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youvebeenlivingfictional · 1 year ago

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the pro

part ii: what we're willing to accept

Pairing: Art Donaldson x Reader

Rating: Explicit - 18+ only. minors, please get off my lawn.

Notes: My brain chose violence this morning. Not beta-read because when is it ever.

Length: 4.8K

Warnings: Slow burn; unhappily married reader; divorced Art Donaldson; infidelity; oral sex (female receiving); vaginal sex; unsafe sex

Summary: Every lesson becomes an exercise in self-control. You force yourself to try, really try, and not make silly mistakes for the sake of Art coming closer, grasping your arm or elbow, pressing close and redirecting your swing. You don’t know what you crave more these days: his praise or his touch.

He's the biggest men's tennis star since Andy Roddick.

That’s what your husband says, as if it’ll entice you. As if you know anything about tennis, about the pro that your husband says will be coming to the house to teach you to play.

It’ll be good for you. You need a hobby.

You don’t gripe or argue. You don’t tell him that five months into your marriage shouldn’t have you looking for a new hobby. You should still be in the honeymoon stage, spending all of your time with him, hanging off of his arm, off of his every word. But he works so much and he’s away so often—

I don’t want you to get bored.

It’s a sweet gesture. The maid handles the housework; you have a chef that handles most of the grocery shopping and cooking, unless you insist on making something yourself; you have a housekeeper that arranges for anything you need—dry cleaning, maintenance. And it’s no wonder that with all of his money, his power, he can just order a retired pro tennis player up to your house, like you’d order a pizza. There’s a tennis court in the back of the mansion, a few feet from the pool. You’ll get some new outfits, the best sneakers, the nicest rackets. You’ll finally have something to do to fill your days.

Art Donaldson.

You know his name before the lean, fair-skinned patrician man turns up at your front door. He trails you through the house, politely declines your offer of a beverage.

“You ever played tennis before?” He asks.

You haven’t. Before your husband arranged this for you, you hadn’t so much as given the sport more than a passing thought. You don’t have the heart or confidence to tell that to a man that’s made tennis his whole life, so you just give him a small, guilty smile and say no, you haven’t. He nods, waves you off, insists that it’s fine.

“We’ll start with the basics.”

Two months of lessons on the basics make your arms tired, and your hands sore. But where your swings are clumsy and your grip is weak at first, you can see improvement in the way that you move. Your steps are less clumsy when you go after a ball; you’re more aware of the service line and the base line; your forehand stroke from contact to your left shoulder is smoother; your rotation and follow-through on your backhand is coming along, but has a long way to go.

Art’s instruction is calm and steady. He explains technique as much as he demonstrates it. When you get something wrong, he doesn’t scold, just lightly corrects. When you do something well, his encouragement is constant and free-flowing. Every accurate move and motion is met with, “Nice,” or, “Perfect,” or, “That’s it.”

On the days when you don’t have a lesson with Art, you practice. You order a tennis ball machine to work on your forehand and backhand. You attempt (and fail) to learn how to slice on your own. You try anyway—you can only imagine the way his eyes might light up if you manage to surprise him.

You’ve tried to ignore the rising interest that you have in Art, but you can’t help the little…Crush that’s developed. He’s just so attentive, and kind. When you find yourself smiling these days, it’s often because of something that he said, or did. You can’t remember the last time your husband made you feel giddy this way. It was probably when you started dating—before you’d made the decision to marry for comfort, rather than love. Your husband is practical, rarely physically affectionate, more heavily involved in his job and social circles than with you.

But you’ll have to find a way to thank him. He’s given you a hobby, and a man that grins at you like you just painted the goddamn Mona Lisa when you serve your first ace.

“So, tell me about the Mark Rebellato Academy.”

Art smiles, dipping his head as he reaches for his coffee. It’s taken a few months, but you finally convince him to have something to drink with you after practice. Your chef is blessedly out shopping for ingredients for dinner, so you have the kitchen all to yourself. Art has watched you putter around, seeming surprised that you know where everything is. You can’t blame him; the kitchen is chef-grade, and you don’t cook much these days.

“Did your husband tell you that’s where I went?”

“No.”

“Then how do you know?”

You’re too embarrassed to admit that you’ve done some googling, and watched a couple of clips of him interviewing before and after his matches.

“I’ve just heard,” You fib. “Tell me about it?”

He leans back in his seat, eyes skating across your face as he seems to consider something.

“What do you wanna know?”

“Did you enjoy it? I mean—” It feels like a dumb question once it’s out, and you hurry to redirect, “With what you know now, if you had the choice, would you have learned how to play tennis somewhere else?”

He considers for a moment, trailing his finger over the side of his cup. Your gaze flits to his fingers, and your own flex around your mug handle. You’ve spent far too much time looking at and thinking about Art’s fingers—their length and quickness; the slight roughness of his calloused hands; the lingering tan line from where his wedding band used to sit.

“Yeah,” He admits, drawing your full attention back to his face. “I would. It was foundational, you know. I’ve been thinking of sending Lily there.”

“Lily?”

A bittersweet smile twists his lips. “My daughter.”

“Oh!” It catches you off-guard.

“Tashi, uh—” He clears his throat, “Lily’s mother, my ex-wife. She and I are thinking about schools.”

“I’m sure they’d be glad to have her. Does she play tennis?”

“Little bit. She didn’t start until last year, but she's a natural.” He clears his throat again, presses, “Are you and your husband planning on having kids?”

“Oh god no.” You blurt it out, and realize as he raises his brows that you’ve spoken too quickly. You lean back in your seat, stirring your coffee quickly to distract yourself from your growing embarrassment. “He actually has kids already. Two girls, seven and ten. They’re at boarding school and they stay with their mother when they're on vacation. I haven’t gotten to spend much time with them.”

“...He seems to be pretty busy.”

“He is.”

“So it’s just you in this big house?” He tips his head to the side, brows knitting with curiosity. “What do you do all day?”

“Play tennis.”

He grins, chuckling, and your stomach flips at the sound.

“It shows, you know,” He says.

“What do you mean?”

“I can tell you’re practicing without me. And,” He leans across the table, running his fingers lightly over the exposed skin of your bicep, “You’re getting stronger.”

You wonder if he can see or feel the goosebumps that break out across your skin at the gentle sweep, his gaze heavy on yours.

“I have a good teacher,” You murmur. Art’s lips twitch with a soft smile, his hand gently cupping your arm.

“Just good?” He plies.

“The best. A real pro.”

His smile widens, and the flash of his tongue sweeping across his lower lip makes your face go hot. You know that you’re caught when Art’s touch becomes firmer, pulling your arm toward him just a little.

The sound of approaching footsteps startles you, and you hurriedly tug your arm away. The sight of your husband makes your heart leap into your throat.

“There you are,” He smiles. “Art, how’s she doin’?”

“She’s killing it.”

You don’t dare look at him, but you can feel the weight of his attention lingering on you still. You just give your husband a smile, tipping your cheek up obligingly as he leans down to kiss it.

“Actually, Art,” Your husband straightens up, hands resting on your shoulders. “I’m glad I caught you. There’s a charity event for a local club this month. It’s for uh…What is it?” He squeezes your shoulders for answers, and you have to keep from rolling your eyes.

“It’s a charity tennis match to raise funds to fix up the local courts. They need resurfacing and they’re raising funding to keep the fees down.”

“We could use a sponsorship from the foundation,” Your husband adds.

“Honey,” You glance back, wary of insulting Art. But—

“I’ll do it,” Art agrees. “Send me the details.”

“Excellent,” Your husband grins. “Maybe we could coax you into a match or two.”

You don’t chastise him this time—not when you see something light up in Art.

“Maybe.”

You haven’t seen Art play before. You’ve specifically avoided it. You’ve known that when you saw it, you would be too intimidated to do a damn thing on the court with him. But now, you can’t stop watching him. You don’t even care that you probably look so out of place—where everyone else is watching the ball, you’re just watching him.

His movements are so neat, so precise. It’s like watching a dance. He’s running the poor guy on the other side of the net up and down the court. And the sounds that he’s making—god. Every little grunt and groan is weaving increasingly filthy thoughts in your mind. You already know that you’ll seek out the memory of those sounds, as you reach between your legs later. His shirt clings to his chest, showcasing the muscles that you’ve always suspected he has. Strands of hair plaster to his forehead as sweat drips over his cheekbones, down the bridge of his nose, over his jaw.

When he scores a match point and he looks toward the cheering crowd—when his eyes land on you instantly, without having to search��it’s like you’ve been hit by a bolt of lightning. You can’t think, or move. You barely have the focus to applaud, but you manage to raise your hands and clap.

Every lesson becomes an exercise in self-control. You force yourself to try, really try, and not make silly mistakes for the sake of Art coming closer, grasping your arm or elbow, pressing close and redirecting your swing. You don’t know what you crave more these days: his praise or his touch.

Coffee becomes a post-lesson ritual. He starts to stick closer and closer to you as he follows you into the house until he begins to rest his hand on your lower back, guiding you to your door. He keeps nearby when you’re making it, brushes droplets of sweat off of your forehead or neck. Every touch is electrifying; you have to make a concentrated effort to keep your hands steady, your face neutral as your heart pounds and your stomach floods with butterflies.

He pushes you harder on the court, and you force yourself to meet the level that he sets for you, even when you don’t feel confident in it. But you want to make him proud.

It spurs you to lunge a little too far.

The sharp stabbing pain in your left ankle makes you shriek, and you tumble to the ground, dropping the racket with a clatter. You hear the pounding of his feet, glance up just in time to see him clear the net before he’s on the ground at your side.

“What hurts?”

“My ankle,” You grit out, hissing softly as he helps you straighten your leg out. He smooths his hands over your calf, leaning over you and gently guiding your foot in a few different directions. You whimper as he starts to guide your foot to the left.

“Okay, okay,” He soothes, “Let’s get you inside.”

For as much as you damn the throbbing in your ankle, you thank it a little, too. You lean heavily against Art, making the slow, arduous journey back to the house with his arm wrapped tightly around your middle.

When your husband comes home, he finds you with on the couch with Art coming back in from the kitchen, an ice pack in your hand.

You’d hope for concern, but your husband frowns, glances at the swelling knob of your ankle, and simply asks: “What did you do?”

“She lost her balance.” Art sits down on the other end of the couch, soothing you as the chill of the ice pack makes you shift with discomfort.

“Are you going to be able to walk tomorrow?” Your husband presses. “We have dinner at the Fineman’s.”

“I'm still going, don't worry about that."

“...Tomorrow might be a bit soon,” Art warns.

“I’ll be okay. It’s just a sprain, right?” You tip your brows up, hoping, praying that he’ll agree for your sake. His fingers flex around the ice pack, jaw ticking as he clenches it. He doesn’t say a word as your husband sighs heavily, grumbles, “I hope so. Still, we should put a pause on the lessons until she’s fighting fit again.”

Art finally tears his eyes from yours, a tight smile on his lips.

“Of course.”

“How’s the ankle?”

It takes you a moment to scrounge up an answer. You can’t believe that he called. You knew that Art had gotten your number when you started taking lessons with him, but he’s never used it beyond texting to confirm a lesson time now and again.

You look down at the still-swollen flesh as it strains against the thin strap of your slingbacks.

“Fine,” You lie, “It’s um—” You glance over your shoulder, listening for your husband. “It’s not that bad.”

“Good enough to walk on?”

Hardly.

“Yes.” You think you’ve gotten away with it, but when you hear Art sigh and chastise, “You should rest,” You know that you haven’t.

“I have,” You insist, “All day.”

“Are you sure you’re alright?”

“Yes.”

“You can tell him no, you know.”

Your mouth works wordlessly, body going hot with indignation. You can’t think of a thing to say. You can’t tell him that he’s wrong, that your husband’s connections are the lifeblood of his business. You can’t tell him that if your husband’s business falls apart, you won't be able to afford those tennis lessons, and then how the hell are you supposed to see Art again?

You just yank your phone away from your ear and hang up.

I invited Art.

It shouldn’t be a surprise, but your husband’s statement makes you feel like you’ve swallowed your tongue. You haven’t seen or spoken to Art in nearly two weeks. Your doctor recommended putting off any physical activity, which your husband surely relayed to him. He was the one whose name was on Art’s checks, after all.

Your husband has always thrown a massive party to kick off the summer. Every year, 150 of your husband’s closest family, friends, and business associates flooded into the house. It shouldn’t be such a surprise that your husband invited Art after the performance he had given at the fundraiser—$25,000 from the foundation, and ticket sales went through the roof when it had been announced that the Art Donaldson would be making an appearance. Your husband owed Art a lot, and probably saw this as an opportunity for him to network, to take on more clients. He had been evangelizing Art’s training to any of your friends that would listen—how good you are on the court, how engaged and energetic you seem to be these days.

It’s one thing to know that you’ll have to put on a happy face for the crowd, but to know that Art will be among them makes your insides twist with nerves. You can’t stop thinking about the way that he had spoken to you when you were hurt; his calm, steadying demeanor as he’d gotten you inside; the careful coaxing and gentle touch that he’d used as he’d taken your shoe off and examined your ankle more closely.

You think about it now, as you strap on another pair of heels. Your ankle really is doing well, though you have a little lingering pain in shoes like these. You’ll likely be on your feet for the length of the party; it’s going to be a long night. You look over yourself in the mirror, self consciously tipping your ankle from side to side for anything that he may spot or catch out. But there’s nothing, you reassure yourself. You slide your hands over the skirt, plastering on a smile as your husband pokes his head into your dressing room.

“Almost ready in here?” He asks.

“All set!”

He doesn’t come over to you. On the crowded patio, you can feel him watching you—you’ve gotten so used to seeking out the sensation that you can’t ignore it now. The first true look at him is agony. He watches you from just a few feet away, a glass of champagne in hand as he speaks with your husband and the Finemans. He openly looks you over, eyes drifting over your body to the flash of ankle revealed by the slit in your dress. He tips his head to the side just a little, squinting before his eyes flit back up to your face, lips twitching with a small smile.

You want to hate how good it feels; you want to be angry with him for his smug knowing, his insistence of You can tell him no, you know. But it feels so goddamn good to have his attention again that you can’t bring yourself to be annoyed. You know that you’re staring—that you both are—and you force yourself to turn away and excuse yourself from the conversation you’re in. You go inside, murmuring your thanks for the waitstaff that pass you along the way.

The house isn’t nearly as busy as the patio, and you're able to slip into your darkened study unnoticed. You leave the lights off, certain that if you turn them on, people will be drawn in to bug you, like moths to a flame. The party’s lights and music filter in through the partially-closed blinds.

You lean against the desk, circling your ankle and wincing a little. You’ll hide for a few minutes, let it rest—

Your breath catches in your throat as the door opens. You expect your husband, ready to scold and usher you back to the guests.

You only have a second to get a look at Art before he shuts the door behind himself, plunging the room back into darkness. Your fingers tighten around the edge of the desk as you use it to ground yourself.

“...Do you need something?” You ask, voice wobbling with nerves.

“Wanted to come say hi.”

“Well. Hi.”

You hear him chuckle, his footsteps muted by the carpet.

“Thanks for the invite.”

“It wasn’t my idea.” It’s not polite to admit, but you want it to sting him, just a little. Maybe it does; in the dim of the room, you can’t see Art’s expression as he comes to a stop just a couple of feet from you.

“Do you want me to go?” He asks. You know what you should say, but you can’t bring yourself to say it.

“No,” You whisper. You feel the heat of him as he comes closer, his hands resting on the desk and caging you in. You bite your lip as gently brushes his nose against yours.

“He isn’t taking care of you.”

“My ankle is fine.”

“I’m not talking about your ankle.” He lifts a hand, smoothing it over your hip as your breath mingles. Art’s fingers drift from your hip to stroke over the apex of your dress’s slit. His fingers slip further down, and you nod as he palms your thigh. Before you can say or do a thing, Art sinks to his knees. He curls his hand around your left calf, lifting it. You shiver as his lips press a gentle kiss to your ankle. His hand and lips travel up, easing the fabric of your dress higher with each second. The first brush of his knuckles against your panty-covered clit makes you jolt. Your hands dig into the wood of the desk as his fingers hook between the fabric and your skin. You lift your hips without a word, allowing him to draw them down.

Art presses a kiss to your mound before he lowers his head, giving your lips a sweet, sucking kiss. You gasp softly as his tongue swipes across your clit. You look down despite the fact that you can’t see him well. You can just make out his blissful expression, his eyes closed as his laps broadly across your aching cunt. You lower your hand to his neat hair, winding your fingers through it, unable to help grasping it. His heady moan vibrates against you and you nearly cry out at the sensation. You manage to just catch it, the sound dying in your throat as Art buries his tongue inside you. He sweeps his thumb over your clit in rush, harried circles, panting against your heated flesh. You rock your hips down against his lips, tightening your grip on his hair as you guide him. He lets you do as you please, whining against your skin as your movements become less controlled.

“Art,” You warn, “I—Oh, oh god—”

He hums in encouragement, sucking your clit back between his lips and lashing it with his tongue. Your jaw drops open, your hand shoving Art even more tightly against your skin as you cum suddenly. A stunned, breathy moan slips from your lips as Art leans back, smearing his lips against the inside of your thigh.

You use your grasp on Art’s hair to draw him back up off of his knees, giving him a crushing kiss as he catches his balance. You swipe your tongue across his lips, whining against his lips as you taste yourself on him. He presses close, his hard cock straining against the fabric of his pants. You reach down, palming and squeezing his length as you trade slick, messy kisses. He steers you back onto the desk as you fumble to undo his belt, button, and zip.

“Condom?” He asks.

“Pill,” You reassure, shoving his pants down. You lap broadly across your palm, grasping Art’s length and guiding him closer. He brushes the tip of his cock against your still-throbbing clit, smiling as you whine. You’re going to ache tomorrow, but you’ve never been so happy to be sore.

“Art.”

“Sssh.”

“Please—” It’s hardly out of your mouth before he shoves his hips forward, seating himself fully with a single thrust. You bite down on your lip to quiet your moan, curling your arms around your shoulders. He rocks into you with firm, quick strokes, his mouth covering yours. You can hear things on the desk rattling with each thrust, kisses growing less controlled as he hoists your thigh up around his hip.

“Oh, god,” You breathe, “We have to be quick—He’ll come looking—”

“Not until you cum for me again,” He urges. “I need to feel it, sweetheart.”

“Art—”

“When’s the last time he did this? Hmm?” He presses, “When’s the last time he made you cum? When’s the last time he tasted you?”

“Never,” You admit with a shiver. It seems to renew Art’s passion, his thrusts and hold growing more intense. You squeeze your eyes shut, hands hooking tightly in the fabric of his jacket. He yanks the front of your dress down, bowing over you and drawing one of your nipples between his lips. You whimper as he toys with the bud, tugging it gently with his teeth before swiping across it. You arch into the slick heat, using your leg to tug him even closer as you chased the swelling curl of your orgasm.

“Just like that,” You urge, “Ffffuck—yes, yesyesyesyes—”

Your eyes squeeze shut as your hips buck down against his, pussy pulsing as he spills into you. Your heart pounds in your chest as the two of you slow and still. Art rests his forehead heavily against your neck, peppering gentle kisses across the exposed skin. You have to move—now. You don’t know if anyone heard you, but if someone did, you’re screwed. If no one did, your husband will probably be looking for you anyway, ready with a scold for neglecting your hostess duties.

“...I have to go,” You warn softly. It takes Art a moment to move, but he does, gently drawing himself back from your still-throbbing cunt. You hear the clanking of his belt buckle as he tucks himself away, and you reach down, righting your dress where it’s been pulled away. You take up your panties from where they’d been discarded on the floor, tugging them on before you straighten your skirt and hurry out of the room.

“Can I see you?”

It’s only been an hour since the last guest has left, and you are so, so fucking tired. You glance toward the bathroom door. You know that you locked it, and you’re certain that your husband can’t hear you over the shower running, but you can’t help but be paranoid.

“You just saw me,” You remind him.

“Tomorrow,” Art clarifies.

“Where?”

“I’ll send an address.”

You bite your lip, toying with your earring. Your pussy is still aching from the stretch of him, your ass sore from getting fucked on the desk.

“...You regret it?” He asks.

“No,” You don't give your answer a second thought.

“I’ll send an address. Whether or not you see me is up to you. Just…think about it. Okay?”

“Okay.”

You lower your phone, hanging it up and watching his contact information blink away. It’s only a moment before a text with an address lights up your phone. You don’t have to think about it. You already know what you’re going to do.

You know that you’re staring, but you can’t bring yourself to stop. Art has spent so much time in your home, so you feel entitled to look around a little bit. You eye the row of trophies on his mantle, photos of him playing when he was young. You come to a stop at a picture of him with a young girl, a racket in her hand and a medal around her neck.

“Is this Lily?” You ask.

“Yeah,” He nods. “First competition.”

“Already getting gold,” You smile. “The Mark Rebellato Academy isn’t ready for her.”

Art chuckles, nodding as he steps around you.

“You, uh…You want something to eat, or drink, or…?” He trails off, tucking his hands into his pockets as he takes a couple of steps back toward his kitchen. You turn to face him, taking him in more fully.

“Art?”

“Yeah?”

“Why am I here?”

He doesn’t answer for a few moments. You can see him weighing his options before he comes closer.

“I…I’ve been thinking about last night.”

Fear shoots through you, but you force yourself to stand tall. “Okay.”

“I could lie and tell you that it should be a one-time thing, but I can’t remember the last time I got through a day without thinking about you. And I think you’ve been thinking about me, too.” Art stops as the tip of his shoes brush against yours, and you let your eyes slip closed as he rests his forehead against yours.

“Tell me I’m wrong,” He pleads. “Tell me to fuck off right now and I will never say another non-tennis related thing to you again.”

When he fucks you, he curls close, chest pressing against yours as he catches your lips in a kiss. You sink back against his pillows, your head cradled by his broad palm as he rolls his hips achingly slowly. You don’t bother to hide your whines and moans, and you revel in his. Every grunt and whimper and groan that Art lets out lights you up.

And when you cum, you don't have to quiet yourself. His name tumbles out of your mouth, cushioned between expletives as your nails dig into his shoulders.

"What time is he home tonight?"

You don't want to think about it. You want to stay in this cozy little bubble, trailing your fingers over his muscled chest as he massages your nape and kisses your forehead.

But you know that you'll have to let the world back in sometime.

"I don't know," You admit. "Late."

"...Could stay."

"He'll be suspicious if I'm not home when he gets there."

Art sighs softly, running his hand down to rub between your shoulder blades.

"This isn't going to be easy, is it."

"What?"

"Letting you go every day."

"Every day?" You tease, pushing yourself up to get a better look at him. "Don't get greedy, Mr. Donaldson."

He smiles, raising his hand and cupping your cheek. "Is it greedy to know what I want?"

You shake your head a little, lowering your lips to brush against his.

"Not when I want it, too."

part ii: what we're willing to accept

Tag list: @missredherring ; @fantasticcopeaglepasta ; @massivecolorspygiant ; @blueeyesatnight ; @amneris21

@ew-erin ; @youngkenobilove ; @carbonated-beverage ; @moonlightburned ; @milf-trinity

@millllenniawrites ; @chattychell ; @thembosapphicclown ; @brandyllyn ; @wildmoonflower ;

@buckybarneshairpullingkink ; @mad-girl-without-a-box ; @winchestershiresauce ; @lorecraft ; @kmc1989

#Art Donaldson x Reader #Art Donaldson x You #Art Donaldson/Reader #Art Donaldson/You #Art Donaldson fic #Art Donaldson imagine #the pro

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throttleheart · 2 months ago

Text

⸻ ⸻ ⸻

Stuck With You

Pairing: Lando Norris x Reader TW: panic attack, mention of past panic attacks Genre: pre-relationship, comfort, fluff, slow-burn

Word Count: ~4.2k

Summary: You hate heights, Lando suggests to go on a Ferris wheel.

⸻ ⸻ ⸻

You’ve been afraid of heights your whole life.

Not the “ooh I feel tingly on a tall building” kind. The real kind. The kind that takes your breath away—not in the poetic way, but the terrifying, can’t-get-air-in kind.

You’ve hated it since you were little. Since that day on the mall’s glass staircase, when your knees locked up halfway up and your mom had to carry you the rest of the way while strangers whispered.

And you’ve been good at avoiding it since. Until now.

Until him.

Lando.

Who asked, with that careless sparkle in his eyes, “Wanna hit the fair this weekend?” like it was the most casual thing in the world. And you’d smiled—smiled—and said yes before your brain could catch up to your trauma.

Because it was Lando. Because his laugh made your stomach feel like a shaken soda can. Because you’d been toeing that line between friendship and something else for weeks, and this felt like a chance.

You thought: Stick to the ground. Eat something. Win a stupid prize. Don’t go near the rides. Easy.

But of course. Of course he’d want the damn Ferris wheel.

“Tallest one in the country,” he’d said two days later, scrolling through his phone and grinning. “You’re not scared of heights, are you?”

You hadn’t hesitated. Hadn’t even blinked. “I’m not great with them,” you said, keeping your voice light. “But I’ll be okay.”

Cool. Casual. Lie of the year.

And now here you are.

At the fair.

Your legs feel heavy as you walk behind him, pretending to take in the lights and sounds—when really, you’re hyperaware of the giant, rotating circle of doom looming in the sky.

Lando turns around with a prize in hand—a plush pink star with a goofy smile—and hands it to you.

“Thought it looked like you,” he teases. You raise a brow. “I have a derpy face?” He laughs. “No. You’re just soft and adorable.”

Your cheeks warm. You’re distracting me on purpose, you think. And it’s working.

Until he grabs your hand and pulls you toward the ride. And the Ferris wheel comes into full view.

You stop walking.

You don’t mean to. Your body just… halts.

Lando turns, confused. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” Your voice comes out hoarse. You clear your throat. “Totally.”

But your stomach is already flipping like it’s in a washing machine.

You step forward again, carefully. The closer you get, the more you feel it: that pressure in your chest, the tingling in your legs, your brain whispering: don’t get on.

But Lando’s watching you. His hand brushes yours again. His smile is so wide.

You tell yourself: Be cool. Just breathe.

—

The gondola is smaller than expected. Open sides, metal bars, the whole thing creaks with every shift of weight.

Lando steps in first. “You coming?”

“Yeah. Just—hang on.”

You glance at the seat beside him. Your chest tightens.

“I’ll sit across from you,” you blurt.

He frowns, already moving to scoot over. “Why?”

“Just feels more balanced that way.”

He doesn’t question it. Just shifts, no fuss. “Sure. Whatever makes you comfortable.”

You sit. Slowly. Fingers gripping the bench like it’s the only thing keeping you grounded.

The gondola lurches slightly as the door closes.

You flinch.

Lando notices. His smile dims a little.

“You’re sure you’re okay?”

You flash him a grin that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “Yup. Just enjoying the ride already.”

He chuckles. “Alright, alright. Just checking.”

The wheel starts to turn.

You inhale sharply. Keep your gaze down. Your knee starts to bounce—small, controlled. You press your hand against it. Still trying to play it cool.

He leans back, arms resting on the sides. “You ever done one of these before?”

You nod slowly. “Yeah. Once.”

A pause.

“Didn’t go great,” you admit.

Lando tilts his head. “How come?”

Your throat tightens. But you answer. “Middle school. Friends forced me on. Then rocked it—on purpose. Thought it was funny.”

Lando’s jaw tenses. “That’s horrible.”

“They thought it was hilarious. I had a full-blown panic attack. They laughed the whole time.”

He’s quiet. Then says, soft and firm: “That’s not funny. That’s just cruel.”

You shrug, like it doesn’t still echo in your bones. “Been scared ever since.”

You look away. Try to swallow the rising wave of panic. You’re doing okay. Not great. But you’re up here. You’re making it.

And then—you stop.

The wheel jerks to a halt.

You both sway in place—then nothing.

Frozen.

Silence.

You feel it before you hear it: the panic crawling up your spine.

A crackle from the speaker overhead.

“Apologies, folks! We’re experiencing a temporary delay. Please remain seated. We’ll be back up and running shortly.”

You don’t breathe.

You don’t move.

Because moving might tip the gondola.

Because tipping means falling.

Because this is your nightmare.

You stare straight ahead, rigid.

Lando blinks. “Hey. You okay?”

You don’t respond.

“Y/N?”

Your breathing is shallow now, eyes darting to the bars, to the space beneath your feet, to the sky that suddenly feels too open.

“I can’t…” you whisper. “I can’t move. I can’t breathe.”

“Hey—look at me.”

You don’t. Can’t. The panic has fully locked in.

“Hey. Eyes on me, yeah?” His voice cuts through the rising noise in your head. “You’re alright. It’s okay.”

You blink hard. Force your eyes to his.

He’s calm. Present. Not mocking.

“I’m coming over,” he says.

“No—don’t—”

“I’ll move slow. Promise.”

And he does. Inching forward, crouching low to keep the gondola steady. You grip the bench like your life depends on it.

When he finally kneels in front of you, he doesn’t reach out right away.

“I’m right here,” he says gently. “You’re safe. Okay?”

Your legs are twitching. Your hands have gone numb.

“Can I touch you?”

You nod once, barely.

He takes your hands, wraps them in his. His thumbs stroke slowly over your knuckles.

“You’re not alone,” he murmurs. “You’re not back in middle school. You’re not stuck with people who don’t care.”

A tear slips down your cheek. You don’t even feel it.

“You’re with me.”

You press your forehead against his. Whisper: “I tried to act like I wasn’t scared.”

“I know.”

“I wanted to be cool. For you.”

His eyes soften. “You are cool. You’re here, aren’t you? That’s brave as hell.”

The wind blows again. The gondola creaks. You flinch hard.

He tightens his grip. “I’ve got you. It’s not going anywhere. It’s just a sound.”

The minutes pass slow. Maybe ten. Maybe twenty. You don’t know anymore.

Lando stays close. Keeps whispering.

“You’re doing so well.” “I’m proud of you.” “Breathe with me. In. Out. That’s it.”

Eventually, your knee stops bouncing. Your hands loosen. Your breath evens—just a little.

You whisper, “Thank you.”

He smiles. “Always.”

Then, finally—finally—the speaker crackles again.

“We’re back up and running now—thanks for your patience.”

The wheel moves.

You squeeze Lando’s hand so hard you might bruise him.

He just squeezes back.

When your feet hit the ground again, you almost collapse.

Lando’s arm slips around your shoulders. Steadying.

“You did it,” he says quietly. “You freaking did it.”

You glance up at him. Your voice breaks: “I cried on you.”

“Yeah.” He grins. “But I look better with your tears on me.”

You roll your eyes, but your lips twitch into a smile.

“Never again,” you mutter.

He leans closer. “Unless you’re with me.”

You meet his gaze. Warm. Familiar.

You nod. “Maybe.”

⸻

The fair is still buzzing.

Kids run past with neon cotton candy, parents yell over the sound of pop music blaring from a speaker, lights swirl above the carousel like fireworks. The world is moving again, but you’re not.

Not yet.

Your feet are planted on the gravel just beyond the Ferris wheel exit, and your body still feels like it’s up there—like the sky’s still spinning and the ground might give way.

You wrap your arms around yourself.

Lando notices.

“Hey,” he says, gently. “Wanna sit somewhere for a sec?”

You nod. Quiet. Grateful.

He scans the area and spots a bench near the edge of the fairgrounds, tucked beside a lamppost. It’s quieter there. Farther from the noise.

He doesn’t say anything as you both walk, but his hand brushes your lower back—barely there, guiding, steady. Every step away from the wheel feels like shedding a layer.

By the time you reach the bench, you’re breathing more normally. Your knees still feel like jelly, but your chest is less tight.

You sit first, arms loose in your lap. Lando drops down beside you, hands resting between his knees, body angled just enough to face you.

For a while, neither of you says anything. Just the hum of the fair behind you, the sound of gravel crunching under people’s shoes, the faint thump of your heart trying to find a rhythm again.

Lando’s voice breaks the silence. Soft. “I meant what I said. Up there.”

You glance over.

He’s not looking at you—just staring at the blinking lights reflecting in the puddle under a nearby booth.

“That you were brave,” he continues. “And strong.”

Your throat tightens again. But this time, it’s not panic.

“I didn’t feel strong.”

He finally looks at you. “You didn’t have to. You were. You are.”

You open your mouth to argue, but he keeps going.

“You could’ve said no. Could’ve stayed on the ground. But you didn’t.”

“I should’ve,” you whisper.

“But you didn’t,” he repeats, more gently. “You wanted to push through it. For yourself. Maybe a little for me, too.”

You snort. “A little?”

He smiles. “Okay, a lot. I’m flattered.”

You exhale—almost a laugh. It feels good. Weirdly cleansing.

Lando leans back against the bench, legs stretched out. Then, after a beat: “You know… I was scared, too.”

You blink. “What?”

“Not of the height,” he adds quickly. “But… of messing this up. With you.”

That stills you.

He shrugs, like it’s nothing. But his voice is quieter now. “You’re important to me. I didn’t want to push too hard. Or make you uncomfortable. I just… I didn’t know how much you were holding in until we got up there.”

You look at him. Really look. His messy curls are caught in the wind, hoodie slightly askew, expression open and honest in a way that makes your chest ache.

“You didn’t mess anything up,” you say softly.

He turns his head toward you. “No?”

You shake your head. “You did the opposite.”

Another pause.

Then you whisper: “I’ve never had anyone stay with me during a panic attack before. Not like that.”

He swallows. “Well. Get used to it.”

Your brows lift. “What?”

“I’m not going anywhere.” His voice is steadier now. Confident. “You don’t have to go through stuff like that alone ever again. If you don’t want to.”

Your heart does a slow, heavy thump.

Something shifts in the air.

He’s looking at you differently now—like he’s seeing past the fear, past the pretending. Seeing you. And letting you see him back.

Your voice barely carries: “I don’t want to.”

He nods. His eyes flicker down—like he’s about to say something else—but then he hesitates.

And you? You lean in. Just enough that your shoulders brush. That your knees knock lightly. That the space between you starts to dissolve.

He tilts his head, and his voice lowers: “Can I…?”

You know what he means.

You nod.

He doesn’t kiss you. Not quite.

Not yet.

He leans in first—slowly, cautiously—until his forehead rests gently against yours.

You close your eyes. Breathe him in.

And then his lips brush your temple. Light. Gentle. Careful, like he’s testing the idea of loving you.

You lean into it. Into him.

Your voice comes out like a whisper: “Thank you for today.”

He hums. “Thank you for trusting me.”

The night stretches around you, golden and soft. And in that quiet moment, sitting on a bench at the edge of the fair, you realize something that scares you even more than the Ferris wheel did:

You’re falling for him.

And for the first time —it’s safe to fall.

⸻

The walk to his car is quiet.

Not awkward quiet—just full. Full of everything neither of you is quite saying yet. The kind of silence that feels like it has a heartbeat of its own.

Your steps crunch on gravel. His hoodie sways beside you, the sleeve brushing your arm now and then. He doesn’t pull away. You don’t either.

When you reach the car, he opens the passenger door for you like it’s instinct. Like it’s habit. Like maybe he wants it to be.

You settle into the seat. The plush pink star he won for you gets its own spot in the back. You glance at it and smile. It’s ridiculous. And kind of perfect.

He gets in, starts the car. The headlights cut through the dark.

It’s a 20-minute drive back to your place. You’ve done it before with him, but this time feels different. The music’s lower. The air’s warmer. Every red light feels like a chance to say something you don’t quite have the words for.

Halfway through, his hand shifts to adjust the volume—and his pinky brushes yours where it rests on the center console.

Neither of you moves.

Not away, not closer. Just… lingers.

You steal a glance at him. His jaw’s tight, eyes on the road. But the corner of his mouth twitches like he knows what that touch meant.

You stay like that the rest of the way.

⸻

He pulls up in front of your place and throws it in park, but neither of you reaches for the door.

You turn to him. “Thanks for driving.”

He glances over. “Thanks for trusting me.”

You nod once. “I meant it, earlier. I’ve never had anyone stay. Not like that.”

He leans back, one arm over the wheel. “Then they were idiots.”

That makes you laugh, breathy and unexpected.

You unbuckle your seatbelt slowly. “Tonight felt like…”

“More?” he finishes for you.

You nod.

The silence after is weighted. Warm.

You don’t kiss. Not yet. But when you say goodbye, it’s a little softer than usual. When he watches you walk up to your door, it’s with a look that lingers.

You close the door behind you and press your back to it, heart still thumping. You don’t move for a long time.

Your phone buzzes three minutes later.

Lando [11:22 PM] hey, you home safe?

You smile. Type back.

You [11:23 PM] yep. sitting on the floor like a weirdo. decompressing. thank you. again. for all of it.

Lando [11:24 PM] you were amazing tonight i hope you know that

You [11:24 PM] not sure that’s the word i’d use lol but i appreciate it

Lando [11:25 PM] i’d use it also brave. also cool. also adorable (especially when you cried on me)

Your face heats up instantly.

You [11:26 PM] stop i’ll die

Lando [11:26 PM] nah. you’ll live besides i’m kinda hoping i get to be there the next time you fall apart a little

You freeze.

Because it’s not flirty. Not really.

It’s honest. It’s real.

It lands in your chest like something you’ve been waiting to hear without knowing it.

You stare at the screen for a full minute before typing back.

You [11:27 PM] you might regret saying that i’m a mess sometimes

Lando [11:27 PM] guess i like messes especially the brave, soft, stubborn kind especially when they look at me like you did tonight

You bite your lip. Your fingers hover over the screen.

Then, finally:

You [11:28 PM] i’m still scared but not of you

Lando [11:28 PM] good because i’m not going anywhere

⸻

You wake up slowly.

The kind of slow that comes after an emotional hangover—the kind where your body’s still carrying the echoes of everything you felt the night before. You blink at the ceiling, blink at the soft morning light leaking through your curtains.

And then you remember.

The Ferris wheel. The panic. His hands around yours. His forehead resting against yours. The way he said, “I’m not going anywhere.”

Your phone buzzes.

You fumble for it, heart jumping even before you read the screen.

Lando [09:12 AM] morning any lingering trauma or just the usual morning grumpiness?

You laugh into your pillow.

You [09:13 AM] mostly just bed hair and a need for caffeine trauma seems to be on vacation this morning

Lando [09:14 AM] glad to hear it coffee and pancakes? my treat. i know a place

Your heart stutters.

You stare at the screen for a second longer than necessary.

You could say no. Could claim you’re tired, or that you need a day to recover. But the idea of sitting across from him with a warm mug in your hands and his eyes on you—

Yeah. That’s what you want.

You [09:14 AM] text me the address i’ll meet you there

Lando [09:15 AM] on it dress code: emotionally stable and hoodie-compatible

You [09:15 AM] so… hoodie and unwashed hair?

Lando [09:16 AM] exactly the dream girl fit

⸻

The café he picks is small. Warm. Tucked between a florist and a bookstore you’ve never noticed before. It smells like cinnamon and fresh bread and the clink of ceramic cups.

He’s already at a booth when you walk in—hood up, curls a little chaotic, one leg bouncing lightly under the table. There are two mugs already there. One’s pushed toward your side.

When he sees you, he lights up.

It’s not a huge thing. Just a subtle shift—his knee stops bouncing, his shoulders loosen, his smile softens like he forgot how to breathe for a second.

“You came,” he says, sliding your mug a little closer.

“Of course I came,” you say, sitting across from him. “You promised pancakes.”

He grins. “I also promised to never emotionally traumatize you via theme park again.”

“Big promises,” you murmur. “You planning to keep them?”

His foot nudges yours under the table. “Every single one.”

And suddenly you’re warm all over, and it has nothing to do with the coffee.

⸻

You talk. About everything and nothing. About the time he accidentally dyed his hair green for a bet. About your favorite childhood cereal. About the weird dreams you both had last night.

But every now and then, the conversation goes still. Soft. Like something’s humming under the surface.

Halfway through your pancakes, you say, “I keep thinking about how it felt. Up there.”

He looks up immediately. Alert. “Bad thinking or…?”

You shake your head. “Not the panic part. Just… how I felt with you.”

He doesn’t say anything right away. He doesn’t need to.

Because his hand slides slowly across the table—until his pinky hooks around yours.

“I keep thinking about it too,” he says quietly.

Neither of you lets go.

⸻

It starts with a text, a couple of days later.

Lando [5:41 PM]

you home?

You [5:42 PM]

yep

blanket burrito on the couch

why?

Lando [5:42 PM]

perfect

i’m on my way

You blink. Sit up.

You [5:42 PM]

???

you can’t just show up mid-burrito

Lando [5:43 PM]

sure i can

i’m bringing snacks

You [5:43 PM]

…okay fine

what kind of snacks?

Lando [5:44 PM]

you’ll see

(also tell your blanket to make room for me)

⸻

He shows up fifteen minutes later with a paper bag full of stuff that shouldn’t go together but somehow works—popcorn, sour candy, chocolate-covered pretzels, a single apple for “balance.”

“You know,” you say as he dumps it all on the coffee table, “this is a chaotic spread.”

He grins. “It’s us. We’re chaotic.”

You roll your eyes but scoot over, tugging the edge of your blanket open.

Without hesitation, he slides in next to you. Close enough that your legs press together under the blanket, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

It kind of is.

You put on a movie—something neither of you really watches. The room is dim except for the screen, and everything feels quieter than it is.

At some point, your head ends up on his shoulder.

At some point after that, his arm settles behind you, fingers brushing your hair absently.

And neither of you moves.

⸻

Halfway through the movie, you shift to look at him. Your faces are inches apart.

He doesn’t pull back.

He just stares at you like he’s trying to memorize your face in this exact light, with this exact expression—soft, curious, almost-smiling.

Your heart’s doing that fluttery thing again. The one that says go even when your brain’s whispering wait.

You speak first. “This feels… different.”

“Yeah,” he says, voice low. “It does.”

You swallow. “In a good way?”

He nods. “In a really good way.”

You pause. “So are we…?”

His fingers brush your jaw, featherlight. “We can be whatever you want us to be.”

You’re quiet. Not because you don’t know what you want—but because you do.

“I want this,” you say. Barely a whisper. “I want you.”

He exhales slowly, like he’s been holding his breath for days.

“Can I kiss you?” he asks.

You nod.

And this time, he doesn’t hesitate.

He leans in—slow, deliberate—and when his lips meet yours, it’s gentle at first. Careful. The kind of kiss that feels like a question.

You answer it by leaning in closer.

And then it deepens.

Not rushed. Not messy. Just real.

When you finally pull back, your forehead rests against his, your smile tugging at your lips like it can’t help it.

“That was…” you start.

“A bit overdue?” he offers, grinning.

You laugh. “Yeah. That.”

He tightens his arm around you. “Told you I wasn’t going anywhere.”

You rest your head on his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart.

For the first time in a long time, you feel steady, too.

⸻

At one point, Lando shifts, glances at you. “Can I…?” he asks, motioning toward your lap.

You blink. “My lap?”

He gives a sheepish little shrug. “It looks comfortable.”

You lift an eyebrow but smile. “You’re such a menace.”

He grins, already laying down, head gently resting on your thighs. “But a charming one.”

You don’t argue. You just adjust the blanket, tuck it around both of you again, and softly card your fingers through his hair.

He hums. Eyes flutter closed. His lashes fan over his cheeks, and you swear your heart squeezes.

It’s quiet for a while. Just the soft hum of the TV and the gentle rhythm of your fingers in his hair. Every few seconds, his hand—resting on your knee—twitches slightly, like he’s fighting the urge to move closer, speak louder, say more.

Then, slowly, he turns his head and presses a light kiss to your knee through the blanket. Then, again, but to your hand this time—just a gentle press of his lips against your skin, like he’s thanking you without words.

You freeze for half a second.

And then melt.

Because it’s not loud. Not demanding. It’s soft and reverent and real.

His thumb brushes over your fingers, and he whispers without opening his eyes, “I don’t think I’ve ever felt this safe with someone.”

Your throat tightens.

“Me neither,” you whisper back, fingers curling gently around his hand.

You lean down, resting your chin on his shoulder lightly.

And for a long while, neither of you needs anything more than this.

⸻

Lando doesn’t move much after that.

He stays curled against you, cheek resting softly against your thigh, one hand loosely cradling yours like he’s afraid to let go—even in his sleep. His breathing evens out slowly, each rise and fall of his chest syncing with the rhythm of your fingers brushing through his hair.

You glance down at him.

His lashes are still, mouth parted slightly, expression softened into something completely unguarded. He looks younger like this. Softer. And it hits you again—how rare this kind of quiet is for someone like him. Always moving. Always on.

And now… he’s here. Asleep in your lap. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You don’t dare move.

The TV drones on, forgotten. Your focus is entirely on him—the weight of his head, the warmth of his hand, the way your heart feels full and fragile all at once.

You didn’t expect this kind of closeness to feel so easy.

Or maybe it’s not easy—it’s just right.

You shift slightly, just enough to adjust the blanket over him, careful not to wake him. Your fingertips drift along the curve of his jaw for a moment, feather-light.

And when he sighs in his sleep, thumb twitching against your palm, you feel it again—this pang in your chest like something’s blooming and breaking at the same time.

Because you’re falling.

So slowly, so deeply.

And you don’t want it to stop.

Not when he looks like peace personified in your lap.

Not when your hands still remember the press of his lips from earlier.

Not when you’ve never felt safer with anyone in your life.

You let your head fall back against the couch cushion. Close your eyes. Just breathe him in.

And you think, God, I’m in trouble.

But it doesn’t scare you like the Ferris wheel did.

Not even a little.

⸻

467 notes · View notes

writing-girlie · 3 months ago

Text

Push & Pull

Pairing: Intern!Reader x Mentor!Michael Robinavitch

Blurb: The young intern is drawn to her mentor, as they work together in The Pitt but when feeling start to form what started as admiration turns into quiet, unresolved tension.

WC: 2.6k

Part 2 is here

Note: I don't really know if I like this but I spent to long trying to put it together so have it. I could write a part 2 with a resolution and some spice if it's wanted.

The Pitt never slowed down. The wailing ambulance sirens and the hum of chatter from the waiting room were reminders of the next patient needing help. Machines beeped and voices barked orders, and down one of the halls, a patient screamed - just another night of chaos.

Dr. Michael “Robby” Robinavitch practically thrived in it, moving through the madness with a strong sense of calmness. His years of experience made it look effortless—the confidence in his every decision, the lack of hesitation that reassured those around him. In a place where seconds could mean the difference between life and death, he was the kind of doctor people trusted without question.

That is what the interns lacked - experience. They come in wide-eyed and eager to help people, their textbook solutions only getting them so far. Some would crumble under the pressure, others would prove themselves ready. The interns step into the Pitt in crisp scrubs, their gazes flickering between awe and nerves. A quick glance tells Robby everything—most are trying, and failing, to mask their anxiety.

And then, he notices her

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

You stood a step away from the rest of the group, taking in everything not with fear but determination, memorising the surrounding area.

Your eyes lock with a ruggedly handsome man—broad shoulders, sharp gaze, exhaustion buried beneath professionalism. You offer a smile, but he doesn’t return it. No flicker of acknowledgment, no warmth. Just a neutral, assessing stare before he looks away.

He walks over to the small group, getting their attention.

“Good Morning, Good Morning. Come on over!” He speaks in a smooth tone with a subtle rasp.

You all step closer and he runs through some key details before sending the group off with himself or the senior residents and of course, your luck lands you with Robby. You follow him promptly into a room. The patient, a teenage boy, his face screwed up with pain, and a soft hold on his ankle. At a quick glance you suspected a sprain - nothing serious.

Robby crouches down, fingers lightly pressing against the swollen area. “What happened?”

“Basketball” the kid grits out “Landed wrong from a jump”

Robby hums, rotating the foot slightly. The boy flinches. “Probably a sprain, maybe a fracture. I’ll order an X-ray”

Then Dana rushes in. “Multiple GSW en route, two minutes out”

Robby immediately stands up and heads for the door, he looks at you.

“You handle this”

“Alone?” The question slipped out, not because you doubted yourself, but because the sudden shift had caught you off guard.

Robby tilts his head, slightly unimpressed. “It’s an ankle, not open heart surgery” and before you had time to answer, he was gone.

You crouch, carefully examining the ankle. Then you press along the leg and the kid growls in pain. There it is. “I’d say it’s a syndesmotic injury.” He looks confused. “Oh, a high ankle sprain. So it’s the above the ankle not beside it.” You tell him a little more before putting in for an x-ray. Once you’ve done that you aid a nurse in another room briefly.

You glance over the patient list when Robby comes up to you. “You figured it out?”

“Syndesmotic injury” you nod. He doesn’t say anything but the corner of his mouth twitches. “Alright, next patient” He looks over the patient list.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

The days blur together as the weeks pass, each shift a mix of routine cases and intense moments that seem to stretch on forever. You’ve settled into the rhythm of the hospital, finding your footing in the chaos. Your confidence has grown; you make decisions faster now, with less second-guessing. Robby remains a constant presence, one you can’t seem to escape, and maybe you don’t want to.

At first, it was just respect. Admiration for his skills, his leadership, the way he commands the room without raising his voice. But as time goes by, it’s harder to ignore the small moments, the ones that make your heart skip. The way he stands just a little too close when explaining a procedure, his voice steady but warm. The occasional glance in your direction, like he’s waiting for something from you, and when your hands brush while passing equipment lingers in ways you can’t shake.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Throughout the hospital other staff pick up on the moments and tension too.

Dr. Langdon leaned casually against the counter, eyeing Robby from the corner of his eye as you walked past. He didn’t miss how Robby didn't look away until you were out of sight and neither did Robby.

He quickly averted his eyes, hands gripping his clipboard a little too tightly. He shouldn't do this but every time you smiled, every time you made a decision that impressed him, it got harder to ignore. He shook it off, focusing on the next chart, but the unease in his chest wouldn’t go away.

"You know," Langdon slides up beside him, his voice light but teasing, "for someone who's always so composed, you don't hide it very well."

Robby didn’t even glance at him. "Hide what?"

Langdon smirked, tilting his head. "The way you watch her. The way you get all tense when someone else talks to her. Everyone notices it, It’s almost… endearing.”

Robby scoffed, shaking his head. "You’re imagining things."

"Am I?" Langdon pushed off the counter, crossing his arms. "Because I’ve seen you do it a dozen times now. Hell, I’m starting to think you don’t even realize you’re doing it."

Robby exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand over his face. "I watch all of you. It’s my job to pay attention."

Langdon snorted. "Right. Because you stare at everyone like that." Robby shot him an unimpressed look. "Fine," Langdon conceded, "let’s say you watch everyone. I still wanna know—what is it about her?"

Robby hesitated, rolling his pen between his fingers. "She works harder than she has to. Not because she’s trying to impress anyone, but because she wants to be better. And she’s stubborn as hell too, but I respect that.” He let out a slow breath. "When I was an intern, I damn near burnt myself out doing the same thing, trying to prove to myself that I could do it all." His voice dipped lower. "I see myself in her."

Langdon hummed, considering that for a moment. Then, he arched his brow. "Don’t think you should be thinking about your interns like that, man."

Robby’s jaw tightened. “That is not what I meant.”

Langdon just grinned. “Yeah, maybe. But you do think about her, don’t you? Pretty, young, interested in you—”

"Don't you have patients to attend to?" His tone was calm, but there was no mistaking the warning in it. Langdon chuckled, raising his hands in mock surrender.

“Alright, alright.” He pushed off the counter, still smirking as he walked away. “But just so you know, that wasn’t a no.”

His gaze flickers back to you, now leaning against the nurses station for a moment. If ‘everyone knew’ why not go for it a little.

You barely noticed Robby approach until something cold pressed against your arm. You startled slightly, turning to find him standing closer than expected, holding out a bottle of water.

“Here” he ordered, his voice low, steady.

You took the bottle, fingers brushing in the exchange. “If you wanted me to drink water, you could’ve just asked. Coulda got it myself.”

Robby tilted his head slightly, his gaze flicking between your face and the bottle in your hand. “Would you have listened?”

You hummed, twisting off the cap. “We’ll never know now.”

His eyes lingered for a second longer, like he was waiting for something. You took a sip, and only then did he seem satisfied.

Lowering the bottle, you raised an eyebrow. “Have you had any water recently?”

The slight shift in his expression was barely noticeable, “I don’t need you worrying about me,” he said smoothly.

You smirked. “Oh, so you can worry about me, but I can’t return the favor?”

“Just drink the water” He looks down at you.

You tilt your head, giving him a playful grin. “Didn't realise I was one of your patients Dr Robinavitch”

Robby’s lips quirked up in a half-smile, his gaze locking with yours. “Well, maybe not but I'll let you know I have a brilliant patient satisfaction score”

You raised an eyebrow, leaning in just slightly. “Is that so?”

Robby chuckled, a low, almost husky sound that made the space between you feel even smaller. “It’s true”

The playful grin stays on your lips. “I’m sure you have your methods. You should be careful though Robby. Someone might mistake that confidence for something else.”

His gaze lingered on your lips “Don’t worry, I’m perfectly aware of what I’m doing” he said, looking back up to your eyes. “and it's only with you”

You tilted your head slightly, the playful grin still tugging at your lips. “Are you trying to impress me?”

His gaze didn’t waver. “Is it working?”

You hummed, tapping a finger idly against the bottle. “I don’t know… maybe I need a little more convincing.”

Robby’s smirk deepened, slow and knowing. “Dangerous request.”

You lifted a shoulder in a lazy shrug.

His gaze flicked over your face, assessing, considering. Then, with a quiet chuckle, he shook his head. “Drink your water.”

You scoffed, twisting the cap off but not breaking eye contact as you took a slow sip. “Bossy.”

Robby exhaled through his nose, the hint of a smirk still playing at his lips. “And yet, you listen.”

You lowered the bottle, tilting your head. “Don’t let it go to your head,” you smirk “Michael”

He didn’t respond right away, just let his eyes linger on you for a moment too long before finally stepping back. “See you around, intern.”

And just like that, the space between you as you went your separate ways. Neither of you realized the small group of nurses watching the moment. “My God” one murmurs.

Another glances up from their clipboard, smirking. “He just can't help himself”

A nurse, clearly amused, pulls out a small notepad. “Alright, bets are open. How long before Robinavitch actually does something about it?”

“I say two months.”

“Three.”

Another hums. “I give it two weeks.”

The rest of them scoff. “Please. He’s Robby.”

“Hey No risk, No reward.” She shrugged

Another nurse leans in. “You know he’s going to be the last one to realize it, right?” They all snicker. A senior nurse walks by, shaking their head.

“You people need new hobbies.”

Someone grins. “Admit it—you want in.” They hesitate. Then, under their breath, “Put me down, him admitting, 3 weeks”

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Most patients you’ve dealt with so far have been easy to deal with, good behaviour, easy injuries to treat but the calm doesn’t last. You’re standing next to your patient with a scalpel, you know what you’re supposed to do but your trembling fingers betray your calm exterior. You take a deep breath and tighten your grip but it feels like it gets worse. It’s so subtle that no one else probably notices but you do and it’s enough to make you doubt yourself.

“You’re hesitating” Robby's voice cuts through your thoughts, as he now stands next to you. You don’t need to look at him to realize how close he is to you. You open your mouth to offer an apology, some excuse, but before you can speak, his hand is over yours. His large hand encapsulates yours, steadying the tool.

Robby doesn’t take over, you still have control over the situation but he provides a foundation, something to rely on.

“Take a breath” He says, softly enough for only you to hear, almost drowned out by the beeping monitors. You inhale deeply then let it out. He guides you hand lower then you take control, making the incision. Slowly, he removes his hand and gives you a little more room. Once you complete it another doctor steps in to continue the procedure. When it is finished the others leave and you finish up with the patient.

In the days that follow, something shifts between you. Robby, once so present and reassuring, becomes a distant figure. He’s still there, of course, commanding the room, offering direction when necessary. He doesn’t linger after a procedure, no quiet words of praise, no passing smiles or glances. Where before his gaze would occasionally catch yours, steady and warm, a silent understanding, now he looks past you.

Robby's voice was flat as he gave you the next assignment, his gaze moving past you to the patient file in his hand. When you brushed past him in the narrow hall, his shoulder barely grazed yours, and he didn’t even flinch. It was as if the space between you had grown suddenly wide and impassable.

At first, when Robby started pulling away, you refused to let it affect you. You were determined not to let the distance grow between you, not after all the moments that had passed between you. You kept trying, trying to be present, trying to offer that warmth you once did, even when he barely acknowledged it. You’d joke like you always did, still meet his gaze, even though it felt like the space between you had stretched impossibly wide. You tried to keep it light, keep the moments of connection alive, even when his responses were curt, his presence colder, more distant.

You told yourself it was just a phase, that he was busy, or perhaps under more stress than usual. And so, you gave him more. You kept pushing, kept offering those small gestures of care, those quiet conversations, believing that if you just kept being you—the same person who found comfort in the moments between chaos—he would eventually come around. But with each attempt, you felt the distance grow. Robby gave nothing back. He didn’t meet your gaze the same way. His smiles were rare and often fleeting, like he was somewhere else, mentally miles away.

Soon, those quiet moments you once shared became just fragments of what they were, fleeting and almost painful to try and hold onto. You began to notice it in your own actions. You didn’t reach out for his gaze anymore, because it wasn’t returned. You didn’t try to get too close, because he always stepped back, a subtle but clear signal that whatever had once been there was no longer something he was willing to nurture.

At first, you blamed yourself. You tried harder, putting everything into maintaining some semblance of what had been between you. But over time, the effort began to drain you. You found yourself hesitating more, second-guessing your words, your actions. The weight of his indifference began to chip away at you, slowly, relentlessly. You couldn’t give him everything when he gave you nothing in return. You couldn’t continue to be the person who extended herself, who made the effort, only to be met with silence or coldness.

And so, little by little, you started to pull back too. It wasn’t a conscious decision at first—it was more like instinct. You stopped seeking him out, stopped offering up those moments that used to come so naturally. You allowed the space between you to grow, because deep down, you knew it was what you both needed. If he wasn’t willing to meet you halfway, you couldn’t keep giving. You couldn’t keep pretending that everything was fine when it was clear he wasn’t letting you in anymore.

The last few interactions between you two were laced with a quiet, unspoken acknowledgment of what had passed between you. The playful exchanges, the teasing glances, all faded into something more distant, more strained. And with that, you let go, piece by piece, until the distance was all that remained between you two, and the closeness that once felt so effortless was nothing now.

#dr robby x reader #Michael Robinavitch x reader #The Pitt imagine #the pitt fanfic #dr robby fanfic #the pitt

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blindmagdalena · 11 months ago

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All of a Sudden, There You Are

3k. homelander x gn!reader. pining. pure fluff! an older fic that desperately needed cleaning up. rewritten for a consistent perspective and added 600-some words. gif credit. AO3 link.

As Homelander's stylist, it's your job to ensure he looks his best, whether he's saving the world or saving face in front of the cameras. After nearly a year servicing him, things between you change abruptly.

Familiarity and consistency feed a base need in all of us. So much of what is best in us is bound up in the permanence of those around us that it becomes the measure of our stability. For Homelander, there are precious few things in his life that offer him any such quality of solidarity. People come and go. It's the nature of the business that has always been his life.

He's stopped paying attention to the PA's, interns and other worker ants that rotate in and out. Their faces blend together in a bland sea of normality and mediocrity. They're little more than cogs in the machine of his contrastingly extraordinary life.

Funny, then, that you should catch his attention amidst the insectoid buzz of it all.

It happens quite abruptly. He's just sat down before a brightly lit vanity where it's your job to style his hair and makeup, as it has been for the last several months. You greet him good morning, as you do every time, but for whatever reason... He notices you today.

"Remind me, what's your name again?" Homelander asks, watching you draw a comb from your kit.

That visibly catches you off guard. You offer only a dumbfounded stare for a moment before snapping to attention, smiling sheepishly as you introduce yourself. The name doesn't sound familiar to him. Had he never actually asked? Probably not. There’s rarely a point in bothering.

He hums contemplatively. "You've been styling me for a while.”

"Yes, sir. About eight months now," you say, using the comb to begin working product through his hair. He’s fairly certain this is the most he's ever spoken to you in all that time.

That sounds like both a long while and yet no time at all. It's nothing in the grand scheme of his life, but in terms of the people he sees consistently, that puts you in a shockingly small pool of individuals. Inevitably they move on, whether by choice or because they’ve found a way to irritate him enough that he has them dismissed.

He can recall his last stylist not by their name or face, but by the way they’d always manage to spray product in his eyes. They hadn’t lasted two days. The one before that he can’t bring to mind a single detail of.

Typically humans only become exceptional to him for how they grate on his patience. You’ve somehow managed to avoid making yourself noteworthy in that regard. Before today you had served as little more than a properly functioning gear in the well-oiled machine of his life.

Now it's as though you suddenly exist to him. Blood, flesh, laughter and all.

"Gooood morning," he greets you the next day, once again triggering another flare of surprise in you. He’s aware of the strangeness of his initiation, but behaves as though he isn’t. He flashes you one of his trademark Hollywood grins.

"Good morning to you, sir," you say with an answering smile that catches his eye. You sound pleased, which tickles something pleasant in the back of his own mind. He likes how well you’re mirroring his shift in mannerism.

He waves his hand dismissively. "Please, Homelander is fine. You keep it awfully formal."

You're actually quite pretty, he notices. Not exceptionally so, not like the celebrities and figures of social influence that someone like him brushes shoulders with on a daily basis, but... pretty nonetheless. He doesn't remember you being this pretty before, and speculates while you work whether you've changed something about yourself. He cannot put his finger on what exactly that may be, though.

He’s perceptive when it comes to the things that matter. Until yesterday, you hadn’t.

You laugh sweetly, pushing your fingers through his hair. His eyes flutter shut as you do. You’re good with your hands, much better than the last stylist. He’s sure he made note of that at some point, but in the same way someone notices when a door stops squeaking. You take it for granted after the first time.

"I'm a creature of habit. Might take me a couple tries to adjust," you warn, covering his forehead with your palm as you spritz product into his hair. You never let any of that sticky crap get on his face, much less in his eyes. You take measures to ensure his comfort, even though he’s never scolded you. You seem to do it entirely out of reflex simply because you care enough to.

"Well, you've made it this far. You've got time to adjust," he says. Now that he's seen you, he finds that he doesn't care for the thought of you being gone. More than that, he starts actively looking forward to the time he spends in the chair with you. What used to be a monotonous aspect of the celebrity side of his life becomes a comforting ritual.

The two of you chat with surprising ease, like old friends made new. He tells you about himself, vents to you about work and personal business alike. In turn he learns about you and the life you live beyond the time you share with him. It’s nothing extraordinary–not like his–but it's yours, and for some reason, that’s enough to make it interesting.

The more he grasps that you are an entire person outside of the service you provide him, the more he wants to know. He doesn’t give a fuck about your elderly cat, but he does like the way your voice changes when you talk about it. His mind drifts when you tell him these little anecdotes, and he wonders what you tell the people in your life about him. He wonders if your tone similarly changes when you do. Do you speak fondly of him? Days turn to weeks. Little by little, Homelander discerns small changes in himself. There’s a slight pep in his step these days. The sun feels a little warmer, the thrum of crowded events less irritating. His attitude towards interviews flips; even the ones he used to dread he begins to anticipate. He knows you’ll have him looking and feeling his finest. He knows that regardless of what awaits him, you’ll have something to say about it that will make it easier to smile for the cameras.

Thinking of you is sometimes all it takes.

When he has nothing on his schedule to be styled for, he sulks. On those days, he misses your laugh the most.

He makes sure the products he keeps at home are the same as the ones you use. The smell of them reminds him of the smell of you, of your knock-off Dior perfume that fades too quickly after you apply it, which makes it just perfect for his keen sense of smell. The humble subtlety of you, your sincerity and gentleness, have become a boon against the unfeeling corporate reality of his life. On the days he does see you, he begins to miss you before he’s even left you. Now, as he walks to his next scheduled appointment with you, he’s painfully aware of the beat of his own heart. His stomach is twisting in on itself, though he isn’t hungry. If anything, he feels a little nauseous. The closer he gets to the door, the louder the cacophony inside of him becomes. Is he sick? That shouldn’t be possible, but he can’t understand what’s happening to him. Pausing just outside the door, he takes in a steadying breath.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

Taking a moment to collect himself, he gives his face two quick pats on either side, shaking his head. Get it together, he tells himself, stepping into the dressing room.

“Gooood morn–” Homelander cuts himself short, looking around the empty room. His brows pinch. He isn’t early. Pursing his lips, he takes a brief stroll about the room, clutching his hands behind his back. He peers down the hallway, cutting through the layers of wall with his vision. No sign of you on the grounds yet. He clicks his tongue.

You’ve never been late. Unable to settle, he paces for a while. He has the thought to call you, but he realizes he doesn’t have your number. Why doesn’t he have your number? It seems such an obvious thing to have despite the fact he’s never needed it.

He’s just pulled out his cellphone to track it down from Ashley when the door suddenly opens and his head snaps up. The initial relief he feels is cut short, turning cold in his chest when the person who steps through the door is most definitely not you. “Good morning!” the woman greets him, her voice chirpy and grating in his ears. She’s not really happy to see him. She doesn’t know the first fucking thing about him. At most, she’s another sycophantic drone who’s only pleased to breathe his air. In his upset, she looks freakishly distorted, her smile overly wide and fake. His leather gloves creak as he curls his hands into fists. “Who the fuck are you?” he asks, voice as measured as he can manage it. His anger hits in an unreasonable surge, hot like lava from a volcano. This woman’s only crime is the fact she’s not you, and yet it’s enough to make him want to rip her head off her shoulders, spine and all. The woman hesitates in the doorway, her chipper demeanor flipping to a fearful one. “Uhm, my name is Lisa, I’m supposed to style you to–” “Where is my stylist?” he interrupts her, prowling towards her like a hungry predator. He says again, louder this time, voice full of anger and anxiety in equal measure, “Where the fuck is my stylist?!” “I– I don’t know!” Lisa yelps, stepping backwards from him. “I was called in as a last minute replacement! They said– they said there was an accident, or–” Homelander pushes her roughly out of the doorway, blowing past her with a frustrated growl. She hits the wall hard before crumpling to the floor like a lifeless sack of potatoes, but he doesn’t even register it. He calls Ashley, stalking down the hallway, his footfalls loud with fury. Why the fuck didn’t anyone think to tell him? “Ashley!” He snarls into his phone the second she answers. “Tell me where the fuck my goddamn stylist is.”

Homelander is at the hospital within minutes. The staff puts up a meager effort to enforce protocols, but he’s The Homelander, and after a lie or two, they eventually let him through. He hates the smell of hospitals. The sickly mix of bleach and illness, the buzzing of the fluorescent lights. They never should have brought you here. You should be in Vought’s med ward.

You should be with him. When he finds you, you’re sitting with the hospital bed halfway reclined, wearing nothing but a hospital gown. The vibrant reds and blues of his suit paint a sharp contrast to the stark white walls of the hospital room when he steps inside. You have a pudding cup in your hand, though you nearly drop it when you see him in the doorway. His hair is woefully unstyled, splayed loose in every direction from his flight. “H-Homelander,” you sputter, choking on your bite of pudding. You swallow, clearing your throat. He’s walking towards you. The closer he gets, the faster your heart beats in his ears. “What are you doing here?” “Are you okay?” He asks, blowing off your question entirely. He blinks and his vision flickers through your clothes and skin alike. He scans your body for internal damage, for broken or fractured bones. You’re not wearing a cast or anything, but he needs to be sure. You nod, clutching at the blanket, wearing your confusion plainly on your face. “Yeah, I’m okay, it’s probably just mild whiplash, but I’m getting an x-ray to be–” “You’re fine,” he breathes more to himself than to you, his relief palpable. He can hear the flustered patter of your heart clearly. With the adrenaline wearing off, he’s beginning to feel that sickly familiar feeling that he had experienced in the hallway; butterflies rampant in his stomach, battering their wings frantically inside him. His jaw feels tight, his tongue too big for his mouth. Staring at you now, frail and precious as you are in this ugly hospital bed, he realizes what’s the matter–what has always been the matter–he is deeply and incurably in love with you. “Are you okay?” You ask, taking in his tortured expression, his wildly wind-swept hair. The obvious concern in your voice and in your eyes churns his already twisting gut. “No,” he says, the response knee-jerk. Even though the room is still, he feels as though the world is spinning around him. “No, I think I’m in love with you,” he says, expression twisted up, like he’s figuring out each word as he says them. Your heart skips a beat, your breath catches in your lungs. It’s as if the words have paralyzed you. Homelander laughs. It sounds a little hysterical.

“I’m telling you all of a sudden, but it isn’t new with me,” he says, reaching out to cup either side of your face in his gloved hands. “I love you,” he says, voice firmer now, the realization setting in fully. He looks slightly delirious with it. He’s discovered a secret that he should have known all along, that seems so obvious in hindsight. Of course he loves you, because you love him. The gentleness in your hands as you touched his face, the care in your fingers stroking through his hair far longer than both of you knew you needed to. You dedicated yourself like no other to showing him reverence in service of him, and is that not love in its purest form? And yet, you don’t look to share his elation. You look like you’ve been struck by lightning, expression wide and bewildered. You still haven’t taken a breath. Homelander’s smile falters. “What’s the matter?” He asks, tone dropping a touch. “This is good news! Great, even.” For every second that you do not speak, the beat of his heart feels heavier in his chest. Why don’t you look happy? Finally, you suck in a shaky breath. He watches you with all the intensity of a viper poised to strike.

“I…” You hesitate. You lift your hands and grip his wrists, squeezing them through the thick fabric of his gloves as if to convince yourself that he’s really there. Maybe the accident was worse than he thought. Did you hit your head?

Panic swells in his chest. It hadn’t occurred to him you might not reciprocate. The thought makes him ill.

“I never…” your eyes turn glassy, welling with tears. “Say it!” he wants to shout, his own heart hammering loudly enough to nearly drown out your words. “I never would have thought–or even dreamed–in a million years that you might love me back.”

love me back.

Like a dying ember roaring back to life, Homelander’s demeanor reignites, his faded smile broadening once more.

“I realized it when I was worried fucking sick because you didn't show up,” he says, leaning closer to you. He’s brought the scent of ozone from the sky he tore through on his way to you, but all he cares about is the faint smell of pudding lingering on your lips.

He huffs a laugh. “They sent in some idiot to fill in for you. Like they could replace you. I almost tore her head off,” he says, giddy with euphoria. Your expression shifts, brows furrowing. “Wait, what? You almost-” “I’m gonna kiss you now,” he interrupts, his voice a low rumble. He can already taste you in the breaths you’re close enough to share with him, and he’s never been hungrier for anything–or anyone–in his life. You fall silent with a shiver, nodding minutely, eyes falling shut. “Please do.” His lips meet yours in a gentle press. He deserves a medal for not crushing you with the sheer magnitude of his desire. You all but melt against him, settling into his grip as smoothly as you settled into his life, his mind, his heart. When the two of you break apart, you make a breathless noise that shoots through him like a bolt of lightning. He feels hyper aware of your every sound and move.

God, how he wants to feel every part of you.

You move your hands to touch his face and he leans into the softness of your caress. You’ve been close enough to kiss more times than he can count. The fact it’s only now occurred to him to do so seems like lunacy. Your eyes dip to his lips, your thumb brushes the bottom one. He catches it with a quick kiss and you laugh your sweet bell-chime laughter.

Pushing your hand into his hair, the wondrous joy in your expression becomes tinged with amusement. “And people wonder why I use so much gel,” you murmur, smooth the wild splay of his hair down with both hands, cupping the back of his head. Homelander smiles wide and boyishly, which prompts you to kiss him again.

“I’m not having some kind of brain bleed hallucination right now, right?” You ask quietly, the tip of your nose lightly pressed to his. He brushes his lips against yours between words. “You’re serious?”

“As a heart attack,” he purrs, stroking your cheek with his thumb. Despite the ugly fluorescent lights and the dreadful hospital stench all around, you look resplendent in your joy.

He had been right. It was love that you touched him with. It had been subtle, imbued in your every movement, and for months he had soaked it up until, unbeknownst to him, he fell into it as well.

“Trust me when I say you’ll be seeing a lot more of me from now on,” he says, brushing your nose with his.

Maybe instead of tearing them limb from limb, he’ll send flowers to whoever the sorry son of a bitch that rear-ended you this morning was. Who knows how much more time he would have wasted before he realized he was utterly smitten with you.

#i've been meaning to get this fic fixed up for ages bc the original was a MESS and randomly switched to the reader's pov halfway in lol #but i have major fondness and nostalgia for this fic #it's from like my first month in the fandom #homelander x reader #homelander x you #homelander fanfiction #x reader #my writing #fluff

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strungnews · 3 months ago

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CAN’T YOU PLEASE MAKE AN EXCEPTION?

Mornings with Mark and Eve are slow. You can feel how cold it is when one of them starts to slowly pull away from the human sandwich you’ve been put into every night. Sometimes even rotating to whoever needed it the most that day, but they favored you in the middle most.

You hate it when the bed starts to get cold once they leave their spot. A feeling of emptiness without someone on the other side to pin you to the other, the blanket of security now broken apart.

“Duty calls,” Mark rasps. It was usually him pulling from the hold, even if he didn’t want to. His hair is tousled, and shirt crinkled beyond belief, it could rival the world’s wrinkliest dog. Or a raisin.

You grumble before pulling away from Eve, tugging him back to bed. Eve, growing accustomed to the routine, ignores the two of you as she turns around and settles back into sleep.

Your arms wrap around his midsection, and he floats without a care, used to your antics while you hang onto him with an iron grip, surprisingly strong despite your groggy state. Your actions seem ironic since Mark’s the clingy one between the three of you.

“Hey, im serious. I gotta go,” He always feels bad when he has to tell you off, but its a necessary evil to do good in the world.

“I hate you.” “Love you too.” He’d hover over the bed for you to fall back on, and you’d let go with a bounce. Eve shifts with the sudden weight change before turning around and putting a leg over you, making you her human pillow.

“See what you’re missing out on?” You gesture between you and Eve, and Mark rolls his eyes when you stick your tongue out at him. Only crossing his arms to look at the two of you from above, watching you shift to hold Eve in your arms. Cradling her head to your chest as she basically intertwines herself onto you.

She loves doing that, especially to you. Because you never really know how to get out of it, let alone realize you were in it.

The morning afterglow is something Mark always appreciates whenever he sees the two of you cuddled together. He swears by it when he says it’s the sexiest thing he’s ever seen. But he says that about a lot of things when it comes to you and Eve.

“Stop seducing me its working."

Mark puts a sheepish hand to his mouth while looking out the window, hovering down so he stands at the foot of the bed. Face flushed from the abundance of love he feels towards the two of you, it makes him frustrated beyond compare with how much he feels for you two.

He bites at the fat of his hand lightly, a small way to keep his cuteness aggression at bay with how his heartbeat start to pick up.

‘Calm down.’ He tells himself.

But the sight of you looking all confused, looking down to properly asses your sleeping attire. He might bite a chunk off of it.

You’re in one of the thousands of stolen shirts you took from Mark—thats honestly seen better days. Grease stains it at the bottom, unable to washed away either by hand or machine, you just gave up and left it as is when you could feel the fabric start to strain. Alongside the now newly growing patch of drool that Eve is helping you sport on your chest to further add onto the list of abuse the shirt has gone through. Sure, why the hell not Mark.

"What's this freak-o talking about?" You lean to Eve’s ear, whispering despite her not even being fully conscious yet.

She mumbles a small "dunno" and sits up to stretch, before kissing your cheek.

"I think my drool does make you pretty sexy." She eyes you up and down, and Mark only nods in agreement.

“Dated a buncha supers ‘n they’re all weirdos.” You tug a blanket to wrap around you, curling up into a ball.

“You love it. Now give me my kiss,” Mark leans down to plant a kiss on your cheek, but you turn away.

“Go brush your teeth first.”

“Rude, I thought you loved me! Morning breath and all.”

“I never said that,”

“It was in the unofficial contract you agreed to when you went into this. So, you technically did.”

He crowds you, easily picking you up and into his lap at your curled form, and you wriggle around like a rabid animal. Wrapped in foreign confines you had put yourself in.

“If I had to, so do you.” Eve mumbles while she pats down your bedhead and plants a kiss on it, making Mark whine.

“Is it that bad?” He puts a hand up to his mouth and breathes.

“I don’t want to find out.” You murmur through the fabric of your shared blanket, before turning away again when he tries to lean in.

“Cmon, just one peck?”

“Stop—ew, no!” Eve slowly joins in the fun, tickling you and holding you down so Mark can give you a loving smooch to the cheek.

“Gross!” You stick your tongue out in disgust, and Mark just kisses you again.

Eve does the same on the other cheek, and you groan.

“Stooop, I thought duty called?”

“Just give us a moment,”

They alternate kissing each sides, and you’re stuck on the bed to do nothing but take it.

Eventually, they smoosh you with their kiss, another sandwich they have made out of you. Maybe it was one of those hints they were dropping that you just never picked up on. Like before, when they flirted with you. Maybe you’ll make them sandwiches to bring along their ‘work’.

“You done?”

“Mhm,”

They pull back from their artwork, a proud hand on Eve’s hips and Mark on his chin. Before he pulls Eve by her waist and kissing her on the lips.

“There, now we can go.”

Eve bends to kiss yours, and you hum happily.

“Okay, now one last kiss before we go? For good luck?”

Eve makes her way to the bathroom, and she could feel the eye roll all the way from there when Mark begged.

“Fine, fine,” you pull him by the neck, and peck his lips. Before he holds onto your shoulders and pushes to continue further when you part from him.

His hands feel so warm when he holds you. Can feel the heat your skin radiates because your body pumps and produces blood to keep you alive.

He can compare your heat to the sun, a scorching but comfortable burn that he just can’t seem to pull away from. Like a moth to a flame. Making Mark and Eve the ones that keep you cool, not cold enough to turn you down, but not hot enough so you explode and destroy the whole universe.

“Mark!” Eve yells through the sounds of the shower puttering against the tiled floors, door still wide open for it all to be heard.

“Coming!” He yells out, before giving you one last kiss with a hug. You smell like Eve’s body wash and his shampoo. Like home.

The smell of that is now long gone on you. The room smells like copper and decay, the horrid smell coming from your corpse.

Your eyes are glazed over, limbs broken and torn into several places having to be cut apart so it all could fit into the body bag.

You’re cold. Ice cold. The sweltering loving heat you produced now nothing. Not a flicker, not even a flash of light through you. The fire burning inside now snubbed into nothing.

Mark and Eve are cold, with nothing to properly warm themselves.

His hands tremble at the sight, unable to properly see your body through the tears that wells up in his eyes while his hands clasp at the one still attached to you. Eve doesn’t speak. Didn’t even enter the room.

Already having her time when she waited for Mark to wake up from his three day coma. She wanted to do something to bring you back, to cheat death a second time for you. But it was too late. Your body had ran rigid and cold. Not a pulse when you were found by Cecil’s men.

And even then, she can’t hold back the tears she’s cried over for the past few days. Hearing Mark so hurt, hurts her too.

“Eve,” His voice cracks, just as it had done when he cried out for her. When he thought he had lost her before his very eyes.

“This—you can fix this, right?”

“Mark,”

“Please tell me you can,”

“I cant—“ she chokes. Turning away from the sight. She can’t stomach it.

Mark wails, and seeks comfort in Eve. Holding him like he had held her and you. Holding him tight enough to blanket him with the hold you and her shared.

It was still cold. Eve and Mark’s body shake as they sob onto one another. Like they were stranded in the middle of winter.

Is this how it felt whenever he’d pull away from you all those mornings? He can’t imagine how you must have felt in your last moments.

A/n: If it wasnt clear this takes place after Mark fights Conquest! I had the first part of this in my drafts for a while and had a eureka moment to mix that with the last episode of season 3. Anyways! Haha angst

Title was based off of “No more Birthdays”, one of the recent songs ive been repeating nowadays. each lyric that song had was gut wrenching sob

#News report!#invincible #mark grayson x reader #mark grayson #invincible show #mark grayson x reader x eve wilkins #mark grayson x eve wilkins x reader #eve wilkins x reader mark grayson #samantha eve wilkins #eve wilkins #mark grayson x you #markeve #markeve x reader #angst

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gallusrostromegalus · 6 months ago

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I did not care at all for Aizen Sosuke when I first read bleach. I found him boring, and worst, unthreatening.

So it's pretty jarring for me that I have been OBSESSED with him in your AU. I'm rotating him at great speed

Walt Disney was a jackass who was flat-out wrong about a lot of very important things, but he employed a great many geniuses of storytelling, and there's a piece in Disney Animation: The Illusion of Life by Frank Thomas and Ollie Johnson that discusses a key feature of Disney Studios Character Design:

"Of all characters, villains are the most fun to develop because they make everything else happen. They are the instigators, and always more colorful than the Hero. They may be dramatic, awesome, insidious or semi-comic, but they MUST be appealing. Almost any story becomes innocuous if all the evil is eliminated, but we do not necessarily gain strength by being frightening. we want a character that will hold the audience and entertain them, even if it's a Chilling Type of Entertainment."

And I've found that to be an important principle of character design, especially the kind of canon restructuring I do.

Aizen had a LOT going for him in canon- for all of Bleach's other faults, Aizen's conspiracy and THE REVEAL are spectacularly constructed and executed. I legit screamed and threw my mug across my dorm room when I read it in the manga the first time. He's also conventionally attractive and the translations I was reading gave him the speech patterns of Every Douchebag In Your 101 Political Theory Who Thinks He's The Smartest Man In The Room, which made him a terrific combination of Unfortunately Charming, Menacingly Competent and Engagingly Obnoxious.

...But he falls flat in a few key places.

Aizen's reasoning could be MUCH more sympathetic- After all, he is RIGHT. Soul Sciety does suck ass and all the options kind of suck. Who designs a universe like that? An asshole who needs killing, that's who. The best kind of Unhinged Madmen are the kind who spell out their reasoning and you realize that there but for the grace of Not Having Super Powers Go I. Canon!Aizen makes a few Good Rhetorical Points, but seems to lack any personal connection to his all-consuming plan.

Another issue is that nearly every villain with A Plan has a clear end goal AND a lot of the menace is drawn from the fact that the plan *could* work. Aizen's plan for betraying the court guard and then killing them off before proceeding into the Royal Realm to Kill God sorta falls apart when it's clear he planned to use pretty much all his accumulated forces dealing with the court guard and doesn't seem to have a plan for the Even More Powerful Royal Guard, let alone God. For how meticulously planned the rest of the plot is, the last two VERY IMPORTANT steps are just handwaved.

So I sat down and started with the plot beats Aizen MUST hit, and tried to imagine what kind of guy would he have to be to get there? And I came up with this:

Sosuke Aizen is a fundamentally good man with genuinely good intentions who is really trying his best for the whole world.

Think about it- what lengths would you NOT go to if you think you found a genuine shot at Fixing Everything Wrong With The World Forever? We all talk about killing Hitler if we found an actual Time Machine- would you do it if your only chance was when he was a baby? Would you kill an infant if it meant you could stop World War II before it starts? Of course you would! One small life for over 75 million? You'd be insane not to! What if you found out that you could prevent the future extinction of Humanity by killing your best friend today? Ten Billion lives? For theirs? It's simple, really- Hell, it's your Moral Obligation to do that if you were SURE!

-And Aizen IS sure. He is absolutely, totally, completely sure that He Can Save Everyone if he just gets rid of that idiot sitting on the throne of heaven. He's seen the plans! He knows where the gate of heaven is! It's So SIMPLE he just has to get inside, and he knows EXACTLY how to do it, yes it'll be hard and there will be... unpleasant parts but. IT. WILL. WORK.

He is of course, insane.

Aizen didn't have One Bad Day that set him irrevocably on the path of madness. It was a succession of catastrophic disappointments and realizations that he was living in a fundamentally irrational world that made irrational thinking look sane. The Catastrophe that befell his family, working for the central 46 and later the court guard and seeing how the organizations were inept to the point of abuse or corrupt to the core, learning that The Actual House Of God is a place he can just? Go to? Anyone would start thinking you were just a handful of white lies and homicides away from Fixing Everything, Forever.

Not only is Aizen insane, he is nowhere near as smart as he thinks. He is smart- He does have a knack for being able to guess just what will spur someone to action or make them recoil in fear. But mostly he gets extremely lucky Many, Many, MANY times. On some level I think it gives him Confirmation Bias that this is what he's supposed to be doing. Aizen is also nowhere near as smart as (nearly) everyone else thinks he is. His bizarrely good luck makes him look like a hyper-competent genius when really it was really the catastrophic failure of Soul Society as a Society that let a merely mediocre conspirator to evade detection for so long.

Being that he is at most, mediocre, he had to have Outside Help, specifically Gin's emotional support and Tousen's Competence- and if there's a part of the fic that stays true to canon, it's this.

Gin is Aizen's emotional rock in Canon. He's the ONE guy that Aizen genuinely trusts, and considers his 'my only real partner' in his scheme. There's more than one occasion in the manga where Aizen more or less asks Gin "Is this actually a good idea?" and Gin backs him up every time.

...Which is more than a bit at odds with Gin's later stated goal of "I did all this to kill you at your most vulnerable to protect rangiku" . It never rang true to me. So I started thinking why on EARTH Gin would be backing Aizen up like that, and realized there was a hole in my world building that he slotted into nicely :)

On the other hand, the entire fic was started because I didn't like how Tousen's character arc ended, so you can imagine how much he's changed.

But in canon, TOUSEN DOES ALL THE FUCKING WORK.

Lab work? Tousen.

Supervising the arrancar directly? Tousen

Actually getting victims for the Hogyoku experiments? Tousen.

Altering all the archives to keep Aizen's plot hidden? Tousen.

Sending all the Orders allegedly from the central 46? Tousen.

Making sure Unohana believes Aizen's fake body is real? Tousen.

Managing all the day-to-day operations at Las Noches? Tousen.

There's even this little exchange, which is Tousen's first appearance in the Manga:

Aizen establishes this entire meeting is a little fake-out a few pages later with "now isn't that a convenieint time for the alarm to go off?"

which makes him look like he's investigating, but he's also going "Good job on disrupting everyone with the alarm Gin!" It's ballsy of Aizen to do a check-in on his plan with his main nemesis in the room, but also his style.

I think the same thing is happening here with Tousen. To make sure Ukitake wouldn't raise a huge fit about the proposed execution of his beloved lieutenant, which might fuck everything up for Aizen because Ukitake is one of like, three people Yamamoto will listen to (sort of).

...So he had Tousen poison Ukitake to keep him out of the way.

ALL. THE. FUCKING. WORK. It's even in his name! The characters for "Tousen" Refer to a legendary scholar the emperor of China sent out to discover the secret of immortality- only to kill the scholar when he returned with that secret. The character for "Kaname" means "Necessary/Vital/keystone" or "to organize/take account of". His name LITERALLY means "Scholar who is essential for the plan (that we're going to kill later)"

Another thing Kubo did well in Bleach: his name game is Off The Fucking Charts.

-but I digress.

In AEIWAM, it's much the same only this time Aizen sees this very dangerous witness who is immune to his illusions but also extremely snart and capable young man and instead of risking being caught out by the one damn guy who can see right through him, opts to Curse Kaname into doing as Aizen says, and doing all the fucking work of this conspiracy against his will.

It's Not Nice, but Aizen genuinely thinks he's doing Kaname a favor by subjecting him to this degrading and incredibly painful servitude- I mean, Aizen's only other option was to Kill him to keep his silence, and isn't it wonderful that you get to help fix the universe? You're the one always going on about Justice, I don't understand why you didn't jump at the chance to mete out some Divine Justice.

An Excerpt from the captain's meeting in between the Massacre that made the visored and Zaraki's arrival, when Kaname realizes Yamamoto is 100% serious about his promotion to captain of the 9th and goes to throw up in the garden. Aizen offers to go check on him while Unohana very politely reads the general the riot act:

---

"You broke your toy Aizen." Kaname coughs.

"…I really am sorry for running you ragged like this. I really shouldn't have gotten so mad about you hiding the the hogyoku- it was very petty of me." The bastard sighs, taking off his glasses and rubbing his face, entirely genuine.

Kaname stayed on his hands and knees, weaving slightly as another wave of nausea flowed through him, powered by disgust and rage.

"How about this- I've got a lot coming up with the new job, training Gin and disposing of Kiganjo- So how about I promise to not give you any orders for a while? You will have to keep our arrangement a secret and not interfere, of course, but other than that, you're free to do as you please for- a year and a day is traditional isn't it? No, that's not going to heal by then- Oh, would you look at that!"

Kaname didn't have the strength to offer his usual rebuttal that he won't look at anything, ever. The sides of his head tingle like his skul was being pressed between two enormous hands made of static electricity.

"It's 11:11! Alright, I won't give you any Orders until 11:11 am on November 11th, 1911. That's easy to remember! What do you think?" Aizen continued cheerfully, patting his back and the Curse nails.

"…I can't." Kaname groaned. He could scream if he had the energy, but due to Aizen's Illusions, nobody would hear him. "I actually physically can't think. Please…"

"Of course! You really are such a help to me, it would be a shame to lose you. I'll even amend our contract, so you don't get paranoid-" There was a sizzling sound and a new stroke of hot pain up Kaname's spine as Aizen did something to the wretched Bakudo. "There. No compulsions for eleven years and a day. What do you say?"

Kaname grimaced, but dropped his head. Save the energy to fight another day. "…thank you, Aizen-sama."

"Good man! Let's get you on your feet." Aizen beamed, putting his glasses back on and offering him an arm.

---

He genuinely thinks that he's doing everyone a huge favor and if they don't get it it's because they're just not smart enough, but it's alright, He's a Benevolent God and they'll appreciate all his hard work the next time around :)

Aizen is a man who is FULL of joy. He loves what he does! He actively takes pleasure in it! And I think that's something that REALLY delivers in terms of sympathy AND horror for him. Who *Wouldn't* have a great time actually fixing the universe? He's a good man who enjoys doing good works, and this is the greatest work of all!

It also Delivers on the Horror when I get to write the deliciously fun scenes where Aizen is Elbows-deep in a novel War Crime and waxing poetic about how GREAT this is, or being confused why the people around him are reacting with fear. Don't you want to make everything better too?

#AEIWAM #an elephant is warm and mushy #sosuke aizen #kaname tosen #gin ichimaru

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aninipanin1 · 5 months ago

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How about Young manager with ADHD (continuously gets lost within Blue Lock, interrupts Ego using the PA system (accidentally) about trivial things, misplaces objects, rather naive etc),,, lol

LOST SHEEP

Notes: I personally do not have ADHD and my knowledge about it is quite small, so please forgive me if I misrepresent it here! I do not have any intentions of doing so, and if I do make some mistakes, please let me know! I am genuinely interested in being much more knowledgeable about this topic. Thank you!

"Y/n-chan...? What are you doing there..?"

Hiori asked, blinking at the rather bizarre scene in front of him. The midfielder just finished his daily training routines when he stepped inside of the laundry room to place his laundry basket.

But when he did walk in, he found their precious manager crouched down, hugging your legs as your eyes focused intensely at the small window of the washing machine, eyes boring at the spinning clothes inside the contraption.

In fact, you were too focused to even notice or hear the music of the other machines that alerted the room about how the process was done. You were just sitting there, staring, eyes blinking rarely, as if the rotation of the washing machine was a rare circus show to your eyes.

Everyone in the facility knew of your...tendencies and are more than understanding and ready to help you return your attention to whatever you were currently doing. Hiori was no different as he approached your crouched figure and lightly held your shoulder to take your attention back, but he made sure to be gentle enough to not scare you.

"Y/n-chan, earth to Y/n-chan. Are you okay?" He said in the softest voice he can muster, his hands supporting your crouched figure that almost lost its balance. You looked a bit dazed still from your previous episode, blinking at the sudden interruption. Turning to the blue-haired player, you tilted your head.

"Hiori-kun? What are we doing here...? What's happening?"

"Everything is fine, Y/n-chan. You just got a bit distracted with the washing machine." He explained, raising one of his hands to your hair, softly patting it in a comforting manner. He guided you up from your position and helped with the laundry that had long been done.

"Oh, I didnt notice that the rest were done..." you said in realization, looking at the washing machine with wide eyes. Hiori, who could not help himself, pinched one of your cheeks.

"Its fine, let's just get the rest of the laundry and hang it up, yeah?"

'Geez, she's too cute to be even real...' he inwardly gushed.

"What do you mean you can't find her?" Ego said, glaring at a worried Anri the moment he received the news. Apparently, you have been missing for more than an hour now, with no one from any stratum knowing where you were or even seeing you pass by.

"I'm a little worried. We all know how she gets when she's super distracted."

Ego sighed, rubbing his temple and not even adjusting his glasses that fell off the bridge of his nose. Out of everyone in there, he knew, especially how you can get. Being the one you always worked alongside with, there were times when you would be too focused on something trivial like a moving object or a rather miniscule detail that you would end up forgetting everything you were currently and supposed to be doing.

Now, most of the time, he encourages this. Ego cannot count how many times you ended up helping him and the players as a whole because your fixations on even the most minute of details always ended up being the root cause of a problem.

Hence, why, starting then, he always trusted your mini hyperfixations, no matter how dumb it may sound. You were naive, yes, but you are also a genius, something most people around you know of. So, early on, Ego trusted these said instincts and fixations and revolving them into something that would benefit everybody.

However, there are times like these where those hyperfixations end up disadvantageous. Somehow, you always get lost in the worst times in the worst places possible. Once, the whole facility literally had to work together in order to find you, only for Niko to find you crawling around the storage room near the cafeteria, chasing a ladybug that got your attention while you tried to find your way around the facility again.

There was no time for that kind of thing, however, seeing as to how the day after tomorrow was the last games for the Neo Egoist League, and the staff desperately needed to arrange everything and anything under the sun to make sure the games and livestream are all smooth sailing.

And, they definitely needed you, the overall manager of the teams, there.

"What do we do, Ego-san?"

"I'll look around in my cameras. Try to find her in the usual spot and rooms she crawls and runs on, or those rooms that have a lot of things she can fidget with." He sighed, feeling so done with everything that happened that day.

"Okay. I'll ask help from the rest of the staff."

Just as they were about to start looking for you though, the PA system was suspiciously turned on.

"Huh? It's not even 12 in the noon yet."

Anri said, confused, but all their questioning were answered when they heard the loud feedback of the mic before hearing small scratches and fidgeting noises in the mix. There were even times when they heard some buttons being pushed about. Ego sighed again, but it felt more like a breath of relief.

"That's her. Get that problem child and bring her here." Ego said, spinning his chair to face the cameras. And would you know it, when he went back through the CCTV cameras' previous footages, he saw you in the PA room, fidgeting with the buttons of the system. If he were to be honest, he felt a huge sigh of relief that you were not doing anything that may have harmed you of sort.

After a few minutes, Anri opened the door to his office but alongside her was Don Lorenzo who was smirking as he held you by the scruff of your jacket. Carrying you like a lost kitten, while you only blinked at the predicament you were in, constantly asking Anri about what you were supposed to do again and just babbling stories to Lorenzo and Anri.

"The lost sheep is here." He said, bringing you on the ground as carefully as he could, nodding along to whatever you said about how microphones actually worked and how you were just curious and wanted to experiment if your knowledge and hypothesis were actually real or whatever your mind was thinking about currently.

"Y/n." Ego said a bit sternly, making you stop talking as you looked at the man.

"Try to bring someone with you when you go on your little adventures sometimes." He said before turning his swivel chair once again to face the many monitors, turning his back to you.

"Okay, Ego-san!" You cheered happily, not even bothered about what had just transpired as you went back to your notebook to continue writing and working.

'This girl is going to be the death of me. This is why I don't want kids.' Ego thought, shaking his head.

"Rin-kun. Have you seen Mr. Boba?"

"Hah?"

Rin said, his usual frown in his face. But, this was more of a frown of confusion. He knew you had the habit of naming normal objects with names you found either fitting or adorable, by your standards of course. So, when you approached the striker about a supposed 'Mr. Boba,' he had no idea what the hell you were even looking for.

"Mr. Boba! He has tons of dots that's why he's Mr. Boba." You insisted, your face in a frown because you can't find what you were looking for at all and it was starting to thin your patience a bit.

"Look, I don't know what your Mr. Boba is. What even is it? Is it a hairpin of a boba, or a keychain?" Rin asked. He really did want to help you find Mr. Boba, but you were not exactly helping your case as you kept insisting Mr. Boba was Mr. Boba.

That was until Karasu and Shidou entered the field that helped him and you.

"Y/n-chan! Hi! Why are you sad?!" Shidou asked as he jumped to hug you, before frowning himself, not liking that you were clearly upset by the look at the frown on your face.

"What's wrong, Y/n-chan?" Karasu added, patting your hair.

"Did Rinrin over here make you sad? I'll beat him up for you if you want, Y/n-cha-"

"Shut the fuck up, lukewarm idiot. I didn't do crap." Rin intercepted Shidou, feeling the veins on his head pop.

"No, no, Shidou-san. I just can't find Mr. Boba. What do I do? I need him." The frown on your face deepened into a pout. Karasu was confused as hell who was this Mr. Boba you were talking about. He turned to Rin, who only glared at him.

"I dont know who the hell her Mr. Boba is."

But, Shidou seemed to understand who your Mr. Boba was as the grin on his face widened and he pulled your phone out from your jacket pocket and extended it to your hand.

"Mr. Boba!" You cheered happily at the phone.

"Silly Y/n-chan. It was in your pocket all along!" Shidou said as he pinched your cheeks and stretching it. Meanwhile, Karasu and Rin were just left confused to the side, wondering how the hell was a phone comparable to a boba.

"That's Mr. Boba? What the hell. I don't see it." Karasu commented, but Shidou only stuck his tongue out at both of them.

"You all are blind losers. Can't you see the phonecase design? It has black circles in the bottom and since its a clear case, you can see the (f/c) of the phone! So its like boba." Shidou explained, pointing out the small design of the phone that somehow made it look like a boba in both your and his eyes.

"Yeah! Like Shidou-san said!" You cheered as you hugged the male, thanking him sweetly for helping you find your Mr. Boba.

"I'm surrounded by idiots." Rin said, facepalming as Karasu just laughed.

"Shut the hell up, Rin-rin! You can't say that to Y/n-chan!!!"

"Who said I was also talking about her?"

ADDITIONAL TIME!

Since everyone in the Blue Lock facility found out about your disorder, they became much more protective of you overall.

You are waiting in line for food? No, youre not. Everyone is letting you get your food first.

You have bad time management? They'd help with that. They'll be your personal alarm clock.

You are feeling so bored and want to fidget with something? They'd let you play with their hands while they listened to Ego's damn lectures.

It's all about maintaining your attention span yet enabling you to become a better person as a whole. To improve your mental health and also make you feel that you are more than your disorder.

But, of course, they can't help but spoil you every once in a while. No biggie!

Blue Lock is WRITTEN by Kaneshiro Muneyuki and ILLUSTRATED by Nomura Yusuke. All credits to the both of them.

#aninipanin1 #blue lock #bllk #blue lock x manager!reader #bllk x reader #blue lock x reader #bluelockxreader #various x reader #Don lorenzo x reader #don lorenzo #itoshi rin x reader #itoshi rin #shidou x reader #shidou ryusei #karasu tabito #karasu x reader #hiori x reader #hiori yo

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shysuccubusstuff · 5 months ago

Text

Yandere! Caleb pt. 2

Content: Stalking + Spying + Photo taking + Controlling + Masturbation + Breeding kink + Matting press + Aftercare - Stablished relationship

Note: I just love a good obbsessed man... Have you liked him so far? I've read that some ppl think that he's scary/too much, but I believe that this type of LI is quite common in otome games (and I enjoy them quite a lot). Sorry if it's similar to the previous one, I have trouble remembering everything I write...

Yandere! Caleb, who is able to mask all his obsession upon layers and layers, always acting as if he was that sweet older brother like figure. He keeps forcing himself to restrain, even when he sees you with some other people from your age. He even has to face the fact that you had found some other guys to be with, all nice guys, of course, sadly, that wasn't enough for him. I mean, he had been with you your whole entire life, who was better than him to be your husband boyfriend?

Yandere! Caleb, who loves stalking you while taking candid pictures of you. He just loves following you around the days he's free, his brown hair being concealed by a black cap, his ears now decorated with a bunch of piercings that dangled as he moved. He knows just how much he's betting every single time he decides to do it, but he just can't stop himself from pursuing you. He makes sure to buy clothes that he would never wear with you, a bunch of extremely baggy sweaters together with loose trousers that make him look larger than he actually is. He carefully takes out a phone he bought just for this task, and he hits the small white button, the shutter of his camera going off as you were sharing a small treat with a man he soon recognised. It was Zayne, the boy that lived next door, he clenched his fists in frustration, his hands trembling from the force he did. Still, he simply kept drinking that slightly bitter coffee, looking at the photo he had taken as he smiled charmed. In that photo, Zayne was nowhere to be seen, making him smile even wider.

Yandere! Caleb who loves collecting little trinkets (from you). You don't know it, but Caleb has a few keep boxes, all filled to the brim with different elements. This hobby of his began while the two of you were children, saving them with the purpose of showing them to you when you grew up. This quickly took a turn as he began to feel his mental state decay, the small collection growing more and more each day until he had to buy several boxes, all piled up on his private room within the Fleet.

Yandere! Caleb who used the intel within the Fleet to track you down. Always following your every move through the small screen, even watching what you saw through the small virus he had planted within your phone. He loved watching the world from your perspective, even hearing how happy you were just from winning those soft plushes in the claw machine. He made sure to even take screenshots, printing them and adding them to his vast collection of candid photos.

Yandere! Caleb who keeps your photo everywhere he goes. You don't know it, but he made a small modification in the necklace you gave him, creating a small cabinet just so he could keep a picture of you within it. This picture is sometimes rotated between the many options he has, but the only thing that remains despite all the changes is a few strands of your hair. Luckily (for you) he was the one that gave you the idea, telling you one day that people used to gift a lock of their hair before the impeding parting of a loved one. So of course you gave him one, how could you not, when you could easily tell just how much Caleb wanted it?

Yandere! Caleb who uses your photos to masturbate. It's late at night and he just can't bear it anymore, he has been restraining himself from such a long time, always having to conceal his hardened member by pulling down his sweaters or jackets, always wearing black clothing that is just a bit oversized for him. But as soon as he reaches his private house, he rushes to the small wardrobe, rushing to get his hands on some of the clothes you had left a few days ago. He knows this is awful on him, masturbating with some barely worn clothes that still had your scent, but, how could he not? That day, you had spent the whole day with him, your body constantly brushing against him as he kept biting his tongue as a way to control himself. He quickly rushed to his bed, sitting down and quickly undoing his trousers together with his underwear. He quickly wrapped his hand around his erection, starting to move it up and down his shaft as he inhaled the sweet scent that was emanating from the t-shirt.

"Fuck... I love you... I love you so much... I need you... Just---... Fuck I love you, you're so fucking cute, always looking at me with those sweet eyes... I could just eat you up..." As he started to lose himself on the pleasure, he kept mumbling, his hand starting to speed up as he kept rubbing his face against the cloth, sometimes bitting it as a way to muffle some of his sounds. "I just want you to... Fuck... Just want to get you all hot and bothered because of me... I need to fuck you so bad--- I love you..." As he kept moving his hand faster, he kept whimpering, his hips bucking against his hand as he dreamt about fucking your sweet pussy, seeing you drool all over him as his tip kept hitting against that soft spot within your cunt. Soon, he came all over his hand, his warm essence staining his hand as he kept his face buried on your clothing, wishing it had been you the one he came all over.

Yandere! Caleb who makes sure to get you pregnant as soon as you allow him. Of course he wanted to become the father of your children, but he had to stop himself, biting his own tongue as a way to stop himself from fucking you against the mattress as he kept whispering into your ear, praising you as he burried his face in the crook of your neck. His attitude changed as soon as you allowed him, his cock growing while still being inside you, making your tummy bulge a bit as he started to increase the rhythm of his trusts.

"Just like that, you're doing so good for me, love... Just hold on a bit more... I'll be such a good daddy-- Provide for you, whatever you need, just take me as your husband, yeah? Just let me treat you all nice, you're so good, such a hard-working woman..." Caleb's voice resonated within your head, nails digging on his muscled back as your lower half kept receiving his powerful thrusts, making you mewl each time his dick entered, filling you to the brim and staying there for a few seconds, pressing even further as he kept kissing your forehead to keep you grounded. "Love... Just a few more minutes, promise I'll let you rest as soon as we finish, I just need to make sure to fill you up..." Caleb's rhythm became even more punishing, the tip of his cock hitting your cervix, using his own body weight to keep you pressed against the bed, ramming against you as if he had lost every single strand of restraint. Just as you were about to loose yourself, Caleb's hips finally started to quiver, his thrusts becoming more swallow as his cock started to twitch, his cum filling your womb as he pressed himself against your entrance, making sure to not move an inch until he finally ended. "You did so good, my love, let me take care of you." Caleb got away from you, leaving the room for a few minutes. This moment allowed you to breath deeply, your chest moving up and down rapidly as you tried to stabilise your own breath. Just as you kept trying to recover, Caleb's arms wrapped around you, lifting you up from the bed so he could take you to the tub that had been filled. Caleb let you lay within it, cleaning your body with the soft sponge, then moving on to massage your scalp, carefully shampooing your whole head and letting it for a few minutes. "I love you, you did so good for me... Now let me get you all warm and cozy before going to bed."

#caleb love and deepspace #caleb x reader #caleb lnds #caleb lads #caleb fanfic #yandere x reader

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lupinqs · 19 days ago

Text

CHAPTER NINETEEN ━━ Girls Talk

❀ ━ pairing: paige bueckers x oc (jo jacobson)

❀ ━ word count: 8.9K

❀ ━ warnings: tiny makeout nothing else i dont think

❀ ━ links: my masterlist, nobody gets me masterlist

❀ ━ author’s note: only a few more chapters left thank god. also i promise celeste actually is going to serve a purpose lol

JO FEELS THE WEIGHT of everything ahead more in her chest than anywhere else.

It’s not nerves. Not exactly. She’s not nervous heading into the Big East Tournament, not in the way people probably expect her to be. UConn’s handled conference play like a machine, and even when games have been scrappy—when shots haven’t fallen or players have gone down, when the rotation’s been thin and legs have been heavy—there’s never been real doubt. Not about their record, not about their identity. They’ve come out of it undefeated. And even if it’s just the Big East, they’ve done it by work, by belief, by toughness.

Still, Jo doesn’t let herself take anything for granted. It’s not really in her nature to. And it’s definitely not in Geno’s.

He drills it into them constantly—treat every game like it’s the national championship. Doesn’t matter if it’s Xavier on a Wednesday or South Carolina in the tournament. Doesn’t matter if they’re up thirty or down two. They play like it’s for a title. They prepare like it’s for a title. They think like champions. And Jo’s bought into it completely. Maybe even more than she realizes sometimes. But, here’s the thing: she’s doing all this to become a champion. She wants it more than anything.

So today—last practice at Werth before they leave for the tournament—it’s not just another walkthrough. Not to Jo. The gym smells like sweat and floor polish and memory, and everything feels a little more important. She’s locked in from the moment it starts. Not because she’s worried about their chances. Not because this is where it all begins. The push, the run, the stakes.

She loves practice. Loves the rhythm of it, the detail, the way film sessions bleed into reps and everything is purposeful. She loves Geno’s voice barking at them, loves when CD yells to calm down, loves the exhaustion that builds behind her knees after three hours of movement. She loves feeling the shape of her own improvement.

She loves this team.

It’s not just a line, not just some press conference thing to say. It’s real and rooted. She loves these people. The way Nika talks shit and throws no-look passes. The way Aaliyah’s always catches Jo’s dimes, her post work smooth as butter. The way Lou and Dorka have formed this weird, wordless connection like they’ve been playing together their whole lives. The way Aubrey quite literally defies gravity and nobody can box her out no matter how many times opponents try.

And Paige. Of course Paige. Always Paige.

She hasn’t played a second this year and somehow she still feels like the center of everything. That voice. That presence. The way she pulls Jo aside mid or post practice and says something small that can change her perspective on everything. Paige could be the best coach in the country if she wanted to be (well, maybe after Geno), and she’s only twenty-one. Of course, Jo misses the on-court Paige, the one she watched drain dagger threes in clutch time and argue with the refs like no one’s business. But there’s something even scarier—something even more Paige—about the way she’s taken this season and owned it anyway. No self-pity. Just effort. Energy. Leadership.

Her rehab’s going well, too. Jo knows it; she’s with her for a lot of it, actually. Paige moves different now. The bounce is back. The ease. And even if Paige downplays it, Jo watches. She’s always watching. Because she knows next season, Paige is gonna be back out there. And them with that Paige? It’ll be a whole different monster.

But for now, the Big East Tournament is up next, and they’re getting healthy just in time.

Caroline’s back. Everyone’s relieved about it. What she’s been through—the concussion stuff, the weird limbo of recovery, the way she’s had to just sit and wait and not know—it’s brutal. Jo saw it wear on her. The silence in the locker room, the way her laugh dulled, how she’d have to hole herself up in a dark and quiet room because of the pain. But she’s smiling again. Shooting again. And her release looks like it always has—clean and confident.

Azzi’s close, too. Her knee’s held her out for a while now, but the team’s been careful. Not rushing. Playing the long game. Jo’s missed playing with her, missed the gravity she brings, the way defenses panic when Azzi even glances at the arc. Having her back is huge.

And the timing couldn’t be better.

Because after this weekend, the NCAA Tournament is right there. And at UConn, under Geno Auriemma, it’s not about getting there. It’s not even about Final Fours. It’s not about anything less than winning the whole damn thing. Natty or bust. Always. Jo grew up watching that standard. She’s living it now.

They announced the Big East awards this morning. Jo’s still sort of processing it. Not because she doesn’t think she’s earned them. She knows what she’s done. She knows what she’s poured into this season. But to win both Big East Player and Freshman of the Year is rare. Paige was the last to do it.

And she beat out Maddy Siegrist for conference Player of the Year, too, which is slightly insane when she really thinks about it. Siegrist’s been crazy all year. If Jo’s not mistaken she’s actually led the nation in scoring this season. Jo guesses the committee must’ve seen something else in her—something broader. Leadership, maybe. Defense. Playmaking. The little things. The winning. Because UConn’s record is better. The numbers back it up.

First-team All-Big East. That’s her, Aaliyah, and Lou. Dorka and Nika made Second-team, and Nika got Defensive Player of the Year. Aaliyah is Most Improved.

Even with the team being so injured, it’s a sweep. And Jo’s proud of all of it. She really is. But she’s not floating. Not celebrating. Not letting it really settle in her head at all.

Because the job’s not done.

None of the awards matter if they lose in the Big East championship (they won’t). None of it means anything if they flame out in the Sweet Sixteen. No one remembers the accolades of you don’t back them up when it counts. Jo knows that.

Which is why she went so hard in practice today. And then, afterwards, when she stayed with Paige in the gym for extra work like they’ve done for months now. Shooting, handles, that kinda thing.

Which is why Jo is now dying.

Like—not metaphorically, not in the dramatic, attention-seeking way she sometimes jokingly pulls after sprints when Nika’s yelling at her to stop flopping around. No, this feels different. This is the kind of dying where her legs are jelly, her lungs are still catching up from the extra shooting drills, and there’s an honest, sincere moment where she thinks, Okay, maybe I should’ve stopped twenty minutes ago before Paige made me do that third round of one-dribble pull-ups.

But it’s not like she could’ve said no. She never says no. Not when it’s Paige asking. Not when it’s just the two of them, the gum quiet except for sneakers squeaking, rebounding for each other the way they’ve done all season. It doesn’t even feel like extra work anymore. It feels like something else. Just something they do.

But now Jo is laid flat across the locker room bench like a corpse, one arm flopped dramatically over her stomach, the other curled at her side. She’s still sweating through her practice tee, her face damp, chest rising and falling with shallow, almost theatrical breaths. Paige sits next to her, with Jo’s head is pillowed in her lap. Her fingers are dragging gently through Jo’s hair, smoothing it back behind her ears. The locker room is empty but for the two of them.

Jo doesn’t open her eyes, but she knows Paige is staring down at her. She feels it. The weighted, blue gaze that makes the air buzz against her cheekbones. Her whole body feels heavy and sort of floaty at the same time, like her bones are dissolving right into Paige’s lap.

“You did good today,” Paige murmurs, voice quiet and warm and a little scratchy. “Real proud.”

Jo groans immediately, a low, pained sound that comes straight from her gut. “No. It killed me. I’m dying.”

She doesn’t even try to sound tough. What’s the point? Paige saw her gasping for air after the last few shooting sets. Saw her grimacing through the last of the sprints, hands on her knees, dripping sweat. Jo’s not entirely above playing it up a little with Paige, either—just for sympathy, a little attention. It earns her more of Paige’s hand in her hair, fingers dragging down to scratch lightly at her scalp. It feels good.

Paige laughs softly. It’s more of a huff through her nose, but it’s affectionate and Jo hears the smile in it.

“Well,” Paige replies, clearly amused, “at least you look good dying.”

That gets Jo to crack one eye open. Just barely. The locker room is blurry at first, but Paige’s face is sharp and glowing in the center of it. That stupid little grin on her lips. The teasing glint in her eyes. And she’s looking at Jo like she always does—like Jo is hers and Paige is still not sure how it happened but she’s not complaining about it.

Jo swallows and reaches up without thinking, hand curling around the back of Paige’s neck. Her palm is clammy, but Paige doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t pull away.

“C’mere,” Jo mutters, voice hoarse and low, tugging gently.

She means it. She’s trying to pull Paige down for a kiss, make some kind of reward out of this moment, because she’s certainly earned it after all the buckets and the defense and the sprinting and the dying.

Paige leans forward with it but doesn’t get close enough at all. She laughs again. “Baby,” she says, “my back doesn’t bend that way.”

Baby.

It’s such a small word. Barely there. Tossed out like nothing. But it explodes in Jo’s chest like a firework. She doesn’t show it, but she feels it.

Paige doesn’t call her that often. Usually it’s Joey in that fond voice, or the God-awful JoJo nickname in a teasing way. But when she does call her that—when she says it in that low, almost lazy voice, like Jo is some kind of secret she’s been keeping close—it makes Jo feel warm. Claimed. Like they’re more than something without a name.

They haven’t talked about it. Not officially. Not really. They act like a couple. They kiss and fuck like one, too. But they don’t say what it all means. Jo’s been too scared to ask. Paige has never been in an actual relationship and Jo’s last one ended in the worst way they can. So, she’s got no spine about it, and she knows it.

She keeps telling herself she’s fine with it. That it doesn’t matter. That it feels real, and that’s enough.

Instead of thinking anymore about it, Jo just groans again and shifts, using what little strength she has left to sit up slightly, just enough to reach Paige properly this time. Her face is close now. Close enough to kiss.

And so she doesn’t show.

No words, just action. Just Jo leaning in and pressing her mouth against Paige’s like it’s the most obvious next step. Because it is. Because Paige called her baby, and Jo’s brain short-circuited, and now she’s just following instinct.

The kiss deepens, and Jo chases it—leans into it like she’s leaning into a cut to the rim, like there’s no stopping, no pivoting away. Paige opens her mouth a little and Jo takes full advantage, tongue slipping in. There’s this noise that Paige makes then—tiny, caught in the back of her throat—that makes Jo’s stomach flip violently.

Jo’s still sort of half on the bench, half off it, one knee digging into the vinyl cushion. But then Paige shifts, her hands sliding down Jo’s ribs. Jo moves with them, body rearranging in the space. She ends up straddling Paige’s lap, her arms around her neck, their chests pressed together. The sweat cooling on her skin makes her shirt cling awkwardly in places, but she doesn’t care. Doesn’t even notice.

All she notices is Paige’s hands splayed on her back, fingers warm and patient, one curling into the hem of Jo’s shirt, brushing soft over bare skin. She notices the way Paige kisses her like she means it, tongue licking into Jo’s mouth.

Jo tilts her head, parting her lips wider, pushing deeper. Paige tastes like minty gum and the Gatorade she had at the end of practice and something that’s just Paige. It’s addicting. She doesn’t even care if her legs are still trembling or if her heart’s beating like it’s trying to hammer through her ribs.

She lets out a breath against Paige’s cheek, nuzzling into the edge of her jaw for just a second. “Jesus,” she whispers.

“Mm?” Paige murmurs, eyes fluttering half open.

“You trying to kill me?” Jo asks, voice teasing, but not entirely joking.

Paige smirks, pulling her even closer. “Thought you were already dying.”

Jo huffs a breath that turns into a laugh and kisses her again, harder now, hand tangling in Paige’s hoodie collar as if she could disappear into her if she just pulled hard enough.

She settles her weight fully in Paige’s lap, thighs bracketing her hips, breath catching a little when Paige’s hands shift lower, palming at her ass through her basketball shorts.

It’s perfect. It’s theirs. Other than right before bed, they hardly ever get this—not really. Not with time and space and no one around to ruin it. It’s rare, this kind of peace and quiet.

Which is, of course, when the door swings open.

They jump apart like they’ve been tasered.

Jo’s whole body jolts, heart plummeting as her eyes fly to the door. Paige curses under her breath, her hands leaving Jo’s ass like it burned her. Jo scrambles to move, to shift off Paige’s lap and find something approaching decency, even though it’s so fucking obvious what was happening.

And standing in the doorway is Celeste Sinclair. Red hair tied into a low ponytail, camera bag slung over one shoulder, UConn hoodie riding up a little on one side like she’s been rushing. She freezes when she sees them. Her eyebrows lift. Her eyes do this weird, flicking double-take that makes Jo want to crawl out of her skin.

It’s only a second. Maybe two.

But Jo can feel it—feel the calculus happening behind Celeste’s eyes. The math of it. Jo sitting in Paige’s lap. Lips probably still pink and swollen. Paige’s hands still halfway in the air.

“Sorry,” Celeste says, voice clipped and a little too sharp. Then, slower, eyes lingering—just for a second too long—on Paige, “Um. Sorry. I’ll just… go.”

She doesn’t look at Jo again. Just turns and walks back out the door, the sound of it clicking shut behind her deafening.

Jo exhales, breath rattling in her chest. She’s still kneeling on the bench, one foot on the floor, legs shaking a little from effort and adrenaline. Her hands are braces on her thighs like she needs to steady herself.

“Shit,” she mumbles.

There goes that secret.

She shifts off Paige’s lap entirely now, settling next to her on the bench. Not touching. Her skin suddenly feels too warm, like her body hasn’t caught up to the fact that they’re not making out anymore. Her heart won’t slow down.

Paige groans beside her, dragging a hand down her face. “God,” she mutters. “Of all people.”

Jo glances sideways. “You think she’ll say anything?”

Paige’s jaw tenses. She shakes her head like she’s not sure. “I should go—talk to her. Make sure she doesn’t.”

Jo just nods. Because, yeah, that needs to happen. No one knows about them. Not Azzi. Not Ice. Not Aubrey. Not Caroline. Not Geno. Not CD. Not anyone. And they’ve liked it that way. It’s been theirs, in the quiet between games and the sweat between practices. It hasn’t gotten messy because it’s been private.

She’s about to say something when Paige leans in, gentle again, a hand lifting to Jo’s cheek. She kisses her once, quick, a quiet reassurance.

“Be right back,” she murmurs, then stands and walks out, hoodie sleeves pushed up, bun slightly messed up because of Jo’s hands.

Jo stays there, alone on the bench.

And all she can think is: Well, shit. Cover’s blown.

PAIGE WALKS FAST.

Not running, but almost. Her sneakers are too loud against the hallway tile, the slap of rubber echoing in the quiet post-practice stillness of the facility. It’s always like this when they’re the last ones in the gym—quiet in a way that feels peaceful. But not now. Now, her stomach is doing somersaults and her chest is tight like she just did suicides.

She doesn’t even fully know what she’s about to say. She just knows she has to catch Celeste before she leaves, has to do something to shut it down before it becomes a thing. Before anyone else finds out. Because as much as she doesn’t want to hide Jo, it’s not like they’ve really had a conversation about any of this. What they are, what they’re doing. It’s just been… them. In pieces. In stolen time. Quiet. Private. Safe.

So, when she sees that familiar red ponytail swaying down the hallway ahead of her, her voice cuts through before she even decides what to say.

“Celeste.”

The girl stops—slowly. Turns around even slower. There’s something in her eyes, sharp and tired at the same time.

“What?” she asks flatly. Like she’s bored. Like Paige has already wasted her time.

Paige blanches. Her body keeps moving, but her brain just stalls out. She wasn’t expecting that tone. That edge. Celeste has always been a little cocky, yeah, a little smug, but never cold. Never even really annoyed.

Paige stops a few feet away, mouth opening and closing once, then again. Her hands twitch awkwardly at her sides. She doesn’t know if she should smile, be casual, be direct, be defensive. All of it feels wrong.

“Um,” she starts. “I—about what you saw…”

Celeste tilts her head, lips pressing into a thin line. “What, you and Jo Jacobson—your puppy-eyed freshman teammate—about to fuck in the locker room?”

Paige’s brows lift like she’s been physically smacked. “Jesus, bro,” she says automatically, startled and stumbling. “We were not about to fuck in there.”

And that part is true. They weren’t. That wasn’t the point of it. They were just—well, okay, they were definitely making out, but it wasn’t like that. But Celeste is staring her down with something curled and bitter in her bright green eyes, like she doesn’t believe a single word coming out of Paige’s mouth.

“Sure looked like it,” Celeste mutters.

Paige sighs hard and runs a hand down her face, dragging it along her jaw. There’s sweat still crusted under her nails from the extra reps with Jo. Despite hardly practicing, just doing the little things she can, her body is tired. Her heart is loud. Her patience is frayed.

“Okay,” she says, “I just—can you please keep whatever you thought you saw to yourself? Please?”

Celeste stares at her for a beat. Then she laughs—but it’s not a real laugh. It’s short and humorless, more of a bark than anything else. Her eyes flick to the floor, then back up, and she nods slowly. Mockingly.

“Oh, you wanna keep her a secret?” she concludes, mouth twitching at the corners. “Like you kept me a secret?”

Paige’s stomach lurches, because—what?

She blinks, feels her throat close up. That doesn’t even make sense. That’s not even close to how it went. But Celeste’s expression doesn’t shift—she’s still got that sharpness to her face, like she’s trying to see how deep she can twist the knife. Like she means to get under Paige’s skin.

“Bro,” Paige says again, brows pulling together. Her voice is still calm, but there’s disbelief under it now. “It wasn’t even like that with us.”

Because it wasn’t. They were never anything even remotely close to real. They hooked up a good amount, yes. There were a couple times when they were so drunk it would result in a sleepover. And, over the summer, sometimes Paige would flirt with her during her media duties. But they never even went on a date. Never saw each other outside of necessity with basketball or in bed. Celeste flirted all the time, yeah, still sort of does, but Paige never encouraged anything beyond physical. She made that line clear.

Celeste scoffs—loud, exaggerated—and looks away like she’s trying not to roll her eyes straight into the back of her skull. “Right.”

Paige takes a breath. It’s one of those sharp, tight ones that hits her ribs in the way down and doesn’t quite go all the way. Like her body won’t let her breathe easy until she figures out how the fuck this whole thing went from “whoops, we got caught kissing” to blackmail threat from a bitter ex situationship. Which is just great. Wonderful. Just what she needed on top of an aching knee, exhausting rehab, and a tournament she’s not even playing in yet beyond anxious for.

Tentatively, she tries, “Are you mad because I told you to stop texting me?”

It’s not accusatory, just curious. It makes sense—this being less about what Celeste saw and more about how she felt when Paige fully pulled the plug on them (which, for the record, they never even were a them). Last month, the texts had started up again—some related to media shit, yeah( but some that were just… kinda obvious. “What’re you up to tonight?” “Want to come over?” “Miss your face.” Stuff that had I’m still thinking about you naked as the entrée but also with a side order of maybe I want to hang out and talk, too.

And Paige had shut it down. Nicely. But firmly. Because even if she and Jo aren’t official, even if they haven’t labeled anything or had the talk—Paige knows exactly where her head’s at. She doesn’t want anyone else. Not even a little bit. Not ever.

Celeste narrows her eyes. “You are so smart, Paige,” she says sarcastically, before sighing. “I thought we were friends outside of the fucking. You made it seem like you liked me. Like you saw more than just one of the team’s Instagram admins.”

That hits Paige in a way she wasn’t exactly prepared for. Because Celeste sounds genuinely hurt now, not just defensive. It’s different. Real. And, yeah, okay—maybe there was a time where she leaned in too much. Maybe her being nice looks a lot like flirting if you don’t know her well enough. Paige has always been told she gives confusing signals. Too much eye contact. Too much laughing. Too much attention.

But it was never intentional. And it definitely wasn’t a promise.

Still, she softens, just a little. “I’m sorry ’bout that,” Paige says, and she means it.

Celeste scoffs again and repeats, “Right.”

And then she adds, tossing it out like a rock through a window, “I wonder what the coaching staff would think about two of their players fucking around this late in the season. Hm.”

Paige’s stomach drops. She hears her own heartbeat in her ears and her mind immediately starts running worse-case scenarios.

What would Geno say? Or CD? Or Jamelle?

Would they be pissed? Would they make them stop? Would it be a whole thing? Would the narrative become that they’re distractions to each other? Would Jo get blamed for it, even though Jo has literally never done a selfish thing in her life? Would there be whispers about the team dynamic being thrown off, even if it’s not true? Would the postseason get tainted by this?

She doesn’t know the answer to any of those questions. And she doesn’t want to.

“Celeste, c’mon,” Paige says, and there’s an edge of urgency to her voice now. She drops the posture, the tension in her jaw. Just puts it out there, raw and real. “Don’t say anything. Please.”

Celeste takes a step forward. “Why should I do anything for you?” she asks, voice cold. “Or, for that matter,” she adds, gesturing toward the locker room with a flick of her fingers, “your little bitch in there? I don’t owe either of you anything.”

There it is. The moment something shifts in Paige, a snap.

Because Jo is not a bitch.

Jo is all soft t-shirts and messy buns and shy smiles. Jo is late-night ice cream runs and twirling her pen in her mouth while she takes film notes. Jo is bright pink lip gloss and knee pads and unrelenting kindness, even when she’s bone-tired. Jo is the person Paige reaches for without even realizing it. The person who laughs at all her jokes and hums when she’s thinking and flushes when Paige calls her baby.

Jo is everything. Jo is hers. Not exactly in a claiming, possessive way. More in a I’ll protect this girl with my entire fucking chest If I have to way.

And Celeste Sinclair doesn’t get to talk about her like that.

Paige steps forward, looks down at the redhead steadily, showers set. “Don’t,” she says, low and controlled.

The word hangs there between them. It’s not loud, not even really forceful. Just steady. It lands like a stone dropped into water—clean, deep, no ripple.

For a second, something in Celeste’s expression flickers. Her mouth parts just slightly, like maybe she’s going to double down, say something cruel again, make this even messier. Paige holds her ground, doesn’t move a muscle. Her jaw is tight and she kisses her teeth.

Celeste shifts a little on her feet. Her shoulders relax just slightly, eyes sliding down Paige’s frame slowly. Almost like she’s assessing. There’s more behind it than just annoyance. Her lips curve—not all the way into a smile, but something close.

“You know,” she says, voice low now. Different tone entirely, like she flipped a switch. She leans closer. “I gotta say… you’re kinda hot when you’re pissed, Paige.”

Paige blinks. She genuinely almost laughs in the girl’s face at how utterly ridiculous it is. Are they not adults now? Sure, Paige can be childish sometimes but this is insane. There’s no way—no way—Celeste is actually doing this right now. Not after threatening to rat her out. Not after calling Jo a bitch. Not when Paige is standing here one wrong move away from a full-blown crash-out.

“Are you serious?” Paige asks in disbelief. “You just went from threatening me to—what? Hitting on me again?”

Celeste shrugs, all fake nonchalance. “I mean… I can still want you and be mad at you. Those things aren’t mutually exclusive.”

Paige makes a face—is this girl bipolar or something? Sure seems like it.

The blonde shakes her head slowly. “You don’t get to flirt your way outta this.”

“I’m not trying to flirt my way out of anything,” Celeste replies, stepping back half a foot, but her tone still has that same slanted heat to it. “Just saying… maybe if you’d handled things differently, we wouldn’t be out here right now.”

That pisses Paige off in a different way. The insinuation that Celeste is the victim here just because Paige didn’t fall into some situationship she never wanted in the first place.

“I handled it the way I had to,” Paige says, firm. “I wasn’t tryna be a dick, ‘kay? I thought I was clear. I didn’t want more with you. That’s not personal. But I’m not gonna apologize for not wantin’ something I didn’t want.”

Celeste watches her for a long second, fiery green eyes flicking across Paige’s face. Then, her arms drop to her sides, some of the tension leaving her. Like the mask has been peeled off, or at least tilted.

“You really like her, huh?” she asks, quieter now.

“Yeah,” Paige says immediately, simply. Because there’s no question to it. “I do.”

Celeste nods once. Looks away, then back. Her mouth is a tight line now.

“I’m not gonna say anything,” she mutters. “Alright?”

Paige exhales. It’s not fully relief, but it’s close. “Thank you,” she says, cautious but real.

“Don’t thank me,” Celeste mutters, already turning. “I’m not doing it for you.”

She walks away without another word.

Paige watches her go, heart still beating a little too fast. She doesn’t move for a moment. Just stands there, staring at the spot where Celeste disappears around the corner. She doesn’t trust her. Not all the way. Not even mostly. There’s a chance this could still blow up later, or get messy, or turn into a headache down the line. But for now, it’s done. It has to be.

She scrubs a hand down her face. Turns on her heel.

And heads back toward the locker room.

THE ROOM SMELLS like garlic bread and takeout containers and the lingering sharpness of victory, all tangled into one heady mix that buzzes around Paige’s ears. The TV’s on low—some men’s game they’re hardly even watching—and everyone’s talking over each other anyway. The hotel room’s packed, the way it always gets when they congregate after a win, girls half-sitting, half-sprawled across mismatched furniture and the carpet, containers of different pastas balanced on paper plates and knees.

It’s warm. Not from the heat, but from the closeness, the full-body kind that comes after a weekend of playing your heart out and winning, again, like they always do. Big East Tournament champs. Shocker.

Still. It’s step toward the real goal, and Paige is proud of her girls.

Paige sits on the bed she’s claimed as hers (her and Aubrey are sharing a room in Uncasville this weekend), her back against the headboard, legs stretched out in front of her. Jo’s right beside her, cross-legged, the hem of her shorts brushing Paige’s thigh when she shifts to dig around in her pasta container. Paige can feel the heat of her through the thin cotton of her sweats. She fights the urge to just look over at the brunette and stare.

Their teammates still don’t know. Celeste has been quiet since that day outside the locker room. No threats, no passive-aggressive commentary tossed into conversation. Paige is grateful for it, but the anxiety hasn’t completely dulled. She’s still not convinced the redhead won’t change her mind, especially if something rubs her the wrong way. So for now, Paige is doing her best to act normal. No brushing hands under tables, no lingering glances across shootaround, no reasons for anyone to ask questions.

But then she glances at Jo, and there’s a tiny bit of gold confetti tangled in her hair—caught behind her ear, near the roots. Leftover from the trophy ceremony earlier, when they were throwing confetti all over each other. Paige blinks at it. Doesn’t even think, really. She just reaches.

Her fingers brush against Jo’s hair, slow, tugging the shiny piece free. Jo doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch or ask what she’s doing or turn her head. She just keeps twirling her plastic fork around a bite of pasta, like Paige’s hand in her hair is the most natural thing in the world. She tucks the confetti between her fingers and lets her hand fall back into her lap.

“Try this,” Jo says, out of nowhere, holding her fork up with a twist of unfamiliar pasta on the end “You’re gonna like it.”

Paige raises an eyebrow. “That’s what you said about the gnocchi balls last week.”

Jo says, “Those were good.”

“No, they weren’t,” Paige argues, grinning a little.

Jo gives her a look. “C’mon, just take the bite.” She leans over, offers her the fork. Paige’s brain doesn’t even think about—oh, maybe it’s a little incriminating for a teammate to be feeding another teammate food if you’re trying to lay low about said teammate and yours relationship—instead, she just opens her mouth, lets Jo feed her the pasta. Clearly, she’s not very good at acting normal with Jo.

“Oh,” Paige says, chewing. It’s good, like really fucking good. “Yeah, okay.”

Jo grins and goes back to her container, satisfied.

Paige glances at her again—at her cheeks a little flushed from the heat of the crowded room, at the soft curve of her mouth when she bites into her next forkful. Jo’s in her warm-up jacket, sleeves pushed up to her elbows, hair in a messy bun that’s mostly falling out. She smells faintly like hotel soap and that strawberry body spray she keeps in her locker.

Paige swallows hard, looking back down at her own food.

And misses the way Nika and Azzi are both watching her.

Or, well, watching them.

Across the room, Nika leans in close to Azzi and whispers something behind her hand. Azzi raises her eyebrows, very slightly, and then presses her lips together in the world’s most obvious attempt at acting normal. Paige doesn’t notice it. She’s too busy stabbing a piece of chicken parm and pretending her mouth isn’t still warm from the fork Jo fed her with.

Her head buzzes a little. From the food, maybe. From the win. From the feeling of Jo’s knee against her thigh again. From how careful she’s trying to be, and how hard it is to not look at Jo the way she wants to, the way that comes natural to her. It’s always easier when it’s just the two of them. But out here, with the whole team packed into the room, she has to be a little more careful—she’s determined to be.

(She’s not very good at it.)

She bites into a cold breadstick. Forces herself to pay attention to Lili’s rant about the lack of sleep she got last night due to Yanna snoring like a man in their room.

Eventually, Paige finishes the last bite of her chicken parmesan, plastic fork scraping softly against the bottom of the takeout container. She lets out a sigh as she leans over and sets the empty box on the hotel nightstand. She glances to her right, where Jo’s listening to Ines yap about God knows what, her accent sharper than usual. Jo’s not eating anymore, her container of pasta sitting untouched in her lap, her fork abandoned to the side, fully focused on Ines, mouth curled up slightly in the corners in that soft way she gets when she’s genuinely amused.

Paige nudges her with her elbow. “You done?” she asks, nodding toward the food.

Jo doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t need to. She just hands the container over wordlessly, knowing Paige well enough by now to read the question for what it really is: Can I finish it?

Paige grins. This pasta is good—creamy and buttery and wildly overpriced, but still.

At the end of the bed, Ice notices the hand-off and snorts. “Fatass.”

Paige doesn’t even look up. She just stretches her leg out, kicking Ice square in the shin, still grinning as she shovels another bite into her mouth. “Shut up,” she says around a mouthful of pasta, completely unbothered.

Paige keeps eating wordlessly, occasionally listening to the several different conversations around her and thinking about the weekend. Three games in three days. Lili was incredible in the post, Nika her normal defensive menace. Jo, per usual, balled out, dropping three twenty-plus point games easy. She was named MVP.

Paige played her role, too—Coach P, hyping the girls up, arguing with the refs for them, the usual agenda for her bench role.

She’s really proud of the whole team. Back in August, when she tore her ACL, so many people doubted them, thought they wouldn’t be able to get by without her. But they’ve done it, and they’ve done it well. It’s all building toward the real thing they all want. And, tonight, they get to feel it a little. The calm before the madness of March truly hits.

She takes another bite of pasta, leaning back into the headboard, letting herself enjoy it. This is one of those rare little pockets of peace. Warm, crowded hotel room. Her people. Good food. And Jo right beside her.

As Ines tells her story, half the room engaged, half the room sprawled and tired, Paige notices Jo moving. She scoots just a bit closer, like gravity’s pulling her in, her head tilting before dropping right into Paige’s shoulder.

Paige tenses a little, even though it could be passed off as an entirely friendly gesture. Best friends do stuff like this.

She glances down, eyes flicking toward Jo’s face. Jo’s not looking back. She’s just resting there, body soft and still, eyes focused on Ines. But the closer Paige looks, the more she sees the little tells—how her eyelids are lower than usual, her whole body loose in that way that only happens when she’s too tired to keep herself upright. Her hand rests lightly on her stomach, and her breathing’s already slowing. She’s exhausted.

Which makes sense. Paige saw the numbers after the game—Jo led the team in minutes, barely came off the floor all weekend. She was everywhere, doing everything. And Paige is proud. She wants to wrap her arms around her and say it straight into her neck. Wants to say, you were the best player in the building all weekend and I’m sort-of in love with you for it. But, obviously, she can’t here and now.

Quickly, though, the room starts to thin out. Everyone’s full, sleepy, the kind of tired that settles into your bones after a weekend of adrenaline and back-to-back games and nonstop noise. Caroline stands first, stretching with a groan.

“Okay, time for bed,” she says, rubbing at her face and grabbing her phone off the edge of Aubrey’s bed.

“Yup,” Aaliyah immediately says from her spot on the couch, already halfway out of the blanket cocoon she made. “I need my eight hours tonight.”

“Bro, you never get eight hours,” Yanna mumbles as she pulls herself off the floor, and Ines nods in solidarity, reaching for her shoes.

“Facts,” Ice adds, unplugging her phone charger from the wall.

It’s a chorus of tired bodies and half-laughs and sleepy groans as everyone starts collecting their things. Paige’s eyes flick over them out of habit, but mostly they stay locked on Jo. Not even on purpose, really. It’s just automatic at this point, how her gaze always finds her. Like her body notices the space Jo takes up in a room before her brain does.

Jo sits up with a quiet sigh, and Paige watches her rub her eyes with the heel of her palm like a little kid. Her voice comes out low, a little croaky with fatigue. “Yeah, I need sleep.”

Paige doesn’t say anything, just watches her move. Watches the way Jo pulls her sweatshirt over her head, stretching just enough to make her shirt lift up a little. The movement is barely anything, completely unremarkable, but Paige still tracks it—eyes dragging slowly, lazily, like she doesn’t even mean to.

Jo turns toward her. She gives her a smile—tiny, barely-there, soft—and pinches her right on the underside of her arm. Not hard, but not gentle either. Just enough to make her flinch.

“Ow,” Paige says, squinting and rubbing the spot.

Jo grins, standing and reaching down to grab her phone and its charger where they’re laying on the floor. “Night,” she says, before leaning into Azzi’s side hug, wrapping an arm briefly around her shoulders.

And then she’s walking out with the rest of the girls, slipping into the hallway with a quiet goodnight.

And Paige is a little bothered about it. She wants to sleep next to Jo tonight. She’s used to it by now, the nights at home default because they live together, and the schemes for away games when they switch with Dorka and Ice.

But they have new hotel roommates for the post season, random room assignments they didn’t even get to rig. And they’re supposed to be acting lowkey right now, so they didn’t try to switch.

They’re doing a terrible job at it apparently.

Because the door clicks shut behind Ice, and now it’s just Paige and Aubrey—since it’s their room—and Azzi and Nika, who haven’t moved. Paige glances over, confused when she catches the way they’re both looking at her: expectant, suspicious. Like they know something.

“What?” she asks, standing up, stretching slightly before she bends to gather her and Jo’s takeout containers into one stack.

She walks over, tosses them into the little trash can. They watch her the whole time. And then Nika snorts. Paige hears it before she sees the grin. That little smirk of hers always gives her away.

“Bro,” the Croatian girl says, “how long have you and Jo been a thing?”

Paige chokes. Literally. On nothing. Just inhales wrong on pure panic and starts coughing like she swallowed her own tongue.

Aubrey bursts out laughing immediately, leaning over from her bed to smack Paige on the back. “You got it,” she says between giggles, like this is the funniest thing she’s ever seen.

Paige pulls away from her, still coughing, face warm now for a completely different reason. “I—what—what’re you even talking about?” she asks, voice rough.

Nika raises both her eyebrows, unimpressed. Azzi leans forward now, too, arms crossed, expression unreadable in that calm way she gets when she’s not buying your shit.

“Jo and I aren’t a thing,” Paige says, more weakly this time, and she hears it in her own voice—how flimsy it sounds. How not believable. She wants to crawl inside herself and disappear.

Azzi doesn’t blink. “Paige, please. We’re not stupid.”

“We’re your best friends,” Nika adds, like it’s the simplest fact in the world. “We know you.”

“Mhm,” Aubrey hums from her bed, not even looking up from the text she’s typing.

Paige stands there, trying to figure out how the hell she’s supposed to lie her way out of this right now. Because the three of them are looking at her like they already know—not like they’re guessing. Like they’re just waiting for her to stop denying.

She opens her mouth again. “We’re not—” she says. And then stops.

Because, with the way they’re staring at her, she already knows this will be a losing battle. So, what’s the point?

She sinks into the bed like her bones have been replaced with sandbags, back hitting the headboard. Her stomach’s full, but her chest feels like it’s slowly caving in. Like someone cracked it open and left the door swinging.

She’s never been good at hiding things from her friends—or anyone, really—but she thought she was doing better than this. Apparently not.

She stares at the wall across the room for a second, then drops her eyes to her lap, the edge of the blanket twisted in her fingers.

“How’d you know?” she asks finally. “Did Celeste tell you?”

Nika makes a face, wrinkling her nose. “Why would Celeste Sinclair tell us?”

There’s a pause, and then Azzi, always fast, always surgical with her intuition, cuts in, “Does Celeste know?”

Paige’s head snaps up. “I—no,” she denies fast, shaking her head before Azzi can press it. “She doesn’t. Just—just tell me. How’d you figure it out?”

Azzi gives her this look, like she’s almost insulted it wasn’t obvious to Paige herself. Then she says, flatly, “Well, for starters, you literally told Aubrey and I that you liked her in October.”

That makes Paige groan, head titling back against the headboard, eyes closed.

“Can’t believe you didn’t tell me,” Nika mutters.

“You weren’t there that night for the crash out,” Paige says, waving a hand at her, like that explains everything—which, to her, it definitely does.

That night is seared into her brain like a tattoo. She remembers everything—the quiet guilt, the post-sex clarity, how fast her chest filled with panic. Celeste’s skin still warm under her hands when she realized she didn’t want this, didn’t want her. That she’d been trying to outrun a feeling that had already caught her. Jo. She’d left quickly, rushing to Aubrey’s apartment at two in the fucking morning, still smelling like Celeste and half-hating herself. Azzi had been there, too. She’d confessed like she was throwing up.

It was a mess. She was a mess.

(She’s better now. Mostly. Not spiraling as much. Not fucking people just to forget she wants someone else.)

“You were so miserable after you realized and told us,” Azzi says now, her tone gentler, doe eyes soft. “Especially when her ex was in town. And then, once they broke up, you, like… stopped being your miserable mopey self you’d been.”

“Exactly,” Nika says, nodding. “So, how long’s it been goin’ on?”

Paige hesitates. She glances between the three of them. Azzi’s sitting across from Paige’s bed on one of the chairs, fingers curls around one of her socks like she’s waiting to pull it off but got distracted by drama. Aubrey’s stretched out on her bed, knees bent, brows raised, very much amused. Nika’s on the floor, leant back against the dresser, legs sprawled out like she’s ready to stay as long as it takes.

They’re her people. They always have been. Even if she wanted to lie, she wouldn’t be able to. They already know.

So, Paige caves.

She exhales hard through her nose, mouth twitching, and says, “Okay, uh—we kissed for the first time when I went on that ski trip with her family for Christmas—”

“Bro, that was, like, right after her and that guy broke up!” Nika exclaims, sitting up straighter like she’s caught a scandal.

“Stop,” Paige says quickly, not even looking at her. “Don’t—don’t bring him up.”

Because it stings. Still. Not in the way it used to, not in that sharp, jealous way that kept her up at night—but in a deeper, quieter way now. Because it makes her wonder sometimes if she was just the warm body next to Asher. If Jo kisses her because she was close and safe and already there. But Jo never made her feel like that. Not once. And that was months ago now.

Paige shakes her head a little and keeps going. “Anyways. We kissed there. And then we talked ’bout it. And then it kinda became a ‘best friends who make out and cuddle but aren’t dating’ typa situation.”

Aubrey’s expression says obviously.

Paige scratches the back of her neck. “And then we fucked for the first time after the Tennessee game.”

Azzi blinks. “Wait—after she hurt her ankle?”

Aubrey makes a noise of disbelief, eyebrows shooting up.

“Her ankle was fine!” Paige defends. “She said it was fine, I didn’t—like—I didn’t pressure her or anything. It was a mutual, fully healed-up, consensual ankle situation.”

The other three start laughing. Paige lets them. Because whatever. It was fine. She’s not explaining the post-game hotel room events. No one needs to know Jo had ice on her ankle while they were fucking. Not relevant.

Azzi recovers first, her tone shifting a little, more curious than teasing now. “So… what are you guys now?”

That stops Paige. She looks down at her hands, fingers curling over the blanket again. It’s the question she’s been dodging in her own head.

“Nothing official,” she finally answers. “But we’re not seein’ anyone else. And it—it feels real.”

The word hangs there. Real.

Because it does. It’s not some high school fling or college situationship. It’s not an impulsive rebound or a secret thing they pretend doesn’t matter. It’s brushing teeth next to each other. It’s cooking together (or, well, usually DoorDashing, actually). It’s wearing each other’s clothes. It’s looking at each other like they’re already theirs.

“And we’re always together,” Paige says, softer now. “And I—I’ve never been in an actual relationship, but it… seems to be goin’ in that direction. If we ever actually talk about it.”

She lets that hang in the air, watching how the three of them take it in.

Azzi nods thoughtfully before locking eyes with Paige. “D’you want her to be your girlfriend?” she asks, voice soft like she’s being careful not to spook her.

With this answer, Paige doesn’t hesitate. “Yes.”

The word is out of her mouth before she has a chance to second guess it, and the moment it’s hanging in the room, she kind of wants to pull it back, like she’s said too much, like it cracked something open inside her she wasn’t ready for.

Because of course she wants that. Of course she wants Jo. Wants to walk into practice without pretending that she didn’t fall asleep the night before with Jo’s hand under her shirt and her leg slung across Paige’s thigh. Wants to kiss her in public. Wants to hold her hand when she’s anxious. Wants to introduce her to people as her girlfriend and not have to glance at her first, like is that okay? are we okay?

But even saying it—yes—feels like walking a tightrope. Like admitting too much too soon. Like if she gets too close to the truth of how much she feels, it’ll all unravel.

Azzi tilts her head, studying her. “Are you gonna ask her?”

Paige blows out a breath and scrubs a palm down her face. “I—I’mma figure it out, okay?” she says, voice quieter now. “After the tournament.”

And that’s the truth. That’s the only way she can even frame it in her mind without worrying. There’s a wall around this time of year—March is sacred, locked in—and they all know it. It’s tunnel vision now. There’s no space for messiness or what-ifs or fragile beginnings that might fall apart if they get poked too hard.

This is what they’ve worked all season for. This is what everything’s about. And as much as Jo matters—more than anything—Paige can’t risk letting her head drift too far from the game.

Azzi, Nika, and Aubrey all nod at that, agreeing. It’s better to leave the big emotional swings for later. Win first. Figure it out after. Priorities.

But then Nika turns her head, eyes narrowing a little, not harsh—just quiet. Just a little hurt. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

Paige’s stomach twists. That question hits lower than the others. It’s not accusing, exactly, but it lands heavily. Because these are her best friends, and she kept it from them.

She sighs again, her body sagging forward slightly as she leans her forearms on her knees, staring at the comforter. She doesn’t know how to make them understand without sounding like she’s trying to justify hiding it. That was never the point.

“It wasn’t about not telling you,” Paige says finally. “It was about us figurin’ things out first—which, we haven’t. Not really.”

She looks up at them, trying to keep her voice even, steady, like she means it all and wants them to believe her.

“We’re in the most important part of the season,” she says. “And we were scared that if something happened, it might mess with the team. Like, the vibe, the chemistry—all of it. And I don’t even wanna know what Coach or CD or the rest of the staff would say or think. We just wanted everyone to focus on March. Focus on what we’re all here for. And figure everything else out after.”

The last word ends with a kind of finality. After. Like there’s a promised world waiting for them just past the edge of April. Where they can breathe. Where they don’t have to hide.

Azzi nods slowly. Aubrey crosses her arms over her stomach and leans her head back against the wall. Nika drops her gaze to the carpet, thoughtful, chewing at the inside of her cheek.

They get it. They don’t have to say they do—Paige can tell. They’re not pushing her anymore. Because, at the end of the way, they’re ball players before anything else. They know what the stakes are.

Paige shifts a little on the bed and looks at them again, voice softer. “Can you guys not tell Jo that you know?” she asks.

Azzi furrows her brows. “Why? Why more secrets?”

Paige shakes her head, quick, already hearing how it sounds—paranoid, dramatic, unnecessary. But it’s not. Not to her.

“Because I think she’ll freak out if she knows,” she says honestly. “At least, right now. You know how anxious she gets. And it’s not like—she’s not ashamed or anything. It’s just… it’s already been hard enough figuring this out, the two of us. She didn’t even know she liked girls before this. I just wanna figure things out forreal between the two of us before she really has to worry. Y’know?”

She pauses, fingers messing with the blanket again. “I don’t want her overthinking it. Or shutting down. I just… I want to keep this safe. Just for us. Until we’re ready.”

There’s silence for a second. And then Nika, in a voice a whole lot gentler than usual, says, “Okay, P. We won’t tell.”

Relief floods her body faster than she expected. Her shoulders drop. Her hands unclench. She nods once, a quiet thank you, and lets her head fall back again.

She’s not used to sharing stuff like this. Because she’s never really had this to share. But, for Jo, she’s gonna try.

#paige bueckers #uconn wbb #paige bueckers fic #uconn huskies #wbb #wcbb #wnba #dallas wings #paige bueckers fluff #paige bueckers series #paige bueckers x oc #paige bueckers angst #paige bueckers smut #paige bueckers x reader #wnba x reader #wlw #nobody gets me

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nymphoniah · 9 months ago

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Hiiii! May i request training/working out/ sparring (idk😭) with logan and it ends up with us dry humping or something pretty please will all the cherries :)

indulgent desires | logan howlett

pairing: boyfriend!logan x afab!reader

AN: omg your mind... i know for a fact that logan is an absolute menace when it comes to working out. like have you seen his arms? i need to be squished to death by his biceps. they're just so!!! omg!!! you know that man loves hitting his arms.

written with xmen/x2 logan in mind, but honestly can be applied to any other ver. of him! (for once i'm not writing with old man!logan in mind? am i really me?)

content/tags: minors DNI (18+ only), dry humping, pet names (babygirl, princess, etc.), porn with a little bit of plot, cum tasting/eating/facial, hair pulling, teasing

logan practically spends every day at the gym. he always prided himself on his physique, not just for self-fulfilling reasons, but for the mere fact that he knows that his body riles you up.

he can tell when you would "sneak" glances at him, especially when he gets a pump right after his workouts. the way his muscles swelled after working out made you lust for him harder.

you could tell he hit his arms today; his biceps were more defined than usual, with your eyes tracing a thick vein that flows down his forearm. "you like what you see, princess?" he teases, flexing his arm as you continue to stare.

you blink hard and shake your head embarrassingly fast. "whatever, logan!" you shout, continuing whatever workout you were doing, losing track of how many reps you did.

you would tag along with him every so often, but only because he would take hours at a time at the gym. sure, you liked going to the gym, you had to stay fit somehow, but you lacked the stamina logan had; the frequency and duration of his gym sessions were unbearable for a poor little thing like you.

and logan acknowledged this, as he would often end his sessions a bit shorter so the two of you could go home sooner. you felt like a bother, and the last thing you wanted to do was interfere with his workouts.

"fuuuuck, im tired," you exhale, leaning forward, hands gripping at your knees as you try to catch your breath. pushing through your last set of bulgarian split squats had you absolutely winded. logan placed his firm hand on the small of your back, gently rubbing circles against your skin.

"let's go home, bub" he lulled, passing you his water bottle to drink from. nodding at him, you take a long swig, and the ice cold water rejuvenates your body. "let's..." you eagerly reply.

you couldn't bare being separated from him, lounging away at home any longer, so one day, you took matters into your own hands.

eventually you had the idea to buy at-home gym equipment; it was pricy to say the least, but it didn't matter to you, for as long as logan was home.

from the comfort of your own apartment, you had the view of logan all to yourself. whenever he worked out, he wore his plain white wife beater along with a random rugged pair of gym shorts he rotated through.

you'd wake up to his grunts early in the morning, getting up at first light to use the machines splayed out in your living room. the domesticity of it all made it so the early mornings never bothered you, as well as the occasional tsss or oomph he'd let out as he finished a rep.

and just like before, you'd join him. you had bought a yoga mat to do your stretches before your workout. even got one for logan, but he keenly insists on using yours.

this morning you had spot him on seated on the mat, legs stretched out. he splayed his torso out between his thighs, letting out a grunt as he felt his muscles pull as he reached forward.

a yawn leaves his mouth as he returns to an upright position. he glances over to his right to spot you sitting at the dining table, sipping from your mug, eyes focused on him.

when finished with his usual routine, he follows up with a couple of stretches afterwards to cooldown. his arms were thicker, more defined than usual. arms, you thought to yourself. he hit his arms, again.

“morning, sweetheart,” he chirps as a lazy grin slowly wipes across his face. he reaches his hand out, signaling for you to come over.

and so you do, sitting alongside him on the mat, slotting yourself between his legs. you rest your hands on his thick shoulders, tugging at the straps of his tank top.

he leans in, placing a chaste kiss on your forehead. “stretch with me, darlin,” he hums against your temple.

“i’d rather watch you,” you reply, playfully pushing him away. you’re about to return to your spot at the dining table before he snakes his arms around your waist, holding you in place.

“no, no, we gotta get you movin’, doll.” and oh how logan has a way of convincing you. just a simple pet name, and he’s got you wrapped around his finger.

he taps your hips, motioning for you to turn around, and you oblige. with a swift movement, your back is now pressed against his chest, your legs encaged by his own.

you could already feel that his dick was hard, which wasn’t too much of a surprise. logan had morning wood pretty frequently, and would often work out to relieve it, as he felt guilty if he were to wake you up so early in the morning.

but this time, it was different. watching you prance around the kitchen in those shorts that barely cover your ass, wearing a skin tight camisole that put your hardened nipples on display. how could he not get hard—or rather, not keep his hard-on for a pretty little thing like you?

logan rests his head on your shoulder, leaning close to your ear. “c’mon, get started already.” he whispers, warm breath tickling the shell of your ear.

and so you mimic the stretch he was doing earlier. you lean forwards, making your ass push into his crotch. the pads of his rough fingertips remain at your waist, gripping at your skin to bring you closer. you continue to lean forwards, and your back is now parallel with your legs on the mat.

his hands creep their way to the small of your back. “there you go, doll. just like that,” he lulls, tracing delicate circles where your back arches. logan shifts in place, now kneeling behind you as you remain spread out for him on the floor.

you attempt to rise from your position to sit upright, but a firm hand is planted on your back, keeping you in place. "y'look so pretty for me like this," logan teases, his calloused palm now slipping underneath your tank top.

his hands run up to caress your shoulder blades, pushing the straps of your tank top down swiftly. your tits were now exposed to the crisp, cool air, your nubs now even harder than before.

“logan…” you whine as his left hand keeps you in place, while the other roams to paw at your tits. you continue to moan out his name while he works at you, paying sweet attention to the way your breath hitches as he gently tugs at your swollen nubs.

“couldn’t help it darlin’,” he lulls, “how can i ignore a pretty little thing like you?” his hands move their way from your breasts to your hips. tugging at your legs, he manhandles you so you’re now prone on the yoga mat.

logan is still seated beside you, calloused hand now working at the globes of your ass, jiggling one your cheeks in the thick palm of his hands. “you got me so fuckin’ hard, baby…” he hisses, his free hand palming his erection through his shorts.

he leans in, pressing a soft kiss to the flesh of your ass, admiring how pretty you look spread for him. his face lingers for a second as he catches a whiff of your arousal pooling in your cunt.

“can smell how bad you need me, doll.” logan utters under his breath. “don’t worry, i’m gonna fill you right up…” you lazily turn your head around to catch a glimpse of the smirk forming on his face, and you flash him a coquettish smile of your own.

“ass up, princess,” he commands, pushing on the small of your back. and you obey, arching your back so that your ass is presented to him, your lacy panties peeking through your shorts.

“fuck.” he coos, molding your ass in the palm of his hand. logan is tempted to pop his claws out to rip the fabric, but the last time he did, you complained about him ruining your favorite pair of sleep shorts, so he refrains from doing so.

so he decides on something else. pushing his shorts down, logan remains in his boxers, his oh-so needy cock forming a tent in the tight fabric.

you feel him shifting around you, seating himself so he’s on his knees, his cock parallel to your ass. you try to push back to feel any friction against your needy cunt, but he keeps a firm grip on your hips, keeping you still.

“please, need you so bad,” you whine, attempting to wiggle your way out of his grip, but knowing him, knowing his strength, it’s useless to even try.

“you’re gonna have to wait for it, sweetheart,” he says cockily, pressing his pelvis against your clothed cunt, and the both of you hiss out in pain.

logan began to rut his cock against you at a steady pace, angling his hips to that the tip of his cock just about grazed over your clit.

“stop teasin’,” you purr, arching your back to try and get any more friction, but it’s no use. logan reaches over and presses your head into the yoga mat, your cheek squished against the foam.

“you get what i give you, princess.” he grunts, pushing your head further into the mat as his hips move faster, pressing harder into your ass. “gonna use you first, then i’ll stuff you with my cock.”

his hips sputter as he feels the way you bounce your ass against him, your bodies moving in sync, his thrusts matching the way you rut back into him. “fuck, you got me worked up doll, prancing around the house like that…”

you couldn’t respond to his words, only grunt in response. the pressure building in your core was too much, making your mind hazy. all you managed to let out was a little mmh.

“walkin’ around with your tits on display, actin’ all innocent,” he drones on, continuing to pound his hips against yours. he fists a section of your hair, tugging harshly so your face now meets his.

“the things you do to me, doll…” logan mutters, leaning over to give you a hungry kiss. your entangled your tongues sloppily, moaning into each others mouths.

he pulls away from the kiss hastily, and a thin strand of your saliva mixed with his pools from your bottom lip. you look fucked out already, and he’s only been dry humping you.

“dirty little thing,” logan teases, pressing a finger against your clothed cunt as he continues his thrusts. you feel yourself getting close, your panties were drenched with your own arousal.

the way your ass rippled with every thrust of his hips, combined with how wet you were getting from this sent logan into a spiral.

his movements became more erratic, his strained dick begging to be released from the confines of his boxers. he began to rub tight circles on your clit, pushing you further to your limit.

“gonna come soon, baby,” he grunts out, and you moan in response. “where do you want me, darlin’?”

spit dribbles out of your mouth as he continues his relentless attack on your ass, his hips pistoning as fast as he could manage. “o-on my face…” you barely manage to whimper out

and so his thrusts pause, and he manhandles you, now flipping you onto your back. he hastily pushes his boxers down, his cock springing back in protest against his stomach.

your mouth waters at the sight of his thick cock, his hands pumping him at a rapid pace, precum leaking all over his abs.

he hovers himself over your face, his knees caging your head. as he angled his cock at your mouth, he continued fisting himself vigorously. “gonna take my cum like a good girl?” he asks, raising his eyebrow. you nod your head yes, but this isn’t enough for logan.

“words, princess.” he quips, feeling himself close to his release.

“‘m gonna take it like a good girl, i promise lo” you whine, locking your eyes with his, your pupils blown with lust.

“‘atta girl…”

and after a couple more pumps of his dick, thick ropes of his cum coat your face. he’s spurting out more than you imagined—he was really fucking pent up. who would’ve thought that a sweet little thing like you had that much of an effect on him?

after he milked himself of all of his cum, he rolls over to your side. he glances over at you and wipes the mess off near your eyes. you chuckle a bit, licking off the cum that got on your lips.

you lean over and pull logan into a short kiss, allowing him to taste himself on your lips. “fuckin’ hell,” he whispers, his hot breath tickling your nose. he sits up, looking around the kitchen for a spare towel to clean you up.

“soo… does this count as our warm up for today?” you ask cheekily, propping yourself up on your elbow as you watch him pace around the kitchen.

“shut up, kid…” logan replies, groaning at your attempt joke.

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leeknot · 7 months ago

Text

Boundless Pleasure

A/N:I was just bored so I decided to do this.Please don't be shy in requesting something because I'll 100% do it since I'm weird af.

MDNI

Enhypen × Reader

---

You find yourself in a dimly lit room, your wrists and ankles bound tightly to a sturdy wooden chair. A large, intimidating fucking machine stands before you, its thick, veiny dildo pulsating menacingly.

The machine's controls are carefully adjusted by Jake, his mischievous grin evident in the faint moonlight streaming through the windows. To one side, Heeseung watches intently, his eyes dark with desire and curiosity. "Ready, sweetheart?"

"Let's start with the smallest setting." Heeseung suggests, his voice low and commanding. Jake chuckles, hitting the button that activates the machine. The dildo begins to thrust slowly, its thick head tapping against your tiny, virgin opening.

"She looks so small compared to that monster." Jake observes, adjusting the settings slightly. The machine's thrusts pick up speed, the dildo slapping against your innocence. Heeseung grins wickedly, recording a video on his phone.

The machine's pace becomes more urgent, the dildo stretching and filling you completely with each thrust. You can't help but let out soft whimpers as the pleasure-pain sensation overwhelms you "Look how that tiny pussy is getting fucked by our machine."

The sound of your whimpers and the machine's rhythmic thrusts fill the room. Jungwon stands nearby, mesmerized, adjusting the machine's settings higher. Sunoo and Ni-ki sit on a nearby couch, watching with wide eyes.

As the machine reaches its highest setting, the room is filled with the lewd sounds of your tiny body being brutally stretched. Sunghoon enters, a camera in hand, filming from different angles. "This is perfection." he murmurs, zooming in on your tear-streaked face.

The machine's unrelenting pace continues, pushing you to your physical and emotional limits. Jay walks in, seeing your vulnerable state, and decides to add another layer of humiliation - turning on a vibrator and placing it against your clit.

The combination of the machine's brutal thrusts and the vibrator's constant buzzing is too much for your small body to bear. Tears stream down your face as you gag and choke, the sounds of your distress only turning the boys on more.

Jungwon, who was editing their group's vlog, decides to livestream this impromptu photoshoot instead. Thousands of fans tune in, watching as the machine mercilessly destroys your innocence. The chat is filled with lewd comments and requests.

As the boys continue to use you as their personal sex toy, Jungwon starts reading out the requests from the chat, incorporating them into the livestream.

"Someone wants to see close-ups of your stretched hole," Jungwon announces, zooming in with the camera while Sunghoon changes angles to capture every humiliating detail. "And another viewer wants to know if you can take even more..."

Jake grins mischievously and reaches for a larger attachment, rapidly swapping it with the one currently on the machine. He turns to the camera, "Let's find out, shall we?"

Your body convulses at the sudden intrusion of the larger size. The machine continues its relentless pace, stretching you further than you thought possible. The livestream chat explodes with ecstatic comments "Fuck, this is the hottest thing I've ever seen..." Heeseung said.

Your screams echo through the room as the machine reaches its maximum size, forcing your body to accommodate the impossible dimensions. Tears stream down your face as you feel your skin stretching to the breaking point.

The blue light fades, and the boys refocus the camera on you as you lie in the plush bed. The machine is now set to a more reasonable size, a sleek, black dildo slowly sliding in and out of you at a gentle pace.

The boys gather around the bed, filming from different angles as the machine slowly moves the dildo in and out of you. They've added a slight rotation to the motion, causing the dildo to twist slightly with each thrust. "This is much better." Sunoo said.

The slow rhythm is obviously having an effect on you. Your breathing becomes heavier as the carefully crafted strokes tease and please. The boys murmur encouraging words, occasionally touching your shoulders or running their fingers through your hair. Sunghoon leans down and whispers "Look how beautifully it fills you up...".

As the dildo continues to slide in and out, Jay reaches into a drawer and pulls out a small, vibrating egg. He turns it on and slowly brings it closer to your body, hovering it just above your clit. "Let's add a little extra stimulation, shall we?"

The vibrating egg hovers gently above your sensitive area, adding a new layer of pleasure to the experience. The boys watch intently as the combination of internal and external stimulation begins to have its effect on you. Your breath hitches occasionally, and small moans escape your lips.

The dildo picks up a slight pace, moving a bit faster and twisting more. The boys adjust the vibrating egg, pressing it gently against your clit. They can see your body tensing and relaxing, your hips moving slightly to meet the toy's thrusts.

As the boys continue to tease and toy with you, they can feel your arousal growing. Your juices start to flow more freely, making the vibrating egg slide easier against your clit. They increase the speed and intensity, watching as your body shakes and trembles. "Look at her, she's losing control." Jake said.

They continue to watch as you writhe in ecstasy, your moans and screams filling the room. The vibrations become almost too much to bear, and you feel yourself on the verge of an intense orgasm. "I think she needs something more." Ni-ki said.

The sudden change in intensity of the vibrator against your clit makes you gasp loudly. The dildo continues its steady rhythm, filling you completely. The combination of sensations becomes almost overwhelming - the fullness inside you, the intense buzzing outside, and the soft hum of the machine.

They can tell you're right on the edge, your muscles tensing and relaxing in quick succession. Jungwon leans in close to your ear, whispering: "Come for us, beautiful... We want to watch you fall apart."

With a final press of the remote, the boys increase the intensity of the vibrator to its maximum setting. The sudden, powerful vibrations push you over the edge. Your body convulses with pleasure, your inner walls clamping down tightly around the dildo as you experience an intense, earth-shattering orgasm.

As you ride out the waves of pleasure, the boys admire the sight of you, completely lost in passion.Sunoo reaches out to turn the remote off, but hesitates. "Look at her, she's still twitching..."

They slowly reduce the intensity of the vibrator, allowing you to come down from your high. Your body shivers one last time as they carefully remove the toys, replacing them with gentle touches. The room falls quiet, save for the sound of your ragged breathing. "That was... incredible." you said.

One of them grabs a soft blanket to wrap around you, cradling you against them as you catch your breath. They all share knowing smiles, thoroughly pleased with your reaction "Rest now, sweet thing. We'll keep you warm."

As you drift off to sleep, nestled between their warm bodies, the boys exchange satisfied glances. They know they've just had an experience they won't soon forget. And with you in their arms, they can already think of a few more 'games' to play in the future.

They continue to gently stroke your hair as your breathing deepens, their eyes meeting in a mutual understanding. The dim lighting of the room casts soft shadows, creating a cozy, intimate atmosphere. Sunghoon leans down to press a tender kiss to your forehead "Dream sweetly, love."

---

371 notes · View notes

thesharktanksdriver · 1 month ago

Text

Devils may love?: Dante’s jukebox playlist

Kinda semi-canon, originally meant this as just a playlist with a small blurb at the beginning but made this instead. Hope you enjoy these two dumbasses fumbling hard.

Links: masterlist, part 1, part 2, part 3

Taglist: @galaxylibella @dragon-lord-lysander @idleviewer @rosvaline @superbfuryfest @localeggdealer @mellophoned @justanotherweeb666 @her-majesty-horiko

The jukebox was always playing in devil may cry, that had been a habit of Dante’s that you had noticed years ago when you’d initially joined him.

From dusk to dawn the machine played its selection of songs back to back. The old machine somehow surviving after years of it being hit and being half hazardly fixed after the Temen-ni-Gru tower with the trashing of DMC. Yet still it played the small vinyls that Dante had hand selected individually.

He’d made it somewhat of a habit, a tradition to change them up every once in a while to not keep things stale. Giving you the task of placing the songs he’d picked into the machine after carefully curating the song list he’d created. The songs could vary from 80’s rock to 90’s grunge and everything in between considering he wasn’t too picky so long as something had a good beat and could fill the comfortable silence.

Yet with each they all matched each other in some sort of theme.

Sometimes genre

Other times it was the era

But usually though it had correlated to a certain emotion or mood it had persisted.

that was another thing you’d noticed you’d noticed with your time here.

Dante had expressed himself through music.

It was hard to tell for sure at first. Just subtle songs and certain track lists he’d cycle through, occasionally changing the 7 inch vinyls to whatever he’d wanted and even adding your suggestions as well that matched. But with each rotation you’d began to see a correlation based on the small mock playlists he’d made and would put in the machine.

The one usually on was his neutral and regular soundtrack.

80’s rock mixed with some late to early 90’s stuff as well. Familiar bands such as AC/DC, Guns & Roses, motley crew, Metallica, U2 and Billy idol. God by now you’d practically memorized “white wedding, pt. 1”, “bullet with butterfly wings” and “dirty deeds done dirt cheap” with how they'd play every few hours in a day. Dante humming along as he looked through a dirty magazine on the nearby couch or polished ebony and ivory at his desk.

When upset he’d play slower and more emotional pieces. It happened once a year during what you’d slowly pieced together to be his mothers death date and later on for Vergil’s as well. Nirvana’s “come as you are”, R.E

.M.‘S “losing my religion” and led zeppelin’s “stairway to heaven” being frequent in the building's halls. Unlike before he wouldn’t hum along, there was just an empty silence filled with the music played aloud paired with your pen gliding across paper.

With this knowledge you're not exactly sure what emotion to correlate to his newest playlist he asked you to load into the machine while he was out. Well he maybe didn’t ask you directly, but when you found the list on his desk that was typically a sign of him requesting you to do something. But either or, you weren’t sure how to feel about the playlist in front of you.

Why per say?

Well….

“These are all love songs?”

Yeah, looking at the list in your hand and the box of 7 inch vinyl discs your left at a weird standstill. Perhaps even more odd was the fact that this list was different from his usual playlists he’d write down for you to place in the machine. Typically they’d just have the song name and the artist on a crumpled piece of paper but this has full on lyrics written out. Not only that, it was also neat and in calligraphy of all things with red pen.

You’d known Dante long enough to see when he was putting effort into something and when he wasn’t. Typically when it came to things such as paperwork he’d lazily scribble his signature down in chicken scratch, but if it came to something he’d enjoy he’d pull a 180. Suddenly he put effort into it and this was seemingly included.

To be honest learning he was actually good at cursive was a surprise, like even more surprising to finish out he was only part demon. Yet it seemed to be one of the things Sparda or Eva had taught him. He just never used it often.

Well until now at least.

Your eyes scour down at the lyrics on the page, quirking a brow as you picked out the songs he had chosen for the list.

10 in total and too many questions to count in your mind.

Oh well, Dante didn’t pay you to ask questions, he paid you to keep his shit in order even if it bit him in the ass. You shrug off the remaining things you’d probably not get answers to and began the process of placing them in the machine.

𝐈𝐫𝐢𝐬 - 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐆𝐨𝐨 𝐆𝐨𝐨 𝐝𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐬

“𝐀𝐧𝐝 𝐈'𝐝 𝐠𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐮𝐩 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐨𝐮𝐜𝐡 𝐲𝐨𝐮 '𝐂𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐈 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐥 𝐦𝐞 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐡𝐨𝐰, 𝐘𝐨𝐮'𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐈'𝐥𝐥 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐛𝐞 𝐀𝐧𝐝 𝐈 𝐝𝐨𝐧'𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐚 𝐠𝐨 𝐡𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐧𝐨𝐰.

𝐀𝐧𝐝 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐈 𝐜𝐚𝐧 𝐭𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐦𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭, 𝐀𝐧𝐝 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐈 𝐜𝐚𝐧 𝐛𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐥𝐢𝐟𝐞, 𝐀𝐧𝐝 𝐬𝐨𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐫 𝐨𝐫 𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐫, 𝐢𝐭'𝐬 𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐈 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐝𝐨𝐧'𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐚 𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐭𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭.

𝐀𝐧𝐝 𝐈 𝐝𝐨𝐧'𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐞𝐞 𝐦𝐞 '𝐂𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐈 𝐝𝐨𝐧'𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐤 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲'𝐝 𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐝. 𝐖𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠'𝐬 𝐦𝐚𝐝𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐛𝐫𝐨𝐤𝐞𝐧 𝐈 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐭𝐨 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐰𝐡𝐨 𝐈 𝐚𝐦”

𝐒𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐭 𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐝 𝐨 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐞 - 𝐠𝐮𝐧𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐫𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐬

“𝐒𝐡𝐞’𝐬 𝐠𝐨𝐭 𝐚 𝐬𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐢𝐭 𝐬𝐞𝐞𝐦𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐞 𝐑𝐞𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝐦𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐝𝐡𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐦𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐖𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐚𝐬 𝐟𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐛𝐥𝐮𝐞 𝐬𝐤𝐲. 𝐍𝐨𝐰 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐈 𝐬𝐞𝐞 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐟𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝐒𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞𝐬 𝐦𝐞 𝐚𝐰𝐚𝐲 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐥 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝐀𝐧𝐝 𝐢𝐟 𝐈 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨𝐨 𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐠, 𝐈’𝐝 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐛𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐲 𝐛𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐤 𝐝𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐜𝐫𝐲

𝐈𝐝 𝐡𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐤 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐞 𝐞𝐲𝐞𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐬𝐞𝐞 𝐚𝐧 𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐧, 𝐇𝐞𝐫 𝐡𝐚𝐢𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝐦𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐚 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐦 𝐬𝐚𝐟𝐞 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝐖𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞, 𝐚𝐬 𝐚 𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐝 𝐈’𝐝 𝐡𝐢𝐝𝐞 𝐀𝐧𝐝 𝐩𝐫𝐚𝐲 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐨 𝐪𝐮𝐢𝐞𝐭𝐥𝐲 𝐩𝐚𝐬𝐬 𝐦𝐞 𝐛𝐲

𝐋𝐢𝐯𝐢𝐧 𝐨𝐧 𝐚 𝐩𝐫𝐚𝐲𝐞𝐫 - 𝐛𝐨𝐧 𝐣𝐨𝐯𝐢

𝐒𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐚𝐲𝐬, "𝐖𝐞'𝐯𝐞 𝐠𝐨𝐭𝐭𝐚 𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐝 𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐨 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐰𝐞'𝐯𝐞 𝐠𝐨𝐭, 𝐈𝐭 𝐝𝐨𝐞𝐬𝐧'𝐭 𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐚 𝐝𝐢𝐟𝐟𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐢𝐟 𝐰𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐢𝐭 𝐨𝐫 𝐧𝐨𝐭.𝐖𝐞 𝐠𝐨𝐭 𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡 𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭'𝐬 𝐚 𝐥𝐨𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞, 𝐖𝐞'𝐥𝐥 𝐠𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐢𝐭 𝐚 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐭"

𝐆𝐢𝐧𝐚 𝐝𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐫𝐮𝐧𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐰𝐚𝐲, 𝐖𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭, 𝐓𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐲 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐬 "𝐁𝐚𝐛𝐲, 𝐢𝐭'𝐬 𝐨𝐤𝐚𝐲, 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝐖𝐞'𝐯𝐞 𝐠𝐨𝐭𝐭𝐚 𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐝 𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐨 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐰𝐞'𝐯𝐞 𝐠𝐨𝐭, 𝐈𝐭 𝐝𝐨𝐞𝐬𝐧'𝐭 𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐚 𝐝𝐢𝐟𝐟𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐢𝐟 𝐰𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐢𝐭 𝐨𝐫 𝐧𝐨𝐭.𝐖𝐞 𝐠𝐨𝐭 𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡 𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭'𝐬 𝐚 𝐥𝐨𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞, 𝐖𝐞'𝐥𝐥 𝐠𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐢𝐭 𝐚 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐭"

𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐠𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐚 𝐛𝐚𝐝 𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐞 - 𝐁𝐨𝐧 𝐉𝐨𝐯𝐢

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐠𝐨𝐭 𝐚 𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐝 𝐨𝐧 𝐦𝐞, 𝐖𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐩𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧'𝐬 𝐚 𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐨𝐧, 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐜𝐚𝐧'𝐭 𝐛𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐤 𝐟𝐫𝐞𝐞.

𝐖𝐨𝐚𝐡, 𝐲𝐨𝐮'𝐫𝐞 𝐚 𝐥𝐨𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐝 𝐠𝐮𝐧, 𝐲𝐞𝐚𝐡 𝐎𝐡, 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐫𝐮𝐧,𝐍𝐨 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐜𝐚𝐧 𝐬𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐦𝐞, 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐚𝐦𝐚𝐠𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐝𝐨𝐧𝐞.

𝐒𝐡𝐨𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮'𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐥𝐚𝐦𝐞, 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐠𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐚 𝐛𝐚𝐝 𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐞 (𝐁𝐚𝐝 𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐞) 𝐈 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲 𝐦𝐲 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐠𝐚𝐦𝐞, 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐠𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐚 𝐛𝐚𝐝 𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐞 (𝐁𝐚𝐝 𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐞) 𝐘𝐞𝐚𝐡, 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐠𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐚 𝐛𝐚𝐝 𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐞

𝐋𝐢𝐩𝐬 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐬𝐮𝐠𝐚𝐫 - 𝐞𝐜𝐡𝐨 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐮𝐧𝐧𝐲𝐦𝐞𝐧

𝐉𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐤 𝐲𝐨𝐮'𝐯𝐞 𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐡𝐞𝐫, 𝐒𝐡𝐞 𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐬 𝐚𝐜𝐫𝐨𝐬𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐫, 𝐒𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐬 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐭𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐓𝐨 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐦𝐨𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭.

𝐘𝐨𝐮'𝐥𝐥 𝐟𝐥𝐨𝐰 𝐝𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐫𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐒𝐡𝐞'𝐥𝐥 𝐚𝐬𝐤 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮'𝐥𝐥 𝐠𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐡𝐞𝐫

𝐋𝐢𝐩𝐬 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐬𝐮𝐠𝐚𝐫, 𝐒𝐮𝐠𝐚𝐫 𝐤𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐬. 𝐋𝐢𝐩𝐬 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐬𝐮𝐠𝐚𝐫, 𝐒𝐮𝐠𝐚𝐫 𝐤𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐬

𝐓𝐚𝐥𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐬𝐥𝐞𝐞𝐩 - 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐬

𝐖𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐜𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐞𝐲𝐞𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐠𝐨 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐥𝐞𝐞𝐩 𝐀𝐧𝐝 𝐢𝐭'𝐬 𝐝𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐟 𝐚 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐛𝐞𝐚𝐭. 𝐈 𝐜𝐚𝐧 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮'𝐫𝐞 𝐝𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐧' 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭, 𝐖𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐨𝐩𝐞𝐧 𝐮𝐩 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐫𝐮𝐭𝐡 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐮𝐭

𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐥 𝐦𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐦𝐞, 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐥 𝐦𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐧𝐞𝐞𝐝 𝐦𝐞, 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐥 𝐦𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐦𝐞. 𝐀𝐧𝐝 𝐈 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐈'𝐦 𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 '𝐂𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐈 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫 𝐢𝐭 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭”

𝐀𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐚𝐝𝐚𝐛𝐫𝐚 - 𝐒𝐭𝐞𝐯𝐞 𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐫 𝐛𝐚𝐧𝐝

𝐈 𝐬𝐞𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐠𝐢𝐜 𝐢𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐞𝐲𝐞𝐬, 𝐈 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐠𝐢𝐜 𝐢𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐬𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐬. 𝐉𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐈 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐤 𝐈'𝐦 𝐠𝐨𝐧𝐧𝐚 𝐠𝐞𝐭 𝐚𝐰𝐚𝐲𝐈 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐥𝐰𝐚𝐲𝐬 𝐬𝐚𝐲

𝐀𝐛𝐫𝐚-𝐚𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐚𝐝𝐚𝐛𝐫𝐚, 𝐈 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐚 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡 𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐛 𝐲𝐚. 𝐀𝐛𝐫𝐚-𝐚𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐚𝐝𝐚𝐛𝐫𝐚, 𝐀𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐚𝐝𝐚𝐛𝐫𝐚

𝐄𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐦𝐲 𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐞, 𝐈 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐭 𝐮𝐩 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐚 𝐛𝐮𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧' 𝐟𝐥𝐚𝐦𝐞. 𝐁𝐮𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧' 𝐟𝐥𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐟𝐮𝐥𝐥 𝐨𝐟 𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐢𝐫𝐞 𝐊𝐢𝐬𝐬 𝐦𝐞 𝐛𝐚𝐛𝐲, 𝐥𝐞𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐞 𝐠𝐞𝐭 𝐡𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐞𝐫...𝐘𝐞𝐚𝐡, 𝐲𝐞𝐚𝐡...

𝐢 𝐦𝐞𝐥𝐭 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐲𝐨𝐮 - 𝐦𝐨𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐧 𝐄𝐧𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐡

𝐃𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦 𝐨𝐟 𝐛𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐥𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐜𝐡 𝐧𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐡𝐚𝐭𝐞 (𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐬𝐞𝐞 𝐰𝐡𝐲) 𝐓𝐫𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐢𝐦𝐚𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐫𝐲 𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐞 (𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐛𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫) 𝐈 𝐦𝐚𝐝𝐞 𝐚 𝐩𝐢𝐥𝐠𝐫𝐢𝐦𝐚𝐠𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐡𝐮𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐬 𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐞 (𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐬𝐞𝐞 𝐰𝐡𝐲) 𝐍𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐡𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐠𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐛𝐲

𝐈'𝐥𝐥 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐩 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐦𝐞𝐥𝐭 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐲𝐨𝐮 (𝐋𝐞𝐭'𝐬 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐩 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝) 𝐘𝐨𝐮'𝐯𝐞 𝐬𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐢𝐟𝐟𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐢𝐭'𝐬 𝐠𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐛𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞 (𝐋𝐞𝐭'𝐬 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐩 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝) 𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐈 𝐰𝐨𝐧'𝐭 𝐝𝐨 (𝐋𝐞𝐭'𝐬 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐩 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝) 𝐈'𝐥𝐥 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐩 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐦𝐞𝐥𝐭 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐲𝐨𝐮

𝐒𝐦𝐨𝐨𝐭𝐡 - 𝐒𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐚

𝐀𝐧𝐝 𝐢𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐬𝐚𝐢𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐥𝐢𝐟𝐞 𝐚𝐢𝐧'𝐭 𝐠𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐞𝐧𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡, 𝐈 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐠𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐦𝐲 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐥𝐢𝐟𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐮𝐩. 𝐈 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞 𝐦𝐲 𝐥𝐢𝐟𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐬𝐮𝐢𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐦𝐨𝐨𝐝, 𝐁𝐞𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮'𝐫𝐞 𝐬𝐨 𝐬𝐦𝐨𝐨𝐭𝐡. 𝐖𝐞𝐥𝐥, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐢𝐭'𝐬 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐜𝐞𝐚𝐧 𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐨𝐨𝐧 𝐖𝐞𝐥𝐥, 𝐢𝐭'𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐚𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐈 𝐠𝐞𝐭 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐲𝐨𝐮.𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐠𝐨𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐟 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐢𝐧' 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐜𝐚𝐧 𝐛𝐞 𝐬𝐨 𝐬𝐦𝐨𝐨𝐭𝐡, 𝐲𝐞𝐚𝐡 𝐆𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐦𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭, 𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐢𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐥, 𝐨𝐫 𝐞𝐥𝐬𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐠𝐞𝐭 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐢𝐭

𝐦𝐲 𝐀𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐚- 𝐃𝐮𝐫𝐚𝐧 𝐃𝐮𝐫𝐚𝐧

𝐎𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐈 𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐈 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐢𝐧 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐥 𝐁𝐮𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐤 𝐨𝐟 𝐟𝐚𝐭𝐞. 𝐏𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐦𝐲 𝐥𝐢𝐟𝐞, 𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐈 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐬𝐨 𝐭𝐢𝐞𝐝 𝐮𝐩 𝐀𝐧𝐝 𝐈 𝐬𝐚𝐢𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐲𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟. 𝐆𝐨𝐭𝐭𝐚 𝐛𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐤 𝐢𝐭 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐁𝐮𝐭 𝐝𝐢𝐝𝐧'𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐭𝐫𝐲

𝐓𝐰𝐨 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐬 𝐛𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮'𝐯𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐝𝐞, 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐬 𝐦𝐲 𝐀𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐚. 𝐎𝐧𝐞 𝐥𝐢𝐟𝐞 𝐩𝐮𝐦𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐖𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐭 𝐀𝐧𝐝 𝐰𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐨𝐛 𝐢𝐧 𝐦𝐲 𝐀𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐚.

𝐖𝐞'𝐥𝐥 𝐤𝐞𝐞𝐩 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐫𝐡𝐲𝐭𝐡𝐦 𝐠𝐨𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐀𝐧𝐝 𝐰𝐞'𝐥𝐥 𝐫𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫, 𝐖𝐞'𝐥𝐥 𝐤𝐞𝐞𝐩 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐚𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐟𝐥𝐨𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐀𝐧𝐝 𝐰𝐞'𝐥𝐥 𝐫𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫. 𝐖𝐞 𝐥𝐞𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐮𝐬𝐢𝐜 𝐣𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐥𝐞 𝐀𝐧𝐝 𝐰𝐞'𝐥𝐥 𝐫𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫

Finally done with the day you can’t help but collapse onto the nearby couch just as the doors to dmc were kicked open by a triumphant looking Dante. There was a certain pep in his step as he walked through the doors, rebellion swung over his shoulder with a few drops of blood splattering on the floor…the floor you just polished earlier today…god damn it-

“Hey Honeypie! How’s my lovely assistant today?” He says this with the most shit eating grin you think you’d ever seen. All teeth and gums as he dropped rebellion to the ground, letting it clatter on your once beautiful wooden floor and draping himself over your shoulders. Arms snaking themselves to pull you close, the back of your head hitting his too sturdy chest that was comparable to a wall of bricks.

“I was fine until you walked in”

“Oh c'mon,honey don't be so cold. What did I do this time?” His voice is dripping in mock sadness, all the while he kept his grin and squished his cheek against yours. “Was it cause I didn’t give you a goodbye kiss?” WOW he was laying on the fake flirting hard today.

“Well for one you ruined my floors again” You push away from him, hand smushing his face and escaping from his grasp to stand up. He looks vaguely like a kicked puppy.

“Technically their my floors-“

“Uh huh? But who cleans and maintains them?”

“Uh-“

“Exactly!” He doesn’t have any time to give a proper response or react as you then list out what else you’d done today. Citing all the things you did for this store and how by now this entire place was maintained by you and therefore should technically be in your name, including the jukebox you restocked today-

“Wait, wait…you changed the set list?” This time he’s the one to cut off your rant. Placing a disgusting gloved finger over your mouth to shush you, you’ll have to scrub your face later. You’d rather not get demon blood on let alone in you. “Uh yeah? You left a list so I assumed you wanted it changed” you respond back watching him close.

There are few times you’d ever seen Dante look properly panicked let alone flustered. He typically didn’t break his composure no matter the situation, he’d literally walk into hell and still not break a sweat.

And yet now-

“Shit, which list did you grab?” He looks mildly anxious.

“The one you left on your desk what’s the deal-“

The white haired hunter practically sprints to the jukebox, a chant of “shit! Shit! Shit!” Under his breath as his gloved hand flew towards one of the buttons blindly. The song he chose without looking at the buttons displaying the names was Iris by the goo goo dolls. The recognizable intro beginning as the diamond needle began its journey across the small vinyl plate of groves and rings that capture both sound and the soul of John Rzeznik’s voice filled the shop.

You think you can see the 5 stages of grief flash through his blue eyes.

First there’s denial. Because maybe, just maybe this iconic opening couldn’t be the same song for this playlist he’s made. The opening lines of “and i'd give up forever to touch you, ‘cause i know that you feel me somehow” play and that hope quickly dies.

Second bargaining. Maybe this wasn’t the same playlist, it could be a mistake. He presses a different song to play, “abracadabra” by Steve miller band begins….fu-

Thirdly, anger. It’s not directed at you but more so himself by how he mutters curses under his breath and bangs his head against the machine that sings the lyrics “you make me hot, you make me sigh, you make me laugh, you make me cry. Keep me burnin’ for your love, with the touch of a velvet glove”.

Fourth depression. He keeps banging his head against the machine creating dull thumps, it ciphers through more of the songs before landing on the romantics “taking in your sleep”. It’s ironic that the lyrics that are sung are “when you open up your heart and the truth comes out” since he’s neither being honest to you nor himself by the looks of it.

And fifth and finally acceptance in the most brutal sense as mortification and embarrassment flooded him. It makes him slump his shoulders in shame and some sort of embarrassment.

It’s perhaps a first for the man who once talked with a client in nothing but a towel tied around his waist after a fresh shower. All the while you gave the poor man across the desk apologetic looks, safe to say the man did everything afterwards over calls instead of in person. Though you maybe had lost some sympathy when he attempted to slip you his number via a business card.

A card that Dante quickly ripped up and tossed into the trash.

Yet now this same man was red up to his ears because you accidentally found his weird love song playlist…wait was it like his sex playlist? Or did he have this planned as a surprise for someone? The only person you could think of was lady.

Well…you can’t say you didn’t get a certain sexual frustration vibe from the two of them. Their burning gazes at one another from across the room as you sat in the middle of their weird tango.

Maybe that’s why he’s horrified, this was meant to be on the down low.

Well shit…you feel a bit bad now, maybe telling him that it’s ok and you approve of them would help? Yeah that was maybe the best course of action. You take the action to move towards him as he continued to hit his head in an accepted despair. He only stops when you gently placed a hand on his cheek, guiding his gaze to you.

There’s a brief silent moment letting him stare at you.

“It’s ok Dante. I know who this is for” there’s a brief moment of both fear and hope strike up in his eyes. Like a lighter creating a flame for a moment before a few more tries at the flint wheel.

“Hon-“

“Shhh” now both your hands cup his face, it instantly quiets him down to nothing but a small breath that races past his lips. His heart rapidly beats in his chest, from anxiety for sure since you now knew. His pupils dilate like that of a cat, and like a cat you can imagine him practically purring…or he could be actually potentially purring considering his inhuman capabilities.

“I approve of you and lady. You guys are a good match”

There’s yet another pause but now longer, so long you could hear the raccoons in the back alleyway break a mirror. his face falls drastically but you're too busy patting his shoulder to notice.

“What?”

“Don’t worry if neither of you want to make things official yet I’ll keep it on the down low”

He makes several attempts at saying “what? No-“ but they were quickly shushed by your confident pats on his shoulder before you walked off presumably to call lady and let her know. Dante can’t even care for the fact that the canon slinging woman was definitely either gonna use him as target practice for Kalina Ann or up his debt by 50% at least. So he’s left there to stare at the jukebox and the love songs he curated for you to play in vain as you believed he meant it for the person he’s competing with for you.

His head thumps against the jukebox once more

Changing the song to Echo and the bunnymen’s “lips like sugar” in another cruel irony.

“Just when you think you've caught her, She glides across the water\~”

“Go fuck yourself McCulloch”

“-Lips like sugar, Sugar kisses\~”

#devils may love?#dante x reader #dante x you #dmc x reader #dmc x you #devil may cry x reader #devil may cry x you #dante dmc #dmc dante

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kentogetsmewetter · 2 months ago

Text

Drugs & Money

⋆｡°✩Genre: musician eren x f reader

⋆｡°✩Synopsis: You only went to the house party because your friend swore it’d be worth it celebrities, stars, maybe even some connections. You weren’t expecting much. But then you met him. Eren. He was already gone in more ways than one, but something about him pulled you in. You talked, you smoked, and one night… that’s all it was going to be

⋆｡°✩Contents: drug usage(weed), sex(p n v), unprotected sex, overstim, fingering, edging, choking/asphyxiation, dirty talk, pet names( baby, pretty, etc)

series masterlist

You were already high by the time you stepped into the house. Cute little house party your friend invited you to. Spoke about all the famous people and familiar faces you could find here. So you said fuck it, you needed this anyways.

You weren't the giggly kind of high right now you hardly ever were. You were that slow motion, colors to bright, I feel my heart in my eyelids kind of high. The kind that makes you feel like you’re watching your own life from across the room.

The music hit you first, loud, distorted, vibrating straight through your chest, shaking the floor, and making your heartbeat feel off-sync. Some remix you couldn’t name, but the bass was low and smooth. There were lights were flashing from every angle, harsh white strobes, with strips of blue and red LEDs running around the edges of the ceiling, and a rotating light in the corner that kept spinning out sharp flashes of color that made it hard to focus on anything for too long and cheap fog machine that had filled the room with a light haze

People were everywhere. Packed shoulder to shoulder. Some were dancing, their bodies grinding and swaying with drinks in their hands. Others were standing in circles, shouting over the music, holding red cups and their phones. Of course there was a couple making out hard near the staircase, and someone was passed out on the couch. You stepped over an empty bottle on the floor, the air smelled like weed and sweat, the feeling was warm, kinda gross, but never unfamiliar.

You hadn’t been here long with your friend, but it was already enough time for the room to start feeling too small, too loud, too chaotic. You weren’t exactly new to the scene, you'd been to enough parties like this to know the drill. But tonight, it was different. The air felt thicker, like everyone was trying to outdo each other with their presence.

The friend you came with was somewhere else across the room, her laugh cutting through the crowd like she owned the place. You could see her talking to some guy by the couch, her hands animated as she laughed a little too loudly at something he said. It was the same every time. She knew what she wanted and how to get it. She was the more social one out of you two, and she knew how to flirt her way into anything she wanted.

You, on the other hand? You weren't the type to stand on the wall at a party or be the center of attention. You were just here to vibe, get lost in the music, and maybe forget a few things. You took a quick look at her, giving you a thumbs up, giving you a signal she was doing fine, and mouthing something you weren't able to make out.

You nodded back, but your mind wasn’t really on her. It was on the itch that had been growing since you first stepped into the house. The kind of buzz that made your thoughts feel like they were speeding up, but your body was stuck in slow motion.

You were already thinking about your next hit. Not because the edible you took wasn’t good, it was, but because it just wasn’t enough. Your high was starting to dull, and you needed that next wave to hit and drag you under, just a little deeper.

That floaty, warm buzz was creeping through your limbs, but your head wasn’t quite where you wanted it yet. You knew what you needed. You knew it was in your bag. You just needed a quiet enough space to roll it up.

You'd been in this house more times than you could count. It always looked the same. You knew the layout by heart, the flow of it, cause everyone was always hosting parties at this house. So, even with the chaos of the party pressing in around you, people dancing, music pulsing like a second heartbeat, you moved through it with ease.

Shoulders bumped yours. A girl spilled her drink and cursed at you, but you could care less, laughing as her friend pulled her into another room. Someone tried to talk to you, leaning in way too close, but you slipped past before they could even finish their sentence. Your mind wasn’t on people. It was on that next hit.

But as you made your way through the thick haze of perfume, weed smoke, and sweat, that feeling crept in, like someone was watching you. Not just looking, but watching. Your skin prickled beneath your clothes, heat curling up your spine in a way that had nothing to do with the room’s temperature. You didn’t look over your shoulder. Not yet. But you felt it. That heavy kind of gaze, the kind that sticks to you.

You shook it off, just enough to keep moving. It was probably nothing. A guy staring too hard. A girl being weird. The usual. But the weight of it stuck with you as you pushed through a final couple of people and stepped into the kitchen.

The shift in energy was immediate. The kitchen was quieter, calmer. The bass was muffled through the walls, and the light in here was warmer, less intense than the flashing strobes in the other rooms. Only a few people lingered here, two girls whispering near the sink, a couple of guys passing a bottle back and forth at the table, eyes glassy and not paying you any attention. No one in here mattered. No one in here was watching.

You finally exhaled, letting your shoulders drop as the tension slipped away. You walked over to the counter, the surface sticky with old spills you slid your small bag in front of you. Your fingers moved automatically to the rolling papers, the grinder, and the little can with your stash tucked inside. You found comfort in rolling up. You dumped the bud onto the counter and started breaking it down with practiced ease, fingers moving fast but precise. The smell hit you right away earthy, sweet, sharp it made your mouth water just a little.

You glanced up once, just to make sure no one was hovering. No one was. You were good. The beat of the music from the other room thudded softly through the walls. You lined your paper, flattened it out smooth. Tapped the ground bud into place, spreading it with your finger, neat and even. Licked the edge and rolled it tight, sealing it with the tip of your tongue like you’d done a thousand times before. That quick flick of your lighter, the brief spark, and you were already bringing it to your lips.

The first inhale was deep. You held it, let it burn slowly in your lungs, and exhaled through your nose. With the fog curling up and around your face, you craved this feeling. Hell, you lived in it. For the most part, you stayed high. Not out of control, but enough, enough to stop overthinking everything. But when it came to parties like this, loud, hot, too many people in your space, you smoked way more.

You brought the blunt back to your lips, fingers resting light but steady. The ember flared again, burning red for a second before fading back to black as you pulled another hit. You sucked in deep, slow, controlled, just the way you liked it. The taste hit your tongue earthy and bitter, with that faint hint of sweetness you always picked up when the wrap burned just right.

Your eyes fluttered shut for a second, just long enough to feel it settle. That buzz behind your eyes. That soft hum in your chest. That room was too loud, too bright, too much. But in this moment, with smoke in your lungs and the music thumping somewhere far off, it didn’t matter. You exhaled again, watching the smoke swirl in front of your face before disappearing into the air. And just like that, you were right where you wanted to be.

A slight movement pulled your attention to the doorway. A person was standing there, leaning against the frame like it was built just for him, shoulder slouched, posture loose, but eyes sharp and locked onto you. You clocked it instantly, he was high, and not off anything light. You’d seen that look before, and you knew it well. You were floating too, but he was somewhere deeper, somewhere darker. It showed in his face, in the way his jaw was loose but his eyes were tense. Like his body had let g,o but his mind was racing.

You’d definitely seen him before. That much you were sure of. There was something about him the way his face lingered like a memory, like a song you’ve heard in passing too many times but forgotten. He seemed so familiar and didn't at the same time.

The kitchen light cast a soft glow across his face, flickering just enough to make the whole moment feel cinematic. His eyes were bloodshot, lids heavy, and his pupils were blown wide, so wide you could barely see the green around the edges. His stare was intense, direct, and completely unbothered by being caught.

His hair hung down in soft waves, messy but not unkept. A few strands clung to his forehead from the heat in the room, the rest framing his face in a way that felt too perfect to be accidental. He didn’t blink. Didn’t look away when your eyes met his. He just watched you slowly, deliberately, like every movement you made was worth studying.

The way your fingers cradled the blunt, still warm between your fingertips. The way your lips had just wrapped around it, your exhale still thick in the air. The way your body leaned back against the counter, all relaxed, like you didn’t give a single fuck who was watching. But he was.

"You always roll up like that?" Oh, look at that, he finally speaks. You watched him push off the doorframe. His movements were slow, measured, and calm as he walked toward you with that heavy-lidded stare, red eyes glassy, lips parted like he was still tasting whatever high he was on. He had a certain pull about him. It lingered in the way he moved, the way his eyes never rushed, how he seemed like he already knew what you were going to say before you said it.

It was the kind of pull that could drag you under if you weren’t careful. The kind that didn’t just ask you to look, it dared you to get close. And if you did? If you leaned in just a little too far? You’d fall. Not gracefully either. You’d fall hard and fast, right into his world.

One made of blurred nights, smoke-stained breath, and music that rattled your ribs. A world stitched together with chaos, where rules didn’t matter and everything was beautiful for just long enough to ruin you.

And maybe just maybe, if he played his cards right, you’d let yourself get pulled into it. You weren’t sure if that made you reckless or just curious. But either way? He was already reeling you in.

"Like what?" you replied, casual, as if he hadn’t just been watching you roll up like it was something sacred. You planted your palms on the edge of the counter behind you and pushed yourself up with a slow, fluid motion onto the counter. Your legs swung once before crossing at the ankle. You took another hit, exhaled smoke toward the ceiling, then let the blunt dangle between your fingers.

He was closer now. Not too close to give you any discomfort, but enough that you could see the fine cut of his jaw under the low yellow kitchen light. His hoodie hung loose off one shoulder, revealing the edge of a tattoo.

"Like you're trying to seduce the paper." His voice was thick with amusement, raspy but edged with that slow kind of charm. His gaze was locked onto you like it was second nature. And he had a smirk, lazy, crooked, even a little smug, it was already on his lips like he’d been waiting to say that line all night.

"You always stare that hard at random people you don't know?" The smirk on his face deepened, spreading just enough to make his dimple show through the stubble lining his jaw. He stepped in even closer, close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating off his body.

His hand moved toward yours, slow and deliberate, like he was giving you time to stop him, but you didn’t. His fingers brushed against yours, the touch was feather light, but still enough to send a small jolt up your arm, as he reached for the blunt in your hand. Not to hit it yet, just to tilt it, tapping the ash off to the side with the pad of his thumb, his touch light but confident. He was careful with it, like the moment was too good to rush.

"Only the ones worth staring at," he murmured then bringing it to his lips. The way he inhaled was slow, intentional. Like he knew exactly what he was doing, not just with the hit, but with you. His cheeks hollowed just slightly, his lashes lowering as the embers lit up the tip of the blunt. The orange-red glowing over his face for a second, catching in his eyes before fading again. And somehow, it was beautiful. Effortlessly so. He exhaled through his nose, the smoke curling between the two of you.

“Real smooth,” you murmured, a quiet fake chuckle slipping past your lips. Your voice was low, but there was a little glint of amusement in your voice, like you were entertained, but not impressed yet.

“Smooth, hmm?” he echoed. The blunt sat between his fingers, held out toward you, but not all the way. No, he didn’t stretch his arm. Didn’t offer it plainly. He kept it close to his mouth, like you’d have to lean in to take it. Like he wanted you to. The ember still softly glowing at the tip, smoke coiling off of it in lazy swirls that blurred the space between you.

And something about the way he held it loose and confident, like he had all the time in the world, made your stomach flip just once. Like, this wasn’t just about sharing a hit. Like it was already a game and you’d just stepped into it. “You want it?” he asked, voice thick and a little raspy from the smoke. “Gonna have to come get it, pretty."

You didn’t answer right away. Just looked at him like really looked. The blunt hovered between his fingers, still close to his mouth. You stepped forward, slow, deliberate, your shoes thudding softly against the tile floor. Each movement felt heavier in the quiet space between the two of you, like the air had thickened.

He didn’t flinch. Just stood there, watching you with that lazy smirk, eyes low but locked onto yours like he already knew you were going to do it. You didn’t ask. Didn’t say a word. You leaned in, your lips brushing just barely against the blunt between his fingers. You didn’t mean to, or maybe you did, but either way, the warmth of his skin sparked something low in your gut.

You kept your eyes locked onto his as you inhaled slowly, letting the smoke fill your lungs deep, deep enough to sting a little in your chest. His head tilted just slightly, the kind of subtle movement that made him look even more relaxed even more dangerous. His eyes trailed over your face like he was memorizing it. Every blink, every twitch of your mouth, every breath. He looked ten times better like that, but then you pulled away, exhaling through your nose.

“Yea… you seem dangerous,” he said, voice dipping lower as a small chuckle left his lips, the sound barely above the hum of the party behind him, but somehow it curled around your spine like smoke.

You tilted your head, arching a brow, a slow smirk teasing your lips. “Yea? And you seem like you like that.” The corner of his mouth twitched upward again, but he didn’t respond right away. Instead, he brought the blunt to his lips, he inhaled deeply, cheeks hollowing just enough to show off the sharp lines of his face, the strength in his jaw. His lashes dipped low as he held it, eyes fixed on you through the thickening smoke.

Then he moved, his body shifted forward, and you didn’t flinch, couldn’t. His arms came down slow, steady, hands planting firmly on either side of you on the counter you were resting against. Caging you in without touching you… Not yet. His presence was overwhelming this close, and you could feel it feel him the heat and danger and the kind of charm that wrecked people.

And you weren’t trying to run. The closer he got to you, you could smell the intoxicating mix of smoke, cologne, and something warm and musky clinging to his hoodie.

One of his hands peeled away from the counter, smooth and careful, reaching for your face. His fingers brushed your jaw first, then trailed lightly up to your chin, tilting it just slightly. His touch was gentle, almost too gentle for someone who looked like that, it was like trouble molded into something beautiful.

Your lips parted instinctively, not even realizing it until he just leaned in, so close you could count every freckle dusted across his cheeks. Then he exhaled. The smoke flowed from his lips to yours, warm and slow, curling into your mouth like it belonged there. You inhaled without breaking eye contact, the taste of him mixing with the burn of the weed.

When you finally released it, the smoke came from your mouth, weaving through the narrow space between your faces like it had its own pulse. His thumb brushed your bottom lip light, but lingering. Just enough to send a shiver down your spine. “That mouth gonna get you in a lot of trouble,” his smile depended his voice, low and rasped around the edges like he wasn’t just talking about the words that came out of it. “Hope you can handle it.”

You blinked slowly, lips still slightly parted, the warmth of his breath ghosting across them. “Hope I can handle it?” you echoed, tilting your head slightly, the corners of your mouth twitching into a smile. “Seems like you’re the one getting caught up.”

His eyes flicked to your lips again, hungry. But he didn’t move. Not yet. For a moment, he just stood there, gaze locked on yours like he was trying to decide something. Like if he crossed that line, there’d be no going back. His jaw tensed slightly, the muscle ticking beneath smooth skin. One of his hands curled tighter against the counter, and his thumb still rested beneath your bottom lip, unmoving.

“Maybe we both are.” The air felt heavier with every passing second, every beat of silence. And then he gave in, slowly, like gravity was pulling him forward, he leaned in. His nose brushed yours, breath mingling, lips hovering. He paused there, eyes flicking up to meet yours one last time. Almost asking. Almost warning. And then he kissed you.

Soft at first. Just a press. But it didn’t stay that way. The second you responded, leaned in, breathed him in his hand slid from your chin to the side of your neck, fingers curling just enough to make your pulse jump. His other hand moved from the counter to a harsh grip on your waist, grounding you, anchoring you in place as the kiss deepened.

You knew in that moment you were trapped. Not physically, of course. Not in the way that made you want to run. But in the way that made you want to stay, it was the kind of trap you didn’t mind falling into because something about him the way his mouth moved with yours, his hands that felt like fire along your body and made you crave the ruin.

And ruin you, he was. You felt it in your chest. In the way your heart pounded too fast, too loud, like a warning for what's to come. In the way your breath hitched the moment your fingers slid into his hair, tangling in the dark, messy strands like you’d been waiting to touch him forever. His hair was soft, thick, and your grip tightened just enough to make him let out a sound low in his throat.

You could feel his breath, hot and uneven, ghosting over your lips. Your tongue tangled with his tongue it was slick and warm, pulling moans from your throat; you didn’t know you’d give so easily. He kissed with his whole body, leaning into you, pressing his chest to yours, the muscles in his arms flexing as he held you firm in place like you might try to run and like he wouldn’t let you.

Every slide of his mouth, every roll of his tongue against yours, felt like fire under your skin, each movement sending ripples of heat crawling down your spine. Your lips parted wider for him, inviting him in again and again, letting him taste you until you couldn’t remember where he ended and you began. It wasn't careful, it was chaotic his mouth moved like he had all the time in the world and none at all.

He tasted like smoke and sin. Earthy yet addictive. Like every warning you’d ever been given and every temptation you’d never been able to resist. And every pass of his tongue over yours made your stomach twist tighter, your thighs clench, your fingers dig harder into his hair like he was the only thing grounding you to the moment. You were drowning in it. In him. And you didn’t want to come up for air. You needed more. And shit, maybe you needed him.

His other hand found your waist without hesitation, the hand sneaking around your wasit , fingers pressing into the curve of your wasit as the kiss deepened even more, your mouths moving in sync like you’d done this a hundred times before in different life. Then he tapped at your side twice a silent cue, and you understood immediately

You jumped, instinctively he lifted you effortlessly and sat you on the counter. His body settled between your legs, heat pressing into heat, and your thighs wrapped around his waist like second nature pulling him closer until there was nothing between you to.

Your breath was still tangled with his when he pulled back, just slightly, teasing you with the space he created. His lips hovered over yours, close enough to touch, to tempt, but not close enough to satisfy. That wicked smirk was still playing at the corners of his mouth like he knew exactly what he was doing to you.

Your lips were swollen and tender, tingling with every breath you drew. The taste of him still lingering on your tongue. Your chest rose and fell at an uneven rhythm, breath catching as you tried to steady yourself. It had only been a few seconds. Just a few seconds of kissing him but it already made you so dizzy, he made you feel so dizzy.

Your fingers, still tangled in his hair, tugged hard, deliberately. Just enough to make him falter. His breath hitched it was subtle, but you felt it right against your mouth. “Pull away again,” you whispered, voice low right by his ear, “and I’ll find someone else to finish what you started.”

“I promise,” you felt a soft press of his lips against yours. But your body reacted instantly. Your breath caught, and your stomach dipped, and your skin lit up in the places where he touched you. “You won’t find someone else that'll fuck you like me,” he added, his breath brushing against your ear. You could feel the cocky smirk on his lips without even seeing it.

“Let’s get outta here,” he said, no hesitation, no asking. “Wanna fuck you somewhere nice.” Before you could even respond, his hand wrapped around your wrist. And he was already pulling you through the crowd, weaving through bodies like they were nothing, like he had tunnel vision for you and only you.

You stumbled a little at first, heels clicking against the floor as you followed him, half breathless and half laughing. “Real princess treatment, huh?” you muttered under your breath, sarcasm dripping from your tone, though you didn’t slow down. Didn’t want to.

The door swung open, and the night air hit, sobering in the best way. The muffled bass from inside faded as the two of you stepped into the dim parking lot, lit only by streetlights and a flickering neon sign in the distance.

He let go of your wrist but stayed close, walking ahead just a few steps, And there it was a glossy all black BMW S1000RR, sleek, dangerous-looking his motorcycle. You paused for a second, rolling your eyes. Of course, he had a bike. He turned to look at you, catching the expression on your face. A smirk tugged at his lips again, but this time, it was softer like he was proud of your reaction.

“Come here,” he said softly, motioning with two fingers. “ You ever been on one before?” You shook your head no while he reached for the helmet hanging from one of the handlebars “Make sure your hold on tight."

He slipped the helmet gently over your head, his fingers grazed your temples, tucking strands of hair behind your ears with a tenderness that made your stomach flutter. The inside of the helmet was cool against your skin, but his touch left behind a nice warmth.

His hands didn’t drop away immediately. They hovered, lingering near your jaw as he crouched slightly to adjust the strap beneath your chin. His fingers moved slowly, deliberately, brushing against the sensitive skin just below your jawline. The pads of his thumbs ghosted over your throat, not enough to tickle, but enough to make your breath catch in your chest.

He was focused, brows furrowed like this tiny act of fastening a helmet required precision. Like you required precision. Like he was trying to get it exactly right because you were something worth protecting. “There,” he murmured, finally snapping the buckle into place. “Fits nice.”

You blinked up at him through the visor, heart thudding a little too hard. He was so close, close enough to kiss again if you tilted your head just right. But this time, there was no rush. No urgency. Just a quiet stillness that made the moment stretch, heavy with something unspoken. Then he smiled not the smug, cocky smirk you’d come to expect from him but a real smile. Soft. Gentle. One that reached his eyes. He tapped the top of the helmet with one hand, like a playful little seal of approval. “Can’t have you messing up that pretty face.”

You rolled your eyes, but you felt your lips pulling into a reluctant grin that you couldn’t quite fight off. “So thoughtful,” you teased, the words light and airy, but your voice wavered just slightly. Maybe from the adrenaline. Maybe from how he was still looking at you.

“C’mon,” his voice low as he swung one leg over the bike and settled onto the seat with ease. The metallic clink of the kickstand echoed softly as he nudged it up with his foot. You hesitated for a second just a breath before stepping forward. The bike gleamed under the soft streetlight, and your heart was pounding harder than it should’ve been. But not from fear.

You climbed on behind him, the leather seat cool against the backs of your thighs. Your hands found his waist first, unsure, but then slid around him fully, hugging him tighter than you meant to. But it wasn’t dramatic or obvious. Your chest pressed gently to his back as your arms locked around him, and he didn’t say a word. Didn’t tease you for it. He just shifted slightly like he was making room for you. Like he wanted you that close.

You were nervous maybe even a little scared but you’d never say it out loud. Still, something about the way he felt beneath your arms, solid and warm, made your shoulders relax just a bit. Part of you trusted him. You didn’t know why. You just did.

He reached forward and twisted the key. The engine roared to life with a deep growl that vibrated through your legs and straight into your chest. You gripped him a little tighter instinctively. “Ready?” he asked, glancing back over his shoulder with a smirk, the wind already starting to whip through his hair.

You swallowed the nervous flutter in your throat and nodded, even though he couldn’t really see it. “Ready.” And just like that, the bike surged forward, the night swallowing the both of you in its arms.

As soon as he pulled off, the world shifted beneath you. The engine growled beneath your thighs, a deep, thrilling vibration that traveled up your spine and settled somewhere in your chest. Then came the rush of wind cool and sharp hitting your body like a hard as the bike surged forward.

You felt it instantly that rush. The kind that made your heart race for reasons that had nothing to do with fear. You understood completely now, why people loved this. The speed. The freedom. The absolute high of it. It was like flying like letting go of everything and trusting the road to catch you.

Your arms tightened around his torso, more out of exhilaration than nerves now. You pressed your cheek lightly to his back, his hoodie warm beneath you, and you smiled. Really smiled.

Through the visor, the city unfolded around you like a dream. The night was alive buildings lit up in soft golds and neons, headlights streaking like fireflies past in a blur. You sped between rows of cars, through wide intersections. And with him in front of you, the handlebars steady beneath his hands, you felt… untouchable. Wild. Beautifully reckless.

“You good?” he yelled, his voice barely cutting through the wind rushing past you both. The world was a blur of headlights and neon streaks, cool air whipping against your skin, but you could still hear the grin in his voice.

“Yea.” You called out clutching him tighter, your arms snug around his torso. “Wouldn’t want to fall off before I get what you promised.” You joked and he let out a low rich laugh but you felt it more than you heard it, the way it rumbled through his back against your chest.

“You seem like you don’t scare easy,” he called out, his voice cutting through the wind as he slowed the bike, easing onto a quieter, dimly lit street. The city lights blurred past in streaks of gold and red, casting a warm glow over his silhouette.

He turned his head just enough to glance back at you, and for a second, your eyes met. His were sharp, gleaming like polished emeralds beneath the streetlights steady, unreadable, and yet somehow teasing. “It’s hot,” he added, the words rough around the edges, dipped in something unspoken.

You let out a low, breathy laugh, the sound muffled slightly by the helmet. “You saying I’m brave,” you teased, “or just crazy?” He smirked, eyes flicking back to the road, but not before you caught the curve of his smile, the way it tugged at his cheek like he was trying not to enjoy you so much.

“Little bit of both,” he said, voice smooth, playful. “But I’m not complaining. I like a thrill ride with pretty girl.” The wind had died down now, but your heart still raced from the ride and from him. He pulled into a small, gravel-lined driveway beside a tucked-away apartment building. Not flashy, but private. One porch light flickered weakly overhead, casting a golden halo across the cracked steps leading up to the door. The kind of place that looked lived-in, but it suited him.

He cut the engine, and the sudden silence was almost startling. Your arms lingered around his waist for a second longer than necessary, not quite ready for the ride to be over. “This is me,” he said, voice softer now in the quiet. He kicked the stand down with a sharp metallic clink, the engine falling silent beneath you both.

For a beat, the only sound was the ticking of the cooling metal and the soft hum of city life in the distance. Then he turned toward you, eyes catching yours over his shoulder, and reached up slow and steady.

His hands brushed against your jaw as he unclasped the helmet, fingers careful and sure. The buckle clicked free, and he eased the helmet off your head like he was handling something fragile. His hands lingered for just a second longer than necessary, thumbs brushing along your temple as he took you in. “Still good?” he asked, voice lower now, quieter. “Or having second thoughts?”

You let out a soft breath smoothing your hair back into place, When you looked up, your gaze met his and the world seemed to narrow down to just that. Him. The dim glow from the porch light softened the sharpness of his features, made his green eyes gleam like secrets you weren’t sure you were ready to learn. He looked different now. More human, waiting for your answer.

“If I wasn’t good,” you said, voice steady despite the nerves fluttering beneath your skin, “I wouldn’t be here.” His grin went wide at that a flash of teeth and dimples that made your stomach twist in the best kind of way. For a second, he just looked at you, like he was trying to memorize the way you stood there under the lights , hair kinda wild from the helmet, lips still a little swollen, eyes daring and unreadable.

Then his hand reached out, brushing against yours. The contact was brief, feather-light but electric. Your fingers found each other naturally, slipping into place. His thumb swept gently across the back of your hand like a secret.

“C’mon,” He tugged you forward with that same quiet confidence, pulling you up the short flight of stairs. You followed close behind, heart beating fast but he heat of his palm grounding you. "I need to make good on a few promises."

Then he reached the door, he let go of your hand just long enough to get the key from his pocket. It clicked into the lock with a sense of finality, metal scraping against metal. He shoved the door open with one shoulder, the hinges creaking softly as the warm, dim light from inside spilled into the stairwell. And then just like that as soon as your foot hit the hardwood floor, it was over.

Not because you were scared. Not because you doubted anything. But because the moment the door shut behind you, everything else fell away. The air shifted, You could feel him behind you, close enough that you felt the warmth of his breath at your neck, the subtle creak of the floorboards as he stepped in after you.

You barely had time to take a breath before his hand slid around the back of your neck. His grip wasn’t harsh, but it was firm, possessive, like he needed to feel you anchored there. Then his mouth crashed into yours. There was no build-up, just raw heat and hunger. The force of it caught you off guard, it made your balance falter as you stumbled back a step. But you didn’t pull away. You kissed him back just as hard, lips parting instinctively, tongues tangling in a clash of want.

This kiss wasn’t like the ones before. It wasn’t slow. It wasn’t teasing. It was hungry and full of need. Desperate in the way only two people who couldn’t wait anymore could be. His mouth moved against yours with need , pulling moans from your throat as your bodies pressed agasit each other. His other hand found your waist, pulling you forward, guiding you backwards with every step never once breaking the kiss. You felt the heat of him through your clothes, the tight coil of tension winding between you both like it could snap at any second.

Your back met the nearest wall with a soft thud, and still, he didn’t let up. His tongue swept into your mouth again, slow at first, then deeper, exploring you like he needed to memorize the taste. Every kiss, every glide of his mouth, was more demanding than the last. Your hands gripped at his shirt, pulling him closer, trying to match his rhythm, trying to keep up.

His teeth caught your bottom lip, tugging just enough to make you gasp and he swallowed the sound like it belonged to him. Still, he didn’t pull back. He pressed in closer, crowding your body against the wall like he couldn’t stand the space between you, like even your clothes were too much.

Your hands slid under his shirt, fingertips grazing his hot skin where his shirt had ridden up. He was solid beneath your touch lean muscle, but still felt a little tense and when your nails scratched lightly down his spine, you felt the way his breath caught, the way his hips stuttered against yours for just a second.

“Fuck,” he muttered against your lips, the words low like he wasn’t sure how you were already undoing him. He finally pulled back not far, just enough to look at you, and even that separation felt like too much. His forehead rested against yours, both of you breathing hard, lips swollen, eyes half-lidded with heat. “You’re gonna drive me insane,” he whispered, voice wrecked and raw.

You smirked, one hand still curled around the hem of his shirt. “Good.” He let out a soft laugh, low and breathless, the sound buzzing against your lips. Then he leaned in again, slower this time more controlled but it still hit you just as hard. Like he knew exactly what he was doing. Like he wanted to savor every second.

One of his hands slipped down to a doorknob behind you, fingers twisting it open without looking. You barely noticed the click of the door; all you could focus on was him his mouth brushing yours.

His hand wrapped around the base of your throat, his grip firm with a slight squeeze—just enough to remind you of his control without taking your breath completely. The pressure sent a jolt of heat down your spine, a warning and a thrill all at once. You could still breathe, but it made every inhale feel heavier, more deliberate.

He leaned in, lips brushing your skin as he trailed soft, kisses along the side of your neck. Each one slower than the last, like he wanted to tease you as long as he could. When he reached the base of your throat, he lingered, kissing there again and again, tongue flicking lightly between kisses, leaving your skin tingling in his wake.

The heat built low in your stomach, spreading fast and your breathing quickened. Your thighs pressed together without thinking, trying to ease the ache building between them but it didn’t help. Not with the way his lips moved against your skin. Not with the soft scrape of his teeth when he got too close to your pulse point.

His grip on your throat loosened just slightly, but his thumb stayed under your jaw, keeping your head tilted just the way he wanted. Every soft breath he exhaled sent a shiver through you. And he felt it because you felt the way he smiled against your skin.

His hands found your waist, gripping you firmly but there was something in the way he lifted you that made your breath catch. You gave a little jump, legs wrapping instinctively around his waist, clinging to him like it was second nature. You nestled your head into the crook of his neck, your breath fanning against his skin, and let out a soft, breathy laugh that made his lips curl against your temple. “Cute,” he murmured, barely audible, like the sound of you laughing was something he wanted to hear all the time.

He stepped the two of you forward with ease, then gently laid you down against the mattress, your back sinking into the silk sheets as his body followed, hovering over you. He didn’t let his full weight settle just enough for you to feel the heat radiating off him, just enough to trap you in as yours legs never left his waist.

Then his lips were on yours again. This kiss was deeper, needier, like the tension between you was finally cracking wide open. His hands didn’t waste time, sliding down your sides, fingers curling at the hem of your skirt. You gasped softly when you felt his fingers slip underneath, the rough pads of them brushing along your thighs before pressing against your panties—already damp, already giving you away.

He pulled back slightly, just enough to see your face. And the grin he wore wasn’t kind. “All I did was kiss you,” he said, tone playful teasing you as his fingers pressed a little more firmly as he let out a low, mocking chuckle that made your stomach flip.

You turned your face to the side with a quiet whimper, trying to hide your embarrassment, but you couldn’t not when he was this close. Not when his hand was still right there, pressed between your thighs like a secret he now knew. “Guess you’re easy to read, huh?” he teased, voice low, lips brushing along your jaw now.

“Shut the fuck up,” you breathed, the words slipping out sharper than you meant, but it only made his grin widen. He didn’t say anything back. Just let his thumb drag in slow, deliberate circles over your clit through the soaked fabric, teasing but never giving you enough. The pressure was there just enough to make your thighs twitch and your breath hitch but it stayed annoyingly soft, like he wanted to keep you on edge.

"Tell me what you want." His fingers then slid lazily up and down the damp cotton, drawing out every reaction. He knew exactly what he was doing. The way your hips jerked under him, the way your chest rose and fell so quickly now it all fed the look in his eyes. "I promise i’ll give you everything.”

You sucked in a sharp breath, your hands tightening around his arm, nails pressing just a little into his skin. Your body betrayed you, rocking into the slow rhythm of his thumb even as you tried to hold back.

“Please,” you whispered, your voice softer now breathy, shaky, stripped of that earlier bite. It was barely a word, more like a plea you couldn’t swallow down. The sound of it made something flicker in his expression. He leaned in close, lips brushing the shell of your ear as his fingers kept moving.

“Much better,” he murmured, voice low and close to your ear, the smugness softened by something tender. His breath ghosted over your skin as he spoke, and it sent another wave of shivers rolling down your spine. “Sound so fucking pretty like that.”

Then you felt it his fingers hooking into the edge of your panties, he was moving so fucking slow it was driving you slowly insane. He didn’t rush, just tugged the fabric to the side with a ease, exposing you to the cool air of the room making you suck in a quiet breath as your thighs clenched without thinking. You were soaked, there was no hiding it.

He paused and he leaned back slightly, just enough to look really look. For a moment, he didn’t even touch. Just stood there, his hand still holding the fabric aside, eyes fixed between your legs like he was hypnotized. Like he’d never seen anything so pretty in his life. Your slit glistened, glossy with arousal from everything he’d done, and everything he hadn’t. He ran his tongue slowly over his bottom lip, and the way he looked at you made you feel stripped bare in more ways than one.

“Fuck.”he whispered, more to himself than to you, like the sight alone knocked the breath out of him. He ran his tongue slowly over his bottom lip, gaze locked on your glistening slit like he was trying to memorize the sight. “Look at you…”

You felt exposed in a way that wasn’t just physical. His stare wasn’t just hungry it was awe. He wasn’t just teasing anymore. He was caught. His thumb brushed the crease of your thigh, featherlight, but still not where you needed him.

“Could you hurry the fuck up?” you snapped, breath shaky, hips shifting restlessly beneath him. The way he was taking his time his fingers barely grazing your skin, his mouth leaving featherlight kisses that burned hotter the longer they lingered it was maddening. Every touch made your skin tingle, made your body arch up into his like it had a mind of its own. But none of it was enough. You needed more. Now.

He paused, the corners of his lips curling into that smug, knowing smile. A low chuckle rumbled from his chest, deep and amused, like your impatience was the sweetest thing he’d ever heard. “You’re real mouthy for someone about to lose her mind,” his voice teasing as his fingers slipped a little lower, still just barely brushing where you needed him most. “ It’s cute, tho. Makes me wanna take all fucking day.”

He leaned in, lips brushing your jaw as he spoke again, slower this time. “Beg a little more, and maybe I’ll pick up the pace.” Your whole body buzzed with need, your hands fisting into the sheets, every muscle tense and ready to snap.

You really didn’t want to beg. That shit was embarrassing as fuck. The word please already tasted too sweet, too vulnerable on your tongue, and he knew it. That’s what made it worse.“Fuck you,” you hissed, voice low, stubborn. Your pride still clung to whatever scraps of control you had left, even though your body was already betraying you.

You started to grind against his fingers, slow and deliberate. If he wasn’t going to give it to you, you’d take what you could get. The friction sent a jolt of heat up your spine, your lips parting with a quiet gasp. You circled your hips again, your thighs tensing as you pressed into his touch, chasing whatever relief you could carve out for yourself.

But then you felt it, His fingers slowing your breath hitched in your throat, chest rising and falling in short, frustrated pants. He was doing it on purpose. You knew he was. He wanted to see how long you could last before you snapped.“So impatient,” he murmured, voice velvet-smooth, laced with dark amusement.

“I was gonna be nice. But now?” His thumb traced lazy, taunting circles over your clit too light to satisfy, just enough to make your whole body tense again. “Now I think I wanna see how long you can keep pretending you don’t want to beg.”

You glared up at him, chest rising and falling, mouth open like you wanted to curse him out but no words came. Just shaky breaths. Every nerve in your body felt raw, overstimulated from nothing. Nothing, except the ghost of his fingers, the low hum of his voice, and the way he was looking at you like he had all the time in the world. His eyes dragged over your face like he was savoring every reaction. Your furrowed brows. Your parted lips. Your thighs twitching from the effort of staying still.

“You look so pretty when you’re frustrated,” he muttered, the pads of his fingers pressing down just enough to make your hips buck. Then he pulled away again just a little. Just enough to make you whine. You hated that sound. Hated how easily he could pull it out of you.

He leaned in closer, lips brushing your ear. “C’mon, baby,” he whispered, tone dripping with something sickeningly sweet. “You’ve been talking all night. Don’t go quiet on me now.” You bit your lip, jaw clenched, trying not to give him what he wanted. But his fingers moved again, sliding slick and slow through your folds, pressing into that spot that made your breath catch mid-sentence. Your back arched. Your hand flew up to his wrist on instinct, not to stop him, but to hold on. He chuckled darkly, “That’s it. Say it.”

You clenched your jaw, refusing to let the word fall from your lips again. Not this time. You weren’t gonna give him the power of hearing you beg not when he clearly wanted it so bad. “Fuck you,” you spat again, voice hoarse but steady. Your hands grabbed at his arms, not to push him away, but to hold on because every slow, teasing motion of his fingers was driving you insane.

He slowed them down even more, practically a whisper of pressure now, maddeningly soft. You ground your hips against his hand, trying to get any friction you could, but he only pulled back slightly, a wicked grin spreading across his face. “Mm-mm,” he teased, shaking his head like you were misbehaving.

“Keep playing,” you warned, your voice low and thick with heat, but firm. A spark of defiance flickered in your eyes as you met his gaze.

He laughed an actual laugh, deep and amused, like he hadn’t expected you to have that edge. Then his expression shifted. Something darker, hungrier, moved across his face. “Oh, is that a challenge?” he murmured, leaning in close, his breath ghosting over your lips.

His finger slid inside, slow and deliberate, and you gasped, the sound catching in your throat. Your lips parted around a moan, one hand gripping his shoulder hard, the other fisting the sheets beneath you. He didn’t rush his movements were torturously controlled, like he wanted to see how long you’d hold out before cracking.

You bit your lip to stifle another moan, not because you wanted to, Hell no, but because you knew he wanted to hear it. Feel it. Watch you fall apart under his touch. So you didn’t give him that satisfaction. Not yet.

You sat up a little, shifting your weight just enough to close the space between you. Your fingers trailed down from his bicep, tracing the veins in his forearm before drifting lower over his torso, past the hem of his shirt, and finally to his waistband. It was a slow, deliberate motion. Teasing, but casual, like you were just playing around… even though both of you knew exactly what you were doing.

“You talk a lot of shit,” you murmured, voice smooth and low, the kind that skimmed over skin like velvet. Your fingers tapped lightly at his waistband before resting there. “But your fingers?” You let your words hang, lips brushing the shell of his ear. “Starting to feel more like a warm up than a threat.”

His jaw tightened. You caught the change in his expression just as the fire flickered behind his eyes. Something primal and sharp passed over his face, darkening his whole demeanor. His lips parted, and for a second, it looked like he was about to say something slick, but he didn't.

Instead he took a sharp deep breath in and asked. “What are you doing?” Your palm hovered, then settled over the front of his jeans, fingers curving around the bulge with the gentlest of pressure just enough to make him flinch. His hips flexed, almost instinctively, like his body was reacting faster than his mind could catch up. You worked the buttons of his jeans with a kind of reverent focus, your breathing shallow but steady. He made a sound—low, unsure, half-wrecked. You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to.

You slid your hand beneath the denim, your fingers brushing heat and skin and then there it was. You pulled it out, slow, letting the weight of him settle heavy in your palm. Your breath hitched this time, just a little.

He was pretty. That kind of pretty that was almost mean. Thick, with a pinkish-brown head slicked with precum, the bead catching the dim light. Veins curled along the shaft like subtle outlines, and he twitched when your thumb swept across the head, smearing the glistening fluid. Your gaze flicked up to him, and the look in his eyes glass-sharp, jaw tight, chest rising and falling like he was barely holding it together made you smile, just a little.

“I promise,” he whispered, his voice low and ragged against your skin, lips brushing the curve of your jaw, “you don’t want to go there with me. Before you could fire back, or even catch your breath, he slid another finger inside you. The stretch was sudden but smooth, making your body yield to him, and you did, clenching around his fingers with a soft, involuntary gasp that escaped before you could stop it.

He moved with a rhythm that felt almost criminal too smooth, too knowing, like his hands had done this a hundred times before, and every time was just as dangerous. His fingers slid in and out of you with a slow, practiced precision, the kind that didn’t rush, the kind that just built pressure, stroke by deliberate stroke.

You gasped when his fingers curled upward, brushing against that spot deep inside you the one that made your breath catch and your thighs twitch. The one you were silently begging for. Each curl sent sparks racing up your spine, like static lighting up your nerves, and the warmth pooling low in your belly quickly began to simmer into something hotter, heavier.

Then his palm pressed down, grounding you, holding you still while his thumb slid up grazing over your clit with the lightest pressure. The contact was maddening. Perfect. Just enough to pull a soft, broken moan from your lips before you could even think to bite it back.

“Mmh,” he exhaled, close and ragged, voice thick with satisfaction. You could hear the smugness in it, feel it in the way his pace stayed steady. “Just like that." His eyes never left your face, watching, drinking in every twitch, every sound, like he was taking inventory of every weakness you’d tried to hide. And he was using every single one of them against you.

One of your hands gripped the sheets tightly, but you held on firm, refusing to let him see you break. Not yet. You’d be damned if you gave in first. You were aching now, pulsing around him, hips betraying you as they chased every motion of his fingers. He smirked against your skin like he could feel it feel how badly you were holding on.

But you didn’t give in. Not yet. Even as your thighs trembled beneath his touch, even as the pressure built inside you with every fluid thrust of his fingers, you refused to look away. Your breath came shallow, pulse beating faster and faster, but your eyes, your eyes stayed locked on his. You wanted to see him break first. You wanted to watch that confident smirk crack, to see the composure he had fall undone in your hands. You wanted to pull him under with you and make him drown first.

Your hand moved slowly to his cock, already flushed and heavy in your palm. He was beautiful like this, veins running thick along the shaft, the head slick with precum, glistening in the low light. You ran your thumb over the swollen tip, pressing into it just slightly, watching the way his breath hitched how his jaw tensed, just for a moment. His eyes faltered just barely, but you caught it. That flicker. That crack in his cool. And still, he didn’t stop. Just barely cracked.

His fingers kept pumping into you with maddening precision, relentless and deep, curling just right every time like he was trying to force the moan back out of you. His thumb returned to your clit with that same expert touch, dragging tiny circles that made your legs shake, made your stomach tighten but still, you held your ground.

Your grip on his cock tightened just enough to make him twitch in your hand. You dragged your fist down his length in one slow stroke, then up again, your thumb teasing the underside of the head where you knew he was most sensitive. His breath grew heavier. His jaw clenched tighter. But his fingers never stopped. And neither did yours.

He didn’t say a word in response to your teasing, didn’t acknowledge the way your hand kept working him over, the way your touch made his breath catch. No smug remark, no smirk—just action. His thumb pressed down hard on your clit, sudden and unrelenting.

The jolt of sensation hit you like a wave, it was sharp. Your breath stuttered. Your head spun. It was too much, too perfect, too overwhelming. Tingles shot up your spine and spread through your limbs, your skin buzzing like static. Without thinking, your thighs snapped closed around his hand, trying to soften the pressure, to ground yourself.

But he didn’t like that. Not one bit. His grip tightened on your thigh, fingers digging in just enough to make a point, and then he forced your legs apart again, roughly, spreading your legs wide like he owned you. “Don’t do that shit again.”His voice came out low and rough. There was no trace of playfulness left, just frustration, dominance. His eyes were locked on you, sharp and feral, like you’d crossed a line he didn’t think you would.

The way he looked at you it made your stomach flip and your breath catch again. His jaw was clenched, throat flexing as he fought to keep control of himself. But the way his fingers stayed buried deep inside you, his thumb still circling your clit now with an even firmer pressure made it clear, He wasn’t letting you off easy. Not anymore.

You could already feel yourself slipping. No matter how much you tried to keep your breathing steady, to lock your gaze on his like you still had the upper hand, your body was betraying you. Every twist of his fingers, every slow, punishing stroke of his thumb over your clit was unraveling you bit by bit. The heat was pooling in your belly, your thighs trembling as the tension built with no mercy in sight.

You were losing this battle. And he knew it. He wasn’t nearly as close as you were, not even close. You could see it in the way he now moved, calm and controlled, his breathing steady, his jaw no longer twitching like before. That composure you’d wanted so badly to break? Still intact. Worse, he looked smug now.

“Already falling apart, aren’t you?” his voice thick with quiet arrogance as he dipped his head, brushing his lips along the shell of your ear. “All that attitude, all that fucking mouth where is it now?” Your muscles tensed as he curled his fingers deeper, slower, drawing another sharp gasp from you. You could feel yourself clenching around him. It was humiliating how easily he could read you, how every movement of his hand felt designed to push you closer to the edge without letting you tip over it.

He chuckled softly as your hips rolled helplessly toward his hand. “Look at you,” he whispered, eyes fixed on yours. “Trying so hard to hold it together. I can feel how close you are. You’re soaking my fingers, baby.” You wanted to glare at him, say something smart, but all that came out was a breathy whimper that only made his grin deepen.

“What happened to making me break first?” he taunted, pulling his fingers back just slightly, just enough to make your body cry out for more. His thumb paused, denying you that friction right when you needed it most. “You were real bold a few minutes ago.” Your hips bucked involuntarily, chasing contact, but he caught your thigh in one hand and held you down with quiet strength.

“You don’t get to take now. Beg.” Your head fell back against the pillow for half a second, breath ragged, thighs still trembling in his grip. You were so close it was ridiculous, every nerve ending felt frayed, oversensitive, like your body was already tipping without permission.

“You’re so fucking annoying,” you hissed through gritted teeth, your voice shaky, raw with need and frustration. Your glare could’ve killed if your eyes weren’t already glassy with tears you refused to let fall. But your hips betrayed you. Even as you tried to hold your ground, they rocked forward, desperate for more of him, seeking out even more friction. You hated that he could see it the need, the unraveling, the war you were losing in real time. But he didn’t gloat. Not out loud. He didn’t have to.

Instead, he let his fingers curl upward again with ruthless precision. And just like that, he hit it, that spot. The one that sent a sharp jolt straight through your spine. The one that had your whole body seizing in pleasure, your thighs trembling around his hand. Your mouth dropped open, no sound coming at first, just a breathless gasp, your mind blanking as the sensation pulsed through you in waves.

Your hands fisted the sheets at your sides, desperate for something to anchor you, to keep you from falling apart. The pressure in your belly was unbearable now, the tight coil threatening to snap at any second. You throbbed with every curl of his fingers, every agonizingly perfect drag of his thumb over your clit. You were so, so close. So close it hurt.

“You wanna cum?” he asked, voice thick with mock sincerity, like he was genuinely curious. Like he wasn’t watching your body twitch and tremble in his hands, like he couldn’t feel how close you were. He tilted his head just slightly, eyes burning into yours with a heat that made it hard to breathe. “Beg, then.”

You tried to hold on, tried to keep the glare in your eyes, the venom in your voice, but it was getting harder by the second. Your walls fluttered around his fingers, clenching with every deep stroke, every teasing grind of his palm. Your legs quivered, threatening to close again, to trap his hand there, to make him finish it. You were right at the edge. Teetering. Just a few more seconds. Just a little more.

Your thighs quivered, one last act of rebellion as they tried to press together, to trap his hand there, to force him to keep going. But he didn’t allow it. “You keep playing.” He pressed his palm down hard against your pelvis, pinning you in place as his fingers curled deep again, the pressure making your back arch off the bed. Then, just when you thought he’d finally give it to you, His fingers slowed. Stopping would be too easy.

You couldn’t keep your focus. What had started as steady strokes, confident, teasing, meant to unnerve him was now nothing more than a distracted glide along the thick length of him. You were losing rhythm, losing control, your grip slacking as your mind blurred under the weight of your own pleasure.

It just rested there, curled loosely around him, fingers twitching, but your body too consumed with the way he was making you feel. You tried, tried to keep stroking, tried to keep the upper hand, but the pleasure kept spiking through you in waves, your body clenching around his fingers so tightly it was making your head spin.

His fingers dragged in and out of you with a slow agonizing pace, curling just enough to tease that tender, aching spot inside you, but never fast enough to push you over. The friction was maddening.

He got off to this. Not just the act, no, it was deeper than that. It was the way your body responded to him, the way you tried so hard to hold onto your pride even as it shattered piece by piece under his touch. It was addictive, the sight of you squirming, gasping, toes curling, your breath catching in your throat as you fought a losing battle against the wave building inside you.

He watched you with a kind of hunger that went beyond lust. He was studying you, memorizing the way your back arched when his fingers pressed just right, the way your hips jerked when he dragged his thumb over your clit with pressure. He saw the way your hands trembled, fisting the sheets one moment and reaching for him the next, torn between resistance and surrender.

But what he loved most… was your face. The wet tears collecting in the corners of your eyes. Your lashes fluttering, mouth parted in a desperate moan, you tried and failed to silence. The raw vulnerability in your expression, mixed with rage and arousal and frustration, was almost too much for him. Almost. “Say it,” he whispered, mouth against your skin. “Tell me what you want. Beg me.”

That's when the small bit of pride you had left went down the drain. “Please… fuck… please, I wanna cum so fucking bad.” The words spilled from your lips in a broken rush. There was no more venom in your voice now, no glare, no pride, just need. Honest, aching need.

Your chest heaved with every desperate inhale, eyes half-lidded and glazed over, lips parted as your hips subtly bucked against his hand, chasing even the slightest motion. Your body was trembling, slick and swollen, wrapped so tightly around his fingers it felt like your walls were trying to keep him there, begging on your behalf.

But he only tilted his head, brows raised in mock confusion, that smirk tugging at the corner of his lips like he was delighted by how far you’d fallen. “I’m sorry, what?” he asked, voice calm like he wasn’t the reason you were breaking down right now. His tone was all arrogance, but his fingers were still deep inside you, barely moving, just enough to drive you mad.

“Please,” you whispered again, your voice cracking as your hips rolled forward, needy and shameless now. “Please, make me cum” And that was when he pulled his fingers out. Completely. The emptiness was brutal. Your cunt clenched around nothing, spasming from the loss, aching as the tension in your core twisted into something painful. The coil that had been so tight, so close to snapping, recoiled violently, your whole body flinching as the withdrawal hit you like a slap.

“Next time,” he said softly, his voice soaked in promise as he leaned in, the words brushing over your ear, “try begging before I’m bored.” Then calmly.” Turn over.”

You lay there for a second, still breathless, chest rising and falling like you’d just sprinted a mile with no finish line. Your body was pulsing, cunt empty and aching, thighs slick with need, nerves still singing from the edge he’d pulled you off of. But your pride? That was a slow-burning fire in your chest, and it refused to die quietly.

“Was it not enough for your ego to have my pussy wrapped around your fingers? Hearing me beg?” you rasped, voice low, wrecked, each word soaked in defiance even as your chest heaved with the aftershocks of everything he’d just done to you. Your eyes locked onto his, narrowed and gleaming with a challenge you had no business throwing, but did anyway. Because that was you. Spite burned through your veins even when your body was trembling and your thighs were still slick with denial.

His brow twitched. It was quick, barely there, but you caught it. A small fracture in the control he wore. And that was all you needed. “You really are full of yourself,” you continued, voice dropping low and dangerous. “Must take a hell of a lot of effort walking around with your head shoved that far up your own ass.” His smirk faltered not fully, not yet, but it tightened at the edges, like he was holding something back, letting you think you had the upper hand for now.

Your pulse thudded in your throat, your body still aching, your legs slick and trembling from the edge he had ruthlessly pulled you away from. But none of that mattered in the moment. You had him almost cracked, and that meant everything. So you smiled slow, wicked, showing all your teeth. A direct challenge.

“Cute fingers, though,” you murmured, tone dipping into something silkier, darker, as your eyes dropped pointedly to his hand still hovering near your thighs. Still shining with your slick. “Too bad they’ve got no stamina. Might have to find someone better next time.” That hit. You saw it. His jaw clenched, just for a second. His tongue darted across his bottom lip like he was biting back a response, like he was this close to snapping and giving you what you really wanted, but not because you begged for it. Because you provoked it.

“And I’ll turn over,” you said slowly, like the words meant nothing to you. Even though your entire body was still humming from the brutal tease of denial. You glanced at him with a look that fire in your eyes hadn't dimmed, even as your legs still trembled beneath you. “But only because I wanna see you try and make up for how disappointing that was.”

Then, with a slow roll of your hips, you started to turn shoulders shifting, spine curving as your body tilted forward. You moved with deliberate care, letting your back arch just enough to taunt, just enough to say this isn’t submission, it was more like bait. You’d give him your body, sure. But your control? That was a harder thing to steal. You had just begun to settle onto your stomach, hair spilling over your shoulders, when you heard it.

He let out a soft, mocking laugh. The kind that sent a chill crawling down your spine because it didn’t sound amused at all. No, it was knowing, the sound of someone who’d already won and was just letting you think you had the upper hand. “Yeah,” he drawled behind you, dragging out the word like it tasted good on his tongue. “I know it was cute. Real cute.” You could practically hear the smirk in his voice.

He ran his hands slowly along the curvature of your body, fingertips dragging over the swell of your hips, the dip of your waist, tracing the curve of your spine. He wasn’t just touching you, he was claiming every inch, silently reminding you whose hands had just left you trembling.“The way your body was tensing around my fingers? Shaking?”He let out a low chuckle like the memory alone was enough to amuse him. Like he could still feel you clenching down on him, so helpless and so close.

“Don’t get cocky, sweetheart,” he added, that smirk dripping from his voice. “You would’ve cum if I’d let you.” You felt your breath catch not from the words, but from the way his hand followed the path of your spine, firm and unhurried, pressing down just enough to make your back arch in response. It was a silent command. A gentle threat. “So let’s not rewrite history just yet,”

“Don’t get me wrong,” leaned in close so close that the warmth of his breath grazed your ear, “The little act is hot. All that mouth, all that pride…” His lips hovered just above your skin, not touching, just letting the heat of him linger

“But your pussy?” he whispered, dragging one fingertip down as slow as could be, until they reached the soaked mess between your thighs. He didn’t rush. No urgency. He dragged a single fingertip through your folds with featherlight touch, collecting the slick he’d drawn out of you earlier. His touch was almost ghostly in its gentleness, teasing the hypersensitive skin there, making your thighs twitch as your breath hitched sharply in your throat.“She’s a terrible liar,” he murmured, voice thick with smug satisfaction.

His fingers traced you again, slow, unhurried, reverent in the most mocking way, drawing out another pulse of wetness that clung to his skin like proof. Your core clenched instinctively around nothing, aching, fluttering with a need that hadn’t faded, it had only sharpened, turned desperate with every second he held back. He didn’t have to say another word. Your body was already giving you away. And he knew it.

He let the weight of his words linger, the silence that followed wasn’t empty, it with intent. You could feel it in the way his presence hovered behind you, how his gaze seemed to burn into the curve of your spine. His lips brushed against the shell of your ear, barely there, just enough to make your breath catch. You could feel the smirk on his mouth even before he spoke. “Now be a good girl.”

“Arch that back for me.” His hand found your hip, grip firm, fingers digging into your flesh in a way that made it clear this wasn’t a request. But a command, and when you didn’t move right away, just breathed, just trembled, he chuckled low in his throat, the sound vibrating against your skin. “You wanna keep mouthing off, or are you finally ready to show me some manners?”

You held your breath for a second too long, felt your muscles twitch under the weight of his voice and that low, hungry command. The words echoed in your ears Be a good girl, arch that back and your body responded before your pride could stop it. Your hips shifted. Barely. Just a subtle tilt forward. But it was enough. He noticed, of course. How could he not?

Still, your mouth moved before your better judgment could catch up. “You’re really obsessed with hearing yourself talk, huh?” you muttered, voice low, almost breathless but still sharp. “Maybe if you actually fucked like you talk, I’d be impressed.”

Then he laughed, “Oh, you wanna talk about being impressed?” he said, voice suddenly closer, heavier, right at the base of your neck. “but the second I told you to arch, your back damn near curved itself.” His hand slipped under your belly, lifting you just slightly, angling your hips exactly where he wanted them. “Your fucking dripping,” he whispered, voice rough, almost reverent. “And you’ve got the nerve to talk shit?”

“Keep talking, tho,” he murmured, his breath fanning hot against the back of your neck. “I like hearing you pretend you’re not already mine.” You felt the shift in his weight behind you, the quiet stroke of his hand along his cock, slow and deliberate. He let the head drag against your slick folds, teasing, it was rude in how unhurried it was. He slid it up and down, letting it part you, nudge against your entrance, only to pull away again like he had all the time in the world. And to be honest you were a few seconds from putting it in yourself.

Every time the tip caught just right against your clit, your thighs twitched. Your breath stuttered. You were soaked and aching, your core pulsing with a need that had tipped from sharp to unbearable. And still he didn’t give you anything. Your hips pushed back instinctively, seeking friction, begging without words. “What the fuck are you- why the fuck are you dragging this out?” you snapped, voice rough with frustration, but he just chuckled low under his breath like he loved the sound of your unraveling.

“I mean, unless you're stalling because you’re sca—” That was it. The final push. You didn’t even get to finish the word. He snapped. Without warning, his cock slammed into you in one brutal, fluid thrust, burying himself deep inside your soaked cunt like his patience had finally shattered. “fuck~” The sound that tore out of you wasn’t pretty it was loud, raw, a ragged moan dragged straight from your core. Your whole body jolted forward from the force of it, your fingers scrambling for grip, your thighs quivering beneath him.

You clenched around him instinctively, tight, desperate, like your body had been waiting for this the entire time. He groaned against your back, low and guttural, his nails digging into the flesh of your hips hard enough to leave marks.“Still talking, huh?” he let out a heavy breath, his voice tense. “Let’s see how long that lasts.”

Each thrust hit deep and unforgiving, his hips snapping into yours with a rough, deliberate rhythm. There was no teasing anymore, just pure, punishing motion. He didn’t give you a second to adjust, to breathe, to think. Your cunt fluttered around him, struggling to keep up with how hard and fast he was fucking into you, the wet slap of skin against skin filling the room with every deep stroke.

Your breath was caught in your throat, mind going hazy as the coil inside you wound tighter and tighter, pressure building with every sharp drag of him against your walls. “You feel that?” he rasped, leaning down so his chest brushed against your back. “That’s what happens when you don’t shut that pretty fucking mouth.”

You bit down hard on your bottom lip, forcing back the moan that clawed its way up your throat. Your body was screaming for relief thighs trembling, your cunt fluttering around him with every rough stroke but you weren’t about to give him the satisfaction of hearing you beg again.

He was relentless. His pace didn’t falter for a second. Each thrust felt deeper than the last, dragging along every sensitive nerve inside of you like he was determined to fuck the attitude out of you—rip the words out of your throat if he had to. You could hear how soaked you were, the wet sound of your bodies crashing together was filthy and echoing through the space. “Y-You’re gonna have to do a lot more than that if you wanna shut me up,” you rasped, your smirk shaky but defiant as you turned to look back at him.

You felt his fingers curl harder around your waist, the bruising grip tightening as a low, dangerous laugh left his throat, half disbelief, half dark amusement. “Yea?” he breathed, leaning over you until his mouth was back at your ear, his chest hot against your back. “You’re talking real reckless for someone who’s dripping down my cock.” With that, he shifted his angle just slightly and hit that spot. Your whole body jolted, a cry catching in your throat before you could swallow it down. Your back arched without permission, your thighs quivering violently as heat surged up your spine.

He felt that reaction and chased it ruthlessly. Every thrust after was laser-focused, aiming right for the spot that made your toes curl and your mind blur. “Still holding on?” he hissed, voice breathless now, ragged around the edges. “Or you starting to realize whose pussy this is?”

But you, still biting back moans, still trembling, spat back a shaky laugh. “I-I’m just letting you borrow it,” you whispered, voice cracking under the weight of pleasure, “Don’t get twisted.”

Your breath was coming in short, sharp bursts, now your hands clutching at the sheets like they could somehow ground you while your body was threatening to give out entirely. Your thighs trembled violently with every thrust, knees slipping wider apart, and your spine curved in a perfect arch that only made it easier for him to drive deeper. He was punishing that spot inside you now, over and over, like he knew exactly where it was and what it did to you, and he liked watching you fight it.

“Just borrowing it, huh?” his cock dragging slow for one brutal second before slamming back into you hard enough to knock the breath out of your lungs. “You sure about that?” Your mouth opened like you had something to say, something slick, something sharp, but all that came out was a breathy gasp, broken and raw. Your lips trembled, eyes fluttering shut as the pleasure surged through you in blinding waves. You felt the coil in your belly tightening again, faster now, tighter than before. The tension was unbearable

“You’re shaking,” he breathed, lips dragging along your spine as he thrust into you deeper, slower, now more intentional. He felt it the way you clenched around him, like your body was losing the war your mouth kept trying to win. He let out a low groan, his pace faltering for only half a second, like the feel of you was almost too much.“Bet I could make you cum without you even realizing it.”

His hand slid down between your legs again, and you could’ve screamed when his fingers found your clit barely brushing it, just a featherlight stroke that made your hips jerk uncontrollably. Your moan broke free this time, raw and helpless. Still, you held on. Barely. Your voice came out hoarse, cracked, but laced with the last strands of defiance. “If I cum…” You panted, “It won’t be for you.”

“Sure,” he muttered, voice low and biting, like your last shred of defiance amused him more than it should have. His hand down your back, fingers curling around your throat, not hard, but firm enough to make your breath hitch. He yanked you back into him, your body colliding with his. The sudden closeness made your back press flush to his chest, skin slick with sweat, heat radiating between your bodies. His grip tugged you upright, locking you in place, and you could feel every twitch, every breath,

His hips rolled forward, the angle shifting just enough to make your mouth fall open, no sound escaping. His cock dragged along your walls in a relentless rhythm, deeper now, more precise like he had mapped your body and was now playing it by memory. Every stroke felt sharper, more intense, like he was trying to pull every reaction he could from you.

His fingers flexed around your throat, the pressure gradually increasing, not enough to truly hurt, but just enough to steal the pieces of your breath, to blur the line between control and surrender. The grip was deliberate, practiced. It wasn’t just about dominance, it was making sure you felt everything. And you did.

“Keep telling yourself that, baby,” he rasped against your ear. The way your breath caught and fluttered beneath his palm made your head spin from pleasure. Every nerve in your body lit up under the weight of his touch. His cock dragged against your walls relentlessly deep, precise, and unforgiving. He moved like he had a point to prove, and each stroke seemed to go against everything you were saying, each rougher than the last. Your body betrayed you with every second, clenching down around him, chasing that pressure, craving it.

The lack of air only made everything more intense. Your senses were heightened, your body hypersensitive to every slick grind of his hips, every low growl in your ear, every pulse of heat that you felt at the base of your body. You were dizzy from the lack of air and from the overwhelming pleasure that tangled itself with pain in the most addictive way. Your legs shook. Your mind blurred. And still, he held you right there, half breathless, fully undone, right on the edge of falling apart for him.

His hand slipped lower, trailing down your stomach with intention, until the pad of his finger found your clit. The first touch was anything but gentle, he circled the swollen bundle of nerves with rough, merciless pressure, dragging tight, practiced motions that made your hips twitch and your breath catch in your throat. A soft, broken sound escaped before you could stop it, small and helpless, and he grinned behind you like he’d been waiting for it.

A soft, involuntary whimper slipped past your lips, your body betraying you faster than your mind could catch up. You were close, so close. You could feel it in the way your cunt clung to him, gripping him with every thrust like you were trying to hold him inside forever. In the way your nails dug into his skin, desperate for something to anchor you. In the way your mouth hung open, but no air came, just the heat of sensation building to a sharp, impossible peak in your abdomen.

He could feel it too. The way you squeezed around him, the twitch of your thighs, the quiet, breathless sounds you didn’t even know you were making. And it made him meaner. Harsher. More deliberate. He rubbed harder, faster, fingers merciless as his cock pounded into you with maddening precision like he knew your body better than you did and was determined to remind you of it. “ Definity shut you up now, huh?” he murmured, voice low and wrecked but still a little chuckle escaping his lips.

You didn't even have the energy to respond back as you felt your head growing lighter with every passing second. Your vision had already started to blur the world around you, narrowing into nothing but sensation. Each shallow breath you managed was precious, stolen between his relentless thrusts and the pressure of his fingers tightening just enough to keep you between consciousness and not. Each breath came shorter, shallower, more strained, your chest rising in tiny gasps that barely reached your lungs

His hand around your throat tightened just a little more, and it sent your head reeling. The lack of oxygen was electrifying, making every nerve in your body hyperaware, your skin burning under the weight of his touch, your thoughts shattering with every thrust that dragged along your soaked walls. The coil in your core was painfully tight, hot, throbbing, and on the verge of snapping. Your body trembled, thighs shaking, heart hammering erratically as you hovered at the edge of release.

Your fingers clutched his arms, anything to ground yourself as your body betrayed you, hips pushing back into him, chasing that final spark. Your mind swam, floating somewhere between pleasure and passing out, and still he didn’t stop. His grip held you exactly where he wanted you, his cock slamming deep, hitting that perfect spot over and over he wanted you to break. Your head rolled back against his shoulder, barely there, barely holding on. “That’s it, baby. Just like that,” he grunted out

“C-close…,” you whimpered, the word barely audible, a shy whisper slipping from your mouth. You could barely recognize your own voice, fragile and pleading, stripped raw by desperation.

His hips slammed into you again, deeper and more deliberate than before, and the angle shifted ever so slightly, hitting that spot that lit your nerves on fire. And that’s when it hit. It tore through you violently that long, aching release pleasure erupting through your body in waves so intense your vision momentarily darkened, your back arched hard as a broken moan escaped your lips. Your cunt clamped around him in uncontrollable pulses, tighter than before, wetness flooding down your thighs. You saw stars behind your eyelids, white and blinding, your entire body shaking as your orgasm slammed into you with brutal force.

You were cumming and slipping at the same time drifting in the blur of not enough air, not enough thought, only the overwhelming rush of being so completely filled, so completely wrecked.

“You were talking all that shit earlier…” his hand finally released your throat. You collapsed forward almost instantly, your body folding into the sheets. A desperate, ragged gasp tore from your lungs as air rushed back into your body, sharp and overwhelming. The dizziness faded just enough to remind you where you were, who had you, and what he'd just done. “Can’t even form a sentence now, huh?”

But there was no time to come down. Because he didn’t stop. He was still moving behind you, still buried deep inside, still thrusting into your overstimulated, trembling body like he hadn’t just dragged you through the most intense high of your life. Every stroke now felt like too much, too deep, hitting nerves that were already fried and sparking. "P-please."

Your legs twitched with every thrust, your cunt still fluttering and wet, clenching around him involuntarily with every drag of his cock along your swollen walls. Your breath came in shallow, uneven gasps, each one laced with a whimper as the pleasure turned from intense to unbearable.

“Y-You’re… fucking evil,” you choked out, voice hoarse, barely more than a whisper against the mattress. You didn’t even sound angry. You sounded wrecked. And you were, as your body tried and failed to recover. Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, not from pain, but from the sheer intensity of it all, the way your body was still trying to catch up with what he’d just taken from you.

But he heard you. And he only fucked you harder. “You love this, don’t lie.” He was close, you could feel it. The way his cock twitched deep inside you with every punishing thrust, how his rhythm stuttered just for a breath before slamming back into you even harder. His breath had gone ragged, each exhale now a harsh sound against your skin, broken and uneven like he was fighting it, trying not to lose himself too soon. His fingers tightened where they gripped your waist, hips grinding forward with bruising force as he chased his high

And still, he didn’t let up. Not even as his cock throbbed inside you, swelling with the threat of release. Not even when he hissed through clenched teeth, his composure fracturing more with each second. His pace grew rougher, deeper, like he was trying to drag out every last second of control before it all snapped.

He buried himself to the hilt, again and again, grinding into that spot that had you whimpering and clenching around him, your body betraying you with every pulse. “Fuck…” he growled, voice low, cracked, like it burned coming out of his throat. “You feel so fucking good…”

But it didn't last long until his thrusts turned erratic, hips slamming into you with raw, desperate force. All that composure he held like was peeling away, layer by layer, until he was just as ruined as you sweat trickled along his body as his eyes locked on the way your body clenched and quivered around him.

You were gasping now, each breath barely landing, your face pressed into the mattress, lips parted and trembling as your walls fluttered around him, wet, tight, crazy sensitive. Your body was trying to recover, to breathe, but the rhythm of his hips refused to give you a break. Your legs twitched uncontrollably. Your thighs burned. Tears rolled down your face as the pleasure became unbearable, curling deep in your stomach again like your body didn’t care that you’d already come, didn’t care that you had nothing left to give.

“Can you do one more for me?” he grunted through clenched teeth, fingers digging into your waist as his thrusts turned frantic, cock twitching inside you with the promise of release. “Cum with me. Please.” Then his hand slid down, fingers finding your clit again, rubbing hard, fast, perfect circles.

You screamed a high, cracked sound torn from your throat as your body convulsed beneath him. It hit you hard. Your cunt clamped down so tight it made him groan, deep and guttural, like it ripped straight from his chest. “Fuck, fuck, fuck yes” he growled, hips bucking one last time before he slammed into you to the hilt and stilled, his body shaking as he spilled inside you. His cum filled you completely, and the way he clutched your body to his tight, shaking, breathless made it feel like everything shattered and melted at once.

You were stuffed so full of his cum you felt the way it spilled into you, warm and slowly. He probably had never come so much in his life. You were both gasping, spent, and wrecked. Your face was buried in the sheets, his forehead pressed to your shoulder, and both of you were trembling in the aftermath as he placed small kisses along your perfect skin. the intensity; from the overstimulation; and both of you from the way it had built and burned and broken in perfect sync.“Told you,” he whispered, voice hoarse, still out of breath, “that pussy is mine.”

The room was silent now, except for the ragged sound of both your breathing, his chest still rising and falling against your back, your face buried in the sheets, damp with sweat and tears you didn’t even realize had fallen. His body was heavy over yours, but not in a crushing way. In a grounding way. His arms wrapped around your waist, holding you there, as if he let go, you might float away.

Neither of you spoke for a while. Your legs were still trembling faintly beneath him, nerves buzzing, overstimulated. Your breath came in soft gasps, each one bringing you a little more back to earth. You were sore. Soaked. Completely unraveled. But warm. Unfortunately, you felt safe, too safe.

“My name’s Eren, by the way,” he said, his voice low and warm against your ear, still breathless but steady. “Eren Yeager.” And that’s when it clicked. Your breath caught in your throat. Your body, still curled into his, went suddenly still, even though you were limp from exhaustion, your mind surged forward, stunned awake. Eren Yeager. The name echoed in your head, over and over, dragging up pieces you should’ve put together hours ago.

The voice. The jaw. Those eyes. How had you not seen it? You blinked slowly, your gaze drifting toward the curve of his jaw, the way his damp hair clung to his temples, the lazy rise and fall of his chest. And yet now that you knew it was so obvious. The tension in his shoulders, the way he looked at you like he was always calculating something deeper. Like he knew exactly what effect he had on you from the beginning. You didn’t know how you couldn’t have noticed before.

It wasn’t just the name. It was everything about him. The energy. The weight of his presence. And now that he’d said it, now that the words had left his mouth, your brain was scrambling to figure out the man wrapped around you with the name that carried so much behind it. And he knew what was happening in your head. You could feel it in the quiet smirk tugging at the corner of his lips against your skin. The way he pulled you a little tighter, a little closer, like he was sealing it in.

“Figured it out, huh?” he murmured, his breath brushing your neck. “Knew you’d get there eventually.”

☆this will be a 6 part mini series so comment if you would like to be added to the tag list

#anime x reader #anime x y/n #eren yeager #eren x reader #aot x reader #aot smut #eren jaeger #eren x you #eren x black reader

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