#Why I said send prayers ^^

[mishoarts]

Made with love, sweat and tears,

Ladies and gentlemen I present my MASTERPIECE

MY SBG ANIMATION : Taste Of Me

Made with : IbisPaint , Procreate and InShot.

(This took a month of my life and was a risk for my educational state and smh my health it better be worth it ,,*dies*)

[acourtofquestions]

Overhead, the stars shone clear and bright, and though Mala had only once appeared to him at dawn, on the foothills across this very city, though she might be little more than a strange, mighty being from another world, he offered up a prayer anyway.

Then, he had begged Mala to protect Aelin from Maeve when they entered Doranelle, to give her strength and guidance, and to let her walk out alive. Then, he had begged Mala to let him remain with Aelin, the woman he loved. The goddess had been little more than a sunbeam in the rising dawn, and yet he had felt her smile at him.

Tonight, with only the cold fire of the stars for company, he begged her once more.

A curl of wind sent his prayer drifting to those stars, to the waxing moon silvering the camp, the river, the mountains.

He had killed his way across the world; he had gone to war and back more times than he cared to remember. And despite it all, despite the rage and despair and ice he'd wrapped around his heart, he'd still found Aelin. Every horizon he'd gazed toward, unable and unwilling to rest during those centuries, every mountain and ocean he'd seen and wondered what lay beyond... It had been her. It had been Aelin, the silent call of the mating bond driving him, even when he could not feel it.

They'd walked this dark path together back to the light. He would not let the road end here.

[spurgie-cousin]

Savanah, Garrison Brown's sister, made a very sweet post about her brother's passing and when I went to just leave a quick "sending you so much love from afar sweetheart" comment I saw Katie Joy's...................

I'm going to give her the benefit of the doubt (something she rarely gives the people she can profit off of) and assume she's just trying her best to say something nice but also just, don't say this "oh if only he knew you'd be sad he'd never do it" or "he was sick and didn't understand" kind of thing.......just maybe *don't* comment on the mindset of this 19 year old girl's brother who you did not know that took his own life. That first comment in particular made me so mad, like why would you think it's ok to tell Savanah that even in an instagram comment?? Jesus Christ.

[daisies-on-a-cup]

i kind of want to give will catholic guilt/make him grow up catholic but poor people catholic

[cumironi]

TOOTH FAIRY jjk men

feat. gojo, geto, nanami, toji, sukuna, shiu, higuruma

summary. it’s just a one time thing. one bite. one bite. and now they refuse one thing that keeps you alive? and what is that? yeah, $uck them off! and what do you do? being unhinged and just throwing a goddamn tantrum. what can they do? ban you from $ex? yeah, as if!

warning. non-sorcerer jjk men, established relationship, 23 you & 31 them, tantrums, petname(2), dirtytalk(?), c$ck-drunk maybe?, name-calling(s), degrading just a bit, you are being a brat and insufferable, overstimulated, abuse mentioned,

since a lot of you amazing people send me the sweetest anon messages (which i appreciate so so much 🥹💕), i’d really love to know who’s behind them! if you’re comfortable, feel free to leave me a little signature — it can be anything! an emoji, your name, a nickname, literally whatever you like 💌✨ i’ll be adding them to my lil friends list like in this link, so i can keep track of all the lovely souls who’ve been showing me love 🫶💖 thank you for being here!!

GOJO SATORU

you’re on your knees. he’s on his back. and he’s not letting you suck him. again.

your palms are pressed to his lower belly, thighs tight around his legs, drooling over the absolute gift of a dick that’s twitching against his stomach—and yet, despite all the teasing, the eye contact, the hungry little whines spilling out of you like prayers, he just lays there. arms folded behind his head. like a fucking lounger chair with abs.

“satoru.”

“mm?”

“why aren’t you in my throat right now.”

he hums like you just asked about the weather. “hmm… probably ‘cause last time, someone went full piranha halfway through and tried to devour me.”

“i slipped!”

he laughs—loud, unapologetic, his stupid pretty smile on full display. “you clamped down, baby. i yanked you off, and you were still holding on like a gremlin. i thought i lost circulation.”

you glare down at him, completely naked, chest heaving, pussy soaked between your thighs and still grinding slightly on his leg like your body’s acting on survival instinct alone. “you know what? next time i’m just gonna choke on air, is that better?! just pretend-cock until i pass out?!”

he bites his lip to stop from laughing again.

you growl. “this is abuse. emotional. spiritual. oral neglect.”

“oral neglect?” he echoes, wiping fake tears. “my god.”

“YES. i haven’t sucked you off in days. DAYS, satoru! my lips are getting soft! my jaw forgot how to unhinge!”

“baby—”

you slam your fists on his thighs dramatically. “I’M WASTING AWAY. there are people in the world who would kill for this opportunity, and you’re out here being stingy!”

“you bit me.”

“WITH LOVE!”

he stretches, big and smug and insufferable. his cock twitches again, begging for your mouth like it misses you too. he knows. he’s evil. and you’re about to cry.

“i just wanna taste,” you mumble, lower lip trembling as you drag yourself up his body like a starving animal. “just a little lick. please. please satoru. i’ll be so good. i’ll moan and everything. i’ll gargle if you want me to.”

he blinks. “you’ll what?”

“satoru,” you say again, softer this time, almost too genuine for the chaos you were spewing just minutes ago. “i’ll be gentle. i’ll go slow, i promise.” your hands slide further up his thighs, and you bat your lashes at him with a look so sinful it could start a religion.

“you said that last time. and i nearly blacked out. i saw stars. you think that’s normal?”

“maybe i wanted to show you god. ever think of that?”

he snorts, gropping you by the boob with no warning. “you’re a freak. a dangerous, beautiful little freak.” his voice drops, eyes hooded now, and you can feel him twitch beneath you even as he tries to act tough.

“then let me be your little danger,” you purr, leaning forward to bite his earlobe just enough to make him shiver. “just one chance. i’ll be nice. i won’t leave a single tooth mark—unless you want me to.”

his head falls back with a low groan, hips jerking up slightly before he slaps a hand over his eyes like he’s shielding himself from the sun. “you’re lucky you’re cute. and hot. and you smell really good. ugh.”

you place both hands on his hips, face hovering dangerously close. “satoru. i’m gonna start crying.”

“don’t you dare—”

a sob bubbles in your throat. “i need it.”

he sighs like a man who’s lived through five wars and still got defeated by your tears. “you’re insane.”

“and your problem! now give me my fucking lollipop!”

you lurch forward—and he catches you by the forehead with one hand, holding you back like a villain holding off an overexcited puppy. you squeal. your hands are slapping at his thighs. your mouth is open. and he’s still denying you.

“okAY, OKAY,” he says, eyes wide, panicked laughter spilling out as you start going full feral. “baby—baby, fine, you get ONE chance. one! i swear if i feel even a hint of teeth—”

“you won’t even remember your name, satoru,” you growl, lowering like a woman possessed. “now shut up and let me ruin your fucking life.”

“you’re unbelievable,” he laughs, finally lifting his hips in surrender. “get over here and do your worst. or your best. god, i don’t even know anymore.”

GETO SUGURU

you’re already underneath him, thighs twitching, body bare and needy, his cock dragging along your slick folds just enough to make your brain fizz. his hair’s loose, dark and wild, face annoyingly calm while you’re fighting for your damn life beneath him.

“suguru,” you hiss, hips bucking. “let me suck your dick or i swear to god i’ll set the apartment on fire.”

he raises an eyebrow, unbothered, not moving an inch closer. “interesting escalation. is that before or after you bite me again?”

you whimper—genuinely whimper, back arching as you clutch his arms like a woman who’s just heard she’s been banished from salvation. “it wasn’t a bite, it was a nibble! a love nibble! a little hello from my molars!”

“you broke the skin.”

“i’m in mourning, suguru. don’t you see me?” your voice cracks as you throw your arm across your forehead like a shakespearean tragedy. “i haven’t had cock in my mouth in two days. two. i’m dehydrated. my jaw’s cramping from emptiness. i’m dying.”

he blinks slowly. “you ate an entire box of cookies this morning and called it your ‘oral coping mechanism.’”

“because you won’t feed me properly!”

his dick twitches against you and your eyes lock on it instantly, like a predator. you try to sit up, but he pushes you back down with a hand to your chest like you’re a possessed little brat on the verge of attacking.

“uh uh. no. last time you gave head, you went feral. it wasn’t a blowjob, it was an assassination attempt.”

“you liked it!” you screech, trying to bite his arm just to prove a point.

he yanks it back before your teeth land and gives you a look that’s 50% exasperated dad and 50% amused boyfriend who absolutely lives for your bullshit. “and you keep proving my point.”

you lean closer, brushing your nose against his jaw, your voice dropping to that sweet, sultry tone that makes him tense up every damn time. “suguru,” you whisper, grabbing his hips and dragging your nails into them like a demon, you murmur, pressing soft kisses under his ear, trailing them down to his neck, “if you don’t let me suck your dick right now, i will walk outside, climb on the kitchen counter, and yell to the neighbors that you don’t fuck me anymore.”

he sighs deeply. “you’re so dramatic.”

“i’m in pain!” you wail, rocking your hips against his just to make your point clearer. “your cock was in my mouth one minute, and the next you’re yanking me off like i’m some horny stray! i’m starving!”

he leans down, mouth brushing your ear, voice low and sinful. “you think starving is bad? keep whining. you’ll be begging for days.”

you make a noise—somewhere between a growl and a sob—and immediately start pounding your fists against his chest. “LET! ME! SUCK! YOUR! COCK!”

“no!” he says, wheezing from laughter as he holds your wrists. “not until you can promise to behave.”

“i won’t! i never will! i want to be ruined! i want to suck you until you’re twitching and sobbing and i black out like a fucking feral beast!”

he stares at you.

you pant.

he runs a hand over his face. “…jesus christ.”

you grab his cock.

he lets you.

“…fine,” he mutters. “but if you bite me again, i’m putting you in a muzzle.”

“deal,” you purr, already sliding down. “and maybe a leash next time too.”

NANAMI KENTO

“absolutely not.”

his tone is calm. firm. the kind of firm that makes people shut up and sit down. but not you. oh, never you. instead, you’re standing at the foot of the bed with both hands on your hips, hair wild, eyes blazing, looking like you’re about to go to war.

“you’re denying me?” you say, like he just said no to proposing. “me? your girlfriend? the woman who washes your shirts and steals your ties and lets you use her thighs as stress pillows?”

“you bit me,” he reminds you coolly, as if he hasn’t been shifting in his chair all day thinking about it. “very hard. and I’m not in the mood to gamble with my physical wellbeing tonight.”

“it was one time!” you cry, throwing yourself dramatically onto the mattress. “and you made that noise—you know, the one that sounds like you’re possessed by lust? it turned me on so bad i just lost control!”

“that noise,” he says dryly, “was the sound of pain.”

“okay, but, like... sexy pain!” you scoot closer, crawling toward him with the dedication of a woman on a mission. your hands are already creeping up his thighs as he sits there in his crisp button-down, sleeves rolled up, glasses low on his nose, looking like the hottest finance god who ever lived. “you looked so hot. so flustered. so... biteable.”

nanami exhales slowly through his nose, as if he’s meditating. you can see his restraint cracking—see the way his hand twitches like he’s fighting the urge to grab you and punish you in the most delicious way.

“i’m not some chew toy for you to get riled up and gnaw on when you’re horny,” he mutters, but his voice is already lower, rougher, his legs spreading just a little as your lips graze his thigh.

“nooo, you’re my perfect, hardworking, ridiculously handsome man with the most glorious dick i’ve ever seen,” you moan dramatically. “i miss him. he misses me. we had a thing, nanami. we had a connection.”

he actually groans under his breath, tossing his head back for a moment. “you’re insufferable.”

“you love it.” your mouth is already pressed against his clothed length, nuzzling through the fabric like it’s the only source of oxygen in the room. “you love it when i get like this. desperate. needy. dramatic. all for you.”

“you make it... extremely difficult to be the responsible one in this relationship,” he mutters, finally threading a hand through your hair and gripping it just a bit too tight. “i’m trying to have boundaries.”

“boundaries are for cowards,” you say, voice muffled by his zipper. “i’m not leaving until i’ve got your dick in my throat or you drag me away kicking and screaming.”

he glares down at you, jaw clenched, but his eyes are blown wide and his breath’s hitching like he’s already giving in. “and if you bite me again?”

you blink up at him innocently. “then you’ll have to teach me a lesson. daddy.”

his hand tightens in your hair so fast, you whimper. his face drops into something darker. flushed, heated, unchained.

“that’s it,” he says, voice a low growl now. “you get one chance. no teeth. and if you so much as grazed me—i swear to god, i’ll tie you to the bed and leave you there aching for hours.”

you shiver. “promise?”

he groans again—this time pained for a different reason—and unbuckles his belt with a look that spells doom and bliss in equal measure.

“you’re lucky i love you,” he mutters, pushing your hair out of your face like he’s about to watch art unfold.

“i know,” you grin, already lowering your head with stars in your eyes. “and your dick’s lucky too.”

TOJI FUSHIGURO

“look at you.”

his voice is low. almost a purr. one arm thrown over the back of the couch, the other resting on his thick thigh, fingers absently tapping like he’s got all the time in the world. and there you are—on the damn floor, crawling toward him with a sheet half-draped around your bare body, your knees hitting the carpet with each desperate shuffle.

“you’re so dramatic,” he chuckles, watching you like a predator, boxer briefs soaked through with a very obvious dark patch from just how much he’s leaking. you two had barely finished wrestling on the bed—bodies tangled, lips bitten, hands everywhere—before he escaped, telling you to cool off and earn it if you really wanted him.

and you did. god, you did.

“toji, please,” you whisper, clutching his thighs like they’re your lifeline, forehead pressed just above his knee. your lips are swollen, eyes glassy, your whole body buzzing from the leftover high of grinding against him. the sheet slides a little lower, barely covering anything at all. “i need it. need you. want your cock so bad it hurts—”

he snorts. “you didn’t seem to have any problem using your teeth last time, sweetheart.”

“that was reflex!” you cry, kissing the muscle of his thigh, voice shaking with humiliation and need. “you were flexing. i blacked out. i was in heat or something.”

“you damn near bit me,” he mutters, but he’s already spreading his legs wider, letting you slip in closer between them. “ain’t lettin’ you suck me off until you beg like you mean it.”

you look up at him, face hot, eyes wild. “toji, i am. look at me, i’m naked and on my knees—i’m practically weeping for it.” your fingers curl into his thighs, massaging slowly. “i love your cock. i miss it in my mouth. i wanna taste you so bad i’m shaking. please let me make it up to you, i’ll be good, i swear. no teeth, just tongue. soft, warm, wet, messy—however you want it, please.”

he groans under his breath, cock twitching under the wet fabric, already starting to swell again.

“fuck. you’re pathetic,” he says, but there’s affection in it. a twisted sort of pride. “my poor little slut crawling for dick. what’d i do to you, huh?”

“ruined me,” you whimper. “you broke me. there’s no coming back. i need you in my throat or i’m gonna lose my mind.”

his hand drops to your head, gripping your hair tight. “you’re sick.”

“you made me sick,” you whisper, nose brushing the base of his length. “and now you gotta take responsibility.”

toji laughs—deep, dark, filthy. “that so?” he lets you tug his boxers down just enough to free him, his cock soaked, heavy, dripping against your cheek. “you better treat him right this time. if i feel teeth, you’re not gettin’ shit for a week.”

you nod frantically, lips parting as you kiss the head, licking up his length like it’s the answer to every prayer you’ve ever said.

“good girl,” he mutters, voice all grit and gravel, hand tightening in your hair like he’s anchoring himself to reality. “make it nice. messy. and if you make me cum like that again, maybe i’ll let you ride me like the rabid little bitch you are.”

you moan in response, mouth full, eyes fluttering, sheet slipping off your back completely as you settle in between his thighs like it’s your altar.

and toji?

he just grins.

“atta girl. daddy’s real proud.”

RYOMEN SUKUNA

“are you insane?” sukuna growls, yanking you off his cock with a wet pop, thick fingers gripping your jaw as he glares down at you like you just committed a federal crime. “i told you no fuckin’ teeth, brat.”

you blink up at him, dazed, spit trailing down your chin, his taste still hot on your tongue—and then you gasp, like you’ve just been stabbed in the heart.

“it was an accident!” you shriek, dramatically flopping back onto the bed with a loud wail, dragging the back of your hand across your forehead like a Victorian widow. “i didn’t mean to! you’re so big it’s hard to breathe, sukuna!”

he groans and rolls his eyes, turning away, his cock still hard and glistening, twitching with every heartbeat. “and now you’re being fuckin’ dramatic.”

you let out a gasping, exaggerated sob. “because you RUINED me! you ripped your cock out like i was some uncivilized beast! i was worshipping you! that was the best head you’ve ever gotten and you know it!”

“you bit me!”

“NOT ON PURPOSE!” you're full-on yelling now, wrapping yourself in the sheets like you’re mourning the death of your dignity. “i was in the zone! it slipped! i’m sorry, your majesty, please just let me suck you again before i combust!”

he doesn’t say anything. just leans against the wall with his arms crossed, cock still leaking, veins bulging from how hard he is—and that only makes you worse.

you crawl to the edge of the bed and point at it like it’s a crime scene. “look at it! it’s crying, sukuna. your dick misses me. it’s not even mad! we made up already! we’ve been through so much together, and you’re going to let one little bite ruin everything?!”

he barks out a laugh—real and sharp and rough—and wipes a hand down his face. “you’re fucking unhinged.”

you whimper, lower lip wobbling as you shuffle back onto your knees, reaching for him with trembling hands like a woman starved. “i just want to make you feel good,” you whine, hands clutching his thighs dramatically once he is close. “please let me try again. i’ll be slow, i’ll go so soft, i’ll baby it. i’ll kiss it better, i swear.” you lean in and whisper like it’s sacred: “i’ll sing lullabies to it.”

he nearly chokes on his breath, head thrown back in a bark of laughter, but when he looks down again, his expression twists. your eyes are glassy, cheeks flushed, lips swollen and wet from earlier—and you’re trembling with need, thighs pressed together like you’ll die if he doesn’t let you back on his cock.

he watches you for a second. his cock twitches again. hard. twitchy.

“…fuck me,” he mutters, running a hand through his hair. “you’re so annoying it’s hot.”

you light up. “so does that mean—”

“no,” he growls, pushing you back onto the bed again before took another steps back. “you’re gonna lay there and think about what you did.”

you wail like a banshee. “I WAS THINKING ABOUT IT WHILE I WAS SUCKING YOU!”

“TOO BAD.”

you thrash under the sheets like you’re possessed, kicking the mattress, fists in your hair. “I HATE YOU! I HATE YOU SO MUCH! I’M GONNA DIE WITHOUT YOUR DICK IN MY MOUTH, IS THAT WHAT YOU WANT? TO KILL ME? MURDER BY DENIAL?!”

sukuna’s lips twitch.

“drama queen,” he mutters, but he’s already walking back toward the bed.

and you?

you’re waiting, pretty little pout on your lips, one eye peeking open, whispering:

“…does that mean i can suck it now?”

he sighs.

“if you fuckin’ bite me again, i’m tying you up and making you watch me jerk off.”

“…deal.” his cock , thick and soaked and pulsing against your cheek. “mmm,” you moan, nuzzling him like you’ve been starving for this. “hi, baby. missed me?”

“you talk to my dick more than you talk to me,” sukuna mutters, watching you with a half-crazed grin. “but keep going, let’s see if you can make me cum without getting punished.”

you wink up at him, tongue out, already devouring him.

and sukuna just growls, one hand in your hair, the other gripping the back of your head like he’s barely holding himself back.

“that’s it. make it messy, slut. show me how desperate you really are.”

SHIU KONG

“mmph—wait, ow—okay, nope, that’s it,” shiu grunts, suddenly yanking your head back by your hair. his cock slips free from your mouth, slick and flushed, and his eyes are sharp with irritation.

“you bit me again.”

you blink up at him, wide-eyed, lips shiny and red like sin, a little dazed. “...i didn’t mean to—”

“you bit my dick.”

“it was barely a nibble!”

one sharp, violent bite,” he snaps, brows raised, looking at you like you’re some wild animal that got inside his house. “you think that shit’s cute?”

you sit back on your heels, eyes wide, chest heaving like you've just survived a war. “it wasn’t on purpose!” you shout, voice cracking. “you grabbed my hair and moaned like a goddamn demon, i thought i was dying—it scared me! it was a survival response!”

shiu runs a hand over his face, cock still standing tall and twitchy like it doesn’t care what his brain is saying. “a survival response is ducking. not biting the head of my dick like it owes you money.”

you gasp again—deeply offended—before flopping backwards onto the bed with a loud, wounded groan, sheets tangling around your body like a collapsing ghost. “i can’t believe this,” you moan, hand over your chest. “i’m being punished. denied. forsaken.”

“good,” he mutters. “think about what you did.”

“i was! i was repenting! with my mouth!” you shriek, writhing on the bed now, like your soul is being pulled out of your body. “and you ripped your cock out like i was some kind of threat! do you hate me?!”

he stares at you like he’s mentally filing a restraining order.

and you? you crumble. dramatically. hands over your hair, you tangled into the sheets like you’ve been mortally wounded, the back of your hand flung across your forehead like you’re starring in a Shakespearean tragedy.

“oh my god,” you wail. “you’re rejecting me. again.”

“yes. because you keep fucking biting me.”

“i didn’t mean to! i got excited!” you sob. “i told you, you were moaning like, like... some low-budget porno villain and you were so deep, i couldn’t breathe, and then—then my brain shut down!”

shiu’s hand is on his hip now, head tilted, staring at you like you’re a broken vending machine that just ate his money.

“you are too unhinged to have a mouth license.”

you gasp, offended. “you’re gonna punish me for enthusiasm?! for dedication?! shiu, i was trying to impress you! i wanted to be your top-ranking throat champion!”

“you’re disqualified.”

you let out a long, theatrical wail, rolling yourself in the sheets like a demented spring roll, clutching a pillow to your chest.

“then what’s the point of living?!” you cry out. “what’s the point of being sexy if i can’t even use it?! i was born to suck your cock, and now it’s been taken from me. how cruel the world is.”

he groans, wiping his hand down his face. “you’re exhausting.”

“then let me drain you!” you sit up, eyes wild, hair a mess, sheets slipping off your shoulder. “you’re already hard again! your dick misses me! he’s not even mad! he’s asking for me—i can hear him whispering. he said, ‘where’s she goin’? bring her back.’”

he’s losing it now. jaw clenched. lips twitching like he’s trying not to laugh. “i should muzzle you and put you in a cage.”

you moan. actually moan. “yes, daddy, punish me for my crimes! let the punishment be your cock down my throat!”

shiu walks away like he’s going to go pray or find an exorcist.

you?

you follow him on your knees, dragging the sheet behind you like a bridal veil, whispering, “please… please, just let me make it right… let me apologize to him personally…”

he turns around slowly, staring down at you. his cock’s still hard. you both know it.

“you swear you won’t bite me again?”

you nod frantically. “i’ll treat him like a prince. a baby lamb. i’ll be a good girl, i swear.”

“…if i feel even one tooth, you’re getting a gag and i’m going to edge the fuck out of you all night.”

your eyes sparkle.

“you promise?”

HIGURUMA HIROMI

you’re under his desk, knees pressed into the carpet, palms spread against his thighs like you were summoned by divine command. his slacks are already unzipped—his shirt sleeves rolled, pen tucked behind his ear, glasses slipping down his nose. he looks like a goddamn courtroom fantasy.

you’re seconds away from having your dinner. the meal of kings. your mouth is practically watering, lips already parting as your fingers hook into his waistband.

but the second you tug his briefs down and get a glimpse of him, warm and heavy and waiting for worship—his hand snaps down.

he stops you. stops you.

your mouth hovers a breath away. “what the fuck?”

his eyes don’t even lift from the paper he’s reviewing. “no.”

you blink. “no??”

“you bit me two days ago.”

you sit back on your heels like you’ve been physically struck. like he just told you your favorite bakery burned down.

“that wasn’t on purpose!”

his brow twitches slightly, finally glancing down at you over the rim of his glasses. “you’ve said that three times now.”

“because it’s true!” you cry, grabbing his thighs dramatically. “it was enthusiastic teeth, not malicious teeth!”

he exhales slowly, setting his pen down like he’s preparing to deliver a verdict. “my cock disagrees.”

“he was moaning! he was into it!”

“he was in pain.”

you gasp, hands flying to your mouth. “you’re lying to turn him against me!”

“he has trust issues now.”

you lurch forward again, arms wrapping around his hips as you press your cheek to his thigh like a rejected lover begging for one last dance. “i’ll rebuild that trust. i’ll make amends. i’ll speak to him directly if i have to.”

“you’re not putting my cock through trauma bonding.”

you groan like you're dying, forehead thudding against his knee. “hiromi, please. this is cruel and unusual. i’m starving. you’re there, he’s there—everyone’s here! let me serve my country.”

he’s trying not to smile. you can tell. you see the slight twitch in his lip, the way his fingers tap against the desk like he’s counting to ten.

“you're unbelievable.”

“i’m committed.”

“you’re a menace.”

you pout up at him, eyes big, lower lip trembling. “i’ll be soft. so soft. i’ll hum him lullabies. i’ll put a little bow on him if that’s what he needs.”

he groans under his breath and leans back slightly in the chair. “if i let you, and i feel even one tooth…”

“then what?” you whisper, excited now, leaning in. “you gonna make me cry?”

he leans forward, resting one elbow on his knee, staring you down with that judge-like stare that makes you throb.

“i’ll finish on your tongue and tell you it’s your punishment.”

you grin like the fucking devil. “your honor, i accept the sentence.”

his fly is open.

you win.

for now.

[erwinsvow]

𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐦𝐲 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐦 𝐲𝐨𝐮 — 𝐚.𝐜.

summary: against better judgement, you send a letter to a man at folsom with very sad eyes. against even better judgement, you send letters every week for years until he stops replying one day. and against everything you know, when he shows up at your door, you invite him inside.

pairing: prison letters reader x andrew cody

word count: 12.4k

tags: reader is silly and does things i do not recommend. kids do not write letters to prisoners and fall in love with them. unless it's andrew cody obviously. lots of context no one asked for. nurse!reader, descriptions of wound (andrew cuts himself to get into your work because why wouldn't he!), descriptions of wound handling, smut (oral - f receiving and mating press and the tiniest hint of breeding). takes place in season one, but just imagine he's got season two's hair. you have to fully immerse yourself in the fact that it's andrew cody and then ask yourself—wouldn't you take him home too? it's not her fault!

author's note: here she is! thank you for the patience ♡

you honestly had signed up as a joke. the club was known through your campus to be run by a couple of bleeding hearts. no one had thought the school would approve their activities—letters to prisoners. it was a recipe for disaster.

you should have known better.

but a friend of a friend was involved, and you knew it would make your nursing school application look better, and honestly, you didn’t think anything would come of it. a couple of letters here and there. you had thought it’d be all anonymous, messages of motivation and prayers signed with a first name only.

until your friend—bleeding heart and hopeless romantic, trying to appeal to those very same qualities in you—had shown you the website. that’s when you should have realized it wasn’t just a recipe, it was going to be a disaster.

the prisoners recorded videos—thirty seconds, short and sweet. a name, a couple of sentences about them, hometown and hobbies. underneath the video you could see what they had been arrested for. only the ones who were in for petty crimes—drugs and robbery, things where no one else had really gotten hurt, were allowed to partake. that was good at least. didn’t need any murderers sending letters to pretty co-eds.

your friend picked the guy she thought was the cutest. you watched his video—he was handsome, you couldn’t deny it. but the more videos you watched, the less you wanted to write a letter. you could almost see it, the desperation behind their eyes. it seemed like every man had nefarious intent. like your prettily written letter would not be used for motivation and prayers of a better life outside.

you decided not to send one. you’d rather have an empty slot on your application than a bad feeling in your gut for the rest of the semester. it’s not like the prison was across the country—it was just a couple of hours away.

she asked you to give it one more chance, watch a couple more videos. just pick a cute one, she’d told you. when you’d made a noise of disapproval, she had rolled her eyes.

“okay, pick whoever seems the nicest, then.”

so you had.

the video had been labeled andrew cody. first degree robbery.

the man in the video had been incredibly genuine. you don’t remember exactly what he had said—just bits and pieces. you knew he was from oceanside, born and raised from the way he sounded. he said he had a lot of brothers and a sister back at home. that he spent his time working out and reading books to distract himself from how noisy it was inside. the first thing he’d do when he got out was go to the beach and listen to the waves and breathe in the clean salty air.

and deep down inside, you knew you were just as much of a bleeding heart as the rest of your friends. you had folded instantly.

but it wasn’t just that. you spent the next several nights thinking about him. sad eyes, a singular half-smile at his own joke and then a real one when he mentioned going to the beach once he was released. he’d followed it up with—not that it’ll be any time soon. that made you sad, in turn. you thought about what he was like before prison—did he smile more? was he always so sad?

you thought about a lot of things. more than whatever your friends did, telling you how they had sent their letters, flirty yet inherently professional, so as not to get in trouble with the advisor.

you took a while to send yours. first you couldn’t think of what to write—everything felt so stupid compared to what he must be going through. andrew would hardly want to hear about the mundaneness of your daily life, or the struggles of trying to get into the nursing program.

you thought about not sending a letter at all after the first few times you tried to put pen to paper.

and then you thought about how sad he must feel, how lonely and scared, how terrible it would be to see all the other prisoners get letters besides him.

so you drove to the beach. you surprisingly had more in common with andrew cody than you even realized when you selected him. there was nothing you loved more than the beach, which is why you had even picked your college to begin with. and now, four years later about to graduate, you couldn’t imagine living anywhere else.

you caught the sunrise. you brought your little notebook with you to the water after setting your bag down on the bench. the seagulls were flying around, a couple of other beach-goers walking along the border where the sand met the ocean. it was a day like any other.

there were two sides of you—a hopeless romantic inside of an inherently logical girl. one side argued how stupid it was to send letters to a stranger. the other wondered if this would be the day that changes your life. you push away the thought and focus on writing the damn thing.

you thought andrew might like if the letter smelled like the salt-water. the stupid idea felt a lot less silly when you were attempting it, bringing your notebook all the way down to the water and hovering it. a slightly bigger wave caught you by surprise, the corners getting wet where it splashed up.

cursing to yourself, you walked back to the bench with sandy feet. and then you started writing.

dear andrew, and then you paused. fuck. you got out some of the introductory stuff—your first name, that you were a nursing student. it took a while to get the rest of the page filled, until you stopped for a moment and thought about what you would tell the man with the sad eyes if he was sitting next to you.

i came to the beach to write this letter. i’m sorry if the corners are wrinkled when you get it, i almost dropped it in the water trying to get it to smell like the beach so you had a little piece of home with you. i’m not near oceanside but it’s still the pacific.

i can’t imagine how hard it must be to grow up near the water and then be so far away for so long. but at least you know it’ll always be waiting for you when you get released. they want us to write motivational things but i’m not sure how motivating it would be for you reading this letter about my silly life. so i thought i’d write about the beach instead.

it’s about seven in the morning. the weather isn’t too cold and sky is pink and orange right now. the waves were calmer an hour ago when i got here but now it’s getting more intense. there’s a couple with their dog, and another man running on the sand. i’m on a bench writing this, but i’ll walk along the water again before i leave. i would try to send you a shell but i’m sure they’d take it away. maybe sand?

i love the sound of the waves too. my school isn’t close enough to hear it, but i have one of those machines that makes the noises. it helps a lot when i’m trying to sleep. maybe you can get one when you get out too.

you fill up a page, and then another page. when you fold up the letter and slip it into the envelope, you take a couple grains of sand and drop it in there. a little piece of home for him.

then you mail the letter, and think that was that.

+

two weeks later, you get a letter in the mail. you’d heard some of the other girls had also gotten responses—some had been mildly wholesome, while others had been more along the lines of what are you wearing?

but you weren’t worried when you opened yours. andrew didn’t seem the creepy type to you, it felt more like… like he would be glad to have someone to talk to.

you read it in bed, holding an old stuffed animal tightly. his handwriting is stiff and neat, the evenness of the letters and dotted i’s and crossed t’s makes you smile. the way he wrote your name, with bleeding ink like he had pressed too hard into the paper while doing so, made you smile wider.

the first line—thanks for the sand—made you laugh.

andrew writes of the book he’s just read, how the beach you described sounds just like the one in his hometown, and a request that you tell him more about your life in the next letter. his letter isn’t as long as yours, which makes sense to you. he couldn’t have that much to write about. but the last line is what really gets you—thank you for the letter. it’s nice to talk to someone.

you blink away tears, unsure when you had started crying. you reread the letter twice over the next day and a half, deciding to head back to the beach early in the morning to write the next one.

and you’ve always been bad at this. your friends have always called you a hopeless romantic—but maybe you’re just in too deep. it was the product of having been alone for your entire life, not having the dreamy, intense love that so many of your friends had already gone through once or twice at this age. the result had manifested in how you treated the world around you. every door someone held open, every nice response, every lingering gaze could mean something more. that this could be the person, that this could be your soulmate.

you knew it was stupid. nothing could be stupider than assuming that a prisoner, for god’s sake, would be anything more than just that—a prisoner you write letters to. but your heart still beats faster each time you reread the letter, and when you think of his pretty, sad eyes and earnest expression, the urge to write another letter haunts over your entire body.

dear andrew, thank you for writing back. thank you again for writing back and not being creepy (like the responses some of my friends got). i could tell you more about my life but i really wasn’t lying—it’s pretty silly and mostly boring, but since you asked so nicely i’ll try for you. right now i’m getting ready for graduation. i bought a white dress last week. i’m waiting to hear if i got into the nursing program here. i majored in nursing so I just need to do one more year and then after that i can go work in the hospital. i’m thinking about labor and delivery since i think it would be so nice to see babies all day, but one of my friends said the emergency room is always hiring. she thinks it would toughen me up. but I’m not so sure i want to be tough. just incase all of this school talk is boring you, i’ll just tell you about my day on the condition that you'll tell me about yours. yesterday i woke up early and went on a walk. i made breakfast and went to class, and then studied in the library. my friend showed me a creepy response from one of the fellow inmates (by the way, thank you again for not being creepy.) i walked to get a chai—i don't really like coffee. and then i studied, watched the bachelor. it was terrible! my favorite contestant got sent home :(. and had dinner, then I went to sleep early because i woke up early to come to the beach today to write this for you. so i went to sleep thinking about this letter and woke up thinking about it too.

you add a little bit more about your routine this time, just so he has something to read about. you try to make yourself sound interesting where you can—but you’re really not. and you don’t want to force it, make your letters sound grand and full of lies.

you don’t know why—it’s not like you’ll ever meet him. but lying to andrew feels wrong, you guess.

stupid. you’re stupid for adding the last part—but something in your heart flutters reading the line again, because you did. andrew’s sad eyes are in your mind all the time, and you know it’s just a silly infatuation, that he’s a prisoner and you’re a random student and more likely than not, he’s not going to respond to this letter. but you still keep it in.

and so you send the letter. and what’s worse—the one you get back makes your heart swell. he says that you describe your routine so well he can almost see it happening in his head like a movie. he says that he could describe his day-to-day but that it might make you sad. you’re sure it will. he seems to know a lot about you from just a handful of letters.

you reply. he sends another. you reply. and before you can even discern what’s happened, this has been going on for the better part of a year and a half.

andrew gets all the life updates—your nursing school acceptance, how the first year goes. early morning clinicals, the mean preceptor who made your life hell for a month, the baby you got to help deliver, the cat you’re thinking about getting. and the not so great stuff—despite the nursing shortage, it seems the only available job at the hospital you like is in the emergency room.

you don’t give him names but he figures it out well enough. the program you sent the letters through was smart enough not to include the university’s name in the return address, but dumb enough to use a p.o. box in the same city. and in that city, there’s only two colleges, and only one of those has a nursing program.

these are the things he uses to figure out where you are after he gets out—not that you need to know any of that just yet.

after you get the job, the letters are stamped with the mark of the local post office. you must not know that they’re doing that, now that you can’t send the letters through the school anymore. that’s the last piece of the puzzle, figuring out which emergency room you had been working in.

he keeps those letters. they’re his sanctuary—pages and pages about your life. the highs and lows of an innocent girl who thought it would be a good idea to send letters to a prisoner. letters where you asked about him, how he was feeling, how he was doing. how much time he had left, how he thinks the next parole meeting will go, how that annoying guard has been recently. how’s your family, andrew?

if he closes his eyes, he can almost see you. you’re a faceless entity, a glowing angel with a halo hovering in his mind when he really needs you. you’re too perfect to be real—and he knows you would be outside too. if you can care this much through letters, go out of your way to send them even after you graduate, he can only imagine how you’d be if you stood in front of him.

the other students who sent letters stopped after one or two. he’s likely the only one who’s still getting them, and when someone questions who they’re from, he tells a story about his girl, waiting for him outside. a nurse—smart and pretty and devoted and who never fails to send him a weekly update. lives too far to drive up here but he’ll be there one day.

and then he gets sent to solitary.

he doesn’t like to think about it, if he can avoid it. sometimes the noises of the world get to him, brings him back to days and hours he wish he could wipe from his memory. the sound machine you recommended in your very first letter helps some. but the day he goes free, there’s only one sound he knows will calm him down—your voice, the first time he’ll get to hear it.

he has to go home first. he needs a car, the internet, a couple of phone calls to make sure he’s going to the right place.

days turn into weeks. unfortunately—very unfortunately. the only thing andrew wants is to finally see you in person, to finally hear what your voice sounds like. what color is your hair? what color are your eyes? he knows you like yellow—what would he find if he saw you? yellow hair clips? painted nails? how about your apartment? would the walls be yellow?

no, probably not. you rent. you wouldn’t do anything that wouldn’t get you your security deposit back. you’re too good for that, too safe.

yellow sheets, maybe. blankets, pillows. if he closes his eyes, he can imagine himself in it.

he tries to leave after the first job but there’s too many watchful eyes, too many moving pieces. he needs to get everything together—his truck, cash and some cards, a plausible excuse. he needs to make sure no one comes following him, needs to make sure that in his quest to come find you, he doesn’t get you tangled into the web of his family instead. he’s stuck somewhere between figuring out how to keep you safe and the realization that the safest you’ll ever be is right now, before he comes for you.

but fuck, if it doesn’t haunt him. the fact that he’s finally so close to you. that you’re a car ride away. that somewhere out there is the girl who, one day, realized another letter wouldn’t be coming.

had you cried then? been upset? wondered what had happened? bothered to find out if he was dead or freed or living without you? he hates that he couldn’t get you another letter to explain himself, but he figures explaining in person would be easier, and better. in all those years, you never once wrote him about a date or a boyfriend or anything in that realm.

the way your last few letters were, it were almost as if he was your boyfriend. (he lets the thought linger inside him for a few seconds, if that. any longer and it would possess him like a demon and he’d be rendered useless. unable to work, unable to think, unable to breathe. just him and the idea that he was that important to someone else.)

+

and then one day, a couple days after a job and after being fed up with the entire world being scared of him, he leaves to find you.

that’s just the thing—no one understands him. all his life, he’s been the unstable one, the one others are worried about, frightened of. but no one understands that there’s nothing to be afraid of.

no one, except maybe you.

so he says he’ll be back in a week, and he drives down to the hospital where you work.

he hasn’t gotten a real look at you yet. he spent the first night in the parking lot of the emergency room. he watches hordes of nurses go in and out, and no one stands out. he spends some time doing research—nurses only work three times a week.

his odds of seeing you for the rest of the time he’s in town are fifty/fifty. it feels like he should be able to pick you out from a crowd, with the way he knows you so intimately, but he can’t. he keeps an eye out for yellow water bottles or shoes or lunch bags, but he doesn’t see any for two days.

so he decides that he needs to get inside.

pope keeps a pocket knife on his person, and another one hidden in the car in case of emergencies. that’s what he uses to slice his palm open so he has an excuse to get inside. not too deep—he’s not stupid. just deep enough to need stitches, shallow enough that he can still feel all his fingers and wiggle them around.

and then he goes inside, and he waits.

each time the doors open, a different nurse steps out. some are too old, others too young. no one has anything yellow on them, or the personality that he knows could only belong to you. cheery, but serious. empathetic to a fault. you would probably cry if you saw a kid crying, just like how you used to write to andrew, telling him you had cried thinking about a patient you lost and their family, cried thinking about him alone in prison.

you’ve shed tears for him. a man you’ve never even met. he has to recognize you when he sees you. he knows he will—the two of you are bonded in more ways than one. through ink and blood and tears.

“david?” a voice calls out. so lost in his thoughts, he’d not realized the doors had opened again or the name he’d given them. he looks up, making eye contact with the nurse, his nurse, and she walks closer. “david?” the voice repeats, and he raises the non-bloody hand.

you are just like he thought you’d be. your hair is pulled back, which is a shame. he wants to see what it looks like when it’s down, what it smells like when you get close enough. pieces in the front fall out from behind your ear. his finger twitches momentarily.

and, he thinks with a pleasant sort of smugness, there is yellow—the plastic band around the stethoscope, the badge reel with a smiling cartoon on it, the pens tucked neatly in your scrub top pocket.

“hi david, i’m going to be your nurse today,” you start, looking at him in the eyes. your eyebrows furrow a little, like you’re trying to remember why this man looks so familiar—it’s not like he had expected it. his hair isn’t the same anymore, longer than the video you had seen of him. if that was your benchmark, he certainly looked somewhat different. he doesn’t fault you for not recognizing him right away. in fact, it’s better this way. “if you’re ready, i can take you back now.”

you smile at him, beautifully. a bright, wide smile, like there’s nothing in this world you’d rather do than take david back, and have a look at whatever’s bothering him. it’s genuine, it’s safe, it’s warm. how do you do it? he thinks briefly to himself, how do you make everyone feel like they’re the most important person in the world? just with a smile and a couple of sentences you must say a thousand times a shift.

andrew’s not one for many words, but his thoughts run rampant—he’s always thinking. he can’t get his brain to turn off, not now, not ever. even putting pen to paper was hard for him, even for you. but you seem to understand him, just like you did back then. without words, without talking, without touching or knowing. you just know him.

you take him to a bed behind a curtain and start rattling off a list of rehearsed questions. first name, age, date of birth. the more he says, the more you seem to get a step closer to recognizing him, but he doesn’t push it.

you come closer to the bed and gesture to his wrapped up, bleeding hand.

“may i?”

“yes. yes,” andrew says, unsure of how it’ll be to feel your hands on him for the first time. you start slowly, unpeeling the layers of gauze that he had brought with him from home as a just incase. he doesn’t flinch or wince, but you still speak up.

“i’m sorry, i know it’s not very comfortable.” you apologize without needing to, and he’s sure it’s because you want him to feel better about it. “how did this happen again?” you ask, staring at his wound closely. you’re not very far from his face. he can feel your breath even against his skin.

“accident. was cutting something.”

“well, you should be more careful, david.” his middle name has always felt foreign to him, though somehow, it doesn’t seem that way coming from your lips. andrew briefly feels like there’s nowhere else he’d rather be than here, no one else he’d rather be than david, getting his hand tended to by you.

“yeah. i should.”

“well i’m going to go ahead and get this cleaned up. just to be sure, any drug allergies?” he shakes his head. “great. we’re gonna clean it and then the doctor will be in here to stitch it up and we’ll get you on your way back home. does that sound okay?”

you look at him earnestly. as if on the off chance he said it didn’t sound okay, you’d have an answer ready to go. nothing to shame him, nothing to make him feel bad. just to comfort him and make him feel better. like there’s nothing more important than getting him back home with aid instructions for the rest of the week.

memories of your letters wash over him like a warm wave over soft sand. you’ve known from the jump that you were meant for this, but it all suddenly makes sense. how kind you are, how gentle you are with him, how you’d be with anyone.

you were meant for this, just like how you were meant for him.

“that sounds okay.”

you sit on a stool at the level of his hand. you dab with the cleaning solution and tell him you’re sorry about the sting. it’s half a dozen apologies in the short time he’s known you, and he sits and wonders, staring at your pretty hair and the undoubtedly smooth skin of your neck, that he’ll have to work you out of that habit.

you shouldn’t be apologizing for anything, much less helping people the way you do.

he stares at you while you think of another question to ask him to distract him from the pain of cleaning his wound.

and your patient is nothing if not a starer. when you got up to add something to the chart and stopped to chat with a fellow nurse and friend of yours about how long it might take the doctor to see him—calling him by his nickname, mister sliced hand in bed four—she interrupted you half way through the conversation.

“the one who’s staring at us right now?” you turned your head too quickly to see what she was talking about, and were faced with sliced-hand david, looking at you and the other nurse.

not in a creepy way, like some other past patients of yours. he’s just…looking. like he’s waiting for you to come back. his gaze doesn’t leave you, you notice. he watches your friend as though he’s watching over you.

the thought is almost… sweet.

and then you shake your head and turn around, breaking the eye contact. you have a bad habit of doing this—turning every interaction, every look into your eyes and held-open door into something more than it was.

your new friends at the hospital also call you a hopeless romantic. you knew that you were just sort of an idiot when it came to these things. it was the long-standing result of still never having been in a real relationship. you’d never felt the fireworks, never known the rom-com sort of true love and happy ending. you had never even gotten to the angst-filled third act breakup.

so maybe you were still a bit of a projector—projecting every single interaction into something more than it was. a patient with a staring problem became a man who was looking out for you, worried for you, love at first sight.

and you shake your head again. snap out of it. you had a problem, seriously.

the closest you’d even come to anything remotely related to love at first sight was the insane amount of letters you’d written to a prisoner a few years ago, and even then—

stop. it. you barely knew what the guy looked like, and yet, you found yourself wondering all the time what had happened to him. if today would finally be the day you’d find out. he could be the stranger next to you in the coffee shop. the person buying fruit next to you in the grocery store.

for all you know, he could be the next guy who walks into your life, and yet—

“you are seriously such a goner,” she says with a laugh, playfully shoving your shoulder.

“what? i-i just got lost in my thoughts.”

“a guy could blink at you and you’d be imagining your embroidered towels and baby names-”

“that is not true-”

“right, i know. you’re right. you’re just gonna hold out for mister prisoner until you’re an old lady with a bunch of cats-”

“hey! i have one cat and he is adorable, okay-”

“yeah, yeah. that’s how it always starts. one cat.”

“i’m going to go take care of my patient now.”

“don’t let him blink at you.”

you roll your eyes and make your way back to bed four, where david stares up at you with pretty, sad eyes. eyes that seem a little familiar, but it’s hour eight of twelve and you’ve taken care of half a hundred people so far. your tiredness seeps through your pores but you still smile and sit on the stool.

“sorry about that, david.”

“are you okay?” he asks, incredibly earnestly. you blink at him dumbly. once, then twice.

“yes?” you reply slowly, unsure of what he means. maybe you’re more tired than you thought. “is everything okay?”

“i saw her push you.” you blink again.

“oh. oh. no, no, she’s my friend. that was just, um-” you blank momentarily. his concern is so palpable you can feel it in the air. “-a joke. she was joking.”

“oh. okay.” david goes silent but his eyes are still on you. you decide the best course of action is to change the subject.

“so! david. this might be hard but no going in the water for at least a couple days. maybe more, depending on what the doctor says.”

“sure. can i.. can i still go sit on the beach?”

“yeah. that should be fine.” you clean out the wound further, but he doesn’t wince. “do you do that often?”

“yes. it calms me down.”

“me too. something about the sand and the waves. the air is just-”

“cleaner.” for the first time that night, david interrupts you. your eyes leave his hand to look up at his face.

“yeah,” you agree, slowly, wondering why his words feel so familiar to you. “cleaner.”

there’s a brief pause, and david doesn’t say anything. you look back down at his hand, continuing your work. but something inside of you stirs, curiosity poking and prodding at your memories. you’ve heard that before, somewhere, and even then you had thought about how no one had ever used that word to describe the ocean air before, when—

“i thought you wanted to deliver babies. do you not want to do that anymore?”

as if it was in slow motion, you retract your hands away from his. you move your head to look up at him and your jaw falls open a little—you had known david looked a little familiar, but when you had seen that thirty second video of him, his hair had been short and his skin had been a little paler, and the man sitting in front of you now—

well he wasn’t cute anymore.

he was handsome now—dark brown curls grown out. he looked like he’d spent some time in the sun, recently. his eyes—sad and pretty as they were—seemed a bit softer now. and your gaze on him made them even softer, like he was trying his best not to frighten you. how someone takes care of a skittish animal, ready to bolt at any second.

you swallow, and then bring your hands back to his, keeping the piece of soaked gauze on top of his wound gently

“i-i do. want to. this was just the only job opening when i-” you pause, sucking in a deep breath. he already knows about this—andrew. it was in one of your letters. “when i finished school.”

you feel his hand move under your touch, and then his other hand, the unwounded one, over yours. his grip isn’t tight, but it’s tense. hard. like he wants to make sure you can’t just disappear like sand between his fingers.

“i thought you might have found another job by now.”

“it-it’s hard. you get used to something and it’s hard to leave.” you pause again. there’s a million and one questions storming through your mind, but you stare into hazel eyes and they all go quiet, one by one. “you said your name is david-”

“i wanted to see if you would recognize me.”

“i��m sorry, i-”

“don’t apologize.” andrew, like his letters, speaks concisely. you should have guessed. you would send him pages just to get a few paragraphs back—and he would always say it’s because he didn’t have much to talk about, that learning about your day to day was much better than whatever he could tell you.

it was the first time your heart fluttered with the knowledge that out there, somewhere, is a man who wants to hear about your day. the closest you had ever gotten to the semblance of a real relationship. a man who cared about you, even if he never said as much. it was always clear to you, through his carefully chosen words and the things he wrote you about and how much he said he liked hearing about you.

he used to ask you questions about things from a dozen letters ago. remember to follow up after some big exam or a really hard week at work. asked you what you did to feel better. tell you what he would do to help you feel better—nothing creepy, never creepy. if you were supposed to be scared of him, you never were. he never gave you any reason to.

“are you okay?” andrew asks, and you blink yourself out of your thoughts.

“yes. yes, sorry. i just-” it’s a little ridiculous.

you’re a smart girl. you’ve always been a smart girl. you don’t do stupid things—you don’t drink yourself silly at bars and go home with random men. you don’t say yes to dates with strangers, despite how much you believe that a stranger can become a soulmate in an instant. you don’t put yourself in situations you can’t get out of.

but when it comes to andrew, you haven’t listened to a single one of your own rules. you sent him letters for ages after the other girls in your class had stopped. you had opened up about your life and wanted to learn about his life in exchange.

and despite every greater instinct, you had fallen asleep for years thinking about the day he might walk back into your life.

“did you ever get my last letter, andrew?”

you’re not even sure where the words came from—that’s the last thing you should be saying right now. how did you find me? when did you get out of prison? why are you here right now? should have all come before.

but something inside you burns, like it has for years, with the knowledge that he never sent you another letter. and you need to know why.

andrew sits up a little straighter, taking heavy breaths and staring at you. it’s the first time he’s heard you say his name, his real name. you two haven’t moved an inch, his hand still on yours. he blinks slowly at you and you don’t realize it, but you’re holding your breath.

“i did. i-i was in solitary. they don’t let you write letters there.”

“oh. i’m so sorry,” you say, and it’s second nature. you hate what andrew went through, and seeing him in front of you brings you back to the first letter you ever got back from him. how polite he was in it, how sweet the whole thing seemed. it was never meant to get this far, but it had, and you—

you are nothing if not a believer of soulmates and fate.

“that’s okay. not your fault.”

“but still. that must have been really hard.”

“i wanted to write back. i-” he stops, pulling out something from the pocket of his button-up shirt. he unfolds a piece of white notebook paper—and the breath you were holding leaves you quickly. that’s the paper you used to write him letters on.

“is that my last letter?” when andrew moves to look at you, he’s expecting it. a nervous lilt to your voice, fear in your eyes. like he’s crazy, like you’re scared.

instead he glances over hesitantly and you’re beaming up at him.

“you carry around.. my last letter?” the words come out as a smile forms on your face—pretty and genuine and sincere. you stare at him expectantly, and he doesn’t know how to respond.

“i…” the words falter. “i just wanted to ask you about it. did you, did you get that cat?”

“i did!” it comes out louder than you meant it, drawing the attention of some other nurses around you. you turn briefly, using your free hand to push the curtain so it’s closed around you two. “sorry. i did, yes. he’s so cute. i don’t have my phone or i’d show you the pictures-”

“that’s okay. you-you can show me later.”

“but i didn’t say i was getting a cat in that one. i just said i was thinking about it,” you feel breathless.

“but there was another one before that. you mentioned it then too. i figured you’d get it since you were thinking about it so much.”

“yeah. yeah, exactly.” your brain can’t seem to compute what’s going on. any fear that had been in you, if there was any of it to begin with, has completely melted away, replaced with a warm, glowing feeling in your chest, slowly spreading out to your limbs.

you had been thinking about getting a cat for ages—a thought you had mentioned to andrew maybe twice. and your justification had been just as andrew said, because you were thinking about it so much.

how did he know that?

and then the curtain opens behind you, and the doctor comes in to stitch up andrew’s hand. you have to pull away from his hand and andrew thinks you’re leaving, eyes following you and his expression shifting, but you don’t leave. you go to the cabinets to pull the supplies and help the doctor and and keep your eyes focused on the wound while his hand gets stitched up. eight stitches and not a single wince of pain or discomfort.

and though the thought makes butterflies emerge and fly around your stomach, when you finally look up at andrew, he’s been staring at you the entire time.

+

you have a tiny apartment in a shitty neighbourhood. it doesn’t feel safe at all, save for the fact that one of the houses down the street is owned by a rookie cop and his wife. there’s not that much crime, but the area inherently feels bad.

maybe it’s just that way to him—since he doesn’t want you living in a place like this.

it’s fine for now though. he’ll get you a better place soon enough. it’s by the water, and when he closes his eyes, he can hear the waves crashing on the sand. the sound alone might be enough to justify why you’d live here.

he keeps his eyes shut, just for a half dozen heartbeats, when he pulls up against your curb. he just wants to hear it before he says goodbye—it’s getting late, almost dark, and you must be exhausted. you’ve been at work all day and though you act like you’re completely fine, he knows how intense it is. there’s other letters, safely stored away, where you told him about how breaks are far and few in between, how you barely get time to drink water and eat a snack because of how busy it gets. he offered to stop and pick you up something to eat but you refused, saying you had food at home that you shouldn’t waste.

you sit in the passenger seat of his truck, staring around it as if you’re looking for some more information about it. anything would help you—half-empty drinks or gum wrappers or extra clothes in the backseat, but there’s nothing. the truck looks like he just got it yesterday, no sign of use or anything branding it as andrew’s car.

“can i walk you to your door?” you snap out of your thoughts.

okay—maybe it wasn’t the smartest idea in the world to let a virtual stranger drive you home. but when his hand was taken care of and you give him the paper instructions with way too many sample packets of antibiotic gel, all he said was that he’ll wait for you.

“wait for what?”

“to make sure you get home safely.”

and, really, what are you supposed to say to that? no, i’m good, thanks. you’d be even stupider than you already are to say that to someone who is just trying to be nice to you.

(he’s more chivalrous than any guy you’ve ever talked to, and probably more than any guy your friends have ever complained to you about. and more than that, it’d be rude to say no, especially once he realized you wait for a shoddy-at-best bus to get you home because you don’t have a car and it’s too dark to walk. he wouldn’t take no for an answer after that.)

and more than that—he waited another two hours for you to get home. every time you’d step out to bring back another patient, you’d see him, sitting there, waiting patiently for you. glancing up when the door would open to get a glimpse of you, of the small smile you shot his way before taking back whoever’s turn it was.

and he’s not a real stranger, a voice in the back of your head keeps reminding you. you’ve known him for longer than some of your coworkers have known their fiancees and husbands. and in all the time you’ve known him (meaning all the letters you’ve sent and received), you’ve never gotten a creepy word or even a fragment of a sentence that frightened you.

so you think the least you can do is let him drive you home and walk you up the two flights of stairs.

“of course. thank you, for-” your sentence gets interrupted. andrew gets out of the car and you turn to do the same, but then you see him—walking around the front of his truck, coming to your side and then opening the door for you.

oh.

your heart thuds dully in your chest at the very idea of andrew opening his car’s door for you to get out. after driving you home and politely asking to walk you up. whatever inhibitions you had melt away and you briefly think that whatever he asked of you, you’d do it in a heartbeat, no questions asked.

if that made you stupid, then so be it. you’d gladly be the stupidest girl on the planet if you get to feel whatever it was that andrew cody has made you feel for the last couple of hours.

his truck is jacked up tall, and he gives you his hand, the one without the cut, to help you get down, and you accept. he closes the door for you and lets you lead the way up the stairs.

silently, you two walk up the creaky steps together. hands brush together for all of seconds and he briefly wishes seconds lasted longer, until you’re standing in front of your door.

you’d once had a cute spring-themed wreath on the door, bought on clearance from the local store after easter, and a matching door mat. your elderly neighbor had told you to get rid of it because it was basically an invitation to criminals that a young girl lived here alone. you’re stupid, but not that stupid.

and now your front door looks barren and empty. there’s a few plants you can see from the window sill but the curtains are drawn and there’s an extra dead bolt a fellow nurse from the hospital’s husband had helped you install.

you look up silently at andrew and he looks back at you. this is it—it’s supposed to be goodbye. any normal girl would know that this is where the night needs to end, that you need to process what all of this means and if you had any friends you trusted with this information, calling them and asking what to do.

but you don’t want to call your friends, because you know what they’d say—to lock your door and get a restraining order and burn andrew’s letters, the ones you kept in a cute box under your bed and reread much too often for anyone’s comfort.

and you’re not a normal girl.

“do you want to stay for dinner?”

there’s not much to study on andrew’s expression—he keeps it stern and serious for the most part. his eyes are soft when they look at you and they soften even further when you say those words.

“yes. yes, thank you.”

you think maybe he wasn’t expecting it. you think that you weren’t expecting it either, not exactly sure where the words had come from. but you still lead andrew inside, showing him the only slightly comfortable couch you had to get delivered since you didn’t have anyone to help you lug a used one up the stairs. the squeaky door that leads to the bathroom, the tiny space you called your kitchen. your bedroom is behind a closed door and andrew stares at it when you go inside to change out of your scrubs and come back out in the kind of clothes that you sleep in.

and then he stares at the shut door even after you leave, before realizing that you’ve already made your way to the space between the living room and kitchen, a narrow expanse with a small round table and some placemats with flowers on them. you set down your backpack and take your hair out of the clip that holds it back for you at work and suddenly, he’s staring again.

it’s just a little too close to everything he’s been dreaming about for years.

“i’m really sorry. i was supposed to go grocery shopping but i hate bringing everything up-”

“don’t apologize.”

“also, i’m-i’m not really a good cook. i’m sorry-”

“i don’t think anything you make can be worse than prison food.”

“i really doubt that. you’ve never had my cooking.”

you glance back him and he meets your eyes at the same time, and you both start laughing. it’s nothing crazy—andrew didn’t seem like the kind who laughs easily anyway, but he cracks a smile and the noise is indelible—all you can think of is how you can get him to laugh again.

“do you like spaghetti?”

+

if someone had told you yesterday that this time tomorrow, andrew from your letters would be sitting across from you at your dining table, eating spaghetti that you made while rushing, looking so in place in your tiny home that your heart hurts, you think you would have passed out.

you watch him while he eats, absentmindedly swirling your own noodles on the plate, unable to focus on eating when he’s really in front of you. after countless dreams and days spent wondering what had happened to him and if he was okay and if he ever thought about you. he’s… bigger than you thought he would be. shoulders broader than you had realized from that tiny video. his mannerisms interest you more than they should—how quiet he is, but how he seems to latch onto every word when you go on and on. just like the letters, it seems he’s still a listener.

(it doesn’t help matters when he tries to clear the table and wash the dishes after—you have to wrestle the plates out of his hand and tell him to go sit down, that he can’t get his bandage wet. jostling against his iron-hard body was not on the list of things you thought you’d get to do today, and the very realization that andrew is twice as strong as you on his worst day does…things to you. things that do not need to be named or explored right now. he’s still a stranger, you try to remind yourself. no he’s not.)

but it seems that he can’t sit still. he wipes down the counter and then comes back to help you dry your yellow dishes and when you both finish up, with you still smiling at him and unsure of what excuse you can conjure to get him to stay, he finds it all by himself. you tell andrew to go sit on the couch while you finish up and he does, and when you follow him out there, he’s standing in front of it. he turns his head to look at you and then back at the couch.

your cat is perched on his usual spot, and you go over to him, scratching the top of his head between his ears and making extremely childish, stupid-sounding noises at him.

“andrew this is wardy,” you say, picking him up and bringing him closer. “he’s really friendly. i promise.”

“hello, wardy.” when he says it, you look up at him with a look he can’t find words to describe. as close to love as you can get it when it’s a technically a stranger. the way he greets your cat and helps you clean and knows more about you than some of your friends and coworkers do.

there’s no words for it. it just is.

so you sit on the couch next to andrew, your cat between the two of you, and you wait for him to tell you that he wants to leave. you flick on the television, settling for whatever silly romance movie is playing on your netflix account, sitting in the almost-silence with andrew and wondering why still, it doesn’t feel necessarily uncomfortable.

eventually andrew reaches out to pet wardy, and he curls up into his touch, settling comfortably against his forearm. (his huge, thick, veiny forearm, you think briefly, before chasing the thought away with a broom. and then another one—no wonder he had bled so much at the hospital. with veins like these.)

“this area’s not the best,” andrew says, speaking as though you need to be reminded of it, to know that he doesn’t approve.

“i know. but it’s cheap and it’s near the beach.”

“but you live alone. it’s dangerous.”

“but-” you glance over at him. he takes up most of your couch, wardy’s head resting against his thigh now, while he continues petting him. he looks over at you and it’s clear—this isn’t an argument. “you’re right. but i mean, how bad can it be? if you’re here now?”

you pause. stupidly, you’ve just revealed whatever thoughts have been rattling around in your head. like the fact that you’re assuming he’s going to be here more often, when the truth is that you have no idea if that’s true.

why would it be true? you tried, in earnest, to make sure your life never seemed anything more than it really was in your letters. but andrew drives a brand new truck and wears an expensive watch and you have absolutely no idea what he was robbing or why he was doing it—and you never asked. the assumption that just because he found you, meant that he was going to keep you was completely insane. a misgiving on your part, because surely, whatever’s waiting for him back home is better than your crappy cooking and a tiny apartment and a cat that you—

“sorry, i’m sorry. that’s such a jump. we just met. i’m so sorry, i can-” you stand up, and so does andrew.

“why are you apologizing?”

“because i just.. i don’t know.” you try to pace around your apartment but you only get a few steps away before you have to come back. “this is crazy. we’re both crazy.”

you feel it in the air before you hear him say it. it gets tenser, quieter, more serious. like what you’ve both been dreading for the last few hours is about to happen.

“do…do you want me to leave?” you turn to face him quickly.

“no! no, i don’t. that’s why this is crazy. people are going to think we’re insane. i don’t want you to go. i want you stay. i want you to tell me everything i missed in the last year and a half. i want to know what you did with my letters. i want to know-”

and when andrew reaches forward to grab your forearm—gently, not meant to hurt you—you freeze in your tracks. staring up at him, all the words in your brain, every stupid thing your friends ever told you about this make-shift relationship you had concocted in your head melting away.

“i want that too.”

“oh. well, i just thought-”

and this time, he doesn’t let you finish, leaning in for a kiss that makes your knees give out. andrew’s mouth—wet and hot and on fire—kisses you like you two were made for each other.

as cheesy as the thought feels, you swallow it and wrap your arms around his neck. it’s every stupid romance movie you’ve ever seen coming to life, your life. all because of him. he doesn’t break the kiss, not even to breathe. you feel his tongue poke into your mouth and you accept it gladly. you fall back on the couch and the movement of it makes wardy scamper off, and you move your head just for a second to see where he runs off too, but andrew doesn’t stop. he lines kisses along your cheek and your jaw until you turn back and he gets your lips again.

you feel his weight on top of you, and briefly, you wonder if you should tell him.

countless nights spent wondering what this would feel like, how he would kiss you, all the things he would do to you. you have to keep reminding yourself, you’re just a stupid girl—it’s not your fault that a few nice letters was enough to make you head over heels for the last few years.

because somewhere deep down inside, you knew. you knew that it would be like this, that it would be perfect, that it would be everything you wanted. that he would take care of you and want you as badly as you want him. your crown title of hopeless romantic had finally paid off.

another thought stirs as he keeps kissing you. it’s feverish and hot and makes you warm all over—how long it’s been since he’s had someone, how he kisses you like he’s out of practice. his mouth is so hard against yours it almost hurts, but you welcome the pain. it’s like he’s proving to you that he’s really there now, that nothing can tear him away from you.

but then he does pull away. you catch your breath, hands traveling to his face and running your fingers through his hair. andrew’s pretty eyes close and you cherish it—that you made him feel like that. he leans into your touch, head resting against your hand while you both take long, heavy breaths.

andrew leans in, pressing your foreheads together.

“i-i’ve wanted to do that,” another breath. you feel butterflies continuously emerge and flutter around your chest and your stomach, all the way down to between your legs. “since your first letter.”

and then you can’t resist—leaning back in for another hard, wet kiss. you feel him shift, strong hands on your hips, but staying firmly there, not traveling despite how much you wish they would. he’s been polite again, you think. waiting for you to give him permission.

“you can-” you start, but andrew keeps pressing kisses against your neck that make it hard to finish your sentence. “you can touch me.” you expect his hands to spread—grope and grab and tease until you’re begging for more. for him to be impatient and hungry and not stop until he’s inside of you.

“i can’t believe you’re real,” he says quietly, one hand moving up to your waist and touching the soft skin there gently. he traces up your arms and then down before intertwining his fingers with yours. you stare up at him, stupid as ever. every time you think you know anything about andrew, he proves you wrong.

“i can’t believe you are, either,” you say, tilting your head up for another kiss. a short, chaste one this time. “you’re just as nice as i knew you’d be.”

“you think i’m nice?” he asks, voice low. you nod in response, words escaping you. you settle to answer with another kiss, hands going to his shoulders to steady yourself, tugging and pulling on his bottom lip with your teeth.

you push up until he understands, and he uses two huge hands to get you into his lap, sitting up with his back against your couch. you straddle him, trying your hardest to not lose your train of thought as you realize how hard he is against you.

“i think you’re too nice,” you tease, unsure where you’re finding the confidence. under you, andrew looks spacey and flushed and all kissed out, but you don’t plan to stop. you lean in to press kisses to his cheeks and work your way to his jaw and neck. when you stop to look at him again, he looks hopelessly up at you, and you think he’s waiting again, waiting for permission to do something. “i think you’re so nice that you’re not telling me everything you’ve wanted to do to me these last few years.”

the way andrew looks up at you after you said that—god. you wish you could engrain it into your memory. you’re not someone who does this often, but you might just be good at figuring out how to get andrew to crack. he looks up with some of the hunger you’d imagined there’d be, and it makes something stir inside of you.

it feels strange to be wanted the way andrew wants you right now. you’re just not used to it, not entirely sure that you’d ever feel this way. that someone would ever make you feel this way.

your thoughts are wiped again when he pulls you into another kiss, and you deepen it, moaning into his mouth. you’re being so loud that your older neighbor might be able to hear you, but you can hardly bring yourself to care right now. andrew is quiet, like you thought he would be, but each soft grunt and heavy sigh is enough to make your entire body tingle.

you think you’re being better at staying quiet yourself when andrew scoops you up into his arms, carrying you like it’s nothing for him. you yelp loudly, forgetting everything for a second, realizing how lovely it feels to be carried by him. he leads you two to your bedroom, setting you down gently on the bed.

you stare at him, hovering above you, wondering how you’ll get to do this. how you’ll get his clothes off and watch out for his hurt hand and that you’ll finally get to feel him inside of you—when he just stops moving.

andrew looks up and around your bedroom, craning his neck to take in all of it. you’re not sure why, stuck in a position under him that forces you to just watch.

“is everything okay, andrew?” when you say his name, he turns back to stare down at you.

“yes. yes, it is. it’s just-” he pauses, looking back up and then down. the room is decorated with lots of pretty frames. there’s yellow curtains on the windows and your sheets are yellow under you too, just like he’d suspected. seeing it in real life almost sends him back to years ago—the first time he’d wondered what your bedroom looks like. the place from where you write your letters, the place you read them. “it looks just like i thought it would.”

and just like every other part of tonight, your reaction continues to surprise him. you smile and then laugh, holding onto his shoulder even tighter.

“spend a lot of time thinking about my bedroom, huh?” you tease, and he remains just as confused as ever.

you are such a conundrum. andrew thinks that he wants you so badly he can’t form a proper thought—and then the thoughts merge and blend and anger at the very idea that you’re so trusting of him. you should be more careful. you shouldn’t trust anyone how much you’re trusting him right now—inviting him inside your home, letting him into your bedroom.

and then you pull him down for another kiss and it all washes away like letters in the sand.

eventually he does pull away—though it takes an enormous amount of self control. the words you said on the couch haven’t completely left him yet and he still needs to answer you. you claw and pull at his shirt so he lets you take it off of him, you trace a hand down his chest, stopping at his heart and pressing your palm flat against him.

you’re staring, he thinks, but you’re really just admiring. taking in every detail, every scar and bruise so you can ask him about it later, moving your fingers down his abs and biting your lip while you stare daggers at his chest.

he moves away from your touch though, as sad as it makes you.

“you wanted to know everything i’ve thought about you?” andrew says, and the words make you tense up—thighs clenching, walls fluttering just from words alone. your fingers tighten around his bicep where you’ve been holding on, and you nod up at him dumbly. “can i show you?”

your head falls back onto your pillow with a thud. you nod again.

you let andrew set the pace—he peels off your clothes and you lift your hips and raise your arms in compliance. he starts with a kiss to your stomach that makes you whine, fingers leaving his skin and grabbing onto your sheets instead just to have something to hold on to.

you’re embarrassingly wet—you already know you are. it’s almost painful how badly you want him, even against better judgement that tells you that you could have, at the very least, taken things slowly.

you guess andrew just brings it out of you.

his kisses move south and you brace yourself, every muscle tensing up in anticipation. andrew is silent except for his deep breaths and somehow, with each one deeper than the last, they make your entire body shudder in anticipation. when he finally gets to your leaking cunt, you hear it. a strangled moan, sounding painful and from the depth of his chest and filled with want and need. just from looking at you. you can’t imagine what he’ll sound like when—

“this is what i thought about. this is always what i thought about.”

and then andrew licks down the length of your cunt with the flat of his tongue, and you can’t think about anything else anymore. he’s relentless, exploring you with his mouth like he’s a man starved. you can hear the noises, obscene and sloppy and wet as they are.

and then you feel it—his mouth around your clit while one finger prods at your tight opening. your back rises off the bed but he holds you down with one huge hand over your stomach. his finger slips inside you more easily than he thought it would. though you’re wetter than he imagined, he doesn’t stop teasing your clit.

your wetness coats everything—his tongue, his lips, his chin. your thighs are wet too, and he’s sure he can get your yellow sheets soaked too if he could tease you long enough. but he’s been incredibly patient all these years, unsure if he can wait any longer to get what he’s wanted.

his hand keeps you pinned down while his mouth stays on your clit and then andrew adds another finger and you thrash up against him. it’s useless against the weight of his hand holding you down, but your body moves anyways, hands wrangling into his brown curls, likely making a complete mess of them. you keep pulling and he moans between your legs and the vibration makes you thrash harder, a completely exhilarating cycle.

when he finally releases you from his grip, you think the other hand will explore up and down your body, but true to form, you’re wrong. andrew finds your hand and holds onto it, lacing your fingers with his while he keeps going.

when adds a third finger, you realize that he’s saying something against you. you can’t quite make it out with your heart thudding in your ears and how loud you’re being, but then it becomes a little clearer—

“you taste even better than i thought you would-” and you can’t stop it, the tension in your stomach winding tighter and tighter before it snaps altogether. a white hot heat washes through your body and makes you shake even harder, but andrew’s hold on you keeps you completely grounded. he works you through it, not stopping even once, not until you’re trying your hardest to pull away from him. you try to catch your breath but it’s useless. your head feels completely empty.

incoherent, you grab at andrew, murmuring something about inside, please, and he really tries to stay level headed. but one glance at your naked, writhing body and your expression while you beg for him is enough to tip him over the edge.

resisting you requires a level of self control that he doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to have.

andrew doesn’t think he’s ever had any self control when it comes to you. it’s why he did this, isn’t it? showed up at your hospital with your sweet letter folded up and somehow convinced you, without saying much of anything at all, to trust him and let him back into your life. he doesn’t even know how he did it—he can’t recall most of what he said to you. it plays in his head like a movie, like how your letters used to.

he doesn’t know what he did to deserve your trust, just knows that he’ll do whatever he has to in order to keep it forever.

andrew’s thoughts about keeping you cloud him while he lifts up your legs, manhandling your body while you squeal under him. he pushes your knees to your chest and lets your legs hang in the air while he hovers over you. all he can think about is getting inside of you—-giving you exactly what you’ve been begging for, fulfilling every fantasy he’s had about you in the last three years. the noises you’ll make. how tight and wet and warm you’ll feel around him. how you’ll look with his cum dripping out of-

“andrew, please, please,” you plead, and he’s not sure that you understand exactly what you’re asking for. it’s good that it’s him you picked for those letters, good that he’s the one who tracked you down.

someone else, well, he thinks, lining himself up with your soaking wet entrance, someone else might have had bad intentions with you. not andrew, though.

his intentions for you are only good. intentions to keep you happy and safe and move you away from this tiny apartment and make sure you get the job that you want, no matter who he has to threaten in order to do so. intentions to keep everything taken care of so the only thing you ever have to worry about again is him, just like you’d done for all those years when you wrote to him.

and as he slips inside, he knows those letters are in this bedroom somewhere, that this bed is where you read them, that these were the pretty hands that held his letters and these were the pretty eyes that read them.

you stare at him while he hovers over you, not pushing in just yet. andrew’s dick is just like the rest of him—thick and broad and so wide that you don’t know how you’ll be able to walk tomorrow. there’s veins too, just like his arms, and it’s all you can think about with him enclosed over you.

when he pushes his thick head past your fluttering walls, you make a noise like nothing he’s ever heard before. pure want and heat wrapped up with pleasure and pain. you keep begging for more but he’s not sure you can even handle it—but who is andrew to deny you?

he pushes further inside of you, now half way, and you cry out. andrew leans in to kiss you again, swallowing the noise and letting you moan against his lips.

another thrust and he’s almost all the way in. he pulls out and pushes back in, and then he starts his rhythm. your tits bounce with every thrust and he watches entranced, until his eyes go back to where you and him meet. in this position, on his knees with you folded underneath him, he can see it perfectly.

it’s enough to make him finish instantly. you look completely fucked out under him, crying out with each push of his hips.

your open your wet eyes and glance up at him. through wet lashes and blinking eyes, you get out a few words, stopped by each thrust.

“is it-” you gasp, words getting caught in your throat because andrew is so deep inside of you that you can feel him in your stomach and your chest. “is it what you imagined, andrew?”

“god, yes,” he says, and the sound is so perfect to you. it comes out broken, in the form of a gasp and a moan combined, and you want to hear it again and again. he says your name like it’s a prayer grounding him to you and you keep your arms wrapped around his neck, holding him close to you and bringing him in for another kiss. you can feel andrew’s pace start to stutter, his moans getting louder and his grip on you getting tighter. you hold his face in your hands, locking eyes again.

“inside, andrew, please, i want it inside, please, please,” and again, andrew thinks to himself, like some besotted fool, who is he to deny you? he releases whatever inhibitions he had left and fills you up with his cum—rivulets almost never ending. it leaks out around his dick, messing up your sheets and staining your thighs and making a mess of everything. he hears your heavy breaths and looks to see you smiling sweetly up at him.

and then he collapses next to you.

“hi andrew,” you say quietly next to him. your hands go to his, playing with his fingers and running the pad of your thumb over the veins on his hand. “was it how you thought it’d be?”

“it was better,” he says, breathless. you giggle and lean in to press a kiss to his cheek—and for a moment, he forgets everything. the circumstances of your introduction and the way he’d discovered you long forgotten for a few heartbeats. just you and the sound of your laugh and the promise of the future he wants with you before him.

“there’s still some things i thought about that we didn’t get to yet,” you tease, and he wonders, briefly, what he’s going to do with you.

and then you two hear it—scratching at your closed bedroom door.

“oh god,” you say, sitting up in bed.

you groan a little since your thighs are sore and it’s a wet, sticky mess between them. andrew keeps his hand on your arm and helps you sit up, and joins you in the position, like he’s preparing to help if you need something.

“warden, stop,” you say, but he doesn’t listen. you turn to andrew. “i’m gonna get him.” you try to move your legs and put weight on them, but you feel your knees buckle immediately, with andrew rushing to your side to help you back into bed.

“oh my god. you broke me.”

“i’ll get him. just-just sit down.”

andrew opens the door and picks up your cat like it’s second nature, bringing him to you on the bed before getting in right beside you. your cat is sweet but there’s not many people over at your apartment, and you worry for a moment that he won’t be nice to andrew when he wants your attention. but wardy doesn’t move from his position, staying curled up again andrew’s chest and arm, completely at ease.

“he likes you. that makes sense,” you say, smiling up at him, leaning in to pet wardy’s head.

but andrew doesn’t understand.

“warden. i thought you said his name was wardy?”

“that’s just a nickname.”

“why warden?”

“oh well. it’s silly, um-”

“tell me.”

“well, uh. well, warden is just the letters in andrew. uh, rearranged.”

“oh.”

“i’m sorry. i’m so sorry, is that creepy? i was really projecting, i guess, when i got him. i just loved your letters so much and i’ve never had a boyfriend or anything like that-”

“do you think we should get married?”

thanks for reading! ♡

[djungelskogbear]

looking into some analysis of as above so below bc im a lil freak who likes movie analysis and findng out the main reason people dont like the movie is Scarlett...like okey. are they about to start explaining what a mary sue is too

[rafeysbangs]

ꪆৎ𓏲 ๋࣭  ࣪ ˖↷ ex!bf!rafe sneaks into your room late at night...

warnings ; MDNI !!, ex!bf!rafe, soft!rafe i guess, oral f. receiving, fingering, unprotected sex, p in v, rafe calls reader baby, creampie, aftercare ! yippee

notes ; phew... enjoyyy !

the cool night air swept through your open balcony door, carrying the distant hum of cicadas. you were curled up in bed, trying to focus on the book in your hands, when the faint scrape of shoes against metal made your heart leap.

"rafe?" you whispered harshly, your pulse quickening as his familiar frame hauled itself over the edge of the balcony.

"don’t freak out," he said quickly, holding his hands up as if to calm you. his hair was a mess, his eyes wild, and he looked more desperate than you’d ever seen him.

"are you insane? you can’t be here, especially not at this hour," you hissed, glancing nervously at your door.

but rafe wasn’t listening. he crossed the room in two long strides, his voice cracking as he said, "i had to see you. i can’t- i can’t do this without you."

you folded your arms, trying to stand your ground, even as your chest tightened at the raw edge in his tone. "we broke up, rafe. i broke up with you. and you know why. i can’t keep pretending it doesn’t kill me every time i see you flirting with someone else."

"i wasn’t-" he started, but you cut him off with a sharp look.

"don’t lie to me. i saw you. over and over again. it’s too much, rafe. i couldn’t do it anymore."

his hands raked through his hair, his frustration evident. "it wasn’t what you thought, i swear. i’m... i’m a mess without you, okay? i’ve been losing my mind since you left. no one else matters- no one but you. i’m obsessed with you, and i’ll prove it. i’ll do whatever it takes to make it right."

"rafe," you began, your voice softer now, but he stepped closer, his hands gripping yours like his life depended on it.

"it’ll never happen again. i swear on everything. just... just give me one more chance," he pleaded, his blue eyes locking onto yours, filled with a vulnerability that made your heart ache.

you tried to resist, tried to remind yourself why you ended things, but the way he looked at you, like you were his entire world, made it nearly impossible.

"i don’t know if i can trust you," you said quietly, your voice trembling.

"you can," he said, his voice steady. "i’ll spend the rest of my life proving it to you if i have to."

before you could argue further, his lips were on yours, cutting off your words in a kiss so desperate, so full of longing, that it left you breathless. your resolve crumbled as his hands cupped your face, pulling you closer.

the kiss deepened, his lips trailing to your jaw and down your neck as your back hit the bed. he hovered over you, his breath hot against your skin as he murmured your name like a prayer.

your fingers tangled in his hair as his lips travelled down your body, heat pooled in your lower stomach watching him grow closer to the waistband of your tiny pyjama shorts.

he stopped there, slowly littering kisses as he looked up at you, you chewed at your bottom lip as your eyes were stuck on his, "rafe..."

"i'll make you feel good baby... don't worry" he whispered against your skin, sending shivers up your spine. his course fingers connected with your clothed pussy, slowly rubbing circles to make you squirm.

he grinned when he saw you twitch at his touch, your clit aching from the lack of direct contact. as if he could read your body, he pulled your shorts to the side, now faced with soaked panties staring back at him.

rafe sighed gratefully, "you're so soaked already, god you're perfect" he mumbled. his long fingers traced your slit and he chuckled a little to himself before pulling your panties to the side too.

without warning, his mouth connected with your wet cunt, sloppy kisses and flicks of his tongue made your eyes roll back before he slid a finger through your folds again. he tapped at your aching hole before sliding a finger in, watching your face contort as you got used to the welcome intrusion.

you groaned, "god-" rafe's smirk perking up against your heat, he came up for air for a second, "rafe's fine baby.."

you threw your head back as he licked a stripe down your pussy, grinning as he slid another finger inside, curling them before mercilessly pumping them in and out.

one thing leads to another, you're bent over the bed, rafe's cock bulging out of your stomach as his hips snap against your ass. a loud whine escapes your lips as he's rearranging your guts. your tight walls clamping desperately around his cock as your ass bounces with every thrust.

his tip brushes your cervix as he thrusts into you a few more times before pulling out and flipping you over mumbling, "need to see your pretty face.."

he shoves your body further onto the bed before climbing over you with his classic smirk. your breathing ragged as your eyes locked with his, he tapped his cock on your pussy before dragging it through your folds. he knew the teasing drove you crazy, your eyebrows cinched together as his ego grew.

a pornographic moan escaped your lips as he slid in again, rolling his hips against yours he pumped his cock at a heavenly pace. your nails left crescent shaped indents as you gripped on rafe's arms, the pleasure sending the both of you into overdrive.

rafe cursed as his thrusts grew sloppy, the way your gummy walls were squeezing him made him dizzy, his release creeping up on him. you too could feel a familiar coil tightening in your stomach, unsurprised at the discovery that rafe was the only one to be able to make you cum, even when you're technically broken up.

he lifts a hand and connects it with one of your tits, his tongue darting between his lips as he massaged the fat, your nipple between his fingers. you whimpered as his cock kissed your cervix before finally you felt the coil snap, your orgasm overpowering you.

the way your pussy clenched rafe's cock as you finished around him caused him to groan gutturally, spilling his release into your sopping hole. he collapsed on top of you, littering your neck and cheeks with kisses as he heavily breathed.

"fuck.. i love you baby" he said finally before getting up and slowly pulling out, his release leaking from you a little. he grinned at the sight and pumped to fingers into your pussy, pushing his cum back inside you. "i'll get us a wet towel" he mumbled, walking towards your bathroom after kissing you on the forehead.

taglist ; @rafegetinmybed @doeletteprincess ( feel free to ask to be added! idm! )

[barnesonly]

˗ˏˋ ★ Little Dove ★ ˎˊ˗

winter soldier x empath!reader

summary: Hydra sends you — a broken empath — into the Winter Soldier’s cell to keep him calm. You’re supposed to soften him. Control him. But instead, something starts to unravel. In both of you.

word count: 6301

WARNINGS: 18+ explicit content, MDNI— disclaimer: contains dark themes. read at your own discretion! angst, slowburn, captivity, tortures, hydra, violence, brainwashing, non-consensual experimentation, hurt/comfort, trauma, possible smut in future chapters? we’ll see.

Chapter Two | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

You still sit with him. You don’t break the silence.

You can’t.

Not when it feels like the air is finally holding something fragile between you — something that could crack open if you breathe too loud.

But then… it does crack.

Not from him.

From you.

Your voice comes quiet. Almost too quiet.

“…Can I touch you?”

The words surprise even you. Not because they’re sudden — they’ve been building, trapped behind your ribs for days — but because you said them out loud. Because you let the ache slip through.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink.

You press on, a little shakier now. “I just—” You swallow hard. “It’s hard to explain. But when I… when I touch people, I can feel more. It’s like something opens. And with you, it’s…” You hesitate, breath catching. “It’s pulling at me. Like it wants to happen. Like it’s already happening and I just — I need it to be real.”

Still no answer. But his breathing has shifted. Slower. Deeper. Not cold. Not distant. Listening.

“I’m not trying to hurt you,” you add. “I don’t want to take anything. I just… I need to feel something. I need to know I’m still me. That you’re still you. Even if it’s just for a second.”

A beat.

Two.

You think he’s going to say no. Or worse — nothing at all. But then… his metal hand shifts slightly on the chain. Just enough to give you space. Just enough to say if you want to, you can.

Your breath hitches. You inch forward, slowly — not rushing, not pushing. You lift your hand with care, like you’re holding a thread of glass.

And when your fingertips graze his palm —

The world quiets.

It doesn’t explode. It doesn’t burn.

It settles.

A warmth pulses through you, slow and deep — not from him, not from you, but something that lives between you. Something buried and broken and barely stitched together.

You close your eyes. Just for a moment. Let yourself feel it. Let yourself have it.

His hand stays still in yours. He doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t pull away.

Your fingers rest lightly in his metal palm, and it’s not warm — not like human skin — but it’s solid. Real. The ridges and cool plates beneath your touch make your throat tighten.

You think you might cry.

But you don’t.

You can’t.

Not here.

So instead, you just stay like that — half-curled in front of him, knees aching, bones cold, but your hand held open against his. Like an offering. Like a prayer.

He could crush you. You know that. If he wanted to, he could break every bone in your hand before you had time to gasp.

But he doesn’t. He lets you touch him. Lets you stay.

And slowly — so slowly — the edge of tension in your body starts to ease. Not vanish. But soften. Settle. The way your power settles when you stop trying to contain it — humming low, like a second heartbeat in your spine.

His head tilts. Barely. Like he’s trying to understand you better. Like he’s watching your expression for something you haven’t said yet.

“Why do you want this?” he asks. His voice is quieter now. Not just low — gentle. Unfamiliar in his own mouth, like it hasn’t been used for softness in a long, long time.

You look at him. He’s beautiful in that terrifying way — all sharp lines and bruised silence and eyes that don’t know how to lie. But under it — under all the programming, under all the control — there’s a man. A soul. Hurt, maybe, but still there.

And for some reason… he’s letting you see it.

“I don’t know,” you admit. Your voice wavers. Your fingers tighten just a little in his hand. Not possessive — grounding.

“I think I’m just… tired. Of being nothing. Of pretending this doesn’t affect me.”

A pause. Then, even softer:

“When I’m near you, it’s like I can breathe again. Like something’s pulling at me, asking me to remember who I was before all this. Before them.”

You lower your gaze, suddenly unsure if you’ve said too much. If you’ve broken something sacred by naming it out loud.

But he doesn’t pull away.

Instead — unbelievably — he moves.

His thumb shifts slightly. Just enough to press against your knuckle. Not a squeeze. Not even pressure. Just presence.

Your breath shudders. And when you look up — his eyes are already on you.

Not blank.

Not empty.

Not the soldier they sent to kill.

But something else. Someone.

“You don’t feel like them,” he says quietly.

You blink. “What?”

He shakes his head once. A flicker of something — confusion, maybe. Vulnerability. The echo of a man trying to understand the light you carry into his darkness.

“You don’t feel like Hydra.”

Your lips part — not with a reply, but with the sharp pull of emotion in your chest. He felt that. He knows that. Somewhere deep inside, past all the noise, he knows you’re not like them.

You want to cry again. But instead — you whisper:

“Neither do you.”

A long silence stretches between you.

But this time, it’s not heavy.

It’s full.

And for the first time since you were thrown into this nightmare — you don’t feel alone.

Not completely.

Not while his hand is still in yours.

———

The lights are brighter in this room.

Not warm. Not comforting. Just clinical. Exposing.

You sit in the same chair as before, wrists folded neatly in your lap, trying not to show how badly your hands are shaking.

Agent Kern watches you across the metal table — same pristine uniform, same gloved fingers laced together, same sharp, unreadable stare. But there’s something different in him today. A tension. A stillness too exact to be casual.

He knows something.

You force yourself to keep breathing. One in. One out.

“You were with him for twenty-seven minutes,” Kern says calmly, reading off a clipboard like it’s scripture. “That’s longer than usual.”

You nod once. “He didn’t push me away.”

Kern doesn’t react. Just scribbles something. The scratch of his pen feels louder than it should.

“Did he speak?”

You hesitate. Just a second.

“Yes.”

Kern looks up at you. Not dramatically. Just a flick of his eyes — like a knife glinting in a dark hallway.

“And what did he say?”

Your throat tightens. “He asked why I touched him. I told him I needed it.”

Kern tilts his head. “Needed it?”

“Yes,” you say, a little too fast, “I can feel his emotions clearly this way. Being near him calms the noise. Makes me more stable.”

He watches you for another beat. You can almost hear the wheels turning behind his eyes.

“And what did he say to that?”

You hesitate again. Not for dramatic effect — just because you don’t know how much truth to offer before it becomes dangerous.

“He said I didn’t feel like them.”

Kern’s eyes narrow.

“That’s not an operational phrase.”

“No.”

“That’s not part of his language bank.”

You hold his gaze, heartbeat ticking hard against your ribs.

“I think it means he’s starting to… separate. Between who’s part of this and who isn’t. Between threat and non-threat.”

You expect a reaction — surprise, interest, anything… But Kern just leans back in his chair.

“Interesting,” he says finally. His voice is smooth. Too smooth. “And what do you think you are, exactly? Threat? Or tool?”

You blink. The words hit harder than you expect.

Tool. You’ve heard that one before. From the nurses. From the scientists. From your own mouth, whispering reminders to yourself in the cell when you forgot how to breathe.

Be useful. Be soft. Be what they need.

“I think,” you say quietly, “I’m the only one who sees him as a person.”

Kern’s expression doesn’t change.

But something shifts. His fingers twitch slightly — a restrained movement. A flash of something just below the surface. “You’re getting attached,” he says flatly.

“I’m doing my job.”

“Your job,” he echoes, eyes narrowing, “is to keep him stable. To soothe his aggression. Not to indulge your own need for connection.”

You flinch. Just slightly.

But it’s enough. He sees it.

“You were selected because you’re malleable,” Kern continues, voice colder now. “Not because he likes you. Not because you matter to him.”

You lower your gaze. The shame flares hot in your chest, but beneath it — quieter — there’s anger. A slow, steady ember.

You don’t answer.

He stands. “Session in two days. We’ll skip a day, let you reset.” he says. “We’ll be monitoring every heartbeat.”

You nod without looking up.

He leaves.

The door seals behind him. And once again, you’re alone. Alone with the weight of what you can’t say. With the memory of the Soldier’s hand in yours — unmoving, unreadable, but not rejecting.

You stay there for a while in the silence… And somewhere inside, beneath the shame and the exhaustion, you feel something curl in your chest and dig its claws in.

You matter.

You know you do.

Even if they don’t want you to.

Interview over.

———

They drag you back to your cell, drop you on the floor — the way they always do.

Your fingertips are digging into your palms now. Hard enough to leave half-moon shapes behind. You don’t even realize it until your vision starts to blur.

You’re not crying. Not exactly. It’s not tears. It’s… pressure. Like something behind your ribs is pressing too hard against the inside of your bones. Like if you exhale too much, you’ll break.

They want you calm.

They want you quiet.

They want you to walk back into that room in two days like nothing is wrong. Like it’s all working.

You rise stiffly and move to the sink in your corner cell. The water is cold, almost sharp, when you splash it on your face — but it doesn’t help. The shake in your hands doesn’t stop. Your reflection stares back, hollow-eyed and pale, like a ghost wearing your skin.

You shouldn’t go there.

The thought comes soft, unspoken.

You could say you’re sick. You could fake a fever, a tremor, anything. Kern wouldn’t risk losing control of his precious asset. They’d delay. They’d reschedule. You could buy yourself time.

Time to breathe.

Time to forget the weight of his hand in yours. The way his thumb moved — just slightly — like he was real. Like he was choosing to stay.

You grip the edge of the sink tighter.

Because the truth is… you’re not scared of him.

You’re scared of what you’re becoming.

You’re scared that the silence between you was the first time in months you’ve felt like a person. That the sound of his voice — low, cautious, gentle — has been playing on a loop in your mind ever since.

“Why do you want this?”

“You don’t feel like them.”

You press your fists to your chest like you can push the memory out.

You’re not supposed to feel this. You were meant to soothe him. Anchor him. Be a tether, not a mirror.

But something’s shifting now. You’re starting to see him. Not just the shell. Not just the Winter Soldier. The man underneath.

And worse — he’s starting to see you back.

You lean your forehead against the cold concrete wall, breath shallow.

Don’t go, you tell yourself. Just this once. Just rest. Tell them you’re unwell. Keep your distance. You don’t need him. You don’t need anyone.

But the truth slithers through you, dark and shameful.

You want to go back.

You want him to look at you again.

You want the silence. The stillness. The impossible safety of a man who could kill you in a heartbeat choosing not to.

You want to hear his voice again — not the blank voice they gave him, but the one that shook when he said your touch felt different.

Your knees give a little. You slide down the wall slowly, curl in on yourself.

And for the first time since you were dragged into this hell — you admit it.

You want him to choose you.

Not because he was ordered to. Not because you’re useful but because something inside him — something broken and forgotten — knows you.

You bury your face in your arms.

You won’t pretend to be sick.

You’ll go back.

Because you’re not afraid of the Soldier. You’re afraid of the way your heart beats quieter when he looks at you like you’re real.

And you don’t know if it’s love.

But it’s something.

And it’s already too late to stop it.

———

You step through like always — silent, steady, trained — but your heart is doing something wild behind your ribs. Like it’s trying to throw itself forward. Toward him.

He’s sitting exactly where he was all these times before. Ankles shackled, arms loose at his sides, head tilted slightly forward.

And again his eyes lift the moment you enter.

Not slowly. Not by accident. He waited.

Again.

You freeze for a half-second. Just long enough to catch it — the flicker in his face. The smallest change. A softening at the corner of his mouth. It’s not quite a smile.

But it’s close.

It’s gone in an instant — like he didn’t mean to let it slip.

But it happened.

And your breath catches like a wire pulled tight.

He saw you.

He sees you.

You sit across from him — slower than usual — not because you’re stalling, but because your body is listening now. Waiting to feel that strange stillness again. That hum between you. The one that doesn’t belong to Hydra.

For a few seconds, he just watches you. Not hostile. Not guarded. Just… present.

You wet your lips. Your voice is a whisper when it finally comes.

“Hi.”

His brow twitches. Not a reaction, not really — but not neutral, either. His head tilts just a little. “Why didn’t you come yesterday?” he asks.

You blink. You weren’t expecting that — for him to actually care this much about your presence. Or maybe you did?

I—” Your voice falters. You swallow. “Kern said so. Said we need time to reset”

“Kern?” His brow raised slightly.

“One of the agents.”

“Ah,” he nods, lightly. He’s quiet. Then, softly — softer than anything you’ve heard him say yet:

“I was waiting for you yesterday.”

The words hit you like a wave.

He missed you.

He doesn’t know it, maybe. Doesn’t have the language for it.

But his presence — his choice to say that — it’s everything.

Your hands fidget in your lap. You don’t reach for him this time. You don’t want to scare it off.

“You remembered I wasn’t there,” you say quietly, smiling softly at him, somehow with pride or maybe just pure happiness.

His eyes don’t leave yours.

“I remember you.”

The room tilts. You exhale shakily, eyes burning. You shouldn’t feel this much. You shouldn’t let it in. But the way he says it — like it costs him something — like every word is carved from stone and still he offers it to you. You nod. Just once. Like a vow.

He shifts slightly. The chains clink. Not threatening — just… movement. Adjustment. Like he’s trying to find where to put this feeling.

“I don’t know why I want you to come back,” he murmurs, eyes lowering. “But I do.”

You close your eyes. Just for a second. The pain in your chest is unbearable. Not because it hurts — but because it doesn’t. Because for the first time, you feel safe.

Not with the guards.

Not with the cameras.

Not with Kern.

With him. With the weapon they said could never be human again.

You don’t touch him this time, you don’t have to because when he looks up again — that not-quite-smile is back. Just a flicker. Just for you.

It stays there for half a breath longer this time before his face shutters again. There’s a thrum deep in your chest. Like something waking up. Something old and afraid and starved.

For connection.

For gentleness.

For someone who looks at you like you’re not a tool, not an asset, not a ghost in someone else’s war.

Just a girl.

Just a presence.

Your throat is dry, but you ask anyway — softly:

“What do you mean? About wanting me to come back.”

He doesn’t answer right away. His gaze drifts — down to your hands in your lap, to the floor, to the flicker of light overhead like it’s too bright now. Like he’s remembering something he’s not supposed to.

“I… don’t know,” he admits. “It’s easier when you’re here.”

The words are so quiet they could vanish. But they don’t. They land between you like a secret. You study him, unsure how to breathe around the ache blooming in your lungs.

“Easier?” you echo.

He nods, almost imperceptibly. His jaw tightens. You can tell it costs him something — not just to say it, but to feel it.

He shifts again. The metal chain tugs softly at his wrist, and his voice drops lower. “Everything else is loud. The missions. The resets. The voices.”

Your heart cracks.

“And me?”

He looks at you.

This time, really looks — not like a soldier cataloging a target, but like a man trying to remember what peace looks like.

“You’re quiet,” he says. “Not in your voice. Just… in here.” He taps a finger to his temple.

You blink. He means your mind. The place no one else ever touches without breaking something. You blink again, and tears threaten — hot, unwelcome, dangerous. You look away fast. You don’t want him to see.

But he already has. His metal hand shifts, inching forward on instinct — not close enough to touch, but almost. “I just… I don’t like when you’re gone,” he says, and it sounds raw. Unfiltered.

It cuts straight through you. You lift your eyes again. “Neither do I.”

There’s silence. Thick, heavy silence.

But it isn’t empty.

It means something now.

You feel it — like the gravity in the room changed. Like you could fall into him if you let yourself.

His eyes are still on you.

“You should touch me again,” he says suddenly.

It knocks the wind from you. Your lips part. “What?”

“Like last time,” he says, low. “When you asked.”

Your pulse spikes. You hadn’t thought he would ask you that. Not that.

“Did you like it?” you whisper, heart pounding.

He nods once. “Didn’t hurt,” he says.

Then, softer: “Felt real.”

Your hand moves without thinking — slow, careful — like you’re reaching for a wounded animal and when your fingertips brush his metal hand this time, he doesn’t flinch.

He watches the contact. Watches you.

And then — impossibly — he turns his hand over, offering the palm.

Letting you hold it.

Like he’s ready.

Like he wants it.

You curl your fingers into his and lets out a breath.

And that smile — that flicker — returns. Still small. Still almost nothing… But it’s there for you.

His hand is heavy in yours — cool metal, impossible strength — but it doesn’t scare you.

Because he gave it to you.

Because he chose.

And now he’s watching you again — not the way he did before, sharp and assessing — but like he’s trying to understand something. Something inside you he doesn’t have words for yet. You stroke your thumb gently across the metal. He glances down at the contact.

Then — his voice, low and strange:

“Do they hurt you?”

You freeze. Your breath catches. He doesn’t look up right away, like he’s afraid of the answer. Or what it’ll do to him and you don’t answer at first. You can’t. Because something in your chest is splintering. Not from fear. Not from pain. From being seen.

You swallow hard. Try to speak. “Why are you asking me that?”

He finally lifts his gaze… And his eyes — god — there’s something new in them now. A tension. A fury, quiet and coiled. Still buried deep beneath all the conditioning, but there.

Because you didn’t say no.

Because you hesitated.

His jaw works. “I know what it’s like. To be used.”

Your lips part, you want to say something but the words don’t come because he’s still speaking. Still unfolding.

“They hurt me,” he says, voice flat. “Strap me down. Run wires through my skull. Rip out what they don’t like and fill it with noise.” His jaw clenches. “I hate them,” he says. The words are soft. Final.

Then he glances at your hand still wrapped in his — as if realizing it’s the only gentle thing in the room. “I don’t want them to do that to you.”

Your throat is too tight to answer.

He leans forward slightly. Just an inch. Just enough for you to feel it — the weight of his concern. The shield forming where no one taught him to build one.

“Did they hurt you?” he asks again, quieter this time.

And you realize: he isn’t asking to know. He’s asking so he can remember. So he can stop them. So he can keep that one piece of you safe — whatever part they haven’t already broken.

You try to smile. It trembles. “Not the way they hurt you,” you say. “But… it’s not easy.”

His eyes narrow slightly. A flicker of emotion — one that doesn’t belong to Hydra. Not discipline. Not calculation.

Something almost… feral.

You squeeze his hand gently. “They tell me I’m here to help you,” you whisper. “But it doesn’t feel like that.”

He tilts his head. “What does it feel like?”

You don’t answer. You can’t.

Because what it feels like — right now — is this:

You, sitting across from a man who was turned into a ghost, who was stripped of everything soft — and still, somehow, he is trying to protect you.

And that makes you feel something so devastatingly human, you don’t know what to do with it. So instead, you whisper the only truth that doesn’t hurt:

“I like it better when it’s just us.”

His gaze lingers on your face.

“Me too.”

You’re still holding his hand when the door creaks open. You both flinch — not from fear. From instinct.

You don’t know how long you sat there, it didn’t feel real. You snap back to reality the moment you hear the door open.

The spell breaks.

Kern enters like he always does: clipboard in one hand, a pen tapping against his thigh. But this time, he doesn’t approach with tests or notes. He stays near the door. Watching.

You straighten slowly, tense. The soldier shifts too, eyes flicking from you to the intruder. His fingers tighten around yours.

And that’s when you know something’s wrong.

Kern’s expression is too calm. Too still. He tilts his head slightly, eyes narrowing.

“Let’s run a little test,” he says. “Shall we?”

You open your mouth. “Kern—”

But it’s already too late.

His voice is low. Deliberate. And Russian.

“Желание.”

Soldier jerks. His breath hitches — not a gasp, but close. Like something inside him just twitched.

You turn sharply. “Stop it—!”

Kern’s voice is louder now. Crisp. Measured. “Ржавый. Семнадцать. Рассвет.”

“No—!” You lurch to your feet, but Soldier doesn’t move. He can’t.

He’s shaking now — barely. Like his muscles are locked in a war you can’t see.

“Печь. Девять.”

His jaw clenches. The metal hand curls into a fist.

“Kern, please!” you snap.

But Kern doesn’t even blink. “Добросердечный. Возвращение на родину.”

Soldier lurches forward like he’s being pulled. His breath is ragged now — almost a growl.

You reach for him. You try, you so desperately try to stop this, whatever this is. You try to hold it together. You turn to The Soldier, you try to speak to him through it. “It’s okay. You’re okay—”

And then, softly, Kern finishes it:

“Один. Грузовой вагон.”

Silence.

He rises.

Like a shadow.

Like something unchained.

Your breath catches as you stumble backward.

He’s looking through you now. Like you’re not there. Not really. The Soldier’s breathing is fast now. His eyes dart — not to Kern. Not to you. To the floor. To the air. Like he’s somewhere else.

Kern watches like a scientist in a lab.

You know what this is — what he wants. He’s trying to break it. Break you. Wants to see if he will hurt you. Wants to prove you’re wrong to believe he’s something more than a weapon.

Your voice trembles. “Please…”

He steps forward. Slow. Measured. His eyes are wide but empty. Hollow.

“It’s me. Little Dove. You remember me.”

Nothing.

You don’t move. You don’t run. You just breathe — slow and steady — even though your body is screaming. “Please,” you whisper, “don’t let them take this from you.”

His metal arm lifts. You flinch—but don’t close your eyes.

He stops. His hand shakes. Hard. Like he’s fighting it. Like there’s something else screaming inside him, too.

And then everything snaps.

The Soldier grabs you by the throat. You don’t even have time to scream. The cold of his metal hand is the first thing you feel — the pressure second. He pins you back, not slamming but shoving, calculated and brutal. Your feet skid against the floor. Your hands claw at his wrist.

You can’t breathe.

Your vision starts to blur.

But you don’t fight him. You look at him and your lips move even without air. “Please.”

For a heartbeat, nothing happens.

Then — his expression cracks. His eyes widen. Blink. Blink again.

And then he sees you.

The Soldier’s grip falters.

He looks down at his hand.

At your throat.

At the bruises already forming.

And he stumbles back like he’s been shot.

He releases you so fast you hit the ground coughing, air burning in your lungs. His gaze is still fixed on his own hand.

Like he doesn’t understand how it got there.

Like it betrayed him.

He backs up. Shaking. Trembling. His mouth opens like he’s going to say something — but nothing comes out.

Kern, still standing by the door, clicks his pen.

“Interesting,” he says mildly.

You look up at him, eyes burning. “You did this,” you rasp.

But he’s not even looking at you anymore.

He’s watching the Soldier — who’s still staring at his metal arm, like it’s no longer a part of him. Like it’s a weapon that acted on its own.

And maybe it did.

Kern smiles faintly, glancing at you.

“Good to know the programming still works on you.”

You’re still gasping when the door bursts open again. Two guards sweep in like a storm — faceless, armored, efficient. You barely lift your head before they’re on you.

“Wait—” your voice is hoarse, broken. “Don’t—”

Gloved hands seize your arms.

You thrash, cough, try to hold onto the floor, something, but they’ve done this too many times. You’re yanked to your feet with such force your knees nearly buckle.

The Soldier jerks forward. Not far — the chains stop him. But his body reacts on instinct. Like he’s going to stop them.

And then he doesn’t.

He freezes.

He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t reach. Doesn’t fight.

He just stands there, watching.

Frozen in horror.

Like if he moves again, he’ll hurt you worse.

Like he already believes he’s a monster.

“Let me go!” you cry, struggling hard now. “He didn’t mean to—”

The guards don’t care. They drag you out anyway.

Your feet scrape against the floor. You’re coughing and pulling and twisting, but the Soldier’s eyes never leave yours — not even when you disappear through the door, not even when Kern steps into his line of sight again.

That shattered look stays. Even when you’re gone.

And Kern?

He just laughs under his breath.

“Attachment,” he says casually. “Always the most fragile weakness.”

———

The cell door slams behind you like a gunshot.

You stumble forward, landing hard on your knees. The air still won’t come right — your throat burns, every breath a jagged edge.

You’re not crying.

You won’t.

Even if your hands are shaking, even if your neck is raw and purpled, even if your chest feels like something has been torn out — you refuse to give them that.

The heavy click of boots follows. You don’t need to look to know it’s him.

Kern.

He lets the silence stretch long, lets it crawl into the corners of the room like mold.

“I warned you,” he says at last, voice calm. Too calm. “You get too close to fire — you’ll get burned, little dove.” He lets out a dark chuckle. “Such a nickname he’s got you, huh?”

You press your palms into the floor. You want to rise. You want to scream.

But you’re still trying to breathe.

“Don’t look so surprised,” he continues. “That was always going to happen. It’s what he is. What he was made to be.”

Your voice is hoarse when it scrapes out. “You did it on purpose.”

He crouches beside you, one hand on his knee, the other tapping a cigarette against a silver case he hasn’t even opened.

“I reminded him,” Kern says with mock patience. “That’s all. A few simple words. And look how fast he remembered who he belongs to.”

You look up at him now — eyes burning.

“That wasn’t him.”

Kern grins, small and smug. “No? Then who was it choking the life out of you?”

You don’t blink. “You.”

That wipes the grin clean off his face for a second. But he recovers fast — steps back with a small exhale, like you’ve amused him instead of landed a blow.

“Sentimental attachment makes you sloppy,” he says. “We needed to reset expectations.”

You don’t answer. You can’t. Your voice is fraying.

But your glare says enough.

Kern taps his cigarette case once against the bars before turning for the exit.

“Rest up. You’ll see him again soon. Maybe next time he’ll finish the job.”

And then he’s gone.

The door slams shut again. This time it sounds like the end of something.

But you pull yourself up slowly, hands trembling, blood singing in your ears.

Because it’s not the end.

Not even close.

———

You step into the room like always.

But nothing feels like always.

Your throat still aches — not from the pressure, but from the silence that followed. From the sound of his voice gone flat. From the feel of cold metal where warmth had started to grow.

Your skin blooms with bruises — stark against your collarbone and the fragile stem of your neck. You tried to cover them. Kern didn’t bother. Maybe he wanted them seen.

Maybe he wanted to see them.

But the Winter Soldier doesn’t look at you.

He always did. Every time before, the second you crossed the threshold, his gaze found yours — sharp, searching, strange.

Now? His head is down. Eyes low. Shackled hands limp in his lap.

And the silence is unbearable.

You swallow — wincing at the pull. You take slow, careful steps towards him and sit down on the ground next to him without a word. You try not to flinch when the chains rattle. Try not to remember the sound of them dragging as he stood and reached for your throat.

His voice, when it finally comes, is hoarse.

“I told them I didn’t want you back.”

Your heart doesn’t break.

It sinks — cold and slow, like it’s being drowned.

You don’t answer right away. You don’t know how.

“I didn’t mean to,” he says next — quiet, broken. “I told them. I told them.”

His hands flex in the cuffs. Not violently. Like he’s checking they’re still there. That he’s still bound.

“I would never—” He cuts off. Shakes his head like the words don’t belong to him.

You sit still. You have to — not out of fear, but something deeper. Something aching. You see it on him. In him.

He’s afraid.

Not of you.

Of himself.

“It wasn’t you,” you say softly.

He flinches. “I hurt you,” he mutters, barely audible. “I saw the marks. I felt it.” He glances at your bruised neck. “I still see them.”

You want to reach for him — god, you do — but you don’t because you know — even your kindness could cut him now.

“I wasn’t afraid of you,” you whisper.

His head lifts just slightly — not all the way. Like he wants to look, but can’t bear what he’ll see.

“Then what were you afraid of?” he asks, voice splintering.

You meet his eyes — because someone has to.

“Of losing you to them.”

That gets him.

His jaw tightens, eyes burning with something he doesn’t have a name for. His whole body goes still, like if he breathes wrong, he’ll shatter.

“I don’t want to be theirs anymore,” he says, and it’s a confession. A plea. “But they live in me.”

“They don’t have to win,” you say. “Not if you fight.”

“And if I lose?”

“You won’t lose me.”

He looks at you now and there’s so much pain in it — but something else, too. Something like hope.

You sit in the quiet, watching him. His face is unreadable again — the stillness of a weapon, not a man.

But you know better now. Slowly — so slowly — you lift your hand. Just an inch off your thigh. Palm open. Gentle. Not demanding. Just offering.

He sees it.

And flinches.

“Don’t.”

It’s sharp. Not loud, but final. Like he’s choking on glass.

Your hand falls. Your throat closes and then — because you can’t just leave it there — your voice cracks open.

“Please.”

He shakes his head. Not at you. At himself.

“I can’t… I don’t trust what I’ll do.”

You blink through the burn in your eyes. You don’t look away.

“I do.”

He exhales through his nose, bitter and broken.

“You shouldn’t.”

You inch closer, your fingers trembling in your lap.

“They made you do it,” you whisper. “Not you. Not the man who waited for me. Who remembered me.”

He looks at you — and it’s unbearable. His eyes are wild with guilt. With panic.

“They’ll do it again,” he rasps. “You don’t understand. They live in me.”

“I don’t care,” you say, and the truth of it rocks through you. “They can live in you. They can whisper and push and break you in every way — but they don’t get this.”

He’s frozen.

“This thing we built?” you whisper. “They don’t get it. Not unless we give it to them.”

His breath is ragged now. Like he’s drowning. Like every word you speak is pulling him toward the surface and he doesn’t know how to breathe up here anymore.

“I don’t have anyone else,” you say. “It’s you. It’s always been you.” You reach for him again. Hand open. Shaking. “Please,” you whisper. “Let me remind you.”

And this time — this time — he doesn’t pull away. He doesn’t move, either. Doesn’t lean in or meet your touch. He just lets it happen.

Your fingers brush the back of his hand — barely there. Just skin against metal. Warmth against cold.

His eyes close like it hurts. Not the pain of impact. The pain of trust.

You just sit there, hand resting lightly over his. He just feels human and he lets you hold what little of him is left.

You don’t mean to say it.

Not here. Not like this.

But the words have been sitting in your chest too long, and they hurt more staying quiet.

“I’m not sure what I feel toward you,” you whisper.

His head shifts slightly. Just enough to show he’s listening — but he doesn’t look at you. Not yet.

Your fingers curl against your knees. You stare at them like they might hold the rest of the sentence.

“But it’s… something.”

He still doesn’t move.

“And I know I shouldn’t feel anything at all. Not for you. Not in this place.” You let out a dry, quiet breath. “But I do.”

The silence stretches — and for a second, it feels unbearable. Like you might shatter inside it.

“I don’t know what to call it,” you murmur. “But I keep thinking about you. Not just when I’m here.”

You glance up. His jaw is tight. Shoulders locked. Like he’s holding something back with all the force he has.

“And I know it’s stupid,” you go on, voice cracking. “I know they could rip it away at any second. But what we’ve built — this thing between us — it means something.”

He flinches like it hurts to hear that.

But you keep going. Because if you don’t say it now, you never will.

“You said you remembered me.” Your throat tightens. “Even when you weren’t supposed to. Even when you probably didn’t want to.”

You lift your eyes to him again. This time, he meets them.

And the look he gives you — it wrecks you.

Because it’s not blank. It’s not cold.

It’s grief.

“I don’t want to lose that,” you say softly. “I don’t want to lose you.”

And for the first time in too long — he reaches back.

Slowly, like he’s not sure if the moment is real — like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he touches you wrong — he leans forward.

You barely breathe.

His metal hand rises first. Hesitates midair.

Then it cups your cheek — careful, gentle, reverent.

You don’t move. You don’t flinch.

And when he leans in — when his lips brush yours — it’s not with hunger. It’s not control.

It’s longing. It’s fear. It’s hope.

And you kiss him back like it’s the only real thing in the world.

Because maybe it is.

Next Chapter 🕊️

[sluttyten]

The Devil in Me

Kinktober Day 9 | Haechan Masterlist | Member Masterlist

tags: loss of virginity, first time, oral sex, marking, biting, possessive/protective Haechan, mentions of human sacrifice, demons, a lot softer/romantic than it sounds

length: 8293

Maybe you should have heeded the warnings of your friends and family, but you’d thought it was all just a bit of small-mindedness and prejudice. 

When you started seeing a guy who was a loud and proud satanist, your friends and family had all told you that he would be bad news. But you’d done some research into the belief system of satanists, and it wasn’t inherently evil, as they all seemed to believe. And you liked this guy, he was charming and handsome and he spoke to you like you were his everything, that you were someone special to him. 

And now, in your present position, you can see that you were in fact someone special to him. 

You were his virgin sacrifice. 

It had been a mistake to tell him that you were a virgin. You could’ve fed him some other excuse for why you didn’t want to have sex, but you’d gone with the truth. And now look where it got you. 

He’d brought you out into the woods on the premise of a night hike, stargazing, camping and keeping each other warm beside a campfire. But now you were strapped to a wooden table in the middle of a circle of fire in the woods, and he was pacing in circles around you, chanting words and drawing symbols on his bare chest in either red paint or some kind of blood. 

He’d already given you the evil villain speech. This was a ritual to summon a demon he’d read about — a chaos demon who could grant him wealth and talent by stealing it from others. He was going to sacrifice you and blah blah blah. You’d stopped listening after a while. The straps on your wrists were so tight that you were losing feeling in your fingertips. Your ankles were tied down too, and you could see no way out of this, resigned to your fate. 

All you know is that if he kills you, you’re going to haunt the shit out of him. 

When he stops his pacing, when the chanting slows, you close your eyes and send a prayer out to anyone listening to save you. 

The asshole teases you with your own death. He trails his hunting knife from your neck down between your breasts, slicing apart your shirt as he goes. 

Your shirt falls open, and he returns the blade to your throat. You refuse to make a sound, you refuse to give him the satisfaction of hearing you cry out. 

“Look at me!” He yells, his hand gripping your chin. “I want you to watch.”

Your eyes fly open, and you stare this asshole in the eye, putting as much hatred and vitriol in your gaze as you can. 

He grins, trailing the knife lower, and with a flick of his wrist, he gives you a shallow cut just above your left breast. You can see the first drops of your blood well up to the surface. His eyes light up, the chant falling from his lips again as he lifts his hand and the blade, drawing them up into the air over the center of your chest. 

He’s going to plunge it into your heart, that’s something he said during his monologue. 

You suck in a breath, watching his hand, watching the moonlight glint off the blade. 

He swings. 

And a tan hand curls around his wrist, halting the movement. 

“I don’t think so,” a smooth voice says. 

You watch the hand on your would-be murderer’s wrist. The hand guides his, redirecting the path of his blade, and you squeeze your eyes shut as the blade draws across his throat. You try to tune out the wet choking sound as your would-be murderer collapses, as he pulls himself away through the grass and the brush, as he dies the ugly death he would have given to you. 

You open your eyes when you can no longer hear him struggling to survive, and you see before you a beautiful, beautiful demon. 

His eyes glow a deep red. Two black horns stick out from his black hair. Ragged black wings jut out from his shoulders. And he’s beautiful. Devastatingly handsome. 

The summoning ritual worked. 

The fight for survival comes racing back through you, and you jerk against your bonds, crying out, screaming for help. You’ll not have your soul taken by a demon. That’s not happening tonight!

“Don’t be afraid,” he says calmly, “I’m not here to hurt you.”

With a wave of his hand, the bonds on your wrists snap, your ankles suddenly are freed as well. You sit up, clutching at the sides of your shirt to pull them together over your chest. The demon looks at you, and then turns his head to the side towards where you last heard that bastard's dying breaths fade away. 

“Some humans are real assholes, yknow?” The demon says, still not looking at you. “They think we all want sacrifices, which, don’t get me wrong, they can be nice from time to time, but we don’t demand the murder of virgins. We certainly don’t demand unwilling pretty women be murdered in the woods.”

He spits towards what you can only assume is the dead body of your would-be murderer. And then the demon looks back at you, eyes aglow. 

“I’m Haechan,” he introduces himself, holding his hand out to you. “But you can call me Donghyeok.” 

You hesitate for a moment, uncertain if you should give him your name or shake his hand. You feel like you’ve heard stories about how bad doing either of those things could be. But in the end, it’s the way that the corner of his mouth tilts up as he watches you that convinces you. 

You put your hand in his, and you give him your name. 

Donghyeok lifts your hand, brushing his lips across your knuckles. “Pleased to have saved you.” 

Your pulse throbs in your veins, pounding in your ears. 

An actual demon is holding your hand, standing before you smelling like sea air and citrus rather than the burning brimstone stories would have you believe. Donghyeok lowers your hand, and you pull it back into your lap. 

“That guy seemed like a dick.” Donghyeok turns away, shaking his wings as he walks over to the nearest flickering ground torch. He continues talking while he extinguishes that torch, saying, “Very bossy in his summoning chant. I probably would’ve ended up killing him even if he wasn’t trying to murder you. How did you end up here, anyway?”

“I was stupid.” You droop forward, hanging your head as you look down at your knees. “I let him trick me into thinking he was a good guy despite all the warnings from everyone around me. I thought they were just prejudiced since he was a Satanist, but they were right.” You risk a glance in Donghyeok’s direction. “I shouldn’t have ever told him I’m a virgin, I was basically just asking to get sacrificed in a demonic ritual.”

Donghyeok’s wings flare as he turns to look at you. “Don’t say that. Don’t ever blame yourself for the actions of a stupid man. He is the one that did this, not you.” 

He extinguishes two more torches before either of you speak again. 

“Virgin sacrifices don’t actually mean, like sexual virginity, yknow?” Donghyeok says, his back facing you while he puts out another torch. Now only four of them remain lit in the circle. “It’s virgin blood. Blood that’s never been used for a ritual before. As soon as he cut you, I felt the call, and I saw what he was going to do to you. I’m tired of men killing women with the excuse of summoning me. I just require a few drops of blood to be spilled, not a life taken.”

Donghyeok waves his wings, and three more torches flicker out, leaving just one glowing right in front of you, providing just enough light to see by as Donghyeok strides back to you. His bloody red eyes sweep over you from head to toe. 

“What are you going to do to me?” You can tell your voice is small, nearly lost in the whisper of wind through the trees. But Donghyeok hears, and he cocks his head slightly to the side to watch you. 

“Haven’t you been listening?” He reaches up, snapping his fingers together and drawing a handkerchief out of thin air. “I’m not here to do anything to you. I came to rescue you from that asshole, and now you’re free.” He holds the handkerchief out to you. 

“So you’re just going to leave me here?” You accept the silky white cloth, and you find one corner of it embroidered with flowy script — LDH, it says, and you run your thumb over the fine threads making up the letters. 

“I didn’t say I was leaving you.” He smiles, and again, your pulse thunders. “We can go, or we can stay here and have sex.”

A squawk of surprise and indignation leaves you, which makes Donghyeok laugh. And fuck, you thought he was beautiful before, the sight and sound of his genuine laughter makes him even more beautiful. 

“I’m joking!” He keeps laughing, his shoulders shaking as he tries to hold it in while he speaks, “But I can get you out of here in a snap so you don’t have to hike back through these woods in the dark.” 

“Please!” You reach out, grabbing both of his hands, holding them between yours. “Please, get me out of here.”

Donghyeok’s expression goes serious. “I will, I promise. And what about him?” 

You begin to turn your head to look, but you change your mind, keeping your gaze fixed on this beautiful demon. You shake your head. “Leave him. The police can deal with him, I’ll report the crime when I get back to town.”

Donghyeok watches you for a moment, contemplating something. Then he shrugs, holds tighter to your hands, and you feel a tug behind your navel. 

The scenery around you has changed.

You’re still in the woods, but just at the edge of it. You can see the lights of town just ahead through the trunks. 

“Here, let’s at least make it look like you’ve run back here.” Donghyeok crouches down, filling his hand with soft dirt. “May I?”

You’re not entirely sure what you’re agreeing to, but you nod. Immediately, Donghyeok is touching you, spreading dirt over your clothes, a smear of mud along the torn open edge of your shirt. He runs his fingers through your hair (which shouldn’t feel as good as it does). He plucks some twigs and leaves, sticking them haphazardly in your hair, dangling from a new rip at the bottom of your shirt. 

He takes a step back to appreciate his handiwork, then nods, satisfied. 

You both stand there looking at each other for a moment, and finally you say, “Thank you.”

Donghyeok nods. “You didn’t deserve what that asshole was going to do to you. None of them ever do deserve it. He, however, deserved everything he got, and everything he’s going to get when I get back to Hell.”

“Thank you,” you repeat because you mean it, and there are no words more genuine that you can think to say. “Really, Donghyeok, thank you.”

You turn towards the lights of town. You’re going to the police, filing a report, making sure they know that that bastard tried to kill you, and he's the reason he’s dead. 

“One thing before you go!” Donghyeok steps in front of you. You look up at him just as he reaches out and puts his hand on your right shoulder. His hand burns hot and then hotter through your shirt, and you hiss in pain, trying to draw away, but Donghyeok holds on, only releasing you once the pain begins to fade into a tingle. 

“That’s all. See you around.”

And then the demon disappears into a shadowy mist. 

You stand there for a moment before you pull yourself back together, and you walk into town, straight for the police station. 

They believe the story, which is good since most of it is true. Only part of it is fictionalized: when you say that you managed to slip the bonds he’d had on your wrists, the part where you wrestled the knife from him, where you’d cut him across the throat and then run miles back to town through the woods. But the story is believable because the facts and evidence are all there — the police trek through the woods and find the site of the ritual, find his body, find a blade that somehow has your fingerprints; they find plans in his apartment, records of messages between him and others, of his search history on how to summon a demon and how to perform a virgin sacrifice. 

When you finally leave the police station, returning home under the care of your family and friends, you finally get a moment to yourself in the shower. 

You peel off your pants and socks, drag your shirt over your head, slip off your panties and bra, and then you look at yourself in the mirror. 

Black inky lines that weren’t there before these events are there now. You twist, angling better towards the mirror to be able to see what appears to be a whole tattoo that you never got. 

A sunflower curves from front to back over your shoulder and down onto your arm. 

You brush your fingers over the petals, feeling your skin tingle in a not unpleasant way. It sends a curl of warmth into your belly, makes your heart pound. 

It’s Donghyeok, you know it is. 

This is his mark, left on you. 

The next time you see him, it’s too brief for your liking. 

There’s a street festival, sort of like a carnival in town, and you spend hours down there one day as afternoon turns to evening turns to night. It brings all the weirdos out, from your town and those surrounding. You stick close to your friends, you have fun, you spend too much money on greasy food and rigged carnival games, you flirt with a cute carnie to get the big stuffed teddy bear prize. 

Your friends decide to ride the Ferris wheel, but your mild fear of heights and the lure of a big pink cloud of cotton candy call to you instead. You’ll stay here feet firmly on the ground, enjoying your cotton candy, and watching them take a turn on the giant wheel. 

But first you have to find the cotton candy booth. 

You’re carrying your teddy prize like it’s a toddler, hoisted up to sit on your hip. You’re still rather pleased with yourself for having flirted it out of the carnie, even though you’re not quite sure what you’re going to do with it, and carrying it around for the rest of the night is possibly going to become a bit of a hindrance. 

You cut between two game booths, slipping into the shadowed path that runs along the backs of the games, like an alley between the ring toss games facing one way and the basketball and shooting games facing the other. The cotton candy booth is visible at the end. 

You have to step over wires, bags of vacuum-sealed prizes, a crate that’s surrounded by cigarette butts. The dings and chimes, alarm sounds and cries of joy all sound muffled, leaving you feeling a bit apart from the carnival despite being right in the heart of it. 

A figure melts out of the shadows, suddenly keeping perfect stride with you. 

You gasp, twisting around with the bear between you and this shadow-born devil. 

“Me again,” Donghyeok laughs. 

He’s got his hands tucked into his pockets. The devil horns are concealed by a hood. He’s wearing a leather jacket that has black wings stitched into the back panel. He could pass for normal, you think as your heart settles back into a more normal rhythm, if only his eyes weren’t still a deep red with his pupils reflecting light like an animal’s eyes at night. 

“Donghyeok.” You almost collapse against the back of one of the game tents. 

His lips curl around the sound of your name. You like the sound of that — his voice, your name. 

You just stand there staring at him for a moment, amazed that he’s actually here. In the days after your near-sacrifice, you’d almost convinced yourself that Donghyeok had been nothing more than a figment of your imagination used to soften the trauma of that night a little. But here he is again. Real. In the flesh. 

“Are you keeping out of trouble?” He asks, and when you nod, he scoffs. “But you’re back here walking by yourself? Do you know what kinds of people are drawn to work these carnivals? The transient lifestyle calls to some pretty awful people.” He turns to look back along the path you’ve been walking in this makeshift alleyway. 

Several feet back, there’s a slumped over figure where there hadn’t been before. And the longer you look, the more you realize it’s that cute carnie that had given you the bear.

“Don’t worry, baby, I’ve got your back.” Donghyeok pats your right shoulder, his skin hot against yours. “You should get back to your friends before they start worrying. Here, this is for you.” 

Out of thin air, he draws a large fluffy pink cotton candy, holding it out to you. 

Donghyeok escorts you back towards your friends, and he blends in with the crowd, looking perfectly human except for his eyes. His shoulder bumps against yours. He chatters and laughs with you. You find it so curious the way that your heart skips each time you look at him. 

Hours later, once you’re safely ensconced at home, you notice that the center of your sunflower marking on your shoulder is darker than it used to be, almost like you’d gotten it shaded in. 

Donghyeok again, you’re sure. 

You recall his hand on your shoulder, the gentle but pleasant burn of his skin on yours. 

You turn your head, resting your cheek against your shoulder. The center of the sunflower is warm against your cheek. 

A few weeks later, you’re certain your family thinks you’re crazy. You’ve not seen Donghyeok again since that night at the carnival, and honestly, you’re beginning to feel very Bella Swan in New Moon about the situation. You’re about to start throwing yourself into harm’s way just to see if Donghyeok will make an appearance to save you; although, you have a strong suspicion that if he knew you were doing dangerous things intentionally, he would make a point of not showing up. 

So, instead of trying to cross paths with dangerous men (again), you decide to go to the library and local bookstores and pull any books you can find on how to summon a demon. You do research online, printing out pages and pages of summoning rituals. You’ve got a whole wall of your bedroom dedicated to the stuff.

“There is something very wrong with you,” your dad says one afternoon when he sees it all. “You survived that satanist dick. Why would you put yourself through this?”

You’re pretty sure your family and friends think you’re doing this to torture yourself. You can tell they’re all worried for you, all of them concerned about what path you’re taking.

But you’re not diving headfirst into satanism or anything like that really. You just want to summon one demon in particular – a chaos demon named Haechan who has asked you personally to call him Donghyeok.

You seek out a different ritual than the one performed when you first met him. You don’t want to have to sacrifice a virgin even if it only means a few drops of voluntary blood; that veers too close to the sacrifice you’d almost found yourself to be in the woods. 

Eventually, you find a source online that suggests a few specific crystals, certain herbs, fire and chalk and a spell in a language that you’ll have to teach yourself. But it seems doable. You just have to find a shop for all of those things, and then you’ll summon Donghyeok. You just want to see him again. You’re drawn to him, and maybe it’s because he saved you so you’ve got some weird type of twist on Stockholm Syndrome, or maybe it’s this sunflower he marked on your shoulder, the roots it’s put down inside you making you want to see him more and more, thirsting for him like a desert plant in a drought. 

You find a shop perfectly suited to your needs. The woman running the place seems quirky enough that you don’t have any qualms about telling her everything — what you’re looking for, how you’re going to use it, why you’re using it — and you’re obsessed with the gleeful twinkle in her eye as she dances around the shop, gathering the items you’ve listed, plucking them from dark corners, from a bay of windows, from bunches of herbs hanging from the ceiling. 

“I do have to warn you,” she says as she carefully packs it all into a bag for you, her voice dipping towards a serious tone to say, “Some demons are always listening for a call, even if it’s not for them, especially when it’s a pretty girl like you calling with almost no taint in your blood. Just know, dear, that when you call for your demon, someone else might try reaching through. So be careful when you speak the spell. Clear pronunciation, clear focus and determination.”

She pats your hand tenderly before you leave, and she wishes you well. 

You set up the ritual in your bedroom. You push all the furniture out of the center of the room, roll back the rug that usually covers the floor beneath your bed. You sketch out the symbols in chalk on the hardwood floor, you set up the crystals exactly according to the diagram on the website, placing candles exactly right too. You scatter herbs across the pentagram, sprinkle a few in a bowl set in the center of the ritual space, and finally you kneel beside it. 

You clear your mind except for thoughts of Donghyeok, your wish to have him in front of you, and you begin speaking the words you’ve been practicing since you found them. 

Before, they’ve felt like hollow words, but now as they fall from your lips there’s a new weight to them. 

You continue, keeping your mind set, and you strike a match, watch the flame flicker and wave as you continue speaking the spell, the foreign words feeling strange on your lips and tongue, creating a tingle that makes you feel that this must be working, that you’ll be able to see Donghyeok again. 

You drop the match into the bowl of crushed herbs in the center of the pentagram. The bowl is instantly engulfed in flame, the heat kissing your cheeks, and the final words of the spell incinerate in the air, the flames crackling and flashing a solid purple for a moment. 

You feel the air from the room disappear as the fire swirls and sparks, as the candle flames around the circle shoot up elongated and casting shadows. The crystals crack and shimmer.

And when it all falls away, when the flame in the bowl extinguishes and the candles resume their normal flame size, you look up at the demon standing above you. 

It’s not him. 

You gasp, falling back on your hands. 

The demon is fearsome, brutish. He reaches for you, gnarled red fingers clawed with filthy talons. You scramble backwards as he grabs for your sleeve, tearing the fabric when you jerk backwards. 

Suddenly the demon releases you and stands straight within the pentagram. 

“Haechan’s mark?” He utters in a garbled, deep voice straight from the pits of Hell. “You are under Haechan’s protection?”

A sharp whistle from across your bedroom draws your attention and that of the hideous demon in front of you. 

Donghyeok sits on your bed, looking relaxed as ever. He cocks his head to the side, staring down this other demon. “That’s right. She’s under my protection, so get the fuck out.”

Donghyeok flicks his fingers, and the other demon vanishes in a wave of smoke and embers. 

You can’t look away from Donghyeok lounging on your bed like it’s his throne. He’s wearing that leather jacket again, though right now his devil horns are visible poking through his dark hair. You’ve missed looking at him. 

He looks at you now too. “You called?”

“I wanted to see you,” you tell truthfully. 

“Why?” Donghyeok asks, not moving from the bed, just sitting there and watching you. 

“Well why did you mark me?” You lift your fingers to the flower on your shoulder, brushing your fingers over the petals. 

Across the room, Donghyeok’s eyelids flutter, and he rolls his head on his neck a little as if to relieve tension. “I marked you because I want you to be safe. I knew if any other demons saw my mark on you, they would leave you alone, as just evidenced.” He gestures at the pentagram. “And because I wanted you to have something to remember me by. And I like the thought of you wearing a memory of me.”

You stroke the petals of the flower again, and Donghyeok sits up on the edge of your bed, sitting forward. 

“The flower changed the last time I saw you.” You draw your finger up to the center, darker now than it had been when Donghyeok first marked you the night you met. “The center has color now.”

“I know.” He leans forward, but doesn’t leave your bed, though he seems to just be hanging onto the very edge of it. He doesn’t explain more, just looks at you as if waiting for more. 

You climb to your feet, picking your way through the candles and crystals and herbs, and you come to stand just in front of Donghyeok. He raises his gaze to your face, his hands are planted on either side of his thighs, and he doesn’t say a word as you reach out a hand, as you first touch his cheek with just your fingertips, and then you move them along his jaw, up into his hair. 

Donghyeok’s eyes flutter shut, a sigh falls from his lips. 

Your fingers find his horns, and gently you run your fingers along them both. 

His hands fly to your hips, a breath catching audibly in his throat. “What are you doing?” He asks, voice tight but not in a way like he wants you to stop. 

“You’re beautiful, Donghyeok,” you can’t resist saying, “And you’ve marked me, so maybe I want to return the favor.”

Donghyeok’s lips draw into a smirk. “Mark me how? Who are you trying to show that I’m yours?”

Your heart thunders, heat racing through your body at the sound of that. I’m yours, he said. “Say it again,” you demand. 

“Say what?” Donghyeok’s eyes open at last, flicking open and lifting to meet your gaze. “That marking me would show others that I’m yours? That I belong to you in some way?” His hands tighten in your hips pleasantly, and you shuffle a little more forward into the V of his open thighs. Donghyeok smiles up at you, saying, “Baby, you’re mine. And you have been since the night we met, since I put my mark on your shoulder. It’s only fair that you put a claim on me too. Do your worst.”

Challenge burns in his red eyes, and heat flows through you, rivers of fire that all lead to one point, settling low in your belly — a pool of burning need that you’ve never felt with anyone else before. 

With your fingers still in Donghyeok’s hair, you tip his head back. His lips pull into a wider grin, a soft sound of amusement, and then, “I forgot, baby, you’re a virgin. Are you intimidated by the thought of marking me?”

“No,” you groan. “Shut up.” 

You push Donghyeok’s shoulders, and he flops onto his back in your bed. 

God, he just looks like a guy, any normal guy that you might have found and invited back to your bed. And you’ve had a man in your bed before. You’ve had make out sessions, had heated heavy petting that never led anywhere. You’ve had hickeys, and given out your fair share of them too. 

But Donghyeok is Donghyeok. There’s definitely something intimidating about the confident way he’s looking at you, the sexy look in his eye as he watches you — not just a look that says that he knows he’s sexy, but even more arousing is that the look in his eyes tells you that he finds you incredibly sexy. 

You sink onto your bed on your knees, straddling the demon’s lap. Donghyeok lifts his hands up, interlacing his fingers behind his head as he watches you, and the expression on his face is just stoking that fire inside of you. 

“Can you sit up?” You ask. “Take your jacket off?”

“Mm,” Donghyeok hums. “I like when you tell me what to do.”

Your belly swoops, and his grin widens. 

He sits up, and you find his smile just inches in front of you. He shrugs out of his jacket, pushing it off the bed, and then he’s sitting here beneath you in a plain white tee, the denim of his jeans rubs against your thighs. And he’s right here. Right here. Lips just in front of you, and your hands drift back to touch him, to feel the warmth and breadth of his shoulders, and then your thumbs are sweeping in to trace over his Adam’s apple, which bobs when he swallows and breathes in sharply. Your fingers slide around to the nape of his neck, just pushing into his hair, and Donghyeok makes a noise so quiet yet so filled with desire. 

You’ve been sitting here watching the path of your hands, but now you look at his lips so full and moist in front of you. And then you look just a bit higher to his eyes. 

Perhaps the demonic bloody red of them should scare you, but they don’t. They stare into yours and you can’t bring yourself to give a damn about the fact that Donghyeok is a demon and not just a man. 

That doesn’t matter to you one bit when you finally press your lips to his. 

Donghyeok immediately kisses you back, opening up to your kiss, but he lets you take the lead, lets you do what you want with him. He moans when you push your hands higher into his hair at the back of his head, moans when you suck on his tongue, moans when you press your chest against his. 

You moan when his hands finally find your hips again. Donghyeok drags your hips across the front of his pants, and you break the kiss to let out a shuddery moan. 

“Okay?” He murmurs, lips falling down to your jaw, leaving butterfly kisses along the underside. 

“Yes,” you sigh, “Do it again.”

Donghyeok drags you over his crotch again, rolling his hips up too, and you can feel him then, his erection beginning to press against the front of his jeans. He does it again and again, and after a few moments, you pick up the rhythm, taking over as you simulate riding him, and you bring his mouth back onto yours. 

Again, Donghyeok is happy to let you lead, to control what’s happening. 

He just touches you without pushing you, kisses you at the pace you set, although that doesn’t mean he’s a passive participant in all of this. He’s reacting and vocal, occasionally nipping at your bottom lip, occasionally bucking his hips out of rhythm with your moves. It’s like he’s giving you little peeks into his desire for you, moments when his cool demon facade slips. 

Donghyeok moans when you leave his mouth behind to instead kiss his neck. His hands come to rest on your ass while you keep rolling and grinding down on his straining erection, and you’re feeling the tightening in your belly, you know if you don’t stop soon you’re going to cum like this. But it wouldn’t be the first time. You’ve had boyfriends and casual relationships before that respected your virginity, that had been content with things like this, found it hot to cum when fully clothed. 

Donghyeok seems to be in the same mindset. 

His golden skin beneath your lips is hot, and he moans your name again and again, rolling his hips up to meet each downward push of yours. You rock your hips more frantically, losing control as your orgasm rises. You bite at his throat as you cum, and Donghyeok’s hands on your ass keep you moving, keeping up with the push and pull of your pussy grinding over his erection. 

Your body is still tingling as you roll off of him, as you lie down in your bed and pull him over you. “More,” you demand, “I want more.”

“Are you sure?” The demon above you asks. 

You crave more from him. Donghyeok has you hotter than any man ever has before. 

He kisses you without warning, jolting forward and sweeping you into a dramatic, hungry kiss. You want him, and you pour that desire into the kiss, impatient and horny for him to give you more. 

You don’t wait for Donghyeok to start undressing you, you reach down and unfasten your shorts, maneuvering them off your hips and down your legs. The shirt’s a bit more difficult to rid yourself of, but Donghyeok obligingly breaks the kiss to let you pull it over your head, and while you’re in this position with space between you, you reach for the hem of his shirt. 

“Can I?” You ask, tucking your fingers beneath the hem. “I want to have all of you.”

Donghyeok’s eyes flash flaming red. His voice is rough with emotion when he says simply, “Yes.”

You drag his shirt over his head without another moment wasted. And then your hands are back in his hair, stroking the curve of his horns as Donghyeok crushes his mouth to yours again. 

Donghyeok grinds against your thigh while the two of you make out, and you have to pull one of your hands from his hair, seeking out one of his hands to pull down between your legs. 

You’ve been touched like this before too. Over the panties, an ex rubbing your clit and stroking along your slit with the thin fabric between you and him. You’d managed a weak, unsatisfactory orgasm from it after a drawn out attempt, and decided to end things with him a few days later citing that you just didn’t feel the chemistry. 

But presently, the moment Donghyeok’s fingers make contact with your clit over your panties, your brain is buzzing. Every nerve ending in your body is alert. 

Donghyeok kisses you through every gasp and sigh. He smiles when you whine and buck your hips, when you circle your hips and grab at his wrist to guide his fingers towards your wet entrance, to the spot where your panties are absolutely soaked through. He kisses the corner of your mouth, and teases, “Do you want me to continue?”

You push away your panties, almost tearing them in your rush to be rid of them. 

This much you’ve never done before. Never done penetration even with a man’s fingers. 

Whether Donghyeok can read that in you, or if he sees the slight anxious anticipation in your gaze, he tenderly kisses your lips, sufficiently distracting you as he slicks his fingers against your bare pussy. This is a first for you too. Bare fingers and bare pussy, slick wetness making the glide so much easier and more pleasant. 

Donghyeok kisses you and touches you until you’re whimpering, reaching for his wrist. “Inside me, put them inside me,” you beg, urging his hand lower. 

It doesn’t make sense for a demon to be so gentle, but he is. Donghyeok eases first a single finger inside you, then another. He leaves your lips to kiss down your throat and chest, kissing lower and lower, drawing down your body until his mouth is right there and he licks your clit. 

You’re not sure if it’s just the experience of oral sex or if it’s because it’s Donghyeok, but your entire body lights up as he licks your clit, as he thrusts his fingers into you again. He takes his time with you, filling you with his fingers, curling them inside you and brushing a spot that makes you gasp, body jerking at the incredible sensation. 

Donghyeok laughs, delighted by how you’re reacting. He kisses your hips and your belly, slowly works his way back up, and you swear it feels like he kisses every part of you. His fingers press inside your pussy, slow thrusts until you’re begging for more, raking your fingers through his hair while he’s kissing your belly. Your fingers find his horns, and you use them like handles to guide his head back down. 

He’s laughing still, thoroughly enjoying you taking control, guiding him to where you want him. 

You arch your back, rolling your hips down against his face as Donghyeok sucks your clit between his lips, his fingers suddenly fucking into you at a faster speed, skilled at touching you exactly right. 

A second orgasm sweeps through you, and you ride it out on his face and fingers. 

When you push at Donghyeok’s devil horns, he backs off, kneeling up between your legs, and he gazes down at you while he licks his lips, and brings his fingers up to his mouth. You can’t look away, completely enraptured as he licks between his fingers, as he sucks them into his mouth. His eyes are hot, raking over your body. 

You want him bad. 

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Donghyeok asks, pulling his fingers out of his mouth. His hand drifts down to the front of his pants, and you watch him give himself a squeeze. “Looking like you want to eat me, baby.”

You want to take a bite out of him. Well, you at least can’t fight the urge to bite him, to leave the imprint of your teeth in the curve of his shoulder, to bite his neck again since he’d seemed to like that earlier. You don’t want to eat him, but you sure want to take all of him, to have this devil inside you. 

Donghyeok slides the heel of his palm along his clothed erection, and you decide right then in that moment that you’ve had enough of waiting. 

“I’m ready,” you tell him. 

Donghyeok blinks, and again he looks more human than demon. “Ready? Like for… for sex?”

You nod. 

“You want to lose your virginity with me?” Donghyeok clarifies. You nod, but that’s still not enough for him. “I need to hear you say it.”

“Donghyeok, please will you have sex with me. I’m ready to let go of the idea of my virginity. I’m ready to have sex, and I want it to be with you.” Can you be more clear?

Yes, you’ve waited a long time for this. You’ve picked and chosen, selecting this actual demon over some normal men. But despite Donghyeok’s demonhood, he’s treated you better and been more considerate than any of the men you’ve come close to considering doing this with before. You’ve just been waiting for the right man to come along, and the right man in this case just happens to be a horny, red-eyed demon. 

Donghyeok kisses you once again, and then he waits, holding just above you until you reach up and pull him back in. He’s smiling when you kiss him, and again, he lets you take over, lets you touch him and do what you want. So when you run your hands along his ribs, when your fingertips reach the waistband of his jeans, Donghyeok just moans happily. 

His hands join yours in the effort to push his pants down, and the demon above you laughs delightfully, kissing you thoroughly making you forget the slight nerves you feel at the prospect of finally doing this, finally having sex, instead you’re just excited, just laughing and moaning along with him. 

As soon as Donghyeok’s pants are slid down and kicked off, you reach for his dick, touching him the way an ex-boyfriend of yours had liked. He’d always told you to make it all about him, taught you to do things the way that he liked. 

“Wait,” Donghyeok says, “You don’t have to do all that. I’m already worked up for you, baby. You may think being a demon comes with supernatural endurance or something, but in this I’m no better than a human man. You’re gorgeous, and that makes me want to just…” He cuts himself off by kissing you, but you think you get what he means. 

He finds you beautiful, and not only that, but beautiful enough that he feels at risk of cumming too fast if you keep touching him before he’s inside you. 

“Then fuck me.” You whisper the words to his lips. “Take me as a virgin sacrifice, Donghyeok. Like I was meant to be.”

Donghyeok scoffs, kissing you again and then he’s moving. His hand brushes yours away from his dick, and he rolls his hips forward, pressing the tip against your entrance without actually entering you. 

“Are you sure?”

“I find it beyond charming that you’re a polite, gentlemanly chaos demon, Donghyeok. Yes, I’m sure.” You shift your hips, circling them down, and Donghyeok’s dick sinks in. 

He keeps going, pressing in deeper. He’s watching your face, and you hold his gaze while you adjust to the full feeling, the different feeling of having something this thick and deep inside you. Not a bad feeling, just a different kind. 

“Don’t stop!” You gasp when Donghyeok just goes still inside you. 

He holds himself above you, just looking down at you with this expression and all of these emotions in his red eyes. 

“Why are you looking at me like that?” You ask, lifting a hand up to cover his eyes, but it does nothing to block his radiant smile. “Are you gonna move or just dock yourself in me?”

Donghyeok laughs again, and you’re quickly realizing that’s your favorite sound. “Maybe I’m taking in your virgin sacrifice,” he teases, “Doing my demon thing.”

“Right, sure. But can you hurry up with your demon thing?” You move your hand from his eyes, pushing your fingers into his hair to find his horns again. Donghyeok shudders with pleasure as you stroke your fingers over the ridges on one horn and then the other. “You’re not acting very demonic, you know. Treating me all gently and tenderly.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. You’d rather I bend you into strange shapes and fuck you hard and rough for your first time?” Donghyeok pulls his hips back and pushes back in roughly. It stings a bit, but you don’t mind all that much. And then he does it again. “Like this?”

“Sure,” you whimper, “Fuck me like you’ve done to all the other girls you’ve ever fucked.”

Donghyeok simply kisses you, getting you to melt beneath his lips, and then he moves again, thrusting into you. You gasp into the kiss, and Donghyeok takes advantage of that to deepen the kiss, making out with you as he fucks you, his dick reaching places that you didn’t even realize existed. He’s got your legs spread wide, his hips crashing against you repeatedly, drawing pretty moans from you with each thrust against your sweet spot. 

And once you get used to this new sensation of having a dick inside you, you really enjoy it. Donghyeok’s tongue being down your throat helps a bit too, his skill with kissing is definitely distracting you from the less pleasant sensations. 

Your whole body tingles each time that Donghyeok buries himself to the hilt in you. He grinds forward, stimulating your clit, externally and internally. He touches your boobs, but that doesn’t do a whole lot for you. You keep your hands in his hair, on his horns, and that seems to drive him mad with lust; each time you’ve got your fingers on his black devil horns, Donghyeok jerks, fucking into you a little harder, a little out of control. 

It’s one of those times that you’ve got a hand curled around one of his horns, your other hand cradling the back of his neck as Donghyeok kisses your collarbones, that he moans so beautifully for you. “Fuck,” he moans, “I want to give you everything, baby. Everything I’ve got, all for you.”

You want it, whatever that means. Whatever Donghyeok has, you’ll take it. 

A moment later, he cums, heat flooding your belly, sticky and slick as he pulls out, streaking it across your inner thighs and your pussy. 

“Everything, baby,” he murmurs, kissing along your collarbone to your right shoulder. He rolls his hips forward, filling you with his dick once more right as he kisses the sunflower mark he gave you that first night. 

Fire ignited throughout your body, pleasure and desire tangling together, ramping up higher and higher. Your climax tears through you like a wildfire, and Donghyeok fucks you through it, hips driving against yours; his teeth dig against your shoulder, his tongue following to soothe the bitemark. You can only hold onto him, hold tighter, keep moving your body with his to keep the waves of pleasure coming. 

Even once you’re coming down from your orgasm, your whole body is still tingling and warm. Donghyeok is all but stuck to you, both of you are all sweaty so your skin sticks together. His lips press to the sunflower mark he left on you, his hands slide against your ribs, leaving a hot tingle deep under your skin, and you have a feeling he’s leaving another mark, another claim or protection. 

You can’t get a good look at the marks he’s left on you, but you can feel them all – the warmth of the sunflower on your shoulder, which you’re pretty sure looks a bit more yellow in the petals now than it did earlier; there are the hickeys and bitemarks Donghyeok left on you; now these new marks on your ribs, which look like a swirl of small inky spots that are resolving into anything familiar, and on the other side you swear it’s a fine-line rendition of the sun. 

You wish you could do the same and leave a mark on him, more than the sparse hickeys you left on his throat earlier. 

For right now, you settle for just holding him. You wrap your arms around him, and Donghyeok tucks his face into your shoulder, moaning softly as he rolls onto his side, bringing you with him. Your legs are still tangled, bodies pressed together, his dick still inside you though he’s gone soft. 

“Call me crazy,” Donghyeok whispers to you, “I know we’ve only met twice before tonight, but I feel like we have a really good connection. I like you.”

Your heart races at the confession. “I like you too.”

You feel his lips curve into a smile against your skin. “Good. I’d hate for you to have just given up your virginity on a guy you don’t even like. A demon, at that.”

“It doesn’t bother me that you’re a demon yknow. You’re more decent than most of the guys I’ve known.” You trace your fingers down Donghyeok’s back, feeling two long angled scars by his shoulder blades, like that’s where his wings come and go from. “If anything, I don’t understand why a demon is interested in me.”

Donghyeok lifts his head, and he looks you in the eye as he says, “I told you earlier. You’re gorgeous, and the moment that asshole tried to sacrifice you to me, I caught a glimpse of your soul. You’re a pure soul, so utterly good that it pains me to look at you with all the layers peeled back, but not in a bad way. It hurts me the way it hurts to look at something you aspire toward; looking at you is like looking at the stars and knowing that you’ll never be able to hold one in your hand.”

But his hands are on you now. 

His fingers trace over your ribs, and you can tell by the tingle now that he’s definitely left a new mark on you. 

You take up his hand, pulling it up to your lips, and you place a kiss in the center of his palm. And when you look at his face, you see right there on his cheek that maybe. He’s closer to holding the stars than he thinks. You trace the constellation of moles on his cheek and down his throat, so similar to one that you see in the night sky. 

Donghyeok leans his cheek into your hand, and he holds you a little closer. He presses his forehead to yours. 

The candles behind you on the floor have burned down to nothing but puddles of cooling wax. The herbs and crystals and chalk symbols can be picked up and wiped away in the morning. But for tonight, you hold a demon in your arms, completely at ease in his warm embrace.

a/n: I'm sorry for the long wait on this one! Day 9 is finally being posted on Day 11, which has definitely put me behind, and is making me reconsider my decision to do this for this month. But I really liked writing this one! I've been very Haechan-biased since The Dream Show 3, so I needed to write this tbh.

If you notice any errors or if you feel I should include some more tags/content warnings, please let me know!

I hope you enjoyed! Reblogs are deserving of my eternal gratitude, likes are greatly appreciated, and your thoughts and comments are always welcome !

[papayadays]

communication — op81

⋆˚✿˖° engineer!oscar x driver!reader — you want your engineer to loosen up, he wants you to win ⋆˚✿˖° warning: mentions of hungary 2024 (curse mclaren for that) ⋆˚✿˖° wc: 8.6k+ | a/n: she's a long one! I've been working on this for months, and it's finally here :) first time writing a longer fic so lmk what you think of it <33 enjoy engineer oscar, after being plagued with this vision

OSCAR PIASTRI WAS WAY TOO UPTIGHT. and it had been this way since your first day at mclaren.

you had been giddy to meet everyone on your first day at the factory after signing for the 2023 season. lando was energetic and funny, andrea was focused, and zak was… well, zak. but then, you were introduced to oscar, your race engineer. he looked young, like fresh-out-of-uni young. it was definitely out of the norm, but your instincts trusted him. what could go wrong? he shook your hand and nodded, merely saying, “welcome to mclaren.” and then proceeded to not talk to you for the next two days.

it wouldn’t be a big deal if he wasn’t your race engineer. regardless, it truly wasn’t as serious as you were making it out to be, but it summed up oscar’s personality well: quiet, reserved, direct. cool, calm, and collected, one could even argue. coming from f2, your relationship with your race engineer was basically a friendship rather than a work partnership, so this was something you had to adjust to coming to mclaren.

you found yourself falling into a routine: arrive at the mtc at the start of the week, debrief with oscar, and then head to the race for the weekend before going back to the mtc. in all honesty, you hadn’t seen oscar laugh or even crack a smile in your time at mclaren. it was baffling to you how someone could be so serious every single waking moment.

and you had tried to get him to open up. god knows you’d tried. throughout race weekends, you had cracked jokes, retold stories, and brought up anything in hopes of getting him to open up beyond his stoic facade, but to no avail. it genuinely seemed like he was incapable of loosening up; at least, at work.

the one thing about oscar, though, was that he was dedicated to his work and good at it, too. your rookie year was better than you had expected, nabbing a podium in suzuka and even a sprint win in qatar. oscar was able to turn the data into helpful tips and points for improvement, which was something you really liked to hear as a driver. but it was so hard to talk to him simply because he was so reserved. 

“osc,” you protested as you walked on the track. you had first used the nickname to try and crack a smile out of him, but it stuck despite not doing much. “have you tried the hungarian palinka yet?” maybe the mention of drinks could get a reaction out of him?

oscar sighed, as if you’d asked him something mundane, like the weather, rather than if he wanted to try a drink. “no, but i would think you should be focusing on maximizing the kerb here,” he responded wryly. occasionally, you’d be able to get a sarcastic response from him, like now, which you considered a win.

“me and some of the team are headed to the club after sunday, you should come,” you suggested, mentally taking a note of turn three. you weren’t sure why you did this; oscar never seemed to come out of his shell, yet you kept asking, despite knowing he wouldn’t—

“sure, but only if you end up on the top step,” your race engineer countered in an even tone. you gaped at him, eyes wide with surprise. there was no way he was serious, right?

“so you think it’s impossible i’ll win here, then?” you asked. “y’know, since you never come out with the team.”

“jesus christ, it’s not a character flaw that i like to stay in rather than go out to clubs,” oscar said defensively, eyes cast upwards, as if he was sending a prayer up to the heavens for dealing with you.

you held your hands up in surrender. “i didn’t say that!” you protested. “and you’re avoiding the question.” pointedly, you raised an eyebrow.

“what, i can’t set a wager now?” oscar rebutted, though it wasn’t serious from his tone. and was that a sliver of an amused smile you saw? you had hardly seen oscar grin, if ever. the only time he’d crack a smile is if zak said something out of pocket or lando made a joke that had the whole factory laughing. so, a win was a win in your book. “just thought you could use some friendly fire.”

your rolled your eyes, tapping at your tablet as you took note of the blind-on-entry in turn six. “yeah, sure, mate,” you chuckled. “if i win, you also have to do shots with me.”

“nope.” and there was the emotionless oscar again, though maybe he looked a bit less stern. “now focus, so you actually might have a good chance at winning.”

you could start to see why oscar had his doubts. in fp1, you’d done pretty well and got p7, with the pace feeling decent. however, fp2 was challenging, with you in p13 while lando topped the timesheets. hell, if you couldn’t even close in on your teammate, how were you supposed to reach the front?

“are you even listening?” oscar’s voice cut into your thoughts, words still calm, just like the rest of his demeanor.

“sorry, yeah,” you nodded. “just remembering about our deal and how it seems you made a secure bet.”

a noise rose from your engineer’s throat that sounded like either a groan of annoyance at your self-reproach or a tsk. knowing oscar, it was likely both. “listen, it’s not as bad as you think,” he stated. “the car has pace, and with the tweaks i��m going to suggest to the crew, it should be even better tomorrow. and plus, you just need to fine tune some things to get set for qualy.”

you blinked at him in surprise. usually, a “head up, we still have tomorrow” or a “don’t worry, you’ll get it next session” was all you would get from oscar. “thanks,” you nodded. “so what do i need to work on?”

fp3 was a nice boost of morale, with you and lando second and first in the timings, respectively. the car was starting to come alive, like your engineer had said, and the points you went over also contributed. now came qualifying, but you were hopeful. hopefully.

as you were sitting in the car before q3, you glanced at the data display in front of you, oscar’s voice in your ear. “okay, so cars with two new sets are verstappen, sainz, hamilton, and yourself.” it was quite a blessing that his voice was so soothing, so you could never get jumpscared. and in tense scenarios, his constant inpour of information didn’t get too annoying either.

“gotcha,” you replied, pulling out of the pits. you got onto the track, briefly taking note of the rain clouds that you knew were going to be rolling in soon.

after doing an out-lap, you set off on a flying lap, knowing that it could potentially come down to this should the rain start pouring. as you crossed the line, 1:15.763 showed up on the screen of your steering wheel, causing you to frown under your helmet. you were roughly four tenths off where you wanted to be, where you knew lando was lapping at.

“you can keep the pace up on the in-lap. if rain is imminent, we can get out quickly on the second set,” oscar informed you.

the universe had a funny sense of humor, because right as the radio message ended, drops of water started landing on your visor. “rain on my visor now,” you reported, peeling back into the pits.

once back in the garage, you hopped out of the car and took off your helmet, heading to oscar. “i just don’t get it,” you lamented, sitting up on the cabinets. “how am i still four tenths off?”

oscar didn’t say anything, simply folding his arms and giving you a pointed look. his almost withering look made you want to shrink a little, feeling embarrassed. “c’mon, you know you have it in you,” he remarked. “and rain only makes it easier for you. keep the corners precise and tidy, especially in turn three. we’re sending you back out.”

you nodded, putting on your helmet again and sitting back into the car. oscar leaned over the halo, adding quietly, “you got this” and patting your helmet.

peeling out of the pits again, you headed back on track in clean air. this time, you were determined to make the most of it, to try and seal the deal this time.

“doesn't look like the rain is going to be super-heavy on the radar. i think you can do a normal out-lap, you don't have to rush it,” oscar told you over the radio. you pressed confirm as you drove through the last few corners, weaving to warm up your tyres.

as you slowed down around the last few corners, you took a steadying breath under your helmet and started your flying lap. this time, you made sure to nail every apex and brake later like oscar had told you to. gritting your teeth, you had tunnel vision, drowning everything else out until you were rounding the last corner. passing the line, a new time flashed on the display: 1:15.249.

“where are we now?” you asked oscar, voice hopeful. holding your breath, you awaited the sound of the radio on the other side.

“looks like we’re in, uh, p2 now,” oscar reported, and maybe you were delirious, but you swore you heard a smile in his voice. “two hundredths off of lando. nice lap, well done.”

you smiled under your helmet, knowing that there was only two minutes left on the clock and that this could be your determining lap. no, scratch that, this was your last lap. there wasn’t enough time, so this would have to be enough for you.

after heading into the pits, you jumped out of the car and bumped fists with oscar, pushing up your visor. “is that it?”

oscar glanced at his screen, headphones around his neck. “yeah, it’s been red flagged,” he responded, turning to look at you, and to your surprise, there was a wide smile on his face. he patted your helmet, the smile still on his face. “mega job out there. told you that you could do it.”

“yeah, yeah, mate,” you grinned, pulling him in for a hug. “thank you, osc.” he seemed to freeze for a second before wrapping his arms around you and patting your back, the relief evident as his shoulders sagged.

“all you,” he chuckled, making you do a double-take. was this the same oscar? “now, go do your interviews so we can debrief after.” ah, there he was again. you gave him a playful salute and headed off with your press officer.

when you came back to debrief, changed into a t-shirt and cargo pants, you sat down across from oscar, who was dialed in, eyes honed in on the telemetry while you could practically see the gears spinning in his mind. “okay, so here’s the strategies we’re considering,” he said with no prelude, jabbing at his computer screen with the back of his emotional support pen.

“gotcha,” you nodded. “tyre preservation, i know.” oscar continued on, showing you the data on his computer.

“wait, so what’s the deal with me and lando tomorrow?” you interjected. “is- are there going to be any team orders?”

oscar’s mouth pinched into a tight line as he met your eyes. “i think the team is a little, uh, ambiguous about it, but i’ll make sure they’ll give you a fair chance.” so, they wanted to prioritize lando, is what you heard. of course. at least oscar was in your corner, but would he really fight with the team just to make sure you didn’t get team orders?

“thank you,” you said quietly, mind mulling over what could possibly happen tomorrow. lando was obviously doing well in the driver’s championship, so it was within reason for the team to swap positions. even if oscar said he would get you fair competition, who was to say the team couldn’t override it? given that you couldn’t even outqualify your teammate, it would be clear to see who would be given priority, as much as it stung.

“hey, are you with me?” oscar asked, waving a hand in front of your face. his eyes scanned your face, eyes holding the type of gaze that figured you out and saw right through you.

you blinked, quickly refocusing. “yeah, sorry.” you needed to get a grip, to get your head back in the game.

oscar frowned, closing his computer. the quick action surprised you—oscar wasn’t one to abandon his work haphazardly.  “you’re getting in your head,” he said, matter-of-factly, almost gently if you didn’t know him well enough. “i promise, you’re just as likely to win tomorrow as lando.”

“right,” you mumbled, fiddling with a zipper on your pocket. because mclaren definitely had no bias, and even so, was there any fighting chance of a win if you were two tenths off in qualifying?

“hey, look at me.” you glanced up, seeing oscar’s face stern. “i don’t know why you’re doubting yourself, you’re a mega driver. you won a sprint race in your rookie season, and you’ve bagged multiple podiums already. you’ve got what it takes.”

“it’s not that,” you sighed, fingers folding and unfolding the corner of your debrief paper as if the paper would give you answers. “it’s just- i want to win, but there’s so many things out of my control that could go wrong, and that’s… pretty intimidating.”

if possible, oscar’s eyes softened as he glanced at you, setting the pen he had been clicking nonstop for the past few minutes down. “i’m not going to tell you that you shouldn’t feel intimidated, but you also shouldn’t feel like you don’t have control,” your race engineer said, the gentlest you’d seen him. “you and i know that we can’t let crucial moments come to us, you have to make them. and i know you can, so if you’re ready, let’s debrief so you can win tomorrow.” you glanced up at him, taking a moment to mull it over. oscar was right, you of course knew that, but seeing oscar this encouraging struck you differently.

“i thought you weren’t supposed to help the other side in bets?” you joked, an attempt to lighten the mood. in return, oscar rolled his eyes, snorting.

“well this is kind of my job.”

it was race day, the umbrella over your car shielding you from the hungarian sun and prying eyes.

“you, uh, good?” oscar asked, leaning over the halo to look at you, rays of sunlight peaking over his head like a crown. today, he was extra diligent in checking in with you, making sure you were in the right mindset. and you appreciated it, having someone care amidst the draining cycle of interviews, pr activities, debriefs, and training. it was steadying; grounding, almost.

“yeah, i’m fine,” you replied under your helmet, visor up. “everything looking good?”

oscar blinked at you, as if he were confused why you were asking that. “since you last asked before you got into the car, yes, nothing broke,” he snorted. maybe it was just you, but oscar seemed more sarcastic this weekend. you wondered what got him in the mood—maybe lando forcing him to stop eating salmon during debriefs. “anyways, formation lap is about to start, but just remember to keep your cool.”

“i always do,” you grinned, knowing it was a complete lie. oscar, of course, knew it too.

“right, silly me,” he deadpanned, patting your helmet once before leaving with the rest of your pit crew. 

now it was just you and nineteen other drivers, itching to start.

the formation lap went by quickly, your mind dangerously wandering down the road of all the possible outcomes. the scenarios blurred by, your grip on the steering wheel tightening. the radio crackled, and “all good?” came from the other side.

“‘m fine,” you said, pulling yourself out of that headspace and taking a steadying breath. focus. speed, i am speed, your brain continued, making you smile.

it was just you and lando, awaiting the start on the front row. you could feel the anticipation, the collective breath held by fans. the lights went on, your foot anxiously waiting, and then it was lights out. away you went.

your foot went down on the pedal, and you knew you’d gotten the better start. you got the inside line down the straight, managing to pick your way past lando in the corner to snag the lead of the race, braking late enough to make the move stick.

holy shit.

you were in first after turn one. in your periphery, you saw the red bull of max verstappen run wide while moving ahead of lando.

“nice one,” oscar said after the first lap, smile evident in his voice. “alright, good job, drs enabled soon.”

you replied with a “copy,” but were more focused on increasing the gap. you did not want max verstappen closing in on you with drs.

glancing in your mirrors as you pulled further ahead, you saw max giving lando the place back, more assured that mclaren was going to have it’s 1-2.

as the laps went by, you were almost relaxed, like it was just a nice summer drive. if only. you were watching after your tyres, oscar occasionally giving you bits of advice.

“cars behind will soon build pit windows to stroll in p7. this would be a good opportunity to pull away if you can,” oscar suggested.

“copy, how far of a gap?” you asked, making your turns more clinical, less lax from how you were previously driving.

“i’ll let you know,” he assured you. “for now, we just need you to pull ahead.”

“gotcha.”  and with that, you were flying. spiritually. metaphorically. whatever.

after a while, it was cruising again before oscar asked, “are you happy with the front wing?”

“er, yeah, ‘s good,” you responded, anticipating a pit stop based on his question. “maybe down half if you’re getting nitpicky.”

as predicted, oscar told you to box and you did, peeling into the pits. you got on some new hards in a tidy stop and were sent back on your way. now you were in the top five, managing your tyres while praying to the motorsport gods that the strategy wasn’t fucked.

luckily, you watched as the cars in front of you pitted as the laps went on, confidence slowly seeping back into your veins. as you watched the ferrari ahead dive into the pits, you took in a breath, knowing you were back in the lead.

“leclerc has pitted, so you now have clear air. tyre management looks similar across cars. you're doing a really good job,” oscar reported. you blinked under your helmet. what was in the hungarian air because oscar was clearly less stoic this weekend?

“thanks, osc,” you replied, comfortable enough with the race to joke around. “you sure i’m not giving you grey hairs?”

you heard a snort before oscar chuckled, “well, can’t say that you aren’t, but don’t let me hold you back.” under your helmet, you let out a laugh, though you hadn’t pressed the radio button.

the laps went on when you saw lando peel into the pits. “what’s happening? do i need to box?” you asked. oscar hadn’t said anything about the next round of pitting, which had made you assume everything was fine.

“lando boxed to cover hamilton. we need best pace now. don't worry about lando,” oscar replied, yet even as he said it, his voice was tight. you called bullshit.

“fuck, don’t tell me-” that lando’s undercutting me. the words were on your tongue, though you didn’t dare to voice them, mindful that radios could be broadcast.

“yes,” oscar said tersely, the way he tended to talk when he was figuring out an issue. closing your radio, you swore, bewildered as to why the fuck they were undercutting lando.

“oscar, what’s the gap to hamilton?” you questioned, voice tight. the last time he had updated you, it was thirty seconds, which was more than enough.

“over half a minute.” so what the fuck were mclaren playing at?

“any reason why we didn’t pit?” you were close to snapping, thinly veiling the accusation as an innocent question.

“i’ll check,” oscar sighed, sounding as defeated as you. “box this lap.”

“the fuck?” you scoffed, unable to restrain your temper. “at least give me a chance to undo the undercut.”

“i’m sorry, but we need to box,” oscar told you, a wince evident in his voice. you wanted to scream in frustration, but did as instructed and went into the pits to put on some mediums.

as you headed out onto the track, lo and behold, you were behind lando. “fucking hell,” you cursed, jabbing the radio button with your thumb so they could hear you. “how far am i from hamilton?”

“er, three point seven seconds.” what the actual fuck. “verstappen pitting now.”

you gritted your teeth, any thoughts of tyre preservation thrown out the window. this was not going to be the way you lost a race win. mind focused, you set off on lapping faster, braking later, and controlling your steering.

“okay, so lando’s going to swap positions when we get up, but for now, we don’t want him losing a lot of race time,” oscar informed you.

“mate, he’s trying to set flying laps, if you hadn’t noticed,” you retorted. “how do you want me to catch up without destroying my tyres? i dunno how he’s going to nurse his tyres later.”

“will is, uh, talking to him.” oscar tried to assure you, but with no sign of slowing in lando’s pace, it did nothing.

as the laps dwindled to the last nine, you grew increasingly irritated. “he’s not swapping, is he?” you questioned.

“will’s…on it,” oscar winced. “maximum focus, we need best pace.” you almost rolled your eyes at that; you were looking after your tyres.

“so no tyre management?” you confirmed.

“nope, last few laps,” he stated.

and that was all you needed to hear. you could feel the gap shrinking, lando’s car growing bigger and bigger in your view. the fuck was everyone thinking, acting as if you hadn’t taken the lead of the race into turn one and led it the whole time. fuck them.

soon, you were on the rear wing of lando when oscar let you know, “three laps to go, lando’s letting you through.” finally. though, in full honesty, you weren’t mad at lando. sure, you felt that it was your win, but mclaren were the ones who fucked up the strategy when they had the time to do it the other way. no, lando saw an opportunity and took it; to be honest, you couldn’t say you wouldn’t do the same if you were him.

and you obviously weren’t blaming oscar. you trusted him to fight for you, as evident from his radio messages. there was no doubt in your mind– he was just the messenger.

you were back into p1, though it didn’t send the same shivers down your spine as it had back on lap one. oscar occasionally updated you on the last two laps, but it was all background noise.

between your frustration and confusion, elation rose in your chest. elation for your first race win. you were actually going to win this thing.

as the last lap wound down, your heart drummed wildly as you rounded the last corner, a smile working its way onto your face. you crossed the chequered flag, letting out a shocked breath.

holy shit.

you just won your first f1 race. you did it. you won. but that adrenaline very quickly faded as you recounted the headache of a race that led to it.

“p1, p1,” oscar reported, and you swore you could hear pride in his voice, though you couldn’t say that you felt like celebrating.

“yeah, thanks to everyone here and back at the factory. nice one-two for the team, despite the hurdles,” you responded, unable to resist adding that little jab in there. “first win in the books, thank you.”

in parc ferme, you took your time getting out, not to rein in your excitement but rather your anger; this was not like lando in miami. you obviously couldn’t pull a danny ric suzuka 2018 despite wanting to. per tradition, you got up on your car and pumped a fist before hopping off and walking over to the team. yeah, this definitely was not like miami.

passing by team members, you stopped when you reached oscar. your visor was up so you could see the apology in his gaze as you let him see your frustration. “thanks, osc,” you murmured, resting your head on his shoulder briefly, letting him pull you in for a hug, and patting him on the back. in exchange, he let you process, recharge your batteries, and reset your headspace for a moment

“hey, mega job out there,” he said quietly beside your helmet. you could hear the apology in his voice, the ‘i’m sorry you had to go through that,’ and you squeezed his shoulder for a split second.

nodding, you went back and took off your helmet while making yourself look presentable, watching as lewis was being interviewed by nico rosberg. ironic, especially considering today’s events.

lando went up, and you internally winced as you heard the disappointment in his voice. you and lando got along well, so you felt for him, your heart feeling a little cagey.

finally, you were up and handed a mic, doing your best to smile at nico. “congrats,” the german said. “first formula one win on a sunday. how awesome does that feel?”

and with that, you were truly grinning. “very, very awesome,” you beamed. “this is what we all dream of as kids, and to be able to get a win is really special. obviously the end was, uh, a bit complicated, but i managed to get a good start and from there we were able to get the win. of course, i have to give props to my team for giving me a car to drive, lando for helping me grow as a driver, and oscar for being the voice of reason.”

“and how impressed are you with the car that mclaren has given you at this moment?” nico continued. “i mean, it just looks phenomenal out there.”

“pretty damn impressed,” you chuckled, the sound loaded with emotion. “for starter, if you looked at us last year in bahrain to now, with a one-two here in hungary, it’s been a hell of a ride with ups and downs.”

“speaking of the one-two, it seemed like the team orders situation was a bit out of control. how worried were you that lando might not actually let you pass?” nico pressed. jesus christ, what a question. you had to give it to him, the man knew how to stir up shit. part of you wanted to throw it back at nico, ask him about his experiences with team orders with lewis, but it was a fleeting thought.

“yeah, it was a bit hairy, but everything got resolved,” you answered, choosing your words carefully. you knew it was a thin line that you were walking. one small misstep and headlines would be plastered all over the internet. “i would’ve felt the same as lando, y’know, but it worked out in the end.”

nico nodded, eyes darting to cast a brief judgmental glance at the team before smiling at you. he was on your side, thank god. “well, congrats on the maiden win,” he said.

“thank you,” you replied, smiling. walking back over to the team, you took a sip of water and asked oscar, “you’d tell me if i fucked up, right?”

oscar scrunched his nose slightly, the microexpression new to you. “you’re going to need to specify,” he deadpanned, leaning on the metal barrier. “there’s a lot you could be referring to.”

“oi, shut up,” you protested, half-heartedly hitting his arm. “but for real, you’d let me know if i said the wrong thing, right, osc?” the question kind of manifested itself; you just needed someone to tell you that you hadn’t messed up the team dynamic, that you hadn’t royally screwed up and fed into the media’s crap by supplying clickbait headlines.

oscar gave you a confused look, as to why you were asking if he would randomly assume the job of your pr manager as extra work, a question that you didn’t even know the answer to yourself. he shrugged. “yeah, of course.”

“you’re lying,” you laughed, still on the high of winning. idly, you adjusted your hat, needing something to do now that you weren’t driving a formula one car.

“no, it’s just, i reckon it would reflect poorly on me somehow,” oscar chuckled, and seriously, what the hell was happening? because your race engineer was joking and laughing all weekend when he would normally have his chill and neutral demeanor on.

“typical,” you snorted, rolling your eyes. “hey, aren’t you coming on the podium?”

the corner of oscar’s mouth twitched, as if itching to flatten into a straight line. “i, uh think andrea is going up since it’s a one-two.”

your brain seemed empty as you searched for a response, settling on a classy and sophisticated “oh.” then you continued, “i guess that’s fine. but i think you should be up there in my unbiased opinion.”

oscar let out a laugh, eyes crinkling at the corners, and had he ever laughed this hard at something you’ve said? if you had looked at him now, you wouldn’t even be able to tell that he was a quiet, collected person you’ve known for a season and a half. giving oscar a thumbs up, you went down to the cooldown room and instantly regretted doing so.

your eyes landed immediately on lando’s cap on the ground and the slight wince lewis had, presumably from his own trauma. well, shit.

you pressed your lips together, shuffling to your seat next to lewis. the race highlights started to play, and you watched attentively as a way to escape the frosty tension. lewis seemed to pick up on the lack of words between you and your teammate, starting to comment on the race. you jumped in, grateful for the distraction as you and lando added little pieces of commentary. granted, it was still awkward, but between wincing as max went over lewis’ tyre and watching a ferrari and a red bull duke it out, it was better. thank goodness for lewis hamilton.

as you headed to the podium, lewis seemed to want nothing to do with his old hauntings and booked it out of the cooldown room. that left you and lando walking in line with each other. casting a quick glance at him, you saw that he was looking back at you as well. “so…” you dragged out, unsure what your teammate would say.

“y’know i’m not mad at you, right?” lando asked, dragging a hand through his unkempt curls and down his face. “just pissed that it was so messy when it didn’t have to be.” your older teammate let out a sigh, eyes cast upwards. 

honestly, same.

“it’s how i feel too,” you responded, mouth pinched into a line. looking at him, an apology was on the tip of your tongue, but at the same time, you didn’t say anything. it wasn’t your place to apologize, you had earned that win. if anything, mclaren should be apologizing. “you going to the party tonight?”

“i suppose i will,” lando shrugged, fixing his race suit. “is the team going?”

you nodded. “pretty sure. i mean, even oscar’s going tonight, so full house.” your teammate paused, tilting his head in confusion.

“wait, what do you mean ‘oscar is going'? you know he never goes out.” lando raised an eyebrow, trying to figure out what kind of sorcery you had used.

“it was a bet,” you explained, waving a hand. “he’d never go on his own.” arriving at the podium, you stopped and waited while lewis went out, glancing out while lando blinked, taking in your words.

“sorry, what?  he agreed to a bet?” lando questioned, head tilting. “as in oscar piastri, your race engineer, oscar?”

“yeah?” you replied, eyebrows furrowing. before lando could continue asking you questions, he had to go up on the podium. 

what was the big deal? sure, you knew oscar was a bit of a reserved guy, but surely lando didn’t have to be that theatrical. it was a 1-2 for the team—of course he was going out. and plus, he was your engineer, which meant your win was a cause for celebration for him as well. yeah, that’s what you kept repeating to yourself. it’s not like he was a robot, and a bet was a bet. lando was just being dramatic, you concluded.

regardless, you didn’t have any more time to ponder as you went up to the podium. walking out, the sun hit your eyes a little too strongly, and it was weird seeing your face on the big screen with first place under it. but the cheers of the crowd, the sea of fans, and then standing atop the top step? it was glorious and better than you ever could’ve dreamed up.

when you were little, you used to love going on the swing rides, claiming it felt like flying. you were wrong. this, the feeling of standing on top in victory and having the crowd cheer your name, was soaring; you were soaring. spiritually. metaphorically. whatever.

when the beautiful porcelain trophy was handed to you, you had to restrain yourself from tossing it in the air. you did not want a repeat of last year, and the result of max’s broken trophy. the trophy itself was beautiful, white with rich green swirls that you knew were hand-painted on.

then, your anthem played, your head held high. it was relief, ecstasy. you had done it, you were here. glancing down, your eyes met oscar’s, who gave you a smile and a thumbs up, a swoop of hair falling over his forehead. he should be up here. yeah, it did make sense for andrea to come with you and lando since it was a 1-2, but also, it was your first race win. oscar deserved to be here with you.

before you knew it, it was time for champagne, with lewis on your left and lando on your right. you shook the bottle, taking it all in as you were drenched. andrea joined in, much to your amusement. the confetti fell—red, white, and green rain as you soaked it all in.

but if oscar were here, he’d probably awkwardly stand to the side until you went over and started drenching him. he’d chuckle and probably surprise you by dumping the champagne on your head, citing how it was a rite of passage. oscar would politely clink his bottle with yours, and you’d grin at him, and you didn’t know where your brain was going with this, but—

you wished oscar were here. you wanted oscar to be here with you, to share this moment with him.

after the picture, you hopped off the podium and back to the pits, eager to be back with the team. as you returned, champagne bottle in hand, the garage erupted into cheers; mechanics, engineers, marketing—they were all huddling around you to extend their personal congratulations. 

you didn’t care for them right now. making your way to the front, your eyes met warm chocolate. as oscar saw you, his eyes widened a fraction for a brief second, the way he did when he heard something particularly interesting or surprising. “osc!” you grinned, shaking the remnants of what champagne you had left, some fizz spraying onto oscar’s shirt. he just stood there, a fond look of incredulity on his face as he didn’t move. shaking his head, your race engineer leaned forward to let the champagne drip onto the ground, chuckling.

“you couldn’t have waited until after team photos?” he asked with a sigh, eyes still crinkled at the corners from smiling.

“you know me,” you snickered, patting him a tad too hard on the back.

“unfortunately, i do.” oscar rolled his eyes as you shuffled over to where the rest of the team was getting ready to take the picture. grinning wide, you slung an arm around oscar and your number one mechanic as you held up a finger, careful not to poke your engineer.

once the picture was done, you jumped, feeling cold liquid seep down your spine. twisting around, you saw oscar dumping a bottle of champagne, a shit-eating grin on his face. you gave him a choice finger, dodging out of his reach. safe, you thought. wrong. your race engineer shook the bottle once, twice, and pointed it right at you.

you think you yelped as you scrambled off, dodging past papaya personnel, laughing with oscar on your heels. as you kept going down the pit lane, you stopped when ferrari team members were in the way, turning around and being met with a face of champagne. “wow, lovely. thanks, osc,” you said sarcastically, wiping your face as you two headed back to mclaren.

“had to get you back,” oscar shrugged, a faint smug grin on his face. “and i told you that you had this in the bag.”

“yeah, but you lost the bet,” you snorted as you arrived back at your garage. “you have to come out with us tonight.”

“pretty sure i was going the be forced either way.” oscar simply blinked with a nonchalance that you were still trying to understand. “i mean, it is a one-two.”

“okay, i get it,” you scoffed, waving him off with faux annoyance. “you’re a witch and you saw the outcome in your crystal ball, gotcha. we ought to pull a salem witch trial.”

you heard a laugh, turning around to see oscar folded over, shoulders quaking. you’d never heard this, a true, gleeful laugh. but it made you smile, made you feel like you were in on a secret where oscar laughed at your very extremely funny jokes.

“mate, it wasn’t that funny,” you protested, patting his shoulder sympathetically.

that only made oscar snicker, turning around as will called for him. “to each their own,” he responded. taking a step towards will, he hesitated, turning back to make sure you hadn’t left. his eyes were softer, chocolate syrup rather than chestnut with a gleam of amusement. “see you later tonight?”

“yeah,” you nodded, unsure why your voice dropped in volume as well, ignoring all of the mclaren personnel moving around you.

the venue was packed; soft music floated over the hum of chatter, and champagne flutes were in most people’s hands as they talked to each other. as you arrived, team members raised their glasses to you with the occasional cheering while you smiled and thanked them awkwardly, not knowing how to respond. after all, it was your first time doing all this on such a large scale.

you had already spent an hour deliberating on your outfit before settling with orange because, c’mon, it was a mclaren party after all. you flitted around absentmindedly, stopping for a quick chat with andrea, zak, and lando. but as ten minutes passed, oscar was still nowhere to be seen. (well, that’s what you thought since you definitely weren’t checking.)

then, the tap of cool fingers on your shoulder made you almost jump, whirling around to see who it was. warm chocolate eyes met yours, instantly giving you an answer. “you’re late,” you teased, raising an eyebrow at his simple fit of a white button down and some khaki shorts.

oscar let out a strangled chuckle, fingers running through his swooped hair as he leaned in to hear you better over the noise. “yeah, didn’t know what to wear and had last-minute second thoughts.” he pursed his lips and did that scrunkle thing with his face when he was uncertain. you mentally paused for a second, taking in oscar’s appearance. sure, he looked polished and pristine from the outside, but you weren’t just anybody. he was your engineer, you were his driver.

you noticed how he shoved his hands in his pockets, hesitant. you noticed how his eyes would occasionally drift before settling back on you. you noticed how he was rocking on the balls of his feet, something he only did as he was watching telemetry data during crucial testing or tense moments when you were driving.

you noticed oscar piastri. and now you couldn’t stop noticing him. you remembered how he had squeezed your shoulder when you won the sprint in qatar, a smile on his face. you thought back to how gently he spoke when you were on the verge of tears after a disappointing qualifying session in your rookie season, one hand steadying your back. but most of all, how he was always there for you in your corner, with his soft eyes and princely swooped hair.

holy fuck. this—this was dangerous. you were in love with your race engineer. it was a bad idea, you knew that. it would feed headlines for the rest of the season, distract you and the team, and end up with oscar losing his job, plus his career. you would love him, and then eventually, mclaren would take him away. you knew that.

“you want some champagne?” you offered, turning towards the bar. oscar quickly shook his head, a curl falling over his forehead, making your heart pang.

“nah, i prefer sprite,” oscar shrugged. you nodded, heading over to the bar and asking for a sprite. you were the race winner; there was no way the bartender could’ve said no.

the can was still cold, metal chilling and condensation beading up and dripping down your hand. maybe it was your imagination, it likely was, but as you handed oscar the drink, it turned red in your vision. crimson trickled down your wrist as veins and arteries stuck out. you could feel the gentle pulse, thrumming in your hand.

carefully, you held your bleeding heart out to oscar, hoping he’d take care of it now that you had given it to him. with a precise yet gentle movement, he took it with two hands, as if you had given him a trophy rather than a can of sprite. or was it your heart? you couldn’t tell at this point.

and then you forced yourself to snap out of it. oh god, you were hallucinating. giving oscar a quick nod, you turned and headed for the little outdoor area where less people were. this was too risky, too reckless. and sure, sometimes you drove like it, but this was too uncalculated, even for you.

exhaling, you leaned against the wall, a hand on your head in an attempt to steady your thoughts. not a moment, oscar came into your peripheral, eyebrows furrowed in concern. “hey, are you okay?” he asked, stepping closer to try and see what was wrong. “did you have too much to drink?”

you shook your head, words still struggling to form from the weight of it all. and also because oscar was dangerously close to you. but you chose not to think too much about that. “i haven’t had any alcohol,” you managed to get out. you stood up properly and promptly decided to sit back down on a bench, basking in the cool evening air and the faint moon, a hole of light in the star-scattered sky. after a slow breath, you had calmed down and collected your thoughts, turning to face oscar, who had wordlessly sat down next to you. “i didn’t drink any alcohol because i want to remember every moment from tonight, not forget it all in a hangover.”

your stomach underwent metamorphosis, butterflies bursting to life as oscar dragged his gaze from the full moon to you, soft lighting hitting his face perfectly. “i think i would do the same,” he nodded, something deeper than understanding in his eyes, something softer. blinking, you turned back to the sky, hoping that if you just avoided the issue, everything would be fine.

“i wouldn’t have won without you.” the words left your mouth without prelude, and you kept your eyes trained forward. “so thank you. i don’t thank you enough.” you could feel oscar looking at you, his calm gaze burning your skin.

“i don’t think that’s true,” he responded after a beat of silence as if gathering his thoughts like he did with his post-it notes after a debrief. “i think you would’ve won anyway. you’re a mega driver and a fighter too.”

that got a smile out of you, the corners of your mouth tugging upwards even as you tried to stay cool. “still, i don’t think many other race engineers have the courage to go and ask the team about team orders on my behalf,” you protested, determined not to let oscar sell himself short. “and you always know where i can find more time, and you say the right thing. osc, i mean it, i wouldn’t have won without you.”

this time, you glanced over at him, watching as the tips of his ears flush pink as a bashful smile filled his face. “thanks,” he murmured. “glad i ended up working with you.”

oh your heart. he couldn’t just say things like that because then it would cause you to say irrational things. your cheeks flushed as you fidgeted with your hands, heart setting a flying lap. silence fell over you two before you said, “y’know, i wish you were on the podium with me today. would’ve made it perfect.”

a flicker of surprise crossed oscar’s face, a fond smile forming. “yeah?” he asked, voice soft. “still got to see you on the top step. i’m so proud of you.” his hand went to squeeze your shoulder, the gesture making your head spin.

“are you going to leave mclaren?” you blurted. your brain had just said what came to mind, what you wanted to know, one of the fears nagging at your brain. with the win, you had started to notice how easy things were with oscar, how you enjoyed his presence, and if he were just to leave, you didn’t know if you could handle that. you turned away from oscar, mortally embarrassed that you apparently had no brain-to-mouth filter.

oscar opened his mouth and closed it, caught wildly off-guard, eyebrows furrowing in a way that really shouldn’t make your heart pang. “what? why would i be leaving mclaren?” your engineer asked, slightly panicked and confusion evident with the way he tilted his head, trying to deduce why you would say that with his engineering ways.

you shook your head, still not meeting his eyes. “never mind, stupid question.” your voice was clipped, nails picking at the hem of your dress. now, the silence engulfed the conversation, a black hole that you wished would take you with it.

“hey, it wasn’t stupid, something’s wrong,” oscar frowned, shifting forward to meet your gaze. “you know i’m here for you.” his hand came to gently pat your back, fingers warm through the fabric of your dress. if you weren’t here messing things up, you’d think it was romantic, even.

“i don’t want you to leave, osc. like ever,” you said, voice quiet to the point where it was barely audible. “i don’t want any other race engineer.” the implication hung heavy with your words, the stars blinking at you as you stared at them. turning back, you watched oscar’s eyes widen a fraction as realization settled in them. too late, now you had gone and messed things up permanently. but, you supposed there wasn’t a way to make things worse. “i want you to keep using that stupid mclaren corporate pen to debrief. i want you to keep telling me that i’m doing okay after rough sessions. i want to keep bugging you to come out to clubs during track walks. i want you to keep believing in me, osc. i couldn’t stop thinking about you on the podium; i always can’t stop thinking about you. i really like you but i know you wouldn’t want to fuck up your career and i respect that. but you’re the reason i’m here, and i can’t stop thinking about you.”

you were rambling, the kind you did when you got panicky and didn’t know what to do. oscar blinked once. twice. he was waiting, and it left you wondering if you needed to clarify. and then he moved, hand cupping your cheek as he looked at you, brown eyes scanning your face, lips dangerously close to your own. “i thought i was going crazy,” he admitted softly. “i’d admired you while telling myself that all you needed me to do was analyze the data. but you’re so amazing and you inspire me every day. i don’t care what the team says, i’ve waited too long for this.” he licked his lips, an unfiltered longing on his face as his gaze dropped down your face. “can i kiss you now?”

one second you were nodding your head, the next, oscar’s lips were against yours, reaction time almost rivaling yours. butterflies instantly threatened to break out of your stomach as his lips were warm and soft, one of his hands finding a home on your waist to tug you closer, as if he was afraid that you would drift away. your hand finally wove into the hair you had admired for some time, one wrapped around oscar’s neck to pull him down to you.

you pulled back, catching your breath, as oscar leaned forward and pecked your lips one, two, three times, making your knees weak despite sitting. and it all sunk in—oscar had kissed you. that caused you to break into a smile, mouth curving upward on its own volition. it felt surreal, like you were in a lucid dream. but then oscar reached for your hand, squeezing it as his fingers intertwined with yours to give you something to ground yourself.

“so,” oscar started, eyes crinkling as he gave you a soft smile. “if that happens every time you win, you should really try to win the championship.” you laughed, hitting his chest playfully.

“oh, shut up,” you snorted, leaning into his side. instinctively, oscar’s arm came to wrap around shoulder, keeping you close. you could tell how relaxed he was, a stark difference to how he was months ago. “you don’t know how much i’ve been wanting to do that.”

oscar’s eyes flitted down to you, a smile so fond, and sickeningly sweet on his face that made you melt. “i’m flattered,” he chuckled, reaching forward and tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear, a gesture that made your heart flutter at how gentle he was.

your gaze turned back to the stars, beautiful though they had nothing on oscar. letting out a contented sigh, you turned back to find oscar observing you with a shy grin, fingers still tangled with yours. leaning forward, you pressed your lips to his in a lazy kiss because you had time. even though you’d have to face the team again, if you didn’t know what was going to happen, you kissed him gently under the stars—you had all night.

[goldfades]

PLAYING WITH FIRE──FATHER CHARLIE

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─ summary | a preacher's daughter becomes involved in a secret and passionate affair with a priest, challenging her strict upbringing and the expectations of her family and faith.

─ pairing | father charlie mayhew x preacher's daughter!reader

─ warnings | NSFW (with plot) under the cut. fingering, heavy make-out sessions, praise/degradation?

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Your father always said the church was supposed to be your sanctuary.

From the time you were old enough to sit still on a pew, the towering stained glass windows and the echo of hymns in the vaulted ceiling had been your world. Every sermon, every candlelit service, every whispered prayer had woven itself into the fabric of your life, wrapping you in a cloak of devotion that felt as natural as breathing.

Now, standing in the shadow of the altar, that cloak felt a little too tight.

The evening light filtered through the stained glass, casting a kaleidoscope of colors across the stone floors. Blues and golds stretched in long, quiet beams, like the church itself was holding its breath. Outside, the world was settling into the calm of twilight, but inside, the silence felt heavier than usual. It pressed down on your shoulders, thick and stifling.

You stood there, fingertips grazing the smooth surface of the wooden pew in front of you. The familiar scent of incense and old books filled your lungs as you breathed in deeply, trying to shake off the strange feeling that had been crawling under your skin for weeks now. Something was different, though you couldn’t quite place it. The church, once a place of comfort, now felt... constricting. Maybe it was the weight of expectation—or maybe it was something else entirely, something you didn’t dare to name yet.

Your gaze drifted to the large crucifix at the front of the room, eyes tracing the well-worn details of it, the soft glow of candlelight flickering at its base. You were supposed to feel something here. Reverence. Peace. But instead, a knot twisted in your chest, a tangle of emotions you couldn’t unravel.

Footsteps echoed behind you, soft but deliberate, the sound pulling you back to the present. You didn’t need to turn around to know who it was. You could feel his presence like the air had shifted, like the temperature in the room dropped just a fraction of a degree.

“Evening service is in an hour.”

Father Charlie’s voice, smooth and low, cut through the silence, brushing against the nape of your neck like a whisper. You swallowed, your pulse quickening, though you weren’t entirely sure why. He always had that effect on you, though you told yourself it was nothing. Just nerves. Just... respect. Nothing more.

You turned to face him, forcing a smile as you nodded. “I know. I just... wanted a moment before the crowd comes in.”

His eyes lingered on you for a beat longer than necessary, and something in his gaze sent a shiver down your spine. It wasn’t just the way he looked at you—it was the way you felt when he did, like you were being seen for the first time, like every carefully crafted piece of who you were might unravel if you weren’t careful.

“Of course,” he replied, his voice still soft, but there was an edge to it now, something unspoken that hung in the air between you.

You looked away quickly, your fingers curling tighter around the pew. Your father’s words echoed in your mind, reminding you of your duty, of your place. You were the preacher’s daughter, after all. Everything about your life was tied to this church, to your father’s legacy, to the faith you were supposed to uphold with unwavering loyalty.

But then why did it feel like everything was starting to crack?

You forced yourself to stand taller, clearing your throat as you spoke again, your voice quieter this time. “I should probably go help with preparations.”

“Right,” Charlie said, though he didn’t move, didn’t take his eyes off you.

The silence stretched between you once more, and you could feel the weight of it, heavy and unspoken. Something was shifting, whether you wanted to admit it or not.

───

College had opened a thousand new doors for you, each one leading you further away from the world you had known for so long. The freedom was intoxicating—more than you could have imagined. Late nights spent in libraries, impromptu road trips with friends, a city that felt alive beneath your feet, humming with possibilities you had never considered. For the first time in your life, you weren’t tethered to the expectations of your family, the expectations of the church.

But even as you explored new ideas, met people who challenged the beliefs you had grown up with, and carved out space for yourself in a world much bigger than the small town you’d left behind, something kept pulling you back. A tug, a whisper, a lingering sense of obligation that gnawed at you when the campus quieted down in the early hours of the morning.

It wasn’t just the faith you were raised in that haunted you; it was the weight of your father’s voice echoing in your head, the way he spoke about duty, commitment, and sacrifice. His sermons had always been about more than just scripture—they were about life, about how the world tested you, how sin was a slippery slope. How it could seduce you without you even realizing it.

You thought you could ignore it for a while, push the thoughts aside as you embraced everything new. But when the holidays came and you found yourself back home, the old routines settled over you like a heavy coat. The Sunday services, the church events, the constant watchful eyes of the congregation. You could feel them all waiting, wondering if the preacher’s daughter had come back changed, if the world had gotten to you.

And then, there was Father Charlie.

You hadn’t expected to see him again—not like this, not after everything had shifted inside of you. College had given you new perspectives, yes, but it hadn’t prepared you for the way your pulse raced the moment you saw him standing in the front of the church, speaking with your father as if everything was still the same.

But it wasn’t.

Charlie looked different. Or maybe you did. He was older now, though not by much, and there was a certain weight in his eyes that you hadn’t noticed before. It wasn’t just his sermons or the way he carried himself with that steady, unshakable calm; it was the way his gaze lingered on you, the way it seemed like he could see through the mask you were trying so hard to keep up.

You’d always known him as the priest who helped your father, the man who had been an almost constant presence in your home, at dinners, at family gatherings. He was someone you trusted, someone you never questioned. Until now.

There was something about him now, something that made the air feel too thick when you were in the same room. Maybe it was because you had changed, maybe it was because you had seen more of the world and realized how small the one you left behind had been. Or maybe it was because for the first time, you were looking at him not through the lens of innocence and trust, but through something darker. Something you weren’t ready to name.

It started innocently enough—helping your father prepare for services, catching up with old friends from the congregation, falling back into the role of the dutiful daughter. You had perfected that role long ago, and slipping back into it felt almost too easy, like muscle memory. But every time you caught a glimpse of Charlie, that mask cracked just a little more.

You told yourself it was nothing, that it was just the stress of being home again, of reconciling who you were now with who you had been before. But it wasn’t long before you found yourself lingering after church events, staying late to help clean up, just to see if he’d still be there. Just to see if his eyes would meet yours again, if that strange, unspoken tension between you would return.

And it always did.

It was subtle at first, the way he looked at you from across the room, the way his gaze lingered just a little too long before he turned away. You tried to convince yourself you were imagining it, that it was just your mind playing tricks on you. But then there were the conversations, those moments when the two of you were alone in the church hall, the only sound the distant hum of people outside. The way his voice softened when he spoke to you, the way he leaned in just a fraction too close, the way his hand brushed yours when you passed him something.

It was nothing. Or at least, that’s what you kept telling yourself.

But one evening, after a particularly long meeting at the church, when everyone else had left and you were gathering your things, you turned around to find him standing in the doorway, watching you.

Your breath caught in your throat, your heart skipping a beat. The look in his eyes was different this time—darker, more intense. There was something there that you hadn’t seen before, or maybe something you had been too afraid to acknowledge.

“I didn’t expect you to come back,” he said, his voice quiet but steady. His gaze didn’t leave yours, not even for a second.

You swallowed hard, your pulse quickening as you tried to gather your thoughts. “It’s home,” you replied, though even you could hear the uncertainty in your own voice.

He stepped into the room, closing the door softly behind him. The sound of it clicking shut seemed to echo in the silence, making the space between you feel even smaller. He didn’t say anything at first, just looked at you, his eyes searching yours like he was trying to find something, some answer to a question he hadn’t asked yet.

You should have felt uncomfortable. You should have made some excuse to leave, to get out of there before whatever this was could unfold. But instead, you stayed rooted to the spot, your breath shallow, your heart racing in your chest.

“I’ve been thinking about you,” he admitted, his voice lower now, almost a whisper.

Your heart skipped another beat, a wave of heat washing over you at his words. You didn’t know how to respond, didn’t know what to say to the man standing in front of you—the man who had always been so steady, so composed, and now looked like he was standing on the edge of something dangerous.

“Charlie, I—”

“I know,” he interrupted, taking another step closer, his eyes still locked on yours. “I know this is... complicated.”

Complicated didn’t even begin to cover it. He was a priest. You were the preacher’s daughter. There were rules, lines that couldn’t be crossed, things that couldn’t be said.

But here you were, standing in the quiet of the church, and those lines had never felt more blurred.

It was wrong. Everything about this was wrong. You knew it deep down, felt it in the pit of your stomach. He was a man of God, your father’s closest confidant, the last person you should have these thoughts about. And yet, here he was—standing before you, watching you with an intensity that made your breath hitch, like you were the only person in the world at that moment.

He was too close now. You could smell the faint scent of incense still clinging to his clothes, could see the slight furrow in his brow as he struggled to keep his composure. For a moment, neither of you said anything. The only sound was the soft hum of the fluorescent lights overhead and the muted shuffle of footsteps outside the room.

You should leave. You needed to. But instead, you found yourself taking a slow, steady breath, trying to calm the rapid beating of your heart.

“I don’t know what’s happening here,” you finally whispered, your voice barely audible.

Charlie exhaled softly, his eyes never leaving yours. “Neither do I,” he admitted, his voice low, almost broken. “But I can’t stop thinking about you.”

The confession hung in the air between you, heavy and dangerous. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. He was supposed to be a man above these temptations, above human desires. And you were supposed to be someone who understood that, who respected the boundaries that came with it. But somehow, those boundaries had started to blur long before either of you realized.

His hand twitched at his side, like he was fighting the urge to reach out and touch you, to close the distance between you. For a moment, you thought he might actually do it. That he might cross that final line. But he hesitated, clenching his fist as if to hold himself back.

“I shouldn’t have said that,” he muttered under his breath, taking a small step backward, as if the space would help clear the growing storm between you.

You bit your lip, trying to find the right words, the right way to make sense of the tangled mess of emotions inside you. “Charlie...”

“Don’t,” he cut you off softly, shaking his head. “You don’t understand how wrong this is.”

His words hit you like a cold splash of water, but they didn’t stop the way your heart fluttered in your chest, or the way your stomach twisted with something dangerous. You knew he was right. This was wrong, on every level. And yet, the way he looked at you, the way his voice dropped when he said your name—it sent a shiver down your spine that you couldn’t ignore.

“Then why do you keep looking at me like that?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

For a moment, he didn’t respond. He just stared at you, his expression a mixture of frustration and something darker—something you didn’t dare name out loud.

“Because,” he finally murmured, his voice thick with restrained emotion, “I can’t help it.”

You swallowed hard, feeling the weight of those words settle over you. It wasn’t the confession you had expected, and it wasn’t one that made things any easier. If anything, it only made the situation even more complicated.

“I should go,” you whispered, your voice shaky as you tried to take a step back, to create some distance between you and the storm brewing in the space you shared.

That was all you said before turning around, and leaving the room.

───

You weren't sure how this had happened, but sure as hell did. Charlie's lips were on yours, pushing you into the door with force. You hummed into his lips, wrapping your arms around his shoulders.

All you remember was his hands gripping your waist, pulling you closer, like he was afraid you’d disappear if he let go. The world outside that door no longer existed, fading into a blur as Charlie’s lips moved against yours with a fervor that felt like it had been building for far too long.

All you remembered was the sound of your own heartbeat, pounding so loudly in your ears that it drowned out everything else—the quiet of the church hall, the soft creak of the door behind you, the whisper of your name on Charlie’s lips before everything had spiraled out of control.

You had always imagined this would be different, more hesitant, slower, maybe even sweet. But this? This was something else entirely. It was rushed, desperate, like both of you had been holding back for so long that the dam had finally broken, flooding every bit of restraint.

Your hands tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, needing him to close the gap between you entirely. His fingers dug into your hips, holding you in place as if he was afraid you’d slip away if he didn’t. His lips were warm, insistent, and you couldn’t help but melt into him, surrendering to the pull you had resisted for so long.

The weight of what you were doing hit you in flashes—between the soft gasp that escaped your throat and the way Charlie’s breath hitched when you responded with equal need. You shouldn’t be here. You shouldn’t be doing this. But nothing had ever felt so... inevitable.

The taste of his kiss lingered on your lips, sending sparks through your body that only grew more intense the longer it went on. You could feel the tension radiating off of him, the battle he was fighting between what he knew was wrong and what he wanted more than anything at that moment.

It was a battle you were losing, too.

You broke away for a second, gasping for air as his forehead pressed against yours, both of you breathing heavily. His eyes—dark, conflicted, and filled with something so raw—locked onto yours. For a moment, the weight of what you’d just done hung between you.

But then, before either of you could think too much, his lips were back on yours, silencing any doubts. This time, softer.

This time, his kiss was slower, more deliberate, like he was trying to memorize the feel of you. The urgency had dimmed just enough to let the moment stretch out, to let the reality of what was happening sink in. His hands traced a path from your hips to your waist, pulling you even closer, while his lips moved tenderly against yours, tasting you in a way that made your knees weak.

Your mind was a blur of sensations—the warmth of his breath, the soft friction of his body pressing into yours, the quiet hum of the world outside this stolen moment. Every touch, every kiss, felt like it was lighting a fire inside you that you couldn't put out, even if you tried.

But then, as his lips left yours to trail softly down your jawline, the weight of it all crashed down on you. What had you done? What were you doing?

“Charlie,” you whispered, your voice trembling as reality clawed its way back in. His name fell from your lips like a plea, though you weren’t sure if you were asking him to stop or to keep going.

He froze, his breath hot against your neck. For a long moment, he didn’t move, his hands still gripping your waist as if he couldn’t bear to let go. Then, with a shuddering breath, he pulled back just enough to look at you, his expression filled with a storm of emotions—regret, desire, conflict, everything.

“I... I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice hoarse and broken. His eyes searched yours, as though he was looking for some kind of answer, some justification for the lines he had just crossed. “I shouldn’t have...”

You shook your head, still catching your breath, your hands sliding down from his shoulders. “No,” you whispered, feeling the heat in your cheeks. “Don’t apologize. I wanted this, too.”

Charlie swallowed hard, his gaze flickering between your lips and your eyes, torn between the undeniable truth of your words and the overwhelming guilt gnawing at him. He opened his mouth as if to say something, but no words came out. Instead, he took a step back, running a hand through his hair as if to ground himself, to keep himself from falling further.

“We can’t do this,” he muttered, almost to himself, though the words were meant for both of you. “This... it’s wrong. It goes against everything.”

“Charlie,” you scoffed as you straightened up. “So what? So what if this is wrong, who said we can't have fun every once in a while?”

Charlie’s eyes darkened at your words, a flicker of something dangerous crossing his features. You watched as he clenched his jaw, wrestling with the temptation that you had just fanned back into life with that careless, reckless comment.

“Fun?” he repeated, his voice low and strained, almost like he couldn’t believe you had said it. “You think this is just fun?”

You tilted your head, shrugging, though you could feel your heart pounding in your chest. “Why not? Why does it have to be this heavy, guilt-ridden thing? It’s only wrong if we make it wrong.” Your voice was bold, but there was a trembling edge beneath it, one you hoped he wouldn’t notice.

Charlie’s hand ran through his hair in frustration as he stared at you, his chest rising and falling unevenly. “You don’t get it,” he muttered, taking a step closer, and for a moment, you saw the fire in his eyes again—the same fire that had pulled you both into this moment in the first place. “This isn’t just some game. You have no idea what you’re risking.”

You stepped forward, closing the distance again, the tension between you crackling like electricity. “I know exactly what I’m risking, Charlie. And I don’t care. Don’t you get that by now? I want this.”

For a split second, you saw the conflict in his eyes again, the internal war he was waging, but then his hand reached out, gripping your arm, pulling you closer. His breath was ragged as his forehead pressed against yours, his fingers tightening around you like he was holding on for dear life.

“You’re driving me insane,” he murmured, his voice thick with desperation. “This isn’t something we can just... play with. It’s wrong, and I—”

“Do you want me to stop?” you cut him off, your voice soft but firm, your lips inches from his.

Charlie’s breath hitched as his grip on you tightened even more. His eyes searched yours, the weight of the decision heavy between you both. For a moment, neither of you moved, the air thick with anticipation, with the unspoken truth neither of you could deny anymore.

“I don’t want you to stop,” he admitted, his voice a hoarse whisper, filled with all the tension and desire he had been trying so hard to suppress. “But I should. We should.”

Your heart skipped a beat at his confession, and without thinking, you leaned in, your lips brushing against his ear as you whispered, “Then don’t.”

That was all it took.

In an instant, his resolve crumbled, and Charlie’s lips crashed into yours with a force that sent a shiver down your spine. All the restraint, all the guilt, evaporated in that single moment as his hands gripped you tighter, pulling you against him like he couldn’t get enough.

That was how this little affair had began. What started as a reckless act of rebellion, something thrilling and dangerous, had spiraled into something much bigger, something neither of you could have anticipated.

For Charlie, everything began to shift. At first, it was just the stolen kisses and the hurried, whispered moments behind locked doors. But then, gradually, you noticed the change in him—subtle at first, but undeniable as time went on. He wasn’t the same devout, principled man he’d been before. The conviction that once held him together was starting to unravel, and it wasn’t just about you anymore.

His sermons, once delivered with unshakable passion, began to falter. He spoke the words, but there was a hollowness to them now, a lack of fire that hadn’t been there before. The weight of his role as a priest no longer seemed to sit so heavily on his shoulders. It was as though he was slipping further away from the man he had been, day by day, like he had loosened his grip on the faith that had once defined him.

It wasn’t just in the church either. You saw it in his eyes, the way they lit up when he saw you, no longer clouded with guilt or hesitation. The same man who had once knelt in prayer for hours, seeking forgiveness for even the smallest of sins, now seemed to be the furthest thing from repentant. There was a spark in him that had nothing to do with religion—a hunger for something more, something that you had awakened in him.

You had become his escape, his release from the rigid life he had once lived. And it was clear that, for the first time in a long while, he was having fun. Real fun. The kind that made his eyes light up with a mischievous glint, the kind that left him grinning after each secret encounter. He was no longer the solemn, restrained Father Charlie that everyone in the church knew. Around you, he laughed more, joked more, and seemed more alive than he ever had before.

There was a recklessness to him now, a side of Charlie that had been hidden beneath layers of duty and piety. When you were together, it was as though none of the rules applied. His hands roamed freely, his lips found yours without hesitation, and the weight of his priesthood—the guilt that had once threatened to crush him—seemed to melt away with each touch, each kiss, each stolen moment.

He wasn’t praying for forgiveness anymore. He wasn’t praying for anything at all.

And maybe that was the most dangerous part of all. Charlie was slipping further and further away from the man he had been, from the role he had devoted his life to. But even as you saw him change, a part of you knew—you liked this version of him better. The one who wasn’t weighed down by morality, the one who let himself live, who let himself enjoy this, enjoy you.

Because, in truth, he had never seemed happier.

Then, your family's Christmas Eve dinner came and of course, Charlie would be invited. Your mother and father were practically buzzing with excitement—this was their biggest event of the year.

It would be in your home, just as it always was, with the dining room decked out in festive decorations. The smell of cinnamon, cloves, and roasting meat filled the air, and the flicker of candlelight danced along the walls. Your mother had spent days planning every detail, from the table settings to the perfect holiday playlist softly playing in the background. This was the night your family pulled out all the stops, and the guest of honor, of course, was none other than Father Charlie.

As you descended the stairs, dressed in a modest yet elegant outfit your mother had insisted upon, your stomach churned. The thought of Charlie sitting across from you, pretending nothing was happening between the two of you, made your skin prickle with a strange mix of anticipation and dread. You could already picture him, composed and serene, his priestly demeanor fully intact. But you knew better. Beneath the calm exterior, beneath the collar, there was a man who had unraveled, one you had helped tear apart.

The dining room was a scene of festive cheer by the time you arrived, your parents bustling about, greeting guests and making sure everything was perfect. You could hear your father laughing loudly from the other room, his booming voice full of pride as he told someone about how Father Charlie had become such an important part of the church community. How proud they were to have him there.

And then you saw him.

Charlie stood near the fireplace, talking to a few of the older parishioners who had arrived early, his usual composed expression firmly in place. He looked every bit the part—his black priest’s garb impeccable, his hands clasped in front of him in that familiar posture of calm authority. But when his eyes flicked over to you, for the briefest of moments, something shifted. His gaze lingered, and you saw the hint of heat behind them, a flash of memory that you were certain only the two of you understood. His lips quirked up in a small smile, seemingly innocent and kind. But you knew better.

Your heart skipped a beat as your mother’s voice pulled you back into the moment. “Sweetheart, come say hello to Father Charlie!” she called, her voice brimming with affection.

You swallowed hard, forcing a smile onto your face as you made your way toward him. Your mother was already gushing about how wonderful it was to have him here, how much your family appreciated him spending Christmas Eve with them. You barely heard her, your mind racing as Charlie’s eyes met yours, steady but unreadable.

“Good evening,” he said softly, his voice smooth as ever, though there was an edge to it that only you could catch. The soft smile that graced his features had turned into a small smirk as he took in your shy expression.

He extended his hand, and for a split second, as your fingers brushed his, a jolt of electricity surged through you. It was barely noticeable—a moment so fleeting your mother wouldn’t have thought twice about it. But for you, it was enough to send your mind spiraling back to all the times his hands had been on you in a much different way.

“Good evening, Father,” you replied, your voice steady, though your pulse was racing beneath the surface.

“Such a lovely home, as always,” Charlie said, turning his attention to your mother with a charming smile, ever the perfect guest. But as he spoke, you caught the way his fingers flexed slightly, like he was trying to hold back something deeper.

As the evening unfolded, you found yourself painfully aware of Charlie's presence, of the way he seemed just a little too comfortable, a little too close. He wasn’t careless enough to raise suspicion, not with your family and half the parish sitting around the table, but there were moments—subtle, fleeting moments—that made your heart race.

It started with the way he looked at you. His eyes would linger a beat too long whenever you caught each other’s gaze across the table. He spoke politely to your parents, laughed at the right moments, even indulged your father’s long-winded stories about the church’s history. But every time he glanced your way, there was something beneath the surface. A smoldering awareness.

Then, there were his hands. When he passed you the breadbasket, his fingers brushed against yours. Not an accident, not something your parents would ever notice, but it was enough. The touch sent a shiver down your spine, and the heat in his gaze told you he knew exactly what he was doing. His thumb grazed your wrist in a way that made your breath hitch, and when you glanced up, he was already looking away, like it never happened. But you knew.

Charlie was being reckless, though not in an obvious way. His behavior was just subtle enough to keep from drawing attention, but to you, it was impossible to miss. His foot nudged yours beneath the table during dinner, a simple tap, but the look he gave you when your knees touched—it was almost too much. You could barely keep yourself composed, your mind spinning with the memory of him pushing you up against the door, his lips on yours.

"Father, would you like more wine?" your mother asked, completely oblivious to the tension simmering between you two.

Charlie smiled, nodding graciously as he held out his glass. "Just a little more, thank you."

As your mother poured, his eyes found yours again. This time, he didn’t look away, not immediately. The corner of his mouth quirked up, just enough to send your thoughts into overdrive. It was like a private joke, one that only the two of you understood. A secret dance of hidden touches, stolen glances, and unspoken words.

You tried to focus on your plate, on the conversation happening around you, but it was impossible. Every move he made felt like it was meant for you, no matter how small. When he reached for his napkin, his hand grazed your thigh under the table, just for a second, but it was enough to make your breath catch in your throat. You glanced at him in shock, and he gave you a sideways smile, the kind that spoke volumes without a single word.

He was playing with fire, and so were you.

Dinner stretched on, with your father telling more stories and your mother doting on everyone, but all you could think about was Charlie. The way he leaned back in his chair, his gaze sweeping the room, but always coming back to you. It was reckless, the way he was letting his guard down, letting you see the cracks in his calm facade.

“Are you alright, sweetheart?” your father asked, drawing you out of your thoughts. His concerned gaze made your stomach tighten.

You forced a smile, nodding quickly. “Yes, just tired, I think. It’s been a long day.”

Your father patted your shoulder, satisfied with your answer, but when you glanced at Charlie, you saw the flicker of something dangerous in his eyes—something that told you he wasn’t tired at all. He was far from it.

As dessert was served, the tension between you two only grew. He was no longer pretending to keep his distance, not really. His foot stayed lightly pressed against yours under the table, and when your fingers brushed again as you passed him a dish, he let them linger, his thumb trailing over your knuckles for just a second too long.

The worst part? No one else noticed a thing.

Charlie was playing this game with expert precision—just enough to make your pulse quicken, but not enough to get caught.

As dessert came to an end, Charlie's eyes flickered towards you with an intensity that made your skin prickle. He had barely spoken directly to you the entire night, but now, it was like he couldn’t wait any longer. You were both playing this game, pushing the boundaries of how far you could go without crossing an invisible line—at least in front of everyone else.

"Could you show me where the coffee cups are?" Charlie asked, leaning back casually in his chair. His voice was calm, maybe even a little too casual, but you caught the subtle undercurrent of something more.

Your mother’s head turned slightly, her brow furrowing in mild confusion. "Father, you’ve been here enough times to know where they are, haven’t you?"

You held your breath, your pulse quickening at the way your mother’s question hung in the air. Charlie smiled smoothly, shaking his head.

"Ah, but every time I’m here, something’s moved around. You know how it is in a busy house," he said, chuckling lightly, the picture of a gracious guest. But his eyes were on you again, and you knew this wasn’t about coffee cups. Not even close.

"Of course," your mother laughed, brushing it off with a wave. "Go ahead, sweetheart, show Father Charlie where everything is."

Your heart was pounding as you rose from your seat, barely able to look at your parents. The room felt too small, too hot, like every eye was on you as you and Charlie stood up from the table. But when you glanced back, your father was already engrossed in another conversation, and your mother was busy with the dishes.

Charlie followed you into the hallway, his footsteps too close behind you. Your breath hitched as you led him toward the kitchen, trying to act natural, but the tension between you two was suffocating. You could feel his presence like a shadow, his gaze boring into the back of your neck as you rounded the corner.

The second you stepped out of view, his hand caught your wrist, pulling you to a stop. You spun to face him, heart racing, and before you could say a word, his body was pressing you back against the kitchen counter.

"Charlie—" you whispered, but he silenced you with a look, his breath coming fast and shallow.

"I couldn’t stand it any longer," he muttered, his voice low and thick with something dark. His hands came to rest on either side of you, trapping you against the counter, and you could feel the heat radiating from him. "I need you, baby..."

Your breath hitched as his fingers brushed the side of your face, and you felt your resolve start to crumble. You knew this was wrong—knew it with every fiber of your being—but Charlie’s lips were dangerously close to yours, his breath warm on your skin.

"You’ve been driving me insane," he whispered, his voice ragged, filled with a hunger he hadn’t bothered to hide anymore.

You swallowed hard, feeling the weight of the moment crushing down on you. There was still time to stop this, to step away, but you knew neither of you would. You had pushed each other too far, and now, there was no turning back.

"I know," you breathed, barely able to get the words out. "I’ve been waiting for you to crack."

A low groan escaped him, and before you knew it, his lips were on yours, hot and demanding. His hands slid down to grip your waist, pulling you flush against him, and the heat between you was overwhelming. It was reckless, dangerous, but it was also everything you had been waiting for.

The tension that had simmered all night finally broke, and you melted into him, your hands tangling in his hair as you kissed him back with the same desperation. His fingers dug into your hips, pulling you impossibly closer, and you couldn’t help but moan into his mouth.

Charlie pulled away just enough to press his forehead against yours, his breath ragged as he looked into your eyes. "Your parents are in the other room," he murmured with a small smirk, though the way he held you betrayed any thought of stopping.

You smiled up at him, your heart racing. "Then why can’t you stop?"

His jaw clenched, and without another word, he pulled you into another kiss, deeper this time, his hands exploring your body with a reckless abandon that sent a shiver down your spine. The world outside the kitchen, the family dinner, the church—it all melted away as you gave in to the dangerous pull between you.

Charlie pulled away for a second, his hand reaching up to grip your face harshly. "Dirty girl, aren't you?"

You couldn't help but laugh, your eyes never leaving his. "You started this, Charlie."

Charlie's grip tightened, and you felt the heat of his gaze searing into you, both intoxicating and possessive. He kissed you again, his mouth fierce, almost punishing, as if he couldn’t stand the space between you. Your back hit the counter, but the discomfort barely registered—he pressed his body into yours, and you gasped against his lips, a mixture of pleasure and anticipation flooding your senses.

His hands roamed, fingers tracing the curve of your waist before sliding beneath your shirt, the roughness of his palms igniting your skin. You felt him pause, as if savoring the feeling of you under his hands, and when he finally pulled back, it was only to whisper against your ear, his voice low and thick with desire. "You like this, don't you? Knowing we could get caught..."

You could barely think, your body burning with need. You bit your lip, your chest rising and falling with shallow breaths. "Isn’t that what you want?" you whispered back, your own hands sliding under his shirt, feeling the heat of his skin.

Charlie groaned, his grip on you tightening. His fingers found the hem of your jeans, teasing, as he trailed hot kisses down the side of your neck. "Always so defiant," he muttered, his breath warm against your skin. "But I’ll break you yet."

The intensity of his words sent a thrill through you, and you tilted your head back, giving him access to more of your neck as he kissed you, nipping at your skin, leaving a trail of marks behind. His hands, strong and demanding, finally dipped lower, and you gasped as his fingers brushed against the sensitive skin of your lower abdomen.

"Charlie," you whispered, your voice barely above a breath as your hands clutched at his shoulders, needing him closer, needing more.

Charlie’s breath was hot against your neck as his hands traveled lower, teasing the edge of your jeans. His fingers dipped just beneath the fabric, tracing your skin with maddening slowness. "Say my name again," he demanded, his voice husky and filled with dark need.

Your lips parted, a soft gasp escaping as his fingers toyed with you, just enough to make you squirm but not enough to satisfy the aching desire that built inside you. "Charlie," you breathed, your voice trembling, desperate.

His hand tightened around your waist, pulling you harder against him. "Louder," he growled, his lips brushing your ear, sending a shiver down your spine. He was taunting you, daring you to give in completely, and you could feel the power shift between you. You were no longer in control—he was, and the knowledge only heightened the tension.

You clenched your fingers into the fabric of his shirt, trying to keep your composure, but he wasn’t making it easy. His other hand slid to your throat, not choking but holding you in place, his grip firm as he pressed his lips against yours again, more demanding than before.

"You think you can push me, don’t you?" he muttered against your lips. "Make me lose control." His fingers slipped lower, brushing the spot that made your knees weak, and you gasped, unable to stop the flood of heat that rushed through you. He smiled, wicked and knowing, as if he could sense your surrender.

Your head fell back against the cabinet, your breathing ragged, your body burning under his touch. He tilted your chin up, forcing you to meet his gaze again, his eyes dark with lust and dominance. "But you're mine," he murmured, his voice a promise and a warning all at once. "And you’ll break before I do."

Your heart pounded in your chest as Charlie's words sank in, his hand at your throat tightening ever so slightly, just enough to remind you of his control. The intensity of his stare sent a shiver of anticipation through you, and you found yourself caught between the desire to challenge him and the undeniable pull of surrender.

"Are you sure about that?" you whispered, your voice soft but laced with defiance, the words barely slipping past your lips as you fought to maintain some control.

A dangerous smile tugged at the corner of Charlie’s mouth, his gaze flickering with something dark and unrelenting. "Oh, I’m sure," he said, his tone low and dripping with confidence. His fingers danced over the waistband of your skirt before slipping inside, his touch both teasing and commanding, and the heat pooling in your lower abdomen intensified, your breath hitching in response.

His fingers played with your panties, that were already soaked before slipping in a finger. You let out a soft hum, your head falling back on to the counter as your eyes squeezed shut. You tried to steady yourself, your grip tightening on his shoulders as you fought to stay grounded, but Charlie’s presence overwhelmed you.

His lips found the hollow of your throat, and he kissed his way down, each press of his mouth against your skin sending shockwaves through your body. When his finger moved deeper, the other brushing against your clit, your body betrayed you with a soft, needy whimper.

"That’s it," he murmured against your neck, his voice a low growl, filled with satisfaction at the sound. "Let me hear you."

The tension inside you built, every stroke of his finger pushing you closer to the edge, and you were losing the battle of resistance. Charlie’s hand tightened around your throat, not enough to hurt but enough to keep you locked in place, at his mercy. His breath was hot against your ear, his fingers moving in a rhythm that had you trembling.

"Tell me what you want," he demanded, his voice rough with desire.

Your mind was clouded, your body aching for release, but you bit your lip, fighting the words he wanted from you. The defiance only seemed to amuse him further, his grip tightening slightly. "Still holding out?" he asked, a dark chuckle escaping his lips. "You think you can win this game?"

Your heart raced, your body betraying you as you squirmed under his touch, and you knew you were close to breaking. His fingers moved with more purpose now, pushing you closer to the brink, and a gasp escaped you as your resolve began to crumble.

"I—" You could barely form the words, your body arching into him, desperate for more.

"Say it," he commanded, his voice a rough whisper. His fingers curled, hitting just the right spot, and the pleasure coursing through you was too much to bear.

"Charlie—please," you finally gasped, your voice breaking as you surrendered to him completely. "Make me cum."

A satisfied grin spread across his face, and he pressed his lips to yours in a bruising kiss, his hand finally giving you what you needed as his finger moved deeper and quicker. "Good girl," he whispered against your mouth, his voice dripping with possessive pride. "Cum for me."

That was all you needed to let out a shuddering moan, your knees falling weak as the knot in your lower stomach snapped. Charlie's hand covered your mouth quickly, the sound muffled by his large hand. After you rode out your high, Charlie's hand slipped out of your skirt as you caught your breath.

As if on cue, your mother came in with some dishes in her hand. There wasn't even a trace of suspicion in her expression, she was too busy with the dinner to even question why you two were taking so long and why you two were standing so close.

"Did you guys find the cups?" She asked with a sigh, loading the dishwasher with the dishes.

Charlie casually wiped his hand on his pants, his movements slow and deliberate, as if he hadn’t just had you unraveling under his touch moments before. His lips curved into a smirk, eyes glinting with amusement as he shot you a sideways glance. The contrast between your rapid breathing and his calm demeanor was infuriating. He knew exactly what he’d done to you—and he was reveling in it.

"Yeah," he said smoothly, his voice steady as ever. "We were just…looking for them."

You tried to compose yourself, struggling to regulate your breaths without drawing attention. Your legs still felt shaky, and the warmth of his body so close to yours lingered like a sinful reminder of what had just happened. You forced a smile, hoping your mother wouldn’t notice the flushed look on your face.

Your mother barely glanced at you two as she continued with the dishes, completely oblivious to the tension hanging thick in the air. "Great, we're just about to leave for service," she said with a tired sigh. "I’ll need your help with cleaning the table soon."

"Of course," Charlie responded, his voice filled with an edge of playful charm, though only you could hear the smug satisfaction underneath it all. He took a step closer to you, almost brushing his arm against yours as he reached up to grab the cups from the shelf. The proximity sent another wave of heat through you, and it took everything in you not to react visibly.

Your mother turned her back again, preoccupied with the dishwasher, and Charlie seized the opportunity. He leaned in ever so slightly, his breath warm against your ear as he whispered, "You’re going to have to work on that poker face, baby."

You shot him a sharp look, your body still buzzing from the intensity of earlier, and now his teasing only made it worse. The urge to wipe that smug look off his face was almost overwhelming, but you had no choice but to keep it together, your mother only a few feet away.

As he moved past you, you caught the faintest trace of amusement in his eyes. He knew how much power he held over you in that moment, and he wasn’t going to let you forget it anytime soon.

Your mother finally turned back to face you. "You okay, honey?" she asked, her brow furrowing slightly as she noticed you standing still by the counter. "You look a bit flushed."

You swallowed hard, fighting to find your voice. "Yeah, I'm fine, just a little warm in here," you lied, managing to give her a weak smile. "I'll help with the table."

Charlie glanced back at you, his smirk still firmly in place as he picked up the cups. His voice was smooth and casual, betraying nothing of the wickedness lurking beneath the surface. "I’ll take care of the rest," he said, shooting you a look that made your pulse quicken. "You just… relax."

Your mother nodded, oblivious. "Thanks, Charlie."

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[caleignii]

Caleb Fluff Headcanons

a/n: can't get enough of my sweet boy calebyy, so here are some headcanons that I think about him sometimes. My requests are open btww! Have fun reading dolls. (⁠人⁠*⁠´⁠∀⁠｀⁠)⁠｡⁠*ﾟ⁠+

Caleb who's love speaks softly—never with grand declarations, but in the quiet consistency of care. A warm drink materializes on your counter, perfectly timed to your worst days. The bulb that flickered last night? Fixed before morning. When the frost settles on the windows, your coat and gloves are already waiting by the door, touched by hands that never ask for thanks. He never says, “I did this for you.” But when you catch his eye after noticing, there’s a flicker of a smile there—like he’s trying not to glow too much. Like loving you is something sacred he’s choosing to keep humble.

Caleb after his missions, when the adrenaline fades and silence stretches thin, he drives—somewhere quiet, somewhere star-swept. He doesn’t speak much on the way, only reaches for your hand as though that’s all the grounding he needs. You lie beside him under the cosmos, shoulder to shoulder, listening to the universe breathe. Sometimes he whispers things—not to the stars, but to you. “When the stars get loud, I look at you, and they get quiet again.” You don’t always answer. You just squeeze his hand and let the silence cradle you both. Stars don’t speak, but Caleb does.

Caleb who secretly has an interest in riding a big bike. Okay here me out, with him as a pilot whenever he's flying in a small/open-cockpit plane—sends of freedom, thrill, and wind-in-your-face exhilaration that he may miss when flying sealed aircraft. Just like when riding a bike, the breeze during a fast ride contributes to that immersive, high-energy feeling, similar to low-altitude flying. The rush of wind on a fast-moving bike closely mimics the sensory experience of flying in an open cockpit or glider. Both activities provide an adrenaline rush and it attracted him who enjoy controlled risk and excitement.

Caleb's insomnia visits often, but so does he. He settles beside you, opens a worn book, and starts to read—not to pass the time, but to share space with you. His voice is low, smooth, like waves against the hull of a ship. You rest your head on his chest, feeling every word more than hearing them. When your breathing slows, he doesn’t stop. He keeps reading—quietly, carefully—as if the story might guard your dreams better than silence ever could.

Caleb has a photo of you he keeps hidden, tucked in the lining of his helmet like a secret prayer. Every mission, just before the launch seals him away, he looks at it. Only for a second. No one else sees. No one needs to. Once, you asked him why. He said, “Because there are places out there that want to strip the human out of you. But when I look at this... I remember who I am. And who I’m coming back to.”

Caleb doesn’t talk about his soft side. But you see it in the way a stray dog curls up at his feet, or how a kitten somehow finds its way into his arms, even on a space station. Once, you caught him crouched beside a baby bird, gently feeding it crumbs. He didn’t know you were watching. He just murmured, “You’re cold, aren’t you?” He looked up, startled, and gave the smallest shrug. “Someone had to help.” You didn’t tell him, but in that moment, your heart broke a little wider for him.

Caleb when someone flirts with you, doesn’t get angry, just quiet. A subtle shift. A glance. His fingers graze yours, almost like a question. Are you still with me? You smile at him—really smile—and that’s all it takes. The tension slides off his shoulders like water off armor. He presses a soft kiss to your temple, says nothing, but holds your hand just a bit tighter. The message is clear: I don’t need to fight for you. You’ve already chosen me.

Caleb even when the world freezes around you, hands stay warm. On distant moons, in frostbitten ships, when your bones ache from the cold, he reaches for you. Always. His palms are steady, wrapping yours like a promise. No words—just touch. Gentle, grounding, there. It’s not just about warmth. It’s about reminding you: You are not drifting. You are not alone. I’m here.

[fairuzfan]

Another soldier, who served in northern and central Gaza, testified that soldiers “took rugs, blankets, [and] kitchen utensils,” and explained that there was no briefing on the matter from the army either before entering or while in the field. “There was zero talk about it from the commanders,” he said. “Everyone knows that people are taking things. It’s considered funny — people say: ‘Send me to The Hague.’ It doesn’t happen in secret. The commanders saw, everyone knows, and no one seems to care.”

The soldier offered his explanation for why the phenomenon is so widespread: “There is something about this reality in which the house is already [in ruins] that allows you to take a plate or rug. In one of the operations, in a destroyed house, there was a cupboard with antique kitchen utensils, special plates, special mugs. I saw them being looted, unfortunately.”

“[The commanders] didn’t really talk to us about it,” another soldier testified. “They didn’t say you couldn’t take things. And most people felt the need to take a souvenir.” 

The soldier noted that the looting was no secret; indeed, some of their seniors were doing it too. “The company sergeant major distributed Qur’an study books that he found and gave to whomever wanted them,” he said. “Another soldier took a set of coffee mugs, a serving tray, and a pot. Another unit, whom we met after they returned from a tour, brought a motorcycle, like the Nukhba [Hamas special forces] motorcycles. One of the soldiers declared that it was his. They [the soldiers] talked about renovating it.”

Another soldier who served in Gaza told +972 and Local Call that soldiers took “prayer beads, spoons, glasses, coffee pots, jewelry, rings. Whatever is easy and accessible is taken. Not everything, but people felt like the lords of the land.” He noted also that “maps from children’s textbooks were taken to show how they are taught there.”

[lina-lovebug]

I'd Fight The Devil

Alastor x fem! reader

Background: (Y/N) is the elder Morningstar, and wants to fix her relationship with her dad. But her dad hates her boyfriend.

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3 - Finale

Allusions to sex, actual sex, angel being angel, and cannibalism

_____

Angel spit out his drink, "You're with Alastor?!"

"Yeah, thoughts?"

"And prayers, girl," Angel could never imagine a sweet girl like (Y/N) getting it on with the Radio Demon himself.

But everyone has their kinks, he supposed.

Alastor manifested behind her, and she immediately felt his presence. Pressing herself against him, he leaned into her warmth and kept his arms around her shoulders.

"How was your day, mon amour?"

"It'll be even better," She trailed off, turning around to face him, "when we meet my dad for dinner."

Silence.

And not even radio silence.

"Not to be rash, but I'm sure your father would sooner see my head on a pike than on my body," Alastor adored the fact that she was mending their bond, even more so when Lucifer makes the effort.

But announcing their relationship to him?

He could see it ending in flames.

"I know you two don't get along, but I thought a nice dinner might smooth things over."

"And if he disapproves of us?" He lifted her head upwards with his finger, bemused as to what her answer may be.

"Then he'll have to get used to it," (Y/N) replied, sending a shiver of excitement up his spine.

Only a feeling that the she-devil he was utterly obsessed with could provide.

"Ugh, can you guys go fuck somewhere else?" Angel said, "or at all? I can't imagine going a lifetime without dick."

Alastors eye twitch, "now that's our business, isn't it?"

"Okay, okay," Charlie spoke up, "you guys go get ready."

Charlie couldn't help but notice the change in Alastor. It had only been a few months, but being in her sisters presence alone has made him kind. Sure, the both of them would skin someone alive over an insult, but Alastor would rip out his own eyes if (Y/N) asked.

A perfect match.

(Y/N) dawned a black dress with a pearl necklace that Alastor bought for her. Well, she thinks he bought it but he actually stole it off of a fresh kill.

How sweet.

"Pumpkin! Oh look at you! You're as radiant as ever!" Lucifer fawned over his daughter as they made it to the restaurant, making it a point to ignore the red demon behind her.

"Catching strays?" Lucifer gestured to him.

"Lovely to see you again," Alastor retorted.

"Dad, why don't we go inside? And Alastor will be joining us," now, Lucifer didn't forget what he said. He recognized that the fearsome deer demon had the intention of claiming Princess (Y/N) as his own, but did his daughter return such feelings?

Honestly, Lucifer feared that.

Not it being Alastor persay, but his little girls being hurt.

He knew how awful it felt to go through the divorce with Lilith, and then her disappearance.

He didn't ever want his daughters to feel that way.

"So, Alastor, what do you do again?"

"I have a radio broadcast. Your daughter has actually helped me repair the studio after the attack," He laid his land on hers.

And Lucifer picked up Alastors hand.

And placed it away from hers.

"Uh, dad-"

"Look, if you two are fucking, don't tell me."

"Dad!" Her face burned red, "we aren't-that's not. . .I love Alastor, and he loves me. I want you to accept us both."

"Love? Whoa, whoa, whoa! Pumpkin, I don't think-"

"I'm not a little kid," She interrupted, "I'm a grown woman, and I'm able to make my own decisions. I want to be with Alastor because I love him. You may not think I know what love is, but I know it's what I feel with Alastor."

That's when he saw it.

That look.

Whilst (Y/N) was defending herself, defending their love, Alastor looked at her. Only her. And it was like he was staring at the nebula itself, seeing all its beauty in the Heir of Hell. His smile faltered, closing his mouth, and his eyes softened.

It's the same look that he used to give Lilith.

"If I ever hear that you've made her cry, or even laid a single hand upon her," Lucifer stared him down, "I'll make you disappear."

"A man true to his word. Looks like we have something in common," Alastor agreed, his hand back on hers. She gave him a smile, one that reminded him of Lilith.

The rest of dinner went off without any incidents. The small jab here and there, but no one died, and no one was stabbed. Lucifer learned more about his daughters business and how she lit up talking about it.

"You hardly ate, Alastor. Is something wrong?" (Y/N) asked when her father went to the restroom.

"Oh no, my dear. Just hungry for something else, is all," His eyes raked up her form, earning a cough from the she-devil.

Honestly, she didn't know where he was on his spectrum. She was fine never even being intimate, so long as he was happy, but this spark in his eyes lit a fire within her.

"O-oh. . .are you sure?" Believe it or not, (Y/N) had only had sex twice and both times she'd call it lackluster.

"I don't want you to force yourself if you don't want to," oh how innocent she was. Honestly, Alastor assumed he was aroace before he met the she-devil. Her ferocity - her chaos in fights, her genuine kindness, and her soul - itself brought out that spark.

There are moments where the carnal desire needs to be satisfied.

"Mon cher, I'd never ask if I didn't mean it."

That look, it made her softly gasp.

"Alast-"

"Ew."

Right.

Lucifer.

He showed up from his restroom break and found the pair giving eachother "fuck me" eyes.

"Could I eat my dinner without you groping my child?" Lucifer hissed, despite Alastor only touching her hand.

He blinked, thinking how he's never even groped a woman.

"Maybe."

Sick bastard.

_ _ _ ☆ _ _ _

"Fuck! Alastor!"

(Y/N) had never cum before, so Alastor being her first to ever do so and smiling away at her quivering legs made it so much better.

"Oh fuck. . ." She moaned weakly, his tongue slithering in and out of her to lick up every last drop.

"Al. . ." She was breathless, staring at his strained member. Reaching up to unzip his pants, he tutted as he grabbed her wrist.

"Al?"

"It's about you. Don't worry about me, amour," He purred, kissing the bite marks on her thighs.

"But you-"

Before she could detest further, wishing to satisfy him, the door opened.

"Oh my God, they were right! Alastor, you sly dog," Angel Dust was at the door, and Alastor quickly covered his beloveds' body with the covers before his horns started to grow and his back stretched.

"I'm going to kill you."

"Not before you make love to me, you're not," still in his demonic form, (Y/N) blew a gust of wind to slam the door shut.

Her body displayed on the bed, Alastor agreed.

"And stay in that form. It suits you."

[mclqren]

AMERICAN MONEY ★ LOGAN SARGEANT

PAIRING ✦ logan sargeant x fem!reader

SUMMARY ✦ after a trip to the miami grand prix, and some meddling from your sister and her boyfriend, you manage to capture the attention of a certain williams driver [ SMAU ]

WARNINGS ✦ cursing

NOTES ✦ reader is british & lives in london. reader is also a uni student. the fc i've used is brooke flecca, but feel free to picture whoever you want! this fic is based off of the song American Money by BØRNS.

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liked by yoursister, oscarpiastri, and 7,441 others

yourusername flicks 📸

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user1 STUNNER

user2 such a beauty in all three oh my days

user3 PLEASE SEND ME THE LINK TO THE CAMERA!!

yourusername check your dms x

user4 WHAT A BABE.

yoursister photography credits?? 😔😔

yourusername yeah yeah whatevs

oscarpiastri and lighting credits?

yourusername shut up pastry no one cares 🗣️

user5 Y/N LOL

user6 wait why is oscar piastri in her likes...

user7 her sister has been dating him!!

user6 ahhh i see!!

user8 are you from tennessee?

yourusername ewwww rogue man in my comments GO AWAY🤺🤺

imessages ( y/n )

yourusername

( caption one: @/yoursister our comfort movie always 💗 | caption two: yup )

oscarpiastri

( can't be bothered to type out the caption sorry )

imessages ( logan )

liked by logansargeant, yoursister, and 10,211 others

tagged yoursister

yourusername WE ❤️ ICE CREAM (& miami beach)

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user10 GORGEOUS GIRLIES!!

user11 ice cream flavors 🎤

yourusername bubblegum 4 me & sherbert 4 y/s/n 😉

user12 THEY'RE BOTH GORGEOUS OH MY DAYSSS

user13 the sea looks so perfect omg

user14 they're in miami for the gp???

user15 y/s/n probably dragged y/n along with her 🤣

yourusername that's exactly what happened 😂

yourfriend AWOOGA

yourusername KISSES FROM ME AND Y/S/N 💋💋

yoursister we love miami 💘💘

liked by yourusername

logansargeant need a tour guide? 😁😁

yourusername if you're as annoying as oscar is then no thanks ❤️

logansargeant oscar pisses me off too

yourusername okay offer accepted! 😁

oscarpiastri WHAT.

yourusername YOU LITERALLY TRIED TO SELL ME??

imessages ( y/n )

yourusername

( caption one: he answered my prayers 🗣️ @/logansargeant | caption two: ladies get yourself a man who looks at you the way logan did after i said id buy him cupcakes as a thank you for taking me around miami 🥰 | caption three: lyrics of miami by will smith )

liked by logansargeant, oscarpiastri, and 42,022 others

tagged yoursister, logansargeant

yourusername miami, you've been a blasttt 🎆🎆

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user16 PURPLE IS YOUR COLOURRR!!

user17 color* BUT YES!!

user18 AMERICANS BOOO IT'S COLOUR

user19 COLOR* 🦅

yourusername GUYSS it's colour.

user16 EXACTLYY

user20 the mclaren flag 🤣

yourusername she's a loyal babe @/yoursister

user21 LOGANNN??

user22 okay someone needs to find out who this girl is and why logan has been in her likes and stories.

user23 tf is this cia agent bullshit leave them be 🤣

oscarpiastri i notice you aren't dripped out in mclaren merch, y/n?

yourusername im not associated with that sorry

landonorris just say you hate me

oscarpiastri no it's me she hates

yourusername guys guys guys. no need to fight. i hate both of you EQUALLY 😊

logansargeant had the best time with you!!

yourusername can't relate actually. only stuck around for the normal fanta 🍊

logansargeant oh?

yourusername JOKES 😁

yoursister 👀👀

user24 @/yoursister YOU'RE ALL OF US RN.

imessages ( y/n )

liked by oscarpiastri, yoursister, and 54,332 others

tagged yoursister, oscarpiastri

yourusername when's he going back to his racing boooo

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user28 @/logansargeant brooo come be her other half!

user29 @/logansargeant SAVE HER NOWWW

user30 @/logansargeant chain!

user31 @/logansargeant

user32 @/logansargeant

user33 @/logansargeant

user34 @/logansargeant

user35 @/logansargeant

user36 okay but why is no one talking about how beautiful she is hellooo?? enough about a MAN let's talk about this WOMAN.

user37 RIGHTT??

yoursister y/n i think you broke the internet

yourusername whoops???

oscarpiastri 10k likes and i'll make logan call y/n 🥰

oscarpiastri I DIDN'T THINK IT'D ACTUALLY GET 10K LIKES WHAT??

user38 so when's logan calling y/n??

oscarpiastri coming soon 👊

liked by yoursister, logansargeant, and 42,111 others

yourusername how come every time you come around 🗣️

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user42 MY LONDON LONDON BRIDGE WANNA GO DOWN

user43 absolutely iconic

user44 SHE'S IN THE UK??

yourusername baby i live here haha ❤️

user45 YOU'RE SO FERGALICIOUSSS

user46 it's giving absolutely everything it needed to give

user47 no logan???

user48 im sure y/n and logan will meet up again soon, they just have very busy lives, what with y/n just finishing her final year at uni & logan being a literal f1 driver

yoursister so did my invite get lost in the post or

yourusername idk, it wasn't me who was busy in austria with her boyfriend so!

oscarpiastri why am i always brought into these conversations

yourusername because i hate you

imessages ( y/n )

liked by yoursister, logansargeant, and 56,331 others

tagged logansargeant

yourusername a doggie, a logie and spaghetti 😝

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user51 SHE CALLED HIM LOGIEEE IM WEAK IN THE KNEES

user52 CUTIES FR

user53 THE DOG AWWW

user54 they match together so perfectly

user55 omg y/nlogan CONFIRMEDDD!!

user56 this post is everything to me and more

yoursister is this your definition of a soft launch

yourusername boo the internet already caught us basically making out at silverstone what's the difference

user57 Y/S/N HAHAHA

oscarpiastri i won't say i had a part in this buttt...

yourusername thanks for trying to sell me oscar.

oscarpiastri no problem!

lilymhe ANOTHER FEMALE IN THE WILLIAMS PADDOCK 🔥🔥

yourusername when you leave alex for me should i pretend to be shocked

lilymhe well, yes

logansargeant @/alex_albon oh dear

alex_albon this was always going to happen. we should've prepared in advance 😔

logansargeant ❤️❤️

liked by yourusername

liked by yourusername, oscarpiastri, and 98,781 others

tagged yourusername

yourusername officially dating a uni graduate 🥳🥳 couldn't be prouder ❤️

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user58 felt her aura from ten scrolls away WOW

user59 RIGHT? she IS the moment

user60 slide 2 🥺

user61 petition for y/n and logan to become dog parents

yourusername @/logansargeant please please please

logansargeant i'll consider it

yourusername a win is a win 🤷‍♀️🤷‍♀️

user62 she's suchhh a babe omg

user63 they're too cute together

yoursister treat her good, sargeant.

logansargeant will do ma'am 🫡

yourusername logan she's younger than you?? and also im allowed to do this spiel with you, not the other way around?!

yoursister he's the new boyfriend now, not oscar 🤷‍♀️

yourusername LOGAN THAT SLIP OF ME EWWWW DELETE DELETE

logansargeant you look beautiful either way ❤️

oscarpiastri ewww ruining my feed delete these comments please

yourusername don't be fooled guys, im only dating him for that american money 🥳

logansargeant she's kidding.

yourusername being a uni student is expensive to be fair

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TAGS ✦ @theblueblub ; @littlegrapejuice ; @tribbisweetdear; @chaostudee ; @writingisbetterthandying ; @dannyleclerc