#easy to disappear into the temple too

[carrion-art]

force-sensitive clones might not be able to serve openly, but the order has a place and a home for them nonetheless

[sugoroo]

#AND THEY WERE ROOMMATES...

ʚɞ summary: the chronicles of what happens when you share a living space with the jjk men: expect tension, embarrassing revelations and (of course) séx! . . . ft. gojo, geto, toji, choso + nanami.

warnings. fem!reader, masturbation, panty stealing, plushie humping in choso's, penetration (p in v), doggystyle, oral (f receiving), 18+ minors dni.

SATORU GOJO — THE LOUD ONE!

satoru gojo is the most irritating, annoying and overly loud roommate you could possibly have.

at all hours of the day, he can be heard through the thin walls separating your rooms doing one (or all) of the following things: shouting down the phone to his bestfriend suguru, raging at his teammates for losing a match in a video game... and even jerking off.

yes, that's right.

and whatever satoru is doing to himself in there simply cannot feel good enough that it warrants the sheer amount of obnoxious moans that he releases; you're sure of it. he has to be playing it up purely to get on your nerves — and to his credit, it works.

so eventually, after yet another hour of trying to focus on doing some work on your computer but being unable to get anything done due to the noises coming from the other room of the apartment, you decide to do something about it.

without stopping to knock, you unceremoniously barge through his door, mouth already open in preparation of the spew of complaints you have ready to throw his way.

but, rather embarrassingly, once you lay eyes upon what he's currently doing, any and every word in the english language disappears from your mind without so much as a puff of smoke.

satoru, for his part, doesn't react at all save for looking mildly amused at your reaction. in fact... you think the pale hand he has wrapped around his cock even speeds up its languid strokes at the sight of you.

"girl, finally!" he sighs dramatically, lips spreading into a wide, impish smile as he beckons you with the curled finger of his other hand. "been waiting for you to get the hint for months now. i was starting to think you didn't want me too, honestly."

"you— what?" you push out awkwardly, wincing through your confusion as you fight the fruitless battle to tear your eyes from his unnecessarily big cock and meet his bright eyes.

"you heard me," satoru hums with an easy shrug, letting out one of those all-too-familiar, almost pornographic moans when he squeezes his own hand around the leaky tip of his shaft. "...or do you not want me too?"

sighing, you raise your thumb and forefinger to rub your stressed temple, shaking your head at the sheer audacity of this man. "you're ridiculous, gojo. i was hoping you were just pretending to jerk off in here— but no, of course you actually are."

"mhmm," he groans raspily between increasingly loud squelches of his cock. wait; is your scolding only helping him get off even faster? oh, you can't make this shit up. "keep talkin' to me just like that, baby."

"first of all, don't call me baby," you scoff, jabbing an accusing finger in his direction with a scowl etching its way onto your features. "and secondly, if you're gonna do this... stuff right next-door to me, can't you atleast try to keep it down? some of us have work to do."

satoru rolls his eyes at this, as if he's somehow the one being inconvenienced here; but any real irritation quickly evaporates into pleasure when he starts fondling his heavy balls, tongue lewdly lolling out of his mouth like a bitch in heat.

"i-i'll keep quiet. shit— i'll do whatever you fuckin' want if you just... just get me over the edge here, pretty girl. hah— help a guy out, would you, roomie?"

and damn if that isn't an enticing offer. finally getting rid of the noise around here so you can actually submit a work assignment on time for once?

yeah... you're definitely on board.

"fine," you mutter, attempting to sound as uninterested as possible as you shuffle closer to the bed. "what do you want me to do, gojo? and don't even bother asking me to suck your dick or anything, because who knows the last time you properly washed that—"

satoru snorts out a strangled laugh, shaking his head quickly and peering up at you with wide, darkened cerulean eyes. "n-no... not that. just— just talk to me, please? and call me satoru, not gojo, damn."

"okay..." you huff thoughtfully, brainstorming what you can say to get this over as quickly as possible. eventually, you purr: "are you gonna be a dirty boy and make a mess all over your hand for me, satoru? hmm?"

and, to your surprise and... arousal? that's all it takes to get him to explode, thick ropes of sticky white cum trickling from the reddened tip of his cock as he whines in ecstasy.

huh. maybe your work can wait a little longer.

SUGURU GETO — THE ONE WHO MAKES YOUR PANTIES GO POOF!

suguru geto is a man of many talents.

but in his humble opinion, the one he is most proficient at? oh, it has to be stealing various pairs of his cute little roommate's panties without her even taking notice.

yeah; that's right, his entire underwear drawer is not actually filled with articles of his own clothing, but rather with scraps of material he has swiped from your room over the past few months.

"ugh, i lost another pair of panties!" comes a frustrated groan from you room; you must be on the phone to one of your friends, suguru muses. "i swear, it's like there's a black hole at the bottom of that washer or something."

ah, if only you knew.

if only you knew that while you're busy stressing over the mystery of your missing underwear, suguru is slumped just against the other side of the thin wall that separates your rooms, one of the aforementioned pairs wrapped tightly around his throbbing cock.

he does this more often than he would like to admit — waits until he hears you get on the phone to jerk himself off. why? well, because then he can listen to your pretty voice while he bucks up into his fist. that's why.

"such a clueless girl..." suguru mutters under his breath as his eyes flutter closed, letting himself get lost in the combination of the soft fabric of your panties surrounding his shaft and the sound of you speaking ringing in his ears. "has no idea where her precious underwear keeps wandering off to."

meanwhile, on the other side of the wall, you have a mischievous smile pulling at your lips as you pretend to be utterly oblivious about your panty thief to your confused friend on the other end of the phone.

as if you wouldn't work out it was suguru snatching them — after all, who else could it possibly be? but you figured it was better this way, letting him think he's holding all the cards in this situation.

it only makes it all the more enjoyable for you.

leaning a little closer to the wall, you can faintly hear the familiar sounds of him getting himself off as you slowly dip a hand beneath your own skirt; and you're not wearing underwear, of course, because you don't have a single pair left thanks to your roommate.

you end up dropping the phone carelessly to the ground when suguru's deep, satisfied groan sounds out from his room, eyes rolling back in ecstasy as his orgasm swiftly brings you to your own.

so lost in your own pleasure are you that when the door softly clicks open, you don't have time to compose yourself before suguru strolls right on in, seeming much too casual for someone who just came in his hand.

"well well well," suguru hums smugly, tilting his head to the side and peering down at you with a condescending smile. "what do we have here, hmm? did you really think you could outsmart me, beautiful?"

oh.

maybe you really are clueless if you genuinely thought he didn't know you were pretending to be as such... but would it really be such a bad thing if he decides to punish you for your attempt at deception?

TOJI FUSHIGURO — THE ONE WHO NEVER PAYS RENT!

toji rarely (if ever) pays his part of the rent for your shared apartment.

he doesn't even bother trying to lie to you and tell you he'll scrounge up enough cash to cover it next time it's due, because he already knows you wouldn't buy that for a second.

so, instead, he offers you something else to keep you sated. something that he can say without a shadow of a doubt he can give to you better than anyone else could even hope to.

cock.

because if he keeps you in a perpetual state of bliss underneath the sheets of his bed, how can you possibly have any time remaining to think of such trivial things like paying the entire monthly rent on your own?

"mmm... what was i saying again, toji?" you slur, voice just delirious with pleasure as he pounds into you from behind, one strong hand effortlessly keeping your face pressed against the mattress.

"nothin', baby," toji lies easily, threading his thick fingers through the back of your hair in a distractingly tender gesture as his mean hips keep up their ruthless pace. "just relax and let y'erself feel me, yeah?"

"but—" you protest weakly, followed by an involuntary hiccup as his pudgy cockhead reaches that spongy spot inside of you once again. "i have a feeling it was important..."

"nah," he grunts dismissively, free hand snaking down to where your bodies are connected to rub messy, stimulating circles around the puffy bud that is your clit. "don't worry about it, pretty."

"...okay. if you say so." you mumble eventually, brain far too hazy from his skilful ministrations to bother putting up much of a fight against his convincing words.

toji's scarred lips spread into a victorious grin behind your back at how easily you give in. he just loves having you like this — so cockdrunk you can't even remember what you were talking about from one moment to the next.

and when the time inevitably comes for you to pay the rent on behalf of both of you yet again, he already knows you won't bat an eye; because, in the big scheme of things, what's a little cash matter if it means you get to have access to his sinful dick game whenever you so desire?

yeah... he'd say it's a pretty fair trade.

but the best part of all is that toji thinks he's the mastermind behind this little arrangement when in reality, if you were looking for a roommate who could pay their rent, you would never have picked someone who looks as jobless as he does in the first place.

but you'll continue to let him believe it was his idea; because, after all, he fucks you better when he's feeling proud of himself.

CHOSO KAMO — THE SECRETLY PERVERTED ONE!

choso doesn't mean to be perverted; not really.

but whether intentional or not, he finds himself desperate for anything that reminds him of you each time he gets himself off: a t-shirt, a pair of underwear, or even one of the cute little plushies you have lined up on your bed.

he wonders, fleetingly, what you'd think of him if you could see him humping one of your stuffed toys while you're out at work — would you be disgusted? would you kick him out and start the search for a new roommate?

or would you, just maybe... take pity on the poor boy and lend him a helping hand?

by the benevolence of some undefined higher power, choso doesn't have to mull over the answer to his question for much longer. because apparently, he was so desperate to release the desire coursing through his veins that he forgot to check the time before starting like he usually would.

so when he hears the tell-tale sign of the door opening and indicating that you've just come home from work, he has nowhere near enough time to cover up what he's been up to in your room while you were gone.

well, shit.

"hey cho, what are you doing in my— oh." comes your dumfounded voice as you peek your head around the slightly ajar doorway, eyes widening in a manner akin to a cartoon character at the sight of his sinful state.

choso blushes profusely, attempting to hide his face by ducking it into his shoulder with a muffled whimper of embarrassment. to his horror, his pathetically hard cock is fully exposed to your view, nestled between the soft limbs of one of your plushies where he had previously been thrusting.

you both stay completely silent for a few long moments, neither of you daring to move a single muscle... but it isn't long before your body is climbing onto the bed to join him before your mind can even begin to process your movements.

"w-what are you doing?... are you gonna hit me? because that would be okay, you can d-definitely hit me if you want!" choso squeaks hurriedly, peeking out from his shoulder and looking for all the word like a puppy who just got caught doing something naughty by its owner.

"i'm not gonna hit you, choso," you chuckle softly, carefully tugging your abused, slightly sticky plushie out from underneath him and tossing it away. "i wanna help you. don't you wanna try doing that to something other than a stuffed toy, hmm?"

"...oh, f-fuck!" he whines loudly, hips rutting just once against the mattress before his cock cruelly betrays him and spurts buckets of cum at the mere thought of being inside of you.

choso hides his face in shame again, figuring he must've absolutely ruined his chances with you now. because there's no way you would still want to help him after witnessing that little display, right?

wrong.

when you tug his head away from his shoulder by one of his scraggly pigtails and pull him into a searing kiss, he realizes maybe his pretty little roommate was just as perverted as him all along.

KENTO NANAMI — THE RESPECTFUL ONE!

kento is very fond of you; his sweet roommate who always wakes him up for work in the morning if he happens to accidentally oversleep and leaves him homemade dinner in the fridge to cheer him up after a late shift.

he figures these things making him feel attraction towards you is fairly normal — but it's the other, not-so-intentional things that make him go crazy for you the most.

when he spots you walking around the apartment in nothing but one of his oversized shirts and a pair of socks because your clothes are in the communal washer... or when he silently observes you bend over to grab something from the bottom cupboard in the kitchen?

yeah, those are the things that really make it hard for him not to pounce on you like some kind of feral animal.

it all comes to a crux when you come home in tears one night, babbling about your fool of a boyfriend having the audacity to cheat on you. hmph, nanami never liked him anyway.

but there's no time for petty jealousies now — no, now is the time for him to make you realize that what you've been craving has been here all along, living in the room right next-door to yours.

so he pulls you into a gentle kiss, pouring all of his pent-up affection into the gesture as he effortlessly lifts you up onto the kitchen counter, positioning himself between your spread legs.

"i want to make you forget about him, beautiful," nanami whispers, voice rough with sincereness as he places a soft peck on the corner of your lips. "may i?"

and you're nodding shakily, but it isn't enough. he reaches up with a large hand to grasp your chin in a firm yet tender grip, thumb stroking over your skin. "use your words for me, dear. come on, i know you can do it."

"y-yes. please, kento."

and that's all it takes for nanami to fall to his knees, brushing his lips over the insides of your thighs as he slowly works his way upwards. god, he's wanted to do this for so long — if for nothing else then to thank you for taking such good care of him and never asking for anything in return.

but oh, is he going to give you something in return now; specifically, in the form of his hot mouth attached to your cunt, tongue lapping up every drop of your translucent juices as if it were the finest wine on the menu of a high class restaurant.

he can't help but wonder, while he's buried nose-deep in your sweet pussy, why on earth a man would choose to cheat on a goddess such as yourself.

but he supposes it doesn't matter, if it means that he's the one who finally gets to worship at your altar from now and for as long as you'll allow him the honour of doing so.

© 2024 SUGOROO. please don't copy or translate any of my works without my explicit permission. all rights are reserved to me.

LIKES AND REBLOGS APPRECIATED!

[woniedarlin]

I love the bf! enha yapper x listener. May I request bf! enha where the reader is sulking and the members are consoling her

Sulked and Soothed

pairing: boyfriend! enhypen x fem! reader

caution: This fic contains excessive amounts of sulking 😙

author's note: Thank you for the request anonie!! I’m so sorry it took so long. I hope you all enjoy it. Happy reading! ♡

permanent tag list: @sol3chu @chlorinecake @13tter @jung1w0n @layzfy @firstclassjaylee @ijustwannareadstuff20

HEESEUNG

You were upstairs, curled up by the window, and sulking….no, wallowing. Because Heeseung, your boyfriend, who was supposed to understand you the most, had ultimately dismissed your feelings earlier. You had been genuinely upset about something, and instead of taking it seriously, he had just laughed. You were so frustrated. So, to prove a point, you kicked him out of the shared house. Dramatic? Maybe. Justified? Absolutely.

Now, you sat by the open window, arms crossed, refusing to acknowledge the traitor currently standing outside on the lawn. Because, of course, Heeseung didn’t just leave. That would be too easy. No. Instead, he had decided to stand dead center…

With a boombox.

And he was singing.

“AND IIIIIIIII WILL ALWAYS LOVE YOUUUUUUU”

Your soul left your body.

“LEE HEESEUNG, WHAT THE ACTUAL-”

he was belting.

loud.

painfully and purposely off-key.

“Oh my god,” you groaned and yelled. “Please tell me you’re not doing this!”

‘’CAN’T HEAR YOU, BABY! THE MUSIC’S TOO LOUD”

“YOU’RE WAKING THE WHOLE NEIGHBORHOOD.”

“Good!” Heeseung grinned. “They need to know my suffering.”

You wanted to disappear. Your window was wide open. You could feel the judgmental stares of imaginary people at you. And just when you thought it couldn’t get worse…It got worse. Because then? He switched songs. A slow, romantic ballad started playing, and before you could even process it, Heeseung, your insane boyfriend,

sank to one knee.

and sang-

“CAUSE ALL OF ME! LOVES ALL OF YOU!”

You grabbed your pillow and launched it out the window.

He dodged. Smirked. “Missed me.”

“I AM THIS CLOSE TO ENDING YOU.”

“Then come down and do it.”

Oh.

Your eye twitched.

Heeseung, still kneeling, gave you that lovesick gaze. “I’m sorry, baby,” he said. “I shouldn’t have brushed you off. I get why you’re mad. And I swear I’ll listen properly next time.”

You glared. “Next time?”

“I mean-” He coughed. “There won’t be a next time! Because I’ve learned my lesson!”

Well…you were tired of sulking. With a groan, you pushed yourself up, stomped to the door, and went downstairs.

“EVEN WHEN I LOSE, I’M WINNINGGG”

You ripped the door open. “I CAN’T TAKE THIS ANYMORE.”

He cut off mid-note. “Oh, thank God. My knees were starting to hurt.”

You pointed at the boombox. “And what even is that?”

He turned it off and set it down carefully. “Found it in the garage. Thought it would be romantic.”

You let out a long sigh before finally meeting his eyes. Heeseung was still kneeling on the ground, looking up at you with the softest, most adoring expression you’d ever seen. “…You do sound good when you sing,” you muttered.

Heeseung’s grin widened instantly. “I knew it.” He got up in one swift motion until he could slip his arms around your waist and pull you into him. “Forgive me?” he asked and kissed your temple.

Fine. He won this round.

“Come on, let’s go inside,” he murmured while nudging his nose against your hair.

“…Only if you promise to never, ever do that again.”

“No promises, babe.” He reached past you to grab the boombox. “This might come in handy next time.”

You shot him a glare. “If you bring that thing inside, I’m locking you out again.”

Heeseung laughed and threw an arm over your shoulder as he led you back in. “Noted. I’ll hide it somewhere you won’t find it.”

You rolled your eyes as he shut the door behind you and pulled you closer.

You knew this wouldn’t be the last time this would happen.

JAY

It started with betrayal. Or at least, that’s what it felt like. Jay had done something…something unforgivable. (Okay, maybe not that unforgivable, but still.) And now, in your fury, you had stolen his prized possession.

His beloved leather jacket.

You strutted around the house in it, arms crossed, chin high, making a point of looking better in it than he ever had. Meanwhile, Jay was sprawled out on the couch, watching you. “You’re committing to this, huh?”

You huffed as you flicked your hair over your shoulder. “I deserve to wear it after what you did.”

His lips twitched. “Right. And what exactly did I do again?”

Your eyes narrowed. “You know what you did.”

He bit back a smile. “Oh, of course. My bad.”

You shot him a look before flipping the collar up dramatically. “Well, since I’m suffering here, I’m keeping this.”

Jay tilted his head,

And then, he smirked.

“Damn,” he said and stretched his arms behind his head. “You look good in it. Maybe you should keep it.”

You froze.

That was not the reaction you had planned for.

“What?”

Jay shrugged. “I mean, it suits you. Almost like it was made for you.”

Your brain is short-circuited.

This was supposed to be revenge. You were supposed to be tormenting him.

Not… whatever this was.

Suspicious, you added. “You don’t even care that I took it?”

“Nope,” he said quickly. “I kinda like seeing you in my clothes.”

Your cheeks burned. “That’s not the point, Jay.”

“Isn’t it?”

Ugh. Why was he like this?

Still sulking, you plopped down on the couch, arms crossed. Jay watched you for a moment, then, with an annoyingly soft chuckle, wrapped an arm around your shoulder. “You done being mad at me yet?” he murmured.

You let out a sigh. “TBD.”

Jay laughed as he pressed a quick, warm kiss to your lips. “Alright, take your time.”

And just like that…

You almost forgot what you were mad about.

JAKE

It started with a mistake. A thoughtless mistake. Jake had forgotten something important. And now, you were sulking.

Correction: you were sulking so hard that you had locked yourself in the bedroom.

Jake had knocked at least ten times.

“Babe?”

Silence.

“Okay, I know you can hear me.”

More silence.

Jake sighed. “Fine. If you don’t talk to me, I’ll just-”

A small slip of paper suddenly slid under the door.

You reached for it and unfolded it.

In his messy handwriting, it read:

“I’M SORRY :(”

You scoffed. Does he think one sad face is enough?

You placed the note aside and went back to sulking.

Five minutes later…

Another note.

“I REALLY MEAN IT :(((”

Another five minutes.

“PLEASE FORGIVE ME? :((( I WILL DO ANYTHING.”

You rolled your eyes. Anything?

Still, you stayed silent.

Jake sighed. “Okay. Desperate times call for desperate measures.”

Then, music started playing.

Sad music.

You perked up, recognizing the song. Through the door, Jake sang along, pouring his entire heart into the lyrics. You hated to admit it, but… his voice was pleasant. Still, you weren’t ready to forgive him just yet. Another song started. But this time…It was cheerful.

Too cheerful.

And then-

You choked.

Was he rapping Eminem?

“His palms are sweaty, knees weak, arms are heavy-”

You covered your mouth to keep from laughing.

“There’s vomit on his sweater already, mom’s spaghetti.” he rapped horribly, adding the worst beatboxing noises known to man. It was so bad, so stupidly bad, that your body betrayed you.

A giggle slipped out.

Jake immediately stopped.

“Wait. Was that… was that a laugh?”

You cleared your throat. “No.”

“Yes, it was,” he sang. “I heard that.”

“…No, you didn’t.”

“Baaaabe,” he whined. “Come on, I made a fool of myself out here.”

You hesitated, and then, finally, you unlocked the door. The second it clicked open, Jake pushed inside and engulfed you in a hug. “I missed you,” he mumbled into your hair.

You sighed. “I was only gone for, like, thirty minutes.”

“Yeah, but that’s like ten years in boyfriend time.”

You rolled your eyes, but your arms found their way around him anyway.

Jake grinned. “Soooo… I’m forgiven?”

You huffed. “No.”

But with the way you were smiling into his chest?

Yeah. He was forgiven.

SUNGHOON

Sunghoon messed up. You hadn’t spoken a word in the last ten minutes of the car ride. Not a sigh. Not a hum. Complete silence. And Sunghoon, being Sunghoon, knew he was so screwed. Then, the worst thing happened. You turned to him blankly and said, “Pull over.”

His hands tightened around the wheel. “Wait. What?”

“Pull. Over.”

Sunghoon panicked. “Babe, listen, let’s just talk-”

“NOW.”

Okay, yeah. You meant business.

With a resigned sigh, he turned toward the curb and parked the car.

But what he wasn’t expecting…

was for you to swing open the door, step out, and start walking away.

In heels.

Sunghoon’s jaw dropped. “Are you…baby!”

You didn’t even spare him a glance. One foot in front of the other, heels clicking against the pavement, eyes fixed forward. Sunghoon, still in shock, leaned over to the passenger seat, watching you go. “Are you seriously doing this right now?”

Again, no response.

His head thudded against the steering wheel.

And yet, here he was. Driving at a walking pace, following you down the street with his window rolled down.

For fifteen minutes.

At first, he tried apologizing.

“Okay, okay, I get it! I messed up! But baby, PLEASE get back in the car!”

Nothing.

Then, he tried reasoning.

“Look, I swear I didn’t mean to. Can we talk about this inside the car? Where there’s air conditioning? And no chance of you breaking an ankle?”

Still, nothing.

Then, he threatened.

“I will physically carry you back inside.”

You kept walking.

Sunghoon groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Oh my god.”

People were staring.

A group of teenagers stood at the corner, pointing and whispering to each other. Even an older man with a dog shot Sunghoon a disapproving look. This was officially the worst day of his life. And yet, he still wouldn’t leave you alone. “Okay,” he pleaded. “You win, alright? Just… please, baby, let me drive you home.”

Silence.

“…I’ll buy you whatever you want.”

Nothing.

“I’ll let you pick the next date.”

Nope.

“I’ll never steal your fries again.”

…Okay.

You stopped.

Sunghoon held his breath.

You turned slightly, just enough for him to see your raised eyebrow.

“…Swear?”

Sunghoon nodded immediately. “On my life. On my ancestors. On my future children’s inheritance.”

You eyed him for a second longer. Then, you turned around and walked back to the car. Sunghoon, relieved, unlocked the door so fast he nearly broke the button. The second you slid into the passenger seat, he exhaled deeply and gripped the wheel.

“…Are you still mad?”

You crossed your arms, looking out the window.

“…Maybe.”

Sunghoon gulped. “Okay. Cool. Great.”

This was going to be a long ride home.

SUNOO

Sunoo had never known actual suffering… Until today. You were mad. Not the fake pout kind of mad, where you just wanted him to baby you. Not the playful, sulking kind of angry, where he had to smother you with affection until you caved.

No.

You were the worst kind of mad. Silent treatment mad. Sunoo had never experienced this before. And frankly? He hated it. You hadn’t spoken to him all day. Not one word. This morning, when he greeted you, you walked past him. At lunch, when he sighed, “I’m starving,” just to get a reaction, you didn’t even blink. And when he poked your cheek, flashing his sweetest smile…you swatted his hand away.

That was when he knew-

Oh. This is serious.

But Sunoo wasn’t one to give up so easily.

If you were going to be stubborn, then OK. He’d have to outdo you.

Phase One: Puppy Eyes

First, he tried his biggest weapon.

The Puppy Eyes™.

You were sitting on the couch, scrolling through your phone, pretending he didn’t exist. So Sunoo sat across you, propping his chin on his hands. He stared. Big, round eyes. Mouth slightly pouted.

But you ignored him.

What.

You didn’t even spare him a glance?

Unacceptable.

Okay. Fine. Time for Plan B.

Phase Two: Physical Affection Attack

Sunoo launched himself onto your lap. He wrapped his arms around you.

You froze. But you still didn’t say anything. Not even a “Sunoo, get off.”

Sunoo gasped. “You won’t even insult me?! Do you know how serious this is?”

Silence.

Sunoo groaned. Okay. Fine. Time for the final stage.

Phase Three: Ultimate Suffering Mode

If words wouldn’t work, and affection wouldn’t work-

Then, it was time for desperate measures.

Sunoo stood up, took a deep breath, and collapsed onto the floor.

“Goodbye, world,” he announced loudly.

Huh?

“I can’t go on like this,” he continued. “She won’t even look at me. What is the point of life?”

You exhaled sharply through your nose.

Sunoo’s eyes snapped open.

Was that a laugh?

He sat up immediately, hope rekindled.

“BABY!” He grabbed your hands. “You still love me, right? Say it! Say it, or I’ll keep going!”

You rolled your eyes.

But then

Finally

You broke.

“…Act normal for once,” you muttered.

Sunoo gasped. “YOU SPOKE TO ME!” He threw his arms around you, hugging you so tight you nearly fell over.

You groaned, trying to push him away. “Okay, okay! Get off me!”

“NEVER!” Sunoo is clinging harder. “You’re stuck with me forever, baby~”

JUNGWON

It started as a joke. Jungwon had the audacity to side with someone else during a ridiculous debate if pineapple belongs on pizza was acceptable. And even though he was clearly wrong (in your very justified opinion), he doubled down just to mess with you. So, naturally, you retaliated. By blocking him. On everything.

Phone? Blocked. Instagram? Blocked. Messaging apps? Blocked. Even his email (just to be extra.)

Jungwon figured you’d cool down in an hour or so, but when the sun set and he was still blocked? Okay, this is serious. Since he couldn’t text or call, he had to get creative. The next morning, you woke up to an unexpected email from an unfamiliar sender. Subject line:

“A Plea for Mercy”

Your curiosity got the best of you, and you clicked. Inside was the most dramatic apology letter you’d ever seen, complete with excessive formal language:

“Dearest and Most Magnificent Love of My Life,”

“I come before you today a humbled and regretful man. It has come to my attention that I have deeply wronged you, and as such, I have been stripped of my most valued privilege: direct contact with you. I write this letter in desperate hopes that you will hear my plea and grant me the mercy of unblocking me.”

Attached was a PowerPoint presentation titled:

“Why You Should Forgive Your Loving Boyfriend”

You opened it, and the first slide simply read:

Slide 1: “Because I Love You. Next Slide.”

The next few slides were just ridiculously cute pictures of Jungwon with captions like:

• Would you really abandon this face? 🥺

• Think about all the funny memes I could be sending you right now.

• You’re literally my entire world. How can my world block me?

The last slide just had three words:

“I’m sorry, baby.”

You stared at the screen, fighting back a smile. Ugh. He’s so annoying. But also… really sweet.

You sighed, picked up your phone, and unblocked him.

Not even a second later, a call came through.

“I KNEW IT!” Jungwon’s voice rang out the moment you answered. “I KNEW YOU COULDN’T RESIST ME.”

You rolled your eyes. “Don’t push it, Jungwon.”

“I’d never,” he said, not even trying to hide his grin. “Now… about that pizza debate-”

You groaned. “Do you want to be blocked again?”

His laugh was loud. “Okay, okay! I take it back! Pineapple belongs wherever you say it does, my love.”

Yeah. He knew exactly how to win you over.

NI-KI

You had been too nice for too long. For weeks now, you had put up with Ni-ki’s competitiveness.

At video games? He crushed you.

At basketball? He blocked all your shots.

At board games? He won, then did a full victory dance on the table.

At just dance?

Oh, he didn’t just win.

He humiliated you.

Not only did he perfect every move, but he dared to turn to you mid-song and go-

“Babe, you good?”

That was the last straw. So, naturally, you did what any reasonable person would do. You stole all of his shoes.

Every. Single. Pair.

And when Ni-ki went to get his shoes before heading out

He found nothing.

Just an empty shoe rack.

Immediately, he froze. Then, he whipped around, eyes wide. “…Babe?”

No answer.

Ni-ki searched the whole house before finally finding you on the bed, surrounded by all his shoes.

Ni-ki just stared.

Then, very slowly, he exhaled. “Okay.”

He walked in and flopped down next to you. “Alright, I get it. I deserved this,” he admitted, throwing an arm over his face. “I have been humbled.”

You huffed.

Silence.

Then-

“…But can I have my Jordans back?”

You turned and glared.

Ni-ki immediately sat up. “Wait, wait! Actually, no. You know what? Keep them. I’m a changed man.”His lips pressed together. He tried to fight back a smirk. “Wow. This must be what true defeat feels like.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Oh, now you understand?”

He nodded solemnly. “Yep. It’s all so clear now.”

You squinted. “You’re just saying that to get your shoes back.”

Ni-ki gasped. Fake betrayal. “I would never.”

You held up his Jordans.

Ni-ki immediately sat up straighter. “Wait. Be careful-”

You smirked. “Maybe I should hide them for another week.”

His eyes widened in panic. “Okay, OKAY! I SURRENDER!”

Without warning, Ni-ki lunged. You shrieked, trying to escape, but he was too fast. He tackled you onto the bed, trapping you under his arms as he snatched his Jordans back. Then, he started tickling you. You burst out laughing, kicking and writhing. “NI-KI, STOP!”

Ni-ki grinned. “Say I’m the best boyfriend ever, and I’ll consider it.”

Through laughter, you shoved at him. “NEVER!”

Ni-ki smirked. “Wrong answer.”

And so, you paid the price.

[linoxpudding]

Little Rivalry - Lee Know

summary: after the birth of your third child, your firstborn begins to struggle with sharing his mommy

pairing: dad!lee know x mom!reader

genre: fluff, humor, domestic

word count: 2609 words

a/n: you guys, I missed my fictional son mingi soo much—had to bring back a little lee family chaos ♡

Dad!SKZ Masterlist

-

The Kids: Eldest Son (Mingi - 5 years old), Middle Daughter (Minjung - 2 years old), Youngest Son (Minhyuk - newborn)

~°~

Minho slips an arm under your shoulders, steadying you as you swing your legs over the side of the hospital bed. Your legs feel like jelly, but his strength is steady and warm.

“Easy there, jagiya,” he murmurs, brushing a loose strand of hair from your face. 

He gently eases you into the wheelchair and straightens your robe around your knees while tucking a small pillow behind your back.

“Ready to go home?” he whispers, voice soft with relief.

You close your eyes for a moment, breathing in the faint scent of his cologne mixed with antiseptic. “Yes,” you reply, voice thick. “I— I miss my other two babies so much.”

Minho chuckled and leaned forward to kiss your forehead, then your nose, then finally your lips softly. “They’ve missed you too. But don’t worry. They’ve been terrorizing Han, Jeongin and Changbin all day.”

You burst out laughing despite the dull ache in your body. “Of course they did.”

He pressed one last kiss to your temple. “Let’s go home.”

*********************

The drive home was quiet and peaceful. You and Minho kept stealing glances at the rearview mirror where your newborn, Minhyuk, lay snug in his car-seat, oblivious to the world he’d just entered. Your hand rested over Minho’s on the gearshift the whole ride home with an unspoken promise between you two— we’ve got this.

When you reached home, there was immediate, unmistakable chaos.

The moment the door opened, a blur of movement shot past Minho. 

"TO THE DINOSAUR PLANET!" Changbin shouted with Minjung hanging from his back like a koala. The two of them disappeared down the hallway, trailed by screams of laughter.

Mingi’s voice echoed through the hall, “UNCLE INNIE SAID I COULD HAVE SEVEN COOKIES.”

Jeongin’s voice followed immediately, “I SAID NO SUCH THING—MINGI, GIVE ME THAT—”

“TOO LATE!” He was running.

Minho looked over his shoulder at you, Minhyuk bundled in his arms. “Well,” he muttered, “at least they’re all still alive.”

“Welcome home!” Han beamed as he stepped into view, he was wearing a pink feather boa and had a suspicious amount of glitter on his cheek. "I lost control around hour two. But hey we did amazing and nobody lost a limb." 

Minho laughed while cradling Minhyuk protectively. “That’s my bar for success too.”

Jeongin practically bolted to the door. “Congratulations! Goodbye!” he yelled in one breath and disappeared, sprinting to his car.

Changbin emerged from the hallway next, panting and slightly sweaty but grinning like a proud uncle. He reached for a careful side-hug, mindful of your post-delivery soreness. “You did amazing. How are you feeling?”

“Like I could sleep for a week,” you laughed, brushing your fingers through your hair.

Changbin cooed at the newborn baby, while patting Minho’s shoulder.

You looked at them both, heart warm and aching in the best way. “Thank you. Really. I don’t even have the words.”

“You don’t have to,” Changbin said, gently patting your shoulder. “Just name your next baby after me.”

Minho blinked. “That’s not happening.”

Han snorted. “I’ll settle for a gift basket.”

“Mommy! Mommy!” Minjung yelled, charging toward you. She hugged your legs tight, eyes wide, “Candy? You bring me candy?"

You smiled, ruffling her hair. "No candy, but I brought you something better." 

Minho knelt slightly, adjusting his hold on the baby and showing him to Minjung, “This is your little brother, sweetheart. He already loves you so much.”

Minjung gasped. "Daddy he is so small!"

Mingi reappeared, standing quietly a few feet away with his arms crossed. He stared at the baby like he was analyzing an alien species. You smiled at him gently. "Come meet your baby brother, Mingi. His name is Minhyuk."

He blinked. "He’s small."

"All babies are. You were, too," you chuckled. Mingi just shrugged and went to the living room.

After you were gently settled on the couch—Minho carefully adjusting the throw pillow behind your back like a certified sleep-deprived dad nurse—the soft daylight spilled through the living room windows. There were a few quick FaceTime calls with the other members. Everyone made plans to visit over the weekend, then eventually the babysitters said their goodbyes. 

“Call us if you need anything!” Han said cheerily.

Changbin, already wrangling his sneakers on, added, “Like if you want us to take the older two for the weekend. Or the year. Just say the word.”

You laughed, and as the door finally shut, a soft, sleepy silence settled over the house. You looked around the living room.

Minho crouched in front of the bassinet, his hand on tiny Minhyuk’s chest, just watching him breathe. Minjung was playing with her dolls and Mingi sat a little away from the rest, quieter than usual.

You looked around at your little family of five. Your heart was full. 

Minho leaned against the back of the couch, taking it all in with you. “We’re outnumbered now,” he muttered.

You smiled up at him, exhausted, glowing. “And I wouldn’t change a thing.”

*********************

The house was quiet deceptively so.

The fairy lights in your bedroom cast a gentle afternoon golden glow as you sat on the bed, gently shifting Minhyuk in your arms. He’d just started stirring, his tiny fists bunching up and that familiar hungry whimper escaping his lips. Your robe slipped slightly as you adjusted to begin feeding him, holding him close to your chest.

“Shh, baby, mommy’s here,” you whispered softly, stroking his little cheek as he latched on. The moment was peaceful. Minho crawls into bed beside you. 

“You okay?” he whispers.

You smile, reaching for his hand. “I am. We’re acing Day One.”

He turns to face you, that classic smirk on his face, “Only 18 more years to go.”

“Jesus.”

“But you know…” He squeezes your hand, kisses your knuckles. “I wouldn’t want to do this madness with anyone but you.”

You smiled at him and before you could reply you heard tiny footsteps approaching your bedroom. 

Mingi entered your room and padded up to you, squinting. “Is Minhyuk drinking again?”

You nodded, smiling. “He’s hungry, baby.”

“Nooo, Mommy, put it back!” Mingi whined. “Minhyuk is stealing you!”

“He’s not stealing me,” you chuckled. 

“Mommy! He already got your boob!! That’s MY boob!”

Minho choked. “Well, technically—”

“LEE MINHO, DON’T YOU FINISH THAT SENTENCE,” you snapped, throwing him a look

Minho snorted, looking away like he was trying not to burst out laughing. Meanwhile, Mingi huffed and left the room dramatically. 

“Minho, I’ll throw a diaper at you!” You threatened your husband. 

*********************

Later that evening, you sat in the dim nursery, bathed in soft lamplight, rocking slowly as Minhyuk nursed. His little hand gripped the collar of your robe as his tiny body curled into yours. You rested your head back, eyes fluttering shut as a wave of peace washed over you.

Minho entered quietly, barefoot and warm from the shower, and sat cross-legged at your feet. He watched you with his usual quiet awe, his fingers lazily tracing patterns on your shin. "Still feels unreal," he said softly. "Three of them."

You smiled without opening your eyes. "You remember when it was just us and Mingi? When we used to sit here, staring at him for hours like he was made of magic?"

"Because he was," Minho murmured. "Still is. They all are."

A soft hush fell over the room. After a moment, Minho’s voice broke the silence.

“Dinner is ready. Let’s go eat?”

You set Minhyuk gently in his bassinet and followed Minho to the dinner table. The warm light from the kitchen wrapped around you like a cozy blanket. 

Minho crouched down to adjust Minjung in her high chair, making sure her feet dangled comfortably and the tray was just right.

“There we go, all set,” he said softly, giving her a little smile as she giggled, swinging her feet.

You called out softly, “Mingi! Dinner’s ready!”

A few moments later, Mingi appeared at the doorway. His usual bright smile was tempered by something quieter tonight. He stepped forward and wrapped you in a brief, tight hug.

“Hi, Mommy,” he whispered.

You smiled, squeezing him back, “Come eat. Daddy made your favourite pasta.”

As you all settled around the table, the comforting sounds of cutlery and soft conversation filled the room. Suddenly, a sharp cry pierced the calm indicating Minhyuk was awake.

You stood quickly and went to the nursery, cradling the newborn close to your chest as you soothed him back to calm. Returning to the table with Minhyuk in your arms, you caught Mingi’s gaze. His eyes flickered with something like jealousy, and he fell quiet, pushing his food around his plate without a word.

“Mingi,” Minho said gently, tousling his hair, “You want ketchup like usual?”

He shrugged. “It’s okay.”

Minho’s eyes met yours. For the rest of dinner, he remained unusually quiet, his usual playful chatter noticeably absent. Your heart quietly ached as you watched your firstborn hold back his feelings.

*********************

After dinner, you moved to the nursery, already dimmed by the nightlight casting stars on the ceiling. Minhyuk was fussing, his tiny face scrunching up as you lifted him into your arms. You nursed him gently, humming a quiet lullaby that barely carried over the soft creak of the rocking chair. His lashes, impossibly delicate, dusted his cheeks as he finally drifted off again.

You placed him back into the bassinet slowly, one hand resting on his tummy for a moment to reassure yourself—yes, he was warm and safe and real.

You quickly went to Minjung’s room. She was already curled under her blanket, hugging her LeeBit plush, her lashes heavy with sleep. You bent down to kiss her forehead, brushing a stray curl away from her face. She mumbled something about dinosaurs and cookies, and you whispered, “Goodnight, baby,” before slipping out quietly.

Then you made your way to the kitchen where your husband stood at the sink, sleeves rolled up, methodically scrubbing a plate as the soft clatter of water and ceramic filled the kitchen. His brows were furrowed, his movements slower than usual—like his mind was far away.

You crossed the kitchen silently and came up behind him, wrapping your arms slowly around his waist and resting your cheek against his back.

Minho was startled just a little before exhaling, his muscles relaxing under your touch.

He set the plate aside and leaned into your hold, one hand reaching down to cover yours, interlacing your fingers.

“Hey handsome,” you murmured, smiling softly.

He turned in your arms, water dripping from his hands as he gently cupped your cheeks. “Hey beautiful.”

“Minjung’s down,” you said quietly. “Minhyuk too. Milk coma took him out like a champ.”

Minho smiled at that, forehead resting against yours. “Bet he was out before you even finished burping him.”

You chuckled, letting a beat of silence hang in the air.

"Mingi was really quiet today," you whispered.

“Yeah,” he said with a sigh, reaching for the towel again. "He’s not himself. He barely touched his pasta, and you know that kid would fight an army for that stuff.”

You leaned your head against his chest, arms still looped around his waist as he dried his hands. The warmth of his body and the rhythmic beat of his heart grounded you.

“I think he’s feeling... left out,” he murmured.

You nodded against him. “He’s five now. That whole emotional awareness thing is kicking in. When Minjung was born, he was still too little to really process what was happening. He was just happy to have a baby to pat on the head and call a potato.”

Minho snorted. “He did try to share his gummy bears with her like, every day.”

You smiled. “Yeah. But now it’s different. He’s old enough to realize that Minhyuk takes up a lot of time and energy. And I think he’s trying to figure out where that leaves him.”

Minho nodded, looking thoughtful. “Yeah…I caught him looking at you while you were holding the baby. He didn’t say anything, but... you could tell he wanted to.”

You let out a soft sigh. “He’s never had to share me like this before. Like, really share. And now I’ve got this tiny koala latched to me half the day.”

Minho smiled gently. “A cute koala, though.”

You rolled your eyes affectionately. “Still a koala.”

He leaned in and bumped your forehead with his. “We’ll figure it out. He’s got a whole lot of love in that tiny body. Just needs a little help sorting through it.”

You nodded. “Maybe we should go talk to him. Give him some time with just us, even if it’s short.”

Minho nodded, pressing his lips together. “I hate that we can’t fix it with a cookie or a new toy this time.”

Minho wrapped an arm around your shoulders, holding you close.

“Let’s go find him then,” he said softly. “He needs a reminder that he’s still our whole world too.”

And with that, you turned toward the hallway. You find Mingi sitting by the big window in his room, knees to chest, holding his dinosaur plush. His little eyebrows are furrowed. You and Minho shared a look, bracing yourselves. 

“Baby?” you say softly, sitting beside him. “Why aren’t you sleeping?”

Mingi glances at you but says nothing. His lip wobbles.

You pull him into your lap, despite the soreness, and cradle him. “Talk to me.”

He sniffled. “You… you didn’t hug me as long today. You were in hospital for two days and you didn’t even talk to me. You were holding the baby all day, Mommy. He’s more special to you.”

Oh.

Your heart cracked. You pulled him gently into your arms, pressing your cheek to his messy hair.

“Oh, Mingi. Mommy is so sorry. I missed you every second I was away. The baby needs help with everything right now. Just like you did when you were little. But he’s not more special. You’re all special.”

He sniffled. "You love the baby now?"

You swallowed. "Oh, baby. I love him and you and your sister so much. Just because there’s a new baby doesn’t mean I have less love. It’s like… my heart grew bigger, so now I have even more to give.” 

“You’re my first baby, you know that? You made me a mom. There’s a special part in my heart that’s only yours.” He clung to you, finally letting the tears fall.

“I love you mommy!” 

“I love you too, my sweetheart. Never forget that, okay?” you whispered softly, brushing his hair with gentle fingers.

A few tears welled up in his eyes, but he nodded. You kissed the top of his head, just as Minho came in, sitting behind you both, wrapping an arm around your waist and resting his chin on your shoulder.

"Hey, big guy," Minho whispered. "Minhyuk’s gonna look up to you, you know. He’s gonna want to be just like you. That’s a pretty big job."

Mingi sniffled, glancing up at his dad with wide eyes, trying to imagine himself as the big brother for the tiny new baby. 

Minho kissed his hair. You all sat there by the window for a long time. You, with your eldest son in your lap, your husband at your back. For a moment, your heart swelled with bittersweet nostalgia—when it had been just the three of you. When Mingi had been the tiny burrito you brought home.

Now, your hands were full, your eyes a little heavier, but your heart... your heart had grown with each baby, each chaotic day, each loud, love-filled night.

Minho pulled the two of you tighter against him.

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

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[norrisradio]

D.N.F (DO NOT FLIRT)

⚡︎ PAIRING: lando norris x motoGP! reader | ⚡︎ WC: 4.5K ⚡︎ GENRE: fluff, suggestive ⚡︎ RECOMMENDED LISTENING: loverboy, young friend ● best you had, don toliver ● why'd you only call me when you're high?, arctic monkeys ● west side, ariana grande ● friends, chase atlantic ● lust, kendrick lamar ● reminder, the weeknd ● bad behavior, take van ● nasty, ariana grande ⚡︎ INCOMING RADIO: had to do the "only one bed" trope... it was calling me. // not beta read!

⚡︎ SUMMARY: Lando flirts with everyone but you. It’s safer that way. You both agreed, without ever actually agreeing, that whatever is between you is worth more than a handful of mistakes.

Lando has always been a flirt. Just not with you.

It’s an unspoken rule between the two of you—born out of self-preservation, probably. Your friendship is too good to risk on late-night teasing and lingering looks. He saves that charm for grid girls and interviewers, and you keep your composure intact. No mixed signals. No blurred lines. It’s simple.

Until it isn’t.

You’ve known him forever, or at least it feels that way. Two kids chasing speed—him in a kart, you on a bike—burning through tracks with reckless abandon, collecting podiums and scraped knees in equal measure. There are entire stretches of your childhood that smell like hot asphalt and engine grease, like podium champagne neither of you were old enough to drink but celebrated with anyway.

There are memories, too, ones you don’t let yourself think about often. Late nights in hotel rooms, the hum of a city outside, his stupid socks half-kicked off at the edge of the bed while you argue about who got the better lap in free practice. Lando’s laugh, easy and unguarded, curling into the space between you like it belongs there.

Then there’s that night.

You were eighteen, both fresh off a win, high on adrenaline and whatever cheap drinks you could sneak past security. His smile was loose, drowsy, eyes a little too soft when they landed on you. You don’t remember who moved first—maybe it was him, maybe it was you—but his lips were warm, the taste of something sweet and alcoholic lingering on his tongue, and for a second—

For a second, it felt like something.

Then you pulled away. Too fast. Too sharp. He had blinked at you, startled, and you had laughed—too loud, too forced—tossing out some half-hearted joke before disappearing into the crowd.

You never talked about it.

Neither of you have crossed that line since.

And Lando? Lando flirts with everyone but you. It’s safer that way. You both agreed, without ever actually agreeing, that whatever is between you is worth more than a handful of mistakes.

It works.

Until now.

Because somehow, in the mess of post-championship chaos and a booking mishap, there’s only one room left at the hotel. And of course, it’s yours and Lando’s names on the list, the receptionist looking utterly unimpressed as she hands over the key. 

(You know this is partially his fault. The only reason you’re even here in the first place is him.

You had been content to watch from a distance, keeping your weekends for your own races, your own podiums. But Lando had been relentless—nagging, bribing, guilt-tripping, doing everything short of physically dragging you here himself.

"You have to be there," he had said, pacing in your motorhome two weeks ago, his voice pitched with something almost desperate. "It won’t feel right if you’re not there."

"You’ll win it whether I’m there or not," you had replied, rolling your eyes, but the look he gave you—half a pout, half something raw and open—had stuck with you longer than it should have.

But watching him throw his arms around his engineers, watching his face crack open with unfiltered joy, you realized—

You wouldn’t have missed this for anything.)

“Perfect,” you mutter, rubbing your temples. “Couldn’t have given me, like, Pierre?”

Lando gasps, placing a hand over his heart. “Wow. First of all, rude. Second of all, you’re acting like sharing a room with me is some kind of nightmare.”

“You are a nightmare,” you deadpan, swiping the key from the counter. “And I don’t trust you.”

“Oh, come on.” He slings an arm around your shoulders as you walk toward the elevators, voice dropping to something lower, smoother. “You think I can’t behave myself?”

“That’s exactly what I think.”

The rule still stands. No flirting.

But the problem is, now that you’re both trying not to flirt, it’s all you can think about.

The hotel room is nice—too nice. A single king bed, pristine white sheets, and absolutely no couch in sight. You and Lando stand in the doorway for a second, both staring at the unfortunate reality of your situation.

“I’ll sleep on the floor,” he offers.

You snort. “Please. Your back would never recover.”

“Okay, then you sleep on the floor.”

“Not a chance.”

It’s a standoff. You’re both stubborn, both too proud to be the first to crack. So instead, you wordlessly agree to split the bed like two normal, mature adults.

Or at least, that’s the plan.

But it’s hard to ignore him when he’s right there, his curls still damp from his post-race shower, his arm draped over his stomach like he’s completely unbothered by how close you are.

You’re hyperaware of everything. The way his breathing slows as he starts to fall asleep. The rise and fall of his chest under the duvet. The ridiculous, dangerous thought that it would be so easy to roll over and—

No. Absolutely not.

The silence stretches. You roll onto your side, facing away from him.

Then—

“You’re thinking about it, aren’t you?”

His voice is thick with amusement, and that’s it. You whip your head around, narrowing your eyes. “Thinking about what?”

“You know.” He’s smirking now, eyes glinting in the dim light. “Breaking the rule.”

Your stomach flips, but you refuse to give him the satisfaction. “You’re delusional.”

“Oh, I definitely am.” He shifts closer—just barely. “But you’re not denying it.”

You scoff, forcing yourself to look anywhere but at his mouth. “You’re the one who brought it up.”

“Because I knew you’d react like this.” He grins, propping himself up on one elbow. “All tense, trying not to look at me. You’re so bad at this.”

“At what?”

“Not flirting.”

Your breath catches. He’s too close now, the heat of him sinking into your skin, and you suddenly, dangerously, don’t care about the stupid rule anymore.

“Bet you break first,” he murmurs.

And you hate that he’s right.

There’s a moment—barely a heartbeat—where you think you can still win this. Where you can laugh it off, roll back over, and pretend you didn’t hear the challenge laced in his voice.

But then he tilts his head, all slow and lazy, like he already knows the outcome. Like he’s waiting for you to slip up.

And that does it.

Your hand moves before you can stop it, shoving at his shoulder, but he barely budges—just lets out a low chuckle as he catches your wrist, fingers curling warm around yours.

“Too easy,” he murmurs.

You should pull away. You should shove him harder. You should do anything but let him run his thumb over the inside of your wrist, slow and deliberate.

Instead, you breathe out, “You’re insufferable.”

Lando hums, considering. “Probably.” His grip is loose enough that you could move if you wanted to, but you don’t. “But you love it.”

Your pulse betrays you, jumping under his touch. He notices. Of course he does. The corner of his mouth twitches, his gaze flickering between yours and the space—barely a few inches—that separates you.

The air is thick, charged, the silence stretching, stretching, stretching—

And then his hand slips away.

Not fast. Not reluctant. Just slow enough that you still feel the heat of him, even when he pulls back. He shifts onto his back again, eyes flicking up to the ceiling, a smirk playing at his lips.

“Goodnight, then,” he says, voice light, easy, like nothing just happened.

Your stomach twists. “Goodnight.”

You roll over, facing the opposite direction, but sleep doesn’t come easy. Not when your wrist still burns where he touched it. Not when you can hear his breathing evening out behind you.

Not when you know, deep down, that you lost.

The night stretches long. Sleep stays just out of reach.

You listen to the steady rhythm of his breathing, the occasional rustle of sheets as he shifts. Every brush of fabric against skin feels too loud in the quiet of the room. The warmth of him lingers beside you, a reminder, a temptation.

Then, in the hush of the dark, his voice comes—low, lazy, like he’s already halfway to dreaming.

“D’you reckon I would’ve been good in a frat?”

Your brows pull together. “What?”

Lando exhales a soft, sleepy laugh,one that makes your stomach turn to mush. “In another life. If I went to uni. In the States or something. I think I’d join a frat.”

You scoff, rolling onto your back to glance at him. The dim light from the window catches the curve of his jaw, the way his lashes flutter against his skin. He’s staring up at the ceiling, looking oddly thoughtful for someone who just said something so ridiculous.

“You’d be insufferable,” you say, and he grins.

“Yeah,” he agrees. “I’d be, like, social chair or something. Organizing parties. Making people do stupid initiation dares.”

You snort. “You already do that.”

��True.” He pauses. “But imagine me in one of those dumb frat hoodies, playing beer pong like my life depends on it.”

You do. You imagine Lando with a backward cap, shouting across a packed house party, cocky smirk in place as he sinks shot after shot. It’s not even hard to picture—beer-sticky floors, music thrumming through the walls, the way he’d lean against the kitchen counter, fingers curling around a red Solo cup, looking at you like—

Like he does now.

You shift, suddenly too warm under the blankets. “You’d be unbearable.”

He laughs, quiet but warm. “You’d still like me.”

The words land soft, but something about them makes your breath hitch.

You roll your head to the side, catching the way he’s watching you now—eyes dark in the low light, mouth curved just slightly. Not teasing. Not smug. Just waiting.

Your throat feels tight. “Would you have liked me?”

His gaze flickers, searching yours. Then—

“Yeah.” A beat. “I think I’d be obsessed with you, actually.”

The room is too quiet. The bed is too small.

You don’t know if you should laugh or shove him or do something dangerous, like let him keep talking. Because you believe him. Because suddenly you’re imagining Lando at some American university, cocky and charming, flirting over cheap beer and plastic cups, but it’s not just any girl he’s got cornered at a party—it’s you.

You imagine his hands on your waist, his breath warm against your ear, whispering things he has no business saying in public. You imagine what it would’ve been like if, in another life, there were no unspoken rules, no self-preservation, no friendship to protect.

Your stomach twists.

Then he exhales, turning onto his side, facing away.

“Anyway,” he murmurs, voice already softer, sleepier. “Just a thought.”

You stare at the back of his head, your heart hammering against your ribs.

Just a thought.

Right.

You don’t sleep. Not really.

You close your eyes, steady your breathing, try to match the quiet rise and fall of his beside you. But the words keep looping in your head, tangling, sticking—I think I’d be obsessed with you, actually.

Stupid. Stupid, reckless, Lando.

The room is dark, but not dark enough. The city hums beyond the window, casting faint streaks of light across the ceiling. You stare at them, tracing each one, willing your heart to slow.

Behind you, Lando shifts, exhaling slow. You don’t move, but you feel it—his warmth rolling closer, the space between you shrinking, shrinking—

Then, barely there, his voice again. “You’re still awake.”

It’s not a question.

You open your eyes, staring at the ceiling. “So are you.”

There’s a pause. You swear you hear him smile.

“Yeah.” His voice is quieter this time, almost careful. “Wonder why.”

Your pulse stumbles.

You could ignore him. You could pretend you’ve already drifted off, that your mind hasn’t been spinning for the last hour, replaying every too-casual glance, every shift in his voice, every inch of space that’s disappeared between you.

Or—

“Lando.” Your voice comes out quieter than you expect. He hums in response, waiting.

You turn your head, just enough to see him. He’s closer now, cheek pressed against the pillow, hair a mess of curls and shadows. His eyes find yours in the dim light, steady, unreadable.

Your throat is dry. You swallow. “Why’d you say that?”

He doesn’t ask what you mean. He just watches you for a second, the ghost of a smirk pulling at his lips, but not quite landing.

Then, simply—

“Because it’s true.”

The words settle deep, curling warm in your chest.

You should say something. Push him away, tease him, roll over and let the moment slip through your fingers. That’s how it’s always worked between you—almosts that never turn into anything more.

But his gaze is heavier than before, his voice lower, and for once, you don’t think you want to let it go.

Instead, you shift, rolling to face him fully. The sheets rustle between you, the space closing, and his eyes flicker down—quick, instinctive—before snapping back up.

It’s silent. The city hums.

Then—his breath, warm against your lips.

“You gonna break the rule now?” he murmurs.

Your fingers twitch in the sheets. You could. You should.

But instead, you tip forward, just enough for your lips to graze his, just enough to feel his inhale—sharp, surprised, expectant—

Then you pull back. Barely.

“Bet you break first,” you whisper.

For a second, nothing happens.

Just the space between you, thin as thread. His breath fans warm against your mouth, lips parted like he’s caught between a reaction and restraint. You see the shift in his eyes—sharp, aware, dark with something unreadable.

Then, slow as a fuse burning, his hand moves.

Not dramatic. Not rushed. Just a careful drag of his fingers over the sheets, brushing yours. Testing. Waiting.

You don’t pull away.

His fingertips graze the inside of your wrist, just like before, except this time, he doesn’t let go. His touch lingers, pressing just enough to send heat curling through your skin.

“You’re such a menace,” he murmurs, voice lower now, rougher.

You should smirk, tease him for caving first. But the words get lost somewhere between his eyes flickering to your lips and the way his fingers curl properly around your wrist, anchoring.

Then—finally, finally—he moves.

Not much, just enough to close the last of the distance. His lips brush yours, light, careful, barely even a kiss—just testing the shape of it, like he’s waiting for you to stop him.

You don’t.

Instead, you chase it, shifting closer, pressing into the warmth of his mouth. He exhales, something caught between relief and satisfaction, and then his other hand is in your hair, pulling you deeper.

The sheets shift as he moves, rolling just enough to pin you under him, weight sinking against you, grounding. His fingers trail down your side, slow, deliberate, pressing warmth into your skin even through the fabric of your shirt.

The kiss deepens—still unhurried, still testing, but heavier now, like he’s realizing something in real time. Like he’s been waiting for this longer than he’ll admit.

You barely register that you’re smiling until he pulls back just enough to mirror it, forehead tipping against yours. His breath is uneven, warm against your cheek.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, thumb brushing your jaw. “Told you I’d be obsessed.”

Your laugh gets swallowed by the next kiss.

He kisses you like he’s got all the time in the world, slow and steady, like he’s learning the shape of your mouth, the way you respond to him. Like he’s memorizing it.

His hand skims down your side, fingertips dragging just enough to make your breath hitch. He hums against your lips, pleased, like he notices, like he’s already cataloging what gets a reaction out of you.

Then, deliberately, he pulls back—just far enough to watch you.

The air between you is thick, charged, something unspoken hanging heavy in the dim light. His thumb brushes over your cheek, gaze flickering over your face like he’s waiting for you to stop him.

You don’t.

So he moves again, lips tracing a slow path down, over your jaw, to the curve of your neck. His breath is warm against your skin, teasing. His nose skims along your pulse point, lingering, like he’s considering something—

Then, with zero warning, he bites.

Not hard. Just a quick, sharp graze of teeth before his lips follow, soothing over the spot, and the sound that escapes you is humiliating.

He grins against your skin.

“Knew it,” he mutters, voice thick with amusement.

You barely register your own reaction—palms sliding under his shirt, fingers curling against his spine—before he shifts again, pressing more of his weight against you, forcing your back into the mattress.

And maybe you should stop him. Maybe you should pull back, tell him to slow down, that you weren’t supposed to end up here.

But then he’s kissing you again, deep and sure and intentional, and all logic burns to static.

Maybe he was right. Maybe he is obsessed.

Or maybe—

Maybe you are, too.

The thought barely has time to settle before he moves again, pressing closer, deeper, like he’s already decided there’s no space left between you.

His hands—warm, steady—skim under your shirt, fingertips tracing slow, mindless patterns against your ribs. Not asking. Not rushing. Just there, grounding, like he’s memorizing every inch of you.

You exhale against his mouth, dizzy from the heat of him, from the way he kisses you like he’s savoring it, like he’s been thinking about this for longer than either of you are willing to admit.

And then—

He laughs.

Low and quiet, almost like he doesn’t mean to, but you feel it against your lips, the way his body shakes slightly against yours, the warmth of it sinking into your skin.

You blink up at him, breathless. “What?”

Lando grins, nose brushing yours. “Nothing,” he murmurs, but he’s still laughing, biting his lip like he’s trying to hold it back.

You shove at his shoulder. “Lando.”

He catches your wrist—again, like it’s a game, like he likes it—and presses a quick kiss to your palm before dropping it. “It’s just—” His eyes flicker down, like he’s just now registering the mess you’ve made of each other, how your shirt is half pushed up, how his is twisted in your grip. He grins wider. “You’re really bad at pretending you don’t want me.”

Heat flares up your neck. You groan, pushing at his chest. “Oh, shut up—”

He laughs properly this time, pressing his forehead to your shoulder, shaking against you. His arms curl tighter around you, keeping you close even as he cackles like this is all some massive joke.

You glare at the ceiling. “I actually hate you.”

His breath is still uneven, still warm against your skin as he exhales. “Yeah,” he agrees, lips brushing your collarbone. “That’s why you’re holding onto me right now, huh?”

You realize—too late—that you are.

Your fingers are still twisted in his shirt, still holding him close like he might disappear if you let go. His skin is warm, solid, beneath your touch, and even as your brain screams at you to shove him off, you don’t.

You sigh, tipping your head back against the pillow. “You really should’ve joined a frat.”

He grins against your shoulder. “Told you.”

Lando doesn’t move. He stays there, forehead resting against your shoulder, breath warm against your skin. His weight presses into you, not heavy, just there, anchoring.

You could push him off. You probably should. But your fingers are still tangled in his shirt, and you don’t want to let go, not yet.

He shifts, just slightly, and you feel the lazy curve of his smile against your collarbone. “Admit it.”

You roll your eyes, fingers finally loosening their grip. “Admit what?”

“That you like me,” he murmurs, lips brushing over your skin as he speaks. His hands are still resting against your ribs, warm and unmoving, like he’s settled in. Like he’s already made up his mind about this. About you.

Your pulse kicks up, traitorous. “You’re so full of yourself.”

He hums, amusement curling in his voice. “So that’s a no?”

You hesitate—just for a second—but it’s enough for him to hear it, to feel the way your breath stutters before you can stop it.

And then, infuriatingly, he laughs again.

“Wow,” he drawls, shifting so his lips hover just over your jaw, his grin practically audible. “You really are bad at pretending.”

You make a noise in protest—somewhere between a groan and a weak threat—but before you can shove him away, his mouth is on your neck again, pressing slow, deliberate kisses to the same spot he bit earlier.

Your breath catches.

He feels it.

And just like that, the teasing fades into something quieter, heavier. His lips move slower this time, like he’s tasting the way you react, how your pulse jumps beneath him.

The air shifts. The room feels smaller.

His nose skims against your skin, his fingers curl just slightly against your ribs, and—

“You’re thinking too much,” he murmurs.

Your breath shudders. He’s right.

You always think too much.

But then his teeth graze your pulse again, just enough to make your stomach twist, and every coherent thought blinks out of existence.

You turn your head—instinct, impulse—and suddenly his mouth is on yours again, warm, insistent, like he knew you’d do it before you did.

He exhales through his nose, satisfied, and then you’re moving together, pushing, pulling, getting tangled up in each other like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

And maybe it is.

Maybe it always has been.

The room feels warmer now, the air thick with something neither of you have named yet.

Lando moves like he has nowhere else to be, nowhere else he’d rather be. His lips trace paths that make your head spin, hands mapping every inch of skin they can reach, and it’s all too much and not enough at the same time.

At some point, your back meets the mattress, and he’s over you, around you, everywhere. His weight presses down, solid and grounding, but his touch is light, deliberate. Like he’s still savoring, still teasing, still learning you.

You lose track of time. Of space. Of everything except the way he feels, the way he wants you—so obvious in the way he pulls you closer, in the way he breathes out your name like a prayer.

And then—

Sometime later, when your heart is still racing but your breath has evened out, you blink up at the ceiling, suddenly too aware of everything all at once.

Your brain is catching up.

Shit.

Shit.

Lando is still beside you, propped up on one elbow, watching you with that easy, knowing expression that makes you want to launch yourself into the sun.

You swallow, throat suddenly dry. “This—” You gesture vaguely between the two of you, at the warmth of him still lingering against your skin. “This doesn’t mean anything, right?”

It comes out rushed, like you’re already trying to outrun the answer, and Lando’s expression flickers, just for a second.

Then, to your horror, he laughs.

Not in a cruel way. Not in a dismissive way. Just—like he expected this.

Like he knows you too well.

You sit up, pulling the sheets up with you like they’ll protect you from the way your heart is currently imploding. “I mean, we’re still friends, right?”

Lando exhales through his nose, like he’s biting back another laugh. He shifts closer, slow and deliberate, until his arm is slung over your waist again, until you feel the warmth of him all along your side. “I don’t want to be friends.”

Your brain stalls. Your stomach plummets. “What?”

He watches you, expression unreadable. “I don’t want to be friends,” he repeats, quieter this time. Then, when he sees the sheer panic in your eyes, the way you freeze like he just said the scariest thing imaginable, he sighs and tugs you closer.

You barely have time to react before he’s right there, forehead pressed to yours, voice steady when he says, “Because you’re the one for me.”

Your breath catches.

Your brain short-circuits.

Lando smiles, tilting his head to nose at your cheek, like he’s trying to soften the impact of what he just said. “I don’t do casual, you know that,” he murmurs. “I don’t do things I don’t mean.”

Your fingers tighten around the sheets, like they might hold you together, like they might stop your heart from caving in under the weight of his words.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, gaze steady, unshaken.

“You know that,” he says again, softer.

And, yeah.

You do.

Lando is still looking at you, waiting. His forehead is resting against yours, like he’s afraid to move too far away, like he’s giving you space but not enough to slip through his fingers.

Your chest is tight. Your brain is screaming at you to think, to analyze, to map out every possible consequence of this, but then Lando exhales, a slow, steady breath against your lips, and suddenly, thinking is impossible.

Instead, you feel.

The warmth of him, the weight of his arm slung around you like it belongs there. The way his thumb is tracing absentminded circles against your hip, like he’s settling in.

Like he has no plans to go anywhere.

And maybe—maybe that’s what makes something in you snap.

Your fingers move before your brain can stop them, sliding up to tangle in his curls, and you feel the way he shivers at the touch, the way his breath hitches—like he hadn’t expected that, like you’re capable of surprising him.

You don’t know what to say. You never know what to say.

But maybe you don’t have to.

Lando makes a small, pleased noise in the back of his throat, something warm and content, and suddenly, you’re the one laughing, breathless and a little overwhelmed.

“What?” he asks, lips brushing against yours, grinning now, like he’s won something.

You shake your head, cheeks burning. “You’re—” You sigh, pressing your forehead into his shoulder, trying to will your heart into calming down. “You’re just so annoying.”

Lando huffs a laugh, smug, before rolling you onto your back and caging you beneath him again, all lazy affection and dimpled grins. “Oh, I’m annoying?” he echoes, and his hands are on your waist again, fingers skimming the edge of the sheets like he’s thinking about distracting you. “You’re the one making me work for this.”

You groan, shoving at his chest, but he just laughs, dropping his weight on top of you like some kind of human-sized blanket.

The air shifts again, but this time it’s light, playful. His nose nudges yours, and then he’s kissing you again—slower, softer, like he has all the time in the world. Like he’s making a promise without words.

He pulls back just enough to murmur, “You’re stuck with me now, you know that, right?”

And maybe you should freak out at that. Maybe you should be terrified.

But all you can do is roll your eyes, tugging him down for another kiss before whispering, “Yeah. I know.”

[papayainsectorone]

tomorrow, i’ll be sober

summary: in the electric aftermath of oscar’s first f1 win, what begins as a celebration spirals into something unexpected, a moment of honesty shared in the quiet between the noise. you’re not used to being seen the way he sees you that night and when morning comes, you're left wondering if it meant as much to him as it did to you.

content: kissing, mutual pining, coffee-related accidents, soft!oscar, drunk!Oscar, drunk!reader, slow burn vibes, hoodie sharing, emotional tension, post-race kiss, light angst, workplace rule-breaking

word count: 5,6k

pairing: oscar piastri x fem!reader

a thought: the quote that inspired this is from a old movie The Dreamers, never watched it but the quote hits lol

a´s masterlist

The champagne hadn’t even dried on the back of your neck before you were being shoved into a crush of bodies backstage—papaya t-shirts, camera flashes, the sound of your name called over and over, somewhere between congratulations and “Can you get him for one more shot?”

Oscar stood on the top step of the podium like he wasn’t sure he was supposed to be there. Not in disbelief, exactly. More like he was still catching up to the fact that this was real. That it was happening now.

The trophy gleamed in his hand. The light caught on the curve of his jaw, the line of sweat and champagne running down his neck.

But what really struck you—what wouldn’t leave your mind even hours later—was his smile.

Not the press smile, that you knew all too well. Not the polite, quiet curve he gave in interviews or even the rare, playful smirk he sometimes gave during media day hell.

This was wide. Unfiltered. Raw happiness spilling out of someone who always tried to keep the lid screwed on tight.

He was glowing.

And you felt it in your throat, in your ribs, in the way your hands trembled as you pressed the shutter of the camera.

It wasn’t like you usually went out. Not with the team, not after races. You were Mclaren PR—your job was to keep things clean, polished, appropriate. But someone had grabbed your wrist, handed you a drink, and said, “C’mon, one night. Everyone is a part of the win today.”

So now, hours later, you were leaning against the bar of a club too exclusive for your credentials, your orange team polo traded for something black and slinky. Your skin still smelled faintly like champagne.

The place was all glass and gold and smoke. Bass thumped through the floor like a second heartbeat. Oscar had disappeared into the crowd with a handful of engineers and Lando not long after arriving. You nursed your drink slowly, fingers curled loosely around the condensation.

You were only a few sips in when someone’s hand slid across the bar next to yours.

“God, it’s hot in here,” came his voice—familiar, tired, giddy.

You nursed your drink slowly, condensation slipping down your fingers as the music pulsed warmly through the club air. The ice clinked with each slow sip, your eyes scanning the crowd just beyond the rim of your glass.

Around you, more of the PR team had gathered—laughing over photos, recounting the chaos of the pit wall, teasing each other about who had cried when Oscar crossed the line. It was easy company, full of the post-race glow and secondhand euphoria. A few people had already told you how good your pictures looked on the socials. Someone had toasted to “team effort,” and even though you weren’t one to usually go out after races, tonight it felt right. Good. Like you were part of something worth celebrating.

You were already a few drinks in—warm, happy, a little soft around the edges—when a familiar hand slid across the bar next to yours.

“God, it’s hot in here.”

The voice was low, slurred ever so slightly, and unmistakable.

You turned your head, and there he was.

Oscar. Flushed. Lit up.

His cheeks were pink from the heat or the alcohol—or maybe the sheer weight of a win finally sitting in his bones. His curls were damp at the temples, his shirt unbuttoned one more than usual, collar wide and loose. He looked electric and a little out of place and exactly like he belonged.

There was something in his posture too—looser than you’d ever seen him. Like the sharp lines of focus had softened just enough to let something else slip through.

His grin was crooked when your eyes met, and his words melted together like honey on the rim of a glass. “Didn’t think I’d find you here.”

You shrugged, sipping again. “Even PR has to celebrate sometimes.”

He leaned in just a bit closer—not touching, but near enough for you to feel the heat off his skin. “Good. ‘Cause I was starting to think this night couldn’t get any better.”

Your heart skipped.

The line might’ve been cheesy. Hell, it was cheesy. But it didn’t sound rehearsed coming from him. It sounded raw. Tired and giddy and honest in the way only someone slightly drunk and completely unguarded could manage.

“You don’t usually come,” he said, words a little round at the edges, eyes trailing down to your hand still curled loosely around your glass.

You blinked, one brow rising with a smirk. “Well,” you said slowly, already tilting your head, “that’s one way to start a conversation.”

Oscar’s face flushed, an even deeper pink now blooming across his cheeks. “I meant—shit.” He laughed, sheepish, tipping his head back like it could shake the words back into order. “Out. With the team. After races.”

You leaned a hip into the bar, shoulder brushing his just slightly. “You don’t either,” you said, smiling into your drink.

“Right,” he echoed. His eyes flicked to yours again, and something softened in them. “Guess we both broke tradition.”

For a while, it was just the two of you—carved out in a little pocket of stillness against the noise. The crowd moved like static around you, music pounding and lights flickering overhead, but none of it quite touched the space you shared.

It wasn’t deep conversation. Nothing serious. Just the kind of back-and-forth that existed in that perfect in-between: light, easy, just this side of flirty. You joked about the chaos in the garage, the pre-race panic over the telemetry glitches, the way Lando tried to soak everyone—and somehow just you—in champagne. Your laughter came easier than usual, loosening like a ribbon pulled free. Oscar laughed too, head tipping slightly to the side every time you surprised him.

There was something charming in how his smile lingered longer than it should have. Like he wasn’t quite ready to look away.

You noticed the way he swayed, just barely, as he stood. He wasn’t stumbling or slurring, but his sharpness had gone soft at the corners. Eyes a little glassy, posture a little relaxed. His shirt had shifted slightly—creased at the collar, unbuttoned just low enough to suggest the hour—and you had the sudden, strange thought: he looks like someone who just stepped into himself. Like he’d finally let the pressure fall from his shoulders and just was.

You felt it too—less guarded than usual. Maybe it was the drink, or the lights, or the thrill of the win still echoing through your ribs like a held breath. But talking to him didn’t feel like navigating PR, like scripting moments for cameras or plotting timelines. It felt... normal. Easy. Nice.

Then the music surged again—bass rolling deep and sticky through the floor—and a pack of people pushed between you. Laughter and bodies and half-sung lyrics wrapped around you like a wave, and you blinked, just for a second—

And he was gone.

The crowd thinned, and your shoulder no longer brushed his. Your drink was empty. Your hand felt colder.

You turned your head, scanning—but no flash of his brown hair, no crooked smile in the crowd.

You stayed at the bar for a while longer, the buzz of celebration still humming in the walls, even as the crowd began to thin. Your heels pinched at your toes with every shifting step, the skin behind your knees aching from standing too long. The warmth from the drinks had softened the edges of your thoughts, made everything feel loose, detached. But beneath the fog of champagne and music, something lingered—something unsettled. A sense that the moment you’d shared with him hadn’t quite ended, even if the space between you had.

Eventually, you slipped away. The rooftop was nearly empty now—only a few stragglers clinging to their drinks, talking in low murmurs. The cold hit your skin immediately, biting through the fabric of your dress and raising goosebumps along your arms. The air was crisp and strange after hours of warm bodies and sticky dance floors. Above, the stars blinked faintly against the dark sky, distant and impossibly clear, like they’d only come out for nights like this.

You leaned against the brick wall of the building, the roughness scraping faintly through the thin fabric at your back. You closed your eyes. Just for a breath.

Then—

Footsteps. Not hurried. Not cautious. Just there.

A breath behind you. Familiar.

“Oscar?”

Your voice came out quieter than you meant it to.

He stepped fully into view, clearly more unsteady now, his gait loose and his balance lagging just slightly behind each step. His hands were jammed deep into his pockets, his curls damp with sweat and night air, cheeks still flushed from inside. When he heard your voice, he turned his head and smiled, slow and crooked like it had to climb up his face.

“I thought you already left,” he said, words sticking just slightly as they left his mouth. Then that smile stretched, wider now, like he was amused by his own honesty. “Needed air. Didn’t expect you here.”

He came to a stop beside you, shoulder just barely brushing the brick wall where yours rested. You could feel the warmth radiating off him even through the chill. His breath made small clouds in the air. His eyes were glassy—not lost, but softened, his guard dropped just enough to let something else through.

You glanced at him sideways. The moonlight picked out the edge of his jaw, the soft curve of his mouth. You could still smell whatever citrusy drink he’d had on his skin—sharp and sweet. His breathing had slowed now, more even, but still deep like he hadn’t fully caught it all night.

And then—he looked at you.

Really looked. Not the kind of glance you’d shared during briefings or behind-the-scenes shots. Not the polite, practiced gaze of someone used to being seen. This was something else. His eyes were fixed on you like you were a question he’d just realized he needed an answer to.

You blinked, breath catching. “What?”

He laughed, low in his chest. “Nothing.”

But it wasn’t nothing. You felt it—buzzing in the stillness between you. That quiet shift in gravity, the part where everything hung just a second too long. The unspoken edge of something waiting to tip forward.

He tilted his head slightly, eyes still on yours. “You’re really beautiful, you know.”

You gave a soft snort, not quite prepared for that. “You’re really drunk.”

“Yeah.” His mouth curved, but the words stayed clear. His gaze didn’t waver. “I’m drunk. But you’re beautiful. And tomorrow I’ll be sober.”

A pause. Just long enough for the weight of the words to settle.

“But you’ll still be beautiful.”

The air left your lungs all at once, and for a second, you didn’t say anything. Couldn’t. Your heart hammered against your ribs with something sharp and sudden. His face didn’t flinch—there was no joke in it, no teasing grin. Just that quiet, open look that felt more naked than anything else all night.

Then, slowly, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed, he leaned forward. The space between you closed to nothing. And he rested his forehead gently against yours.

It wasn’t a kiss. It wasn’t a question.

It was just... there. A fragile press of warmth, of breath shared, of something honest in the silence.

And then—Lando’s voice cut across the rooftop, yelling something about shots and being next up at the bar.

Oscar’s head lifted. He grinned again, lopsided and tired.

He didn’t say goodbye. Just walked backward a few steps, still facing you, that same smile soft on his face.

Then he turned, disappearing back into the noise and lights.

And you stayed where you were, staring at the door he’d vanished through, the stars still burning quietly above your head, like they knew something you didn’t.

The hotel room is too bright.

Harsh daylight slices through the narrow break in the blackout curtains you forgot to pull shut, lighting the room in slanted lines. You groan and roll deeper into the bed, burrowing your face into the stiff hotel pillow. The cotton smells faintly of detergent and the faintest trace of your perfume—warmed into the fabric after last night when you all but collapsed face-first on top of the covers.

You hadn’t even taken off your clothes.

Your dress is still half-on, bunched at the waist. Your phone is dead somewhere on the nightstand. One heel is toppled near the bathroom door, the other nowhere in sight.

Your head throbs—not a sharp pain, but a dull, wet pressure just behind your eyes, like your thoughts are too swollen to move properly. You lie there for a while longer, motionless except for the steady rise and fall of your breath and the occasional twitch of a muscle that wants to get up but can’t quite remember how.

Eventually, your body overrides your brain. You peel the dress off with slow, clumsy fingers and shuffle barefoot into the bathroom.

The tile is cool beneath your feet. You turn on the shower and wait until the steam starts to fog up the mirror. The water is hotter than usual when you step under, but you don’t flinch. You let it burn a little, let it drag the ache from your limbs and the film of sweat and smoke and champagne off your skin.

Your head leans against the wall for a moment, the water rushing around your ears. Your eyes close. The memory of Oscar’s flushed cheeks and soft slur of voice floats up, uninvited. You see his smile again, the one that didn’t feel rehearsed, and the words—you’ll still be beautiful—echo in your head louder than the spray.

You exhale.

You don’t know what that was, or what it’s supposed to mean now, in daylight.

Wrapped in a towel, you pad across the carpet, gathering your things slowly. Your dress gets folded and stuffed into a corner of your suitcase. Makeup bag zipped. Chargers coiled. You find your missing heel behind the armchair, of course. Your phone finally comes to life as you plug it in, buzzing faintly with missed texts and one blurry photo from the night before—Oscar, mid-laugh, drink in hand, someone’s arm around his shoulders. He hadn’t seen you take it.

Your stomach flips.

When everything’s finally packed, you sit on the edge of the bed for a moment, palms braced on your knees. You’re not ready to leave, but staying won’t solve anything.

So you stand, grab your suitcase handle, and head down to the lobby.

The lobby is too bright—marble floors gleaming under morning light, too clean, too loud in its stillness. You step inside, dragging your suitcase behind you, fresh from the shower but still not entirely present. The weight of sleep clings to your shoulders, and last night feels half-dreamed, half-lost.

Then you see him.

Oscar.

Sitting low on a leather couch by the windows, hoodie slouched over his head, water bottle untouched on the table in front of him. His elbows rest on his knees, fingers absently picking at the hem of his sleeve. He looks like he feels exactly how you do: run through, hollowed out by celebration and too many hours without real rest.

And for a second, you pause.

Because you remember. The rooftop. The cold air. The smell of citrus and sweat. His words, slurred but certain: "I'm drunk. But you're beautiful. And tomorrow I’ll be sober. But you’ll still be beautiful."

Your stomach flutters—but then he lifts his gaze, meets yours with a tired sort of smile. Easy. Blank.

No flicker of recognition.

Your heart drops a little. Of course. He was drunk. You were too, to be fair. Maybe it meant nothing. Maybe it didn’t even land.

Still, you smile back. Casual. Friendly.

“Morning,” you offer.

“Hey,” he says, voice raspier than usual. He clears his throat, sits up slightly. “Rough one?”

You nod, dragging your suitcase closer. “Could’ve been worse.”

He chuckles faintly. “Could’ve been better.”

There’s a pause where neither of you says much—just the faint murmur of voices near the doors as the team filters into cars. Then:

“You heading to MTC?” he asks.

“Yeah,” you say. “Few of us from PR are reporting in later this week.”

He nods, gaze flicking toward the spinning doors. “Same. I’m going back with the engineers though.”

You nod too, chewing your lip like you might say something else. But what would you even say? Hey, remember calling me beautiful like it was the most honest thing you’ve ever said? You don’t.

“See you there, then,” you offer instead.

He lifts his water bottle in a mock-toast. “Yeah. See you.”

And just like that, the moment passes—quiet and unacknowledged. You pull your suitcase away with a faint tug of regret trailing behind you. Maybe it meant more to you. Maybe he really doesn’t remember.

The MTC feels colder than usual.

Not the temperature—though the glass-walled corridors always carried a clinical chill—but something else. Something in the way people move, fast and focused, laughter from the race weekend now just a faint echo in the past.

You’ve been back for hours already. Meetings, debriefs, emails stacked like bricks in your inbox. It’s the first real pause you’ve had, and you find yourself at the café corner of the atrium, hands wrapped around a paper cup of burnt coffee, eyes scanning the light-dappled water outside but not really seeing it.

And then you feel it.

Not quite a sound. Not quite a shadow.

Just the shift of the air when someone enters the space. When he enters the space.

Oscar.

You don’t turn around right away. You don’t have to.

You can sense him—quiet but not unnoticed. He’s standing across the room, near the vending machines, shoulder tilted against the wall, deep in conversation with a mechanic you vaguely recognize. He’s wearing black MTC gear, arms folded, curls pushed back messily from his face.

Your heart skips—just slightly.

You see it then. The way his eyes flick across the room. Just once.

You force yourself not to read into it. Not to linger.

Instead, you push off from your seat, paper cup in hand, notes clutched to your chest as you make your way toward the corridor. Your mind’s already halfway to your next meeting, shuffling bullet points and strategy when you round the corner—and crash directly into someone.

Coffee sloshes violently from your cup, splattering across your notes. Papers flutter like startled birds. You gasp, stumbling back, and then:

“Oh shit—sorry, I didn’t see—”

Oscar’s voice. Closer now.

You look up, eyes wide.

Of course it’s him.

Of course it’s him.

He’s already crouching, long fingers chasing runaway pages with quick, fumbled movements. “That’s my fault,” he mutters, brows knit. “I wasn’t watching—”

“No, I wasn’t,” you rush to say, kneeling across from him. Your fingertips touch the same page, and you both freeze for a beat too long. “Really. I should’ve—”

“It’s okay.” His voice is quieter now. Closer. “I’ve made bigger messes.”

He offers a sheepish smile, holding out a soggy corner of your schedule. You take it carefully, your fingers brushing his.

You both glance up at the same time. And you’re too close.

For a heartbeat, no one says anything.

Then:

“You alright?” he asks. Gently. Sincere.

You nod, maybe too quickly. “Yeah. You?”

He gives the smallest shrug, looking down again. “Could be worse. I didn’t get scalded by your coffee.”

Then, Oscar clears his throat, gesturing vaguely at your front. “I, uh… kinda spilled coffee all over you.”

You blink. Look down.

Oh.

The pale fabric of your blouse is soaked, clinging to your skin in places and already browning along the seam. You inhale sharply, suddenly aware of how bad it must look.

“Shit.”

“I’m really sorry,” he says quickly, eyes wide, hands sort of frozen in midair like he wants to help but doesn’t know how. “I—I have a small office, just around the corner. There’s a sink in there. If you want, I can try—like—washing it out? Before it stains?”

You hesitate. He looks so earnest. So mortified.

“…Now?” you ask, a little tentative.

“Yeah, I think that’s best,” he says, already turning slightly, motioning you to follow. “If you’re okay with it.”

You glance again at your ruined shirt and sigh. “Yeah. Okay.”

The short walk is quiet. Tense, but not uncomfortable—just that thick kind of silence where neither of you knows what to say first. His office is small and clean, papers stacked in careful piles on the desk, a grey MTC hoodie slung over the back of the chair. He holds the door open for you.

“I’ll, um…” He gestures toward the sink tucked into the corner, then back to you, clearly scrambling. “If you want to give me the shirt, I’ll try rinsing it.”

You raise a brow. “Right. Just like that.”

He laughs, but it’s nervous. “I mean—not just like that. I’ll use soap.”

You stare at him.

He runs a hand through his hair, flustered. “Sorry. I didn’t mean—just if you want. You don’t have to.”

“No, it’s fine,” you say slowly, fingers already moving to the buttons, more out of instinct than thought. “You’re probably right. It’ll stain.”

Oscar turns a little to the side as you undo the blouse, the damp fabric peeling off with a soft tug. You’re left in your tank top, suddenly hyper-aware of your bare arms, the chill of the air conditioning, him just a few feet away.

He turns back too soon.

His eyes catch on your exposed shoulders—just for a second—but it’s enough to make his throat bob with a quiet swallow. “Uh—I have a hoodie. If you want.”

You nod quickly, covering yourself instinctively with the now-offending blouse.

He grabs the one from his chair, crossing the small space in two strides, and holds it out. You duck your head as you take it, the soft cotton brushing your arms, his scent already warming through the fabric.

As you pull it over your head, your fingers tangle in the sleeve—and before you know it, he’s stepping in, helping untwist it.

And suddenly, you’re close.

Too close.

His hands fall to your wrists, steadying the fabric, his breath close enough to warm your cheek.

The hoodie settles over you with a quiet finality.

You glance up at the same moment he does.

Neither of you moves.

The silence presses in again, thicker than before. But there’s something fragile in it now—something that feels like it might break open, or shift everything, if either of you leans an inch further.

“I’ll just… rinse this,” he says, voice lower now, as he gently takes the blouse from your hand.

You nod, still watching him.

And for a long second, even as he turns to the sink, he doesn’t let go of your wrist.

He lets go of your wrist finally, almost like he had to remind himself to do it.

You don’t say anything as he turns, sleeves pushed up, and starts running water over the blouse at the small sink. The room is quiet except for the faint hiss of water and the rustle of fabric. He’s careful with it, more careful than you expected, using the gentlest bit of soap and his thumb to work at the stain.

You lean back against the edge of his desk, the hem of the hoodie curling against your thighs. It swallows you whole—warm, soft, his.

“Didn’t think I’d be hand-washing someone’s clothes in my office today,” he says after a beat, not looking back.

You laugh softly. “Didn’t think I’d be half undressed in someone’s office either.”

He freezes for a split second—shoulders tightening—then glances over his shoulder at you, the corner of his mouth twitching up. “We’re really breaking McLaren protocol, huh?”

You smile, fiddling with the edge of the sleeve that still smells faintly like his cologne and worn cotton. “Rebellious.”

He turns back, attention fixed on the blouse like it’s the only thing tethering him to the ground. The water runs soft against the fabric, soap swirling through the fibers. His movements are steady, but you see it—the slight tremble in his fingers, the faint flush that climbs up the back of his neck, all the way to the tips of his ears.

“You know,” he says after a moment. His voice is soft, almost lost beneath the sound of the water. “I think I probably already broke a few McLaren rules last weekend.”

It’s not a joke—not really. He laughs a little, but it’s uneven. Nervous.

You don’t answer, not yet. Not while he keeps scrubbing at your blouse like it’ll save him.

“I just…” he hesitates, the fabric slack in his hands now. “I didn’t know if I should bring it up. Or if you even remembered.”

The silence stretches, but only for a heartbeat.

“I do,” you say, and it comes out smaller than you expected, your voice caught between surprise and something gentler. “I remember.”

That makes him turn. Not just his head this time, his whole body pivots slowly toward you. His hands still drip with water, your blouse hanging limp in his grip like a peace offering he doesn't quite know how to present. His hair is a little messy from the steam. His eyes, though—those are wide. Searching.

“I’m sorry,” he blurts. “If that was weird. Or if I was weird. Or—God—when I was awkward. Or when I obviously broke rules.” His words tumble out too fast, falling over each other. “I mean, I didn’t want to say it. I didn’t mean to say it like that. But…”

He finally meets your gaze.

“I meant what I said that night.”

The words settle into the quiet like a landing. Not jarring, but solid. Sincere.

You look at him—really look at him—and you can tell how long he’s been carrying this around. How much of that night has played on repeat behind his eyes. Maybe it wasn’t just alcohol that loosened his tongue. Maybe it was something heavier, older, waiting.

You stand slowly, the oversized hoodie shifting over your frame as you do. His gaze flicks down for the briefest second, then back to your eyes, like he’s trying his best not to mess it up this time.

You step a little closer.

He sets the blouse aside carefully and takes a small step forward, like he’s afraid to break the spell. But you don’t move away.

You just keep looking at each other.

The air between you hums, charged but quiet like something sacred lives in the pause.

You tilt your head just slightly, chin tipped up as you look at him, eyes steady. “You were really drunk,” you murmur, almost teasing, but not quite. It’s gentler than that, softer around the edges. A reminder, maybe. Or a question.

His mouth lifts at one corner, but it’s a fragile sort of smile—like he knows what he’s about to say matters.

“I was,” he admits. His voice is low, careful. “Maybe that’s where I got the confidence.” He breathes out, eyes never leaving yours. “But like I said… I’m sober now. And I still think you’re beautiful.”

You feel it then, the subtle shift in the space between you—the way it tightens like a held breath, like something long-held is about to give way.

A strand of hair slips forward, falling across your cheek. His hand moves before you even register it, fingers brushing the strand back, his touch so featherlight it sends a quiet thrill down your spine.

He doesn’t drop his hand.

Instead, his palm finds your cheek, warm and tentative, thumb resting just beneath your eye. You lean into it, instinctive, breath catching slightly in your throat.

His gaze flickers, your eyes, your lips, back to your eyes again.

“Is it okay if I kiss you?” he asks. A whisper, almost.

You nod before you even realize you’re doing it, your voice caught somewhere between the thud of your pulse and the heat blooming in your chest. “Yeah,” you breathe.

And then he leans in slow, like he’s giving you every chance to pull away, like he’s trying to memorize the moment just before and when your lips meet, it’s not rushed. It’s not sharp.

His thumb lingers for a second along your cheek before his palm settles there fully, grounding, steady.

It’s not fireworks or breathless urgency.

It’s soft, like a secret. A question more than an answer.

His lips find yours in a kiss that feels... delicate. Not unsure, but intentional—like he’s been carrying this moment for days and wants to make it last. You lean into it slowly, fingers curling around the fabric of the hoodie at your waist, pulling him just a little closer.

The room is quiet around you. The only sound is the distant hum of the building. But here, now, in this tiny office with a damp blouse forgotten on the desk and your heart thudding beneath borrowed cotton, it feels impossibly warm.

When he pulls back, barely, your noses still brush. His voice is quiet.

“I thought about that night more times than I probably should’ve.”

You exhale, your forehead touching his now. “I did too.”

His smile is small. Shy.

Weeks passed. The season rolled forward. Races, travel, press—it never stopped. But neither did the small, steady gravity between you.

Sometimes, he would find you during lunch breaks just to sit beside you, knees brushing beneath the table. Other times it was a shared coffee left on your desk with a little note tucked under the lid. Nothing dramatic. Nothing loud.

Just him. Just you.

You had moments. Lots of them.

Like that night, after a chaotic media day, when he knocked softly on your hotel door and said, barely above a whisper, “Can I come in?” You didn’t need to ask why. He came in, curled beside you under too many blankets, and said, “I can’t sleep unless I know you’re near.”

And then there was the photo from the garage—the first one he posted with you half-visible in the corner, his caption not about the race, but a lyric. One you recognized.

One that made your heart twist, in the best way.

But maybe the clearest moment came months later.

Another win.

You were already pressed against the barriers, camera in hand, lens trained on the blur of papaya as he crossed the line. The crowd roared around you—mechanics yelling, pit wall erupting. It was chaos, joy, adrenaline wrapped in noise. But your world narrowed to the frame in your viewfinder.

Oscar.

You tracked every movement—the way he slowed the car, waved at the grandstands. The way he unbuckled with practiced hands, climbed out of the cockpit, raised his fists to the sky like the moment might lift him off the ground.

Then he jumped down, helmet tugged off, hair damp against his forehead.

And that’s when you saw it.

The way his eyes scanned the crowd—not aimless, not distracted. Searching. Intent.

For you.

You lowered your camera just in time to see him take the last step.

There he was.

Closer than you'd expected, already in front of you. He didn’t stop. Just folded you into his arms, sweat and heat and joy pressed against you in one breathless second.

He leaned in, lips brushing your ear, his voice low, husky, wrecked from shouting.

“Feels like I’m drunk,” he said. “And you’re still beautiful.”

You blinked up at him, startled, a laugh caught in your throat.

“Osc, babe—everyone is watching” you whispered.

But he was already pulling back, just enough to look you in the eyes, that same glint from the rooftop all those months ago—only now clearer, grounded, real.

And then he kissed you.

Right there, over the barrier. Pressed his lips to yours like the world had gone still. Like nothing else mattered.

Cameras flashed.

People screamed.

The team lost it behind you, Lando somewhere yelling “Are you kidding me?!” and someone else whooping, and photographers already elbowing each other for the angle.

But you didn’t notice any of it.

You kissed him back.

And that was it.

[verstappenverse]

Too Many Kisses

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Reader

Summary: Max showers you with kisses after a race much to your embarrassment.

Masterlist

The sun was setting over the paddock, casting a warm orange glow across the chaotic scene. Engineers were packing up equipment, journalists scurried from one interview to another, and the occasional roar of an engine echoed as cars were wheeled back into their garages.

You stood in the Red Bull garage, arms crossed, watching as Max wrapped up a few interviews. He’d just finished another dominant weekend, and the smile on his face was evident even from a distance. He spotted you and his eyes lit up causing a flutter in your chest.

Before you could react, he was heading straight towards you, weaving through the small crowd with an easy confidence.

"Hey," Max greeted, sliding an arm around your waist, pulling you close as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

"Hey yourself," you smiled, glancing up at him. His hair was still slightly damp from sweat, and his face had that post-race glow, a mix of exhaustion and adrenaline.

Catching you by surprise he leaned down and pressed a kiss to your forehead, then another one on your temple, and another this time on your cheek. You stifled a laugh knowing exactly where this was headed. His lips hovered near yours, but instead of kissing you properly, he peppered quick, light kisses all over your face causing you to giggle and squirm out of his grasp.

"Max, stop," you half-heartedly protested, trying again not to laugh too loudly.

"What?" He smirked, mischief twinkling in his eyes as he continued his relentless assault of kisses. "Too much?"

"Not in front of everyone," you chuckled, glancing around and noticing the amused glances from the nearby crew. Several crew members were failing miserably at hiding their grins, and you were almost certain someone had just snapped a photo.

"Too many kisses?" Max pulled back just slightly, arching an eyebrow. He leaned in again, this time capturing your lips in a soft, lingering kiss.

You melted into him for a moment before pulling back with a playful shove. "Seriously, everyone’s watching."

Max laughed, clearly unbothered by the attention. "Let them watch. I just won, I deserve to kiss my girl."

"You’re insufferable," you teased, rolling your eyes but the grin on your face betrayed your words.

Max, of course, noticed. "Oh, come on, you love it. Admit it, you want more." His voice was teasing, his lips hovering dangerously close to yours again.

You huffed, crossing your arms in mock annoyance.

"Mm-hmm." His hand gently cupped your chin, tilting your head up toward him.

You tried to hold back a smile, but it was impossible. "Maybe... one more," you conceded, your voice soft.

Max’s smirk widened as he leaned in his lips brushing yours again, but just before he kissed you, he whispered, "I knew it."

Before you could reply, he kissed you, slow and sweet, the kind of kiss that made everything else around you fade into the background. The noise of the paddock, the murmurs of the crew, it all disappeared as his hands settled on your waist pulling you even closer.

When he finally pulled away, your cheeks were flushed and he looked entirely too pleased with himself.

"Happy now?" you asked, a bit breathless.

"Very," he grinned, his thumb brushing over your cheek affectionately. "But you know… I could go for one more."

You swatted his chest lightly. "You’re ridiculous."

"Ridiculously in love with you," he quipped, and the sincerity in his voice made your heart stutter.

"You’re lucky you’re cute," you teased, even though the warmth in your chest was undeniable.

"Very lucky," he agreed, leaning in to nuzzle your neck playfully.

He grinned, and leaned in to press one final kiss to your forehead before stepping back.

You rolled your eyes, biting back a smile. "Just get ready for your press conference Verstappen."

As he walked away you caught the smirk playing on his lips, a silent promise that he'd be back for more, and honestly you knew you’d be right here, waiting.

[r3starttt]

GHOSTFACE CAITVI

CW: strap. oral. gun play. dom caitlyn <3

TAGLIST | KINKTOBER: @lewd-alien @greysontheidiot @jolyne @sapphic-ovaries @prwttiestbunny @visobsession @kiki5gigi @thesevi0lentdelights @femininologies | this is for @clairoscharm ily

“Drop it,” you hear from behind, a steady, robotic command cutting through the silence, ordering you to release the small blade clenched in your hand. “So obedient now, aren’t we?” Another figure steps closer, hands gripping your arms just above the elbows, holding you firm. You struggle, twisting and squirming to break free, but your efforts are useless. “Come on, pretty girl, make this easy, would you?” Their voice drips with amusement as they slide a mask over your face. Darkness closes in, leaving you with only faint, blurry shapes.

“Lay her down,” commands the first voice, steady and in control. You hear the door shut, the lock clicking into place as you stumble awkwardly, guided back to the mattress you’d been on just moments before. You’d only been doing your job—a special request, yes, but nothing unusual—until she’d walked in. Tall, tanned, with her hair in a messy bun and a body honed to perfection. Her hands on your hips, firm and cold, had made you forget everything but the way she looked at you with those warm, shining eyes, her lips plump and inviting.

The sound of movement snaps you back to the present, and you feel the weight pressing against your back, pinning you down. A metallic click and the chill of handcuffs bite into your wrists, leaving no room to fight. “Be a good girl and do what we say,” the other voice demands, a gun pressing to your temple. They flip you over, forcing you into a seated position, and as the mask is pulled from your face, you hear your name spoken, taunting.

“The fuck—” you start, but Caitlyn silences you with a calculated glare, her gun aimed right between your collarbones. “You owe us,” Vi purrs, her head tilting as she watches with a playful smirk. You glance at Caitlyn, hoping for some sense of restraint or reason, but all you find is her finger poised on the trigger, pointed directly at your heart. "Open."

Your breath raises the gun up and down whole you try to think of anything to do, but it only ends with your legs wide open for them. Vi's hands are fast over your legs, barely touching your inner thighs as she makes space for her to fit between your legs. Caitlyn’s nails dig into your skin as she pushes you into the matresss.

You feel the cold and harsh of the gun between your thighs, they exchange the handle quickly before Caitlyn can take off her mask. Her hair is made into a messy bun that quickly fades to let her hair cascade on the sides of her face. "Oh- Fuck-" Caitlyn is quick to shush you, her finger between your lips and her eyebrows into a subtle raise to warn you. The tip of the gun makes enough friction over your clit you make you buck your hips closer. "Look at that..." Caitlyn’s attention was brought to your pussy, Vi's hands occupied with her gun, glistening with your wet. "Go on." she nods to you. "Just like that... so pretty." the tone lowers just the slightest, not enough to become a whisper.

You hump at your own rithym, watching on your side the tall figure sitting on a couch next to you. Her legs open wide as she manspreads and her black cloves disappear under her arms as she crosses them.

Vi kneels properly, opening your legs wider and adding enough pressure on your knees with both her elbows to keep you stay still. Your mouth opens enough to let out quiet whines, little prayers to give them the full show you'd give- just this time a bit too real.

"Stop- mhm." Caitlyn commands again, exchanging a quiet communication with Vi who's quick on standing and burning the black robe covering her toned body up enough to let the strap peek through. "You ready baby? yeah, you are... oh fuck-" her hands grip tightly behind your thighs, spreading your pussy apart to fill you in with the length of her cock. It slides in with so much ease, and the sight is as obscene as the wet of it.

Caitlyn stands up again, her boots loud against the floor with each step closer she gives. Her hands come to pick at her gun, a proud on her face as she notices the wet.

She makes her way in between, her lips pressing into Vi's with disgusting fervor and tender- just like only she could. Her fingers hover over her gloves as she takes them off, tossing them next to you along the weapon. The cold of her digits cup Vi's cheek bones into small circles, rubbed in a comfort one could only get from the Kiramman. And you stare, hoping to touch, to be part of it- but it doesn't happen and you just have to wait with the bruising grip on your thighs and the strap barely moving inside you.

"Doing so good..." Vi's eyes turn into puppy- like at the praise, which only makes Caitlyn prouder, hungrier. She steps behind, holding her tits over the fabric while her other hand slips over your clit to rub small circles over. She's got you both a mess for her with little nothings and gentle brushes.

Vi thrusts her hips slowly, humping against caitlyn as she does. Her nipples are ridiculously sensitive and the strap hits her clit just right. Withing each thrust you whine too, and fuck it drives them insane.

You'll truly do anything they ask, after all you do owe them, more than one.

"Yeah? that feels good?" Kiramman mocked you both, a grin on her face before she sucked on Vi's neck who was already staring to whine, one of her hands coming to your breasts while the other kept steady behind your leg, holding it up and sprayed for her to admire at your pussy.

You were overwhelmingly stimulated. Nipples sensitive under the pinching touch of Vi. Your clit kissed by the pads of Caitlyns fingers and your walls clenching deliciously tight around Vi's cock. And the sight in front of you so pretty. Dark eyes closed shut, nipples that were seen through the black fabric, teeth holding it to let the smallest sight of her toned abdomen while Caitlyn kissed on the gentle skin, never moving her eyes from you.

"Good girl." She whispered to Vi before leaving her side to come to you. Your pussy now only for Vi to take.

"Open, just like that." and you were sucking on her fingers- gagging at it. “gets tighter when she's scared.” Vi managed to breathe while she sinked inside you, holding your hips in place as the fabric fell over your bodies. "Oh I know..." The blue haired purred, admiring how good you took her, how pretty the saliva dripped on her fingers as she trusted at a slower speed than Vi.

"We've tried so hard to be gentle for you, but you just have to be fucking insistent, mhm? think you can hide for long and pretend you've got this on your own?” Caitlyn’s fingers rubbed on your clit, overstimulating your drenched pussy. You shocked your head with desperation, gagging mid way as she sinked her fingers deeper inside you. Vi's thrusts became deeper and harsher too. "You belong to us, to me. Remember that."

[lalo0]

INSIDE AESPA EP. 8┃ Decisions, decisions

Male reader x Giselle

Word count: 8.7k

Tags: squirting, dom/sub, dirty talk, teasing PART 1 PART 2 PART 3 PART 4 PART 5 PART 6 PART 7

The morning crept in slowly.

Not heavy. Not loud. Just the kind of stillness that didn’t ask for anything.

I sat at the edge of the bed, letting my hands hang between my knees. The light through the window was thin and washed-out, pale enough to dull the colors of the room. It didn’t feel like morning, not really. It felt like the space after something—after noise, after heat, after the kind of closeness that left a mark you couldn’t see.

The house wasn’t silent. There was the low hum of the fridge down the hall, the occasional pop of old floorboards settling under the change in temperature. But it wasn’t awake yet, either.

I found myself moving before I knew what I was aiming for. Just standing, stretching out the stiffness in my back, sliding the door open with a soft scrape that barely cut through the stillness.

The hallway yawned open in front of me.

I passed the bathroom, the guest room, the kitchen.

All empty.

No footsteps. No murmured conversations. Just the soft, worn-in quiet of a house that hadn’t decided to start the day yet.

When I reached Karina’s room, the door was cracked open.

Not wide. Just enough to catch the edge of a rumpled bedspread, a hoodie half-tossed onto the floor, a slice of muted light slipping through the blinds.

I knocked once—out of habit more than anything.

“Come in,” Karina’s voice called out. Low. Unbothered.

I pushed the door open.

She was sitting on the bed, back braced against the headboard, one knee bent up toward her chest. She was wearing a hoodie—black, sleeves shoved up to her elbows—and a pair of loose shorts that looked like they belonged to someone else.

Her phone rested face-down beside her.

She wasn’t scrolling. Just sitting there, elbow propped on her knee, fingers pressed against her temple like she was working through a thought she wasn’t ready to speak aloud.

For a second, neither of us said anything.

The quiet stretched, not uncomfortable. Just there.

Her gaze flicked up to me—steady, assessing, the way it always did.

“Didn’t think you’d be up yet,” she said.

“Didn’t think you’d be waiting.”

A small smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.

Not the polished, public kind.

The real one. Quick. Dry. A little tired.

She nodded toward the mattress beside her.

I crossed the room and sat down, careful to leave a few inches of space. Enough to breathe.

The bed dipped under the shared weight.

Karina leaned her head back against the wall, eyes half-lidded, as if she might fall asleep sitting up. For a minute, she didn’t speak. She just let the silence hang between us, steady and unhurried.

“You’re thinking too loud,” she said eventually, eyes still closed.

I huffed a breath that wasn’t quite a laugh. “You always think you can hear that?”

“With you?” She cracked one eye open. “It’s not hard.”

I didn’t answer.

I just let the weight in my chest settle a little heavier.

Karina shifted, resting her arm across her bent knee, fingers loose and easy.

“You’re not great at staying,” she said, voice even. Not accusing. Not teasing. Just stating a fact she’d already filed away.

I glanced at her, but she wasn’t looking at me. She was staring out the window now, where the blinds cut the light into sharp, narrow lines.

“You’re good at disappearing,” she added. “Quiet. Clean. No mess.”

I didn’t deny it.

Karina shrugged, a small, resigned movement. “I get it.”

Another beat.

“I’m not gonna ask you to stay,” she said, and this time she did look at me. Direct. No hesitation. “None of us are.”

Her fingers flexed once, like she was fighting the urge to fidget.

“But I will tell you this,” she continued. “We don’t keep people here. We don’t make them stay. We just… we hope they want to.”

She said it simply.

No plea hidden in her tone. No expectation.

Just a quiet offering.

I sat with it.

Let it dig in where it needed to.

Karina pushed herself up straighter, rolling her shoulders out like the conversation had been more effort than she wanted to admit.

She reached for her phone but didn’t unlock it.

Didn’t check any messages.

Just held it loosely in her hand like an anchor.

“I’m not good at this either, you know,” she said. “Letting people stay. Trusting them not to wreck the place on their way out.”

I gave a small, crooked smile. “I won’t trash the place.”

Karina smirked. “You’ll just vanish without a sound.”

I didn’t argue.

She set the phone down again. Ran a hand through her hair, pushing it back from her face. There were faint lines under her eyes—shadows that hadn’t been there the first time I met her.

Or maybe they had.

Maybe I just hadn’t looked close enough.

Karina shifted, dropping her knee and crossing her legs loosely.

“I’m not gonna sell you a dream,” she said. “It’s not perfect here. We’re not perfect.”

She lifted a hand, gesturing vaguely to the house around us.

“But it’s ours. And we’d make room for you if you wanted it.”

I let the words sit between us.

Heavy.

Simple.

Uncomplicated in the way only hard-earned truth could be.

Karina pushed herself off the bed, stretching her arms overhead until her hoodie rode up enough to show a sliver of skin. She didn’t bother smoothing it down.

She walked to the door, leaned against the frame, and gave me a look I couldn’t quite name.

“I’ll see you around, Mylo,” she said.

And with that, she stepped into the hall, leaving me alone in the quiet.

But the space didn’t feel empty.

It felt… waiting.

I sat there for a moment longer, staring at the rumpled bedspread, the dent in the mattress where she’d been.

Then I stood.

And kept moving.

I left Karina’s room behind without looking back.

The house was starting to wake up now—just barely. A few muted sounds carried through the hallways: the distant clink of a glass, the soft shuffle of bare feet across wood floors. But it wasn’t loud. It wasn’t intrusive.

It was the kind of noise that let you move quietly if you wanted to.

I followed it to the kitchen.

Winter was standing by the counter, barefoot, hair loose around her shoulders in that way that always looked just a little messy, a little undone—but never careless. She wore an oversized T-shirt, sleeves falling past her elbows, the hem brushing mid-thigh.

She didn’t turn when she heard me.

Just poured herself a glass of water from the filtered pitcher, slow and steady. The kind of movement that didn’t say much, but didn’t hide anything either.

I leaned against the doorway, hands shoved into the pockets of my sweats.

For a minute, neither of us said anything.

Winter took a sip, set the glass down, and ran her fingers absently along the rim like she was smoothing out a wrinkle only she could see.

“You’re thinking about leaving.”

It wasn’t a question.

I didn’t answer.

She finally turned, resting her back against the counter, glass still in hand.

Her eyes met mine without flinching. They were clear. Cool. But not cold.

Not today.

“You don’t have to explain,” she said. “We’ve all been there.”

I studied her face.

There was no accusation in it. No judgment. Just the kind of resigned understanding that came from someone who’d thought about running once or twice herself.

Maybe more.

Winter tilted her head slightly, that same easy, unreadable expression she wore like a second skin.

“You’re good at hiding it,” she said. “The wanting to disappear.”

I huffed a breath. “It sure doesn't seem like it.”

She gave a small shrug. “Takes one to know one.”

Her fingers tapped the side of the glass, a quiet, rhythmic sound.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

She wasn’t fidgeting. Not exactly.

It was just a sound. A tether.

Winter didn’t move closer.

She didn’t ask me to.

But she didn’t let the silence close between us either.

Instead, she said, softer now: “You don’t owe anyone a version of yourself that you can't even stand.”

I swallowed.

Winter pushed off the counter, slow, deliberate. She crossed the small space between us and stopped just close enough that I could feel her there—steady, real.

She looked up at me, her hair falling forward over her shoulders, eyes sharp and clear.

“But if you’re running because you think no one wants the real one…”

She reached out.

Not fast. Not hesitant.

Her hand brushed the side of my face—light, barely there. Fingertips tracing the line of my jaw like she wasn’t sure if I’d let her.

I didn’t pull away.

Her hand stayed.

Warm.

Present.

“If you’re running because you think you’re too much—or not enough—or whatever else you’ve been telling yourself…”

She let her words hang there.

Heavy.

Unflinching.

“I hope you know you’re wrong.”

I didn’t say anything.

Couldn’t.

Winter dropped her hand, but she didn’t step back.

She just stood there, letting the moment settle.

Then, quieter: “We’re not asking for the perfect parts, Mylo. We’re just asking for you.”

I closed my eyes for a second.

Not long.

Just enough to steady the pulse under my skin.

When I opened them again, Winter was still there.

Still steady.

Still waiting.

But not pushing.

Never pushing.

“I’m not good at this,” I said, voice rougher than I meant it to be.

Winter smiled—small, real.

“None of us are.”

She reached past me to the counter, grabbed a second glass, and filled it.

Then handed it to me without a word.

I took it.

The cool weight of it grounded me more than I wanted to admit.

Winter leaned her hip against the counter again, sipped her water, and let the silence stretch.

Not tense.

Not demanding.

Just easy.

When she spoke again, it was softer. Barely more than a breath.

“Stay for breakfast,” she said.

It wasn’t an order.

It wasn’t even really a request.

It was an offering.

A way of saying: You’re still wanted here. Even when you’re not sure why.

I nodded once.

Small. Almost imperceptible.

But Winter saw it.

She always did.

She smiled again—tired, knowing—and turned back to her glass, giving me the space to breathe without feeling like I was being watched.

I stood there for a moment longer, glass in hand, heart a little steadier.

Then I moved.

Slow.

Not leaving.

Just… moving forward.

I found Ningning on the couch, curled up sideways with a blanket half-draped over her legs. 

Her phone sat face-down on the coffee table.

She wasn’t scrolling.

She wasn’t texting.

She was just... there.

Breathing.

Thinking.

The sunlight coming through the blinds hit her hair. She had that stillness about her—the kind that didn’t mean calm. The kind that meant something else. Like she was working through a problem in her head and hadn’t figured out which way to turn it yet.

I stood there for a second longer than I should have.

She noticed.

Ningning didn’t move. Didn’t lift her head or sit up straighter.

Just flicked her eyes toward me—steady, sharp, a little too knowing.

“You look like someone who’s about to do something stupid,” she said.

Her voice was light.

But not joking.

I shrugged one shoulder. “Depends on your definition.”

Ningning tucked the blanket higher around her legs. Her foot brushed the edge of the coffee table.

“You don’t have to go,” she said, softer this time.

I didn’t answer. Am I really so easy to read?

She turned her face to the TV—not watching it, not really. Just giving me space to think.

“I get it,” she added, voice almost casual. “Sometimes it feels easier to leave before someone asks you to.”

Her thumb moved absently against the blanket, a small, repetitive motion.

“But no one’s asking you to,” she said.

I moved closer. Sat down on the other end of the couch.

Not touching.

Just close enough.

Ningning glanced at me again, head tilted slightly like she was measuring something—some weight she couldn’t quite name.

“I used to think,” she said, “that if people got too close, they’d see all the parts I didn’t want to explain. And then they’d leave anyway.”

She smiled, but it wasn’t a happy smile. It was the kind that sat tight around the edges, like it hurt to stretch.

“They never did,” she said. “But I kept acting like they might.”

I didn’t look at her.

I looked at my hands.

They were still. No tremor. No sign of the storm that was starting to gather just under the skin.

Ningning let the silence hang there.

Then: “You’re not the only one scared of being kept around for the wrong reasons.”

I glanced at her.

She was still staring at the TV.

“I know what it feels like to wonder if people like the idea of you more than they like you.”

Her hand brushed the blanket again. Small motion. Barely there.

“But you’re not an idea, Mylo.”

She turned her head, finally facing me fully.

“You’re a person. And you’re still here.”

A beat.

“You’re still you.”

I swallowed.

Ningning didn’t push.

She just looked at me—steady, unblinking, real.

“No one’s trying to buy you,” she said. “No one’s keeping you because you fill some space we don’t want to fill ourselves.”

She smiled again—smaller this time. Less tight.

“You’re here because we want you here.”

I didn’t know what to say to that.

Didn’t know how to hold it without dropping it.

Ningning must’ve seen it on my face.

She shifted, pulling her legs out from under the blanket, sitting cross-legged now, facing me fully.

“You don’t have to believe it right away,” she said. “But you can’t pretend it’s not true.”

I exhaled slowly.

The kind of breath that didn’t fix anything but let you survive a little longer.

Ningning leaned back against the armrest, folding her arms loosely over her chest.

“I’m not going to tell you to stay,” she said. “I’m just going to tell you that leaving won’t change anything.”

I looked at her.

She met my eyes—open, unafraid.

“You’ll still be wanted,” she said. “Even if you run.”

Her voice didn’t crack.

It didn’t soften.

It just held.

“You’ll still be you.”

The words sat heavy between us.

I didn’t argue.

Didn’t deflect.

I just sat there, breathing in a room that suddenly felt a little less empty.

Ningning reached for the remote and unmuted the TV.

The cartoon blared back to life—bright, fast, chaotic.

But she wasn’t really watching.

She just sat there, letting the noise fill the cracks.

Letting me stay.

Without asking.

Without pushing.

Without conditions.

After a few minutes, I stood up.

Ningning didn’t say anything.

She just smiled at me—real, easy—and turned back to the screen.

I left the room without looking back.

But I carried her words with me.

I didn’t sleep that first night. Not really. I stayed curled up on the far end of the couch, one arm under my head, pretending to watch the TV flickering low in the corner. Some old sitcom played — canned laughter, bright clothes, people shouting at each other in the way they thought was funny. The house smelled different from what I was used to. Warmer. Cleaner. Soap, cinnamon from a candle burning on the counter, a hint of coffee sunk deep into the walls. Cara didn’t ask questions. She just set a folded blanket down beside me — thick, worn soft at the edges — and went back to the kitchen. Bill didn’t say anything either. He just sat at the table, flipping through a newspaper like the headlines would change if he stared long enough. No one asked where I was from. No one asked why I was there. The silence should’ve felt sharp. It didn’t. It felt cautious. Like no one wanted to startle anything. The next morning, there was oatmeal. Thick, clumpy, full of raisins that exploded soft against my tongue. Cara set it in front of me without a word. She poured herself and Bill coffee and sat down like it was the most normal thing in the world. “You don’t have to eat it,” she said around a spoonful. “But it’d be polite to try.” I ate.

Because I didn’t know what else to do. The house was small. Lived-in, not cluttered — every surface covered with little signs of life. A sagging couch. Curtains sun-faded to a pale almost-color. A kitchen that smelled like old grease and lemon cleaner. Towels that didn’t match. A clock that ticked unevenly. It wasn’t bad. Not like before. A few days later, they offered me the spare room. It was small — bed, dresser, cracked window. The mattress dipped toward the middle. The springs groaned every time I moved. But it had a door. A lock. That was enough. They didn’t talk much. Bill kept to himself. TV, paper, occasional grunts. Cara ran the house — lists on the fridge, muttering under her breath when she cleaned, cooking more food than two people needed. They didn’t ask anything of me. No papers. No rules. No promises. Just a list on the fridge every morning. Dishes. Sweep. Laundry. Take out the trash. Small things. Easy trades. Sometimes Cara brought leftovers from the school — a bruised apple, a stack of rolls the cafeteria was going to throw out. She’d leave them in the fridge with a sticky note that just said “Yours.” Little things. Things that made it easier to pretend this wasn’t temporary. The days blurred. I stopped sleeping in my shoes.

Stopped glancing at the door every time I heard footsteps. Started thinking — maybe this was it. Maybe they didn’t need anything from me. No deals. No conditions. Just... stay out of the way. Be polite. Be useful. It was almost enough to make me believe it. But even then — even when things were quiet and warm and easy — there was a catch at the back of my throat. Because nothing in my life was ever free. I pushed it down. I worked hard. I didn’t cause trouble. I made myself small, invisible at the edges of their lives. It should’ve been enough. For a while, it was. Then came Wednesday. I remember because the house was quieter than usual. Cara had a late shift at the school. Bill was out in the garage, radio muttering low under the clank of tools. I’d finished everything on the list by noon. Dishes, floors, laundry folded and stacked like I didn’t live there. The sun was heavy through the windows, thick with dust motes. I should’ve stayed put. I should’ve sat on the couch, watched whatever rerun Bill left playing, and kept my head down.

But the quiet made me restless. And restless made me reckless. I was looking for a book — something to pass the time — when I found it. Tucked in the desk in the corner of the living room, under a stack of old receipts and yellowed bills. A plain envelope. Unsealed. The sight of it made something cold and instinctive twist under my ribs. Because I knew that shape. That weight. An envelope like that had ruined things before. I almost left it alone. Almost. But my hand moved before my brain could catch up. The paper was thin. No name written on it. Just that sick, familiar rectangular dread. Inside — a letterhead I didn’t recognize. Official. Government. I pulled it halfway out. Enough to see the words. Monthly Support Allowance. Dependent Minor. And a number. Not huge. Not nothing.

Enough. Enough to make sense of things I hadn’t wanted to think about. The spare room. The leftovers. The way Cara’s eyes skimmed over me sometimes — not cruel, not warm, just... measuring. I sat back on my heels. Stared at it. Everything blurred a little at the edges — not panic, not fear. Just a hollowing out. A confirmation. I wasn’t there because they cared. I was there because I paid for myself. Like a stray dog that just happened to bring its own leash. I put the letter back. Careful. Slow. Exactly how I found it. Closed the drawer without a sound. And stood there for a long time, the silence thick and heavy around me. The world didn’t shift. The house didn’t collapse. Nothing changed. Except me.

I walked back to the couch, sat down, stared at the flickering TV without seeing it. The couch was still sagging. The clock still ticked unevenly. The blanket Cara left out was folded over the armrest, waiting. And yet. Everything was different now. Because the thing I didn’t want to believe — the thing I pretended wasn’t true — was written plain on paper. People didn’t keep me around because they cared. They kept me because it was useful. Because I made sense on a spreadsheet. Because it was easy. I didn’t cry. Not even when the weight settled — not just in my chest, but behind my eyes, behind my teeth, in the way my hands stayed perfectly still in my lap. I just sat there. Breathing through it. Like always. When Cara came home later, she smiled — the tight, tired smile of someone who didn’t expect anything back. I smiled too. Tighter. Smaller. I ate dinner. Washed my plate. Said thank you. Pretended the oatmeal, the blanket, the sticky notes — all of it — still meant something.

Because it was easier than leaving. And because deep down, I already knew — there wasn’t anywhere else to go.

The hallway was quiet.

Dim.

The only light came from a crack under one of the doors — Winter’s, probably — and the faint orange wash of the streetlamps leaking through the front window. The house smelled like dust and old coffee. Not heavy. Not sharp. Just there. Lived-in.

I stood still for a minute.

Just breathing.

Listening.

I wasn’t in the living room anymore.

I wasn’t with Ningning, or anyone else.

It was just me now.

The hallway stretched ahead — narrow, dim, the walls close enough to touch. The familiar sag of the ceiling. The uneven line where the paint changed color halfway down.

It would’ve been easy to keep walking. Past the kitchen. Past the front door. Shoes by the mat. Jacket on the hook.

It would’ve been easy to disappear.

I’d done it before.

Slip out.

Start over.

New place. New couch to crash on. New lie to tell myself about why it didn’t matter. Why I didn’t matter.

But my feet didn’t move.

I stood there, breathing too shallow, the air too dry in my throat.

It wasn’t like before.

Before, it was survival. Simple math. Leave before someone left you.

Now—

Now, there was weight.

There were people that really cared.

Small, stupid moments I didn’t want to admit I remembered: Karina watching me like she was waiting for me to break. Winter’s steady quiet, like she knew but wasn’t going to ask. Ningning tossing a blanket over me in the dark like it was nothing, like it was normal.

And Giselle.

I wasn’t sure what Giselle was.

A choice, maybe.

A door I wasn’t ready to open.

I breathed out slowly.

Looked down the hall.

Her room was at the end. Same plain white door. Same worn brass knob.

Same distance I could’ve crossed in ten steps, maybe less.

I didn’t move.

Didn’t lift my hand.

Didn’t even breathe for a second.

Because it felt like standing there was a decision. Like the moment before you step off a ledge — not falling, not flying. Just the stretch of time when anything is still possible.

I thought about the girls — each of them saying something they probably didn’t think would matter.

Karina’s steady voice: You don’t owe anyone a role to play.

Winter’s quiet glance, as if she knew what I was thinking, even if she didn’t say it.

Ningning’s lopsided smile: You look like someone who forgets to eat a lot.

Not big moments.

Not confessions or demands.

Just... being seen.

I wasn’t used to it.

Not without cost.

Not without an envelope somewhere in the background, waiting to tell me what I was worth in numbers.

I stared at Giselle’s door.

Wondered — if I opened it — if I would find the same thing.

An offer. A price. A countdown.

Or maybe—

Maybe it was different. Maybe she was different. I didn’t know.

And for the first time in a long time, I hated not knowing.

I shifted my weight.

The floor creaked under my heel.

And before I could knock—

The door moved.

Slow.

Soundless.

The latch clicked as it released, and the door swung inward an inch.

Then another.

Giselle stood there.

Barefoot. Sweatshirt hanging loose. Hair messy and half-shadowed by the dim light spilling from behind her.

She didn’t speak.

She didn’t smile.

She just looked at me.

And that was worse.

Because in that look — in the way she held it — was something I hadn’t been ready for.

Not demand.

Not expectation.

Just—

A silent question.

Are you coming in?

Are you staying?

I swallowed.

The hallway stretched behind me — a straight shot to the front door, to the familiar ache of leaving before anyone could tell me to.

But I didn’t turn around.

I didn’t move back.

I didn’t move forward either.

Not yet.

Giselle didn’t reach for me.

She just stood there — a door half-open — not a trap, not a promise.

Just a choice.

I stood there, heart a little too fast, breath a little too shallow.

Waiting.

We both were.

No words. No movement. Just her hand on the doorframe and that same steady, open look I wasn’t used to being given.

The house behind me was silent now. Everyone tucked away behind closed doors, the kind of quiet that didn’t feel like peace—it felt like something holding its breath.

Giselle didn’t say anything. She didn’t invite me in. She didn’t step aside. She just waited, letting the moment sit between us the way she always did—like silence was something that didn’t scare her.

I stayed where I was, hands at my sides, feeling the weight of the day settle into my chest.

I thought about Karina earlier, her words still playing under my ribs. You don’t have to do this alone.

I thought about Winter, the way she didn’t look at me like I was broken. Just there. Just present.

I thought about Ningning, always half teasing, half real, offering what she could in her own way.

And now this—Giselle, not asking anything. Not expecting anything.

Just... here.

I didn’t realize my hands were clenched until I forced them to uncurl. My skin felt too tight, my throat too dry.

She tilted her head slightly, the smallest motion, like she could see all of it—the hesitation, the weight I wasn’t speaking—and wasn’t going to rush me.

The door creaked in her hand as it shifted, but she didn’t pull it wider. She didn’t do anything except stay there, watching me with the kind of patience that felt less like waiting and more like... trust.

The kind of trust you didn’t earn with words.

The kind you could only take if you meant to keep it.

I stood there, the air between us heavy and thin all at once.

It should’ve been easy. One step. One choice.

But the truth was, every step I’d ever taken had been away—from places, from people, from the things that tried to claim me.

And here I was, on the edge of another choice. Stay. Or leave.

The hallway behind me felt colder suddenly, stretched out and empty like a road I didn’t want to walk again.

Inside her room, the light was low. Soft. Her bed was unmade, the covers rumpled, a sweatshirt tossed across the edge like she hadn’t cared enough to move it. A book was face down on the nightstand, a pair of headphones tangled beside it.

It didn’t look like a stage. It didn’t look like a trap.

It looked real.

And that scared me more than anything.

Because real meant it wasn’t about pretending.

Real meant if I stepped in, it wouldn’t be something I could explain away later. Wouldn’t be a mistake I could fold up and tuck into the corner of my mind with all the other things I refused to name.

It would mean I’d chosen it.

Her.

I sucked in a breath through my teeth. Let it sit there, sharp and dry in my throat.

Giselle’s fingers brushed against the side of the doorframe, just once, like she was resisting the urge to reach out.

Not pulling me.

Not pushing.

Just waiting.

I took a step forward.

Slow. Careful. Like the floor might give out under me if I wasn’t sure enough.

She didn’t move.

I took another.

The door stayed half-open, the threshold narrowing until there wasn’t enough space between us for doubt to slip through.

She let go of the frame then, hand falling back to her side.

And still—still—she didn’t say a word.

She didn’t need to.

I was the one who had to speak, in the only language that mattered—movement. Choice.

I stepped inside.

Crossed the threshold like it was more than a doorway.

It was a line.

A before and after.

I could feel it under my skin, humming low and steady—the kind of shift you don’t notice until you’re already on the other side and realize you’re never going back.

Giselle moved, then. Quiet. A step backward, giving me space. Not taking the lead. Not closing the door.

Just... making room.

I stayed where I was for a moment, breathing in the air that smelled faintly of her shampoo and something softer—something like paper and sleep and the trace of perfume on skin.

Giselle watched me.

Not impatient. Not pleading. Just watching.

And then, slow, she lifted her hand. Not to grab me. Not to guide me. Just an open palm, reaching out, fingers barely curled.

I looked at it for a second longer than I should have.

Then—carefully, deliberately—I let my hand find hers.

The contact was light at first. A brush of skin. A test.

She didn’t flinch.

Didn’t tighten her fingers around mine.

Just waited.

I closed my hand around hers.

Her palm was warm.

Steady.

She gave the barest pull—not even a tug, just a suggestion—and I followed, letting her guide me farther into the room.

The door stayed open behind us.

She didn’t shut it.

She didn’t have to.

I wasn’t leaving.

Not yet.

Maybe not at all.

I let her lead me to the bed, the soft give of the mattress against the back of my knees, the low hum of the night settling in around us like a second skin.

She sat first, pulling her hand away slowly, giving me the choice again.

Stay or leave.

I sat.

The mattress dipped under my weight, the distance between us closing, folding in.

Giselle leaned back, one hand braced behind her, the other still resting lightly on the comforter.

I looked at her—really looked.

Not at the curve of her mouth or the line of her throat.

Not at the flush high on her cheeks or the way her lashes cast shadows under her eyes.

I looked at her.

And she looked right back. No armor. No masks.

Just two people, breathing the same air, trying not to blink first.

The quiet wasn’t heavy anymore. It was waiting.

And this time, I wasn’t afraid of what would happen if I answered it.

I shifted closer.

She tilted her head, the smallest tilt, like she was meeting me halfway without moving at all.

I raised my hand, slow, careful, and let it rest on her thigh. Light. Testing.

She didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. Just exhaled—soft, steady. I slid my hand higher.

Her breath hitched.

But she didn’t pull away. Didn’t stop me.

And when I leaned in, when our foreheads brushed, she closed her eyes.

Not in fear. Not in resignation. In trust.

I stayed like that for a moment, breathing her in, feeling the way the world narrowed down to the space between us.

No pressure. No weight. Just presence.

When she leaned up and kissed me—slow, sure—it wasn’t the start of something reckless.

It wasn’t a mistake.

It was a decision.

One we made together.

And this time, I didn’t hesitate.

I kissed her back.

The kiss deepened—slow at first, then sharper, a building current neither of us tried to fight. Her fingers tightened in my hair, not rough but deliberate, tilting my head back slightly so she could press her mouth harder against mine. I let her. For now.

She kissed like she moved—measured, practiced, but with a current underneath that she wasn’t trying to hide. She bit my lower lip, pulled just enough to make me grunt low in my throat.

I opened my eyes. She was already looking at me, eyes dark, mouth swollen.

I slid my hand up her thigh, fingers trailing under the hem of her sweatshirt, feeling the heat of her skin.

She didn’t stop me.

But when I tried to push the sweatshirt higher, she caught my wrist.

Firm.

Controlling.

She shook her head once—slow, almost a smile—and leaned back just enough that I had to follow her to keep the kiss. I pressed closer, chasing it, but she pressed her palm flat against my chest.

"Wait," she murmured, voice low and steady.

It wasn’t a no.

It was a command.

She pushed, and I let her. Let her guide me back until I was sitting, legs open, feet flat on the floor.

She straddled me, one knee on either side, the hem of her sweatshirt riding up over her thighs. No rush. No theatrics. Just moving like she owned the pace now.

I let her.

She kissed me again—harder this time, setting the rhythm. Her fingers brushed down my arms, then back up, slow, tracing the veins, the tendons, the kind of touches that weren’t about tenderness—they were about reading me. Learning the map of tension and patience and control.

Her hands found the hem of my shirt.

She didn’t yank it.

She peeled it off—slow, deliberate—like she wanted to take her time seeing me.

I helped, but just enough.

She tossed the shirt aside, then sat back, fingers splayed on my chest, nails scratching lightly over skin.

I reached for her hips, but she shifted—subtle—and caught my wrists again.

Firm.

In charge.

I smiled against her mouth. “Bossy.”

Her eyes glinted. “You’re the one who followed me in here.”

She leaned in, pressing her weight against my wrists, pinning them to the bed.

And for a second—just a second—I let her.

Let her hold me there, her mouth tracing along my jaw, the line of my throat, teeth grazing just enough to make me twitch.

When she bit down—soft but sharp—on the muscle where my shoulder met my neck, I groaned.

And then—fast—I flipped her.

Not rough.

Not punishing.

Just a shift of weight, a counter to her hold, rolling us until she was on her back and I was over her, braced on one arm, the other hand still caught in hers.

She grinned up at me—breathless, wild, not surprised at all.

I kissed her then—hard, deep, taking back what she’d stolen.

She didn’t fight it.

She gave as good as she got, hands threading in my hair, pulling me closer, one leg hooking around my waist to drag me down against her.

I pressed into her, grinding slow, deliberate.

She arched into it, mouth parting on a gasp, and when she rolled her hips up to meet me, the friction made both of us groan.

I pulled back—barely—just enough to look at her.

Hair a mess around her face, lips red, breath coming fast.

“Take it off,” I said, voice low, brushing the hem of her sweatshirt with my fingers.

She didn’t hesitate.

She sat up just enough to pull it over her head and toss it aside. No bra. Just her—bare, flushed, perfect.

I sat back on my heels to take her in.

She shifted, sitting up, reaching for the button of my jeans. Her hands were sure, practiced. She popped the button, dragged the zipper down slow, teasing, and when I lifted my hips, she tugged them down, along with my boxers.

I kicked them off, and for a beat, we just looked at each other.

Then she pushed me back.

Flat.

Straddled me again.

Her hand wrapped around me, firm, confident, stroking slow, her thumb brushing the head just to make me bite back a sound.

“Not so bossy now,” she murmured.

I grinned, but didn’t fight her.

Let her take what she wanted.

She leaned down, kissed me hard, her hand still working me slow, driving me half-crazy with the pace.

But two could play that game.

I slid my hands up her thighs, slow, nails dragging lightly over her skin, and when I reached her hips, I pulled her forward—grinding her against me, dragging her slick heat over my cock.

She gasped into my mouth.

I did it again.

Harder this time.

Her hand faltered.

I gripped her hips, steady, controlled, and lifted—just enough to tease the head of my cock against her entrance.

She whimpered—low, frustrated.

I didn’t give in.

I held her there, just teasing, just enough pressure to make her breath hitch.

“Say please,” I murmured.

She glared at me, but her hips rocked forward, desperate for more friction.

I stayed still.

Waited.

Finally, she exhaled. “Please.”

I pushed in—slow, deep—watching her mouth fall open, watching her eyes flutter shut.

She was tight, hot, perfect around me.

I gave her a second. Then another.

Then started to move.

Slow thrusts, deep and deliberate, making her take all of it, making her feel every inch.

She sat up more, hands braced on my chest, riding the rhythm I set.

But she didn’t stay passive.

She matched me—thrust for thrust, grind for grind—meeting me halfway, owning her half of it.

I shifted, rolled us again—her back hitting the mattress, me over her, one hand catching both her wrists and pinning them above her head.

She moaned, arching up into me, legs wrapping tight around my waist.

I kissed her hard, deep, claiming her mouth the way I claimed her body.

But then—sneaky, sure—she twisted one hand free, grabbed my jaw, and pulled me up to look at her.

“You’re not the only one who gets to be in control,” she said, breathless.

I grinned, leaning down to kiss her jaw. “Prove it.”

She shoved me, hard, flipping us again.

I let her.

Flat on my back, her riding me now, hands braced on my chest, head thrown back as she set the pace.

Hard. Fast.

Punishing.

I groaned, gripping her hips, letting her use me.

She leaned forward, kissed me hard, teeth grazing my lip, biting just enough to make me hiss.

I bucked up into her, sharp, deliberate. She gasped. I did it again.

Her hands tightened on my chest, nails digging in.

Push. Pull. Give. Take.

No one really in charge.

Just two people, dragging control back and forth between them until neither of us knew who had it anymore.

And neither of us cared.

Giselle’s rhythm was ruthless—steady, grinding, forcing me to feel every drag, every slick slide of her along my cock. She braced her hands on my chest, nails digging in, leaving faint crescent marks as she rode me.

Not wild.

Not frantic.

Controlled.

Calculated.

Her breath came fast, but her eyes—dark, locked on mine—never wavered.

When I tried to grab her hips, guide her faster, she caught my wrists. Pressed them back into the bed.

“No,” she said, voice low, tight.

I smirked, but I let her.

She shifted her weight forward, dragging her body along mine, grinding her clit against my stomach, hips working slow and relentless as she kept her hands on my wrists.

I flexed under her, arching up, trying to regain a little ground, but she just smiled—slow, wicked—and pressed her palms harder against me.

“Stay down.”

I didn’t argue.

I just breathed.

Watched.

Let her set the pace.

She kept grinding, circling her hips in slow, perfect motions that drove me fucking crazy. The heat of her, the weight of her—every shift in pressure deliberate, teasing.

She leaned down and kissed me again.

Not soft. Not tender.

Her mouth was hot, her tongue insistent, teeth catching my lower lip and pulling before she kissed me deeper.

I growled low in my throat, bucked up hard, but she held steady, thighs tightening around my hips to pin me in place.

She broke the kiss, breathing hard, lips swollen.

“Not yet,” she whispered against my mouth.

I exhaled sharply, chest rising fast under her weight.

She smiled—just a little—then rocked her hips harder, dragging a moan out of both of us.

I clenched my jaw.

Held on.

But when she shifted her hands—just a little, to brace herself on my chest again—I moved.

Fast.

Caught her around the waist and flipped her.

She gasped—surprised, but not scared.

Her legs wrapped around me instantly, keeping me close.

I braced one hand beside her head, the other sliding down her body, palm flat against her stomach.

“Your turn,” I murmured, voice low, dangerous.

She grinned, but there was a challenge in her eyes now.

I thrust into her hard.

Deep.

She gasped, head tipping back against the pillow, mouth falling open.

I set the pace this time—slow, deep strokes, grinding my hips against her slit at the end of every thrust.

She took it.

But she didn’t give in.

Her legs tightened around me, and with a sudden twist, she rolled us again, dragging me over until I was on my back and she was straddling me.

She braced her hands on my shoulders, grinding down, setting a punishing rhythm.

I gritted my teeth, grabbed her hips again, but she batted my hands away.

“No,” she said again, breathless but firm. “Mine.”

I let her have it.

Let her work me over—grinding, riding me hard, fast, relentless.

She was close.

I could feel it—the way her thighs trembled, the way her breath caught every time her hips slammed down.

But she didn’t rush it.

She rode the edge, keeping both of us there, torturing us with control.

I groaned, hips jerking up into her, and this time she let me.

She shifted her weight, rode me harder, grinding her clit against me with every stroke.

I reached up, grabbed her breast, thumb circling her nipple, and she gasped—sharp, involuntary.

She leaned down, bit my shoulder—sharp, enough to leave a mark—and I thrust up into her harder, dragging another sound from her throat.

Push. 

Pull.

She pressed her forehead to mine, breathing hard.

“You gonna come for me?” she whispered.

I smiled, breathless. “Only if you do first.”

She ground down harder, faster, chasing it now.

I slid my hand between us, thumb brushing her clit, rubbing in tight circles, and she gasped again—sharp, desperate.

“Fuck—”

She didn’t stop.

Didn’t slow down.

She bit her lip, riding me harder, faster, desperate for it now.

I thrust up into her, matching her, driving her higher.

Her nails dug into my shoulders.

Her breath hitched.

And then she broke.

Came hard, grinding down against me, gasping, shaking, her whole body seizing around mine.

I groaned, thrusting up into her, chasing my own release.

She kept moving—riding me through it—ruthless even in her own unraveling.

I didn’t last much longer.

I growled low, grabbed her hips, and thrust up hard, once, twice—then came.

Hard.

Deep inside her.

She collapsed against me, breathless, trembling.

I wrapped my arms around her, holding her there, feeling the way her body still shuddered in the aftermath.

Neither of us moved for a while.

Just breathing.

Sharing the heat, the sweat, the wreckage we’d made of each other.

Slowly, Giselle lifted her head.

Her hair was a mess around her face. Her cheeks were flushed, lips red, eyes dark and still wild.

She smiled.

Not coy.

Not smug.

Just... happy.

She leaned down, kissed me once—slow, deep, grateful.

Then she pulled back, settled against me, her head on my chest.

I stroked her hair, slow, steady.

Neither of us said anything.

We didn’t need to.

Giselle’s breathing evened out slowly, her body still stretched across mine, her skin warm and damp against my chest. She didn’t say anything. Didn’t rush to fill the quiet with words. Just traced slow, idle shapes against my ribs with the tip of her finger.

I kept my hand in her hair, stroking gently.

It wasn’t a question.

Wasn’t a comfort.

Just... there.

For once, the silence didn’t feel like a weight. It didn’t press on my ribs or sink into my lungs. It just settled.

Safe.

Steady.

Eventually, Giselle shifted. Lifted her head enough to look at me, her hair falling in messy strands over her cheek. Her eyes were clear now—no challenge, no performance. Just her.

The real her.

She studied me like she was still memorizing.

Like she was trying to understand something I hadn’t said out loud yet.

“You okay?” she asked, voice low, rough from everything we hadn’t held back.

I nodded once.

Didn’t lie.

Didn’t pretend.

She sat up slowly, straddling me still, hands braced lightly on my stomach. She didn’t move to get off. Didn’t shift away. Just stayed there, close enough that the warmth between us didn’t cool.

Her fingers brushed my chest—soft, tentative.

“You think we just want you around because it’s easy,” she said.

Not a question.

I didn’t answer.

She tilted her head, studying me like she could see it anyway.

“But it’s not.”

I stayed quiet.

“It’s messy,” she said, mouth twitching at the corner. “It’s complicated. ”

I swallowed, throat dry.

“And it’s worth it.”

I looked at her then. Really looked.

She met my gaze without flinching.

“This isn’t charity,” she said. “Or convenience. It’s you.”

I didn’t move. Couldn’t.

Giselle leaned down again, slower this time, resting her forehead lightly against mine.

“You don’t have to prove anything,” she whispered. “You don’t have to be anything.”

Her breath warmed my skin.

“You’re already enough.”

Something tight in my chest pulled.

Stretched. Fractured. Not in a way that hurt.

In a way that loosened everything I’d been carrying for too long.

I closed my eyes for a second. Took a breath. She didn’t move. Didn’t pull away. She just stayed. Soft. Steady. Real.

When I opened my eyes again, she was watching me—quiet, patient.

I reached up.

Brushed a hand along her cheek, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

Her eyes softened, and for a second, neither of us breathed.

Then I whispered it, so low it barely made a sound:

“I’ll stay.”

Her breath caught.

Just a little.

But she didn’t smile.

Didn’t break.

Just leaned in and kissed me—soft, slow, careful.

Not because she didn’t want more.

But because she knew it wasn’t needed.

When she pulled back, she pressed her forehead to mine again.

Her hand slid down to find mine, fingers threading through, slow and sure.

I squeezed her hand.

She squeezed back.

And for the first time in a long time, the quiet felt like mine.

Like home.

1 YEAR LATER

The house was louder now.

Not chaotic. Just alive.

Ningning’s voice carried from the kitchen, sharp with laughter as she argued over something small—whose turn it was to buy milk or who forgot to put the cap back on the toothpaste. Winter’s low, amused drawl followed, a counterpoint, half-hearted in its defense.

Karina was cross-legged on the living room floor, sorting through a stack of vinyl records she insisted she’d organize two months ago. She muttered to herself under her breath, squinting at labels, trying to decide what to keep and what to get rid of.

And Giselle—

Giselle was sitting on the couch, socked feet pulled up, balancing a mug of coffee on her knee like it might float there indefinitely if she concentrated hard enough. She was scrolling on her phone, but not really looking at it. Every few minutes, she glanced around the room, like she was doing a quiet headcount she didn’t want anyone to catch her at.

I leaned against the doorway.

Just... watching.

A year ago, I wouldn’t have known how to stand like this. Easy. Present. Not braced for the next crash.

Ningning caught sight of me first.

She grinned, sharp and bright. "If you’re just gonna lurk, you can at least make yourself useful."

I smirked. "Define useful."

"Milk run!" she shouted, already tossing her wallet at me from across the kitchen.

I caught it one-handed.

Winter snorted. "You realize he's the only reason we don’t live in absolute chaos, right?"

"Debatable," I said.

Winter smiled—small, genuine. "Appreciated though."

I shrugged. Casual. But the warmth in my chest stuck.

Karina, without looking up, added, "If you find that vinyl cleaner I ordered, grab it."

"You still cleaning records?" I asked.

"Organization is a long-term project," she said, deadpan.

Ningning made a gagging sound. Winter threw a balled-up napkin at her. It hit her square in the forehead, and she gasped like she’d been mortally wounded.

Normal.

Not perfect. Not polished.

Just normal.

I pushed off the doorframe and crossed the room, handing Ningning’s wallet back with a pointed look.

"You can add it to the next grocery run," I said. "I’m off-duty today."

"You’re off-duty every day," she grumbled, but there was no heat in it.

I glanced at Giselle.

She hadn’t said anything. But she was watching. Phone forgotten, mug balanced perfectly still.

I met her eyes.

She smiled.

Small. Private. Just for me.

I nodded once, barely a tilt of my chin, and that was enough.

Ningning pulled me back with a nudge. "Seriously though, Mylo. Help me out."

"With what?"

She pointed dramatically at the floor. "The cereal graveyard."

A scattering of loops and flakes dotted the hardwood where she’d clearly dropped the box and decided it was someone else’s problem.

I sighed, grabbed a broom from behind the door, and started sweeping.

Winter crouched beside me, pretending to help. "Remember when you didn’t live here?"

"Vaguely."

"You were quieter then."

"You were more suspicious."

She grinned. "Still am."

"Good," I said.

Because it meant she hadn’t lost the edge that made her, her. No smoothing over. No pretending.

Ningning flopped onto the couch beside Giselle once the floor was cereal-free, dramatically declaring, "Domestic life is so hard."

"Tragic," Karina said, tossing a record onto the 'keep' pile.

Giselle laughed softly.

I straightened up, broom in hand, and looked around the room.

No part of me felt like an outsider anymore.

I wasn't a guest. I wasn’t a problem waiting to happen. I was just... here.

A part of the noise.

A part of the quiet.

Ningning was already halfway into a new argument with Winter about who left the bathroom light on. Karina was shaking her head at a warped record she’d apparently been meaning to toss for years.

Giselle set her mug down and stretched, toes brushing Ningning’s knee, who shoved her half-heartedly in retaliation.

She looked at me again.

Just a glance.

But there was history in it.

The kind you build, day by day, by not disappearing.

I crossed the room and sat on the floor near Karina, who immediately shoved a stack of records at me.

"Sort by year."

"So I'm a slave now?."

She smirked. "Equal opportunity employer."

I picked up the top record and flipped it over. 1978. Already dusty.

Ningning threw a pillow at Winter. Winter ducked, laughing. Giselle leaned back, hair falling over her face as she smiled at something on her phone.

I slid the record into the 'keep' pile.

The house buzzed and breathed around me, alive with the easy, sharp edges of people who weren’t perfect—but who didn’t expect me to be, either.

No roles to play.

No scripts to recite.

And when I glanced up, Giselle was  looking at me—steady, sure—and for the first time in a long time, I didn’t wonder why.

I just smiled back.

I just stayed.

THE END

[gojoest]

a shape that could be ours — gojo satoru

synopsis: newlyweds are always asked the same question: “when will the babies come?” sometimes, the questions are harmless. other times, they get under your skin. you start to think and you start to imagine. maybe you tuck a pillow under your shirt one time, just to see. and maybe… your husband, gojo satoru, sees it too.

warnings: f!reader (she/her), established relationship (you are newly married), pregnancy/baby talk, pet names (pretty, baby), domestic fluff, not proofread, wc: 2.6k, dividers by @/cursed-carmine

“what? don’t you want a baby with me?” satoru asks as he sets the plates down on the counter and walks over to you. his voice is low and teasing. but not teasing in the usual carefree way; there’s something softer threaded through it, something almost serious. like it isn’t really a question he’s asking at all, but a quiet hope. a request. one he’s afraid to say out loud too often.

you blink up at him, unsure whether to be flustered or frustrated.

dinner had just ended. it was the first time you invited family over since the wedding. a small gathering, really, that still somehow managed to feel like a full-blown event. everything had to be perfect. you spent the whole day cleaning, organizing, cooking. and not just because you’re a perfectionist, but because…

…his clan is, well, intense.

polished and traditional in all the wrong ways where every smile hides a critique, every compliment is laced with a condition. you knew it wouldn’t be easy to deal with them tonight but it mattered to you for the dinner to go well.

and in many ways, it did. except for that constant baby talk. family pressure.

“so, when are we going to hear the pitter-patter of little feet?”

“you two are married now. it’s about time, don’t you think?”

“i give it three months.”

‘three months? i’m hoping to get good news by the end of this month. the gojo blood is impatient.”

the laughter at the table was warm and lighthearted on the surface. but all of it made you want to disappear into your bowl of rice. every eye was on you and satoru — some amused, others expectant. as if you two were a machine that could be activated at any moment to start producing the next generation.

throughout the entire dinner you could barely take a sip of your drink without actually chocking on it.

meanwhile, satoru was just grinning like the menace he is — relaxed, smug and completely unfazed as always.

“we’ve been practicing”, he said brightly, “when the time comes, you will all know. it will show”, while caressing your belly shamelessly.

you nearly dropped your chopsticks. that idiot.

no matter how many times you jabbed his elbow, perhaps at times hard enough to leave a bruise, he kept chuckling, leaning over to kiss your temple like the world’s most supportive husband, and carried on with his antics. entertaining everyone with far too much confidence and far too many innuendos. not embarrassed at all, not for a second trying to avoid the topic when it was brought up. in fact, he kept leaning into it. perhaps because he enjoyed the idea a little bit too much and loved making it known since it involved the two of you becoming even closer. or perhaps as a subtle way of signaling you that he’s ready even if you aren’t. either way, he was absolutely in his element.

you, however, were ready to crawl under the table and stay there until the end of time, embarrassed.

by the time everyone was finally saying goodbye, you could barely fake another smile. several relatives winked on their way out, whispering things like “go work on that baby now” as if they didn’t already do enough damage to your nervous system, but now this too.

hours later, you’re standing in the kitchen rinsing plates, trying to scrub both the dishes and your embarrassment clean.

satoru is still watching you. he tilts his head, eyes a little softer now, like he’s peeling back the layer of jokes he wears so well. he steps closer to you and reaches out, gently tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. then his hand tilts your chin upward, coaxing you to meet his gaze.

“i mean it”, he says quietly. “don’t you want a baby with me?”

as a reflex, you try to turn away, but his hand holds you steady. not forceful, but firm enough, like he’s not ready to let you run from the question again.

“i…” you mumble. “i never said i didn’t want that.”

and that’s all he needs. a slow smile spreads across his lips. not a cocky one, but soft. almost relieved. he lets you go, brushing his fingers along your jaw as he pulls back. “good”, he says. “because i already think about it way too much.”

indeed, satoru has been imagining this, fantasizing even, for far too long, before you even got married. and all of his earlier teasing wasn’t just for show.

but on your end, it starts slowly. quietly. like how you start noticing flowers blooming only after winter has begun to fade.

a toddler’s giggle catches your attention in the park. you weren’t even really looking, just sipping on your coffee and scrolling mindlessly on your phone. but the sound draws your eyes up. a little girl in pink overalls is running after bubbles, squealing with laughter. her parents sit nearby on a bench, watching with contentment.

you don’t even realize you’re standing until the bubble pops and the girl turns to look at you, grinning. you smile back.

and just like that, you find yourself looking more often. at playgrounds. at babies wrapped in slings. at tiny shoes lined up in store windows. at couples who walk slowly because they’re pacing themselves with the unsteady toddle of their child between them.

you tell yourself it’s just because everyone keeps bringing it up. that your brain is on autopilot, stuck on a topic you never gave much thought before.

but then, you catch yourself lingering in the baby aisle at the store. just a second too long and just enough to picture what it might be like… a tiny hoodie with a little bear face. a pair of miniature sneakers that could fit in your palm. but alas, you shake your head and move on like that’ll erase the softness creeping in.

of course, satoru doesn’t help.

in fact, he seems to notice the shift in you immediately, even if you haven’t admitted it to yourself yet. one night, while you’re brushing your teeth, he appears in the mirror behind you, eyes sleepy but still, mischievous.

“if it’s a girl”, he says softly, “i want her to have your eyes.”

you pause, toothbrush still in your mouth. you look at his reflection in the mirror, he’s smiling. he says it so casually, like you’d been in the middle of that conversation all along.

pulling the toothbrush out, you gasp. “…what?”

“i mean it, pretty”, he says, leaning lazily against the doorframe. “your eyes. she’ll have me wrapped around her tiny little finger, obviously. but if she takes your eyes? i’m done for.”

you blink at him, unsure if your heart is skipping a beat from his words or because you brushed a little too hard… “satoru—”

“and i want to teach her how to fight”, he adds, grinning now. “so i can pretend i’m cool and strong before she decides i’m not.”

you stare at him. “looks like you’ve put way too much thought into this”

he shrugs, utterly unbothered. “of course i have. i think about it all the time.”

you turn away, rinsing your mouth, pretending your hands aren’t a little shaky from how serious he sounded underneath all the teasing.

another time, you’re curled on the couch, scrolling, when he flops next to you and plops a tiny onesie in your lap. it says: strongest baby alive!

“what— how— why do you even have this?” you ask, holding it up like it might detonate.

he grins. “came across it online. couldn’t resist. look, it’s perfect!”

“satoru.”

“what? just prepping for greatness”, he chuckles. but there’s something in the way he watches you after. like he’s waiting. measuring your reaction. seeing if your fingers linger on the fabric. and when they do — just a second too long — his smile falters. softens and turns quiet.

he doesn’t push it, though. doesn’t mention it again. instead, the next morning, you find your favorite mug already filled with coffee, and beside it… a baby spoon.

you roll your eyes. but you also don’t through it away.

and that night, while helping your friend babysit her toddler, you let the little boy climb into your lap. he has chubby fingers and impossibly soft hair, and he tugs at your necklace while babbling nonsense. at one point, he rests his head against your chest and sighs. you feel something in your chest flutter, crack open…

when satoru comes to pick you up, the boy doesn’t want to let go of your hand. satoru says nothing on the ride home. but he doesn’t let go of your hand, either. one hand on the wheel, the other resting gently on yours, warm against your thigh.

a few days later, satoru was abruptly called by the higher-ups about something last minute. nothing new. he kissed your cheek, told you not to wait up and vanished with a sweet little wink before putting on his blindfold.

now hours later, the silence he left behind still lingers. there’s no hum of his laughter, no echo of his dramatic commentary from the hallway, no footsteps chasing you down for one more kiss. just you.

you’re folding the laundry — a pile of shirts, a few of his socks that somehow always get lost in pairs, and then… a pillow. an extra cushion from the couch that ended up in the wrong basket.

you pick it up absently, ready to toss it aside, but… your hands hesitate. your eyes lower, thumb smoothing across the fabric. your heartbeat shifts a little and almost without thinking, you press the pillow against your stomach. a little too high at first, then you adjust it lower. tuck it in and pull your shirt over it.

just to see, to feel.

you walk to the mirror, barefoot, and look at your reflection. the shape is awkward and lumpy. not real. but the illusion is enough. your hand rests on the makeshift bump and then, slowly, one starts to move, caressing lightly over the curve.

you know it’s silly, but something within you responds. your face warms. you start to imagine satoru’s hand covering yours. you imagine him kneeling in front of you, placing a kiss against your stomach, whispering some ridiculous name idea he’s already picked out. you imagine tiny clothes, sleepless nights, holding something small and warm that’s half you and half him… you let yourself smile.

fingers brush gently over the fabric again. this could happen — you think — it’s possible. it’s real — and for the first time, the idea doesn’t make you want to run and hide. in fact, it makes your eyes sting a little. you lose yourself so deeply in the fantasy that your ears don’t catch on the sound of the front door open.

satoru didn’t mean to get home this quietly. usually, he makes a noise on purpose — jingles the keys, sings something stupid in the hallway, says something lovesick as soon as he opens the door just to hear you laugh.

but tonight, something stops him. he’s got that feeling. a pull.

the house is dim, soft with the kind of stillness that suggests you’re somewhere in thought. then he hears the faint shuffle of feet — yours — and he follows the sound like a thread, guiding him toward a barely cracked bedroom door.

he’s halfway through taking off his blindfold when he sees it through the narrow crack. you, in front of the mirror. a pillow under your shirt. your hands on it like it’s real.

he doesn’t move at first. his eyes track the curve of your body with something close to awe and he forgets how to breathe, or perhaps he’s afraid that if he breathes the moment will vanish. something primal and visceral hitting him all at once. you’re not smiling in the mirror like it’s a joke. you’re dreaming. touching the false belly like you’re already connected to someone that doesn’t exist — but could…

he thinks he might die on the spot. this is the future he’s been aching for in silence. this is the image that’s kept him up at night, one hand over his eyes, the other gripping the sheets, wondering when (if) you’d want the same…

and then, you see him. in the mirror just beyond your shoulder. startled, you turn. your hands fumble the pillow, cheeks heating up from embarrassment. “i— i was just… you know—it’s nothing. i was just being silly—”

he opens the door fully now and steps in slowly as if he’s approaching a dream he doesn’t want to wake from.

“stop”, he says, his voice barely above a whisper. he walks over to you like he’s being pulled by something magnetic. his hands are warm when he places one over the bump. even if it’s fake, it doesn’t matter. his fingers tremble anyway.

“you look beautiful. so beautiful, baby”, he murmurs, eyes not leaving you. “like it’s already real”, he swallows hard.

god, what i wouldn’t give to make it real, he thinks. to watch you grow round and soft with his child. to see the way your body would change — carry the weight of something made by both of you. to feel your skin stretch under his palms, life blooming inside you because of him.

he would worship you. he already does. but like that? pregnant with his child? he wouldn’t survive it.

he plants a soft kiss to your temple, hand curling protectively around your back, the pillow pressing between you. “i want to give you everything, you know that?” he whispers, but his voice sounds strained like he’s holding back too much all at once.

you nod against him. but, it’s not enough. not when you’ve looked at yourself in the mirror like that, not when you’ve imagined it too…

“say it”, he breathes against your hair. “tell me you want it too”

you look up at him, eyes vulnerable. that same look you gave your reflection.

“i want it”, you whisper. “i want a baby with you”

…and that’s it. that’s the thing that unravels him. letting out a shaky breath, he presses his forehead to yours. eyes fluttering closed as he cradles your face in both hands. he’s barely holding himself from dropping to his knees and pressing his mouth to your stomach, kissing it until you forget every reason you ever hesitated.

“let me give you a baby”, he says it now. clearly. openly. reverently. “let me make you a mother”, his thumb stroking your cheeks as his voice falls like a prayer and a plea all at once. “i’ll take care of everything”, he promises. “you’ll never lift a finger. just be mine. just carry ours.”

his lips find yours into a kiss, slow and aching, full of thousand nights he spent dreaming of this exact moment. and in the back of his mind, there’s only one thought echoing over and over.

she wants it. she wants this. she wants me. she wants us.

…and that’s enough to break him, rebuild him, and start everything new.

he gently scoops you into his arms, carefully — like you’re already carrying something precious inside you. your hands fly to his shoulders, your face closer to his. and it’s one of those rare moments where there’s no teasing on his features. only something quiet, something tender. something that longs.

he carries you to the bed like he’s bringing you home, and when he lays you down, he takes a moment. just a moment, to look at you. the fake curve of the pillow under your shirt, the way your hands settle over it instinctively. the way your eyes never leave his.

satoru sinks to his knees beside the bed, presses a kiss low on the fabric over your belly. one hand slides over the curve gently, and then, looking up at you through his lashes, he murmurs,

“i’m going to make this real now.”

[moonlightwritingf1]

Unspoken Desires | LN4

🌙 summary ━━━━━━━ Lando and Y/N have been dating for a few weeks but haven't been intimate yet. As they're getting ready to go out one night, Lando suddenly confesses his intense desire.

🌙 pairing ━━━━━━━ Lando Norris x she!reader

🌙 word count ━━━━━━━ 3.1k

🌙 warnings ━━━━━━━ +18, sexual content

"I’ve never wanted to fuck someone as badly as I want to fuck you right now," Lando said, his voice low and rough, cutting through the silence like a knife. His words hit her like a punch to the gut, leaving her breathless and hot all over.

She glanced up at him, her heart racing, and saw the intensity in his eyes—a raw, unfiltered need that made her own body respond in kind. He wasn’t hiding it, not even trying to play it cool. The way he looked at her, it was like he was seeing straight through to her core, like he knew exactly how much she wanted this too. And maybe he did. Maybe he’d been picking up on the little cues, the way her breath hitched when he got too close, the way her thighs pressed together when he leaned in to kiss her neck.

He had always been good at reading her.

---

It started about three weeks ago, during one of those late-night encounters that seemed harmless at first but quickly spiraled into something much more. They had been hanging out at his place, just talking, laughing, the kind of easy chemistry that makes time disappear. But then his hand brushed against hers, just a fleeting touch, and suddenly the air between them felt charged, electric.

"What are we doing?" she asked, unable to keep the nervous edge out of her voice.

Lando had leaned back in his chair, studying her for a long moment before answering. "I don’t know," he admitted, his tone measured but his eyes telling a different story. There was something there, something simmering just below the surface, and it wasn’t hard to guess what it was. Desire. Pure, unadulterated desire.

And yet, neither of them made a move. Not then, anyway. Instead, they fell into a rhythm, a dance that involved lingering glances, stolen touches, and endless teasing. It was intoxicating, thrilling, and frustrating all at once. Every time they got close, something held them back—a fear of ruining what they had, perhaps, or maybe just the uncertainty of where things were headed.

But tonight? Tonight feelt different.

---

The two of them were standing by the door, coats draped over their arms, ready to head out for the night. Or at least, she had been ready. Now, with Lando’s words still ringing in her ears, she could barely think straight. Her pulse pounded in her temples, and her skin felt overly sensitive, like it was buzzing with anticipation.

"Lando," she managed to say, her voice trembling slightly. "What… what are you saying?"

He stepped closer, crowding her space until there was only an inch or two between them. His hands found her hips, fingers gripping lightly but firmly, anchoring her in place. "I’m saying," he murmured, his lips brushing against her ear, "that I want you. Like I’ve never wanted anyone else. And yeah, maybe we’d only been dating a few weeks, but fuck it. I don’t care about playing it cool anymore."

His confession sent a shiver down her spine, and she felt her resolve starting to crumble. He wanted her. No games, no pretense—just raw, undeniable desire. It was overwhelming, but in the best possible way.

"Are you serious?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Lando pulled back just enough to meet her gaze, his expression fierce and unapologetic. "Dead serious."

The weight of his words settled over her, heavy and irresistible. She could feel the heat radiating off his body, smell the faint scent of his cologne mingling with whatever he had for dinner earlier. It was intoxicating, drawing her in like a moth to a flame. And honestly? She didn’t want to resist.

"Then what are we waiting for?" she challenged, lifting her chin slightly.

A slow, wicked grin spread across his face, and for a moment, he didn’t say anything. Then, without warning, he grabbed her wrist and yanked her toward him, pressing his lips to hers in a kiss that was equal parts demanding and desperate.

Her bag slipped from her shoulder, hitting the floor with a dull thud as her free hand clutched at his shirt, pulling him closer. His tongue swept into her mouth, urgent and insistent, and she could taste the sharpness of his mint gum, mingled with a hint of something darker, wilder.

Lando’s hand slid up her side, tracing the curve of her waist until his fingers dipped beneath the hem of her top, brushing against the warm expanse of her skin. A soft gasp escaped her lips, and he took the opportunity to deepen the kiss, devouring her mouth like he couldn’t get enough of her.

"God, you feel so fucking good," he muttered against her lips, his voice rough and strained.

She tugged on the collar of his shirt, urging him closer, and he responded by lifting her effortlessly, setting her down on the nearby table. Her legs instinctively wrapped around his waist, pulling him flush against her. The sudden intimacy of the position made her breath hitch, and she could feel the evidence of his arousal pressing against her center, a delicious reminder of just how badly he wanted her.

"You feel so good," he murmured against her mouth, his voice low and gravelly, almost possessive. His fingers traced the curve of her hip, skimming over the fabric of her jeans before dipping beneath the hem. The touch was electric, sending shivers down her spine. "I can’t stop thinking about how perfect you are."

Perfect. The word made her heart stutter. She was far from perfect, but in this moment, with Lando looking at her like she was the only thing that existed, it didn’t seem to matter. His green/blue eyes bore into hers, stripping away any doubt, any insecurity. All she could see was the intensity in his gaze, the way it flickered with need.

"Lando…" she breathed, her voice shaky. Her hands found his shoulders, gripping him tightly as if he might disappear if she let go.

He responded by pressing her harder against the table, his hips aligning with hers. The friction sent a jolt of pleasure through her, unrelenting and undeniable. His lips left hers, trailing down her jawline, nipping at the sensitive skin just below her ear. "Tell me you want this," he whispered, his breath hot against her skin. "Tell me you want me."

Want. The word hung heavy in the air, a demand disguised as a plea. She did want him. God, she did. But there was still a part of her holding back, questioning whether this was what she really wanted or if it was just the heat of the moment talking. Lando seemed to sense her hesitation because he pulled back slightly, his eyes searching hers for an answer.

"I want you," she said, her voice steady despite the storm raging inside her. "I’d never wanted anyone like this before, but..."

"What’s wrong?" he asked, his voice softer now, almost vulnerable. It was such a stark contrast to the dominance she had felt moments ago that it caught her off guard. "Do you not feel it too?"

She shook her head quickly, feeling guilty for making him question himself. "No, it’s not that. I do feel it. I just—" She paused, unsure of how to explain the tangle of emotions swirling inside her.  "I’ve never been this close to someone before. Not like this."

His expression softened, the corners of his mouth lifting into a small, reassuring smile. "I have," he admitted, his voice steady. "But none of it ever felt like this. This is different. It’s real, y/n. Can’t you feel it?"

She nodded, unable to deny the truth in his words. There was something different about this, something that felt raw and unfiltered. It wasn’t just about the physical attraction—though that was undeniable—it was about the connection, the way their hearts seemed to beat in sync.

"Then stop overthinking," Lando said, his tone playful but firm. "Just feel."

And with that, he kissed her again, deeper this time. His tongue parted her lips, exploring every inch of her mouth with an urgency that left no room for doubt. One hand traveled up her side, slipping beneath her shirt to press against the bare skin of her lower back. The other slid around to the front, palming her breast through her bra.

The sensation was overwhelming, her body arching involuntarily into his touch. A moan escaped her lips, swallowed by his as he continued to kiss her with a fervor that set her blood ablaze. The world around them faded away, leaving only the two of them in that moment, lost in each other.

"You’re so beautiful," Lando breathed, his voice ragged. His thumb brushed over her nipple, already hard with arousal, and she gasped against his mouth. "Every part of you."

His words sent a thrill of pleasure through her, her mind spinning with the implications. She’d never felt this desired, this wanted. And it was intoxicating. “Lando…” she whispered, her voice barely above a murmur. “Don’t stop.”

His response was immediate. He broke the kiss, pulling back just enough to meet her eyes. “I won’t,” he promised, his voice thick with intent. “Not unless you tell me to.”

The weight of his words settled over her, leaving no room for uncertainty. This was happening. Right here, right now, with Lando looking at her like she was everything he’d ever wanted. She nodded, her decision made without a single doubt.

“Then don’t,” she said, her voice steady despite the pounding of her heart. “Take me.”

His pupils dilated at her words, the hunger in his eyes unmistakable. Without another word, he reached for the button of her jeans, his movements quick but careful. The sound of the zipper sliding down echoed in the quiet space, a reminder of the intimacy unfolding between them.

“Spread your legs for me,” he commanded, his voice deep and gravelly. The tone sent a shiver down her spine, the mix of dominance and tenderness overwhelming.

She obeyed, shifting her hips until her legs were parted, allowing him access. His hands moved with purpose, slipping beneath the elastic of her panties to gently cup her warmth. The contact was sudden, his fingers brushing against her clit with a precision that made her gasp.

“You’re so wet for me,” he murmured, his voice laced with satisfaction. “Did you know that?”

She shook her head, too overwhelmed to speak. All she could do was watch as he dipped a finger inside her, his touch sending shockwaves through her body. The sensation was unlike anything she’d ever felt, the way he filled her completely, tilting his finger just right to stroke her walls.

“So tight,” he groaned, his voice strained. “God, I can’t wait to be inside you.”

His words ignited a fire within her, her hips bucking against his hand as she chased the pleasure. Lando obliged, adding a second finger and curling them in just the right way to make her knees tremble.

“Fuck, Lando…” she moaned, her voice breaking. “Please…”

“Please what?” he growled, his eyes dark with desire. “Tell me what you want.”

She opened her mouth to respond, but the words caught in her throat. How could she even begin to articulate the craving building inside her, the desperate need to have him fully, completely?

Before she could form the words, Lando took matters into his own hands—literally. He withdrew his fingers, replacing them with his tongue. The sensation was overwhelming, the warmth and pressure of his mouth sending her spiraling into sensory overload.

“Oh my god…” she gasped, her hands flying to his hair as she tried to anchor herself. Lando didn’t hesitate, his tongue flicking against her clit with relentless precision. Every movement was deliberate, calculated to bring her closer to the edge.

“You taste so fucking good,” he muttered, his voice muffled against her core. “I can’t get enough of you.”

His dirty talk only added fuel to the fire, her hips rocking against his face as she struggled to hold on. But Lando wasn’t done yet. He pulled back, positioning himself between her legs before guiding his cock to her entrance.

“Ready?” he asked, his voice trembling with restraint. His eyes met hers, and for a moment, it was just the two of them, locked in a silent exchange of trust and desire.

She nodded, biting her lip to keep from begging. “Yes. Please.”

With one swift motion, he pushed inside her, filling her completely. The sensation was almost too much, her body stretching to accommodate him. She gasped, her nails digging into his shoulders as she adjusted to the feeling.

“Fuck, you’re so tight,” Lando whispered, his forehead resting against hers. “I don’t think I’ll last.”

But then he started to move, slow and steady at first, giving her time to adjust. Each thrust was measured, his hips meeting hers with a rhythm that sent sparks of pleasure shooting through her veins.

“Lando,” she moaned, unable to hold back any longer. “Harder. Please.”

He listened, picking up the pace until the sound of their bodies connecting filled the air. The pleasure built with every thrust, consuming them both until all that was left was the raw, primal need to reach the peak together.

“Come for me,” Lando growled, his voice commanding. “Let me feel you come apart.”

He didn’t stop moving, not even for a second. His arms tightened around her as he carried her down the hallway, her legs still wrapped securely around his waist, his cock still buried deep inside her. Her breath hitched with every step, the sensation of him twitching within her only heightening the anticipation that built with each passing moment.

“You feel so good,” Lando murmured into her ear, his voice low and gravelly, sending shivers down her spine. He nuzzled her neck, peppering soft kisses along her skin, making her shudder. “I can’t wait to have you like this, completely at my mercy.”

Mercy. The word sent a rush of heat through her body, pooling between her legs. She bit her lip, trying to steady her breathing, but it was no use. She was already lost in the haze of desire that Lando had created.

He kicked open the door to his bedroom with one swift motion, and then he was laying her down on the bed, his weight pressing her into the mattress. His hands were everywhere—in her hair, on her hips, sliding up her thighs—as if he couldn’t get enough of her. And maybe he couldn’t. She certainly couldn’t get enough of him.

“Lando,” she whispered, her voice trembling with need. “Please,  move… don’t make me wait.”

His lips curved into a wicked smile, and he leaned down to kiss her again, deep and possessive, his tongue dominating hers. He pulled back just enough to look into her eyes, those piercing green/blue  eyes that seemed to see straight through to her soul. “I won’t,” he said, his voice a promise. “Not tonight. Not ever.”

Before she could respond, he spread her legs apart, repositioning himself between them. He looked down at her, his gaze intense, almost primal. “Are you sure?” he asked, though his tone suggested he already knew the answer.

She nodded, unable to speak, her heart pounding in her chest. Yes, she thought. Always yes.

With one quick, deliberate motion, he made an in-and-out motion and sank into her again, filling her completely. She gasped, her body arching up to meet his, desperate for more. His name escaped her lips in a breathless moan, and he groaned in response, his forehead resting against hers.

“Fuck, y/n,” he muttered, his voice ragged. “You feel so damn good.”

He began to move, slow and steady at first, giving her body time to adjust again. His thrusts were measured, deliberate, each one hitting her in just the right spot. She clutched at his shoulders, digging her nails into his skin, as wave after wave of pleasure crashed over her.

“Lando,” she cried out, her voice breaking. “Please… harder.”

He listened, picking up the pace until the room was filled with the sound of their bodies coming together. His thrusts grew deeper, harder, each one sending jolts of electricity through her veins. She could feel the orgasm building inside her, closer and closer, threatening to consume her.

“Come for me,” Lando demanded, his voice commanding. “Let me feel you come apart.”

His words pushed her over the edge, and she did exactly as he said. Her body convulsed around him, her walls clenching tight as the orgasm ripped through her. She screamed his name, lost in the throes of pleasure, as he continued to thrust into her, chasing his own release.

“I’m close,” he gritted out, his voice strained. “God, I’m so close.”

She reached up to touch him, her fingers brushing against his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart beneath her palm. “Don’t stop,”she breathed, her voice barely audible. 

He didn’t. With one final, powerful thrust, he came. He let out a guttural growl, his body going rigid as he spilled inside her, his warmth mingling with hers.

For a few moments, neither of them moved, caught in the aftermath of what had just happened. Lando collapsed onto the bed beside her, pulling her into his arms. She lay there, her heart still racing, her body buzzing with the remnants of pleasure.

“That was…” she trailed off, unable to find the words to describe what had just happened.

“Incredible,” Lando finished for her, his voice soft but filled with conviction. He kissed her forehead, then her cheek, before finally capturing her lips in a gentle, lingering kiss. “And it’s only the beginning.”

She smiled against his lips, feeling a sense of contentment wash over her. But before she could fully bask in the moment, Lando pulled away slightly, his eyes twinkling with mischief.

“Ready for round two?” he asked, his voice teasing.

As the night drew to a close, Lando and Y/N lay tangled in the sheets, breathless and content. Lando's fingers traced small circles on her skin, a soft and soothing contrast to the intensity of earlier. His lips pressed a gentle kiss to her temple, and she smiled, feeling completely at ease in his embrace.

"You know," Lando murmured, his voice playful yet tender, "I think we just set a new standard for our dates."

She laughed softly, turning to meet his gaze. "Is that so?" she teased, her fingers gently caressing his chest.

"Yeah," he grinned, his eyes sparkling. "But no pressure. I think we can take it slow from here on out... unless you're ready to break some more records."

She chuckled, snuggling closer, feeling his warmth surrounding her. "Maybe we should just enjoy the moment, Lando."

He nodded, his expression softening as he held her tighter. "You're right. This... us... it feels real. And that's all that matters."

She rested her head on his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. Just the quiet, simple certainty that something beautiful had begun between the two of them.

[inseobts]

A Swordsman’s Resolve

zoro x reader

when you awaken a new power that lets you take others' pain as your own, you begin secretly protecting the strawhat crew—until zoro finds out and decide to train you to grow stronger without relying on your gift.

words count: 3.1k

warning: reader is like a voodoo doll so self harm, blood and injuries are mentioned for the fights

tags: injuries, fluff, a bit angst maybe, training with zoro

masterlist || ao3 || ko-fi

You ate a Devil Fruit when you were a kid, and got a strange ability that let you use your own pain as a weapon.

If you stabbed yourself, your enemy would feel the wound instead. A direct exchange. Pain for pain.

It wasn’t perfect. The more damage you took, the weaker you got. Sure, you healed faster than the one you hurt, but it still hurt like hell.

And if you pushed too hard you wouldn’t heal as fast as your usual.

Still, it was useful. You used it to protect the crew, especially during battle. If someone was about to get hit, you’d cut yourself transferring the damage to the enemy instead to stop them.

Painful? Yes. Worth it? Always.

But then, something changed.

It happened a few weeks ago.

The battle had been rough, but the crew had won. You stood on the Sunny’s deck, covered in sweat and blood, catching your breath.

Across from you, Luffy was clutching his side waiting for Chopper to finish patch someone else.

“Oi, you okay?” you asked, stepping closer.

Luffy grinned, but it was weaker than usual “Yeah! Just a little cut.”

A little cut was Luffy speak for ‘I’m actually bleeding a lot, but don’t worry about it.’

You frowned, crouching beside him. His shirt was torn, revealing a deep gash along his ribs. It wasn’t fatal, but it didn’t look good either.

Without thinking, you pressed your fingers over the wound and then a sharp, searing pain shot through your own ribs.

Your breath caught as you felt the wound disappear from Luffy’s body… and appear on yours.

Luffy blinked, confused.

“Huh? It stopped hurting!” He poked his side, then looked at you “…Wait, why do you look like you’re in pain now?”

You gritted your teeth, trying not to hiss “No reason.”

Luffy tilted his head “Did you just—”

“Shut up,” you muttered, standing up quickly “I said it’s nothing.”

Luffy’s eyes narrowed “Did you just steal my injury?”

You froze “…No.”

“Yes, you did!” His expression lit up like a kid discovering a new game “That’s so cool! Can you do it again?”

You groaned “It’s not cool, Luffy.”

But he was already poking at his arm “What if I get a cut here—can you take it?”

“Luffy.”

“What if I break a bone?”

“LUFFY.”

He pouted “What? It’s a fair question!”

You sighed, rubbing your temples “Look. I didn’t even know I could do this until now. It just… happened.”

Luffy blinked, processing.

Then, to your absolute horror, he grinned “That means you can heal everyone! You heal faster so it must be already gone..”

Your stomach dropped “No. It actually hurts. A lot more than my usual power.” You crossed your arms “Seems like it takes longer for me to heal. It’s not some magical fix.”

Luffy hummed “Mh then I'd say you don't use that anymore... but you’d still do it, right? I know you”

You hesitated.

Of course, you would. If it meant protecting the crew.

But before you could answer, Sanji’s voice rang out from the kitchen “Dinner’s ready!”

Luffy immediately forgot everything and ran inside, laughing.

You exhaled. Crisis averted.

For now.

Because if Luffy knew then it was only a matter of time before someone else found out.

You keep your secret safe for weeks! Apparently Luffy forgot...

At first, it’s easy. You start small, taking tiny injuries from the crew when no one’s looking. A scraped knee here, a bruised knuckle there. Nothing big.

No one notices.

But then the fights get tougher.

The New World isn’t kind. Enemies get stronger, battles last longer. The crew starts walking away from fights with barely any wounds. But you start feeling it.

The constant ache in your bones, the sharp sting of deep cuts that aren’t healing fast enough. But you push through it, hide it well.

Or at least, you think you do.

Until Zoro catches you.

It happens after a particularly brutal fight.

The crew had just finished raiding a marine base. Nothing too crazy, but the enemies had been tough.

You stand on the deck of the Sunny, bandaging your arm. Another wound you had taken from Usopp. He had been hit bad, you hadn’t even thought before reaching for him, absorbing the injury.

Now, you regret it. This one hurts.

“You’re doing it again.”

You freeze.

Zoro’s voice is sharp, too sharp. When you turn, he’s standing near the railing, arms crossed, eyes locked onto you.

You force a smile “Doing what?”

His expression darkens “Don’t play dumb.”

Your stomach twists.

“Taking our damn injuries” he says flatly.

Your grip tightens on the bandages “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Zoro steps closer “Don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not—”

Before you can finish, he moves. Too fast.

One second, he’s in front of you. The next, he’s grabbing your wrist forcing your hand away from your bandages.

Your breath catches.

His eyes drop to your arm.

To the wound that wasn’t there before the fight ended.

His jaw tightens “So that’s how we’ve been walking away without a scratch.”

You yank your hand back “It’s not a big deal.”

“The hell it isn’t!” His voice is low, but angry “You’re hurting yourself for us.”

You glare “I’ve always done that.”

“Not like this.”

“It’s the same thing!” You step closer, frustration bubbling up “I take pain to protect the crew, that’s what I’ve always done!”

Zoro’s expression hardens “You’re not protecting us. You’re making yourself weaker.”

You scoff “Oh, so I’m the weak one now?”

“Yes.”

The answer is immediate.

Your breath catches.

Zoro exhales, rubbing a hand down his face. When he speaks again, his voice is quieter.

“You rely on this power too much.” He shakes his head “What happens when you take too much? When your body can’t keep up?”

You look away.

He notices.

His voice drops lower “You don’t know, do you?”

You swallow hard.

Zoro sighs. When he speaks again, there’s no anger. Just frustration.

“You can’t keep fighting like this.” His gaze locks onto yours “Train with me.”

You blink “…What?”

“Train with me,” he repeats “You want to protect the crew? Then get strong yourself. Not through your Devil Fruit. You.”

You hesitate.

This is Zoro. The most stubborn, relentless, brutal fighter on the crew.

But deep down, you know he’s right.

You exhale “…Fine.”

A smirk tugs at his lips “You’re gonna regret that.”

Training with Zoro is hell.

You expect it to be hard, Zoro is one of the strongest swordsmen, after all. But you don��t expect him to be this relentless.

“You call that a punch?” he scoffs, blocking your attack with one arm “I’ve seen Chopper hit harder.”

You grit your teeth “I don’t need to be strong like you. I have my Devil Fruit.”

Zoro’s expression darkens “That’s the problem.”

Before you can react, he moves, sweeping your legs out from under you. You hit the ground hard.

Pain explodes through your body, but you refuse to transfer it away.

Zoro stands over you, arms crossed “If you lost your powers tomorrow, could you still protect the crew?”

You don’t answer because you don’t know, and Zoro sees it.

He sighs, holding out a hand “Get up.”

You glare at him, but take his hand anyway. He pulls you to your feet with zero effort.

“We’re doing that again” he says.

You groan “You just knocked me on my ass.”

“Then stop letting me.”

Over the next few weeks, something shifts.

Training with Zoro is brutal, but you keep up. You stop relying on your Devil Fruit in fights. You block, dodge, counter without using your power as a crutch.

And Zoro watches you closely.

At first, you think it’s just him being a tough mentor. But it’s not just that.

Because sometimes, when you push yourself too far, his frustration turns to something like worry.

You don’t question it. Not until the day everything changes.

The crew is ambushed on an island.

It’s not the worst fight you’ve had, but it’s bad enough. The enemy captain is strong, and before you know it Zoro takes a hit.

A deep slash across his chest. Blood spills onto the ground.

Your body moves before your brain does. You reach for him.

Pain floods your body as the wound transfers to you. Your knees buckle, breath hitching but Zoro catches you immediately.

“The hell do you think you’re doing?” he snaps, eyes blazing.

You grit your teeth “Saving your life, dumbass.”

“I didn’t ask you to!”

“You didn’t have to!”

Zoro scowls. He grips your shoulders, forcing you to meet his gaze.

“You can’t just take pain like it’s nothing,” he growls “You think it doesn’t matter?”

You glare back “It doesn’t.”

“It does.”

His voice is low. Firm.

Your chest tightens “You wouldn’t get it.”

His grip tightens “I do get it.”

You freeze.

Because there’s something in his eyes, something familiar... and then, you remember.

You were awake when the Rumble Ball incident happened. The damage Luffy took at Thriller Bark. The moment Zoro stood covered in blood, refusing to say what happened.

And suddenly, it all makes sense.

Your breath catches “You took Luffy’s pain back then.”

Zoro’s jaw clenches.

You stare at him and his gaze softens. Just for a second.

Then he looks away “It doesn’t matter.”

But it does. Because now, you understand you and Zoro are the same.

You both take pain so the crew doesn’t have to.

But Zoro never let it break him.

And maybe that’s why he’s so angry now. Because he sees you going down the same path. And he doesn’t want that for you.

You swallow hard “…Zoro.”

His eyes flicker back to you.

For a moment, neither of you speak.

Then his voice is quieter “Don’t do that again.”

Your fingers curl into fists “I can’t promise that.”

Zoro exhales sharply “Then I’ll just have to stop you again.”

Your heart pounds.

Because the way he says it, it’s not just a threat. It’s a promise.

You and Zoro don’t talk about what happened.

Not at first.

The crew is too busy celebrating the win. Luffy’s laughing, Usopp’s boasting about some made-up feat, and Sanji’s grilling enough food to feed an army.

But Zoro stays quiet.

And you pretend your body isn’t aching from taking his wound. You pretend Zoro’s eyes aren’t constantly on you.

But you feel the way he watches you. The way his jaw tightens every time you wince.

And then, late that night, when the crew is asleep, he finally snaps.

You’re on the deck, staring at the sea, when you hear heavy footsteps.

Zoro stops beside you, arms crossed.

You sigh “Here to scold me again?”

“Tch.” He leans against the railing “Don’t act like you didn’t deserve it.”

You roll your eyes “I saved your life.”

“I wasn’t dying.”

“You were bleeding everywhere.”

Zoro gives you a pointed look “So were you.”

You open your mouth, then close it. Because he’s right.

You shift uncomfortably “I can handle it.”

Zoro scoffs “That’s what I said back then.”

You glance at him “What?”

His gaze darkens “It almost got myself killed.”

You’re confused but you don’t need the details to understand. Silence stretches between you.

Zoro sighs, rubbing his neck “I know why you do it. But you’re an idiot if you think you can keep this up forever.”

Your fingers tighten on the railing “…So what do I do? Stand there watching everyone getting hurt when I know I can do something about it?”

Zoro exhales sharply “Just let me help you.”

Your breath catches.

Because it’s not a demand. Not a command. It’s an offer.

You swallow hard “I don’t need—”

“Don’t start.”

You blink.

Zoro turns to you fully, expression serious “You need to stop acting like you’re alone in this.”

Your chest tightens.

Zoro doesn’t do speeches. He doesn’t waste words.

So if he’s saying this…

He means it.

“…Okay.” you murmur.

Zoro raises an eyebrow “Okay?”

You roll your eyes “Yeah, okay. I’ll let you help me. Happy?”

He smirks “Ecstatic.”

You laugh, shaking your head “Asshole.”

His smirk widens “You love it.”

Your heart stumbles.

Because he says it too casually. Like it’s obvious. Like it’s true.

You look away “Shut up.”

Zoro just chuckles. And somehow the weight on your shoulders feels lighter.

Training with Zoro doesn’t get easier.

If anything, it gets harder.

Every day, he pushes you past your limits, forcing you to fight without using your Devil Fruit, making you stronger on your own. You hate him for it, but you also hate that it works.

Your body stops aching as much. Your reactions get faster. Your movements sharper.

And Zoro never stops watching you. But you ignore that.

Until the day everything falls apart.

The training session is brutal.

Zoro blocks every attack with zero effort. He moves too fast, dodging your punches like they’re nothing.

You’re tired. Frustrated.

So when he steps in close, you react on instinct.

You try to sweep his legs, but he sidesteps, and suddenly, you’re off balance and before you can stop it, you crash into him.

Zoro grunts as you both hit the ground, hard.

And just then you realize where you landed.

Your body is on top of his. Your hands are on his chest. His very solid, very warm chest.

And Zoro is just staring at you.

His breath is warm against your skin. His hands rest lightly on your waist, like he’s not sure whether to hold you or let go.

Your heart pounds.

Neither of you move.

Neither of you speak.

And then, without thinking, you kiss him.

It’s quick. A fleeting brush of lips. But it’s enough. Because for a split second, Zoro freezes. His grip on your waist tightens as his breath catches. And that’s when it hits you.

What the hell did I just do?!

Panic floods your chest.

You pull away. Scramble to your feet.

Zoro sits up instantly, eyes wide “Wait!”

But you don’t. You turn and run.

Because holy shit, you just kissed Zoro and you don’t know if he wanted you to.

You avoid him after that.

It’s stupid. You know it’s stupid.

But every time you see him, you hear his sharp inhale. Feel his hands tightening on your waist. See the shock in his eyes.

And you can’t face that.

So you just... don’t.

You dodge his training sessions. You sit as far from him as possible during meals. When he walks into a room, you walk out.

The crew notices.

Luffy is confused. Nami is amused. Usopp keeps giving you looks.

And Zoro is pissed, because he might be shy, but he isn’t dumb. And you’re not subtle.

So after three days of this he corners you. And you realize, too late that you’re screwed.

You’re about to slip away again when you feel that familiar, heavy stare.

You freeze.

And before you can react a strong hand grips your wrist. You spin around.

Zoro stands there, arms crossed, brow furrowed. His eyes lock onto yours with an intensity that makes your stomach flip.

“You,” he says, voice low, “are avoiding me.”

You swallow “No, I’m not.”

Zoro raises an eyebrow.

You try again “I’m just... busy.”

His jaw clenches “Bullshit.”

You flinch because Zoro never calls you out like this.

You pull your wrist free, looking away “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Zoro exhales sharply and then “Is it because of the kiss?”

Your stomach drops.

Your entire body tenses.

You should have known he’d bring it up.

But hearing him say it out loud... you can’t breathe.

“I—” Your voice catches “I didn’t mean to—”

Zoro steps closer “Didn’t mean to what?”

You step back “Forget it.”

“No.” His eyes darken “I won’t.”

You clench your fists “Just drop it, Zoro.”

His hand catches your chin. Gently.

Your breath hitches.

“I’m not dropping shit,” he murmurs “You kissed me. Then you ran. Now you won’t even look at me.”

You force yourself to meet his gaze.

And fuck, he looks serious.

Your heart pounds.

“I thought…” You swallow hard “I thought you didn’t want me to.”

Zoro stares.

Then he curses under his breath, and before you can react his hand cups your face and he kisses you.

Not soft. Not hesitant.

But actually firm and certain. Like he’s making a point.

Like he’s saying “You’re an idiot if you think I didn’t want this.”

Your brain short-circuits.

Your hands fist in his shirt. You kiss him back desperate, dizzy.

His arms lock around you, because now that he has you he’s not letting go.

Zoro’s kiss is rough, unyielding.

Like he’s making up for lost time. Like he’s claiming something he should’ve had all along.

You barely have time to breathe.

His hand tightens at the nape of your neck, tilting your head just right, deepening the kiss until your knees threaten to give out.

You clutch at his shirt, gripping the fabric like it’s the only thing keeping you standing, and maybe it is.

When you finally pull away, gasping, your head feels light, hazy.

Zoro doesn’t let go.

His forehead presses against yours. His breathing is uneven and when he speaks his voice is low, rough “Still think I didn’t want it?”

You shudder.

Your fingers tighten on his chest.

“…No.”

His lips curve “Good.”

The crew finds out immediately. Not because you tell them, but because, apparently, you’re both terrible at hiding it.

The next morning, you walk into the kitchen and the entire crew is staring at you.

You freeze.

“…What?”

Sanji smirks, leaning against the counter “So…you and the mosshead, huh?”

Your stomach drops.

Nami hums, sipping her coffee “Took you long enough.”

Usopp grins “You guys weren’t exactly subtle.”

Your face burns “I—I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Luffy just tilts his head “Zoro was smiling this morning.”

You blink “So?”

Luffy grins “Zoro never smiles like that.”

Your mouth opens and then you hear the sound of approaching footsteps.

You turn and there he is.

Zoro strides in, yawning. He looks relaxed, more than usual, like he actually slept well for once.

Then his gaze lands on you.

And without hesitation he reaches out, grabs your wrist, and pulls you into his side casually, like it’s natural, like he’s done it a million times.

And when he notices the crew watching he just raises an eyebrow “…What?”

Silence.

Then Sanji groans “Oh, great. Now he’s even more unbearable.”

Nami just smirks “About damn time.”

Usopp whispers something about losing a bet.

And Luffy just laughs “Shishishi! You two are weird.”

Zoro just grunts “Tch. Whatever.”

But you see the way his fingers linger against your skin. The way his shoulders relax just slightly when you don’t pull away.

[bunni-v1]

College au Ifa is the type to take you at a house party and make sure people see the hickey on ur neck in class the next day

Marking Your Territory

🍓I'm gonna kill Pinkie for this one that's all I'll say on that. I lost actual sleep writing this, and instead of napping I finished and edited it. Do not tell me I don't love you guys or Ifa because I am nothing if not dedicated to my gay little craft. Anyway, enjoy or this will be the last thing I ever post. If this flops it's on your hands that I disappear.

TW: NSFW; Drugs (mentioned); Alcohol use; slight dub-con (both are lightly buzzed); marking (lots of it); sex at a party (yippie!); grammar errors (edited but I'm one guy and this is seven thousand words)

Info: College AU; Ifa x Reader (main); Venti x Reader; Kazuha x Reader; Navia x Reader; Wriothesley x Reader; Alhaitham x Reader; Kaveh x Reader (all background ships)

Word Count: 7.6k Words

MDNI

You weren't the biggest fan of house parties, not for lack of trying. Navia had dragged you to a million places since you arrived at Sumeru Academia, always knowing 'a good place' to go to let loose. Venti too, once he finally got you out of your shell. They both insisted you were a fun drunk, the total life of the party once you let loose. Still, when you had a choice, you avoided them altogether. It was just too much. Too many smells, too many sounds, too many people. They made you feel like you were suffocating, regardless of whatever drug you were putting in your body to numb the anxiety.

You'd managed to masterfully avoid any house parties thanks to classes picking up, the perfect excuse to hide away at Puspa Cafe with your tentative boyfriend Ifa. He'd managed to convince you to go on more than a few dates with him now, and while nothing was made official, you were pretty sure he was inching in that direction. Regardless of whatever your relationship was right now, he always greeted you with the brightest smile when you walked through those cafe doors. As usual, he'd made space for you already, and your favorite cup of coffee was sitting in your spot, luring you to his side like a deadly trap.

"Evenin'," He greets with his regular low drawl, scootching his chair just a little closer to yours, enough to wrap his arm around you in a side hug.

You lean into the touch automatically, stress leaving you all at once, "Evening, Ifa. Studying working out for you today?"

He sighs, heavy and tired. He was reviewing the same thing he had been all week, and it was starting to wear on his seemingly unending patience. Instead of complaining about it, which you know he wants to do more than anything, he just kisses your temple. Pushing the book back a little as if dismissing it in favor of paying attention to you.

"Big test comin' up," he hums, "lets not talk about that, though. You busy this weekend?"

You quirk an eyebrow at him, and he smiles innocently. Weekend outings with him had become normal now, despite Navia's complaints about feeling 'abandoned' by you. You knew she wouldn't end up lonely by the time morning came, so it was easy to brush off her guilt-tripping. Besides, Ifa was always fun to be around, taking you to so many different places to do so many new things. He knew Sumeru better than you did, having been here for so long, so you always got a little giddy when he asked for your weekend plans.

You shake your head, bringing your coffee mug to your lips, "Nothing much, just gotta peer review something for Venti for that god-awful poetry class, but I can do that anytime. Why're you asking?"

"Playing dumb is cute," he snorts, ruffling your hair playfully, "I wanted to take you somewhere."

"Hmmm... alright, I guess I can spare you some of my precious free time," you reply haughtily.

An annoyed sigh with no real malice behind it, "A friend of mine is throwing a party on Saturday, and I was thinking it would be a good way to... introduce you. They've been bothering me about it since our first date, and I don't think it's fair to hold off on it any longer."

Your heart skips a beat, both at the idea of having to go to a party with a ton of strangers and at the fact that he wants you to meet his friends. On one hand, it's incredibly sweet that he not only talks about you to his friends but he's been talking about you since your first date. You're at least important enough that the people he's close to know about you enough to ask. On the other hand, if you go to a party and Navia finds out, she's gonna be undeniably pouty. Not to mention parties really weren't your thing.

Ifa seems to sense your inner conflict as soon as it pops up into your mind, a hand coming across the table to gently squeeze your own. He gives you a little reassuring smile, warm as the summer sun and gentle as a breeze. He never fails to worry about you or account for your discomfort. You know all you have to say is no, and he'll find some other way for you to meet his friends on your own terms. Yet, you can't find it in yourself to deny him when he looks at you like that. So much love and care behind his pretty teal eyes.

"Sounds like fun," You smile, squeezing his hand back, "I'll tell you now, though, I'm not the biggest fan of parties..."

He smirks, leaning his head on his hands, "Never could've guessed. You actually seem like quite the party animal."

"Oh, shut it," You scold, going for another sip of your coffee to hide the grin growing on your face.

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘

You turn your body from left to right in the mirror, trying to decide if the skirt you were wearing was too risky or not. It hid everything it needed to, but all it would take was a light breeze and you'd flash the whole of Sumeru with your lacy panties. Navia stands behind you proudly, despite this, completely satisfied with her work.

You couldn't keep it from her if you tried, so you folded and asked her for help. While she was huffy and pissy for the first little while, the second you asked her for advice on what to wear, she was excitedly leaping at the chance to strip you down and dress you up like a doll. Your laciest underwear, your (her) tiniest skirt, and a cute top with platforms to match. You looked hot, but... maybe it was too much? You didn't want to give Ifa's friends the wrong impression of you, or throw Ifa off too much with how different you look now.

Navia's cheeky squeeze to your butt immediately washes all your thoughts down the drain, squealing into a giggle fit. She wraps her arms around your shoulders, sliding her gaze up and down your body in the mirror. She looked positively satisfied with her work, and she did an amazing job. Despite how upset she was initially, she still came through for you where it mattered. She was still your best friend, and you wouldn't ever dream of asking for a new one.

"You look so sexy," She hums, squeezing you tightly.

You smile, "I do. Thank you, Navia. I'd be lost without you."

"I know!" She hums, "I'm still upset you won't let me go to this special 'invite-only' party, but I guess I'll have to settle for dressing you up now."

You roll your eyes, "Ifa asked me to go, not you, I don't think he'd enjoy you barging in on our date."

She scowls, biting your shoulder hard enough you have to push her away. As you do, your phone buzzes, undoubtedly a notification from him. You smile at his message, typing a quick response before tossing it back in your bag thoughtlessly. If you were gonna be out all night, you would need to use it as little as possible, so into the bag it would be forgotten until you absolutely needed it.

"He's here," You hum, and Navia only seems to sour more.

She still finds it in herself to give you a quick smack as you walk out the door, "Be safe. Use protection!"

You scoff, "Shut up! I'll text you when I'm coming back, okay?"

"IF you're coming back."

"Goodnight, Navia."

She sticks her tongue out at you as you round the corner to the stairs, carefully making your way down to the back exit of the dorm. You see Ifa through the window before he does you, a loose-fitted t-shirt, a leather jacket, and a pair of very flattering jeans. He's ditched his usual cowboy hat for wild and free hair that frames his face nicely, highlighting those sleepy eyes of his you've come to love. He's as cool as he always is, hands stuffed in his pockets as he breathes in the night air. Right up until he sees you that is.

There's a visible shift in him, straightening and eyebrows raising near his hairline. Navia did exactly what she set out to do. A lazy smirk crawls up his face, hands immediately reaching out to take your waist in his hands. They fit there perfectly, warming you in spite of the cool evening air. It's easier to kiss him on these platforms, lips sliding against yours like they were meant to be there. There's an underlying heat to the way he kisses you, but he doesn't push for any more than he's given right now.

"You look good," Is the first thing that leaves his mouth, breathless.

You fluster, "Navia helped me out."

"She did a good job," he hums, pressing another warm kiss to your cheek, then another to your jaw before he catches himself.

He pulls back, giving you another heated once-over before interlocking your fingers in tugging you along with him. The car ride to his friend's house is full of tension that neither of you wants to acknowledge just yet. But his hand rests a little too high up on your thigh as he drives, and it squeezes a little too tight at every stop light. Like he's reminding himself to behave.

It wasn't as though you hadn't already tried things with him. He was pretty straightforward about everything in the relationship, including his own needs, but he'd never let it go past heavy petting. The tension wasn't unfamiliar, but it was different. Thicker. More... unruly, somehow.

Still, he doesn't jump your bones in the car, nor does he when he finally parks down the block from the party. He's the picture-perfect gentleman as he helps you out of the car, leading you down the street with a hand on your lower back. The music from the party blares loudly down the street, thrumming in your veins already. You nearly ask to turn back there, you know he would too. You're sure he'd take any chance to be alone with you right now, but an excited voice shouts from the sidewalk in front of you, followed by rapid footsteps.

A cute girl with white hair and the brightest smile you've ever seen stops dead in her tracks in front of you. Just short of plowing both of you down as she pants to catch her breath. Given how red her cheeks are, she's already had a few, but she seems more worried about greeting the two of you than her own well-being. She takes both of your hands in hers, bouncing up and down excitedly.

"ARE YOU THE GIRL IFA'S BEEN TALKING ABOUT?" She shouts, far too loud for her proximity.

You flinch slightly, pulling back, and that gets her to back down a little. She frowns, apologetic as she backs away, still holding your hands in hers.

"Sorry, I'm just so excited to meet you! He doesn't shut up about how amazing you are-"

"Alright, Mualani, we get it," Ifa interrupts, holding you a little closer now, "cool it, yeah, bro?"

You smile warmly at her, squeezing her hands back, "It's nice to meet you, uhm, Mualani."

Another set of footsteps comes from behind the bright girl, and a man with black hair comes jogging over. He looks tired, faces expressionless as he carefully peels Mualani off you. A deep sigh tumbles past his lips, giving Ifa what could almost be considered an apologetic look, though his face doesn't shift too much. Ifa nods regardless, so you nod at him too.

"She was adamant she had to be the first person to greet you," The young man sighs again, "I'm sorry for the trouble she might've caused. It is nice to meet you, though."

You smile a little, "Nice to meet you too, um..."

"Kinich," Ifa answers for you, "let's get going to the party already, yeah? I'm gettin' cold."

Kinich nods, and the four of you make your way to the actual party. Mualani excitedly chats your ear off, pressing her shoulder into yours and swinging her arms around animatedly. She reminded you a lot of Navia, if she was a bit more carefree. She was easy to talk to and more than eager to help you get around the party - she even mentioned setting aside a room for you if you got too overwhelmed. 'Comfort comes first!' she sang out.

You nearly take her up on the offer the second you step through the door. The heat of the bodies hits you immediately after the sound does, and you can smell the weed in the air. It's intense enough to make you lightheaded, but Ifa squeezes you close to his side, and it all melts away. It's not so bad, because Ifa is right here, excusing both of you to a more secluded corner and making sure you're okay. Always worrying about you.

"You sure you wanna do this," he asks, crowding your space, "all you have to do is say the word, bro."

"I know, bro. I want to, I just need a second to adjust... and... maybe a drink." You hum.

He smirks, "A drink I can do, too. Stay there lookin' pretty, I'll be right back."

You appreciate the sight of him walking away with a contented smile. From your little hidey-hole, you can see all the people. Some of them chatted, others dancing on each other, some playing drinking games, and a few a little too close to fucking each other raw over poor Mualani's couch. It's nice to have this vantage point, it allows you to take it all in instead of getting overstimulated like when Venti or Navia push you into everything at once. A drink in a quiet corner with Ifa was all you needed to warm up a little.

You feel your nerves melting away just from standing there, knowing he would be coming back. Knowing you would have a drink to steel your nerves soon. A light sigh leaves your lips, contentment sinking into your bones. You could drink, dance, and really let loose tonight with Ifa. That's just what you plan on doing, slutty little outfit giving you more confidence than you might normally have.

A low whistle near you seems to agree, turning your head to find none other than Venti. He looks tickled by your tiny skirt if the way his eyes stick to your legs says anything. He prances up to you with his usual grace, a cheeky grin lighting up his face.

"Didn't expect to see you here, Windblume," He chirps, taking Ifa's previous spot next to you.

The closeness is something you're all to used to with Venti, so you don't bat an eye when he presses his shoulder into yours. Nor when he takes a strand of your hair to twirl it between his fingers. His flirtiness was a part of his natural charm, after all, there wasn't anything to question with him. So you smile shyly at him.

"Me either, honestly." You admit.

He hums, "Thought you were too busy to party with me."

"I am busy," you defed.

"And sober," he jabs an elbow into your side, leaning in close, "want me to get something for ya. I know a real good combination that'll have you giggling in no time."

"Already got it covered," the very dry voice of Ifa responds for you.

He slides his arm around your shoulder, effectively walling Venti away from your face. He doesn't seem to take it too hard, shrugging and dipping around to keep his eyes on you. You roll your eyes at his antics, taking the red solo cup from Ifa who affixes an unfriendly look over your head on Venti.

"Ooo, who's this? Got yourself a little boyfriend now?" Venti teases lightly.

You fluster, feeling a little humiliated by the teasing, especially in front of Ifa. It strikes you now that Ifa really hasn't seen the way you interact with anyone other than himself and Ororon - occasionally Navia when he's lucky. Venti's flirty banter could come off the wrong way, and you don't want Ifa to get the wrong idea. It doesn't seem to matter though, because he quickly responds.

"Sure does. That a problem for you, dude?" He's more dry than usual, and it's lacking in humor.

Venti takes it in stride, "No! Of course not! Weird though, she hasn't mentioned you to me before."

Ifa scoffs, pressing you closer to his side, "She only sees you what, once or twice a week right? Not much you can say in so little time to someone who doesn't shut up."

You can feel the tension between them building way too fast for you to keep up with, so you swallow down whatever fruity concoction Ifa got for you quickly. Feeling more confident with the alcohol in your veins, you pop back into their conversation somewhere about responsibility and taking things seriously.

"Hey, y'know, I went to read your poem last night and there was nothing on the document," you suddenly voice, tearing through the tension, "I think it might've been deleted."

"Are you serious?" Venti asks, suddenly a little more serious.

You nod, "Yeah. It was totally blank when I looked."

"Shit." He spits out, "I gotta go check on it... it was nice to see you. I'll talk to you later?"

You nod adamantly, "I hope nothing happened, see you later!"

He nods, waving at you as he slowly melds into the sea of people toward the front door. You feel Ifa relax as he finally walks away, tossing back the rest of his drink with a sigh. You peer up at him and find he's already smiling knowingly down at you. He caught on fast.

"Are all your friends that insufferable," He asks, humor back in his tone like it never left.

You smile, "Nope. Venti's just good at getting under your skin. He's really nice, I promise."

"Oh, he wanted to get under something, alright..." He mumbles under his breath.

You tilt your head curiously, "What was that?"

"Nothin' darlin'," he sighs, "why don't we go find something fun to do. I'm aching to let loose, dance."

You nod excitedly, the buzz from your drink giving you the confidence you need as he tugs you out of the corner and to the dance floor. It's bodies on top of bodies, brushing against each other, heat emanating from every direction. Yet, all you can focus on is Ifa as he smiles at you like you're the only thing worth looking at. His hands keep themselves at your waist, despite how they twitch to be anywhere else.

He does a good job of it too, holding you with the respect that any young man should. It doesn't last long though, not when the song shifts to a much more upbeat one. An 'ass throwing' song, as Navia likes to say, and you can't help but agree with her now. Turning around to throw it back on Ifa, laughing when you see him visibly short-circuiting over your shoulder.

You're not sure what's going through his mind in the few seconds he's stun-locked, but when he starts reciprocating, grinding back into you you can get an idea. His hands slide up your sides and over your stomach, keeping you pressed tight into him. He's rock hard against you, and you can feel how soaked your panties have gotten. The skirt leaves little untouched by him, and you can tell he wants it all to be untouched by the way his fingers dance along the bottom of it, the other hand cusping your breast.

You feel electricity pressed up against him, feeling sinfully sexy with how he's all over you. When he leaned down to press his face into your neck, you knew the two of you were done for. It was just you and Ifa right now, and you're sure if he was more than tipsy he'd probably take you on the floor with all these people watching. You don't dare admit how much that turns you on.

Instead, he whispers in your ear, "Wanna go check out that room Mualani was talkin' 'bout?"

You don't respond, just turning and pushing him. He guides you around the house like second nature, pulling you up a flight of stairs and to a quiet corner of the house no one seems to bother visiting right now. The door to the bedroom creaks open, and he takes a second to make sure it's empty, before pulling you in.

His lips are on yours again so fast you nearly stumble to the floor, but he catches you by the small of your back and leverages that to deepen the kiss. You shove at his jacket frantically, sighing as his tongue presses into your mouth. It rolls along yours, playfully coaxing you to join in, only to fight when you finally do.

He doesn't break it until he's tugging your shirt off, then his. Only for a moment before he's back on you with a fury, determined to swallow you whole it seems. Your bra follows after this, and then his belt and jeans fall with a dull thud. As soon as they do, he's hauling you up into his arms, grasping your thighs like a lifeline as he carries you to the bed. You bounce a few times when he tosses you on it, looking down at you with unrestrained excitement.

You're not any different, swallowing up the contours of his abs happily. He looked like some kind of god like this, making your head spin from more than just the buzz you had. He seems to have a moment of clarity, leaning down to press his forehead against yours.

"You wanna do this? All you gotta say is-"

"Yes. God, please, you've been eye fucking me all night and I can't stand it anymore." you groan out.

He laughs, "Guilty as charged. Can you blame me though? This little skirt doesn't leave much to the imagination."

"That's the point, yeah." You snark back, earning you a warning squeeze on your thigh.

"Don't be nasty now, bro."

"Call me bro one more time and you're not getting any ever."

He nods, "Noted. Now... let's see what's goin' on down here..."

He crawls down your body with his lips, hands spreading you out like you were a delicious buffet made just for him. He smirks at the lacy panties, and more specifically at the very obvious wet spot staining the middle of them. You realize he hasn't taken your skirt off, staring at him like this, and go to do so, but he stops you. Eyes moving up to yours like a warning.

"That stays on. Got it, sweetness?" he warns lowly, and the words rush right to your aching pussy, clenching around nothing.

You nod stupidly, and he hums satisfied. Returning to the object of his interests. He thinks about it for a moment, eyes looking to yours, and then with a smirk, he leans down and licks a long stripe up your clothed entrance. Eyes locked on yours, making sure you're watching him like he wants. It draws a long whine out of you, and his smirk widens.

He leans down, mouth clasping around you and allowing his tongue to roll over your clothed folds. It's an oddly pleasant feeling, the wet lace pressing into you, leaving an imprint of it against you. He groans at the taste of you, vibrating through you to your core. It's not enough for either of you, which is why he quickly tugs your panties down your legs and delves right in again. He immediately searches for your clit, finding it with little effort and absolutely abusing the hell out of the little nub.

It's shockwave of pleasure after shockwave of pleasure, and it's only made worse when his sneaky fingers are suddenly pressing inside. Stretching you out for the main event. He moves them at a languid pace, pumping in and out of you with ease from how damn wet you'd become. Each pump is followed by a roll of his tongue, surrounding you with nothing but him and the pleasure he gave you. You were lightheaded in minutes, ready to fall apart at just a single word.

Yet, he pulled away right before he got to the good part, leaving you breathless and worked up. You whine at him, and he grins apologetically, though he doesn't seem that way.

"Sorry darlin', I wanna feel that when I'm inside you for real. You can understand that, can't you?" He purrs, annoyingly convincing for his cause.

He moves across the room, digging in his pants for something, sighing when he finds it. The little package glints in the light, and you realize it's a condom as he settles himself between your legs with his boxers gone. Why did he bring condoms with him, unless he planned to fuck you tonight, which was honestly kind of hot.

"You just carry condoms around with you," You ask.

He chuckles, "I do, yeah. I may not need 'em... usually... but my friends are some freaks. Gotta make sure they're not havin' kids at these parties, y'know."

You smirk, "You sure you weren't just planning on sleeping with me?"

"Well..." He hums, "I won't say I wasn't hoping for it."

"Got your wish then," you answer.

He smirks, "Damn right I did. You ready?"

He leans down over you, lacing your fingers together and pressing his forehead to yours. It's incredibly sweet the way he looks at you, gentle and loving, despite the fact he was about to fuck you. You nod, reciprocating the gestures.

"Squeeze my hand three times if you need me to stop, okay pretty?" He hums, and you nod again.

His other hand comes down to help ease himself into your sopping entrance. It's a stretch even with his earlier help, but that can't be stopped you suppose. Besides, he goes so slow and gives you all the time you need to adjust, so it's not so bad. It takes a bit before he is fully sheathed inside, but once he is, it's like you're in heaven. He fills you up so good, stuffed full and ready to have your world rocked by him with the pounding of the party music behind you.

One last check, a little squeeze of your fingers, and he finally moves. Small and shallow thrusts first, testing the waters, but they make you squirm nonetheless. When he is certain you are taking him well, his movements get deeper, and more meaningful in the way he moves against you. The brush of his cock inside your walls is dizzying, dragging along them at an easy pace making your head spin.

His fingers tighten around your hand, his other hand tapping along your hip like he's trying to distract himself. His usually lidded eyes have fallen impossibly lower, each breath looking like an impossible task for him. It's got you biting your lip, fingers tightening in his grip. He glances up at you, catching your shameless staring, and gives you a breathtaking smile.

"Enjoying the view?" He pants out, still keeping that same pace.

You nod, unable to focus on one part of his face, eyes darting from one to the other, then his lips down his chest and back again. Too much brain power to focus on one part of him when all of them look so good right now. It gets him to coo at you, hand sliding up your side in a slow and easy crawl until it cradles your jaw.

"Can't even focus, am I really that good?" He asks though you're in no state to answer and he knows it.

He leans down to kiss you before you can try and mumble something half-coherent out, swallowing the sounds as they die on your tongue. It dips in and out at the same pace he does, slow and deep, reaching further and further as if trying to imprint himself inside you. His free hand slides back down your body, giving your breast a playful squeeze on its way, and slides around your thigh. With no effort on his part, he lifts it up to wrap your leg around his waist. The new angle deepened his thrusts even more, pressing up against your sensitive walls relentlessly. Steady and firm and unshaken.

You keep yourself level by following the movements of his tongue, pressing against yours, encouraging you to keep up with him. He tastes like the fruity drink from earlier, with the slightest hint of something savory underneath. The alcohol was nothing against him, practically blackout on his taste alone. You might never drink again if this was the replacement. You bring your free hand up to his hair, running your fingers through his curly locks. They curl around your fingers, sinking you into him even further, temping you to get lost in him.

Each draw of his hips sent fire through your bones and every time they collided with yours you swear lightning struck your body. The pounding music only aids in making your head fuzzy, encouraging you to be as loud as you like against his lips. You moan and sigh and whine, just like he wants you to, eating up each sound with another swipe of his tongue. You think you might suffocate against his lips, but you don't mind that at all. It would be an honor to die smothered in his devotion, so much so that you whine when he begins to trail his lips away from yours.

Open-mouthed kisses tumble down your cheek, along your jawline, and right to the side of your throat. He nips at you playfully when you clench around him, having to take a second to groan against your skin when you clench even harder at the feeling. You're not sure how many marks he leaves in the heat of the moment, but it feels as though he means to leave no room to question what exactly you'd done tonight. What he'd done. What he was going to do.

He readjusted the hand he was holding, placing it around his neck and tapping three times as a reminder. Then it falls down in between the two of you, squeezing the fat of your thigh tightly. Leveraging himself up into a sitting position with its help, tugging you flush against him as soon as he's adjusted. The room is much cooler with him off of you, your nipples pebble along with your skin. You don't think when your hands come up to play with them, pulling and tweaking the sensitive buds to warm yourself up again. The effect it has on Ifa is a different story, eyes blown wide and watching you with nothing short of hunger.

"Shit, dude- fuck. I meant- goddamn... you're gonna kill me here, darlin'," He flusters for the second time that night.

You just roll your hips in response, unable to think of any clever comeback right now. All you want is for him to fuck you, and that's what you'll get, one way or another. He reciprocates with ease, once again using your thighs as leverage to fuck himself into you. The pace he sets is much more aggressive now, urgent like he couldn't wait much longer either.

His fingers sink into the plush of your thighs like dough, molding your mind and body with his dick. The heat from earlier is back with a vengeance, running through your whole body and pouring into your core like molten lava. The heat keeps rising and rising with every thrust, and deeper and deeper you fall into madness. The only thing on your mind is him, and it tumbles out of your lips like a mantra. Like a benevolent god, he listens and keeps giving you all you pray for. Pounding deeply within your core until the heat boils over, and you sob his name as the white-hot pleasure sends you tumbling into madness.

He follows after you, bending over you to suck one last purple hickey between your neck and your jaw, and then moans your name. Low and deep, rumbling between the two of you. He comes down first, pressing soft kisses into your neck as you float from your high, lightweight as a feather. You bask in the affection he gives you, sighing into the air, still thrumming from the party below you.

"Feel good?" He asks.

You nod, "I think I needed that."

He smirks into your skin, taking a second before responding, "I think I needed it too."

It takes a few moments for either of you to get up, basking in the warm glow of after-sex. Yet, the party still roars beneath you, reminding you that you are not at home and that to relax you would have to get home. However, with Navia there, it wouldn't be very relaxing - especially after she sees what you did to her skirt.

Ifa pulls himself up first, easing you into a sitting position as sweetly as he can. Quietly he dresses himself, collects your clothes, and helps you do the same. As best as he can, that is. He takes about three seconds to look at your panties before stuffing them in the pocket of his jeans. Your bra he does manage to get on, clipping the clasp together with little struggle thanks to his steady hands. Instead of bothering with your top, he simply zips you up in his jacket and shoves the thin piece of fabric into his other pocket. It's all an incredibly endearing show, ending when he pulls you up and tugs your skirt back down over your ass. Not that it matters when his jacket is longer than it was in the first place.

He knows the way out of the house, navigating the two of you through the crowd with ease, making sure he is positioned right behind you. Just in case. Certainly not to get another feel as he pushes you through the bodies. You almost feel bad for leaving without saying goodbye or having properly met his friends, but you know you'll get another chance to do so. Hopefully in a more calming setting.

He's quiet as he leads you back to his car, eyes focused on something off in the distance that you couldn't see. The quiet night air keeps you company instead, and the cool breeze cools your still-heated skin with kindness. It's sobering, hitting you all at once with the realization you just did the most cliche college act in the book, and it was amazing. Maybe not the best idea- scratch that, it was a really good idea, but maybe Ifa didn't agree? You couldn't tell with the way he was acting.

Quietly sitting down in his car, making sure you didn't ruin his seats as he drove you home. He still kisses your forehead before he takes off like all is well, but his grip is knuckle white on the steering wheel. He swallows hard every few minutes like whatever he's thinking about is difficult for him. Did he regret sleeping with you? It didn't seem like it while it was happening, but maybe being outside sobered him up and he realized what a huge mistake he made?

You shake your head, mentally scolding yourself for wallowing in self-pity. With a warm smile, you rest your hand on his arm, startling him out of his thoughts. He blinks a few times, seemingly shaking off whatever is on his mind, and smiles at you like the luckiest man alive.

"You alright... you seem... distracted?" You ask quietly.

He takes a moment to compose himself again, fingers tapping along the steering wheel as a distraction. He's holding himself back again, an unidentifiable tension that you weren't aware of standing between you and him. A moment of internal debate, before his shoulders finally relax and his hand comes to slip into yours like it was meant to.

"I have been dreaming of having sex with you since our first kiss," he admits brazenly, glancing at you a few times to gauge your reaction.

Reasonably, you're flustered at the admission, but you can't shame him. You'd had similar feelings for a while, but admitting them out loud was harder than it seemed. You admired that he could do it so easily, though. Finding his boldness charming more than startling.

You squeeze his hand, "Well... you're not alone in that."

He snorts, "Yeah, well, now that I've gotten a taste I dunno if I can stop. You've got me addicted from one taste."

You bite your lip, emboldened by his confidence, and slide his hand up your thigh. Resting it just below where his jacket ends, message more than obvious.

"No one said you had to stop," you hum, relishing in how his hand squeezes you so tightly, "it's healthy to treat yourself sometimes. You told me that, remember."

"I did, didn't I?" He hums, fingers crawling under your skirt once more, "I hope you don't mind my indulging just a little longer?"

You send him a suspicious look, “How much longer?”

"How about until someone gives us a noise complaint, hm?" he purrs.

Your eyebrows shoot up, he wanted to keeping going in his dorm?

"What about Ororon? Won't he-"

"Visiting his granny," he dismisses, "and don't worry about Cacucu, I sent him off with Ororon this weekend. Figured I'd be busy."

You can't believe how shameless he was, but you can't find it in yourself to be anything other than happy.

"Well then, I hope your neighbors don't mind missing a few hours of sleep tonight."

He hums, fingers finally right where they need to be, "They're really understanding, so don't worry too much about them."

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘

You had to go to great lengths to hide all the hickeys Ifa very intentionally left all over the most visible parts of your neck. His punishment was running to the drug store to buy you all the cheap color-correcting makeup you needed, but he didn't seem to be bothered by it. Not when he sighed so dreamily as he watched you struggle to cover up all his doing. Luckily, he got the cumstains out of Navia's skirt, so you could forgive him for that at least. You're not sure she'd even want it back anyway.

After nearly an hour of painstaking work, you've finally covered all the hickies you could see. Which was most of your neck, of course. You tie your messy hair up in a bun, not wanting to handle it any longer. He'd left you quite a mess, and you only had enough energy left to fix one of the several. Still, when he came up behind you to kiss you farewell before his 8am, you couldn't stay mad.

"You're gonna come to Puspa tonight, right? Mualani was thinking of stopping by with Kinich and some of our other friends," he asks, pressing his face against yours from behind.

You smile at him through the mirror, pressing your cheek closer to his, "Yeah, I can come. I still feel bad leaving like we did."

"Trust me, bro, they're not upset," he pulls back with that, leaning down to press one last kiss to the back of your neck, "stop by the library before lunch, too, Ororon wants to see you."

"I will," you call to him as he waltzes out the door.

From there, you go about your day as usual. Your first few classes are peaceful and quiet, with no one bothering you about anything. Monday is the only day Navia has no morning classes with you, so it's all nice and easy without her pestering for details every five minutes. It's not until you bump into Kazuha that things seem a little off. He has an uneasy smile on his face when he taps your shoulder from behind, but still wraps you in a hug like always when you do.

"Hey, it's my boyfriend!" You hum playfully.

He hums back, "I've missed you, my darling girlfriend. I heard you went to a party this weekend, did you have fun?"

There's a hidden question in his tone, and you know what it is, but you dismiss it. There's no way he of all people would know what you and Ifa did... all weekend unless Venti somehow found out, but you doubt it. He was really serious about the poem that you may or may not have lied about.

"Yeah! It was super fun, I met some cool new people and... and I really got to unwind!" You dance around the subject easily.

He doesn't push it, thank goodness, "That's great. You really push yourself too far sometimes, a good rest is what you deserve."

"Thanks, Kazuha." You're genuinely appreciative of it too. It's nice to hear him talk so positively of you, "I gotta get to my meeting with Kaveh, but take care, yeah!"

He smiles, waving you off, end with a, "Remember if you ever feel the need to unwind again, just call me next time!"

A little weird on the phrasing, especially considering what 'unwinding' meant to you, but... surely not. There's just no way! You dismiss it quickly as it comes, not wanting to relish on the thought and ruin your perfectly good day.

But then, Kaveh and Alhaitham are acting a bit... odd. You don't usually study with them, but Eula was busy this evening, and using study room five without her felt sacrilegious. So, you managed to convince Kaveh to do so during his free period, Alhaitham promising to stop by later once his class was out. Kaveh had been tense since you set your bag down, unable to really focus on his paper.

When Alhaitham comes in the behavior only gets odder, the older of the two immediately scolding him when he goes to ask you a question. They bicker back and forth about it for a moment, before Alhaitham drops it with a sigh. Weird, given how stubborn he was all the time. But he kept glancing at your neck, making you feel a little self-conscious. Had the makeup rubbed off? You told Ifa to get the good expensive stuff so it shouldn't have so easily.

You finally get your answer when Wriothesley and Navia come across you as you're heading to the library to meet with Ifa and Ororon. You hear Navia before you see her, gasping loudly like she'd seen something horribly scandalous. When you turn to them, you are surprised to find Wirothesley scowling at you. Or, more at your neck. Self consciously you place a hand at the back of your neck.

"Ohh, honey," Navia coos, rushing to your side, "why didn't you come and see me, I would've made sure you got all of them!"

Wriothesley, on the other hand, is as dry as ever, "Do I need to take care of someone for you, cause I most certainly can. Might cost you though."

"No, you don't... yet," you sigh, "is it bad."

Wriothesley nods, "Like someone tried to eat you."

"Well, at least I know why you didn't come home this weekend," Navia mumbles, "goodness, it really does look like he tried to eat you. Lemme help you cover it up."

You wave a hand at her, "No, no. I'll just hide it with my hair. Besides, I'm already late to meeting Ifa, and Childe's gonna throw a fit if I'm not at our regular table in fifteen."

She pouts as you brush past her, but doesn't push you any further. She had all night to do that anyway, so you'd get your scolding from her later.

Wriothesley sends you a smirk as you walk away, "Just say the word!"

"I'll let you know!" You call back, practically storming your way to the library.

Ifa smiles when he sees you, then frowns when he sees your hair. That bastard. You nearly rip him a new one, if not for the fact Ororon greets you before you can get to it. He is blissfully unaware of what his roommate had done on both sides of the room this weekend, and you think it's best kept that way. It does not stop you from glaring over at Ifa when Ororon isn't paying attention, though.

When he offers to walk you to the cafeteria, you take it as your opportunity to scold him like a mother would a child.

"Why didn't you tell me? I walked around like that all day. People probably think I'm a cheap whore," you whine.

He smirks, "You're a very pretty cheap whore."

"Ifa."

He holds his hands up, "I'm kidding, bro, I'm kidding. You're not a whore, you're the opposite actually."

"You're so insufferable," you roll your eyes, but you're not angry much anymore, "I don't get why you had to leave all these marks. It's like you like getting in trouble."

"Only with you," he remarks cheekily, quickly moving on to, "Besides, I gotta 'stake my claim on you' somehow."

You level a flat look on him, wholly unimpressed with his animal kingdom language, "That's the stupidest shit I've ever heard.

He smiles at you like he always does, wrapping an arm around your shoulder, "It's true though! You've always got a million eyes on you, if I don't leave my mark they'll think it's okay to take what's mine."

You raise an eyebrow, though your heart flutters in your chest, "What's yours?"

"That's what you are, right?" He leans in close, "You're mine, aren't you?"

You have to turn away to save face, tucking your hair behind your ear nervously. God he was so attractive, it wasn't fair.

"Guess I am," you answer simply.

"Good, just how I like it."

[pathologicalreid]

hi!!! totally up to you if you want to write it (it maybe too self indulgent ahhhhh). but i was think of bau!reader (or bau!adjacent) who has known spencer for forever and has watched him "glow up"/become more confident and is now dating him, but is now more self-conscious that he will realize that he is totally out of her league since women are now hitting on him all the time and he is able to basically flip men in the field. something like that if you get the vibe? just a girlfriend who is worried her boyfriend will outgrow her and is scared they'll breakup. feel free to ignore! love your work sm!!!

a league of your own | S.R.

as your boyfriend seemingly evolves, you grow increasingly aware of the feeling of being left behind

who? spencer reid x fem!reader category: flangst (heavy on the fluff, more like internalized angst) content warnings: in a bar but neither spencer nor reader are drinking, follows the events of 14x12 "hamelin", discusses the pronunciation of asmr word count: 1.4k a/n: self conscious reader is so important to me. this is for everyone who has a hard time naming their feelings. thank you for requesting!!

“He flipped him over the table?” You asked, raising your eyebrows as you looked up at Tara, who was talking about your boyfriend’s maneuvering of Arthur Brodie in the field. In passing, you had heard about the mark left on the suspect’s forehead, but you hadn’t heard the story of how he had gotten it – until now.

Bringing her cup to her lips, Tara nodded at you, her expression clarifying that it was as impressive as it sounded. You sighed at the newest addition to Spencer’s ever-evolving personality, it was hard not to think of them as grievances against you, but that’s what it felt like.

You looked over your shoulder to the bar, trying to scope out where he had disappeared to before you spotted a familiar mess of brown curls. From where you were standing, you could see him holding two drinks in his hands, but it wasn’t until he shifted his stance that you saw the girl that he was speaking with. “And that’s three,” Luke observed, shaking his head in disbelief as he watched the same scene as you.

Emily asked what he was talking about, but you tuned them out as you watched the interaction. You already knew this was the third woman to hit on him since the team entered the bar thirty minutes ago.

There was no mistaking it, your boyfriend was easy on the eyes, and you weren’t naïve enough to try to deny that fact. Still, you were having a hard time adjusting to seeing him garner exponentially more attention from people at the bar. “You better go get your man, or she might steal him away from you,” Luke taunted, nodding his head in the direction of the bar.

“What?” Your head snapped back in the direction of the bar, eyes wide as you peered across the bar where Spencer was talking animatedly to the blonde in front of him before he looked behind himself and gestured to you, prompting you to wave timidly at the both of them.

The girl sneered in your direction before spinning on her heel and trudging away, freeing your boyfriend to return to you at the table. “They didn’t have any limes, so they put a lemon in your Shirley Temple,��� Spencer said apologetically, dropping a kiss on the part of your hair as he set the glass in front of you.

Shaking your head, you smiled up at him, “That’s fine, thank you.” You told him, placing your hand on the glass and spinning it to better access the straw.

If he noticed anything odd, he didn’t comment on it, instead deciding to contribute to Tara and Rossi’s conversation on ASMR.

As the team continued to chat around you, you just continued spinning your glass on the oak table, becoming more and more conscious of the way your thighs stuck to the leather booth. Your eyes only flicked up when you noticed people staring at you, “What?” You asked, heart racing as you had been caught daydreaming.

The five remaining members of your team at the table were all looking at you with similar curious looks, “Rossi’s headed out. He was just saying goodbye,” Penelope said, reaching across the table and awkwardly patting your hand.

“Oh,” you responded meekly, “Have a good night. Tell Krystall I said hi.” You shifted in your seat, the sound of your legs unsticking from the seat seemingly amplified tenfold in your self-conscious state.

As Dave made his way out, Spencer gestured for you to move over so he could sit next to you. Tara got up to get in line for the restroom and Luke and Garcia weaseled their way into one of their patented bickering matches, you nearly jumped when you felt Spencer’s hand settle on your thigh. “Alright,” he muttered, turning his head to you, “What’s up with you tonight?”

Frowning, you looked up at Spencer, brown eyes studying your face as he hunted for even the slightest hint of what had gotten into you. The only problem was you didn’t have a name for it yourself. It could be perceived as jealousy, but you weren’t concerned with anyone actually taking Spencer’s attention away from you, you were just feeling feelings. Unnamable feelings.

You brought your glass closer to you, the condensation being a welcome relief on your warm skin, pinching the straw as you took a sip of your drink. “Nothing’s up,” you said, stirring the lemon wedge around in your glass.

“Are you sure? You look flushed,” he said, pursing his lips thoughtfully before he gently pushed his water in your direction.

Brushing off his concern, you turned your attention to watching Luke and Garcia in an animated discussion on how to pronounce ASMR – Penelope insisted she was right, and Luke didn’t necessarily care either way. You only moved your gaze when the blonde from earlier passed by again, dragging her palm over Spencer’s shoulder, causing him to lean into you.

Flustered, you took a long sip of your drink before setting it back down, “Can we go?” You asked Spencer, pressing your lips together in a thin line as you looked at him expectantly.

As he began to put puzzle pieces together, he nodded, standing up and gathering your glasses to set them on the bar. You said your goodbyes before leading the way out and flipping Luke off as he called out something about protection, something that would have previously left Spencer embarrassed and stammering, but now made him chuckle as he held the door open for you.

Part of you was grateful for this sort of evolution in Spencer, he was, after all, more confident in every aspect of his life. Now waiting for the metro, you looked at him, longer hair, his work shirt unbuttoned at the top and pushed up to his elbows. The light breeze in the tunnel moved his hair as he crossed his arms in front of his chest, “Are you alright, love?”

Your shoulders drooped helplessly at the pet name, “You shoved a guy on a table?”

His face fell, “Is that what this is about? Me using force against a suspect?”

Quickly, you shook your head, “No, no. He pushed Tara, it’s not that at all,” you scrambled to reassure him, knowing he was afraid that his time in federal prison had made him a violent person. “It’s just… you shoved a guy onto a picnic table and you’re getting hit on by people in bars and you’re dressing differently and I’m just… me.” You hold your hands out as if you’re on display, looking down at the sundress you had thrown on and the sneakers you wore for comfort instead of style.

“Are you jealous that I’m getting attention from other people?” He asked, “Because I’ve never encouraged anyone.” That was true, last week a deputy sheriff had made a move on your boyfriend, and the only thing he had gotten in return was an earful on how you had made the deduction that eventually solved the case.

Bowing your head, you regretted ever saying anything in the first place, “No,” you groaned, “What’s that term for someone who can’t name their emotions? That’s me. Right now. At this moment.”

Spencer chuckled at your frustration, “It’s called alexithymia, and there’s nothing wrong with that.”

“I’ve watched you change in front of my very own eyes in the last year, and I guess I’m just feeling left behind,” you admitted. “You’re a changed person and there’s nothing different about me.”

He tilted his head to the side curiously, “Can I ask you something?”

“Anything,” you said desperately, hoping to get to the bottom of your conflicting emotions.

“Did you love me before?”

You froze, looking up at him, “Of course.”

He raised his eyebrows, reaching out and tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, “And you love me now?”

Nodding, you stepped closer to him, “Very much so.”

“Then there’s nothing else I could possibly ask of you,” he told you, smiling as you blushed. “You don’t need to change in time with me, and – since we’re being honest – I’ve always felt like I’m the one lagging behind you. So, maybe I’ve just been playing catch-up.”

You frowned, moving even closer to him as the platform grew crowded, “Well, now I feel ridiculous.”

“Not ridiculous,” he murmured, “Just human,” Spencer amended.

[piroulinewafers]

HELLO FELLOW FREAK /affectionate :P i was wondering if u can do a fic w calebmc and guided masterbation...basically the readers inexperienced and its her first time and calebs had his fair share of experience maybe? KSJSKSJSJ hopefully my point gets through, idm u adding ur own elements to it, thank you have a lovely day<333

psssstttt i LOVE ur fics btw ♡

𝐚/𝐧: waaa hi fellow freak 😏 your brain is so big... i wasn't sure if you wanted something more specific, but i lowkey had so much fun writing this... when is it my turn for gege to teach me how to pleasure myself sigh.

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭: caleb x fem! inexperienced! reader 𝐜𝐰: smut, overstimulation. 𝐫𝐞��𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐬: open.

the regret was surely getting to her.

the second the words slipped past her lips, she wished she could chase them down and lock them away. her cheeks burned hot, her gaze fixed on the floor, unable to look at him.

 caleb hadn’t said a word yet, but she could feel the weight of his stare— steady, unreadable and just a little amused.

she squirmed beneath it, twisting the hem of her shirt between her fingers. “i… i shouldn’t have told you anything. it was dumb,” she mumbled, voice barely over a whisper. “just forget i said anything.”

caleb didn’t move at first. he stood by the edge of her bed, one hand still resting on the waistband of his uniform slacks, the other braced on the doorframe. his dog tags shifted when he tilted his head, catching just a glint of light.

“you think i’m gonna forget you said somethin’ like that?” he asked, tone mild— teasing, but not unkind. there was a sparkle of something in his voice too. gentler. steadier.

she fidgeted more. she wished she could just disappear into the floorboards. 

he finally stepped forward, closing the distance with quiet, even steps. “you’re nervous,” he said, not as a question, but as something already known. his voice lowered, soft but firm. “and you’re beating yourself up over it.”

he knew her too well. she gave a tiny nod, still not meeting his eyes. 

caleb stopped in front of her and gently tilted her chin up with two fingers. his touch was light, careful— like he was afraid of pushing too hard and making her retreat, despite wanting to do so badly.

“i still shouldn’t’ve said anything— i sounded pathetic, i just— “

caleb cut her off with a look. gentle, but firm enough to close her mouth without another word, brows drawing to a furrow. 

the mattress dipped as he moved to sit on the bed, broad shoulders stretching the fabric of his uniform jacket. he reached for her, slow and easy, guiding her to sit between his legs like it was the most natural thing in the word. his. hands found her hips, warm through the fabric, thumbs brushing her waist as he leaned in close enough that she could feel his breath at her temple.

“you don’t sound pathetic, just honest. i’m glad you told me.”

her shirt wrinkled beneath his fingertips as he toyed with the hem, almost absentminded. the silence was thick, the space between them warmer than it should’ve been. 

“you’re nervous still,” he murmured, caleb murmured, lips brushing just behind her ear. “but i can smell you, pips.”

her breath hitched. 

“i could teach you, you know,” he added, voice soft like he was making an offer, not a demand. “show you how good it can feel… if you’d let me. i can’t believe my meimei’s never properly learned how to make herself cum… it’s cute.”

caleb leaned back just a little, enough to look down at her, framed between his legs like she’d always belonged there. 

the creases in his uniform pants were sharp and pressed perfect, every line rigid and clean where hers were soft and uncertain. his tie was still knotted, though a little loosened now, collar open just enough to let her see the bronze of his throat.

he traced a slow circle on her thigh with one hand, the other resting firm at her waist. not moving further, just… holding.

“y’know,” he said, voice low and thoughtful. “it makes me a little mad.”

her eyes flickered to his, wide and unsure. “what does?”

“that no one ever took the time,” he murmured. “to show you. that you’ve been tryin’ to figure it out all by yourself, feelin’ like you’re broken or something just ‘cause you couldn’t get there.”

she lowered her gaze, shame prickling up her neck, but his fingers tightened gently— just enough to keep her grounded.

“i don’t like that,” he added. “hate thinkin’ of you feeling that way.”

but then, his mouth curved into something quieter. something warmer.

“still,” he said, almost to himself. “part of me is glad.”

“glad?” she blinked, parroting his words adorably.

caleb nodded slowly, like he was chewing on the words before saying them out loud. “means no one else got there first. means you’re still all soft and untouched in all the ways that matter.”

he let that sit in the air for a moment, thumbing the hem of her skirt again, this time with a little more purpose, his voice dipping lower. “it means i get to be the one who show you and teach you how to make yourself feel good. the right way. won’t you let your gege help?”

and maybe he shouldn’t enjoy that thought as much as he did, shouldn’t feel that selfish little swell of pride in his chest— but he did. because she was his, even if she didn’t know it yet. and if she was going to learn anything about herself, about her body… it’d be from him. only him.

caleb’s thumb brushed against the delicate skin of her inner thigh, his hand warm, even through the fabric of her shirt as he pressed again her back. she could feel the strength in his fingers, the calluses that spoke of a life spent in service and discipline. it was a touch that promised both control and comfort and she ocouldn’t help but lean into it, craving more of that intoxicating mix. 

“you’re overthinking again,” caleb murmured, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through her chest. his other hand slid up her spine, the heat of his palm seeping into her skin, leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake. “stop trying to analyze everything to death. just… feel.”

his fingers tapped at her thigh. “i know you’re curious, pips. i can practically hear the questions spinning in that clever head of yours. so what are you thinking?” his words were muffled.

the heat of his breath fanned against her jaw, making her eyelids flutter. she let out a shaky breath. “i’m thinking a lot of stuff…”

caleb’s voice was low and patient, almost brotherly in its gentle guidance. “here, let me show you,” he murmured, taking her hand and guiding it to the soft swell of her breast. he encouraged her fingers to knead the supple flesh, shaping and squeezing in a way that made her breath catch. “like this, don’t be shy now.”

his other hand trailed slowly down her body, calloused fingertips skimming over her stomach, her hip, before reaching the hem of her skirt. 

with a deft motion, he bunched the fabric in his fist and tugged it upwards, exposing more of her thighs to the cool air. 

“spread your legs for me, pips,” caleb coaxed softly, his voice a low rumble that sent warmth unfurling in her belly. his thumb pressed against the centre of her panties, right where she was already slick and aching. 

the friction made her gasp, her hips twitching forward involuntarily. “caleb,” she breathed out, his name falling from her lips like a plea. her chest heaved with each shaky inhale, nipples straining against the thin fabric of her shirt. the sensation of his touch, so intimate and new , set her nerves alight with anticipation.

he rubbed slow circles over her clothed slit, feeling the heat of her even through the barrier of her underwear. “shh, i’ve got you,” he soothed, thumbing her clit with a maddeningly gentle pressure that made her toes curl. 

her hand moved from her breast, but caleb was quick to use his free hand to grasp her wrist, watching the way it twitched and squirmed under his touch. 

“ah ah, i didn’t tell you to move it, did i?” caleb hummed out, leading to a faint pout to settle on her lips. 

beneath her panties, she could feel her clit swelling, the delicate flesh throbbing with a desperate ache. caleb’s touch, his guidance, the low timbre of his voice urging her own… it was all too much and not enough, all at once. 

caleb’s fingers slipped beneath the fabric of her panties, brushing against her sensitive folds. he could feel the slick heat of her arousal, the way her body trembled under his touch. his thumb easily found her clit, circling the sensitive nub with a maddeningly gentle pressure that made her arch her back against him. 

“mm, you’re not shaved down here,” caleb murmured, his voice a low rumble in her ear. “all prickly and untouched…” 

he could feel her squirm with a sudden shyness, trying to clamp her thighs together. “caleb, don’t…” she protested weakly, embarrassed by his intimate discovery. this was already quite embarrassing as is, having her childhood friend see her like this, and now…

but caleb was having none of it. his strong arms pinned her in place, holding her hips steady as he pressed firmly against her back, chin practically propped against her shoulder. 

“hey, hey… none of that, pips,” he soothed, his voice gentling. “it’s cute, really. i like getting to see you all bare, so natural. ”

to punctuate his words, caleb rubbed her clit a little harder, a little faster. his fingers dipped lower, teasing along her slit. “i like it,” he declared again, as if that settled the matter. “it’s perfect on you.”

she whimpered, her hips twitching as she fought to urge to grind against his hand. caleb’s touch was electrifying, setting her nerves on fire until she thought she might combust. she could feel every inch of herself, from the aching swell of her breasts to the throbbing heat between her thighs, and it was all because of him.

“caleb…” she gasped out again, her voice high and breathy. her fingers moved up, digging into the soft flesh of her breast, kneading and squeezing just like he’d shown her. the sensation of her own touch, combined with his, was almost too much to bear.

caleb’s fingers stilled for a moment, and he looked at her with a quirked brow. “tell me something, pips,” he murmured. “ have you ever fingered yourself before? i’m curious.” 

she immediately burned red, shaking her head and trying to hide her face away from him as best as she could, but with him sitting behind her, there was little she could do.

“when i put my fingers in, it’d just feels like… i don’t know. weird. not in a bad or good way.”

caleb chuckled, a deep rumble in his chest as he processed her shy confession. “wait… you’ve never actually done it properly, have you, pips?” he teased, eyes sparkling with amusement. “you just stuck a finger in there and wiggled it around until it felt weird?”

she scowled at him, brows furrowing as she pouted. “well, yeah… i mean, it did feel strange!” she huffed, crossing her arms over her chest. “it’s not the same as when i see it in porn…” she blushed hard, realizing her admittance. 

it was strange. caleb and her had known each other since they were kids, practically siblings, so all of this… it was foreign and a bit embarrassing.

caleb’s eyes widened slightly, a hint of surprise flashing through them before his expression settled into a more thoughtful one. “you shouldn’t try to compare everything to porn you know.” he let out a huff, almost sounding a little jealous. “you should have just asked your gege for help with this stuff.i could’ve shown you how to make yourself feel good ages ago.”

without waiting for a response, he slowly, steadily, eased a finger inside of her, groaning softly at the way her walls clenched around the thick digit.

“fuck, pips… you’re so tight,” he grunted out, pumping his finger in and out of her virgin hole. “no wonder it feels strange for you. your little cunny is gripping my finger like a vice.” 

she moaned softly, hyper-sensitive from his teasing and his fiery-hot touch, a needy breathy sound. she pouted at his language, flustered and overwhelmed. “don’t… don’t call it that…”

he curled his finger slightly inside, brushing against a spot that made her feel stars. “shh, don’t pout,” caleb cooed, his thumb coming up to rub soothing circles on her lower belly. “i know its a lot to take in. the feeling of being touched like this… it’s overwhelming at first.” he gently pushed in a second fingers, stroking her insides in a way that had her toes curling and her breath coming out in sharp pants.

caleb watched her face intently, eyes roaming over her features, noting the way her nose scrunched up and her eyes were shut. “tell me, pips,” he murmured, his voice a low rasp. “has it ever felt this good when you helplessly rubbed your little clit all by your lonesome?” his fingers pumped steadily, curling and stroking along her walls in a way that made her thighs quiver.

she quickly shook her head, strands of hair swept across her forehead as she whimpered out. “n-no… it’s never felt like this before, gege…” her voice was breathy and high, straining with the intensity of the new sensations coursing through her. 

caleb could feel her body tensing, her walls starting to flutter and clench around his invading fingers. he could sense her impending release, could feel the way her little cunt was already starting to spasm and tighten. his eyes darkened with lust as he watched her teeter on the brink of climax.

“that’s it, pips… just like that,” caleb encouraged, his thumb rubbing firm circles over her swollen, throbbing clit. “don’t fight it. let yourself feel this, let yourself cum for me…”

he knew he was supposed to only be helping her, and yet, he couldn’t help himself from inserting himself in the narrative to ensure she at least vaguely understood that he was the only one who could make her feel this way. she was his, forever and always and he had no plans on letting anyone touch— let alone see— her in this state aside from him. 

with a sharp cry, she came undone, body convulsing as her very first real orgasm crashed over her. her inner walls clamped down round caleb’s fingers, gripping them like a silken vice as wave after wave of pleasure washed through her. 

caleb couldn’t help but groan, feeling the way her cunt spasmed and quivered, dripping with her premature release.

“fuck, pips…. you cum so easily,” he growled, a hint of pride and possessiveness in his voice. he kept stroking her through her orgasm, fingers pumping steadily as he worked a third digit into her fluttering hole. “such a good girl, summing so hard and fast for your gege…”

she could only whimper and mewl, her body writhing beneath his touch as the intense pleasure consumed her. she’d never felt anything like this before, never known her body could feel this way. 

her whole bottom was buzzing as caleb continued, her hands clumsily moving to push at his, but he paid no heed to her feeble attempts, easily overpowering her weakened efforts as his fingers kept pumping steadily. 

“shh, shh, don’t fight it, pips,” he chided, voice a low rumble. “you can’t be humming already… so fast and sloppy, drenchin’ my fingers like this.” 

he held her hips down, with his free hand, pressing it firmly where her hips and thighs met. her slick, swollen walls were so sensitive, still fluttering from the aftershocks of her climax. each thrust of caleb’s fingers sent bolts of electric pleasure shooting up her spine, making her writhe and whine helplessly.

“gege… please…” she gasped between ragged breaths, face flushed and eyes glazed. “it’s too much… too much… ahh!” her protests turned into a sharp cry as he increased his pace.

“too much? or not enough?” caleb countered, practically feeling her juices dripping down his fingers, her arousal making obscene squelching noises as he fingered her overstimulated hole. her panties, of which he had elected not to take off, were drenched, a very obvious damp spot against him that soaked into the sheets beneath them.

“look at the mess you’re making, pips,” caleb taunted, holding her chin and forcing her to meet his heated gaze. “squirtin’ all over the place, humming before i even got my fingers all the way inside…i swear, you’re going to be the death of me.

despite his words, there was clear pride in his voice, knowing he could reduce her to such a desperate dripping state. she was all his.

caleb’s fingers never slowed, never stopping their merciless pumping. he could feel her second climax building, body tensing and tightening as she hurtled towards the edge once more. 

“that’s it, give me another one,” he commanded insistently. “show your gege what a needy little thing you are, humming over and over again on his fingers.” caleb punctuated his words by burying his fingers as deep as they could go, grinding against that spongey spot that he knew would make her completely collapse in his arms. 

her lips parts in a. silent scream of pure ecstasy tore from her throat, her limbs trembling and chest heaving as she came again. finally, only then, did caleb retract her fingers, noting the way the evidence of her arousal clung to them in a sticky mess.

“good girl,” caleb praised, a rare softness entering his voice as he took in her utterly debauched state leaning against him. he gentled his touch, bringing his fingers to his lips and making a show of licking her essence from his digits. 

“delicious,” he purred, holding her gaze. it only made her scrunch her nose up in faint disgust, a huffy sound leaving her. 

too tired and sated to argue, a blissful smile played at the corners of her lips. she leaned heavily against him, small frame molding to his larger one like it was meant to be there. tilting her head back, she pressed a sloppy open mouthed kiss to his jaw, a muffled “thank you” whispering past her lips.

“you always take care of me…” she whispered, her voice barely a sound, fragile and full of trust.

“i always will,” caleb replied without hesitation, tilting his head to press a kiss to her temple. he shifted them both just enough to lay her back against the pillows, guiding her head to rest over his heart. he was still dress in his uniform, the material stiff at the this rate and vaguely damp with her body sweat. caleb ran his fingers slowly through her hair, brushing it away from her face with a tenderness that made her sigh. 

“you’re too good…” she murmured, her eyes fluttering shut. “don’t deserve you.”

that made him huff, something low and amused, but he didn’t let it slide. “no,” he said softly, tipping her chin up so she’d look at him in her bleary, sleepy state. “you deserve everything.”

she looked up at him through her lashed, tired, but so, so content. 

caleb watched her like she was the only thing that mattered. and maybe she was. he stroked his thumb over her cheek, then leaned down to kiss her forehead— slow, warm, reverent. 

she was already half-asleep against his chest, her breath warm and steady through the thin fabric of his jacket. her fingers twitched faintly where they rested on his  stomach, like even in sleep, she was still clinging to him.

caleb’s arms stayed wrapped around her, firm but gentle, his thumb tracing idle patterns against the curve of her spine. he could feel the faint flutter of her heartbeat through her back. slower now, relaxed. safe. 

she trusted him. with this. with herself. that thought alone made his throat tighten.

she’d never been touched like that before and it had shown in every flinch, every shy glance, every nervous little laugh and embarrassed pout.  she’d let him guide her, let him take care of her, let him love her all the way through it.

he knew it wasn’t fair. knew it was selfish. but as he held her, watching the soft rise and fall of her chest, caleb found himself clinging to the one truth he couldn’t shake. 

he wanted to ruin it. all of it.

ruin sex. ruin pleasure. ruin any touch that didn’t come from him.

not necessarily out of cruelty, but out of love. a possessive, protective kind of love that rooted itself in the deepest parts of him. he wanted her to forget anyone else had ever existed before him. wanted her to only feel this full, this safe, this undone, this good— with him.

if he could rewrite the way she saw herself— teach her what it truly meant to be adored, desired, cherished— then he’d do it a hundred times over.

only him. only ever him.

she stirred slightly, sighing gin her sleep and caleb leaned down to press a kiss into her hair. 

she didn’t know it yet. but she was his forever. 

and he’d make sure she never wanted it any other way. 

[arkaiveofurown]

Almost Enough (Part I)

Pairing: Sabo x Strawhat Reader

Click here for the Part II

In the two years you spent with the Revolutionary Army, you found unexpected companionship and love—with Sabo. Now months into a secret relationship, cracks begin to form when you realize there’s a part of him you can’t seem to reach. Koala, his childhood friend, has known him far longer and deeper than you have. You can’t hate her—she’s kind, loyal, everything you wish you were for him. But when your insecurity turns into distance and Sabo turns a blind eye, the question becomes: how much of yourself can you give before you start to disappear?

Word Count: ~4,000 words

tags: angst, breakup, jealousy, during 2 year timeskip after sabaody arc

my masterlist here ♡

The sun beat down on Baltigo’s training grounds, and sweat rolled down your temple as you lunged forward, blade meeting a staff. You were stronger now—smarter, sharper—but today wasn’t about technique. Today, your sparring partner was Sabo.

“You’re overthinking your footwork again,” he said with a crooked smile, twisting out of your strike with maddening ease.

“And you’re underestimating me again,” you snapped back, trying not to stare too long at the glint in his eyes.

He laughed, the sound warm and disarming. “Fair enough. But I like watching you think.”

You faltered, and in that pause, he caught your wrist and spun you into a harmless lock. His voice dropped a little as he leaned close. “Don’t worry. I won’t let anyone hurt you.”

Your breath caught, heart thudding faster than your body could justify. “You promise?”

“I swear on my hat,” he murmured, tugging the brim of it playfully over your eyes.

It was stupid how fast you fell. But it was Sabo—loyal, brave, brilliant Sabo. How could you not?

⸻

Months later, you were still with the Revolutionary Army, your days filled with covert missions and letters sent back to the Sunny. But your nights… your nights were his.

You sat on the roof of HQ, legs tangled with his, head resting against his shoulder. Sabo’s gloved hand traced idle circles on your knee while the stars blinked overhead.

“Do you ever miss anything from your past?” you asked quietly, half-afraid of the answer.

He paused. “Sometimes. But it’s hard to miss something when what I want is right here.”

Your heart stuttered.

“Sabo…”

“I mean it,” he said, looking at you. “I never thought I’d feel… safe with someone again. But I do—with you.”

You smiled, but a soft ache pulsed in your chest. There were still things he wouldn’t say. Parts of himself he tucked away like classified files. But you told yourself it was enough.

It had to be.

⸻

Koala entered the training room with her usual energy, towel slung over her shoulder. “Sabo! You promised you’d go over the new intel drops with me.”

Sabo looked up from where he was seated beside you. “Right. I forgot.”

You gave him a smile, already pulling back. “Go ahead. I’ll see you later.”

Koala glanced at you with a small smile. “You’re getting really good. Your form’s almost as clean as mine now.”

You forced a chuckle. “Almost?”

She grinned, oblivious. “I’ve been at this longer. It’s nothing personal.”

But that was just it—everything about her wasn’t personal. It was natural. Easy. Koala knew his favorite meals, the way he fidgeted when nervous, how to calm him after nightmares. She’d been there through it all—before you.

And lately… you couldn’t shake the feeling you were trying too hard to catch up.

⸻

The skies over Baltigo had turned a dull gray, the wind restless with oncoming rain. You sat on the rooftop ledge outside your dorm quarters, overlooking the cliffside where ocean waves churned in quiet rage. Below, the base pulsed with activity—soldiers training, officers reporting in, laughter echoing from the mess hall. It was the same as always.

But not for you.

You hugged your knees, the usual warmth you felt in this place now replaced with something colder. Lonelier.

Sabo hadn’t noticed that you’d been skipping meals. You doubted he noticed the way your conversations had shortened, the way your laugh didn’t reach your eyes anymore.

He hadn’t said anything about how you trained alone now, or how you stopped waiting for him after meetings. And if he had noticed… maybe he’d just assumed it was nothing. Maybe, to him, it really was.

You rested your chin on your knee, blinking hard as the wind tousled your hair.

The thing was—you liked Koala.

She wasn’t mean or smug or spiteful. She was kind. She smiled at you during meetings, gave you water during long missions, even complimented your form after training. She was smart, sharp, a born leader. Everything the Revolution stood for.

She just also happened to know Sabo’s soul like the back of her hand.

You’d caught moments—little ones. The way she’d nudge him when he was brooding too long, and he’d instantly soften. The way he touched her shoulder gently when she looked exhausted, with a familiarity that required no words.

They’d been through so much together. You knew that. You’d heard the stories. You’d even seen the scars.

But that didn’t make the ache in your chest any less real.

⸻

Two days later, you were walking past the war room when you heard them.

Sabo and Koala.

“I still remember that night at Minerva,” she was saying, laughing softly. “You were so high on painkillers, you thought I was a marine.”

“And you hit me with a clipboard,” Sabo said with mock offense.

“Because you groped me, you idiot!”

“That was an accident!”

You stood there for a second too long, frozen in the hallway. The kind of laugh Sabo let out… it was deep. Free. Like something from a time before he ever knew you.

You turned away before they noticed, footsteps retreating down the corridor.

That night, you didn’t go to your shared room. You slept in the empty archive library, curled up between dusty ledgers, where your name wasn’t next to his on a clipboard or etched into a memory of war.

⸻

You told yourself you weren’t pulling away—you were just giving him space. You were just keeping busy.

That’s why you trained past sundown, sparring dummies until your knuckles bled. That’s why you volunteered for every boring logistics run, every solo recon mission. That’s why you smiled when you passed him in the hallway, even if it felt like a knife each time he said, “You okay?” without really looking.

You were afraid to ask for more—afraid he’d say no.

Afraid he’d look at you like you were just being needy.

Pathetic, a voice in your head whispered. He chose you, didn’t he? Isn’t that enough?

But late at night, when the base was quiet, and you were alone under the stars again… it didn’t feel like enough.

It felt like you were slowly being erased from your own relationship.

⸻

It was nearly midnight when he finally found you.

You were sitting alone at the edge of the cliff near HQ, the same one where you and Sabo used to sneak away to talk, to kiss, to just be. Now it felt too big, too quiet—like the wind itself could swallow you whole.

You didn’t turn when you heard his footsteps behind you.

“I’ve been looking for you,” Sabo said, voice carefully neutral.

“I’ve been here,” you replied softly, your gaze fixed on the crashing waves below. “I always am.”

He paused behind you. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

You gave a bitter little laugh. “You noticed.”

That made him frown. “Of course I did. I’m not—what’s going on with you?”

You finally looked at him. He looked tired. Concerned. But distant—like he didn’t quite get it. Like you were speaking in a language he never learned.

You swallowed. “This… this isn’t working.”

Sabo blinked. “What?”

“I feel like I’m drowning, Sabo,” you whispered, the words trembling out of you. “And you don’t even see it.”

He stepped closer, eyes narrowing in confusion. “Where is this coming from?”

“From everything!” you snapped, standing up suddenly. “From the way you never talk to me unless I ask first. From the way you light up when Koala enters a room, and I—”

You caught yourself, but it was too late. The word had left your lips.

Sabo’s expression changed instantly. “This is about Koala?”

Your fists clenched. “No. Yes. I don’t know. It’s not about her—it’s about what she means to you.”

“She’s my friend.”

“I know,” you said, stepping back. “And I like her, Sabo. That’s the worst part. She’s everything I want to be for you. She’s strong. Loyal. She’s seen every version of you—your past, your pain, your scars. She knows you in a way I never will.”

Sabo looked stricken, as if you’d struck him. “Y/N… that’s not fair.”

You shook your head. “Isn’t it?”

“She’s like a sister to me—”

“And I’m not asking you to stop loving her like family!” you cried. “But you treat her like she’s part of your core. And me? I feel like a shadow sometimes. I’m just… something soft you hold when the world’s too loud. But never someone you really let in.”

He ran a hand through his hair, agitated. “You’re making this into something it’s not.”

You flinched.

“I’m not making up how I feel, Sabo.”

He sighed harshly. “Then what do you want from me? To erase Koala from my life? To give you every memory I’ve ever had?”

“No,” you whispered, throat tightening. “I just wanted to feel chosen.”

Silence fell. Sabo stared at you, eyes unreadable.

“I gave you everything I had,” you went on, voice cracking. “I gave you my loyalty, my heart, my time. And I get scraps. Half-answers. Smiles meant for someone else. I waited for you to meet me halfway. You never did.”

His jaw clenched. “You’re being unfair.”

You looked at him, really looked at him—and that was the moment you knew.

He didn’t understand.

He loved you, yes. But not in the way you needed to be loved. He loved you like a flame loves air—quietly, conditionally, consuming you only when it wanted to.

And you were done setting yourself on fire to keep the illusion of warmth alive.

You stepped back. “You don’t get it. And maybe you never will.”

Sabo opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

You turned away before he could see your tears fall.

Behind you, the cliff wind howled.

⸻

The world was burning.

Smoke coiled through the air as the Revolutionary Army clashed with marines at a remote outpost. You moved through the chaos with practiced precision, dodging bullets, parrying blades, your haki flickering with every movement.

Sabo was beside you, his pipe smashing down on an opponent with crushing force. You locked eyes, wordless but perfectly in sync—until a sudden tremor split the ground.

“Split up!” Sabo shouted.

You nodded and dashed toward the northern flank, fighting through the smoke. But the explosion came too fast.

A wall of debris erupted behind you, sending you crashing into the wreckage. Dust filled your lungs. You tried to stand—tried to call out—but your vision was swimming, blood trickling from your scalp.

“Sabo…” you croaked, searching the smoke.

You saw him, just ahead.

He was scanning the battlefield—then his gaze locked onto something.

Koala.

She was crumpled near the east wall, unconscious and bleeding.

He ran.

You raised a hand weakly, voice barely above a whisper. “Sabo—”

He didn’t look back.

You watched, chest tightening, as he knelt beside her, cupping her face, panic clear in his voice as he called for medics.

Your hand dropped to your side.

He didn’t even see you.

⸻

The med bay was quiet, save for the beeping machines and the soft shuffle of nurses. You stood by the doorway, arms crossed tightly, your body still aching from the battle.

Sabo was at Koala’s bedside, his hand resting on hers. She was stable, her breathing even, the color slowly returning to her cheeks.

You didn’t speak.

Not until he finally turned—and froze when he saw you.

“Y/N,” he said, standing quickly. “You’re here. I was going to come find you—I didn’t know you were hurt—”

“No,” you said flatly. “You didn’t.”

He stepped closer, hesitating. “I… Koala was down. I thought she might be—”

“And I wasn’t?”

He flinched.

“I called for you,” you said, voice cracking. “I was bleeding, buried under debris. I called your name. And you ran right past me.”

Sabo’s expression contorted with guilt. “I didn’t see you. I didn’t know. If I had—”

“But you did see her,” you cut in. “That’s the difference.”

He reached for you, desperate now. “She’s like my sister, Y/N—”

“I know,” you whispered. “And I don’t blame you for caring. But it wasn’t just about the battle, Sabo. It’s everything. Every time I try to reach you, you shut me out. Every time I needed you to choose me, you looked somewhere else.”

“That’s not true,” he said, stepping forward. “Y/N, please—you’re the one I come back to at night. You’re the one I think about when I’m out there risking my life. Don’t do this.”

“I don’t want to do this,” you said, tears blurring your vision. “But I can’t keep pretending I’m okay with being second to someone you’ll always love more deeply.”

His voice cracked. “That’s not what this is.”

“Isn’t it?” You took a step back. “When I’m hurting, you don’t see it. When I’m afraid, you tell me I’m being dramatic. I can’t be the only one fighting to hold us together.”

Sabo’s voice dropped to a whisper. “I love you.”

You let out a trembling breath. “Then why didn’t you choose me?”

Silence.

He looked at you, devastated.

“I would’ve,” he said finally. “If I’d known—if I could take it back—”

“But you didn’t,” you whispered. “And I can’t keep bleeding for someone who only notices after I’m already broken.”

Sabo closed the distance, his voice cracking. “Please. Don’t go. We can fix this. I’ll do better—I promise—”

You touched his hand gently, then pulled away. “I believe you mean that. But it’s too late.”

He stared at you, eyes wide, breath shaky. “Please… don’t leave like this.”

You looked into his eyes—those eyes you’d once trusted with your whole heart—and felt it splinter.

“I love you,” you said. “But I need to love myself more.”

You turned, walking out the door as the sound of his breath hitched behind you. He didn’t chase you.

This time, he knew better.

And this time… you weren’t coming back.