#distinctive front end

[techdriveplay]

The New Audi RS 6 Avant GT

The new Audi RS 6 Avant GT is the pinnacle of the model series. The special edition is packed with exclusive details.

The new Audi RS 6 Avant GT is the pinnacle of the model series. The special edition is packed with exclusive details for both the exterior and the interior. An impressive pass-through roof edge spoiler, redefined diffuser, and 22-inch wheels in a distinctive design underscore its top position in the model series. The interior features high-quality bucket seats, a fresh color combination, and…

[vimflam]

maybe it's just the overcautious internet safety lessons drilled into me, but occasionally I'll see quite young people post The most identifiable images of their locations and it just has me screaming inside.

yeah it's unlikely anyone would bother to find you through that information and actually cause you any harm but, why take that chance!

[miirshroom]

Following the tip of the bolt of Gransax

Doing some more lore hunting in Elden Ring. Following the facing direction of a corpse holding a Golden Rune [12], I found my way to the tip of the bolt. There was a knight with a greatbow guarding the area. A Perfumer was also standing there looking at a fountain with some plants nearby, which seems to be fairly well associated with the Perfumers.

The fountain itself seemed to have clear water springing up from below it and then running into the sewer, where there's a ladder. After crossing 3 streams of sewage, the little tunnel exits out to underneath a green tarnished bell in a bell tower and another ladder to kick down. Found my way down to the Lower Capital Church after sniping the Omenkiller from above (he was staring at a tree when I got here - I believe that this is something that he only does before the first time killing him and getting the Omensmirk Mask).

There's a corpse out here with a Smithing Stone [6] lying in a small patch of gold and silver leaves, which appears to be running away from the Church and is stretched out towards the right side of two saplings.

The Lower Capital Church is the room with Lionel's set and the Deathbed Dress. Took some photos of soul item alignments in the room:

Was somewhat surprised to find when I reloaded in this area that the room had changed!

After thinking about it, I'm guessing that it was because of the Omenkiller outside spitting fire in the general direction of the building and it clipping through the walls while I was sniping him from above. Still kindof an interesting set up. Because the fire broke both the triptych panel that is between the Effigy of the Martyr and the bed AND broke the first of the three candlesticks in the room that are in alignment with the golden tree icon sitting open in the corner.

Also regarding the map, it is interesting that the location icon for Leyndell Royal Capital sits almost exactly on top of this site of Grace.

[thekinkymadscientist]

I'd like to give you an orgasm button.

It's quite the challenge to learn to orgasm on command, but you're a very good subject. I'll get some little plastic button, something that makes a distinctive click when you press it. I'll get you nice and worked up, and then press the button as you cum.

A few more times around, and some intense hypnotic sessions -- perhaps conditioning you while you're hypnotized as well -- and now we have the trigger implanted nice and firmly. When the button is pressed, you cum.

And since I'm a nice tist, and since it is the season of giving and all, I'll let you keep the button for yourself. Whenever you're feeling horny, whenever you want to feel good, you can just press it, and you cum.

Every so often I'll reinforce the trigger, just to make sure it stays nice and strong. The orgasms the button gives you will be deliciously powerful. I imagine you'll stop masturbating before too long. Oh, you might edge yourself if you want to really enjoy the build-up and anticipation, maybe touch idly while watching or reading some smut... but if you want an orgasm, the button's right there, and it feels much better than your own hands or toys. You'll have the button in front of you, and when you've ridden the edge for long enough, you press the button and you cum.

And over time, you'll end up pressing that button more and more often. Whenever you're a little stressed, or horny, or bored... the button's right there. There are no restrictions. Press it and you cum.

After you've been using the button for a few weeks, after it's become routine... I'll wait for one of those reinforcement sessions. I'll reinforce the trigger again, of course. But when you wake up, this time you'll see I'm holding the button. I'll press the button, and watch you cum.

What I won't do is give the button back. And you'll find that you've done two very important things over the past few weeks. First, you've gotten yourself so used to having frequent, amazing orgasms. Your body and mind expect to cum very hard, several times a day. You crave it. And second, your body has forgotten how to cum without that button. Every time you masturbated, it was the button that got you over the edge. You need the button, now. And if I don't press it

you don't cum. And even now you feel that desperate need building. You'll do anything for me to press that button. You'll do anything for me to let you cum.

You managed to addict yourself to the orgasms from that button, and even made it so that you couldn't cum any other way. All just by pressing the button yourself, and a few extra suggestions in the reinforcement sessions that you didn't remember. Not everyone would be able to do that to themselves, but like I said, you're a very good subject.

[humanjarvis]

blushing bandit: part 1

synopsis: you coax caleb into admitting his crimes against your laundry.

tags: sub!caleb, caleb steals your panties to get off, you make him admit it, fingering (main character to self), caleb praise kink, caleb whimpers again, teasing, sexual condescension, cum...licking? (off of panties) pairing: caleb x reader word count: 1.3k

PART 2

a/n: i told myself if i ever wrote panty sniffer caleb it'd have to be unique since it's done so much so i hope this is enough. sorry if not. [omg i’m proofreading rn and i am not the same person i was when i wrote this]

You’d been keeping a spreadsheet.

In the last four times that Caleb had done your laundry, four pairs of your panties had gone missing.

The first time, you’d shrugged it off. Meh, maybe the dryer sucked them in, you’d thought. The second was just a coincidence, and the third had had you this close to calling a repairman. But by the fourth? You suspected you were dealing with a repeat offender—a human one. 

This wasn’t Caleb’s first time having a…fixation with your underwear. A few times prior, you’d walked past the laundry room to see him staring down at a small scrap of lace or cotton in his hands, frantically chucking them into the washer once he spotted you. Needless to say, you were so certain of his guilt that you didn’t even care to check his room—you were right, you knew, and he’d admit what he’d done by the end of the day. 

Fifteen minutes before Caleb usually gets home, you crack your door open just enough to expose your bed. Climbing onto the mattress, you angle your panty-clad lower half to the doorway. The pair you’ve got on are simple: pink cotton with white lace borders. You honestly didn’t care which ones you wore—they just needed to be light enough to stain.

Spreading your legs, you slip your hand under the lace waistband, running your fingers up and down your slit. As you part your folds, you slowly slide your hand up to play with your clit, circling, flicking, and rubbing until you’re slick with arousal. Your movements are calculated, methodical. This wasn’t about achieving pleasure—that would come when you tormented Caleb later. For now, your goal was to soil your panties with cum. 

When the front door opens, you quicken your pace, rocking your hips into the bed so it creaks and dropping distinct moans from your lips. 

You don’t even bother to listen for footsteps—you know he’ll come. You know he’ll see. 

As you feel yourself getting close, you swipe two fingers along your glistening folds before sinking them into your core, matching the rhythm of the other hand still playing with your clit.

The pressure builds and builds, but a glimpse of the shadow moving in the cracked doorway is what finally pushes you over the edge. 

With a loud cry, you roll your hips through your orgasm, writhing sensually on the crumpled sheets beneath you. 

After a heady moment, you remove your hands from your core and press them against the outside of your panties, making sure they’re wholly drenched for what you’re about to do.

When you look back up, the shadow is gone, and you know you’ve got him.

“How was your day?” you greet, barging into Caleb’s room with your hands behind your back. 

With his broad back toward you, he freezes briefly before relaxing. “It was alright, nothing much happened,” he shrugs, still not turning to face you. 

“Alright, huh?” you repeat. Clearly, he was in need of a little push. 

“You wanna know what I did today?” you start, a saccharine excitement in your voice. “Today I went through the load of laundry you washed for me yesterday. Do you want to guess what it had in common with the three loads before that?”

Tensing, Caleb finally turns around, a noticeable tremor in his idle hands. “It...smelled like detergent?” he jokes lamely, offering a weak smile. 

“Oh, cut the shit, Caleb,” you scoff, sauntering over to him. “I know. No excuses, no stupid jokes, no changing the subject. I know.”

A startled laugh falling from his lips, Caleb flits his eyes to the side before opening his mouth to respond. “Wh—”

“Shut it,” you intercept. “Now, I came in here to make a deal—an unfair deal, to be honest. It will benefit you much more than me.” Stepping closer, you grin at his wary expression before continuing. “If you admit you've been stealing my panties, you get to keep these. No catch,” you offer, waving your underwear, coated with the evidence of your earlier climax, in front of his face. 

Caleb’s eyes pop out of his skull. Dumbfounded, he stands staring down at you, opening and closing his mouth like he’s glitching.

“Hmm? I thought you liked these,” you mock. Placing a hand on his chest, you push his dazed form onto the bed behind him. Chuckling, you crawl up his body, panties threaded between your fingers. 

When you come face to face, you take his jaw in your other hand, angling it as if inspecting him. “Are you sick?” you pout. “Where’s your enthusiasm? Where’s the man who stole four pairs of panties out of my dirty laundry? One I could understand—to each their own—but four is just greedy, Caleb.”

Through his heaving breaths, all Caleb can respond with is a shuddering whimper. He looks up at you as if you’re about to smite him, and although you’re not, there’s something exhilarating about the visual. 

“No answer? What a bummer,” you sigh dramatically. With a mischievous wink, you tighten your grip on his chin. “That’s okay, though—I think I can find him.”

Slowly, you bring the hand holding your underwear up to hover right over his face. “Is he…here?” you ask, lightly tracing the lace hem of your panties around his jawline.

At the contact, Caleb’s breath hitches, and he lets out a pitiful, incoherent noise. 

“No? What about here?” you tease, now rubbing the fabric against his reddening cheek.

When he still doesn’t break, you click your tongue. “Still nothing?” you tut. “This guy’s a tough nut to crack. But don’t worry—I think I can find him right…here.” In one fluid motion, you grip Caleb’s chin and press your soaked panties to his face, the wettest patch directly over his nose and mouth. 

Caleb's eyes roll back into his head before he gives you what you’ve been waiting for. Jolting his hand out to grab your arm, he presses the fabric harder against his face as he bucks up into you. 

He inhales deeply before closing his eyes and, with his hand still wrapped around your wrist, pushes his tongue out to taste your leftover release.  

Moaning, he opens his mouth to suckle on your panties, and you coo down at him. “Aw, there he is,” you say, caressing his cheek with your free hand. “Just needed some guidance, hm? Needed to know I wasn't mad at you for using my dried slick to get off.” 

Whimpering through the material, he nods twice. 

“Good,” you praise as he nuzzles into your hand. “But!” you continue, ripping the fabric from his mouth, to which he groans from the loss of contact. 

“Remember what I told you. You can have these,” you say, dangling your underwear in his face and pulling away when he leans forward, “if you confess what you did.”

Violet eyes look up at you in panicked deliberation, and you can visibly see when his perversion overwhelms his pride. 

“W-when I did your laundry the last few times,” he starts timidly, voice hoarse from disuse. “I took…I didn’t mean to, I swear. They were just there and they smelled like you and I couldn’t stop.”

“Couldn’t stop what, Caleb?” you prod, brow raised. “What did you do with them?”

You know what he did with them. But you want to hear it from him.

“…I used them,” he admits, voice dropping to a whisper. “I brought them back here and I smelled them and…tasted them…pretended it was you. So I could come.” When he stops, his face is flushed scarlet. 

“Mm,” you hum, stroking his cheek. “That wasn’t so hard, was it? Thank you for telling me,” you praise, and he shivers under your touch. 

“You’ve been so good for me—I'll give you what I promised,” you say, folding your ruined panties and laying them neatly atop Caleb's chest.

Shuffling off of him, you head for the door before looking back. 

“And Caleb,” you call, “cotton cannot taste that good. Next time, just ask me for the real thing.” 

PART 2

[silverskyeline]

'look at me' 18+

oneshot - logan can't fuck like he used to, but you don't care. you get on top, gladly taking care of him in return. (2k words) pairing - logan howlett (logan 2017) x gn!reader tags: pre-established relationship, doggy style, penetration, dom!logan, reader rides logan, filthy talking logan, he talks you through it, rough, praise kink, cursing, mutual orgasm, choking, 'use your words', unprotected sex, creampie, sweet ending

logan can't keep up like he used to, but he still fucks you like a man possessed when he's able, like a rabid animal - hips bucking, muscles flexing, baring his teeth as he takes you.

his rough, calloused and scarred hands grip your waist, contrasting against your soft skin. that veiny length makes quick work of your needy hole, just like you wanted.

moments before, you'd teased him for the tent in his blue jeans. logan had cocked a smirk, that same signature smirk that always renders you weak at the knees as he began unbuckling his belt, taking his sweet time. you would wait, he knew you'd wait, you were good for him like that. the distinct sound of the clinking metal and the unsheathing of leather caused a shiver to run down your spine, a throbbing in your core. you needed him just as much as he needed you.

.・。.・゜✭・. .・。.・゜✭・. .・。.・゜✭・.

it wasn't fair, how he could tell as soon as he entered a room just how much you wanted him. he could smell it, smell your arousal clear as day, he'd teased you about it so many times. the scent fills his mind every time, makes his cock twitch in his boxers, the need to have you almost overwhelming.

your soft wanting moans drift to his ears, one of his palms sliding up to the base of your spine as he keeps you firmly bent over on the bed, fucking into you with purpose. rough grunting spills from his lips, your head turning to catch his eye, watching as beads of sweat form on his forehead. chest rising and falling, logan grits his teeth.

"this what you wanted, huh?" he grunts, his sentence punctuated with a particularly harsh thrust that knocks the wind from both of you, "you wanted my cock? hm? just couldn't fuckin' help but tease and tease. . ."

you whine, gripping the sheets in front of you as the room fills with the lewd sound of skin on skin. he always liked it rough, plus - you'd known logan long enough to know how he liked to channel his anger into sex. and he was fucking good at it. you'd take it, again and again, as harsh as he wanted to give. because you knew that as soon as you were done, he'd be scrambling to pepper soft kisses along your neck, praising you for how good you'd been for him.

his thrusts falter, and you reach back to take his wrist in your hand in a comforting gesture. the harsh panting tells you all you need to know, his grip on you fading. but it's alright, you know how to take care of him, too. you tug at his wrist and after a brief moment of hesitation, he pulls out and lays beside you, looking almost defeated.

your hips find their home atop his and you nestle against him, slowly grinding back and forth on his length. his hands immediately search for your thighs, pawing at the flesh as he looks up at you. you drink in his expression, the way he's looking at you through his heavy eyelids, his scarred, sweaty bare chest rising and falling harshly.

"let me take care of you. . ." you whisper, your hands sliding up across the feverish skin on his chest, threading through the hair that grows there.

he licks his lips, attempting to protest "but i-"

"shhhh. . ." you shake your head, inching upwards to brush his leaking tip against your entrance and he hisses at the contact, "i said let me take care of you. . ."

you sink down on his cock, gasping as he fills you once more - at this point, you've memorised every vein on that thing. you love how he fills you so completely, how you almost, almost struggle to take him in all the way.

"fuck. . ." he huffs, his eyes fluttering shut as he grasps your thighs, sinking into the bed. he hates it, hates how fucking tired he gets nowadays. but damn if you don't look like the prettiest little thing bouncing on his cock like that.

and you want to comfort him, to let him know that it's okay. you'd ride him every night if he'd let you, but he always insists that he can do it, that he can still go as hard and as fast as he used to all those years ago. fast or slow, it didn't bother you, as long as you had logan, you'd be happy, content with even a passing glance from him in your direction.

"look so pretty up there. . ." he coos breathlessly, watching you bounce, his hand snaking up to rest on your stomach as he admires you.

you moan, tilting your head back - and he groans in response, dick twitching desperately, aching to fill you as his hips buck against your movements. he loves watching you ride him like this, watching as you take control, set the pace you want.

the rough hand on your stomach drifts upwards, finding its home around your neck, gently still. but even the soft grip has you reeling, gripping his wrist. you know he still wants to feel some control, that it wasn't because he was losing energy that he was on his back, no. . . it was a choice.

and you indulge him, working down over his cock with your tight hole, clamping around him as your hips meet his over and over. he's groaning, grumbling, eyes fluttering shut as he's lost in the way you take him.

"logan, look at me. . ." you whisper pleadingly, nails digging into his chest, fingertips tracing across the scars there.

immediately his eyes open to lock onto yours, and when he sees you? fuck, he needs more. he uses his grip on your throat to pull you down into a deep kiss, breathing heavily through his nose as his tongue delves into your mouth. you love how much more experienced he is than you, how he makes quick work of you every fucking time, has you a mess for him, opening up to him in every way you can.

"yeah. . . that's it. . ." he grumbles against your lips, kissing you with a fierce passion that borders on animalistic between words, "keep workin' that cock, keep bouncin', you're doin' so well."

you clench around him at those very words, unable to even think straight with his tongue shoved into your mouth and his cock stuffed deep inside you. he's taking you in every way you'll give yourself to him. even with him on his back and with half his energy he's still able to have you squirming.

and the praise, the fucking praise. logan knows just how to talk to you to make you melt. he'll fuck you roughly, desperately pumping his dick into you whilst whispering that you're the prettiest thing he's ever seen into your ear. he'll have you split in half with his thick arms hooked around your legs whilst telling you that you're so good for him, calling you sweet pet names that contrast his rough movements.

that voice of his, gravely, deep, rumbling. you can't think straight when he talks to you this way.

"such a sweet little thing," he groans, his hand on your thigh snaking around to give your ass a quick slap before grabbing a handful. light work for him considering the size of his hands - don't even get him started on what he likes to do with those. . .

you call his name, whimpering against his lips as you try to keep up with his kisses all while riding him. your mind is blank, slamming your hips down against him as he bucks up, meeting your thrusts - sending him deeper and deeper.

his hand on your neck traces along your skin to grip the back of your head, feeling as his digits spread across your scalp. "fuuuuuck," he groans, "can feel how tight you are, you're gonna cum, huh?" logan asks, though it's less of a question and more of a statement. he knows your body better than you do.

you nod, whimpering pathetically, inches from his lips.

eyes darting from your mouth, up into your gaze, he grins, "use your words, c'mon. i asked you a question."

"yes logan, yes, fuck- i'm gonna cum!" you cry out, tilting your hips as you chase that high he wants to give you.

with his mouth open, he pants, watching you above him with a keen fascination as your face contorts in pleasure. slowly, a smirk tugs at the corner of his lips. his favourite thing in the world is to watch you come undone around him, the way your eyes roll back, your pulse quickening under his fingertips.

"c'mon, c'mon, c'mon. . ." he growls, rutting into you from below, feeling as you spasm around his hard, girthy length, "if you cum, i'll cum nice and deep inside you, you'd like that, wouldn't you?"

"logan. . ." you whine, a clear yes. your head dips down to press against his shoulder, unable to keep yourself upright with the intensity of it all.

he chuckles and it's like music to your ears, loving those rare little noises of his - treasuring the sounds he makes while enjoying you.

both hands are back on your hips now, guiding you, slamming you down onto him as you gasp with each thrust, "c'mon. . . give me what i want, what we both want - make a mess for me."

his words hit you like a command, a call to arms - you will cum for him, make a mess of him and his sheets. you're calling his name into the skin of his neck as you cry out, feeling the orgasm beginning to tear through you.

and he can feel it, feel how you convulse and clamp down on his dick, causing him to gasp. he's moaning, groaning, words catching at the back of his throat as he tries to continue to talk you through it - but he can't. you're fucking him too good, he's gonna cum too.

ropes and ropes of white hot cum fill you, pushed deeper and deeper by his faltering thrusts as his dick twitches with each spray. you gasp, writhing against him as he holds you firmly in place, pulling you down one last time and holding you there as he empties into you completely.

you're whimpering, whining, body jerking as the intensity increases as you roll your hips, riding out the last of your orgasm until you're both left a panting, sweaty mess.

"holy fuck. . ." he whispers into the air, closing his eyes to centre himself, world spinning.

meanwhile, you can't even talk, can't even think about forming words, mind instead occupied with feeling his hot cum dripping out of you.

logan pets the back of your head, stroking your hair gently in an attempt to help you come back into the moment. he wants to thank you, but that's never been his strong suit. instead, he kisses the crown of your head, peppering kisses down along your forehead as he hooks his thumb and forefinger under your chin to bring your face closer to his.

he looks into your hazy, exhausted eyes, his own gaze full of love and appreciation. this is what he lives for - watching you bathe in the afterglow, being lucky enough to look into your eyes every day, being blessed enough to have you here like this.

you greet him with a sleepy, almost bashful smile.

he smiles too, and god, butterflies blossom deep within your stomach. you love him, you love him tired, you love him angry, you love him grumpy, you love him on his back, on top - whatever, you just love him.

"you're too good for me," he whispers as his lips find your forehead once more.

you know those words are his way of saying thanks, but you shake your head in protest, "stop that, not another word."

logan looks into your eyes, really looks at you, those soft hazel hues meeting your gaze. he simply smiles in silence as his hand drifts to your cheek.

the room falls into a comfortable silence, and you wonder how logan ever let you this close. but you don't care, all you care about is taking care of him.

and you will, for as long as he lets you.

[sttoru]

 𝝑𝑒 𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒. nanami kento always hurries home towards his pregnant wife, you, to compensate for the time he spends at work.

tags. sheriff!kento nanami x pregnant wife!reader. fluff, sfw. wild west!au. girl dad kento lets go. reader gets called ‘sugar, darling, wife’. not proofread. wc around 1k

you’re comfortable laying on the couch, nibbling on a piece of bread, when you hear the familiar footsteps on the porch of your cozy home. the front door opens with a faint creak and reveals no one other than your husband, kento, in his work uniform. he’s home earlier than he normally would be.

“evenin’, sugar,” kento steps into the house, his tall frame filling the doorway. he looks over at you, a small smile spreading across his exhausted face as he takes in the sight of you sprawled out on the couch.

his eyes soften when they land on the swell of your belly–reminding him of the life you’ve created. both you and the child growing in your stomach are the reason why he works so hard every day. to provide for you and make the pregnancy as easy as possible for your body.

“hi, honey,” you greet him back with a big smile, “how was work?”

it never fails to make you happy; seeing your husband back home after spending the first half of the day alone. knowing kento is out there making sure you and your baby have food on your table at the end of the day is heartwarming.

kento closes the door behind him and the latch clicks into place. “the usual. nothin’ out of the ordinary today. thank the lord,” he answers. he sets his stetson hat down on the hook near the entrance and starts unbuckling his gun belt, the weight of the revolver and ammunition clinking softly. he hangs it up carefully before taking a couple steps towards you.

“aht-aht, don’t ya go gettin’ up now, sweetheart,” kento chuckles as he notices your attempts to get up to greet him like you usually would do. before your belly got this heavy, that is.

he holds out a callused hand towards you, silently urging you to take it. the last thing he wants is for you to pull a muscle. “i’m right here,” he reassures you as he kneels down in front of the couch.

you lean in for a kiss and your husband instantly does the same. his lips linger on yours for a good few seconds before he pulls away. he cups your face with one hand while the other comes to rest on your rounded belly, palm molding to the gentle curve of it.

“y’re getting’ more beautiful every day,” kento praises in a low yet soft voice. he dips his head to press a kiss to your stomach and closes his eyes, “our little girl ‘s also growing well in there, hm?”

“of course,” you reply with a giggle. your hand comes to cover the one on your belly, your hand smaller than your husband’s. your wedding rings shine beneath the sunlight filtering through your windows and it reminds you of the love you share for each other. your eyes meet kento’s and you’re about to lean in for another kiss when you feel your child kick. 

kento’s eyes widen the second he feels a small but distinct movement beneath your belly, your child stirring within you. a slow smile spreads across his handsome face, his eyes crinkling at the corners before he glances up at you with pure adoration. “that–” the blonde man doesn’t finish his sentence, simply looking back at your stomach with pure love and wonder. his thumb gently rubs small circles over the spot where your child had just made her presence known.

“that was our little girl saying hi to her daddy,” you comment with a giggle. you said it half-jokingly, but kento seems to have taken it seriously.

you’re not sure if he’s fighting the tears or if he’s just blinking rapidly and turning his head sideways so you wouldn’t see the emotions playing out on his face. probably both.

kento clears his throat before nodding. he rests his head gently against your stomach, stubbled jaw tickling your bare skin. “hi there, baby girl. You recognised my voice there, didn’t ya?” he chuckles softly, his voice raw with emotion that he tries to suppress. you can’t see his face like this, only the top of his head, but you’re sure that he’s experiencing all kinds of things at the moment.

you run your fingers through his fluffy blonde strands, the hair gel he uses in the morning almost gone by now. a few seconds pass and another faint kick on the side of your belly makes your husband’s breath hitch. it never fails to fascinate him, to make him feel a great sense of joy. 

“i can’t wait to meet ya too,” kento continues, holding a conversation with your unborn daughter like she’s responding to him. in a way she is, with the occasional kick. he sighs in pure content as his muscular arms wrap around your middle, keeping you close to him while he kneels in front of you. 

what he’s feeling is indescribable. a couple moments pass before he tilts his head back to face you again. you cup his face and rub at his cheekbones, smiling at the loving way he’s staring at you. “you’re gonna be a great father, ken,” you whisper. you’re sure of it. he’s a great husband and will be the best father to your child.

kentk smiles back at you and nods. “thank you. I will try my best, for both of you,” he replies with a determined glint in his brown eyes. his large hands massage your belly before giving it a final kiss. “I promise,” he whispers against your sensitive skin.

it’s a promise he will keep no matter what, until he draws his last breath on this earth.

[mostly-imagines]

Sugar on the Rim vol. II

bruce wayne x afab!reader

aka the billionaires new friend

part one

warnings: heavily implied that reader is a virgin, age gap (bruce is older than reader), smut, oral fem!receiving, nervous but enthusiastically consenting reader

You’d tried to calm your nerves but they couldn’t be helped.

You’re anxious about everything, all of it. What he wants you to do, what he’s expecting you do, whether it’ll hurt, whether you’re ready.

You think you trust Bruce, but you also know that these things are different for men and women. You don’t necessarily expect that he’ll have a mind for what you’ll need, but honestly, neither do you. You don’t know what to do to make this easier for yourself—you don’t know what to do at all. 

You bought the lingerie, you’ve got it on under your clothes and it feels like a costume. You can’t tell if that aids or worsens the anxiety. 

You’re fidgeting with the hem of your skirt and you wish you could quit it, you’re radiating enough nervous energy as it is, you don’t need to be sending him visual cues on top of it. 

Bruce holds your free hand in his as he guides you through the manor, you think it’s a different section than you’ve seen before. His hand engulfs yours unfairly as he leads, but the touch of his skin is so warm and inviting that you can’t tell if your hand is still shaking under it. If it is, he pretends not to notice.

He guides you up the stairs and into a corridor and then another before you arrive at a set of double doors. You’ve never seen double doors on the inside of a house before.

He lets you in ahead of him, and you have a distinct thought that you’re glad he can’t see the look of awe on your face as you walk in. His bedroom has an entire living room inside of it, and altogether it’s bigger than your whole apartment. A maroon couch and matching chairs surround a grand fireplace at the front of the room and the resulting glow from the active embers has the area shrouded in a warm light ahead of the shadows filling the rest.

You glance past the seating at his bed; large and proud. It’s definitely bigger than a king sized, with an overhead canopy and streams of dark burgundy curtains draping down from the corners. There’s another set of closed double doors past the bed, you imagine leading to the bathroom.

The end of the room displays a large window seat that looks like it’s never been used, and vast tinted windows. You look up to find the ceiling higher than you’ve ever seen in a bedroom with a very expensive chandelier hanging over it all.

He takes your arm, steering you out of your wonderment and leads you towards the couch rather than the bed, gesturing for you to sit down with him. You do, quietly glad when he positions himself so that you’re close to each other but not pressed right up against you. He’s able to relax his body more than you’re able to fake it on yourself, and you think your thoughts must be vibrating out of you by now.    

One hand comes to rest on your thigh as his other nudges your cheek towards him. “Hey, nothing’s happening right now. No need to be nervous.”

You nod blankly, but your thoughts are running wild with everything that you very much are nervous about.

He takes your hand in his, rubbing circles with his thumb. 

“You’ve got to relax,” he coos, “Remember what I said?”

You take a breath, “You’re not going to throw me in the deep end.”

“Exactly,” he murmurs, kissing your forehead. “Just wanna make you feel good, right?”

You nod, easing your posture.

He looks you in the eye, “You gonna let me?”

You hum, nodding again.

“Good girl,” he purrs, pulling away.

You quickly find that the distance is not at all what you want, and you decide to push forward—as forward as you can—sitting up again to peel your jacket off. He watches you move with a look in his eyes, you take it for intrigue but it may just as well be something akin to pride. Pride in you? He’s openly flirted, kissed you, and straight up propositioned you for sex—but sure, he’s proud of you for taking your jacket off.

Your nerves transition into insecurity before you can catch them, and you’re starting to feel a little stupid, like a child playing pretend.

You watch tentatively as he tilts his head at you, running his own assessments of your actions. 

“Will you come sit on my lap?” he asks you after a moment. 

You suddenly become acutely aware of the amount of air in your lungs. This feels like a big request and you’re not even sure how to take his meaning. Does he want you to sit sideways? Your back to his front? Or fully straddle him? 

He wants whatever you want, he’d said. What do you want?

You glance down at his thighs, covered by fabric more expensive than you can imagine. Positive confirmation rings through your head immediately, willing you to push yourself forward a little more. 

You reposition yourself over him, straddling his lap in spite of your nerves.

Again, he looks pleased. Happy even. One of his hands comes to stroke soothing patterns across your lower back, the other resting on your waist. 

He makes sure to catch your gaze, “You’ll tell me if you want to stop.” 

He follows when your eyes stray, “Yes?”

“Yes.”

He places a tender kiss on your cheekbone, “How did shopping go?”

“Um, good. It was good. One of the sales girls helped me,” your breath is shaky as he kisses your jawline.

“Yeah? Tell me about it.”

“I, uh, I just went to this little boutique up on third street,” he places another kiss on the column of your throat as you talk. “Um, it took longer than I thought it would. There were so many choices.”

His hands come up to soothe over your ribs, pulling you a little closer as they do. He hums for you to keep talking, his kisses continuing to lower until they’re down to your collarbone, though they remain relatively chaste.

“I—I didn’t really know what to look for,” you admit, breath shaky as you exhale. 

“But you like it?”

“Yeah, I—I do.”

He hums, smiling against your skin. His fingers inch under the seam of your shirt, caressing your waist. “Can I take this off?”

You nod timidly, trying not to seem so on edge with anticipation. You’re not confident that he can’t see right through you.  

He presses another chaste kiss to your neck upon receival of the permission, and your shirt begins to come off slowly, his hands skimming every new bit of skin revealed. As he pulls it over your head, he glances down at the baby pink bralette you’d picked out for yourself.

He groans quietly as he takes in the sight, “Oh, pretty girl. Beautiful girl,” He noses at your chest, leaving little kisses where his lips make contact with your skin, “Look at you. Prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.”

Your stomach flutters as his hair tickles your cheek. His hands roam up your sides, stopping to stroke placid circles along the sides of your breasts.

His touch makes its way around your back, expertly undoing your bra clasp without a second thought. Your bra hangs forward a bit off your shoulders, but he leaves the work of entirely removing it to you. And you do, with more confidence than you’d imagined yourself mustering.

He immediately shows his appreciation, kissing and caressing your chest with lover-like admiration. Your head falls back involuntarily as he noses at your soft skin.

He’s breathing heavy when he pulls back, humming low and deep before lifting you up off his lap to stand. The sudden shift has you a bit thrown off, working to catch up as he kneels down in front of you and repeats his earlier process with your skirt—kissing your thighs and tugging the fabric down bit by bit.

When it’s discarded on the floor you stand only left in your underwear, the lace practically illuminated against your skin.

He looks up at you from his place on the floor and smiles as he takes in the sight of your body. His hands find your hips as he asks you, “Has anyone ever seen you like this before?”

You hesitate for half a second before answering truthfully.

His smile grows, “No, you’re a good girl, aren’t you?” 

He doesn’t wait for an answer before he’s nodding, “Yeah, I know.”

As he rises to stand he scoops you up by the back of your thighs and lifts you in the air with no discernable effort. Now at face level with him, you get a bit bolder and lean in to kiss him. He kisses you back, pleased, beginning to walk the two of you over towards the bed.

He sets you down gently atop the soft mattress, kisses pushing you backwards to lie back on the bed. He scoops your wrists up and leisurely moves your arms up above your head. His grip is benign as he releases one hand in favor of holding your jaw. Your kiss is deep and controlled on his part, but in a way that makes you feel light in the head. You like the cloudy-sensation very much.

After a while, he pulls back to look at you with clouded eyes. 

He practically purrs, “You’re such a kind girl. So sweet to everyone, all the time. Will you let me be sweet to you?”

Your breath is shaky as you nod, attempts at hiding your anticipation failing.

He nods back at you with a faux-sympathy across his face. “Let me hear you say it.”

You force air into your lungs, giving you the willpower to speak the words. “Will you touch me? Please?”

The corners of his lips turn up, “Of course, sweet girl.”

He nips at your jaw as his hands travel down, petting the inside of your thighs with a touch so feather light it almost tickles.

Your knee jerks inward towards his hand, your body desperately seeking out more of this new sensation. He obliges, tracing his touch back up, up, up until his hand dips under the lace trim of your panties, skimming over your clit. Your hips flinch back away from him momentarily in surprise, only to press back forward a second later.

He actually laughs at the action, like it’s endearing. You feel a little silly for it, but you’re not given much time to dwell as he persists, brushing against you with a bit more pressure.

He tilts his head, watching your expression carefully with a remarkably pleased look on his own face. “How’s that, sweet girl?”

You nod, beside yourself. “Feels good,” you whimper. “Feels really good..”

You don’t necessarily mean to, but your hips grind up against his touch, your body too mesmerized with the sensation to remember to be embarrassed.

He’s certainly not complaining about it though, his quiet coos encouraging you to chase the feeling. 

He lets you grind up against his hand, taking in the needy look on your face with contentment.

“Poor girl,” he tuts. “Just need somebody to take care of you, huh?”

That makes your cheeks burn, but your attention finds itself more concerned with the urge to squeeze your thighs together.

You whine when he pulls his hand back out of your underwear, only for him to stand resolute in his actions. 

“Not yet, sweet thing,” he hums, pressing you back down to the bed with a light but firm touch when you try to sit up. 

He hushes you gently, murmuring for you to be patient as he shifts his position over you. 

He starts to move down your body, leaving kisses in his wake. The sensation of his lips tracing down your stomach has you feeling butterflies.

By the time he reaches your waistline you’re borderline dizzy from the anticipation, squeezing your legs together in an attempt to alleviate the ache.

He pauses there for a moment, torturously, and noses at the seam of your panties. A whine from you has him chuckling and finally moving to where you need him.

He kisses your clit over your underwear and you’re fighting thoughts of embarrassment over how sure you are he can taste how wet you are over the fabric.

It doesn’t seem to be enough for him though, as he tugs your panties down slowly, kissing your thighs as he goes.

Bruce’s hands hold onto your waist as he eats you out, holding you in place with an easy grip. 

You squirm against the feel of his tongue and you can’t quite figure out what to do with your hands. You almost wish he’d made you keep them above your head but really you’re not sure you’d be able to keep it together if he had. You’re not sure you’re keeping it together now.

He groans against your pussy, and one of your hands flies to grip his hair without permission from your brain. If you’re being honest with yourself though, your brain isn’t really the one calling the shots anymore.

You gasp when he licks a bold stripe, “Bruce—”

He groans again, briefly breaking away from you. “Oh, say that again.”

You sigh out, “Bruce, please.” 

He makes a pleased hum. “Good girl,” he murmurs before diving back in. 

He complies with your pleas generously, giving you more. He’s gradual but resolute as he inserts two fingers into you, giving you the time to adjust. But he’d evidently done a very thorough job prepping you for it, you’re so wet that the initial entry doesn’t sting like you’d expected. No, rather the first thing you register is closer to pleasure. A lot closer.

He begins to pump in and out of you at he continues to suck at your clit, and somewhere during you have a distinct thought of “oh this is it.”

You let out a little gasp and for once, you break out of your own head and just relish in the way his fingers curl inside you.

The way your thighs squeeze around him as you come, doesn’t hinder him one bit, only has him applying his ministrations with more intent. It doesn’t take long for the trembling of your body to give way to full on shaking, your body stuttering beneath him.

He continues working at you the entire way through your orgasm, until you’re flinching from overstimulation. 

He gives you one more lick before looking up at you with hooded eyes. “Y’taste sweet too, you know that?”

You can feel the blood rush to your cheeks as he starts to move back up to face-level, kissing the high point of your cheekbone.  

He pulls down on your bottom lip, your slick wet against your mouth.

You open without question, a clouding urge to please him the only thing running through your mind. 

He grumbles a low, pleased sound as you do, moving his hand only to provide room for him to kiss you again.

He sits back up over you and starts unbuttoning his shirt and you realize only now that he’s still fully dressed. 

He glances down to his belt as he undoes the buttons. 

“Will you help me out, sweet girl?”

You blink a couple times before registering the request, still overwhelmed by how quickly and skillfully he’d made you come. 

You struggle a bit to push yourself up into a sitting position, but he supports you by your waist, nipping along your jaw as encouragement.

Your hands shake as you undo the clasp, and while you’re still very much eager, if not moreso, you’re suddenly confronted with the very real possibility that you’re about to have your limits pushed. He ate you out and did a damn good job, stands to reason that he’d want you to return the favor.

So it takes you by surprise when he’s nudging you back against the pillows, removing his pants himself.

He keeps you occupied with an intense kiss as he does, and the distraction so smooth it’s almost like it’s rehearsed. 

You follow his lead easily, though surprised by his lack of desire to get his fill too.

He drapes himself over you nicely, his size easily dwarfing you out. He’s quick to block your chin from tilting down, gently bringing your face back up to meet his. 

He shakes his head lightly, murmuring, “Don’t worry about that. I got you.”

You are worried about it, but you trust Bruce, you know you do now.

You feel the weight of his cock against your stomach, at this exact moment, feeling like not much more than a daunting task.

“S’alright, sweet girl,” he lulls, brushing your hair back. “Okay?”

As heavy as the simple question is, you don’t need to think about it before you’re nodding and moving your hand to hold onto his bicep.

He peppers kisses all over your face as he starts to push in, effectively starting to distract you from the pain of the stretch. He hushes your whines soothingly and kneads at your waist with confident hands.

Your arms lock around his shoulders on instinct, your eyes squeezing shut as you try to convince yourself he’s almost all the way in, but you know you’ve got aways to go.

He pauses halfway, imploring you to open your eyes so he can check up on you properly.

“Talk to me, sweetheart,” he softly urges.

You will yourself to blink up at him and try to take on the challenge of both him and his gaze. Surely, an impossible task.

But you manage shaky eye contact that occasionally gives way to glancing down at his lips. 

It doesn’t feel good yet, but it only makes you more eager to keep going.

“I’m okay,” you nod, taking a breath. “You can keep going.”

He waits to find that reassurance in your eyes before he continues to push in, bestowing you a deep kiss in reward for your bravery.

Once he’s nearly bottomed out he waits a moment, then begins to rock in and out slowly, letting you get used to a starter of the sensation.

He brushes your hair back, weaving through the strands. “There we go,” he coos as you look down between you. “Doing so good.”

Your gasp is louder than they had been before, and closer to a sigh now. 

He’s fucking you gently, with a decorum that exceeds what you’d earlier told yourself you were stupid for hoping for.

It doesn’t take long at all for his movement to start to feel really good and your grip around his shoulders comes around to a different kind of intensity.

He noses against your jaw, applying kisses whenever  convenient. “‘S that feel good, sweet girl? Hm?”

He hits a particularly deep spot in you immediately after and it makes you borderline squeak. He huffs out a laugh that’s nothing short of affectionate. 

“Yeah?”

He then attacks that spot with extra intention, hitting it absolutely expertly every time. He speeds up a little, lips latched onto your neck as he fucks you nice and deep.

He drops a hand down between you and starts rubbing circles onto your clit with a pace that makes you want to scream.

You can’t help the moan you release when he teeths at your neck, clearly aiming to drive you crazy. But damn if he isn’t going about it the right way.

His circles pick up pace and you can be sure you’re leaving nail marks on his back. He seems to only get more encouraged by your sounds, working you closer and closer to the edge with every whimper.

He finally lets you over after a minute of shamelessly relishing in your moans, himself following close after.

He continues moving in and out of you until you’ve both completely finished, slowly coming to a stop. 

You get a moment to catch your breath before he pulls out delicately. You don’t even realize he’s moved before he’s got his boxers back on and is halfway to the bathroom.

You’re a little alarmed by the sudden shift in proximity, though you guess that’s the playboy experience, isn’t it? After a second you hear water running and assume he’s taking a shower.

You push yourself to sit up fully, minding your achy thighs, and swing your legs over the side of the bed. You glance at the foot of the bed where your underwear lies, then back over by the couch where the rest of your clothes lay discarded. You briefly contemplate how quickly you can get your clothes back on when the bathroom doors open again.

You glance up at Bruce, dazed, who looks surprised himself to see you sitting up. As he makes his way back to the bed you notice the supplies he has in tow and your brain begins to slowly start turning its gears again.

You don’t realize the glass of water in his hand is for you until he’s pushed it into your palm. 

His other hand carries a wet wash cloth that you, again, aren’t able to register the purpose for until it’s in action. 

“Drink,” he tells you as he spreads your knees apart gently, wiping away the mess between your legs with a notable amount of compassion for your sensitivity.

You do, gulping a few as he finishes, tossing the rag in a hamper before setting your glass down on the side table.

Your eyes return to the end of the bed and you nearly decide to get up, but he’s still standing so close to you, you’re not sure this is the right time.

You seem caught halfway between decisions now, you know you do. You’d honestly preferred when you thought he’d just ditched you for a shower because at least then this part wouldn’t be so awkward.

He watches you closely as you deliberate and seems to draw a conclusion about your hesitation rather quickly. His brow pinches as he processes, tilting his head at you. 

“You’ve got to be joking,” he says, bewildered. “Right?”

“I—” you falter, looking to the couch and back to him again. “No?”

He stares at you for a moment with an expression you can’t define.

“Lay down.”

You don’t have a second to process before he’s climbing back in bed too, pulling you down to lay your head on the pillow.

He pulls the covers over you and splays an arm over your waist, clearly firm in his decision for you to stay.

Your eyes are heavy and his bed is so comfortable, it’s difficult for you to even consider either of you wanting you to leave now.

Maybe you’ll just sleep for a little while, get some of your energy back. 

The way he traces soft patterns across your stomach certainly encourages the idea and doesn’t give you much power to resist.

You let your eyes flutter shut to the feather-light touch and listen to the steady deepness of his breaths.

Well, this isn’t so bad either.

🐲 reblogging is an ancient art form, only the strong may master it 🐲

[burgojo]

OWN MY MIND. GOJO / M!READER

summary. nah, satoru wins.

wc. 4k

tags. smut | sub bottom gojo, top reader, husbands gojo/reader, slight blood and gore, needy gojo (he a little feral) (he's also whipped as hell), riding + teaching a pillow princess how to ride <3, spit as lube, untouched orgasms, multiple orgasms, rough sex, breeding kink, brief feminisation

notes. i'll learn to write less, i said. not every smut fic needs nine thousand words, i said. i reduce the intro to 600 words and this is still way bigger than i intended :))) skull emoji.

Ryomen Sukuna is dead, and Satoru's white hair is red with blood. For a split second, his chest was cleaved open clean in two, and he could feel the air rushing into the cavity of his chest. His exposed heart, red and slick, shuddered with the crackle of cursed energy forcing its way through every cell.

He thought that was his end. Surely it was. The monstrous, wicked grin on Sukuna's face certainly hadn't helped.

My husband.

As if in slow motion – everything feels so slow after moving at light speed, at thousandths of a second – he turns, pulse thundering against the walls of his skull. Red, red. So much of it.

My husband. My husband.

Satoru's unblinking blue eyes scour the silent battlefield for the distinct presence of your cursed energy. He hones in like a nuke on the smoky trail wisping in the air, as potent and attention-stealing as the stench of cigarette smoke at a road crossing. He takes a step, the ground unsteady and his horizons tipping, and licking his dry lips blooms the heavy iron of blood on his tongue.

I need my husband.

He follows the trail his Six Eyes shows him. He shoves past the sorcerers clamouring for his attention – his open wounds and vacant eyes don't inspire a lot of confidence – but he pushes past them, gaze trained on the wispy breadcrumb trail so teasingly left behind.

He puts one foot in front of the other. Then again. And again, again, again, until he's blitzing through rubble and ruined streets, his heart slamming into his broken ribs. His feet pound the ground as if he's trying to move the earth itself. A solid ball of heat and pressure has filled his core, curling and roiling and throbbing, pushing him to move, to find you – to fuck you.

My husband.

There you are, cradling your students and healing the worst of their injuries with frantic, grateful whispers of their names. Shoko's nearby, fluttering from patient to patient like a small bird – but your students, his students, flock to you and your steadiness, like wreck survivors to a sturdy rock at sea.

It wasn't only him learning new tricks, then – you certainly couldn't heal others before all of this.

He wants your hands on him. In him. For him. He skids to a stop just as you finish squeezing Nobara half to death in relief, and you quickly stand as his presence looms behind you. His clothes are shredded, barely hanging on.

"Satoru?" you call softly, voice husky with exhaustion, and there are new cuts and bruises littering your skin. Always so selfless, tending to others even when you've got three broken ribs and less than ten fingers.

Satoru seizes your wrist, the blood boiling in his veins at the sight of your injuries. Anger ripples hot under his skin. "Heal yourself," he demands, chest heaving.

You blink, glancing down at the hand in his tight grip. Cursed energy floods the space where your fingers would be. Satoru watches reverentially as the cuts seal over and the bruises fade.

His pale skin shines, sweat gathering wherever his blood isn't. Did he run all the way across the city to get to you?

"Satoru, the others need to speak with you," you try, but you can't help the sneaking suspicion that he's not all... there. His cerulean eyes are wide, tracking you like a predator in wait. You don't think he's blinked once. "I'll take you to Ijichi."

"No," he downright growls. Without another word, he drags you close, shoving his nose in the crook of your neck, and the whole world uproots, tipping and whirling in a nauseating swirl of colour and wind.

You nearly retch when your surroundings still, your head spinning. You stumble away, fumbling with the shoji doors in front of you and throwing them open.

Clean air. Neat greenery, a wall of trees, garden paths.

"Is this," you swallow, your stomach settling, "the Gojo estate?"

His skin burns as he wraps his arms around you and buries his face between your shoulder blades, his sweat-damp hair tickling your neck. Something hot and stiff ruts into the back of your thigh and he takes a deep, shuddering breath, a gasped moan leaving his lips.

You smell like blood, sweat, and a sweet warmth like the sun. He pants, each lungful filling him with your dizzying smell, strong and masculine. He gropes at the front of your trousers, shaking hands scrabbling at the zipper as if it's the first time he's touched such a thing.

"Satoru," you grunt, grabbing his wrists and turning around, "what are you doing? Why are you still bleeding?"

"Do it for me," he breathes shakily, widening his legs slightly to rub against you harder. "Please."

Your throat bobs and he follows the motion hungrily with his eyes. You lift your hands unsteadily and hover them over his shoulders, unsure of where to touch because it doesn't seem like there's an inch of him gone unwounded.

He decides for you, grasping your wrists and pushing his face into your palms. His thick white lashes flutter as your technique washes over his body, pulsing warm and pleasantly tingly from deep within his core. It's the same kind of flooding heat when you come in him, just everywhere this time – every limb, every finger, all the way from the soles of his feet to the top of his head. With legs like jelly, he moans quietly, his parted lips turning to the side and licking your thumb into his mouth. He suckles on it with eager, needy whines, lashes fluttering as he stares up at you with pupils blown wide, turning the sky blue of his eyes as dark as a deep ocean.

"Satoru," you whisper, entranced, pushing your thumb deeper into his mouth. You watch him moan, his body both taut and pliant under your touch, and his tongue laves against his own blood coating your skin. Criss-crossing his skin are a thousand scars you doubt any technique could completely reverse.

His head spins with the taste of your skin – warm, slightly salty, alive. Alive because of him – because he protected you like a good husband.

That's what he is, isn't he? Your perfect husband, the strongest of them all? He leans into your hand, short breaths puffing hotly against your palm, as he stares up at you, big damp eyes debauched and brimming with mania. He pushes his throbbing sex against your thigh with a whimper too sweet to ignore. You draw your thumb out of his mouth to grip his hips and pull him into you, letting him hump your thigh like a bitch in heat.

"I wanna," Satoru gasps hotly, arms thrown around your shoulders, "needa fuck you, baby, please – I-I'm—"

High on adrenaline, you surmise as he yanks you to the bed, shoving you down and clambering on top of you with less grace than usual. His breaths grow uneven and slightly whiny as he struggles with your many layers – undershirt and shirt and jacket, underwear and pants and zipper and belt – and he lets out a frustrated snarl.

He slashes an arm across your body. A crackling blade of pure cursed energy arcs through the air, slicing clean through the threads of your clothes. It bites a few millimetres into your skin, making you hiss as ruby beads pearl along the cuts. "Shit."

Satoru moans at the sight, tearing the remains of your shirt from your arms. Leaning down, he laps at the wounds, dragging his hot tongue over the dips and curves of your muscles. It scratches a primal itch in the back of Satoru's head, cooing happily knowing he would be well taken care of in your company. Your stomach heaves with effort – the tangy taste of your sweat and blood and the sound of your groans are enough to make his tip leak and bubble, soaking the front of his pants with just a few drags of his hips against air.

You manage to undo your trousers enough for Satoru to pounce. He closes his lips around the straining bulge in your briefs and sucks hard, his saliva saturating the cloth. He grinds into the mattress, nails digging into your tense thighs as he slobbers all over your clothed cock, a fucked-out expression gracing his reddened face.

"So biiig," he whines, though the drunken smile he wears tells you he likes it more than he should. He massages you with his fingers, tracing the outline of your shaft down your leg with a dreamy grin, dripping with lust and honey.

You grunt, combing your fingers through Satoru's snowy locks. The tips are dyed red, as if he's gone goth, and you shift your legs to push him off. He resists. "Baby, wait. We're both covered in blood."

"Don't you dare tell me to wait," he growls – pleads. His nails dig into your thighs. He pushes his mouth against your clothed cock, his hot breaths sending spiked shivers up your spine.

When you say nothing, acquiescing silently, Satoru lowers his gaze and fishes out your cock – he does it without his usual shy sweetheart eagerness, instead spitting on it as he pumps it, his other hand yanking at his torn pants. His pretty, dusky cock leaks and bumps his stomach. He kicks his pants off his ankles and hovers over your lap, thighs tensing as your thick tip presses against his hole.

You grab his hips, fighting against his own strength. His sharp gaze snaps up to you, blue-black with lust. His lips curl with impatience.

"Satoru," you choke out as he squeezes your shaft punishingly. "Honey, lube's in the closet drawer. Don't—"

He stares you down with a crippling intensity that makes your heart drop into your stomach. Your pulse races and your mouth goes dry as you stare back, withering slowly with every moment. He exhales softly as he smears your leaking precome down your shaft, slicking it up.

You swallow, head slowly tipping back to rest against the pillows. You keep your eyes on him all the while, hands loosening on his muscular thighs. Your fingers leave red marks on his alabaster skin.

He drops his hips. In one smooth motion, his greedy hole swallows your cock in its entirety – his ass smacks against your thighs and he lets out a loud, relieved groan, leaning forward and placing his hands on your chest. The lights flicker with a pulse of uncontrolled cursed energy.

Your heart beats beneath the cage of your ribs. He presses his palms harder against the sticky heat of your skin, committing the pattern of your heartbeat to memory.

He did that. He kept you alive.

Satoru lifts and lowers his hips, using the bounce of the mattress to help him ride you. His ass smacks roughly against your thighs, meeting halfway when the mattress pushes you up into him. He pants, breaths gasped and uneven, as his red, throbbing cock slaps his stomach, leaving a shining wet patch just above his belly button. His eyes roll back and his silky walls throb and squeeze, milking your cock as if he can't get enough, even when your balls press flush against his ass.

"'Toru," you hiss, staring up at his blissful expression. Your dick throbs at the sight and he whimpers, grinding down harshly before returning to his quick, rough pace. "Satoru! Fuck – slow down!"

"I can feel you," he whines instead of listening to you. He places a hand on his stomach, chest heaving as a wobbly smile spreads across his flushed face. "I-I can feel – here – f-feel the vein—"

He cries out as he manages to find his prostate despite the hot fog possessing his mind. His dick dribbles down the shaft but he doesn't touch it, too absorbed in the deep fullness your cock affords him.

Satoru's never been one to take control in the bedroom. He loves being pampered, being your pretty prince, and it's clear he doesn't know how to ride you. He slams his hips down, desperately trying to find that sweet spot inside him again, and if he keeps going like this, you're going to need a cast for your hips.

He makes a sound like a gurgle, arms trembling as he arches his spine. His cock drags against your stomach, pinched between your bodies.

"Baby. Baby, Satoru – let me help," you grunt, his warm insides slick with your pre. He spreads his ass, swallowing you deeper, and you struggle to sit up, his constant bouncing rough and harsh and animal.

"No," he hiccups, and when you glance up, there are tears glimmering along his lash line. "Needa fuck you. Gotta get your cum in me, okay, ruin this big fat cock with my hole – you're never gonna leave me. Never gonna wanna leave me. I'm the only fuckin' one who can make you feel like this, got it?"

Your eyes are wide as you stare up at him, unused to his sharp words, and his heart flutters as arousal curls thick and heavy in his lower belly. He can feel you there, splitting him in half with your meaty cock.

God, you're so perfect – he's so fucking glad that your clan didn't make things difficult when he marched in there and demanded your hand in marriage. Who cares if you're both men? He's pretty enough to be your wife and powerful enough to bring your enemies to their knees. You wouldn't have to do anything except fuck him brainless, cooing in your gorgeous sultry voice about how good he is for you.

His hips quicken, his moans bouncing around the room, almost drowning out the wet clap of skin on skin. You grip his little waist, pale criss-crossing scars smooth and feathered under your touch. He preens, lean muscles flexing under your attention. You press your thumb against one beneath his pert pink nipple, dangerously close.

Satoru's hips jerk and his eyes glaze over. He comes with a ruined mewl of your name, gasped and open-mouthed as he shoves his chest into your touch, his hands scratching stinging lines down your shoulders. The lights flicker again, this time dark for longer, and the burst of coursed energy he releases is hot and wanting, seeking you out. You shudder.

You moan at the pain of his nails digging into your back. Satoru humps his spurting cock against your stomach – pearly rivers trail down the planes of your stomach, and his eyes flutter with a final spurt that splatters your chest. He heaves like he's dying, clutching you and ramming your cock into him even when his high peters off.

It's barely a breath before he's kissing you, lips hot and pillowy and slick. Fuck, he's goddamn drooling, licking into your mouth with a hand on your nape to make sure you don't pull away. He moans into your mouth, swallowing your groan of his name with a greedy, whorish whine. A string of saliva joins your lips and he pushes his mouth against yours again, sharing moans and hot panting breaths.

"Come," he whimpers, accentuating it with a grind of his hips that has your cock twitching and his walls pulsing. "Inside. Please. Please, please, 'm so empty – wan' you t'come in me, let everyone know this cock's all mine! Want it all, wanna be marked up 'n' smell like you...!"

"Filthy," you grunt, slapping his ass and basking in his mewl of pleasure. You do it again to make his arms weak and hear him sob. "Is that right, 'Toru? You wanna get knocked up, wanna be my dirty little bitch?"

Babies?

Satoru's head spins just thinking about it. Wouldn't you be a great father? You do so well with Megumi and Tsumiki already – and sometimes, when it's quiet, Satoru does mourn the fact that he never had a sweet, fat little baby to hold and play dress-up with. If he had a baby, he'd want them to look like you.

He can't think straight. Adrenaline numbs his thoughts. Your cock buries itself deep in his guts, the thick head prodding his stomach, and your shaft rubs harshly against his swollen prostate with every rise and fall of his hips. The pleasure licks in his lower stomach, and every time your cock kisses his prostate his balls tighten and throb.

You slap his ass again, jerking him out of his drunken daze – he mewls, his reddened skin hot and tender. "Don't get quiet now, pretty. You dragged me away from people who need me. Least you can do is answer my fucking question."

"Mmh—!" Satoru's hole clamps around you, wet with spit and pre as he bounces, and he moans hungrily against your neck as your balls smack against his ass. Each slam of his hips on yours is almost painful. "Yes! Yes, yesyesyes, baby, 'wanna be your pretty slut 'n' get knocked up by this fat cock! Fill me – ah – u-up, fuck me up, feels so fuckin' good, wanna taste it—!"

"Yeah, baby, don't worry. I'll give it all to you," you mutter, and arousal coils tight in his belly at the sound of your groans, right in his ear. "Such a good boy, did so well today – you deserve it all, don't you? Deserve to finally sit back and enjoy your picket-fence life, hm?"

"With you," he whimpers, voice wrecked. His taut little hole, dark and swollen, glides along your shaft, his gummy insides sticky and warm and oh-so sensitive. His thighs tremble. "Only if it's with you."

You stroke his sides, which tense under your warm fingertips. "I'm yours, 'Toru. All yours. This cock is yours, too," you murmur, a slight lilt of amusement touching your words. "I'll fill you up every day until you take, if that's what you want. Anything for my husband, yeah?"

His eyes flicker and roll and he wails, broken little cries heaving from deep within his chest. His pearly release splatters your stomach and his heavy shaft arches towards his belly, red and swollen with desire. Staccato uh-uh-uh's leave his throat as he bounces, grinding his hips dangerously into yours.

"Satoru," you groan, half-chastising, and he whines at the sound of his name from your lips. ""Stop – stop fuckin' slamming down like that. Ovals, baby, c'mon. Back and forth – you'll put me in a damn cast if you keep going like this."

He nods desperately with a whimper, expression ruined, blue eyes hazy and teary. He tries to listen, tries to relax, but your cock is so big and it's not his fault that you take up all his thoughts! If anything, it's your fault, looking at him with those hypnotic eyes and saying his name with a voice like a siren – even the pain you cause him makes him dizzy with pleasure.

"'M sorry," he babbles, forehead and chest dipped against your sternum because his body's too heavy to hold up, "f—ah—feels too gooood, 'm s-sorry..." With your help, your heavy tip strokes his prostate with every drop of his hips, the ridges of your head catching on his hot, rippling walls. He was never very good at riding, but the perfect size and shape of your cock makes even his unsteady, inexperienced technique feel like heaven.

He's obsessed with you. You really were made for him.

"Much better," you hum, your hands on his waist to guide his movements. His hips stutter violently at the praise and you grope his ass as his thighs clamp tight around you. For his efforts, you reward him with a sharp spank, squeezing the tender meat of his twitching thigh where the print of your hand reddens his skin.

Satoru presses his mouth against yours, hot and messy – teeth clicking, tongues rolling – and the pain of his nails clawing at your shoulders sends you over the edge. Satoru gasps and cries out, his voice cracking as his eyes roll to the back of his skull. He follows you immediately over the precipice – so quick he almost beats you to it – and you love the way he falls apart in your arms, trembling and jolting and coming so hard it splatters your chest.

He hiccups out a sob, gawping, toes curling as his mind goes blank once more. Your come slicks him up nicely, eases the burn, and the warmth of it soothes his throbbing walls. It leaks down your shaft, creating a white ring around your base that froths and smears his skin with sticky strings.

The lightbulbs shatter entirely.

His orgasm lasts a while, spurts of thick come painting your stomach and chest. He sinks his teeth deep into his lower lip until he can taste iron. You hold him through it, and he presses himself further into your embrace as if he can get closer than having you inside him. His expression is dazed and blissfully fucked-out, the new scars adorning his skin like draped jewels.

He'll hold this over you, you know it. Every argument will be promptly shut down with, Remember that time where I fought Sukuna and won just for you? You can't say you're not grateful or won't be eternally in his debt for saving, quite possibly, the entire country, but you also can't say you'll be pleased when you ask him to complete his mission reports and he pulls that out of the bag.

At last, Satoru slumps against you. He's a moaning mess, his quivering hole still sucking in your cock whorishly. You're both covered in sweat, come, and a not-insignificant amount of blood; judging by the pain splitting your back, not all of it was from earlier. Cursed energy surges through your body, and the long bloody rakes down your back seal over.

"Fuck," you whisper, your voice wrecked as you sink into the bed. Your eyes flutter shut. "Ow..."

There's blood under Satoru's nails, and some sick part of him enjoys it specifically because it's yours. He doesn't have to say anything for you to kiss him and heal the cut in his lip, warm and tingly cursed energy flooding his senses and making him shudder with a valiant twitch of his spent cock.

He mewls when you pull out of him despite your gentleness, and you don't think it's the pain that he's unhappy about. His gaping hole leaks come, a thick milky glob of it rolling down his shaky thigh when he clenches around nothing. He reaches down and pushes it back into himself with two fingers, trying his best to scoop it all up.

Satoru only stops when you steal his attention, kissing the scars over his forehead and cheeks. You can tell he's still not quite himself, as he stays rooted in place over your lap with his gaze trained on you even as you try to coax him to lie down beside you. Eventually, as if coming to understand that it's over, he allows it, tucking himself against your side and entwining your legs together possessively. He rumbles out a soft purr against your chest, an arm over your waist, and he stares up at the bulb of your throat and the soft underside of your chin.

You still don't think he's blinked while looking at you.

He nuzzles into his favourite place below your chin, warm and content. His skin buzzes pleasantly with the remnants of your reversed cursed technique, still zipping along his nerves and over his synapses. He curls his legs tighter around yours.

Then, his little voice pipes up, dazed and faraway, barely a whisper: "I love you."

You brush his bangs back and kiss his forehead. He smiles, plump and flushed and pleased. "I love you, too, Satoru. Always."

He seems satisfied with your response, finally closing his eyes. You hold him tighter, and it's only a few seconds before he's lax and breathing deep and even.

The two of you are too tangled up to even attempt aftercare, as he's draped over you. You're not sure what he'd do if he woke up and found the bed empty, even if you're just in the bathroom, so your eyes slide shut and you cradle your dear little husband in your arms, protecting him from what you can.

You still haven't spoken to the other sorcerers. Satoru's going to have a big day tomorrow...

[be-xkyy]

𝑌𝑎𝑛𝑑𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑉𝑎𝑚𝑝𝑖𝑟𝑒 𝐹𝑟𝑒𝑛𝑐ℎ

Warning: sexual content (mentioned), forced transformation, murder (mentioned), isolation, child abduction, blood, violence.

Tagging list: @kthehoeforfictionalmen ★ @dreamlessnight ★ @riawrld ★ @darkuni63 ★ @minshookie29 ★ @rosey1981 ★ @thejadevvitch ★ @jellystar-star ★

Divider credits: @cafekitsune ★ @bernardsbendystraws ★

Son name: Alexandre

Husband name: Louis

Masterlist

Yandere Vampire who doesn't understand why you're so cold toward him; yes, maybe he killed all your friends and locked you in his castle, but he only did it because it was necessary.

Yandere Vampire who thinks you're being overly dramatic; he's already made up for his mistakes, turning you into a vampire, HIS mate, HIS wife, HIS duchess. Don't you see that he did the best for you by freeing you from your pathetic mortality? He gave you the greatest gift of all: eternal life.

Yandere Vampire who, despite his best attempts to make you happy, you're always melancholic. He gives you precious jewels that are over a century old. He makes sure his servants take care of everything and follow your every command so you don't have to lift a finger. He makes passionate love to you every night, giving you so many orgasms and love that in the end, you can't even form a coherent word. So why aren't you happy?

Yandere Vampire who after a long time decides to stop trying to figure out what you need to be happy and asks you directly (which is what he should have done from the start). One night, when you're both in your shared chambers, he decides to ask you the blessed question.

“I see that during these long months, my hard work to bring you happiness and joy has been a complete failure, so tell me, my dear, what do you need to be happy?”

“I want to be free. I no longer want to be confined within the walls of this castle. I don't want to be with you.”

“...”

Yandere Vampire who falls silent upon hearing your cold response; it almost seems as if your words didn't affect him, but his red eyes, which seem to glow, betray his anger. That, coupled with the lover/creator bond that unites your souls and betrays his anger, which seems to burn your body from the inside with a blazing fire, makes you shudder.

Yandere Vampire who decides to be merciful and forget this conversation, but not before threatening you. He approaches you, grabbing your jaw firmly. His elegant, ringed fingers grip your chin, forcing you to look into his eyes, which shine with a burning and terrifying fury.

“Never, EVER say something like that again, my dear, or I'll show you what it means to truly feel miserable and unhappy.”

Yandere Vampire who becomes more distinct and rougher in the months following your small talk. He makes love to you more roughly, leaving your body aching and your neck and chest covered in bites and love marks. In retaliation, you leave his pale back covered in deep, bloody scratches (which only feed his ego).

Yandere Vampire who one day while looking for his next dinner date in a nearby town sees a smiling happy woman in a house who reminds him of you when he first met you. She's sitting in front of the fire in the fireplace, which illuminates her with a yellow and golden glow; she's cooing to a baby who's laughing and gurgling happily; a light bulb goes on in his head when he sees this scene. Maybe that's what you need to be happy, a baby. Little brats always bring joy and happiness, right? Maybe you two can't have a baby biologically, but he can take someone else's baby... right?

Yandere Vampire who decides to take matters into his own hands. He sneaks inside the house, ignoring the pain in his throat and yearning to suck the woman's blood dry. After all, he can't alert the town of his presence (there are already many suspicions of vampires in the area). So, he decides to be subtle and snaps the woman's neck, which he does. He sneaks up behind her when she notices his presence; it's too late. He hears the woman's heart race as he grabs her jaw from behind and twists her head with an ugly "crack." The woman's heartbeat stops, and her body goes limp.

Yandere vampire who drops the woman's body to the ground and focuses all his attention on the baby lying on the floor on a worn, old floral blanket. The baby's lower lip trembles as if he can understand the cruel fate of his only parent. His eyes water, and high-pitched sobs soon follow.

“Waah-Waah!!!”

“Hey brat, don't cry. You have no idea what a favor I'm doing you! Now you'll have a beautiful and loving new mother. No more old or worn-out blankets, just the finest clothes and silks for you.”

Yandere Vampire who takes the child in his arms, rocking him a little, but he doesn't stop crying; on the contrary, he cries even more. Frustrated, he covers the baby's mouth, slightly muffling his sobs, and slips out of the house, quickly heading for his castle.

Yandere Vampire who enters the castle through the extensive gardens filled with red roses. He ignores the curious servants who stare at him curiously as he enters with the sobbing baby in his arms and, without wasting any time, heads to his chambers, where he knows for sure you'll be. He pushes open the wooden door and enters. Your eyes immediately look at him, or rather, at the child in his arms.

“My dear! Look at the gift I brought you.”

“From where? Where are his parents?”

“The mother is dead, and there was no sign of the father anywhere, so now he's all yours!”

Yandere Vampire who smiles proudly when you approach and take the baby from his arms. His eyes soften when he sees you cooing at the baby, gently rocking him in your arms, and the child soon calms down. You head to the bed, placing the baby on the soft silk sheets, protecting him from the cold. He can't help but notice the child's resemblance to you, but he snaps out of his thoughts when he hears your annoyed voice.

“You carried him all over the frozen forest in just pajamas? A baby is very delicate and could get seriously ill, you stupid man.”

“I didn't think of that at the time, my dear. I just thought of bringing him to you, and now he's here with you. That's better than nothing, right?”

Yandere Vampire who happily notices how you become someone much more energetic and happy since the arrival of the baby; although he won't deny that he's a little jealous of the fact that you spend more time with the baby (whom you named Alexandre) than with him; you take Alexandre for walks in the garden, you bathe him, you dress him and you even read to him to put him to sleep; the baby quickly became very attached to you.

“Mother! Mother, look at this!”

“I'm seeing you, my love.”

Your voice comes out lovingly as you look at the now five-year-old boy running through the rosebushes adored with vibrant red roses. You walk slowly, following your little boy. Louis, your husband, walks beside you. Your arm is intertwined with his, though you ignore him most of the time. But that doesn't make him talk any less.

“He grew up so fast, don't you think? I remember when I brought him here, and he was just a baby.”

“I remember.”

“I honestly didn't expect him to make it past the week, you know, given the fact that he was cold and malnourished, but your love seems to be able to cure anything, my dear.”

“...”

Your red eyes glare at him in annoyance, and he just smiles, revealing his white teeth and sharp fangs. You want to wipe that smile off your face and slap him for saying something so out of place, but you hold back as Alexandre runs up to you both.

“Mother! Father! I want to see the roses up close! Lift me up, father!”

“Yes, sir! As Your Highness commands!”

You can't help but let out a laugh as your son reaches out for his father, bouncing slightly before Louis finally picks him up and places him on his hip. Alexandre stares at the roses (which he's seen a million times before) with fascination before pouting.

“Roses have the same color as her eyes! I want my eyes to be red too, father!”

“I think your eyes are beautiful—”

“Don't worry, my son, soon your eyes will be red too.”

“Louis—!”

“Really, Father?! I'm so happy my eyes will be like yours and my mother!”

~~~

“Have you lost your mind?! Why are you telling my son he'll also have red eyes?! He's not going to turn into a vampire!”

You yell in annoyance as you pace around your chambers, your furious eyes glaring at him accusingly as he lies in bed, propped up against the pillows. He smiles at you with a shrug before getting up from the bed and walking over to you.

“Why not? I mean, our son could live forever as a five-year-old. Is that really so bad, my dear?”

“That's selfish! You killed his parents, forced him to live confined here in this castle, and now you also want to force him to be five forever?! You are truly a horrible man!”

“His mother.”

“What...?”

“I killed his mother. I already told you there was no father anywhere, and I confined him here because it's safer for him... besides, I know the idea of ​​him being five forever doesn't bother you, my dear.”

“That's not true—!”

“Oh, you can deny it all you want, but I can feel in our bond that you don't mind the idea at all. It almost seems like you'd like him to be your baby forever... so tell me, my dear, who is the really horrible person here, huh?”

You don't know how to respond, because it's true, everything he says is true. You don't want your son to grow up and leave here, leaving you with the pain and agony of your lost life tormenting your soul again. Just thinking about it sends a feeling of pain to your dead heart. Even though you hate yourself for being so selfish, you can't deny what he's saying, so you duck your head and remain silent.

He lets out a playful laugh, moving closer to you. He runs his ringed hands down the front of your dress's corset, tracing the soft fabric with his fingers. His hands slide back, playing with the laces of the corset, untying the knot and loosening the bodice. He rubs his nose against your jaw, leaving a trail of kisses up to your ear. You shudder when his cold breath hits your skin. He murmurs playfully against your ear.

“Don't be ashamed, my dear. After all, being selfish is in our blood. Just let yourself go~”

[mcrdvcks]

— goodnight n go

summary: You and Matt are childhood friends who met at the orphanage. But people always assume you two are dating.

word count: 3.6k+

pairing: Matt Murdock x fem!reader

notes: as an og matt murdock stan, i can't believe i've never wrote for him. i hope this is accurate to his character!

and the title goodnight n go is a song by ariana grande from her album sweetener - which i fully believe is an underrated album

also i consider this taking place between dd s3 and ddba

warnings/tags: mentions of twirling/playing with hair, after endgame (so tony is dead😭), best friends to lovers, fluff, pining, oblivious idiots, slight angst, mention of injuries and blood

“And don’t forget to clean the coffee filter. I don’t want anyone getting sick. Again.” You said, grabbing your purse.

“I swear, sometimes your worse than my mother.” Foggy replied, sipping from his mug.

Karen quirked a brow, “your mother isn’t exactly a role model for parenting.”

Matt let out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. "She’s got a point, Foggy."

Foggy sighed dramatically, setting his mug down. "Yeah, yeah. I’ll clean the damn filter. But if I get coffee poisoning or whatever, I’m blaming you."

"You’ll live," you said, amused. You glanced at Matt, reaching out to fix the slightly crooked knot on his tie. "You should eat something before court."

"Not hungry," he replied, though he didn’t move away.

"You never are," you muttered, smoothing your hands over his lapels before stepping back. "Text me if you need anything."

Matt tilted his head slightly, a small smile playing on his lips. "You say that like you won’t just show up unannounced."

"Don’t tempt me." You grabbed your coat, leaning in to press a quick kiss to his cheek. "See you later."

"See you," Matt said, voice softer now.

You gave a quick wave to Foggy and Karen before heading for the door.

Foggy exhaled loudly as it closed behind you. "That was totally normal. Super normal. Just two friends being weirdly affectionate in front of their other friends."

Matt ignored him, reaching for his cane. "We’re close. That’s all."

Karen shot him a look. "You’re also full of shit."

Matt just smirked and walked out.

---

It was late by the time you made it to Matt’s apartment, balancing a takeout bag in one hand as you knocked. You didn’t have to wait long—there was the distinct sound of locks clicking before the door swung open.

"You didn’t text," Matt said, leaning against the doorframe.

"You didn’t either," you shot back, stepping inside without invitation. "So I figured you probably forgot to eat. Again."

Matt sighed, but there was a hint of a smile on his face as he closed the door behind you. "You don’t have to keep feeding me, you know."

"You don’t have to keep skipping meals, but here we are," you said, setting the takeout on the counter.

Matt chuckled, walking over to the couch and sinking into it. "How was work?"

"Same as always. How was court?"

"Long," he admitted, rubbing a hand over his face. "But we won."

"Then that calls for a celebration." You grabbed the food containers and joined him on the couch, handing him one.

Matt took it, his fingers brushing over yours briefly. "You really didn’t have to do this."

"Yeah, well, I was already out, and I know your fridge is probably empty."

Matt smirked. "You checked my fridge?"

You rolled your eyes. "Not today, but I have a pretty good guess. And considering you didn’t argue…"

He huffed out a quiet laugh. "Fine. You got me."

You both ate in comfortable silence, the familiar hum of the city filtering in through the window. When you were done, you leaned back against the couch, letting out a content sigh.

Matt shifted beside you, his arm resting along the back of the couch. It was second nature when you tucked yourself closer, your head resting against his shoulder.

"You tired?" he asked, voice low.

"Mm, a little," you admitted.

Matt's fingers absently played with the ends of your hair, a familiar and comforting habit.

"You could stay," he murmured.

"You always say that," you said, eyes closed.

"And you always do."

You huffed a soft laugh but didn’t argue.

---

The scent of coffee pulled you from sleep, warm and rich, mingling with the quiet sounds of the city outside. You cracked one eye open, blinking at the unfamiliar ceiling before remembering—Matt’s apartment.

You stretched, groggy but comfortable, the sheets soft and warm around you. The space beside you was empty, but the dip in the mattress told you he hadn’t been gone long.

Dragging yourself up, you padded toward the kitchen, yawning as you leaned against the counter. Matt stood by the stove, pouring coffee like he had all the time in the world. He was still in the sweats and T-shirt he’d worn to bed, hair slightly messy, looking impossibly at ease.

"Didn’t wake you, did I?" he asked, already knowing the answer.

"You and your super-hearing," you muttered, rubbing your eyes. "I would’ve kept sleeping if your coffee didn’t smell so damn good."

Matt smirked, reaching for a second mug. "I’ll take that as a compliment."

You grabbed the hem of his shirt, tugging lightly as you stepped closer, resting your forehead against his shoulder. He huffed out a quiet laugh, free hand settling at your hip like it was second nature.

"Tired?"

"Mm. Your couch is comfy, but your bed is better."

"You say that like you weren’t the one who crawled in."

"Yeah, yeah," you mumbled, peeling away just enough to steal his coffee and take a sip.

Matt didn’t even try to stop you. "I was going to give you your own."

"You’re too slow."

"Or maybe I just like it when you steal from me."

You smirked against the rim of the mug, not missing the way his hand lingered at your waist. Instead of calling him out, you took another sip and turned toward the fridge.

"Pretty sure you don’t have food in here," you said, opening the door.

"You’d be correct," Matt said, completely unbothered.

You sighed, grabbing one of his hoodies off the back of a chair and pulling it on over your sleep shirt. "Guess we’re getting breakfast, then."

Matt hummed, setting his mug down before reaching out, fingers brushing over the sleeve. "You know you keep stealing my clothes, right?"

"You gonna do something about it, Murdock?"

His lips twitched, like he was holding back a smile. "Not a thing."

You grinned, grabbing his cane and tossing it to him before heading for the door. "C’mon, Devil Boy. Breakfast is on me."

"Generous," Matt mused, following after you without hesitation. "Just don’t expect me to let you steal my coffee and my food."

You didn’t bother responding. He’d let you do both anyway.

---

You smoothed your hands down the fabric of your outfit, eyeing yourself in the mirror one last time. It wasn’t often that you got this dressed up—definitely not for work—but a Stark Industries gala demanded something a little more refined than your usual jeans and hoodie.

A knock at the door pulled you from your thoughts. When you opened it, Matt stood there, looking effortlessly put together in a sleek black suit. The tie was perfect, the hair just slightly tousled, and the way he carried himself made it impossible to tell that he wasn’t seeing any of it.

"You clean up nice, Murdock," you teased, grabbing your purse.

His lips quirked into a small smile. "You’re one to talk."

His voice had that subtle shift, the one that always came when he was taking you in—not with his eyes, but in the way only he could. He wasn’t just listening to your words; he was listening to the way your breath hitched slightly, the way your heartbeat quickened when he leaned in a fraction too close.

You cleared your throat, stepping back. "Ready?"

"Always," Matt said, offering his arm.

You rolled your eyes but took it anyway, his touch steady and warm as the two of you headed out.

---

The gala was exactly what you expected—sleek, extravagant, and filled with people who had more money than they knew what to do with. The chatter was loud, glasses clinking as servers weaved through the crowd with trays of expensive champagne.

Matt stuck close to your side, his fingers lightly grazing your arm as the two of you maneuvered through the room. It wasn’t like he needed to be guided, but the contact was easy, familiar.

"Remind me again why I agreed to this?" he murmured near your ear.

"Because I asked nicely," you replied, plucking two glasses from a passing tray and handing him one.

"Mm. That must’ve been it."

You huffed a quiet laugh, taking a sip. The atmosphere was buzzing, but Matt seemed relaxed—more than you expected.

"Surprised you’re handling this so well," you admitted. "Figured the noise would drive you insane."

He smirked, tilting his head slightly. "I’m filtering most of it out. But you—" He shifted just a little closer, lowering his voice. "You’re easy to focus on."

Your fingers tightened slightly around your glass. He did not just say that with a straight face.

Before you could come up with a decent response, someone approached—one of your higher-ups at Stark Industries. You smiled, exchanging pleasantries, introducing Matt with an easy, "This is my friend, Matt Murdock."

Your boss smiled politely before turning to Matt. "It’s great to meet you. And what do you do?"

Matt’s lips twitched like he was holding back amusement. "I’m a lawyer."

"Ah, an honest profession," your boss said, clearly impressed. "And you’re here as—?"

"Her date," Matt said smoothly, with absolutely no hesitation.

Your brain short-circuited for half a second. Your boss nodded approvingly before launching into some talk about Stark’s latest legal team, but you barely heard a word of it.

Matt, meanwhile, looked completely unfazed. Like he hadn’t just said something that made your stomach flip.

The conversation wrapped up, and as soon as your boss was out of earshot, you leaned in slightly, keeping your voice low.

"Date?"

Matt just smiled, lifting his glass. "Figured that was easier than explaining whatever this is."

You squinted at him, but he only took a sip of his drink, calm as ever.

Damn him.

---

At some point in the night, the gala turned into something more social—music playing, people moving toward the open dance floor. You weren’t much of a dancer, but Matt, of course, looked completely at ease, even without seeing the way people moved around him.

"You’re staring," Matt said suddenly, lips quirking.

You scoffed. "I am not."

"You are," he countered, setting his empty glass down. Then, as if it was the easiest thing in the world, he extended a hand. "Dance with me?"

You blinked. "You hate dancing."

"That’s not true."

"You avoid dancing."

Matt smirked. "And yet, I’m asking you."

You hesitated for half a second before sighing, setting your glass down and placing your hand in his. His fingers curled around yours, warm and firm as he pulled you toward the floor.

His other hand settled at your waist, light but certain. Yours rested against his shoulder, and for a moment, the world shrunk to just the two of you, the music humming around you as Matt led with an ease that shouldn’t have been possible.

"You’ve done this before," you murmured, impressed despite yourself.

"Few times," Matt admitted. "But this is the first time I’ve actually enjoyed it."

Your breath hitched, heart stuttering before you could stop it. And from the way his lips twitched, you knew he caught it.

"You’re doing that on purpose," you muttered.

"Doing what?"

"This. Being all—" You gestured vaguely.

Matt just smiled, his grip on you tightening ever so slightly. "Maybe."

You narrowed your eyes, but you didn’t pull away. If anything, you let yourself relax into him, your fingers idly tracing the fabric of his suit as the two of you swayed.

It didn’t feel friendly. It didn’t feel like some casual thing you could brush off. It felt like something else, something real, something you weren’t sure you were ready to name just yet.

And from the way Matt held you—careful, close, like he knew exactly what this was—he knew it, too.

---

It had been a few days since the gala, and life carried on as usual—at least, that’s what you told yourself.

You pushed open the door to Nelson, Murdock & Page, a takeout bag in one hand and a coffee in the other. The office was quiet, save for the sound of Foggy typing furiously at his keyboard and Karen flipping through a stack of papers at her desk.

"Tell me you guys have eaten," you said, setting the bag down with a thud.

Karen looked up first, lips twitching. "We have now."

Foggy groaned in relief, already reaching for the food. "You’re a lifesaver. Matt’s in his office, by the way."

You hummed in acknowledgment, grabbing the coffee before heading toward the glass-paneled room at the back. The door was slightly open, and Matt was exactly where you expected—leaning back in his chair, fingers pressed against his temple like he was nursing a headache.

"You look like hell," you said, stepping inside and closing the door behind you.

Matt’s lips quirked at the sound of your voice. "And yet, you still bring me coffee."

"Because I’m nice," you teased, setting it in front of him.

Matt reached for the cup, fingers brushing yours in the process. You ignored the way your pulse jumped at the contact, shifting to sit on the edge of his desk.

"You should eat, too," you said. "I brought—"

"You didn’t have to do that," Matt murmured, cutting you off.

You rolled your eyes. "You say that every time, and yet here I am, making sure you don’t keel over from malnutrition."

Matt exhaled a quiet laugh, fingers curling around the coffee cup. "I appreciate it."

"You better."

There was a pause. The usual kind, the kind that never used to feel weighted—except, lately, it did.

Matt turned his head slightly, like he was studying you in that way he always did. "You okay?"

The question caught you off guard. "Me? You’re the one who looks like he’s been through hell and back."

Matt huffed. "Occupational hazard."

You folded your arms, watching him for a moment. His tie was slightly loosened, his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and there was the faintest shadow of exhaustion under his eyes. The usual signs of Matt Murdock burning the candle at both ends.

You reached out without thinking, adjusting the knot of his tie like you had at the gala. He stayed perfectly still, letting you.

"You really need to take better care of yourself," you muttered, smoothing out the fabric before pulling back.

Matt caught your wrist before you could move too far, his thumb brushing over the inside of it—absent, thoughtless, but lingering.

"You do that enough for the both of us," he murmured.

Your breath hitched before you could stop it. His lips twitched.

Damn him.

You pulled your wrist free, shaking your head. "Eat your food, Murdock."

Matt smiled like he knew exactly what he was doing. "Yes, ma’am."

---

A knock at your door this late was never a good sign.

You barely had time to process it before a second, weaker knock followed. Frowning, you unlocked the door and swung it open—only for Matt to nearly collapse against the frame.

"Jesus, Matt—" You grabbed his arm, steadying him as he exhaled sharply. His suit was torn in places, blood staining the red fabric, his lip split, and a nasty bruise was already forming along his jaw.

"You gonna let me in, or…?" His voice was rough, strained, but still laced with that familiar teasing edge.

You didn’t answer, just hooked an arm under his and pulled him inside, kicking the door shut behind you. Without hesitation, you grabbed the first aid kit from the cabinet and shoved him down onto the couch.

Matt let out a quiet grunt as he sat, shifting carefully. "You don’t have to—"

"Shut up." You dropped to your knees in front of him, flipping the kit open. "Take off the suit."

"You don’t waste time, do you?"

"Matt."

"Alright, alright," he muttered, wincing as he pulled the top half of the suit down, exposing bruised ribs and a gash along his side. He also took off his helmet.

You inhaled sharply but said nothing. This wasn’t new—you’d patched him up more times than you could count. But something about tonight felt different.

The room was quiet as you worked, disinfecting the wound, pressing gauze to the worst of it. Your hands lingered, fingertips brushing over the edge of a bruise, tracing the uneven rise and fall of his breath.

Matt didn’t flinch, didn’t pull away. If anything, he leaned into it, just slightly.

"You’re mad at me," he murmured.

You scoffed, pressing the bandage to his ribs a little harder than necessary. He sucked in a sharp breath.

"Of course I’m mad, Matt," you snapped, voice low but edged with frustration. "You show up at my door looking like this, you don’t tell me where you were or how bad it was—do you even think about what it’s like for me? Sitting here, waiting for you to—"

Matt cut you off the only way he knew how.

He kissed you.

It wasn’t hesitant, wasn’t questioning. It was firm, certain—like he’d already decided long before this moment that it was inevitable.

Your breath caught, but you didn’t pull away. His hands found your face, fingers ghosting along your jaw, mapping you out the way only he could.

You exhaled against his lips, your own hands grabbing onto his bare shoulders, nails pressing just slightly into his skin, but Matt didn’t pull away. If anything, he tilted his head, deepening the kiss, his hands sliding from your jaw to the nape of your neck. His fingers tangled in your hair, his touch light, careful—like he wasn’t sure how much he could take before you stopped him.

You didn’t.

Instead, you kissed him back, frustration melting into something else entirely. The heat of it, the way he breathed against your lips like he needed this just as badly as you did—it sent your heart hammering in your chest.

Finally, you pulled back just enough to catch your breath, forehead brushing against his.

"Matt," you whispered, voice unsteady.

His hands stayed where they were, fingertips still curled against the base of your neck. "Tell me to stop," he murmured, voice low, rough. "And I will."

You exhaled, fingers flexing against his skin. "I don’t want you to stop," you admitted.

Matt’s breath hitched. You felt it more than you heard it—the way his chest rose sharply beneath your hands, the way his grip on you tightened like he was committing this moment to memory.

Then, as quickly as it started, his lips were on yours again—slower this time, deliberate.

You didn’t know how long you stayed like that, caught up in him, but when you finally pulled away, Matt’s hands lingered, his thumbs brushing over your skin like he was still grounding himself.

"You’re still hurt," you murmured, running a hand over his ribs, where fresh gauze was now taped in place.

Matt let out a quiet chuckle, tilting his head. "You’re the one distracting me."

"You kissed me, Murdock."

"Mm. And you kissed me back."

You huffed, rolling your eyes, but you didn’t move away. "You need rest."

Matt hummed, not agreeing but not arguing either. His hands finally dropped from your face, settling instead at your waist, like letting go completely wasn’t an option.

"You staying?" he asked, voice softer now.

“Yeah. Afterall, you are in my apartment.”

Matt let out a quiet hum, his hands still resting at your waist, fingers curling slightly against the fabric of your shirt. He wasn’t letting go, and you weren’t pulling away.

"You’re on the floor," he murmured.

"Yeah, no shit," you said, raising a brow.

His lips quirked. "Come up here."

You hesitated, but only for a second before shifting, moving to sit beside him on the couch. Matt adjusted just enough to make room, one arm draping along the back of the cushions. His other hand found your knee, thumb brushing absentmindedly against it.

"You’re ridiculous," you muttered, leaning your head back against the couch.

"How so?"

"You come here half-dead, I patch you up, and then instead of resting, you start—" You gestured vaguely between the two of you.

"Kissing you?" Matt supplied, smirking.

You shot him a look. "Distracting me."

Matt exhaled a quiet laugh, tilting his head in that way he always did when he was focused on you, listening. "Do you regret it?"

The question made your breath catch, but you didn’t look away. Instead, you reached over, your fingers trailing along the edge of his jaw, ghosting over the bruise forming there. Matt didn’t flinch. If anything, he leaned into your touch.

"No," you admitted softly.

His grip on your knee tightened just slightly. "Good."

You rolled your eyes, but a small smile tugged at your lips. "You do need rest, though."

Matt hummed, clearly not in a hurry to move. His fingers slid up, resting lightly against the curve of your hip. "Stay?"

You exhaled, shaking your head. "Matt, I live here."

"Right. Convenient." He smirked, thumb brushing against your skin.

You huffed, shifting to lean into him, resting your head against his shoulder. He didn’t hesitate, his arm slipping around you like it was second nature.

For a while, neither of you spoke. His breathing was steady, the warmth of him grounding, familiar. You could feel the tension in his muscles start to ease, his body finally giving in to exhaustion.

"You’re not going out again tonight, right?" you asked, voice low.

Matt didn’t answer right away, which was already an answer.

"Matt."

"I won’t," he murmured.

"You better not." You tightened your grip on his arm, just slightly. "Or I’m locking you in here next time."

Matt let out a quiet chuckle. "Terrifying."

"Damn right," you mumbled, letting your eyes slip shut.

He didn’t say anything else, just pulled you closer, his fingers brushing lightly against your arm.

And for once, Matt actually stayed still.

i had a lot of fun writing this - the idea of falling in love with your best friend is just so cute! (curses to my childhood self for not having a male best friend to fall in love with😭)

it may be slightly unclear but reader is an engineer at stark industries!

and, one more thing, i'd love to write more of these two! if you have any requests, send them in! i fear that that shower scene in that ddba trailer has taken up my mind... so don't be surprised if i write shower sex with matt soon...

[blindmagdalena]

You Let Me Complicate You

18+ 4k homelander x f!reader. bickering, post-breakup sex, dubcon/coercion, angst, jealousy, emotional manipulation, implied murder, stalking, boundary smashing, breaking and entering, cunnilingus, penetrative sex. read on AO3. written as a follow-up to the breakup, but can be read as a standalone. gif credit.

Breaking up with Homelander is... complicated. After all, it is a god that loves you.

"What do I taste like?" You asked him once, drunk on pleasure and those early honeymoon days of loving him. He’d been slow to answer, thinking it over. "Love," he said at last. "Like you love me." You wonder if that holds true. If he can still taste love in you. If that’s why he’s so eager to devour you, or if the absence of it has made him even hungrier.

Homelander is an aberration.

Stronger than a hundred men, faster than a bullet and sharp as a tack all paired with a teaspoon’s depth of emotional maturity. He’s volatile, twisted, broken in ways no amount of therapy could ever hope to duct tape back together. He’s no better off than a dog that bites to kill. No matter how he got to this point, the best thing for him–for the world–would be to put him down by any means necessary.

Too bad you can’t seem to stop fucking him.

It’s late when you hear the front door open with a distinct crack. You’re sprawled out on the couch in the living room, one leg draped lazily over the armrest. What comes next is no surprise to you–a shock of primary colors filling the narrow doorway, a handsome face made ghoulish by the haunting light of the television in an otherwise dark room.

“You nailed the door shut,” Homelander says, the inflection of his voice somewhere between a question and a statement.

“Because you broke it,” you throw back, a stale Twizzler balanced between your lips. It had tasted good enough when you started eating it, but now–in his presence–the sweetness of it has turned sour.

“You changed the locks,” he says with a light shrug, cape swaying as he meanders towards you. “My key didn’t work.”

“Your key? Stealing a key to my house does not make it your key,” you say tersely, lifting your foot to press it firmly to his thigh, stopping him in his tracks. 

He glances down, a mirthless smile tugging at the corner of his mouth before he catches your ankle in his gloved hand, yanking you down the couch so suddenly you lose your Twizzler to the floor with a gasp. It’s one thing to know that Homelander has strength enough to throw cars like frisbees. It’s another to feel it. It sends a rush of adrenaline through you like a jolt, followed swiftly by something hotter low in your naval.

“Y’know, I’ve been thinking,” he begins, dropping your ankle. He lifts his knee and slots it between your legs, his opposite boot on the floor, his hand braced on the back of the couch, pinning you in place.

“Don’t hurt yourself,” you cut in dryly, moving to shift up the couch, away from him. He snatches your shoulder, halting you with ease. His thumb strokes your skin idly, goosebumps erupting beneath his touch.

“And I’ve realized that this whole… thing between you and I, this ‘will they, won’t they,’ ” he says, bobbing his head side to side. “It’s getting stale. Don’t you think it’s about time we progressed the plot?” He asks, leaning in close.

You brace your hand against his chest, holding him in place as ineffectually as you did earlier. You both know it’s all a game. It’s all pretense. There had been fondness between you once–love, even–but you’re done with that now. You have to be done with it, or Homelander will swallow you whole. He’s a black pit, a murderer, and his need knows no end. He’ll destroy you and everything you know and love if he thinks it’ll satiate that need.

You’ve lost enough. You can’t afford to lose any more of yourself to him.

“Jesus Christ, you even think in TV script,” you say, pushing on his chest. He leans back, but not by much. It sends a terrible little chill down your spine. “I’m starting to think the only thing that might actually kill you is an original thought.”

His eyes narrow and his bright white teeth flash predatorily in the darkness. “You’re lucky I haven’t broken your neck,” he says, hand slipping from your shoulder to your throat. The sharp press of his thumb into your windpipe steals your breath, makes your thighs tighten on either side of his leg snug between yours. His lips split into an unkind grin. “Or maybe not. You’d probably like that.”

“You’re disgusting,” you spit, gripping his wrist with your other hand. Your pulse is starting to throb against the leather of his glove. He moves his thumb from your windpipe to your jaw and turns your head away, leaning in with a deep, pointed inhale along your neck.

“Is that why your hormones are going haywire? Because I disgust you?” He asks, grinding his thigh between your legs in a way that makes you gasp. “Y’know, given how full of it you are, I was sure I’d smell the bullshit on you. But all I smell… is how fucking wet you are.”

He grabs your hip and the memories come to you like muscle memory. How good it feels to be gripped and fucked and loved by someone beyond your comprehension. To feel as if you’ve stopped the world turning and called the sun itself to shine on you alone.

You twist your chin out of his grip and level him with a heated stare. “I hate you,” you hiss, grasping for the knife you know will twist the deepest. 

It works for a second, his smug expression faltering, but only for an instant. His jaw sets, and his lips curl into that same unkind smile. “C’mon, babe,” he coos, the intimate familiarity woven into that pet name making your skin crawl. “We both know that I can always tell when you’re lying.”

He kisses you like he always has. Like you belong to him. In a way, you suppose you always will. There’s nothing you can do to pry your throat from Homelander’s jaws. Nowhere you can run that he won’t eventually find you. Like quicksand, the more you fight, the tighter he clamps down. Truth be told, though, that isn’t the worst of it. The worst of it is that the tighter he grips you, the less you want to fight him.

His tongue slithers into your mouth like a serpent into the garden and you bite down hard. While pliant between your teeth, the flesh doesn’t yield. It never will. He never will. Instead he moans a little chuckle that fades into a rumble against your lips.

“That how it’s gonna be?” He asks, the words rasped into your mouth. “Y’wanna bite and claw? Play hard to get?” He laughs, the sound of it reedy and light, like it’s all a silly little game of make-believe. “I can do that.”

He reeks of his own desperation for what he says to be true. More than anything, he wants to dress up his desires as yours. He wants to believe he’s giving you what you want. That way, he can trick himself into believing you need him.

He bites the middle tip of his glove and tugs it off with his teeth, tossing it aside. His bare thumb brushes your lip, smearing his spit and yours. “I saw you with that fucking loser,” he says, the airiness suddenly gone from his voice.

Your stomach drops. Two days ago you’d been with a man. You’d been so desperate to forget him that night that anyone would have done the job. You stumbled out with some nobody from the bar who’d been good enough for a sloppy makeout session in the back of his truck, but not good enough to bring home. It hadn’t ended well.

How close of an eye is Homelander keeping on you?

“I’d be angry if it hadn’t been so fuckin’ pathetic,” he says through his teeth.

“Liar,” you say tightly. You feel his fury in the tension of his body. He’s pissed that you’d seek this out anywhere else. As if he still has a claim over your body. Your pleasure.

His eyes flash up to yours. He sneers, pushing his thumb between your lips. “I watched you bite his lip until he bled. I watched him slap you,” he says, dragging the pad of his thumb along the ridges of your bottom teeth. The memories come to you as he speaks them, every moment of it made bleary by alcohol. “You wanted it rough, but he couldn’t handle you, could he? Because you’re used to something better. You’re used to a god.”

You sneer right back at him, yanking your head to the side, his thumb slipping from between your lips. “Could you be any more in love with yourself? Go fuck yours-”

“I still had to kill him, of course,” he continues nonchalantly, grinding your thoughts to a screeching halt. He laughs humorlessly. “For kissing you. And, well–for everything else, obviously. Slapping you,” he says, brushing his knuckles down your cheek. The same one the man had struck. “Humping your leg like a fucking dog.”

“Why are you doing this?” You ask, throat tight. Bile burns at the back of it. All you wanted was to get away from this. The blood, the horror of it. Yet no matter what you do to dissuade him, he brings death to your doorstep. “You have everything. You could have anyone. Why are you–”

“Because I want you,” he hisses, words so sharp his sharp teeth snap together. “Because I love you, and that’s what you do when you love someone,” he says. You can feel the accusation building in his words. “You don’t give up on them. And if that means cleaning up every dirty little mistake you make,” he says softly, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “So be it.” 

A cold shiver rolls down your spine. You stare woundedly at him, lips parted, brows pinched together, the misery of it all etched into every line of your face. He stares at you in turn, and after a beat, his own hard expression softens.

“Hey, hey,” he says, the heat of his breath a ghostly kiss on your lips. “It’s okay,” he says, brushing the tip of your nose with his. “I forgive you.”

He kisses you again, more tender now. Your eyes prickle with tears. His gentleness hurts so much more than his violence. It disarms you, carries you to a time when things were simpler between you. Sweeter and warmer. 

Homelander makes the world feel wonderful and dangerous, like standing in the middle of an electric storm. Being loved by him is the feeling of having your ribs cracked open, your heart cradled in his bare hands, possessive and bloody. What had been thrilling grew stifling, a feeling you realize now never truly went away.

He’s inescapable, literally and figuratively. Even when he isn’t inviting himself into your home or lurking in the periphery of your vision, Vought’s hero is plastered on every billboard and screen in the city. You haven't been able to breathe without inhaling the thick miasma of him.

Tears roll down to your temples as you kiss him back, both hands fisted in his soft hair, tugging. He makes a pleased little sound against your lips, teeth grazing your bottom lip. He’s always kissed like a man possessed–like every brush of your lips is a drop of salvation–but the hunger he’s developed since you tried to leave him is unparalleled. He kisses you like he means to devour you whole.

You bite back a sob, but the hiccuped noise of it catches his attention nonetheless. He breaks from you, looking down at you with a feverish mix of yearning, impatience and something that almost resembles pity, which might be the closest thing he knows to sympathy.

“Hey,” he coos, dusting your jaw with feather light kisses. “Don’t cry.”

“It’s awful,” you choke out.

“What is?”

“Your love.”

“I know,” he says after a prolonged pause. “It’s all I know.”

You look at him, the image of him bleary through your tears. There’s a morose resignation in his ocean-storm eyes, a distance that makes him seem far, far away from you, even as you taste the heat of his breath on your lips.

Focus returns to his gaze, and suddenly he’s present again. “It’s all I know,” he says again, his tone made of wood, stiff and splintering.

Swallowing the lump in your throat, you lift your palm to his cheek, hovering just shy of touching. He’s pulled to it like a magnet, nuzzling into your palm, eyes closing. His hand slides down the familiar slopes of your body, settling at your hip, where his fingertips sink in like claws, the pressure of them shy. For as vicious as things have gotten between you, he’s never hurt you. A fact he lords over you as if he should be applauded for it.

I love you more than anything. You know that, right? That I would never do anything to hurt you? He’d asked you during that first fight. When everything went wrong. 

You’d only been able to nod then, trapped with a man you didn’t recognize wearing the face of the man you loved.

That’s right. Of course you do. Because if I wanted to hurt you, I would have. It would have been easy, huh?

Despite how desperately you’ve tried to fortify yourself against him, it’s still so easy.

Homelander is an aberration, but so too is he a man, and there was a time when the man was all that you saw. When the monster at the core of him reared its head, bloody and unrepentant, that became all you could see in him. Now, the two are so irrevocably tangled in the sinew of the other, you’re never sure which you’re looking at.

“I miss you,” you confess to the man in him, voice so soft only his ears possibly could have discerned the words. As if you can hide the words from the monster lurking behind if you speak them quietly enough. 

He looks as confused as your own aching heart. “I’m here,” he says, everything in his tone willing you to believe it. He doesn’t understand that you miss who he was before you knew what he was.

A mournful noise swells in your chest, but he kisses you before it can escape. “I’m here,” he says again, the hand at your hip turning into a fist in the fabric of your clothes, tearing them at the seams. “I’ll make you feel better,” he says between presses of his lips, hungry and rushing, like he can outspeed your miserable grief. “Let me make you feel good.”

Sex has always been an avenue of redemption for Homelander. Whether he’s frustrated, anxious, wounded or a combination of them all, he’s sought to remedy it through a good orgasm. He treats you as though the notion should hold true for you: the fight doesn’t count so long as he makes you come.

Yet again, you’re left stricken by him. As you have a dozen times before, all you can do is nod. Deep in your core, you know he’s right. He can make you forget this horrible ache in yourself, the grief and the fear. He can take you away to the dream you’d lived before you met the beast in his shadow. 

Coherent thought turns to water slipping between the cracks of your mind as Homelander’s bare fingers brush your inner thigh. You suck in a sharp breath that leaves you as a shudder and you clutch at his collar, twisting the fabric, unsure if you mean to push him away or pull him closer.

Homelander makes the choice for you, closing the distance and kissing you too gently, too sweetly. You spur him with your teeth, needing it faster, harder. Needing it to hurt just enough to not feel entirely right. He ignores your prompt, focused wholly on tasting you, on sliding his fingers up into the waiting warmth between your thighs. He presses the pad of his middle finger to your clit, deft and familiar.

You sigh, closing your eyes, ready to lose yourself to the feel of something good. He slides serpentine down your body, kissing you through your shirt, nipping at your skin through the fabric for the way it makes you jump. His lips trail down until they pass the hem of your shirt, finding where he’s stripped you. His mouth is unbearably warm, breath hot huffs on your bare skin, goosebumps erupting everywhere.

He mouths at your hip, sucks the skin dark before trailing further down, leaving a constellation with his lips. The scorching wet heat of his tongue feels like a brand on your clit, replacing his hand with his mouth. 

You thread your fingers into his hair, widening the spread of your legs to allow for the way he shoulders under and between them, lifting your lower half. He nuzzles into the nectary sweetness of you, moaning unabashedly for your familiar taste.

What do I taste like? You asked him once, drunk on pleasure and those early honeymoon days of loving him. Everything about him fascinated you; did his super smell lend itself to super taste? Could he pick out each note of you, dissect your profile into sections?

He’d been slow to answer, thinking it over.

Love, he said at last. Like you love me.

You wonder if that holds true. If he can still taste love in you, if that’s why he’s so eager to devour you, or if the absence of it has made him even hungrier. If he plunges his tongue to the core of you in the hopes he might discover lingering shreds of what the two of you once had.

A moan escapes you. His fingers bite into your thighs, tongue coaxing more. Restraint dissipating, you tighten your grip on his hair and tug, grinding hard against his mouth. He knows the stepping stones of your pleasure as well as you know yourself, knowing just when to suck, when to lick. He’s more relentless than any other man could hope to be, never needing to stop for breath, never succumbing to aching muscles. He maintains a pace that sends you careening so viciously towards release, you give a choking gasp when it hits you, your head thrown back against the couch as euphoric relief rolls through you in waves.

Homelander shrugs out from under your trembling thighs, his mouth slick and shining, eyes predator wide. You’re both panting, silently gauging the other. You’re first to break the standoff, his hunger infectious. You climb onto your knees and grab his shoulders, pushing his back to the couch, straddling him. He keens when you kiss him, an addictive sound that gives you a deceptive sense of power.

He murmurs your name in fervent repetition, dragging his mouth along your skin, inhaling you like a drug. You unbuckle his belt with the ease of experience, unzip his pants and slip your hand inside. Curling your fingers around his cock, you find it already hard and dripping in anticipation.

“Anything you want,” he breathes, the words coming between the prayer-like recitation of your name. “Money, diamonds, anything, I’ll make you a queen,” he says, eyelids fluttering at your touch. He pledges these things like an act of devotion, but you recognize this Faustian bargain for what it is. It will cost you your heart and soul.

“I’ll make you a god,” he moans at a particularly deft twist of your wrist.

Making you come will have to be enough for now.

“Fuck me,” you tell him breathlessly. “The way I like it.”

Like flipping a switch, the dazed pleasure in his eyes sharpens. The corners of his mouth tug, his upper lip twitches, eager tension slipping into his touch as his hands slide up your thighs, grasping your hips. His fingers sink in tight enough to bruise, despite the gentleness of his touch. The immeasurable power lurking within his unassuming frame is a novelty that never wears off, a thrill that shocks you to your core no matter how many times you experience it.

Like a vicious storm, he’s beautiful and terrible in equal measure. Caught in the eye of his maelstrom, the only thing left for you to do is weather him.

He guides you down onto his cock in one slow, agonizing pull. Even with his spit and your orgasm easing the way, it’s too much all at once. Relishing the aching burn of being split apart by him, you make a noise that gives him pause. You don’t let him stop. You brace your hands on his shoulders and lift off of him almost entirely before sinking back down deeper than you had before, wringing a moan from him in turn.

Homelander’s fingers dig securely into your back as your bodies slot together and find an old, familiar rhythm. By now he knows exactly the angle to take to best pleasure you. You let out a shaky sigh at the warmth that spreads through you, the pressure of your climax building, his heat sinking into you like the light of the sun itself.

You’re used to a god.

You cup his face and kiss him. You bite his lip until you should taste blood. You dig your nails into his skin so hard your knuckles ache. If he notices it, he’s only pleased by it.

“I’d move heaven and hell for you,” he swears between kisses, ripping the shirt from your body. The cool air hits your damp, hot skin like a shock. 

“I don’t want them,” you say, voice catching on one of his sharp and sudden thrusts. He’s close. You can feel it in the tightness of his muscles, in the erratic, merciless way he drives into you.

“Doesn’t matter,” he says, voice reedy, tight. He kisses down your chest, scrapes his teeth over the swell of your breasts. “They’re yours. It’s all yours. I’m yours.”

Those words should hit you like a prison sentence, but they don’t.

They make you come.

Homelander holds you tightly as he, too, breaks into pieces, filling you with light and heat. He chokes more promises against your skin, kisses the salt from your skin and licks it greedily from his lips. You spin in place in his arms, dizzy on your own orgasm, riding out the aftershocks with his cock throbbing against the quiver of your cunt.

For a long while there’s nothing but the sound of your breaths and the distant din of the television. The tremors wracking your body gradually fade, and the chill of the open air begins to set in.

Homelander holds you tight as the sweat on your skin cools. He kisses a trail from your neck to your shoulder, nuzzling there before he rests his head down, face tucked into the crook of your neck. You feel wrung dry, eyelids heavy. You card your fingers absently through his hair, body boneless against his. Your eyes ache from crying, but you don’t mind it. Strung out like this, the aches left in the wake of pain and pleasure both feel equally good.

“It’s late,” he says warmly, a smile in his tone. He sounds lovesick, the way you both did once upon a time. Back then, you thought you knew every dark corner of his insatiable heart. “We should sleep.”

“Okay,” you agree, voice frayed. He lifts you gingerly from his lap, adjusting to cradle your naked body to his chest. Despite how Homelander unspools himself before you, you’re always the one left reduced. Bare and vulnerable both physically and emotionally. You slip your arms around his neck as he stands, resting your head on his shoulder.

“I could take you to the tower,” he whispers, sending a chill down your spine. “My bed’s bigger.”

“No,” you say, remembering a door you cannot reach, no matter how many times you grasp for it, and the god’s hands that sent you spinning. He’s already so capable of turning your home into a prison. You’re not sure you’d ever escape his penthouse. “I want mine.”

Perhaps the most terrible fact of all is that Homelander is neither a god nor a monster. 

He is simply a man without limitation.

“Sure,” he says, kissing your cheek. The touch lingers, dripping with his adoration. “Anything you want.”

So long as it includes him.

[muqingslover]

This question is related to the last ask you posted, but what do you think the lads men most unexpected/unconventional turn-on would be?

Your depiction of Zayne got me thinking, what is that shy man gonna do if mc finds his "weak" spot lol. Cuz yeah, obviously he'd be turned on about his beloved sending him risky pictures BUT the moment mc realises one of his unexpected turn ons that maybe he himself wasn't even aware of? Oh lawd.

[ this one had me thinking for days oh my goodness! Just a heads up, I got carried away with some of these...very carried away.....shhh. ]

Your lips.

Alright, alright, i know it sounds confusing but stick with me here.

I've thrown some of my takes on his kinks around but I didn't want to repeat myself so I spent some time stewing over this.

Eventually I landed on the idea that Zayne would be very particular about sharing anything that touched your lips, especially before an official relationship.

Drinking from the same straw, sharing the same spoon, tasting something you already bit into it— It's an instant way of getting his poor mind to go into overdrive.

He is a very proper and respectful man. He doesn't like to have indecent thoughts about you, but the idea that his lips touched something yours did as well make him all tingly and shy.

Massages.

He loooooves the feeling of your weight pressing down on his hips when you straddle him, though that's not even the tip of the iceberg as to why he is so into this.

Your hands are truly magical when it comes to getting rid of the few knots on his body and the further he relaxes, the further Xavier begins to grow more aware of you.

The comforting weight is slowly causing him to grind against the mattress under him each time you shifted on top of him and the way your hands make their way down his bare spine has him biting the pillow sheets.

Not to mention that the minute your fingernails scratch his scalp in an otherwise affectionate gesture he nearly cums in his pants.

His ears and neck feel so hot he decides to bury his face in the pillow to keep you from noticing.

He would either flip the tables on you at some point or (try to) go to sleep in hope everything would be fine once he wakes up again.

Gentleness.

That's right. You heard me. This man will crumble at your feet every time you care for him like he's a pretty princess.

I'm not necessarily talking about grand gestures. Simple and natural ones are the most effective. The type that you wouldn't even notice you are doing it.

Slow caresses on his shoulder or hands, checking to see if he's alright while cradling his face, patiently explaining something to him, wiping his face if there was something on it, running your fingers through his hair... ECT.

He has a distinct memory of you being so worried about him when he scrapped his hand during his daily troubles— It was no different than a paper cut to him, but the blood made it seem worse than it actually was and that caused you to immediately fuss.

He watched with such genuine adoration as you tended to his wounds; Your furrowed eyebrows as you focused, the soft concern in your voice when you asked if the disinfectant stung and how could Sylus not pretend that it hurt? Just a little bit. Just enough to hear more of your encouragement that it was almost done and he was doing well.

Trust me, it will lead to him kissing you without warning, seemingly out of nowhere, once it's done and prepare yourself for the best night ever.

(I cut this short like four times and still ended up being long....oh well.)

Helping him with his clothes.

Each time you fix his crooked, poorly tied necktie (which he absolutely hates to wear) or straighten up his collar for him Rafayel is fighting back demons.

This also applies to you helping him actually dress up (or undress) and picking out his outfits without him having to ask.

The sight of you standing in front of him, hands swiftly buttoning up his shirt, has him weak in the knees. It makes him feel as you're truly his partner. That this is the married life the two of you deserved to have eons ago.

Speaking of undressing, this naughty fish will absolutely tease you about unbuckling his belt.

He would take a seat on a nearby chair with a dramatic sigh before he asked for you to help him with his clothes because he was oh so very tired to do it himself.

He leans back against the chair as if it was his own personal throne, knees slack as he spread comfortably and tilts his head to the side to rest it on his hand.

"I have an early morning tomorrow, you know. Won't you finish helping me so we can head to bed?" It sounds innocent enough, rather playful even, but the expression on his face is anything but. Just look at the volume on his pants, he ain't fooling anybody.

Hearing his own name + Whispering.

Last but most definitely not least, everyone's favorite boy.

It doesn't matter what's happening the second you say his name his full attention is on you. It's like a very well trained dog.

He can tell what you're feeling, sometimes even thinking, based on the way you call him alone. It comes with the years of experience of being your best friend.

It however also comes with the perpetual problem that his body reacts so well to your voice that it ends up being a little *too* well.

You may be in the middle of an argument yet the moment you say his name Caleb would be fighting back a boner. upcoming fic sneakpeek—i mean what

Another odd turn on of his is when you whisper something in his ear.

It doesn't really matter what you're saying. The sound of your voice so close to him and the way he can feel your warm breath tickling his skin is enough to have this man crossing his legs and praying his bulge is subtle.

You can imagine the nightmare this was during teen years when the two of you would sneak around grandma's house.

[dabisqueen]

Pornstar!Dabi (Touya Todoroki) x female reader

⇢ word count: roughly 7K

⇢ plot: as a broke student, you sign up for an assistant job at a movie set. It turns out the job is more than you bargained for.

⇢ warnings: 18+, minors DNI, swearing, size kink, pierced big-cock Touya, fingering, cunnilingus (f receiving), multiple orgasms, loss of virginity, overstimulation, exhibitionism (sex in front of other people (movie set)), creampie, sweet aftercare

⇢ personal note: thank you @/blankexpressions-and-falsefires for bring my beta again! As for what you're all about to read – I have no regrets. Virgin kink goes brrr

"College has always been so crucial, such an essential part of what measures a person’s worth and determines their future."

They say college life is quite challenging. That it can help you come to realize your potential, that you learn more about yourself while in it. That the challenges you experience in university help you grow into a mature person in society.

You have several challenges to face. There's the problem that you focus entirely too much on your studies. In some ways, it’s to secure your future and to compensate for your lack of private life. In other ways, it makes you, because of inexperience, too naive for your own good. Or, as your friends have called it: too innocent. You've never had anyone touch you, never been with anyone in that way. Thus, you never get the hint when someone hits on you or finds you attractive. You have excellent grades – but unlike many of your peers, you’re still a virgin. 

Another challenge you are facing is that you aren't wealthy. One semester into your studies, you are closer to the end than you expected. Leaving your landlord's buro, you take a few steps before coming to a halt and close your eyes as if to gain some semblance of composure. You're broke and desperately need money to cover your rent and living expenses. The bank isn't going to give you another loan, and you find yourself on the verge of having to leave college without a family to support your education.

They say you have to fail first to be successful in the future. But you are beyond failing – you are simply screwed. 

You are very aware of your financial predicament. And you loathe having to live day to day on just pennies. To put it short—you are sick of being a broke-ass, loser virgin.

You sigh. 

Giving up is not a choice. So you do the next best thing: grab life by the horns and start looking for a job. Searching under your bed, clothing pockets, and between couch cushions, you scrounge up enough money to get a local newspaper. In its classified ads, only a few offers deem themselves feasible with your busy school schedule: a late-night shift at a local diner, pizza delivery, or a job doing telemarketing. None of those sound too appealing, but there might not be a choice. Then, your gaze stops at an offer that sounds too good. A movie company is looking for a production assistant on a film set; you don't need prior experience, work hours are during the weekends, and pay is double what the other jobs offer.

You don’t think before hastily grabbing your phone, punching in the number, and waiting while the dial tone rings.

After a distinct click over the other line, a man hisses, "Shimura?"

"Uhm, hi. I- I am calling about the assistant job offer. I was wondering—"

"You're hired. Tomorrow at 5 pm," the man at the other end interrupts in an annoyed tone.

He rattles off the address as you fumble around for a pen, hastily writing it down when you find it.

Before you can reply, he finishes with Don't be late and hangs up unceremoniously.

You exhale, realizing you’ve been holding your breath since he started speaking.

What the hell just happened? 

***

The path to the location is littered with brown leaves, and you struggle to keep from slipping as you walk toward the building. The address given to you is an old warehouse on the edge of town. Its monotonous, featureless walls covered in graffiti make it feel abandoned. There are no visible signs that anything is happening inside at all.

As you walk across the parking lot, you start to see small indications of life: fancy cars—far too fancy for this area- and sensual music permeating through the corrugated steel walls. 

You weren’t sure how to dress for a job you knew nothing about, so you opted for blue jeans, a white blouse, and pointy shoes with heels. Your hair is tied into a neat ponytail, and simple smokey eyes complete the look. 

You aim for a large steel door that the cars are all parked close to. As you lift your head, you take in the old brick building you are standing in front of, lined with large casement metal windows. 

There is a single doorbell, no name on it, and you hesitate before inhaling and pressing it with the tip of your finger.

You hear a clicking sound, and then the heavy door swings inwards. 

Alright, here goes nothing.

***

The set is surprisingly professional—like a luxurious bedroom sliced in half. A row of chairs faces the set on a concrete floor behind multiple cameras and some sound equipment, with the crew standing around talking.

The producer, Tenko, as he introduces himself to you–with tufts of pale hair and seemingly chronic dry lips in dire need of some chapstick – explains that your job will consist of helping around the set, distributing beverages, and handing out the script. Simple work you could do. After introducing you to the crew, he hands you a stack of papers, instructing you to pass them out.

Then you see her—the actress. She is gorgeous, dressed in an ivory-colored silk robe. Her hair is the color of the sun. Her skin is flawless and tanned, and her body is perfect- although almost definitely sculpted by a professional surgeon.

"Where the fuck is he?" You hear Tenko grumble, pulling a phone from his pocket, thumb tapping against the screen.

A flurry of activity breaks your concentration. A door flies open, and a man strides through—the leading actor, you gather, from how everyone else suddenly perks up.

"Fucking finally," the pale-haired director groans, tucking his cell back into the pocket of his jacket.

The man's hair is coal-colored, falling in messy strands into his face. His eyes remind you of the bright ocean, almost glowing in the dim light of the set. His sharp lips pull into a wide grin, his canines peeking out. He is casually dressed, wearing a pair of dark, ripped jeans and a white t-shirt, allowing you to notice just how well-toned his arms are. He is handsome, with delicate yet masculine features and sharp angles set in his face. His eyes are heavy-lidded, and his thin lips form a troublesome grin when his eyes meet yours. 

Shit. 

He holds your gaze before dragging his sinfully blue eyes over your figure and looking away again. Your heart skips a beat because even in the low light, you can see that the actor is incredibly hot. Totally your type. You can't help but stare at him, watching how he moves, the way his muscles ripple under the thin fabric of his shirt, the way his thighs bulge in his tight pants. 

Speaking of bulge. 

It's the biggest one you've ever seen, and the sight of it sends a pang straight to your core. Your cheeks heat up automatically. 

Stop it!

You curse inwardly a few times for thinking lewd thoughts on a professional movie set.

But—you can't help it. He just looks too handsome. It stirs something inside of you you've never felt before. You sigh, knowing that this man has already made his way into your dreams, but in the end, they’ll stay just that— dreams. 

Someone like him would never want to lay a hand on you.

As he approaches the stage, the man stops dead in his tracks, staring at the actress with a bored expression. 

“Not her again.” You hear him groan.

The actress snaps her head around, a stunned expression on her face. “Pardon me?”

"The script calls for an innocent girl." The actor deadpans. "No one's gonna believe that with you in the female role."

The actress jumps to her feet. “How dare you talk about me like that!”

Tenko hisses, “Didn't you read the script? You would have known you film with her today, Touya—"

“I told you not to use my real name on set,” he says with a blase, somewhat impatient gaze.

“And I told you not to let out your frustration on the set, Dabi.” The director retorts.

“Frustration caused by your actions.” Dabi deadpans.

You hold your breath as your eyes dart from the director to Dabi and back to the actress. The rest of the crew acts like this is an everyday commotion on the set. 

“This is not a request— I'm not doing the scene with her, " Dabi says, crossing his arms in front of his chest.

The actress jumps from her chair, visibly outraged, as her cheeks flare red with anger. “You're such a dick!”

“Yeah, you're right. But I’m the best dick in the industry.” He turns around, a sardonic finality in his tone.

You stare at the scene before you, the forgotten papers clutched tightly to your chest. The blonde woman stares at the dark-haired man, infuriated. 

“So, it's either me—or her.” Dabi addresses Tenko, who isn't even trying to de-escalate the situation. “That's my final say.”

“I can't believe you're doing this to me!" The woman wails exaggeratedly.

"Sweetheart, we need someone who conveys innocence. Not some chick as fake-looking as you," Dabi purrs with false care. “Go carry your plastic off the stage already.”

Tenko scratches his neck in annoyance. He watches as the actress slings an array of profanities at Dabi before storming off with quick strides toward the door, slamming it shut behind her.

The dark-haired man stands at ease, reaching into his pants pocket to retrieve a cigarette, lighting it, and taking a deep drag. “Thank god she's gone. What were you thinking, Tenko?”

“Dabi, she's the most requested—” 

“I don't give a fuck.” he runs a free hand through his dark bangs. “She sucks.”

You listen to them bicker, getting more confused by the second. 

“So—what do you expect me to do now?” Tenko's scratching increases as he starts pacing up and down the set. “Production costs will double if we cut and pick things up on a different day. Not to mention the cost of finding a new replacement.”

He jumps off his chair, pacing around the set. Then he grumbles, “We’ll take a ten-minute break. I need to come up with a solution or else—”

“We need someone Pretty, no makeup, normal clothes.” Dabi suggests, "That won't be too expensive. Someone who looks undefiled, innocent.” Dabi's gaze wanders across the room. “Like a student or something.”

Then he sees you, and a smirk tugs at his lips. His stunning sapphire eyes look you up and down. You swallow hard, your shaking hands almost crumpling the papers in their tight grip.

"Like her." Teal eyes narrow as they focus on you. 

You blink back at him dumbly, the room around you completely silent.

"Me?" You answer, his words catching you off guard.

"Yep. You." Dabi's smirk returns, a playfulness in his eyes. 

The director stares at you with the same baffled expression written on your face. "Her?"

"Yep. Her." His grin widens.

"B-But, I can't!" You counter. " I'm a simple student, not an actress—"

"That's exactly what we need." The twinkle in his eyes is still there, "And you have a pussy, don't you?"

"Yes, I—” You catch yourself, your cheeks flaring hot. “W- What does that even have to do with this movie?"

Suddenly, the room goes alive with murmurs and whispers.

Dabi quirks a brow. "You're telling me you don't know?"

"Don't know what?" You helplessly look around.

The dark-haired man turns to his director, "You didn't tell her?!"

Tenko mumbles something about how you would have found out eventually. 

Dabi steps toward you and crosses his arms in front of his chest. "Doll, this is an adult film set."

"A what?" You dumbly blink at him.

"An adult film set. You know, where people fuck." He leans forward, deep azures sparkling salaciously. "You know how fucking works, don't you?"

"Yes, I mean—in theory?" A heat washes over your face and flushes down your entire body.

"Yes or no. What is it?" Dabi asks teasingly, raising an eyebrow.

The heat in your face has reached the tip of your ears as you stammer. "It's none of your business."

He steps even closer. "C’mon, sweetheart, tell us."

He smirks, eyes narrowing as he leans closer. He looks at your lips, then back at your eyes. You can smell him with how close he is leaning in. His deep, masculine scent surrounds you, sending a jolt of heat straight through your core. Even though your mind wants to scream at him, to tell him off, you hear a timid voice whisper, "I’ve used my fingers? Maybe some toys?"

It is your voice.

"You're telling me you've never done it with another person?" This time, it is Dabi’s turn to sound baffled as he leans back, taking you in. "That you're a virgin."

"I-I…" You stammer, swallowing dryly.

Looking over his shoulders, he calls over to his director, "It'll break records if we film this. You're aware of that, right?"

"I am." Tenko snaps, scratching at his neck irritably, "You don't need to tell me."

"Ok, then it's a deal.” He nods towards you. “I want her—or I'm leaving."

"You little piece of—" Tenko growls. "That's extortion."

"You won't regret it," Dabi says, shrugging nonchalantly.

"Shouldn’t I have a say on this too?" You ask, but both men ignore your words.

"Ok, it's a deal," Tenko murmurs. "How much do we pay her?"

Dabi turns his gaze back to you. "You need money, right? Or else you wouldn't be here.”

"That’s none of your business."

"C'mon, sweetheart, This is your chance."

“Yes, I mean… " a sound of annoyance bubbles up your throat. "I can't afford my rent anymore, and my landlord will kick me out if I don't pay up soon."

“I sense an opportunity here," Dabi smirks. "Tenko, how much will you pay her if she agrees to do this with me?"

"How much do you want?" Tenko asks you.

“I-I don't know. I've never thought about it." You shyly add.

"Pay her rent plus an allowance," Dabi suggests. "Tenko, you know she's worth it."

"That’s too m—" You swallow hard.

Tenko mumbles disgruntledly: "OK, I'll do it.” 

“You what?" His words leave you stunned.

Dabi interrupts quickly. "What he's saying, sweetheart, is that he'll pay for your rent - if you let me fuck you.”

His lewd words and the deep blue pools of his stunning eyes send a flutter through your stomach. 

“In front of all these people?!" 

“That's what porn is all about, doll.” Dabi chuckles, studying your reaction.

You swallow hard.

"So? What's it gonna be?" He cocks his head, waiting. 

You have always prioritized safety, so common sense tells you to stick to your usual way of life. However, look where common sense has led you: You're almost broke and may need to drop out of college. 

This could be a bad decision. But, it's time to throw safety to the sea.

"OK, I'll do it," you proclaim, and a round of applause and cheers erupt on the set while Dabi nods appreciatively.

“Congratulations, you're hired. Now, get ready before I change my mind.” Tenko waves a hand. “We still have a movie to film here.”

Your heart starts to race, a crushing weight bearing down on your chest. But you know that you have no choice. It's either a free porn loan—or being a forced college dropout. Taking a deep breath, you ball your hands into fists, trying to ignore the signs of panic your body is giving you.

"Okay, everyone, resume positions. And hand her the script.” Tenko moves to his chair, sitting down in it. “Let's do the first take." 

"Hold on," Dabi says. "Why not do it a bit differently this time? No script, no acting— just raw footage. The whole thing.”

“You mean a one-shot film?” Tenko looks surprised. “I suppose that would work. Especially with a new actress.”

“Are you okay with that, doll?” Dabi smiles at you, and there's a warmth in his voice that wasn't there before.

“Do I have a choice?” you sigh.

“Not really.” He winks.

"Are you two lovebirds done flirting over there? " Tenko asks, " Because we're ready to film.”

“We weren't flir—” you protest, but Dabi bridges the distance between you.

"So, sweetheart?" He leans in, his face hovering close, sharing a breath with you. "How are you feeling about being fucked on camera?"

“Nervous.” you bite your lips, your face starting to burn.

"Doll, don't be; just focus on me," he soothes, stroking your cheek. “Forget about everyone else; I'll take care of you.”

He takes your hand and pulls you towards the bedroom set.

“Quiet!” Tenko raises a hand, and complete silence falls over the set as the crew prepares to film you both. 

Tenko calls out a set of commands, which different crew members around the room answer.

“Sound?”

“Set.”

“Camera?”

“Set.”

“Roll sound.”

“Sound rolling.”

“Roll camera.” 

“Camera Speed.” 

“Marker.”

A man with a clapper board enters the scene and calls, "Scene one. Take—uhm— whatever." 

Dabi nods, and that is the cue. The lights dim, and the cameras vanish into the darkness; only the red lights betray their existence. 

You glance around, your stomach in knots, as you realize that this is no game, that this is it. The only thing visibly lit was the bed standing a few feet away. The crew's faces are barely visible as everyone watches you, the man behind the camera tilting it, filming you from bottom to top.

“Hey baby, you alright?” You hear Dabi's voice.

“N-No, not really.” You stammer, your hands trembling, your breathing picking up, as your eyes frantically dart around the dark set. “I don't know if I can do this.”

“Sweetheart, look at me.” You feel a finger hook under your chin when Dabi tilts your head to meet his gaze. It's intense, the turquoise of his irises gleaming almost unnaturally. 

You feel your heart sink into your stomach as his thumb caresses your skin. When he closes the already minimal distance between you, your eyes flutter close in reflex. His lips are sensually warm and addicting against your cheek, and your heart starts thrashing wildly inside your chest in response. Something changes between you, an intimacy blooming as the voices of the people mute.

It's all you need to distract your mind, to make your body heat up. Not with anxiety—

—but in anticipation. 

“Are you ready to give me your virginity?” His low voice rumbles close to your ear.

You nod, like in a haze, every caress of his lips causes your skin to tingle, to burn with passion. He shifts, and you feel him faintly brush your lips, and a zap of electricity courses through your veins. Then, your lips are united in his first tentative kiss. They are so soft, and the way he kisses you is so delicate, almost tender— deliberately slow.

You relax, giving in to how wonderful this feels. His tongue slowly traces the shape of your lips, and you feel your brain short-circuiting. Angling your head to the side, you part your lips, begging him to enter. Dabi reacts instantly, his tongue slipping your mouth, delving deeper, tasting you, consuming you.

You groan—how could a man taste so good?

It makes your knees buckle, and you start panting into his mouth, your instincts taking over, your body reacting to his touch. A desire, a passion, awakens like a wild animal roaring, and you feel a wave of arousal pool in your panties. You can't help it, and you slide your hand underneath his shirt, your other hand circling his neck. You can feel him smirking into the kiss, but the sound carries off into a groan when you rake your nails down the small of his back. 

As he breaks away, a warmth lingers between you and him while he admires your wet, pink, swollen lips, "A little eager for your first time, huh?"

The kiss leaves you dizzy, and you can't seem to form an answer, too stricken by his closeness and intoxicating scent.

The moment passes, and then his lips smash against yours so fast you don't even have time to react. He presses his hips against yours, his clothed hardness grazing against your heat, letting you feel just how hard you’ve made him.

Holy shit.

He's not gentle anymore; he's rough and demanding now. He is taking you, enjoying the shaky gasps that leave your lips. Dabi’s hands trail down your side to find your ass cheeks. He lifts you by the thighs onto his waist skillfully, never breaking the kiss. Carrying you easily toward the bed he releases his hold and you topple onto it, panting heavily.

The lights around you heat the air, and you notice one camera panning across the set while the other tracks toward you on a dolly. Just as your heart starts picking up an anxious speed again, you see a movement to the side. Dabi yanks his shirt above his head, the muscles in his stomach flexing with every movement.

The second the fabric touches the floor, he's on you with his lips pressed to yours and his tongue in your mouth. You feel yourself getting lost in the moment of passion and all you can see is him. Your stomach somersaults and the world around you ceases to exist; it is just you and him— the people around you and the cameras wholly forgotten. The world, right now, only revolves around the two of you.

“You taste so fucking good,” he breathes into your mouth, hazy eyes glowing with arousal. "How do you taste so fucking good?”

You feel his hand sneak underneath your shirt to slowly pull it off over your head. Next, he skillfully removes the rest of your clothes off until you are lying below him, sex and breasts cupped by delicate cotton underwear. 

“Look at that,” he muses. “So innocent.”

Sliding his hand behind your back, he unhooks the bra with an expert pinch of his fingers. Your breasts spill out as he slides the straps off your shoulders, tossing it aside. Then his gaze lingers on your soft, round tits.

“Damn,” he cups them and squeezes them gently, “Where have you been hiding, girl? You're perfect.”

He slides his fingers over your nipples and a low moan tears from your throat. Dabi lets out a low rumble as his hands continue to work your breasts, rubbing and plucking at your stiffening nipples. There’s a deep throb low in your body, pulsing between your thighs, and you're startled at the way you’re reacting. You are so turned on—his touch only adds to your body’s cravings, and as his large palms glide over your breasts; it pulls the breath from your lungs as it simultaneously fuels your desire. His thumbs drag over your nipples again, rolling it between his fingers before leaning down to lick at your pebbled nub. He makes you feel breathless with excitement the more he focuses on toying with your breasts, rolling the tips back and forth between his thumb and forefinger. 

It makes you crazy with need until you're aching, shivering throughout your entire body. You're gasping for breath the entire time Dabi has his lips wrapped around your erect nub, sucking it to send a tingling sensation straight through to your core. Then he's biting just hard enough to make you squeal before soothing the puckered nub with a flick of his tongue.

“You’ve got the most amazing tits,’ Dabi murmurs against your skin. “So soft and full. So natural.”

While he switches from pliant nipple to pliant nipple, you feel a stray hand hook its fingers under the seams of your panties. He releases your nipple with a pop and peppers kisses down to your tummy while he adeptly pulls the little piece of fabric down and off your legs. You're now utterly naked below him while Dabi continues revering your body with wet kisses and nibbles, moving downward until you feel his warm breath on your pubic mound. He spreads your trembling legs, his eyes glazing over your pussy, pupils expanding and then retracting into pin slits.

"Look at that pretty pussy." His breath is hot against your soaked folds. "And so fucking wet—you're dripping."

A shameful sound spills from your lips at his words, and you writhe in his hold. But his hands keep you in place. 

"You're seriously telling me,” he slides his fingers up and down your glistening folds, “No one's been here before?"

You squirm below him as a camera zooms in on where Dabi’s eyes are affixed– between your thighs.

“Cause you have the prettiest pussy I've ever seen.” He snickers. “And I've seen a lot.” 

His warm, calloused fingers slide up and down your slippery folds, his hot breath fanning over your sex. Then he spreads apart your sweet lips; it makes you shudder in anticipation, and Dabi chuckles.

“I can see you twitching for me.” A finger sinks in, making you arch your back the deeper it goes. 

The camera behind him zooms in on your blushing face, and you cover it with trembling hands. 

"Nu-uh, no hiding. Look at me." He slaps your clit lightly—making you jolt. "Let us see your pretty face."

You whimper softly, because you've touched yourself before—

—but this just feels so much more intense.

“Dabi—” you choke out, flinching in pleasure when he slides a hand underneath your ass, 

raising your hips to have more access to you. 

“Relax, baby, I'll take care of you.” A growl tears from his throat, and then he drags his tongue over your gleaming folds, tasting you. 

You cry out, your body shuddering. Over and over, Dabi licks you with deep, claiming strokes, using his tongue to explore every bit of you. 

“Damn, you taste better than anything I've ever tasted.” He pushes his wet muscle into your core, frantic to have more of you. 

“Oh my God. Dabi!” Your toes curl, and your thighs tighten around him. You're both – startled and aroused at his eagerness. Any worries you have are melting away as he drags his tongue over you again and again, making you squirm with need.

A moan escapes your lips– loud, uncontrolled– when his tongue flicks over your folds. When he grazes your little button, you jolt as if you've been stung. 

He hums appreciatively and buries his face into your warmth, seeking out that sweet nub. Your body jerks as he moves his tongue over it, repeating the action when he does it again. You give a little wail, and your hands curl into the fabric the longer he teases. He eagerly works that spot, and you cry out with little choked gasps.

As his tongue circles your clitoris, your sensations spiral out of control. You can feel the tension increasing in your body with a growing urgency to be released. 

“Dabi,” you pant with every flick of his tongue. But he doesn't respond, does not hear– or pretends not to. He buries his face in your folds, hands holding you down by your hips.

With every quiver that moves through your body, with every shiver of response, every tensing of your muscles, you draw closer to the edge.

You writhe against Dabi, with his face between your thighs, lapping at your juices. All the while, he continues to work your little clit with his tongue in slow, steady strokes. 

Suddenly, the feeling that you’re about to cum overwhelms you. Your pussy clenches, dripping with your juices, and your clit is ready to burst.  

Your hips jerk against him, and then a release explodes in your mind, your thoughts crashing all around you. You come with a slight scream that morphs into a moan, but Dabi does not stop his ministrations—

—no.

He continues to lick and suck as you come and come and come.

It's too much; you feel like exploding. You’re a moaning mess, fingers slipping between Dabi’s strands, pushing and pulling at his roots unsure if you can take it if he keeps going like that. 

Your entire body is on fire. The orgasm continues to surge through you– more intense than anything you’ve experienced by yourself– with Dabi gently sucking and licking at your clit. You are delirious, feel like you are floating with no way to find your path back to earth. 

“Dabi, please—” you choke out.

Dabi’s mouth detaches from your overstimulated nub and straightens up, licking your cum’s sweetness off his lips. Crawling on top of you, he gazes into your eyes. “Doll, tell me—what do you want me to do?”

You see his jeans straining from the bulk of his erection and swallow, your body responding with a flood of hormones. 

“Please fuck me,” you whisper, thinking in ways you never have before.

You want to beg him to be gentle, but you can’t seem to form the words when you see him unbuckle his belt before unzipping his jeans, his eyes carefully watching your expression as he does. His cock springs to life, and you swallow thickly. It's enormous—and pierced. 

You feel a momentary pang of doubt, questioning if that monster will even fit inside you. The previous excitement and adrenaline pumping through your veins gradually turn to panic. Your breathing picks up as you stare at his cock, wide-eyed. 

“You look worried,” Dabi says, stroking it with one hand. His raised eyebrows and amused grin tell you he's used to this type of reaction. 

“Are you sure…” you nod towards his cock.

“Trust me,” he says. “I’ll make sure you feel good. It’ll be the greatest thing you'll ever experience.”

Your entire body yearns for his touch, and there’s no way you're saying no now. He’s spreading you wide open, hands on your knees, before he moves to hold himself in hand to align his cock with your entrance.  

"Do you want me to fuck you?’ Dabi asks as he drags the head of the tip up and down your slit. 

“‘S not gonna fit,” you whine with a worried expression.

“Don't be scared,” Dabi says, "I know what I'm doing. So, you'll be a good girl and take it all, right?”

“I'm not sure,” you whisper.

“I know you can...” His eyes stare at you with a desire so intense that you almost feel intimidated. 

He’s spreading you wide open, hands on your knees, before he moves one to hold himself and align his cock to your entrance. The pressure between your legs increases as Dabi nudges the pierced tip of his cock against you.

“Get ready,” he whispers.

A mix of a gasp and a cry leaves your lips as Dabi strains against you, feeling like he’s trying to shove a massive pole inside of you. You squeeze your eyes shut as tears gather in your lashes, and Dabi holds back, kissing you, waiting for you to relax.

“Easy,” he says softly, “I’ve got you.” 

The softness of his tone relaxes you and the tension in your shoulders lessens. Then, somehow, something gives way, and he enters you. You gasp, your body opening up to accommodate the massive dick that is now sliding inside of you. 

"Oh my god—” You throw your head back, hands clawing at his shoulders in a weak attempt to push him away.

“Fuck, you’re so fucking tight,” he hisses, eyebrows furrowing before he hits resistance and then pushes forward.

There’s a sharp pain slicing through your core, and you don't know if it's from the stretch or a tear. Probably both. It hurts, and you squeeze your eyes shut, forcing tears down your cheek. Dabi continues to push his hips forward, only stopping once he’s entirely inside, heavy balls pressed against the crease of your ass. The cameras zoom in on the bulge in your womb, where his dick sits buried deep inside of you. But you don't notice them, your brain too consumed by him filling you up, his whole weight resting against you. 

“You ok?” Breathing heavily, he drags his eyes back and forth over your face. 

“Gimme a sec.” Your lips press into a thin line as the pain from the stretch slowly turns into a dull throb. After a moment, you nod...

"I'm gonna start moving now," Dabi says— and then does precisely that. 

Just as you start to feel your body relaxing, he withdraws, only to plunge himself in again. The sudden shock of the movement is incredible. You feel every ridge, every single thick vein. It feels fantastic, and as he slowly slides back in, you can appreciate every inch of his cock. He starts an even rhythm, rocking inside you gently. 

“Shit, just squeezed me so fucking tight,” he moans in response. "I’m warning you, don't make me lose my composure. You don’t want to see me act up.”

Your mind feels detached from your body; you don't hear him, don't even notice the camera zooming in, focusing on how your face scrunches and your lips quiver because of how good he makes you feel. 

He grabs you by the waist and brings you closer to him. Raising both legs in the air, he pushes them forward until your body is folded in half.

“Oh—shit—” You choke out, the walls of your sex stretching to accommodate him. 

“I’m gonna make you cum,” Dabi is panting hard as he starts driving his cock rapidly in and out of you. “You won't be able to walk for days.”

“I-I can’t—” your jaw slackens as you tighten around his dick again, the ability to form comprehensive answers having left you the moment he breached your walls.

He rams himself deeper while his fingers slip between your strands, guiding your face upward, your mouths colliding in a frantic kiss. 

It starts as a slow burn that gradually builds into a white, blistering heat. A feeling begins coursing through you, making you lose control of your body. You tense and arch your back, your head digging back into the pillow, voice caught in your throat. And just when you think you can't take it anymore, all that tension releases, and you cry out loud, a turbulent wave of pleasure hitting you like a storm. All your nerve endings are seemingly set ablaze while Dabi fucks you through your orgasm. 

His eyes are wide with wonder, hearing and feeling you come undone around him. The way your eyes are shut tightly in pleasure, your entire body trembling and shaking in ecstasy, is the best thing he's ever seen. It makes his chest swell with pride. Still, it feels like it's not enough, though, and he needs more. He wants to own you, possess you, make you his.

Dabi snaps. 

With a suppressed growl, Dabi grabs you by your hips and flips you over onto your stomach. He's not letting you catch your breath before he propels his cock back inside you again. His hand slides from the dip in your spine to the spot between your shoulder blades, pressing down until your face is buried in the sheets. At this angle, he reaches even deeper than before, his piercings rubbing your G-spot just right. Your hands tightly fist the soft duvet with every drive of his hips, knocking the air from your lungs.

Dabi seems delirious, pistoning in and out of you now. Reaching forward, he gathers your hair around his fist, tugging it to keep you in place, forcing your head up from the sheets. You sob out his name, your chin and cheeks covered with your drool and tears. 

But Dabi is drowning too deep in pleasure to notice. 

"I’m gonna fuck you so hard you’ll never think of anyone but me in your fantasies," Dabi growls while your elbows shake under the pressure of his forceful thrusts.

Slowly, your mind is falling apart with the pleasure pulsing through your body. Dabi starts drilling his big cock into your even faster now. You tremble below him, thighs quivering when you feel another orgasm building up. 

“You gonna cum for me again, princess?” Dabi groans, “I can feel your pussy clenching around me.”

You nod, too exhausted to form any words. Dabi tightens his hold on your hip, fingers digging into your plush skin, holding you still. 

“I’m gonna cum with you,” he tells you. “I’m gonna fill up your tight hole, gonna breed you so good—fuck!”

"Please—" you whimper pathetically, finding yourself trapped in his lewd promises. 

And then you lose it, feeling like the world is disappearing underneath your feet. Pleasure rips through you, leaving you with no strength. It’s an intense tingling pleasure that starts in your core and spreads through your whole body, from your fingertips down to your toes. It's all-consuming and euphoric, your body not knowing what to do with that much sensation at once. 

You feel your body falling off a cliff into a pile of tingling ecstasy as you cum again with a broken whimper escaping your lips. The orgasm is even more potent than the last ones, like a massive burst of pleasure; all that tension explodes and shoots up the back of your legs and everywhere else. You moan and shudder, your pussy clamping around his cock. 

“That’s it,” Dabi lets out a long, shuddering groan. “Just like that.”

You forget to breathe while Dabi keeps fucking your harder and harder, feral with desire, shoving his cock as deep inside you as he can.

“Oh fuck—” You gasp out, arching your back, fingers twisting against the sheets.

No sooner have the words slipped from your lips that you feel your whole body lock tight again—and then unravel. You forget to breathe as an unending cascade of euphoria detonates deep inside of you. You come undone, shaking uncontrollably as juices gush from your pussy, dripping down Dabis balls, drenching the sheets below. 

Dabi groans, his eyes screwing shut, head dropping back. With one final possessive thrust of his hips, he cums, shooting his seed deep inside you. You feel his cock twitch as he moans heavily, eyebrows sewn together. His body is shuddering, his hips hitching while he rides out his orgasm.

You’re faintly aware of your surroundings, buried too deeply in your bliss. Unable to take any more pleasure, you slump backward. Dabi slides his softening cock from you with an obscene wet sound before dropping down onto the bed beside you, taking you with him.

“Fuck…” he breathed out, caressing your skin. “That felt so—”

‘And—cut!’ You hear a voice call, speaking its way into the mush that is your brain, slapping you back to reality.

You open your eyes and look around in shock, having completely forgotten where you are. The lights switch on, almost blindingly bright. People start hustling about the set, and cameras mere inches away from you now pull back into their waiting positions. 

“That was perfect,” you hear Tenko say through the noise filling the set now.

Your breath catches in your throat, an unsettling feeling beginning to well inside you. Your heart starts pounding at an increasingly rapid pace while you feel panic stretch its icy fingers up your spine.

You feel a warm hand cradling your face, angling it to the side. It’s Dabi. He places his mouth over yours without further ado. 

“You are perfect.” Dabi coos into the kiss, and it happens again— butterflies erupt in your gut, the world around you fading until there's only you and him.

Instinctively, you let go, feeling the tension slowly dissipate and your heart calming down. Dabi smiles as he breaks away from you, and you feel it— a lingering warmth, an unseen connection that spins fragile threads between you both.

A man approaches to help you get out of bed, but Dabi, whose face is still dewy with sweat, moves between you both. He takes the bathrobe from the guy and wraps it around your shivering body before getting dressed himself.

Helping you off the bed, he drapes an arm around your shoulder and leads you past the celebrating crew members from the set until you’re backstage. 

Once in the changing room, he closes the door behind him and leans against it. 

“That was something…” he muses. “You’re a natural. Would you ever consider doing this again with me?’ 

You're caught off-guard, his face radiating a tenderness that fills your heart with something joyful. A warmth spreads across your face, your hands gripping the soft belt of your robe as you nip at your lower lip. “I-I don't know.”

“You should,” Dabi kicks off the door frame and saunters over you with a sinful, obscene sway of his hips. His hand finds yours, fingers interlacing in a silent agreement, pulling you into a tight embrace. “Think about it…”

He lets the words hang in the air for a second. When he pulls away, his arms wrap around your neck, lower half still pressed against you as if you’re not a stranger. He looks down at you like the two of you have been dating for years.

“So, I was wondering… what are you doing later on?” Dabi kisses the tip of your nose. “Do you want to grab a bite to eat and get some drinks?”

“Are you asking me out on a date?” A new desire for him grows inside of you. You smile back at him, reaching up to gently play with his dark hair.

“Maybe?” His lips curl into a devious smirk.

“Is this even allowed?” Chest to chest, your heartbeat slowly catches up to his, as if your bodies react simultaneously to each other's warm touch.

“Maybe?” Dabi repeats, his thumb gently brushing along your lips.

When you look into his eyes, a tenderness softens the rough edges of his sharp features. It makes you wonder, he’s been so sweet and caring after everything that happened today– you actually believe he’s a genuinely sincere and nice guy. You feel your heart quiet when you’re with him, as if you have found peace. 

“Well…” you consider, “I've just thrown all my morals into the wind. So, might as well go on a date with a pornstar, right?”

“You won't regret it.” Dabis laughs softly. “Even though you might not be able to move after I'm done with you—”

“Is that so…” You are torn between scolding him or laughing because he's so cute. “Ok, big boy, whatever you say.”

[mrsfancyferrari]

Can you do an imagine about the reader going out with an F1 driver (I imagine Charles or Carlos), where the reader speaks their language, but doesn’t tell them. One day they walk in on the reader talking to someone on the phone in French/ Italian or Spanish respectively, and have a talk about it. Reader was hiding their abilities due to an insecurity about their ability. Alternatively they could be at a restaurant, where the reader is forced to use that language to order something.

Speak Baby

Summary: you are going out with Charles, you can speak his language, but don't tell him. You were hiding your abilities due to an insecurity about your ability.

Song: Heaven and Back · Chase Atlantic

Author’s note: Please like, reblog and share this! Also please follow for more! 🫶

Word count: 3.7k

MASTERLIST - F1

The soft glow of the lamp painted the room in hues of amber and gold, the late afternoon sun already having dipped below the horizon.

You were curled up on the plush armchair, a worn copy of “Les Misérables” resting open in your lap, though your attention was entirely focused on the phone pressed to your ear. The French words flowed effortlessly, a melodic stream of conversation with your cousin, Élise, back in Paris.

Laughter bubbled in your chest as Élise recounted a particularly disastrous attempt to bake macarons, the familiar cadence of your mother tongue a soothing balm to your soul.

"…and then, the oven, mon Dieu, it was like a volcanic eruption of powdered sugar!" Élise’s voice, tinged with dramatic exasperation, crackled through the speaker.

You chuckled, a genuine, unrestrained sound, “You know you should just stick to painting, ma chérie. Baking is not for you.”

"Oh, very funny," she retorted good-naturedly, “But you should have seen it! The cat even had a dusting. Anyway, how is le charmant Charles?"

You paused, a smile playing on your lips. "He's…fine," you said, a soft giggle escaping your throat. "He's been working late again, as usual."

“And still no clue about your… little secret?" Élise teased, the question a whisper of anticipation.

"No," you replied, your voice dropping slightly, a hint of nervousness creeping in. "Absolutely not. It's…it's better this way, Élise. I’m not ready."

You knew that you were holding out on Charles, but the thought of him judging you for your French was an insecurity that had been haunting you for years.

You had always felt like you were not good enough, that your accent was too strong and that your grasp on the language was not as good as it should be, even though you grew up with it.

You always felt the need to hide, to not draw attention to yourself, and so this was how it was with Charles.

It was easier to communicate in English with him, to be safe, even if your heart yearned to speak in the language that made you, you.

"You're being silly, ma belle. He'd be enchanted, I'm sure of it," Élise said, her tone gentle, trying to reassure you.

Just as you were about to respond, a distinct sound reached your ears - the click of the front door. Your heart leaped into your throat. Charles was home.

Panic seized you, and you quickly pressed the “end call” button, the dial tone a sharp, jarring contrast to the lilting French you had been immersed in moments before. You closed the “Les Miserables” book with an audible thud, feigning a casual air.

You straightened yourself in the armchair and tried to look as though you were simply relaxing, a wave of frustration beginning to wash over you for not being able to share this part of yourself with Charles, but also relief because you almost got caught.

"Hey," Charles said, his voice laced with that endearing weariness you had come to adore, as he walked into the room, tossing his keys onto the side table.

He hadn't noticed the phone in your hands and he pulled off his suit jacket and hung it up on the hanger behind the door. He looked exhausted. "Long day."

"Hi," you replied, your voice a little too high-pitched, betraying the sudden jolt of adrenaline still coursing through you.

You tried to act as nonchalant as possible, hoping he wouldn't notice the flush creeping up your neck, or the way your fingers were still tensed against the phone.

He glanced at you, his blue eyes, usually so bright, clouded with fatigue. "Everything alright? You seem…tense." He took a seat on the sofa opposite you, his gaze intense as he looked at you.

You had been with Charles for a year now, and he was always able to suss something out.

You forced a smile, "Just had a long chapter to read, that's all.” You showed him the book, hoping it would be enough distraction. “It’s quite intense, actually." You pointed to the book, gesturing with your hand. "This guy Valjean, he's been through it."

He seemed to accept your explanation, dropping back against the sofa cushions with a sigh. "Well, whatever it is, you should relax. Maybe we could order some food? I'm starving."

You nodded, relieved. The moment had passed, but the unspoken secret hung heavy in the air between you. The rest of the evening unfolded in its usual way, a comfortable rhythm you both had established.

You talked about your day, laughed at a silly movie, and shared a meal under the soft lamplight. Yet, beneath the surface of normalcy, the secret you harboured continued to prick at you.

He kept stealing glances at you, making you wonder if he might suspect something, but he never said anything.

“So you’re telling me he still hasn’t found out yet?” She asked with a teasing lilt in her voice.

“No, and I’ll keep it that way,” you replied, your smile fading. “It’s too risky, Élise. What if he thinks I’m a fraud? What if he thinks I’ve been lying?”

“Oh, come on,” Élise scoffed, “He’s clearly smitten with you, mon amie. I can hear it in your voice!”

You sighed, staring out the window at the grey sky. “You don’t know him, Élise. His native language is French, he knows it like the back of his hand. He’d notice if my French isn’t perfect.”

“And what if it is?” Élise countered.

You were about to reply, when you heard his voice from the kitchen. You jerked, your heart leaping into your throat. “I have to go, Élise. I’ll call you later.”

“Okay, bisous,” Élise said, and the line went dead.

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

The roar of the Ferrari engines was a constant hum, a background score to the chaotic elegance of the Formula One paddock. You watched Charles, a whirlwind of charm and practiced ease, navigate the PR games with Carlos Sainz.

They were a study in contrasts – Charles, all focused energy and effortless smiles, and Carlos, a more grounded, almost playful foil. You knew this dance well, the mandatory media obligations that came with the territory of being a Ferrari driver.

You were happy to be a spectator today. You knew, with a familiar twist of warmth in your chest, that Charles would find you later.

You had a few hours of freedom, a rare commodity in this world of tight schedules and constant movement. You decided to explore. The paddock was a labyrinth of team trucks, hospitality suites, and workshops, a microcosm of the competitive energy that fueled the sport.

You wandered, absorbing the sights and sounds, the clatter of tools, the clipped conversations in a dozen different languages. You’d always been drawn to the undercurrents of these places, the human stories unfolding beneath the glossy veneer of glamour and speed.

That's when you heard it – a voice, high-pitched with panic, cutting through the general noise.

"Est-ce que quelqu'un parle français?" it called out, the words sharp and rushed. " S'il vous plaît, quelqu'un ?" Does anyone speak French? Please, someone?

The man, standing near a catering area, was clearly distressed. He was middle-aged, his face flushed, hands trembling slightly as he gestured erratically. A small crowd of staff had gathered around him, their faces a mixture of concern and helplessness.

They spoke encouragingly in English, but it was clear that they didn’t understand a word he was saying, which was why he was getting more frantic.

You hesitated. You knew French, fluently after all. It really was an insecurity you'd carried since childhood, a fear that your accent wasn't good enough, that you wouldn't be considered “truly” French.

Charles, in his easy, casual fluency, only amplified that feeling. It was easier to let him be the French one, to navigate that world without your input.

But looking at the man, his distress growing with each passing second, your resolve crumbled. You couldn't stand by and watch him suffer.

Taking a deep breath, you pushed past the people, your voice hesitant but clear, "Excusez-moi, monsieur. Je parle français. Qu'est-ce qui se passe?" Excuse me, sir. I speak French. What's going on?

The man's eyes widened, his face flooded with relief. "Ah, merci mon Dieu!" he exclaimed, his hands coming to clasp yours. "C'est terrible! J'ai perdu mon sac, avec tous mes documents et mes clés. Je dois partir cet après-midi, et je suis complètement coincé."

His words tumbled out in a rush, a torrent of worries and anxieties. This is terrible! I lost my bag, with all my documents and my keys. I have to leave this afternoon, and I'm completely stuck

You listened patiently, your own French flowing effortlessly as you reassured him. You asked him for details about the bag, about where he’d last seen it.

You found out that he was here for a family visit, and he had to catch a train in the next couple of hours. With a mixture of calm questioning and reassuring words, you helped him retrace his steps.

You spoke softly, your voice a calming balm to his panic. The staff around you, previously frustrated, looked on with a mixture of curiosity and gratitude.

You felt a small spark of pride, a quiet satisfaction in using the skill that you have always kept hidden.

After what felt like an eternity, you spotted it – a small black bag tucked behind a stack of boxes in a corner. The man let out a cry of delight, his face cracking into a wide, genuine smile. "Merci, merci mille fois!" he cried, taking the bag and beaming at you. "Vous êtes un ange!" Thank you, thank you a thousand times! You are an angel!

You helped him check through the contents, making sure nothing was missing. You even offered him some water and a seat to calm him. He thanked you profusely again and again. He finally started to relax and calm down.

"Thank you so much. I don't know what I would have done without you." he said again, this time speaking English clearly, even though he had not, before. He smiled warmly at you.

"It's no problem," you replied, smiling back. A small voice interrupted.

"Hey babe, what's going on here? I saw this crowd?" Charles asked, his eyebrows furrowed in concern. He placed a hand on the small of your back.

"This gentleman lost his bag, and couldn't communicate with anyone here. I was just helping him," you explained.

"Ah, but you were speaking French? I didn't know that you spoke French. Good job ma chérie," Charles said a little surprised.

"Oh, I... I learned some in school," you mumbled, avoiding his eyes. You felt a flush creep onto your cheeks.

You could feel the lie hanging in the air, heavy and uncomfortable.

Charles tilted his head, his eyes searching your face, "That’s really cool." He turned his attention to the man, addressing him in perfect French.

You watched Charles smoothly reassure the man that everything was fine and offer him any help that he needed. The man seemed mesmerized by Charles, thanking him profusely.

You watched them briefly, the ease with which Charles switched between two languages, how comfortable he was in the role of translator. It was a stark contrast to your feelings of self-consciousness.

“So, should we get going?” Charles said to you, turning to you, his hand finding yours.

You nodded, a smile tugging at your lips. You’d helped someone out, and it felt good. But the lie, that little secret you still held, bothered you. More so than usual now that he knew.

As Charles led you away, you could feel his gaze on you, a silent question in his eyes. You knew you couldn't keep this hidden much longer.

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

The sun dipped below the horizon, casting long, dancing shadows across the Ferrari base. The air, still warm from the day’s heat, hummed with a quiet energy. You lay nestled in the hammock chair, Charles’s strong back providing a solid anchor as you sat comfortably on his lap.

The gentle rocking motion lulled you both, a peaceful rhythm that seemed to synchronize with the quiet whispers of the wind. You’d been dating Charles for a year now, and these quiet moments were your favorite.

Being alone, intertwined, was bliss.

He nuzzled his face into your shoulder, his breath warm on your skin. You closed your eyes, your own breathing slowing, the world fading away.

You’d almost drifted off, the line between sleep and wakefulness blurring, when a voice sliced through the tranquil silence.

“Monsieur Leclerc, le débriefing commence bientôt!” a young voice called out, the French words sharp and clear. Mr. Leclerc, the debriefing begins soon!

You blinked your eyes open, startled, and looked around for the source of the sound.

A young woman, her face etched with a mixture of frustration and relief, stood a short distance away. She was clearly a member of the Ferrari staff, her uniform a stark contrast to the relaxed atmosphere you and Charles had created.

“Mademoiselle, je vais bientôt réveiller Charles, alors ne vous inquiétez pas,” you said, the words flowing easily, a comfortingly familiar cadence in your mind. Miss, I'll wake Charles up soon, so don't worry.

You watched her face register surprise, then a wave of relief.

“Merci beaucoup mademoiselle Y/N, je vous laisse faire,” she replied, her voice softening. Thank you very much Miss Y/N, I'll leave you to it.

“De rien, je suis désolé de t'avoir fait le chercher,” you said, a slight blush creeping up your neck. You felt a pang of guilt for making her search for Charles. You're welcome, I'm sorry I made you look for it.

She gave you a small, thankful nod before turning and heading back towards the base.

You were about to nudge Charles awake when you felt a movement in your lap. His eyes, a startling shade of blue, were already fixed on you, a thoughtful expression on his face.

"That didn't sound like 'school French' ma chérie," he muttered, a playful yet probing tone to his voice. Your heart lurched, and a cold dread settled in your stomach.

You could feel your cheeks flush, the blood rushing to your head. This was it. Your little secret, the one you'd guarded for so long, was about to unravel.

"What are you talking about?" you asked, your voice coming out a little higher and breathier than you intended. You tried to play it off, hoping your denial would be convincing enough. "I learned some French phrases, that's all."

He raised a skeptical eyebrow, his gaze unwavering. "Some phrases? You just held an entire conversation with Nathalie, in perfect, effortless French. Where did you learn that?"

You fidgeted, your fingers toying with the drawstring of his sweatpants. "Uh...well...you know, it's just...I've always been a good language learner." The explanation sounded weak even to your own ears.

Charles gently tilted your chin up so that your eyes meet. His touch was soft, but his gaze was intense. “Y/N,” he said, his voice lower now. “You’re fluent. Why have you been hiding this from me?”

The question hung in the air, heavy with the weight of your unspoken secret. And you knew you couldn’t lie to him any longer. “It’s stupid, really,” you began, your voice barely above a whisper.

“I was always just…insecure about it. My native language is English, and I'm fairly average. When I started learning French, which was young, it just came naturally to me. I didn't think I was actually... good. I thought if I spoke it around you, you'd think I sound awful, like those tourists that always try and speak French to you.” You looked down, unable to meet his eyes.

He took your hands in his, his thumbs stroking your knuckles. “Ma chérie, that’s ridiculous. I’m fascinated by languages. I spent so much time learning other languages for the sport, plus how could I ever think you sound awful. You could never sound bad.”

His words were soothing, a balm to your wounded pride. You looked up, your eyes searching his face. “Really?” you whispered, still a little unsure.

He chuckled, a warm, comforting sound. “Bien sûr, Y/N. You’re amazing, in every language. And I am so incredibly curious. When did you learn it? How good are you even?” He had a teasing glint in his eyes now, and the tension that had been plaguing you started to dissipate.

“Since I was a kid. My grandmother was half-French and she taught me, always using French. She wanted me to have another language to use. She wanted me to have something special, so I never told anyone in school or anything.” you admitted.

“And you kept this hidden from me? For all this time?” Charles asked, a hint of playfulness in his voice.

You nodded sheepishly. “I thought you would think I was trying to show off, I guess, and I was honestly just scared I’d be awful.”

He squeezed your hands, his thumb drawing small circles on your skin. “You are far from awful, Y/N, and I promise I never would have thought that, ever. But,” he added, a mischievous smile playing on his lips, “I do have a few questions. And you're going to have to answer them… in French.”

“bébé, il faut que tu fasses le point avec l'équipe!” you said, the words slipping out naturally in French. Baby, you need to check in on the team!

Charles only grinned, his eyes twinkling with amusement. “I can’t believe you’ve been hiding this from me, ma chérie,” he said, his tone warm and affectionate and full of love.

“I know I’m so sorry.” you said, putting your head in your hands, feeling a flush of embarrassment wash over you. “I’m so sorry I didn’t tell you sooner, I was just so scared.”

He cupped your face in his hands, his thumb gently caressing your cheek. “Don’t be sorry, mon amour,” he murmured, his voice husky. “It’s incredibly endearing, and it's one more thing I love about you. You have to tell me everything though from now on okay?”

You nodded, leaning into his touch. “I promise.”

He smiled, then his eyes glinted with a new mischievousness. “So, you’ve been keeping secrets from me, have you?”

You laughed, shaking your head. “Only this one, I swear.”

“Hmm,” he hummed, leaning in closer. “I think that deserves a punishment.”

“Oh yeah?” you said, raising an eyebrow, excitement coursing through you.

His lips found yours and he deepened the kiss, pushing you gently back on the hammock. The language barrier was forgotten as his hands moved to the hem of your shirt.

You could feel the passion in him, the soft moaning as he kissed your neck. You could feel yourself falling further and further into him, completely and utterly in love.

It was a long time before you pulled away for air, your cheeks flushed and your heart racing.

“What was I saying about meetings?” you breathlessly said, putting a hand on your chest, hoping your heart would slow down.

Charles chuckled, running his hand through his slightly dishevelled hair. “They can wait,” he murmured, his eyes locking with yours, “There’s something much more urgent that we need to deal with, my petite française.”

You laughed then, and pulled him in for another kiss, knowing that your hidden language was now just another way to connect with the man you loved.

The rain outside continued to fall, a soft and gentle melody to the start of another chapter in your love story.

And you knew, with absolute certainty, that this new language you had shared with each other would only bring you closer, in ways you could never have imagined. . . .

[haniette]

grasping your love. // ln4

part one. || part two.

pairing | lando norris x fem!reader

genre | angst, fluff, friends to lovers, childhood best friends au, hurt-comfort

word count | 11.7k

warnings | no use of y/n, heartbreak, emotional distress, themes of regret and longing, abandonment themes, low-key manipulation themes??, use of alcohol, cursing, crying.

inspired by: sydney rose - we hug now, conan gray - memories, the kid laroi - bleed

summary: you told yourself you’d moved on. that you didn't care, and your heart had mended. but when he came back, all ruined and raw, you realized some hearts don’t forget who they were meant to beat for.

a/n: PART TWOOOOO!!!! as soon as i saw the requests for part two i started working on this, and actually, it turned out to be longer than i expected- OOPSIE but y'all.. writing this kinda broke me :,) i'm so happy that at least they got their happy ending </3 hope you'll enjoy !!

The house was quiet. Too quiet. The kind of stillness that wraps itself around you, like the silence after a storm—where everything feels too calm, too heavy with unspoken words. You could hear the soft ticking of the clock in the hallway, the distant hum of the fridge, the muffled sound of your parents’ breathing in their room down the hall.

You padded across the hallway in thick socks, dressed in your oversized sleep shirt with sleeves tugged down over your fingers. The exhaustion from the day had settled into your bones, dull and familiar. You’d brushed your teeth, put your hair up, wiped the smeared mascara from under your eyes—and still, somehow, you felt heavy.

Not even tired. Just… drained. Hollow in a quiet way. The kind of tiredness that had nothing to do with sleep, but with the ache in your chest that had been there since that night.

The night when you sat under the stars, knees drawn to your chest. When he was crouching in front of you with that lopsided smile, and made you feel like you could hope again. 

The night you almost said it. The night he almost knew.

But after that night, there came the distance. Not cruel, not sharp, just drifting. Like smoke through fingers, like something slipping underwater.

And you were trying. Trying so hard to be okay with it. But god—you were exhausted. 

However, it wasn’t the physical kind of exhaustion. It was something deeper, a kind of tiredness that came from the emotional weight of trying to convince yourself that everything was fine, that things were normal. But every time you opened social media and saw Lando’s name, or caught a glimpse of him in the halls at school laughing with Olivia, leaning in close, his hand in hers, her lips on his cheek—it all felt like a cruel reminder that the world had moved on, and you hadn’t been included in it. You were stuck in a loop of saddness and regret.

When you reached your bedroom door, hand resting on the knob, a strange noise came from downstairs, making you stop mid-step.

Clink. 

You wanted to brush it off, taking for granted that it was just the wind, or the house creaking. But then it came again—the scrape of a drawer, the distinct sound of a cup hitting the counter, the slight clink of something being set down. 

You sucked in a breath, heart suddenly pounding in your chest. Your first thought? Someone broke in.

You tiptoed out of your room, pulse quickening, each creak of the floorboards beneath you feeling like an alarm bell. The hallway was dark, save for the faint glow of the nightlight near the stairs. You could hear the rustling louder now, the sound of something being knocked over, maybe.

A breathless moment of hesitation, then you flicked the light on, your hand trembling slightly. The glow of the kitchen illuminated the open doorway.

And there, leaning against the sink, was no one other than Lando himself. A glass of water in his hand, his back hunched slightly like he’d been holding up too much weight for too long.

When his eyes set on you, he blinked a few times like he wasn’t sure if you were real or if he was dreaming you up.

Your heart dropped into your stomach. “Lando… what the hell are you doing here?” You blurted out, your voice far sharper than you intended. “It’s fucking one in the morning! You scared the shit out of me.”

He observed you, eyes bleary, and half-lidded. He didn’t seem surprised—just tired. His lips curled up slightly, almost forming a smile, but also an apology. 

Your chest tightened at that sight. “You broke into my house?” You said with your voice trembling, not from fear anymore, but from confusion. Anger. Sadness. Everything at once.

He didn’t seem bothered by your accusation. Instead, he just shrugged, “The key,” Lando muttered. “Was still under the orange flower pot.”

That flower pot. The one your mom had left by the doors years ago. The one he used to hide candy under for you in middle school. The one that had, unknowingly, never switched places.

You stepped closer, the light casting his figure in sharper detail. His hair was a mess—curls flattened on one side, wild on the other, like he’d run his hands through it over and over. His shirt was wrinkled, untucked, stained slightly with something you didn’t care to identify. And his eyes—god, his eyes. Always so bright and beautiful, in that aquamarine color, but now bloodshot, tired and wrecked.

You blinked, still trying to process what was happening, what had led him to your kitchen at this hour. “Lando, what happened?” You took a step closer. 

Your anger melted into something else—worry, and concern. You had never seen him like this. Drunk, disoriented. Not even the usual playful charm he wore like armor.

Your heart clenched at the sight. What happened to him?

“Lando… what’s going on? Why aren’t you with Olivia?” Saying her name left a bitter aftertaste in your mouth.

But he didn’t answer. Instead, he shifted, like his knees had given out. Slowly, he slid down the cabinets until he hit the floor, back against the drawers, legs stretched out carelessly. 

You panicked for a second as he looked pale, dizzy, and lost. “Lan— hey.. are you okay?” You crouched beside him instinctively, heart pounding. 

Then he slumped into you without warning. His head fell to your shoulder, the warmth of his skin pressing into yours. And for a long, drawn-out moment, you just let him rest there. His breath was slow, ragged, like he had been running a marathon, like he had been fighting something for a long time. 

But all of it—the tension, the pain, the confusion—had finally spilled over in this one vulnerable moment. 

Lando sighed against your collarbone. “M’tired.” His hot breath tickled your skin, making you shiver at the sound of his voice.

And you stayed like that. There, on the kitchen floor. Tiles cold beneath your legs, your body stiff beside his slumped frame while letting the boy rest on your shoulder. The silence settled again, but heavier now, thick with questions you didn’t know how to ask.

His breath was slow and warm where it met your neck. You stared ahead at the fridge, heart unraveling in your chest.

This was still Lando. Your Lando.

The boy who used to throw pebbles at your window at 2 a.m. just to see if you wanted to go stargazing. The boy who once tried to braid your hair in sixth grade and ended up tying it in a knot. The boy who almost said he loved you once—and you didn’t hear it in time.

And now he was here, on your kitchen floor. 

“I don’t wanna leave you.” Lando mumbled, his words barely audible, his voice thick and muffled against the fabric of your shirt.

Your breath caught in your throat. “What?”

But he didn’t repeat it. He just exhaled like he’d been holding that in for years. Like that sentence had broken out of him by accident, cracked through whatever wall he’d built around himself.

You held him there, on the cold kitchen floor, unsure of what to do with his confession. Your heart pulsed violently in your chest, because what did he mean? Did he mean tonight? Or forever?

Why wasn’t he with Olivia? Why wasn’t she the one holding him now? Why did he come here like you were still his safe place?

But you didn’t ask, not knowing how. You just sat there with him—shoulder to shoulder, breathing in the same air, memories thick in the space between you.

But the weight of his presence, of him leaning into you, of him saying those words that you didn’t know what to do with, was unbearable. And it broke something inside you. Something that you hadn’t realized was still holding on.

You closed your eyes, the tears threatening to spill again. You didn’t know what you wanted from him—or from yourself. You just held him. You held him because you couldn’t let him go. Not yet. Not when he was still here.

And you didn’t know it yet, but that moment would stay burned into you—into your soul. 

Days after the kitchen night, the silence between you and Lando grew so thick you could feel it pressing against your skin. You thought maybe he’d text. Apologize. Mention what he said. Explain this whole situation. 

But he didn’t.

And so, you convinced yourself that it was a mistake—drunken words said in a foggy haze. Words meant for the moment, and not especially for you.

Still, you couldn’t forget the way his head had rested on your shoulder, like he belonged there. You couldn’t unhear the slurred, soft-spoken “I don’t want to leave you.” Those six words looped in your head like a broken record. 

Were they meant to be comforting? A warning? A confession?

But even worse than that was how everything returned to normal or, at least, seemed to.

You stopped bumping into him at school. He stopped showing up in the group chat. 

Olivia posted more often now—the two of them posing in bookstores, going to brunch, prepping for their “future.” She seemed so perfect on his arm, so carefully curated. Their relationship was like a photo in a museum: admired by everyone, but no one really understood it.

And you—you felt like a visitor. A stranger peering into a life you used to be a part of. You didn’t go to the group hangout in the woods. You skipped the movie night that once used to be your thing. Your friends texted, called, asked where you were. But you always had an excuse: studying, babysitting your cousin, or just being tired. 

Anything but the truth.

The truth was that it hurt to exist in a space where Lando no longer looked for you. Even when you did see him, it was… different. He was quieter, more distracted by being new version of him. He even laughed less than he usually would when he was around you. He didn’t hold eye contact like he used to—not the way he did when it was just you two in the corner of a room, stealing glances across dinner tables or hiding giggles behind shared inside jokes.

It was like watching a star dim slowly, day by day, losing its uniqueness.

You’d pass each other in the halls sometimes. There was a flicker in his eyes—like maybe he wanted to say something, even the smallest thing. But the moment always passed and you’d look away first, because it felt safer that way.

One afternoon, you found yourself sitting by the window, the same one you both used to lean against when you studied together. The sky outside was soft and grey, and the silence in the room felt like it was screaming at you.

You clutched your phone in your hand, screen still open on the last video you ever took together—blurry, spontaneous, just you two laughing over some dumb joke, your laughs loud and vibrant. You looked at your smile in it, and how easy it had been to smile with him. How full you had felt back then.

But then came a new notification. A tagged photo on Olivia’s Instagram.

“Couldn’t be happier to start this chapter with you. Amsterdam, here we come <3”

The picture was beautiful, in that staged kind of way. Lando kissing her cheek, his arm around her waist as she held her passport and their tickets. The luggage was behind them, and departure gate in the background.

You blinked once. Twice. Then your chest caved in.

He hadn’t told you. Again. But this time he hadn’t even said goodbye.

There had been no message, no last knock on the door, no final look.

The disbelief washed over you in waves. First it was confusion, then came the bitterness. And then that slow, aching pain—like someone had reached inside and quietly rewired your heart. And it would knock the breath out of you, because suddenly it would make sense.

“I don’t wanna leave you.”

But he did. And he was already gone, taking his future with Olivia, leaving you with nothing but the words he’d whispered to you on that kitchen floor. Words you still didn’t understand, but somehow knew were real.

────୨ৎ────

The airport was too bright.

Everything felt like it was glowing under harsh, white light—the floors, the departure signs, the rows of metal benches where people sat with neck pillows, their luggage beside them, and some even taking a nap. 

Lando could hear Olivia's voice next to him, cheerful and animated, chatting with her mum as they went over last-minute plans. He smiled, or at least tried to, but it didn’t feel right on his face. It didn’t stick.

He stood a little outside of it all—just off to the side of the check-in area, surrounded by people but entirely elsewhere. His eyes kept drifting toward the entrance doors. Every few seconds, his gaze flicked there—searching.

It had been weeks since that night. The kitchen. The water. Your shoulder. The words he wasn’t supposed to say out loud. 

You hadn’t texted him since. Not even once. He had tried writing a couple of short, awkward messages but he always changed his mind, immediately deleting them. 

And yet, some stupid, desperate part of him believed you’d still come.

Maybe you’d rush in, sleeves of your favourite hoodie pulled up your arms, out of breath, pretending you just happened to be nearby. Maybe you’d roll your eyes and mutter something like “figured you’d want a dramatic send-off, loser.”

He would’ve smiled, laughed even. He would’ve known what you meant. So he kept looking. Every flash of the color which your favourite hoodie had. Every girl which walked a little too fast through the crowd. His stomach turned every time he thought—that might be you.

But it never was.

“Boarding group A, you’re now welcome at gate 27.”

The announcement echoed through the terminal. Olivia squeezed his hand, excited, practically buzzing with it. “Ready?” She asked, sending him a warm smile. Lando nodded, but his eyes were still locked on the doors. Still waiting, hoping, hurting.

Olivia tugged his hand gently, and he looked one last time, but you weren’t there. It felt like something inside his chest folded in on itself.

────୨ৎ────

The house was quiet. Your parents were already gone for the day, hanging out with their friends which came to your city. The sun was filtering in through the curtains, soft and golden.

You were still in bed. Blankets pulled up to your chin, phone in your hand, screen dark. You hadn’t looked at his Instagram story. Not yet. Seeing Olivia’s post was enough for you.

You didn’t want to see the gate, again. The luggage. Olivia’s arm looped through his. You didn’t want confirmation that this was real. That he was really leaving. That he was no longer just not here, but truly, physically and emotionally gone.

Your chest ached with the weight of everything unsaid. And now you laid in your bed, curled under your blanket, breathing through the quiet kind of grief that doesn’t come with sobs or screams—just this low, constant ache in your chest. Like your ribs were too tight. Like your heart was trying to remember how to exist without him.

You stared at the ceiling—eyes wide, dry. You weren’t crying, you just felt… hollow.

Somewhere in a crowded airport, Lando was still looking for you in a sea of people. But now it was too late. 

He had left. And you had let him.

────୨ৎ────

a few months later

The sky hadn’t been blue in weeks. Months.

Every day carried a quiet grayness, like the world had slipped into a version of itself that was somehow dimmer—dull and breathless. The leaves had started to curl at the edges, the sun set earlier now, and everything seemed to echo more, especially the silence in your chest.

You didn’t realize how much you had gotten used to him being part of your days until the days went on without him. Not suddenly—not like a door slammed shut, but like a faucet that dripped until the sink overflowed. Now, the drip was gone, the tap turned off. But you were still soaked in the memories.

He was gone. And you hated how easily everyone had accepted it.

It was late afternoon, the kind of cloudy-gray sky that made everything look softer, like the world had been rubbed with a layer of dust. You sat outside the library, on that same bench tucked beneath the skeletal arms of a tree that had long since shed its leaves. The wind moved gently through the branches, dry and cool, like fingers brushing against your skin, but you barely even felt it.

Your textbook lay open in your lap, untouched. You weren’t reading—you hadn’t been reading for a while. You were just… sitting. Existing. Or something like it.

Students moved past in waves—laughing, talking, balancing coffees in one hand and phones in the other. Their lives felt fast, full, like they were already becoming something. Moving forward, getting somewhere. But you? You felt stuck in the same still frame, like time had stretched out for you but kept moving for everyone else.

Your phone buzzed once in your pocket. You didn’t reach for it. You already knew it wouldn’t be him.

It hadn’t been him in months.

Lando was gone. Not just in the physical way—though yes, he was hundreds of miles away in Amsterdam, probably stretched out in a dorm bed beside someone who wasn’t you. But he was also gone in the invisible, intimate, excruciating way. In the way someone disappears from your days, not all at once, but in pieces. One text not sent, one weekend not spent together, one secret not shared until all that’s left is pure silence.

You saw all the stories, posts, sunlit selfies. Blurry party photos, Olivia’s cherry gloss smudged on his cheek, and his hand around her waist like it belonged there. His smile—it looked so familiar, yet no longer yours.

He had everything he had ever wanted.

A new city. A new life. A new girl.

And you were still here, feeling as if you’re basically wasting your time. Staring at the same sidewalk cracks, listening to the same sad songs and playing the same night in your head—the one where you almost told him everything. The one where he looked at you like you were the only person in the universe, only to walk away and give his world to someone else.

Sometimes, in quiet moments, you thought back to that night in your kitchen. When he showed up drunk, lost, whispering he didn’t want to leave you. You hadn’t understood what he meant back then. Not fully. Maybe you didn’t want to, but now, in the echo of his absence, it haunted you.

It wasn’t even the relationship that hurt the most. It was the way it all disappeared—like you had never mattered, never been chosen, never been even considered.

You remembered finding out about him and Olivia. You didn’t sleep that night. You just lay there, eyes burning, heart breaking in this small, quiet, invisible way—where you weren’t allowed to scream or sob or say this isn’t fair because technically, nothing had been promised. 

But it had felt like a promise. Hadn’t it?

In the shared glances, in the laughter, in the way he used to text you when something dumb happened and say you were the first person he thought of. In the memory of him crouching in front of you at the party, brushing a tear from your cheek and saying he missed you.

Damn. Had you been that easy to forget?

Now, months later, you still carried that grief, that quiet ache but one else really noticed it. You’d gotten good at pretending—at laughing when you were supposed to, convincing that everything was great when people asked about school, often responding “yeah, I’m okay” with just the right smile to convince them.

But deep down, you were stuck, you couldn’t move on, and that’s what scared you the most. Because he had already moved on. 

His heart had mended so quickly, while yours was still bleeding. 

You saw it every time you opened Instagram. The way he glowed in those photos, new hair suiting him so goddamn good, looking like nothing ever haunted him. Like you had never haunted him. Like the version of himself that only existed when he was with you had vanished—as if it never mattered in the first place.

And yet you still remembered.

You remembered the time he fell asleep with his head on your lap, mumbling half-dreamed thoughts about how safe he felt with you. The time you screamed the lyrics of your favourite songs in your room, both of you out of breath from laughing too hard. The moment, months ago, when he almost confessed—voice low, eyes soft, something hidden in the way he touched your hand. But you had brushed it off. Laughed, and teased him about it, not taking him seriously because back then you hadn’t known. 

You hadn’t realized, and now it was too late.

It wasn’t fair, how one person could move on and build a life, while the other lived with an ending that never truly ended.

You looked up from your textbook and blinked into the gray sky. Your chest ached—dull and constant. It had become part of you now, the same way a scar settles into skin.

Sometimes, you wondered if he ever missed you. If he ever thought back to the version of his life that included you. But you knew the truth. For him, it was just something that happened. Something small. But for you? It was everything. And it felt like the world ended when it did.

Some mornings, you stared at your phone for too long. You’d open your messages and scroll to his name, only to lock your screen again. His contact was still saved—still with the dumb nickname he’d given himself when you finally saved his number. Still with the photo of him pulling a face, mid-laugh, cheeks pink from the cold. You couldn’t bring yourself to change or delete it because deleting it would make it all real, and you weren’t ready for that.

You still carried all of the conversations in your head. Those little ones, and stupid ones. Like what he would say if he saw you after going to the hairstylist, how he’d tease you for the playlist you’d made for studying or how he’d groan dramatically about missing your mom’s cooking if he walked through your front door again.

You still remembered the way it all slipped. The last few months of high school had felt like they were lined with fog—slow, delicate, full of things unsaid. You had started keeping your emotions in a box, tucking them beneath small smiles and empty reassurances. You didn’t want to be a weight on his shoulders, didn’t want to make things harder. And most importantly, you didn’t want to lose him by telling him how much you needed him to stay. But you lost him anyway.

When you got to know that he was going to university with Olivia, it felt like your heart had been held above a flame. Slowly, gently burning. 

He had made his choice, and it hadn’t been you.

You never told anyone how much that night broke you. How you cried in the shower with your hand pressed over your mouth, not to muffle the sobs, but to hold yourself together. You didn’t want anyone to know that you’d fallen apart over someone who, to the outside world, had never been yours to begin with. 

But he had been yours. In the stolen glances, in the late-night conversations, in the inside jokes that no one else understood. He had been yours in every way that mattered—until he wasn’t.

Now, time was moving without him. He was off in a new city—Amsterdam, with new friends, new routines and new loves. And you? You were left behind with the echoes. 

You never told him how often you still wore the hoodie he left at your place after one of many movie nights. Or how your chest still clenched every time you passed his old house, how sometimes you swore you could hear his laugh in the crowd, only to remember he wasn’t here anymore. The worst part? No one knew you were still grieving. Because you decided to just smile through it as it had never been said what you two were. 

Some days, the sadness came in small waves—manageable, dull, like a bruise. Other days, however, it felt catastrophic, like you were drowning in everything unsaid. Everything he’d taken with him, everything he’d left behind.

You wondered—deeply, painfully—if he thought of you at all. If there were nights when he missed your voice, if he ever wished, even just for a second, that he’d done it all differently.

But you didn’t ask, you didn’t reach out because if he had wanted to stay he would’ve.

Right?

And yet, even now, all this time later, with the silence between you stretching wider and wider from one day to another, you still dreamed of him sometimes. Still woke up with tears on your pillow and his name lodged somewhere in your throat. Still felt like he was right at your fingertips. 

Close enough to remember, but too far to touch.

────୨ৎ────

Amsterdam had been covered with heavy, dark rain clouds for a week now. Thin, cold rain that didn’t fall in sheets, but misted the air like grief that never stopped clinging. The kind that soaked into the seams of your hoodie and stuck to your eyelashes. 

He’d been in this city for eight months now. Everything should’ve felt like a new chapter. Everything should’ve felt like the freedom he once craved — the escape he told himself he needed. Instead, he felt… off. Out of place in his own life. Like he had walked onto someone else’s path and didn’t know how to find his way back. 

He had new friends here, a schedule, a routine, a girlfriend. He even made sure to decorate his room with little posters, like you once told him to. But even then—even with those pieces of color and personality—it felt hollow. He felt hollow. Olivia filled the space beside him, but not within him. That space had been carved out slowly, over the last year. And it hadn’t been carved for her. It had been carved for you.

Lando hadn’t been able to sleep properly in weeks. His room was too clean, too beige. He missed the cute mugs you used for drinking tea with him and the way your socks never matched. He even missed the ridiculous alarm tone you used—that one song you claimed was the only thing aggressive enough to get you out of bed. Now his alarm was Olivia. Waking him up with a practiced kiss to the cheek and a to-do list for the day already in her hand. Organized and efficient, but distant.

She always smelled expensive and her hair was always perfect. Her perfume clung to his hoodies now, replacing the faint vanilla and lavender scent that used to make his chest clench unexpectedly. She fit the picture—but not the frame.

He didn’t notice how much he was unraveling until he stopped recognizing himself. Everything he said felt like a script, everything he did felt like it was on autopilot. He went to class., he sat through lectures, then he answered Olivia’s questions, and he smiled when he was supposed to smile.

But it wasn’t him. It wasn’t the Lando he had been all his life, this was a new, artificial version of him. He’d laugh at something someone said at a party, and the sound would feel different. He’d catch himself zoning out at lunch, his eyes drawn to things that reminded him of home—a chipped tile, a girl wearing her hair like you used to, the specific color of a hoodie like the one you always borrowed from him. It has never stopped.

You were a ghost that followed him everywhere, not haunting him maliciously—but softly, and quietly. Just present enough to hurt.

And every time Olivia asked him what was wrong, he’d lie.

“Nothing. Just tired.”

“I’m fine.”

“It’s just adjusting to a new place, that’s all.”

Sometimes, when Olivia was out late with her friends, he’d sit on the cold tile floor of the kitchen—like he had that night in your kitchen, and he’d let the silence settle.

He remembered what he said to you, slumped against the cabinets, head spinning, your shoulder warm beneath him. At the time, he hadn’t fully understood what that meant. But now? Now he did because he had left, and it had ruined him.

He checked his phone before the flight, over and over. Desperately hoping for a message. One of your typical, low-effort, high-meaning texts:

“Don’t forget your passport, idiot.” or “You’re gonna do great, Lan.”

But it never came.

He’d hoped—selfishly—that you’d come say goodbye. That you’d be there at the airport, even if just standing in the back. That maybe, just maybe, you’d catch his hand, say something like “Stay.” But you didn’t.

He’d looked for you anyway. Chest tight, heart racing, his eyes scanning the faces of every person who showed up to send him off. Laughing, hugging, cheering. But not you. And in that moment, he felt something twist deep in his chest—a mix of guilt and disbelief. Because even after everything… some part of him truly believed you’d be there. You always were, until now.

And something inside him snapped quietly in that moment. Like a string too tight for too long finally giving way.

She didn’t come.

She didn’t come.

She didn’t come.

She didn’t—

Lando never deleted your messages. He couldn’t. They were still there, buried deep in the chat log. All those late-night voice notes, the blurry selfies, the playlists you made, the “tell me you got home safe, idiot” texts. Now they sat untouched, blue and gray bubbles frozen in time.

One night, he tapped on one of your voice notes and hit play, and your voice filled the room. It broke him. He sank to the floor—knees pulled to his chest, face in his hands—and cried. Really cried. Not the frustrated kind, or the angry kind, but the kind that came from loss. From deep, heavy regret because now, with the noise of this new life screaming around him, he realized how quiet you had been when you left.

You didn’t beg, you didn’t argue. You didn’t even try to convince him to stay. You simply stepped back, and he let you.

Everything with Olivia started to rot after that. Not all at once—but slowly. He stopped laughing at her jokes, she started noticing how distant he’d become, they argued more. She asked why he wouldn’t touch her like he used to, why he stayed up late when she went to bed. Why didn't he try. He didn’t have an answer she wanted to hear. Because the truth was that he was still in love with someone else. And he’d left her behind.

He tried. God, he tried. Olivia was everything on paper—beautiful, perfect body, intelligent, well-spoken. She had a plan for her future, a five-year vision board, a curated Spotify playlist for every mood. But she didn’t know how to read his silences like you did.

She didn’t call him out when he was spiraling in his thoughts, having anxiety attacks. She didn’t remember how he hated fish or how he picked at the skin on his thumb when he was overthinking. She didn’t feel like home, and over time, he stopped trying to force it. He stopped texting her when he stayed on campus later than planned, he started noticing how tight her grip was on his arm, how her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes when he mentioned your name—which he always did by accident.

You had a way of slipping into his sentences, even when he wasn’t trying.

“Oh yeah, she always said that movie was mint!”

“We used to listen to this song in the summer.”

Each time, Olivia would go quiet, and Lando would pretend he didn’t notice—but he did.

He just didn’t know how to stop it.

The nights were the worst. When the city noise finally died, and all that was left was the glow of streetlights bleeding through the blinds. He’d lie awake, the bed too big, the air too thin, your voice still echoing faintly in the back of his mind. 

It wasn’t even the last time he saw you that haunted him—not really. It was everything before that. The look in your eyes when you told him you were fine, the way you nodded, even though your voice cracked. The way you smiled for him even while your heart broke quietly behind your ribs.

He’d never forget the weight of your head on his shoulder in that quiet kitchen. The warmth of your presence, the familiar rhythm of your breathing, the silence between you that somehow said everything he wasn’t brave enough to. You just let him rest there, drowning in the alcohol, the ache, and the guilt.

Lando has thought about messaging you so many times. Late at night, early in the morning, after a fight with Olivia, after a dream that felt too real. He even typed out a few drafts, but he always deleted them because it felt too selfish. Because what right did he have to pull you back when he was the one who walked away?

So instead, he stayed silent—and hoped you’d reach out first. Yet days passed, and you didn’t.

He scrolled through your Instagram more often than he wanted to admit. You’d changed your profile picture, and even cut your hair shorter. You posted photos with friends, laughing in golden sunlight, and yet your eyes still carried something heavy, something distant. He zoomed in on one photo once, just to make sure he wasn’t imagining it—that slight sadness you always tried to hide behind your smile.

You looked okay. But not happy. And it wrecked him to know that he was probably the reason why.

At the four-month mark, he started skipping more classes, stayed in bed longer and let his favorite lego sets collect dust. Olivia noticed, of course, but she didn’t ask the right questions—and even if she had, he wouldn’t have told the truth. Because the truth was simple and devastating: he missed you more than he ever thought possible. Not just in the romantic sense—but existentially. Like something about his very being had gone numb without you there to ground him, like he couldn’t find the version of himself he liked anymore. The version who laughed too loudly, who stayed up late talking about nothing, who said stupid things just to make you roll your eyes and smile.

He felt like a stranger to himself, and the more he tried to fit into this new life, the more he realized he didn’t belong here.

He hadn’t told Olivia yet about the truth of what he was feeling. About the growing distance in his chest every time she kissed him. About how every time he said “I love you,” it felt like a lie wrapped in an apology. He couldn’t look at her without thinking about how he got here. And how he should’ve never left you behind.

────୨ৎ────

The apartment was dim, lit only by the blue glare of a paused movie screen and the glow of Olivia’s phone. Outside, the city murmured its usual midnight song—distant traffic, wind brushing windows, occasional laughter from people who still had somewhere to be.

However, inside, it was dead quiet.

Lando sat slouched on the far end of the couch, elbows on his knees, thumb pressed hard into the side of his temple. His jaw ached from clenching. He’d been this way for the past hour—motionless, burning silently. 

Olivia didn’t notice. Or maybe she did, but chose not to care. Her legs were tucked beneath her, wrapped in that gray blanket she bought when they were picking things for the apartment. She scrolled on her phone, her thumb moving in slow flicks, laughter bubbling from her lips every now and then at something on her screen. 

It didn’t even feel like they were in the same room. 

“You’re really not gonna talk again tonight?” She finally said, not even looking at him, too busy replying to someone on Instagram.

He blinked slowly, taking a deep breath. “There’s nothing to say.”

Her eyes snapped to him. “That’s bullshit, Lan. You’ve been weird for weeks.” She tilted her head, getting a better look at him. Lando opened his mouth, then closed it, exhaling through his nose.

“Is this about college?” She asked, more pointed now. “Or is this about her?” He stiffened at her last words. 

There it was—the unspoken name, hanging in the air like a match above gasoline.

“Of course it is,” She scoffed, throwing her phone down. “You’ve been floating since we got here. You barely try anymore. Like your body’s here, but your head’s somewhere else—always looking back to Bristol. You need to understand that this city and every memory that is connected with it is already long gone.”

He looked at her, and for the first time in a long time, really looked—and didn’t recognize the person staring back. She wasn’t the Olivia he had first met, full of ambition and spontaneous affection. She was different now. Controlled, and expectant. Like she wanted to mold him into someone else. 

How could he forget about Bristol, about you?

“Because I don’t feel like myself anymore, Liv!” Lando finally snapped, voice sharp, loud and desperate. “I don’t even know who the fuck I am when I’m with you.”

Olivia’s eyes narrowed, “Wow,” She snickered, voice trembling with disbelief. “That’s a shitty thing to say to the person who moved hundreds of kilometers to a foreign country with you.”

“No. You moved here,” He snapped, his voice finally rising. “And I just followed. I followed after you here because I thought that maybe it would fix whatever I was feeling. But it didn’t. It just made it worse.”

Her mouth opened, but nothing came out at first. She blinked a few times before finally letting out a scoff and replying, “Okay, so this is my fault, huh?”

“That’s not what I said.”

“Bullshit!” She stood now, the blanket falling off her lap. “You’ve been checked out for months. Is this really about her, Lando? Just say it. Have balls and say it, straight to my face, that this is true.”

Lando’s chest tightened. He ran a hand through his curls, pacing in quick, tight circles. He could feel the frustration building in his throat, like it was choking him. 

“I haven’t spoken to her in months, Olivia.”

“But you still think about her. I see it on your face every time we walk past something that reminds you of home. Every time someone says her name. You go quiet, and get lost in your little, stupid head again, overthinking everything.”

Her words landed like a punch in the stomach. He stopped pacing, his back was turned to her. Softly, he answered, “Maybe I am.”

The silence that followed was deafening. Her breath hitched, hands trembling, knotted into fists.

“You’re such a coward, Lando,” She whispered in disbelief. “You couldn’t even admit you loved her. You just kept pretending, and now that this life isn’t perfect, you want to run back like a scared little boy.”

He turned around, eyes shining now, but not from tears. From fury. “I never wanted this life, can’t you understand it?!” He shouted, gripping his fists tightly, his nails digging deeply into the skin of his hand. “You planned it all out and I just… I went along. I left my family, my best friend, my home. I thought I could make it work, but I can’t. I don’t even know who I am anymore, Olivia.”

“So what now?” She spat, a non-chalant grimace visible on her face. “You’re gonna crawl back and expect her to just be waiting for you with open arms? Like none of this happened? Pretend like you didn’t break her heart too?”

That brought him to a halt. He hadn’t let himself think of it that way—how much damage he might’ve caused. How you had stayed quiet while he disappeared into someone else’s world. 

Lando felt sick.

“I don’t know what she’ll say,” He admitted, softer now. “But I can’t keep doing this. Not when I feel like I’ve lost everything that made me who I was.”

Olivia stared at him for a long time. Then, her expression hardened. “Then go. And don’t bother coming back.” She added coldly.

“I wasn’t planning to.”

“Go ahead. Pack all of your shit, dickhead. Go chase your fucking dream girl. Just don’t expect me to wait around while you figure out who you are.”

He nodded once, jaw tight, eyes stinging. “I wouldn’t even ask you to.”

And just like that, he turned around and walked into their shared bedroom. He pulled out the old bag from under the bed—the one with his initials stitched into the side from when he was sixteen. It hadn’t been touched in months.

He threw in clothes without thinking. Chargers. Toothbrush. Photo strip he’d once tucked into a side pocket—the one with the two of you, silly grins and bright eyes, back when life had been simple. With all the necessary things, he zipped the bag up, slung it over his shoulder, and stepped back into the living room.

When he came back out, Olivia stood there, arms crossed over her chest, tears in her angry eyes. She was bitter, not even trying to stop him. 

“Lando.” She called him one last time, and he turned to look at her for the last time. “You’ll regret this,” She continued, voice low and furious. “She won’t take you back, and you’ll be left with nothing.”

But Lando didn’t say a word, he just walked out, slamming the door behind him. The moment the door clicked shut, he felt it—like breathing after holding it too long. Like grief and relief tangled into one.

For the first time in months, the silence didn’t feel suffocating. It felt like something new beginning.

────୨ৎ────

You weren’t expecting anything—just the usual hum of silence broken only by the rain pounding on the windows. It had been a quiet evening. Too quiet, actually. 

You’d brushed your teeth, turned the lights low, your skin still warm from a shower, wrapped in a worn hoodie far too big for you. A movie played softly in the background, but you weren’t really watching. You never did anymore. Everything had dulled around the edges. You went through motions now. You existed in between hours, in between memories of what used to be and the aching of what could’ve been.

It was close to 1:00 AM. You hadn’t planned on staying up this late, but sleep never came easy these days. Not since he left. So when the knock came—three distinct raps followed by a silence so heavy it filled the room—your stomach dropped. 

You froze mid-step, heart punching your ribs, unsure whether it was just your mind playing tricks on you. But then it came again—three more knocks, slower this time. Heavier. Like the person on the other side wasn’t sure they had the right to be there.

Your feet moved before you realized it. Soft, tentative steps across the hardwood. The kind you take when your heart is at your throat. When everything in you says, “Don’t hope. Don’t you dare hope.”

You reached the door and slowly peeked through the peephole. And in that moment, everything inside you fell apart.

It was him. Lando.

Soaked from head to toe, rain dripping from his curls, hoodie clinging to him like the weight of every decision he’d made. His face was pale, exhausted. His eyes locked on the doormat like he couldn’t bear to look up. He looked like regret had come to life.

You stared, frozen in place. Every nerve in your body screamed. Every instinct said this isn’t real, that it was just a trick of your mind conjured out of all the times you’d cried yourself to sleep.

You didn’t even think twice as your fingers already fumbled at the lock, breath shallow, pulse racing. When the door finally creaked open, the rain surged in, bringing cold and memories with it. 

Lando slowly lifted his head, making your eyes meet, and in that moment it felt as if everything around stopped. The storm behind him blurred into white noise, and the air between you buzzed with everything unspoken. 

Your throat tightened, and you felt as if your knees threatened to give out any second. You hadn’t seen him in eight months. Just glimpses, pictures with Olivia that felt like salt in a wound you never asked for. But now here he was, Lando in the flesh, standing right in front of you. And you couldn’t breathe.

Lando didn’t speak. He just stood there, rain running down his face, mixing with something that might’ve been tears—but you couldn’t tell. He looked older somehow. More tired, like he hadn’t slept in days, maybe weeks. Like life had eaten him alive.

You didn’t know what to say. You wanted to scream, and cry. To ask him why—why he left, why he never looked back, why he let you shatter without a single word. 

The pain hit you all at once—heavy, violent, and consuming—making you break apart. Your throat burned as you moved towards him. You shoved him back once, then again. Your fists thudded against his chest, angry, raw, messy and real. 

“You bastard—” Your voice broke into a sob as you hit him again. “You goddamn— selfish coward—” Lando flinched at your words, but still didn’t move away.

You shoved him harder. “You— you left me! You said nothing, not even a single word! You just disappeared! You think you can show up here after months and what? What?!”

Your fists pounded his chest as anger boiled over into pure heartbreak. “Do you have any idea what you did to me? How much it hurt?” Still, he took it. He didn’t raise a hand. He let you hit him. “You just left! Like I was nothing to you. Like I wasn’t even— God, I hate you!” 

Each word broke more of you apart. Hot tears blurred your vision as your fists pounded against him with every ache you’d buried for months. You were crying now, properly crying. Ugly, broken sobs tearing through your chest. The kind of crying that made your knees weak, that shook your whole body.

“You fucking asshole! You didn’t even say goodbye—” Your voice cracked. “I waited, Lando. I waited for you to say something. To make it make sense. And you just— you were gone.”

Still, he said nothing. His breath was shaking, lips parted, eyes wet from more than just the rain. And then finally—finally—he moved. Slowly and carefully, as if approaching a wounded animal, he wrapped his arms around you in a strong embrace. You struggled at first—your fists still weakly hitting at his chest, but his arms only tightened more. One hand cradled the back of your head, the other splayed across your back, grounding you.

“Shhh… I know. I know.” He whispered, his throat tightening, “I’m sorry.” His voice cracked on the last word, and that’s what finally shattered you.

You stopped fighting.

His arms wrapped around you like he’d never let go. Tight and desperate. One hand tangled in your hair, the other pressing you against him like he was terrified you’d disappear. You could feel his heart pounding in his chest—fast and scared. He was shaking, and so were you.

You sobbed into his hoodie, the fabric soaking up your tears and rain and months of silence. He didn’t say a word. His chin dropped to rest on the top of your head as he held you there, like if he let go, the world would fall apart again. You gripped at him like a lifeline, hands fisting into his hoodie, face pressed into the warmth of his chest as your body trembled. You missed him so much.

No words were needed. Not yet. Just the rain and the sound of your heartbeat against his. The thud of two souls colliding after too long apart.

You cried into his chest while he stood in your doorway, dripping rainwater and regret, your name probably sitting at the edge of his tongue.

And still, nothing. Nothing except the unshakable feeling that even now, even after everything—this was still home.

────୨ৎ────

Some time had passed before you finally led him inside.

The house was still quiet. Not the kind of quiet that hummed peacefully—but the breathless kind. The kind where the walls still echoed with everything left unsaid. 

Rain had soaked into the hallway carpet beneath your feet, his clothes leaving wet spots behind him that you didn’t have the heart to care about. Your hand trembled slightly as it held onto the railing while you climbed the stairs. Behind you, Lando followed wordlessly, his movements hesitant—like he wasn’t sure he belonged here anymore.

Your room hadn’t changed much. Same soft light from the lamp on the bedside table, same books piled up on your desk, same blanket folded at the end of the bed. And yet, when he stepped in behind you, something shifted. The air tightened.

Lando stood in the doorway, dripping, still breathing like he hadn’t figured out how to do it properly since he saw your face again. And you didn’t say anything. Not yet. You just turned around to face him, heart pounding in your ears like a warning, and the second your eyes met again in that dim golden light, something collapsed inside you. Not with noise, but with a softness that hurt.

You crossed the room slowly. No rush, no desperation, just the ache of every second that had passed since he had left. Every second you’d spent trying not to miss him, trying not to hate him, trying not to wish for this exact moment.

He looked down at you when you stopped in front of him. His hair was sticking to his forehead. His shirt clung to his skin, knuckles were scraped, and his eyes held centuries of regret. And you reached for him—not with certainty, but with instinct.

Fingers brushed his sleeve, then his hand, and finally, without a word, he let out the quietest exhale and stepped closer to you, forehead pressing to yours like he’d finally made it home.

You stood like that for a while, eyes closed, neither of you moving. The sound of the rain bleeding through the walls.

“I…” He started to whisper, voice cracking—but you shook your head against him.

“Don’t,” You breathed, your voice trembling. “Not yet, Lan.” The nickname made his heart squeeze painfully, remembering all the happiest times when you called him that.

Lando nodded as he understood what you meant. This wasn’t the time for words, for answers—not tonight.

You took his hand and pulled him gently toward the bed. It wasn’t romantic nor filled with lust. It was the comfort and longing that made you do that.

You handed him a towel from the dresser, watched as he clumsily dried his hair, and peeled off the hoodie that stuck to him like a second skin. Then you passed him one of your old sweatshirts—the navy one he used to steal during movie nights, and the one you could never bring yourself to throw away. He hesitated, but eventually he took it, his hands shaking slightly as he pulled it over his head.

You turned away to give him space. But when you sat down on the bed, you felt the weight shift beside you. He was close, but not touching. Like he was scared to ruin the fragile thing you’d just begun stitching back together. 

Not knowing what to say, you lay down, and he followed your steps. It was awkward at first, like learning again a language you used to speak fluently. His arm grazed yours and you shifted slightly, making him mirror your moves. The duvet settled over you both like a secret, warm and heavy and sacred.

It took time—slow, aching minutes—for your body to relax. But it happened, eventually. Your head found its way to his chest, just above his heart, and his arm found your waist. Your legs tangled together under the covers like they’d never forgotten how to fit. And still… you said nothing. 

You listened his breathing—to the gradually slowing thump of his heart. To the rain whispering against your windows. You felt the warmth of his skin through the borrowed fabric. You felt the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheek.

He held you like you were made of glass. Carefully, and reverently. Your fingers curled in the hem of his sleeve and didn’t let go. And finally—finally—you allowed yourself to breathe.

You didn’t want to sleep. You were afraid all of this would vanish if you closed your eyes. That if you let go, he’d disappear again. That the morning would come and this would all be just another cruel dream. But your body betrayed you, and for the first time in what felt like lifetimes, you fell asleep wrapped in the arms of someone who knew you. Who had broken you, and had come back. 

You didn’t dream You just slept—heart pressed to heart, hands entwined in quiet forgiveness.

And Lando? He stayed awake, watching the way your face softened in sleep. The faint frown that still lingered, even now. He studied every inch of your skin like he was afraid he’d forget it again. His thumb brushed your back, up and down, slow and reverent. 

He couldn’t believe that he’d left this, that he’d chosen to leave you.

You stirred slightly, breathing shifting against his chest, and he tucked a strand of hair behind your ear so gently it almost broke him. 

And that was when he knew.

No matter what it took—no matter how long it would be—he wasn’t leaving again. He couldn’t. You were his home. And this? This was just the beginning.

────୨ৎ────

The next morning the rain hadn’t stopped. It painted the windows in soft streams, whispering against the glass like an old lullaby, a rhythm that felt almost like breathing. Slow, gentle and unrelenting. The world outside was hushed, dulled beneath a curtain of gray skies and water-soaked streets, but in the stillness of the apartment, it felt safe. Wrapped in that soft kind of silence that only rain brings—where time slows, and nothing demands to be done except existing.

The bedroom was still dim, bathed in the faint amber glow of the bedside lamp that was left on throughout the night. Its golden light caught on the edges of things—the half-empty glass of water on the dresser, the corner of a blanket trailing off the bed, the framed photo next to the books which depicted you and Lando, laughing at something neither of you remembered now. Younger, lighter, unaware of the ache the years would bring.

But now, your older selves lay beneath the covers, wrapped up in warmth and each other. Skin against skin, his arm draped around your waist, your legs tangled naturally beneath the duvet. As if you’d always belonged in this shape. Like the spaces you left in each other had only ever been waiting to be filled.

His thumb moved slowly against your side—back and forth, back and forth. A silent check-in. A promise, a reminder that he was there.

When you woke up, you didn’t move at first. Just let your eyes follow the soft pattern of shadows across the ceiling, let the sound of the rain blur into the quiet thudding of your heart.

Lando shifted slightly, lifting his head just enough to look at you. His curls were messy, and his eyes—blue and familiar—were half-lidded but awake. “Are you okay?” He murmured, voice thick with sleep and something deeper.

You hesitated, then shrugged, your voice soft. “Just thinking.”

“About?” He questioned, his tone careful. Like he already knew the answer might sting.

You blinked slowly, and swallowed the lump forming in your throat. “You know… I don’t think I’ve forgiven you yet,” You whispered. “Not fully.” The words cracked slightly on their way out, and you hated how vulnerable they sounded. How fragile they made you feel.

Lando didn’t flinch, nor pulled away. He just held your gaze. “I know.” He said quietly. 

You turned onto your side to face him fully, his hand now resting on the curve of your hip. The mattress dipped slightly under your movement, the duvet sliding down your shoulder. Your skin cooled instantly in the air, but it wasn’t why you shivered.

“I told myself I had,” You continued, a little more steadily now. “I wanted to. But I still remember the silence. The way it felt when you left, Lan. Like— like I’d been erased from your life overnight. Like I didn’t matter.”

Lando’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly at your words. Then, slowly, he reached up, fingers brushing a strand of hair from your face, tucking it gently behind your ear. His touch lingered, as if trying to memorize you all over again, his eyes full of regret.

“I think about that too,” He murmured. “Every single day.” There was no defense in his voice. No excuses. Just the truth, bare and broken. 

“I was a coward. I was scared, and I let that fear decide everything. I left you without a word and convinced myself it was the right thing. That you’d be fine, and that you didn’t need me. But it wasn’t about you. It was about me—and I hurt you because I didn’t know how to stay.” He shook his head, like the memory made him sick. “I was selfish. I chose a version of myself that made me feel safe, even if it meant becoming someone I didn’t recognize. Even if it meant walking away from the one person who ever really saw me.”

His eyes searched yours, shimmering. “And I’m sorry.”

The words hung between you, bare and trembling.

“I’m sorry for the silence. I’m sorry for every night you waited, every time you wondered what you did wrong, every piece of yourself you had to stitch back together without me. I should’ve been there. I should’ve fought for you.”

You felt your throat tighten. Your chest ached with the force of how badly you’d needed to hear those words.

“I think I didn’t deserve your love,” He continued, “but I had it. And I broke it. And that’s something I’ll carry with me for the rest of my life. But if there’s a chance—any chance—that I can still be the person you trust again… I’ll spend every day trying.” His voice cracked. “I just want you to know that I never stopped loving you. Not for a second.”

You blinked, and the tears finally slipped down your cheeks again—warm, unstoppable.

You sat up slowly, mirroring him now, the duvet pooled around your waist. And for a moment, you just looked at him. Looked at the boy who had left, and the man who had come back.

You whispered, “Thank you.” as a wave of relief ran down you. 

You never knew how much you needed to hear that apology. And though forgiveness wasn’t something that could be wrapped in a single moment, it lived in that breath. In the way your body leaned into his without fear. In the way he exhaled like he’d been holding that apology in his lungs for a year.

You didn’t need a grand gesture. You needed this. The truth, laid bare. Between two people who had shattered each other once—and were now choosing, quietly, to try again.Together.

Your eyes met his. “Do you regret it? All of it?”

He exhaled slowly, chest rising and falling with the weight of the question. “Not everything,” He said finally, “But most of all, the time I wasted pretending I didn’t love you.” That cracked something wide open inside you.

“I thought if I stayed gone,” He continued, voice shaking now, “if I became who Olivia wanted me to be, then maybe I’d forget how much I needed you. But I didn’t. I never did. And one morning, I looked in the mirror and didn’t recognize myself.” He paused for a second, his throat tightening at the recall of all the memories, “I missed you so much it made me sick.”

Your breath caught. That was the moment you let the tears fall once again—not loud or gasping, just silent, and honest. They slipped down your cheeks like the rain on the window, blurring everything.

“I missed you too,” You whispered, your hand finding his beneath the blanket, your fingers curling around his like a lifeline. “Even when I told myself I didn’t.”

When you said that, Lando smiled. It was small, soft—nothing like the wide grins he used to wear when the world was still simple—but it was real. Tired and tender and entirely yours.

He leaned forward until your foreheads touched, his breath warm against your skin. Neither of you spoke for a while, there was no need to. Just that quiet, precious stillness—the kind that only came after the storm, after the wreckage, when you realized you were both still here. Still breathing. Still reaching for each other.

When he finally whispered, “Can I stay?” it wasn’t a question about just staying at your place. It was about everything that came after—your future.

You nodded, voice barely audible. “You never have to leave again, Lan.” And you meant it wholeheartedly.

His hand curled around your side again, anchoring you close, and your body folded into his like you’d done it a hundred times before—because you had. But never like this. Never with the knowledge that tomorrow wouldn’t take him away again.

The rain outside kept falling, steady and quiet, but the storm between you had broken. And in that little apartment, tucked beneath layers of blankets and bruised apologies, two people who had once been torn apart by time and distance had finally found each other again.

Not in grand confessions. Not in desperate pleas. But in the way his thumb still moved against your hip. In the way your fingers clutched his like they couldn’t bear to let go.

This wasn’t about going back to the beginning, rather about starting from here. Where the pain had already been named. Where the truths had already been spoken. Where love, battered but burning, had quietly survived.

And tomorrow? Tomorrow could wait because right now, in the amber light and the hush of falling rain, you were home.

────୨ৎ────

3 years later

Your shared apartment smelled like warm vanilla and the candle you lit hours ago—something earthy, sandalwood maybe, that had slowly wrapped itself around the quiet of the afternoon. 

Outside, the sky was beginning to shift into early evening—dusted pinks and soft oranges stretching across the skyline like a watercolor bleeding into paper. A soft breeze drifted in through the cracked balcony door, swaying the white curtains like waves.

You were nestled into the couch, legs stretched out, a blanket tossed haphazardly over both your bodies. Your head rested on Lando’s chest, his hoodie swallowing you up, the fabric worn-in and smelling like him—clean cotton and a scent you could never name but always recognized. He was absentmindedly running his fingers through your hair, slowly, over and over again, untangling the strands with gentle care like it was the most important task in the world. And in that moment, maybe it was.

A record played low in the background, some old song he loved that you’d grown to love too. Lando had his arm wrapped around you, his hand trailing slowly through your hair. Over and over. Fingertips catching in soft strands before sliding free again, curling around them like he never wanted to stop touching you. 

You were laying there, head on his torso, the quiet rise and fall beneath your cheek like a lullaby. You didn’t speak. You didn’t need to. It was one of those moments where everything was said in the silence—in the closeness, the steady breathing, the way your fingers rested against the inside of his wrist, your thumb brushing the faint line of a scar you both knew the story of.

Lando shifted a little, just enough to press a kiss to the top of your head. No words, just that.

You smiled into the soft cotton of his shirt, fingers tracing slow circles over the inside of his wrist. “You’re gonna make me fall asleep, Lan.” You mumbled, your words softened by the weight of comfort, eyelids heavy.

He tilted his head slightly, brushing his lips against your hairline. “Then fall asleep,” He whispered, voice laced with that familiar warmth that always made your chest flutter. “I’m not going anywhere.”

You smiled into his shirt, your heart swelling, a quiet little ache blooming behind your ribs. “You always say that.”

He smiled, too. “Because I mean it. And would it be so bad?” He said softly, the corners of his lips twitching into a half-smile. “I like having you like this, pretty girl.”

You tilted your head to look at him, chin resting against his chest. “Like what?”

He met your eyes, all warm honey and quiet adoration. “Close.” 

And then he leaned down, connecting your lips in a kiss. Not in that rushed, desperate way he used to when everything was still uncertain—when love felt fragile and maybe temporary. No, this kiss was slow. Anchored. Like he was still choosing you, over and over again, even now.

You kissed him back, one hand curling into the collar of his shirt, the other still resting against his chest where you could feel his heartbeat under your palm. He pulled back just enough to brush your nose with his, grinning against your mouth. Lando looked at you like you were something precious—like he still couldn’t believe you were real, like even in all the time that had passed, he hadn’t gotten used to having you close again.

Your fingers slid up to his jaw, thumb brushing along the line of stubble he hadn’t bothered to shave. “You know, sometimes I still feel like I’m dreaming,” You said softly. “Like I’ll wake up and you’ll still be gone.”

His brows knit together, and his free hand came up to cup your cheek gently. “Hey,” He said, voice suddenly serious, “you’re not dreaming. I’m here.”

You nodded, but your throat felt thick, full of memories you hadn’t spoken aloud in months. The silence between you shifted—still soft, but a little heavier now. 

“You know I love you, right?” He asked, quiet and sure.

You nodded again, slower this time, your eyes starting to sting. “I know.” His eyes searched yours, his thumb resting just beneath your cheekbone like he couldn’t bear to lose contact.

His hand slipped back into your hair, gently tucking a strand behind your ear. “I don’t think I knew how much until I almost lost you.”

You blinked, your lips parting, but no words came. Instead, you just laid your head back against his chest, curling in tighter, wrapping your arm around his waist. You didn’t need to say it—he could feel it in the way you held him like he was home.

“You know,” He murmured after a while, “I could do this forever.”

You pretended to think about it. “Do what?”

“This,” He whispered. “Be with you. Like this. Wake up next to you. Watch you fall asleep on me before we finish a movie. Let you steal all the covers.”

“That sounds a lot like a lifetime commitment.” You smirked, making the man beside you grin at your words.

“That’s kind of the point, love.”

You looked at him then—really looked—and it hit you again, how much love had filled the quiet spaces in your life since that night he came back. Since the rain, the doorstep, the apology. Since everything shifted.

You cupped his jaw, thumb brushing over the curve of his cheek. “You know,” You said softly, “I never thought we’d make it here.”

He leaned into your touch, gaze steady. “Well, I did.” And with that, the silence wrapped around you both again—no pressure, no need to rush. Just comfort, and peace. The quiet knowledge that love didn’t need to be loud to be real. 

It was here. In the way your body curved into his, perfectly fitted. In the way his eyes softened every time they landed on you. It was here. Always.

You didn’t say anything. Instead, you melted further into him, burying your face in his neck, arms wrapped tightly around his middle. You stayed like that for a long time. Breathing. Existing. Loving.

The light outside faded into dusky blues. The candle flickered, the music looped. And still, you stayed like that—wrapped in each other. Lando’s fingers never stopped moving through your hair, slow and thoughtful, like he was memorizing the feel of you. And when the night time finally came, when the only light was the glow of the kitchen lamp left on across the room, Lando gently scooped you up—blanket and all—and carried you to bed.

Because this wasn’t the beginning of something new. This was the finally. Finally together, finally home. Finally, always. 

Everything that had once been right at the fingertips, was now fully grasped.

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