#I like the contrast of that with what happens to him

[peachesofteal]

Raspberry Girl Previous + masterlist + AO3 Simon Riley/female reader CW: sexual content, daddy kink

“Fuck!” 

Simon’s neck nearly breaks as he turns to lay panicked eyes on where you’re standing in front of the oven with tears on your lashes, one hand in another. His body locks up. He’s faced more violence than any one man should know, but it all pales in comparison to the way his stomach twists when you’re distressed. 

“What happened?” 

“N-nothing I burnt myself.” Your cheeks are already wet by the time he makes it into the kitchen, carefully unfolding your arms, cradling your hand in his. 

Burn is an understatement. It’s a second degree, skin already blistering and raw. You instinctively move towards the freezer, but he pulls you away, leading you to the sink where he turns the tap on cool. Your lower lip trembles and your voice shakes. “Owww, ow ow. Hurts, it hurts.”  

“I know baby, I know. Here,” Duchess whines from behind him as you hiss when the water cascades across your skin, easily picking up on your pain. “She’s okay.” He never thought he’d be reassuring a dog, but here he is, trying to soothe both his girls. 

“I didn’t want to drop it, I didn’t let go, I sh-should have.” Instinct is to blame here, pain receptors flooded and quick thinking a second behind, your desire to save the strawberry rhubarb crumble leading you to hold onto the cast iron too long, and you managed to get it onto the stove top after you pulled it from the oven barehanded, but it cost. 

“Shhh, it’s okay.” It’s not. Even of a flicker of agony on your face is enough to send him reeling, and knowing you’ll wear this scar forever from something that happened when he was just across the room is a hard pill to swallow. “Just keep this here, don’t move your hand.” 

“Where are you going?” You’re more calm now, lips tight in a grimace, but the tears still gather. He kisses your forehead. 

“We need a washcloth. Stay right here.” 

He keeps you against his chest, cool washcloth folded over the palm of your hand as you snuffle into his sweatshirt, curled up with him on the couch, tears dried, burn throbbing. Poor baby. 

He knows why you didn’t want to let it go. You hand picked these strawberries from a local farm, painstakingly selecting each one as he followed behind you, a hulking shadow nearly blotting out the sun. It’s such a contrast. A brilliant, bright little berry girl and her reaper, a harbinger of death, her daddy.

He’ll be whoever he has to be now, to keep you happy and safe. Nothing else matters. 

And that’s how he found himself on his neighbor’s porch, ringing their doorbell to explain how you saw their rhubarb plant in their backyard and pleaded with him to let you go over and ask if you can cut some. They’ve only ever seen him in passing, and quite frankly, they looked a bit horrified at the sight of him. 

That didn't matter either. As long as they said yes. 

“Never had rhubarb before.” He’s holding your hips, his chest to your back as you lean over the sink, scrubbing the pink red stalks clean. 

“Never?” 

“Nope,” he hums it into the top of your head, and you fidget against him, pressing back against his cock. 

“O-oh. Is… are you…” His fingers dip beneath the waistband of your sweatpants, stroking over your panties. 

“What does it taste like?” 

“Um, it’s… sour.” You gasp when he slips inside the already slick cotton, skimming your swollen clit. “But when it’s ca-ca-caramelized it’s- ah-” Slow circles send shivers up your spine and you grind against him, looking for more, for rhythm. 

“It’s what baby? Tell daddy.” His heat against yours, body on yours, all of it goes to his head, gives him tunnel vision. It’s all about you, everything, always, forever. Til death do you part, even if you don’t understand yet. 

“It’s like a swe-sweet tart. It’s good with- with uh… um,” he slips inside you, one finger then two, nipping your neck as your head tips back. It doesn’t take much to bring you close, your inexperience leaves him plenty of room to learn what’s best, read your movements and translate your sounds. 

“With?” You shake your head in denial, and a devilish smirk twists his lips. 

“Daddy please.” You’re shifting your weight, restlessly chasing, forcing him to hold you still, his mouth on your ear. 

“What do you want sweet girl? What is it?” 

“Come, make me c-come please.” 

“Hmm.” He steps away, uses his foot to spread yours apart, and you try to step away, confused. “Be still.” Your sweatpants and underwear are down to your ankles next, and he’s folding you at the waist, your cheek flush with the kitchen counter. 

Pretty. So pretty. Pussy soaked, on display, little clit throbbing. 

He sinks to his knees and spreads you wide, exposing everything while you gasp. “Look at you, little girl. So desperate to come.” 

“Yes,” you breathe, clinging to the edge of the counter, elbows upward. The trembling precipice of anticipation makes your muscles quiver, and he lets you sit in it for a moment, linger in the uncertainty- 

Before finally burying his face in you. 

“Daddy?” Your voice is small, sleepy. He’s given you some naproxen, trying to dull the pain, and the ordeal has tired you out. 

“Hmm?” 

“Am I gonna have a scar?” You’re blinking at the offending injury, mouth turned down, and he sighs, tucking you in closer. 

“I think so. It’s a second degree, sweetheart. But it will heal, and that’s most important. You won’t have nerve damage.” That was his biggest concern, especially considering where it is, but after inspecting it, the skin, the blister, the depth, he’s confident you won’t lose any feeling there. 

“I won’t?” 

“I don’t think so.” He knows well enough, how much it takes to damage the nerves. To make them obsolete. He’s got the marks all over to prove it. You relax, snuggling back into his chest. 

“At least I saved it.” 

“And earned yourself a spanking.” He warns immediately, and your eyes fly open. 

“I didn’t do anything!” 

“You hurt yourself to save a pie.” 

“A crumble daddy, it’s a crumble.” He raises an eyebrow, and you look away sheepishly. “I’m sorry.” 

“It’s okay baby, but you did earn a punishment. Didn’t you?” You nod. He knows you’re well aware of the broken rule, but he’s not going to dive into it right now, your agreement, the recognition is enough. 

“Yes daddy.” 

[ghstyles]

Idea for the fratrry blurb: can u do one where yn is already having a really bad day and then Harry comes around being his usual annoying self and she kind of breaks down, so he gets really concerned

Daisies | Windows Facing

«–«–«–«–«–«–«–«–«–«–«–«–«–«–«–«–«–«–«

«–«–«–«–«–«–«–«–«–«–«–«–«–«–«–«–«–«–«

Windows Facing Masterlist

Main Masterlist

«–«–«–«–«–«–«–«–«–«–«–«–«–«–«–«–«–«–«

The rain patters steadily against Y/N's window, matching her gloomy mood as she drops her backpack on the floor and collapses onto her bed. The weight of the day—no, the entire week—presses down on her shoulders like a physical burden.

Everything that could go wrong has gone wrong. Her research proposal was rejected by her advisor, who suggested she "rethink her academic priorities." She bombed the statistics midterm she'd studied three days straight for. Her laptop crashed, taking half her term paper with it. And the cherry on top: she'd just received a call from her mother, who casually mentioned that her ex-boyfriend from high school was now engaged to her former best friend.

Y/N stares at the ceiling, too exhausted even for tears. She should get up, make dinner, try to salvage what's left of her paper. Instead, she lies motionless, listening to the rain and feeling utterly alone.

The soft glow from the window across from hers catches her attention. Harry's room in the Sigma house lights up, and she can see him moving around, tossing his jacket on the bed and running a hand through his rain-dampened hair. Under normal circumstances, she'd quickly close her curtains to avoid his notice, but today she lacks the energy even for that small movement.

Harry spots her almost immediately, his face breaking into that familiar grin that usually precedes some form of teasing. He moves to his window, opening it despite the rain and cupping his hands around his mouth.

"Oi! Psychology girl!" he calls out. "You'll never guess what happened in Dr. Peterson's class today!"

Y/N sighs deeply but pushes herself up to a sitting position. Maybe Harry's ridiculous antics will provide a momentary distraction from the disaster that is her life. She opens her window reluctantly, the cool, damp air washing over her face.

"What, Harry?" she asks, her voice lacking its usual sharp edge.

Either not noticing or choosing to ignore her subdued tone, Harry launches enthusiastically into his story.

"So Peterson's going on about Freudian symbolism, right? And this freshman in the front row, complete kiss-ass, hand up for every question, he starts arguing that sometimes a cigar is just a cigar." Harry's eyes dance with mischief. "And I say, loud enough for everyone to hear, 'But sometimes it's definitely not, mate, especially the way you're fondling that pen.'"

He pauses expectantly, clearly waiting for her usual eye-roll or cutting comeback. When none comes, he continues undeterred.

"The whole class lost it! Peterson tried to look disapproving, but I caught him smiling when he thought no one was looking. Even gave me a nod after class. Think I'm finally winning him over with my charming personality and deep analytical skills."

He strikes a pose, hand on his heart, looking so ridiculous that on any other day, Y/N might have cracked a smile despite herself. Today, however, the contrast between Harry's carefree attitude and her own misery only makes her feel worse.

"That's great, Harry," she says flatly, moving to close her window.

"Wait!" he calls, his smile faltering slightly. "I haven't even told you about how Louis accidentally set off the fire alarm during the pledge meeting. Or how I beat my own record at the gym today. Or—" he wiggles his eyebrows suggestively "—how I've been thinking about that green dress you almost wore to our rain-checked dinner."

It's the last comment that does it. The casual reminder of the dinner that never happened, the green dress she'd been so careful selecting, the entire emotional rollercoaster of that evening—it all crashes down on her at once. To her horror, Y/N feels her eyes fill with tears, which spill over before she can stop them.

"Just—" her voice breaks "—just leave me alone, Harry. Not today. Please."

Harry's playful expression vanishes instantly, replaced by genuine concern. "Y/N? What's wrong?"

She shakes her head, unable to articulate the accumulation of failures and disappointments. A sob escapes her, and she claps a hand over her mouth, mortified to be breaking down in front of him of all people.

"I'm fine," she manages unconvincingly, tears still streaming down her face. "Just go away."

She slams her window shut and yanks the curtains closed, then collapses back onto her bed, allowing the tears to flow freely now that she's hidden from view. She presses her face into her pillow, shoulders shaking with silent sobs.

Five minutes pass, then ten. The storm outside intensifies, rain lashing against the windows as thunder rumbles in the distance. Gradually, Y/N's sobs subside, leaving her feeling hollow and drained. She should get up, wash her face, try to be productive, But the bed holds her like quicksand, and she can't find the will to move.

A sharp knock at her apartment door startles her. Y/N freezes, hoping whoever it is will give up and leave. The knock comes again, more insistent this time.

"Y/N?" Harry's voice calls through the door. "I know you're in there. Open up."

Y/N sits up, staring at the door in disbelief. Why would he come here?

"Go away, Harry," she calls, wincing at how raspy her voice sounds from crying.

"Not happening," he responds immediately. "I'll stand out here all night if I have to. Your neighbors already think I'm weird. Oh, and the guy from 2D just gave me a very judgmental look on his way to the trash chute."

Despite everything, Y/N feels a tiny smile tug at her lips. She can picture Harry, soaking wet from the rain, charming his way into the building and now standing stubbornly at her door.

"I'm serious, Harry. I'm not in the mood for whatever this is."

There's a pause, then Harry's voice comes again, softer this time. "I brought ice cream. And those chocolate biscuits you pretend not to like but always steal from my plate in the dining hall."

Y/N stares at the door, torn between wanting to be left alone in her misery and being genuinely touched by the gesture. With a deep sigh, she pushes herself off the bed and crosses to the door, not bothering to check her appearance in the mirror. Harry has seen her cry now; a blotchy face and red-rimmed eyes hardly matter anymore.

She opens the door to find Harry standing there, hair dripping from the rain, holding a plastic grocery bag in one hand. His usual cocky expression is nowhere to be seen, replaced by genuine concern that only deepens when he takes in her tear-streaked face.

"Jesus, Y/N," he says softly. "What happened?"

The simple question, asked with such sincere worry, almost sets her off again. She steps back, allowing him to enter rather than answering immediately.

Harry follows her inside, closing the door behind him. He sets the grocery bag on her small kitchen counter and shrugs off his wet jacket, hanging it carefully over a chair. There's none of his usual swagger or teasing as he moves around her space with unexpected consideration.

"You didn't have to come over," Y/N says, wrapping her arms around herself. She's suddenly acutely aware that she's wearing old leggings with a hole in the knee and a Northwestern sweatshirt that's seen better days.

Harry looks at her, his expression uncharacteristically serious. "Yes, I did."

He begins unpacking the grocery bag: a pint of Ben & Jerry's Chocolate Therapy, a package of the imported chocolate biscuits from the international foods section of the campus store, a bottle of red wine, and—surprisingly—a small bunch of daisies, slightly bent from being stuffed in the bag.

"The flowers were an impulse buy," he explains, looking almost embarrassed. "The cashier was judging my ice cream and alcohol purchase pretty hard. Thought they might make me seem less like an alcoholic with a sweet tooth."

A small laugh escapes Y/N, surprising both of them.

"There she is," Harry says with a gentle smile, holding out the slightly crushed flowers. "Want to tell me what's going on?"

Y/N takes the daisies, twirling them between her fingers. "It's nothing. Just... a bad day."

Harry raises an eyebrow, clearly not buying it. "A bad day makes you sniffle a bit during a sad commercial. Whatever this is—" he gestures to her tear-stained face "—is more than a bad day."

He moves to her kitchenette, opening drawers until he finds a glass that he fills with water for the flowers. His easy familiarity in her space should irritate her, but somehow it doesn't.

"You don't have to talk about it," he continues, locating spoons for the ice cream. "We can just eat our feelings and get drunk on cheap wine. But if you want to talk... I'm told I'm a surprisingly good listener when I'm not being an insufferable prat."

The self-deprecating comment draws another small smile from Y/N. She watches as Harry efficiently opens the ice cream and pours two glasses of wine, all without his usual performative flourishes or innuendos.

"It's just been..." she starts, then sighs heavily. "Everything's falling apart. My proposal got rejected. I failed my stats midterm. My laptop crashed with my paper on it. And my high school boyfriend is marrying my ex-best friend."

She hadn't meant to share all that, but once she starts, the words tumble out. Harry listens quietly, handing her a glass of wine when she finishes.

"Well, that's properly shit," he says simply. "All of it."

His straightforward acknowledgment of her problems, without immediately trying to fix them or minimize them, loosens something in Y/N's chest. She takes a sip of wine, grateful for its warmth spreading through her.

"Yeah," she agrees. "It is."

Harry guides her to the small couch, setting the ice cream container between them with both spoons stuck in it.

"For what it's worth," he says, digging his spoon into the chocolate therapy, "your ex is an idiot. And your advisor probably has a stick up his arse the size of Big Ben."

Y/N laughs softly, taking her own spoonful of ice cream. "Dr. Winters is a woman, but yes, definitely something large and uncomfortable lodged up there."

Harry grins, and for a moment, they eat in comfortable silence. The rain continues to drum against the windows, but the sound feels cozy now rather than depressing.

"You know," Harry says eventually, "I failed my first university exam. Back in London, before I transferred here."

Y/N looks at him in surprise. "You did?"

He nods, taking another sip of wine. "Spectacularly. Like, set-a-new-record-low kind of failed. My professor actually called me into his office to ask if I was feeling alright or if I'd suffered a recent head injury."

Despite herself, Y/N smiles at the image.

"What happened?" she asks.

Harry shrugs. "I panicked. Stayed up all night studying, then my brain just... empty. Completely blank during the exam." He twirls his wine glass thoughtfully. "I was so embarrassed I didn't tell anyone. Just smiled and nodded when my mates asked how it went."

"What did you do?" Y/N asks, genuinely curious about this glimpse into a less confident Harry.

"Wallowed for about a week," he admits. "Considered dropping out, changing my name, maybe becoming a shepherd in the Scottish highlands."

Y/N laughs, the sound more natural this time. "A shepherd?"

"I look good in wool," he defends with a mock-serious expression, before his face softens again. "But then I talked to my sister. She's always been the smart one in the family. And she told me something I've never forgotten."

He sets down his wine glass and turns to face Y/N fully, his expression earnest.

"She said, 'Harry, failure isn't falling down. It's refusing to get back up again.'"

Y/N absorbs this, feeling something shift in her perspective. She's always seen Harry as someone who glides effortlessly through life—charming, confident, unbothered by the academic pressures that weigh on her. The idea that he's faced similar struggles and insecurities is both surprising and oddly comforting.

"So what did you do?" she asks.

"I got back up," he says simply. "Went to the professor, asked for extra help, studied my ass off for the next exam. Still didn't get top marks, but I passed." He smiles, a genuine smile without his usual cockiness. "And more importantly, I learned I could handle failing without it being the end of the world."

Y/N nods slowly, understanding dawning. "Is that why you're always so... confident? Because you know you can handle it if things go wrong?"

Harry considers this, head tilted thoughtfully. "Maybe partly. But also—" he grins suddenly, a flash of his usual self "—I'm just naturally charming and devastatingly handsome. Can't help that part."

Y/N rolls her eyes, but she's smiling now—a real smile that reaches her eyes.

"And there's the Harry Styles I know," she says dryly. "I was starting to worry you'd been replaced by a surprisingly decent human being."

"Nope, still me," he assures her, popping the 'p' sound. "Just showing you the premium version. Limited time offer, exclusive to crying girls with good taste in ice cream."

They fall into a comfortable rhythm after that, sharing the ice cream and wine as the conversation flows more easily than it ever has between them. Harry tells stories about his childhood in Holmes Chapel, his sister Gemma, and his decision to study abroad. Y/N finds herself reciprocating, sharing anecdotes about growing up with strict parents and her passion for psychology.

As the ice cream disappears and the wine bottle empties, Y/N realizes that her earlier despair has receded. It's not gone completely, her problems still exist, but they no longer feel insurmountable.

"I should probably go," Harry says eventually, noticing the late hour. "Let you get some rest."

Y/N nods, walking him to the door. There's an awkward moment as they stand there, neither quite sure how to end this unexpected evening.

"Thank you," she says finally, meeting his eyes. "For the ice cream and the wine. And... everything else."

Harry smiles, softer than his usual grin. "Anytime, psychology girl. I mean that."

He hesitates, then reaches out to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, his touch gentle. "For what it's worth, I think you're brilliant. One setback doesn't change that."

The simple sincerity of his words catches Y/N off guard. There's no teasing, no hidden agenda, just honest appreciation that makes her chest feel warm.

"Even if I'm not in a sorority?" she asks lightly, referencing his protest after she'd beaten him at Game Night.

Harry laughs. "Even then. Though it does make it harder to justify why I let you keep winning at poker."

"Let me?" Y/N raises an eyebrow. "I believe I earned those victories fair and square."

"That's what I let you believe," he says with a wink, and just like that, they're back on familiar ground, the teasing banter that defines their relationship.

Except it's not quite the same anymore. Something has shifted between them tonight, a new understanding that can't be undone.

"Goodnight, Harry," Y/N says softly.

He nods, stepping into the hallway. "Goodnight, Y/N."

As she closes the door behind him, Y/N leans against it, a small smile playing on her lips. Her problems haven't disappeared—tomorrow she'll still need to rewrite her paper, talk to her advisor, and study for her next exam. But somehow, they all seem more manageable now.

She moves to her window, pulling back the curtain just in time to see Harry crossing the street back to the Sigma house, hunched against the rain. As if sensing her watching, he looks up, catching sight of her at the window. He gives her a small wave, which she returns before letting the curtain fall back into place.

Y/N turns to survey her apartment—the empty ice cream container, the wine glasses, the slightly crushed daisies now standing in a water glass on her counter. Physical evidence of the evening that has somehow transformed her worst day into something unexpectedly meaningful.

For the first time since meeting Harry Styles, Y/N finds herself looking forward to seeing what happens next between them—not dreading their next encounter or planning her defensive strategies, but genuinely curious about the person behind the cocky exterior he shows the world.

Taglist: @hisparentsgallery @toosarcastic03 @practistyles @sstyleszzz @sassamanda77 @wheredidmyeyesgo @pbandnutella @triski73 @angeldavis777 @ivegotthecinema @bethiegurl19 @spinninc @spargelhundTaglist: @hisparentsgallery @toosarcastic03 @practistyles @sstyleszzz @sassamanda77 @wheredidmyeyesgo @pbandnutella @triski73 @angeldavis777 @ivegotthecinema @bethiegurl19 @spinninc @spargelhund @loloooo1989

[beautifultypewriter]

Jack Abbot Fluff Alphabet

Requested: Nope

Warnings: None

Full credit to whoever created this template (I still don’t actually know who that is). Gif credit to the owner. Also, I changed the prompt for letter Q from quaint to quickstep.

Nothing to say other than I love him, your honor. And I have other The Pitt stuff coming out, so keep an eye out I guess. Hope I got his character right.

A = Attractive (What do they find attractive about the other?)

Jack loves your hands. He loves to feel your fingers running through his curls, he loves when your hand rests on his chest or his cheek or against his neck. He loves when you draw shapes on his back or when you run your fingertips over his arms. It’s so comforting to him. He loves to press his lips to your palm and thread your fingers together. The softness of your skin contrasted with the roughness of his own is something that he will never get over.

B = Baby (Do they want a family? Why/Why not?)

The only family Jack needs is you. He has no desire to have children. He already has so much going on in his life that he does not need the added stress that children bring. He’s completely content to live the rest of his life with just you and him and maybe a dog or two. That being said… if it were to happen, a surprise, unexpected thing that you want to keep… he’s 100% in. He will follow your lead and will always be there for you and for your child. It might not have been the plan, but he’s not upset. He’s a little worried, don’t get me wrong, but he’s not mad and he has no regrets about the situation.

C = Cuddle (How do they cuddle?)

Jack likes to wrap his arms around you whenever you cuddle. He likes feeling you close to him. He can’t decide if he prefers when your back is pressed to his chest or when you two are facing each other. Because when you’re face to face, he gets to look at you. He gets to see every small change in your expression, he gets to look into your eyes, he gets to brush your hair behind your ear, he gets to count your eyelashes. Your hands are resting gently on his back, tracing shapes or just moving slowly up and down and he swears he’s going to fall asleep. On the other hand, when your back is pressed to his chest, he gets to pull you in closer. He gets to hold your hands where they rest on your stomach, he gets to bury his face in your neck as the scent of your shampoo invades his senses. Both options are great to him, so he doesn’t really make requests. He lets you decide. Unless he’s had a really rough day and he needs to hold you close, but also maintain some distance. Then it’s back to chest.

D = Dates (What are dates with them like?)

Sometimes your schedules don’t line up very well and so you have mini dates that consist of lunch break walks through the park or a coffee date in the hour between his shift starting and you going home. He feels bad whenever you two have these kinds of dates because he thinks you deserve so much more than a quick cup of coffee or a 20-minute walk, but you insist that any time spent with him is perfect. He smiles, but in his head he’s planning a grander date to make it up to you. Speaking of, when the stars align and the two of you are able to have a proper date night, as he calls it, it’s never just one stop. It’s dinner and a movie or it’s drinks and live music. You two are making the most of the extended time you have. He’ll never forget the time you asked him to take you on an ice cream date. He was confused because you just wanted to grab some ice cream? That was it? Was that even really a date? You had laughed and insisted it was, but if he really wanted to then you guys could walk around the park too. And that’s what you did. You walked through the park, ice cream cones in hand, talking about how the week had been. You were more focused on the conversation and so your ice cream had started to melt and spill all over your hands, which led to you frantically trying to eat it all before it got on your shirt. Jack just watched you for a moment, laughing at your wide eyes and slightly panicked hopping. He handed you a few napkins, helping you clean your sticky hands before he was leaning in and kissing the ice cream from your lips. Your cone was quickly forgotten about as you kissed him again. Also you guys go bowling. Like a lot. It’s probably your favorite thing the two of you do.

E = Everything (You are my ____ (e.g. my life, my world…))

Peace.

This man carries so much on his shoulders and while he is working on himself, going to therapy and figuring out how to handle everything and let things go, nothing has been as calming for him as you have been. You understand him and you understand what he needs on his rough days and there is nothing he appreciates more. Nothing that brings tranquility to his chaotic world more. That understanding.

F = Feelings (When did they know they were in love?)

He knew he was in love with you when Dana and Robby were eyeing him as he finished up a few reports at the end of his shift. His foot was tapping against the floor as he mumbled to himself, thinking it would make him work faster. Robby was smirking as he looked over to his friend, “You got somewhere to be, brother?” Jack didn’t spare him a glance as he scoffed. Robby laughed, “Never seen you so agitated while finishing a report.” Dana shoved her elbow into Robby’s side, ignoring his grunt. “Leave him alone. He’s got someone special to get to.” She smiled at him as she stepped away to check on the other nurses as they arrived for shift change. Robby was still smirking as Jack stopped typing completely. You are special and he knows that, but also you are special. The most special person in his life. The one he knows he wouldn’t be able to survive without. It hits him like a freight train and he’s quick to write the last sentence of his report and grab his backpack. He gives Robby a quick goodbye before he rushes out of the ED, wanting nothing more than to be in bed with the one he loved.  

G = Gentle (Are they gentle? If so, how?)

So gentle. All of his movements are calm and calculated. He’s sure and confident and his movements are slow and light, but at the same time strong. He holds you with steady hands that ground you, but make you feel like you’re made of glass at the same time. He’s careful with you because he loves you and he wants to make sure that you know.

H = Hands (How do they like to hold hands?)

As previously stated, Jack loves your hands, so of course he loves to hold your hand. And he’ll hold your hand at any time and any place. He doesn’t care about what’s going on or who is around. That man is holding your hand. Whenever the two of you are out together, he’s reaching out to lace his fingers with yours. He does it so nonchalantly that most of the time, nobody around you even realizes that he’s holding your hand. He doesn’t look at you, he doesn’t say anything, he just takes your soft hand in his own and goes about his business. If you’re paying attention though, which you always are, you can see the corner of his mouth twitch when you give his hand a gentle squeeze.  

I = Impression (What was their first impression?)

The first time you and Jack met, you had this calm and light vibe that he noticed right away. So much of his life is rushed and chaotic and the people around him are always moving and working, but you were stationary. It made him stationary too. Everything else kind of melted away and he realized that he wanted to be around your energy for as long as possible. He liked the lightness with which you carried yourself and he wanted to know you.

J = Jealousy (Do they get jealous?)

He does not. Jack is very secure in you and in your relationship. He is a cool and confident man. He doesn’t let little things like someone else flirting with you bother him because he knows that you’ll be in his bed, in his arms at the end of the day. He will glare at people from across the room, that’s just him.

K = Kiss (How do they kiss? Who initiated the first kiss?)

Jack’s kisses are strong and sure. He looks into your eyes as he moves in slowly, his hand moving to rest on your cheek, grounding both of you in the moment, before he’s pressing his lips to yours.

He initiated the first kiss. It was fairly early in your relationship, which was a little surprising to you, but you weren’t complaining. The two of you had just finished dinner and Jack insisted on walking you home. You made easy conversation as you walked and the closer you got to your building, the slower the two of you seemed to walk. Jack wasn’t ready to leave your side, and you wanted to listen to his voice for a while longer. Unfortunately, you reach the front of your building, and you’re forced to stop. At first the two of you just stand there awkwardly, not knowing what to do or say. As you’re about to say your goodbye and head into the building, Jack steps closer to you. You hold your breath as he looks into your eyes, both of his hands moving to rest on your cheeks. You gulp as he leans closer, pausing just shy of your lips to check that you want this too. When you make no move to pull away from him, he closes the gap and kisses you. You respond immediately, your lips moving together in perfect harmony as your hands move to rest on his shoulders.

L = Love (Who says ‘I love you’ first?)

You did. You’re on his couch, halfway through a movie that neither of you are really paying much attention to. Jack is trying to keep his eyes open as you’re biting your lip, trying to figure out if you should say what’s been on your mind all night. Finally, you decide to just do it. What’s the worst that could happen? You don’t look at him as you speak, choosing to keep your eyes trained on the screen, “Jack?” He hums and you take a deep breath, “I love you.” He tenses and you’re sure you’ve just ruined the best relationship you’ve ever had. A minute passes and then two. You’re praying that he’ll say something, but the silence stretches. You need to leave. You mumble incoherently as you attempt to rise from the couch, but Jack’s grip is strong as he pulls you back. His other hand moves to your cheek and he’s gently turning your face towards him. His eyes are wide as he stares at you, his mouth a straight line. You feel like you’re going to be sick until you feel his warm lips press against your own. His kiss is strong as his hand slides down to rest on your neck. He pulls back slightly, staring into your eyes again as a small smile slips onto his lips, “I love you.”

M = Memory (What’s their favourite memory together?)

Jack had just finished another tough shift, handing off his patients to Robby and getting out of the ED as quickly as he could. He just wanted to go home and relax. As he pushed open the door to his apartment, he caught sight of your shoes, perfectly placed on the shoe rack in the entryway, and he remembered that 12 hours ago as he was getting ready to leave for work, you were sitting at his kitchen island. He was facing the opposite direction of you as he busied himself with his thermos, the question he wanted to ask getting stuck in his throat. You hummed to yourself as you passed an apple over to him. He chuckled as he took it, some of the tension leaving him, “Will you be here when I get back?” He refused to look at you. He wasn’t sure if you were at this point in your relationship yet and he worried about the look on your face. There was a beat of silence before your quiet voice was floating through the air, “Do you want me to be?” He hesitated for only a moment before he nodded, his gaze on the apple still in his hands. He felt your arms wrap around his middle and your chin rest on his shoulder, “Then I’ll be here.” And you were. Your shoes were on the shoe rack, and you were still in his apartment, waiting for him. He dropped his backpack and slipped his own shoes off before he slowly moved into the living room. It was empty, as was the kitchen, so he moved over to his bedroom. Slowly, he pushed the door open, not wanting to disturb your peace, and stepped into the room. You were cuddled up in his bed, the blanket pulled up to your chin and a serene look on your face. Jack stood there and watched you for a moment, thinking that he had never seen a more beautiful sight and knowing that he could get used to this view.

N = Nickel (Do they spoil? Do they buy the person they love everything?)

Jack definitely does not spoil you. Like it’s just not at all who he is, but like he’s really protective, so he does the weirdest things. Like he’s giving you pocketknives every other day and always making sure that they’re sharp and in good condition. He’ll definitely get up before you, man barely sleeps, and make breakfast before you’re even up. He sets it out on the table so it’s completely ready for you when you do get up and then he’ll sit and sip his coffee while you eat. He'll clear your plate when you’re done, even if you insist that you can do it yourself. You know what? I take it back. He does spoil you. In his own Jack way, he spoils you.

O = Orange (What colour reminds them of their other half?)

Lilac.

Whenever Jack sees the light, airy lilac color he’s immediately reminded of your tranquility and gentleness. You are soothing and emotional. You bring him peace and love and he can’t help the lightness that fills his chest when he thinks of you.

P = Pet names (What pet names do they use?)

Sweetheart is a big one for Jack. It’s mumbled quietly next to your ear when he crawls into bed with you and wraps you in his arms. Sweetheart is slipping past his lips as he says goodbye to you before going into work. It’s said between laughs as you try to get him to dance with you at the bar where you had met him and his coworkers for a quick drink. It’s second nature to him. That’s who you are. His sweetheart.

Q = Quickstep (How do they feel about dancing?)

Jack is not a dancer. He never has been and never will be. If you take him to a wedding, you can expect to be dancing with your friends and family because he is parking himself in his chair and he’s not moving. For as much as he dislikes dancing, he loves to watch you dance. The way you move with confidence and grace, a huge smile on your face as you feel the music. He thinks it’s beautiful. He loves how you let yourself move so freely. He could watch you dance all day. At weddings and at the bar, he is staying far from the dance floor, but at home, if you play your cards right, you can convince him to sway with you in the living room. You’ll pick the perfect song, a slow and calm one and you’ll step in front of him where he’s sitting in his recliner. He’ll pretend not to notice you at first, but you’ll bend down so that your eyes meet, and he’s done for. You’ll flash a smile and hold your hands out. He’ll heave a sigh, but he’ll get to his feet and wrap you in his arms. Your head will rest on his shoulder as you move in slow circles, the song carrying through the otherwise quiet apartment. He’ll smile into your neck, holding that much tighter.

R = Rainy Day (What do they like to do on a rainy day?)

This man is not moving from the couch if he doesn’t have to. Rainy days can be very aggravating for him and his leg, so if he can help it, he prefers to stay in. Something that you don’t mind at all. You wake up and you can hear the patter of rain against the window, and you smile, knowing that Jack will want to stay in. Quietly, you get out of bed, making sure not to disturb your sleeping lover, and make your way to the living room. You set up a movie, you light a candle, and you throw blankets and pillows onto the couch. Then you make your way to the kitchen to cut up fruit and put the kettle on to boil. When you hear Jack moving around in the bedroom, you pour hot water into two mugs and carry the fruit into the living room. He emerges to see you placing the tray onto the coffee table. He glances to the window and notices the rain rolling down the glass. He smirks as his eyes move back to you, “Movie day?”

S = Sad (How do they cheer themselves/others up?)

We all know where Jack ends up when he’s sad. He’s on the roof and you’re pushing open the door and making your way over to him. He doesn’t turn and you don’t say anything as you lean against the railing. Jack appreciates that. He appreciates that you don’t try to force him into conversation before he’s ready. You let him have his moment, but never alone because you want him to know that’s he’s not alone. You’re always going to be right there next to him, and he can lean on you whenever he needs to. When he’s ready, he climbs back under the railing and you wrap your arms around him, letting him find comfort in your embrace. When you’re sad, he’s yapping. He doesn’t even fully know what he’s saying, but he’s trying so hard to make you feel better that whatever comes into his head is leaving his mouth. Sometimes you have to tell him to shut up and he will. He’ll give you whatever time you need, staring intently at you to see if your mood shifts and he needs to offer comfort again.

T = Talking (What do they like to talk about?)

This man is a certified yapper. I don’t make the rules. He loves to hear about your day, and he loves to ask you questions. He doesn’t like to talk about the hard parts of his job, but he loves to tell you about the lighter moments of his day, like when Shen dropped his coffee in the parking lot or when Robby knocked over a stack of patient files right before he left for the night. He’ll tell you about the crazy patients or the times his coworkers annoyed him. He’ll tell you about how he missed you while he was gone, about how he thought of you all night and how he couldn’t wait to get home to you. He’s always filling the quiet moments with chatter, little things like I love you or you look beautiful or guess what the med student did today. I think the silence is both needed and too much for him. Sometimes he needs those moments of quiet solitude to reflect and to work through things, but at the same time the quiet can be really distressing for him. That’s when the bad thoughts can creep in and it doesn’t matter how many coping skills he has, they don’t always work. That’s when he starts chattering, usually about nothing so important, just a way to fill the silence and to remind himself that you’re there. I think when the two of you lay down together, with your back to his chest and his arms wrapped tightly around you, that’s when he’ll talk about the heavy stuff. When he feels safe, with you close, he’ll share those hard moments, just so he can get them out of his own head. You listen without interruption, just your fingertips running gently over his arm to keep him grounded.

U = Unencumbered (What helps them relax?)

Candles. He won’t say it out loud, but he loves when you light one of your candles in the living room. He’ll be sitting on the couch or in his recliner with his glasses on and his latest book in his hands, but he’s tense. He can’t quite let go of the day, can’t get completely comfortable no matter how many times he adjusts his legs or fluffs the pillow behind him. You stroll into the room and immediately you can see that he’s having a hard time relaxing. You don’t say anything as you light your brand-new candle and grab a blanket from the wicker basket in the corner. Jack’s eyes are on his book as he lifts one arm and you sit next to him, draping the blanket over both of your laps. His arm rests on your shoulder as you snuggle into his side and you can feel him relax against you, the smell of vanilla swirling around the room.

V = Vaunt (What do they like to show off? What are they proud of?)

This is hard because for as much stress and doubt that his job brings, Jack is truly a very good doctor. Deep down he knows this, though he doesn’t let it go to his head, but I don’t know that he feels particularly proud of the fact. I think there’s some pride there, but it stems from how much he cares and how hard he works, not from his actual skill. I don’t think he would ever say any of this though. It’s a not even fully formed thought that he keeps to himself.

W = Wedding (When, how, where do they propose?)

It’s a quiet moment. It’s a quiet and private moment meant only for the two of you. Jack had just gotten home from a long shift and instead of going straight to bed to cuddle with you before you had to get up for work, he went to the kitchen. He was as quiet as possible as he made your favorite breakfast, hoping that he would be done before you woke up. His hopes were answered as he plated up the food at the same time that the bedroom door opened. He turned to see you walking into the kitchen mid-yawn and your pajamas slightly disheveled. He couldn’t help the smile that spread over his lips as he watched you make your way to the table. You gave him a look as if to say, ‘where were you?’ and he chucked as he pushed the plate to you as an explanation and an apology. You smiled at him and dug into the food, humming quietly as the taste hit your tongue. Jack watched you eat as he sipped some orange juice, his hand twitching at his side. Then you looked up at him again and he felt his heart jump. He could do this. With a shaky hand, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small box. His hand was more sure as he placed the box on the table and slid it over to you. Your fork clattered against the plate as your eyes widened, and you stared at him. He smiled at you and nodded to the box. Now your hands were shaking as you reached for it and flipped open the lid. A gasp broke the silence and tears welled in your eyes. Jack reached out and took the ring from its place in the box to gently slide it onto your finger.

X = Xylophone (What’s their song?)

Chiquitita – ABBA

There are heavy moments in your lives. Hard things that have a great effect on him and on you, but you’re there to remind each other that the sun will shine again and that you can move on from these things. You’re there for each other, to help each other heal and to get through whatever life throws at you.

Y = Yes (Do they ever think of getting married/proposing?)

Before he met you, Jack was pretty sure that he wouldn’t ever get married again. He figured he had gotten his one great love and he had contented himself with the thought of not having something so serious again. But then you waltzed into his life and made yourself a home in his heart, one he was most willing to let you have and he started to realize that he could have something beautiful and serious and wonderful with you. He liked waking up next to you and he liked cooking you breakfast. He liked hearing you padding around the apartment and seeing your toothbrush next to his. He liked getting to hold you in his arms in the early morning and he liked going to the grocery store with you. So yeah, he thinks about putting a ring on your finger and with each passing day, that thought terrifies him less and less.

Z = Zebra (If they wanted a pet, what would they get?)

Originally, I was going to say that Jack would get a dog. He’d feel guilty about the time he has to spend away from you, so he’d ask if you wanted some company in the form of a furball. You’d agree and the two of you would go to a shelter and adopt an older dog, one who is settled and doesn’t require training. And that’s all well and good, but now I’m thinking that he would definitely get a turtle. Like it’s really lowkey, but also a nice companion to have around. Yeah. You’d get both. And they’d be best friends.

[witchstormm]

Okay, I see your points, respect that view, but I don’t know if I agree still. To clarify, by 'object of affection' I'm not meaning that Pokey cares about Paul; I more mean that he's obsessed with him, and it is different from Tinky. Tinky is also obsessed, yes, wanting to have his blorbo in a little jar and shake him around, but also he likes to watch how a person's free will becomes their greatest downfall. It's why Ted's his favorite; Ted is presented multiple opportunities to grow and change, but he never does. In contrast, Pokey's obsession lies in the cat and mouse game between him and Paul, knowing that Paul will never win. Instead, I think that because of that, Paul is relegated to almost an object-like status for Pokey. A toy to play with, if you will, where he can make him do whatever he pleases, and any semblance of free will that Paul exhibits, as little as that might be, only adds to the chase. I don’t think this situation causes him any real duress nor do I think Pokey ever viewed Paul as a rival to his beliefs because he already knows the outcome will always be the same. It is, after all, inevitable. That's why I also disagree with your view on Emma in this situation as well. I think he does think about her, maybe he doesn’t vocalize it as much as he does Paul, but he thinks about her enough to showcase her demise at the end of the show. To show what happens to those who actively defy him. Because she doesn’t get him in the end, he gets her, and I feel that's really important to the story being told here.

I see your “Paul is Pokotho’s favorite” theory and raise you “Paul is Pokotho’s nemesis”

So here’s the thing about Pokey: he hates any voice that isn’t his own. He sees Hatchetfield and all their drama and he feels superior because he KNOWS there’s not a single person in this world whose part he can’t play better than them.

He knows their little wants and deepest desires. He understands their character motivations more deeply than those miserable ants ever could. 

Except here’s the thing. Thousands of timelines, countless different scenarios he and his brothers have dreamed up, and in all of that there’s still one question that remains unanswered:

Who the fuck is Paul?

No seriously who the hell is this guy. Like, he’s in every story but what’s his deal. What does Paul want? He wants a date with a barista. And seemingly, that’s it.

Great. Fucking riveting.

The man is nothing, he’s set dressing, he’s a total non sequitur. Plot threads walk up to him and he goes “no thanks I have better things to do” and prattles off

He doesn’t have better things to do. He never has better things to do. He’s going to go home and browse Wikipedia for an hour and then go to bed. Pokey goddamn checked. 

Even in the universe where he gets replaced with a goddamn time traveling clone, that clone’s ambition start and end with marrying that same fucking barista because he is seemingly programmed in his DNA to be BORING

He doesn’t even like musicals, the uncultured cuck.

But now Paul’s gone and made Pokey waste valuable brainpower pondering the inner life of stupid nothing mortal like he’s fucking Tinky. And Pokey’s not gonna stand for that kind of slight. 

Paul’s just like every other worthless person in his universe and Pokey’s going to prove it. He’ll wrench a story from Paul’s bloody corpse if it’s the last thing he’ll ever do. 

And he’s going to do it in SONG

[notarmedandnotdangerous]

+18 mdni! watch your mouth; a fic where bucky's your boss, and you're his secretary. he ends up getting himself into a lot of trouble with you.

cw: dom!m!reader, sub!bucky, slightly mean!reader, temperature play, use of blindfold, and silk ties, slight bondage (?), edging, oversensitive bucky, a bit of plot, and softness at the end?

word count: >2.5k

part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4 | part 5 | part 6 (soon)

___________________________________________

it was day 4, finally nearing the end of this tortuous week of training for bucky.

mr. ‘schedules a lot’:

‘be here by 12’

you had told him to arrive before noon, and he did. the door had opened before he could even knock. you don’t speak, just let him in.

he follows, as you guided him to your bedroom.

“strip.”

bucky obeyed immediately.

once he was naked, you signalled for him to get on your bed. you leaned forward, tying him to the bedpost with silk ties. then came the blindfold. his chest rose and fell, his breathing rowing shakier by the second.

there was a soft brush of fingertips down his chest, then a slow stroke across his thigh. his breath hitched from the sheer anticipation he felt.

then, five minutes of silence continued. he whimpers when he realised you’ve left him alone.

bucky’s breathing was calm when you returned. he sighed in relief when he heard your footsteps.

“still breathing?”

he nodded, and his thoughts had started to run:

‘what is that?’

clink. there was the sound of ice against glass.

‘two bowls?’

his breath caught, then it hit him: ice. fucking ice.

‘oh my god, he’s going to use ice on me.’

his cock twitched.

‘that’s cruel. so fucking cruel.’

‘he’s going to drag it down my stomach. fuck.’

“you’re sweating.” you said, casually, before reaching down with cold fingers.

“fuck.” he flinched when he felt your cool fingers brush the inside of his thigh.

“i think we should cool you down.”

‘he doesn’t mean that.’ he thought hazily. ‘he’s going to-’

the ice came in contact with his skin, and he jerked with a gasp.

“stay still. it’s just ice, don’t tell me you can’t handle it?” you chuckled.

“s-sorry. thank you.. f-for your touch, sir.”

“you’re so sensitive it’s pathetic.” you whispered into his ear. “what would happen if i just..” you pressed the ice on his perineum, and he moaned shamelessly. “..slipped one of it inside you?”

he choked on his breath, tongue darting out to wet his lips.

“maybe later.” another cube glides down bucky’s collarbone, leaving a wet, cool trail that has him squirming. his cock jumps, completely untouched, but aching. it’s not like he can control it. the cube melted slowly as it moved down his chest.

then, you did something mean. you cupped his balls with the hand that held the ice. the cold makes him jolt, he almost screamed, but bit down on his lip to quiet his noises.you grabbed another cube of ice to trail it over his ribs.

“good boy. you feel everything so deeply, don’t you?” then you leaned down, replacing your cool hand with your mouth. your hot tongue laved at his balls, and he almost cried. the contrast between the icy fingertips, and your wet, warm mouth. you licked a slow line up his chest, making him twitch violently. his back arches painfully, but he doesn’t cry out, he knew better.

“you want something warmer instead?” not even a second later, you pressed a heated massage stone down against his hip bone, and he writhed. “you’re leaking. i haven’t even done anything yet.”

“it’s.. all for you..” he whimpered.

you spread your palm against bucky’s back, arching it slightly. then, another cube glided down his spine, then lower. he mewled at it, arching away from the cool sensation. the cool water trickled down towards his tailbone as the ice melted, making him shiver. then the warmth returned, you kissed along his rib.

he was gone, sobbing through clenched teeth, his cock twitching, whole body spasming. he was speaking without words, just gasps, movements, and the soreness of his body fighting the urge to buck or cry out.

you let go of him, letting him fall back onto the sheets of your bed.

then, you took one last cube of ice, and slowly circled the sensitive tip of his cock. it was cruel, he was already so swollen, so sensitive, and the cool sensation burned against his skin.

bucky choked on a sob, his whole body tensed as you circled the tip over, and over, and over again.

then, the warmth of your mouth followed. your tongue replaced the cube with a slow, single lick up his cock. he thought he was finally going to get the relief of your warm mouth on him, until you placed the ice between your teeth, and dragged it up his cock.

that broke him. he sobbed, hands clenching into fists, nails digging into the silk ties around his hands, and wrists. he was trembling now, cock still hard.

using another cube, that was melting in your mouth, you kissed all over his flushed skin. you spread his thighs further, pressing the second cube against his hole.

bucky didn’t speak anymore, he couldn’t. instead, he jerked so violently that you had to brace him.

“you’ll stay like this. begging, and shaking.” you left him tied, ice bowl beside him, just in case he needed a reminder, before walking out the room.

minutes of silence had passed. just when bucky thought you had left for good, the familiar noise of the door creaking open snapped him out of his trance. he couldn’t see through the blindfold, but he could recognise the familiar rhythm of your footsteps.

“couldn’t stay away. look at you.” you spoke, dragging your fingertips over his skin. “still frozen? let me warm you up.” you leaned forward, taking his cock in your mouth slowly, and giving him the idea of being able to cum.

“f-fuck! sir- i-..” he could barely breathe, let alone when he had his cock in your perfectly warm mouth. his hips threatened to lift, to buck into your mouth, but you held him in place.

it was too much for bucky, the continuous edging followed by the slow, tortuous pace of your mouth on his cock. his moans were helpless, strangled, and raw. every single one of them earned a small hum of approval from you.

all you did was go deeper, letting him feel the back of your throat. you were so good at this, it wasn’t fair, not to him.

he was about to cum, how couldn’t he?

“s-sir.. i.. c-can i? gonna..”

with that, you pulled off completely. he nearly sobbed at that. you took off his blindfold, kissing his cheekbones, and tasting the stray tears on his cheek.

“you didn’t think i was actually going to let you, right?” you said, before continuing to untie the silk ties around his wrists.

bucky’s breath stuttered. part of him wanted to just shove his cock straight down your throat, he was stronger than you anyway. but he chose not to. all he did was nod, because you were in control, and he loved it.

you let him rest after that.

___________________________________________

when he finally woke up, it was almost 5 pm. his body was sore, sensitive in a way that made even the brush of fabric against him made him groan.

he padded out of your room, freshly showered. he was wearing a soft shirt, and sweats that were a little too small for him.

“feel better?”

bucky’s face flushed, and he gave a slight nod.

poor thing, he didn’t know that after all that he endured, you would still dish out more.

whenever he sat beside you on the couch, your hand would casually rest over his cock, warm, and twitching inside his sweats. whenever he reached up to grab something from the shelves, you’d drag your fingers against the exposed skin above his waistband.

the worst part was that he was hard the entire time.

at one point, bucky laid his head in your lap. big mistake.

you were carding your fingers through his hair, soft, and slow, giving him a false sense of security as he melted into your lap. you chuckled, before reaching down to thumb at the tip of his cock, just once. he jumped at that.

“you’re still this worked up? i thought you would’ve calmed down by now, considering how you slept for almost 2 hours.”

he whimpered.

you decided to take him out for dinner outside. it was the kind of place fit for business meetings, or quiet celebrations, definitely not for a desperate, overstimulated boss sitting across his secretary.

during dinner, bucky was an absolute mess trying to keep it together, trying to eat, and act like just your gaze wasn’t affecting him at all.

by 8pm, bucky was glassy-eyed, barely blinking, cheeks parted with a flush that had absolutely nothing to do with the wine he let you sip.. he kept trying to sit still, trying to focus on the food, on the conversation you were having with him.

‘he’s acting so normal, as if he didn’t just wreck me.’

‘how is he so calm, so composed?’

you didn’t even have to do anything, just sat there, calm, yet amused. your hand would occasionally brush the rim of your glass, or purposefully touch his fingers when you asked him to pass something to you. when you crossed your legs, and accidentally nudged him, he sucked in a sharp breath.

“such a polite dinner guest.”

bucky was trying so hard to play it cool, to pretend like nothing was wrong. though the way his thighs clenched, and the strain in his jaw gave it away. his fork trembled in his grip as he glanced over towards you, watching you eat.

‘i wonder if he knows.’

‘that i can’t stop thinking about the way his mouth felt, the way he looked at me when he made me beg.’

“i can see the way you're trembling. i haven’t touched you in hours.”

you weren’t even teasing him, didn’t say a single filthy thing. you were just sat there enjoying a peaceful meal, while he felt like his brain was fraying at the seams.

‘i want to crawl under the table, and press my face between his thighs.’

‘need to choke on it so fucking bad.’

he looked up, and accidentally made eye contact with you. it was casual, and friendly, but to him, it felt like you knew everything that was going on in his mind.

“so good for me, i almost feel bad for how cruel i’m treating you. you’re going to stay the night.’ you spoke. “you better not pull anything. if i catch you, we’ll start over, all the way from day one. you wouldn’t want that to happen, do you?”

he shook his head, there was no way he was starting again from day one, that would be tortuous.

and when dessert arrived, you scooped a small bite of the lava cake up in the spoon.

“open.” you fed him a bite of the warm chocolate lava cake.

even the sheer intimacy of being fed by you made him whimper.

you didn’t rush him, just watch as he swallowed.

bucky’s face burned with embarrassment, he didn’t speak, afraid the shake of his voice would betray him.

his entire body shuddered, and you chuckled. by the end of dinner, he couldn’t sit still, not with the way that you were looking at him.

‘he’s doing this on purpose.’

‘he knows the effect he has on me.’

then, the both of you had finished dinner. ‘finally’, he thought. you drove the both of you home.

“come.” you spoke, and he followed.

bucky realised that you were leading him to your bedroom once more, and his thoughts started to run once more:

‘not again.’

‘what now? what’s he going to do to me this time?’

‘is he going to tie me down, make me beg, but deny me anyway?’

his body was already reacting, he could practically feel the phantom press of your palm against his body.

but this time, you didn’t strip him, didn’t look at him like he was prey. you got into bed, lifted the covers, and patted the space beside you.

bucky stood there, blinking dumbly at you. finally, he slipped under the covers slowly, and carefully. he braced for a teasing touch, a twist of his nipple.

but all you did was slide an arm around his waist and pull him closer.

he laid there, stunned by how quiet, and gentle it was. your arm around him was firm, but not teasing, not moving.

‘he just wants to sleep.’

‘that’s it?’

‘he’s not going to..?’

the thought of it rattled him more than anything. you could’ve destroyed him tonight, broke him down and rebuilt him, but you didn’t, you chose to hold him.

bucky realised right there and then, this might be the most devastating thing of all.

[ladsrlife]

What are you doing step brother???!!!

Caleb x Reader

Where you start living with your step-brother for uni and the relationship starts to take an interesting turn...

Chapter 1💗

Chapter 2💗

(Please refer to my blog to view subsequent chapters)

────── ❀•°❀°•❀ ──────

Chapter 3

You wake up to a headache. One that’s between pounding and mildly uncomfortable.

As you get up you notice that you’re still in your jeans and t-shirt. Your reflection in the mirror is a sight to behold - messy hair, smudged mascara, puffy face.

Right, you drank too much last night.

You try to recall what happened. Much of it is a blur. Some memories of you dancing, yelling, laughing… getting dizzy…

You decide to take a shower. As you leave your room you say good morning to Caleb who’s already awake and sitting by the kitchen table.

You close the bathroom door behind you, undress, and turn on the shower. You feel the hot stream of water engulf your body. Your headache feels a little better.

You recall your short interaction with Caleb just now. As always, he looked spotless and ready, scrolling through his phone with a mug in his hand. A bystander wouldn’t be able to tell he drank last night too. You laugh at the difference between you and him.

You stop laughing when a sudden memory surfaces.

Of him groaning and caressing your foot.

His shaky, warm breath. Suppressed moans. The rhythmical sound of skin on skin. A wet sound unique enough that you can’t possibly mistake it for anything else. The low, deep, suppressed moan that filled the room.

The memory comes by like a flash.

Your body heats up even faster. Your stomach drops and you grip on the walls in a sudden bout of dizziness. Your breath comes out in ragged pants.

This was weird. The memory was weird, your reaction to it was even weirder. As much as it called to you, you wanted to run a way from it.

You try to shake it off by hurriedly showering like you got a meeting to run to. You wrap a large beach towel around your body and leave the bathroom. You slap yourself in the face a couple times before changing in your room, then apply some moisturizer before heading back into the kitchen.

“Mornin’ pipsqueak. Feeling alright?” Caleb greets you with a smirk above his mug.

You lock eyes with his purple ones. They’re clear and bright. For some reason you feel even hotter. You struggle to open your mouth.

“Why are your cheeks so red?” He suddenly asks in a concerned tone.

He swiftly comes over and towers over you.

“Do you have a fever?”

He asks, raising a hand to your forehead.

You're suddenly overwhelmed. His scent, his touch, his voice—everything crashes over you like a wave.

You flinch and push his hand away. "I'm fine. The water must’ve been too hot," you mumble, too quickly.

He blinks, clearly thrown off by your rough dismissal, as if he missed a line in the conversation.

It’s not like you to pull away from him.

"You sure?" he asks again, quieter this time.

"Yeah. I don’t have a fever. Just a slight headache," you reply, sitting down at the table to put some space between you and him. "Is this what a hangover feels like?"

He goes with the flow and settles into the seat across from you.

"Well, you did drink a crazy amount. You even hit that magical level of drunk where you tried to pet your drink like it was a cat." He chuckles at the memory, shaking his head. "Here, drink a lot of water. It helps."

He pours you a glass and slides it across the table.

"...Thanks," you murmur, eyes down.

“Want some eggs and toast? Eating carbs also help.” He gets up and heads to the counter top.

“Yes please.”

“You know, my friends were right. I'm glad I was there for your first drink.” He turns around and chats to you while making the food. “You drank and partied like a wild child off the leash. What would you have done if I weren’t around to take care of you?”

His demeanor is the same as always—quintessential Caleb. But his refreshing smile and upbeat voice stand in stark contrast to the dark, ragged, breathy moans buried deep in your memory, stirring a profound sense of dissonance. The Caleb in it is so different from the Caleb you know and see in front of you right now, that it makes you seriously question if you had dreamt it all.

“I think I went a bit overboard precisely because you were around.” You hide these thoughts within you and answer instead.

“That’s touching. But you gotta promise me you won’t drink like that when I’m not around.”

“Yeah yeah,” you brush him off. “Did you drink a lot last night?” You ask him. Maybe it was the booze that made him act weird.

"Not really. I don’t like drinking much.” So that possibility goes out the window. “It scares me—not having full control over my body.”

He walks over to hand you breakfast, and you reach for it.

Your fingers graze his, and you flinch.

In an instant, your hands pull back. The plate slips and crashes to the floor. The sharp crack of shattering glass fills the kitchen.

You look up to find a wide-eyed Caleb, frozen in tracks. His eyes are full of confusion.

You’re equally bewildered.

What the fuck is wrong with me? you chastise yourself.

The first time could be dismissed as a mistake, but a second time?

“…My bad,” you say, avoiding his questioning gaze. “I’ll clean it up.”

He stops you with a hesitant arm—close, but not touching.

“You’re barefoot. I’ll clean it.”

You sink back into your chair, watching him silently as he retrieves the dustpan and broom.

His face looks two shades paler, like he saw something he wasn’t meant to.

The clink of glass against the dustpan fills the quiet space.

He doesn’t ask why you’re acting weird.

Instead, he keeps his mouth shut and head down, like he’s holding something in.

And somehow, that makes everything feel even weirder.

────── ❀•°❀°•❀ ──────

Days pass, and the unspoken tension between you and Caleb shows no signs of easing.

For some reason, he acts like you have the plague. The casual touches—the hair ruffles, the absentminded caresses—are gone. Now, he keeps a full meter of space between you, like proximity itself might hurt him.

It leaves you restless.

The more he withdraws, the more you cling to fragments of the past—the way he’d pull you into his chest, the warmth of his hands on your head, and, to your dismay, the guilt-heavy memory of his moans, his body pressed against yours.

The harder you try to forget, the deeper it seems to etch itself into your mind.

Maybe it’s the shame. Or maybe it’s the fear. Either way, even as the need to reach for him grows stronger by the day, you can’t bring yourself to be the one to close the distance.

And then, just like that, while your head is a total mess, university starts.

You meet a lot of new people in your major and in your swimming club.

“Oh, wow, you’re Y/N, right?” A sophomore in your swimming club recognizes you in the locker room on the first day of swim practice.

Startled, you turn around, hiding your naked body beneath the swimsuit you were holding.

“Yes?” You reply.

“You’re Caleb’s sister!”

Her friends join at the word. They surround you like a flock of pigeons.

“Oh my gosh, you’re so pretty. Your family must have great. genes.” She must not know you and Caleb aren’t related by blood.

“Caleb and I are close.” Another says with her nose in the air.

“What do you mean close.” Another scoffs. “You listened to a seminar with him once.”

“Once more than you, bitch?”

“Excuse me?”

You hurriedly shout above the chattering.

“If! It’s okay-” they turn to look at you. “I’d like to change, please?”

At that, they sheepishly laugh and give you space.

But they’re persistent - they make sure to leave the best impression on you. They get your number and invite you to every gathering and opportunity they get.

You knew Caleb was popular in high school, but was it ever to this extent?

You really want to be proud of him, but it gets harder with every conversation, every message from another girl whose intentions couldn’t be more obvious.

Therefore you end up mostly keeping to yourself, and stick only to a small group of friends from your department.

“Shouldn’t you be, like, out partying or something?” Ethan asks during your first movie night with Caleb’s friends. “You’re a freshman. Second week of school. Peak chaos time.”

“I wasn’t invited,” you reply, settling onto the couch.

Ethan laughs like you just told the best joke he’s ever heard.

“What?” you ask, raising an eyebrow.

Ethan and his friend Jacob exchange a look.

“You’re hot,” Jacob says flatly, like it’s just a fact. “There’s probably a line of people waiting to invite you.”

“Yeah, like... Hollywood hot,” Ethan adds, nodding.

Before you can respond, Caleb clears his throat from behind them.

They both jolt upright as he walks into the room and sets a giant bowl of popcorn on the table—hard enough to make the kernels jump.

His expression is neutral, but his tone isn’t.

“I really hope you two aren’t trying to flirt with my sister.”

“We weren’t!” Jacob blurts out.

“They were.” Jessica chimes in casually from beside you, a smirk playing on her lips.

“Absolute clowns.”

Caleb mutters with a shake of his head, then grabs the nearest cushion off the floor and lobs it at Ethan.

Jacob yelps as a second cushion comes flying his way.

“Hey! We were being nice!”

Caleb just shrugs, a wide grin spreading from ear to ear. “This is me being nice.”

He then scans the room for a seat. The only open spot is right beside you.

His gaze lingers for half a second before turning away.

“Hey, Jessica,” he says casually. “Mind scooting over?”

She moves without question.

And because you were sitting next to her, you end up shifting too—all the way to the edge of the couch.

You pretend it doesn’t sting, but it does. He's distancing himself again.

You end up not being able to focus on the movie at all. Your mood plummets lower each time Jessica jokingly taps Caleb’s arm, or slightly shift towards him.

“But didn’t you say you love me?!” The actress shouts from inside the TV. “If you loved me, you wouldn’t be doing this!”

Exactly! You agree with the actress with clenched teeth. He shouldn’t do that if he loves her!

By the time the ending credits roll, you’re on the verge of tears.

You have a hard time socializing afterward. You thought you disguised your distraught well enough, but as everyone is getting ready to leave, Zayne quietly comes up to you and asks you in a hushed tone.

“You okay?”

Something about his gentle tone makes your throat tighten.

You swallow the lump of emotions rising up.

“Yeah. I’m fine. Thanks.”

You force a smile, looking up into his amber eyes.

He must be a damn good psychiatrist—catching what you tried so hard to hide and choosing to care anyway. Just as he turns to go, you call out.

“Zayne.” He pauses and looks back, head tilting slightly. You lick your lips. “Do you have space for an extra booking?”

Understanding flickers in his gaze. “Yes. How about I give you my number.”

“Sounds great.” you say quickly, trying not to sound too eager.

As he pulls out his wallet, you catch Caleb turning around in the background—his eyes landing on you.

You pretend not to notice.

“Thanks,” you say as Zayne hands you a crisp white business card.

You walk with him to the door, where everyone is starting to leave.

“I should be free next week.” Zayne tells you as he steps out.

“Sounds good!” you reply, voice bright.

The door closes behind him with a soft click.

Just as you’re about to turn around to go to your room, Caleb’s voice cuts through the silence.

“Free for what?”

You pause. “Huh?” You don’t really want to talk to him right now.

“You’re meeting up with Zayne?”

“Yeah. What about it?”

His expression tightens. The way he stares at you tugs out emotions you barely just suppressed.

Why is he looking at you like you’re the one at fault?

“What- you’re having dinner with him, or something?” His eyebrows furrow beneath his neat brown hair.

“Yeah. He seems nice.” You lie just to get on his nerves. “And hot.”

You turn on your heel, not waiting for his reaction.

But before you can take two steps, a hand roughly grabs your wrist and sharply pulls you back.

“Hey! What the hell, Caleb?” you shout, stumbling as he spins you around.

You’re about to push him away when he pulls you in for a strong embrace.

Your breath catches as his arms lock around you.

Your body reacts before your mind does- first going rigid, then melting into a warm, helpless puddle.

As he buries his head in the crook of your shoulder, you don’t know if the pounding heartbeat you feel through the fabric is yours… or his.

He doesn’t say anything.

“What’s wrong with you?” You demand, voice shaking, even as a wave of relief crashes over you at the familiar warmth.

You push at him half-heartedly, a pathetic attempt when your arms feel like jelly.

“Don’t push me away.” He murmurs, his voice low and rough in your ear.

It sends a shiver down your spine.

“You-” your voice falters. “You’re the one who’s been pushing me away…”

He tightens his embrace in response.

Your words disappear into the fabric of his shirt, swallowed by the steady rise and fall of his chest.

The anger that had been clinging to you these past few weeks slips away—quietly, like it never belonged.

Slowly, you lift your arms and wrap them around him, drawing him closer.

He exhales at your touch, like he’s been holding his breath this whole time.

You fully bury yourself in his warmth, something you missed for what felt like eternity. The ache of it nearly brings tears to your eyes.

“Is this okay?” Caleb whispers, pulling back just enough to look at you.

His amethyst eyes are soft and warm, like he’s asking for permission.

Permission for what?

You’re confused, but you feel like you should nod anyway.

And when you do, he smiles, brighter than he has in weeks, and pulls you back into his arms with a quiet sigh.

Nothing was really resolved, but some things are better left unsaid.

You close your eyes and hold on tighter.

Things are finally back to the way they were, and for now, that was more than enough.

────── ❀•°❀°•❀ ────── Hope you guys enjoyed this!!!

Will try to update at least once a week :D (I'm actually on vacation now and have tons of time. Maybe I'll just speed through it while I have the chance)

Likes and comments are life <3

[foreverisntenough]

‘Aperture’

Summary: A professional footballer with a playboy reputation finds his world reframed when he meets a talented photographer who captures the light and depth he’s never seen in himself. As their friendship develops, he finds himself illuminated by her presence—a stark contrast to the shallow spotlight he’s used to, but her guarded heart keeps her from fully trusting his intentions. Their friendship develops, like film in a darkroom, shifting into something far more intimate. But when their connection begins to blur the lines between friendship and something more, he realizes she’s the light he’s been chasing without knowing it and fights to prove he’s ready for something real. Yet, their love hangs in the balance—will the film of their story overexpose and fade, or will it develop into something vivid and timeless. Sometimes, love is about adjusting the focus, letting in the right light, and trusting the process.

Chapter Index:

Fashion Index Cont: For all Y/N's looks! No more bad links!

Warnings: This series is 18+ MDNI [ smut, slight mention of drugs, drinking - not sure what else really… if i miss anything please lmk!]

Note: Thank you for reading! Please be sure to like, comment, or message me what you think of the series!

Please read:  Little note from me about him and one more about our community In summary: This is a swan song fic. The fic was never really about "him" as much as it was a fictional story and character I got to create and share with you all. I hope you still love reading it as much as I still love writing it. xx

Chapter 24 - 'f/0.7.' | 'Aperture'

word count - 14.8k

[Temporary - 6lack, Don Toliver]

Monaco glistened like a jewel by the sea, champagne flutes, superyachts, flashbulbs flickering like stars, but Trent felt like he was sleepwalking through it. The glamour didn’t touch him. It bounced off his skin like static. It was warm and radiant and wild, but inside, he was shivering, stuck in a memory he couldn’t shake. They were seated in a velvet-lined booth at a tucked-away lounge off the marina, the kind with too many mirrors and low light. Kieren had been watching him for an hour, studying the way Trent would flinch at the sound of a laugh too close to yours, or how his eyes would scan the room like he’d catch a ghost of you in the crowd. Girls approached, gorgeous ones, draped in designer, voices dripping honey, but Trent wouldn’t even look. His rejections were clipped, almost cruel. ‘No.’ ‘Not tonight.’ Sorry.’ One woman muttered something under her breath as she walked away, and Trent just stared down at the table, jaw clenched like he wanted to crawl out of his own skin. Then, suddenly, he exhaled sharp and angry. Grabbed a shot of tequila from the passing tray and threw it back like it was water, eyes closing like maybe, just maybe, it would erase the ache lodged behind his ribs. Kieren didn’t say anything at first. Just watched. Waited.

“You’re not yourself, lad,” Kieren said eventually, cautiously. He knew what was happening but he’d give Trent a window to actually say it if he wanted to. “Ya alright? What’s going on? You’re… off.” Trent didn’t answer. Not right away. He looked out past the floor-to-ceiling windows to the sea, the water ink-dark and endless. He wanted to drown in it. Wanted something to shut his brain off. Then he spoke.

“I’m in love with her.” The words were quiet, guttural. Like they had ripped their way out of his throat, raw and trembling. Kieren blinked.

“No shit,” he said, trying to keep it light, to soften the punch. “You’ve been in love with her.” Trent didn’t even smile. Just grabbed another shot and took it. This one burned. Kieren leaned in, more serious now. He needed to know what really went on, not second hand information, not the things he overheard behind closed doors. 

“What happened, bro? Like… really.” Trent’s voice cracked as he laughed. Bitter. Empty. 

“She said she hated me.” Kieren froze, he knew that. He heard it in real time but to hear it from the source, his best mate, made him feel a little sick. “At Leon’s.” Trent continued, eyes still locked on nothing. “After everything. After the restaurant… after I kissed someone else like a fucking idiot. I tried to talk to her. And she just, she screamed it, crying. ‘I hate you.’” Trent looked at Kieren now. His eyes were bloodshot and shining. “And the worst part? She never said she loved me. Not out loud. Except for once. But not really. In bed. Quiet. And maybe she didn’t even mean it then. I said it to her, Kier. I said it like it was oxygen and she said nothing. I said it more than once and she said she hated me.” The booth felt too small. The air too thick. Kieren didn’t know what to say. “I wish I hated her,” Trent whispered. “I wish I could. I swear to God I wish I could.” Kieren’s mouth opened, then shut. Finally, he reached out, gentle, wrapping an arm around Trent’s shoulder, brotherly and supportive, pulling him back into the booth’s plush corner like anchoring a ship in a storm.

“I know you love her, bro,” he murmured. “Honestly, I don’t think she hates you though. That night at the restaurant was shit for her but only because she does love you. That’s why it hurts this bad. You both are in love.” Trent didn’t answer. Just nodded, eyes hollow. His hands trembled slightly against the table, fingers curling into his palm like if he gripped hard enough, maybe he could hold himself together. The Grand Prix party roared just outside the window, but here, in the cocoon of silence and dim light, the world slowed. The two of them sat there, brothers in heartbreak, trying to find a way to breathe. “Let's just chill here tonight, alright lad?” Kieren said softly. “Take it easy. Few beers. No girls. No bullshit.” Trent didn’t speak. He just reached for another drink, his hands shaking as he poured, nodding faintly. A promise between them. Or maybe a prayer. Because tonight, Trent wasn’t just grieving you, he was grieving the version of himself he’d ruined in front of you. And that kind of pain had no cure. Only time. Only hope. Only maybe.

—

It wasn’t beers. It was tequila. Tequila after tequila, golden and cruel, catching in his throat and heating his blood like kerosene. It was the kind of drunk that bloomed behind his eyes in slow motion. The kind that blurred the lights of the terrace into soft, flickering halos and made the marble floor feel like waves beneath his feet. Trent was unraveling. Draped in a Dior tee and too much cologne, he looked exactly how they expected him to look, footballer, rich, wounded. Beautiful in the way ruin sometimes is. He didn’t have to try. He was the idea of himself. And the girls wanted the idea. They hovered. Sleek and powdered and practiced, lashes like paintbrushes, lips glossed thick. A blonde in vintage Gaultier slid close, laughed at nothing. A brunette with long red nails placed a hand on his arm. But Trent didn’t notice them. Or maybe he did, but only enough to remember you.

“That top,” he slurred suddenly, leaning toward Kieren. “She’s got a top like that. Blue, kind of silky. But hers looks better. Way better. Just—fuck.”

“Who?”  Kieren blinked. 

“You know who.” Trent whispered obviously. And then it kept coming. The way it always did when he was too drunk to stop himself. The tequila cracked the dam, and the flood poured through in fragments. “They all smell like a shopping centre,” he grumbled, scrunching his nose. “Not her though, lad. She never smelled powdery. She smelled like that…thing…thing she wears. That one. It’s, like, warm. Spicy. Sexy. On her it’s…” He trailed off, eyes unfocused, lost in the memory. He laughed, but it was a sad, slow thing. “Another thing is.. like when she laughs? It's not loud. Not like them girls. Hers... it sneaks up on you. Like something breaking open in your chest. Not fake. Just…real.” One of the girls tried again. Touched his wrist this time. Trent blinked at her, confused. Then turned back to Kieren. “Bro… and her skin is so soft.” Kieren nearly choked on his drink. 

“Jesus, mate.” He shook his head. Trent didn’t hear him. He was already gone, floating somewhere else. Somewhere you were. It spiraled from there, worse, deeper. Not from temptation for the girls circling, but the temptation to find you. The tequila lied and said maybe he could. But his heart was smarter than that. His body knew better. And when his finer motor skills finally gave up and he spilled the last shot across the glass table, toppling the rim, knocking over the salt, slurring out a ‘fuck’ under his breath, Kieren had seen enough. “Alright,” he said, standing. “We’re done. Let’s go.” But Trent didn’t move. Not really. He let Kieren lift him up, all dead weight and heartbreak. Let himself hang off his best friend like a prayer unraveling at the seams.

“She hates me,” he mumbled, mouth against Kieren’s shoulder. “She fucking hates me, I fucked it. And it’s crazy, yeah, I know, but I love her. I love her so much it actually fucking hurts.”

“I know you do, mate.” Kieren paused, his own heart starting to ache.

“No you don’t,” Trent said, a little louder now. “It’s not normal. Hurts right here.” He pressed the heel of his palm to the center of his chest like he was trying to scoop the ache out. “Like something’s broken. And I don’t know how to fix it. And it’s me, innit? I broke it.” Kieren just shook his head, holding him tighter up right. 

By the time they got back to the suite, Trent was limp with exhaustion. He flopped down on the bed, the whole world tilting around him. A groan escaped his throat, drawn-out and low.

“I miss her,” he said softly, almost too softly to hear. “Miss her in my bed. Miss her in it, not just on the other pillow. You know what I mean, lad?” Kieren didn’t answer. He just grabbed a fresh t-shirt from Trent’s luggage and  tossed it at him.

“Change, bro. Just lie down.” Kieren muttered feeling awful his best mate was in this much of a spiral. Kieren continued to ramble on helpfulness… ‘Want the TV on?’… ‘No?’... ‘Here, water. You have to drink it.’ Trent didn’t move. He just lay there, face turned toward the ceiling, the edges of him ghostly under the hotel light. Still breathing like he was mid-match. Still drunk on you.

“Kier…” He called out and that’s when Kieren saw a face Trent hadn’t made since they were kids; weak, sad, and worst of all scared. “She felt like the only thing that was right and I did it all wrong,” he whispered. Kieren didn’t know what to say. So he didn’t say anything at all. He just stood there, quiet, watching his best friend bleed out, heartbreak seeping deep into the sheets around him, drunk, devastated, and still too in love with you to even pretend otherwise.

—

After Kieren left, Trent laid on his back in the too-soft bed, the hotel room spinning, the night pressing in like static. The blackout curtains couldn’t dull the neon hum of Monaco, nor the ache blooming low in his gut. Not just between his legs,  though that too, pulsing and sharp, but something deeper. Bone-deep. Heart-sick. His hand dragged slowly over his stomach, fingertips grazing the waistband of his boxers, pausing, then dipping lower. He exhaled through his nose, jaw clenched, eyes shut tight like that might stop the slide. But it was already happening. You. Even now. Especially now. What it would’ve been like with you here; if he’d had you curled up next to him on the plane to Monaco, half-asleep in his hoodie. You, barefoot on the deck of a yacht, skin glowing, laughing like you didn’t know you’d ruin him. You, here. In this room. In his fucking bed. The heel of his palm pressed down against the thickening weight between his legs, a half-choked groan slipping out as heat surged through him, and still, you lingered behind his eyelids. Fuck, you in his bed would be nice right now. Not in some glossy fantasy. But real. Real like way you were in Paris that first time. That first night. The night he broke. The silk of your thigh hooked over his hip. The drag of your nails down his chest. Your lips parting against his, sticky with whispered need, the taste of champagne still on your tongue.

“I’ve wanted this,” you gasped, voice breathy, desperate, your back arching as he drove into you slow and deep. “Wanted you. Needed you.” He’d felt your words as much as heard them, a seismic crack splitting something open inside him. His rhythm had faltered, shattered by your honesty. He’d been trying to hold back. To be careful. But after that? No chance in hell. The memory sliced through him, the way his fingers had gripped your thighs, rough and reverent, dragging you closer like he could crawl inside you and live there. His hips snapping forward, harder, faster, trying to carve himself into you. Like he’d never get another chance. And maybe he wouldn’t. He squeezed his eyes tighter, the backs of them burning, his hand tightening over himself now, breaths going ragged. The sound of you filled his skull: the cry that slipped from your lips when he hit that spot, the way you begged without shame, like he was the only thing that could save you.  Then your other leg wrapped around his waist, your heel digging into the small of his back, dragging him impossibly closer. The scent of your skin. The sheen of sweat between your breasts. The way your eyes had fluttered open mid-thrust, glassy and wide and ruined.

“Tell me,” he’d growled, voice low and wrecked, forehead pressed to yours. “Tell me whose cock you’re gonna cum on.” He hadn’t even recognized himself then. The way he sounded. The way he needed to hear it.

“Yours,” you’d cried, breathless and shaking, clinging to him like you’d fall apart without him. “Yours, Trent. Made for you.” He grunted in the dark now, his hand stroking slower, tighter, like he could match the memory to the feeling, like he could bring you back through it. Because nothing, no one, would ever make him feel like that again. He hadn’t even wanted to try and find out if they could. And just when he thought the night had swallowed you whole, he remembered what came after. The moment that really destroyed him. He hovered above you, chest heaving, arms shaking with the force of holding himself back. And you, flushed and damp, eyes glassy, lips swollen, had looked at him like he was yours. Not just someone you were fucking. Yours. His thumb had brushed a tear from your cheek. Not because of the sex. Maybe because of that. But also because you’d felt it too. Whatever this was. And the next second, ingrained in his memory forever, the moment when he did something he’d never done before—he cared. He’d kissed your forehead. Then your nose. Then your mouth, soft, unbearably sweet, like it meant something. Like he meant something. And fuck, he did. To you. In that moment, he had.

His hips jerked up into his hand as he swallowed hard, throat thick with emotion, his other hand fisting the sheets. But it was no use. His body was trying to ground him, but his mind wouldn’t leave you. His heart wouldn’t let him. The pressure built, but it wasn't the release he wanted. It was you. Your warmth. Your scent. Your voice in his ear, telling him he wasn’t just another body to pass the time. And now? Now he was alone in Monaco. Lying in a bed that smelled like hotel detergent, not you. Jerking off to a ghost he couldn’t exorcise. Hoping that if he came hard enough, maybe he’d forget the way you’d looked at him that night. Maybe he’d forget the sound of his name on your tongue. But he wouldn’t. Not tonight. Not ever.

—

You weren’t sleeping much these days. The apartment was dim except for the glow of a single lamp and the dying flicker of a Diptyque candle you’d burned too far down. The air was still. You were curled into the corner of the couch in a jumper you hadn’t taken off in days, legs tucked beneath you, Campbell curled on the opposite end. Neither of you spoke, not for a while. There was something comforting in that, just the quiet companionship, her fingers brushing over the rim of her mug, eyes glazed from too little rest and too much worry. You just appreciated her staying up late with you as you began to try to gain some sense of normalcy back but it was fractured when your phone buzzed. You didn’t move at first. Just blinked. Looked down.

Trent. Your chest clenched. 1:02 a.m. for you. 2:02 a.m. in Monaco. Your stomach dropped like it always did when his name lit up your screen, like hope, and now dread, warring inside your ribcage. You didn’t need to guess what this was. You knew by the clock alone. Campbell gently placed her mug on the table and reached across to squeeze your thigh. No pressure. Just a question in the touch. Whatever you decide. You knew and yet… Maybe it was muscle memory. Maybe it was delusion. Maybe it was still love. You answered.

“Speaker,” Campbell mouthed, tapping her phone and pointing. You gave the faintest nod, thumb trembling as you accepted the call. 

“...T? You okay?” your voice came soft, uncertain, unbearably sweet. Worried for his well being even before your own heart. Hopeful and scared. Like you weren’t the one who’d told him you hated him. Like you weren’t the one trying to claw your heart back from where he left it bleeding. There was a beat of silence on the other end. Then a sigh, a groan, more like. Rough and low.

“Fuck, baby,” he slurred, breath catching. “I miss you.” Your spine straightened. Campbell’s brows jumped. Your eyes fluttered shut.

“T…” you whispered, almost involuntarily. It hurt to hear that. Even drunk. Especially drunk. He didn’t stop. Couldn’t.

“Mmm, where you at, baby? Been thinkin’ about you. Just you. How good you’d be f’me if you were here…” His voice dragged like honey laced with hunger, rich and blurred by alcohol and want. Campbell’s mouth dropped slightly, one hand moving to cover it, half in shock, half instinct, to hold in whatever gasp or gasp-adjacent sound she couldn’t control. Her other hand reached for you again, but your gaze was locked ahead. Blank. Processing.

“T, you’re drunk.” It came out gentler than it should have. You sank deeper into the sofa, unsure whether to laugh, cry, or throw your phone across the room.

“Drunk and fuckin’ hard, baby,” he murmured, almost a whimper. Campbell pressed her hand tighter over her lips, eyes wide. “Want you on top of me, riding me slow. Want your mouth on me. Want my head between your thighs, just fuckin’ taste you. Need it.” The words hit you low, visceral, like your breath stuttered out of your chest. You hadn’t heard him talk like this in weeks. Not since. Not since he made you feel like you were the only thing in the world he worshipped. And the worst part? Some deeply stupid part of you still wanted it. Wanted him.  Campbell shifted beside you, shocked, trying to catch your eye. She needed to know; were you okay? Were you going to play along? Were you slipping? You swallowed. Hard.

“Baby, please…”  You sighed, feeling Campbell’s eyes on you. It was a little vulgar for her to overhear but it was more than that. You slid the phone off speaker and raised it back to your ear, voice trembling. Not for Campbell now. Not for anyone but him.

“Put your hand there for me,” he purred, almost breathless. “Slip it down into your panties, baby. Like it’s mine. Like I know you wish it was. Tell me how wet you are. Just… let me hear you.” Trent purred, dreaming, fantasizing, misreading entirely. Something about the way he said it split you open. Like he still knew your body, your reactions, like you’d never left his bed or his chest or his life. But for some reason it struck a nerve, and not the one he wanted.

“So no girls in Monaco?” The question escaped your mouth like a slip of the tongue, a jagged truth beneath the sheets of this hallucination. It was bitter courage you didn't really feel. You said it flat, but something cracked at the edges. Your voice carried a tinge of annoyance Trent was too drunk to pick up on. Campbell on the other hand felt the air shift in the apartment. Trent stilled. Then hummed like it meant nothing. 

“Nah… there were. But I want you.” He hummed through the phone turned on simply by you existing, not the tone of your voice. The world stopped. And something inside you broke. There it was. Casual. Brutal. The confirmation that nothing had changed. That he could still be surrounded by girls, could still touch someone else and think of you, and think that would somehow make it better. It didn’t. You shook your head slowly, like you were trying to physically rid yourself of the pain swelling up your throat.

“T, let’s not do this. Please." Your voice cracked, your restraint faltering. “If you wanna talk, call me tomorrow. But I’m not gonna get you off like this. Please. Not like this.” You pleaded. Campbell heard the pain in your voice. This wasn’t cheeky. This was hard. He paused. Confused. Fading.

“Why?” he asked, quiet and childlike. Trent was dumbfounded, his hand stopping its movements. “Why not, baby?” he asked obliviously. Like the last month and a half never happened. It took everything not to scream. 

“Are you serious?” you choked out, breath trembling. “You really don’t know?” Campbell whispered a soft, desperate, ‘Calm,’ trying to anchor you, but you shrugged her off. You were past calm. Past pretending. Silence on the other end. Then a rough, breathless growl.

“Yeah… Why fucking not, Y/N? I am hard missing you and I... I fucking love you. " The words felt out seismically. Realization dawning on him in real time. "I told you I loved you and you didn’t fucking say it back!” Trent’s voice raised, clarity finding him in the most vulnerable state. Your heart cracked. 

“But I do,” you gasped, a sob ripping from your chest before you could stop it. “I fucking do.” You sobbed, broken, hurt, and terribly in love.  

“Okay, okay. We’re done.” Campbell reached for the phone. “T, go to bed.” She muttered before hanging up with one swift motion, pulling you into her arms like muscle memory. You didn’t even resist. You folded into her like a storm, like a child, like someone who had finally, finally admitted it, only to be too late. And miles away, in a dark hotel room in Monaco, the line went dead in Trent’s ear. He stared at the ceiling. Eyes wide. Breath shallow. It was the first time in weeks he felt truly, fully sober.

—

[Shot Down - Khalid]

You cried. That was the part he couldn’t shake. Not your voice, not the words, though they’d etched themselves into the walls of his skull, but the sound of you breaking. It had cracked something inside him too, in a way that felt irreversible. He tried to text you. Tried to find a way to say something that didn’t make it worse. But everything felt wrong. Every letter, every draft, every half-written confession. There wasn’t a text big enough to hold the weight of what he’d done. Not for you. Not after this. So he gave up. Let the phone slide from his hand and dropped back into the mattress, cold with guilt. His heart was still racing, sick and heavy in his chest, and nothing was helping. The walls of the hotel room felt like they were pressing in, closer and closer, full of everything he didn’t say when it mattered. Eventually, he stood. Moved like his bones hurt. Dragged himself into the bathroom and stepped into the shower without thinking. He didn’t test the temperature, just turned the knob all the way cold. The water hit him like penance. Freezing. Ruthless. Cleansing, maybe, if he deserved to be clean. It cascaded over him in sheets from the rainfall head, crashing onto his shoulders, down his spine, dripping from his eyelashes as he stood there, chest heaving like he’d just run a mile. His hand came up slowly, swiped across his face, but it didn’t help. The ache stayed. And then… One tear. Just one. Slipped from the corner of his eye and disappeared into the flood. He sniffled, dragged a palm over his jaw like he could scrub the emotion off with skin. But it clung to him. Heavy. Unshakable. He pressed his forehead to the tile, cold and slick and unmoving, and just breathed. Deep. Shallow. Shattered. The silence was loud in there. It rang in his ears louder than the water. Louder than the voice in his head repeating what you’d once said. ‘I love you.’ Then more recently; ‘I hate you.’

You hadn’t meant the second part. He knew that. Could feel it under your voice, the way it cracked on the word hate, like you were begging it not to be true. But he’d left you no other way to survive him. He stayed in there longer than he should have. Let his skin go numb. Let his fingers wrinkle. Let time slip past in a blur of cold water and regret. When he finally shut it off, the quiet came roaring back. He didn’t bother to dry off properly. Just wrapped a robe around himself, loose and damp, and padded barefoot back into the hotel room. The sheets were rumpled. The air too still. His phone was lit up on the nightstand with a message from Kieren he didn’t open. Instead, he picked up the receiver.

“Room service,” he rasped. “Can I get… uh can I get some chips? And a bottle of champagne?” Just like before. Just like you. He hung up. Sat at the edge of the bed, dripping, robe clinging to him. His hands were still trembling. The only thing he could think of was the look on your face when you caught that chip in your mouth all that time ago. How you’d grinned at him like he made the sun rise. How proud he’d felt, just being the one beside you. The knock came twenty minutes later. He barely managed to thank the server. Brought the tray inside like it weighed more than it should have. Lifted the silver lid. Let the scent of fresh, golden chips hit him like a memory. The champagne sat sweating in its bucket. Unopened. Unpoured. He didn’t touch a thing.  Didn’t eat. Didn’t drink. Just sat there. Staring. Watching the steam curl and vanish. Watching the bubbles flatten. Letting it all go cold, the same way everything had between you. Effervescence gone. Heat, gone. You, gone. His eyes burned again, but he blinked it back this time. He didn’t deserve to cry twice. Not when he was the one who’d made you cry first. He should’ve held on. Should’ve told you then. But now it was too late.  And the worst part was, he’d never forget how it felt to lose you. Not loud. Not all at once. But slowly. Quietly. Like a table set for two…  With only one chair left warm.

—-

[About You - The 1975]

When you called Foster and asked if you could come grab your things that had long overstayed their welcome at her place she didn’t think twice. Of course. It was silly, your bag, things you didn’t really need; a charger, a lip gloss, a credit card you probably could spare not having in use. You hadn’t planned to stay. It was nothing, just in and out. Something fleeting. Something forgettable. Something you could pretend wasn’t a reason to see the people who felt too close to the ache still living in your body. Foster had texted you earlier that morning ‘just come in, door’s open’ with a string of hearts, as if kindness could pad the blow. As if your heart hadn’t already splintered open weeks ago. So you slipped into the house on instinct, like muscle memory. Shoulders drawn high. The golden-pink haze of sunset bleeding in through the tall hallway windows, dust caught in it like glitter. You could still smell the familiar: jasmine from the diffuser, the faint trace of something so ‘Foster & Leon’, the last remnants of something sweet coming from the kitchen. And for a second, it almost felt like before. Before the barbecue. Before Monaco and the call. Before the silence that followed like an avalanche. You stepped into the hall slowly, fingers skimming the edge of the console table, eyes scanning for your bag you’d hoped Foster would leave right there for you. But it wasn’t. Of course it wasn’t. You took a few more steps, still wrapped in that sharp stillness, and called out

“Fos?” Your voice quiet, barely a ripple. There was no answer. Just a distant hum. Then laughter. Not hers. Your spine locked in place. It was a low laugh, warm and familiar in a way that made your throat go dry. A laugh you knew in the marrow of your bones. Then, the gentle hiss of a can opening. A line from a film trailer you couldn’t place yet. The soft creak of the floorboard near the couch. A voice. His voice. You froze. It was cinematic in the worst way, like something out of a film you’d once found romantic. The kind that gutted you now. The kind where two people orbit the same room, pretending they aren’t breaking from the inside out. You moved on instinct.  One step, then another. Feet dragging as if the walls themselves were magnetic. And then you saw him. Trent. He was on the far side of the couch, half-lit in the silver-blue flicker of the television. Gorgeous. Legs stretched out, one arm slung carelessly over the back of the cushions, posture casual, too casual. The kind of ease that looked practiced. Empty. Your stomach dropped. You hadn’t seen him in weeks and hadn’t heard from him since the call that ended with your voice trembling and his going quiet. The call that made finality feel like a living thing. And yet, there he was, like the past hadn't caved in. Like he hadn’t shattered something tender in you and then left it scattered in the silence. He hadn’t noticed you yet. But Leon had.

“Yo! Didn't know you were coming through” he called out, turning around from where he sat on a floor cushion beside the coffee table. “Film gonna start soon, come sit. Fos just popped to the kitchen.” His voice was cheerful, light, unaware of the way the floor felt like it was slipping sideways beneath your feet. Your eyes were locked on Trent. He moved a fraction, stiffening. You saw it in the set of his jaw. In the way he suddenly stopped slouching. His hand curled into a loose fist on his knee. Still, he didn’t turn. Didn’t dare. But you felt it. That thread pulling taut. That old, unspeakable gravity between you. Foster appeared in the doorway just then, mid-laugh, holding a bowl of popcorn that went utterly still in her hands the moment she saw you. Her expression crumpled, eyes flicking to Trent, then back to you.

“Shit,” she breathed before stepping tighter to you. “I’m so sorry.” She whispered only for you, barely audible. You shook your head once. A slow, deliberate. motion. It’s okay. It wasn’t. Not really. But that wasn’t Foster’s fault. You stepped into the room. Your skin prickled like it didn’t fit right.  Every breath felt borrowed. The room was warm with candlelight and screenlight, the scent of popcorn lingering in the air. Foster’s glass of red wine sat untouched on the end table. Blankets ready to be draped over legs. Something cozy, something domestic. But none of it touched you. Not with him here. Trent still hadn’t looked at you. You could feel him like a heat source, aware of you in that devastating, chemical way. The way you only feel people you’ve loved. People who know the map of your body and the weight of your silence. You crossed your arms tightly, breath catching, eyes fixed on the space between his feet. A pair of socks you’d seen him wear in your bed once. The sight of them made your chest cave. Nobody moved. Nobody spoke. Not yet.  Your voice stayed caught in your throat, and still—still—he didn’t look up. Like he was giving you the opportunity to not face him. But you could see it in the shape of him, in the way his knee bounced once, then stilled. He was trying not to feel it. Not to feel you. You didn’t sit. You just stood there, like a wound reopened, like a memory uninvited, like the moment before everything changes. And the screen flickered on, untouched by the ruin inside the room. Still gleaming. Still pretending. Just like you. You cleared your throat before finally answering Leon. 

“I only came by to grab my bag.” Your voice barely carried, almost apologetic in its tone. It folded into the soft lull of the television and the hiss of Foster setting the popcorn bowl down. You kept your gaze low, your hands laced tightly in front of you, fingers winding in nervous habit. And then, without looking at you, not even flinching, Trent spoke.

“You like this one...” Four words. Low. Even. Deceptively casual. But you heard everything behind them. The memory tucked inside them. The way he used to toss your legs over his lap when the intro theme played, the way he used to mutter alternate plot theories into your collarbone. You’d fallen asleep halfway through after begging him to watch it with you the first time, your head on his chest. He finished it a second time with you in the villa while in LA, drunk on tequila and whatever that summer had been. And now, here it was again. Playing in a room it felt like you didn’t belong to anymore. And he remembered. Foster’s head snapped up like a match catching flame. Leon’s lips curled in spite of himself, like even he couldn’t pretend not to notice. You swallowed hard. Your stomach twisted. A part of you hated that it made your heart skip, that you were still so porous, so responsive to him. That the sound of his voice, familiar and distant, could still undo you in such small and devastating ways.

“Should stay and watch, then grab your bag,” Foster said gently, giving you a real invitation, hers, not his. Not laced in suggestion or spoken like a dare. Just kindness. A way out that still somehow pulled you in. You nodded before your mind could catch up to your body. And that’s when the dilemma hit:  Where do you sit? Your eyes flicked toward the other end of the sectional, toward a folded throw blanket, the remote, his phone. Toward the wide, impersonal floor cushion by Leon. You could have curled up there, pretended to care more about the movie than the firestorm unfurling inside your ribcage. But then, Trent moved. Not much. Just his hand, casual and quiet, sweeping his phone, a throw pillow, and the folded corner of the blanket off the cushion next to him. An unspoken offer. A space carved out in a war zone. An olive branch shaped like upholstery. You paused. One beat too long. And then you sat. You sank into the corner of the sofa like a stone in deep water. The cushion dipped slightly beneath you, but the space between your bodies remained an aching, deliberate gulf. Everything about it was painfully distant, how he angled his body, how you kept your arms locked to your sides, how silence grew fatter with every second. Still, you were beside him.  And it was killing you slowly. Foster squeezed Leon’s arm like she couldn’t believe it. Like she could. You didn’t look at Trent, but you felt the air shift, like the electricity in the moments before a summer storm. He didn’t shift away. He didn’t lean in. But he stayed. And in his stillness, in the heat radiating off his body just inches from yours, something like gravity began to ache between you again. You focused on the screen. The background noise of the beginning of the film you’d seen before. The dialogue folding over itself in soft loops. But none of it landed. Your heart was somewhere else, everywhere else.

“Why are you guys watching this?” you asked, voice thin with exhaustion. It didn’t make sense. It wasn’t their thing. It was yours. A comfort you hadn’t spoken about aloud in months. A piece of yourself you’d thought had quietly vanished with him.

“Trenski suggested,” Leon replied relaxedly. “Said it’s good. I’m not sold yet… You know it?” He asked obliviously. You hummed, nodding.

“Mmhmm.” And then you met Foster’s eyes. Just for a second.  And that was all it took.

Are you okay?> Yeah. Fine.Do you want to go talk in the kitchen?> No.I’m so sorry.> It’s not your fault.You’re still in love with him?> Desperately.

All of it spoken in silence. A language only she knew how to read. Her expression faltered with heartbreak, then settled into something steadier, an apology wrapped in understanding. You felt your throat close. But the other conversation, the one you weren’t prepared for, was already happening. With him. You didn’t even need to look at him to feel it. The tension strung across his shoulders. The stillness of his breathing. The way his fingers had gone slack against his knee. Leon’s words had hung in the air like a mirror he didn’t want to look into. ‘Trenski suggested.’ Called out. Exposed. He missed you. You knew it.  You felt it in the way his body betrayed him, how he didn’t shift away when your knee brushed his as you sat. How his hand nearly twitched like he might reach for something. Like muscle memory was stronger than pride. You didn’t dare move. You just sat there. Frozen in that sliver of space between too much and not enough. On a shared sofa, in a shared silence, the television flickering across both your faces like it might somehow melt the tension. But it didn’t. And maybe it was an accident.  Maybe it wasn’t. But you sat beside him. And he let you. Now, the night had a heartbeat.  Now, the ghosts had names. Now, you were both in the dark, together. Pretending not to drown. And still, you didn’t move. Didn’t speak. You just stayed sitting. Held in the stillness, waiting for something to crack. Your chest too tight. Your pulse too loud. Your past curled up right beside you like a secret you couldn’t put down. And somewhere behind you, a door was still open. But you didn’t walk through it. Not yet.

—----

The opening scenes of the film glowed faint on the screen. Somewhere in the room, Foster crunched popcorn between her teeth. Leon shifted, murmuring something about a potential plot twist. But you weren’t really listening. Not to them. Not to the television. Only to him. Trent stretched suddenly, arms rising above his head with a soft groan that sent your heart into your throat. His shirt lifted, revealing a sliver of toned skin, the sharp lines of his stomach, the slow roll of muscles made from discipline and desire. His triceps flexed. Veins surfaced along his forearms, familiar and golden and cruelly hypnotizing. You stared before you could stop yourself. Flashbacks flickered like static. Your fingertips pressed to his skin. Your mouth grazing that same vein. His voice in your ear, low and wrecked, saying your name like it belonged to him. You shivered. God, you missed him. But he didn’t know that. Maybe he did somewhere deep down but not right now. You flicked your gaze back forward, trying to breathe past it. But then, without a word, Trent leaned forward. His shoulders curled, his body moved quiet and deliberate, and he reached for the blanket folded at the edge of the sofa. You watched his hands, how carefully they moved. Not hurried. Not showy. Just… gentle. Almost like reverence. He shook it out with a practiced flick, then draped it over you. Not a word. Just the weight of softness and everything unsaid falling across your thighs. You turned your head. And for the first time in what felt like lifetimes, you held his gaze. His eyes were darker in the low light, rimmed in exhaustion, rimmed in something raw. You blinked once, hard, and swallowed around the knot rising in your throat.

“Thank you,” you whispered. Your fingers reached for the blanket, brushing his. That’s when it happened, his hand flinched, like the memory of your touch had shocked him. You felt it too. That jolt. That heartbeat-long pause where the world narrowed to the space between skin. This time he shivered. Not from the cold, you knew better than that. You’d spent nights pressed against him, memorizing the exact sound of his breath when he was barely holding it together. He sat back like it burned. Like he couldn’t let you see what it did to him. But it was too late. You hesitated, and then exhaled before you shifted yourself and the blanket ever so slightly. Not enough to make a scene. Just enough to cover the few centimeters of space between your bodies,. Now, it touched him too. Shy. But certain. And just like that, without planning to, without permission, you were beneath a blanket with the boy you loved. Again. Close, but not close enough. The film carried on in front of you. But behind the stillness, beneath the blanket, everything was alive. Everything was shaking. A storm building in silence, pulsing just beneath your skin. Neither of you spoke. But his thigh brushed yours. And neither of you moved. Not yet

—--

There had been no more words exchanged beyond whispers across the room but they echoed louder than any fight you’d ever had. Louder than the silence that followed. Louder than Monaco. Than the phone call. Than the hurt. Still, it felt like Leon and Foster were drifting out to sea, their laughter muffled and distant, swallowed by some invisible tide pulling you and Trent closer. The room was dim, framed in low golden lamplight and flickering shadows from the screen. But none of it held his attention. He couldn’t watch the movie. He didn’t care about the plot. Not really. He was watching you. You could feel it.  Every flicker of his focus landing on you like heat. Heavy. Electric. Trent was trying, really trying, not to look, not to fall apart. His jaw was tight, his posture restrained. You could feel the tension humming off him like static. He didn’t want to cross any lines. Not tonight. Not again. But then you reached into your pocket and pulled out a lip balm. That stupid, silvery tube. You popped the cap off with one hand and swiped it across your bottom lip like second nature. Easy. Innocent. But not to him. No, to him it was lethal. He didn’t just glance. He lingered. His head tilted just slightly. His lashes lowered. You could feel him watching the way the balm glided over your mouth like melted sugar, soft and slow. You dragged it over your top lip, then pressed your lips together with a soft purse. The same lips he used to kiss until you whimpered. The same lips he used to call his. And that was it. That was his undoing. Trent smiled. A slow, sinful, involuntary smile that crept up his face like sunlight after a storm. Boyish and betrayed by how much he missed you. He side-eyed you without shame. And you caught him. But you didn’t stop. No, you slowed your movements instead, the balm melting like butter with each purposeful drag. Because you knew exactly what you were doing. You turned your head just a fraction, offered him a soft, closed-lip smile. Lethal in its restraint. Knowing. Dangerous. He threw his head to the side with a roll of the eyes, teasingly exacerbated by your taunt. You kept your eyes on the screen, and smirked, encouraging him. It was a silent game now. And he was thrilled to be invited.

“Miss those lips,” he murmured, voice low, laced with regret and desire. He shifted in his seat, thigh brushing yours beneath the blanket. Too casual to be accidental. You exhaled a quiet laugh, side-eyeing him without turning your head. 

“No, these lips are just here.” Your voice was honey-laced mockery. Tired. Sharp. Flirtation with a bitter edge. The weight of the month apart hanging like smoke between every syllable.

“Nah…” he breathed, barely audible. Not a protest. Not even denial. Just… grief.

“Yeah,” you corrected softly. Certain. But your smile betrayed you. It flickered. It wanted to stay. God, he was still so pretty, even from the corner of your eye.

“They weren’t in Monaco either,” he confessed, voice breaking open with truth. You stopped breathing for a beat. That hurt. Even if it healed something, too. You swallowed. Eyes still glued to the screen like it might save you. But your body betrayed you, leaning imperceptibly closer, soaking in his warmth. Leon and Foster may as well have been ghosts. The room was yours now. A world made of half-lit corners and shared breath. Trent turned slightly, just enough to face you. Not fully. Just enough to try. To be real.

“I’m sorry about that,” he whispered. Earnest and certain. He meant it. “It’s not fair. To do shit like that. I was really drunk. I guess I was trying not to think about it. But all it did was make me feel it. Think about and feel… you.” His voice cracked a little at the end. You felt it. The sincerity. The wreckage. The ache.  “I know it’s not an excuse,” he added. “But it’s an explanation. I am sorry, Y/N, for all of it.” Your throat tightened, but you nodded. A part of you hated that you believed him and another… didn’t at all. 

“I know.” A beat passed. 

“Yeah?” he asked, like he didn’t expect you to say that. To understand, not forgive. But even so, your softness shocked him.

“Mmhmm.” Your voice was velvet now, laced in wounds. “It’s hard not to feel it. I know that.” It was cheeky. Honest. Heavy. You still didn’t look at him. But Trent? He felt his heart falter. His chest swelled and sank all at once. He wanted to reach for your hand. To rest his forehead against your shoulder. To ask how he could ever possibly fix what he broke. Instead, he stayed still. Silent. But something in him cracked a little more. How did he mess this up? You were right there. Beautiful and bitter and brave. He’d held you in the dark and still managed to lose you. He didn’t deserve another chance. He knew that. You did too. But even now, he couldn’t stop hoping. Because something about you would always be magnetic. Inevitable. Like gravity. The screen flickered with movement. Music swelled faint in the background. But your world had shrunk. One shared blanket. One breathless heartbeat. One second longer than you could afford. You didn’t look at him. Not yet. But you stayed. Still in that room. Still next to him. Still his favorite heartbreak. Still his unfinished sentence.

—---

You shifted, close to a squirm, the whisper of his scent, warm, woodsy, familiar, dragging your mind through memory. The proximity. The quiet. The shared air. All of it had you spiraling inward, unraveling inch by inch. This wasn’t smart. This wasn’t stable. This wasn’t a good idea to resurrect something that had only just been buried in a shallow grave. Your lips parted, a breath away from breaking the spell. From saying something, anything, to push back the flood. But you didn’t. Because Trent's eyes flicked over you again. Watching. Wanting. Loving. He didn’t touch you, but God, he might as well have. Please, you heard it even if he didn’t say it. Come back to me. And your voice cracked, barely holding together. 

“Missed your lips,” you whispered, still facing forward. “Looked good at the race.” You added, looking at the screen but you couldn’t process its images, not really. You were only seeing flashes of the pictures you’d seen of him at the Grand Prix. Tanned, golden, sexy. You felt him freeze next to you, then melt. Slowly. A boyish, cheeky grin unfurled on his face like a sunrise he couldn’t control. Fuck, you were weak to that smile. He leaned back into the cushions, angled now, fully turned toward you. Your cheeks flushed hot. The room was dark, but somehow you felt lit up, exposed like a subject in your own lens. You turned too, slow, hesitant, sinking deeper into the sofa. Now you were facing him. The distance between you a lie. And in that moment, a crack opened. A fracture. A fault line. A breath of light. The kind of aperture that invited exposure. The kind that warned: once opened, you can’t close it again. Your body ached to move. Your heart begged you not to. And still, you didn’t back away. Because even if you got every piece of him again, it still wouldn’t be enough. He’d wrecked you for moderation. For caution. Your lens opened to f/0.7.

“C’mere.”  Trent’s voice dropped to a whisper, barely audible beneath the score of the movie. His finger curled slightly, calling you forward. A quiet beckoning. A silent plea. And a flicker of doubt ghosted across his features. Had he read you wrong? Had you come just for your things? Had he imagined the way your body leaned toward his without meaning to? But you hadn’t made an excuse to sit elsewhere. You were here. You were with him. And that’s when you leaned in, millimeters away with a smile like sin. Your breath brushed his lips, hearts thunder-muted under the blanket. “You know what else I missed?” he whispered, voice thick now, velvet strung tight with want. You nodded, just once. Quiet. A beat of surrender. His hand brushed yours again under the blanket as it moved, barely, a tremble of skin against skin. It was nothing. It was everything.

“You told me on the phone,” you said cautiously. Guarded. Hopeful. Terrified. He shook his head slowly but sure, gaze dropping to your lips, then back up, eyes darker now, but not with lust. With ache. With something tender and terrifying.

“Nah,” he whispered, a shadow of a smirk playing at his mouth. “Didn’t tell you this part, baby.” You tilted your head, barely breathing, heart thudding behind your ribs.

“What’s that then?” you murmured, a breath more than a word, each syllable so fragile it almost collapsed under the weight of what it carried. Your voice caught somewhere between curiosity and caution. And then he paused. Trent’s gaze drifted across your face like he was relearning it, your lashes, the small line between your brows when you were unsure, the mouth he’d dreamed of tasting again even when he swore he wouldn’t. His hand, now out from the cover of the blanket, didn’t touch you, but it might as well have. It hovered near your jaw, reverent, like you were a wish he was too afraid to make out loud. You blinked slow. Your heart hitched somewhere between your ribs and reason. Trent leaned in a little further, eyes locked to yours. His voice came so quiet you almost didn’t hear it. 

“I missed,” he said before exhaling, voice low and warm with something more dangerous than desire. “I missed the way you laugh when you’re pretending not to like me.” You blinked. Your stomach turned over, sweet and sick all at once. That boyish grin, sharp-edged and soft all at once, appeared again, but it didn’t land like charm this time. It landed like gravity. “And the way you steal the blanket in your sleep,” he added, softer now. “And complain about the tea I make but still finish the whole cup.” Your breath caught. That was the thing about him. He made remembering feel like a wound and a warmth all at once. “I miss the way you used to look at me after.” There was no breath for you to lose anymore. It felt like you were in freefall. And the only person you wanted to catch you was him. 

“After what?” you meekly asked, though you already knew. The answer lived under your skin.

“After you let me in,” he murmured, “like you were terrified of what we were but still… you stayed.” His hand finally moved, fingertips grazing your jaw. And just like that, you were still. And waiting. And wildly in love. “I missed you, baby,” he said simply. No games. No smirk. Just truth. The way he said it made your spine go still. Like your name had been whispered in a church. He wasn't trying to seduce you. He was trying to come home. “I miss you so much.” his lips moved, and even though they barely made a sound in the room, they were loud.  The movie flickered on in the background. Dialogue blurred into score. But all you could hear was the breath between your lips and his. You shifted again, a subtle movement, so close now that your body almost rolled flush against his. The blanket shifted with you, sealing in heat and memory. Your lashes fluttered as you leaned in a little more, both of you hovering in the moment before contact.

“Trent, I…” you whispered, but there was no warning in your voice. Just surrender. Acceptance of what you both wanted. Your noses brushed. A barely-there graze. And then against better judgement, your lips met. Not with urgency. Not with heat. But with reverence. A feather-light touch. A question. A promise. A beginning again. It was so slow you could feel every atom shift. Like a sunrise after months of storm. Like the first breath after holding it too long. Your lips barely moved, but they remembered everything. The rhythm. The weight. The ache. He deepened it, just a little. Just enough to whisper into your mouth..

“I’m so sorry, Y/N. Baby, I think about you every night.” And this time, games weren’t even an option. This was real. And you believed him. God, you believed him. Because that kiss, this kiss, it wasn’t about wanting. It was about missing.  About loving. And you kissed him back like you never stopped. Like you couldn’t remember a single night you hadn’t. He tasted like the boy you used to know. Like the man he was becoming. Like tea made wrong and every picture you never took but always meant to. He was the light. You knew it now. And maybe he would burn you. Maybe he'd leave shadows. But for this moment, your lens stayed wide open.  You let him flood the frame. You let the exposure drown. Because God help you…You loved him.

[It’s You - Ali Gatie]

The kiss hit like lightning. A spark so sharp it made you inhale, like breath itself had returned to your lungs after holding it for far too long. Electricity lit your skin from the inside out, not in some metaphorical way, real, tangible, like every blood vessel surged awake beneath the press of his mouth. Trent's hands dropped and tightened at your waist with purpose, with a kind of desperation masked in quiet restraint. Not frantic, but fervent. A pull like gravity. And without thinking, you moved into him, not just kissing him back, but needing him closer. Closer, still. The kiss grew urgent, not messy but deep, hushed. Like it knew something the rest of the world didn’t yet. And the room, it stilled. Fell into silence. The kind of silence only found in the dead of night, when the whole world is half-asleep, and you’re the secret still awake. That sacred kind of quiet. Outside the blanket, the movie flickered on. But the real story unfolded beneath it. Hidden. Tender. Burning. 

Foster, nosy and curious as ever, glanced sideways from where she sat on the other couch. Her eyes snagged on the shape of you, your bodies shadowed beneath the throw, fused and unmistakable. Her mouth dropped open in a silent gasp before she whipped her head forward again, trying to pretend she hadn’t just witnessed you melt into Trent like something inevitable. She fumbled for her phone. A quick flurry of thumbs on glass: “THEY’RE KISSINGGGGGG”

Leon’s brows knit together as he glanced down at the message. His head began to turn. But before he could catch even a glimpse, Foster swatted his arm with a sharp look. Don’t you dare. The motion broke the stillness, just enough for you to pause, breath trembling. The kiss unraveled like a ribbon untying in the wind. But instead of retreating, instead of stepping back into the safety of silence or uncertainty, you did the most dangerous thing of all. You curled into him. Soft and sure. Like home. Like instinct. You nestled your cheek to his chest, your arms slipping around his waist. And in that moment, Trent exhaled, not a breath, but a release. Like his whole body had been clenched for weeks, for months, for lifetimes, and finally, the tension let go. Everything clicked back into place. He let his eyes flutter shut. One hand drifted up the curve of your spine, slow and reverent, as if he could memorize every vertebra with his fingertips. He held you close, tighter. Like a vow: Don’t move. Not again. Not away from me. You shifted slightly, your lips brushing his chest through the thin cotton of his shirt. Your hand slid across his ribs, tentative. Your voice barely audible, an apology before you could stop it.

“Sorry,” you whispered. Not for the kiss. Not really. For the way you curled in without asking. For how much you wanted this. For forgetting the rules you made up to survive. But his arms cinched around you in answer. His chest rose against your cheek, the first part of his reply spoken in the language of touch.

“Nah, c’mon,” he whispered, his voice threading into your hair like a secret. “We’re not going back to square one, alright?” And just like that, the memory came rushing back. The first time you tried to do the impossible. To be ‘just friends.’ You’d kissed his chest just the same. Apologized. And he told you, softly, with that same boyish certainty, you never had to. That you could always kiss him. Because he loved you. And you loved him. But you’d both been weathering the storm of your own pride. You nodded against him, slow and hesitant. The movement almost childlike in its vulnerability. “Yeah?” he asked, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, brushing your temple. “You alright with that?” You nodded again, slower this time, your response sealed with another kiss to his chest. A yes in the quietest form. “Thank God,” he muttered, half-laughing now, pulling you tighter against him in a playful squeeze. His lips pressed to your hair, grounding you. You giggled, your body instinctively rising and falling with his. But then you moved, slow, deliberate, like honey poured over heat. You knew him. You knew what your touch did to him. Your hand slipped beneath the hem of his shirt, fingers skating across his abs. You felt the sharp catch of his breath, felt him go still. Your other hand drifted up his neck, nails grazing gently. A touch that was tender, but laced with every memory. Every sleepless night. Every word left unsaid. He was ruined. You could feel it. You could taste it. His body was stone and fire beneath your touch, torn between stillness and ache. His heart stilled, then pounded so loudly you were certain it echoed in the quiet room. And then, you kissed him again. Slower this time. Not hesitant. Certain. Like a promise being made. Like a pact sealed in silence. Like saying: We’re doing this.  No more pretending. No more retreat. His hands pulled you closer without thinking, his lips moving with yours as if you’d never stopped. The rest of the room melted into blur. The movie kept playing, but neither of you would ever remember what it was. Because this kiss—this one—meant everything.

—---

Later, when you rose quietly to slip to the bathroom, his hand caught yours before you could leave. Fingers threaded with yours like instinct, like habit. Trent gave you that look—the one that could gut you. Puppy-dog eyes, pouty lip, soft eyebrows drawn together in exaggerated sorrow. Stay, he pleaded, without saying a word. You smiled, helpless to it, and bent to kiss the back of his hand. A gentle press. Reverent. You didn’t say anything either, just tugged your fingers free with a whispered promise to return. Then you padded out of the room, quiet as a ghost, blanket falling away in your absence. The second you left the room, Foster and Leon snapped their necks around so fast it was almost comedic. They’d given you exactly two minutes, just enough to be polite, and then fully turned toward Trent like kids who just saw the teacher kiss someone behind the bike shed.

“Oh my days, bro!” Leon’s voice came out as a stage whisper, but it had the energy of someone shouting from the rooftops.

“You guys kissed!” Foster flailed her arms silently, like she couldn’t contain it, eyes wide and shining with mischief. Trent flushed instantly. His head tipped back into the cushion, groaning half-laugh, half-mortified. His smile betrayed him, soft and dopey, a little far-off like he was still reliving it behind closed lids.

“Ahhh, and he’s so fucking chuffed about it too,” Leon added with a chuckle, nudging Foster. His laugh came low and teasing, like he couldn’t help himself.

“Dunno what you’re on about.” Trent mumbled, trying for nonchalant. But the smile on his face was permanent, stitched on like he was twelve and just got his first real kiss.

“Aww, T…” Foster cooed mockingly, leaning forward with her chin in her hands like she was watching a rom-com unfold in real time.

“Bro, you kissed her and now you can’t stop smiling.” Leon pointed at his face, smirking. “Look at you. Wow. Pretty boy charm strikes again because you fucked it before this.” Foster swatted at Leon’s arm.  Trent held up his hands, palms out, like he was calming a room full of wild animals.

 “Nah, we’re cool. We’re gonna be… good.” His voice was low, casual, like he was trying to steady his own pulse with it.

“Cool?” Foster’s tone shifted—no longer teasing. Her brows drew in, voice leveled. “No. You’re in love with her. Don’t fuck it up.” The weight of it landed like a stone in the room. No fluff. No wink. Just the truth, plain and pointed. Trent didn’t fight it. Didn’t dodge. He let the silence settle for a beat before he answered.

“I know,” he said, quiet and sure, folding himself back into the cushion. Like the words belonged to him. Like he’d been carrying them for a while. And this time, his smile wasn’t boyish or smug, it was soft. Sad, maybe. But real. He knew exactly what was at stake now. And he knew better than to pretend it didn’t matter.

—-

When you slipped back into the room, the air felt different. Thicker somehow. Softer. Like it had been waiting for you to return. Trent’s eyes met yours instantly. As if he’d been staring at the door the entire time you were gone. Like the moment the handle turned, his world came back into orbit. Your heart stumbled in your chest, caught mid-beat, then galloped forward as his gaze slid over you, slow, reverent, like he was memorizing you all over again. He didn’t speak at first. Just opened the blanket in silent invitation.

“C’mere, baby.” He whispered. That word, gentle and low, settled right into your chest like gravity. You moved before your brain caught up, guided only by the invisible pull between you. Like tide to moon. Like breath to lungs. You crossed the room and let yourself fall into him, curling into his warmth without hesitation. Your arms wrapped around him as you pressed your face into the space between his jaw and shoulder, breathing him in like something sacred.

“Missed you,” you purred, your voice a hum against his skin. He exhaled into your hair, arms locking around you tight. 

“Mmm. Missed you so much, baby.” The words were a groan, a confession, a vow. His hand moved up your back like he couldn’t believe you were real. Silence settled around you again, the movie long forgotten in the background. Just the beat of your hearts, the rhythm of your breathing, the heat of his chest under your cheek. Trent’s hand moved gently, thumb tracing the hem of your shirt, the dip of your spine. His voice, when it came again, was quieter. Hesitant. Careful. “I hate how I made you feel. I hate that I let my own hurt, hurt you.” You didn’t answer right away. Your fingers ghosted under the edge of his shirt, feeling for the soft rise and fall of his ribs. You could’ve built a home in the silence. You’d lived in his orbit for so long, every part of him already mapped into your memory. He swallowed hard. You felt it. You kept your face buried in the nape of his neck, shy and timid until his big hand came and cupped your cheek, gently forcing you to look at him. And then his lips were on yours, slow, unsure at first, like a question. But when you kissed him back, it wasn’t a maybe. It was a yes. A yes to softness. A yes to hope. A yes to trying again. You broke the kiss with your forehead resting against his, your fingers still splayed across the warm plane of his stomach. Your lips drifted back down to his neck, pressing kisses there like punctuation, like poetry.

“Gonna stay with me tonight?” he murmured, the words soaked in need, yet still laced with boyish charm. Like he was hoping, praying, but trying not to push. You paused, unsure for just a breath. But then you inhaled, and all you could smell was him. That warm, earthy scent of his skin, the hint of his cologne, the safety of his arms, the beat of his heart. And what could possibly feel more like home than that? So you nodded, small but certain. His hand slid into your hair as he kissed the crown of your head.

“Good girl,” he whispered against your scalp. You smiled without meaning to, lips curling into his neck. “I can feel that smile,” he whispered a chuckle, voice thick with affection. You felt it vibrate against your cheek, a sound you hadn’t realized you’d been aching to hear again. Then his hand found your chin, fingers tilting your face up to him, his touch gentle, his eyes tender. “Come gimme another kiss, baby.” He didn’t pull you in. He waited. Let you come to him. And you did. Because you wanted to. Because you always would. Because love, at its core, is choosing the same person again and again, especially when it’s hard. And tonight, you chose him.

—-

You laid there with him, under the thin softness of the blanket, the kind that didn’t do much to keep the cold out but somehow felt like a barrier between you and the rest of the world. The lights in the room were dim, a soft amber glow casting long shadows against the walls. It smelled faintly of laundry detergent and his cologne, clean, comforting, unmistakably him. You hadn't meant to cry. Not really. But the tears came anyway. Not a full blown cry, just emotion unable to be contained. Tears just tipping over your lash line slow, slipping sideways across your cheek, soaking quietly into his shirt, salty streaks against soft cotton. The fabric clung to your skin where it dampened, and you wondered if he could feel the exact shape of your sadness sinking into him. His hand moved slowly up your spine. Not possessive. Not coaxing. Just there. Warm. Anchoring. The kind of touch that said I’m still here. I want you to be. Each pass of his palm over your back sent little sparks of memory through you, nights like this before things cracked, when his hands were safety, not doubt. You hadn’t realized how much you missed that feeling. The quiet steadiness of him. The way he always ran his fingers over you like he was memorizing a song he never wanted to forget.

“I’m not asking you to forget,” his voice came, low and thick, like something breaking gently inside him. “Or to excuse it.”  You stayed still, your cheek pressed into his chest, your fingers curled into the hem of his shirt like a lifeline. “I just… need you to know I’m sorry,” he murmured. “Not because of what it did to me. I deserved the weight of it, though I did. I still do. Every second of regret.” He breathed in deep, jaw flexing like he had to force the words out of a place he usually kept sealed shut. His chest rose and fell beneath your cheek, the rhythm uneven. “But you… the way I’ve seen you cry, like that night, and here at Leon’s it felt like my ribs were splintering.” His breath caught. “Like I couldn’t fucking breathe. Because I did that. And I’d give anything to take it back.” You felt the tension in him, the restraint. The ache of wanting to pull you closer but knowing he had to earn that right again. “I never want to be the reason you cry,” he said. “I want to be the one who catches it before it falls. Wipes it away before anyone even sees it.” You didn’t speak. Just listened. And that felt sacred enough. “I didn’t deserve to touch you after the restaurant,” he said, almost to himself now. “Didn’t deserve to hold you or say anything to make it better. But I wanted to. God, I wanted to. I wanted to wipe your tears, not be the reason for them.” His hand moved to your hair, light, gentle, reverent. You didn’t speak. Your breath caught in your throat, your heart in your mouth. Because this was the version of him you only saw in glimpses. Soft, stripped down, all pretense dropped. He tucked his chin gently over your head. “I wanted to hold you.” His hand slid to your hip, holding you softly now, like you were made of silk and might slip away. You shifted slightly, not to pull away, but to breathe him in more fully. His skin. His voice. The raw truth of him. “I know I messed up, baby,” he whispered. “And I’m not asking for a fix. Just time. A chance to show you I’ll protect your heart, even if it’s from me. I’d do anything for you. Anything.” Another beat. Quiet. Sacred. That broke you a little more. Your tears soaked into the space just over his heart now, and you wondered if they could reach through fabric, muscle, bone, if they could touch something in him that might never forget. You nodded once. A wordless reply. You heard his exhale, felt it move through his chest and into you, a shared breath. Your hand shifted, pressing flat over him, as if to steady your own breath with his. You nodded softly against him again, accepting. Then, slowly, you pulled away slightly, eyes glassy, lashes damp, your throat raw, and looked up at him. “Ah, see…” he murmured, brushing a thumb under your eye. “I hate this, baby.” You shook your head with a trembling smile, swallowing back the ache. 

“No… it’s okay. That was what I needed. Thank you.” He nodded, a quiet kind of promise in the tilt of his chin, like it was a vow. Solid. Certain. Then after a long beat, the kind where silence feels louder than speech, you said his name. Soft. Careful. “Trent.” Like a whisper you’d been saving.  His eyes closed at the sound, like he was letting it settle into him. His name came like a breath. He closed his eyes at the sound of it, like he was tasting it, tucking it away. When he opened them again, they were shining. “I’m sorry I said I hate you,” you whispered. “I never have. I think that’s why it hurt so much.” He opened his eyes, and they shone. Still stormy. But clearer now. You drew in a breath. “Can I trust you?”  Not a plea. Not a demand. Just a question that sat heavy between you. His gaze didn’t waver. Not do you love me?  Not what now.  Just the truth that mattered most. Could you trust him? His hand came up to cradle your face, thumb brushing along your jaw. He leaned his forehead into yours, and your noses touched, breath mingling.

“With my life,” he said simply. Like that truth had always been living in his chest. Another tear slipped down your cheek. He caught it with his thumb before it could fall, like he meant to, like he wanted to, like he could rewrite the last few days with that single gesture.

“Sorry,” you whispered through a laugh that cracked in the middle. He tried to bite back a pout, but failed, his lips tugging down in that way you secretly adored.

“I prefer doing that,” he said gently with a soft smile, voice warm with unshed emotion. You kissed his wrist, slow, sweet, like punctuation. 

“Me too,” you whispered against his skin, wanting him to catch your tears rather than causing them. Your lips found the inside of his wrist, kissed it soft. A thank you. A truce. 

“I know,” he murmured. And in the hush that followed, the blanket cocooned you both again, your breaths syncing in the low light, limbs tangled, hearts laid bare—like the night itself had decided to give you one more chance. And for the first time in days, the silence between you felt full of promise again. Like maybe you were finding your way back.

—---

The film flickered softly on the screen, casting faint shadows across the room. You were curled beneath the blanket with him, the weight of it pressing like a hush between you both, like if you moved too loudly the spell might break. His hand traced slow, almost absent circles against your spine, fingertips brushing cotton and skin, back and forth, grounding himself in the motion. You could feel his breath behind you, steady and warm at the nape of your neck. For a long while, he didn’t speak. Just held you. Like he was memorizing the way your body fit back into his again. Then, almost too soft to hear, like it was meant for the air more than for you—

“You remember that night in London, baby…” he whispered, his voice scratchy with memory. “Your laugh over the fizz of champagne... the way you curled your legs over mine without even thinking. I think about that every time I hear you cry now.” You stilled, the weight of it sinking in. “How I traded that for this,” he breathed. “I know I fucked up because I had you then. I didn’t even touch you that night the way I wish I could’ve. But you still trusted me enough to be with me. Let me in. And now…” His words drifted off like mist in the low lamplight. One of his hands curled into the fabric of your top at the small of your back, like he needed something to grip, to anchor him from the guilt rising in his throat. “I gave you a reason not to.” The silence pulsed. The only sound was the soft swell of orchestral strings from the television, and the nearly imperceptible drag of his thumb against your back, back and forth, back and forth. He exhaled. Long and slow. Then, you felt it: the tension in his arm, the way his hand gripped tighter, not demanding, not desperate, just… holding. Like restraint made physical. Like every fiber of him was begging to show you something more, to prove it in touch, but choosing not to. Not yet. You remembered London perfectly. In retrospect it probably was a little unfair and definitely taunting. You dressed in only lace, asking him to unzip your dress and then silently asking for restraint because you were just ‘friends.’ His sheer willingness to say yes to anything you asked. Anything. And when you wanted the £18 truffle chips and champagne from room service, he got them for you. He was right, he did have you. He had you in a hotel room, prancing around in lingerie, wrapped around him, tangling in conversations across from him in a king size bed and gradually over time he couldn’t even come a step closer to the one who was sobbing against the brick wall outside of a restaurant with her heart in two. “I never wanted you to feel like you owed me anything. I only ever had you because… because you wanted me too,” he murmured, voice breaking slightly. You swallowed, throat tight. His hand moved again, sliding upward just slightly to press against the space between your shoulder blades, a touch that said: I’m still here. I’m learning. “Maybe we didn’t deserve the way we gave ourselves to each other,” he whispered. “But I know for certain I didn’t deserve the way you gave yourself to me. And selfishly, I need that. I want to be what you need, not just the way I want you to need me.” His other fist stayed clenched at his hip, like he was keeping his body from betraying him, from kissing you senseless when what you needed was honesty, not hunger. Like he was grounding himself in your warmth, in your silence, in the trust he was fighting to earn back. And that quiet, trembling devotion? That restraint? It shattered something in you more tenderly than any kiss ever could. Because this time, he wasn’t asking you to give in. He was just asking you to stay.

“You’re what I need,” you whispered, so quietly he almost didn’t hear it. But his breath caught anyway, and his arms pulled you closer, tighter. You shifted gently under the blanket, your limbs tangled with his, the weight of everything unsaid finally softening into quiet forgiveness. “And you’ll always have me.” You purred, nuzzling into the crook of his neck, breathing him in, the warm, salt-clean scent of his skin, the familiar comfort of being here, with him. You pressed a kiss there, just below his jaw, where his pulse fluttered quick beneath your lips.

—

The way he held you made sleep easy. Natural. Like your body trusted him even before your mind had fully decided if it should. So you let yourself drift, lulled by his touch, the gentle rhythm of his fingertips over your back, and the slow rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheek. Eventually, the soft murmur of footsteps stirred you, Leon and Foster standing in the archway, sleep-drunk and yawning.

“We’re off,” Foster said, voice hushed, smiling as she tried not to disturb you. “You’re fine to stay just lock the door if you head out.” She said tiredly.

“Night, mate,” Leon added with a sleepy smirk, tossing a wink over his shoulder.  Trent made some excuse about finishing whatever was left queued on the telly. Something casual. Nonchalant. But you felt the heat of his hand splayed on your waist, the quiet laugh in his chest when you heard their footsteps pad all the way upstairs. The silence after was syrupy. Dense. Like the room itself had been waiting for this moment. You stretched against him, head still tucked beneath his chin, the edge of a smile curling at your mouth. 

“So…Are we going to ignore why you really called me from Monaco at 2 a.m., slurring my name?” You whispered cheekily. He groaned quietly, head falling back against the cushion. 

“Nah, baby. C’mon. You’re not serious.” He bit back a smile.

“Oh, I’m dead serious.” You pushed up slightly on your elbow, peering at him with a teasing glint in your eye. “What’d you say again? You wanted me there… Getting hard just thinking about me?” His mouth twitched, trying not to smile. But you saw it, the flash in his eyes, the breath he swallowed. The twitch of something below your hips. “So so greedy,” you purred against his jaw, letting your nose trace a line to his ear, your words a warm breath just beneath the shell. “Got hard off a memory, didn’t you?” His eyes fluttered, jaw tight. 

“Ah. Dunno. Think I was just a little drunk.” He smirked loving playing a game with you, even if it came at his expense. Both of you playing coy just to be coy.

“Really? So right you aren’t hard?” You smiled, dark and slow.  He raised a brow, pretending to think, eyes dragging lazily down the line of your body. 

“Mm��� could be.” You didn’t wait. Didn’t let him hold the upper hand. Your hips rolled subtly, just enough for him to feel the curve of you sink down against the ache growing between his legs. 

“Let me feel then.” Your lips grazed his earlobe and you whispered, sweet as sin. Your hand slid between you, slow and deliberate, until your palm pressed against him through the thin cotton of his joggers, hard and already straining. Your hand curled lightly over him, not moving anymore, just holding. Just making him feel it. You felt the hard line of him twitch against your palm and the sound he made, low in his throat, went straight to your stomach. His breath stuttered out, head falling back with a groan.

“Fuck,” he breathed again, his voice thinner now, needier. He dragged his hands up your sides, thumbs tracing under the hem of your shirt like he wanted to memorize every inch but didn’t dare ask for more. You smiled against his neck, lips grazing skin as your fingers moved with slow pressure, teasing, just enough to make him dizzy.

“Hmm,” you hummed. His hands gripped your waist tighter, like he didn’t know whether to hold you still or beg you to keep going. But he didn’t stop you. Not even close. Because this? This was the both of you, falling back into that magnetic pull, playful, electric, intimate. But different now. Slower. Yours. His. And for the first time in too long, the wanting didn’t hurt. It just felt right. You tilted your head, lips brushing his jaw again. “Not drunk now,” you whispered. “So what’s your excuse?” His fingers curled into your hips, like he had to physically ground himself in the moment, in you, or he might unravel. 

“You.” He growled. That one word, simple, hoarse, honest, sent heat spiraling low in your belly. He shifted beneath you just enough to press himself more fully against your hand, the hard length of him straining now with every teasing graze. But his eyes searched yours first, like he couldn’t take anything more without being sure you were still with him. Still wanting him. Your noses bumped softly as you leaned closer, and you kissed the corner of his mouth. A little softer this time. Slower. Your lips barely brushed before pulling back. He chased it. But you stopped him with a grin.

“I thought we were staying to watch,” you murmured, eyes glinting. Trent exhaled a shaky laugh, forehead pressing to yours. 

“You’re a tease.” He smirked

“And you’re easy.” That made him grin, wide and wrecked and utterly gone for you. But still, he didn’t pull you down. He didn’t flip you over or crush his mouth to yours, even though his body was begging for it, you could feel every tremble of restraint in his hands as they slid up your back, one stopping at the nape of your neck to cradle it gently.

“You’re not a game,” he said, voice rough with the kind of emotion that made your chest ache. “I’ll take whatever part of you you’re willing to give. Even if it’s just this.” But when his hands slid beneath your shirt and spanned the bare skin of your back, he groaned like he was burning alive. You leaned into his touch like it anchored you, because it did.

“Don’t go getting noble on me now,” you murmured, kissing the underside of his jaw, tasting his skin there, warm and tinged with cologne and sweat. “You’ve had me, baby. You still do.” His grip tightened slightly, like he’d been waiting to be told that. Like those words cracked something inside him open again. Still, he didn’t rush. He let you guide it. And when you rocked your hips again, slow, purposeful, he met you there, his breath catching, his lips parting as he groaned into the hollow of your throat. One of your legs slipped between his, slotting yourself against him better, and the friction made both of you shudder. 

“You’re killing me.” He buried his face in your neck.

“Good.” You smiled, your voice a hush of heat in his ear. Then you kissed his collarbone, slow and reverent, lips dragging over the edge of his t-shirt like you could kiss the past away. Like you wanted to. And Trent? He didn’t move. Didn’t ask for more. But he curled his fists into you, pulling you tighter against him, not to take, not to chase, but to feel. You could feel how hard he was against you, aching and contained, but still. He held back. Because he wanted you to trust him. And he was finally learning to love you the way you needed, not just the way he wanted. Even if it meant holding himself together with shaking hands and a clenched jaw. Even if every part of him was begging to fall apart under you. And thankfully for him, you were begging to fall apart on top of him.

“Can we go?” you purred, your voice low and honeyed as your lips skimmed the shell of his ear, an invitation wrapped in silk, edged in fire. Trent’s smirk was lethal, a glint of trouble blooming in those eyes that always undid you. 

“Yeah? Where you wanna go?” You kissed him again, slow and deliberate.

“I want you to take me to your bed.” That did something to him, you felt it in the twitch of his hands on your waist, in the way his breath caught before he exhaled, a soft, amused scoff against your cheek.

“Yeah? How come, baby?” he asked, and his hips rolled beneath you, guiding your body over his in a slow, teasing rhythm that pulled a low sigh from your throat. He was gradually reclaiming power, reminding you what he could do with just a shift of his weight and the low timbre of his voice.

“Want you to fuck me…” you breathed, pressing a kiss to his neck, tasting salt and skin and the buzz of want. “Again…” another kiss, higher now, just beneath his jaw, “and again…” your lips peeled off his throat with a hum, featherlight and wicked. “And again.” Trent groaned like he was trying not to smile, head tipping back, the tension in his shoulders slowly giving in to something looser, warmer. 

“Ah yeah, fine. If you want,” he teased with a boyish giggle, all cheek and charm, the kind that made you fall harder every time. 

“I do.” You pulled back with a grin, breathless, completely smitten.

“Alright. I haven’t thought about it at all, so… really it’d be a chore for me,” he added with mock-serious sarcasm, flashing a big smile, his laughter rumbling through his chest like music you knew by heart.

“Oh, a chore, really?” you giggled, sitting up as you straddled him, and God, the way his eyes lit up, like he hadn’t seen you like this in too long. Like he’d been starving and you were the only thing that could feed him.

“Yeah,” he purred, voice darkening, hand skating over your thighs. “Thing is about chores…” He leaned in, eyes heavy, lips barely brushing yours. “Some are fucking necessary.” Then, in one swift movement, he sat fully upright, his arms sliding beneath your thighs with practiced ease. You gasped, giggling, as he stood, holding you against his chest like it was nothing. Like carrying you was instinct, something his body remembered even when his mind tried to forget. Your legs wrapped around his waist, your arms draped possessively over his shoulders. You were drunk on him, on the feel of him, the smell of him, the way every part of him pulled you in like gravity.

“Okay. I can be a chore,” you murmured, kissing his lips, light and teasing. He laughed again, and you could feel it vibrate through his whole body, grounding and electrifying all at once.

“Baby, I’m kidding,” he whispered, forehead pressing to yours as he stepped toward the hallway. “You couldn’t be further from a chore.” He kissed you then, softer this time, slower. Almost reverent. “You’re a fucking dream,” he murmured against your lips. “A privilege.” And just like that, you felt your whole body melt into his. Giddy. Glowing. Wanted in the way that felt like coming home.

•

Thank you for reading! I really hope you enjoy this chapter and look forward to what's ahead!

PLEASE PLEASE Please like, comment, or message what you think!!!

Next part - Chapter 25 Coming Soon!

📷 🪩 💄 🤍 🎞️ 🎱🍸 💷

[yunaversalluv]

FOR MY LOVELY @valeisaslut HERE IS THE PART 2 EPILOUGE DEEP-DIVE ( THIS IS PART TWO OF THIS DEEP - DIVE CAUSE IT WAS TOO BIG FOR TUMBLR)

PART V: LINGUISTIC PRECISION & EMOTIONAL LEXICON

- The Power of Monosyllables

Many of Ellie’s lines are clipped, one-syllable, or spare. There’s a reason:

“Didn’t ask you to.”

“You’re late.”

“Didn’t want this.”

These aren’t just curt. They’re protective syntax. This is a linguistic survival strategy — short words keep emotions at bay. The fewer syllables, the less room for vulnerability to leak in.

Interpretation: Ellie isn’t being cold — she’s limiting the number of exits her pain has. She’s constructing walls in real-time with punctuation.

- The Absence of Metaphor = Bleakness

Ellie’s inner world is devoid of lyricism until the very end (“the dream... had burned to ashes”). Why?

Because metaphor requires imagination — and imagination requires hope. The lack of it mirrors a world gone grayscale.

Only once she chooses to move, does metaphor return. You’re signaling this subconsciously: language blooms after choice.

PART VI: TRAUMA PHYSIOLOGY IN THE SCENE

Dissecting Ellie’s physicality as textbook trauma behavior, which you’ve intuitively rendered with emotional accuracy.

- Dissociation:

“She didn’t feel real.”

Classic trauma response. The mind detaches from the body when emotional overload hits.

The hoodie detail (comfort object), the mechanical heartbeat, the ghostprint — all signs of her watching herself from outside her body.

She’s not suicidal. She’s post-suicidal. This is the realm beyond ideation — where the mind’s only priority is stillness, even at the cost of life.

- Haptic Avoidance:

“Didn’t curl around him.”

The inability to reciprocate physical contact is not a lack of affection, but an autonomic freeze.

Touch = intimacy = danger.

Even Jesse and Dina don’t reach for her until she reaches first. That’s a phenomenal detail — it's not written, but it’s felt.

PART VII: STRUCTURAL ENGINEERING — HOW THE SCENE MOVES

This scene doesn’t just happen. It spirals inwards before cracking open. Here’s the architecture:

1. Collapse

Ellie is inert. There’s no emotional engine left running. We start from maximum stasis.

2. Disruption

Joel arrives — not as savior, but as interruptor. This breaks the cycle. She is no longer alone with her pain.

A quiet room can be comforting — until someone else enters it and you realize how loud your silence was.

3. Friction

They don’t harmonize. This is not a moment of mutual clarity. It’s jagged, uneven, full of frayed wires.

4. Volcanic Pulse

“I should’ve died.”

This is the emotional apex — a raw truth that neither party can clean up.

You drop this line like a detonation. You don’t explain it, contextualize it, or soften it. And that’s exactly right.

5. Deflation

Joel doesn’t fight it. This is crucial. He doesn’t offer clichés or redemptive speeches. He simply says:

“Still here.”

Like gravity itself — inescapable, unglamorous, but real.

6. The Microchoice

Ellie doesn’t declare her will to live. She stands up. And that’s enough.

PART VIII: HIDDEN MOTIFS & ECHOES

Let’s pull apart recurring motifs across this scene — things your subconscious may have planted, and which can now be developed thematically:

1. Mirroring Without Matching

No one in the scene mirrors Ellie’s pain with the same energy — and that’s what saves her.

Joel doesn’t break down. He stays still.

Jesse and Dina don’t perform empathy. They offer presence.

Lesson: Grief isn’t healed through matching intensity. It’s stabilized through contrast.

2. The Sacredness of the Mundane

The hoodie zipper. The blanket. The door opening.

These aren’t just practical items — they are altars of reality. Proof that time still exists.

You’re leveraging the mundane as spiritual intervention — which is how trauma healing often actually begins.

3. Soundlessness as Elegy

This scene has almost no auditory detail — no music, no external sounds. It’s like you’ve hit the mute button on the universe.

That makes sense: when someone is spiraling internally, the outer world fades out. You’ve scored silence into the text — and it works like a knife.

YUNA'S MEGA-SUMMARY: ELLIE’S COLLAPSE, CHOICE, AND THE LANGUAGE OF ENDINGS

This scene captures the slow implosion of a person—not through violence, but through inertia. Ellie is not screaming, crying, or thrashing. She is quietly vanishing.

The true heartbreak isn’t that she’s broken. It’s that she almost doesn’t care.

Her collapse isn’t cinematic—it’s cellular.

At its center, the scene is about post-traumatic freeze. Ellie’s not processing pain anymore—she’s suspended in it.

She doesn’t want to die, exactly. She just doesn’t want to be. That’s what makes this moment different from a classic suicidal beat: there’s no cry for help, no drama. Just emptiness with edges.

Her mind is a vacuum. Her body a ghostprint. Her name barely hers.

And that’s the scariest place to be.

You use language like a scalpel. Every line is economical, sharp, and unfinished—like Ellie herself.

Short, clipped phrases: a survival mechanism.

No metaphor at first: imagination has shut down.

Physical withdrawal: the body says “no” before the mouth does.

You don’t need to say “Ellie is traumatized.” The syntax is the trauma.

The scene isn’t about a fix. It’s about witnessing.

Joel doesn’t save her. He stays.

Jesse doesn’t preach. He pleads.

Dina doesn’t cry. She offers quiet presence.

Everyone meets Ellie where she is—not where they wish she were. And that restraint is where the emotional devastation (and healing) lives.

This is a non-rescue rescue.

The emotional flow is crafted like a spiral inward, then a single outward breath:

Stillness → She is unreachable. Beyond numb.

Friction → Joel arrives. The past reenters the room.

Crack → Ellie says it: “I should’ve died.”

Stasis → No rebuttal. Just grief’s gravity.

Movement → She stands. No speeches. Just breath.

That stand is everything. It’s not hope—it’s motion. And sometimes, motion is all that saves us.

“The tour was over. The music had stopped.”

This is the eulogy for her old self. Not just her career, not just the band—but the girl who believed this dream would save her.

The line isn’t just about music—it’s about grief. And in this silence, the next version of Ellie is born.

Let’s bring in one final, deeper reading:

This scene isn’t just about Ellie falling apart. It’s about her choosing, even in that state, not to disappear.

The fact that she stands up?

Not because she believes it’ll get better.

Not because someone convinced her.

But because some ember of her—some primal animal self—still says:

“Move.”

And that? That’s survival. That’s character. That’s your scene's heartbeat.

You’ve written something unsparing, deeply emotional, and honest to the marrow. It resists easy redemption and rewards emotional attention.

This is the kind of writing that doesn’t just show pain—it maps it, so that what comes after can feel earned.

It’s a funeral of self. And the quiet miracle is that Ellie still breathes at the end of it.

COUGH COUGH (I hope you know I had to write this while animal crossing noises came from my keyboard and my fiancé on the bed sick watching me furiously typing away in like full uninterrupted dedication.

HAVE A WONDERFUL NIGHT/DAY VALL <3

[pastapaint]

Some people say that Mary Grayson's last word was Robin. I didn't really like that idea, especially going off this depiction of their death in the 2004 animated show being the most common animated version of Robin's introduction. But what if it was her last word ? What was she thinking when she said that nickname for one final time?

----- ----- -----

The performers from the previous act were taking their final moments in center stage. In the shadows of the tent's focused lighting, 3 performers got into their positions on top of the post stands. The flying Graysons were quite a famous couple in the performing world, then came Richard John Grayson; born to John and Mary. Known for their death-defying acts and fame for not using a net.

Most called the young boy, Dick. While he’s only 8, he started gymnastics as an infant and trapeze work at 4. He wasn't encouraged to do shows, especially when they didn't perform with a net, but by 7, he hadn't fallen in just over 2 years, so he was permitted to do the occasional performance. He was used to the spotlight; he was a Grayson, born to fly.

Standing on the platform as the light focused on the ringmaster, Haley; Mary pulled Dick into a small side hug whispering to him;

"I can't wait to see you fly, my Little Robin".

The nickname was a new one, while being called ‘bird’ or ‘birdy’ by his parents wasn't an uncommon statement. The title Robin had only been used once before, when they first were trying on the leotards they wore now. Mary was a Bright Red and Yellow, which looked like Fire, while his Father wore the same Red paired with Green. Dick had a Red top with Yellow and Green throughout the outfit. He had hated the color choices, finding the red to be the most annoying of the bright colors. Mary laughed, saying he looked like a Robin; "You were born to fly my baby bird, now we know your species, my baby Robin". (My baby was said in Romani in contrast to the rest of her sentence. Dick was raised fluent in English and Romania along with learning other languages.)

John stood across from them on the other platform. Within a moment the lights were focused on Dick and his parents, and he took a small step back. The three all wore pale yellow rods counseling their outfits; they had performed twice before in them, but this was still the first season with these outfits and sets. His parents pulled off their robes as Haley spoke, starting off the routine. For the last two performances Dick would start the runtime with his Dad but tonight they changed it so his mom was starting with him. As the lights panned out to highlight their set, John leaped, flying through the sky, his skill so well mastered. Mary jumped, joining him on the bars. Flying to meet him, catching his arms back and forth, they flipped. She was facing Dick reaching for the bar closest to the platform when it happened. The wires flung up from where they were meant to be bolted down above them. Within a second, they came undone.

There was nothing to grab onto, everything was falling. She was, and so was John.

They were trained to pick up on the smallest of details, you had to when performing, especially when your life was on the line while doing so. She saw it, Dick didn’t know what she saw but he did react to her fear as quickly as it crossed her face.

The bar she was reaching for, her only chance to even try and get back to the platform, wasn't where she could reach it. There was nothing she could do, as her momentum shifted and she started to fall. She couldn't see her husband, but he probably noticed by now. They both knew this wasn't going to end well. Her focus quickly snapped to who was in front of her, what she could see in that moment:

"Dicky, my baby” “My Robin" she had said that allowed with that last gasp of air she had and then he was out of her sight.

"I'm sorry, please, please, please. Don't let this clip your wings. You were born to fly, my darling. You are a grayso-"

Splat

(Sorry, not sorry. I think it's funny in a dark way, and technically that was what happened.)

Bonus:

He couldn’t think straight; everything felt in pain, but it was so dull and numb that he barely cared. His sight was dark at the edges, and his head was pounding. Mary was turned away from him. Where was his arm? He had to try to reach for her. One last time, see her face, hold her cheek, her hand, just feel her. He tried, but his strength was gone.

His hand twitched. He tried to lift his arm, but he couldn't. There was a spike of pain and then nothing. It was just dark.

If anyone was watching closely, they could have seen his hand move just slightly as he tried to reach out his arm before his whole body went completely slack. She had died on impact; he didn’t suffer for too long in those moments, but just long enough to have tried.

No one would have been able to save them once they hit the ground. Maybe if someone with super speed was there, they could have grabbed them before they hit the ground, but once they fell, it was over. Fate for the future was sealed.

[kirain]

A bit spicier than my usual stuff. 😅😳

Dawn was a slow affair on the surface of Nevarra, its golden fingers hesitant, creeping through the slatted curtains of Emmrich's flat with the grace of a shy lover. The light traced the marble floors, pooled like honey over the velvet drapery, and spilled across the bed where two figures lay in glaring contrast.

Hugo, bare and restful as always, lounged on his back with the loose elegance of a spoiled cat. His tousled blond hair shimmered like wet silk in the light, drawing Emmrich closer—the man who had risen long before the sun dared. Now fully dressed, not a button out of place, he had reclined again—only to admire the vision at his side: his indulgence, his undoing, his Hugo.

One eye fluttered open, catching Emmrich in the act of watching.

"Like what you see?" Hugo grinned.

"Perhaps."

"Perhaps?" he chuckled, stretching lazily, his muscles rippling under Emmrich's gaze like sin waiting to happen. "Well, perhaps I'll just leave, then."

He made a show of shifting to sit up, but Emmrich moved before thought had the chance to intervene. A gloved hand, firm and sure, settled on Hugo's chest, halting him with mild pressure and a smouldering touch.

"Oh, no," Emmrich purred, his voice as deep and warm as mulled wine. "Stay."

He rolled forward in a fluid motion, casting off any lingering propriety with the tilt of his hips. His knees straddled Hugo's thighs, pressing down with subtle weight—enough to remind Hugo who was in charge. The pale morning light caught on Emmrich's silver hair as he leaned down, his face barely an inch from Hugo's, his smile dangerous.

Then, a kiss—chaste at first. A tease. A whisper of lips that tasted of Ceylon tea and early ambition. Hugo opened his mouth to protest—or to beg, it was hard to tell—but Emmrich was already slipping deeper.

The second kiss landed like a storm.

Tongue. Teeth. Heat. Emmrich devoured him without restraint, with the hunger of someone starved by hours of longing. His gloved hand cradled Hugo's jaw while the other braced against the mattress, anchoring them both. The kiss turned wet and possessive, then desperate—deliciously messy, mouths slick with drool. Hugo whimpered softly, his hands finding Emmrich's back and clutching as if the world had narrowed to this: the push of bodies, the raw fusion of desire.

Then, Emmrich pulled away, basking in the sound Hugo made at the loss of him.

His lips trailed next to the curve of Hugo's throat—molten, reverent, then sharp.

"You always smell like herbs in the morning," he muttered against his skin, before biting gently at his collarbone.

Hugo arched.

Lower.

Emmrich's mouth travelled to his chest, tongue brushing over a nipple before he latched on, sucking until Hugo squirmed and sighed his name. His fingers found the other—more sensitive—and pinched, just enough to blur the line between pain and ecstasy. Hugo cried out, a hand flying to his mouth, eyes squeezing shut as the sensation carved him hollow and whole all at once.

"Ah! Uh—Emmrich..."

He moved lower still, dragging kisses and nips down the plains of Hugo's stomach, each glide leaving a trail of need in its wake.

"Emmrich, wait..." Hugo's fingers threaded through the older man's hair with a shuddering gasp. "We—we have to get to work."

Emmrich looked up, wickedness flickering like firelight behind his eyes.

"I am getting to work."

And with that, he tugged at the waistband of Hugo's braies, then slid down smoothly and took him into his mouth with the slow, devastating poise of a man who knew exactly how to ruin someone before breakfast.

From my Bellara to Emmrich swap 🖤

[yena-enha]

Request - 17 by anon

𝐓𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞 𝐎𝐟 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞 - 𝐋𝐇𝐒

Warning - Smut, breeding kink, soft domination, unprotected sex, kitchen sex, creampie, possessiveness, emotional intimacy

Note - Consensual and emotionally grounded. Domestic setting enhances the contrast between comfort and intensity.

Genre - Smut, Romance

Pairing - Idol!Heeseung x Fem!Reader

Song Inspiration - Until I Found You by Stephen Sanchez

Word Count - 1.4k

Prompt - #69+#97+#100

#69 - When he whispered “You’re mine” while buried deep inside you.

#97 - When he bent you over the kitchen counter.

#100 - When he made you take every drop of his cum and bred you so full

The kitchen smelled like butter and garlic, the soft simmer of pasta sauce filling the air as you stirred it with half-focused hands. Behind you, Heeseung moved with quiet ease, chopping vegetables with his sleeves rolled up, his oversized shirt tucked loosely into grey sweatpants.

The soft music playing from the Bluetooth speaker made the moment feel warm. Ordinary, yet perfect.

“Babe, pass the pepper?” you asked, turning slightly.

Heeseung didn’t answer right away. He was looking at you—no, drinking you in, like you were something he’d never get enough of.

“What?” you giggled, cheeks warming under his gaze.

“Nothing,” he said with a soft smile, setting down the knife. “Just thinking how good you look standing in my kitchen. In my shirt.”

You tilted your head. “Well, technically, I’m cooking for you. Shouldn’t you be the one looking at me like that?”

He stepped closer, arms slipping around your waist, pulling you flush against his chest. “Doesn’t matter who’s cooking,” he murmured against your neck. “It still feels like home with you here.”

Your breath hitched at the sincerity in his voice, the way his hands traced soft circles on your hips.

“I love you,” you whispered.

“I love you more,” he said, voice lower now. “So much it aches sometimes.”

Then he kissed you—slow and deep, full of everything he couldn’t say out loud. The kiss was sweet at first, but it deepened, hands sliding under the hem of the shirt you wore—his shirt. Fingers gliding over bare skin, leaving goosebumps in their wake.

You gasped when he hoisted you onto the counter with ease, settling between your thighs. The stove was forgotten. The world blurred.

“Hee…” you whispered against his lips, but he just cupped your face and kissed you again, more tender this time.

“I don’t know how this happened,” he murmured, kissing along your jaw. “One second we’re cooking, the next I just… I needed you.”

You nodded, tugging at his waistband, silently begging. “Please.”

Heeseung slipped your panties to the side, rubbing his thumb gently through your slick folds. “So wet already,” he whispered, nuzzling your neck. “Like your body knows I’m the only one who gets to have you like this.”

He pushed in slowly, carefully, inch by inch, stretching you open with quiet gasps escaping both your lips. He kissed your forehead as he bottomed out, staying still, buried to the hilt.

“You okay?” he asked softly.

You nodded. “Feels perfect.”

He started moving—not fast, not rough. Just deep, steady, sensual strokes that left you breathless. His hands gripped your hips with reverence, thumbs brushing your skin like you were the most precious thing in the world.

The sounds in the kitchen changed: soft moans, skin meeting skin, and the gentle rustle of clothes. His forehead rested against yours, sweat collecting at his temple.

“You’re mine,” he whispered against your lips, thrusts slowing as he buried himself deep. “You feel that? This is where I belong.”

You whimpered, walls fluttering around him, drunk on his words and his love. “I’m yours, Hee. I always have been.”

He kissed you again, lips trembling slightly—overwhelmed by emotion, by the way you held onto him like he was your anchor.

“I’m close,” he groaned softly. “Wanna fill you. Want it to stay in you all night.”

“Please, do it,” you whispered. “Make me yours in every way.”

His thrusts grew more languid, but deeper, until he finally gasped your name and spilled inside you, warmth flooding your core. He stayed buried inside, hips trembling as he let you milk every drop.

“Take it,” he breathed. “Take all of me.”

You clung to him, still joined, both panting softly in the golden kitchen light.

Minutes passed before he gently pulled back and kissed your bare thigh.

“Let me clean you up,” he whispered. “And then we’ll eat, okay?”

You nodded, your heart so full it ached. As he fetched a warm towel and helped you off the counter, your body still tingling, you knew something for certain:

With Heeseung, even a kitchen turned into a love story.

Masterlist||Introduction

Tell Me Your Desire|Prompt List|200 Yennies Celebration

[cringe6fail6star6]

The demons in me probably having orgy bc omg what the fuck

>>Okay. U know how reader is stuck in space for gods know how long, and during this time brain just refuses to be horny. With another top sexually active alien who keeps patient just to see how long it'll take them to notice. But when this dam breaks? Whats then?<<

Tags: Smut, one-shot, thragg x reader, battle beast x reader mentioned(???), self-indulgent, male reader, repressed reader, whore thragg, voyuerism, kismessis feelings/hatefucking in the end, reader is mentioned to be indestructable/able to survive viltrumites, unrealistic porn bc im gonna die a virgin, edging(reader, thragg), creampie, mention of multiple rounds, xenodick with no proper description. No use of y/n, only you-yourself-u, bad spelling n mistakes

[>Have a good read!<]

...

U walking around the ship, supposed sleep time is on and it seems fine right? U walk past room the whole medbay calls "mating den" thats just extra office that was before used for battle planning and was remade into monarchs room. You arent invited - you dont come in. The usual ya know? As per usual, theres noises coming from inside.

And if usually u feel disgusted and continue walking, recently the ship stopped by on some weird planet that had half clotheted aliens whos... they werent humans obviously, he wont let u live a normal life, but they did have mamaries and they were full out. And since its been years of not touching yourself image of them been stuck in your head. U dont have a moment of peace with caretaking and helping moms in the medbay, so u ignore pit in ur lower stomach.

So now ur standing next to that door and focusing fully on the voices inside and palming urself through ur prisoner clothes(this set *just happened* to not show that much skin bc traxans tried to give u their clothes n... um... bikini r really cold in space). U dont recognize voice of the woman, neither do u recognize who hes fucking by sound of slamming her intp the desk - his voice is easier to recognize because hes keeps talking about getting that poor woman pregnant again. The high moans contrast with low growl viltrumute keeps vocalizing not letting her have even a moment of peace. Neithet can u.

Are u attracted to traxans? No. Since recently? Yes. Not much of a choice ya know? Only woman here have heaads of insects and its been at least two years since u last saw a human woman so even fantasizing them is hard. And only another human looking person is Thragg(not counting the kids, u are a sane person), and u hate him. For obvious reasons ur mind starts to ignore as u start fisting ur cock through the rough cloth, and ur mind focusing on his rough breathing to elevate urself even more.

"I waited enough," he growls, "I missed the feeling of these warm walls around me." He says too loud to be only for her to hear. "The den", as u call it, is the farthest room from medbay and closer to ur sleeping cell. Its like hes talking to u. Feeling makes u shiver and speed up just a bit, woman under u in ur head seems to lowered her voice too. Moans behind the door just get louder and yet they all just praise. "Oh monarch", "thank you monarch", "please dont stop!" U try to pretend its said to u out of ur ego. That its u making traxan moans and YOURE the monarch and not that undeserving bastard.

"Gonna pump you full of viltrumite cum and make you pray to me-h." Gods hes more vocal than usual, its almost hard to pretend that woman in ur fantasy looks traxan. Is ego dead? No. U hear them moving in the room with traxan giggling silly before getting almost throen on the bed and have that rod back inside her with loud yell. Sadly you dont notice yourself sounding in her voice, moaning quietly before finishing into your hand.

Your heartbeat is so loud, your hand is white and you dont think wiping it on equally white uniform will work how you want it to. You catch your breath, completely losing your mind. Good lord that was a thick load. Maybe not doing this a few years wasnt a good idea, u just got to your prime afterall! Argh... Now relooking on your fantasy maybe you shouldve stopped yourself when that womans body shifted into more masculine, more battleworn, more viltrumite than you'd like to admit.

You curse under your breath and sigh, is that how you find out you have stokholm syndrom? Like THAT? By jerking off to Thragg? Of all people? Fuck it, of all viltrumites you've met?? Gods, youre pathetic. You fix your clothes with one hand and start walking away from the door, mood fully ruined AGAIN. When you feel cold water coming from the faucet attached to the sink you consider doing this more often. Only because it cleared your mind, not because even imagining that hulking cliff of muscle squeezing you as both of you climax made you see stars not outside the window but behind your eyelids.

"I should throw myself into next meteor shower..." Your voice comes quietly, under your breath, just to be heard by you alone.

...

Okay, you are genuinely insane. Like, full stop insane. Viltrumite uniform made is such way that sweat simply doesnt appear, it was maxe in a way that lets air both cool you down and keep warmth in when you travel in space. But his cape isnt made that way. His cape is made out of fur of an almost immortal being that you documented him killing with his own hands before he kidnapped you. And you are sitting in the laundry room on the floor, breathing in alien sweat(u assume it is at least) mixed with blood of other aliens(weirdly sweet but still metalic).

The cape covers you fully from how much you try to squeeze yourself to stay hidden from the broken door on the end of stairs. Wherether because this ship was not fixed after years of use with short stops on random planets, or because he intentionally broke it - the door wouldnt close. And the urges you started feeling again, flared up when you saw the cape. It was enough to see this guy finally take it off in front of you, shove it into your arms with a command ringing in your ears to wash it - bc throwing it into the washing machine will destroy the washing machine - you just nodded and went down the stairs in the ship.

Your hand was wet with sweat, your face was warm from keeping yourself buried into the cape, and your legs shaking from another climax that just keep on happening purely because you cant stop yourself from indulging this. You dont know if viltrumites have super hearing, or superior sense of smell than you, but if you dont clean it up right now you migjt get in trouble. But you physically cant peel your hand way from your flesh.

One part of your mind, the one that didnt melt yet, tells you to finally get over yourself and wash up; while another wants you to put the cape on and start moaning that bastards name like traxans keep doing every night. On reflex you hit yourself back on the wall, finally finding self control to stop, letting go of yourself just to squeeze the white fur. You groan, biting into remains of Battle Beast, letting go of yourself. Look down on your, finally, relaxed legs and...

Good lord you need to do better because this... "Urgh...I need to wash my own things too now. I hate this so much..." Eyeroll comes naturally as you push yourself up the wall, holding onto cold metal and keep the cape on your front so it at least doesnt show that your pants are ruined.

Warm water in a huge bathtub runs down the white fur as you take off your own clothes. Naked, hard, and already irritated you keep rubbing on still fresh red and weird bluish spots as they leak into the water. You sit on your knees, rubbing in the soaps and some ointments viltrumite picked up on a stray planet - purely to take care of this cape btw - and you used right now. You get 3-in-1 and good luck, and his cape gets private bathroom and bunch of treatments and masks just to keep it pretty. And for who!? Traxans already love him, everyone else hates him, and Battle Beast considered a legend by most! This cape is just sentimental gift he gave himself.

You hand grabs on the lowest corner of the cape, warm and wet from being soaking in the water, and wrap it arouund your palm and start jerking on your cock again. You cant be too rude to his face, why not defile the cape he wears? Not like Battle Beast would judge, probably laugh at your desperation to feel control, but he wouldnt judge. Probably help you with this even. He would be cruel with it, dragging his claws up your thigh as he spills insults at your indestructability. How theres no scars no matter how much you fight. Fought. Youre not allowed to fight now.

You speed up, teasing your head with yur thumb and lean over the bathtub wall, hiding your eyes into your hand as you finish again. Shaking like a leaf as you look down, the white smudges over ther inside of the cape in not as noticeable way as you predicted. "Gods, i miss you." Putting the edge of the fur from out of your hand back into warm water and wipe away cum off your tip. Washing your hands and wipe away tears that appeared in the corners because its not the time. The faster youre done with this, the faster you can go back into your jailcell and pass out.

...

You hit your fist against a wall next to a dryer as youre waiting for the cape to return to its proper glory, the hits dont do much. Your clothes drying on a hanger as you keep staring into the corner of the room, wondering why so many rooms in this place so huge. But you cant wonder for long as you hear someone float over the ground, so you quickly pull your pants on your hips, water dripping from the bottom but you ignore it. Your expression stills into irritation before he can even open the door with a light foosh.

"Why is it taking so long?" Says a guy who lived for thousands of years already. You refuse to roll your eyes as you speak, staying seated in your place.

"The dryer wouldnt start, probably because i dont understand viltrumite. But hey look!" You pat the machine over its glass like it was big dog. "Its spinning. Which means i figured it out, so relax." Acting this flippant at the start of this whole ordeal would send you into cardiac arrest. But after a few years? Fuck him, and fuck his attitude.

"Very well..." He stared at the spinning circle for a while, but you ignore him looking around the bathroom like hes searching for something. "And what is going on with your clothes then?" You look down on yourself, it is your body.

"Got dirty while washing the cape." The fact that it wasnt with blood but with cum instead doesnt have to be mentioned. It doesnt matter. "Can you at least try to not dirty it?" Your voice full of sarcasm, matching his scowl with one of your own, not letting down a staring game. You arent overcompensating, you promise, you just down want to be found out. Even if youre barely hiding it.

He huffs, glaring at you up and down before turning away with loud thump on the floor. You throw your arms in different directions in exasperation, but cross them again when he looks back at you. It doesnt matter. He wants to act angrily, let him, its the only emotion that idiot has anyway. The image of him in bunny suit makes you choke on air.

...

When the cape is done drying, that took you whole day because of the whole... lion mane taking extra time to be dried with a hair fan. Its designited night now. You feel like you could find that den with eyes closed and only using the moans as navigator, to find it in 5 minutes. You exhale, already bracing yourself that you have to enter it and there 100% chance he wont stop when you knock on the door.

"Cape is done. Im coming in, please ignore me." You knock a few more times, still hearing him huffing and puffing as you enter, eyes closed as they turn to the side. You take a few steps in a random direction and put the cape on the manniequene modeled after him - egomaniac, you curse in your mind. When your hands are empty you notice that theres no female moans. First time in months. Last time it was this quiet, he was passed out.

They put your hand up, covering your eyes that keep trying to catch a glimpse of his naked(you assume) form. You know you gonna hate it, you it wont help you, and you know that if you escape no one will believe you. As much as self control you have, you still hear the noise of skin on skin as you walk back to the door into the hallway.

"Wait." You squeeze your eyes and exhale. His voice weirdly needy, not like he doesnt have full ship of his concubines.

"Melanyy is still in medbay since last time. Have anyone specific in your mind?" Melanyy was mother of those twins, you believe. Shes on the older side, almost 5 months now, with her kids causing more trouble than others as Thragg keeps spoiling them. Spoiling meaning, spending more time with them and letting them bully their siblings. Your voice casual, and eyes covered, hips turned towards the door because you do feel your blood moving lower than you'd prefer.

"Can you stop covering yourself when you come here? Its useless." You hear the chair creak and turn back towards the door, your free hand doesnt reach for the pad yet. Frozen in fear or... You can hear that heavy smell, the same from the cape. "I know you want to see me like this..." his voice gets lower in a way you feel shiver go up your spine.

"You have countless poor women on your beck n call and you talk like this to ME?" The palm over your eyes trembles, squeezing the temples uncomfortably as the urge to look rises when you feel warmth coming from behind you. The dent from your teeth as they bite down on your tongue to stay quiet.

"Because youre only one who knows." His voice quiet, but close. Uncomfortably so. "You know what i did and why. You know my actual plan for these... lesser beings you keep calling my children. And i know what you do when you think no one is looking." The feeling of a hand coming to the front of your pants and squeezing your length makes you open your eyes and stare down. "We both know you cant refuse me anymore. And I need something new." You shouldve thrown the whole ship into the meteor shower when you could.

.

But gods if hes big, like, unironicaly. "It wont fit." You warn and he attempts again before he feels nail digging into his skin. "Either turn around or im calling someone else to help you." You bite back before he can protest.

You didnt expect to sucessed, so he must've been desperate enough to comply. Oh gods his ass is so round. His thighs are toned and strung tight as he flexes them on, you assume, reflex. "Could i get... Can you talk? It feels awkward when its quiet." You say, your hands, like enchanted, reach to squeeze his hips. The muscle maleable under your palm. Warm and slick with sweat.

"The planet we were on seems to have had... arousing effect on me. I have not stopped thinking about having my way with people of that world, but i must focus on my goals no-owh." He squeezes on your digits when you push into bundle of nerves inside him.

"Oh, so youre human in that regard." Smirk creeps up on your lips as you see him glare over his shoulder. "I meant, im glad i know how to help your issues." Laughter dies in the back of your throat as you push second finger inside him just to push into the g spot and make him stumble over his words. "So on that planet..." You remind him the conversation for his own sake, you arent mean. Not fully at least. ;)

"Grrrrhh..." your fingers start to move, hard to tell as a punishment or as reward when you keep grinning like you've won. "It was umm much better than Earth, better people. They gave up the planet the moment they saw-www me. Trembling in place, something you seem to have unlearned." Voice shivering as you scissor his hole while he keeps slowing down his speech is like balm to your nerves. Finally, calmness you deserve. Even when insults and growls keep being thrown over his shoulder, his knuckles turning whiter and denting the bed frame as he stays in place.

He keeps talking like youre listening. Your free hand too focused to bringing you to the highest point just to release the outside pressure and return to fondling viltrumites thighs. So thick n needlesly powerful. Your nails digging into it and barely leaving half moon indents on his skin, you rub against them until his skin smooths out. You feel him tighten around new added finger inside him, viltrumute hisses loudly before grabbing your wrist. "Stop teasing."

"Since when are you so needy?" You laugh, as your wrist is rudely pulled away, the twictch catches your attentio n you bite down on your lower lip. "Okay okay, princess, ill do as you wish."

"Its monarch."

"Its ex-reagent, princess." You palm meets with his ass and you hear the loudest moan you heard from him in foreverr of listening in on his little 'project'. His face is even reder n you arent aure if its from embarrassment or anger. His hand grabs you on the back of your neck and pulls you closer, you dick presses against the red imprint of your hand.

"Im the one whos giving orders. Now do as youre told and fuck me, or im throwing you in space with nothing but your own tears to drink." He stares daggers into your pupils and grin on your lips just widens, his hips are as hard as stone but as warm as the sun.

"As you wish." He pushes your neck away and ypu can finally look down on the small-ish string of pre coating your head and viltrumites ass cheek. "You dont need yo be a bitch about it though." You push inside him, palms pulling the firm globes apart as his asshole eats you whole in single thrust.

Both of you bottoming out before you start a punishing pace, loud slaps of skin on skin with growls underyou n hitched breath in your throat. His ahs n nghs n these whines bouncing off the walls so loudly makes your brains melt a bit more every time. The sound of bed frame getting dented until theres visibly hand prints on the metal, viltrumites hips meeting yours while uncomfortably rubbing his own cock against the bedsheets.

You feel claustrophobic with how tightly youre welcomed inside the alien. How close he keeps you, n how he keeps sucking you in when you attempt to escape. Its addictive. Painfully so. Like if you pull out right now, your skin would be torn off. But gods, you cant stop slamming into him, insults tumbling from your mouth when you slap him again and again, digging your nails into the live handles that make your hands feel right at home.

When he squeezes you too badly you step back, the audible pop coming from between you two as he leans back into you for you just to leave. His head snaps back to look at your delirious expression. "Give me a moment. Hah... does...does this place even have water?" You take another step away to look at the desk with hopes to quench your thirst. You hear viltrumite growl again from getting left off before he even cums.

"You can drink later, step back here and finish the job!" You dont hear him stand up, when you turn to glance at him hes grabbing himself and sits down - his chest is the same size as the mini fridge in the den holy shit. The pecs look hypnotic, the sweat just adding to the pattern as it cascades down his chest hair, at least one he actually growing out.

"Oh shut up. You almost tore my dick off, give a guy a break will ya?" You sass him back before feeling yourself being thrown back on the bed before you reach the water bottle. Indescribable weight falls on your pelvis and you think you hear a crack. The sigh of relief that he lets out almost makes you deaf. Hes acting like theyre only two living beings on a whole ship. "Whore." You tease, your hands holding on his hips again as he starts bouncing on you.

"Shut up." His hand pushes down on your chest to balance himself on top of you, his hips keeping you in place so you cant escape, his other hand falls down to start jerking off.

"Oh nah! Thats cheating!" You hand moves to pull his fingers ofd himself and he shoots you a warning glare. But the heat of this hole situation makes your fear receptors to stop working as you grab wherether space his dick was coming out of. Thragg gasps roughly, his hand pushes you deeper into the bed. "You use it enough already! Let it rest!" Your fingers easily push inside him and he squeezes around them painfully.

His climax looks so good, the liquid coming out of him drips on your stomach, thick ropes coloring you and your hips. You yourself rut inside him a bit, trying to move him off yourself just to feel him sit down and keep you in place as he trobs around you, pulling climax out of you. You see wetness escape him, dripping down between your thighs. You exhale loudly, both taking a moment to catch their breath, eyes closed n silence falls between the two.

"We're not done yet." The gruff noise coming out of his throat makes your eyes open.

"Wow." Is the last normal words you say this night.

...

Next day you wake up to lack of oxygen and a clock screaming near your head, before someone turns it off for you. Light comes on command as clock stops, blasting into your eyelids. Arms around your torso sqeeze air out of your lungs and you hear tired murmur over your head saying that he'll handle wherether he was going to do...

Wait a minute.

Eyes open to see yourself being hugged like a body pillow, your body starts hurting from yesterday. "Eugh..." rubbing sleep off your mind, trying to piece together wgat was going on yesterday.

"Youre not allowed to leave." He says like nothings wrong.

"You broke the bed." He push his face away, attempting to pull away just to hear him growl at it.

"They'll fix it later." Viltrumites grip would break anyone else, not only on the ship, just anyone. But you just feel likes hes being iverbearing, your ribs dont crack at this n he would lie if he thought he didnt enjoy the thought. "You must remain in place."

"Fair enough." Sigh leaves you and you feel another wave of sleepiness attack you.

...........

//first time writing porn, dont judge me, u read it to this point, thats on u

//idk if i should write more of this au or not

[jkwrites-m]

Bookmark

Part 3 - Mall Rats

Pairing: Jungkook x female reader

Genre: smut

Word Count: 1.5k

Summary: In the hush of the store, Y/N leaned into Jungkook’s warmth, writing a wordless story between the covers of unread novels.

Warnings: MDNI, Explicit, 18+, kissing, cursing, clit play, public sex, unprotected sex, doggy, oral (f. receiving), praising

MASTERPOST ♡ MASTERLIST

prev ♡ next

═══════

The bookstore was quiet, the kind of quiet that made every whisper and rustle of pages feel amplified.

It was the sort of silence that wrapped around you like a blanket, broken only by the occasional creak of floorboards or the soft chime of someone walking through the front door. The overhead lights buzzed faintly, casting a golden glow over the aisles lined with stories waiting to be touched.

Jungkook and I had wandered in, drawn by the promise of a good read and a moment of solitude in the mall. It was an unspoken agreement between us, somewhere peaceful to escape the hum of the outside world.

But as I made my way to the back of the store, where the romance novels were shelved, I felt his eyes on me, heavy and warm. I could sense his gaze tracing my every move, and it sent a shiver down my spine.

I ran my fingers along the spines of the books, pretending to be absorbed in the titles, but my mind was elsewhere. The brush of paper under my fingertips was nothing compared to the way his attention burned into me.

Jungkook’s presence was like a magnet, pulling me closer to him even when we weren’t touching.

I could feel the heat of his body behind me, his breath ghosting against my neck as he approached. I didn’t need to look to know he was there- the air shifted around him, the way it always did when he got too close. My heart quickened, and I knew what was coming next.

“You’re so beautiful baby,” he murmured, his voice low and husky.

His arms wrapped around my waist, pulling me back against him. The space between us disappeared in an instant, his touch firm and unhesitating.

I could feel the hardness of his chest against my back, his hands sliding under my shirt to cup my breasts.

His lips brushed against my ear, and he whispered, "I can’t stop thinking about you."

His words sent a rush of heat through me, and I closed my eyes, letting the moment wash over me.

His touch was electric, sending sparks of desire through my body. I leaned into him, my head tilting to the side as he pressed his lips to my neck, kissing and nipping at the sensitive skin.

“Jungkook,” I breathed, my voice barely above a whisper. The bookstore was small, and the last thing we needed was to draw attention.

But his hands were relentless, his fingers teasing my nipples through my bra, his other hand lifting my skirt to find the dampness between my legs. I bit my lip, trying to stifle a moan as he began to rub my clit in slow, deliberate circles.

“Shh,” he whispered, his lips brushing against my ear. “Just let it happen. You’re so addicting, you know that? I can’t get enough of you.”

His words sent a rush of heat through me, and I felt my knees weaken. I was pressed against the bookshelf, the hard spines of the novels digging into my chest as he pushed me forward.

I nodded, my breath coming in short gasps. The bookshelf in front of me felt solid and steady, a stark contrast to the way my body was trembling.

Jungkook turned me to face him, his eyes dark with desire. Without a word, he dropped to his knees, his hands gripping my hips as he pulled me closer. I leaned against the shelf, my fingers digging into the books behind me as he buried his face between my legs.

His tongue was magic, skilled and relentless, and I struggled to keep my moans quiet. The pleasure was overwhelming, building and building until I thought I might explode.

I could feel the tension coiling inside me, ready to snap, but Jungkook didn’t stop. He kept going, his mouth and fingers working in perfect harmony, until I was a mess of need and want.

"Jungkook," I whispered, my voice hoarse. "I- I can’t- "

He stood up, his eyes burning with hunger, his pants were down, just enough, in an instant- his erection thick and throbbing.

He turned me around, pressing my chest against the bookshelf. His hands gripped my hips, pulling me back against him, and I felt him position himself at my entrance and before I could fully process what was happening, he was inside me, thrusting deep and hard from behind.

The sensation was overwhelming- his thick, veiny cock filling me completely, his hands gripping my hips as he moved with a rhythm that was both rough and tender.

“I need you,” he groaned, his breath hot against my neck. “I fucking crave you. Every part of you.”

I couldn’t respond, my voice stolen by the intensity of the moment. The bookstore seemed to fade away, the only reality being the feel of him moving inside me, the sound of our labored breathing, and the occasional creak of the bookshelf.

His thrusts were relentless, each one pushing me closer to the edge. I could feel my orgasm building, a tight coil of pleasure winding tighter and tighter with every stroke.

“Jungkook,” I gasped, my nails digging into the shelf. “I’m-”

“Cum for me,” he commanded, his voice rough and demanding. “Let go, baby. I want to feel you.”

His words were the final push I needed. My body shook as I climaxed, waves of pleasure crashing over me. I cried out softly, my voice muffled by the books as I pressed my face against them. Jungkook followed soon after, his thrusts becoming frantic before he stilled, his seed spilling deep inside me.

“Fuck,” he breathed, his forehead resting against my shoulder. “You’re incredible.”

For a moment, we just stood there, our hearts pounding, our breaths slowly returning to normal. I felt him kiss the back of my neck, his lips soft and lingering. Then, with a gentle pull, he helped me turn around, his hands smoothing my skirt and shirt as if nothing had happened.

“Keep browsing,” he said with a smirk, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “We’re not done yet.”

I nodded, my cheeks flushed, my body still buzzing with the aftermath of our encounter. I wandered back to the shelves, my mind a blur as I tried to focus on the books.

Eventually, I picked up a romance novel, the title barely registering as I made my way to the counter. The cashier smiled as she rang up my purchase, tossing in a free bookmark with a knowing glance.

Jungkook was waiting for me outside the store, leaning against the wall with a smug smile on his face.

"Ready to go?" he asked, finding my hand.

His grip was tight and reassuring, like an unspoken vow passed through our fingers. My legs still tingled with the aftermath, a secret echoing between each step we took.

I could still feel the warmth of his touch, the memory of his breath on my skin. Everything around us seemed softer somehow like the mall itself knew what we’d done and was giving us space to savor it.

The mall was quiet around us, a hum in the background, but it felt like we were in our own little world.

The secret of what had just transpired between us hung heavy in the air, cloaking us in something electric and private. His thumb stroked over the back of my hand, and I glanced up at him, catching the faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

He wasn’t just holding my hand. He was still holding the moment, and I knew he could feel it too.

“What’s next?” I asked, my voice low, still laced with anticipation and barely-hidden adrenaline.

He grinned, slow and mischievous, his eyebrow piercing catching the light just right as he leaned in close enough for only me to hear. “Oh, you’ll see. I’ve got plenty of ideas.”

It wasn’t just a promise, it was a challenge. One I wanted to say yes to again and again.

And with that, we walked away, the weight of the moment slowly shifting into something light and exciting. The promise of more adventures lingered between us, thrumming under our skin.

The mall felt like our playground now, like every corner held a spark, a dare, a new secret waiting to be made. His steps were confident, casual, but his hand never let go of mine. Not once.

Each hallway felt charged. Every flickering sign and half-empty store suddenly brimming with possibility. And as we turned the corner toward the escalators, I couldn’t help the grin that spread across my lips.

I couldn’t wait to see what Jungkook had in store for us next.

═══════

prev ♡ next

MASTERPOST ♡ MASTERLIST

♡ requests are welcome ♡

These characters are fictional and do not represent any real-life individuals. Their likeness is used solely for visual inspiration and does not reflect the actual person or their story.

[egforsakentakes]

Dawg these are our admins 😭

Builderman: Thinks every problem can be solved with a wrench

Doombringer: Thinks every problem can be solved with a hammer

Telamon: Causes problems on purpose

Shedletsky: Uncanny Valley

Dussekkar: The braincell

To elaborate on this:

Builderman is a very technical person. He's good with the framework. He built this world from nothing and he knows it better than he knows his own body. However, this can lead to him becoming dissociated, and when he gets like this, he finds it hard to regard his creations as actual people rather than cute little lego toys. He can make the hard calls easily, but ends up second-guessing himself when he comes back down to earth. And he doesn't always make the right call, which he attributes to his "lack of humanity." He prefers to stay in his mortal form, which is how he got Forsaken in the first place. Even then, he struggles with empathy. He only sees John Doe as a mindless monster, for example, but he can see that Jane has a different opinion, so he dislikes his own perspective intensely. I don't know if I'm making sense here. Oh, and he tends to avoid Guest whenever possible out of guilt.

In contrast, Doombringer has trained himself to have a heart of stone. He does his job quickly and efficiently, without giving himself a chance to think about it. He knows from experience that people will try to appeal to his sense of sympathy to get out of being banned, so he's pushed it down until it's almost faded away completely. It was actually pretty easy to turn him into a Killer.

Telamon always hungered for combat and chaos, so he would occasionally stir up trouble himself for his own entertainment. It bothered his fellow admins intensely - a lot of extra work for them, just because their crazy bird got a little bit bored. However, what he really wanted was attention - everyone else was always so busy, visitors to the Heights were rare. He would not do well in solitary confinement. Causing problems was his way of getting people's attention. Gee, I wonder where I've heard that before! Over time, he grew resentful of the funny little people that seemed to have his friends' full attention. He eventually recognized that people didn't like his attitude and avoided him because of it, but he responded in a horrible way...

When he turned 1× into what they are now, he didn't just put in his hatred; he got rid of any emotion he perceived as "negative" - anger, fear, sadness... even his love of fighting went into the Creation of Hatred. Now, Shedletsky was just like the mortals the other admins cared for so much - silly, happy, whimsical and peaceful. But rather than be happy, they were horrified. Shedletsky was barely half the man he used to be. A lot of them, even Brighteyes, couldn't handle it and pushed him even farther away. They just couldn't see him as the same person anymore. Builderman and Dussekkar stayed, hoping he'd come around - but he was Forsaken before that could happen.

Dussekkar, himself, is definitely the group therapist and the voice of reason. His first instinct is always to protect. He was the one who came up with the concept of respawning (and likely, albeit unintentionally, established himself as the Spawn Two Time worships.) He spends so much time focused on both the mortal world and his fellow admins' well-being, in fact, that he probably lacks self-care.

So yeah... a group of deities that struggle with human nature. Fun.

I don't know any of the others enough to do them sorry.

.

[fiftyshadesofmetal]

Errrr uhh i like vore so,,,,,,,, what about your headcanons on it (anybot ofc)?

Sorry this has taken so long! This has been sitting in drafts for months

Vore HC'S for Cybertronians!

Specifically for Sunstreaker, Sideswipe, Thundercraker, and Swoop

So to get my general HCS about cybertronian anatomy out of the way,

They can control digestion conciously. I think because of the control cybertronians have over their own systems, they could turn their digestion on and off!

Adding onto that, I believe that they could make their tanks as comfortable as they wanted: like cooling their insides down a bit, or easing up on the churning of their guts for their prey. So when they have a prey that they want to keep happy, the bots can be amazing preds.

I also like to think that their tanks have biolights in there, running along the tubing stuff that makes up their "organs". I like the idea of their prey being able to see whats happening in there, and I bet it would be fun to just explore and check out whats happening in their tanks. (And they could also be able to see the gut churning them, added bonus lol)

I dont HC bots with intestines or a duodenum/sphincter to the intestines. Things kind of just cut off at their tank. I think that their systems are incredibly effecient, so any fuel or prey that goes in is distributed in whole to the bots frame without any waste (also meaning that bots gain a lot more weight from a meal compared to a human because they put to use the ENTIRE portion of what they eat)

Lets talk about our preds now! There are mentions of weight gain and interfacing with Sunstreaker, Sideswipe, and Thundercracker, so I'll be putting themall under the cut, but enjoy a little bit of SFW Swoop up here ^^

Swoop: I enjoy swoop as a little guy ™ far too much to make HCS about him interfacing lol. But for some SFW vore stuff, Swoop is a very curious pred. The dinobot is like a pelican (pelicans are actually facinating, their oppurtusnitic predators and will literally try and eat anything they can fit in their beak), just kinda of gobbling down anybody he sees when he feels like it. He's also larger, so he can hold two average sized people comfortably, compared to a standard ground frame holding one person (I feel like seekers would be able to take like a person and a half?? Do with that info what you will). He's an extremely touch-based guy so he likes to just have people with him!

Sunstreaker: He's a total cunt. Just absolutely a bitch of a pred. He's taunting you ALL the time, poking and proding at his belly to get you to squirm because he likes how it feels. He definetly enjoys churning someone up every once in awhile, but doesn't indulge often due to the weight gain that comes with it, in order to keep his frame in top condition. That doesn't mean he doesn't eat people all the time. Sunstreaker's walking around the ark with a bit of his gut poking out from behind his torso plating? Someones 100% in there. He just likes how it feels to have someone in there squirming all the time, and thinks he has the right to just gulp down whoever he pleases. Of course, he also uses his tank to hold people in a emergency. Decepticons attacking and he has nowhere to put a random human- their going straight to his gut without him caring how terrifying it might be.

Sideswipe: Of course in contrast to his twin, Sideswipe is a really playful and tactile pred. While Sunstreaker despises humans unless their in his tank, Sideswipe adores humans and their culture. His little pea brain saw a human for the first time and just immeadialy wanted to eat them. When he did he loved the feeling, and refused to let the poor guy out for a day (Sunstreaker had to force Sideswipe to spit the guy out on Prowl's orders). Sideswipe is less of a fan of weight gain and digesting someone (even when he knows they'll be fine because of reformation), but loooves interfacing with someone in his belly. The stimulation from his innards and his valve makes it really good for him, so he often'll hunt somebody down to eat before interfacing (with their consent ofc, he's not evil). He's also inadvertantly TERRIFIED some of the prey he's eaten by just being too rough and excitable though. He's also a big softie and likes to take a nap with his prey if their stressed or keep his systems comfortable for them.

Thundercracker: (I'm talking IDW post-war, he probably wouldnt have cared much about humans pre Marissa and Buster) This guy is a total pushover. He is constantly fawning over his prey, ensuring they’re comfortable and cozy within him. The few times he has digested a prey, he gets really flustered about the weight he's gained and always apologizes to them profusely after they reform. He also eats Marissa constantly, much to her chagrin. The poor women cant get away from the affectionate seeker and finds herself spending far too much time tucked away into his gut. Thundercracker can also be very aroused when he eats prey (Like Marissa, but not every time he eats her ofc). The feeling of having so much power over somone so small the he's enamoured with make him very excited. He'll probably use it to get himself off and help whoevers in his belly off too.

[storkmuffin]

hello stork! i have a question about the term 'fan attracting fairy' (i think that's what it's called) in relation to the atz members. i think the general consensus is that san and maybeee seonghwa are the people that originally make many people go: 👀👀 maybe i should get into them, and of course the other members also get a variety of people into ateez.

what ive seen around these parts as a newer atiny is that yunho tends to bias Wreck a lot of people, and maybe eventually shift their bias, but many people tend to write him off when they first get into ateez, which was the case with me. do you think yunho's tendency to want to appeal to the maximum amount of people and be the most likable to the most varied and different types of people at once sort of makes people dismiss him as generic?

his 'thing' is being the perfect bias/boyfriend/whatever else, and after people get into ateez and maybe watch live performances and they get to know him more and they get fascinated by his charms and intensely competitive nature or humor they're like okay maybe i like this guy. but do you think his need to appeal to everyone is the thing that makes him like. uniquely unappealing to everyone? this exact scenario has happened w atleast 4 irl friends, 7 online friends and me, and i think even you originally didn't get into ateez because of yunho and didn't even consider him in the running for your bias for a Long time. what do you think?

TLDR: Yunho's ults are crafted from witnessing him live in performance in concert and fanchats, which makes sense because he is boring on camera for various reasons. (Yeah I said it).

First, a brief personal history:

So the first time I mentioned Yunho as an interesting member (no, shut up, I just didn't find him that interesting, OK?) was for being catholic on stage and then on January 22, 2025, I quoted a youtube commenter ktiny who said something like:

the audience actually took a close look at him and made a sound like OhhhHHHHHHH???? as they went from going, Oh, Idol Face Type Is Doing Idol Stuff to OMG WTF WTF?? So there’s that.

And then I went to the finale encore for Towards the Light, and on day 1 of the two day concert series got totally turned around on Yunho, so much so that I researched the Yunho birthday cafes being hosted near the arena the next day for day 2 and went to three of them and chatted up the Yunho ults who were there from all over the world.

 They all asked me, Is Yunho your ult? because I was at the damn birthday cafe, and when I said, He wasn’t but I saw him live yesterday and now I feel really differently, they gave me the look I consider The Yunho Face of Quiet Absolute Confidence, before saying, quietly confidently(!), “Yes, he has that effect.” 

And thus began my deep dive into Yunho. Then I was asked to compare contrast Yunho and Mingi's speech patterns but it wasnt't until April, 2025 that I made my first Yunho Crying Compilation which then directly led to people diagnosing me as a Yunho Bias.

It took a while, in short, and the shock to the system that was the live performance in concert.

Second, the Yunho must be experienced in live performance thesis.

OK - So the way I would describe the reason why Yunho is a slow burn as opposed to a the usual Introduction Fairy candidates (I've seen that they are variously, San, Wooyoung and Seonghwa) is the difference between flash and glow.

San is considered a fashionable beauty - the triangular body holding up a face that's both ultra- Korean classical (19 century) and yet also very of-the-moment, in that they didn't used to let boys with eyes like that and jaws like that become Idols nor hold them up as beauty standards (even though they were always beautiful) - Flash and fashion, you know? Wooyoung is quick on the draw, sexy, witty, fast, loud as fuck = sparkly. Seonghwa is lickable, a beautiful pervert who pretends to be gentle so he can choke you out later let out his dominant side in the quiet of his Lego dungeon. HongJoong, for the record, has a mad genius vibe. Mingi is his own creature in his own universe, a mad rap prophet hollering in the desert who snaps out of it periodically to insist, No I'm a precious soft little chikadee, hold me gently in your palm and tell me I'm cute, I'm mommy's princess. Jongho is like, I really should be singing opera but you're only young once so I'm going to be in an Idol band for kicks. Yeosang is the 4th dimensional SM prince that somehow got lost and picked up by this weirdo group of insane boys and is too polite to leave.

So many of the people around Yunho are snap crackle pop, but he's doing Good Boy Gentle Glow over here.

Yunho looks too standard and yet not standard enough. He looks like an elevated version of the best looking boy in your high school, the one who was always laughing with other boys and really nice to everyone and the teachers loved him and he got to be class president while the smartest girl in the class only got to be vice president because people need smart girls to do the work but nobody likes them and anyway she's a girl (ahem). He's not extremely, excessively expressive like Seonghwa or San, and he doesn't go all out unalloyed sexy like Wooyoung and Mingi on photoshoots or in reality content.

Some of this is personality, to be sure. He refuses to get messed up, make mistakes, lose, fall apart, be the fool or the loser in group activities. This is dull.

Some of the problem - a lot of it perhaps - is his face. He's just not as expressive as they are, except when he's crying. (ahem). He's beautiful but he's not especially photogenic. This is isn't a diss - he's very beautiful, but some people have a special something when photographed (I'd say Wooyoung and Mingi both have this) that elevate their physical presence, and others don't (Jongho - also very bloody handsome - is not photogenic or photographically expressive either, and resembles Yunho too, so maybe it's a face type issue.).

In LIVE PERFORMANCE however, Yunho really really really shines. He's big, and he's loud, and I dunno if you watched the movie, but he sings a LOT MORE of the songs than somehow you remember. He has a lot of in-person charisma. He also seems physically powerful, more so than the other members. Yunho is actually very loose and playful on stage, where it feels like that would be the more high risk place to be loose and playful, than he is in reality content or music videos. For some reason they have him sitting still a lot in music videos, which I find unfortunate. LET HIM JUMP AROUND MORE, KQ.

And the other thing he excels at is the TokToq chats, but in order to get the full flavor, you actually have to speak Korean, I feel, and be able to appreciate courtesanship, and prefer Geisha performance as opposed to candour. I would think that the Mingi fans who love when he just, uh, gets FULLY WEIRD or just says things really bluntly would feel suffocated by Yunho's TokToqs, in the way that I feel (frankly) bewildered by the abrupt, stop and go but nevertheless very genuine-and-frank feeling Mingi TokToqs. This isn't specific to Mingi either - one of the reasons I stopped being a Stay was because my bias Lee Know also does very strange fanchats that border on hostility. He wasn't always like that, but he's gotten to be that way more and more. It's not my thing. I don't want to know the real you, I want you to perform Idol you.

In any case, Toktoqs are also a form of live performance, in a way that the semi scripted reality content isn't, and the music videos aren't and the lore stuff isn't either.

And to get to all this - the live performances, the footage of live performances, the tokToq chats - you need time to discover and immerse yourself, whereas the music vidoes and screenshots of photoshoots etc are what get people into fandom. Hence the later discovery of Yunho by the Yunho ults, I think, in their fandom journey.