remembering all your friends’ names. and the names of their kids. and their jobs. you’ll be like, “i saw claire today,” and frank will be like, “the one with the twin boys? she doin’ okay?” like it’s his job to keep track of your whole social circle now.

he has a weird soft spot for baking shows. says he doesn’t care, just watches ‘cause you do — but then suddenly he’s dead serious about whether the sponge is overbaked. sits there with his arms crossed, judging the contestants like he’s on the panel. “too much fondant. gonna cost ‘em.”

he’s surprisingly good at picking gifts. not flashy ones — thoughtful ones. a new mug because your favorite one cracked. a hoodie from a concert you couldn’t go to. a book by that author you said you liked once, six months ago. he remembers everything.

he buys you snacks when he’s mad at you. not big mad — just quiet, brooding, stubborn mad. instead of talking it out right away, he drops a bag of your favorite chips or candy on the counter and walks away like that settles it. it kind of does.

he’s so gentle with your stuff. your phone, your clothes, your decor — he handles all of it like it’s fragile, even if you toss it around like nothing.

he has zero patience when you’re sick. not annoyed — just worried. extra gruff. keeps asking “you need anything?” even though he just brought you tea, tissues, meds, and a hoodie. paces around the house like he’s prepping for battle against your cold.

he doesn’t talk in the mornings. just grunts and nods. but if you’re up before him and being cute or busy or just existing in his space, he’ll pull you into his chest without saying anything.

he’s not a big texter, but he reads all your messages the second they come in. always leaves you on “read” because he’s looking at it immediately, even if he replies 3 hours later with just “ok” and a thumbs-up emoji he definitely didn’t mean to send.

he always checks the expiration date on your food. opens the fridge and mutters under his breath about the milk “cutting it too damn close.” doesn’t want you eating anything that’ll make you sick. throws out the sketchy yogurt when you’re not looking.

he’s so good at reaching things for you. doesn’t matter how tall you are, he lives to reach the thing on the top shelf before you can. you stand on your toes, and he’s suddenly behind you like, “you’re gonna hurt yourself.” then hands it over like a knight returning a holy relic.

he doesn’t like you walking home alone. ever. if he can’t come get you, he’ll track your location. texts you the whole way like, “where are you now?” “you inside yet?” “door locked?” and you know the second you stop answering he’s already throwing on his jacket.

he uses your bath products and thinks you don’t notice. you’ll wonder why your fancy shampoo is suddenly disappearing faster, but then he walks past smelling like lavender and vanilla and acts like nothing’s different. you bring it up once and he grunts, “smells nice. don’t make it a thing.”

he tucks your legs into his lap when you sit next to him. even if he’s sore. even if you’re fidgety. he just wants you there — anchored to him, warm and close. sometimes he absentmindedly rubs your calves or traces circles on your ankle while he watches the news.

he hates being away from you overnight. says he doesn’t mind, but when he’s gone, he sleeps like shit. texts you random things at 3 a.m. — “you lock the door?” “the heater working?” “dog okay?” you know he only really rests when he’s home and you’re curled up next to him.

he always brings you water before bed. even if you don’t ask. even if you forget. there’s always a glass or a bottle on your nightstand when you crawl under the covers.

he kisses the inside of your wrist when he’s too tired to speak. when the day’s been too much. when his body hurts and his mind’s too loud — he pulls your hand to his mouth and presses his lips there.

he never lets you pump your own gas. doesn’t matter the weather. rain, snow, heatwave — he takes the keys and gets out before you even unbuckle. doesn’t say a word about it. just does it because it’s second nature now.

he always opens jars for you, even when you don’t ask. like you’ll just be holding it, about to try, and suddenly he’s there. doesn’t say anything, just takes it, opens it, hands it back.

he lets you warm your hands on him. no complaint, no hesitation. just grabs your frozen fingers and presses them to his neck, under his shirt, into his palms. grunts when it stings, but never pulls away. just says, “go ahead. s’okay.”

always lingers at the door when you leave. watches you walk to your car, stands there until you’re out of sight. won’t move. won’t blink. like part of him won’t settle until you’re home again.

he’s weirdly good at untangling necklaces. big hands, thick fingers, but somehow he’s patient as hell with tiny knots. sits at the table, squinting like he’s disarming a bomb.

he knows which drawer all your stuff is in. at his place, at your place, doesn’t matter — he knows where you keep your chargers, your snacks, your pain meds. grabs things before you even ask. sometimes you wonder how he pays that much attention. you forget — he’s a soldier. he notices everything about what he loves.

he lowkey judges your shoes. not fashion-wise — function. “you’re gonna walk five blocks in those?” and if you say yes, he just sighs and gives you his arm the whole time. doesn’t say another word. but if you stumble once? “told you.”

has a deep, secret love for hot chocolate. doesn’t ask for it, never buys it, but if you make it? he’s sipping it silently, eyes half-lidded, shoulders relaxed. you catch him making it for himself once. refuses to make eye contact.

he gets the mail before you can. every day. rain or shine. not because he cares what’s in it — because he wants to be the one to deal with anything stressful before it reaches you. bills, notices, whatever. you only ever get the fun stuff. the packages. the postcards.

he remembers anniversaries you forget. first date. first road trip. the day you moved in. doesn’t make a big deal out of it, just quietly brings home your favourite dinner or sets a movie up you mentioned on that day.

he absolutely has a favorite mug. won’t admit it. but if you’re ever using it, he pauses for a second like he’s been emotionally robbed. won’t take it back, though. just pours his coffee into something else and quietly hopes you offer to switch.

he fixes things that don’t even belong to him. neighbor’s broken porch light? fixed. squeaky gate down the block? doesn’t squeak anymore.

never lets you walk through the door first if it’s dark. goes in ahead of you, even if it’s your place. checks the rooms out of habit. flips the lights on.

knocks before entering your space, even when you live together. bathroom door cracked? he knocks. bedroom door half-closed? still knocks. doesn’t matter if he knows you’re alone — he respects your space.

weirdly good at calming you down in traffic. if you’re driving and someone cuts you off? hand on your thigh. if you're stressed about getting lost? “take the next right, i got you.”

he teaches you how to punch — gently. wraps your hands himself, touches your wrists like he’s afraid they’ll bruise. he holds the pads out and murmurs “that’s it, right there,” every time your form’s good. he doesn’t teach you so you can fight. he teaches you so you won’t ever feel helpless.

so careful when you’re sleeping. gets out of bed like you’re made of glass. turns the TV down low. covers you up without waking you, tucks your hair behind your ear, kisses your shoulder and just stares for a second like he still can’t believe he gets to have this.

he writes down your car’s license plate. and the make. and the year. and the tire pressure. keeps it in a little notebook in his glove box — not because he’s nosy, but because he needs to know in case anything ever happens.

puts his name down as your emergency contact without asking. just does it. one day you’re filling something out and he goes, “already on file.” like it’s the most natural thing in the world. like of course it’s me. who else?

he reads manuals. like, actually sits down and reads them. toasters. phones. whatever you buy, he knows how to fix it, clean it, use every setting.

he wears your hair ties on his wrist. even when you didn’t ask him to. finds them in the bathroom or under the couch and just keeps them there like it’s a reflex. you don’t notice until one day he silently hands you one without looking and you realize — he’s always paying attention.

calls you “kid” sometimes, even if you’re not younger. not condescending — it’s fond. soft. it slips out when he’s feeling protective. like, “c’mon, kid, get some rest,” or “you did good, kid.” and if anyone else calls you that, he bristles like no — mine.

he gets tense when you’re near windows at night. especially lit ones. moves around the room in ways that put him between you and the glass. not paranoid. just hardwired to protect you. you don’t notice until one night you go to close the curtains and he’s already there, pulling them shut with a soft, “let me get that.”

he texts you like he’s on a recon mission. all short updates: “headed back.” / “store’s packed.” / “traffic’s shit.” but every now and then, he’ll throw in something like “you eat yet?” or “thinking about you.” and those are the ones that wreck you a little.

he always leaves the porch light on if you're out late. even if you say you don’t need it. even if you’re only gone for ten minutes. it’s not about the light. it’s about you always having something to come home to.

he’s secretly a little superstitious about you. doesn’t let you say things like “what if something happens to you.” knocks on wood under the table. leaves the porch light on even when you’re only gone ten minutes. he’s seen too much not to be cautious. and you — you’re the one thing he refuses to lose.

double-knots your laces. crouches down in front of you without a word, doesn’t make it a thing. just ties them up snug and gives your ankle a gentle pat before standing.

sets your things by the door if you’re running late. bag, keys, jacket, water bottle. lines them up neatly like he’s giving you every small advantage he can. “you’re gonna be late,” he says, already handing you your coffee. you kiss his cheek on the way out. he pretends it didn’t make him smile.

he gets fussy if you don’t eat. doesn’t scold, just… fusses. quietly. starts cooking something without asking. sets a plate in front of you like “you don’t gotta finish it, just eat a little.”

wears your chapstick when he can’t find his. acts like it’s no big deal. “same stuff, right?” but if it smells like you he ends up keeping it in his pocket the rest of the day.

refills your water bottle. always. before bed. before work. if you leave it in the car, he brings it in and tops it off. just does it. in his head, hydration = survival = love.

he buys you medicine before you even realize you’re sick. notices you sniffling or rubbing your temples, and the next day it’s already there — cold meds, your favorite tea, tissues, cough drops.

started 4.27.2025. finished 4.29.2025.

( masterlist. )

©️ monicfever 2025

[rowarn]

cw: gun play, throat fucking with a gun im sorry, simon coming untouched, masturbation (reader) I NEEDED TO GET THIS OUT OF MY BRAIN SO unedited

simon with a gun kink that he's kept hidden would be crazy.

imagine ur big, beefy husband coming home after a long deployment. he's tense, his fists are clenched tight and it's clear he's got a ton of steam he needs to blow off.

at first, you expect a normal night together of him plowing you into the mattress so hard that the bed creaks and hits the wall with every thrust. the kind of fucking that leaves you trembling for 15 minutes after you've finished and cleaned up. the kind that has him pulling you into his arms to soothe and coo at.

but something is different this time.

he starts removing his gear one by one as usual but instead of removing the holster with his gun and safely placing it down, he unholsters the gun completely.

you're watching with bated breath as he unloads the weapon, carefully pulling it back and peering into the chamber. you're watching his hands move, admiring how strong his fingers are and how the veins in his hands bulge out with every movement

you deviously excited by the time he approaches you -- the gun still in his hand.

he brings it up, placing the nozzle against your chin, finger hovering off the the trigger. but you know how well-trained he is -- how good he is at his job. you know that he could have that finger on the trigger in a milisecond, faster than you would even be able to comprehend.

"open," he orders, a voice that sends shivers down your spine. it's firm, rough, authoritative. it's a tone you imagine he uses when he's on the field.

soliders bow to his every whim and you're no better. but unlike those who are trained to obey him because it's their job -- you obey him because you know if you do, you'll get the sweetest reward in the world; that thick, full cock still hidden in his pants.

your panties are already wet and sticky and your brain’s already feeling fuzzy by the time you open your mouth. 

the shock of cold is the first thing you recognize followed by the tang of metal as the weapon settles on your tongue. your lashes flutter as you look up at your husband, face still obscured by his balaclava but his pretty, brown eyes burn holes into you nevertheless.

he slowly and carefully slides the gun deeper into your mouth until it presses against the back of your throat and you involuntarily gag. a groan rips from his cheeks as he watches the tears gather on your lashline.

"that's it, pretty," he coos, "bet you wish that was my cock huh?" you nod your head as best you can with the weapon lodged in your throat, "maybe i'll give it to you if you put on a real nice show for me."

his words take a moment to register in your fuzzy brain but once they do, your hand is flying down between your legs at record speed. you slip it beneath the band of your panties, barely lifting his shirt that you're wearing out of the way so you can finally find relief in the ache that has settled in your cunt.

your folds are wet and sticky as they part around your fingers and you struggle to swallow around the gun in your mouth. there's no give to the metal and drool begins to dribble down your shin in long, thin strings.

simon's cock is hard, heavy and leaking against his thigh. this has been one of his best kept secrets, to watch you submit to his gun -- to the weapon he has used to murder countless people with.

and here you were, doing as you're told, throating his gun while you play with your pretty cunt. he can hear how wet you are, can see the way you desperately hump your own hand trying to get your fingers deeper and deeper. but they'll never feel as good as his, you both know this.

so all you can do is tearfully look up at him through clumped lashes as you choke and gag on the gun he continues to keep stuffed down your throat.

his cock throbs at the thought of being where his weapon is now. he envies it.

you mutter something, muffled and incomprehensible but he knows what you're saying. he can see the way your pupils blow out, hear the way your breathing grows erratic and choppy. you're trembling and breathless, messily jerking your hips into your own hand as you desperately look up at him -- begging for anything to push you over the edge.

his finger finally lands on the trigger of his gun and he sees your eyes widen but the desperate, teary look you give him only tells him more of what you need.

there's a muted, empty click when he pulls the trigger. the gun is empty, you both know this -- but it sends you over the edge anyway.

simons cock twitches and twitches, balls tight and heavy before he's spurting his load down his thigh at the sight of you cumming on your own fingers and moaning around his gun.

the hand holding the weapon trembles as he cums untouched at the entire scene. you pull your head back, gasping for air before pulling your hand out of your panties.

simon lurches forward, you don't even have time to react before he's taking the sticky, messy, cum-covered fingers into his mouth.

he's on top of you, pressing you down beneath his weight, the gun tossed and forgotten on the bed because now all he can think about is fucking you into the mattress. <3

[gf2bellamy]

hi loveee i have a new request for uuuu

another rlly simple and cute one where spencer just loves head scratches (no this is totally not based on me……) and he somehow exposes that to the whole team and it’s just some rlly cute thing (bonus points if they’re on the jet and at the end after all the teasing he just lays his head on reader’s lap and gets head scratches)

you can decide whether it’s pre or secret relationship :D

danke schön

- 🐚

headscratches — spencer reid

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader ( no use of y/n ) content warnings: mention of a case, just a tiny bit ( very tiny bit ) of angst, secret relationship a/n: hiiiiii 🐚 ! i totally get u i love head scratches too - thank you for ur request i hope you like this <3<3<3

Your feet barely carried you up the steps of the jet, every muscle in your body aching from the case.

It had been a grueling few days, little sleep, too much stress, and way too many hours spent chasing down leads. But at least it was over now. The case was closed, and you could finally breathe. Thankfully, your wonderful boyfriend had taken it upon himself to carry your bag, saving you from having to drag it up the stairs yourself. You barely managed to collapse into one of the seats by the window before Spencer stowed your things away and settled in beside you. 

“Thank you,” you murmured, turning your head to look at him. 

Spencer gave you a small smile, his eyes softening as he nodded. “Of course.” 

The two of you were alone on the jet, at least for now. The rest of the team was still wrapping things up , which meant you had a few rare, stolen moments of privacy. It was a relief, because no one on the team knew about your relationship. Keeping things under wraps was tricky, especially when you worked together every day, but moments like this made it worth it. Spencer leaned into you slightly, his shoulder brushing against yours. He always did that when you were alone, like some part of him just naturally gravitated toward you. Without thinking, you turned to your side reaching up and gently brushing a few strands of hair from his face.

His hair was always a little chaotic after a long case, messy curls falling into his eyes, and you had developed a habit of fixing it for him. He let out a quiet breath at your touch, his eyelids fluttering slightly as he relaxed against you. 

“You okay?” you asked, your voice softer now.

Spencer gave a small nod, offering you a gentle smile. “I’m okay,” he murmured. Then, tilting his head slightly, he asked, “Are you?” You nodded, and before you could say anything else, his hand found your knee, his touch light as his fingers traced slow, absentminded patterns.

But the moment didn’t last long.

The voices of your team filled the jet, breaking the moment, and as soon as Spencer heard them, his hand slipped away. Like it had never been there at all.Spencer immediately reached for his satchel, pulling out a book as if he had been reading the entire time. You turned your gaze toward the window, pretending to be lost in thought.

It wasn’t long before Emily and Derek flopped into the seats across from you. “I can’t wait to get home to Sergio,” Emily sighed, stretching out in her seat. 

Derek chuckled. “That cat’s got you wrapped around his little paw.” 

You turned toward her, curiosity piqued. “How is he?” 

Emily waved a hand. “Same as always. Demanding, dramatic, and somehow convinced he’s royalty.” She rolled her eyes fondly before adding, “Lately, he’s been obsessed with head scratches. I swear, if I even walk past the couch, he flops over immediately demanding them." 

You laughed. “Sounds about right for a cat.” 

Emily shook her head. “I don’t get it. What’s so great about them? He acts like it’s the greatest thing in the world.” 

Before you could reply, Spencer, who had been silent up until now, lowered his book to his lap and spoke. “Head scratches are scientifically proven to reduce stress and increase oxytocin levels,” he stated matter-of-factly. “The repetitive motion stimulates nerve endings in the scalp, which can trigger a relaxation response. It’s also associated with bonding, which is why many social animals, including humans, find it soothing. It's quite comforting.” 

It took a second for the weight of his words to register. Then, as if on cue, all three of you turned to look at him. 

Spencer blinked, his lips parting slightly as he realized his mistake. His book was still open in his lap, but he suddenly seemed much more interested in the stitching of the pages than the words on them. 

Derek’s grin spread slow and wide. “Wait a minute…” 

Emily gasped. “Oh my god.” 

You barely held back a smile, eyes locked on Spencer as the tips of his ears turned a shade of pink. He opened his mouth, probably to backpedal, but it was already too late. 

Derek leaned forward, resting his arms on the table infront of him as he grinned. “Are you telling me you like head scratches ? ” 

Spencer quickly looked down, flipping a page in his book despite very clearly not reading it. “I was simply stating a scientific fact.” 

Emily wasn’t letting it go. “Oh no, no, no. That was way too specific.” 

Derek laughed loudly, leaning forward with a wicked grin as he reached out and ruffled Spencer’s curls. Spencer immediately jerked back, his entire body tensing as he shot Derek a horrified glare. He hastily smoothed down his hair, his blush deepening. 

Derek, of course, looked way too pleased with himself. “Oh, come on, I had to test the theory,” he teased, shaking his head. “And judging by that reaction, I’d say someone is pretty damn picky about where his head scratches come from.” 

Emily laughed, clearly entertained by the discovery. “Seems like he doesn’t like it when you do it,” she pointed out, eyes flicking between the two of them with amusement. 

Derek leaned back in his seat, crossing his arms with a smirk. “Yeah, I noticed. Interesting.” 

Spencer huffed, flipping a page in his book with a little too much force. “It’s not that interesting,” he muttered, keeping his gaze stubbornly locked on the text. 

You smiled to yourself at Spencer’s embarrassed form, watching the way he kept his head down, pretending to be deeply engrossed in the book in his lap. You knew better, of course. You knew Spencer liked head scratches, most of your evenings together looked exactly like that. Him stretched across the couch, head resting in your lap, curls slipping through your fingers as he read.

Emily, still watching you, narrowed her eyes slightly before shifting her gaze to Derek. The two of them exchanged a look, one of those silent conversations that meant absolutely nothing good. 

“Reid,” Emily drawled, her grin widening, “do you only like head scratches coming from certain people?” 

Spencer slowly looked up from his book, suspicion evident in the way he narrowed his eyes. “What?” 

Derek smirked. “You heard Prentiss.” He leaned forward. “Do you only like head scratches when they’re from her?” 

You turned toward them, blinking. Wait, what? It was a known fact that the two of you were close. If someone was looking for Spencer, they usually found him with you. If you were missing from the bullpen, Spencer always knew exactly where you were. And everyone on the team knew he wasn’t a particularly touchy person, except with you. What they didn’t know was why. What they didn’t know was that this wasn’t just friendship.  

And now, you were all sitting on the jet, the team watching way too closely, Spencer’s ears burning bright red as Derek and Emily smirked. Spencer cleared his throat, shifting in his seat. “That’s—” He hesitated, eyes flickering to you for just a second before looking back at his book. “That’s not relevant.” 

Emily gasped. “Oh my god,” she whispered, turning to Derek, “that was not a denial.” 

Derek grinned. “Nope, not at all.” 

Spencer groaned, rubbing a hand over his face. “This is ridiculous.” 

You pressed your lips together, trying so hard not to laugh. 

Emily tilted her head, eyes gleaming with mischief. “So, hypothetically, if someone else did it…” 

Spencer shot her a sharp glare. “Hypothetically, they wouldn’t.” 

Derek laughed, pointing at him. “Oh yeah. That’s so an exclusive privilege.” He turned to you, grinning. “Man, you must be special.” 

You shrugged, playing it cool despite the warmth creeping up your neck. “I guess I just have the magic touch.” 

Spencer exhaled sharply, closing his book. He turned to you, eyes soft but exasperated. “Are you enjoying this?” 

"Maybe." You shrugged your shoulders as you gave him a teasing smile.

Spencer shook his head, feigning disappointment, but you knew better. He was never disappointed in you.You smiled softly, and out of habit, reached up to brush his hair out of his face. His eyes flickered shut for a moment, just barely, before reopening with a look that was almost a warning. A silent, don’t push your luck. But you were in the mood to tease. 

To your luck, Derek was already slipping his headphones on, and Emily had her eyes closed, arms crossed as she settled into her seat. The sound of the jet covered the small shuffle of movement as you let your fingers slip back into Spencer’s curls. 

His breath hitched, and you felt him tense, just for a second, before melting like he always did. You bit back a grin as your nails gently scratched against his scalp, moving in slow, soothing circles. Spencer exhaled, the tension in his shoulders draining as his eyes fluttered shut again. His grip on his book loosened slightly. 

You loved how easy it was, how little effort it took to make him relax. 

His head dipped slightly, unconsciously leaning into your touch, and you took the opportunity to gently guide him down. Your hand pressed lightly to the back of his head, tilting him so that his cheek brushed against your shoulder. For a moment, he resisted,before giving in entirely. You kept scratching lightly, feeling the way his body settled beside you. Your fingers threaded through his curls as he let out the softest sigh. You smiled, pressing your cheek lightly against the top of his head. 

Spencer Reid, the most brilliant mind you had ever known, was undone by something as simple as your fingers in his hair. And you loved it. Your eyes drifted shut, fingers still moving in slow, rhythmic motions through Spencer’s hair. His soft curls tickled your cheek as you rested your head against his.

But you didn't notice the way Derek and Emily were now watching the two of you like hawks.  Derek, one side of the headphone pushed back , slowly raised an eyebrow as he exchanged a look with Emily. She barely suppressed a grin, tilting her head slightly, as if to say, Are you seeing this? Oh, he was definitely seeing this. 

They had their theories, of course. The team had always suspected there was more to you and Spencer than just friendship. It was the little things, the way he only let you touch him so easily, the way you always knew how to get him out of his head when no one else could, the way he looked at you like you’d hung the stars in the sky. 

Now, with Spencer completely nestled against you, his head tucked against your shoulder, your fingers threading through his curls that could only come from familiarity?  Yeah. Their theories had just been confirmed. 

Derek smirked, leaning closer to Emily. “Told you.” 

Emily scoffed, but the amusement in her eyes was unmistakable. “You didn’t tell me anything, Morgan. We both knew.” 

Derek chuckled under his breath, shaking his head. “Man, they really thought they were being sneaky.” 

Emily grinned. “Should we say something?” 

Derek considered it for a moment, watching as your fingers absentmindedly combed through Spencer’s hair, his entire body visibly at ease. He let out a small laugh. “No. Let them have their moment.”  For now, at least. Because later? 

Oh, they were absolutely going to tease the hell out of you both. 

[allhailbuckybarnes]

the love confession

summary: bob can’t stand it. you’re just too fucking pretty. you distract him, you make every horrible, ugly thought dissipate. he craves it. he knows you, and you know him. it feels right, and his feelings are so strong he doesn’t know what to do anymore. he has no idea that you feel the same. that you ache for his comfort, for his feelings to reflect your own.

but a week of strained normalcy, a build up of emotional tension, and a failed mission lead to more than innocent, friendly thoughts. bob’s limits are reached on waiting for the right damn moment.

he has to tell you. you want to tell him. let’s watch each of you try ;)

warnings: fluff/smut, longing, pining, some use of y/n, dirty talk, unprotected p in v sex, dirty thoughts, tension, body worship, bob is down bad, bob is a MAN, you are just as down bad, yelena is number one supporter, idiots in love, confusion, jealousy, a pinch of angst, just playing: so so much angst, possessive bob, oral sex (m&f receiving), canon-typical violence, reader gets hurt badly (more on that later), bob is not okay, fear, love, please just kiss alr you two

monday (chapter one)

Bob wakes up early this morning. Rolling over to take a drink of water. His first thoughts, as always, are about you. Your hair in the morning, what you were doing, if you had already fixed your coffee. He throws on sweats and a t-shirt, stumbling around so he can see you sooner. A sticky-note on his door read:

“BOB- do not forget, therapy on Mondays and Thursdays at 4:30 pm!! DONT MISS IT AGAIN! - ur fave :)”

He smiles dumbly and walks out, shutting the door behind him. As he enters the common area near the kitchen, he sees you wondering around the cabinets. He smiles, there you are. You looked as if you were about to burn the kitchen to the ground.

“What’s up?” He asks, settling behind you and sitting on the counter.

You groan, slapping your hands to your forehead and running them down your face. “Bobby, I swear to god if Walker eats my cereal again, I’ll cut his dick off and feed it to Yelena’s rat thing,” you grumble.

He laughs out loud, “Oh cmon now, you can’t do that to Yelena’s guinea pig. Besides, I have a secret stash, just for you.” You flip around, gripping his shoulders in a very serious stance, eyeing him. “Bobby. You. Are my hero.” His smile falters slightly at the closeness of your faces. What feels like a minute passes as he stares at your lips. He can just barely feel your breath on his chin. You’re too pretty.

You remove your hands, “well? Lead the way!” He grins again, hopping off the counter and showing you the faulty crack between the fridge and microwave, “tada!" He waves little enthusiastic jazz hands at you, handing you the box. You smile, a big, beautiful smile, and slap his shoulder.

“I’ll have to keep you around I suppose Robert Reynolds.” His name rolls off your lips like sin. He rolls his eyes to mask the tightness in his chest, “sure Y/n, sure.” You mock a pouty face and he laughs.

You giggle and stroll over to the bowls, a pep in your step at the promise of your favorite cereal. Bob had thought of you again, it made your ears and cheeks burn red.

He was always extra thoughtful of you, whether that meant your snacks were always stocked, your dishes were the first he worried about cleaning, or the way your stories always seemed the most interesting to him. You always thought it was just him being mindful of your sensitive feelings.

Little did you know, he was trying to show you everything he felt for you in every glance, action, and gesture. To everyone around you it was obvious. The rest of the team had pools on who would finally have the balls to tell the other first. Neither of you did, it seemed.

~~

Eating your cereal together, you don’t have to say much. Each other’s presence is enough. Bob mindlessly made your coffee just the way you liked it as you prepared the cereal bowls. It was clockwork, it was normal. Some might even say it was domestic.

You relay your plans for the day to Bob, “I need to workout, seriously. Even though I’ve got the same serum you do mr. god, I swear my bones are aching. Also, I was thinking about going to the bookstore, do you want to tag along to either place? I was thinking it’d just be us, almost like a da-…” you cut yourself off, mortified.

You often didn't think as you rambled, always just speaking your mind. It's not like you two hadn't hung out before... but it had always seemed coincidental, the right place at the right time. You had never asked him with the intention you had just now. Or almost asked...

Bob sputtered: did you want to go on a date with him? No, that’s not possible. You just saw him as a friend. His cheeks turned pink. His body felt on fire.

“Wow okay, I’m not offended at all,” you quickly reply at his reaction, taking your bowl to clean it. You frown, goddamn it. I pushed too much. He doesn’t see me like that. Stupid! Your heart pounded in your chest.

“No, wait what? Y/n, of course I want to go with you.” He chases after you, grabbing your wrist, taking the bowl from your hands slowly, and rinsing it. Your lip pulls to the side, “it’s okay if not. I just thought it would be something we would both enjoy. I had a book recommendation lined up and everything, but I didn’t even ask what your plans were, I'm sorry...” Bob put a hand on your shoulder, “hey, you’re starting to sound like me, quit it,” he smiled. “I always want to hang out with you Y/n.”

Your halfway serious grin returned and you punched him in the shoulder. “Then don’t almost spit up next time! You had me worried I overstepped a boundary in our heart warming friendship.”

Not that word again. Both of you cringed in your mind at the thought of just being friends. Neither of you wanted to just be friends. Bob smiled anyway, "You could never overstep. You know that, right?"

Your smile lessened at his tone, and you touched his shoulder again, grazing it with your hand, a serious look on your face. "I know."

It was a silent plea for physical reassurance. You often thought about curling up to Bob, taking your worries and your fears, and letting him take over. He always talked to you first about nightmares, he always held you then, in the quiet of the night. It was always innocent. That was an easy conversation for you to have together, having gone through the same trials. He just got you. You pulled away.

It meant everything to Bob that you touched him.

~~

You were sweaty and tired, training had worn you out. The sparring with John took way too long, so you ran back to your room to shower and change quickly. Stepping in, the hot water washed away all the physical exhaustion, but the mental side never truly went away.

You just simply had too much on your mind. Everything with Bob, constant life-threatening missions, the pressure of the press, your serum trauma. It was always so much to carry.

It would help if you had someone to help you carry it, but the one person you want is your best friend.

You couldn't mess that up, you wouldn't lose Bob. Just the thought of scaring him away by your feelings kept you from telling him the truth.

That you wanted him. That you pictured it, everything with him. From date nights, to lingering touches, to a home, all the way to wrinkles.

You step out, drying yourself off. Maybe one day, when things calm down. When Val isn’t breathing down your neck constantly. When you have more control over your emotions, over your new powers. You would tell him.

Putting on a sweatshirt and shorts, you throw your hair into an easy style, curl your lashes, put a little extra effort into your makeup and jewelry for the ‘date,’ and head down to meet Bobby by the cars.

You take the elevator, staring and dreaming of how to make it known that you like Bob, knowing that you wouldn’t dare. But just his company was enough for know.

Bob is leaning against a Cadillac, waiting for you when you walked up. He looked up from his phone, “Oh hey! Um... Wow, are we only going to the bookstore?” He swallows.

You look down at your outfit, “yeah? I’m only wearing sweats.”

Bob chuckles and runs a nervous hand through his hair, “well, it’s just. You look good—um. You always look good.”

You smile on instinct, blushing hard. “Thank you.” He leans forward enough to brush a stray piece of hair away. Every touch felt electric, wanting, right. You leaned into his touch. A slam of the door behind you both startled you, Bob dropping his hand.

Alexei greeted each of you with a hug, running up and yelling, “EYY! My favorite Avengerz.”

You each pat his back awkwardly and greet him. He grins, “finally going on a date? I told you Bobby, she’s a good one.”

Bobby looked stunned and blushed firmly, staring at his feet. You quickly cover, patting Alexei's shoulder and pulling Bob towards the car, “no, no Alexei, we’re just going out. Thanks for the compliment though.” You would never assume anything. You murmur, "I'm sorry" to Bob as you each get in. He assures you it's okay. You know better.

With a reaction like that from Bob, you felt grounded. Back down to Earth. He didn’t want you like that, he cared about you, but it wasn’t anything more than family- sister and brother. Even thought you dreamed of more, something more like teammates against the world and lovers... you still had him. Robert. That was all that mattered.

Besides, it was impractical.

You understood, it was a dangerous risk to fall.

Each of you stayed silent on the drive to the bookstore. Bob had let Alexei's words get to his head and it was obvious. You had noticed, and spent the entire drive trying to find the right words to comfort him.

When you parked, Bobby went straight for his seatbelt, but you stopped him. "Hey, I know what he said bothered you. But I appreciate you coming anyways."

His eyes squinted and he looked frustrated, "it's just... that's not how I wanted things to go. Not how they should go," he painfully admitted. Your heart winced at his words, of course that isn't how he wanted it, he doesn't want that. Why can't I just accept that.

"Let's just go inside, yeah?" You ask, trying to hide the storm brewing inside your head. He looked at you. For a beat, words you wish each other would say, hung in the space between you. The only thing holding you back was yourselves.

~~

The bookstore was quiet, slow, and steady. Each aisle was littered with old, new, torn, and worn books. You had already found a poetry book on your tbr list and immediately added it to the stack you each had compiled. You would swipe Val's card on your heart's desires any day of the week. She deserved it.

The tattered books you held reminded you of each person on the team.

A pristine covered novel, with poorly hidden rips and markings inside - Walker

A short, honest, and used memoir with a broken spine - Ava

A thick, very beaten book, which you couldn't tell if it'd been well loved or torn apart on purpose - Bucky

A gleaming fiction of a story of glory which ended in disappointment - Alexei

A series book, contained to its beaten holder with its fellow victims who had all been through beatings together, torn apart - Yelena

A hopeful manuscript with dried tears on it's pages, not yet finished - Robert

And you, a soft cover, written over in ink and tears, full of empty meaning, alone.

You needed a drink.

After your selections, you checked out, the cashier seemingly satisfied with the absolute library you were taking home, gave you a free tote to haul them in. You and Bob always shared books, so there was no reason to split them into piles. You would read his margin notes, and add yours nearby.

Bobby seemed off on the ride home. He obviously had something on his mind. You silently willed for the words Alexei had said to roll off his shoulders. The more it bothered him, the more worried you became about your feelings.

They could become a real problem if you didn't shake them. If you couldn't let go of this, then it would effect your work, your safety, his safety. It could not get to that point.

It was time to end your crush on Robert Reynolds.

God you have no idea what you'e doing.

~~

Dinner was good. Yelena made something with pork and stew, her own recipe. It was delicious, but dinner had been ruined for you when Bob turned in extra early, blaming it on his desire to read a new book. Your unhappy attitude had been noticed fairly quickly. But nobody dared say anything.

You retreated to sulk on your own soon after dinner. Passing Bob's door and opening your own, you heard the shower on. You two had to share a bathroom, which connected your suites. Sometimes, it was torture when you'd accidentally almost see him naked.

Lord had the serum been kind to him. His body looked amazing, he was the rugged, but subtle kind of ripped. The freckles across his chest made you want to tear him apart with your lips. His veins, leading down to his long fingers, made you want to be fucked stupid with his hands choking you. It was embarrassing, but it was true.

You laid in bed with a book in your hands, carelessly reading the same lines over and over again, willing your head to focus. But you couldn't, you needed to talk to Bob.

After abandoning the book, you stood, trying to convince yourself to be brave. To face what you felt.

You knock on the door on his side of the bathroom, and after he mumbles, "One sec!" You hear a tumble and a small curse. He finally opens the door a crack after a minute. "Yeah?" He croaks, his hair a mess. He looks sweaty, has he been working out or something?

"I'm sorry if I interrupted, we can talk tomorrow," you quickly whispered, and turn to go. He catches your wrist, "no wait."

His hand was sweaty, almost moist. You looked down at the contact. Bob's adam's apple shifted up and down as he swallowed the tension. "I, I should apologize," he speaks lowly.

"I was so quiet, I had to have made your head spin. I was just thinking about what Alexei said, and I-" You interrupt bringing your hand to his cheek, "I get it, I knew that's what it was."

Bobby's brows furrowed, and his mouth opened to speak, but he hesitated. Why were you avoiding his opinion so much? Had he upset you? Why were you touching his cheek and not fucking kissing him with those lips. He wanted you. You dropped your hand, so he pulled you in for a hug. God this is too friendly, you both thought.

"Listen, if I hurt you by my reaction it was not meant. You know that I care... about you." He whispered, his lips barely grazing your hair. When had you changed the scent of your shampoo? It was incredible. Fuuuuuck.

You didn't dare meet his eyes, keeping your face buried in your friend's neck. But a soft hand guided your chin, tilting you up to meet his eyes. "You get some sleep, and we'll figure it all out tomorrow, mkay?" He strains. Your touch was too much after his previous activites. His cock was gonna burst. You nod, slowly, and your eyes flicker down to his lips for a second.

That split second made Bob so hard it hurt. He brushed a piece of hair back behind your ear, and you silently retreated to your room, stunned and wet as hell.

Each of you laid in bed, restless, thinking the same thoughts.

What the fuck.

I want her

I'd fuck him right now

Maybe tomorrow. But for now, you each needed sleep.

Bobby dreamt of your new shampoo and you mouth around his cock. You dreamt of his hands around your throat again, and a wrap-around porch with his hand in yours, reading books.

For now, you were each content.

~~

tuesday (chapter two)

[becertainlust]

Hello!! I was hoping if you could make a scenario of katsuki x fem!reader, where reader experiences her first squirt while doing it with Katsuki!

If its not ur cup of tea its alright!🫶🏻

DEVOTION | Katsuki Bakugo

synopsis: He makes you feel good>

content: smut

It was more than pleasing you, much more than seeing you in bliss, more than your breathless praises to him.

Katsuki had a selfish like goal. No secret,—it was written all over his greedy touches. In the way his hands branded your skin like a claim,  In the way his mouth lingered too long, tasting, taking, as if to memorize you from the inside out.

Every moan he pulled from you was another tally in a quiet war only he knew he was waging. He didn’t just want your body pliant under his. He seemed to want your soul curled around his name. He wanted the tremble in your voice when you whispered, "Katsuki," to be his altar. A devotion. A surrender.

Because if you gave him everything maybe—just maybe—he could believe he was worthy of it. The glow of your back flushed, arching beautifully, so much so under his palms of guidance that He leans forward, his chest pressed to your back, damp skin meeting damp skin. You feel his breath first, warm at the base of your neck, then the weight of his hand smoothing over your waist—slowing things down, steadying you, steadying himself.

“ Again,” he mutters, not looking for something pretty. “Call me again” he nipped at your shoulder, striking your outer thighs with his palm.

Your breath hitches. “Katsuki…”

He exhales like he’s been holding it for hours. Like your voice is the only thing keeping him from succumbing to the pulse of your pussy holding onto his so tight.. His lips drags across your shoulder, slow, a little shaky.

“You don’t get it,” he says, almost to himself. “When you say my name like that... it makes everything else shut up.”

Your fingers curl in the sheets. You feel the tension in his jaw where it grazes your skin, how he hesitates just a second before his mouth finds you again—kissing, mouthing at you like he’s trying to hold on through touch alone.

He wants more than the sounds you make. He wants the part of you that means them. The way your body tilts into him without thinking. The way you whisper his name like it’s not just his—it’s yours, too.

And maybe he’s being selfish. Maybe this is all too much. But when your hand reaches back to thread through his hair and you say his name again—so soft, so sure—Katsuki lets his forehead rest against your shoulder and believes it.

“mmm, deeper” you grind your ass onto his hips, a wet squelch where you were both connected, making him sigh as he adorned your glowing skin. Your face presses into your folded arms, your voice slips, the heat clawing at your abdomen.

His lips find your cheek, burning and damp with exertion, and he kisses you there—soft, almost reverent. A contrast to the way he rolls his hips forward, deeper, deliberate, dragging his cock through the tight clutch of your walls like he’s searching for something only you can give him.

You gasp, head tilting back instinctively, but he doesn’t miss. He trails kisses across your face, wet and lingering��your cheekbones, the corner of your mouth, the shell of your ear—each one a worship, a vow unspoken. His thrusts slow just enough to make you feel every inch, every twitch and drag, as if he’s trying to memorize the way you fit around him.

"Fuck," he groans against your skin, voice thick, ruined. “You keep getting tighter"

You don’t. And maybe you couldn’t, even if you tried.

His hand cradles your jaw, turning your face just enough so your lips nearly brush. His forehead rests against yours, breathing heavy and uneven, his rhythm stuttering as you squeeze around him—hot, soaked, trembling.

“Katsuki…”

The sound of your voice wrecks him.

He pushes in harder, slower now, with a kind of aching purpose. Your body trembles under the weight of him, under the heat in his voice when he says, “That’s it… just like that. Let me feel you.”

He kisses your lips this time—messy, open-mouthed, too full of need to be sweet—and your moan gets swallowed between your tongues. His thumb finds your chin, holding you there as he rolls his hips again, cock dragging deep in slow, perfect pressure.

You whimper into his mouth, and he groans against your lips like he’s unraveling.

“Let me keep this,” he murmurs. “Let me have this version of you. The one that says my name like it means something.”

And inside that slow, steady rhythm, with your hands tangled in his hair and his mouth still chasing every inch of your skin, Katsuki moves like a man trying to earn your devotion—one thrust, one kiss, one breath at a time.

He shifts the angle of his hips, just slightly—but it’s enough. Enough to make your body jolt, your hands scramble at the sheets. His thrusts pick up pace, not frantic, but deliberate—like he knows exactly where to hit, how to keep you right on the edge without letting you fall just yet.

His mouth finds your ear again, his breath hot as he murmurs, “There. Right there—feelin’ that?”

You nod quickly, too overwhelmed to speak, and he groans when he feels you tighten up around him.

“Fuck, baby… you’re close.”

His hand moves, sliding down your stomach, fingers finding your clit with practiced ease. He doesn’t tease. Just circles it with steady pressure, perfectly in sync with the thrusts of his hips now snapping harder, deeper. That pressure starts building too fast, your thighs tensing as the heat coils tighter and tighter in your gut.

“I got you,” he murmurs, kissing the edge of your jaw. “Just let it happen.”

And then—like a string snapping—you break.

Your body jerks under him, legs trembling as the wave crashes over you. But it’s more than that. It hits so deep, so sharp, your breath catches and your body doesn’t just clench—it releases.

Your hips stutter against his as a gush of liquid spills between you, soaking the sheets beneath, slick and sudden and unstoppable.

Katsuki groans loud at the feel of it, hips rolling slower, deeper as he rides it out with you.

“Holy shit—look at that,” he pants, voice thick with awe and hunger. “You fuckin’ squirted for me…”

His hand doesn’t stop—gentler now, coaxing every last twitch from your clit while your body trembles under the overstimulation. You can’t even speak, just moan into your arms, thighs still shaking as he grinds into you, wet sounds filling the air between sharp breaths.

“You’re perfect like this,” he says low, kissing along your shoulder, down your spine. “Messy.mine.”

Your whole body feels limp, boneless and glowing, and you feel him slow down, finally stilling. He stays buried in you, just for a moment—catching his breath, hands smoothing over your hips, your waist, grounding you both in the come-down.

He kisses the side of your head, whispering something soft against your temple—something too quiet to hear over your pounding heartbeat.

And even though everything’s soaked and your limbs feel far away, you reach back and thread your fingers through his, holding him there.

Because he didn’t just take. He pulled something deeper from you. Something real.'

You’re still trembling, breath catching in your throat as the last of the waves roll through you. Your thighs twitch uncontrollably, muscles clenching with aftershocks you can’t control, and your body stays arched, stuck between overstimulation and collapse.

Katsuki watches—stunned, proud, and just a little bit smug.

He leans back just enough to take in the mess between your thighs, the soaked sheets beneath you, the way your pussy flutters around nothing, still pulsing from the release he dragged out of you.

“Shit,” he breathes, more to himself than to you. “You really fuckin’ soaked the bed…”

You let out a breathless, barely-there laugh, burying your face deeper into your arms.

He smirks against your shoulder, still pressed close, chest rising and falling against your back.

And then his fingers—calloused and warm—trail down your stomach, slow and feather-light, until they brush just barely over your folds.

You jolt.

Your hips twitch, a gasp slipping from your lips as your body shudders again.

“Sensitive, huh?” he murmurs, voice laced with that low, teasing edge. He lets his fingertips ghost over your swollen clit, not enough to hurt, but just enough to make your breath hitch.

“Look at you,” he says, his tone softer now, almost reverent. “Still twitchin’ for me.”

You try to pull your hips forward, away from his touch, but he doesn’t let you go far—his hand slipping to your hip to keep you still.

“Nu-uh,” he hums, pressing one more kiss to your temple. “You make a mess like that, you don’t get to hide”

His fingers dip down again, gently parting you, gathering the cum still dripping out of you, and he groans low in his throat.

“So wet,” he mutters. “Didn’t even know you could squirt like that.”

You whimper, legs trembling again.

“Yeah,” he grins against your cheek, brushing another faint stroke over your clit just to watch you twitch. “You’re not goin’ anywhere”

But then his touch softens—really softens. His hand settles low on your belly, his other rubbing slow circles on your thigh as your body starts to come down for real. The teasing fades into something quieter, more grounded.

“You did so fuckin’ good,” he says, breath warm against your skin. “So damn good for me.”

You nod, too far gone to answer, but you shift back into him, letting him hold you, letting the heat of his body settle the tremble in your limbs.

[chansdoll]

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ 방찬ㅤㅤ♡ㅤㅤone nightㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ

★ pairing。idol!chan x fan afab!reader ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎g. ╰・ smut‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎cw。 protected sex , oral (f. receiving) , one night stand , no established relationship wc。 3.4k

lana's note!  ᰍᩚ i finally posted something ! ive been wanting to write something that has been on my mind recently, and that is... fuckboy chris, ladies and gentlemen! now, in this he isn't like a stereotypical fuckboy. he's got some class, but you definitely know what ur getting from him in this one.. no strings attached.

♡ masterlist

you barely remember the ride back to the hotel.

your skin is still buzzing from the energy of the concert—flashing lights, pounding bass, and the collective scream of thousands of fans echoing in your head like a dream you don’t want to wake up from. your throat is dry, your body aching from dancing and screaming, and your cheeks still feel hot every time you think about him.

bang chan. shirt soaked with sweat. hair pushed back from his forehead. that cocky little smirk when he caught the camera mid-thrust. god.

you close your hotel door behind you with a sigh, toeing off your shoes before peeling off your sticky clothes. the hot water of the shower is heaven, and for a while, you just stand there and let it wash the night away. you shampoo slowly, your mind replaying every moment of the concert—his voice, his body, his fucking stage presence.

and then, the crash.

post-concert crash. you're starving.

wrapped in a towel, you rifle through your bag for pajamas, tug on an oversized tee and sleep shorts, and step into the hallway with your slippers on. just a quick trip to the vending machine—nothing glamorous, just chips or candy. you shuffle down the corridor, the hallway dim and quiet except for the low hum of electricity.

you reach the vending machine and start scanning the options, eyes half-lidded from exhaustion, brain still floating somewhere in the crowd you just left. you're so focused on deciding between pretzels and gummy bears that you don't hear the footsteps behind you until a voice—low, smooth, accented—cuts through the silence.

“long night?”

you freeze.

that voice.

you turn slowly, heart skipping a beat.. and there he is.

bang chan. in a black tank top and grey sweatpants, hair damp like he just showered, veins visible on his forearms as he casually crosses his arms and leans against the vending machine like he owns the whole damn hallway.

“holy shit,” you whisper before you can stop yourself.

his mouth curves into a lazy smile. “didn’t mean to scare you.”

“i—uh—no. you didn’t. i just... i didn’t expect—” you stop. bite your tongue. try not to scream. try not to melt.

he cocks his head, eyes scanning over you in a way that feels slow and deliberate. not sleazy—just... observant. appreciative. his gaze lingers on your bare legs, on the shape of your hips in those shorts, then flicks back to your face like he’s not even trying to hide that he was just undressing you with his eyes.

“you were at the show?” he asks, though he already knows. his smirk says it all.

you nod, heart hammering.

“how’d we do?”

you swallow. “killed it. you especially.”

his grin widens—cocky, but charming. he reaches into the vending machine slot, retrieving a protein bar, then holds it up with a soft chuckle. “can’t end the night without a snack.”

you don’t know if he’s talking about the bar or you, but the heat creeping into your cheeks says your brain’s made its choice.

chan steps a little closer, lowering his voice. “what’s your name?”

you tell him, and the way he repeats it—soft, like a secret—makes your thighs clench. there's something in the way he looks at you, like he’s already decided what’s coming next.

“so... you just here for the night?”

you nod again, trying not to drown in the tension.

he raises an eyebrow. “wanna come hang out for a bit?”

your breath catches.

he said it so casually—like it was no big deal. like inviting a complete stranger to his hotel room wasn’t... a thing. you blink up at him, still unsure whether this is real life or some fever dream your post-concert brain cooked up.

“i mean…” you hesitate, licking your lips nervously. “are you sure that’s okay?”

chan raises an eyebrow, his eyes dancing with amusement. “why wouldn’t it be?”

“i don’t know,” you laugh breathlessly. “i figured there’d be security or… staff? or, like, a dozen people watching you at all times.”

“they’re around,” he says with a shrug. “but they’re not glued to me twenty-four seven. we’re adults. i can invite someone to my room if i want to.”

his tone is smooth but not dismissive. he’s not brushing off your concern—he’s just making it clear that this isn’t his first rodeo. you’re still skeptical, though, heart pounding like a warning bell in your chest. you glance down the hallway, half-expecting a manager to materialize from the shadows and scold you both.

chan follows your gaze, then steps a little closer. not too close—he’s careful with your space—but enough that you can smell his cologne, clean and musky and warm from his skin.

“i get it,” he says gently. “you’re not sure if this is safe. or real. or a trap.” he grins. “it’s not.”

you look up at him again. “so you just… invite random girls to your room?”

his smile is crooked, charming, and maddening. “not random girls. just the ones i want to get to know better.”

that makes your stomach flip.

you exhale slowly, trying to play it cool. “okay. but if i go and something sketchy happens, i’m running and posting about it everywhere.”

he chuckles—really laughs, like he enjoys how you’re giving him a hard time. “fair enough,” he says. “you’ll even get a little paperwork before anything happens. standard procedure.”

your brows lift. “paperwork?”

“a nondisclosure agreement,” he says easily. “if you come up, you’ll sign it. that way, if we do anything... memorable, it stays between us.”

you pause. the way he says it—if we do anything memorable—isn’t pushy. there’s no pressure in his tone. but there’s an invitation in his eyes. a very, very tempting one.

“you’re serious?” you ask.

chan nods. “completely. you’re in control. you can leave whenever you want. no pressure. but if you’re curious...”

you are curious. so fucking curious.

you nibble your bottom lip, debating for a few seconds more, heart beating like a war drum in your chest.

“okay,” you say quietly.

chan’s eyes flicker with something dark and pleased. he steps back, gesturing down the hallway. “c’mon. i’m just a few doors down.”

you follow him, your entire body buzzing, every nerve in your body on edge. he swipes the keycard to his suite, and the lock clicks open.

and that’s when it really hits you. you’re about to step into bang chan’s hotel room. alone. at night. after a concert.

your whole body shivers with adrenaline.

the door shuts behind you with a quiet click. the room is dimly lit, clean and sleek with hotel-modern decor. his bag’s in the corner. there’s a laptop open on the desk. a speaker still glowing faintly. a half-empty water bottle on the nightstand. it’s lived-in in a way that makes your stomach twist.

chan tosses the protein bar onto the dresser and walks over to a drawer, pulling out a sleek folder and a pen.

he holds it out to you.

“nda,” he says, voice soft. “if you want to stay.”

you take it, fingers trembling slightly. the print is clean and formal. it’s not a joke. it’s real. it spells out exactly what you’re agreeing to—complete confidentiality, no sharing of details, photos, or anything about the time spent with him.

you scan it quickly, then glance up. “so… this happens often?”

he gives a small smile. “sometimes. i like… company. different people, different energy.” then, leaning in slightly, he murmurs, “but i never invite anyone i’m not genuinely interested in.”

that heat comes roaring back into your chest.

you sign the paper.

he takes it back, folds it neatly, and tucks it away.

then he looks at you—really looks at you.

and something shifts in his expression.

“now,” he says, voice dipping low. “where were we?”

you barely have time to process what’s happening before his hand is on your waist.

not rough—not yet—but confident, like he’s done this before. like he knows exactly what he’s doing. his palm slides around to the small of your back, pulling you closer until your chest brushes his. he’s warm, solid, and so much bigger up close, the tension between your bodies crackling like static.

“you sure?” he asks, voice low, almost a growl against your ear.

you nod, breath catching. “yeah.”

he doesn’t waste a second.

his mouth is on yours—hot, urgent, and claiming. there’s no hesitation in the way he kisses you, no testing the waters. he just takes, like he already knows you want to be taken. his hand fists the hem of your oversized shirt, dragging it up your body as his tongue parts your lips and makes you moan into his mouth.

“fuck,” he mutters as the shirt comes off, eyes darkening when he sees your bare chest underneath. “no bra? you came out here like this?”

you open your mouth to reply, but he cuts you off by sucking your nipple into his mouth, tongue flicking and teeth grazing until your knees damn near buckle.

“chan—”

“shhh,” he murmurs, switching to the other. “gonna take my time with you.”

except he doesn’t. he devours you.

his hands roam everywhere—squeezing, gripping, dragging your body against his like he can’t get enough. he backs you toward the bed, lips bruising against yours again, his fingers already tugging your sleep shorts down your thighs.

he doesn’t even fully undress you before he’s dropping to his knees, hands shoving your thighs apart.

“want a taste,” he mutters, voice husky with hunger. “bet this pussy’s just as pretty as the rest of you.”

your breath stutters. “wait—you don’t have to—”

he looks up with a smirk. “who said i’m doing it for you?”

and then his mouth is on you.

god.

his arms hook under your thighs and pull you closer to the edge, locking you in place like you’re not going anywhere until he decides. he leans down, licking a soft, gentle lick along your slit first, a small groan leaving his throat as he tastes you. he then sucks softly on your lips before licking your slit firmly, gathering all the arousal that accumulated and savoring it so naughtily. 

you’re already a whining mess, his tongue making you squirm and blush. his tongue finally sneaks up to your clit, circling it and flicking on it slowly. this earns him a louder, breathy moan, and it’s like music to his ears. he groans even louder, focusing all his attention on your bundle of nerves, sucking and licking. his tongue is relentless—broad licks, slow circles, then sharp flicks right over your clit.

he doesn’t even stop to look up at you while he feasts on you, as if he’s too lost in how you taste.

you’re squirming, moaning, clutching the sheets as he eats you like it’s the last thing he’ll ever do—messy, wet, fucking filthy. his nose pressed into your mound, lips glistening with your nectar.. it was unreal to witness. 

“wait—shit—i’m gonna—”

“good,” he growls against you. “give it to me.”

you fall apart on his tongue, legs trembling, thighs squeezing around his head. he groans like he enjoys it, like getting smothered by your pussy is the highlight of his night. when he finally pulls back, his chin’s wet, his lips swollen, and he’s got that smug look again—like he’s proud of wrecking you. he wipes his mouth off with the back of his hand as he stands up, and you can see it. you can see his heavy cock through his sweats.

“you’re so fucking hot like this,” he mutters, standing up and yanking his tank top over his head. “gonna ruin you now.”

you barely register the words before he’s flipping you onto your stomach, stripping off your shorts the rest of the way. you hear the rustle of sweatpants hitting the floor behind you, a condom packet tearing. a soft whine leaves your lips.. a mixture of exhaustion from your orgasm, and the way he’s manhandling you sends you into a mindset you can’t explain.

then you feel him—thick, heavy, hard, sliding between your folds, teasing your entrance.

“you wet enough for me?” he murmurs, one hand gripping your ass, the other sliding his cock through your slickness.

you whimper, arching your back. “yes.”

“say it.”

“i’m wet enough—fuck—please, chan—”

that’s all he needs.

he slams into you in one deep, brutal thrust, pulling a choked cry from your throat. he groans behind you, the sound feral, hands gripping your hips like he’s holding himself back from completely destroying you.

“fucking tight,” he growls. “god damn.”

he starts to move—deep, punishing thrusts that make your whole body jolt forward on the bed. his rhythm is relentless, rough and fast, the slap of skin on skin echoing off the hotel walls. you’re certain the others in the hotel rooms around you two can hear you, but the thought left your mind as fast as it came. 

his cock kept dragging and grinding against your gspot so good.. so heavenly that the knot in your stomach was forming already. you could feel it heating you up, making your legs numb, your cheeks flushing. 

one hand fists your hair, pulling your head back so he can lean over your body, his voice hot and heavy against your ear.

“you like being fucked like this, don’t you? bent over like a good girl.”

you nod, gasping, voice nearly gone. “yes—yes—chan, fuck—”

his hand slips between your legs, fingers finding your clit again. “come for me again.”

you’re already there—your body tightens, heat exploding in your core as he fucks you through your second orgasm, his pace never slowing. he’s panting now, close, hips slamming into you with punishing force as he chases his own release.

“take it—just like that—fuck, you feel so good—”

he groans loud, deep, when he finally spills into the condom, hips twitching as he thrusts through it, every muscle in his body flexing behind you.

for a long second, all you can hear is your combined breathing, ragged and heavy, sweat dripping from both of your bodies.

he pulls out slowly, hands lingering on your back, smoothing over your skin like he’s memorizing it.

then he stands, pads into the bathroom without a word, and returns with a towel to clean you up—surprisingly gentle after how rough he just was.

you sit up slowly, sore and dazed, your heart still thudding. he sits beside you on the edge of the bed, slipping the condom into the trash.

neither of you speaks at first. you don’t know what to say. you want to curl into his side and stay there. you want to ask what this meant. but then he speaks—softly, almost like he’s reminding himself.

“this can’t be more than tonight.”

you glance at him, trying not to let your face fall. “i figured.”

he doesn’t look away. “not because of you. i just… can’t. it wouldn’t work.”

you nod, heart heavy but understanding.

“still,” he says, that little smirk returning. “i’m glad it was you tonight.”

you smile—bittersweet, but real.

“me too.”

your legs still feel like jelly when you leave his room.

the hallway’s quiet. cool. too quiet after the chaos that just unfolded behind that door.

you walk slowly, your heartbeat loud in your ears. your lips are swollen, your thighs sticky, your whole body sore in the most delicious way. but under all of that, there’s this sharp little ache nestled somewhere between your ribs. you try to ignore it. you try.

back in your room, you shut the door behind you and lean against it, letting out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

it’s like the second you’re alone, everything rushes in at once.

you slept with bang chan.

bang chan.

you look down at yourself— wearing nothing but your shirt, crumpled sleep shorts and a dazed expression—and you almost laugh. there’s no way to make sense of it. no way to explain the way he touched you, looked at you, handled you like he knew exactly what you needed before you even did.

you cross the room and collapse onto the bed, letting your face bury into the pillow. you can still smell him on your skin. you can feel the weight of his hands on your hips. hear the way he said your name like he wanted to own it. own you.

you close your eyes.

and for a moment, you let yourself pretend.

pretend that he’d stayed. that he’d crawled into bed beside you and pulled you into his chest, wrapped those strong arms around you, whispered something low and sleepy against your neck.

but he didn’t.

and he wasn’t going to.

“this can’t be more than tonight.”

the words echo in your head, steady and unchanging, even as your body begs you to believe there could’ve been more.

you don’t blame him. not really. you knew what it was. he made it clear.

still… there’s this ache. a stupid, quiet ache that doesn’t care how famous he is or how impossible this all is. it just knows that someone like him made you feel something real, even if it was only for a night.

you curl onto your side, biting your lip as tears prick at the corners of your eyes—not sad, not regretful, just… overwhelmed. so much happened in so little time. you don't even know what you're supposed to do with yourself now.

so you do the only thing you can.

you fall asleep, body sore and heart fluttering, wishing you could hit rewind.

just once.

just to feel him one more time.

the lobby is already alive with the low hum of travelers—coffee in hand, suitcases in tow, the echo of wheels rolling across polished floors. you’re standing near the entrance, duffel bag slung over your shoulder, sunglasses hiding the dark circles under your eyes from a night that was anything but restful.

you're scrolling through your phone, checking your ride's eta, trying to pretend like your heart isn’t still racing every time your brain replays last night. every sound makes you twitch—every low male voice, every passing group of guests—until you feel it again.

that shift.

that sense that someone’s watching you.

you glance up.

and there he is.

bang chan.

black hoodie. backpack slung low on one shoulder. he’s walking with purpose, surrounded by a few members of the group, plus a staff member barking something about time.

but his eyes are on you.

and then—you see it. a slow smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. his eyes drop to your legs—still bare from the sleep shorts you tossed on this morning, because your suitcase was a disaster and you didn’t care enough to try.

he leans in slightly and nudges someone walking beside him.

it’s lee know.

lee know raises a brow at chan, and chan doesn’t say a word—just does this cocky little half-nod in your direction.

that’s when both of them look at you.

you freeze.

chan’s expression doesn’t change—still unreadable, but with a spark of something wicked in his eyes. lee know’s brows lift just slightly, like he’s impressed but also entirely unsurprised. he murmurs something under his breath to chan, and chan just lets out this tiny laugh through his nose as they walk toward the hotel doors.

he passes right by you, no hesitation, and as he does—without looking—he murmurs, voice low and smug:

“sleep okay?”

you swear your soul leaves your body.

you feel lee know glance at you for a split second, then shake his head with a smirk, and suddenly they’re both out the doors, the van waiting.

the rest of the team follows behind them, none the wiser.

and you?

you’re standing there, cheeks burning, stomach flipping, thighs still aching.

it hits you all at once—the heat of last night, the ridiculousness of this morning, the way chan didn’t even need to say anything but still managed to completely unravel you with just a look and a word.

you shake your head to yourself as you walk outside toward your ride.

of course he told someone. of course he wanted someone to know. he’s that type—cocky, bold, and too damn good in bed not to brag a little with his eyes alone.

but somehow… you don’t even mind.

you might never see him again. might never touch him again.

but for one night, you were the girl he picked.

and everyone could see it.

taglist: @ritsmith @bluesungology @jeonginsleftcheek @babigriin @tirena1 @geni-627 @bbokvhs @wavetohannie @hhwangsmoon

©chansdoll do not repost, translate, or copy my works in any way, shape, or form.

[syluses]

panty-thieving caleb

do we need to discuss this? caleb truly does this. nobody’s undergarments safe from this man. does homeboy feel guilty? yes. will he do it again? u can bet ur ass on it

It’s… fine.

I mean, you’re gone for a few days, your little hunter’s gig requiring your presence elsewhere, and the apartment is quiet- almost uncomfortably quiet- for a short while; he has some room to wriggle. Be bad. He could throw a house party in your absence and you would never know. He’s good at keeping secrets, and he’s a masterclass in those pitiful puppy dog eyes that catch you for hook, line, and sinker. If he said he didn’t, then you’d believe him, ‘cause you’re a good girl.

(His good girl. Whether or not you’re aware of that has no effect on its truth.)

It’s not like the walls have eyes, that you’re watching, when he leans against the washing machine, his own dirty clothes swirling in a heap behind the clear window, and spots your hamper propped behind the door, a glint of interest in his eye- shameful as it may come.

You’re far from stupid. But you are naive, down to a fault- and Caleb thinks, flipping the lid of it and stooping over to rifle through your laundry, that it’s for the better.

It’s just marginally easier on his conscience if you’re unaware of what he’s about to do.

Look- to clear the air, he isn’t proud of it, alright? But fuck if he doesn’t need it. You’ve left him high and dry one too many times to count, and he doesn’t blame you for that, pipsqueak, he gets that your relationship had established boundaries from early on- too early to really even remember- and that you couldn’t begin to understand the depths of what he feels for you. He gets that. It’s only festering in the forefront of his brain on most days, squeezing in his chest in a way that reads longing just as much as it does guilt.

The knowing doesn’t stop him though, or the disgrace.

Might even drive him a little bit further, if he’s being honest.

He digs out a frilly pink article, pointedly ignoring all other clothes save for the few oversized shirts of his you must’ve snagged earlier this week- regarding them with a passive but somewhat smug smile- and pulls it taut between his fingers, marvelling a little at the intricate gusset.

Fuck.

And you know, the remnant of his guilt fades the longer he stares. Perverted or not, his imagination runs at a mile a minute and there’s a certain thrill he obtains in envisaging you wearing it. So, so beautiful, he’s sure, and how could you not be? A pretty nymphet strewn in blushing pink. He barely has the self restraint to pass up on finding the matching bra, but it’s a near thing.

He doesn’t think he really cares about how horrified you’d be, how much faith you’d lose in him- your precious Caleb- not as his cock stirs in his briefs and he pictures you wearing the underwear, sticking your ass out for him on full display. He’d touch it and grope it and guide you down onto his aching length- but not before getting your pretty pussy (well, he’s never seen it before, no, but he’s willing to bet his whole piggy bank that it’s as gorgeous as the rest of you) all primed and ready for him.

He’d worship you. Really, he’s just waiting on your green light.

In his dreams he kneels on the ground before you and laps at your folds ‘til you’re screaming and pulling his hair- but he doesn’t let up until he knows for sure you’ve nothing left to give him. When you’re wholly satisfied, then, and only then, does he hike his pants down his thighs and sink into your sopping heat.

The smell of you— “mmnh.”

Oh pretty girl, nothin’ compares.

Caleb lets out a little groan as he fists your dirty panties tight and thrusts it in his face, inhaling your scent- faded detergent mixed with an undeniably feminine musk- in lungfuls. He thumbs over the fabric with appreciation and gives it an oddly chaste kiss before getting to swift work on his growing problem.

This won’t happen again. He promises. If you were around for it, you’d hear him spew out his apologies and proffer out his little finger for a pinky swear. He never breaks a pinky swear, too. It’s sacrilegious in your household.

He’s half tempted to wrap your pretty panties around his cock and rub it that way, but he quickly thinks better of it, surprisingly clear-headed in his conviction to keep it untainted. Your underwear having been thrown in your dirty hamper or not- Caleb doesn’t want to mar them with his own release if he comes hard into the lacy folds of it- and no doubt he would. He respects you a little too much to tarnish your precious belonging, and while he knows his actions are disparaging in and of themselves, this is a front he’ll remain staunch on: your undies are valuable, not some material to use for jerking off before curtly disposing of.

He’ll be careful, he’ll be good to them. Okay?

Evidently, that respect he has for you isn’t quite enough to stop him from nabbing your dirty laundry and huffing it in like paint— but it’s the little things that count, right? The thought.

A rasping whine punches out from his chest, his eyes clamped shut as he strokes himself with long, slim fingers, desperately wishing them to be yours instead. Yours would be softer, more uncertain and unexperienced as they trail over his dick but fuck they’d feel so good, he knows this like he’s never known anything before. Just pines for it to become reality.

Of course, he’d start with something smaller to ease you in; he wants it to be romantic, your first time, full of sloppy, but meaningful kisses as confession and hands cupping your face as he vows to keep you happy forever.

But what he gets up to- you’d be so mad if you knew— He wants to save himself from the mortifying prospect of you ever unearthing his sordid inner world, but it’s a little too late to backtrack. He can’t reverse what he feels for you, in any case.

Shit. It sounds so bad- the dregs of his rationale rebuking him somewhere in the back of his head- but thinking about you frustrated just gets him riled up even more. ‘Cause you’re so cute like that... Furrowed brow and flushed cheeks, lips that pout and arms that cross over your breast and unwittingly press them up and present them to him before you either frown or inevitably turn your back on him.

He could die in peace to your catty moans and whines. And then he’d revive himself just to pull a few more out of you.

Hey, look, pipsqueak, he knows he’s a big meaniehead sometimes, but—

Pre dribbles from the tip and he smears it down the long column of his cock, sucking in a shaky breath as the washing machine drums out a steady tune. He could fuck you on it. It’d probably feel so good that way. Or he could drag you to the couch and eat you out for hours on end until his knees bruise on the carpet and you constrict your thighs around his head. Sounds like a dream. Like his dreams.

—but he just loves you so damn much.

And can you really fault him if he gets a little worked up over how you behave? I mean, yeah, he’s supposed to be your ‘gege’ and all, but c’mon... He’s still a man at the end of the day. You’re kind of setting a high bar for him, don’t you think? He’s only human. He’s fallen victim to love, and if you were experiencing even half of what he’s been for seeming eons now, then you’d understand it too.

It flourishes in his belly fast- the want to taste and take and consummate with you- pleasure reaching its peak as he keenly pumps his fist. He knows this is screwed up, he knows, but it feels so good and he just—

“Oh, ungh- pipsqueak-!” with a few sputtering gasps, he ruts his hips into his hand one more time before everything existing inside him erupts. He hurtles himself at the washing machine as it thumps, hugging your panties to his nose like it’s the one thing keeping him rooted in place right now and from buckling to the floor, dousing himself in the scent of you as his eyes flutter back. When he comes, he wants it to be to the essence of you and nothing else.

White gushes over the backs of his fingers; he rides himself through it, broad chest heaving as he talks himself down from his own high.

His inner dialogue is starker now as he settles and the desire searing his critical thinking abates. It’ll never happen again, he’s adamant on that. Because he’s more or less just betrayed your trust, to put it lightly, and it’s not right.

Guilt warms his heart to an unpleasant degree.

I-It’s fine.

When he’s done, he’s not quite comfortable with himself and the knowledge of what he’s just done- see? he’s not a completely depraved bastard, haha. He tucks himself in the waistband of his sweats with an almost rueful glance towards your hamper, grinding his jaw as post-nut clarity sinks its teeth into him— and pockets your panties.

It’ll make a nice triad to the other two he’s got stowed in his dresser.

You don’t need to know about any of this, though- you shouldn’t. Caleb’s the one who’ll shoulder this for the both of you. And if you come asking, he’ll just tell you the washer’s been eating up his laundry, too. No biggie.

It’s fine. What you don’t know can’t hurt you.

[archivewriting]

Determined for you

Pairing: rafe x reader

Warnings: slightly toxic rafe, cursing

Summary: A situation occurs between you and Rafe where the subject of him relapsing is brought up.

You stared at the video replaying over and over on Ellas phone. Toppers private story on Snapchat named "pov we've fucked" and posted was a video of Rafe snorting lines of coke off a random table at a house party. Toppers voice is heard through the backround with other guys yelling and cheering Rafe. Your stomach flipped as you watched in horror. Yes Rafe didn't have the best reputation but he had sworn he was clean.

"I'm sorry, I just wanted to show you because I overheard him telling you he was 5 months clean last week" Ella explained as she shut off her phone and looked up at you. She looked sorry for you and it made your stomach turn.

He lied.

It was no secret Rafe struggled with drugs and alcohol. But he swore he was clean when you almost broke things off with him the first time.

"Please baby I promise jus-just don't go" Rafe begged as you gathered your things.

"You said that last time Rafe. I just can't keep this cycle going"

Two weeks later and after 200 roses being sent each day to your front porch and numerous apology cards Rafe and you got back together under the condition that he was to stay clean.

"I don't even know what to say or do" you said as you gave Ella a small frown.

Your heart hurt. Rafe. Your Rafe was lying, and you weren't sure if he'd done it before you saw the video. Everything confused you and caused a headache to occur.

"If you need anything I'll be here for you" Ella says. You give her a small nod before getting up and heading out over to your car.

You sat in your car in silence trying to figure out what to do with the situation. Your head was aching the video of Rafe high out of his mind replaying over and over again. Your phone began to buzz, looking down you see many texts from Rafe.

Rafey🤍:

I miss you rn

Rafey🤍:

Wyd baby

Rafey🤍:

ur location says ur still at Ellas

Rafey🤍

giving her all your attention come over

Rafey🤍:

I'm abt to come over with Top in 5

Your eyes widen as you read his last message. In an attempt to quickly text back you hear a loud engine and music blaring to your right.

Fuck.

You look over and see Topper sitting in the passenger seat, Rafes figure barely noticeable in the drivers seat.

Topper stares at you through the passenger window smiling and waving at you. You give him a small laugh before shooting Ella a text.

Y/n:

was on my way to leave & rafe texted me he was on his way with topper now we're all here outside your house

Ella:

shit I didn't see topper texted me too

Y/n:

act casual don't even bring up the video

A knock on your window causes you to jump. It's Rafe giving you a grin. You smile sincerely before unlocking your car door stepping out as Rafe opens your door.

"Hey baby" Rafe says giving you a long kiss on your lips before wrapping his arm around you.

"Missed you" He said slyly pulling you closer to him.

Feeling awkward you give Rafe a smile before walking with him in silence. Topper ahead of you both.

You weren't walking in silence he was telling you about his day with Topper, they both headed up to the country club before he missed you.

Rafe could sense the tension coming from you. You were much more distant with him today than you ever have and he could tell by your quiet demeanor. You weren't being mute you just weren't talking as much. He figured you were having a bad day and didn't want to push you.

Which is why he didn't ask why you were outside in your car. He could tell by the moment you all entered Ella's house something was off.

Rafe was no idiot especially when it came to his girl. He sensed the way you'd stare off mid conversation. The way you looked down at your lap more than you looked at him.

Were you mad at him? He thought.

"Uh you know what, Ella could you just give Top a ride back home" Rafe asked blankly starting at you.

You were out of it especially when the three were talking you hardly spoke to Rafe never finding the courage to look at him. All the anger you felt had disappeared and disappointment settled in. The conversation brought you back from your thoughts. You looked up to see Ella shooting you a smile while Topper sat next to her oblivious about anything occurring, he was too busy gawking over Ella's side profile. But you could feel Rafes intense gaze onto you.

Rafe lied to you.

"Y/n's not feeling so well so figured I'd just take her home with me" Rafe said casually fully getting your attention. You finally looked over at him to see him staring at you. Rafe leaned in giving you a kiss on your cheek

"Come on baby, I'll take you home" Rafe said softly getting you up on your feet. Topper who was sitting next to Ella gave Rafe a small nod while Ella gave you a sincere smile. Mouthing "you'll be okay" to you on your way out.

Rafe held your bag while walking the both of you out. He held your hand and you held his back. He'd occasionally glance back at you to make sure you were okay.

"What about my car?" You asked Rafe looking at your car as he opened the passenger door for you.

"Don't worry about it I'll pick it up tomorrow" He said guiding you into the car and circling around to the drivers seat. His car smelled like him and it brought you comfort for a bit before reality set in.

Rafe had relapsed.

You gave him a nod as he sets into the drivers seat. Starting up his truck the hum of the engine and the sound of the AC turning on all at once.

"Alright what on your mind sweetheart" Rafe asked putting his hand on your leg as you stared out the car window. His hand rubs your leg softly before staying put on your thigh. He backs the car out of the driveway and begins driving on the road. Rafe reaches up from your leg to turn down the radio before resting his hand back on your leg.

You let a sigh before responding "nothing just tired" you said leaning your head up against the window.

"Come on, tell me I don't like you sad and shit" Rafe said rubbing his thumb along your thigh.

You held back from saying anything simply because he was driving. You didn't want an argument to occur in the car.

You decide not to respond just continuing to stare out the window.

Rafe glances over to you confused.

"Did I do something?" Rafe asks stopping the car at a red light.

You looked to him making eye contact for a brief moment before the light turns green.

"Come on baby you gotta tell me if I did something so I can fix it"

Your silence only angers Rafe.

"What you found a new guy you wanna fuck" He says scoffing.

"What no Rafe"

"Then what is, you're out here fucking ignoring me. You're being distant so what is it you found a new guy to fuck now" He spits harshly before pressing down on the gas pedal. The cars speed accelerates causing your heart to drop.

"Stop stop stop Rafe. Slow the damn car down Rafe" you pleaded as he only continued to speed. Sliding in between cars angry and frustrated with why you were being so closed off.

If Rafe hated anything it was people leaving. His mind jumped straight to the conclusion that you were trying to leave him and it irked him.

"Not stoppin till you tell me baby" Rafe said.

"You relapsed Rafe!!" You said finally getting the words out. Rafe slows the car back down slowly before pulling the car into a parking lot with numerous apartment homes around it.

"What"

"You relapsed Rafe I saw you!" You exclaimed keeping a distance between you and Rafe in the car.

"I have no idea what you're fuckin' talkin about" Rafe huffed. But he did know.

He knew damn well two nights ago while you were at home studying he was high out of his mind but he'd never tell you that.

"Toppers story Rafe. It's you snorting lines of coke!"

"Ella showed me the post Rafe I know what I saw" You said firmly.

Rafe lets out a scoff a laugh almost and it pisses you off.

"It's not funny Rafe you relapsed after telling me you were done"

Rafe stared at your face noticing the way you tensed. He knew if he told the truth he'd lose you. You were frowning upset with him and Rafe hated being the reason you were sad. So he came up with the first lie that came to his mind. He'd do anything to keep you.

"Baby, the video is from 7 months ago"

Your eyebrows furrowed.

Could it be? No..? Maybe?..

You didn't really check the time Topper posted the video too focused on watching Rafe snort lines of coke.

"Sweetheart I love you too much to take that risk with you" Rafe reassures pulling me to him. Rafe places you on his lap in the drivers seat. His arms wrapping around you as you stare at him.

"I don't know Rafe, it looked recent to me" you said looking to the side.

Rafe grabs your head holding your gaze between his hands, "Baby you trust me?" He asks.

You nod your head muttering a yea.

"Good because I'm telling you the truth. I'm clean I swear" Rafe reassures.

"The video is old, I almost lost you wouldn't want to lose you again"

Silence follows after his words. You were sure if Rafe was lying or telling the truth. You stared at him acknowledging his features the way he stared at you, admiring you. You tucked in your lower lip attempting to catch any signs of Rafe lying to you. He only held your gaze running his hands softly on your back.

"Okay" you said softly letting out a sigh.

"Yea? We're okay baby. I'm okay" He said hugging you.

You lay your head in his shoulder feeling Rafe press small kisses along your face.

Rafe pulls you away before gripping onto your face.

"Next time tell me when you're upset or confused alright?" He demanded and you nod.

"Good, because you're stuck with me forever alright" Rafe said moving his hands lower to your ass and pulling you closer.

"I just want you to be okay" You responded truthfully.

Rafes eyes look at you filled with love. How'd he get so lucky with you? He stared at the way you looked at him. You looked at him differently than others, you cared for him.

"I know and I'm okay when I have you"

"We only need each other" Rafe says pulling you into a harsh and desperate kiss.

You kiss him back relived the situation has been solved.

Eventually Rafe brought you over to his house. You laid in his bed sleeping after fucking in his car and his bed. You were sleeping in his shirt while his comforter covered your legs.

Rafe sat on his end of the bed shirtless pulling out his phone.

Rafe:

Take down your story rn

Rafe:

R u fucking slow top posting that shit allowing y/n to see

Top:

Fuck did she see?

Top:

Shes not in the private story

Top:

My fault dude

Rafe:

You almost cost me my relationship I will fuck you up Top if you pull that shit again

Top:

I know I know I'm sorry Rafe wasn't my intention

Rafe swiped out of his conversation with Topper before shooting Ella a text.

Rafe:

Don't appreciate you filling my girls head w bullshit so keep my name out ur dirty fucking mouth along with hers

Ella:

She deserved to know you relapsed Rafe

Rafe:

Wasn't your place to say so stay in ur fucking lane next time

Rafe:

You and I both know you're a sneaky bitch. Didn't think I'd figure out you envied my girl?

Rafe:

Leave my girl alone or I'll actually ruin ur fuckin' life

Ella left Rafe on read before Rafe blocked her number. He scoffed "stupid bitch" Rafe muttered under his breath.

He heard you shuffling behind him.

"Rafe?" You said tiredly

"Shhh I'm here go back to sleep" Rafe said getting into bed and kissing your head. You moved closer to him wrapping your arms around his torso before falling asleep.

One thing was clear. Rafe wasn't letting anyone get in between you two.

[jamminvroomvroom]

4k celebration

congrats on 4k love - your writing is absolutely worth all of the hype and even more!!! i adore your work and so look forward to even more people discovering it.

i was hoping to request a lewis fic?? i’m such a slut for a good enemies to lovers situation, so maybe along the lines of reader is a fair bit younger than lewis, but there’s been all of this tension btwn them and it all boils over one night (smuttyyyyy) 🥴

we made up.

LH x fem!rival reader - 4k celebration

in which you can never just bite your tongue

eeeeek i love this request! thank u sm anon for ur sweet words, ur so lovely i hope i’ve done this justice for you! writing for lewis terrified me so this might not be my best work but we move! more lewis requests to come, let me know what you think <3

songs to set the mood: stargirl interlude by the weekend & lana del rey

warnings: 18+!! minors go away!! smut, swearing, degradation, praise, dom!lewis, some switch!reader, implied age gap, slightly inexperienced reader, enemies to lovers, blink n you’ll miss it size kink

2.6k words

you hide admiration with a scowl, curling into yourself, as far away as you can get from him. the couch seems to get smaller and smaller with every overly intelligent, carefully thought out word he says. each sentence seems to be coated in a thick layer of i don’t give a fuck. you don’t know how he’s so good a toeing the line.

after six years in f1, you still couldn’t work out why you didn’t like lewis hamilton.

maybe it was his cool confidence, the way he never lacked composure, while you were called an unhinged, delusional woman by every incel on twitter for so much as breathing. maybe it was his sky high stack of trophies, championships, podiums, wins. you weren’t even halfway close to touching his records. maybe it was the way he was diabolically, inhumanly gorgeous, a truly breathtaking creature. you paled in every single way compared to lewis, so how could you even begin to like him?

it was silly, really, pathetic even, feeling such childish disdain just because he was better than you. he was older, more refined, iconic in every single way that you weren’t. perhaps you’d get there one day, but you simply weren’t there yet.

you’re sat beside him in the press conference, sharing the couch with him, alex, lando, charles and max. it wasn’t the worst combination in the world, but anytime you had to sit in front of a gaggle of hawk-eyed journos and a million cameras with lewis, something unfortunate usually happened. never by design, but you just weren’t very good at saving face in front of the mercedes driver.

“do you think the podium is a possibility this weekend?” someone from autosport whose name you can’t remember asks.

“i’m hoping so, just need to keep the mercs behind us again, but i don’t think that will be that hard.” you respond, without even a sliver of a filter. the material of the sofa shifts as lewis tenses up beside you, inhaling sharply at your blatant disrespect. somewhere beside you, lando sniggers, and max is rolling his eyes.

it was no secret that you didn’t have the softest spot in the world for sir lewis.

“that’s assuming your car makes it to the end of the race.” lewis clears his throat, speaking with confident conviction. you turn you head to glare at him, painfully unable to take what you give. alex slaps his hand over his mouth.

“at least my car isn’t so bad that i’d rather go and learn the alphabet down at ferrari.” you scoff. you avoid the eyes of your comms officer, because if looks could kill, you’d be six feet under already.

“i think we’ll leave it there.” tom clarkson suggests, and you stand from the panel and storm away on trembling legs with a terrible ache throbbing between them.

there’s something about the pettiness, the reasonless back and fourth you two always seem to partake in that leaves you in need of a cold shower.

-

turns out, you have to apologise.

you spend the better part of an hour being bollocked by your press team, who, for some reason, don’t find it particularly amusing that you’d somehow managed to insult the lewis hamilton, ferrari, and mercedes in the span of two sentences.

so, there you were, begrudgingly trailing towards lewis’s hotel room. it’s on the top floor, because of course it is, it’s him. he oozes expensive exclusively, naturally above the rest. you twist your rings nervously, increasingly terrified of being in a confined space alone with the gorgeous brit. your knuckles rap gently against the wood of his door, intentionally weakly. you pray he won’t hear you and that you can just disappear back into the elevator and into your room, to pathetically let you hands wander between your clenched thighs.

but god laughs, and the door swings open. lewis seems startled by your presence, just for a moment though, leaning cooly against the doorframe. his lips pull into a faint smile. two things alarm you. first of all, he’s shirtless, bare from the waist up, a plethora of delicious tattoos on display for you to feast your eyes on. secondly, and somehow even worse, he’s panting, clearly just back from a work out in the gym. he glistens with sweat, and your mind goes blank, apologetic words die on your tongue.

“something to say, angel, or are you just here to stare?” lewis teases, the words rolling off his tongue smoothly. you pray for the ground to gape open, swallow you hole, suck you into hot lava.

“well, i was gonna apologise but i don’t think you deserve it.” you sneer, crossing your arms over your chest accusingly.

“didn’t think you knew how to apologise.” lewis grins sarcastically, mocking you.

“has anyone told you how arrogant you are?” you bite back, eyes narrowing.

“why don’t you come in here and i’ll show you just how arrogant i can be?” his voice has dropped a few octaves, seductive and low.

the proposition, the suggestion behind his words makes you fold immediately. you’d wondered for far too long about what he was like behind closed doors and under thick bedsheets, and if you had the chance at finding out, you’d be imbecilic not to take it.

you shove his muscled chest, pushing him back into his room. his hands find your waist, pulling harshly at the material of your loose t-shirt. he’s watching you intently, mesmerised by the angry flush on your cheeks tinging you pink. your eyes convey hunger, matching his, and you’re forcing him down to sit at the foot of his bed.

“why are you such an asshole?” you hiss, slotting your knees on either side of his so that you’re straddling him.

“probably the same reason you’re such a little bitch.” lewis growls, tugging you forward harshly on his lap. you feel his work out shorts ride up on his thighs, the material sensitive on your skin.

your pupils blow wide at his words, and you’re kissing him hard, teeth and tongues clashing messily. his lips are so soft, pillowy as they brush aggressively with your own and you lick wetly into his awaiting mouth. he’s addictive, minty, and you fall against his bare chest as he leans back into the mattress.

“i think you need to be taught some manners.” lewis grunts, flipping your bodies over like you’re nothing, and slotting against your body like a missing piece.

“i think the same could be said about you.” you breathe, sliding your hand under the waistband of his shorts. he chuckles quietly, the rumble reverberating through your own chest, cracking you open.

“try your best.” he whispers. your eyes roll back.

truth is, you’re not the most experienced person in the world. yes, you’re in your mid twenties, but a long term relationship with the worlds biggest loser and dedicating your life to a career in a boys club meant that you didn’t have the time to develop broadest set of skills. you didn’t have the luxury of letting loose in a nightclub with a stranger because if that information got into the wrong hands, you’d be slut-shamed off the face of the earth. so now, you found yourself a little bit lost under a literal sex god.

as if he can hear your thoughts, lewis pulls back.

“what’s the matter? do you want me to stop?” he’s softer than he ever has been with you, melting away in your hands, but you draw him back in, tightening your grip on the band of his shorts.

“no, no, i just…” the words die on your tongue. something in your eyes gives him all the information that he needs.

“do what feels right, good.” his nose brushes your jaw, kissing over it and you settle back into the moment.

“teach me a lesson.” you whisper, empowered in his hands, and he springs back into action, his demeanour slipping right back into what it had been.

“is that why you’re so bad in interviews? just want me to fuck some respect into you?” his lips tug amusedly when you nod rapidly up at him.

an experimental roll of his hips makes you keen, hand slipping into his braids and pulling hard. his eyes fall shut, lips parting to let out a soft groan, his eyebrows pinching from the rough pleasure. your fingers graze over the skin of his toned belly, finding sensitive skin that makes him shiver.

“you distracted, lew?” you taunt, with the only intention of riling him up.

his eyes snap open, hard and lacking any sort of warmth, and he tears your hands from where they rest on his firm body, swiftly pinning them above your head with one hand. he plants himself on one knee, balancing himself so that he can fiddle with the button of your shorts. he makes quick work of removing them, forcing the zipper down and skilfully manoeuvring them with just the one hand.

once they’re gone, along with the lace of your underwear, he forces your thighs apart, and slides his fingers along the seam of your cunt, slicking them up. you’re soaked and he momentarily falters, but he doesn’t let himself get too visibly affected.

“fuck, you’re so wet. been thinking about me, angel?” he teases mercilessly, as he rocks the first thick digit into you, twisting and curling until he finds the spot that makes you buck your hips.

“nothing to say now, hm?” lewis tuts, wetting his lips. the feeling of you squeezing so tight around just one of his fingers makes him choke out a moan. you can feel his hot breath fanning over your face, your eyes squeezing shut at the feeling of him filling you up.

“more.” you breathe, stuttering over just one word. he revels in how he’s managed to reduce you to this so quickly.

“you sure you can take it, angel? so fucking tight.”

“make me.” you plead, parting your strained thighs even wider for him.

he lets go of your hands, snaking down your body to get himself closer to where you’re dripping already.

“keep them there.” lewis orders, and you grip tightly onto the pillows to exercise restraint.

lewis presses his forearm over the plush of your belly, holding you down as he adds a second finger, watching in awe as it slips so effortlessly into your pussy. you’re mewling, fighting to buck your hips but the firm press of his muscled arm keeps you in place.

“so pretty for me, angel, soaking my fingers.” he notes, entranced at how responsive you are for him.

“want you inside of me, lew.” you whine, knuckles paper white where you’re fighting off the urge to reach down and touch him.

“wait.” he snarls, ramming his fingers even harder, grinding against the soft spot buried deep. “you’re gonna cum like this first.”

with that, he removes the barricade of his arm, bringing his spare hand to your clit, the pad of his thumb drawing calloused circles into the bud. you lose it, grinding down on his fingers like a woman possessed.

“that’s it, sweetie, fuck yourself for me.” lewis encourages, voice gravelly and low.

sparks shoot down your spine, nothing but white behind your eyelids as he lights you on fire. you can’t warn him, the words lost to the tense air of the room as you barrel towards your first release. he eases you through it, not letting up even a little bit, but it pays off when you can’t help but writhe against the cream of the bedspread.

“god.” you croak, flopping limp as he pulls out, crawling over you.

“learned your lesson?”

“not quite.” you flash an exhausted grin, abandoning your grasp on the pillows to slide them down his thick frame.

you trace the lion adorning his shoulder, the compass, each piece driving you further into utter delirium. your hands graze his waist, snaking around his abdomen until you reach the cross, tracing it until you reach words that keep him going.

still i rise the cursive reads, and he shivers as you rake your nails over it.

“fuck me.” you purr. your hands slide under his shorts once more, gripping at the curve of his ass. you push the material down over his thighs, and he happily kicks them away, his inked hands roughly spreading you even wider.

“desperate little thing, bet you go home after every race and fuck yourself silly wishing it was me, hm?” he adjusts himself between your legs, his thick cock nudging against you entrance, drenching himself in the mess he’d made.

you gasp out a moan as he slides deep, taking his sweet time. you can’t even comprehend his words, totally consumed by the brutally enticing stretch of him, your thighs shaking at the delectable intrusion. he hisses at the sensation of your tight warmth, his head falling to rest in the crook of your neck. lewis licks over the sensitive skin, trailing open mouthed kisses down to your collarbone. you feel the sharp graze of his teeth, gentle nips making you shudder on his cock.

“don’t leave a mark.” you choke, and lewis seems to get it, so he skims his teeth lower, sucking purple just over your heart.

you clamp down around him, allured by the tweak of pain, and it seems to spark something in him, his hips rolling into yours experimentally.

“you feel so fucking good.” lewis pants, his breath warm and wet on your neck.

“need you to move.” you plead, turning your head to capture his lips in an urgent kiss.

he pulls out, slamming back into you roughly, your tummy twisting with anticipation. lewis finds a rhythm that suits you both, hips hitting yours with every thrust, each one leaving you full and spent.

“gonna make sure you feel me for days.” he promises, yanking your legs over his hips. as he does, he hits deeper and you yelp, stars in your eyes. “when you sit in the car tomorrow, you’re gonna feel me and remember how to be a good fucking girl, not an attention seeking brat.”

you ramble his name, eyes flooding with tears of overstimulation, dumbfounded at how he seems to hit a new spot with every slide of his cock. he’s digging his fingers into the meat of your thighs, pulling your hips impossibly closer to his as he drives into you, as if he wants to become a part of you, moulded for an eternity. with the way your stomach knots, butterflies and adrenaline coursing through you, you’d comply; you’d let him do whatever he wanted to him anytime he wanted.

“‘m so close.” you whine, pulling on every part of him your hands can reach. a refreshed sense of determination builds in his eyes and he presses hard on your navel.

“so deep, can see it.” lewis slurs, eyes fixed on your belly.

those five words make you unravel, sending you hurtling over the edge. he can’t help but fuck you through it, hammering home while you spasm around him so tight that he struggles to move.

“fucking addicted to this pussy.” lewis groans, burying himself as deep as he can go.

you’re utterly enchanted as you watch him reach his release, gnawing at your bottom lip when his part in a moan, allowing gentle puffs of air to escape. his long eyelashes rest delicately over his cheeks as his eyes fall shut, your name spilling out of his mouth like a needy prayer.

you’re warm from the inside out, flushed and full when he settles, pressing his body weight into you completely.

-

two weeks later, you’re in japan, bored senseless in yet another press conference. lewis sits further down the couch, and you have to cross your legs every time he speaks. no one seems to notice, except him, of course.

when it’s your turn to speak, and you’re asked all about your little spat with sir lewis back in australia, you shrug, smirking.

“we made up.”

-

oof

-

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