#faults writes

[erifaults]

Comic journal: halloween, cosplay, gender exploration

I was originally working on these in time for halloween, but as you can see it got delayed for quite a bit - partly because of procrastination, partly because there's a feeling of 'I wonder if this is too personal to put out?'

[prlssprfctn]

Bruce and Jason, who accidentally fix their relationship in a relative secret and distance from the rest of the family (Alfred excluded, of course), and decide to keep this fact as a secret from the rest of the family, just for fun. Because, let's be honest, Bruce is no less a brat than Jason is, he is just better at hiding it the older he gets.

Dick, sighing: Listen, I am about to invite Jason to this family dinner. And I don't care if you want it or not! And if you try to sabotage this day by your moral code lectures, I'll have a word with you! Bruce, indifferent, while messaging Jason at the same time: Mhm.

(On the other part of Manor) Tim: Honestly, I am not giving you a choice here. You will come to this dinner, Jason. Just... just ignore Bruce, alright? Jason, dramatically huffing, while liking Bruce's messages: Yeah, yeah, WHATEVER! Alfred: ...My circus. My monkey. I shall stay collected, nevertheless.

Damian: Father had been disappearing after patrols lately. I can't track him... What do we think is going on? Is he found himself a new child he plans to adopt soon? We can't get another sibling. Tim: Relax. He is probably into a new woman. Or a man. Whatever. Dick, worried: Guys, what if it is another villain or rogue? Jason, with whom Bruce spends time after patrol by munching fast food on the skirts of town: ...Lol Damian: That's not funny, Todd. Barbara, who knows everything: ...It is funny. Dick: Babs!

Tim: You know, Jason had been surprisingly chill lately. I knew he was doing better, but he stopped avoiding Manor that much. Bruce, arching his eyebrows: Alright? Tim: Do you think... maybe you two can finally talk? And fix your mess? Bruce, who just came to the cave after reading session with Jason, hiding his smile behind a sad face: I don't know, chump. It is complicated.

Dick, calling Jason randomly: Urgh, B is such a bitch! Jason, gasping: Right? Tell me about it! Bruce, sighing from his side of the couch as Jason puts The Crown show on his television: ...

[lovegasmic]

imagine Caleb fingering you with the robotic hand, the sensation is kinda cool at first but not unwelcomed, not with how long and smooth they are, fuck, it’s so good, perfectly hitting that one spot that got your toes curling, “mm, yeah, you like that, sweetheart?” he cooes.

you whiney nod, “m-mh, s’good, ah...” a little squeak leaves as Caleb’s fingers start to go a little faster, “C-Caleb... it’s... ah, a little too much...”

“i got you, i— fuck” he groans, slapping the hand that suddenly has stopped responding and is constantly curling against your g-spot, “fuck, stupid shit!” it doesn’t stop, overwhelming pleasure rushing down your spine as you cry out louder and louder, “it won’t stop!”

Caleb is almost desperate at this point, slapping the metal hand until he feels you squirt, soaking the fingers that let a tiny ‘hiss’ of protest alongside a barely noticeable bolt of energy before finally shutting down.

he looks at your splayed out form, shaking and sweating profusely with an arm over your eyes, “are you okay?” he ask genuinely worried, “i’ll call for maintenance”

but before he is about to stand, your hand shoots to hold him, “do it again”

[chatlote]

Final Moments.

[bioethicists]

it's very important to understand how a personality disorder diagnosis functions in the psychiatric system, even if you identify with the diagnosis or find it useful.

personality disorders on your medical record will be used to discredit anything you say or do. they indicate "don't bother listening to this person; apply treatment regardless of their wishes but also they're probably manipulating/attention-seeking so maybe don't bother treating them". needing support becomes attention-seeking. behaviors that would be treated + supported in someone without this diagnosis are ignored or treated as manipulative. providers are instructed to "withdraw warmth" (a real thing in the DBT provider's manual, btw) in response to self-injury or suicidal ideation.

if you have been dx'd with a personality disorder professionally, you likely understand this.

now, here's the important part: this is not an issue of 'stigma' against a politically neutral, pre-discursive True Disease which is being Unfairly Maligned. these diagnoses were formulated based on the idea that some patients cannot be trusted, that some patients seek care too much. they are applied to patient charts as a justification for withdrawing care or as a dismissal of someone "not getting better" fast enough. in the uk, they are often employed by the nhs to shame or problematize people who use large amounts of nhs resources, arguing that receiving a lot of care through the nhs is a negative behavior stemming from a disordered personality.

there are elements of personality disorders which resonate strongly with many people, including myself, but you need to be clear-eyed about the origins + functions of this diagnosis. as a whole, they were created + function as ways to discredit + mistreat noncompliant or "difficult" patients. 'reclaiming' them is not going to change how they function systematically- it is going to make it easier to engage in this systematic neglect by evoking 'ableism' or 'stigma!' when people question the utility or application of the diagnosis.

[megapteraurelia]

suna rintarou who knows how to tie the stem of a cherry into a knot with his tongue. who is intent on teaching you how to. who beckons you closer with a wave of two fingers, curling up against his palm.

"open," he hums, his nose caressing yours, hands splayed out on your thighs, fingertips pressing into your flesh.

when your lips part, he had already tipped his head towards yours, tongue sneaking into your mouth. he tastes warm, sweet; the pink muscle wet and teasing against yours. he pushes something rough into your mouth, the stem scratchy and faintly covered in cherry juice. it feels weird, foreign next to the familiar touch of him.

one hand of his sneaks back to grip your neck tightly, pushing your lips closer to his. his tongue moves swiftly, dancing around yours as you let him devour your mouth. victim to his demonstration, a thin trickle of spit smears on your chin and a slight gasp isn't far behind.

within a couple seconds, he pulls back and lets you feel out the knot he tied in the stem.

"how—?"

a faint chuckle escapes him, and he broadens his tongue, licking up the remnants of spit on your chin up to your mouth.

he murmurs against you, "let me show you again."

he says that but when he gets up on his knees and looks down at you, thumb pulling down your lower lip to inspect your gums, your teeth, the red of your swollen mouth, the cherry stem is fast forgotten.

instead, there's a vulgar twitch in his lazy grin and an amused glint in his sharp eyes.

"open," he says again, and when you listen, beads of spit drop from his lolled tongue into your awaiting mouth.

blushed cheeks, heavy breath, crazed look in his eyes at how readily you take anything he gives you. for a second, he wonders how your mouth would look like with his cum and saliva painted all over your lips like his own special brand of lip gloss. he aches, and his spine catches fire at the fantasy.

before you know it, it's just him licking the inside of your mouth, hips grinding up your thigh, one hand of his buried in your hair to press you closer to him, the other shoved down your pants to find how wet you are.

rutting against your leg, he kisses you messily, sloppy; his pants growing wetter and wetter with each groan that leaves your mouth, because fuck, he can't wait to make a mess out of you, mix both of your fluids together like one of those damn witch's concoctions you brewed as kids, lick it all off you again, lose himself in your mouth and your heat.

his abdomen squeezes and your thighs tremble.

his cum, spit, your arousal — check, check, check.

TAGLIST | @takes1 ; @lale-txt (suffer with me, lale)

[demaparbat-hp]

In your Spitfire AU between Azula gaslight gatekeep girlboss attitude and Lu Ten II big puppy eyes they’re unstoppable duo

Woe betide those who stand in their way to greatness (aka Zuzu).

[featheredcrowbones]

the cast of OM after my MC makes them gayer except for the kids whose only worries are crayons and cookie dough

[merlinmylove]

Merlin leaves Camelot

“Speak treason against my uncle again, and I swear you can join yours in exile forever!” Arthurs voice thundered across the throneroom.

All Merlin had done was address his suspicions of Agravaines betrayal and for framing Gaius. He hadn’t even mention Morgana, or even Uthers death.

Everyone turned to look at him. The council was seated and the knights were in uniform. The lord and ladies of court are in attendance. As usual, Merlin is standing at the sideline, observing the council meeting. He had spoken out of turn.

He can see it in their faces that they’re just as afraid as he knows he should be.

While they had all experienced arguments between Arthur and Merlins before, it had never looked like this. Merlin had never accused a nobleman in such a public manner before, and Arthur had never truly threatened banishment either.

It was clear to everyone that time it was different, and they were all terrified. But Merlin was no longer afraid. Not of Arthur’s wrath his or judgement. He was just tired.

Tired of lying. Tired of being overwork and overlooked. Tired of never being believed.

He stood his ground. He’d come this far. He had been brave enough to voice his concerns, and had hoped that by doing so publicly would encourage Arthur to listen. But it had had the opposite effect.

“I had no idea,” He mumbled. The room had become eerily quiet. No one dared move or speak.

Gaius, who practically raised the king, and whom Arthur had admitted he loved more than any other father figure, had been exiled.

On the basis of one accusation of magic.

Just like old times. A whisper of the word, and your soul is doomed. No trial. No exemptions.

At least Arthur was happy to see the old man “flee,” for it meant he didn’t have to execute him. He was happy in his belief that Gaius had apparently run, rather than stay behind and risk the pyre.

No matter how nonsensical it all was, and no matter how much Merlin argued the old man had been kidnapped and framed, Arthur had made up his mind and the punishment was decided. And Merlin was done with it all.

“I had no idea my loyalty meant so little to you” Merlin spoke louder this time while he kept his eyes fixed on Arthur’s.

Arthur, who had frozen in shock, seemed more confused than hurt, though his anger was still present in his eyes. His mouth opened and closed with no sounds coming out. Merlin had truly rendered him speechless.

Merlin knew in his heart and soul that Arthur loved and trusted him. But his actions these last months had left him feeling bereft and broken.

“After all these years. After everything we’ve been through, after everything I have done for you. War, dragons, poisons, and heartbreak. After all of it, my loyalty clearly meant nothing to you.”

Arthur had never been heartless. He had always put others before himself, and would happily die to save anyone of his people. He had once drunk poison to save his kingdom.

But his father temperament and parenting had unfortunately had lasting effects, and he would occasionally act out in anger or frustration, before he’d had the chance to think things through.

This was one such occasion.

And Merlin was not about to let him do that again. Not to Gaius. Not like this.

It saddened him to think that Agravaine had his greasy fingers so deeply entrenched into Arthur’s heart. That his influence was so strong. The man in question is seated next to the king, on his right hand side, where Sir Leon should usually sit. While his face was portraying a perfectly false shocked expression, his eyes betrayed him. They were filled with glee.

Banishment had always been Merlin’s greatest fear. Death was of course a huge concern, but to be removed from Arthur’s side was unthinkable. He would rather die than be exiled.

And yet, the prat gave him no choice.

For once in his life, or at least the past seven years, Merlin did not choose Arthur’s side. He would leave. Maybe if he left, he would have a chance of saving Gaius’ life as he took Morganas’.

He walked towards his King with determined steps. His hand reaches inside his left pocket and picks up the Sigil Arthur gifted him a year ago. He holds it in his hands and feels the weight of the silver and his decision.

But at least the decision was his to make.

Merlin forcibly put the sigil back into Arthur’s hands. The man was so stunned by his action that he didn’t move or say anything. All eyes were on them and the sigil between their hands.

“Your uncle is having an affair with your sister. Lord Agravaine is a traitor to Camelot. It was he who killed King Uther by interfering with Dragoons healing magic, just like Gaius told you. It was he who told Morgana of your travel plans. It was he who kidnapped me alongside the bandits.”

Merlin spoke so calmly and gently it that the words cut like a knife. While his anger shone through the words he used, his tone was not angry — instead it was heartbreakingly honest.

“He was the one who goaded you into killing King Caerleon and starting a war. It was he who ended your courtship with Gwen, and it was he who betrayed you when the Dorocha attacked. Lord Agravaine is not your friend. He is the reason your father is dead.”

Arthur stumbled a little at this, and had Merlin not been so angry with him, he would’ve steadied him like he always had. But not right now, he needed Arthur to hear the truth of Agrvaine’s betrayal — even if the clotpole didn’t belive him.

“I have always been by your side, my Lord. I have never given you a reason to doubt my words. I have seen them together. I have seen the many times your uncle leaves the safety of the citadel late at night and does not return until the early morning.”

Merlin sighed.

“It is true that Gaius used to practice medicinal magic. Even Uther knew that and still he kept him alive and at court because he knew that Gaius’ knowledge was valuable to his kingdom. Did you never wonder how Gaius knew so much about magical curses and creatures? He told you many times he researched them — did it never cross your mind that he had books on the subject and your father had allowed it?”

From the look in Arthur’s eyes, he had not. Nor had anyone else in the room it seemed. Whispers and mumbling broke out, but Merlin drowned them out with his words.

“My uncle is not a traitor, but yours is. My uncle has been your steady guide and friend all these years. Yet in his hour of need Gaius, who have always supported you, was abandoned in favour of a man you met two years ago.”

He laughed at the irony and gave Arthur a sad smile. “Funny how your uncle never showed his face until King Uther, who never even trusted him, was dying and you were in a situation which was easily manipulated.”

He took a step back and let his words hover over him like an axe. He knew he had just doomed himself. And he had done so in view of everyone at court, all of whom had a higher standing than him and could demand him executed for his actions.

Each and every person sitting at the table he was never granted a place at, had witnessed his treasonous speech. Merlin looked into Arthur’s eyes as he said his final piece.

“There will not be any reason for banishment, sire. I leave Camelot willingly.”

Merlin didn’t bow. Nor did he look back as he walked out of the throneroom, leaving a heartbroken Arthur behind him. After the big wooden doors closed shut, he could hear shouts and disagreements.

Agravaine was in ruptures. Gwaine was shouting in anger. Leon was desperately trying to calm the situation. He could not hear Arthur’s voice.

In moments like these, Merlin was happy he was made of magic. He could momentarily pause time, and walk freely while the world around him stood in perfect silence. Waving a hand, he stopped time and watched at people stopped moving as if frozen.

He fell to the floor and let out an earth shattering scream. Grief and rage filled him as he clawed at his torso, nails digging into his skin drawing blood, as he felt the hopelessness of the situation bleed out of him.

Merlin allowed himself a few moments to mourn the friendship he had just lost in such a tragic way. Arthur could never forgive him for such a display of insubordination and insult.

He had ended their love and friendship in such a way that it could never be repaired. Merlin had finally truly fucked up by letting his emotions overrun. The emotions he had for years suppressed and ignored.

But as much as he regretted causing Arthur pain, he didn’t find himself regretting his actions. He loved Arthur more than anything in Albion, or even the world. He would let Camelot burn to the ground if it meant saving his life — but he could not stand by and watch as Arthur burn it to the ground himself.

After years of never being treated like a true friend should, of verbal and physical assaults, he had finally stood his ground. And in doing so, he lost his King.

Like always, Merlin had to push down his own emotions, and focus on the task ahead of him. Destiny must come before anything else. He could never help Arthur become the King he was destined to be if Morgana and Agrvaiane were still alive. And maybe by leaving Camelot he had a chance.

Despite his many chances of killing them before, Merlin could never find it in himself to kill Arthur’s only living family members. He would not wish to deprive Arthur of his uncle, but that was until his own was threatened.

First he had to get up and find Gaius, and then he would have a chance to stop Morgana and Agravaine before they completely overturned Camelot and killed Arthur.

Making his way quickly to the physician’s tower, he planned to pack and leave Camelot before anyone, like Gwaine or Lancelot, could try and stop him. But with time still stopped, he had no reason to stress.

He entered his home.

The room was in total chaos, broken glass had left potions seeping into on the floor, staining it. Books were scattered and thrown about from the guards’ search of magical items. In trying to find proof of his magical treason, they had destroyed Gaius’ lifework.

And his home.

Merlin carefully stepped over the bits of broken glass on the floor, navigating through overturned tables and bookshelves, and made way to his bedroom.

The world was completely quiet. A fly was frozen in air, hovering over the windowsill. Merlin realised he had forgotten to unfreeze time. He could do that now, but he wanted some more time to pack and plan.

For years he had put Arthur’s happiness before his own, before anyone else’s even. And he had tried to bite his tongue, to act from the shadows like he always had, but this time his emotions took over.

Merlin could only hope that by causing such a scene, Arthur was forced to face the reality and consequences of his own actions. Maybe by loosing Merlin, he would finally believe him.

Getting his book and Sidhe staff, he quickly threw all his clothes into his rucksack. He grabbed his bedroll and blanket, carefully wrapping his wooden dragon into it, and made sure his room was sufficiently empty, before he left.

Merlin allowed himself one last look at his Camelot home. The smell of herbs and spices filled his nose as he closed his eyes. At last he decided to unfreeze time, and he could hear the people in the castle come back to life.

Life continued in Camelot, as Merlin made his way down the spiral stairs. He knew the knights would be running around trying to find him, not knowing he was already leaving the castle grounds.

Once he had found Gaius and killed Morgana, he would return.

But not until he had fulfilled his destiny.

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Not beating the allegations.

[First] Prev <–-> Next

[chronalshifts]

i think a lot of people are calling viktor’s reaction to waking up changed and then almost immediately leaving for zaun unrealistic and like… yes it would be. for someone whose mind has not been affected by the hexcore. he speaks differently, he hears sky’s voice through its influence, he can no longer feel the cold, or the warmth of jayce’s hug. he walks away from jayce because he can no longer feel the affection that kept them together, and he sees no logical point in remaining when they have no common ground anymore. he might not be a machine externally, exactly, but his mind certainly isn’t human anymore.

[erifaults]

I made a list of the Top 10 Song Discovery - old and new - from 2024 for one of the music server that I'm in!

YouTube playlist

Spotify playlist

Very brief writeup for the song selections:

I Am The Intimidator - Gasoline "Better pump the gasoline motherfucker!" is just so goddamn catchy

Huntsmen - Rain Highlight to this post metal Americana themed album, with soaring vocals and great buildup

Meer - Come To Light This release is my Album of the Year. Such a joy to listen to, with amazing vocal performances and great arrangement

A Swarm Of The Sun - An Empire The whole album is this big moody atmosphere, that to just pick a track does not do justice to the experience. Listen to the whole album for the big sads

Mother of Millions - The Line This is more of a buildup to the following track on the album, but it's strong enough to stand on its own. The whole album feels big, heavy, evocative

Fellowship - Hold Up Your Hearts (Again) Cliche thing to say, but this really gives anime opening vibe. I do like my cheesy power metal every now and then

Forndom - Den kärlek som vi gav Beautiful Swedish folk with orchestral elements

[older releases]

Fleshwater - Kiss The Ladder Mix of shoegaze and grunge? Apparently there's some a bit of resurgence of shoegaze these days

YUSUKE CHIBA - SNAKE ON THE BEACH - - ラブ��ター I haven't really explored his work outside of TMGE. Rest in peace Veltpunch - Crawl Random find through the good ol' algorithm. I've been listening to this song a good deal through 2024!

[blainesebastian]

moments

word count: 10,720 ship: Nick Leister x reader rating: NC-17 (for some smut, suggestive sexual language and expletives) summary: There are moments you know you shouldn’t compare your ex to Nick, there’s no place where the two converge. Or maybe, you suppose, that’s exactly the point. notes: idk man this movie has become my whole personality, i got nothing else to say. (other than the gifs are from this awesome gifpack!) notes 2: reader has an abusive ex. while there are no explicit scenes of abuse, there are discussions of past abuse and trauma edit: i now have a masterlist!

You met Nick at a party like this. 

You had just broken up with your boyfriend and instead of wallowing, your friends dragged you to the nearest party they could find. You’re not easily someone who believes in fate or the universe having a plan, but you think that something happened that night to bring Nick into your life. 

You can still feel the thrum of the music in your veins, bumping into him as he was carrying drinks to someone, right on the makeshift dance floor in someone’s house. You remember opening your mouth to apologize–

“You should really come with a warning label if you’re going to swing your arms like that.” He says, British accent thick, eyes sharp. 

He’s beautiful, you think. He’s also an asshole. 

Your hands fall to your hips, eyebrows drawing together as you take a look at him. Really take a look. You moved here because your parents had work, ironically with Nick’s father. You’ve heard of the infamous Nick but haven’t met him in person. 

Lucky you, that seems to be tonight. 

Your eyes draw in the line of his jaw, the way his eyes flit over to yours, assessing you as you take in him. Your gaze runs from the light blonde, highlighted curls in his hair, to the strong shoulders, to the tapered waist. 

And then you spit out, “So should you, if you’re going to open your mouth.” 

He’s taken back, you can tell, a flicker of amusement in his eyes now at having the banter to play with. The corners of his mouth twitch in an almost smile, “Then I guess we better steer clear of one another,” He replies, leaning closer so you can hear him over the music.  You can smell laundry detergent, expensive cologne, “Two warning labels usually infer a pending explosion.” 

Keeping your distance didn’t exactly work, though. Your friends are in the same circles, and two curving lines have no choice but to eventually converge. It seems like everywhere you turn around, Nick is there. Other parties, weekends at lush spots, fighting rings, underground driving events, the list goes on and on. 

You seem stuck in this man’s orbit, this layer of so-called ‘danger’ slipping warmly into your veins and heating you up from the inside out. With every interaction, there’s still the barbed exchanges, the rolling of eyes, the quirk of lips. But you’re not sure how much of that is show—you both know how to have a good time with your set of friends, sometimes even with eachother. You’re not sure you’d call Nick a friend but…you suppose it’s better than what you were when you first met. 

As you move through the crowd of people gathered in the large, mansion-esque living room of the latest party you’re at, you do your best to find Jenna. She’s not the friend you came with, but you wanted to catch up, maybe even dance? You’re not exactly in the mood to be here tonight, so maybe that’ll open you up a bit more to having a good time. 

Turning down a hallway, you pause as you almost run into someone. A guy taller than you, eyes glassy, giving you a onceover before a grin, “Lost?” 

You sigh audibly, shaking your head, “Nope,” Voice full-American, which seems to bring a twinkle of amusement to the guy’s face, “Just headed that way.” You point towards the kitchen. 

“I can show you around,” He offers, trying to sling an arm around your shoulders, “Sounds like you might need a tour guide.” 

And boy, are you getting tired of that boring line. You get it, you’re not from London, but just because you’re American does not mean you need someone to show you around. You’ve been here for half of a year, you’re not about to call yourself a native, but you’re definitely settling in. 

“No,” You push his arm away. 

“Stop being so ungrateful,” He scoffs, taking two heavy steps forward. The movement is awkward, like his body is catching up with his brain. You’re not anticipating it, so you find yourself stumbling back, knocking into a table as he grabs your arm. 

“Get off me,” You snap, trying to yank yourself free, but this guy won’t let up. 

He’s wearing a ring on his one finger and it’s twisted in the wrong direction so that the stone actually slides against your arm when you try to create some space. It’s a quick cut, nothing you’d write home about but t’s the fact that he won’t back up, he won’t let go–

“Hey!” 

Your head snaps in the direction of the familiar voice, Nick, coming down the set of stairs near where you’re standing. He rounds the corner, reaching in one fluid movement to yank the guy off. Tall guy stumbles back, tripping over the carpet, Nick’s body suddenly standing in front of yours. 

“Are you deaf?” Nick snaps, cocking his head as if he���s really trying to understand. His body lines up at an angle, as if he’s ready for a fight and that’s the last thing you want. Your hand gently moves to the back of his shirt, a soft tug, his muscles flexing beneath your touch. 

He glances over his shoulder at you before turning his attention back to Tall guy, movements relaxing—he bends to your request. No fighting. 

Until Tall guy opens his mouth.

“Didn’t know she was going to be such a bitch about—” 

There’s barely a moment in which the sentence is finished before Nick’s fist is flying through the air. It lands on this guy’s nose and he crumbles like a house of cards. A small gasp leaves your lips, your eyes wide as blood spurts from between the guy’s fingers and Nick rolls his shoulders, turning to check you over. 

“Look at me,” He says, hand touching your arm. Your eyes snap to his and he scowls at the cut there, red and angry thanks to that guy’s ring. “C’mon, let's clean you up.” 

Nick’s hand slips down to gently clasp your own, tugging you towards the kitchen. It’s not very busy, or maybe people are clearing out at the look on Nick’s face, either way you’re glad it’s not as stifling as some of the other rooms. He scoots you backwards until your legs find a stool and you prop yourself up on it, Nick moving to grab a washcloth from one of the drawers. You watch him carefully, trying to figure out what the fuck just happened. 

“You didn’t need to hit him.” 

He pauses and then turns to look at you with his eyebrows raised. A scoff tumbles forth, “I think the words you’re looking for are ‘thank you’.” 

Now it’s your turn to look surprised, “For what? Punching someone?” 

His eyebrows draw together, amusement flickering in his eyes like a heated fire, “You have the strangest way of showing people your gratitude.” He moves towards you like a force. He’s not that much taller than you, but Nick’s the kind of person to take up space. The kind of person you step aside for. Handsome and unpredictable, just like the first day you met him. 

Blame it on the action from tonight, the leftover adrenaline shaking your body, prior experience with hands on you in ways that have not been kind, something—but when Nick reaches out and takes your arm—you flinch. 

He notices instantly, letting go and taking one step back to give you space. His eyes dance over you for a moment and you know he’s taking in the way you’ve wrapped your arms around yourself, your shoulders drawn in, the slight shaking to your hands. 

“Sorry,” He apologizes, voice a shade gentler than it was before. 

You swallow over an unspoken emotion in your throat before straightening your shoulders, eyes narrowing as you take a look at him. “I’m just saying I could have handled it.” 

He doesn’t argue with you this time, must sense you need to own that somehow, and just nods, “Can I see your arm?” 

You’re holding your arm to your chest like an injured bird does its wing, even though you’ve had worse. You’ve been through worse. Scars that you can’t see but are still there. You run your tongue over your teeth before relaxing your spine, slowly extending your arm towards him. 

Nick takes that as permission to walk back towards you and at the angle of the stool, you’re almost eye level, his body slightly between your knees as he turns your arm over in his hands. He takes the washcloth that he’s dampened and drags it across your skin. 

You close your eyes, biting down on the inside of your cheek, hating to admit what you’re about to say as your pulse slows,  “I didn’t…actually…have that handled.” You hate to think of what could have happened if Tall guy hadn’t backed off, if you couldn’t have stopped him, if no one would have thought twice to check if you were okay.

Nick doesn’t say anything though, just continues to clean the cut, his eyes trained on your skin. His thumb brushes the inside of your arm, a silent comfort, encouraging you to speak again, 

“My ex was a real jerk, put his hands on me.” You do not elaborate, but it seems like you don’t need to. Nick’s movements still a moment, his jaw working. “Not something you get used to or over quickly.” 

“Your ex is lucky he’s still in America.” He mumbles after a few breaths, his thumb still tracing back and forth over the inside of your elbow, his eyes finally meeting yours. You’re not sure why you’re surprised at what you see there. A gentleness, an anger, a protective warmth that you…maybe knew Nick was capable of but hadn’t seen firsthand. 

A soft smile tugs the corners of your mouth, your hand settling on his, “Not your problem.” 

“Shouldn't be yours either.” He says, squeezing your fingers. 

There’s this moment where you can’t tear your eyes from his, that heat that’s associated with Nick winding itself around you like ivy, digging between your ribs. It’s like something magnetic, you can’t quite look away, and yet you remind yourself of what was shared between the two of you when you first met. Two warning signs, indeed, could mean some sort of explosion. 

And yet, this person right here? The one standing in front of you? You think that might be worth the risk. Someone that’s maybe just as kind and thoughtful as they are opinionated, and impulsive. Velvet over broken glass. This version is not the Nick you thought you knew…and you’re not sure what to do with that. 

“Uhm,” You clear your throat, breaking the moment, “Have you seen Jenna? I was gonna see if she wanted to dance but now I kinda want to head home. Just want to say bye.” 

He shakes his head, helping you off the stool by slipping his hand into your own. “No, but I can drive you.” 

You soothe your hand over your jeans, “You don’t have to go out of your way.” 

Nick smiles a little, the expression open, “Don’t worry about it—this party is quickly losing its appeal anyways.” 

You don’t fight him on it twice. 

—

In spite of so called ‘warning labels’—there are sometimes shared looks, quiet smiles, and a warmth that blooms as you get to know one another. Maybe that’s friction. Maybe it’s something else. 

“Swear no one hears me when I say I don’t like onions,” You crinkle your nose in the booth of a diner, pressed to the one corner, Nick across from you as Jenna and Lion share the other seats. The table is completely covered with food to share, Jenna laughing as Lion tries to steal her fries. 

There are raw onions on the burger you ordered, despite asking for it without. Before you can lift the bun to take them off, Nick reaches across the table and swaps your plates. He says nothing, doesn’t even lift his eyes to look at you—but his burger is now in front of you. Onion free. 

A soft smile tugs the corners of your mouth and you can’t help the small thrill of butterflies in your chest as you add ketchup to your fries. 

—

Your parents don’t know about your ex. 

You just…never wanted to tell them what happened. Especially since it didn’t matter, you were moving to London, leaving him behind and all the problems that came with it. Maybe if they knew your mom would talk to you about what healthy relationships look like, maybe they would suggest therapy. Maybe you’d even go. Sometimes it’s hard to admit that the person who went through what happened was actually you. As if you’re a spector in your own life. 

Every so often, you deny you have emotional scars. The physical ones have long faded to healed skin. Except, scars run deep, and sometimes you’re not even aware they’re still there until they flutter to the surface. They rear their ugly heads in the most unexpected of times. 

Or maybe it shouldn’t be surprising at all. 

A glass shatters. 

Your entire body goes rigid even though Jenna is laughing and leaning into Lion over it. The sounds start to warp around you and you’re staring at the glass at the floor, as if the shards will leap into the air and perform some sort of circus act. You’re over Nick’s house with your friends, having drinks and hanging out by the pool, you’re all getting a refill and someone overreaches for a glass in a cabinet. 

“Butter fingers,” Lion teases his girlfriend, grabbing her hand to spin her close and kiss her shoulder. 

“Was an ugly glass anyways,” Giles replies, crinkling his nose. 

Your hand lingers on your chest a moment, your heart hammering under the pressure of your fingers. You try to tell yourself that it’s an accident, that you’re not in danger, that you’re not what happened to you. You talk through all that helpful language you googled that’s supposed to help center yourself when you feel like you’re on the edge of a panic attack. You remind yourself that you’ve been doing well, you’ve been coping, that past memories belong in a box in the back of your mind and that a sound isn’t strong enough to unleash them. 

But nothing helps. 

Your vision narrows and then goes glassy, fuzzy black fades in from the edges, it feels like there’s a hand around your throat, squeezing. You excuse yourself quietly for the bathroom and your friends don’t notice, which is fine, you’re not sure you’d be able to stop even if they did. 

You make a b-line for the bathroom, turning a corner too fast and bumping into—

“Whoa,” Nick’s hands come down on your shoulders. When he gets a good look at your face, his eyes widen slightly. “Hey—” His voice is soft, dipping his chin to try and catch your gaze, “Hey, what’s wrong?” 

“I—” You choke out, air constricted in your throat, “I can’t—”

Nick seems to understand, gently backing you up towards the bathroom. The door doesn’t shut completely, angling towards closed, which you’re grateful for—the room doesn’t feel any smaller than it already does. Tears gather in your eyes, frustration and concern building up in your chest like a bonfire. You don’t claw at your skin, but you’ve been there, where it feels like the only way that you can possibly feel better is to peel it off your neck. Like there’s a literal barrier between you and breathing. 

You don’t even realize you’ve sat down on the closed toilet seat until Nick’s kneeling in front of you. His voice sounds like it’s underwater and he takes your hand to rest it on his chest. You can feel the beat of his heart under your fingertips, the steady intake of air as he speaks again.

He keeps repeating the same phrase as tears spill down your cheeks, “Copy me.” 

“Wh-what?” You stutter out, his words suddenly coming in sharp, clear. 

His other hand, the one not holding your hand on his chest, cups your cheek, brushing tears away with his thumb. He curls your hair around your ear, fingers resting against your neck. 

“Breathe with me,” Nick’s voice is patient, squeezing your fingers, his thumb working back and forth along your knuckles, giving you something to concentrate on. “In—” He draws breath into his lungs, then, “Out—” He whispers, letting it go. 

You copy, barely, chest aching. It comes out as a gasp. 

“Good,” He nods, “Again.” He waits. “Again.” He soothes, “Again.” 

Until it becomes easier, until it doesn’t feel like your entire chest is caving in. The hyperventilating slows, your eyes slide shut, your pulse calms in your throat. You don’t open your eyes until the dull roar disappears in your ears, Nick’s thumb still moving calming circles against your knuckles, your neck. 

Your gaze eventually meets his brown ones, concerned as they trace your face. His hand moves again, the one on your neck, cupping your cheek and removing another tear track. 

“There you are,” He says softly, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I got you.” 

You swallow over what feels like glass in your throat, your fingers still holding onto his t-shirt against his chest like a lifeline. You don’t often get panic attacks like that, but when they come? They drive through you with the force of a freight train. 

“Can I get you anything?” 

You blink, trying to figure out if you do, in fact, need something. A glass of water might be nice, but you don’t want him to move, the weight of him against your legs grounding in a way you can’t explain. 

You decide on shaking your head, your hand eventually falling from his chest to rest in your lap. His hand follows yours, brushing his thumb along your knee. 

“They always come on fast like that?” 

You shake your head, “Sometimes I think they’re completely gone, they just—pop up out of nowhere.” You sniffle, curling your hair around your ear. You have no idea why your cheeks flush in embarrassment, but they do, to let someone see where you’re struggling the most. Where you feel the most vulnerable. 

But when your eyes meet Nick’s, there’s no judgement there. Just a soft gaze, open, waiting. 

“A glass fell in the kitchen, broke and—my ex used to throw things when he got pissed off. The sound, it just—” You’re not sure you have to explain, hoping it’s enough.

Nick’s face is unreadable, but there’s something in his eyes—a dangerous sort of calm that you wouldn’t wish on anyone. He traces his thumb around your knee. 

“Sounds like a real tool.” 

The comment is so out of pocket that a laugh bubbles up in your chest and you nod, “He was. Sometimes I feel like relationships are just always meant to end messy, one way or another.” Or maybe you’ve convinced yourself, somehow, that you don’t deserve something good. You put yourself out there with your ex, and look at what happened. 

Nick shakes his head, holding your gaze when he says, “Not all of them.” 

There’s a small thrill that works its way into your chest, something weighted in the way he says it. You chew on your lower lip, Nick’s eyes slipping to your mouth, and you’re suddenly reminded of time you’ve spent together. While you have the same friends, you’re not sure if you’d consider that to define your relationship. And yet here he is, on his knees in front of you, making sure you’re alright. 

“Thought it was best we steer clear of one another,” You repeat his suggestion from the first time you met but your voice is teasing. “Pending explosions and all.” 

Nick stands and your head tips back to look at him. He seems to give it careful thought, his pursing lips making a soft laugh leave your lips. “Think I can handle a little danger—can’t you?” 

You find yourself nodding and take his hand when it’s offered, tugging you up off the toilet to head back out to your friends. 

—

Nick spends the night checking in with you—it’s not so much words he uses, but its eyes dancing over your form, it’s a tentative hand on your lower back, it’s making you laugh—long and hard, it’s picking you up over his shoulder and jumping into the pool with you, it’s your lips brushing when you float to the surface when he’s grinning. 

It’s like he’s suddenly everywhere, not just here at his place, but over the next few weeks that you end up spending time with one another. A hand brush here and there, a shared grin, hushed laughter and an ease and comfortability that was not there before. 

A so-called ‘warning label’ begins to fizzle down to its base form—what it actually is.

Attraction. And that’s not something that feels so hazardous anymore. 

—

You love dancing. You’re not altogether good at it, but that doesn’t matter. After enough to drink, the alcohol buzzing like warm bees in your system, with your friends around you, the lure of letting off steam and feeling comfortable in your veins just overwhelms you. 

The club that you end up at is a typical haunt on a Saturday night, your smile bright as you wrap your arms around your best friend from behind. Jenna laughs nearby, turning to smack a kiss to Lion’s cheek. Nick brings back a tray of shots for everyone and you take yours eagerly, tipping it back. 

When you set the glass down, Nick has his eyes on you, a smile pulling at the edges of his mouth. He's dressed in a black t-shirt, and you can’t help but sneak a peek at his biceps, how well he fills out the fabric. His long sleeve shirt is gone somewhere, maybe where everyone was once sitting before. He looks comfortable, like you could curl up against him, like his arms could lift you up—

“Enjoying the view?” He asks over the music, leaning closer. 

You shiver, refusing to show how much a simple question has an impact on you. Because yes, you were. 

You shrug, “It’s not bad. I’m still deciding.” 

He steps closer, into your space, his hand sliding down your arm and when he speaks this time; his lips brush your ear. “Anything I can do to influence that decision?” 

This time you can’t hide your body’s reaction, you know that Nick feels it, his fingers brushing over goosebumps that appear on your forearm. You hate the smug look on his face as he pulls away, so you decide the only distraction that’ll work at this point is tugging him onto the dance floor. You turn your arm in his hand, sliding up until your palms meet. 

“You can dance with me.” 

Nick smiles, following you onto the floor,  your friends following. It’s a small circle of moving bodies, and despite the nerves that are skittering along your nerves like spiders, you let yourself slip into the music. It’s some sort of bouncy electronic bop that you know well and you find yourself singing along to the chorus as you dance along to it. You can’t help but laugh as Nick grabs your hand and spins you, angling his body closer to yours. There’s a swaying motion, his hands ending up on your hips. 

He squeezes; a question in his eyes, if it’s alright to put his hands on you like this. Because it’s slightly more intimate than small, insignificant touches you’ve shared before. You’re overwhelmed by the gesture, that despite how close you’ve gotten, he still wants to make sure it’s okay. That permission means everything to you. 

You respond with a grin, your arms wrapping around his neck, keeping him close. And you’re inseparable for the rest of the night. 

—

Nick has a driver pick you all up so no one has to worry about driving. There’s a few minutes outside the club, waiting on the pavement. When you wrap your arms around yourself, a slight breeze causing a chill down your spine, he slides off the long-sleeve shirt he came in and drapes it over your shoulders. The warmth of his body lingers and you draw the fabric over your hands, breathing in the scent of his cologne. 

When an SUV arrives, you end up sharing a row with him. The sway of driving rocks you gently, your eyes slipping closed as your head rests back against the seat, and when you wake up at your place, you’re tucked under Nick’s arm along his side. 

—

Nick hands you a book in passing, something that he had tucked away in his car as you’re about to get into Jenna’s to leave the underground driving circle. It’s so unexpected and somehow odd in a place like this that you kinda blink. Your fingers brush as the book transfers from one palm to another. 

“Thought you might like this,” He says. 

It’s well-read, obviously by him. And it’s something so simple, saying ‘I thought of you’, ‘I think about you’, ‘you’d like this’—something your ex never did. 

He never thought about you. Not like that. Not gently. Not with concern and affection. Not in a way that mattered, that made you feel good. 

You look down at the title, a small smile tugging the corners of your lips—The Things They Carried. Somehow it’s fitting. 

“You think about me?” You ask, voice teasing, holding the book to your chest. 

Nick grins, “Hard not to.” 

And before he can back away, you wrap your fingers in his shirt and pull him close, tipping your head up to kiss him. 

It’s everything you ever thought it might be. There’s a brief moment of hesitation before he cups both sides of your face, angling the movement down, tongue teasing the seam of your lips. His body presses against yours but it fits perfectly, lines up with your own, as if something was missing beforehand that you were unaware of. 

“Thank you,” You whisper after a moment, against his mouth. “For the book.” 

Nick licks his lips, his thumb brushing over your lower one. “Definitely have more recommendations if this is the general reaction.” 

And well, you’ve always been a reader. 

—

“Oh come on,” You chew on your lower lip, “Pancakes all the way.” 

Nick scoffs something far too attractive, crinkling his nose as he heats up the waffle iron. “Knew there had to be something wrong with you, after all this time, just didn’t know it was gonna be this.” 

You toss a blueberry at him and he, annoyingly, catches it, popping it into his mouth with a grin. He points a spatula at you. 

“How have you lived a life thinking pancakes are superior to waffles? This an American thing?” 

“This is an ‘I’m right’ thing.” You toss back, looking at all the different combinations of sweets that can go on or in these pancakes (or waffles). “The ridges in waffles make it difficult to spread butter evenly.” 

Nick licks his lips, his finger tracing the handle of the spatula as he turns pancakes over in the pan. He adds batter to the waffle iron. “Not if you try hard enough.” 

You shake your head, amusement skittering along your spine as you can’t help but look down at his hands. He’s wearing two rings today, something comfortable and simple. But the only thing it does is highlight the shape of them, gorgeous, like they were made to play an instrument. 

“I think you’re just trying to infer that you’re good with your hands.” 

“What was that about my hands?” He raises his eyebrows, voice impossibly warm like dripping honey. 

He sets two finished pancakes on a plate and flips the flame off under the pan. He leans against the counter as he looks at you, something molten slipping from your stomach to between your legs as you hold his gaze. 

“You heard what I said.” 

Nick wanders over, encroaching on your space in the best way. He tilts his head down a little, brushing his lips over yours as he lifts you onto the counter in one even swoop. 

You can’t help but grin, your hands settling on his shoulders as he slips between your legs. 

“Sounds like you’re going to need a hands-on demonstration.” 

“I can’t believe you said that with a straight face.” But your laugh comes out as a whimper as Nick’s fingers press against the center of you, an easy target given how you’ve splayed your legs to accommodate his body, the fabric of your leggings leaving nothing to imagination. 

“Oh,” Nick whispers against your lips, amusement dancing across his handsome features as he begins to move his thumb, “Maybe you don’t need a demonstration at all.” 

And this asshole actually dares to move his hand, as if he’s giving up the suggestion. You clamp your knees together as best you can, his body in the way, a chuckle rumbling in his chest as his hand becomes trapped between your thighs. 

“Don’t you dare.” You mumble against his mouth.

“Is that a threat?” He nips at your lower lip, tugging it between his teeth at the same time his hand encourages your thighs to open to give him room. He pushes into the waistband of your leggings, a smirk decorating his mouth as you scooch closer to the edge of the counter. A shiver skitters down your spine at the feel of the cold metal of his rings brushing against heated skin. 

You hate giving him the satisfaction of any noises leaving your mouth but at a certain point, it becomes undeniable. And he knows that. You swear that having him like this is something you’re never going to get used to, despite that things are still new between you two. His thumb drags over your clit, one finger slipping into you, your back bowing a little when he adds another. 

“That’s it,” He leans down and presses an open-mouthed kiss on your neck, your heartbeat pounding in your ears as he picks up the pace. It doesn’t take much, he’s so precise with his fingers, leaning into every tell your body has, reading you like an open book every time you make a sound. 

When his tongue travels over your pulse point and his thumb pays close attention to your clit, tight even circles, you don’t stand a chance. Pleasure snaps like a band, your body clamping down on his fingers. You lean up to drape yourself over him, wrapping your arms around his shoulders, tucking your face in his neck. 

The arm that’s free slides along your back, brushing up and under your shirt, running his fingers along your spine and you press a kiss to his shoulder, threading your fingers through his hair. You tug on his curls, just a little, just to arch his head back a bit. 

He smiles up at you, eyes dark, lower lip wet from biting it, a visible strain in his sweatpants. You open your mouth to reply, to offer reciprocation, but then smoke in your periphery catches your attention. 

“Shit,” He mumbles, pulling away from you to turn the waffle iron off. You wince a little but a small laugh bubbles up in your chest, leftover butterflies in your stomach, cheeks warm, body feeling far too empty. 

“Can’t believe the waffles burned.” You comment lightly, running a hand through your hair. 

Nick glances at you, a small smile on his face, mischief lighting up his brown eyes. He tugs you forward, but this time, he’s got the fabric of your leggings between his fingers, yanking them off. 

“S’alright,” He replies, spreading your legs again, intending to sink his head between them, “Think I’m more of a pancakes guy anyways.” 

—

Nick is nothing like your ex, there is no place where the two converge. Period. 

—

You hate that Nick fights in the ring. Sometimes there’s gloves, other times there’s bare fists. You hate the blood and the bruises and the fact that fucking Lion bets on him like he’s a winning horse. Most of the time you can’t even watch. Like tonight. You wait in the car, everyone headed back to Nick’s afterwards to debrief, to let off steam. 

You can tell he’s pissed the moment he gets into the driver’s seat. 

There’s lines pulling his face, his shoulders tight and the muscle in his jaw feathering. There’s a bruise starting along his jawline, cuts on his cheek. You squeeze your eyes shut and your fingers dig into the plush leather. 

You don’t ask how it went because you already know. 

When you make it into his kitchen, leaning against the counter, you watch as he paces a moment, stewing, his hands shaking as he looks over at Lion. 

“It wasn’t called at the right fucking time.” 

“It was,” Lion says evenly, “The refs—”

“The fucking refs are fucked,” He snaps, his voice echoing in the space. You swear you can hear the glass in the cabinets tremble, “He threw a punch after the bell rung. What’s the point of doing any of this if it’s not going to be fair?” 

“Maybe you shouldn’t be doing it at all,” You mumble, arms crossed over your chest. It’s quiet, but you can tell the moment that he hears you. His entire body goes still before he turns and rolls his shoulders, like he’s still in the ring. Like he’s itching for a fight. 

“That’s cheap coming from you, isn’t it? You won’t even step through the doors to support me.” 

Your mouth falls open at the same time Jenna hisses Nick, your response only serving to amp him up even further. 

“I’m not going to go in there and you know it.” You know why, is what you actually want to say, but you don’t give him that satisfaction. You’re calling him out on his bullshit well enough. 

Besides, you’re not the one he’s really mad at, he’s just taking his frustrations out on you. But before you can tell him how fucked up that is, Lion pipes up with a —

“You’re gonna have to fight him again, a re-match.” 

Nick explodes, the kind that he warned you about the first night you met, his arm snapping out and striking items on the kitchen counter. It’s not glass, but the reaction you have is the same. A plastic fruit bowl spins and hits the cabinets, oranges rolling out of it, a set of papers flutter to the floor like birds, and something cracks loudly against a chair, someone’s iPhone maybe. 

It doesn’t matter what it is because you go rigid, eyes wide as you stare at the items on the floor. He runs both of his hands through his hair, his gaze finding your face when you let out a short breath out of your mouth, attempting to unhook your shoulders from your ears. Nick looks at the floor and then back to you, muttering shit under his breath. 

He takes a step towards you, “Y/N,” and you mimic one back, keeping space between you. A defense mechanism but it doesn’t stop that look from sliding onto his face, regret replacing anger, concern replacing frustration. 

“Shit, I’m sorry,” Nick says, voice pinched, “I’m sorry—I didn’t—”

You shake your head, putting your hand up so he stops talking. You need space, you need to go outside and take a breath. You slip out of the kitchen towards the pool and Nick must try to follow you because you hear Jenna stop him in his tracks— just leave her alone for a little while, man.  

He’ll come find you though. He always does.

—

You debate leaving but end up sitting by the pool instead. Your legs are drawn up against your chest, fingers dragging through the water, chin resting on one of your knees. You hear and feel him more than see him come out onto the pool deck. 

“Can I join you?” He asks, hovering. 

You know that if you told him no he’d respect that, he’d listen.. But you can’t, even though a small part of you wishes you could. You nod softly, not looking at him, waiting for him to slide down beside you. He’s facing you, one leg in the pool, one curled up underneath him. He smells like clean soap, fresh clothes—he must have showered and changed to give you some time. You ache to run your fingers through his damp curls, to touch him somehow. But you don’t. 

It’s quiet for a while, just the sound of your shared breathing and your fingers gliding through the water. 

Nick clears his throat, “I have a temper, I’ve always had it.” Since his mom, are the unspoken words. “Despite how hard I try to bury it…it seems to always find its way to the surface.” His voice is soft, gentle, as if he’s afraid he might spook you, that you might run. “It’s why I’m good at racing or fighting.”  

You know this, you know he has an anger inside of him that sprouts like weeds, recognizes it in him like you did your ex…even though they are not the same, will never be the same. Nick has talked to you about his mom countless times, you’ve met her and Maddie and know that they’re working on their relationship. They’re in a good place, despite the emotions that Nick still feels sometimes. Maybe they’ll always be there. 

He tentatively reaches for your hand, and when you allow him to touch you, he tugs your laced fingers to rest in his lap. He traces circles around your knuckles, “Look at me.” 

You breathe out through your nose, turning your gaze away from the pool and meeting his eyes. You’re struck by him, always have been, you think. Ever since you ran into him at that party. There must be a soft pout to your lips because he brushes his other thumb along the corner of your mouth.

“It’s not something I’m particularly proud of. But I know I don’t want to see that look on your face ever again.” He shakes his head, ripping his gaze from yours, as if he’s embarrassed. You know what he’s talking about. Fear. What must have been on your face—it’s not something that can be helped, no matter how much you’ve been working on it.

“Not because of me.” 

You swallow over a lump in your throat over that, over the fact that Nick, at the core of his being, wants to protect you. Despite his rough demeanor, despite the fact that he sometimes leads too much with his fists or can have a nasty set of words for someone, he’s good deep down. Something your ex never was. 

You squeeze his hand back, reaching out to touch his cheek. You angle his face up, running your thumb over his cheekbone, 

You don’t say that it’s okay, because it’s not, but you do want him to know, “I trust you.” You say after a moment. It is not something you give easily, something that’s definitely earned. And Nick has. He holds your gaze after that, a soft nod, turning his chin into your palm. His nose and lips brush the love line on your hand and he presses a kiss there. 

“C’mere.” He whispers, encouraging you closer, to sit on his lap. You fold into him easily, as if you’ve always fit there. 

–

There’s a long sigh out of your mouth as you move from your spot on the couch to get the front door when there’s a series of knocks. You kinda hope it’ll go away, but your parents aren’t home to check. There’s a twinge in your nose and a headache building behind your eyes, the worst head cold you’ve had for a while. Exhausted, slightly nauseous, throat sore, and kinda ready to throw hands at whoever is making you answer the front door when you could be passed out on a bunch of pillows and blankets. 

“Coming!” You call out, rubbing your throat, “Sheesh.” 

Without looking at the small video monitor for security set up next to the door, you yank it open, getting ready to give whoever is selling something a piece of your mind. But then you stop, blinking, because it’s—

“What are you doing here?” Your voice croaks, Nick wincing at the sound. 

He’s in a pair of sweats, a white t-shirt, and oversized jacket, a pair of sunglasses pushed up into his curls as he takes a look at you. Your cheeks are flushed thanks to being sick, but you feel like your fever has kicked up a notch under the careful inspection. You have no idea what you look like, but you can guess it’s a mess. 

“Jenna said you weren’t feeling well,” He steps forward and when he does you notice he’s got a paper bag in his hand. “Though I’m wondering why you didn’t tell me that yourself.” 

You rub the back of your neck—you really just…didn’t want to be a burden. “I didn’t want you to get sick.” Is what you say instead, which isn’t exactly a lie. 

“Well,” Nick hums, brushing his fingers through your hair, “Lucky for you, I have an impeccable immune system.” 

You crinkle your nose, fit to argue with him, but the moment you open your mouth, you turn and sneeze. A small smirk sounds from Nick when you groan. “Bless you.” 

You straighten your shoulders, rubbing some of your fingers against your temple as you turn to look at Nick. You want to tell him that it’s not necessary, that he doesn’t need to do anything extra for you, regardless that he’s here already. But at the same time, you also know he’s stubborn—he’s not going anywhere. And what’s the harm of allowing someone to take care of you? 

Your ex never would have showed up like this. The moment you’d let him know you were sick, he’d make a joke to keep a distance. Maybe that’s why, subconsciously, you never even thought to let your current boyfriend know you were struggling. 

“You better have a miracle cure in that bag,” You tease, the lightness in your voice covered by congestion. “I’d settle for tissues.” 

Nick reaches into the bag and pulls out a whole box. A whole box of tissues that have lotion in them. He gives you a small, knowing smile. 

“Did I mention you’re my favorite person?” You ask, snagging the box. You open it up, taking some tissues out. 

Nick breezes past you with a kiss to your temple, “I know—but reminders are always appreciated.” 

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling. 

Not only does this man make you soup, and make sure you have cold-relief meds, but in that paper bag of wonders he has one of those heatable stuffed animals, the ones that you can put in the microwave and smell like lavender (if you could breathe through your nose). You settle into the couch, the half-eaten soup on the coffee table as a movie plays in the background. You’ve kind of lost the plot, your eyes falling closed as you’re surrounded by some pillows and blankets, the warmed-up stuffed fox pressed to your abdomen. Nick’s seated in the corner of the couch, arm stretched out along the back—you’ve been trying to keep your distance but…god, he really looks comfortable.

He smiles a little in soft amusement, as if he can read your mind, his eyes sliding over to yours. His lips quirk, tilting his head a bit in his direction, 

“C’mon.” 

You shake your head, “I really don’t—” 

“Get over here,” He interrupts, leaning over to wrap his arm around your waist and tug until you're pressed against his side. You don’t fight it, a shiver wracking down your spine as you settle against him. “Cold?” 

You nod, fitting against his side, underneath his arm, tucking your face into his shoulder. You wish you could breathe him in, that comforting scent of his expensive cologne mixed with something that’s just purely him. He helps you adjust the blanket, his hand settling on your thigh with a gentle squeeze. His other hand threads his fingers through your hair in a way that’s meant to put you to sleep. 

“You’re gonna get sick.” You mumble, eyes fluttering closed. 

He presses a kiss to your forehead, “Don’t worry about me.” 

But you do. And he does. 

But it’s nice being able to take care of him too. 

—

Sometimes you sleep over. It’s one of those things that happen naturally—hanging out with friends, messing around in the pool, playing darts near the garage, coming back from a party, curled up watching a movie. Tonight is no different, except you’re a little drunk. You sit down on the edge of the bed, the room spinning slightly, Nick passing you a t-shirt of his to tug on. You love how it lays on you, the fabric unbelievably soft. 

He lingers in front of you, a smirk on his lips, tipping your chin up and leaning down just enough to brush a kiss over your temple, “You need help?” 

You let out a long, dramatic sigh that flutters your lips. It turns into a slight pout, “I need a kiss.”

Nick hums, his eyes appraising you, “Yeah? Where at?” 

And you hate how that makes you squirm. You squeeze your legs together, an action not missed by him, before pointing to your cheek. He licks his lips, crouching to press one right where you’ve requested. His fingers curl under your shirt, lifting it off in one fluid motion. He crouches before you, hands on your knees, waiting. 

You smile a little, skin warm, pointing to your shoulder blade. He follows through and you can’t stop yourself from running your fingers through his hair, his hands moving to splay along your waist, squeezing. That heat between your legs dips, tugs, hums. 

“Where else?” 

“I’ve definitely got some ideas but could you tell the room to stop spinning for a second?” 

Nick smiles, fingers moving to the button on your jeans. “Can I take these off?” 

Always with the permission. Always with making sure you’re okay. It’s something that’s so deeply important to you, something you’ve never told him. And yet he knows. 

“Need you to help me out,” He undoes the button and you stand on wobbly legs, hand holding onto his shoulder for support. He slides them off and tosses towards a chair in the corner. You sit back down, running your hands over your face, which probably smears your makeup ridiculously. 

You touch to the right of your belly button, “Here please.” 

Nick smiles, shaking his head a little. “Only because you were so polite.” 

You bite down on your tongue when he does it, when he kisses you there, swallowing the cheeky response that you know he’d do it anyways. 

He slips lower, kissing the side of your knee without you asking. Just because he wants to. He then leans back on his heels, giving you a onceover before taking the shirt he handed you, helping to slide it over your arms. Pressing a few kisses to your cheeks, mostly just to make you laugh, he pulls away. 

There’s definitely an audible whine you’ll deny making later. 

“I’m getting a washcloth for your face,” He laughs softly too, taking your hand to squeeze, “Get your makeup off.” 

You shake your head—wow, how’d you get so lucky? 

“Think it’s the other way around.” He assures you as he heads to his bathroom and you blink—apparently you said that outloud. 

As you wash the makeup off your face, Nick changes out of his clothes, a simple t-shirt and briefs. He tugs down the comforter and helps you under the covers, tugging them back up to your chin. It’s one of those moments that feels so intimate that your chest hurts a little. You lie on your side, not facing him, and he hooks his chin over your shoulder. 

“You okay?” He whispers, arm sliding around your waist. Your fingers lace together in an easy motion. 

“Perfect.” You reply, already dozing. By the time he turns the light out, you’re fast asleep. 

—

It’s one of those parties in which you can’t keep your hands off eachother. 

Nick’s obviously a tactile person, he talks but he says more with his actions, with his touch. A possessive hand on your waist, a protective arm around your back, a brush of a kiss to your temple, a cheeky nip of your lower lip. You can read him like a secret language, a message whispered in the dark. And you love that you can so easily reply in kind. A hand sneaking up and under his jacket to rest on his toned back, slipping your fingers into his back pocket to grab his ass, hooking your ankle around his under a table, a kiss to his cheek when you’re excited, his hair when he falls asleep on your chest. 

Tonight is no different. 

You separate for one instance so you can head to the bathroom and when you come out, you bump into someone who is waiting. 

“Shit sorry,” You apologize with a smile before raising your eyebrows. The guy you practically checked shoulders with is holding a book. A book at a party. And like, no judgement, obviously, but…it’s really the last thing you expected. 

“No worries,” He’s tall and kinda lanky, but soft looking, attractive in his own way. He smiles down at you, a sheepish hand rubbing the back of his neck as he catches you looking at his book. “Summer classes,” He admits, “Organic chem.” 

“Gross,” You offer with a soft laugh and he grins. 

“Yeah, not exactly party material. I’m trying to relax but uh, not the best at it.” 

“Well I’d put down the chemistry book, for starters.” You smile and you can tell he’s about to open his mouth and ask for something, maybe to offer to get you a drink, maybe something else. You’ll never know because you see Nick just past where this guy is standing. 

His gaze is set on you, never looking away once, but you can tell he must have noticed this guy towering over you because an arm slides around your waist, hand squeezing your hip. A clear message to anyone who might be confused. 

“Was wondering where you went.” And you raise your eyebrows at that, as if he doesn’t know you went to the bathroom. 

“Well you found me.” When Nick turns to look at you, there’s a heat to his eyes that almost takes your breath away. You can’t help but gaze back, like the darkness that you find is capable of pulling you under, under. 

Tall guy lets out an awkward laugh, snapping his textbook closed. “Well just gonna—” He motions to the bathroom but Nick takes a step towards it with you in tow, pressing you towards the doorframe and then steps in front, effectively blocking your body with his own. 

“Yeah, you’re gonna need to find another bathroom,” He tells him, leaning his palms against the doorframe. A soft laugh bubbles up in your chest as you lean against the sink, running a hand along the side of your face. 

Textbook guy blinks, makes an uh noise with his lips—and when he just stands there looking confused, Nick snaps out, “Fuck off.” 

And slams the door in his face. 

Your hand covers your mouth as Nick turns, taking measured steps towards you as you lean back against the sink. Feels sturdy enough—it’s one of those built-in counter ones, plenty of space for toiletries. 

“Textbook guy was nice, you know?” You inform him, a smirk mapping your lips as Nick leans in, encroaching on your space. He encourages you to lean back a little as he cages your body with his own, arms on either side of you. 

He whispers into your ear, “I don’t care.” 

When he pulls back a bit, your noses brush and you lift your hand to play with a curl on his forehead. Amusement sits on your tongue, heat between your legs, “Didn’t know you could get jealous.” 

Nick’s gaze lands on your lips. You expect him to deny it, but instead he presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth, dragging it out, nipping at your lower lip with his teeth. Then he kisses you completely, slotting his own body along your own, tongue sliding into your mouth. The moment you moan is when he sinks his hands into your hair, keeping you close. Your own glide down his sides, digging into the fabric of his jeans, tugging—

A sharp noise, a groan from the back of his throat, sets little electric zips along your skin. 

You can feel the hardness of him against your hip and breathing patterns change, just a little uneven, pulling back so that your lips fall to his neck. Your hand wanders, one destination, undoing his jeans so that you can slip inside. 

“So,” You whisper, tilting your head back, getting a good look at him. Your fingers wrap around him, beginning to palm his cock. His pupils are blown as he licks his lips—you can feel the twitch of his hips, driving him a bit forward. Your thumb works at the bead of moisture at his tip, back and forth, down along him. 

You smile, “Yes to being jealous?”

His hand slips around the back of your neck, squeezing a little, gathering a bit of your hair in the process. It’s barely a tug, barely any pain, and yet heat shocks down your spine, settling in your core. 

“Of anyone who makes you laugh like that.” 

And for some reason that reaches into the center of your chest and squeezes. You can’t find the words to reply. So you don’t. 

Luckily both of you are both attune at speaking without saying anything at all. 

Your other hand rests on the side of his face, your thumb brushing over his lips before kissing him again. 

It doesn’t take long after that. Nick helps gets his jeans down, peeling your skirt up, practically ripping your underwear to get them out of his fucking way. He presses you back against the sink, it’s not the most comfortable—the edge is biting into your muscles, but at this point it just adds to the pleasure that’s already building in your lower belly. He lifts your leg a little, holding you, sliding forward until his cock brushes against your entrance. 

“Nick,” You moan and that one word has him pushing inside. 

Your head tips forward, forehead ending up on his shoulder, rolling your hips until he’s completely inside of you. It’s not as drawn out as you want, but you know it’s only a matter of time until someone comes knocking on this bathroom. You hike your leg up a little more, encouraging him deeper as he moves, as much as you can at this angle. It’s too fast, a little too hard, and the movements are a little too desperate. 

But fuck if that stops you from cumming hard. 

The moment Nick’s mouth finds your neck and sucks while his one hand not holding you slips between, fingers circling your clit, you lose it. 

Your body clenches around him and you bury your face in his shoulder, clinging to him as ripples of pleasure slam into you. Your fingers dig into his back and there’s two more thrusts forward until Nick loses himself as well, a soft tremble following as both of you breathe one another in, wait for pulses to slow, for breathing to settle. 

He pulls back slightly, pressing a kiss to your cheek, curling your hair around your ear. A soft smile tugs the corner of your mouth and you slowly turn a bit to face yourself in the mirror. 

Jesus. You’re really not fooling anyone—you look utterly wrecked. Your hair is mussed, face flushed, and you attempt to fix a bit of yourself as Nick cleans himself up and grabs a washcloth on the shower cabinet near the mirror. He dampens it in the sink before crouching, cleaning up your inner thighs. You let out a slow breath as he drags the fabric along your cunt, gentle and yet tortuous. 

Nick licks his lips, looking at you in the mirror, settling his chin on your shoulder. You find his gaze in the reflection, his one hand coming up and resting on the side of your neck. His thumb brushes a blooming hickey near your pulse point. His eyes never leave yours, 

“In case there’s any further confusion for anyone.” 

When you run into the textbook guy again later that night, Nick’s arm draped lazily over your shoulders as he talks to Lion, your boyfriend doesn’t seem to mind this time around when you ask him with a teasing lilt how organic chem is going. 

He zeros in on your neck right away, and Nick fucking smirks. 

—

Maybe the warning labels, the explosion, the danger you both once spoke of isn't exactly what you assumed. It's not that you'd end up being bad for one another, or somehow get in the other's way. It's not the underground fighting ring or the racing or past trauma with your ex. It's something deeper, emotionally grounded, something that's capable of taking you out right at your knees. You knew love had teeth, you just didn't realize you could be devoured by it. 

The way you care about Nick bites into you and doesn't let go. 

You're quiet as you clean up the tiny cuts on Nick's knuckles, using a bit too much antiseptic but not relishing in the way he winces. You can't meet his gaze, even though you know he's trying to capture yours. Seated side by side on the edge of his bed, you let out a long breath before setting the bloody cotton ball aside and grabbing another. 

Stupid re-match that Lion set up. Nick won, but that's not really the point. 

You waited outside in the car, eventually getting out to pace, leaning back against the driver's door until they all came out. A split lip, a blackening mark underneath his eye on his cheekbone, bruised ribs and cut-up knuckles. 

You hate this. You hate it so fucking much. You're practically buzzing with this anger but know better than to speak. Nick seems to know better too, because he's utterly still beside you. Curling your hair around your ear, you set another used cotton ball aside—you can’t use bandages on these small cuts. They’re not that bad, he doesn’t need any, and yet…leaving them open like this makes your chest ache. You can’t patch them up, but…maybe an ice pack wouldn’t hurt. For his ribs at least. 

When you move to stand, Nick’s fingers gently wrap around your wrist, a silent plea not to move. You close your eyes, can feel yourself trembling—

It’s not so much the blood. It’s seeing him hurt. It fucking guts you. Even though he’s okay, you know he’s okay. It doesn’t make it any easier. 

“I really wish you’d stop doing this,” You eventually say, your words sounding too loud in the silence. Too choked. That anger from before unfortunately fizzles out into the real emotion it was hiding: concern. “All—all it takes is one wrong hit and—” You sniffle, cutting yourself off. 

Nick lets out a long sigh through his nose before a gentle nod follows. He inches himself closer to you on the bed, until your knees bump together, his hand wrapping along the back of your neck. Despite wanting to pull away, wanting to create distance, he encourages you to lean into him. You relent as if it’s not the easiest thing you’ve ever done, pressing your forehead to his shoulder. 

He tips his chin down, his face burying itself in your hair, and he keeps you close until you stop shaking. 

–

That’s the last fight Nick’s in, he tells Lion not to involve him in any others. 

–

Admittedly, cars have never really been your thing. You admire them, you appreciate the work that some people put into them, or how much someone is willing to pay to enhance them, but they’ve never been something to spend your own money on. You upkeep the Jeep that your parents bought you on your eighteenth birthday, and that’s always been enough. 

Nick though? He loves his cars. Has a full garage of them. A collector, an enthusiast, and you love that about him. One of the many things. Love that you can learn something new about something he’s clearly passionate about. 

He’s got a love-hate relationship with your Jeep though. 

“She’s ol’reliable.” 

Nick just crinkles his nose. 

“Don’t look down on Donna like that.”

“Please do not call your jeep that.” 

You giggle, “Donna is timeless.” 

“Donna sounds like an old bitty who’s been working too long at the corner diner. She smells like grease and has menus sticking to her hands.” 

Now you laugh something bold and bright and it twitches the corners of Nick’s mouth. “Hater.” 

He pulls you into a kiss, pressing your back against the door of your Jeep. He certainly trusts it enough for that. 

Though, this is what you get for calling your Jeep ‘dependable’ and ‘reliable’, speaking too soon when she conks out on the side of the road. You attempt to restart her a few times but finally groan and give up, slipping out of the driver’s seat. You’ve put a lot of money into her but…Nick’s freaky car-sense about her is right—not ol’reliable in the least. 

Pursing your lips, you press on Nick’s name, listening to the line trill. He picks up on the third ring, “What’s wrong?” 

You purse your lips, “I can’t just call you because I miss you?” 

Nick hums, “Donna died, didn’t she.” It is not a question. 

You scoff out a sound, “You gotta make it sound so final like that?” 

He sighs but you can hear the smile in his voice as he speaks, fabric rustling in your ear as well. You picture him in bed, maybe reading, getting up to get his shoes. “Where are you?” 

You drop a pin and it doesn’t take him too long to get to your location. You hear the rumble of an engine before you see him, a sleek red car pulling up beside poor Donna. A tow truck is not far behind and you smile sweetly at your boyfriend as the door pops up and Nick steps out. 

“Hate to break it to you but I think it’s time for Donna to visit the car lot in the sky.” 

Your lips form a pout and Nick smirks out a soft laugh, his hands coming up to cup your cheeks. He presses a brief kiss to your lips, turning to watch as the tow truck parks behind Donna and begins to wheel her into place. 

He stretches his arm over your shoulders, drawing you close to brush another kiss to your temple, “C’mon,” He motions towards his car, “I’m sure she’ll be well taken care of.”

“You’re probably hoping they’ll take her to a scrap lot and squish her with one of those car crushers.” 

“I would never.” 

He places his hands on your shoulders, encouraging you forward until you get inside the passenger door. He closes it behind you, slipping into the driver’s seat. A dramatic sigh leaves your lips as you lean back into the seat, the smell of expensive leather and his cologne comforting, despite leaving Donna behind. You rest your head back against the headrest, a small smile on your face as your eyes drink in his profile. 

“Where can we go?” You’re not in the mood to go home. 

Nick turns his head to look at you, a gentle smile, his one hand on the wheel while the other rests on your knee. “Anywhere.” 

You can’t help but smile back—you love the sound of that. 

[blueberrybeomgyu]

୨⎯ "attention" ⎯୧ (kdh)

+*:🌟:*﹤smut w plot, sub!leehan, edging, riding, exhib+voy themes, reader fem anat, piv sex, flawed characteristics, bit of a scent thing going on / wc: 4.7k / masterlist

✧･ﾟ: *

leehan wants your eyes on him, but you've been so focused on work, leaving early and coming home late. he knows it's important, that you have to finish your project by the deadline, but he can't help but feel a little selfish about your time when you've rarely spoken to him in the past two weeks. he's barely even seen you, always falling asleep despite trying to stay up when you come home, and he's getting antsy missing your company.

you're sliding out of bed after only being home for five hours. he’d startled awake when you came in, but you were too tired to talk, too tired to change before collapsing on the bed.

he’d changed you himself, gently wiping your makeup off and massaging lotion into your skin, then held you close to him as you caught up on much-needed rest. he wakes up when he feels your body heat leave his side, and groans as he watches with foggy eyes as you disappear into the bathroom. 

“don’t go to work. stay here with me,” he begs sweetly when you come back out. you consider it, he can see it on your face, but you ultimately shake your head.

“i can’t, baby. gotta get this project done, then i’ll be all yours, m’kay?”  he pouts, but it doesn’t last long because you kiss it away and ruffle his already messed up hair. within minutes, you’re out the door.

leehan sulks in bed for a little longer, wishing he could make you pay attention to him. it feels like the only time you’re actually looking at him, thinking about him, is when the two of you are intimate with each other. it’s hard to find time in two busy schedules, but during those rare moments, it’s just you and him; the world around the two of you doesn’t exist anymore.

he’s so warm and safe in bed and the only thing that would make it better is if you were here with him, tangled up in the sheets and wasting the day away. he thinks about your soft skin and how sweet it smells, how warm your touch is when he’s lucky enough to be blessed with it, blessed by your gentle eyes and kind words when they’re focused only on him and spoken just for him to hear.

his hand is traveling under his waistband without hesitation, and thoughts of you clutter his mind as he wraps his palm around his length. he tries to mimic the way you squeeze his base and flick your thumb over his slit, tries to imagine it’s your pretty hands touching him this way. it's not long before stars are dancing behind his eyelids and he’s grunting out into the silent room. 

you never want him to cum the first time around, and almost always pull away when he’s on the edge. he’s so used to the denial, to the feeling of his orgasm slipping out of his grasp that it just feels natural when he pulls his hand away from his cock. he sucks in a breath at the way it twitches and sees you, hears you in his imagination, saying, “good boy, aren’t you so well-trained?”

he chews on the inside of his cheek to distract himself from the burning hot need coursing through his veins, and an idea forms in his head. he knows he shouldn’t, but it should be fine, right? just a voice message showing you how much he misses you. you wouldn’t get upset with him for that, surely.

he reaches for his phone on the nightstand and opens you guys’ text messages. he spends another four seconds convincing himself this is a good idea. then he’s grabbing his cock again, pulling all the tricks to put him on the verge of tipping over. when he feels close, he presses the “record a message” button beside the text bar.

at first, it’s just shy little moans as he complains about how much he misses you, how much better it would feel if you were here. then, they turn into desperate, raspy gasps as he pushes himself over the edge. the audio recording sends the second he releases the button, and he can’t unsend it, so he accepts his choices and waits to hear what you have to say.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ

the answer is absolutely nothing. you don’t respond to or address the audio recording at all, aside from a smirk and a “did you have fun today?” that you throw his way when you walk through the front door. 

he continues doing it, messages ranging from more audio recordings to photos of his stomach painted white, and usually you’ll kiss him, ruffle up his hand, call his “little treats” cute, make more promises to help him out when you’ve met your deadline.

he knows your work is important, but although guilt claws at him for it, leehan still feels a bit hurt that you didn’t take his complaints to heart, just assumed it was another one of his trivial games. 

leehan can play games, and when you hole yourself up in the bedroom to type away at your laptop, he realizes that he will. he’ll do whatever it takes to get your attention.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ

you finally have a day off, and have decided you’d like to spend part of it at the mall looking through new arrivals. leehan’s not big on shopping, so he just follows you around and occasionally gets distracted by fish merch. 

you’ve stepped away at least four times to take phone calls from your coworkers, and you guys have only been at the mall for an hour and a half. when lunchtime rolls around, you excuse yourself again to answer a call from your boss, leaving leehan alone to pick at his food in disinterest. 

“um, hi. are you busy?” a feminine voice says. the girl has to stand directly in leehan’s line of sight for him to realize she’s talking to him. when he looks up at her, she smiles shyly and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. 

“can i help you?” 

“no! well, yes. i…was just wondering if i could have your phone number. i saw you standing alone earlier…” the girl’s voice fades out as leehan peeps your approaching figure in the distance, and the gears in his head turn with another (probably bad) idea.

“...alone again here in the food court, so i thought i should take the chance.”

leehan didn’t hear most of what she said, but he can tell when someone’s interested in him, and he can play along.

he flashes the girl a charming smile, dimples and all, and nods along to whatever she’s rambling about. she’s cute enough, and seems like a nice girl, but leehan’s real focus is entirely on you as you watch the scene. he watches you as best as he can from his peripheral, but never takes his eyes off the girl in front of him. 

“is that…alright?” she says, looking at leehan with wide, hopeful eyes. he pretends to consider whatever she asked, and holds a palm out for her to rest her hand in. her face gets even redder, and he kind of feels bad that he’s using her to get to you.

he’s about to tell her that he’s sorry to disappoint, and that he appreciates it, he really does, but he has a girlfriend. he doesn’t get a chance to say any of that when you come up behind him seemingly out of nowhere and tap him on the shoulder. the girl pulls her hand away from leehan’s and stands around awkwardly.

“what do you think you’re doing?” you ask. your arms are crossed and your eyes are locked on his, but not with the love and admiration he’s been longing for. his composure falters when he sees your expression, one that says he’s fucked up more than he knows.

“this girl came up to me and…” he trails off and gestures in the girl’s general direction.

“and?” you ask impatiently, but leehan doesn’t know how he was going to conclude that sentence. this girl came up to me and i pretended to be interested to get a rise out of you? he has a feeling that’s not going to support his case well. you turn away from him and to the girl behind him, causing him to turn around as well.

“you’ll have to excuse my idiot boyfriend. i’m sorry he wasted your time instead of just telling you he was taken.” the girl nods in understanding and tries to hide her disappointed pout. she accepts your handshake when you offer it and hurries off. 

you shoot leehan another pissed glare, then dump your remaining food in the trash and walk out of the mall. he considers apologizing to the girl as well, but she’s already out of sight, so he trashes his own food and trails after you with a ball of shame sitting in his throat. 

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ

to be honest, you scare leehan just a little, especially when he knows you’re angry with him but you’re not talking about it. he’d rather you just chew his head off and get it over with, just tell him how much of an inconsiderate dumbass he is. you don’t, so the guilt manifests and manifests until he feels like he might puke it up.

you lock the front door and hang up your coat, and the first thing you say to him in the last twenty minutes is “sit.”

leehan parks his ass on the couch immediately, and waits to hear whatever other command you might give him. he expects you to sit next to him, or on the armchair by the couch or even on his lap. he doesn’t expect you to sit right across from him on the coffee table. at least a minute passes full of you just staring at him, and the silence is killing him. 

“baby–”

“shut up,” you say, and his mouth clamps shut. you stare at him for a few more seconds, poking your inner cheek with your tongue in thought. then, you shake your head and laugh in disbelief. leehan watches as you cross your arms over your chest, and tries not to flick his eyes down to the way your boobs are being pushed up. he may be sick with horniness and loneliness, but it’s really not the time.

“why are you acting like this, leehan?” it takes leehan a few seconds and a quirk of your eyebrow to realize you’re actually waiting for an answer, that you want him to speak now.

“what do you mean?” that’s his intelligent response. you scoff and roll your eyes.

“don’t act dense with me. you were flirting with that girl just so i’d see. i know when you’re acting out for attention, and that’s exactly what you’ve been doing this entire week.” leehan’s embarrassed at being caught so he shakes his head in denial, but it’s nowhere near convincing even to himself.

“no? you didn’t touch yourself and record it for me? didn’t send me photos of you covered in your own cum? didn’t flirt with a girl right in my face in a desperate attempt to get my attention?” leehan’s cheeks burn at the direct confrontation. hearing his actions out loud brings a fresh wave of shame over him, and he’s so ready to get down on his knees and beg for forgiveness.

“show me.”

leehan’s eyes fly wide open and he lets out a nervous chuckle. “w-what?”

“you wanted my attention so bad. now you have it,” you say with a bored expression. your eyes leave a trail of fire wherever they land on his skin. he has your attention, and has to think of a way to keep it. 

“go ahead,” you command with a jerk of your head. your lips are turned down into a frown, and it’s so condescending, like you don’t even want to be here. leehan needs you to want to be here, and he’s nothing if not a performer. he lifts his hips and tugs his pants down to his thighs. 

you make a noise, something between a hum and a coo, when he pulls his boxers down and his dick springs against his stomach.

“your little cock is hard, hannie.” he knows he’s not small, but your words are still humiliating, and still burn the need to impress you across his skin. “gonna show me how you fucked yourself when you were moaning into your phone?”

leehan’s hips buck against nothing, causing his member to slap against his stomach again, and his mouth falls open with a groan.

he does as you tell him, wrapping his hand around his cock like he’s been doing every morning for the past week, squeezing his base, flicking his tip, imagining it’s you, wishing it was you, but he doesn’t dare ask. instead he watches your facial expressions, how your lips curl up into a smirk when he’s close.

“stop,” you tell him, and he pulls his hand away without question. he would’ve been foolish to not expect the sensation of his orgasm floating farther and farther away from him. he tries to slow his breathing, tries not to lose his mind so early into this session.

“keep going.” 

he continues his previous pace immediately, and his hips tremble when he tries to stop them from bucking up. his tip is a bit more sensitive when he brushes his thumb across it, and it takes less time for him to get close. 

he strokes a bit faster, moans a bit louder. he has no idea how long you plan to keep him here, but he still anticipates the relief of falling off the edge.

“let go.”

leehan pulls his hand away from his cock and clutches the couch instead while willing his legs to stop shaking. he’s helpless to disobey you, but he groans as his orgasm escapes him a second time.

“hm…i dunno. something’s not right.” you tap a manicured nail against your chin in thought. he can never understand how you’re so composed in moments like this, like it’s a normal evening. if you’re turned on, you don’t show it, and it makes leehan flush with shame. “what do you think, baby boy?” 

he huffs out a laugh at the question. how is he supposed to know? but you’re looking at him expectantly, so he scrambles to come up with something. “i mean– usually i’m, like, in bed, i guess. thinking about you, imagining you, smelling you…” god, don’t get him started on smelling you. 

you hum thoughtfully and lift off of the table. in seconds, you’re hovering over him, flashing him a devious grin. your hips are so close to straddling his, and you slap his hand away when it reaches up to touch your waist. you hold yourself up by the back cushions with your arms on either side of his head. he’s trapped, and suddenly, everything else in the room is overshadowed by you.

 “is that right? you think about all the dirty things you wanna do to me while getting off to the smell of my perfume?”

of course you’d know his weak spot. you’re so close to him and he thinks he’s going to lose his mind if he doesn’t get to touch you. your perfume is invading his senses, and flaming hot desire coils in his abdomen. he squeezes his eyes shut to prevent them from rolling into his skull as his hips twitch into the air.

“touch yourself, hannie,” you say sweetly.

he takes a deep breath and grabs his cock again. he’s known to leak like a faucet, especially after meeting you, and his hand is covered in sticky white within the first few seconds of stroking himself.

he knows there’s raspy noises falling from his open mouth, but he can barely hear them over his heart pounding. the way you take over his brain is overwhelming and he can hardly think. your lips graze his neck, and the skin litters with goosebumps despite the hot air between the two of you. 

if he opens his eyes, he’s got a face full of titties, and he doesn’t know if he can handle that despite every cell in his body telling him to look. he wants to be good for you and hold out until you give him permission to stop, but it feels so good that he’s speeding his hand up.

“ha– ah, fuck–” slick, sloppy sounds fill the room as he works himself to the edge for you.

“let go,” you whisper in his ear. his hand rips away from his cock and grips onto his thigh instead, getting it wet and gross with precum. it takes what feels like an eternity for him to back away from the precipice this time. fear runs his blood cold when he realizes he almost didn’t last. 

he’s always good for you, can edge himself for as long as you'd like. he doesn’t know why he’s sensitive today, especially after spending a week beating it.

you pull your face out of his neck, and he slumps against the couch. you smile at the sight and caress his cheek. he melts into the touch, but you pull away to card through his tangled hair instead. you used the grip on his strands to tilt his head back so that he’s looking up at you. 

“i do think you were louder that time. moaned just like you did in those recordings.” he opens his mouth to say something, but loses his train of thought when you plop down on his lap. 

“fffuck–” he moans, voice all pathetic and high-pitched. 

“stay still,” you warn when his hips buck into yours, and he tries so hard, but even the soft fabric of your skirt is too rough on his sensitive dick. he struggles to keep his eyes open, but he’d rather die than take them off of you, so he blinks through the tears pooling in his waterline. the action causes the tears to trickle down, and the air is cold against his wet cheeks.

you stay like that until his breaths are more even and he’s somewhat calmed down. he lets out a displeased noise when you lift off of him and sit back on the coffee table.

“c’mon, hannie. i’m not done with you yet. let me see.” you push his legs apart with your knee. he looks down with you, and the sight makes him burn with embarrassment. he’s leaking so much it’s soaking into the couch, and it’s another sight he has to squeeze his eyes shut to get away from.

“w-what, are you j-just gonna–” he swallows thickly, clears his throat, and tries again. “how long are you gonna make me do this?”

you tilt your head and smile at him like you aren’t melting his brain into goo. “however long it takes for you to learn your lesson.” leehan whines a little in protest.

“just wanted you to look at me, missed you so much.”

the look in your eyes softens and you lean forward to place a heartfelt kiss on his lips. “i missed you too, hannie. so. much,” you say, cupping his cheeks and pressing more gentle kissing around his face. “it was so hard to focus at work when you kept sending me those treats. but bad boys still have to take their punishments, yeah?” leehan sighs longingly and nods, resting his head against the back cushions, and reaching for his cock when you instruct him to start over.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ

by the fifth denial, he’s a shaking mess, falling apart at the seams and only holding himself together by your command. he’s done for the second you flip your skirt up, slide your panties off, circle your clit right in front of him. you’re so close but so far, and he’s definitely losing his mind. 

“please– n/n, let me…could fuck you so good,” he begs helplessly, deep voice strained and words stringing together. it’s the first time tonight you actually look interested in what’s happening, and he can’t figure out where to look–at your pretty face as you make yourself feel good, at the wetness leaking out of your pulsing heat, at the way your tits shake when you tug at your nipples. you’re biting your lip to keep quiet, keeping your pretty noises to yourself. leehan thinks that’s the cruelest part of this punishment. 

his hips are fucking up into his hand in a sloppily, a stark contrast to his usually controlled thrusts. he’s not easy to turn into a mess, but you know him better than he knows himself. you know his limits, know that he won’t cum unless you tell him to, know how badly he needs your forgiveness. 

“i’m sorry, i’m sorry, just fuck me, please?” but you’re not looking at him. your eyes are focused on his cock drooling all over his legs, at the way it twitches when he’s close. your hips twitch, and your cunt drools on the table, and his mouth runs dry. he’s too delirious to figure out if your reactions are because of him, if he’s doing good for you. 

“stop, pretty boy.”

his hand trembles as he pulls it away from his dick and flops it against the couch. he gasps harshly, heaves loudly, and more tears stream down his face as his hips chase friction that’s already gone.

his head is leaning against the back cushions and lolled to the side, but he’s still watching you touch yourself. his mouth hangs open from all of his pathetic begging, and there’s a thin trail of saliva pooling in his mouth and dribbling onto his t-shirt. 

his eyelids are so heavy, but he watches brainlessly as you tease your opening, dip a finger into the heat. it comes back out drenched in creamy white, and he has to dig his nails into the cushion to stop himself from grabbing his dick without permission.

you pull your hands away from your body and straddle him again. he nearly goes cross-eyed when your bare cores touch. it’s so wet, and his entire body shivers with need.

“aw, hannie. look at me. tell me what you want.”

“mm, want– wanna taste you, wanna fuck you so bad.” you giggle, and he loses himself somewhere between your sparkly eyes and shiny lips.

“wanna taste me?” you reaffirm, and he nods dumbly. you straighten his head up and cup his cheeks between your fingers and thumb. you make him watch as you use your free hand to repeat the motions, gathering your wetness on your finger, pushing it through your opening and pulling it out. 

you whimper out freely this time, and the sound is so pretty and sinful leehan wishes he could tattoo it on his brain, wishes he had recorded it so he can hear it again later. your hand forces his lips to pucker and his mouth to open, and you press your wet fingers onto his tongue. 

leehan’s eyes roll again, and his eyebrows crease as the taste of you, the smell of you invades his senses. you always taste so good, so sweet to him.

his eyes focus on you again, but his vision clouds and his hips buck up against you. you slide against him so deliciously, but it’s over too soon when you slide your fingers out of his mouth and pry your hips away from his.

you wipe your wet fingers on his shirt and remind him to look at you, but he is already looking at you, has barely torn his eyes away from you in the last thirty minutes.

he’s completely awestruck, and maybe a little delirious when he swears he can see the faint halo hovering above your head. he tries to tell you how perfect, how much of an angel you are, but his words come out jumbled and unintelligible. 

“do you have a color for me, baby?”

“mhm, fuck– green, n-need you so bad. ’m so sorry, p-please, you look so beautiful, t–”

you interrupt him by pressing your lips against his, and leehan’s convinced he would’ve been talking for the rest of his life if you hadn’t. he’s pretty sure he melts into a puddle of goo when your lips collide, yours so perfect and plush against his. any function his brain is still performing shuts down immediately, and you have to handle the kiss by yourself, because his lips are slack and useless against yours. there’s a string of saliva connecting the two of you when you pull away from him.

“i think my pretty boy’s at his limit, hm?” you ask, and he doesn’t really know what you’re saying, but anything sounds good coming from you, so he nods and watches with his jaw on the floor as you stand up and pull your skirt off. you pull his shirt off as well, and you’re both bare and vulnerable but safe in your own world, just as leehan longed for.

you cup his cheeks again and hold his face so he can look up at you as you sink down on his cock, and the noise he makes when you bottom out is broken and pitiful even to his own ears. he knows he must look so fucked out and stupid, but you’re looking at him with so much love in your eyes that he’s sure he looks beautiful anyway. 

you wrap around him so well, your cunt is so tight. it feels like he’d forgotten how it feels to be buried inside you, and to be experiencing it for the first time again has to be parallel to some sort of spiritual ascension. leehan doesn’t know what he did to deserve it, but he does know he’d spend an eternity here if you allowed it.

your hands move to grip his shoulders, and you make the most heavenly face of ecstasy leehan has ever seen. you lift your hips to slide him out, and bottom out again. your cunt’s sucking him in so greedily, and he doesn’t know how much longer he can keep this up. 

“i’ll let you cum if you fuck me, pretty boy,” you say like you read his mind. you grab his lifeless hands and place them on your waist, then grip the back of the couch again. he gets the message clearly, holding you in place as he jerks into you. his thrusts aren’t coordinated at all, and it’s out of pure habit when he angles his hips to fuck right into your sweet spot. 

“fuck yeah, hannie. that’s so good, you’re so good,” you moan out, and he uses strength he barely has to aim for that spot, to hear those words from you again. on a particularly hard thrust, your eyes flutter closed.

“look at me, n/n. please– look at me,” he begs, voice cracking, and when you do, your eyes are glossy, tears pulling in your waterline. it’s so hot, and finally, your attention is his, and he’s making you feel good, but he’s not gonna last like this.

“you fill me up so good, hannie. make me feel so good,” you say breathlessly, eyes locked on his. “gonna cum for me? gonna fill me up nicely?” and he’s nodding, pitiful whimpers falling from his lips, whatever you say. 

you trail a hand up his abdomen, to his chest, and tug at his nipple. the rush of pleasure he feels is so intense that the knot in his stomach is fraying and snapping so quickly he can’t even warn you, but he tries through strangled gasps: “cumming, ‘m, fu–”

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ

it takes leehan a while to come back to earth. he’s so tired he can barely move, but you kiss him until his mind returns home. after asking if he’s okay five times and getting five verbal “yes’s,” you clean the two of you up and lead him to bed.

it’s still when he speaks again, eyes searching for yours in the dark room, “i really am sorry, y/n. i should’ve been more considerate. i respect your work so much, i just got so lonely…” you smile at him softly and reach a hand up to rub circles into his back.

“i’m sorry you were so lonely, hannie. i should’ve managed my time better, should’ve taken your feelings more seriously. from now on, i’ll keep work at work, and after my project, we can both take time off and go on a vacation. how’s that?”

“that’s perfect,” he says, and means it wholeheartedly, falling asleep with a smile of his own.

✧･ﾟ: *

a/n : FUCK THIS TOOK FOREVER TO WRITE LOL i reread it three times pls lmk if there r still typos <3

[its-tea-time-darling]

im sorry, we turned your boyfriend into a mole. yeah and all of tumblr‘s interested in him now. sorry

edit 9/12/23 11.22 CET

and so it begins…

fic1, fic2 @pathsofoak ao3 tag. Mole Poem @thaliaisalesbian . fic by @tourmelion .

update:

ao3 link. please vote for mole scene in most underrated goncharov scene poll

[astrxsee]

mdni 18+

the sounds of johnny’s cock slamming into you filled the room. all you could feel was his large, muscular chest pushing you flat into the mattress. the only sounds you could get out were loud, sloppy moans as he slaps your ass again.

‘god, bonnie, gonna have tae fill this pussy righ’ up’

he barks into your ear, cock throbbing inside your tight walls. his hands are wrapped around the back of your neck with his elbows wrapped around your arms, holding you in a tight chokehold. your eyes go wide as he starts to speed up..

‘johnny, don’t cum inside me!’

you beg, your voice almost an incoherent whimper as you feel his thrusts beginning to stutter. you weren’t on birth control, he knew that!

‘johnny, please!’

you practically beg as he rams into you with one final thrust, his hands roughly pushing your head into the pillow. with a groan, he pulls out quickly, releasing hot ropes of his cum onto your plush ass and thighs.

exhausted, he plops down on top of you, his cum that was supposed to be inside you smearing against his front. his lips planting a sloppy kiss to the back of your neck.

‘johnny, you know you can’t cum inside.’

you pout, slapping the side of his thigh. he mumbles something incoherent into your hair, his lips leaving lazy kisses on the side of your neck.

‘i know, bon,’ he pauses, ‘just gets me off so easy when you’re scared.’