#first they know where to go- no getting lost

[whisperedmeg]

ECHO CHAMBER ⋆˚꩜｡ spencer reid x girlfriend!reader

summary: spencer doesn’t talk after his last case. doesn’t sleep, either, just echoes. until he finds his way back to you — the only place it ever goes quiet.

genre: smut, hurt/comfort

w/c: 2.2k

tags/warnings: 18+ MDNI, implied panic attack (spencer), established relationship, using sex as probably not the healthiest coping mechanism but oh well it worked, fingering, oral (f receiving) ((like only sort of because he won’t stop yapping)), spencer calls reader angel, unprotected piv, floor sex, aftercare, spencer being a nerd at inopportune times, light dirty talk (again with the yapping!)

a/n: thinking about comforting spencer with your body makes me feral so here’s a peak into how I imagine that playing out 🙂‍↕️ also, if you enjoyed this, my requests are open!

You hadn’t been sleeping so much as hovering at the edge of it — and when you turned and found the space beside you empty, your stomach sank. It wasn’t the first time Spencer had disappeared in the middle of the night after getting home from a tough case, but it still felt like something was missing, like the weight of him was the only thing that ever let you sleep at all.

You padded out into the living room quietly and found him exactly where you knew he’d be: sitting on the floor in front of the couch, elbows on his knees, head in his hands, fingers tugging at his curls like he might come undone if he let go.

He didn’t look up when you approached. Just sat there, legs drawn in, spine curled forward, his face lost in shadow.

You said nothing. Only sank slowly to the floor beside him, settling in shoulder-to-shoulder. Your thigh brushed his, and still, he didn’t pull away.

The silence between you stretched.

Then he exhaled — slow and quiet — like it was the first sound he’d made in hours. You turned your head just slightly, a silent invitation. He leaned into it.

His temple came to rest against your shoulder, and this time, the sigh that escaped him sounded almost like surrender. Not defeat — but relief. The kind that only comes when you realize you’re safe.

You let a beat pass before speaking, your voice barely above a whisper. “Do you want to talk about it?”

He shook his head, and you didn’t push. Just stayed with him. And when his lips found your collarbone a few moments later, you let it happen. It wasn't just out of desire — it was out of gravity. Like he was being pulled towards the only thing that made him feel alive.

He kissed up the line of your throat, slow and aching, until his mouth met yours in a deep, trembling kiss. Not lustful, not yet — just desperate. Desperate to feel. To be.

The rug was soft beneath you where you sat, and the quiet of the room wrapped around you like a second skin. Neither of you made a move to shift, not to the couch, not to the bedroom. Just this: grounded and close, where the silence felt like shelter.

Eventually, he turned to you more fully and reached up, cradling your jaw like you might vanish. His thumb brushed the corner of your mouth, reverent.

“Is this okay?” he asked softly.

“Yes,” you murmured. Then, gently, “Are you?”

His answer was a breath, not quite steady. “No. But I will be.”

He leaned back in, and the kiss turned heavier. Clothes slipped off one layer at a time, discarded in a heap against the floor, and his hands moved like he was memorizing you — knuckles grazing ribs, palms against hips, fingertips dragging slow lines along your skin.

Maybe this wasn’t the healthiest way for him to cope — reaching for you instead of talking, chasing sensation instead of sleep — but you didn’t stop him. You let him anchor himself with your body. Forgave him the impulse before he even asked.

When his mouth found your chest, he groaned low in his throat, like the taste of you was healing him. Then, against your breastbone, he murmured, “Did you know that the skin has over four million sensory receptors?”

You blinked down at him, breath caught halfway to a laugh. “Is that really what we’re talking about right now? Science facts?”

His thumb traced a lazy circle around your nipple. “It’s relevant data,” he mumbled. “Your body is a highly responsive neural system. Every time I touch you—” He pressed a kiss just beneath your sternum. “—your brain creates a cascade of dopamine, oxytocin, and serotonin. Pleasure, connection, trust.”

You stared down at him, stunned by the tenderness in his eyes. “You’re trying to make this a chemistry lesson?”

“No,” he said, voice thick. “I’m trying to tell you how good I’m about to make you feel.”

Then his fingers dipped between your thighs, slow and reverent, and your head tipped back with a gasp.

“I need you to know,” he said, voice low and wrecked, “exactly how much you affect me. Every part of me. Mind and body.”

His touch was expert but unhurried, every stroke deliberate, sacred. Then his mouth followed — lips brushing the inside of your thigh, tongue circling your clit with aching precision. His fingers kept moving inside you, slow and steady, and your hips trembled under the weight of it.

“You’re so responsive,” he murmured, mouth hot against you. “Heart rate elevated… pupils dilated… and your breath—” He sucked gently, pulling a ragged sound from your throat. “—sharp and shallow.”

“Spencer,” you gasped, clutching his curls. “You’re not helping.”

“Oh, I believe I am,” he said, voice wicked and reverent all at once.

Then, quieter: “I think about this when I’m gone. The sounds you make. The way you shake when I touch you like this.”

You whimpered, bucking into him, desperate to keep him close. “Tell me more.”

“I think about how soft you are. How you always let me take my time. How you never rush me, even when you’re falling apart.”

He watched you unravel, watched your mouth part and your eyes flutter. He whispered things to you — not facts now, but sweet, filthy things:

“I love how wet you get for me.”

“Every time I touch you, it’s like you bloom.”

“Do you know how fucking beautiful you are when you come?”

You were close — he could tell by the way your thighs trembled, by the tight, needy grind of your hips. And for a second, it felt like he might let you fall over the edge right there, coax it from you with just his fingers and his mouth and that low, aching voice.

But instead, he slowed his pace. Let you hover there, breathless and blinking. Then, deliberately, he pulled his fingers from you and slid them into his mouth with a moan.

Your body ached at the loss, hips twitching, but the look in his eyes made your breath catch.

“Not yet angel,” he murmured against your skin. “I want to feel it when you break.”

You reached for him, dragging him up your body — and he let you. Let you kiss him messy and unguarded. Let you grind against him, bare and aching, like your body was the only tether he had left.

But he didn’t enter you right away.

He hovered instead, your foreheads pressed together, his breath catching where it mingled with yours. Your spine arched beneath him, every inch of you straining toward contact. And then, finally — with a soft, broken moan — he sank into you, slow and deep.

You both gasped.

He didn’t move at first. Just stayed there, buried to the hilt, body trembling like he could shatter from the inside out. Then he began to move — careful, reverent, every thrust measured like it meant something. Like it had to.

You kissed him hard, overwhelmed. His grip tightened on your hips, his voice catching against your skin as he whispered, “I don’t deserve you.”

You hated when he said that. Hated that he still couldn’t see himself clearly.

“Yes you do,” you breathed. “You always have.”

His pace built gradually — never rough, just more. More contact, more desperation, more whispered nothings as he moved inside you like he was chasing heaven in the way your body opened for him. His forehead pressed to yours, breath catching warm between you. Every slow thrust felt like a question.

And you answered him — first with the way your body yielded, then with your voice.

“Yes,” you whispered — and in that one word, you gave him everything:

Yes, I’m here.

Yes, I want this.

Yes, you’re safe.

Yes, I love you.

He cupped your face in both hands as his hips stilled, eyes wet, voice wrecked. “You’re the only place I don’t echo.”

His thumbs swept softly along your cheeks, like he was still anchoring himself. “When I’m out there, everything I feel just ricochets around inside me. Guilt. Fear. The things I’ve seen, the things I’ve done — it’s like shouting into an echo chamber. Everything just comes back louder.”

He leaned in, pressing his forehead to yours. “But with you… it stops. The noise quiets. I don’t have to be anything but this.”

You barely had time to breathe before his lips found yours again, hungrier now, as if speaking the truth out loud had unshackled something in him. His hips shifted, his rhythm deepening, and his mouth grazed your cheek.

“You like that?” he asked, hand slipping between your bodies to stroke your clit again. “Being filled so deeply you forget everything else?”

You whimpered, and he smiled against your jaw.

Your orgasm built steadily, not sudden or sharp — but inevitable. Spencer continued on with his whispered praise, with his perfect rhythm, with the kind of touch that felt like a vow. His hand never stopped, his fingers dragging tight, wet circles with slow, devastating precision.

“Every time I’m inside you,” he murmured, thrusts slowing, “it’s like my mind pauses. Like your body was designed to hold me steady.”

You gasped his name when it hit you — the wave cresting and crashing in a swell of heat and light. Your thighs trembled around his hips as your back arched off the rug, clutching him tighter, needing him closer. And he gave it to you, groaning into your skin, the sound low and reverent.

“That’s it, angel,” he whispered, voice cracking. “Let go. Fuck—look at you. You’re so fucking perfect when you fall apart for me.”

You were still pulsing around him, still reeling, when he came with a gasp, burying himself deep as his body shook with the force of it. He held you like he was afraid he’d shatter, like if he let go, he’d lose himself entirely. One arm locked around your waist, the other tangled in your hair, pulling you tight against him as he spilled inside you with a broken, desperate sound that felt like surrender.

You both lay tangled on the rug, sweat cooling between your skin. The room smelled like sex and quiet and something else — something like relief. He was still inside you, but neither of you moved to change that.

Spencer shifted eventually, just enough to brush your hair from your face. He kissed your temple, your jaw, the delicate hollow at your shoulder. Every inch he could reach, like gratitude in the shape of a mouth.

“Hey,” you whispered, fingertips tracing the slope of his back. “You okay now?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just let out a breath and tucked his face into the crook of your neck, arms wrapped tight around your waist as if trying to fuse your bodies together. You held him just as tightly.

Eventually, he eased out of you with care. You shivered at the loss of him, and he immediately pressed a hand to your thigh, grounding you.

“Don’t move,” he murmured. Then he disappeared down the hall for a moment, returning with a warm, damp cloth. He cleaned you gently, almost reverently — his touch tender, his gaze careful not to drift too far from yours.

“Oxytocin release after sex promotes emotional regulation,” he murmured as he ran the cloth gently through your folds. “Which is a long-winded way of saying… Yeah, I feel human again. And also, I love you.”

He helped you sit up slowly, then reached for your shirt and eased it gently over your head. Found your underwear next and slid them up your legs with quiet care, pausing to press a lingering kiss to your hipbone. Only then did he pull on his own boxers and flannel pajama pants, looking tousled and sleepy and utterly yours.

“Come on,” you said, reaching for his hand. “Let’s get back into bed.”

The bedroom was quiet and dim, moonlight pooling softly across the sheets. You pulled back the covers and slipped in first, expecting him to slide in on his side behind you like always.

But instead, he lay on his back and opened his arms.

You didn’t hesitate. You climbed over him, settling half on his chest, half beside him, one leg draped loosely over his hip. He folded himself around you instinctively — one arm wrapped firm across your back, the other reaching for your hand. He threaded your fingers together and pressed them to his sternum like he needed the contact to breathe.

“I know I don’t say it enough,” he whispered into your hair. “But this — you — you always bring me back.”

You tilted your face to his throat and kissed the pulse there, steady and calm beneath your mouth. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted. To be the one who quiets the noise.”

He didn’t respond with words. Just held you tighter.

A hush settled over the room, warm and thick. You felt his breathing slow, his muscles soften beneath your weight — like the echo chamber inside him had finally gone still.

And when he finally drifted off, wrapped around you safely, his breath rose and fell in perfect rhythm — the sound of peace, at last.

ᝰ.ᐟ

[whatsverstappeningnow]

how f1 drivers react

when they notice you haven't been eating enough (requested)

drivers mentioned: MV33, LN4, OP81, AA23, CS55, CL16, LH44, GR63

-> tw: obviously references to ED behaviours and not eating, reader discretion is advised if this is a trigger for you!

max verstappen

You thought you were being careful. Smiling while he cooked. Saying you were full from lunch and moving the food around your plate just enough to make it seem like you’d eaten more than you had. You knew it was wrong, you should say something, but couldn't find the words.

You thought you were getting away with it.

Then one night, after a particularly long, stressful day, while the two of are getting ready for bed, Max quietly hands you one of his redbull hoodies. It feels like a peace offering. He's silent for a moment, like he too is struggling to the the right words.

“You’ve lost weight.”

You freeze with your arms halfway in the sleeves, eyes wide and aimed at the ground. “What?”

His tone is neutral, forcibly so, but his eyes aren’t. They’re serious. Studying your reaction.

“I can feel it when I hug you,” he says, blunt and truthful. “You’re smaller. You're tired all the time. You barely touched dinner. Not the for the first time, either”

You try to deflect. “I’m fine. It’s just stress...work’s been a lot—”

“I’m not judging,” he interrupts softly, hands on his hips. “But don’t lie to me. Not about this, schatje.”

You stare at the floor, guilt swirling and pooling in your stomach. His hands find your waist, thumbs brushing over your hips as if to emphasize what he already noticed. He leans in just enough that his forehead touches yours, leaning against eachother softly.

“I know you think it’s not a big deal. But it is to me,” he murmurs. “I don’t care if it’s small meals, snacks, whatever... but you need somehting. I need to know you’re okay.”

Then, after a long pause, “Please don’t shut me out. Your hurting the woman I care about, I can't let you do that.”

He doesn’t push after that. Just holds you tighter that night. Makes breakfast the next morning and doesn’t say a word when you take the plate. Just smiles a little when you pick up the fork.

lando norris

You’re lying on your stomach across your bed, scrolling through your phone aimlessly, when Lando flops down beside you with a sigh. You laugh at his sudden, unexpected appearance, but it dies out when he you don't hear him join in.

“I’m gonna say something, and you’re not allowed to get weird about it.”

You glance over, up your phone down, suspicious, but trying to lighten the tone. The sudden seriousness leaves you uncomfortable. "Hm, ominous."

He gives you a look, one that says he's not joking for once.

“You haven’t really eaten today. Or much yesterday. And I don’t think that’s nothing.”

You open your mouth to deflect, but Lando cuts in, gentler now.

“I’m not mad. I just… I want you to know that I notice these things. I don't want you to hide this stuff. I'm a... a bit hurt that you thought you had to.”

"I didn't mean to it's just. It's hard to talk about this stuff," you try to explain.

"I know that. Of course, I know that. But we spend hours talking about how I'm going, where my head is at, and that's not a one way street, love."

He nudges your shoulder lightly when you you can't find the words to say. “Let me take care of you, yeah? We’ll order something...anything you want! You don’t even have to leave the bed.”

And when you nod, he grins and kisses your cheek like it’s no big deal...like loving you includes this, too.

oscar piastri

Oscar notices something's off before you say even say anything.

You're out running errands together and get dizzy out of nowhere in the middle of the store. You hand grips his as you try and blink away the blurry spots. He's quick to put a hand on your back to help you stay up right, and even quicker to ask whats wrong.

You try to brush it off , I probably just need water or something, but he doesn’t buy it. The crease between his eyebrows deepens.

“You’ve been lightheaded more than once this week.”

You blink at him, surprised, heart suddenly beating faster than before. “No, I haven't.”

But he nods like you've said the opposite. Eyes searching yours for... something.

“I’ve also noticed you keep skipping breakfast a lot. And lunch, probably, if I'm not home with you. And you’re ‘just tired’ every night.”

Oscar isn’t dramatic about it. He just says it plainly, as truth, fact. But that just makes it harder to brush off.

“I’m worried,” he admits, voice quieter, hand holding yours tightly. “You don’t have to explain it all right now. But I need to know you’re okay... I need to know if you're not.”

You murmur that you're not sure what's going on, and it's the truth. Oscar doesn’t press.

“Let’s get head home. Have something easy. And if you don’t want to talk, we can just sit.”

"I'm sorry," you whisper to him, unsure of what to say.

"Please don't apologise. I love you. I want you to be well."

carlos sainz

You’re on your apartment balcony together, lounging around after a long morning sleep in. Carlos offers to make you breakfast, but you tell him not to bother. You’re not hungry.

He pauses mid-step, one foot inside, one still on the balcony. Looks at you, slightly offended on your behalf.

“No desayuno? Why not?”

You shrug, trying to keep your tone light. “I don’t know. I just… don’t feel like eating, I guess.”

Carlos doesn’t say anything at first. He just watches you. But the crease between his brows deepens, and then he's moving toward you, slowly, like he’s approaching something fragile. Maybe he is.

“You’ve skipped too many meals this week, mi vida. I’m not blind.”

His voice is quiet but firm, that kind of gentle stubbornness you’ve learned not to argue with. The kind that comes from a place of love, not discipline. You look down, suddenly finding it too hard to look Carlos in the eyes, but he doesn’t let the moment slip by so easily.

He finally steps right behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist lightly, and resting his chin on your shoulder. His voice is softer now, words whispered right into your ear like a sweet secret for just the two of you.

“I don’t need you to be perfect. I need you to take care of yourself.”

His fingers rub little circles into your sides, grounding and steady.

And before you can come up with a deflection, he’s pulling away just enough to kiss the side of your temple and mutter, “I’ll make something light. You don’t have to finish it. Just try.”

It’s not about food. Not really. It’s about how he wants you well. Wants you cared for. It's about showing you you are loved, and deserve to be taken care of.

alex albon

You're facetiming while he’s away, talking about qualifying, how the pets are doing, your plans for tomorrow, what you did earlier that day, when you offhandedly say, “I had a granola bar today, that counts, right?”

He laughs at first, caught up in your cute rambling. Then stops suddenly, all the humour draining from his face in a milisecond.

“Wait, that was all you had? Actually?”

You realize too late how that sounds. You can't take the words back now, and you can't find it in you to play it off as a complete joke. Part of you wants him to know.

Alex's expression shifts immediately. “Babe… You need to eat. No excuses.”

He leans in closer to the screen, voice suddenly quieter.

“Are you alright? Seriously.”

You start to downplay it, words coming out quickly to cover yourself, you weren't that hungry today, you were busy, you would eat later to make up for it, but he shakes his head gently at each excuse.

“Hey, hey. You don’t need to explain if you’re not ready. I’ve been there, I get it. But I wish you’d told me. I would’ve sent you like… twenty reminders. Or ubereats meals.”

Despite the worry, he smiles at you, soft and sweet, with the kind of look he always has before he leans in to kiss you.

“Okay. We’re ordering food together, right now. Virtual dinner date? I'll get room servivce, order something to the house for you. Yeah?”

You laugh, tear up a little, and agree. He smiles bright at your agreeance, beaming with pride.

charles leclerc

You're halfway through slicing vegetables for dinner when you say it. You'd been tossing up the right words to say all day. Deflecting is an art.

“I’m not really hungry tonight, but you go ahead.”

Charles doesn’t respond right away. Just finishes stirring the pan in front of him, sets the spoon down carefully, and, without another word, switches the stove completely off.

You glance up, confused and stunned. “What are you doing? That's not done yet.”

He simply shrugs. “If you’re not eating, then we’re not cooking.”

There’s no edge in his tone. No accusation. Just quiet finality, as if he had anticipated you not wanting to eat.

You blink, confused. “Charles, that’s ridiculous. You shouldn’t skip dinner just because—”

“Because you are?” he says gently, stepping away from the stove and closer to you. “No, I shouldn’t. But I’m not going to sit here and act like I haven’t noticed what you're doing”

He closes the space between you, wiping his hands on a dish towel before setting it aside.

“I’m not trying to make you feel bad, chéri,” he says quietly, searching your expression for the truth of the situation, but coming up empty. “I just want you to take care of yourself. And if I can help, even just a little, I will. If this is what it takes for you to know it is unhealthy, then I will do it.”

Charles reaches out and pulls you gently into his embrace. One hand on your back, the other smoothing your hair behind your ear. When he speaks again, his voice is soft against your skin. “Even if it’s just toast and juice. Even if it’s small. I’ll eat with you.”

You nod slowly, not because you’re convinced you can finish a whole meal, but because the idea of sitting across from him, even with something simple, suddenly feels like something you can do. Something you want to try. For him.

So he kisses your temple, rubs his hand down your back once again, and then says, “I’ll make tea. You pick the bread. Oui?”

lewis hamilton

You’re pacing around, trying to get stuff done, arms filled with knick-knacks you should have put away ages ago, when Lewis gently intercepts you. Hands on your upper arms, holding you still.

“You’ve been running nonstop all day, love. Did you eat yet?”

You wave him off. “I haven’t had time.”

That makes him stop cold. He exhales, long and hard, then walks over and takes your hands in his.

“That’s not okay.”

You go to respond, but Lewis lifts a hand. Gently, calmly stopping you.

“I’m not upset. But I also… don’t think this is the first time you’ve let yourself forget about food. And it’s scaring me a bit.”

“It’s not like that… I promise,” you reply in a hushed tone.

His thumb traces small circles over your knuckles, constant and soft.

“Ok, and I trust you to know if it was like that you could tell me. But I’ve seen what burnout looks like. What forgetting to take care of yourself does. I won’t stand by and watch it happen to you too. I love you too much to watch you crash and burn.”

"Lewis—"

He takes all the clothes and cups from your arms and places them on the table, leaving your hands empty and your heart beating fast.

He leans in and kisses your forehead, hushing you. “Let’s start small. Something warm. Something easy. Please? Gotta make sure my girl is taken care of.”

He doesn’t ask for more. Just reminds you, with every soft word and touch, that you’re worth taking care of, even on the days when you forget how.

george russell

You're lying in bed together when George brings it up for the first time.

"Love, I need to ask you something, and I need you to be honest with me. Please?"

When you turn to look at him, his face is dead serious, his undereye bags heavy and dark like something’s been worried about something for a while.

"You haven’t been eating enough." He says it quietly, thumb brushing just beneath your cheekbone like he’s afraid he’s already said too much.

"That’s not a question," you reply, a little too fast. A little too defensive.

George doesn’t take the bait. He just watches you for a second, gaze steady but soft. There’s no judgment in it, only worry.

“I know,” he says. “But I’ve been holding it in, waiting for you to come to me, waiting for the right time, and... I guess there isn’t one, is there?”

You sigh, low and long from the weight of everything you've been feeling. He shifts closer, wrapping an arm around your waist.

“I’m not angry. I don't want you to think that. I just...noticed recently. And I didn’t want to corner you, or make you feel.. attacked, but I love you, and I can’t keep pretending I don’t see what’s happening.”

You rest your forehead against his chest, and his hand runs gently up and down your back.

“You don’t have to explain anything right now,” he murmurs. “Just let me help. We can start slow. A good breakfast tomorrow. I’ll make tea. We can talk about it, if you'd like. One thing at a time. Yeah?”

"I'm sorry."

"Hey, none of that. This isn't something you need to apologise for. I got you. We got this."

You nod against him, curling tighter into his soft hold. George presses a soft kiss to the top of your head like a promise. One that says: you’re not doing this alone.

lowkey inspired by both the anon request and the quote "i love you, i want us both to eat well" <3

[reignpage]

Frat Boy!Gojo

Still water: got all I need

Word Count: 7.7k Contents: final part, angsty at multiple parts, cursing, chaos breaks out, happy ending, lots of bickering and arguing, they're really annoying actually, smut, 18+, mdni, barely proofread Find previous parts and a whole college au world here

You sigh. 

You didn’t sleep at all and it’s showing — complaining incessantly, your mother points out everything wrong about the way you look to anyone who’ll listen. What feels like a hundred people pile into your room in the Zenin manor: makeup artists, stylists, assistants, PR managers, and maids. All dedicated to making you the perfect Zenin bride. 

Which apparently means waxing you raw, detangling your hair until you’re sure you’ve got more bald spots than locks, spraying you down with every perfume known to man, creating an ungodly cloud of the most nauseating particles of air that brings tears to your eyes, and critiquing everything about your appearance. 

Wrangled here, pushed and pulled there, ‘look up here’ and ‘don’t look there,’ your head’s on a swivel. You’ve lost all control of your limbs and can only rely on the strings that keep you tethered to a reality you no longer recognise. 

Their clattering is driving you mad, but you bite your tongue. You don’t want to give them a reason to torture you on purpose. 

One minute you’re engaged to someone you thought you’d never be able to tolerate, then he turns out to be…alright, and the next you’re a free woman because he can’t stand you, and now you’re back to where you started. 

The universe must be having a grand old time. 

Good for her. 

Far removed from the planning, you can do nothing but sit back and watch everything construct itself before your eyes. The flowers they’ve chosen are the purest white lilies; they better resemble funerial flowers than marital. You don’t say a thing. On a rack, your dress hangs — it’s simple, quite pretty, actually. It’s somewhat eggshell white, long satin, not form fitting. Classic, elegant and chic. Totally not your style.

You know, without needing to ask, that he chose it. Yet another thing to mock and taunt you with. 

Father nowhere in sight, as usual, you’re stuck with your mother. She hasn’t spoken to you since yesterday, her drunken stupor gone, likely to make herself look presentable to the Zenins. 

The first couple hours in the morning had been spent trying to catch her eye all while you’re being groomed, hoping she’ll see the absurdity of this farce, that some kind of maternal instinct will click and she’ll whisk you away. Of course, none of that happens but one can daydream. Not like you have a prince charming on a white horse waiting to strike. 

She wasn’t always like this. You recall some time, long ago, deep in your childhood, when she’d sing lullabies and rock you to sleep, hiding you behind her legs when scary men would stare too long at parties, and sneaking you candy. Somewhere amidst the pressure to run the family business and estate while her husband did as he pleased must have erased it all. Perhaps, when you’re older and you have your own children too, you’ll resent them for the sins of their father too. 

No. 

Never.

“What should we do with her makeup?” A flamboyant man in purple pantsuits asks.

Manicures being carefully done, your mother looks up, red lips curling up into sharp points, and eyes staring straight through you. “Get rid of it. All of it. Make her look like someone worth marrying.”

Great. 

——————

“Are you sure about this?” She asks. 

Gojo shrugs. “No, but it’s the only idea we’ve got so, let’s just go for it.”

His friends share a look, unsure and slightly concerned. When he gets into these moods, where he’s hyper-focused, undeterred, and determined, they know better than to try and talk sense to him. It’s proven impossible before. Still, they’ve never seen him look quite so…terrifying.

Sporting a sharp glint in his eyes, he eyes the door, locked from inside. Barely restrained tension runs through his body, keeping him ready to pounce at any moment, fists clenching and unclenching. He’s not even wearing his sunglasses. At the present moment, they’re hiding behind a bush, looking out for security guards which patrol the surrounding area. The cathedral stands silent, deceptively so — inside, they know, are a whole congregation of Eden’s elites. The Gojo clan have not been extended an invitation. In fact, apart from those directly invited by the Zenins, no one even knows what abomination is happening inside. 

“Where did you even get these things?” Suguru lifts the lapel of his suit with mild disgust, finding the polyester itchy on his precious skin, no doubt. 

“Fushiguro.”

The girl makes some undignified noise. “Fushiguro? The guy who has a vendetta against you for no reason?”

Ducking with experienced speed, they all hide in the shrubbery as a guard makes his rounds. A second passes. And another. Then three heads peek back up again, all staring at the door at the back of the cathedral, where the vines grow thicker, zigzagging wildly. 

Gojo argues, “He doesn’t have a vendetta against me. He’s helping me actually. I kinda know a secret of his — occupational hazard as the Gojo heir or whatever — and I was gonna blackmail him into helping but weirdly, he was totally on board. Said something about ‘payback’ and ‘anything to fuck some bitches up’ — not that I use such a derogatory term, by the way, I am an ally for wome—“

He earns a smack on the head. 

“Ouch! Okay, yeah, as I was saying, he said he has connections inside and to wait here.”

They share a glance again. Hesitantly, the more nervous of the three asks, “And you’re sure you can trust him? That he’s not gonna fuck you over?”

“No,” he answers truthfully, “but I have no choice. This has to work. It just has to.”

When a couple more minutes passes and time starts ticking closer and closer to the edge of no going back, both friends’ doubts double. Early in the day, when the white-haired man sent the group chat a message saying, EMERGENCY EMERGENCY CODE RED BUT NOT FOR SHARK WEEK, they both thought, ‘what now?’

Maybe he wanted to dye the school fountain red again or steal another university’s mascot. They’d have preferred that actually, instead of pissing off one of the most powerful families in the country. Usually, their crimes involved being in the dead of the night, fuelled by burning alcohol and a youthful lack of shame, but right now, as the sun has only begun to set and there’s hundreds of people inside the place they’re looking to break into, they think they might have finally bitten off more than they can chew. 

“Satoru, maybe we sho—“

“Look!”

The door creaks open. A little boy in a sharp suit steps out, looking left and then right before waving straight at them. A second passes and yet another. They’re stuck, frozen, in their spot, unsure of what to make of the scene. 

Suguru whispers, “Is that…Fushiguro’s son?”

Beckoning them over, the boy makes a frustrated noise; they’re taking too long. A guard is about to round the corner. They need to make it inside and they need to do it now. Gojo surges forward. They follow. 

The door clicks. 

“Oh, fuck.” The girl pants. “I’m too sober for this.”

“Agreed,” the long-haired man says. 

Deaf to their expressions of concern, Gojo surveys the area: it’s a tight space at the foot of a winding staircase made of stone with cobwebs in the corners and dust settling on all surfaces. It’s dark, lit up only by the sunlight peering through the slits on the wall. If he was to hazard a guess, and he must insist it really is just a guess since he knows nothing about architecture and history, it could be a super-secret passageway for like monks and stuff.

“You guys should go.” All eyes fall down to the little boy with a flat expression. He doesn’t look perturbed at all at the prospect and reality of having just helped some college kids crash a wedding. “They’ve already started.”

Suguru nods. “Alright. I’ll go left, you go right and Satoru...tone down the theatrics as much as you can, will you?”

His friend waves him off and he sighs. 

“I’ll text everyone to stand by and on your count, we’ll attack,” the girl says. “I can’t wait to tell my boyfriend all about this. He’s gonna have a heart attack.”

Filing out, sucking in their stomachs and stretching as thin as they can to make it through the rickety wooden door and properly inside the cathedral, they anxiously go through the plan in their heads, but not before Gojo can the last word in. “What’s your name, little dude?”

“Megumi.”

He smiles. “Thanks, Megumi. Tell your brother thanks too. Coolest siblings I know for sure.”

A little shy suddenly, the boy huffs his chest out, attempting to stand taller in his perfectly fitted suit, shiny shoes, and untamed hair. “Yeah, we are.”

And off Gojo went, dressed similarly and with a plan he’ll kill to see through.

——————

There are so many eyes on you. On any other day, you’d shake it off; you’re used to it after all. But, today’s not like any other day, and you can’t hide behind your expressive fashion. Now, you’ve been stripped bare and polished all pretty and palatable for a man who stands beside you, cold as ice but carrying a hellish heat that’s threatening to send shivers up your spine.

None of the guests here are friendly faces. Most are familiar, having met them through those stupid galas and balls, but they don’t know you. Probably couldn’t even say your name. No, of course not, because they’re not here for you, they’re here for him. For his family and the name he bears. The name you will soon carry on you like a festering brand. 

And as the priest rattles on through centuries of tradition and your dark future awaits you, all you can think about is, would it have been better or worse to have seen Gojo sitting amongst the crowd?

It doesn’t matter, really. You barely knew the guy. He was just that person you had to learn to tolerate to maintain your sanity and soon, he’ll be the guy you once knew, the guy you think about here and there as you send your children off to school and kiss your husband goodbye.

“Smile,” Naoya commands through gritted teeth. “You look like you’ve been kidnapped.”

You fire back, “I was.”

If the priest heard that, he gives no indication. Instead, he continues his spiel and avoids your eye. So, seeking sanctuary is a no go. 

“And should anyone present know of any reason that this couple should not be joined in holy matrimony, speak now or forever hold your peace.”

Eyes rolling before you can help yourself, you remark how stupid the tradition is. What even is the point? Does anyone ever actually object to—

“I object!”

Your head spins back so fast you almost give yourself whiplash. You know that voice. There’s no one else in the world with such a grating, fiendishly arrogant timbre. He’s there, at the very back of the cathedral, standing by the massive double doors, and dressed in a waiter’s uniform?

A round of gasps make waves around the great hall, shocked and horrified. If anyone had been dozing off, they’re surely awake now. Hell so are you. 

Heart beating fast, you can’t grasp that he’s really here. He came. For you. But he didn’t want anything to do with you. He made that abundantly clear. Still, he’s grinning right at you, looking at no one else, not even when they whisper his name like some kind of curse.

“A holy matrimony’s the last thing my girl wants; she’s a devil worshipper, your honour. So, unless there’s a goat sacrifice, she won’t be very happy.”

Naoya hisses. “How did that filthy Gojo get here? Security!”

Tall, muscular men who had been hiding in the shadows come out into the light, all eyes on the interloper. They’re going to kill him. They’ll actually kill him. 

“Aw, Nao Nao, you think you’re the only one with an army of men? Dude, I’m a frat president. The overwhelming stench of testosterone is all I know.”

And at his cue, doors to the side, and the doors behind him, open. 

Flashes of skin, roars of excitement, whooshing blow of air brushing past you. A huge crowd of men and women rush in. They hoot. They cheer. Whoop and shout and yell. They run through the aisle, in just their underwear, carrying buckets of water and sponges. No one expects their designer, bespoke clothes to be drenched in soapy water. Just as no one expects college kids to give them lap dances, covering them in confetti and boa scarves.

Chaos breaks out faster than you can process. 

Screams resound. Everyone’s shouting and clambering in all directions. A flurry of panic fills the holy grounds. They reach you, bumping and grinding and laughing. You’re lost. You can’t see past shiny chests. 

Deafening music plays on rogue speakers, blasting from all angles. It dulls your senses – you can barely tell who’s who, but it feels like the entire Eden Uni student population has crashed in like a tsunami. Frats and sororities merge indiscriminately, throwing each other around, ripping the flowers decorating the aisle up and tossing them in the air. The school mascot, a chicken is on the altar, pecking at the priest. 

The guests have been blocked in. Women are being twirled by younger, muscular boys. The men are being touched up by much younger girls and don’t seem to be complaining. Everyone’s dancing and singing, carried by the high of doing something they know is wrong in the worst place to be doing it in. 

It’s the kind of euphoria you’ve missed.

Water is splashing all over your white gown, soaking you through. The cathedral has turned into a waterpark and a nightclub at all once. Arms are reaching, touching, pushing and pulling. You’re being swept along with no destination in sight. Breathless, reeling and lightheaded, you let the crowd swallow you.

Laughing. 

You see Naoya through slivers between bodies. He’s outraged. You laugh harder. There are soap suds in his hair and suit. Attempts to stomp over to you are curbed by hormonal frat guys grinding on his body and pulling at his clothes. From personal experience, you know they can be real annoying to deal with. They’re persistent and they use their charms to get their way. It’s how they always fill their charity quota so easily.

Goodbye asshole.

Solid arms tug you back. You fall onto a firm chest. A dizzying scent fills your nostrils.

“Hey, baby.” An annoying voice whispers in your ear. “Wanna be the Wednesday to my Pugsley?”

You’re speechless, veering off course and truly discombobulated. He’s here. He’s actually here. Staggering back with him, you let him lead you through the crowd. Naoya gets further and further away. He’ll never get to you. “They’re siblings, you idiot.”

Gojo laughs, loud and intoxicating. “Yeah, I know. Was just testing you. Passed with flying colours, by the way. Missed me?”

“No, I barely even remember who you are.”

“Oh, now you’re just trying to get me hard.”

And then you’re out, feeling the warm embrace of the sun. 

The churchyard is just as busy and bustling too. There are tons of people in beachwear dancing on tables and throwing your gifts into the air as they dance to music booming out of huge speakers on backs of cars and pickup trucks. Somehow, whilst you were in there, accepting your fate, a party had been building. 

Your wedding had gone from a metaphorical funeral to a quad party you won’t be stopping any time soon. And you finally understand why Gojo’s parties are treated like a national holiday on campus; you really wouldn’t want to miss it at all.

He spins you around. In his heavy hands, your face is held, gently. Thumbs brushing your cheeks, bright blue eyes search yours. There’s a softness to his gaze when he scans your entire body. “Aw, baby, look what they did to you.”

“Don’t I look better now?”

It’s unbelievable how easily you find it in yourself to speak so clearly, to tease and prod even when you feel like you had just faced death and had barely escaped its clutch. 

Leaning in close, his nose skims yours. Eyes flutter shut and he takes a deep breath, hold on you tightening with a concerning quiver. “No. I like my girl terrifying and looking like she just put a curse on me.”

“I’m surprised you even recognised me.” Truly, you’re unrecognisable. Even your mother had paused when she took her first look at you with all your makeup, lace, and piercings gone. It was as if she was looking at her little girl again and it didn’t matter at all.

Gojo’s lips touch yours. He’s not kissing you. He’s just touching, feeling, absorbing the moment. “‘course I recognised you. Are you crazy? How could I ever forget those eyes? They’ve traumatised me so much I get nightmares.”

You stand on your tiptoes, chasing his lips. “Asshole.”

His hand travels to the back of your head, holding you still.

“Witch.” So close...just one tiny push and you’ll kiss him. He knows it too. Knows how easy it’d be to taste you on his lips, and he hopes you don’t hear the pounding of his chest. “You want this too, right? It’s not just me?”

“Hmm, I do.”

“Y/n!” 

Through the thunderous music, you hear your mother’s voice call out. She’s standing at the threshold, over the crowd, glaring right at you. She’s drenched from head to toe. There’s a look of complete and utter devastation on her face, marred with an anger you’ve become so familiar with you hardly notice it over the desperate pleading in her eyes. She’s aged a lot. 

Walking forward, she’s weaving straight for you, manicured hands reaching and reaching. “Don’t do this. Don’t be so selfish! Y-you can still marry the Zenin boy. Think of our family! We’ll be broken without his money.”

Pressing close, you feel his presence, supportive and resolute. It’s what gives you the power to finally meet her stare after years of looking away, of cowering, running. 

“Our family was broken a long time ago, Mother. And it’s never been my fault.”

Then you turn and never look back.

——————

“Okay, wait, wait. You actually snuck in dressed as servers?”

You’re both sat on the swing set, just rocking back and forth, watching the night sky. The cold breeze is refreshing, and you can’t get enough of it. Fairy lights on and warm, it’s just you two, hidden away deep in the woods behind the cathedral. In fact, you’re so far away, you can’t even hear the distant thrum of music. Whether the party is still going on or if the police had been called, you don’t know and you don’t really care to ask. 

“Yeah,” Gojo admits with a proud laugh. “I was by the cloak room waiting for my cue and pretending that I was keeping guard.”

He’s wearing a white shirt under a black vest, tailored trousers and loafers. Truly looking the part of ‘help’ and somehow making it look good, he’s rolled up the sleeves, revealing toned arms and pristine skin. 

Laughing, you ask, “How long have you been wanting to do the whole ‘I object’ thing? Be honest.”

“Oh, like since forever. I wanted to so bad I’ve been contemplating crashing a random wedding just to do it.”

Knowing him, he’s not lying or exaggerating at all. In fact, it’s so him you can’t help but throw your head back and laugh even more. “Okay, so you’re totally welcome then.”

“Yeah, thanks, but don’t do that again. I don’t think I have it in me to pull something like that off again.”

“Somehow, I doubt that.”

Abruptly standing up, he comes to you and extends his hand. Smiling down at you with no hint of mischief whatsoever and with the tips of his ears ever so slightly pink, you note how young he suddenly looks. He just looks like a boy staring at a girl hoping she won’t slap his hand away. You take it without thinking and you’re whisked up and away. Swaying you to an inaudible music, he grips you close. Even though the night’s a little chilly, you don’t really feel the cold, not when he’s shielding you from it like he can’t stand the thought of anyone but him touching you. 

Things had changed so fast in the last day and a half, turning your life into a rollercoaster you thought you’d never be able to get off. Still, you persevered, a true fighter. You allow yourself that one moment of pride. 

Basking in his warmth and his scent washes away the remaining fears of your past catching up to you. On your way here, he had conspiratorially whispered that his family will take care of the Zenins, that their clan head owes them a favour and Naoya can’t do a single thing about it. 

And though you’re no longer tied to that Zenin and you’re with Gojo again, you know things have been done that could never be undone. You’ve lost your family. Both literally and metaphorically.

Tenderly, he asks, “Did he...did he touch you?”

“No. But he killed my friend,” you confess. 

Gojo stills for a second before he continues swaying you, head resting on yours so he can lay a gentle kiss. Muttering against your hair, he says, “I’m sorry. Really...I-I’m sorry...Tell me more about him.”

“I don’t want to ruin the moment.”

Chuckling, he whispers, “I got my girl back and she’s dancing with me under the stars. Nothing could ever ruin this.”

You hold him tight, cheek resting on his chest like as if it’s the most natural fit in the world. With just one second to gather yourself, you tell him a story. “He was the son of the groundskeeper in our home, back before our family went bankrupt because of my dad. We became friends. Best friends. Stayed that way until we were like eighteen. It was weird to meet someone so understanding, so similar, so you, but I knew I’d do anything for him from the very first moment I met him.”

“If he’s anything like you, he must have been very special.”

“The most special,” you admit. Then, you look up. “You’re not jealous, are you?”

He gives you a sheepish smile. “Would you think less of me if I say yes?”

Unable to help yourself, you graze your teeth against his chin, finding the urge to just rip him apart overwhelming. “There’s no way I could think less of you. You’re pretty far down already.”

“Hopefully far enough to see up your dress.”

You laugh. “Let me finish my story and I’ll think about it.”

And he zips his mouth shut. 

“There was something different about him. Something that made him stand out, never fitting in, just like me. Maybe that’s why we gravitated towards each other, why we were inseparable.” Bittersweet memories flash before you, drowning you in a time long past and you’ll never get back. “He was gay, and his parents hated it. They didn’t understand. They thought they could beat it out of him. And he’d always meet me at my window, climbing up the tree, with different bruises every week. It was hard to see someone you love try and smile through their pain.”

Gojo’s hum tell his own story.

“And when we couldn’t take it anymore, when I knew that soon, there’d come a day when he just would stop turning up, I begged him to run away with me. I just wouldn’t stop pestering him. He didn’t want to; he thought it was unfair to drag me down with him or something. And though I hated my parents too, I did have it better than him, I know that. But I would have given it all away for him. And I was going to. But then…”

No longer swaying, he just keeps you tucked in his chest, waiting patiently for you to catch your breath. He doesn’t say a thing, doesn’t offer condolences, or all false promises. 

“We were driving away. We were making it out, but I got a notification on my phone. My mum was trying to reach me. And I don’t know, I felt guilty, and he must have seen it because he tried to do a U-turn and...and…I made it out alive and he was just barely there.”

For the longest time, this story, his story hadn’t been uttered to anyone. And though you did once think it’d be nice if they could meet, you wish it wasn’t under these circumstances. You wish they’d both be breathing and not severed between life and death. 

“My family was paying for his hospital fees for as long as they could, before all the money dried up and we were running on fumes trying to keep up the facade. Maybe that’s why I put up with them for so long, why I never tried to run away. That gratitude I had kept me stuck there for so long, even once a charity picked up his case and took over.”

“That sneaky old man.” He mutters under his breath but then notices your confused look and shakes his head. “Ah, I’ll tell you another day…I’m sorry about your friend. I’m sorry for what Naoya did. If I could make him pay, I would. I will.”

You chuckle. He sounds so sure you can’t help but find him absolutely adorable.

“No, he does deserve to pay but honestly, I’m relieved.” A huge part of you had always carried tremendous guilt of having put him in that position to begin with. He was destined for more and you had kept him confined to that hospital bed for your own needs, unable to let him go, to accept the truth. “His heart may have been beating but he had been gone a long time ago. Now, he’s truly at peace, I think. He’ll be happy to finally go.”

Gojo kisses your forehead. “If he’s any bit as loving as you, then I think he’d be happy you’d be able to move on. Y’know, start living your life for yourself.”

You laugh again. Loud and obnoxious, you’re sure. It startles him. 

“God, you’re so annoyingly sweet when you want to be. You’re supposed to hate me. To be disgusted that I’d been so selfish, so cowardly for so long. But instead, you’re looking at me like I hung the moon and stars.”

He tilts his head, a playful smile on those soft lips of his. “You didn’t?”

“Just kiss me, you idiot.”

And so, he does. 

He quite literally sweeps you off your feet, lifting you up so he can smother your lips with his. He tastes of sugar, of a long fight for freedom, and of youth you’ve never had. And when you’re in his arms, tongue twisting together and savouring this moment that feels like a long time coming, you can’t think about anything else other than how this is right where you belong. Your hands get buried in each other’s hair, bridging the gap until not a single atom keeps you apart. Despite how tight his clutch is, you find comfort in the reminder that he’s with you now and he’s not going to let you go. 

When you part, your lips tingle and his teeth pull your bottom lip, tugging it just to watch it bounce back into place. His hair is a mess, his lips swollen and cheeks flushed. He’s never looked more beautiful.

“I’ve been wanting to do that for so long,” he admits.

You peck him. “Did it leave up to your wet dreams?”

“Oh, you have no idea.”

You two fall onto the grass, kissing and touching and gasping. He doesn’t let your body touch the ground, taking the brunt of your weight as if you’re as light as a feather. A hand slides to the back of your dress, pulling down a zipper. 

“I hate this dress…” He breathes out. “I’d never let you wear something so plain at our wedding.”

Giggling, you indulge in the ticklish touches. “Aren’t you getting a little too ahead of yourself there, Gojo?”

He smashes your face back to his, swallowing your words like he doesn’t think it belongs on the lips he could spend eternity worshiping. “Satoru, baby. Call me Satoru.”

And now you’re both back where you left off, sending déjà vu coursing through your veins. Sitting up, away from his lips which attempt to chase you, you slide off his body, crawling back on to the grass. Gazing at you with wide eyes, he doesn’t miss a thing when you spread your legs slowly. “Promise not to cum in your pants if I do?”

“No.” He scrambles towards you. “Can’t.”

Smiling, you say, “Oh, but you must, otherwise you’ll cut this night short.”

The white-haired man grabs your ankles, rubbing warmth on your skin. Eyes never leaving yours, he removes your heels, one by one, lifting each to lay a kiss on your sole. Then, as you’re lying back, looking up at him, he asks, “You wouldn’t happen to be wearing a garter, would you? Because if you are, then I might actually cum in my pants.”

“Come and find out…Satoru.”

He dives forward, pushing through the thick heap of fabric, warm skin leaving a trail on your inner thighs and finding, hopefully, a black lace garter you had snuck on as a quiet act of rebellion. Naoya would have flipped out if he saw it, you’re sure, but it would have been worth it. No matter the price, you would have kept finding ways to keep your identity try as he might to erase it. 

“Ah, baby, you must have known I’d end up here, right? Otherwise, you wouldn’t have left a present with my name on it.”

Warm breath brushing your panties, you fight the urge to shiver. “You like my garter?”

Just as you had bitten his chin, he bites your thigh and licks up the mark quickly, soothing the skin. Your body is aching, and he isn’t even touching you where you wish he would. 

“It’s pretty and I’m keeping it for my spank bank for sure,” he promises. “But I’m talking about this.”

You gasp.

Satoru licked a stripe up your clothed slit, tongue poking at your clit. He pauses. Oh no, he must have found your real gift. So many nights spent dreaming about how it’ll shut him up to finally know where your final piercing is and the feeling of his body surging heat throughs yours doesn’t live up your imagination. 

Swimming out of the dress, his eyes, unobscured by those dark sunglasses of his, widen comically. You’re watching a blush blossom on his cheeks in real time. “You have a clit piercing!”

“I do.”

‘Oh fuck,’ is all he says before he climbs back in and pulls your panties to the side. You squeal at the sudden sensation of his long tongue exploring your pussy in a rush. Again and again, he licks and licks until he can’t get enough and begins sucking at your already twitching clit, playing with the metal bar. “Wow, I can’t believe you’ve been hiding this from me...That’s the real tragedy...”

It’s been so long and he’s so good at that, you’re nearing your climax much sooner than you’d like; his head is already massive, if he makes you cum from a couple licks you’ll never hear the end of it. 

“Did it -mhm- hurt?”

Back arching, you grip blades of grass for tether. “Y-yeah. The recovery was rough but totally worth it. I’m even more sensitive down there now.”

Two fingers worm their way inside your pussy, feeling the pleats and enjoying the gumminess of your walls. “Yeah, I can -hah- tell. You’re gushing on my fingers. I can’t get enough of you. You taste so incredible, how is that even possible? You must really be a witch...no, a fallen angel sent to damn me.”

“You’re so melodramatic,” you breathe out, hips jolting.

His arms are wrapped around your thighs, keeping them spread nice and wide for him. You’re sure he can’t breathe under your dress and with the sloppy noises he’s making, you’re not convinced he’s already decided this is how he’d like to die. “Can’t help it...pussy’s so -ha- good I want to recite p-poetry...to be or not to be and whatever.”

A hand falls onto his head over the fabric, keeping him between your legs and pressed up against your pussy. He’s playing with your piercing with his tongue, rolling it around like a fidget toy. There’s no technique to whatever he’s doing but goddamn it, it sure does feel fucking good. 

“I could spend all -hah- day eating you out.”

He’s given you an opening to tease him more. You sure as hell take it. “If you hadn’t fucked shit up by telling on our parents to the press, then you would have been well acquainted with my pussy by now.”

An embarrassed sound escapes him. “I’m sorry…I thought I ate that up. Whoops. I’ll make it up to you four though.”

“Four?”

“Yeah, you, your tits and this kitty.”

Wow, that almost dried you up. “Shut up, Satoru. Like actually. Please.”

“Okay, but can I actually spend all day eating you out? I’ll work for it.”

“You just want an -ngh! don’t suck so hard, fuck!- e-excuse not to go to classes.” You smile when he huffs against your pussy, curling those fingers against your g-spot. He’s lying flat on his stomach and without needing to look to be sure, you know he’s rutting his hips against the grass. 

He sucks hard at your clit despite your command. You cry out. “Hmm, you already -hah that’s it, ride my face- already know me so well, baby. You obsessed with me or something?”

“So obsessed I o-orchestrated a -hngh- wedding just for you to crash it.”

Obscene noises are emanating from under your skirt. He’s making out with your pussy, slurping and lapping up your juices like a man starved. “You’re so sweet to me. So so sweet. Are you gonna cum soon? You’re tightening up like you are. Come on, show me how you sound when you cum. Let me know if my imagination lives up to reality.”

Just as he says, you cum all over his face and his fingers, writhing on the grass and dirtying the wedding dress with reckless abandon. It’s possibly the best orgasm you’ve had in years or ever and you almost admit that to him but the fact that he had been able to make you cum at all is embarrassing enough that you keep all praises to yourself. 

Instead, when he comes out, a shit-eating grin on his face, and his shirt unbuttoned at the top, you tell him, “T-take your pants off and fuck me already.”

“Woah! Buy me dinner first.”

You roll your eyes. “I’m serious. Hurry up and get inside me.”

He smiles and leans down to press a kiss on the tip of your nose, smearing your wetness on your skin accidentally. Muttering an ‘oops,’ he quickly licks up the sheen before he wipes it with his hand altogether. “And I’m being serious. As much as I would love to — trust me, I’m actually kicking myself right now and this will haunt me — we can’t. I don’t have a condom on me.”

“Oh, god, I hate you.”

Slumping on top of you just to hear your sudden groan, he mumbles between the valleys of your breast, pulling your dress down to bare them to him, “Yeah, my bad, baby. I hate Satoru too.”

Just as fascinated with the piercings on your nipples, he fiddles with them like a stress toy, pulling and watching for your reaction. You bite your lip. You won’t moan for the bastard. 

Pussy still tingling, you just lie there carrying his heavy ass as he fondles your tits and introduces himself to them. You really want to get laid. You’re practically desperate for it. These past couple months have been so stressful, so disastrous, you want compensation in the form of orgasms. Damn it, he will give it to you since he caused all of this to begin with. 

“Take me back to your frat house. You must have condoms there.”

Mouth full of your breast, he says, voice muffled, “You are totally obsessed with me. Like, you’re so bossy when you’re horny.”

You smack the back of his head. “Don’t even pretend you’re not grinding your dick onto me, asshole. Take me to your frat house now before I go back to Naoya.”

His hips still. He gets up and pulls you with him. Pouty, he grouches. “Okay, so now you’ve ruined the moment.”

“I ruined the moment? Are you kidding me? You’re the one who didn’t bring a condom!”

“Well, I’m sorry, but I didn’t know there’d be sex involved in my rescue mission.”

“Don’t you dare lie to me, Satoru. You knew there would be. Why else would I keep you around?”

He gasps. “Excuse me? You’re objectifying people in this day and age? Wow! Wow wow wow. Am I just a piece of meat to you?”

“Shut. Up.” As you stomp around, stabbing his chest with your finger, he just hums and slides your dress off, lifting you up and out of the ugly thing. Now in just a thin slip, he wraps his arms around you and carries you out of your hideaway like you weigh absolutely nothing. “Admit it. Admit you forgot the condom.”

“No, I didn’t bring any because I respect you for your mind and personality. I’m not some kind of animal who’s led by her clit.”

Clutching him for warmth, you let him expertly navigate his way out of the labyrinth and into the car park. In his car, you argue the whole way. The fucker won’t admit what you both know to be the truth, settling for singing along to the pop songs on the radio. Whilst you rant about his stupidity and recklessness, finally scolding him for even getting you into this position, he just smiles and takes it all in, keeping a hand on your bare thigh and daring to rise higher. You let him finger you into another orgasm. 

Still complaining even when you two finally arrive at the frat, wolf whistled at by his exhausted brothers before you arrive at his room, you glare at him. 

It’s spacious and pretty empty, devoid of much personality unlike his childhood room. When he lays you down on the bed, pulling sticks and leaves out of your hair, he gets right back in between your legs and keeps eye contact the whole time. Though it isn’t a whole day like he wants, he does give you a couple more orgasms in two hours. 

He may be neglectful of his education, but he does not mess around with your cunt. In fact, he treats it like it’s life and death, muttering praises about how expressive she is, how tight and well-behaved. So fucking cheesy. 

“Ugh, leave her alone now. Come up here and show me what I’m working with.”

Eyes hazy and looking like he’s not all there right now, he emerges and fumbles with his pants, kicking them off to reveal his cock. Your jaw drops. 

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

Satoru shrugs and leans down to kiss you, shoving his tongue inside so you can taste yourself. “You’re so mad, aren’t you? Gojo Satoru really does have it all, doesn’t he? Don’t be upset, babe, you’re pretty hot yourself.”

Of course! Of course, his dick would be big. Long and thick, he keeps it clean down there, baring the long veins that wrap around his impressive length and reaching his pretty pink tip which aggressively leaks precum. Firmly, you say, “That’s not gonna fit inside me at all.”

He hums, sucking marks on your neck, collarbone and on your breasts. “You can take it. My girl can do anything.”

“Ah, fuck it.”

To be with him like this, all warm and safe from everyone that’s tried to control you two, feels like heaven in the most sinful way. You’re being engulfed by his scent and his body, stronger and more muscular than you ever thought it could be. The way he touches you, greedy but careful, as if he’s just been presented with the most tempting feast he could dream of is driving you wild. 

Pulling him up for a kiss, you give yourself up to the overwhelming urge to consume him. He’s yours. He always has been and always will be. You don’t know how the future will go but that’s how it feels in the moment and it’s more than you could ever ask for. 

“How do you want me?” You ask, leaning up on your elbows, ready to get into any position he wants. 

Satoru’s smile is so sheepish and simultaneously shameless, it makes you sigh – it’s the kind of smile that tells you he knows what he’s about to say is incredibly idiotic, but he means every word of it. And you’re just as idiotic, you think, because you actually want to hear him out. “Just as you are.” 

“Ugh, I hate you.” You slump back down on the bed, staring up at ceiling and wondering how you’re going to put up with him for the foreseeable future.

Swallowing your complaints with his lips, he and quips, “If this is how good you taste when you hate me, I can’t wait for you to sit on my face when you’re in love with me.”

“Never gonna happen.”

“Hmm, never say never, baby. I think you’ll find I can be quite persuasive.”

Honestly, you should be scared; he really is persuasive. You’ve learnt in the past few months that when Satoru wants something, he gets it. And right now, he looks so hell bent on winning this bet you’ve raised he looks like he’s casting a spell on your pussy with his dick as he rubs the length along your slit, getting it wet before he grabs a condom from his bedside drawer. In true frat guy fashion, he’s putting on the ultra-thin ones and you’re also not surprised to see that they’re strawberry flavoured. 

Sensing the judgement in your eyes, he chuckles, forehead meeting yours. Held up by his forearms, you notice the quiver in them. “Pinch me. Please. I have to know this is real, that you’re mine.”

You whisper, running your hands through his hair and listening to him purr, “I’m yours, Satoru. I’m not going anywhere. So...hurry up and fuck me before I dry up.”

His laugh is so unbridled, so obnoxious and loud it brings you to laughter too. 

“Hey...y’know, you’ve bewitched me, body and soul...I’ll follow you the depths of hell.” He confesses, angling his hips so his cock head is right at your entrance, teasing and prodding. “Remember that because you’re gonna be so mad when I tell you I did forget. Whoopsy.”

“I fucking knew it—AH! FUCK!”

In one smooth thrust, he’s forced himself inside you. Your walls squeeze, pulsing, desperate to acclimatise to his cock. He’s hitting all your sensitive spots, filling you up so good it’s like he’s shoved all the air out of you, occupying your lungs. Eyes roll back, jaw hanging low. 

“Yeah, my b-bad, baby. Just let me -oh, you feel so good- a-apologise, yeah? I’ll make you forget all the things I did wrong.” Pace steady, he works his cock in and out, swivelling his pelvis against yours every time he bottoms out, enjoying the feel of your cold clit piercing on his skin. 

You moan. “I highly fucking doubt that. You’ll probably just keep fucking up again and again anyways.”

He smiles. 

“Probably, but I’ll never s-stop trying to apologise. Now, quit being so -hah- tight; I’m gonna cum early.”

The headboard is rattling against the wall with his increasing speed. Uncaring about how noisy you two are — with the slapping of skin, the dirty squelches, the long moans and grunts – he continues fucking you like there’s no one else in the house than you two. His face is tucked in your neck, swallowing your sweet smell; he can’t get enough of it. Of you. Back muscles shifting and hard under your touch, you run your nails through his pale skin, desperate to leave your mark on him, to make him yours in all the ways you can. 

“Don’t -ah! right there, S’toru- act like that’s not normal for you.”

He flicks your nipple piercing, huffing in tense amusement when you gasp, before engulfing the bouncing thing with his large hands, fingers digging into the fat. “We’ll see -ngh- who cums before who, M-morticia.”

“Yeah, Gomez?”

You swear he throbs inside you. 

“C-can I walk you to class, baby? Maybe I s-should change courses. I -oh, fuck, you’re incredible- I want to be with you all the time. I think I’m going absolutely, totally crazy.”

Legs locking behind his hips, ankles digging into his ass to keep him deep inside you, you mouth kisses into every inch of skin you can reach, inhaling his scent too. It’s so clean, so light and heavenly, you feel it go straight to your clit. “S-sure, follow me -ah!-wherever. I’ll keep you around, let you -ngh! I’m close, keep going, just like that—I’ll let you sit on my lap and do -hah shit- tricks for me. Don’t that sound fun, Toru?”

Yeah, he definitely just grew bigger inside of you. 

“Ruff! Ruff!”

Your laugh comes out broken, punctuated by dizzying moans. “God, you’re so stupid.”

He laughs too. “No, you.”

Even as he fills you up with his searing cum and you both lose yourself in the pleasure of finally being together in a way you worried you’d never get to be, you argue back and forth, pushing each other’s buttons, mocking and taunting. And it doesn’t ever really stop. 

Not then, not the next day, or the next week, month, or years after. 

And neither you nor Satoru’s ever look back.

[dextivestudios]

#you CAN do a woman gets a happy ending with a child arc well and in a fullfilling way. however. this was not that.#i wish we got a well written '''''''''''traditional values'''''''''''' woman companion at some point! we need characters like that to combat#josswhedonesque girlboss approach to writing women!#but this was just horrifically bad.#doctor who <-- Previous tags

The worst part is that Doctor Who already did a "traditional" woman right literally THE FIRST TIME.

Barbara White is an OG companion and she would fit the bill perfectly. She cleaned up after the boys, she was a seamstress, likely even made sure they didn't starve themselves.

But she was also the most intelligent and competent member of the crew at the time. Ian was a criticism on masculinity at the time, and the First Doctor just didn't respect humans in general. The modern show has grossly mischaracterized the first doctor and disrespected him immensely by making him misogynistic...for absolutely zero reason outside of "he is a male character from le 60s"????

Which does have me worried they would also disrespect a Barbara-type companion and flanderize her into something more akin to Victoria Waterfield.

But the point is, if the boys listened to Barbara, most of the time, the stories of that era would have been immensely shortened (or even straight-up prevented.)

I am working on a story that is essentially a ripoff of Doctor Who. It is meant to be more of an anthology style where it follows a variety of alien heroes going on adventures, but the first one is a character who was originally a Timelord OC, and that includes a bigger-on-the-inside timeship (although this time a colony ship instead of a warship). Basically, she is a princess who ran away from her home planet and proceeds to solve some mysteries and nearly cause a war between her home planet and Earth, but it will end up with a net positive of both planets and things will work out. So, y'know...

This makes me want to make a returning story for her where her companion is essentially a Barbara ripoff.

This Doctor Who ripoff I'm making is a labor of love for the show and is meant to explore topics/tropes that Doctor Who wouldn't, with the first one being the animal mutilations that happen in real life that often get attributed to aliens. Typically lifestock with the most famous case of it being where the victim was a horse.

Or, y'know, just fuck around and rip off properties related to aliens and do something different with the concept. (I have a clown Marvel-style symbiote who is a herbivore and does the symbiote thing as a way to get protein. The theme of his story is family, grief, or something like that lol)

But yeah, I generally loved the recent seasons of Doctor Who, and it does disappoint me that I don't have a good finale to look forward to. I don't know what goes on behind the scenes, so I hope that the blunder is the result of a bunch of weirdness that typically comes with big teams and working with entities such as Disney, and not necessarily because Russel lost his touch or something.

Hey, though, it's often a part of Doctor Who. Sometimes you're just going to get something...not good. Bad Doctor Who episodes is about as old as the show itself and is a big part of why I don't take the show that seriously. Sometimes you get masterpieces, sometimes you get the worst media in history, and sometimes you get Mr. Ring-A-Ding.

Fuckin insane (derogatory) move to pull with Belinda. Rewrite time so she has a child and sideline her by quite literally putting her in a box much of the episode, then have that child Vanish and her forget it, then give her the child back by changing reality AGAIN so that she's always had said child and act like this is a win? Woman Gets Happy Ending With Child played entirely straight as far as I can tell??

[0scarp1astr1]

Wax Appointment (PT2)

જ⁀➴ Desc: || In which you tell them about your brazilian wax appointment, they just have one problem, your waxer is a man. ||

ᯓ★ Featuring: Oscar Piastri, Yuki Tsunoda, Franco Colapinto, Kimi Antonelli, Ollie Bearman, George Russell.

ᯓ★ 2x Genre: Fluffy (slight humor)

ᯓ★ Warning: Suggestive humor/themes

ᯓ★ Requested? No

Author Note: Thank you guys for the support and love on the first one. There is so much in the drafts between the four fics I’m wanting to present before jumping to request. Hopefully you guys like this one as much as the first. It’s midnight for me where I’m uploading at this current time.

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Oscar Piastri

Your boyfriend was never a man of many emotions, expressions, and often words. Especially in a public setting so you didn’t think too much of him knowing you would be going to your Brazilian wax. In fact you went and he didn’t blink an eye, just gave a simple, “I love you, let me know you made it safely,” before you fled from home to your appointment.

The waxer was sweet and you found out a lot about him, from his engagement with his boyfriend, to facts about his dog. He was like a best friend at this point, and when it came time to leave, you left a tip so you could get back home to cuddle up to your emotionless boyfriend.

When you got home, you could only remove the shoes, seeing Oscar on the same couch, his head laid back and focusing on tv. “Comfy?” You asked with a teasing smile as he hums softly. “Yeah, how did the wax go?” He asked, not minding as you shrugged. “My waxer was nice and assuring. I gave him a tip for being gentle” you explained. That’s when your boyfriend raised up, his expression plastered clearly, a mixture of judgement and jealousy. “Are you serious? It was a man? And you didn’t bother telling me?” He questioned as if you had committed a crime. “I figured you wouldn’t care?” You questioned back.

Oscar had jumped from the couch while shaking his head and approaching you, his arms wrapping around you. “Are you kidding me? Anything that has to do with you, I absolutely care about.” He tilted his head. “Now you can make it up to me by allowing me to claim what he seen.” He said, you slapped his chest as he let out a low chuckle. “You’re being dramatic,” you said as he shook his head.

“Of course I am. He got to see my woman,” he pointed out. “Ah yes. He’s got a lover.” You raised a brow as Oscar let out a scoff. “Doesn’t matter. He could’ve been eyeing you like candy!” Oscar shook his head, he turned away dramatically as you chuckled. “He’s into men. I’m afraid you’ll be more his type.” You stated. Oscar stopped in his tracks, turning slowly.

“Into men?…” he mumbled while you hummed in confirmation. “I see…” he shrugged. You stared at him, as if he lost all emotion and expression he had. But, you let out a yelp in surprise when you were tossed over his shoulder, heading for the bedroom.

“Still taking what’s mine. I don’t like sharing what’s for my eyes only.”

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Yuki Tsunoda

As sweet and innocent as your lover looked to the eyes of strangers you knew deep down his mouth and often actions didn’t match his appearance. If only they knew what you did but admittedly he was brutally honest when you needed it, and his honesty is what you loved about him. Even when it came to you.

You sat in the passenger seat while sighing skipping songs on your playlist till you found the right one for your own ears sake. But, your phone ringed and you instantly answered, Yuki kept his eyes on the road not minding the phone call on the radio. Yet his ears perked up into the phone call had fully heard the “he’s not gonna charge too much,”.

Once the phone call ended, Yuki decided to break the silence. “A man is waxing you?” He asked. You glanced over. “Yeah? My wax appointment is soon so we can start making our way there.” You leaned back into the seat. Yuki only side eyed you slightly before nodding his head. “Or we can go to the store to buy what you need and I can wax you at home,” he suggested causing you grin lightly. “Are you jealous?” You asked him.

Yuki hums. “You call it jealousy, I call it a smart idea. I mean what man knows his way around you? I do. So I should get the chance to wax you.” He reasoned. “It’s a wax. You’re being dramatic,”. He could only roll his eyes at your comment. “And getting a wax is dramatic considering I had no complaints towards what’s going on down there at least a week ago. I finished just fine. And you did too.”

You could only huff, hating that he held a good point you couldn’t actually argue against since he didn’t ever complain about your body but always complimented you instead. The thought alone brought a smile to Yuki’s face, he parked the car as you looked around. “You can’t be serious?” You raised a brow as he shook his head. “We’re going to get the supplies so I can wax you at home”

Most of the time in the store you picked out what he would need, you could see from the corner or your eye the excitement in his face. Admittedly you liked that Yuki stood on what he believed was right to do, and waxing you was one. So, when you got home, you had yelped lightly when you were pushed back on the bed before breaking out in a smile. “What are you doing?” You asked.

“Giving you special treatment, you are my woman. Plus no guy is giving you what I’ll be giving you.”

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Franco Colapinto

Franco had been in the shower while you stood at the mirror, the two of you were dating so bathroom stops like this weren’t uncommon between you. In fact, you had smooth sailing conversations together like this as odd as it seems to others.

“When I get back, we’re still going to our dinner reservations right?” You asked, hearing your boyfriend’s voice behind the glass shower door. “I’d be a fool not to take you, mi vida,” he said earning a soft hum from you. “I’ll make sure my waxer is quick this time. He shouldn’t be too long”

When that slipped from your lips, the water didn’t seem to matter as the shower door opened with quickness, the steam causing you to glance at him. “Eh?! A man?! Mi vida, I’m all for you doing whatever you desire. But let’s be honest…” he trailed off. You rolled your eyes. “Franco. You know I get waxing done, this is a one time thing, my original waxer is out town” you stated.

“Oh no, no,” he turned off the water, reaching for his town instantly, he wrapped it around his waist. “Let’s be honest here. I can live with some hair and you can too,” he shakes his head. You could only lean against the counter in the bathroom, staring at him. “And you got out the shower to say this?…because?…”.

Both of you stood face to face before he finally broke the silence that fell for a moment. “Some guys take advantage of their job! All I’m saying is he might not be friendly as he sounds,”. Deep down you knew he had a point but even more he was looking pretty attractive. “Are you even paying attention to me? ¡Oh Dios mío!” He rolled his eyes.

“Let’s make a deal, I don’t go to this wax appointment, get a different waxer next week…under the condition we end up in the shower.” You grinned, his eyes widen, face going red but he gathered himself together, immediately agreeing.

“Deal. I’ll play fair. Just this once.”

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Kimi Antonelli

Sweet boyfriend and he’s always been understanding so when you explained the Brazilian wax he was flustered but agreed that you could do whatever you wanted, he’d support it. While you got the wax, he was spending time with Toto, having small conversation as per usual. It was just all normal to him because he called you beautiful regardless.

Later in the day when you returned, Kimi suggested taking you for lunch when he finished up with Mercedes, and you agreed so the conversation was full of flirting and catching up on the hours spent apart. “How bad did it hurt? Do you need something?” He asked while sipping his drink. You’d shook your head, giving a reassuring smile. “Eh. He was gentle.” You spoke. His eyes widen, immediately coughing as your eyes widen in alert. He shakes his head, waving his hand around and placing the cup down. “I choked. What do you mean, he, Amore Mio?”.

“I mean my waxer was a man?” When you said that, Kimi could only hum. “So he’s seen…” he gestured down low. Your silence was enough for his answer. “I see…” was all he said before returning silent. Something he did when he was thinking or upset, which caused you to give him space, assuming he needed it.

But even when a little time went by, he surprisingly only poked at his pasta as if he lost for desire to eat something he often enjoyed ordering when you went out on lunch and dinner dates. “Kimi.” You said as he looked at you, his pout, his brows, he was jealous, you knew it but you also knew he was good at holding his emotions together. “It’s fine. Don’t worry about it.” He assured.

You’d lean over the table, kissing him softly. “Mi perdoni” you spoke softly as he looked at you, he was such a fool for you when you spoke Italian. It always made his heart beat fast and his eyes sparkle. “I’m not upset at you. Just don’t like the idea of other people seeing you like that, Tesoro Mio,” he spoke softly causing you to smile at him.

“What can I do to make it up to you?” You asked with genuine intentions to fix it. Yet, something in Kimi shifted, even a small slip up of his own words. “You can show me what you look down there now…” he mumbled causing you to blush. “Too much?” He asked while you shook your head not sure when he became bold like this.

“Perfect, I’ll get the check and we’ll be leaving soon.”

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Ollie Bearman

Take him with you, he refuses to stay alone while you’re out getting a wax. He knows what it is, personally clings to you because he desires nothing more than for you to cancel. Which is how you ended up looking at him as if he lost his mind while he weighed you down.

“Ollie it’s a wax! I’ll be done before you know it!” You said as he laid on top of you on the couch, his weight holding you down. “It’s not about time, you and I know that!” He said. “It’s about the man! That agreed! Why would he agree?! He should say No!”. Against his words you could only chuckle. “It’s quick and easy and he sees multiple clients a day, he’ll forget about me,” you argued back only causing him to groan. “It’s you. Who forgets about you?! I don’t?!”

You chuckle again, patting his back. “I’m flattered love, really I am. But. You’re dating me so it’s different for you not to forget me,” he could only agree with the statement. “True but still! I became obsessed with you so it’s easy for another man,” he argued back which made you rather happy to know your boyfriend remained very much in love with you. “We can go together?” You suggested.

Ollie shook his head. “I’m sorry, baby, but if I see him touching you that close, I’m afraid I’d lose my mind.” He said. You knew deep down Ollie just wanted you safe, something he always did was keep you protected from people he didn’t know, to even media teams of the paddock. Ollie did all he could to make sure you were safe and comfortable. “I just don’t want you going and him getting any ideas. You’re so beautiful you know I worry about other people desiring you in the way I do,”

His words almost made you wanna refuse wax and just stay home under his weight forever. “Ollie Bearman. You are so sweet…” you spoke softly which made him hum. “Sweet enough to sweet talk you to stay home?” He had hopeful eyes. God, it was hard enough saying no, especially in this moment.

“Fine. I’ll stay this time but next week I need my wax,” you said as he hums, closing his eyes to rest on you now content with the answer. “Can I ask you something?” He questioned, making you nod your head. “Anything,” you assured.

“After the wax, can we still do it?”

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George Russell

Gentleman to you but not so much to your waxer, you knew your boyfriend was sassy so you were more scared to see the waxer than he was.”lighten up darling, I’m not gonna do anything.” He assured, but you knew deep down a bit of his attitude was unimaginable and unpredictable. Yet he remained supportive so he insisted on tagging along.

When the man walked in, George caught on that he was the waxer only making him lean against the wall and watch the man’s every move. “So how often do you see other women?” George suddenly asked, causing the older man to nod. “I say a few but I forget them every hour. Too many clients,” the man stated with a focused tone. “I don’t think that’s important information,” you stated softly, allowing him to prep a lot of the supplies.

George only shrugged. “Was curious, he seemed desperate to accept the waxing for you.” George’s tone shifted to a more serious perspective. “It’s his job.” You said, the tension growing which caused your waxer to excuse himself and silently step out.

“Seriously George? In front of the waxer?” You groaned, he only shrugged. “I prefer me to be the only man between your legs, personally I prefer to be the only man that touches it.” He stated boldly, only making you rub your face in complete disbelief. “You can’t seriously be upset?”

“I’m not upset, darling. I’m just curious, besides. I think you look beautiful without all this extra stuff.” He gestured around the wax room. A part of you smiled as you chuckled. “I mean you’re right but I still like to keep up with myself, I’m a lady,” you shrugged, staring at him.

He bit his bottom lip before letting go. “And I love that you care about yourself, but from my perspective you have to understand it’s not the best feeling for me knowing another man is seeing you like this,”. He held his point in hopes you’d agree, and you did but you still had plans, “just let someone do it this once…we’re already here and you scared him away, I’m sure he’s not coming back,”.

“Good. You’re gorgeous darling but I prefer no man have you in the way I do.”

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[f1cflcfic]

Won't Say I'm In Love (SMAU ft. Lando Norris) - part xv

pairing: lando norris x tennis player!reader (fem!y/n); past carlos alcaraz x tennis player!reader (fem!y/n)

summary: As a general rule, y/n does not date athletes. You've been there, done that - would not recommend. Besides, you definitely don't do love. There's no time in the world for complicated feelings when there's a career Grand Slam to be won. But what if your heart just refuses to listen?

genre: social meda/mixed au, friends to lovers

note: this is RPF and is obviously in no way, shape, or form reflective of real persons and/or events

series: part i | part ii | part iii | part iv | part v | part vi | part vii | part viii | part ix | part x | part xi | part xii | part xiii | part xiv

bonus: one, two, three

July 7-8, 2025

[Excerpt: ATP and WTA Stars Take On "Nearest The Pin Golf" Challenge]

Y/N L/N steps up to the small green and then turns to the camera. "I just want to formally apologise to Lily in advance for messing this up."

The first few balls disappear into the water, but at least she's launching them in the right direction. Some of the other tennis players ironically struggle with even hitting the ball, or keep sending it far away from where it needs to land.

"Ugh, please tell me Casper didn't get this in one go," Y/N references one of the few tennis players that is pretty decent in golf. "I feel like it's almost impossible?"

Then she's asking if she can call a helpline. "It can't be a professional golfer, but it can be someone who thinks they are a professional golfer?" She grins slyly, then proceeds to call Carlos Sainz Jr.

"You know who is going to be so mad? Lando, for calling me instead of him," he can be heard saying in the background, before Y/N shows him the challenge. "I'll make it up to him, don't worry."

With another try, and some additional tips from Carlos, she manages to get the ball to bounce onto the lonely island with the pin on it. "I guess that's the best I'll do. Did I win? What did I win? Eternal glory? I'll take it!"

July 9-11, 2025

[Excerpt: Post-Semi Final Press Conference]

"ESPN here. Of course it's never fun to lose, but is there a part of you that feels relieved perhaps, knowing you can now fully focus on your individual tournaments?"

Jack shifts forward. "I mean there was only one other match to go. I'd have been more than happy to make that sacrifice and see if I could win two titles, instead of just the one."

Y/N nods along. "If we hadn't wanted to take this all the way, we wouldn't have committed to the tournament altogether."

"Hi, I'm with SkySports. Jack, you'll be facing Carlos Alcaraz next in your individual semi-final. Considering Y/N's history with Alcaraz, have you asked her for any tips on how to best handle him?"

There's some huffing in the room, and Jack seems to be slightly lost for words. "I - uh, no. I have not asked her for advice."

"And who will you be rooting for, Y/N?" The interviewer continues, making Y/N all but roll her eyes. "I think you know the answer to that, seems pretty obvious to me. But I'm mostly rooting for us to get better questions."

Another interviewer waves their hand. "Hi, I'm with Tennis News. Y/N, you could be just one step closer to your Season Slam if you manage to win this week. How do you switch between this loss and the next potential victory?"

Y/N smiles at that. "Well, I credit my team for it and my family and friends, first of all. But also, if you really want to be a champion - you have to learn how to take the losses. I think in this sport, but also probably in others, that to be a true professional athlete, it means you need to become good at losing. You can't be precious about them, or too superstitious or anything. Because you'll lose so much more than you'll win across your entire career. So if I couldn't deal with losing, I wouldn't be able to fight for the wins. Or at least, that's what I try to tell myself. I'm not always successful at it, but so far I haven't smashed a racket here," she jokes. "Thanks for the lovely question. More of that please."

A/N: pleased to share i have now caught up with the race weekend and have seen the video of lando walking into a wall, and it will 100% make an appearance in this fic at one point 🙃 next chapter features Lando at the Wimbledon final (obvi) and the aftermath or perhaps afterglow?? who knows?? :) :)

♥ likes, comments, reblogs and asks are always very much appreciated - i love chatting and hearing your thoughts! ♥

taglist (open): @linnygirl09 @julesbog @midnight-and-books @sarx164 @obxstiles @freyathehuntress @vhkdncu2ei8997 @berrnuu @lightdragonrayne @glow-ish @batsratswrites @blushmimi @colmathgames2 @esw1012 @sadiemack9 @tremendousstarlighttragedy @awritingtree @its-elias-world @sarah-thatstings-ann @jessicanotta @fairyjinn @destinyg237 @verogonewild @annimausi @taetae-armyyyyy

[hoodielord]

Part two! ( cause I have ideas now)

It’s been weeks since Danny was taken to the clinic. He healed after a few days and was released. The bats had offered and found him a few different places he could stay as they were looking into what little information they had on him. But Danny had always found his way back to Waylon. Even here in the old subway depot that was sealed and abandoned.

“Hey Waylon! I helped move some furniture and they bought me some burgers do you want one?” Danny said with a big grin showing off his sharp teeth. 

“Kid! Jesus don't do that! And one you shouldn’t get food from strangers and two how the heck do you get in here? Most of this tunnel is submerged.” 

“But I know Harley and Ivy! They work at that cafe on the corner. So not  strangers and to answer your second question.” Danny lifts up the bag of burger and sticks his hand through the bag not ripping it at all. “ Kid, you really should be showing off your powers like that. Gotham’s full of creeps and shitheads that will try to take advantage of you.” Waylon winced at his words after they left his mouth.

Danny slumped into an old sofa that Waylon had somehow gotten down here. “I know but it’s …painful… not use to them.” Danny said quietly as he rubbed his neck. The scars had scabbed over but the memory of it was still there.

 Waylon had overheard  the bats, birds and Doc talk as the kid was brought back to the clinic's cots. He was wearing a collar before he arrived at the clinic. It wasn’t around were Waylon had found him. The bats thought it was one that would damper his powers and shock him if he tried to remove it. 

“Just be careful kid.” Waylon sighed.

---A Week Later---

“Wing, Croc is going on a ramage on fifth street Hood and Black Bat are headed there as well.”

“What happened? He was fine with the kid.” Hood replied over comms.

“Where is the little creature?” BB asked back. BB had met Danny before. She affectionately calls him a little creature. When she first met him beating up a mugger he gave her the widest sharpest smile he could muster. 

“I don't know he didn’t show up for burgers last night. I’m joining in.” Spoiler replied. Steph had met Danny out of costume. She was at Harley and Ivy’s cafe when Danny was working there. Steph was there picking up Tim’s caffeinated nightmare after she lost a bet to him. She had caught Danny pranking a “regular annoyance” , a customer that harassed Harley and Ivy, at the cafe. He had put a laxative in their drink. After that Danny and Steph would regularly meet for a Pranking conference.

Each of them had also reached fifth street a white van was catapulted into a building.

“Jesus, what’s got him worked up?”

On fifth street Croc was fighting off a number of men in white suits. Each of them armed with blasters and tasers. Croc was on a ramage. He charged and clawed at the agents some of the bleeding on the ground.

“Where is he? I know you took him!” croc roared as he swept through the agents.

The comms crackled to life. “Oracle, Report.” Batman’s voice came through.

“B, Croc is on a rampage on fifth street; he is attacking an agency in white suits.”

Batman paused before he answered. “Nightwing secure the area. Spoiler detain the agents. Black bat and Hood secure Killer Croc.”

Each of the rushed to it.

“Wanna tell the class who these shitheads are?” Hood said dropping into the street below.

“They are an illegal agency that’s mission is to detain and experiment on ecto entities. Their capture and imprisonment is the justice league’s current mission. The Agency is called Ghost investigation ward or ..”

“G.I.W. That the same agency that took Danny before.”

“Explain.”

“When you were working with the JL for the last month and a half we met a new friend that was captured by them before. And Croc took him in…and it looks like they captured him again.”

“The agents are need for questioning at the watchtower.” 

Each of the Bats turned to the agents. 

‘So that means that they just need to talk right?’ was a thought all the bats had. 

The bats doubled their efforts through the agents. Each of the agents sporting broken bones and concussions but they could still talk. After they were secured Hood had eventually caught up to Waylon.

“Hey they took the kid right?”

“Yeah they took him after work. Harley ran and got me when she lost the van.”

“We’ll find him.” 

 “Hood, you remember what they did to him? They..”

“I know.” Hood said as he turned to the other bats.

“I have the footage from Harley’s cafe. The van headed to the docks on the west side near G.U.” Oracle chimed in.

“Alright. Hood and Nightwing pursue the van. Jordan and Superman will be assisting on this. I will be there shortly.”

“I don’t think Croc will let you adopt this one B.” 

have i mentioned how much i love villains being not villainous because of small (or not so small) child?

because

anyway

imagine you are killer croc and you are just kind of chilling in the sewers doing killer croc things

when suddenly there is an Intruder! In! Your! Territory!!!

so obviously you take your scary face and take on a more menacing stance and go to fight off whoever is down here because

this is your place! and you do not share!!

and then you get there its a child, and like, you have fought robin before but his dad was there and he was in good health and you might have gone easy on him but you will never admit to it so it might as well have never happened

but that is a young teenager(!), looks like he might be 13(!!) but with how skinny he is he might be older and just malnourished(!!), he is actively bleeding(!) and might get an infection(!!!) from the wound on his chest that on closer inspection looks like a Vivisection(!!!!!!!) wound on his chest and he is looking fearfully at the manhole cover that he just came in from

so obviously you scoop him up and bring him deep deep down

crocodiles are excellent parents and highly protective of their young

he even runs through the water instead of swimming because of all the grossness lf the sewer

this kid is his now and he will protect him with the ferociousness of a wild boar

[be-the-glenn-to-my-maggie]

I just reread The Hunger Games for the first time since I was 12 in preparation for reading Sunrise on the Reaping. Here is everything I had totally forgotten about since I am now 25:

-that Peeta lost a fucking lEG to the mutts and has a fake leg for the rest of the series

-they had fucking night vision sunglasses in the arena

-Rue and Katniss were only allies for a day :(

-The mutts slowly eat Cato for the entire night because he was wearing invisible body armor, like that scene was horrific. It's bad in the movie, it's like 2000% worse in this book. The entire night, Peeta is bleeding out while Cato slowly gets chewed. He fights the mutts for an hour before he goes down, I can't even imagine.

-Thresh was chilling in a random field part of the arena we never see for the whole Games

-I finished the book and still don't know Foxface's name.

-Gale is not annoying in book 1, but he's so annoying in book 2. Like the entire first part of the book is Katniss worrying about shit, things getting way worse in District 12, and Gale being a little bitch. I don't know why I can't get past his utter inability to make space for her experience in the games.

-Kinda funny Peeta gets a debilitating leg wound twice in one Hunger Games

-I TOTALLY FORGOT ABOUT MADGE AND I'M OBSESSED WITH HER??? SHE GAVE THE PIN LIKE WHAT AN ICON.

-That the disabled boy from District Nine lives for so long.

-That Seneca Crane barely exists, all he does is get mentioned twice, fuck up IMMENSELY, and get murdered.

-That Katniss's prep team were just as if not more important in humanizing the capital citizens as Effie. God, that scene in octavia where they dress Katniss in her wedding dress for her interview. Cinna has talked to them because last time they were crying and making Katniss console them about her death. This scene when Octavia cries, Venia sends her out. Flavius makes it mostly through then starts crying and Venia finishes by herself silently, something that the prep team never is. Then she grabs Katniss' hands and tells Katniss it was an honor to make her look her best. I fully cried. They seem silly and foolish when we meet them before, but they see Katniss as a person who deserves better. As soon as they were corrected by Cinna, they immediately change their behavior and treat her as he asked. It's just such a human moment for them and for Katniss, who has always seen them as they see her, uneducated and strange.

-That Suzanne somehow convinced us frosting is the same as camoflage.

-That all the capital food sounds so good.

-I love the moment with Peeta being bad at hunting with Katniss because he's loud in the woods. I think it's just her most empathetic moment. It's like, the biggest contrast between him and Gale, right, he doesn't fit in her world, and she's annoyed with him. Instead of taking it personally he tells her to have him collect herbs and berries instead and even makes a joke about it. I think she even thinks like some guys would've taken it personally but not Peeta. It makes me think about how Gale would've taken it so personally. And then right after she thinks about how he went along with her and was making concessions for her and agrees to go back to the cave instead of sleeping in a tree like she wants. It's just so empathetic of her and she's like, a character who thinks she's so unempathetic. But her thoughts always are.

-How literally obvious it was all the victors were working to save Katniss and Peeta and Katniss was still like what's the ulterior motive here huh? Do we all just think Peeta is the best, because that makes sense. Just funny, like it's almost exactly the same as the first book where as the reader it's hard to see Peeta as anything but truly head over heels for Katniss, whereas she just thinks he might be trying to kill her.

-Mags is barely there and yet I remember her so well. Same with Wiress honestly.

-Didn't remember Finnick and Johanna being as good of friends as they were. When they called for each other on the beach, or checked in with each other- I am desperate to know their friendship backstory.

-Also desperate to know how Haymitch and Johanna's convo went when he told her she had to fetch Wiress and Beetee in order for Katniss to trust her, what a guy. What a conversation to be a fly on the wall for.

-Cashmere and Gloss, what is up guys, worst careers of all time there, that cornucopia attack was so bad. We're sneak attacking WIRESS??? Please.

-Even after Haymitch explains what happened during Beetee's plan, I still have no idea. Wire is cut. I assume the plan won't work. But Beetee actually only wanted to fry the forcefield. Why separate them all like that? So confused. ALSO WHERE DID PEETA GO AND HOW DID HE END UP THERE? Somewhere off fighting Brutus but not with Finnick, I am still baffled by this scene. Katniss sees Finnick and Enobaria come out of the jungle together at one point and I am endlessly fascinated by that, and by Enobaria as a character. Enobaria girl, what is up with you? Not in on the revolution but so ready for the capital kids to compete in games, please tell me more.

-They rewatch old games at one point: has no one noticed you can't watch game 10? I wonder about this all the time.

-Totally forgot about Chaff and Seeder and I miss them so much??? Seeder deserves the world okay. AND STOP KILLING HAYMITCH’s BEST FRIENDS. I wonder what changed, when Haymitch originally suggests Chaff and Seeder to Katniss as allies. But later he forces Finnick and Johanna on her, not them. Why? I assume they were in on the revolution?

- I forgot about the female morphing who dies for Peeta. Her death was so beautiful, and the way he sent her off really is what Katniss sees in him that she can’t see in herself: that deep down goodness. She sent Rue off that way first.

-Also still has me giggling kicking my feet that the entire rebellion plan hinged on keeping Peeta alive because Haymitch said Katniss wouldn’t work with anyone if he died. All these adults trying to stage a revolution and Haymitch slams his hands on the war table to be like "You gotta save her boyfriend or the revolution is over."

-ALSO giggling kicking my feet over Katniss suspiciously trying to figure out why everyone is keeping Peeta alive and she’s pretty sure it’s because they all see how good he is, like no girl you’re down bad.

-Then Haymitch is tragically proven right by Katniss’ attitude when she gets to 13. She said she needs him, then is instantly proven right lol it's not funny.

-(this is dark but how hard do we think Gale tried to get ANY merchants out of 12, because I think it wasn’t hard AT ALL).

-Barely any of Catching Fire takes place in the arena at all. I kept updating my mom, showing her where I was in the book and telling her I still wasn't at the arena yet.

-Gale drove me inSANE in Mockingjay. He was being normal, helpful even and then he would make some absurd comment to Katniss about her feelings for him. Dude. You are talking to the walking embodiment of PTSD, she's tOO BUSY FOR YOU. This clearly is not the time. And it would be so condescending, like "I wouldn't stand a chance if this happened" like telling her about her feelings and how she'd react oh it made me mad.

-Also, again, obsessed with Katniss's prep team. Oh my god I love what they represent. Gale arguing with Katniss over how she can defend them?? Infuriating. Like, you weren't there dude what do you know? He was just so condescending. Also Ocatvia being so young really hurt me. Posy telling her she'd be beautiful any color she was and Gale acting like they were normal to help Katniss, ugh, top five Gale moments, more of the prep team.

-Squad 451, especially Pollux and Castor, I love you and miss you. Icons I forgot about all of them literally. Castor's story of how it took five years for their family to buy Pollux's way out of the sewers??? How many more people are like that in the capitol? What did Pollux do to become an avox? I want to know more.

-I especially forgot and missed Messalla. There were so many more capitol rebels who were working on the front lines than I think I remember, and they highlighted that silly comment Messalla made about the apartment value right before all the skin was melted off of him like a human candle. Horrifying. I really like that they made it clear everyone suffers under a regime like that, even if it's different, and solidarity is important.

-Something about the way Haymitch and Katniss talk to each other just gets me. Them both accusing each other for being the reason they lost Peeta and then forgiving each other? Also the way he like, in the background staunchly defends and works to help Peeta recover while Katniss is like wandering around or in district 2? Obsessed. They are like the same person so they are simultaneously able to hold each other to a higher standard than they hold themselves, but also able to forgive each other more than they can forgive themselves. You get what I'm saying???

-Johanna and Katniss roommates training montage when? Forgot all about it, I don't even remember liking Johanna that much the first time. But the way she so matter of factly cuts to the root of the problem every time; telling Katniss about her and Peeta's time being tortured when Katniss asks, answering Peeta's questions about why Gale wouldn't have believed he'd be like that if he hadn't seen it himself: that he's the evil mutt version, not Katniss. I was like oh, the value of that honestly for Katniss who cannot read into anything to save her life, and for Peeta who can't tell what's real, is monumental.

-Also Gale made that comment about feeling the same type of anger that Peeta was when Katniss was in the first Hunger Games; wild. Like, that comment took me so aback I had to read it multiple times. Like, he couldn't really be telling her he was feeling homicidal rage at watching her kiss another boy in the TELEVISED MURDER GAMES. When I catch that man. He's a great character and he's realistic and honest, but god he just says all the wrong things all the time.

-Darius the Peacekeeper. Talk about a guy that haunts the narrative, I feel like this guy was in the back more than Katniss' dad. Peeta's description of his death will stick with me forever now, I had forgotten it!! Thanks!!!

This is getting too long and I have so many thoughts but: rereading childhood books that hold up is a WILD ride. Recommend me your everlark fanfictions, or even hayffie. I'm in a THG vibe now.

[virovac]

Chingaderita needs meds (documentation below) due tonight! June 2 Monday, ! (EST)

This is NOT A PALESTINE CAMPAIGN, but a supporter of Palestine campaign

@Chingaderita I summarized your last posts

Need at least $134 for meds (including transfer fee) Monday night (edit, now tonight June 6)

Happy pride month!!

Please help a nonbinary parent with 2 trans kids keep their family fed this June, I need my meds to keep living as many years as possible. I need $130 today or I'll miss my meds. And we need $35 to get to this week's appointment or we won't be able to file for an insulin refill.

Have been without them almost 7 weeks.

$0/$600

PaYPAL KO-FI

(examples of kofi)

"last post for transparency's sake. You can find evidence of the fire, that I've been sick for years and if you go back you can see we live in a house full of mold."

long suffering from storm damage and housefire Family of 9, elderly and kids and rescue cats .diabetic and disabled people

"I miss having my medication, I miss being able to eat anything without pain.

I'm afraid of ending at the hospital and not coming back.

Please, we're going to miss tomorrow's doctor appointment we won't be able to file for a refill of insulin until we can get another appointment.

I've had to walk back home under the rain with no raincoat or umbrella for 3 days in a row. I can't afford new shoes or pants or anything."

Summary of problems family faces , past documentation and some of past boosted campaigns below

a post about mother in law

have been helping boost many other donation campaigns* (see below cut),

Now its our turn to help them!

Documentation

Pictures of mold damage and other problems from earlier post before lost phone in links

first link (link 29) OCTOBER 19TH – second link OCTOBER 21ST

Keep reading

I know it’s hard for everyone but please, keep sharing, anything ANYTHING helps. We’ve been getting a bit of food and paying little by little what we owe at the corner store but the upcoming card payment is $190 and my meds are $130 and then let’s not forget my healthcare renewal. I also bring bad news, we’re starting with water shortages just like last year, we’ve gone from having 4 days of water a week to 1-2 if we’re lucky. Our only toilet is busted and there are 9 people here who use it. My kid still needs attention for a UTI he’s had for a couple of months now. And my partner has 3 ingrown nails and 2 big cuts on his feet he’s kept unattended for weeks. I’d hate to up the goal but we need every help we can get!!

more documentation from 2023. and

Went back on my blog to find proof of the fire where my in-laws lost everything, this other one with pictures and proof that I’ve been sick and struggling to get my medication since August 2023. Just felt like having things organized and maybe make another blog to keep all proof I can save since we lost a lot of information and pictures/videos when we sold our phones and lost the computer. Not to mention my blog is way older but I have no idea how to enter my archive :3

*They have been helping boost many campaigns, gaza and otherwise (and have asked me to boost these three while their internet is unreliable): 

(5) AHMED’S [campaign] IS VERY FORGOTTEN, PLEASE, KEEP SHARING!!! – @/chingaderita on Tumblr Donate to Trapped Family in Gaza Appeals for Help to Survive, organized by Abdallah Alanqar – @/chingaderita on Tumblr (latest post (18) Donate to Trapped Family in Gaza Appeals for Help to Survive, organized by Abdallah Alanqar – @virovac on Tumblr) (5) €5,688/€25,000 – @/chingaderita on Tumblr

[springseasonie]

Hello, I was wondering if u could wrote something really intimate with a possessive Jaehyun ? Miss him so much 🖤

Back to sleep (M)

Word count: 2,2k

Warnings: sexual content, oral (fem receiving), big dick jaehyun, the use of the word 'daddy' once (pls don't cringe it just felt right), unprotected sex, breeding kink

A/N: def enjoyed writing this req cuz I miss his fine ass too. Hope you enjoy 🤍🤍

Jaehyun kisses your neck, hands snaking around your waist underneath the white covers. The sunlight peaks through the blinds, hitting your face in the most perfect manner. You still smell like flowers from the night before, the scent of your perfume mixing with the salty ocean air flowing through the windows.

He feels like he could melt into your skin. You're as soft as a pillow, he just can't help but grip your skin a little tight, but not too tight. His lips linger on every spot he kisses for just a few seconds, soaking in every bit before he moves on. He doesn't know it, but you're already half awake enjoying every moment of this silently.

He slowly slips his hands up your chest, fondling your breast all while leaving wet kisses along your shoulder, his pretty soft moans escaping on your skin. “Y/N, wake up,” he whispers.

You let out a soft laugh, making him smile on your skin. “Good morning,” he whispers in your ear. “You look so pretty when you sleep.”

You lift your hand, placing it on top of his already touching your chest. Jaehyun bites his lip softly, feeling you push your ass in his hips, furthermore smothering his hard on. The man feels like he's in a dream, the way you turn, eyes half open as you stare at him still trying to fully wake yourself. He just can't help himself, immediately lifting himself off your shoulder and onto your lips, kissing you in the softest most sensual way possible.

“Good morning,” you said, voice groggy. “At least let me brush first.”

Jaehyun shakes his head. He's got that look in his eyes that means he's not planning on letting you get up from the bed for a while. You feel him move his hand from your chest silently, finger tracing down your stomach all the way between your legs.

You don't stop him when he dips a finger into your pussy, lips grazing your ear. “I'm sorry, I just can't help myself,” he mumbles. You're not looking at him but you can tell he's smiling.

You place your hand over his, pressing your back onto his naked chest, his rapid heartbeat on your back. Jaehyun rubs your clit slowly, pressing his fingers into you. You turn your head, brows slightly furrowed at the butterflies in your stomach. He wastes no time capturing your lips in a deep kiss, tongue instantly on yours. You remove your hand from his, reaching back, wanting to jerk him off, but he shook his head.

“Don't worry about me,” he said almost in a whisper. “You'll get that soon I promise.” He kisses you one more time before going back to your neck. Jaehyun kisses down your body slowly, wet kisses trailing down your side until he moves you, laying you on your back. You can tell where this was headed just by how he stared at you through his bangs.

“Baby please,” you sighed softly. “Let me shower.”

“Fuck no.” Jaehyun kisses your stomach, licking the skin as he prys your legs open. “God you're so perfect.” His body towers above yours, eyes blown with desire as he licks your chest, nipples in his mouth almost instantly. Jaehyun is so lost in your body, eyes closed as he flicks his tongue on the soft bud.

“That feels good hm?” Jaehyun stares up at you, your expressions and noises making him melt in your skin. “Keep making those noises for me princess.”

You felt like you were being punished and rewarded all the same time. He knows your body better than you do, knows what you want to hear, what you want to feel. He's your soulmate and you wouldn't have it any other way.

He moves down your body, shifting under the covers in the king-size bed. You watch as he disappears between your legs. Jaehyun kisses the inside of your thighs, nipping at the skin making you jump. “God I missed this so much,” he mumbled on your skin.

“You ate me out last night,” you giggle softly.

"And I couldn't wait to do it again." He kisses your clit, licking the bud of nerves right after. Jaehyun wrapped his lips around the bud, sucking it. His eyes were piercing as he stared at yours, your body immediately beginning to tremble from the intense pressure. Releasing your clit with a small pop, he guides the hot muscle along your pussy, licking a long stripe collecting your slick on his tongue.

He feels your hands move the blanket from his head, allowing you to see more of his beautiful face. He continues to lick you all over, making you moan more and more. He's so obsessed with you, the way you lay there sleepily eyes still droopy from waking up. Jaehyun knows no one will ever make you feel as good as he does even when he's not even trying.

“My pretty girl,” he mumbles. He reaches up, your hand instantly interlocking with his.

“Jaehyun, it feels so good,” you whimper softly. Your other hand ends up on his head, pushing it forward as you begin to move your hips. Jaehyun is staring at you, almost intoxicated on you, enjoying every moment of being at your mercy.

He keeps his tongue on your clit, moving his other hand between your legs. Jaehyun easily slips two fingers in you, your pussy squeezing around the digits. “Fuck,” you gasp.

“Pretty girl,” he whispers. “My pretty girl. All mine, right?”

“Yes baby,” you moan softly. Jaehyun fingers you slowly but that only amplifies the pressure building in your stomach.

“And this pussy belongs to me right?” You nod fast, whining louder when he fingers you faster. Jaehyun redirects his attention to your clit, tongue flicking the bud with a smirk on his face.

The air blowing in from the ocean mixed with the air in the room, the smell of salt and sex mixed hitting your nose sending a nice zing up your spine. He pounds his fingers into you, every ounce of self control beginning to disappear with every whine and whimper you let out.

“Oh my God,” you moan, throwing your head back. “Feels so fucking good. Keep going, just like that.”

Jaehyun kept his same pace, lips locked around the sensitive bud sucking softly. He could feel your walls behind him tightening around his digits, body beginning to tremble under his touch. Jaehyun knows your body too well, knows you're about to cum right on his fingers.

He feels your hands rake through this hair, a strong grip on the brown locks as you hold his other hand tight. Jaehyun fingers piston in you, the sound of your pussy squelching loud in his ears. “Keep grinding baby, you can do it. Cum for me,” he says softly, eyes locked on yours.

Your hips are moving on their own, jaw dropped as soft moans and whines fall from your mouth. “Fuck, oh my god…” The grip on his hand tightens when your orgasm hits you. That euphoric feeling filling your body. Jaehyun pulls his fingers out, staring at them with stars in his eyes.

You watch him suck his fingers cleans then immediately moving on to your soaking wet cunt, lapping up your cum like it's the last time he'll taste you.

“Holy fuck,” he mumbles. “I am so lucky to have you.” Jaehyun lifts himself up, crawling on top of you. You look so pretty under him, the thin layer of sweat on your face, lips wet and bruised from both you and him biting them.

His cock is hard, thick and long against his stomach. The tip is angry and red dripping with precum, contrast to his soft words and touches. Jaehyun loves the way you gawk. You've been with him for so long, but it still makes you excited and nervous. But aside from your lustful expression, a drained expression consumes you.

“Are you tired princess?”

You nod, lids low in lust. “If you loved me, you'd fuck me back to sleep.”

You didn't have to tell him twice. Jaehyun climbs onto you, falling onto his side. You turn your body to face him, breast pressed against his chest when he wrapped his arms around your waist. His breath is ragged, too gone to reel himself back in.

“Gonna fuck this pussy good, don't worry,” he mumbles, words almost slurred fighting against his excitement. Jaehyun lifts your leg, throwing it over his body. You're impatient and too tired to want to take things slow, so you reach between your bodies, taking his cock and lining it with you. Jaehyun pushes his tip in, a gasp leaving his lips.

“Jesus,” he moaned breathlessly. “You're all mine. All mine baby.”

“All yours.” You cup his cheek, kissing his face while he bottoms in you, splitting you open. Jaehyun thrust in you slowly, too afraid of cumming too early.

He's so deep inside you, his cock rubbing against every ridge inside you making your head spin. You kiss him soft, lips lingering on him as you breath heavily. Jaehyun's hand is tight on your waist, trembling with energy as he drags his cock in and out of you. But his self control can only last so long. He begins to thrust faster, the need for more friction starting to take over.

“Jae,” you whine softly, brows furrowing. “So deep..”

“I know baby, I know,” he coos. His deep voice rings through your ears. The slow pace feels good, too good, but you need more and he could tell. Without a word he pulls out, leaving you empty for a second before he gets in front of you. Jaehyun sheaths himself inside you quickly, pushing your legs up knees to your chest.

The sensation is too great to even make a noise, the moment he begins to drill into you, you go slack jawed. Your hands hold the back of your knees accompanying his hands on your thighs. He pounds into you, the sound of your wet cunt hits his ears making him grin.

“You like my cock so much don't you?” His voice is rough and raspy, breath staggered.

A feeble “Uh huh” is all you could let out, not being able to form the proper words. “Just like that, fuck,” you whimper.

“Anything for you baby. My pretty baby. You're made for me, just for me.. Shit, oh my gosh.” Jaehyun can't stop rambling. He's completely fucked out of his mind. The sensation of your tight wet pussy has him lost, the pleasure fogging his brain a bit too much for his comfort. But he likes feeling lost in you.

“Come here, kiss me daddy.”

Jaehyun lets his body fall, one arm holding himself up, the other wrapping around your waist. Your arms wrap around his neck, kissing him deep and hard, your moans spilling into his mouth every time he hits your sweet spot. You held onto him like your life depended on it, nails starting to dig into the back of his neck.

“Who do you belong to,” he says between gritted teeth.

“You.”

“Good girl. Fuck baby I'm so close,” he groans. “Gonna cum so deep in this pussy. You'd like that wouldn't you?”

You nod fast, whimpers being the only sound you can make at this point. Jaehyun watches your eyes roll back, head slowly falling back as you let out a guttural moan. “I'm cumming Jaehyun.”

“Let go for me babygirl, cum all over this dick.” Jaehyun keeps pounding you, your walls getting tighter and tighter around him. He loves watching you cum, the way your body trembles and the cries you let out are like heaven to him, but he can't stop. He has to cum, he has to breed you. Jaehyun thrust even faster, chasing the high he's been waiting for since the moment he woke up.

“Gonna breed this pussy, gonna make you mine.” Jaehyun's eyes are screwed shut now, fucking you so deep the only thing you can see is stars. You've gone from quiet moans to loud, tired whimpers, begging for more but overstimulated at the same time. “Gonna put a baby inside you princess. You want that?”

“Y-yes put a baby in me,” you whine in his neck.

His grip on your waist gets more intense, shaky groans pouring into your ears when he cums deep inside you. The warm feeling fills you up, providing both of you with a sense of relief. And you kiss him, deep and hard the taste of his sweat hitting your lips onto your tongue.

Jaehyun fully collapsed on top of you, heaving as he buried his face in your neck. He lets a moment of silence pass, taking in the moment appreciating the closeness of your hot bodies. That's when he remembers where exactly you two are. In a beach house, windows open, the smell of the ocean hitting his nose once again mixed with the smell of both your bodies intertwined.

“I love you so much,” he whispers, listing his head when faced with your peaceful expression. You fell asleep. Your pretty lips slightly parted, face still glistening with sweat, arms still around his neck, and cock still inside you. And he could lay with you like this for ages.

The man chuckles softly, trying not to wake you from your slumber, but that's easy because soon enough he passes out right along with you.

[mymelllllinda]

You Poor Thing - Han Su-Gang x F!Reader

Being a foreign exchange student in a Korean high school isn’t just hard — it feels like a cruel social experiment. I barely keep up with the lessons and I laugh too late, answer wrong, mispronounce things so often I’ve stopped flinching when someone snorts. But none of that compares to Han Su-Gang.

cw : dark!su-gang (if that's possible) , noncon/dubcon, slapping, sexual harassment, hair pulling, gaslighting, bulling, blackmail, pictures taken without permission, breaking & entering, stalking and a bit angst.

word count : 10k (my first 10k fic & it took me a week to finish it)

This was requested.

The classroom door slams shut behind me, and thirty heads swivel like they’re synced, eyes slicing into me like scalpels. Every morning, it’s the same walking into this sterile, chalk-dusted hell with my back straight and jaw tight, pretending I don’t hear the whispers or see the smirks. Pretending I’m not completely drowning.

Being a foreign exchange student in a Korean high school isn’t just hard it feels like a cruel social experiment. I barely keep up with the lessons, get lost in half the conversations, always translating words in my head while everyone else is two steps ahead. I laugh too late, answer wrong, mispronounce things so often I’ve stopped flinching when someone snorts.

But none of that compares to Han Su-Gang.

That smug bastard.

From the day I transferred, he zeroed in on me like he was hunting something. Not with fists or open mockery  that’d be too easy. No. Su-Gang prefers a slower, sharper game. Smirks. Whispers. Brushing past me just a little too close in the hallway. That slow, lazy drawl when he says my name, like he's tasting it, and he knows exactly what it does to me.

“Yah,” his voice purrs behind me now low, teasing. “Why so stiff today?”

I don’t need to look. I can smell him cologne sharp and expensive and feel the heat of his body as he moves closer. His presence wraps around me like static before I even turn.

I don’t turn.

I keep my eyes locked on the blackboard, pretending I understand a single thing scrawled across it. Pretending I don’t feel his breath brush my ear as he leans in, close enough to cross lines no one else dares to.

“You get lost again on the way to class?” he murmurs. “Or just hoping someone would come find you?”

My fingers tighten around my pen until it creaks.

He laughs softly in a mock-innocent. “aigoo, don’t look so tense. I’m just being friendly.”

Friendly. Right.

Han Su-Gang doesn’t know the meaning of the word.

He drops back down into the seat behind me, just like he always does, and taps the back of my chair with his shoe. Light. Deliberate. A signal. A warning. Or maybe just a reminder.

That I’m not invisible here.

Not when I’m Su-Gang’s favorite target.

And the day hasn’t even started yet. 

Throughout class, he keeps playing with my hair.

It starts subtle  a light tug on a loose strand when the teacher isn’t looking, like he’s testing how close he can get before I react. Fingers brushing the ends, slow and deliberate, until I can’t focus on a single word being written on the board. My scalp tingles, nerves stretched thin. I grit my teeth and ignore him. Pretend I don’t feel it. Pretend I’m not about two seconds away from snapping.

He’s behind me, so I can’t see his face  but I feel it. The smirk. The quiet satisfaction in every tiny invasion. No one else seems to notice. Or maybe they do, and they’re just too smart to get involved.

I sit perfectly still, heart pounding under my uniform shirt, jaw locked so tight it aches. If I move, he wins. If I say anything, he gets what he wants. I just need to survive until the bell.

And then, finally, it rings and I’m on my feet before the last echo dies. My bag's already slung over my shoulder, my heart pounding with the relief of escape. I just need to get out of this room and away from his stare, his voice, his everything.

“Oh? Where you going? Running away like a scared little bitch?”

Su-Gang’s voice slices down the hallway just as I turn the corner. Like he didn’t make the last hour unbearable. My pulse kicks up again, thudding in my ears. I keep walking. Fast. I don’t give him the satisfaction of looking back.

I’m already late for my next class  Mrs. So’s.

A new teacher. Young. Fresh out of university or something. I haven’t even spoken to her yet, and now I’m about to barge in late on her first day seeing me. Perfect. Just perfect.

I reach the door and shove it open, breath still uneven. Everyone inside turns toward me like I’ve interrupted a sermon. I drop my gaze immediately and mumble, “Sorry.” My voice is barely above a whisper. Mrs. So nods politely, says nothing, and gestures for me to take a seat.

I head straight to the back. Far corner. I sit down, still feeling the heat in my face, still trying to calm the rush in my chest. But less than a minute later, the classroom door bursts open like it’s been kicked in.

Su-Gang strolls in.

And he’s not alone. His little entourage files in behind him, laughing like they own the place. One of them bumps into a desk on purpose. Another whistles, obnoxious and loud. It’s a whole show.

Mrs. So straightens up behind her desk. “Excuse me. You’re late. What do you think you’re doing?” Su-Gang doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even blink. He just keeps walking, hands in his pockets, shoulders loose and cocky like nothing in this room not even the teacher matters. His eyes flick lazily across the students until they find me.

And lock. My stomach knots.

“We got a little held up,” he says smoothly, mouth curling into that too-slick smile. “Sorry we missed your big debut, seonsaengnim.”

A few students laugh under their breath. Mrs. So opens her mouth, probably ready to call him out but then she hesitates. Just like the other teachers. Just like everyone else. One look at Su-Gang and suddenly nobody wants to push.

“Take your seat,” she says finally, voice clipped.

He does.

And as he moves past desks, his eyes never leave me. Not for a second. Like I’m some unfinished thought he plans to come back to.

He drops into the seat one row over, diagonal from mine. Close enough to see everything. Close enough that I can feel it again that pressure. Like a spider watching a fly settle into its web. The corner of his mouth twitches, and I can’t tell if he’s smiling or sizing me up.

Probably both. I shift in my chair and glance away, heart pounding so loud it’s hard to hear Mrs. So start the lesson. I feel his gaze crawling along my skin, patient, hungry, like he knows he has all the time in the world.

And worst of all? No one else seems to notice.

About halfway through the lesson, something lands on my desk.

A folded piece of paper.

I don’t need to look to know who it’s from. I feel his eyes on me before I even touch it, like a heat source pressed against my side. I hesitate for a second. Then I unfold it under the desk, keeping it hidden behind my textbook.

"Detention room. After school. You better be there."

Nothing else. No smiley face. No signature. Just instructions, written in a sharp, aggressive scrawl. My throat tightens. I stare at the words. My skin feels clammy. My fingers twitch like they want to tear the note in half, but I don’t. Not while he’s watching.

So I do the only thing I can.

I nod. Just once. Subtle. Barely a movement. And that makes him smile.

The rest of the class passes in a haze. I pretend to listen, nod at the right moments, even force myself to write something down. But I’m not really here. My mind’s racing too fast. I keep thinking about the way he looked at me earlier. Like he was already imagining something I haven’t agreed to. Like he was building a scene in his head, and I didn’t even have a say in it.

When the bell rings, I stand up fast and slip out with the crowd before he can corner me. I don’t look back. I don’t go to the detention room. I don’t even pretend to head that way.

Instead, I make a sharp turn down the back hallway, heart hammering. Past the supply closets. Past the broken lockers no one uses. Toward the back exit with the crooked fire door that barely latches. I push it open. It groans like it hasn’t moved in weeks.

Outside.

I don’t stop. I don’t check my phone. I don’t breathe until I’m three blocks from the school and halfway down a side street that leads to the convenient store. I think I made it. I think I actually got away.

But what I don’t know. What I don’t see is Su-Gang standing at the second-floor window above the back lot. Watching. He saw me slip out. He watched the whole thing. His smile is gone.

Replaced by something flat and cold. His hands rest on the windowsill, fingers tapping slowly. Rhythmically. Like he’s counting seconds or imagining someone’s neck. He stays like that for a long time, even after I’m out of sight.

When one of his friends finally finds him, laughs, asks, “Yo, she stood you up or what?” Su-Gang doesn’t turn around. He just mutters, voice low and terrifyingly calm, “She thinks she’s clever.” Then silence. A long beat.

And then, quietly

“I’ll show her what clever looks like.” 

The next morning, I walk through the front gates like nothing happened. Like I didn’t run. Like I didn’t leave him standing there with a note and a plan and no one to play his little game with.

I keep my back straight. Shoulders loose. Head held just high enough to seem unbothered. My heart’s still thudding a little too fast, but I’ve trained my face into something blank. Unreadable. I even fake a yawn, just for show. If I look scared, I lose. And I can’t lose.

The halls are already crowded. Noise bouncing off the lockers. Shoes squeaking. Teachers barking half-hearted warnings about morning assembly. I focus on the stairs ahead, textbook clutched to my chest like a shield.

I almost believe I’ve pulled it off. That maybe, just maybe, he’ll let it go. Then I feel it.

A hand slams into the back of my head, fingers curling tight into my hair, yanking it back so hard my knees nearly buckle. The scream gets caught in my throat. The hallway tilts as I’m dragged backward, spine arching, the world spinning in a blur of color and confusion. People stop. Some gasp. Some just stare.

But no one moves.

“Think you’re smart?” Su-Gang snarls above me, voice right at my ear, rough and wild and nothing like the lazy, teasing tone he always uses. “You think you can run from me?”

His hand twists deeper into my hair, roots screaming. My scalp burns, eyes watering. My hands shoot up to grab his wrist, but his grip is iron.

He jerks me sideways, pulling me into the middle of the hallway. I stumble after him, dragged like a puppet, books scattering to the floor. Everyone’s frozen, too stunned to even blink.

My shoes skid uselessly on the polished tile.

“Su-Gang, what the hell!” someone calls out  a teacher maybe  but it’s distant, foggy, like it’s coming through water. He doesn’t stop. He doesn’t look back. He pulls me past classroom doors, past staring students, past lockers slamming shut.

“Was it funny?” he growls, low and vicious. “Running like that? You think that was clever? You think I wouldn’t see you?”

I can’t even speak. My scalp is on fire, my breath short and sharp. “Let me go,” I manage through clenched teeth, but it comes out weak. Pathetic. And he laughs.

That soft, familiar laugh except now it’s twisted. Unhinged. “I told you to come,” he hisses. “I asked nicely. But you want to act like I’m some joke?”

His grip tightens. My neck jolts back.

A classroom door swings open down the hall. Another teacher steps out, voice raised in alarm, but I don’t catch the words. Su-Gang finally slows, turns slightly, still holding me by the hair. And smiles.

Right at the teacher. Polite. Then says, smooth as ice, “Just having a talk. She doesn’t mind.” The teacher hesitates. Looks at me. My mouth opens, but nothing comes out.

Su-Gang leans in. “You say one word,” he whispers, lips brushing my ear, “and I’ll make sure you really have something to run from next time.” The teacher backs off. Just like that.

He lets go of my hair like he’s finished playing with a toy he’s grown bored of. My knees nearly give out, but I catch myself, heart pounding so hard I can hear it behind my ears.

He doesn't even look at me when he says, “Follow me.” Just two words. But they hit like a blade. I don’t move

Students linger around him, watching with amusement, like they’re waiting to see if I’ll disobey. No one laughs, though. Not now. The air feels wrong. Dense.

He turns his head slightly, just enough for me to see the edge of his smirk. There’s no threat in his voice. There doesn’t have to be. We both know what happens if I say no. So I follow. Up the stairs. Out of sight.

Through the metal door that groans open at the top of the building and closes behind us with a thick, final thud. The rooftop stretches out around us, windless and empty. Concrete walls on all sides. The city below hums, oblivious. The sky is pale, sun bleeding through the clouds, too bright and too cold at once.

His friends are already here. Lounging. Laughing. Scrolling through their phones like this is just another break between classes. And I’m just standing there. Stiff. Out of place. Out of air.

Su-Gang sits on a ledge like he owns the building. He pulls a lighter from his pocket, flicks it on and off, even though there’s nothing to light. Just for the sound. The flash. The rhythm.

He doesn’t look at me for a while. Then he does. His eyes drag over me, slow and invasive. I cross my arms. Big mistake.

He tilts his head and finally says, “Unbutton your shirt.”

I stared at him like he grown two heads. The rooftop drops silent. He stares at me, waiting.

There’s no smirk now. Just that cold patience. Like he’s giving me a test he already knows I’ll fail. “I’m not—” My voice catches. “I’m not doing that.”

His tongue clicks. Then he stands. Slowly. Like he’s tired of repeating himself.

“I said,” he murmurs, “unbutton your shirt.” I take a step back.

One of the others stands too. Just the sound of his shoes scraping the ground makes my spine lock. I glance at the rooftop door behind me. It’s so far.

Su-Gang walks toward me, and I can’t help it  I flinch. His expression twists with delight. Something ugly. “You’re scared again,” he says, voice soft like a lover’s. “I like you best like this.”

He stops right in front of me. Reaches out. His fingers skim the first button of my shirt. I slap his hand away without thinking. Silence. His friends shift. One lets out a low whistle. But no one steps in.

His smile doesn’t fade, but something behind it changes. His eyes narrow. Like he’s finally decided I’m not playing the part he wants. Then his hand moves.

Fast.

A crack slices through the air before I even register what’s happening.

Pain explodes across my cheek. My head snaps to the side. My breath catches. My vision blurs for a second, white-hot and stunned.

The sound of it echoes, not just in my ears but deep inside me, like the world just tilted wrong. I don’t fall, but I stagger, one foot dragging against the rooftop concrete. My hand flies to my face, clutching the sting. My skin throbs under my palm, pulsing where his knuckles landed. Warm. Humiliated. Tears well up immediately.

I bite down hard on the inside of my cheek to hold them back, jaw trembling with the effort not to break. Not in front of him. He just watches me. Detached. Like he’s studying his own reflection.

His smile returns, slow and sharp, like the sting on my cheek isn’t even real to him. “Maybe now,” he says softly, voice thick with something darker than anger, “you’ll listen when I tell you to do something.” Then his eyes flickersomething glinting behind them.

Excitement.

“You’ve got a little fight in you today,” he murmurs, stepping closer, gaze dragging over me. “Good. That makes it more fun.”I can’t breathe.

This isn’t just teasing anymore. This is a game I never agreed to play and I already know how it ends. Badly for me. 

Su-Gang doesn’t say anything at first. He just looks down at me, hand returning to the first button on my shirt. And then He starts to unbutton them. One. Two.

My whole body is stilled, blood screaming in my ears. I feel the cool air touch my skin, inch by inch, and all I can do is stare at the concrete behind him and try not to collapse. He leans in, breath hot on my cheek. “You know,” he murmurs, “if you wanted attention, you could’ve just asked. Acting like you’re so shy, but look at you.”

Three.

His fingers brush the fabric. Slow. Calculated. “Underneath all that pretending,” he says, “I bet you like being watched. I bet you're getting off on this, aren't you?” My hands shake. My nails dig into my palms. I don’t cry. I won’t. But then he reaches the last button. And just as his fingers graze it—

The rooftop door slams open.

“Han Su-Gang!”

The voice cuts through the air like a bullet. He pauses. We both turn.

Mrs. So storms across the rooftop, her heels loud and sharp against the concrete. Her face is pale with fury. Her eyes aren’t wide with fear  they’re narrowed with rage. Su-Gang’s hand drops casually from my shirt.

I clutch the fabric, step back, hunch in on myself like I can disappear. Mrs. So stops just a few feet from us. The wind is louder now. Or maybe it’s just the blood rushing through my head. “What the hell are you doing?” she demands, voice rising. “What do you think this is?”

Su-Gang just smiles. That empty, shark-eyed smile. “Teacher,” he says smoothly. “It’s not what it looks like.”

“You had her cornered. You had your hands on her shirt—”

He shrugs, all fake innocence. “She came up here on her own. Ask her.” His friends shift awkwardly behind him, but no one speaks.

Mrs. So doesn’t buy a second of it. “You think you can get away with everything because you’re rich and no one’s ever held you accountable?”

Su-Gang’s smile slips slightly. “You’re not special,” she spits. “You’re just a coward who picks on people weaker than you.”

The rooftop is dead silent. I stare at her…this stranger who just walked into hell without hesitation. I feel my knees buckle. She sees it.

“Come here,” she says to me, gentle now. “Come stand behind me.”

I do. I move like a ghost and stand behind her like she’s a wall between me and something feral. Su-Gang’s voice comes low, mocking. “Getting involved, huh? Bad idea.”

She doesn’t flinch. “You want to hit me?” she says, eyes locked with his. “Go ahead. You think I’m scared of someone like you?” His hand clenches once. Then he turns away. But something in his smile before he walks off—too slow, too deliberate—tells me this isn’t over.

Not even close. 

I don’t remember getting back inside. One second, I’m on the rooftop with Su-Gang’s breath still hot in my ear. The next, I’m sitting on a chair in an empty classroom, the door closed, the windows dim with late-afternoon light.

My face still stings. Every heartbeat pulses in the bruise spreading under my skin. Mrs. So sits in the chair across from me, hands folded tightly in her lap. She’s silent for a long time. Watching me. Not like she’s waiting for me to speak like she’s trying to decide if she should.

I keep my eyes on the floor. The tile is cracked near the edge of my shoe. I focus on that. “Do you want to tell me what happened?” she finally asks, voice low, careful. I shake my head. I want to. I need to. But the words stay trapped in my throat. Like if I say them out loud, it’ll make everything real again.

She doesn’t push. “I saw enough,” she says. “You don’t have to explain it to me.” I blink hard. My throat burns. She exhales, rubbing her thumb against her palm like she’s working something out.

“That boy… Han Su-Gang,” she says. “He’s not just acting out. He’s dangerous.”

That word. Dangerous. No one’s said it before. Not out loud.  She looks at me then. Really looks. Her eyes are softer now. But there’s steel under them. “Has he done this before?” she asks. “Or something worse?”

I nod. Barely. She swallows. Her expression tightens. “I need to report this,” she says. “He can’t keep doing this to you. Or anyone.” Panic spikes in my chest. “No.” The word slips out before I can stop it. My voice sounds too loud in the still room. “Please don’t.”

She frowns. “Why?”

I can’t explain it. Not properly. Not the looks in the hallways. The silence of the other teachers. The way Su-Gang moves through the school like he’s already untouchable. Like the building bends around him. She sees my hesitation and her voice softens again. “I’m not asking you to stand in front of everyone,” she says. “You don’t have to do this alone. I’ll handle it. I’ll keep your name out of it.”

I want to believe her. But I can still feel the ghost of his fingers at my throat. Still hear the way he said my name like it was already his. “He’ll come after me again,” I whisper. She doesn’t lie to me. She just says, “Then he’ll have to go through me first.”

I try to get through the rest of the day like it didn’t happen. Like he didn’t drag me by the hair throughout the hallway. Like I didn’t see something dead behind his eyes when I said no.

Su-Gang doesn’t speak to me for the rest of the day. Doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t even breathe in my direction. And somehow, that’s worse. The silence isn’t peace. It’s a setup.

I skip lunch again. My stomach’s empty, but my nerves are too twisted to eat. I spend the break in the art room alone, pretending to look at student drawings while my brain replays every second on that rooftop in perfect detail.

I don’t go straight home after school. I take the long way  side roads and alleys, avoiding the main streets, just in case. By the time I duck into the convenience store, the sun’s already sinking. The fluorescent lights buzz softly overhead. The warm, artificial air hits me like a blanket.

Normal. Safe. Or close enough. I grab a ramen cup and a drink. Something to pretend I’m okay. Something to keep my hands busy.

I sit by the window in the front corner and peel back the lid. Steam curls up. I wrap my hands around the cup and try to breathe. Outside, the street looks dull, quiet. Almost peaceful.

Until the glass fogs. Not from the ramen. But from A breath.

I was transfixed, unable to move.

A slow, deliberate smiley face forms on the glass right in front of me. Drawn with a fingertip. Then a second line. A heart. And behind the smiley face, Su-Gang’s reflection appears.

Smiling, his tongue slid out slowly, tracing his lips like he was savoring a taste no one else knew. His smile that didn’t reach his eyes that only made your skin crawl.

He exhales again. The glass fogs deeper. The heart glows faint in the low light. He’s not even trying to hide that it’s him. The bell above the door jingles. He steps inside. But he’s not alone. Two of his friends follow, laughing at something he said before the door even shut.  He doesn’t grab snacks. Doesn’t say hi to the clerk. He walks straight back and drops into the chair across from mine like we’re meeting for coffee.

“You always run here after school?” he asks. “I was curious.”

I look down fast, pretending I couldn’t hear him. Pretending I can make him disappear by not reacting. 

He looks at me like he’s trying to decide what he wants to do with me. Then, without a word, he grabs my wrist. “Come here,” he says, voice low and too casual. I try to pull back, but he’s already moving. In one motion pulls me into his lap.  

I gasp. 

He wraps one arm around my waist, the other resting across my thigh, holding me there like I belong to him. My hands go stiff, hovering in the air, unsure whether to fight or freeze.

“Relax,” he says, brushing his cheek against mine. “I missed you.”

He presses a kiss to my cheek. Lingering. Like he’s daring me to scream. “You’re soft,” he murmurs near my ear. “I could get used to this.” I want to throw up. I want to disappear. I finally jerk, trying to stand.

His grip tightens.

He chuckles softly. “Don’t be like that. I came here to talk.”

“Let me go,” I whisper. “No,” he says, simply. “Not until you answer a question.” He shifts, letting me face him in his lap, his hands locked on my hips. His eyes narrow slightly. “What did you tell Mrs. So?” My stomach drops. “I—nothing,” I say.

He tilts his head, mouth curling slightly. “You sure?” he asks. “Because if I find out you’ve been running your mouth…” His smile vanishes. “…I’ll make sure you regret it.”

His hand slides slowly up my back, resting between my shoulder blades, just enough to make my whole body go rigid. “You wouldn’t want me to get upset,” he says. “Not when we’re just starting to get along.”

“I didn’t say anything,” I repeat, this time louder, trying to keep my voice steady.

He studies my face like he’s trying to peel it open.

Then, slowly, he smiles again. “Good girl.”

The bell rings.

Another customer walks in. Su-Gang finally loosens his grip, easing me off his lap like he’s letting me go because he chooses to, not because I asked. He stands, straightens his shirt, and leans down to whisper in my ear one last time.

“You’re lucky I like you. Anyone else would’ve already been dead.” Then he walks out. Leaving me there. Shaking. Humiliated. Half of my ramen spilled on the table. I sit there, chest heaving, hands trembling, the taste of his breath still on my skin.

And I know—This is possession.

And he’s just getting started. 

It takes me seven days to say something. Not because I’m unsure, or confused, or trying to convince myself it wasn’t as bad as it felt—it was—but because I already know how these things go. I know the shape of silence. I know the sound of disbelief.

Still, on the seventh day, I stay behind after class. I wait until the room empties out, until Mrs. So is gathering her papers and glancing at the clock like she has somewhere else to be. I tell her everything.

Slowly, carefully, like walking barefoot through glass. The rooftop. The convenience store. The way he touched me. The way he looked at me. The way he follows me, like a shadow with a mouth and hands. She listens. Her expression hardens, just a flicker, like a spark trying to catch flame. She says it’s wrong.

That it’s serious. That she’ll go to the principal and take it from here. That I’ve done the right thing.

The next morning I get called to the office. It’s too bright in there, sterile and quiet in a way that feels rehearsed. The principal doesn’t meet my eyes. He speaks in that calm, measured tone that sounds like it was written for a press release. Han Su-Gang is a respected student. His family supports the school. There’s no evidence of misconduct. I should be careful, he says. Careful with words, careful with accusations. I sit there, hands locked in my lap, trying to breathe evenly, trying not to fall apart in front of him. Because I already know what’s happening. It’s not justice.

And when I step out into the hall, he’s there. Su-Gang. Leaning against the opposite wall, phone in hand, like he’s been waiting for the verdict he knew would come. His eyes flick up and land on mine. He smiles. A small, smug thing, like he’s already won. Like he never doubted it.

After that, the story spreads—warped, twisted, gutted of the truth. Apparently I came on to him. Apparently I made it up. That I wanted his attention, then got bitter when I couldn’t handle it. Some girls laugh. Others look through me. No one asks what really happened. Not one. Even the teachers seem to look past me now, like I’ve become something inconvenient. A problem that won't go away. 

And Su-Gang? He doesn’t even bother hiding anymore. He waits for me after school, half a block down, just far enough to say he wasn’t following. He sits outside stores I duck into. He shows up on streets I don’t remember telling anyone I walk down. Sometimes I take random turns, double back, change my route. It doesn’t matter. He’s always nearby. Close enough to see me flinch. Far enough that I can’t scream without sounding crazy.

At night, I stop turning on music. I keep my curtains closed. I check the lock on my window twice, then again. The smallest sound makes my heart race. A knock, a phone buzz, footsteps in the stairwell. I don’t sleep. Not really. I just lie there, listening, waiting for something to happen. Something worse.

I try again. I tell a different teacher. She gives me that look—soft eyes, tight smile—that says she believes me and still won’t do a thing. I go to the school counselor. She asks if maybe I’ve misunderstood, if maybe he’s just struggling to express himself. I try a friend. She pulls away mid-sentence, says her parents know his family, says she doesn’t want to get involved.

And slowly, the air changes. People stop looking at me. Or they only look to see if I’ll break. Every hallway feels longer now. Every classroom colder. And the worst part isn’t the fear—not even the moments when I feel his eyes on me and know I’m not imagining it. 

I was so stressed out that I didn’t even notice my apartment door was open. I came inside, took off my shoes out of habit, then headed straight to the kitchen. I opened the fridge to grab a bottle of water, and when I turned around, Su-Gang was standing right behind me—with that terrifying smile and the deranged look in his eyes. The sight of him hit me like a weight, pressing down on my chest, stealing the air from my lungs.

I don’t scream. I can’t. My voice dies in my throat before it even forms. My fingers go limp and the bottle of water slips from my hand, hitting the floor with a soft thud that sounds too loud in the silence between us. He doesn’t flinch. He just watches me.

I stagger back, my spine hitting the edge of the counter, but I don’t feel it. I’m too focused on him. On the way his pupils look too wide. On the twitch in his jaw. On that smile—too calm, too pleased, like this moment is everything he’s been waiting for.

“Cozy,” he says finally, looking around my apartment like he’s at an open house. His voice is soft, amused. Like this is funny. Like I’m funny. “Smells like you.”

"Did you miss me?" he asks, voice light, almost playful. But there's something in it like broken glass hidden in sugar.

I say nothing. I can’t. My tongue is dry, glued to the roof of my mouth. My limbs won’t listen to me. All I can do is stand there, shaking, stupidly barefoot, defenseless.

“I was going to wait outside,” he goes on, stepping closer, slow and casual, like we’re sharing a joke. “But I got bored. You took too long.”

He’s between me and the door now.

He tilts his head, eyes flicking over me in that slow, devouring way that makes my skin crawl. “I thought we could talk. Just us. No interruptions this time.”

“What do you want?” I finally manage to whisper. My voice doesn’t sound like mine. It sounds small. Weak. And I hate that he hears it that way.

His smile grows. “You know what I want.”

He moves again, and instinctively I reach for something—anything—my phone, a knife, I don’t even know. But his hand is suddenly on my wrist, fast and hard, and I cry out without meaning to. He squeezes, just enough to make his point.

“Don’t,” he says quietly. “I’m being nice right now.”

My knees threaten to give. He’s too close. I can smell the familiar, expensive cologne he always wears. I can feel the heat of him, radiating off his body like an open flame. It’s worse up close—worse than anything in the hallway or the rooftop or the store. Because now there’s no one else. No distant teacher. No student who might glance over. No fluorescent lights. Just me and him. 

He steps closer

“You’ve been ignoring me,” he says, tilting his head slightly, like he’s studying a bug under glass. “After everything we’ve been through.”

“I told you to leave me alone,” I whisper, but it comes out too thin. Too fragile.

He laughs softly, shaking his head like I’m the one being ridiculous. “You don’t get it, do you? I didn’t come here to hurt you,” he says, taking another step forward. “I came here because I care.”

His hand lifts, slow and deliberate, like he’s about to touch me again. I flinch before he even makes contact. His smile widens.

"You’re so tense,” he murmurs, his voice dropping, more breath than sound. “It’s kind of cute." My stomach twists.

He’s too close now. The counter's at my back. The doorway's blocked. My apartment feels smaller than it ever has. Like the walls are leaning in, like the lights are dimming even though nothing’s changed.

"Don’t do this," I manage, my voice breaking. "Please."

"Do what?" he says, mock-offended. "I’m not doing anything. I’m just talking to you. Spending time together. Isn’t that what you wanted?"

I shake my head. “No.”

His expression darkens just slightly. Like the mask slips for a second and something uglier pushes through.

"Then why’d you talk to Mrs. So?"

My breath catches.

"You think I wouldn’t find out?"

I don't answer.

“I told you not to say anything,” he whispers, and this time, the calm is gone. His voice has teeth now. “You lied to my face. That’s not smart.”

He leans in until I can feel his breath on my cheek.

“I could hurt you,” he says softly, almost lovingly. “Right now. And no one would stop me. No one would care.”

He says it like a fact. Not a threat. Like he’s just stating the weather. Like he’s tested the world already and knows exactly how far it will bend for him.

I don’t move. I don’t breathe.

His fingers trail down from my forehead, slow, possessive, knuckles grazing the side of my face like I’m something he’s already unwrapped. His thumb brushes the corner of my lip.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he adds, almost sadly. “I just want you to stop making me the bad guy.”

He leans in again, lips hovering just beside my ear.

“You don’t tell anyone else about this. About me. Not your little teacher friend. Not your friends—if you still have any.” He chuckles softly.

“I won’t,” I whisper, too fast, too automatic, and I hate the way it sounds. I hate how small it makes me feel. But I say it anyway, because I have to. Because I’m not sure what happens if I don’t.

His breath is hot on my neck. His hand settles just above my hip.

“You’re learning,” he says, and he almost sounds proud. Like I’ve done something right. Like this is praise.

Then his mouth grazes my cheek. Not quite a kiss. Not quite anything. Just heat and skin and intent.

“I could stay,” he says. “We could spend the night together.”

The terror pulses so deep in my chest I think I might be sick. I shake my head before I even realize I’m doing it.

“No?” he says, still smiling. Still soft.

Then, without warning, he grabs my wrist and yanks me down the hallway toward my bedroom. I stumble, trying to resist, but his grip is iron. My mind races—how many times has he been here before? 

When we reach the bedroom, he shoves me onto the bed. The mattress groans under the sudden weight as I scramble backward, pushing myself toward the headboard, trying to put any distance I can between us.

My hands shake. My breathing is shallow. He just stands there, watching me, that same twisted smile never leaving his face. There’s something in his eyes—something cold and frayed—that makes my skin crawl. I want to scream, to fight, to disappear.

But all I can do is stare back, Then he turns to the door. Clicks it shut. And locks it. That sound—the soft, final click—is a bang to my senses. My breath shatters. He leans his back against the door, watching me with all the patience in the world. Like a lion who knows the cage is locked. “You’re trembling,” he says sweetly, voice thick with something tender and terrible. “Is it fear? Or excitement?” I don’t answer. That’s when he moves. Not like a man. Like a predator.

His hand curls around my ankle, delicate and unhurried, as though he’s holding a teacup, not a girl trembling in her own bed. And then—with a cruel sort of grace—he pulls. I gasp, dragged down the mattress like a doll. My back hits the sheets, my legs falling open just enough to make shame twist low in my gut.

He crawls over me slowly, his tie hanging like a leash between us, brushing my chest. Still smiling. Still soft. Still wearing that goddamn blazer like this is a lecture hall and not my bedroom—like he didn’t just take me from the hallway like a prize he’s been waiting to unwrap. “You looked so pretty just now. All wide-eyed.” 

His fingers brush my thigh. Featherlight. A lover’s touch in a nightmare. “No?” he echoes when I shake my head, soft as mist. Tilting his head like a confused child. “Then why didn’t you run?” He leans closer. His breath fans over my throat. “Because deep down, little slut,” His hand traces  around my face tenderly. “you wanted me to.”

A low whimper catches in my throat. He shushes me instantly, kissing the corner of my mouth. “None of that, now,” he whispers, velvet-laced. “No tears, no begging.” His other hand trails down, catching the hem of my shirt. “And now,” he says, voice rising with something honeyed and unhinged, “you’ll give me everything else.” 

He watches me for a moment longer, head tilted, gaze dragging over my body like a match waiting to be struck. Then, without a word, he moves—fast, precise. He flips me onto my stomach before I can react, the sudden shift knocking the breath from my lungs. I try to twist, to push up, but his hand presses gently between my shoulder blades. 

“Shhh,” he breathes, already loosening the tie from around his neck with the kind of slow, deliberate care that makes my pulse scatter. “You’ll like this part.” The fabric is warm from his skin, and it slips around my wrists like a secret. He binds me with practiced ease—neatly, reverently—as if he’s done this in his head a thousand times. Maybe he has. When the knot pulls tight behind my back, a gasp slips from me. 

“There,” he whispers, lips brushing my ear as his fingers stroke my hair. “You look like a present… all wrapped up, just for me.” His voice is low, close, too tender to be sane. He presses a kiss just below my ear—then bites. Sharp enough to make me flinch. His hand slides beneath me, under my stomach, and with one slow, possessive push, he lifts my hips. My body responds before I do, knees parting, cheek pressed into the sheets. 

I hate how natural it feels. I hate how warm his palm is as he settles me in place like I’m a thing to be arranged. “Look at that,” he murmurs, almost to himself, as he sits back on his heels behind me. “Perfect little shape. Up like you want to be taken.” I squeeze my eyes shut, but it only makes his words sharper. “Such a good girl, staying still,” he croons. “Back arched, thighs soft, hands tied and trembling. You don’t even know how beautiful you are like this.” There’s a pause. Then a small click. My heart skips. 

“Mmm,” he hums, pleased, as he lifts his phone and takes the photo. “Don’t worry, baby… just for me. Something to look at when I miss you.” He drags two fingers up my inner thigh, achingly slow. “When I’m alone and hungry and need to remember who belongs to me.” His breath ghosts down my spine. “My little present. My quiet, messy, obedient whore.” His fingers curl around my hip. “You’re going to stay just like this for me. Pretty. Remembering that this is what you craved.” Another soft kiss behind my ear. Another picture. Another piece of me surrendered. 

His fingers trail down, slow and teasing, barely grazing the backs of my thighs as he settles behind me. Not quite touching—just hovering. Just enough to make my nerves coil tighter with every breath. “So quiet,” he murmurs, as if he’s speaking to the air between us. “But your body’s already telling me everything.” His fingers finally make contact—light, maddening—drawing invisible lines over my skin like he’s sketching me from memory. 

He runs a knuckle just under the curve of my backside, then down, barely brushing the spot that makes my breath catch. “Tense,” he whispers, almost delighted. “Are you scared I’ll like how you taste?” I shake my head, a futile denial buried in the pillow. He laughs softly behind me, the sound honeyed and intimate. “Liar.” Then, without warning, he reaches under the hem of my skirt and slowly—achingly slowly—pushes it up. 

The fabric gathers at my waist, baring me to the cool air and his ravenous gaze. “Look at this,” he breathes, palm smoothing over the swell of my exposed ass. “So warm… so soft.” I try to close my legs, but he stops me with a firm hand and a sickly sweet murmur: “Ah-ah. Don’t ruin the view, sweetheart.” 

Then his fingers find the edge of my underwear and tug it down. Not off. Just far enough. Just enough to humiliate. “I want it in the way,” he says, voice low and molten. “I want you to feel how barely undone you are.” And then—then I feel him lean in. The first touch of his mouth is like silk over fire. Gentle like he’s worshiping rather than devouring.

 A single, slow stroke of his tongue that makes my entire body clench. “Su-Gang,” I gasp, voice trembling, “stop—” But he only hums softly against me, the vibration melting into my skin. “You don’t mean that,” he says, voice muffled, dreamy. “You’re already shaking. Already dripping. You’re mine, baby… and this is how I take care of what’s mine.” His hands slide up to my hips, holding me in place, and then he buries his face between my thighs like I’m something holy.

He eats like he’s savoring a secret, like he has all the time in the world. And I’m trying so hard not to make a sound, trying to stay silent—to resist. But every stroke of his tongue makes it harder. Every soft moan he breathes into me makes it worse. “Still pretending you don’t want it?” he murmurs, licking slow and deep, voice soaked in affection and filth. “Go ahead, baby. Lie to me with your mouth. Your body’s already told the truth.” 

He doesn’t rush. His mouth lingers like he’s sipping from something delicate, something rare—tongue sliding in lazy, tender patterns that have nothing to do with urgency and everything to do with ownership. “Mmm,” he hums again, breath hot and sticky against me.

 “You taste like berries.” His tongue flicks, slow and deliberate, then retreats just enough to let the cool air kiss my skin. I squirm, breath shallow, legs trembling. He chuckles, warm and terrifying. “Sensitive,” he murmurs, kissing the inside of my thigh. “Are you always this easy to fall apart? Or is it just me?” My fingers clench behind my back, wrists straining against the tie. 

I want to move, want to bury my face deeper into the pillow and hide. But he doesn’t let up. Doesn’t give me room to run. “You keep trying to deny it,” he says, brushing his lips just above where I need him. “But I think you like it when I play with you. When I talk to you like you’re already mine.” His voice lowers into a dreamy lilt. 

 He presses a kiss to the spot just above my entrance, maddeningly soft. “And this?” Another kiss, lower now, warmer. “This is mine now.” Then he dips his tongue in again—shallow, teasing—just enough to make my hips jolt. He groans like he’s the one being ruined. “God, you're so sweet,” he whispers. “I could stay here all night, baby. Just like this. Tied up. Spread out.” He grins against me, licks again, slower. 

“Bet you’re so confused right now, huh? Poor thing… shaking like you don’t love it, arching like you do.” His thumb brushes the base of my spine, gentle, reassuring, like we’re sharing something soft instead of something sick. “Don’t worry,” he coos. “I’m not mad at you for pretending. I think it’s cute.” Another kiss. A playful nip. “But I see through you, sweetheart. I always do.” He pulls back just enough to blow warm air against me, making my legs quake. “And when I’m done? You’ll never be able to lie to me again.” 

The moment it hits me, I can’t stop it. It shatters through my body like silk torn from the inside out—sudden, deep, humiliating in how good it feels. I choke on a gasp, back arching, toes curling, hands still bound and helpless behind me. And he just moans into me, like my climax is something he can taste, something he’s earned. 

My legs twitch, my breath stutters, and I want to close them, to pull away from the pressure of his mouth, but he doesn’t let me. He keeps licking—soft, languid strokes that make me flinch with every pass. “There she is,” he whispers, kissing between my thighs like I’ve just told him a secret. “So pretty when you break.” I whimper, the sound muffled by the sheets, but he only smiles, sitting back slowly, lazily. He gazes down at me like I’m artwork he’s just finished painting—half-naked, trembling, used.

 “God, look at you,” he breathes. “I should take another picture.” His tone is teasing now, light and slow, high off my reaction. His hands don’t leave me—one stays curved over the swell of my ass, the other trails down, fingertips gliding between my thighs again, drawing lazy circles that make my hips twitch. “Sensitive?” he murmurs, mock-concerned. “You can’t be done already, baby. Not when I’ve barely started.” He leans over me, chest pressing against my back, lips brushing my ear again. “You feel that? How soft you are now? How open?” A soft laugh. “You gave me that. And now I get to enjoy it.” 

His hand slips lower, fingers teasing where I’m still slick, still pulsing. “Don’t worry,” he croons, “I won’t make you come again. Not yet.” He kisses the shell of my ear, then whispers with syrup-thick sweetness, “I just like the way you flinch when I touch you. Like your body knows who it belongs to.” Then he shifts behind me, breath hitching with a new note of pleasure. I don’t have to look to know—he’s rubbing himself.

 I can hear it in the way his breath slows. I can feel it in the way his hand moves against me—not hard, not fast—just enough to keep me open, helpless, and aware. “This is my favorite part,” he sighs, voice rougher now. “When you’ve already come, and you’re too tired to lie. When I can just watch you… and imagine all the other ways I’m going to keep you like this.” He groans softly behind me. “You’re going to let me, aren’t you?” A kiss to my shoulder. Another warm touch between my legs. “You won’t say no. Not when you already said yes with your whole body.” 

And now, here I am — tied, trembling, still slick from his mouth and raw from my own climax, waiting like prey that wanted to be hunted.

I hear it behind me: the soft slide of a belt, the slow zip of a fly, the crinkle of tension easing from his spine. A sharp, wet sound follows — spit, thick and obscene, catching in his palm before a slow, rhythmic stroke begins. I don’t have to look. I feel it in the air. He’s getting ready to take me.

A slow inhale behind me. A reverent exhale.

Then, Su-Gang speaks.

“You know…” His voice is silk dipped in poison, calm and unbothered. “You really shouldn’t look this pretty when you’re trying not to cry.”

His words make my toes curl.

He leans forward, pressing the weight of his cock to my entrance — not pushing in yet. Just settling there. Heavy.

“I could paint a picture of you like this,” he whispers. “Tied up. Split open. Waiting for me like a gift you already know belongs to me.” A slow thrust of his hips — not enough to enter, just enough to make me feel the slick drag along my folds. His cock nudges, teases.

“Beg,” he says, softly. “Or don’t. Either way, I’m going to take what I want.”

And then — with a single, deep push — he slides inside.

My mouth opens in a silent cry. It’s too much, too slow, too perfect. The stretch is hot and aching, every inch making me feel smaller beneath him.

He stills once he’s buried to the hilt.

“Feel that?” he breathes, mouth grazing my ear. “That stretch… that ache…” A slow pull out. A cruelly gentle thrust back in. “That’s mine.”

One of his hands cups the base of my spine, a barely-there pressure to keep me still — not forceful. Final. The other strokes down my side, fingers trailing like he’s reading braille in my bones. His voice remains maddeningly calm, like we’re discussing poetry instead of being split open on his cock.

His rhythm is slow but deliberate now — hips grinding in and out with a possessive control. “Don’t give me that little whimper like you don’t want it.”

I can feel him smiling against my skin.

“You think I didn’t see this coming?” he continues, cock dragging slow, deep strokes that make my back arch without meaning to. “You in that tiny skirt. That quiet way you watched me in class. You wanted this — to be ruined like something fragile and sweet. You just needed someone willing to break you the right way.”

He thrusts harder, once. My breath stutters.

“And that’s me, baby.”

His blazer brushes my bare back. The tie digging into my wrist, holding me still as he starts to fuck me in earnest — deep, smooth strokes, like he’s carving his name into my body with every pass.

“Listen to yourself,” he whispers, biting gently at my shoulder. “That sound in your throat? That’s not fear. That’s submission.”

His thrusts slow again, cruel and controlled. His fingers brush between my thighs, finding the slickness he left behind with his mouth.

“You’re soaked. Dripping like your body knows who it belongs to.”

He rolls his hips in a long, punishing grind. My knees shake.

“Bet you thought you could hide it,” he breathes, voice low and smooth. “But I see everything. Every twitch. Every gasp. Every time you push back just enough to make me think you don’t need this.”

Another thrust — hard. Deep.

“You do.”

He leans forward again, breath warm against my cheek.

“You’re mine now,” he says, a final whisper before he sets a new rhythm. “And after this, you’ll never be able to pretend otherwise.”

His fingers slip between my thighs again—slick, slow, precise—and I choke on a sob. The tension coils tight in my belly, unbearable. He circles that spot with maddening gentleness as he thrusts harder again, forcing my body to surrender to the rhythm he sets.

“Say it,” he murmurs, biting at my shoulder. “Say who you belong to.”

I shake my head at first—pure instinct—and he laughs, low and cruel. The rhythm falters just long enough to make me whimper at the loss. Then he slams back into me and I scream, gasping, because it’s too much and still not enough.

“Say it.”

My knees buckle. His arm catches my waist and holds me up, tight against his chest. “You,” I gasp. “Yours. I’m—yours.”

His grip tightens. The tie digs in. His thrusts become ragged, brutal, as though the words snapped something in both of us. I cry out again, body shaking, every nerve lit, raw and burning with that final edge.

Then—I shatter.

Clenching around him, shuddering as the orgasm crashes over me, white-hot and consuming. He doesn’t stop. He growls something low and inhuman against my neck and thrusts one last time, deep, buried to the hilt, and goes still with a strangled moan.

His breath is hot and uneven on my shoulder. He doesn’t pull out. Doesn’t untie me. Just leans there, breathing me in, cock still throbbing inside as if claiming every last inch.

“You’ll remember this,” he says softly, voice thick with triumph. “Every time you pretend you’re still the good girl.” He presses a kiss to the nape of my neck, almost tender.

“And you’ll know better.”

He stays buried inside me for a long moment, like he owns the silence as much as he owns my body. His chest rises and falls against my back, breath slowing, the weight of him on my back. Then, without a word, he shifts — a deliberate pull of his hips that makes me gasp again as he withdraws, slow and unhurried.

The absence is as much a statement as everything that came before.

I can feel the wet heat between my thighs, dripping down, and I know he sees it too as he stands behind me, fixing his belt with calm, practiced fingers. The quiet click of metal feels obscene in the hush of the room.

“You’re a mess,” he murmurs, amused.

The sound of fabric rustling tells me he’s smoothing his shirt, straightening his blazer. Like none of this shook him. Like he does this all the time. Like he’s already decided this wasn’t a moment — it was a routine.

Then his fingers return to me — to the knot behind my wrists. He undoes it slowly, letting the tie free and it fall away. My arms drop forward, sore and tingling from tension, and I draw a shaky breath.

But before I can move, he’s already guiding me—turning me, tilting my body until I’m on my back, sprawled across the bed like something ruined and displayed.

He leans over me, eyes scanning every inch of my flushed skin, from the marks on my thighs to the dazed, wet look in my eyes. His phone is suddenly in his hand. “Look at you,” he murmurs. “Perfect.”

The click of the phone is soft, almost delicate. He takes one photo. Just one.

“To add to my collection,” he says, smiling.

My breath stutters again. I feel exposed. Under that gaze.

He leans in, phone still in his hand, and catches my face between his fingers — not rough, not cruel, but firm. His thumb strokes my cheek, smearing whatever remnants of tears or sweat are still there, like he’s savoring the aftermath just as much as the act itself. Then he kisses me.

Not rushed. Not hungry. Like I’m his. Slow, and deep, and possessive.

When he finally pulls back, I’m gasping all over again — not from what he did to my body, but from how completely he’s taken over my body.

He smiles down at me, brushing hair away from my face, like he already knows what I’m thinking. “You’re mine,” he murmurs, voice low. “And this? This was just the beginning.”

He straightens, adjusts his cuffs, and starts toward the door—unhurried, composed, as if what he just did to me was nothing more than a casual conversation. At the threshold, he pauses and looks back one last time. His gaze drags over me, bare and breathless in my own bed, a faint smirk tugging at his mouth. Like he’s proud of what he’s leaving behind.

Then he turns and disappears into the hallway.

The door closes behind him with a soft click, and I’m alone. The only sound left is my own breathing and the faint, lingering echo of everything he did. Of everything I let him do.

In my own room. My world. And now it doesn’t feel like mine at all.

My bed’s a mess — sheets twisted, pillows half on the floor, the air still thick with sweat and something darker. The scent of him clings to everything. My wrists burn faintly from the tie, my thighs ache with every shift, and my lips are still swollen from the way he kissed me like he owned me. But it’s the silence afterward that feels the cruelest. No soft word. No reassurance. Just… gone.

Like I was a scene to be acted out. A need to be used up. I lie there on the bed for a long time, staring at the ceiling, letting the heat fade from my skin until I’m just cold. Empty. Slowly, I pull the sheets up over me. Just to hide.

I wake to the alarm’s buzz, head pounding.

For a second I forget why I feel like I’ve been hit by a truck. Then I shift… and the soreness between my thighs reminds me. My stomach knots. I force myself up, push through the routine like a ghost — shower, brush, dress. But nothing scrubs him off.

I dress more conservatively than usual, as if fabric could protect me now. As if he didn’t already take everything he wanted. I glance around my room, still disheveled, sheets half-stained with sweat and spit and…My phone buzzes.

Unknown Number

Attached image: Me. Last night. Face dazed. Wrists red. Legs parted. On this bed. My bed. My world invaded and taken. 

Below it:

“Can’t wait to do this again.”

I don’t breathe. The panic starts slow a cold pulse in the back of my throat. I check the number. No name. No clue. But I know. I know. Then — another message, like the first wasn’t enough.

Unknown Number:

“If you tell Mrs. So anything… I’ll ruin what little life you have left.”

I drop the phone. My knees go weak and I sink onto the edge of the bed, hands trembling, stomach twisting in knots. The image still burns behind my eyes — not just the photo, but the memory. The sound of his voice. The way he’d said “mine”.

And now… I can't even scream. Because he made sure I wouldn’t.

School feels different now. Like every hallway is longer, every wall closer, every door hiding something I can’t unsee. I walk with my head down, hands cold, shoulders stiff with the weight of pretending nothing happened. But I feel it with every step. The ache in my thighs. The raw burn around my wrists. The phantom pressure of him still inside me.

I can’t forget.

I move through the morning on autopilot, nodding when I’m spoken to, laughing at things I don’t hear. No one notices. No one ever does. But behind my eyes, everything’s trembling. And beneath my clothes, I’m still wearing last night like a bruise.

I see the back of him first — blazer perfect, hair neat, the same tie he used to bind me now looped neatly around his collar like it doesn’t remember. He’s surrounded by a few guys. Joking. Relaxed. Like he didn’t tear me open the night before and leave me in my own bed like a discarded thing. 

I slip into the classroom early and sink into my seat. My hands won’t stop shaking. I stare at the blackboard. I pretend I’m just tired.

Mr.Kim claps his hands once. “Partner project time! Random draw, no trading, so don’t ask.”

The names come fast. A blur.

Then—my name.

“...and Su-Gang,” he says cheerfully. “You two will work together on the bonding unit. Chemistry of connection. Perfect, right?”

There’s light laughter. It cuts through me like a knife. I feel him before I see him—again. The shift in the air. The scrape of a chair pulled beside mine. The warmth of his presence before he even sits. He doesn’t speak right away. Just lets the silence stretch until I almost convince myself I imagined it.

Then he leans in, breath brushing my ear.

“Told you this was just the beginning.”

I don’t blink. I don’t turn. I just stare at my notebook, empty and waiting, while my pulse pounds in my ears.

I nod when Mr.Kim asks if we’re clear on the assignment. I write the due date like it matters. He’s close enough that his knee brushes mine—close enough to remind me I didn’t dream any of it. He’s in my school. In my class. Now assigned to me like some sick joke.

And I realize, right then, with cold clarity: I can’t get rid of him.

He’s not some ghost that will fade. He’s a presence now. Permanent. Invited into my world. My space, my silence, my life—all slowly coiling around him like a noose. After class, I don’t speak. I don’t look at him. I just walk. One foot in front of the other, trying not to run. I turn my phone off. I don’t want to see what else he’s sent.

When I get home, I lock my door and sit on the bed, still unmade from last night. The sheets are crumpled, the pillows still on the floor, the air still holding the memory of his breath, his hands, his voice whispering mine. The room feels smaller now.

I stare at the floor for a long time.

I just sit there, listening to the silence, and realize it doesn’t feel like safety anymore.

It feels like nothing.

And inside me, something hollow grows deeper.

fin

© 2025 mymelllllinda

[chigsprincess]

Omg hi!! I love your works, they’re all so nicely made 😽😽!! (Don’t die to a blender pls ur too awesome sauce😋)

Anyways, I have a request (I came up with it late at night so hear me out PLEASE) I was thinking of bllk x reader, where the two get caught hanging out/on a date when the public doesn’t know that they are dating you. I understand if this is not worded correctly and sounds weird, but anywho thank you!!

Exposed

a/n: dw! it sounded totally fine, thank you so much for requesting, and i hope you have an awesome day!

getting caught when your relationship is still private - h.chigiri, r.itoshi, m.kaiser, y.isagi, s.barou

Chigiri Hyoma

One date in a public place couldn’t hurt. You two even chose a remote location for it. Hell, he wore some disguise too. (If you can call sunglasses indoors that.)

You tell him he dressed up like he is about to rob this place. He just pouts.

His fans immediately recognize him tho. Doesn’t even take a full 15 minutes.

“Oh my god, is that him?” whispers someone, followed by the unmistakable click of a camera.

He just lets out a sigh and shrugs “Guess we are trending tonight.”

He grabs your hand boldly, not hiding it, but also not making a big scene, and walks you back to the car with calm confidence.

When a fan asks him: “Who’s your date?” he cheekily replies:

“Wouldn’t you like to know?”

then winks and shuts the car door behind you.

Social media explodes. Fans are divided between mourning the loss of their!!!! Princess and zooming in to ID you.

Itoshi Rin

He arrives at the restaurant wearing a baseball cap pulled low, a dark coat, and a stupid mask. He’s not trying to be seen; in fact, he dreads it.

You tease him about being so dramatic: “You act like the paparazzi are waiting behind every menu.”His reply? A low, dry, “They usually are.”

The dinner actually went pretty well, no fans, no media, no nothing, but then came the walk back to the car.

He immediately hears a camera clicking, and, lets go of your hand by instinct.

You start to step away, but he grabs your wrist. Not aggressively, but like he needs you close.

As flashes start to go off, he turns away from the cameras and mutters a cold, “Unbelievable.”

When asked, “Is that your partner?”, he doesn’t answer. Just shoots a piercing glare that shuts the question down instantly.

A week later, he posts a single photo on his, rarely used Instagram story: a picture of your linked hands resting on his lap, no faces, just a caption: “Mine.”

Isagi Yoichi

It’s been almost a month since you two last saw each other, so when he asked you for a date, he kinda forgot you two haven’t announced your relationship yet.

He greets you with a huge smile and an even bigger hug, the kind that lifts you a little off the ground.

A fan across the street spots him mid-laugh, leaning in close to you. They try to be subtle, but the flash goes off. And then another.

He visibly panics for a split second. “Oh nooo,” he mutters, half-laughing, half-dying inside.

His first instinct is to apologize:

“I’m so sorry are you okay with this? I can ask them to delete it! I’m sure they will.”

He knows it’s a lost cause.

You just laugh it off and tell him you don’t mind.

Later that night, he's pacing while scrolling social media, muttering, “Okay, it’s not that bad. I only panicked a little. That’s fine. That’s totally fine.”

You tell him he was cute. He blushes, but replies confidently: “Yeah? Well… I’ve got more moves where that came from.” (Immediately trips over a shoe afterward. Still cute.)

A few days later, he posts a selfie of you both with half your faces cropped out, captioned: “About time I got caught. Not mad.”

Kaiser Michael

He doesn’t wear a disguise. He wears designer sunglasses at night, his hair perfect, jawline immaculate a walking PR headline.

You ask him whether he really thinks this won’t earn him attention, but he just smirks and shrugs his shoulders.

Shameless. hand on your lower back, arm around your shoulder, brushes your hair behind your ear. he doesn’t hide a damn thing.

“Careful. You keep looking at me like that, I’ll forget we’re in public.” You just look at him with a deadpan expression. “Seems to me you already forgot.”

You get caught almost immediately by paparazzi hanging across the street, and fans whispering excitedly nearby.

He kisses you on the cheek right in front of the cameras, then adds “Get my good side, yeah?”

He does an interview a few days later and casually mentions you like it’s common knowledge. “Yeah, they’re amazing. Gorgeous, and smart, makes better coffee than my nutritionist. Don’t know how I landed them, honestly. Actually- no. I do. Look at me.”

You just roll your eyes when you watch it later.

Barou Shoei

He picks a secluded restaurant with private dining options and tinted windows. The kind of place you have to know someone to get into.

When you show up, his whole face melts, his shoulders drop, and his lips quirked up just a little. “There you are.”

You’re leaving the restaurant, walking toward the car, when someone spots him. “Holy shit, that’s Barou!”

Cameras click. Fans whisper. Then one of the braver ones asks: “Is that your partner?”

He steps in front of you immediately. Instinctively protective.

He doesn’t say a word. Just glares so hard that the nearest phone lowers itself.

A few days later, his team’s official social media posts a picture of him post-game. You in the background, holding his water bottle. Fans lose it.

He finally gives in and posts a blurry photo of you wearing his hoodie, with a caption: “Yeah. They’re mine. Stay out of it.”

word count: 882

[himewonu]

HEART LAKE ౨ৎ hong joshua

౨ৎ you never thought joshua was the type to play video games—until you caught him playing your favourite game at 2 in the morning.

starring bf! joshua x gn! reader genre fluff, humour, established relationship contains guns (literally a video game), they play fortnite together word count 0.6k

from rhin, the title is from fortnite (chapter 2 i think idk i need to google it). anyways i hope you'll like this ame thanks for the req! i fear i can only write abt fortnite if someone asks to write abt a video game... so i hope u aren't tired of my fn obsession guys!!!

when joshua first met you, you mentioned you were fond of video games. he thought you played simple, cozy games like the sims or animal crossing, but you never corrected him.

he wasn’t wrong, though. you do play those games, but recently he found out you’re more into shooter games. it was a bit shocking to find out you like violent games, but he was not one to judge.

the problem is, joshua never plays video games as much as you play. he’s only ever played classic arcade games like tetris and pac man, but he’s never even heard what a fortnite is or what overwatch is even about.

you love joshua regardless of whether he plays games or not. sometimes when he’s at your place, you two would be close together in front of your tv, playing mario kart, hands tangled with each other’s against the controllers.

one of those game date nights happened to be a fortnite run. again, joshua has never heard of a game named after fourteen days. the first round he played with you, he was lost at first but slowly adapted to it. after the second round, he realized that he enjoys this game.

the only problem with this game is that he is absolutely trash at it. no matter what he does in the game, someone will still find a way to eliminate him. even in 1v1s with you, you manage to beat his ass every time before he can even see your avatar in the game.

joshua really likes this game, and he really likes playing it with you, but sometimes it can get insufferable when you win all the time. so every time he sleeps over, he stays with you in bed until you fall asleep. he’ll wait for a few minutes, then he’ll leave you to log onto your computer.

every night, he practices on fortnite until two in the morning. whether it’s aiming or building, he’ll make sure to master everything you do to him in the game. he’s been doing this routine for literally a fortnight—two weeks and three days to be exact.

you were never aware of this until you woke up one night because the blanket was pushed to you. you realised your boyfriend wasn’t next to you, so you waited for a few minutes, assuming he went to the bathroom. you didn’t sleep for thirty minutes, hoping joshua would come back and cuddle with you, but he never entered the room.

you began to hear faint keyboard typing, fast ones. it was coming from the living room, where your computer is. you got up and wondered, could it be joshua? there was no way; he doesn’t play games like that. as you leave your room, you notice the living room has a bright spot on the wall.

“baby?” you call out, walking closer. you stop in your tracks as you see joshua sitting in front of your computer, one hand on the keyboard and the other one tipping his (your) headphones down. he stares at you like a deer caught in headlights.

you glance at the screen; a big ‘VICTORY ROYALE’ pops up. “no way! did you actually get a victory royale?” you freak out as you come close to joshua, looking closer at the monitor.

“yeah,” he sheepishly replies, “i’ve been trying to get this for a while.”

“why?”

“well, you keep winning every time we 1v1, so i thought if i practice every day, i’ll beat you in a match.”

you stifle a laugh and lean on him. “shua you’re so cute, you know that? we can play tomorrow, but let’s go back to bed now.”

“whatever you say, sweetheart.” he presses a kiss on your forehead and turns off your computer.

svt masterlist .ᐟ

[greatmoldone]

Trying to save Soap with Forbidden Video Game Knowledge (TM)

This is just self indulgent don't mind me

Being lost as fuck at first but figuring out where you are in the timeline, you decide to try your luck.

The entire team being intimidating as fuck as you try to explain yourself to them.

There's no way they're going to believe you, you think.

Trying to find a balance of giving enough information for 141 to believe you and not giving away so much that they'll think you're a spy.

They still think you're a spy because how the fuck are you supposed to tell them where you got this information??

But eventually little things you mentioned start to come true and they're all staring at each other like ???

Surely it's just a lucky guess, right?

Wrong.

Things you predict keep happening and eventually they have to face the fact that you might not be lying.

It's a veryyy slow process but eventually they come to trust you.

Over time your place with them becomes less like a prisoner and more like a captive advisor?

Then you're trusted with more and more freedoms.

But you stay.

Of course you stay.

You have a mission but they can't know that.

How are you supposed to tell them that you've seen Soap die and that you're trying to stop it?

And the worst part is that Soap is probably the one who warms up to you first.

But you have to pretend the wistful look you get in your eyes sometimes isn't because he's becoming more and more humanized to you and the knowledge of his impending death looks like a dark cloud over every interaction.

You settle into a pattern of tipping off the 141 right before something is about to happen so as not to overwhelm them with information.

(and probably from fear of changing too much and suddenly becoming irrelevant to them)

You inform them of the connection to the Las Almas cartel and they even let you tag along to Mexico (as long as you stick out of the way of danger of course)

Meeting Alejandro and Rudy!!

Having to wait until Soap has been interrogated by Valeria to drop that she's El Sin Nombre so he doesn't have to hide that he knows and jeopardize the mission.

Hoo boy there's some backlash for that one.

You probably get into arguments with the 141 more than you'd like.

So to prove your allegiance you break your rule and tell them about Graves' impending betrayal (and General Shepherd).

But you make them promise not to act on it until after they divert the missle, knowing that they'll need Shadow Company's help until the last minute.

But Los Vaqueros don't know about your strange font of knowledge.

It's harder to convince them that Shadow Company will try and take their base until it's too late.

You don't get to give the signal .

And the betrayal happens as in the games.

The massacre in Las Almas still happens and you're kicking yourself for not being able to stop it.

Being kept prisoner along with Los Vaqueros and Alejandro (before he gets thrown in solitary – which, let's be honest, is very quickly).

Graves casually leaning on the door of your cell and asking how you knew about his plan as if he's asking about the weather.

Apparently either Ghost or Soap said something when everything went down.

Shit.

[cherrywriterrr]

haunted

bodyguard!rafe x reader

warnings: graphic violence, blood, torture, emotional distress, language, fear, obsession, captivity, mdni 18+

seven eight nine

“you two aren’t dying.” he shrugs, like this whole thing was just a minor inconvenience. “unfortunately.”

you don’t even have the strength to react. you just blink at him, confused, trembling, your arms tightening around rafe’s body.

“your daddy came with a whole fucking army,” he goes on, eyes cutting toward you. “millions of dollars, helicopters, tactical gear. the whole damn operation. all for you and loverboy over here.”

rafe groans softly under you. he’s still alive. still here. you burst into tears.

loud, ugly sobs that rip from your throat before you can even stop them. you bury your face into rafe’s neck, holding him tighter, your voice breaking.

“god,” you cry. “i told you, rafe. i told you we were getting saved.”

he doesn’t say anything at first, just leans into you with the little strength he has left, his hand twitching slightly against your back. his blood is still warm.

you both stay like that on the floor, ruined, shaking, covered in each other’s pain, but for the first time since you woke up here…

you barely hear them storm in. it’s all a blur, armed men flooding the room, shouting in voices that don’t sound threatening anymore but safe. protective. the kind of voices that know how to kill and how to protect.

your dad is the first one you recognize.

he looks older than you remember. frantic. pale and trembling as he drops to his knees beside you, his expensive shoes sinking into the blood on the concrete.

“baby,” his voice cracks. “are you hurt? where are you hurt?”

but you’re not listening. your hands are on rafe, shaking him gently, sobbing too hard to speak right. “get him to a hospital,” you whisper, voice ragged. “dad, please, you need to get him help! he’s—he’s bleeding so much, please—”

“no,” rafe croaks, barely audible. he pushes weakly at your arms, eyes fluttering half-shut. “i’m not going anywhere.”

“yes you are,” you cry, pulling him back to you like that could anchor him in this world. “rafe, please—”

but your dad gently grabs your face and forces you to look at him. “we’re taking him, okay?” he says. “but not to a hospital.”

you stare at him like he’s lost his mind.

“i’ll pay for a doctor,” he adds, “discreet. we’ll take care of him at the house. no records, no police. no risk. we’re not losing him. i promise.”

you sob again, nodding before you even know what you’re agreeing to, and the men are already lifting rafe, carefully but quickly. he groans as they carry him, his head lolling weakly to the side.

you follow them like you’re possessed, barefoot and bruised, gripping your dad’s coat like a child.

“keep him alive,” you whisper over and over. “keep him alive. please.”

he doesn’t let go of your hand.

you sit beside the couch, your knees digging into the soft rug your mother picked out—before she left, before the campaign, before the kidnappings, before all of this.

before rafe became your entire world.

his blood is soaking into your palms, but you don’t care. your hand is wrapped tightly around his, your other clutching at the hem of his shirt as if that might stop the bleeding.

“you need to move,” the doctor says softly, crouched beside him. “i need to stitch this one.”

“no,” you breathe, tightening your grip. “i’m not letting go.”

rafe groans lowly, head rolling to the side. “s’okay,” he mumbles, half-asleep from blood loss or maybe painkillers. “let her… stay.”

you don’t think you’ve blinked once since they carried him in.

you watch everything. the needle slipping through his skin, the trembling of his jaw when he tries to be quiet for you. the way his chest rises and falls unevenly, proof that he’s still breathing.

your voice is shaking, guilt flooding every word. “i’m sorry,” you whisper, over and over, to the air, to the blood, to him. “i’m so sorry, rafe. i should’ve-i should’ve stopped them, i should’ve—”

“hey.” his hand squeezes yours, weak but sure. “you didn’t do this.”

“but you got hurt for me—”

“i’d do it again,” he rasps, his eyes fluttering open. they’re half-lidded, dazed, but they find you anyway. “don’t you get it by now? i’d get tortured a thousand fucking times if it means you walk out alive.”

you shake your head, hot tears slipping down your cheeks.

“you can’t say shit like that while you’re bleeding out on my living room couch,” you whisper brokenly. “it’s not fair. you can’t care about me more than yourself, rafe.”

he smiles, barely there. smug and stubborn and yours.

“you think i started caring about myself when i met you?”

you sniffle, and lean your forehead gently against his temple. the doctor keeps working, but you pretend the world is quiet now. just the two of you. your fingers stroking his bruised knuckles, his voice humming weakly in your ear.

“it’s you,” he murmurs, almost inaudible. “always you.”

you don’t say anything. you just squeeze his hand again, like a prayer.

you let out a breathless laugh, bitter, wet, trembling as hell.

you pull your face slightly away from his so you can look at him, his eyelids fluttering, his jaw slack with exhaustion, the dried blood trailing down his neck where the doctor hasn’t reached yet.

“it’s the painkillers talking, cameron,” you whisper shakily, trying to joke but sounding more like you’re breaking in slow motion. “you’ll get back to hating me tomorrow, i promise.”

his head turns toward you, barely, and the look he gives you cuts deeper than anything those men could’ve done.

like you’ve said the worst thing in the world.

“don’t say that,” he mutters, voice cracked. “not even as a joke. i couldn’t hate you if i tried.”

“you sure about that?” you murmur, brushing the hair off his forehead carefully, scared of hurting him more.

he opens his mouth, maybe to argue, maybe to say some messy, stubborn confession about how he’s only alive because of you. but the doctor speaks first.

“he needs to rest,” the man says gently. “he’s stable, but he’s gonna be out of it for a while. try to keep him calm. no more talking if possible.”

you nod quietly, and then look down at him, your rafe. bruised and broken, stitched together by trembling hands, bleeding and still trying to protect you with his last breath.

he’s fading fast now, eyelids heavier.

you lean in and whisper into his ear, hand brushing his temple like something sacred. “just breathe, rafe. i’ll be right here, okay? i’m not going anywhere.”

he doesn’t answer. but his grip tightens around your fingers—barely, but enough.

you press a kiss to the back of his hand.

then stay there, holding him through the night, just in case he needs to hear you breathing too.

you don’t sleep.

you sit curled up in the corner of your bed, knees hugged to your chest, watching the faint sunlight bleed through your blackout curtains. your room still smells like smoke and your wrists are bruised and raw and your lips still taste like blood even though you scrubbed your mouth raw.

you left the room before he woke up.

you waited until he finally passed out on the couch. then you peeled his hand off yours, even though he had a death grip on your fingers all night.

you waited until his breathing evened out. until he stopped mumbling your name in his sleep.

then you left.

because if you stayed…

if he looked at you with those same eyes from last night—those you’re my entire fucking world eyes—you don’t know what you would’ve done.

it didn’t mean anything. it couldn’t.

“we were gonna die,” you whisper to yourself, voice thin and cracking. “that’s the only reason.”

the way he said i’ve never hated you.

the way he bled all over your clothes and still tried to make you feel better.

the way he cradled your body even while his own was falling apart.

the almost kiss.

your hand in his.

the way he looked at your back like it broke him.

none of it was real.

people say shit when they think they’re gonna die. people get scared. people do things they don’t mean.

your throat burns. your arms ache.

and you fucking hate yourself for wishing—just for a second—that maybe he meant it.

that maybe he wasn’t scared. maybe he was honest.

but no. rafe cameron is your bodyguard. your father’s hired shadow. a man who’s been trained to protect you, keep you safe at all costs. and when you were both locked in that room, bleeding and chained, his brain switched into survival mode.

that’s all it was.

you squeeze your eyes shut and whisper, “you only said it ‘cause we were dying.”

but a small, sick part of you whispers back:

what if he didn’t?

what if it was the only time he ever told you the truth?

you try to distract yourself.

god, you really try.

you open a book. you scroll on your phone. you attempt to watch something stupid and forgettable. but every time you blink, it’s his face.

his busted lip. his blood-stained teeth. the way he smiled at you even while he was breaking. the way he held you like he’d never let go again.

you throw your phone across the bed and groan, pressing your fists into your eyes “no. nope. shut up. i hate him.”

you say it out loud like it’ll stick. like the more you say it, the more you’ll believe it.

“he’s mean,” you whisper to the empty room.

“he’s so fucking sarcastic. and smug. and—”

your mind drifts.

his face flickers behind your eyelids.

the way his eyes drop to your lips when you speak sometimes.

the way he stood between you and the barrel of a gun like it was nothing.

the way he called you baby, the way he breathed your name like it was his last word.

your breath hitches. “he looks kissable,” you mumble before you can stop yourself.

then you shake your head hard. “nope. scratch that. absolutely the fuck not.”

you sit up straighter, heart thudding like you’re about to run a marathon.

“he’s annoying,” you say firmly, trying to sound like a girl who didn’t cry into his neck hours ago.

“he’s just a hired gun who thinks he’s god’s gift to women because he can fight. he hates me. he always has.”

you think back to every snide comment, every dry laugh, every time he rolled his eyes at you like you were nothing more than a spoiled brat.

“he hates me,” you say again, quieter.

but the voice in your head doesn’t let up.

then why did he call you baby?

why did he whisper your name like a prayer?

why did he beg them to take him instead?

you press your palms to your face and scream silently. because it doesn’t matter.

whatever last night was, it’s gone.

he’s probably awake by now, pretending nothing happened. probably letting your father’s guards patch him up, back to that cold, impassive bastard who only exists to follow orders and collect a paycheck.

and you—you were just the job.

nothing more.

you pull the blanket over your head and lie down, eyes wide open, heart nowhere near calm.

you pretend the ache in your chest is just exhaustion.

you pretend you didn’t want him to kiss you.

and you definitely are not waiting for him to come find you.

rafe wakes up on the fucking couch.

his back screams. his face throbs. his ribs feel like a bunch of glass shards trying to cut their way out every time he breathes.

he blinks at the ceiling. he’s warm. not dead. not chained.

he’s home. but you’re not.

he groans quietly, pushing himself up with a wince and looking around the room.

you were here.

he remembers—your face above his, your voice shaking, your hands trembling as you pressed them to his wounds, your body in his arms.

he looks down at the bloodstained shirt sticking to his chest and wonders if it was real. if you actually meant it. if you actually wanted him that close.

he swings his legs off the couch and mutters a low “fuck” under his breath as the pain stabs back into him.

she’s gone.

his hands twitch.

of course she’s gone.

he’s such a fucking idiot.

what kind of psycho confesses in the middle of a hostage situation? what kind of dumbass says i’ve always cared about you while coughing up blood and scaring her half to death?

she probably woke up, saw his busted face, remembered how broken he really is, and got the fuck away from him.

and honestly? he can’t even blame you.

he limps his way down the hall, one hand pressed to the fresh stitches in his side, ignoring every bodyguard and housekeeper he passes. his head’s pounding too hard, heart twisting too tight.

he stops outside his room. the door next to it—your room—closed. silent.

he stares at it.

then he mutters, “fucking loser,” to himself under his breath and pushes into his room, locking the door behind him.

the sheets are still undone from when the doctor cleaned him up last night. he sinks onto the edge of the bed, letting out a bitter exhale.

he shuts his eyes.

she didn’t mean it. none of it.

she was scared. she needed comfort. you were the only one there.

she held you like that because she thought you were gonna die.

you almost kissed her because you thought you were gonna die.

he drags a hand through his hair and digs his nails into the back of his neck,

“so stupid,” he whispers.

he should’ve just kept his mouth shut. stayed quiet. stayed the bodyguard. the shadow. not the fucking wreck bleeding on her and calling her baby like she was his.

he hates her. he should hate her. she’s a spoiled, stubborn brat. always bossing him around, always testing him, always touching everyone except him, he swallows.

except when she did touch him.

when her hands were shaking and she was whispering please be alive, please breathe, like his heartbeat was the only thing keeping her sane.

his chest tightens.

he clenches his jaw and lets his head fall forward into his hands.

he hates how she says his name when she’s crying.

he hates how soft her skin felt when he held her.

he hates that she makes him feel anything at all.

but what he hates more—what he can’t fucking stand—is the fact that she’s not here now.

not even a knock. not even a word. like it never happened.

his eyes snap to the wall separating their rooms.

he stays still.

if she meant any of it, she’d come find him, right?

…right?

taglist masterlist next>>

tags: 🏷️ @rafesbabygirlx @vaelyann @qversazex @iconiccolo @scorpiosolar @devoutedlover @viqtoria @hunzzzzz @sc05 @k4yr14 @t0x1cfaerie @purplerose291 @cherryhoneybabe @kieeslove @toterry @rcwhore @blissfulbutterfliess

[psin314]

Hello! I was scrolling through your BSky and was wondering the story behind your OCs Sean and Eugene, also if you plan on doing more art for them.

glad you asked anon! so so glad!!! sean and eugene (i call them yush) - one of my strongest ocs hyperfixations ever, i love them so much. but i'll try to tell about them as short as possible. (everything's under the cut!!)

also more art? easy. i made them in 2019...

funny pics:

pretty pics:

spicy pics: somewhere on their th pages.

a little about the world they live in (i unofficially call it ryzhebes. i made it in 2017 and it still doesn't have a proper name...):

it's almost like our world but hell and heaven, angels and demons + witches exist here too. hell and heaven look pretty ordinary and modern, no lava pools or screams of horror and pain. satan is a tired workaholic, and god uuh angels say he's a nice guy. demons and angels mostly don't care about humans (also humanity doesn't know that all this exists), but some of them love to have their vacations there (all of them can use "magical" disguises to hide their supernatural features and look like humans). after death humans go either to hell or to heaven, where they live a slightly better or slightly worse second life. of course there are some naughty demons (or even angels) who love to do shit like in movies like the exorcist but there aren't that many of them. (i can write more info about this universe if anyone's interested, but let's keep it short for this post.)

so! about my boys. the first version of them was much darker with catholic guilt and a suicide attempt but I don't want them to suffer so they're simply in love and very happy now.

eugene black is a 42 yo demon, a tattoo artist with an engineering degree who knows 20+ languages. loves to drink beer, smoke cigarettes and act like a cool guy in leather with a motorcycle (he can't afford a motorcycle. he lives with his mom. but he can afford a leather jacket and pants.) (also he's silly.) he's a stutterer, has problems with pronouncing the letters d t p, sometimes n and m. and he doesn't really care. loves to talk. sensitive and romantic guy, will do everything for the people he loves. loves his family, has 5 siblings. has health problems, needs to eat a lot, almost all the money he has he spends on food and still can't gain weight much. has a supernatural ability - can teleport wherever he wants, just needs to know the place or see the needed place on the map. (he uses math and physics for this but no one would understand him anyway.) has problems with teleporting from closed spaces.

father sean farrell is a 30 yo catholic priest from ireland. traumatized childhood, father issues, long depression episodes but he's mostly okay now. although anxiety can't leave this man alone. very kind, supportive, understanding and friendly person. he is very non-aggressive and easily controls himself during an argument. loves to listen and help people. although he's a simple priest, goes to the gym and plays rugby regularly. he's… big and strong. (also getting tired physically everyday helps him fall asleep peacefully.) never been in a romantic or sexual relationship before eugene.

how they met.

1994. eugene lost a bet to his friend and had to go to any random church and steal something. hungover, somehow disguised, he went there in the morning and got right to mass. he had to stay and listen. but somewhere along the way he fell asleep. unexpectedly for eugene, someone started trying to wake him up, holding him by the shoulder. it was this priest who was reading mass. the sleeping man smelled of beer and cigarettes, but he slept so soundly that sean was even a little scared. when he finally woke him up, eugene mumbled something unintelligible (probably his name??) and ran away. sean didn't understand anything. and eugene fell head over heels in love, because the priest turned out to be very pretty.

eugene returned to the church in the evening. in his demon form, because he thought that he would quickly go there, steal what he needed and leave. but he crossed paths with father sean there, who was delayed there to clean up. eugene didn't lose his composure, said hello, joked, tried to come up with a reason for his presence. but sean was silent and looked at him strangely. eugene looked at his hands and realized that the priest was now seeing a demon in front of him. as soon as he raised his head, he received a thick bible book in his face. eugene tried to calm him down, sean wanted to hit him with the book again. but eugene managed to grab him by the wrist and carry him with him to hell.

they fell on top of each other on the road near eugene's house. sean was starting to get hysterical, but eugene, sitting on top of him, grabbed him by the hands and very angrily asked him to calm down and that nothing bad would happen. surprisingly, this calmed sean down. he noticed eugene's nose was bleeding and gave him a handkerchief… (sean thought it was because of the bible blow but teleportation took a lot of eugene's strength. now he'll have to wait until he rests to be able to bring sean back.)

sean looked around, hell looked… nice. normal. an ordinary suburb of a small town. trees are blooming, it smells like normal evening air and and the rain that has just passed. then they went to eugene's house, luckily his mother wasn't home, he made sean some green tea and told him a little about hell, demons, himself and his stupid bet. sean was mostly silent because he was in shock. then a couple of hours later he brought sean back. they went their separate ways.

eugene couldn't stop thinking about sean, he fell in love, he wanted to see him again. sean couldn't sleep either. he had to rethink his whole life, but it didn't work out very well, there was too much of new information. as a result, eugene returned to the church after some time. this time sean noticed him first and immediately ran to him, to discuss reality.

they started talking to each other. first on the topic of the universe, and then moved on to personal topics. started seeing each other more often. it didn't affect sean's faith much in the end, although he almost had 7 nervous breakdowns at once. being a priest still made sense and he continued to do what he always did. he already sort of knew that all this existed. just not in the form that he imagined.

(yes, there are no classic demon-priest relationships here, where the demon seduces the priest and destroys him. it's a romcom. :))

well and yes, after a few months their talking to each other turned into romantic interest. sean slowly fell in love with eugene. he didn't really care that eugene was a man, he wasn't homophobic but he couldn't come out yet. he was naturally worried that eugene was a DEMON and also... celibate yeah. he had never had a relationship, but what he felt for eugene was a very pleasant feeling.

so a few weeks later of what should i do what should i do, one warm evening, sean kissed eugene, and then quickly ran away, because they almost got seen. they met that same night, in the park, in their usual place, where no one would see them. sean wanted to tell eugene that he did it by accident without thinking, they need to stop this, but this time eugene came to kiss him and sean forgot about everything. now they were kissing properly. sean didn't know what to do, this was all wrong, but he really liked eugene. they talked about it and decided to have secret meetings.

after some time it led to sex ofc... after it sean was kind of happy, but also worried even more. one part of him said that this needed to end, and the other part said that he loved eugene. sean told him about it again. they both came to the conclusion that they love each other. eugene didn't want to ruin sean's life so he doesn't mind becoming the priest's secret wife.

im talking to much sorry, and this part to this day isn't properly explained haha ​​sorry x2 i just want them to be happy.

well, in the end. they continue to date and love each other, keeping their secret. (eugene's whole family and his best friends know that he's fucking a priest.)

(sean said that eugene's like a star for him, that of all the billions of shining stars, he found the brightest one. and eugene didn't know that he can say things like that. maybe i'll redraw and repost it someday idk.)