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burntheedges · 2 months ago

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it's alright, darlin'

Joel Miller x f!reader | 4.1k | 18+ | masterlist | ao3

summary: so, getting trapped in an elevator with the hot contractor you've seen around the office was not on your to-do list for today... but maybe it's just what you needed.

a/n: this is my entry for @toomanystoriessolittletime's 47 minutes in heaven challenge! it was fun to write Joel again but now I feel like I'm fighting him off with a stick (it's Din's turn!!). thank you to @katareyoudrilling for being the best beta!!

tags/warnings: fluff, flirting, stuck in an elevator, reader works in an office building (no specifics), reader has a panic attack and is afraid of elevators, reader says she's not good with small spaces and heights, breathing exercises, no outbreak or pre-outbreak?, you decide, pet name (darlin', gorgeous, honey), reader wears pants and is mentioned to wear a black dress, reader sits in Joel's lap, smut: kissing, grinding, fingering, some dirty talk

...

When the elevator doors closed with only you and him inside, you tensed.

When the whole thing shuddered and came to a stop, somewhere between floors 8 and 9, you knew you were fucked.

…

You’d seen him for the first time a couple of weeks before — he was with the group that was renovating the offices on the other side of your floor. He’d been standing with his back to you, arms crossed, talking to another man and sometimes gesturing at a wall. It seemed like they disagreed about something.

You’d noticed him immediately — broad shoulders, strong arms, hair you wanted to bury your fingers in. Slim hips with a tool belt slung across them. Then he’d turned around and, well.

He was gorgeous. Tan skin, warm brown eyes, even under his furrowed brow (they really were arguing about something). A scruffy beard. He was so much your type, so attractive, that you almost walked into the open door to the break room.

He didn’t see you, thank god, but the other guy did. When you looked back up after catching yourself before you face planted, he was grinning at you. He winked at you over the gorgeous man’s shoulder. You felt your entire body turn hot and you ran.

And that had only been the beginning.

…

You were in a hurry, searching through your bag for your ID to swipe into the building, barely looking where you were going, when you bumped into him for the second time.

Literally bumped into him.

You weren’t sure exactly what happened, but you went from walking forwards to almost falling without even noticing anything in between. Suddenly you were sideways, on your way down, and the only thing holding you up was two big strong hands, firmly supporting your elbows.

You reached out to steady yourself and as you looked up, you realized it was him. The absurdly hot contractor who was working on your floor.

And your hands were flat against his chest while his held you in place.

He started to smile and you felt your face start to burn.

“Shit,” you said, wincing. “Sorry, did I just walk into you?”

He was really smiling, then. “No, that’s alright. I think we just happened to walk into each other.” His voice was warm and deep and his accent made you shiver.

You squinted at him, pretty sure he was full of shit. “If you say so. Um, thank you, for–” You looked down and saw that he was definitely holding you up. You stood straighter. “For catching me, I guess.”

“Oh, anytime, darlin’. My pleasure,” he said, lightly squeezing your arms and then releasing them. You realized your hands were still on his chest and dropped them like they’d been burned.

You might have actually talked to him, then, but your coworker had called your name from behind you and you’d taken the out, scurrying away like an embarrassed rat.

(You didn’t look back, or you would have seen him watching you go.)

…

The third time, you were in your office, focused on a spreadsheet. You had your legs folded underneath you in a way that you knew looked ridiculous in your desk chair, and you were hunched forward, squinting at the screen. You were going to find that error, damnit.

And that’s when he’d cleared his throat.

Startled, you’d tried to jump out of your seat, but instead only gotten more tangled in it. Your foot flew through the loop of the arm and you found yourself straddling the arm rest somehow.

You looked up to see the hot contractor trying not to smile. Of course.

“Um,” you said, trying to find a graceful way to disentangle yourself from an inanimate piece of office furniture. “What… did you need something?”

He smiled, then, and you blinked, taken aback again by how handsome he was. “I just wanted to apologize in advance, we’re going to make a bit of noise across the way for about the next 45 minutes.” He stepped forward and lifted his hands and you realized he was going to try to help you. “Do you need—“

“Oh,” you interrupted, finally surreptitiously standing and fishing your leg out of your chair. “That’s alright, I’ve got headphones. But thanks!” You hopped slightly to the side and finally found yourself standing with both feet on the ground. You did not make a face. “Thanks for letting me know.”

“No problem,” he said, still smiling. “Sorry again, for startling you.”

“It’s fine!” You tried to smile your way through it. “I’ll just–”

He nodded, and ducked out.

You sighed. Again?

…

By the time you found yourself trapped in the elevator with him, you were pretty sure you were destined to make a fool of yourself every time he so much as glanced at you.

On top of that, you were afraid of elevators.

When the car shuddered and came to a halt, you froze. You felt your heart begin to race like the worst kind of panic attack was just around the corner. You blinked, dazed, and then realized the lights were flickering.

“No, no, no,” you murmured, turning to look at the buttons. “No, please,” you said, stepping forwards and pressing the call button.

Nothing happened.

You could feel it, then, the oncoming panic attack, and this was not the time, you tried to tell yourself.

“Hey,” a soft voice interrupted. You whirled around, startled. You’d forgotten he was there. “You alright?”

He stepped towards you and you didn’t know what your face was doing, but clearly it wasn’t good, because he stopped.

“Hey,” he said again, voice deeper, more soothing. “We’re ok.” Not a question this time. “S’probably just to do with the construction we’re doin’. I’ll call my brother – he’s my business partner, you’ve probably seen him around. I’ll call him and make sure. Ok?”

You nodded, and you felt yourself start to shake. You backed up until you hit the wall and slid down until you could curl yourself into a ball, arms wrapped around your knees, head ducked. You could hear him having a short conversation but tried to focus on your breathing.

In-2-3-4

Out-2-3-4

In-2-3-4

Out-2–

“Hey,” there were shoes in your line of sight. You raised your head and found him squatting about a foot away from you. “S’just a power issue. They’ll have it back on line in about 45 minutes, alright?”

You blinked. “45–” you tried to repeat, but your voice came out like a gasp for air.

He frowned and reached forward hesitantly. You nodded, and he rested his hand on your elbow. “We’re not in any danger, alright? Brakes have got us. We’ll just sit tight until they fix it and then we’ll get out.”

He was right, you knew he was, but that didn’t stop your heart from racing or your short, uneven breaths.

“I–” you tried, but it didn’t come out.

“Hey,” and that time it was even deeper, soothing. He scooted forward and sat next to you. “Look at me, darlin’. Give me your hand.”

You did, and it was limp, and shaking. He frowned but placed your hand firmly on his chest. For a wild moment you wondered if you were going to reenact your second meeting.

“Breathe with me,” he said. “I’ll count.”

For the next few minutes, you did. He breathed in, and you breathed in. He breathed out, and you breathed out. You were looking into each other’s eyes the whole time, and without you really noticing, your breath evened out.

“There you go,” he said and smiled.

You nodded, noticing you’d stopped shaking. “Thank you. I’m not… small spaces. And heights. It’s the worst of both.”

He nodded. “I’m Joel, by the way. Realized I never introduced myself.”

You did the same and noticed he was still holding your hand against his chest. He seemed to realize it at the same time and squeezed your hand gently before releasing it.

“Do you know how much longer?” You weren’t sure how long you’d been following his breathing.

Joel checked his watch. “Probably about 30, 35 minutes. Tommy said they were already working on it when I called.”

“You said he’s your brother?” You wrapped your arms around the knee closest to him, hugging it to you.

He nodded and scooted a bit closer. He reached for one of your hands as he spoke. “And business partner. Miller Contracting.” He winked at you as he held your hand gently in both of his, palm up. He dug his thumbs into your palm, softly at first and then harder. A hand massage? It was instantly soothing, somehow, and you took an easier breath. “I do this for my daughter. She has panic attacks sometimes.” He started to work your wrist into gentle stretches as you glanced up at him.

“Daughter?” you asked, wondering if there was a wife, too.

Joel nodded and smiled. “Sarah. S’just me and her, so we’ve figured out a few tricks.”

You smiled back. “Sounds like you’re a good dad.”

He ducked his head. “Try to be.” He reached for your other hand and you gave it easily, turning towards him. He was sitting cross-legged and somehow you ended up with your left knee nudging his legs, almost in his lap. Your breath caught but neither of you moved to put more space between you.

He started to massage your other hand and for a moment you just watched as his large, strong hands so carefully caressed yours.

Then the elevator trembled.

It shook, just slightly, and made a noise that you hoped wasn’t the brakes straining. Before you even knew what was happening you’d thrown yourself forward in terror, diving into Joel’s shoulder. Your breaths were coming hard and fast again and you struggled to find any air. Without missing a beat his arms came up to catch you and he pulled you forward into his lap.

You found yourself with your knees on either side of his hips and his arms firm around you, holding you in place. He slid one large hand up your back and pushed you gently forward until your chest rested against his.

You could immediately feel the difference in your breathing – his was slow and steady while yours was too quick, too shallow, almost hyperventilating.

Joel tucked your face into his neck and murmured in your ear, “it’s alright, darlin’. Breathe with me.” He started to breathe in and you felt his chest move. You tried to match your breath to his, but for a few moments you could only struggle against your own body. He started to hum, something low and soothing, and it pulled your attention from your anxiety and the elevator to Joel. You focused on the sound of his voice and the feeling of his arms around you, of his body under yours.

Soon you sank deeper into him as your breaths started to even out. It wasn’t quite another full-fledged panic attack but it was close.

“There you go,” he murmured, tightening his arm around you and cupping the back of your neck.

It hit you, then, that you were straddling this man who you’d just met. You squeaked and started to pull away. His arm held you in place. “Oh, shit, Joel, I’m so sorry–”

“Hey,” he said, interrupting you. You lifted your head and met his eyes. You saw nothing but softness and warmth. “No need for any o’that.” He smirked. “Besides. Might be that I like havin’ you here.”

Your eyes widened. You realized your hands were tucked in front of you on his chest and you slowly slid them up and around the back of his neck. You smiled. “Yeah?”

“Might have caught you lookin’ at me a couple times.” His thumb started to caress the side of your neck, moving up and down gently, and you shivered. “Might have been looking back.”

You bit your lip and felt your heart start racing when his eyes dropped to look at your mouth. “You sure you weren’t just looking at me because I kept making a fool of myself?”

Joel laughed, and you grinned. “Darlin’, I just wish I could have ended up with my hands on you to help you out of that chair, like when I caught you downstairs.” He winked and you realized his hand, which had been wrapped around your back, had slid down to grip your hip. He squeezed.

You winced, but reached down to catch his hand when he started to move it away. You put it back on your hip. “Not that. Just, ugh, that was so embarrassing.” You squirmed slightly in his lap and he sucked in a sharp breath, squeezing your hip again. “I still don’t know how I did that.”

He smiled at you and slipped his thumb under the hem of your shirt. “I don’t know how you pretzeled yourself into that chair to begin with, darlin’.” You laughed. “It was charming.”

You raised an eyebrow at him skeptically. “I charmed you by sticking my leg through the arm of my desk chair?”

He laughed again and you watched the way it changed his face. “You did. I was charmed. Wanted to walk over and help you out of it. I’d already made up an excuse to come and talk to you, you know.”

“Oh yeah?” You scooted just a bit closer on his lap and he encouraged you, tugging your hip forward.

“Mmhmm,” he murmured, and tugged lightly with the hand that was still cupping the back of your neck. You leaned forward. “Tommy’s been teasin’ me, saying my mind is already over in office 1502, might as well walk over there and join it.”

You were suddenly so close your nose brushed his. “Joel,” you breathed, and he grinned.

“Can I help you darlin’?” His voice was low and slow and your breath hitched. “Let me distract you, hmm? Take your mind off it.” You met his eyes. You realized your mouth had fallen open slightly. His gaze was dark and intent. “Can I kiss you? Got no idea how much I’ve been wantin’ to.”

His eyes dropped to your mouth and all you could manage was, “please.”

Before the word was fully past your lips, he was there to swallow it down.

His lips pressed against yours gently, at first, and then with fervor. You shivered at the softness of his lips and sank happily into the feeling of his mouth against yours.

He used his grip on your neck to tilt your head to the side. He opened his mouth and you moaned, just slightly.

Joel groaned and tugged you forward, as close as you could get.

As his tongue caressed yours, you thrust your hips down, and you moaned again when you felt your effect on him against the seam of your pants. He was hard, so hard – so hard it made your head spin.

“Joel,” you whined when he broke away to press his mouth to your jaw.

He smiled against your cheek. “Darlin,” he said, voice deep and rough. “I don’t want to get ahead of myself, but.” He took a breath. “Can I make you come? Please?”

You sucked in a sharp breath, mind spinning. You didn’t want to think about the fact that you were in an elevator at work, but you couldn’t help it. Distantly, you wondered how much time you had left.

Joel interrupted your worry by nipping at your neck. You sighed and drove your hips down into his. He held you there with his grip on your hip.

“Please?” he repeated, pressing a line of kisses down your neck. “Been thinkin’ about it. Wonderin’ how gorgeous you are when you come, when you’re already so gorgeous all the time, anyway.”

You were moving, hips rocking back and forth, before you could stop yourself. You nodded, but he used his grip on your neck to tilt your face towards his. You blinked your eyes open, wondering when you’d closed them.

“Let me hear you say it, gorgeous.” The hand on your hip started creeping under your shirt.

Your eyes locked onto his and you threw caution to the wind. There was nothing but you and him. “Yes, Joel,” you said, voice breathy. “Make me come.”

He growled and pulled you back into a fierce kiss. His hand moved from under your shirt to the waistband of your pants, which he unbuttoned smoothly.

Your hips stuttered forward into his, and he smirked against your mouth. “Do you want it bad, darlin’?”

“Joel,” you murmured, a complaint, and he kissed you again.

“No shame in it, darlin’,” he said, brushing his fingers lightly over your underwear, where you knew he could feel how wet you were. “Got no idea how bad I want to touch you.” He pressed down with his fingertips and ran them up the length of your underwear slowly. “Couldn’t stop thinking about it.”

You kissed him again. “About me?”

He smiled and started to push your underwear to the side. You gasped. “You got any idea how nice your ass looks in these pants?” You laughed, surprised. “And don’t get me started on when you’re sitting at your desk, leaning forward, biting your lip and frowning at your computer.” He stroked your neck again with his thumb, his hand still gripping you there firmly. “Never been so turned on in an office, darlin’. Never been so turned on at work.”

Joel slipped his fingers inside your underwear, finally, and brushed his fingers over your pussy. “Bet you’re gorgeous down here, too.”

You sighed and bucked your hips towards his fingers. “Joel,” you said, and this time his name sounded like a plea. He smiled against your mouth.

“What is it, darlin’?” His smug tone made you want to bite him. So you did, pulling his bottom lip into your mouth. He groaned and slipped his fingers between your folds, sliding easily in the evidence of your arousal. “Fuck, you’re so wet, aren’t you?”

You twisted your hips and nodded. “You know, I was only concentrating so hard because some hot contractor kept taking up all of my attention.” You grinned at him when he looked at you. “It’s pretty hard to focus when you’re here, walking around looking like that.”

Joel chuckled as his fingers came to rest against your clit. You felt the shiver travel up your back like lightning up your spine. “Looking like that? What’s that mean?”

His fingers started to circle your clit and you squirmed in his lap. His grip tightened on the back of your neck. “Like… that. With those shoulders, and arms, and those hands, Joel. Not to mention your very handsome face.” You pressed a few quick kisses to his cheeks and jaw. “I saw you frowning at Tommy, and that was hot enough,” you said, voice catching as you ground down against his hand. “And then you smiled at me, when you caught me.”

“Darlin’, I have a confession.” Joel moved his thumb to your clit and crept lower with two of his fingers, collecting your arousal as he went. “Tommy told me about the door,” he said, “but only ‘cause I’d done the same thing, the day before.”

You blinked, and looked up from where you’d been staring down at his hand in your pants. “You what?”

Joel nudged your nose with his, smiling. “I almost walked into the wall over by the bathrooms, first time I saw you. You stepped off the elevator in that black dress and I swear my soul left my body.” His fingers circle your entrance as his thumb worked over your clit and you gasped. “Been trying to figure out how to ask you out ever since.”

One of his fingers slipped inside you and you threw your head back. Joel began to mouth at your neck and you realized you were breathing faster, in and out. “You should have,” you breathed.

His finger was thick, and the realization made you shiver when you wondered what his cock would be like. Judging by what you’d felt in his lap, it was big.

He started to work it in and out, slowly opening you up. Before you could whine for more he slipped a second finger inside to join it. The feeling of his fingers stretching you, thrusting in and out, and then this thumb on your clit, his grip on your neck – it was making your head spin.

“Darlin’,” he murmured, and pulled your face back close to his. He kissed you one, twice, in time with the thrusts of his thick fingers. “Can I take you out? On a date?”

You nodded. “Yes, please,” you breathed.

Joel grinned. “Good. Tonight?” He thrust his fingers inside you again and curled them forwards.

You whined. “Yes.”

Joel drew you back into a deep, fierce kiss and you buried your hands in his hair. He was working his fingers perfectly and you felt your orgasm building at the base of your spine.

“And maybe I can take you home after,” he murmured against your mouth, “and put my mouth on you, make you come again.” You thrust your hips forward and nodded, overwhelmed. “Would you like that, gorgeous? Let me lick you, get you all wet?”

“Yes, Joel.” Your mind was spinning, full of the images he was giving you.

“And then I’ll give you my cock. Is that what you want?”

You let out a sound you’d never heard yourself make before.

“Don’t worry, honey, it’s what I want, too. Been wantin’ it.” He smiled against your lips. “I can feel you gettin’ close, darlin’.” He twisted his fingers again and you moaned. “Come on, now. Come for me. Let me see it.”

He circled your clit just right with his thumb and you felt yourself teeter on the edge of it, like an ocean below you waiting for you to fall.

“C’mon, gorgeous,” he said, kissing you swiftly. He quirked his fingers and circled his thumb and you fell off the edge. “Come.”

You did, and it washed over you like a wave, drowning everything else out as you gave in to the feeling of his fingers and his mouth on your neck. You were pretty sure you said his name, but your entire world had narrowed to the places where he was touching you.

“...fuck,” he was saying, when you came back to yourself, breathing hard. “Fuckin’ hell, that was gorgeous. I knew it. So fucking pretty when you come.”

You couldn’t help yourself and thrust down against his cock, which was straining against his jeans.

“Joel,” you moaned, and finally met his eyes again. They were dark and his face was intent, watching you. The look you found there made you wonder if you were about to have the best sex of your life in a broken elevator.

And then his phone rang.

“Shit,” he muttered, releasing your neck to dig in his pocket for his phone. You realized as he did that his fingers were still inside you and that he hadn’t moved them. “What,” he said into the phone, voice flat.

His eyebrows lifted as he listened, and he glanced at you. “Fifteen minutes?” he asked, and twisted his fingers inside of you. He smirked when you squirmed. “Alright, we’ll be ready.” He ended the call and dropped his phone on the carpeted floor of the elevator next to your knee. “Think I can make you come again in that time, darlin’?

You smiled. “Only if you let me touch you, too, Joel.”

He tilted his head, studying you with a smirk that made you squeeze his fingers. “Well–” he started to say, but suddenly the elevator shook and started to move again.

Startled, Joel slipped his fingers out of you and you both scrambled to stand. You almost fell over again when you noticed he stuck them in his mouth, closing his eyes briefly as he cleaned them off. He blinked and looked at you. “Remember what I said, darlin’.”

You nodded, too stunned to speak. You both took a moment to fix your clothes and by the time the elevator reached the 15th floor, you assumed you were more or less presentable, even if your breathing was still a bit fast and you could feel the evidence of what you’d done in your underwear.

Joel’s cock was still hard in his jeans, too. You tried not to stare at it.

Just before the elevator opened, he leaned into you and placed his hand on your lower back. “Pick you up at 7?” he asked, voice low.

You looked at him and smiled. “It’s a date.”

...

a/n: a date!

#joel miller x reader #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x you #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller #joel miller smut #47minutesinheaven #x reader

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vanteguccir · 4 months ago

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ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤGRAMMYS 2025 * CHRIS STURNIOLO

SUMMARY　::　where Y/N, worldwide famous singer, goes to the Grammys 2025 and brings Chris as her pair for the first time.

FEATURING　Chris Sturniolo x singer!reader　REQUESTED?　yes.

WARNINGS　::　none.

AUTHOR'S NOTE　::　that is my work, I DON'T authorize any form of plagiarism; copy, "inspiration" or translation! | english isn't my first language, so I'm sorry if there's any grammar error.

Y/N had been nominated for five Grammy Awards this year. Five. And yet, for some reason, the thought of stepping onto that carpet, under the flashing lights and watchful eyes of the entire world, made her more nervous than she’d ever been.

It wasn’t her first time - this was her fifth Grammy appearance - but the nerves never seemed to dull, no matter how many times she did this.

Her team had tried everything: chamomile tea, soothing massages, deep breathing exercises, playing her favorite calming playlist at a low volume in the background, even giving her a dozen of those custom-made chocolates with her face printed on them. But nothing helped. Not really.

Not even Chris’s kisses; though she had to admit, they were a very welcome distraction.

They were in a penthouse suite of a luxurious hotel in downtown Los Angeles, even though their house was barely a twenty-minute drive away. It was protocol, her team insisted. Every artist did it - getting ready in a hotel, away from distractions, with stylists, makeup artists, and PR people swarming around. It was meant to be a controlled environment, a perfectly curated lead-up to the biggest night in music. But it only added to the pressure.

Y/N stood in front of a massive floor-to-ceiling mirror, wrapped in a silk robe, her bare feet sinking into the plush carpet as a makeup artist blended soft eyeshadow onto her lids. Her hairstylist was behind her, curling strands of her hair into loose waves. She looked poised on the outside, but internally, her nerves were tying knots in her stomach.

Chris sat on the couch a few feet away, watching her intently. He was already dressed - black tux, crisp white shirt, and a bow tie he had spent fifteen minutes fighting with before her makeup artist took pity on him and fixed it for him.

He looked good.

Really good.

The kind of good that made her momentarily forget about the nerves. But she wasn’t the only one nervous tonight.

Chris had been jittery since this morning, though he tried not to show it. This was his first time attending something this big, this formal, and while he was used to attention, this was a whole new level. He was going to be surrounded by the most famous people in the world, and for the first time, he wasn’t just Chris Sturniolo, the YouTuber; he was Chris Sturniolo, Y/N’s date to the Grammys.

But instead of letting his own anxiety get to him, he focused on her, observing how her fingers twitched, manicured nails shining below the lights with every tremble.

"Baby." He cooed, standing and walking toward her as soon as the makeup artist stepped aside. He leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to her exposed shoulder, his big hands finding home around her hips, squeezing the covered skin. "What are you feeling, huh? 'Can feel you stressing from across the room, doll."

Y/N sighed, her hands gripping the edges of the vanity table, being careful not to knock her knuckles against the three massive bouquets - Nick had arranged for all of them to be delivered straight to her room in that morning.

"I just... I don’t know, Chris." She murmured, voice barely above a whisper. "I know I’ve done this before, but what if I don’t win anything? What if I disappoint everyone?"

Before she could spiral any further, Chris was already moving. His hands slid from her hips to her stomach, wrapping around her in a slow embrace. He pulled her against him, his chest firm against her back, the heat of his body seeping through the thin fabric of her robe.

"Hey." He whispered, lips brushing against the shell of her ear. "Don’t do that."

His voice was gentle but firm, a quiet command that sent a shiver down her spine. She felt his breath against her neck, warm and familiar, grounding her.

"First of all." He continued, his arms tightening around her middle. "You’re the best singer out of everyone in that room tonight. You know that, right?"

Her eyes rolled.

"Baby, you can't say that when Billie Eilish, Taylor Swift-" She started, turning her head slightly, but he was already shaking his head.

"Nope." He cut in, resting his chin in the curve of her neck, his gaze locking onto hers through the mirror. "I said what I said. And for the record." He added, voice lower now, dripping with conviction. "You’re already the winner of everything in my book. Even the categories you’re not nominated in."

She sighed, heart pounding as his hands splayed across her stomach, his thumbs brushing slow, absentminded circles.

"Best Album? Yours." He murmured, letting his lips ghost over her jaw. "Best Song? Yours." His mouth traveled down to her shoulder, barely pressing against her skin, yet setting every nerve ending alight. "Best Human Being to Ever Exist?" He turned his head just enough to meet her eyes in the mirror again, his smirk soft but teasing. "You, obviously."

She let out a small, shaky laugh.

"Chris-"

"I’m serious." He interrupted, turning his head and nuzzling the soft skin of her temple, inhaling the rich scent of her Givenchy perfume. "Your fans love you. I love you. And, babe, let’s be honest, you could drop a single of you just breathing into a mic, and it would still go platinum."

That made her laugh, her eyes rolling with amusement.

"You’re gonna do your best tonight, like you always do. And no matter what happens, I’ll be right there with you."

She finally turned in his hold, her arms looping around his neck and her red tinted lips forming a small pout.

"Even if I trip on the carpet?"

"I’ll trip with you. We’ll make it a trend." Chris grinned, pressing a lingering kiss to the tip of her nose, being excessively careful not to smudge her perfect makeup. "Now, I think there's a worldwide famous singer who should be getting dressed, huh?"

Y/N's eyes stared into blue ones for a moment, smiling with the softness she found in them.

"Yeah... Yeah, you're right."

A sharp knock at the door broke their haze, followed by a loud voice.

"Y/N!"

The voice was unmistakable, high-pitched and full of dramatic flair, and before Y/N could even turn, Harry Lambert had burst into the room, arms spread wide, eyes scanning her from head to toe with theatrical disbelief.

"Oh. My. GOD." He practically floated toward her, his hands fluttering in the air like he was physically trying to grasp the vision before him. "Darling, how dare you stand there looking this stunning before even getting into your dress?"

Y/N barely had time to react before he pulled her into a tight hug, arms wrapped around her like he hadn’t seen her in years - even though they had spoken just yesterday. He pressed a kiss to the top of her head, holding her there for a beat longer than necessary, his touch radiating warmth and love.

"My baby girl." He cooed, pulling back slightly to cup her face. "How are we feeling? Nervous? Excited? On the verge of a breakdown?"

"All of the above." Y/N admitted, letting out a breathy laugh as he studied her with fondness.

Harry clicked his tongue.

"Well, you shouldn’t be, because you’re about to own this night. And if anyone so much as dares to breathe in your direction the wrong way, I will be throwing hands."

Chris chuckled from behind them.

"Good to see you, Harry."

"Christopher!" Harry turned to him with a dazzling smile, patting his chest in greeting before narrowing his eyes playfully. "The suit I chose for you was a very good choice, huh? Gucci looks good on you. Now, let’s be clear, your only job tonight is to stand there, look pretty, and worship Y/N like the goddess she is. Do you understand me?"

Chris raised his hands in surrender.

"Oh, trust me, I’ve been doing that since the second I met her."

Y/N felt her cheeks warm as Harry clapped his hands together.

"That’s my boy. Now, enough chit-chat! It is officially time to get my queen into the dress."

The entire room seemed to shift as the energy buzzed with anticipation. Y/N was ushered toward the dressing area, where the Gucci gown had been carefully laid out, glowing under the soft lights. Even without being worn, it commanded attention - the gold fabric shimmering as if infused with actual stardust, the dramatic ruffles sculpted to perfection.

As they helped her into it, every detail came to life. The strapless silhouette hugged her body in all the right places, the embedded crystals catching every flicker of light. The metallic sleeves, voluminous and artful, cascaded around her arms, while the matching ruffles at the bottom framed her steps with effortless grace.

When the final adjustments were made, Harry stepped back, his hands pressed to his chest as if he might faint.

"Oh, sweet heavens above." He whispered, looking genuinely overwhelmed. "I’ve outdone myself. We’ve outdone ourselves."

Chris, who had been sitting on the bed answering his brothers texts, looked up with Harry's voice, suddenly straightening up. His hands dropped to his lap, and his mouth hung open slightly, completely speechless.

"Wow." His voice came out strangled, like he had just been personally attacked.

Y/N turned toward him fully, the movement making the crystals on her dress shimmer, the light practically bending to her will. Chris visibly short-circuited.

"Are you- what- how-" He inhaled sharply, shaking his head as if trying to reboot his brain. "Nah. Nah. This isn’t fair. This should be illegal."

Y/N bit her lip, fighting a smile, but his reaction only got worse. His fingers threaded into his hair, his eyes raking over her from head to toe with pure, unfiltered obsession.

"Jesus fuck." He breathed out, voice a little rough. "You’re gonna kill me tonight, doll."

Harry smirked, tilting his head as he admired her.

"Oh, she’s not just going to kill you, Christopher. She’s going to kill everyone at the Grammys tonight. And I, for one, cannot wait to watch it happen."

　　　　　༻﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡༺

The energy outside the venue was electric. Even from inside the tinted Range Rover, the deafening sound of flashing cameras and screaming paparazzi was unavoidable. Y/N shifted in her seat, inhaling slowly, feeling the vibration of the excitement just beyond the doors.

A hand suddenly slid over her thighs, warm and grounding, caressing the fabric of her dress.

"Ready?" Chris asked, his voice softer than the chaos outside.

Y/N turned to him, wetting her matte lipstick lips.

"Yeah." She breathed, even though her heart was hammering.

Chris smirked knowingly.

"Liar."

Before she could argue, the car door swung open, and an immediate wave of screams hit them like a storm.

Chris stepped out first, adjusting his suit as flashes exploded around him, the sound of his name already being yelled from every direction. He quickly moved around to face the inside of the car, offering his hand.

The second Y/N emerged, the chaos tripled.

"Y/N! Y/N! Over here!"

"Y/N! Christopher! Are you two official?"

"Y/N, do you think you’ll win tonight?"

Y/N barely flinched at the shouting - it was part of the job. Instead, she kept her chin high, gripping Chris’s hand as they made their way down the carpet. The venue was bathed in red and gold hues, a massive step-and-repeat wall covered in Grammy logos standing proudly ahead. The air buzzed with anticipation, celebrities lining the edges of the carpet, all waiting for their moment in front of the cameras.

A staff member approached, guiding them toward a designated spot.

"You first, Ms. Y/N." The woman instructed.

Chris gave Y/N a gentle squeeze before stepping aside, allowing her to take center stage.

And damn, did she own it.

The second she posed, the already flashing cameras seemed to explode.

The fitted, gold gown clung to her frame like liquid metal, sparkling under the lights. The voluminous, ruffled sleeves caught the air as she shifted her stance, making her look like some sort of celestial being - untouchable, ethereal. She turned her head smoothly, flashing a radiant smile as the photographers shouted for her attention.

Chris, standing just a few feet away, was not handling it well. His eyes never left her, completely entranced, like he was seeing her for the first time again, not even noticing the flashs directed to his figure.

Y/N, catching his expression, couldn’t help but smile shyly. She subtly tilted her head toward him between poses, raising a teasing brow.

Chris just shook his head, still gawking, before muttering under his breath.

"Jesus Christ."

The staff member signaled for Chris to approach Y/N for their couple photos. Y/N turned toward him, making a playful shooing motion with her hands as if to snap him out of his trance.

"Earth to Chris." She teased.

Chris didn’t respond - not verbally, at least. Instead, he stepped closer with large steps and grabbed her by the waist, carefully pulling her flush against him, careful with her heels but firm enough to steal a delighted gasp from her. The moment their bodies pressed together, the screams from the crowd outside the barricades and the clicking of cameras reached a new level of hysteria.

The cameras loved them.

Chris leaned in between shots, his lips brushing her ear.

"You think they got food inside?"

Y/N barely bit back a laugh, keeping her expression poised as she continued smiling for the cameras.

"What, you mean like caviar and tiny-ass lobster rolls?"

"I don’t care if it’s a plate of lettuce. I need to eat something before I pass out."

Y/N snorted softly with how dramatic he could be, bumping her hips against his just slightly, careful not to disrupt the pictures.

"You ate almost all of those chocolates back in the hotel. Where does it even go?"

Chris grinned, his fingers squeezing at her waist, effectively freezing her in place.

"Wouldn’t you like to know?"

She rolled her eyes, suppressing a giggle.

"Be serious, Sturniolo."

"I am serious." He looked at her then, really looked at her, and it sent something warm and electric curling down her spine. "You are so fucking beautiful, it’s actually stupid."

Y/N faltered for half a second, her breath catching, not from the flashing lights, not from the cameras, but from him.

Chris chuckled, clearly pleased her reaction.

"Want to give y'a post-celebration present so bad." His voice switched to low and airy, almost lost beneath the noise, but she heard it perfectly.

Y/N swallowed, her mind jumping to conclusions she probably shouldn’t be having on the Grammys red carpet.

"Hm, and what would that be?"

Chris smirked, his fingers flexing at her waist.

"Eat y’out."

Y/N kept her composure like a pro, smiling for the cameras with a practiced grin, but discreetly pressed her thighs together. Two could play this game.

But before she could fire back, a voice interrupted.

"Alright, guys! We need to move to the next area!"

Another event staff member gestured for them to proceed toward the interview section, their tone polite but firm. Y/N exhaled slowly, her heart thudding inside her ears.

Chris sighed dramatically, his grip on her waist tightening for just a second before he let go, traveling up to her hand.

"And here I was, thinking we could just stay here all night."

Y/N squeezed his fingers, tugging him forward.

"Come on, you menace."

As they walked toward the interview zone, the setup became clearer - a sleek, well-lit platform lined with various media outlets, each interviewer eagerly awaiting their next celebrity guest. But before Y/N could even register who was up next, a familiar voice rang out, unmistakably enthusiastic.

"Y/N, oh my God! Get over here!"

Emma Chamberlain.

Y/N's face lit up immediately, and without hesitation, she pulled Chris along, their hands still intertwined as they made a beeline toward Emma. The internet personality-turned-Grammys correspondent was practically bouncing on her heels, her eyes wide with excitement.

As soon as they reached her, Emma lifted her microphone with dramatic flair.

"Ladies and gentlemen, five-time Grammy-nominated Y/N L/N, everyone!"

Y/N laughed, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

"No way you just said that like an awards show host."

Emma grinned.

"I am an awards show host." Then, turning to Chris, she playfully narrowed her eyes. "And, of course, let’s not forget the man of the hour, Chris Sturniolo!"

Chris chuckled, giving a small wave, the silver ring on his index finger glinting against the camera flash.

"That’s me."

Emma wasted no time diving into questions, her energy infectious.

"Okay, first things first, how are you feeling?" She pointed the mic toward Y/N.

Y/N exhaled, a bright smile still gracing her lips.

"Honestly? I’m just... I don’t even know how to put it into words. Happy? Grateful? In shock? All of it at once?" She shook her head in disbelief. "I mean, the Grammys. It’s something you dream about as a kid, you know? And now, five nominations? I feel like I need someone to pinch me."

Chris gently squeezed her hand, leaning in slightly so his mouth was close to the mic, his cheek brushing hers in the process.

"Not gonna lie, I did pinch her earlier to check."

Y/N playfully swatted at him, making Emma laugh.

"Alright, but tell me everything. What were you doing when you found out you were nominated?"

At this, Y/N turned to Chris, already laughing.

"Oh my God, it was chaos."

Chris grinned, nodding while brushing his messy hair back.

"Totally."

Y/N faced Emma again, still giggling.

"Okay, so we were just in the living room, me, Chris, Matt, and Nick. It was so casual, literally just us eating burgers, watching the nominations roll in on TV, not thinking much of it."

Emma’s eyes widened.

"Wait, so you weren’t even refreshing Twitter like a maniac?"

"No!" Y/N shook her head. "I swear, I wasn’t even expecting anything. And then, boom. My name gets called for the first nomination, and I just screamed."

"Nick screamed, too." Chris jumped in, laughing.

Emma gasped.

"Nick would."

Y/N nodded rapidly.

"He did! So then, Chris kisses me, Matt’s literally jumping up and down, and it was just full-on mayhem. But then, like, a minute later, my name gets called again for another nomination."

Chris smirked, nodding his head.

"And again. And again."

Emma covered her mouth, delighted.

"So by the fifth time-"

"I was crying." Y/N admitted, grinning. "Like, full-on sobbing in Chris’s arms."

Emma dramatically put her free hand against her heart.

"This is what I live for." Then, turning to Chris, she grinned mischievously. "Alright, your turn, Sturniolo."

Chris blinked, looking at Y/N before going back to Emma.

"Me?"

Emma nodded, dead serious.

"Yes, you. Because I know you, you act all cool and chill, but I know you were losing your mind when she got nominated."

Chris laughed, shaking his head.

"I mean, yeah, obviously. I was going crazy. But I think it really hit me when I looked at her during the last nomination and realized, this is actually happening. Like, she’s that talented. The world is seeing what I already knew."

Y/N felt her face heat up, a mix of emotions swirling in her chest.

Emma pouted.

"Chris, that's so wholesome. You’re really that boyfriend, huh?"

Chris shrugged, squeezing Y/N’s hand.

"I mean, yeah. Have you met her?"

Y/N rolled her eyes playfully, but her smile didn’t fade.

"I know, right?" Emma nodded at Chris's direction, laughing with Y/N's reaction. "Now, tell me, which nomination are you most excited about?"

Y/N didn’t even hesitate.

"Song of the Year."

Emma’s brows lifted.

"Because...?"

Y/N took a breath, her fingers unconsciously tightening around Chris’s hand.

"Because the song nominated for that category is Lavender Haze, and that song... it just means so much to me." She glanced at Chris, her expression softer now.

Emma’s eyes darted between the two of them, her curiosity sparking instantly. She glanced at Y/N, then at Chris, before turning toward the camera with exaggerated wide eyes.

"Ohhh, I know that look." She teased, pointing between them with a knowing grin. "Okay, spill, tell me about the song."

Y/N let out a breathy laugh with how eager she sounded, meeting Emma’s gaze again.

"You'll know all about it if I win." She winked, her tone warm.

Chris was quick to approach the microphone again.

"Not if, when."

Emma tilted her head, frowning as a pout grew on her lips.

"No way you're going to leave me with this curiosity." She sighed dramatically. "I guess I'll need to watch the awards with double attention." Emma winked to the camera. "Okay, I’m obsessed with you guys. This is too cute. But I won’t keep you any longer, go enjoy your night! And, Y/N, fingers crossed for all five wins!"

Y/N beamed, giving Emma one last hug before she and Chris were guided to the next section of the event. As they walked, the lights of the Grammys venue shining ahead, Chris leaned in close, his lips brushing her ear.

"You’re killing it, doll."

　　　　　༻﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡༺

The moment Y/N and Chris stepped into the grand main salon, the shift in the atmosphere was almost physical. The flashing lights of the red carpet were behind them, replaced by the elegant glow of chandeliers and the soft hum of conversation. Celebrities, industry giants, and music legends filled the expansive room, dressed in their finest, the air buzzing with anticipation.

A staff member immediately approached them with a warm smile, gesturing toward their assigned table.

"Good evening, Ms. L/N, Mr. Sturniolo. Right this way, please."

As they walked through the lavishly decorated space, Y/N’s fingers instinctively tightened around Chris’s hand, her nerves still tingling with the knowledge that the biggest names were around her.

Halfway to their table, a familiar voice called out from the side.

"Chris! No way- dude!"

Chris turned toward the sound, a grin instantly spreading across his face when he saw Troye Sivan standing up from his table, waving him over.

Troye had met Chris and his brothers just two weeks ago at a Prada fashion show, and the energy between them had been instantly chill and friendly.

"Troye, hey, what’s up, man?" Chris greeted as he pulled him in for a quick hug.

Meanwhile, Y/N turned toward Sabrina Carpenter, who was seated beside Troye in the most ethereal baby blue dress, its delicate fabric flowing like water over her frame.

"Sabrina, hi!" Y/N greeted, her voice lighting up as she fully took in the details of her look. "Wow, you look absolutely stunning. Like, actually unreal."

Sabrina’s eyes widened for a split second, surprise flashing across her face before it melted into the sweetest, most genuine smile. Without a second thought, she pushed herself up from her seat, reaching for Y/N as if they were lifelong friends and pulling her into a warm, affectionate hug. She squeezed tightly, her energy radiating pure kindness.

"Oh my god, stop." Sabrina gushed, pulling back just enough to look at Y/N, her hands still resting gently on her arms. "That means the world coming from you. And please, look at you!" She emphasized, eyes scanning Y/N from head to toe with genuine admiration. "You look like an actual goddess."

Y/N laughed softly, shaking her head as she absentmindedly smoothed her hands over the golden fabric of her dress.

"It’s all Lambert’s magic." She admitted with a playful grin, referring to her trusted stylist. Then, with a spark of excitement, she added. "I heard you’re performing tonight, I cannot wait to see it!"

Sabrina practically bounced in place, her excitement just as contagious.

"Oh, that makes me so nervous but also so happy." She admitted with a laugh, her hands clasping together. "I just hope I don’t trip or something."

Y/N shook her head instantly.

"No way, you’re going to kill it. I already know it."

Chris and Troye exchanged a few more words, something about how amazing the Prada show had been and how they should schedule to do something together in the future, before Chris gave him a casual pat on the shoulder.

"We’ll catch up later, yeah? We gotta find our table before they go live."

Troye grinned.

"For sure. Enjoy the night, guys."

After one last big smile at Sabrina, Y/N slipped her hand back into Chris’s as they navigated through the room.

Their table was positioned with a perfect view of the stage, the paper cards on their seats spelling out their names in black ink below a selected picture of their faces.

As they sat down, Y/N exhaled, glancing up at the stage. A quick glance at the massive countdown screen told her they had ten minutes before the live broadcast began.

"Damn." She muttered, leaning toward Chris. "Didn’t even realize how much time passed outside."

Chris chuckled, his voice low.

"That’s ‘cause you were too busy looking hot and stealing everyone’s attention."

She rolled her eyes but couldn’t help the amused smile that tugged at her lips.

"Come'ere, babe." He asked, extending his arm in her direction, asking silently for her to move closer.

Her eyes sparkled with affection, and she shifted her chair slightly, moving closer to Chris until she was practically pressed against his side. Without hesitation, he wrapped his extended arm around her upper body, pulling her in securely. The warmth of his body mixed with the familiarity of his presence was grounding and comforting.

Chris pressed a soft kiss to her temple, his lips lingering for just a second longer than necessary.

Y/N tilted her head up to look at him, her eyes shining under the dimmed chandeliers.

"Thank you." She whispered, her voice barely audible over the hum of the room.

Chris furrowed his brows slightly, looking down at her, their faces so close he could feel her warm breath hitting his chin.

"For what?"

"For being here with me. For always being here for me."

His gaze softened immediately, and the way he looked at her - so full of quiet devotion - made her heart swell.

"Forever, baby." He murmured, squeezing her gently.

Before Y/N could say anything else, a new voice cut into their moment.

"Excuse me, I hope I’m not interrupting anything."

The voice was warm, familiar, and utterly unmistakable.

Both Y/N and Chris turned toward the sound, and in an instant, Y/N felt the entire world freeze. Her breath caught in her throat, her heart stuttered, and for a brief, terrifying moment, she wondered if she had actually left her body.

Because standing there, just a few feet away, in all her effortless, golden-lit, legendary glory, was Taylor Swift.

Taylor Swift.

Y/N swore she could hear the heavens parting and angels singing in the background.

Taylor was an absolute vision in a stunning, strong red mini dress, her signature red lip effortlessly bold, her blonde hair framing her face in soft waves.

And she was smiling - smiling - at her.

"Oh my god." Y/N blurted out, the words tumbling out of her mouth before she could even attempt to reel them back in.

Taylor let out a soft laugh as she shook her head lightly, eyes twinkling.

"I just wanted to say that I’m such a huge fan of your work. Lavender Haze is absolutely everything."

Y/N felt her soul leave her body.

Her brain quite literally short-circuited. Because- because what?

Taylor Swift, the Taylor Swift, her biggest inspiration, her songwriting idol, just complimented her music?

There was a very real possibility that she had just blacked out.

Chris shifted slightly beside her, maintaining his arm above the back of her chair, obviously trying so hard not to burst out laughing at how starstruck she looked.

Somehow, somehow, Y/N managed to keep her expression together, even though her heart was doing full-blown Olympic-level gymnastics in her chest.

"That means everything coming from you." She breathed, every word laced with pure, raw sincerity. "Thank you so, so much."

Taylor’s smile only widened, like she could feel how much those words meant to Y/N.

"Seriously." She said, her voice warm and genuine. "I’ve been listening to it on repeat. You’re insanely talented. The way you crafted that song... you have such a gift."

Y/N felt an actual tear prick at the corner of her eye. She wanted to scream. She wanted to hug her. She wanted to tattoo this moment onto her soul and never forget it.

And then, as if she couldn’t possibly adore her any more, Taylor turned to Chris, offering him the same bright, kind smile.

"And of course, you." She said, her tone playful but just as sincere. "I love what you and your brothers are doing on YouTube. It’s always fun seeing people bring fresh energy to the space."

Chris looked genuinely taken aback for a moment. His eyebrows lifted slightly, and for the first time, Y/N saw a flicker of oh wow, this is real life in his expression.

"That’s- wow, okay, that’s crazy." He said, running a hand through his hair with an incredulous chuckle. "Thank you, that’s- man, that’s insane coming from you."

Taylor grinned, her hand gently squeezing Y/N’s shoulder, grounding her back to reality.

"I won’t keep you guys." She said softly. "I just wanted to say that. Hope you both have the best night."

And just like that, she turned, walking back toward her table.

For a long, stunned second, Y/N just stood there, processing what had just happened. Then, with wide eyes, she turned to Chris, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Did that just happen?"

Chris, still looking way too amused, nodded, his grin stretching across his face.

"Yup." He confirmed. "And you just casually had a conversation with Taylor Swift like it was nothing."

Y/N let out a sharp exhale, pressing her hands over her face.

"I need a second."

Chris laughed, and before she could even register it, he was wrapping both arms around her, pulling her in tightly, his face pressing against her hair.

"Proud of you, popstar." He murmured, his voice laced with nothing but warmth.

Before she could respond, the lights dimmed, and the energy in the room shifted as a voice echoed through the speakers.

"Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome your host for the 67th Annual Grammy Awards, Trevor Noah!"

A roar of cheers erupted as the towering LED screens flanking the stage flickered to life, displaying Trevor Noah’s wide, mischievous grin. He strolled onto the main floor rather than standing on the stage, seamlessly blending into the sea of round tables where the biggest names in the industry were seated.

He adjusted the microphone in his hand, letting the applause die down just enough before flashing a knowing smirk.

"Alright, ladies and gentlemen." He began, his smooth voice carrying through the arena. "This is it, the 67th Grammys! Music’s biggest night! The Super Bowl for people who cried to Folklore, danced to Beyoncé, and worked out to Travis Scott, all in the same day!"

Laughter rippled through the crowd as the camera panned to a few artists nodding dramatically in agreement.

"And listen, let’s be honest. The Grammys are basically just a really fancy dinner party where we all pretend we haven’t been stalking the winners list since yesterday." Another wave of laughter followed. "But tonight... tonight, we are celebrating the best of the best in music. The songs that made us scream in our cars, the albums that made us question our entire existence, and the artists who consistently ruin our Spotify Wrapped every year."

Trevor began walking casually between the round tables, grinning as he looked around at the audience.

"And let’s not forget the real stars of the night, the seating arrangements. Have you seen these tables? It’s like the ultimate Hunger Games. You got legends, you got rookies, and you got the poor artists who are just hoping they don’t get caught in an awkward cutaway during a joke."

The camera zoomed in on a few newer artists laughing nervously, earning a chuckle from the crowd.

Trevor continued weaving his way through the tables, his eyes scanning the sea of music’s biggest names.

"And speaking of icons." He said, stopping by a particular table. "Tonight, we have the one and only Y/N L/N with us!"

The moment her name left his lips, the entire arena erupted into cheers. The camera cut to Y/N’s table, her face instantly lighting up with a radiant smile. Chris grinned smugly as he watched her soak in the moment.

Y/N turned slightly to face the camera that was now focused on her, offering a soft wave. The massive screen above the stage displayed a live feed of her, the applause continuing as Trevor beamed.

"Now, listen, if you somehow missed it, Y/N is up for five nominations tonight!" Trevor announced, pointing at her with mock emphasis. "Five nominations, guys. For songs and the album she announced when she won last year. That’s how much of a legend she is."

Y/N let out a soft laugh, her cheeks warming as she watched herself on the big screen. The camera panned slightly to Chris, who was nodding with a smug expression, as if silently agreeing with every word Trevor was saying.

"Plus." Trevor continued, stepping closer to their table. "If Y/N wins tonight, she could be the first artist ever to win Album of the Year five times."

Gasps and cheers rippled through the audience, while Y/N’s smile grew impossibly wider.

"Which means, she would break the record of four wins set all the way back in 2024 by-" Trevor raised his free hand, making a show of pretending to check an invisible list on his palm. "Y/N L/N!"

The entire room erupted into even louder applause, whistles echoing through the space as Trevor dramatically motioned toward her again.

Y/N's eyebrows flew up, feigning surprise, trying to contain her giddiness while Chris chuckled beside her, mouthing 'that's my girl' to a camera pointing his way.

Trevor placed a hand on his hip, looking toward the camera with mock exasperation.

"So basically, Y/N is out here breaking her own records. Just casually deciding that four wins aren’t enough and going for five. That’s like running a marathon, winning, and then saying, 'You know what? Let’s do it again, backwards'."

More laughter filled the room, Y/N pressing a hand over her mouth to keep from giggling too much. Trevor grinned, looking at her one last time.

"Listen, Y/N, whatever happens tonight, you’re already a legend. But if you win that fifth Grammy, just promise me you won’t announce another album mid-acceptance speech. Give the rest of the industry a fighting chance, okay?"

Y/N laughed, shaking her head, and Chris patted her thigh under the table, looking thoroughly entertained.

Trevor winked before turning back to the audience, raising his mic once again.

"Alright, let’s get this incredible night started! We’ve got performances, surprises, and probably a few moments that’ll break the internet. Let’s do this!"

The crowd roared as the cameras pulled away, cutting to a sleek transition video, signaling the official start of the show. Y/N exhaled, stealing a glance at Chris, who simply grinned and pulled her back to his chest, pressing his lips against her cheek.

"You’re so winning tonight."

　　　　　༻﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡༺

The moment the last notes of Birds of a Feather echoed through the grand hall, Y/N felt like she was floating. Billie Eilish had just delivered one of the most breathtaking performances she had ever seen, and she could still feel the goosebumps lingering on her arms.

She turned to Chris, her eyes shining with excitement, her heart still beating to the rhythm of the song.

"Billie is unreal." She gushed, shaking her head in disbelief. "Like, every time she performs, it’s like she’s singing straight to my soul."

Chris let out a chuckle, his arm draped lazily around her shoulders, pulling her close.

"Nick would actually kill to be here right now." His lips quirked up in amusement. "I bet he’s texting us like a mad man."

Y/N laughed softly, already imagining Nick’s all-caps messages blowing up their group chat. But before she could even think of checking, the stage lights dimmed slightly, and the screens around the venue shifted. A familiar melody played in the background as a figure gracefully stepped onto the stage. The chatter in the audience softened as people turned their attention to her.

Taylor Swift.

Y/N straightened in her seat, her heart picking up speed.

Chris immediately caught the change in her posture and smirked.

"Oh shit." He teased, giving her shoulder a little squeeze. "Your idol is speaking. Do you need me to hold you so you don’t pass out?"

She rolled her eyes but couldn’t deny the excitement bubbling in her chest.

Taylor approached the microphone with that effortless charm that made the entire room fall silent. She smiled warmly, tucking a strand of golden hair behind her ear before speaking.

"Good evening, everyone." She greeted, her voice carrying easily through the venue. "Tonight has been incredible so far, and I am so honored to be here presenting this next award."

Y/N opened a genuine smile, squeezing Chris's thigh below her fingers.

"Album of the Year is such a special award because it represents not just music, but stories. It’s about the albums that stayed with us, that shaped our emotions, our memories. The ones that became the soundtrack to our lives." Taylor continued, her expression softening as she held up the envelope. "And with that being said, the Grammy goes to..."

She slid her fingers under the flap and carefully pulled out the card, unfolding it with precision.

Y/N could feel Chris’s arms tighten around her. His body heat a cocoon around her own as she clutched onto him, her pulse thundering in her temple.

A second of silence stretched. Then Taylor’s eyes scanned the paper, and the biggest, brightest smile took over her face. Her gaze lifted, seemingly searching the crowd for someone.

Y/N furrowed her brows slightly.

Taylor found her.

And then, with a warmth that sent shivers down Y/N’s spine, Taylor announced.

"Y/N L/N, Midnights."

The world tilted.

For a solid moment, Y/N didn’t move. She couldn’t move. The air in her lungs disappeared, her vision blurred instantly with unshed tears, and her mouth fell open in pure, unfiltered shock, her hands hovering near her mouth, trembling as realization crashed into her like a tidal wave.

Album of the Year.

She won.

Chris, on the other hand, reacted immediately.

"YES!" He shouted, his voice cutting through the noise as he punched the air, his excitement completely unfiltered. People turned, smiling, laughing, but Chris didn’t care. His hands were already on Y/N, his eyes scanning her face.

She wasn’t breathing.

"Babe." His voice softened instantly as he leaned in, his forehead almost touching hers. "Hey, you did it."

Y/N sucked in a sharp, shaky breath, but it wasn’t enough. Tears welled in her eyes, spilling over before she could stop them, her body shaking with the force of emotions she had no chance of containing.

A broken sob escaped her lips.

Chris pulled her in before she could crumple, wrapping her up in the kind of hug that blocked everything else out. His arms were warm, steady, his lips pressing against her forehead as he whispered, his voice firm this time.

"You did it."

Y/N let out a wet laugh against his shoulder, her fingers clutching onto him for just a second longer before she finally let go.

He gently lowered his head, making sure she looked at him.

And God, the way he was looking at her.

Like she had just built the entire universe with her bare hands.

"Go get your Grammy, winner." He murmured, the words slow and soft and filled with everything.

Y/N let out another broken breath, nodding before finally, finally turning toward the stage.

The journey to the top felt surreal, like she was floating. The cheers, the applause, the faces she recognized - people she had idolized - they all blurred together.

And then suddenly, she was there.

Standing at the top.

Face to face with Taylor Swift.

Who was smiling at her, waiting for her, Grammy in hand.

Y/N’s breath hitched all over again.

Her hands, still unsteady, reached out, fingers closing around the golden gramophone. The weight of it sent a whole new wave of emotions crashing into her.

Before she could even process what was happening, Taylor pulled her into a hug - tight, warm, real.

"Congratulations." Taylor whispered against her ear, and god, if that wasn’t the most surreal moment of Y/N’s entire life. "You deserve this so much."

A choked noise left Y/N’s lips as she nodded weakly, her throat too tight to speak.

She deserved this.

Her fingers traced over the Grammy, like she needed physical proof that it was real before she finally turned to the microphone.

She inhaled deeply. Opened her mouth.

"I-I don’t even know what to say right now." She admitted, biting her bottom lip. "I’m- god, I’m just so honored."

The crowd cooed, and Y/N let out a breathless laugh of her own, shaking her head as more tears slipped down her cheeks.

"This is insane." She said, shaking her head slightly. "Being nominated in this category, alongside so many incredible artists, artists I’ve admired for years, was already more than I could’ve ever dreamed of. To even stand beside you all tonight, to celebrate music with you? That was already everything."

Her chest rose and fell as she blinked away the heat gathering behind her eyes, sweeping her gaze across the crowd.

"I have to thank my incredible producer, my team, every single person who helped bring this album to life." Her voice wavered, thick with emotion. "You guys took my wild, messy ideas and turned them into something real, something that I never could have done alone. And I will never stop being grateful."

She wet her lips, inhaling deeply before her smile stretched just a little wider.

"My fans..." Her voice caught slightly, her hand pressing over her heart. "You guys have given me everything. You’ve let me tell my stories, and you’ve listened over and over and over again. You’ve made this dream of mine possible, and I love you more than I can ever put into words."

The cheers swelled again, voices from every corner of the room shouting her name. Her grip on the Grammy tightened as she shifted her weight slightly.

"To my family, Matt and Nick, my biggest cheerleaders." She laughed softly, looking at the main camera pointing at her. "I love you guys, you already know that."

And then, as if the moment had been waiting for this, her gaze lifted to him. Her breath hitched, lips curling into a smile that was just for him.

"And lastly." She said, her voice softer now. "To my boyfriend, Chris."

A ripple of excitement spread through the audience, but Y/N didn’t hear it. Not when those impossibly blue eyes were locked onto hers, not when his expression softened with something so tender, so proud, it made her knees weak.

"Thank you for being the creative genius that you are." She said, eyes never leaving his. "For staying up with me in the studio when I couldn’t figure out the right melody, even when I was on hour ten of tweaking the same one."

Laughter rolled through the room, and Chris grinned, shaking his head.

"For never doubting me." She continued, her throat tightening. "Even when I doubted myself. For being my biggest supporter. My muse. Every song, every lyric... You are in all of them.”

Chris exhaled sharply, his jaw tensing, his hand pressing over his heart as if feeling her love for him.

"Thank you." She finished simply, her voice steady, full of everything she couldn’t quite put into words.

The applause was deafening. A roar of cheers, of love, of celebration.

But all Y/N could hear was the thundering of her own heart.

This was real.

She had just won Album of the Year for the fifth time in a row.

　　　　　༻﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡༺

The massive screens on either side of the stage illuminated with Trevor Noah’s face again as he took the microphone, now standing above all of them, his signature charm radiating through the room.

"Alright, people." He started, a knowing smirk on his lips. "This is it, one of the most expected award of the night. Song of the Year."

The audience erupted into applause, a tangible wave of excitement washing over the room.

Y/N could barely hear it. Her entire body felt like it was wound up in a coil, so tight that she might snap. Her heart pounded mercilessly against her ribcage as she focused on the only thing grounding her - Chris’s hand wrapped tightly around hers.

She could feel the heat of his palm, the way his fingers curled firmly around hers, almost as if he knew she needed the anchor.

Trevor continued, his voice filling the grand space.

"Now, we all know Song of the Year isn’t just about a hit track. It’s about storytelling. It’s about lyrics that mean something that connects with people, that makes you feel something in your soul."

Y/N squeezed her eyes shut for a second. God, she felt like she was going to throw up.

Chris, meanwhile, kept his eyes locked on the stage, his jaw set, body tense. His grip on her hand tightening, his thumb brushing over the back of her hand once - just once - as if silently telling her, I’ve got you.

Trevor continued listing the nominees, their song snippets playing softly over the speakers, but Y/N’s mind was a blur. The only thing she could feel was her heartbeat hammering violently inside her chest.

She could barely hear Trevor’s next words over the rush of blood in her ears.

"And the Grammy goes to..."

A dramatic pause.

It felt endless. It felt cruel.

Y/N finally lifted her head, eyes darting to the stage.

Trevor’s gaze swept across the room before his smile widened.

"Y/N L/N, Lavender Haze!"

The room erupted. Applause, cheers bouncing off the walls, her own voice echoing from the speakers, but Y/N barely registered any of it.

Her breath hitched, her entire body jerking forward as if her heart had physically pulled her out of her seat. Her hands flew to her face, pressing against her eyes, trying to contain the overwhelming rush of emotions slamming into her all at once.

Oh, god. Oh, god.

Chris was already moving before she could even think. His chair scraped back, his arms were on her in an instant, pulling her up, grounding her before she could float away in all of this.

"Oh my god." The words tumbled out of her, barely a whisper against her palms, her chest rising and falling too quickly to keep up.

Chris didn’t hesitate. His arms wrapped around her tightly, anchoring her, holding her so close she could feel his heartbeat against hers.

"I am so fucking proud of you." His voice was right against her ear, steady, sure. "You are everything, baby."

That was it. That was what made the tears slip free.

But Chris didn’t let her hide.

With infinite tenderness, he pulled her hands away from her face, his thumbs sweeping over her damp cheeks. Then, before she could even catch her breath, he cupped her jaw and kissed her, firm, lingering, so full of love that everything else around them faded into nothing.

The crowd reacted instantly - cheers, whistles, camera flashes exploding in rapid succession - but Y/N only felt him.

When he pulled back, his hand found the small of her back, keeping her close, his face glowing with pride.

"Go get your second Grammy, superstar."

She exhaled shakily, nodding as she turned toward the stage for the second time in that night.

With each step, she forced herself to breathe.

In.

Out.

The massive gold-lettered GRAMMY AWARDS logo towered behind Trevor as he extended the award toward her, his smile warm and genuine.

"Y/N, congratulations." He said, offering a short but meaningful handshake.

Y/N took the Grammy statue with slightly trembling hands, whispering.

"Thank you so much." Before stepping toward the microphone.

As she turned, facing the sea of the world’s most influential artists, the weight of the moment finally settled on her. She was with her second award in her hands.

She barely had time to process it before her gaze instinctively found Chris.

He was standing at their table, hands tucked into his pants pockets, eyes locked onto hers. And when she hesitated, nerves bubbling up again, he gave her the smallest nod.

A simple movement.

But one that made her chest ache in the best way.

Y/N exhaled, adjusting her grip on the award.

"I- uh, I think I blacked out for a second there."

The room laughed, the tension easing instantly.

Y/N smiled, shaking her head.

"I genuinely don’t even know where to start. Again. This... this is insane."

She swallowed, her grip tightening on the Grammy as she steadied herself. The applause had started to fade, giving her space to speak, but her mind was still spinning.

"Lavender Haze is about love." She let the words settle, looking down for a brief moment before lifting her gaze straight to him. "The kind of love that blocks out the noise. The kind that just is, no matter what’s said, no matter what’s assumed. The kind that’s real."

Chris’s expression didn’t change, but she saw it, the slight shift in his jaw, the way his fingers curled against his palm, like he was physically stopping himself from reacting too much. From crumbling, maybe.

"This song wouldn’t exist without that love." Y/N wet her lips, heart hammering. "Without him."

A murmur rippled through the audience. People turned toward Chris, whose head finally dropped for half a second, his tongue running over his bottom lip before he glanced back up at her.

Y/N barely heard the movement. Barely noticed the cameras zooming in on them, barely cared about the entire world watching, because this wasn’t for them.

"This music is for you, Chris." Her voice was softer now, but no less sure. "And about you. And because of you."

Chris inhaled sharply, his chest rising with the movement. He was blinking faster now, his lips parting slightly, his entire body still, like if he moved, even a little, he’d break.

"You have been my safe place in ways I never even thought possible." Y/N continued, her voice thick with emotion. "You have shown me love in a way that makes the rest of the world fade out. And I wrote this because I needed people to hear what that feels like."

A pause.

Chris pressed his knuckles against his mouth, his gaze locked onto her like she had gravity itself wrapped around her fingers.

"So, I don’t need to thank anyone else for this." Y/N said simply, shaking her head. "This is you. This was always you."

The room was silent.

The world was silent.

Then, like a tidal wave, the applause crashed back over the moment, a roar of cheers and shouts as the weight of her words settled over the audience.

Chris didn’t move.

Didn’t clap.

Didn’t even breathe for a second.

He just looked at her with the most bright blue eyes.

She nodded, finally stepping back from the mic, Trevor clapping beside her before escorting her off stage.

And the second she made it back to her table, Chris was there.

Before she could even react, he pulled her against him, lips finding hers in a way that had the cameras flashing wildly, had people cooing, but none of it mattered.

Because for Y/N, all that existed was him.

　　　　　༻﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡༺

Five nominations.

Five won awards.

She did it.

She had won five Grammys tonight.

She still couldn’t fully process it.

The air outside the main salon was crisp with the late-night chill, but Y/N barely felt it. The sheer exhaustion in her limbs, the dull ache in her feet from hours in high heels, and the weight - both literal and emotional - of the five golden Grammys in her hands left her in a haze.

Chris walked beside her, just as tired, but his expression was still warm with lingering pride. His free hand held two of her awards, his fingers occasionally brushing against hers as they made their way toward the grey wall - the makeshift backdrop set up just for the winners to take their photos.

Y/N’s sharp eyes were quick to spot something - or rather, someone - familiar.

Cole Walliser. The photographer behind every iconic Glambot moment and best photographs at major award shows.

The moment Cole noticed her, his face lit up in recognition, and he immediately called out.

"Y/N! Oh my god, look at these babies!" He gestured toward her stack of trophies, shaking his head in disbelief. "Get over here. You already know the drill!"

Y/N laughed, already making her way toward him, Chris trailing behind her with a wide smile.

"Oh, I think I remember it."

Cole smirked, playing along.

"Yeah? You sure about that? Feels like I’ve only filmed you a dozen times or so."

"Something like that." She teased before gesturing toward Chris with her head. "Brought a friend this time."

Chris scoffed, giving her the most offended look.

"Friend my ass."

Y/N burst into laughter, nudging him playfully, while Cole chuckled at their dynamic.

"Alright, what’s the game plan? We need to show these off."

Y/N barely had time to respond before Chris was already moving, helping her adjust the awards so she could hold them all without them toppling over.

"Wait, wait, here, give me that one." His voice was soft, concentrated, as he carefully restacked them, his touch both gentle and efficient. "Alright, you good? You got ‘em?"

She let out a breathy laugh, adjusting her grip.

"Yeah, I think so."

Cole grinned, stepping back to gesture toward the marked spot in front of the camera.

"Perfect, then. Right this way, Ms. Sturniolo."

Y/N choked on a laugh, and Chris practically beamed.

"Ms. Sturniolo, huh?" Chris turned to her, eyes shining with excitement, his grip on her lower back tightening slightly as he guided her onto the designated Glambot mark. "I like the sound of it."

Y/N rolled her eyes, but her laughter betrayed how much she loved seeing him so giddy.

"Don’t let it get to your head, Mr. Sturniolo."

Chris grinned.

"Oh, it’s already there."

As Cole called out instructions, Chris stepped back, giving her space, but he didn’t leave. Instead, he lingered off to the side, watching her with the biggest, most heart-wrenchingly proud smile on his face.

Y/N could feel his gaze on her as she smiled to Cole’s moving camera. She tilted her head, posing slightly, but every time she caught Chris’s eyes in the background, her lips twitched into a barely-contained grin.

She couldn’t help it.

This moment was surreal.

She was standing there, arms full of Grammys, while her person stood just a few feet away, looking at her like she had hung the damn stars in the sky.

After a few more clicks, she shifted the weight of the awards in her arms before looking toward Waliser.

"Can we do one with Chris?" She asked, glancing between the camera and Chris himself.

Cole barely hesitated, quickly nodding.

"Oh, absolutely! Christopher, hop in!"

Chris blinked.

"Oh, I mean- I wasn’t-"

"Oh, shut up and get over here." Y/N teased, a playful glint in her tired eyes.

Chris huffed a soft chuckle before stepping forward, standing beside her as she started redistributing the awards.

"Here." She murmured, placing two specific trophies into his hands.

Song of the Year and Album of the Year.

Chris furrowed his brows slightly, glancing down at the awards before looking back at her.

"Doll-"

"These two." She said softly, eyes locking onto his. "I only got because of you."

His throat bobbed as he swallowed, his fingers tightening around the trophies instinctively.

"Y/N-"

"Just hold them with me." She whispered, nudging him gently.

Chris exhaled through his nose, his lips pressing into a thin line before he gave in, nodding as they both turned to face the camera.

Cole then gave play on his camera, but Y/N barely paid attention to it. She could feel Chris's eyes at her again, his expression unreadable, almost like he was too full of emotion to put it into words.

When the last one was taken, Chris nudged her shoulder lightly.

"C’mon, superstar. Let’s get out of here."

She didn’t hesitate.

After exchanging warm goodbyes with Cole, Y/N and Chris started making their way toward the private exit where their Range Rover was waiting.

Y/N’s entire body felt like it was dragging now, the adrenaline wearing off fast. She wanted nothing more than to be curled up at home, in bed, preferably with Chris’s arms around her.

But before they could reach the doors-

"Y/N!"

A reporter suddenly appeared in front of them, stepping way too close for comfort. Y/N barely had time to react before the microphone was practically in her face.

"So, are you guys heading to the after-party?" The woman asked, her tone almost demanding, her smile overly eager. "What are the plans for the rest of the night?"

Y/N blinked, momentarily stunned by how aggressive the approach was.

Chris, on the other hand... His entire expression darkened. His jaw clenched, and his brows furrowed deeply, his grip tightening around the awards as he took a subtle step closer to Y/N, his entire posture radiating protectiveness.

If looks could kill, the woman would’ve been vaporized on the spot.

But before Chris could say anything, Y/N, despite being exhausted, handled it perfectly.

She didn’t flinch. Didn’t react.

Instead, she simply smiled, a polite, but pointed smile.

"I’m heading home, actually." She said smoothly, adjusting the awards in her arms. "To my family." The reporter barely had time to respond before Y/N added. "Thank you so much. Have a great night."

And just like that, she turned, walking away.

Chris blinked. Then, a slow, smug smirk crept onto his lips as he followed her.

Y/N didn’t give the woman another second of her time. She just kept walking, invisibly pulling Chris with her, her arm brushing against his with every step, greeting and thanking each staff member in the way with warm smiles.

Chris let out a low chuckle as they reached the car, expertly balancing both awards in one hand while using the other to pull open the door for her.

"Damn. That was smooth." His voice was warm, laced with amusement.

Y/N smirked at him over her shoulder, eyes twinkling despite the exhaustion sinking in.

"I’m too tired to deal with more people tonight."

Chris snorted, watching as she slid into the leather seat with a sigh of relief.

"Fair enough."

When he finally climbed into the seat beside hers, he shut the door with a groan, leaning his head back for a second before exhaling slowly.

And just like that, the moment they were sealed inside the warm car, blocking the sounds of loud voices and clicks, the exhaustion slammed into them both.

Y/N melted into the headrest, her eyes falling shut as she let out a deep, heavy breath.

"I feel like I ran a marathon."

Chris chuckled under his breath, rolling his shoulders to ease the tension.

"You did. An emotional one."

She hummed in agreement, her breathing slowing as the exhaustion took hold. Chris reached over instinctively, finding her hand in the dim light of the car, fingers slotting between hers with ease.

His thumb brushed over her knuckles, slow and deliberate, grounding her in the quiet.

"M’so proud of you, baby." His voice was soft, almost a whisper, like he didn’t want to disturb the peacefulness settling over them.

Y/N turned her head toward him, eyelids heavy, but her lips curled into the smallest, sleepiest smile.

"Love you."

Chris lifted their joined hands without hesitation, pressing a gentle kiss to her knuckles, lingering there for just a second longer than necessary.

"Love you more."

She let her eyes flicker down, gaze landing on the golden awards sprawled across her lap and the seat beside her. She reached out, fingertips tracing the engravings, still not entirely believing they were hers.

She let out a thoughtful hum. Five more Grammys.

"We’re gonna have to find space for these at home." She murmured, brows knitting together as she looked over at Chris. "I have no idea where we’re putting them."

Chris chuckled, shaking his head.

"Already taken care of."

She raised an eyebrow.

"What?"

"Nick ordered a whole-ass display cabinet for that empty wall across from the kitchen." He admitted, shooting her a knowing look. "Figured we’d need it."

Y/N blinked, her lips parting slightly.

"He-"

"Yeah." Chris smirked. "So, we’ll put these there with the others from the past years..." He paused, his eyes twinkling playfully. "Until there’s no room left, popstar."

Y/N huffed a soft laugh, shaking her head before leaning over to press a quick kiss to his cheek.

"At this rate." She teased, nuzzling his soft skin. "We’ll need a whole new house."

It was no surprise when, in the next TikTok, the boys recorded in their kitchen, the cabinet full of awards served as the background.

1K notes · View notes

iniquitousyearning · 7 months ago

Text

SLYTHERINSLUT0’S KINKTOBER

october 25th. tom — anal sex / sexual punishment.

KINKTOBER MASTERLIST. | 2024.

summary: basically how i see a tom riddle punishment playing out. biblical tom of sorts. so self assured its impossible to piss him off so you go to lengths some may consider extreme but…eh. he knows you’re his.

warnings: 18+, SMUT MDNI, UNI hogwarts (obvs but just a reminder) reader and tom have an…interesting dynamic, toxic but also not toxic because it works for them, anal sex (obvs), sexual punishment, brief fingering, copious amounts of dirty talk, i once again utilize my favourite place in the school (the library).

"Tom—"

With a hand raised, he cuts you off. "Don't."

You blink. Swallow. Blink again. He's mad—oh, yes, he's mad—more than you've ever seen him and you once watched Abraxas Malfoy knock over his potion during a heavily-weighted exam.

That, in currency to this, is pennies.

You breathe in, try again. "Look, I can explain—"

He doesn't let you. Within a second his wand is out and with a flick of his wrist the room shifts to static—the glimmer from the silencing charm he just cast settles over your corner of the library, and you feel your fingers go numb—

"Why'd you stop?" He cocks his head, brow raised. His jaw is tight, the tension there burning into the space between you. His fingers flex. You can feel how much he's holding back. "If there's an explanation, by all means. I'd love to hear it."

Right—yeah, an explanation. That should help. Certainly, the man staring at you like he has bullets for eyes and knives for fingers will understand—he'll be completely calm once you explain to him you kissed someone else in retribution—because you wanted to get back at him.

"Well, I—" you push up from the desk, desperate to feel bigger, to level with him somehow. Tom thrives in this—having the upper hand, knowing all he has to do is stare at you, all stillness and quiet fury. He knows you hate it, that you'll spiral under it until you break and present him your neck on a silver platter. Until you hand him the knife and beg him to cut. "We had that argument, and I thought—I thought, maybe—you didn't—"

He moves closer. The air thickens. You're too focused on the fire in his eyes to acknowledge the sound of his wand clattering onto the desk—

"You thought?" His voice is something almost bored, like this is a trivial exercise for him—you can barely hear him over the roar of your pulse in your throat.

"—that you didn't want me anymore!"

You force the words out in a desperate rush, and the silence that follows feels like a goddamn canyon—you're just staring at each other, scowling in the wake of what you just said because you both know how utterly foolish it sounds. The only person Tom Riddle has and will ever allow himself to be vulnerable in front of—and you thought he'd leave after a silly argument.

No. You never thought that for a second.

And so, you try to save yourself. "Tom—I-I'm sorry, okay? I'm so sorry, I know I fucked up—but, it's not just me—I mean, you could have communicated better—"

He takes another step toward you, nodding along as if he's humoring you. "Right."

You step back—you don't mean to but the depleted space between you feels dangerous and your body reacts before you can stop it.

"Maybe—maybe we can learn from this? Right? A lesson for—for us both?" You keep talking. You don't know why, but you do. "And, maybe you could, uh, learn to talk about your feelings better?"

You wince as his eyebrows shoot up, mocking you without saying a word. Tom Riddle, talking about his fucking feelings? Right.

"I mean—you're just—" you hesitate because you know you're digging your own grave, yet he's still staring, daring you to finish. "—you're just so hard to read, you know?"

Another bored nod, another step closer. "Of course."

You swallow, stumbling back—of course Tom knows he's hard to read, that's the point. Every word out of your mouth is a wasted effort, a desperate attempt to reason with someone who's beyond it. Your ass collides with the desk behind you, boxing you in—and suddenly, he's there, right in front of you, all of his typical Tom intensity pouring into the limited space between you.

His breath brushes against your cheek, close enough that his lips could meet yours. But you know they won't. He'd never make it that easy. You can't tell if it's fear or something more wicked that twists in your chest. Dread, excitement—God, maybe both—

"You tried to provoke me."

Your throat tightens around a swallow. He isn’t asking.

"Maybe."

He doesn't blink. "You tried to see if I'd care."

You open your mouth, only to close it just as quickly. What can you say that he doesn't already know? You're as transparent as glass to him, and even that is a goddamn understatement. All you offer is a slow nod, unsure but weighted—he wasn't looking for an answer, he was looking for submission.

"And you thought, maybe, that I would come to you. That I would react. That l'd be angry." His fingers brush up your cheek, slipping into your hair with the kind of intimacy that feels out of place given the circumstances. And, inevitably, when the pull comes biting at your scalp, it's a burn you enjoy more than you should. "Were you hoping I'd punish you?"

"Well—I-"

"You know, don't you," he tugs your hair again to quiet you. Every question he's asking is rhetorical. "You know that trying to provoke me is dangerous."

You nod, fast. "I know."

"You know that I don't like to be provoked."

"I know, I know, I-"

"Shh." His lips brush over your neck, just once—a soft, fleeting thing that promises everything and nothing at once. You can't help the way you lean into him. "You're just making this worse for yourself. No more talking."

You choke on your stupid ego, but force a nod. You asked for this. You won't fight him on it. Not here. Not now.

"Good." He hums, and you feel your heart dance, stomach leap at the barest flicker of approval in his tone. His breath skates over your jaw, and you try not to shake. "You want to show me how sorry you are, don't you?"

You nod again.

"Good." He tugs at your bottom lip and something curls at the corners of his own that doesn't quite qualify as a smile. "Turn around."

With your heart on the floor beneath your feet, you nod for a final time before doing as he asked. You find that turning is a difficult task, though not due to resistance—your body just won't cooperate—a mess of weak knees and shallow breaths and tingling skin. You do it, though, with his hand on your hip, guiding you, directing you, pushing you over the desk until you're bent at the waist, positioned just how he wants.

It's merely a moment before you feel him pressed against your back, feel his belt buckle digging into your ass—

"What do you think I should do to you?" His breath grazes the nape of your neck and reflexively, you arch into him—his hands slide up your thighs, hips, finding your waist and the band of your skirt—he tugs at your zipper, you remain quiet. You know he doesn't want you to answer. "I'm sure you had your hopes. Your assumptions."

Tom Riddle, you've determined, is a torturous lover—a slow hand, a tease until you're in tears from the overstimulation. A sort of devotee to fulfilling your needs while simultaneously tempering his own. He's so very restrained, in everything he does—not fervent, not right away, anyway—

"Maybe you hoped I'd degrade you. Remind you of your place." He tugs down the zipper, letting the fabric fall to the ground at your feet—you shudder and pull your lips tight, willing yourself to stay silent as the cool air hits you. Tom's hand roams over one of your asscheeks, pawing lazily before tapping his palm against it. “Maybe you wanted me to make you feel it."

—he only rushes—he's only careless when he's angry.

And god, he's angry now.

"Maybe." You force the reply through the sting he left on your skin. It's past midnight—quiet is everything but you two, and you're almost certain he locked the door behind him on the way in. You let your head bow, eyes fixed on the wood under your palms. "Maybe I do."

"Of course you do. You've never been subtle." His foot nudges yours further apart, his fingers trailing up your thigh, finding the damp ache between your legs. Your breath catches but you hold still, biting your tongue as he teases—digits gliding through your slit, swirling your clit. "I know you thought about it."

"About what?" You try, though the question barely gets out before his other hand smacks the thick of your ass again, harder this time. "Shit—"

"About what I'd do to you." The hand on your clit shifts to smooth over the sting, rubbing slow, while the other works the buckle of his belt. "Tell me what you wanted."

"I—" you pause, steadying, gathering yourself. You know you have to give him something, but it's hard to think when he's like this. "I—I wanted you to be...careless."

"Careless." He says it like he's savouring it, rolling it over his tongue like candy. It's not a word that suits him; you're not convinced he even knows how. "You want me to be rough—to be selfish. Like you were."

The moment his belt is loose you feel those slender fingers dip back into your slit, two of them pushing inside your cunt without warning, stretching you open as his trousers slip down his thighs— he grunts low, a sound that cuts into the quiet as his cock springs free and he presses it against you, unoccupied hand slipping back into your hair, pulling you up until you're flush with him.

"Yes." You're not sure who sounds more hollow for it—your voice for asking, his for granting it. "I want that. I deserve it. Please. Please—"

"Please. It's always please with you," he mocks, the words a hiss that burn your cheeks. "Yet, I don't get to be selfish like you, do I? I still have to show restraint."

"I mean—oh—fu—" you choke as his lips find your neck, muttering something against your skin before you feel the sudden cool slip of a lubing charm coating your asshole and cunt. "Tom-"

"Despite what you might believe, I've never had much in the way of patience," he breathes, a confession almost, something deeper—something that feels like it costs him. "Not when it comes to you."

"Tom—" you fucking gasp his name as he pulls his fingers from your cunt—only to drag them higher until they find your asshole. Despite his haste he's still at ease, massaging, pressing one finger against it until you let him in. He sinks slowly, curling slightly, and your thighs shake—lungs deflate. "Oh—oh, fuck, Tom—it's been—"

"A while, hasn't it?" He finishes, pressing a kiss just beneath your ear, his finger sliding all the way in. "So tight for me. So—tight—"

"Tom—" a repetition of the last one, his name spilling from you like it’s the only goddamn word you know how to say. "Please, Tom. Oh god—"

"Shhh." He shushes, but it's not to quiet you; you know that. He's savouring this. He slips in a second finger, stretching you wider, working you open, and you're biting your lip to keep from crying out. "This isn't about you."

"You—" your voice breaks on another gasp, hands clutching at the desk. "—you think this is punishment."

"Partially." His muses as his fingers scissor, filling you with the most delicious ache. You're so slick, arousal running down your thighs, and that—oh no, that does not escape his notice. "Look at you, dripping for me. And yet,"

"Oh god." The realization crashes over you—it’s punishment as in orgasm denial. "That's—that's not—"

"Not fair?" There's a smirk in his voice, and though he doesn't say it, you hear the word that lingers beneath it: pathetic, pathetic, pathetic. He pulls his fingers out and you whine, feeling empty for half a second before the head of his cock glides against your slit, gathering your juices before finding its way up to the throbbing ring of muscle. "Isn't this what you wanted? For me to be selfish?"

"I just—" words scatter, useless, because you're trembling, breathing hard, and then he's pressing in, slow enough to save you pain but fevered enough to make you feel him. "Oh—oh—"

"Oh fuck." He says it breathless, as if it's an agony to fit himself inside of you. "Oh yes."

And it is an agony—for both of you, though for very different reasons. Tom is huge, and even on a good day, it's a struggle to take him. He's so deep, filling you in ways you'd forgot were possible. You struggle to hold yourself upright—legs visibly shaking, teeth gritting. He sinks all the way in, and in your mind, you can almost see the look on his face, the way his lashes flutter, the way his head tips back—

"Ah—“ he groans, a rough sound that's followed by a huff and a slight roll of his hips, like he's holding back, like he can't bring himself to move just yet. He yanks you up against him by your hair. "That's fucking tight, isn't it? This must be hell for you."

He's not wrong, it is. But it's hellish for Tom too, the type of hell the two of you inflict on eachother that is as fucking addicting as it is anything else—

"Just—" you manage to bite out breathlessly, but it's a struggle to make the words. "Move—"

"Make me," he grits, jerking your head to the side until your foreheads press together. "Convince me to use you. Tell me how badly you want it. How much of a whore you are for it."

Merlin help you, you moan at his words. It's that thing inside you—the needy, desperate part that's dying at his feet. You don't know what it is or why it's there; it just is, and it's greedy. It's not something you'd give into normally—your ego is far too big to give him the satisfaction of begging, not aloud—never in words that he could use against you later—but in these moments, you both learn to make exceptions.

"Dear god, Tom—please, just use me-" you push your hips back against him, one of his hands slide up your stomach, cupping your tits. "Please, l'm—I'm a pathetic, begging whore for you. God, I know you're pissed—I feel it—just take it out on me—l want it—"

He moans—a soft, almost gentle sound—and you know you've struck a nerve, the part of him that's equally as weak in the moment—the part of him that makes it all too easy for things to spiral like this.

"Goddamn you." Something inside him snaps, something that's been frayed, just waiting for a pull—and you've pulled it now, and oh you want, no, you need him to make you pay for it, to make it hurt. "You just—you always-"

He grunts, cutting himself off and in a way, it's almost like he's thanking you because you're giving him an outlet, something to take it out on. You test each other, push and pull and let the other break, because, at the end of the day, it always comes down to this. The two of you. Like this.

A sharp inhale, and he starts to thrust.

"Fuck!" it's all you manage, it's all you can manage, because it—just like that—feels the way you wanted it to feel but it also feels so much more intense, so intense that your brain can't keep up. "Oh god—oh fuck-"

"Fucking hell," he spits, like you're the worst thing in his world and the best thing all at once, and somehow, that makes perfect sense. He lets go of your hair, and you slump forward onto the desk, elbows barely holding you up as his hand smacks your ass, fingers spreading you apart. "So—so tight—“

You're a shuddering mess, helpless to it; all you can do is remember to breathe through it.

"That's it." Another smack to your ass, thrusts quick and deep. "Fuck. The things you drive me to do."

You know him so well—and he knows you just as damn well, and that's the point, isn't it? That's what this is all about. You're the perfect mix of wrong, a match that burns too hot it hurts but the ache makes him feel alive.

"I want to cum—" your neglected clit is begging for it, you’re fucking begging for it. "Tom please—"

At that, he laughs and it's mean and it's condescending and you love—God—how you love it and want it and can't get enough of it. His hips snap forward a little bit rougher and you lose a bit more of your sanity—

"You think you deserve to come, after what you did?" Another smack to your ass.

You don't know how to answer, and he doesn't wait for one anyway. He knows exactly what he’s doing to you—everything is so calculated and calculated and calculated. You've never once seen him falter, and you don't expect to see it now. You don't know if you'd survive it if you did.

"No." He answers for you. "You don't."

His fingers trace around your thigh, grazing your mound and finding your needy clit, your sopping slit, gliding through it—you moan louder than you should as he gathers your slick on his fingers, humming at what he finds there before retreating—bringing them up to your mouth.

"Open."

You open your mouth and he feeds you your need—the result of his selfishness. You love him for what he is and you love him for what he isn’t too. How he tries to be both, only when you ask.

"Taste that?" It's a whisper, something he's telling you.

You sob around his fingers as he fucks your ass deep—he pulls them out to let you respond. You nod. "Yes."

"Taste how much you want this?"

"Yes." A pathetic moan. The perfect response.

"Good girl." He presses the words into your hair, the back of your neck, along your spine. He sucks in a breath as he fucks like he needs it just to speak. "You're going to remember this the next time you think about doing something just to spite me, I hope you know that."

Of course you will. He knows it, you know it—there's no doubt in your mind that you'll remember this the next time you toy with his patience; the next time you give him a reason to discipline you again. And what's worse is: you'll do it anyway.

It's a battle you two will fight for eternity.

But you don't get a chance to respond, not that you'd have one anyways—because his hand is on your throat and his lips are at your ear and he's sucking in air through his teeth and then—

"I'm going to cum." He whispers and you hear the pain in it. "Fuck."

You shiver in reply; a whine of a whimper coming from the back of your throat. “Tom—“

"Shh." He shushes you with his free hand, gripping your jaw as his thrusts turn sloppy, erratic. "Fucking take it.”

God—you’ll take it. Of course you will. You asked for this, drove him to this point. You're both sick, but this is the kind that doesn't have a cure.

One of his hands moves to his own hair, tugging at the back of his head; it's the only hint you've had this whole time of how much he's affected by this, how much it's driven him mad. He's doing his best to keep control, to maintain composure and make sure you feel it—but it's the way his hand squeezes your hip when he lets go of your throat that gives him away.

It gives in to what he's been repressing.

"Ohhh—fuck—yes—" and then you feel it, feel him, hot and sticky and warm, filling your ass and holding you there until he’s finished. His body collapses against the back of yours, hips slow rolling until he's drained—until you’ve taken all of him, all of his anger and frustration and restraint along with it. He’s sweaty, exhausted, spent—forehead pressed to your hair. "You feel that?"

"You know I do." You're not allowed to sound so smug, not while you're in the position you're in, but you are. It’s why he loves you. "That's what you were looking for."

"No, that's what you were looking for." He nips your ear, and you hear the smile in his voice when he bites down on it and murmurs a, "and that's why you're my favourite," into it.

"And you mine, Tommy."

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twstfanblog · 3 months ago

Note

Heya can I get a Housewarden reacting to a male! reader that hides whatever injury he got form them when they overbloted but shrugged it off once they found out " hey worth it!"

Boys React to Injured Reader

Overblot Boys x Reader

A/N: I know the ask said male!reader but nothing really shows it to lean male or female aside from two uses of male pronouns.

Riddle

You got some pretty bad gashes on your arms from rose bushes being thrown at you going mach 4. They are decently heavy and though they didn't look it, had some pretty nasty thorns on them.

After Riddle's overblot, you had your arms wrapped up for a good few weeks afterwards from how deep they were. He wouldn't notice them since the uniform is long sleeved. But if you modify your uniform to be shorter, they'd be easier to notice.

Once he does notice them, he asks what you, Ace, Deuce, and Grim got into that left you so injured. Then he feels AWFUL when you tell him the gashes were from his overblot.

He's babbling out apologies, insisting that he takes you to an actual doctor to get properly healed and checked for infections. You live in an abandoned building and you have open wounds for the sake of the Seven.

Gets so quiet when you manage to tell him you don't mind the gashes. Yeah, they're annoying, doing anything has become a chore because of them. But, they're like a trophy for helping save him.

Becomes so aware of your arms now, manages to get some advanced medical potions to decrease chances of scarring. Also, would you...maybe join him in the garden? For tea? Alone?

Leona

All of that sand whipping around was not good for anyone, and it definitely wasn't good for you. It managed to burst a blood vessel in your eyes, which isn't so bad. What was bad was that your cornea was scratched.

It was pretty easy to notice you were hurt in the aftermath, with everyone being in the infirmary when you woke up. Leona asked what the eyepatch was for, seeing how you've never worn one before.

The sigh he does once you explain that it was from sand whipping around during his overblot. Wants to see the damage even when you tell him it was really minor and set to be healed within the week.

Everyone kinda freaks out seeing your eye. It's very much still a mess even after the first dose of treatments to make sure you don't get an infection. But even with it being such a mess, you're all smiles because it doesn't mean anything to you. Leona is safe and sound and that's all that matters to you in the end.

Plus, if you did go blind or something, wouldn't it be kind of cool? You and Leona can have matching eye injuries!

Leona doesn't think that's funny and tells you as much. But for the next week, he's suddenly always around when you need to put your drops in. He'll do it for you since he claims you're squeamish and doing it wrong.

Azul

Azul is very strong in his mer form, he also has a lot of arms for grabbing people he was planning on maiming. He only had a grasp on you for a few moments, but it was enough focused pressure to crack a rib.

You only took notice once you went back to the Coral Sea Museum. The change in pressure makes your ribs ache even more than they were before. Azul took notice and tried to find the cause of your pain. But in the end he and the group made way to an underwater clinic to get you professionally checked.

The guilt he feels hearing your rib was cracked is enough to make him want to go back into his pot. Once back on land, you go straight to the infirmary until further notice.

He won't come visit for a while, sending the twins in his place to deliver you food from the lounge and to help with your breathing exercises. They're the ones who tease him about how you want to see him, to check up on him.

Jade all coy saying 'He was quite concerned about your well-being.' Floyd chimed in 'Lil Shrimpy says his messed up ribs are a good trade if it means you're ok~.'

Azul starts to show up instead of the twins at the tail end of your healing period. He's made you a study guide and gifted you his past notes to help you catch up on the classes you've missed. He also doesn't want to this to be...something that he owes you for. So maybe, once you're all healed, you can come to the lounge office to have a private meal with him. On the house.

Jamil

Your arm had a hairline fracture once you landed in the sand. Nothing too bad, adrenaline was pumping and you barely even felt it. After Jamil's overblot, it felt more sore than anything so you ignored it again.

But when Ace and Deuce show up, Deuce gives you a too strong of a high-five and suddenly, your arm is completely snapped. The party screeched to a halt while Jamil and Kalim quickly check you over.

Jamil is confused on how your arm is broken. Everyone else is completely fine and he doubts Deuce is that strong to break your bone through a high-five. Then Azul points out that you possibly landed on it wrong in the fall from...being flung across an entire desert.

Congrats, you are now an honorary Scarabia member! Because neither Kalim nor Jamil are letting you just go back to Ramshackle with a broken arm. Jamil's running himself even more ragged tending to the Kalim, the dorm, and now you.

You stop him, reminding him you broke an arm, not a leg. If he thinks this is a debt thing, you're not mad, or expecting him to pay you back for being the reason you broke your arm. You're just happy he's ok.

Jamil stops appearing around you for a while, well after your arm is healed. But you keep getting Tupperwares of dinner from Kalim. He states 'Jamil made too much'. Which we all know is a big fat lie.

Vil

(Gonna just pretend Idia doesn't kidnap them like a day later)

Magical smug had to have some type of ill effect other than the poisoning, and it did. The others were able to deal with the after-effects of Vil's overblot via magic immune systems, you are not so lucky.

What started off as a simple cough slowly progressed into hacking and shortness of breath. You had avoided Vil because you just thought it was a simple illness, and the last thing the starlet needed was getting ill. Only for him to be the one to find you on your knees, coughing and struggling to breathe.

Carried you to the infirmary where you're diagnosed with a form of magic-based pneumonia. Blot-based mucus was wreaking havoc in your lungs and it was only going to get worse without proper treatment.

Vil stayed by your side until you fell asleep that first night, then you didn't see him for a week. There'd be little gifts on your nightstand from him; throat-soothing candies, sinfully soft luxury brand tissues. So he was visiting but only when you were asleep.

You see him again when it's the middle of the night and he wakes you up to take a potion he's spent the past week crafting with Crewel's help. He hasn't been sleeping and it's noticeable. Scolds you when you state you're worried about him. Barely lets you semi-confess and is instead force-feeding you the potion. You can declare your admiration once you're well.

Idia

It shouldn't have happened the way it did. Appendicitis normally takes longer than what it took for you to be curled over in pain. Luckily, you were a top-grade science facility surrounded by geniuses. They put you in a full body scanner and quickly saw you had an infection in your stomach.

Even with everything that just happened, you were prepped for surgery in a matter of minutes. They barely got the confirmation from you that the little organ wasn't a necessary part of your digestion system. So it was coming out before it got any worse.

After the surgery, you're able to tell the doctors that an appendix can become infected and burst, but you were completely fine beforehand, so you're not entirely sure what happened. It was revealed your appendix was already infected before you entered STYX and the mild exposure to the Gates sped it up to the point it was ready to burst.

Idia is about to cringe so hard that he travels dimensions. He wants to fling himself off the edge into the Gates like Vil did. This is his fault because he can't just go to fucking therapy like a normie. No, he had to try to do global genocide.

You calm him down, stating it's not as bad as he's making it out to be. And if anything it kind of helped? your ailment was still bound to happen and instead of it happening on campus with no one really able to help, it happened at a cutting-edge science facility. Plus, he's still there with you, that's what's important.

So Mama Shroud has already added you to the family registry, you get a monthly allowance of 10k, and added to the Shuroud family weekly video calls to check up. Idia can still barely look you in the eyes because what do you MEAN being together is what's important? what kind of fucking friends to lovers ass dialogue choice was that? That was so cringe, you should be embarrassed. He says as he fumbles his words now every time he sees you.

Malleus

All you knew was that something was wrong. Dealing with all of the other's dream shenanigans, you could feel in the back of your mind, your body was trying to alert you to something. You only realize when everything is over and everyone is waking up

You are barely able to open your eyes, your head is pounding and it feels like you have water in your ears. Everyone is concerned, Lilia manages to get them all away so he can look you over himself. Checking behind your head only to feel blood and that your ears are leaking a clear type of fluid. When Malleus put everyone to sleep, you fell and literally bounced your head off of the stone floor of Diasomnia.

He was already embarrassed and ashamed of himself, one for overblotting and now for hurting his dear friend. He pays for you to be taken to a hospital and tended to properly. Visits every day while you sleep and just watches you. Leaves you blessed fruits for a speedy recovery.

Is so relieved once you're on the better side of healed, you look much less corpse-ish and have more pep in your voice again. Apologizes, offers a life debt, swears if you wish it he'll never show his face around you again. His actions nearly got you killed and the longer his overblot lasted the more likely it would have been too late no matter what happened.

Actually starts crying when you tell him the injury doesn't matter to you. That fact your 'dear friend' Tsunotaro is ok is all you need to feel well and at peace. Now there's a dragon in the bed with you, no the doctors can not get him to move. They can work around him.

#twisted wonderland #twst #disney twst #twst wonderland #riddle rosehearts #riddle rosehearts x reader #leona kingscholar #leona x reader #azul ashengrotto #azul x reader #jamil viper #jamil x reader #vil schoenheit #vil x reader #idia shroud #idia x reader #malleus draconia #malleus x reader #requests

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trashytracktales · 7 months ago

Note

Hiii, I’m not sure if your requests are open, but if they are, could you write something with Lando and Reader where they have been dating for just a few weeks, haven’t had sex yet. One day they’re working out together at Lando’s house in Monaco (the room with the mirror from the video I Ate and Trained Like Lando Norris for 24 hours). Reader is doing squats with her back towards the mirror and Lando can’t help but stare at her ass and he gets hard / flustered so he stops from doing his exercise and reader asks him what’s wrong and before he answers she realises he’s horny so she teases him - this time on purpose- and then they fuck in that room on the floor

In the heat of it | LN⁴

💌 REQUESTED by anon ──── Thank you for trusting me enough to bring this to life, it was... something 🥵

🌸 summary ──── They’ve been dating for a few weeks now, but the time was never right for them to get intimate. During a playful workout together, Lando gets caught staring, sparking a moment that leaves them both realizing just how deep their connection actually goes.

🌸 pairing ──── Lando Norris x she/her reader

🌸 rating ──── explicit

🌸 category ──── F/M

🌸 warnings ──── +18, mature/sexual content, fluff & smut, explicit language, unprotected sex, swearing, established relationship, suggestive/flirty behavior.

🌸 word count ──── 3.6k

🌸 date ──── Nov. 12, 2024

IT DOESN’T TAKE long before Lando starts to regret his decision. It would have been much easier to invite his girlfriend to have lunch together. That would have saved him from a constant dry mouth and irregular heartbeat every time he feels her eyes accidentally landing on him.

The smooth floor and sophisticated equipment in his personal gym are softly bathed in the morning sun that seeps through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Monaco’s streets are still peaceful at this hour, considering it’s the middle of the week, and the port is sparkling in the sunlight.

The room usually has a subtle scent of cedar and rubber, fresh and energized, but now it carries a sweet honey scent, borrowed from her presence.

They are already halfway through their warm-up. She’s pulling a resistance band around her thighs, stretching before they dive into the heavier part of their routine, her focus completely on the exercises he’s walked her through. But, of course, a huge part of her focuses on how Lando touches her, purposely, to guide her when her posture doesn’t match the exercise.

Even in simple gym shorts and a T-shirt, Lando somehow manages to look so effortlessly attractive, with his curly hair a little messy, face flushed just enough from their recent sets, and his labored breathing after putting in the effort. He’s all energy, fluid in his movements, though he’s clearly trying to keep his pace casual.

“Lookin’ strong,” he teases, flashing a grin as she adjusts her stance.

The girl shrugs, “I’m just that good at following instructions. Although, I think having one of the best trainers in the area helps, too.”

Lando lets a chuckle out, “I won’t go easy on you just because you kiss-ass. But it’s cute to see you trying.”

Even though they have only been dating for a few weeks, there is an undeniable spark between them two, especially in a setting where every glance and skin-to-skin contact feels amplified by the intensity of their exercises. Her sports outfit leaves no room for interpretations, hugging her curves and defining her lines, and Lando’s imagination is stimulated every time he turns his gaze towards her.

He’s now down on the floor, holding a plank, his core engaged and muscles taut as he fights to hold his body up and spine straight. She’s supposed to be timing him, but the second he shoots her a cheeky grin, she decides she can’t resist a bit of fun; in her defense, he started it. With a simple touch, the seconds freeze on the screen of his phone, then she places it on one of the boxes stored in the corner of the room.

“Hi there,” says the girl in a mellow tone once she sits down in front of him just inches apart, propping herself up on her elbows so her face is level with his.

Lando raises his eyebrows, trying not to laugh as his shoulders shake slightly from the effort of holding his body weight. “Don’t,” he warns her, breath coming in controlled puffs.

“I’m not doing anything,” she smiles innocently, kicking her feet in the air while inching a little closer until her nose almost brushes his.

He laughs at her bad acting, his arms starting to shake a bit more. “Outrageous is what you are.”

She pouts just as Lando dips his head down, managing to steal a playful kiss. Their lips meet briefly, soft and warm, before he pulls back up to maintain his form. It makes her sigh in frustration, the ghost of a kiss not nearly enough for her. If anything, it only leaves her wanting more.

Luckily, he doesn’t pull back when she cups his cheek in her palm, pressing her mouth on his once more, his giggles mixing with hers as he tries to keep his balance. Savoring the feel of his lips and the way Lando grunts softly into the kiss, she can feel that this one is more deeper and slower — much real — making her shiver. It seems as though everything else disappears, the feel of each other reminding them both why they decided to give the relationship a shot in the first place.

“And you are so fun to corrupt,” she admits, finally getting up to give Lando time to recover.

After a few sets, she finally moves on to squats, and Lando follows her positioning herself in front of the mirror. It wasn’t even supposed to be there, but he sometimes uses the gym as a storage room for random packages. This one, specifically, came in the mail a few weeks ago and he didn’t have time to hang it in the hallway, where he initially planned. So, he simply let it rest against the wall in his gym room, and it’s been there ever since, forgotten.

Giving the circumstances, he is seriously thinking of leaving it there for good.

Conveniently, Lando decides that now is the perfect time to start his Russian twists, so he bends over to collect a dumbbell off the floor, then sits down on the yoga mat. Right in front of her.

Unaware of the effect she’s having on him, he watches her go through each squat with his eyes trailing down on the reflection of her ass in the mirror, an intense warmth spreading over him as he tries to focus on his own exercise. It is quite innocent, he’s just respectfully looking, until it isn’t.

Until he feels it in his boxers.

Until he almost drops the dumbbell, which catches her attention.

Lando tries to ignore it, though, to nonchallantly brush it off, telling himself that it’s natural and that he’s just admiring her physical appearance. Anyone in his shoes would do it. However, his thoughts start to wander, images flashing uninvited as his heart rate quickens for reasons far beyond the exercise.

“Are you okay down there, hotshot? What are you fighting?” she asks curiously, raising her head just enough to catch the dazed look on Lando’s face.

Her voice pulls him back, his breath catching for a moment, “Yeah, never better.”

It’s his husky voice that gives it away. Right after, she notices a lingering gaze, and the soft pink creeping across his features as his eyes are fixed ahead. She stops, fixing her posture and straightening her back as she turns to catch his gaze in the mirror. She realizes exactly what’s going on in a matter of seconds, a little grin forming in the corner of her mouth.

“Am I too dictracting, Lando?” she purrs, her question — and the fact that he knows she caught him in act — not helping at all.

“No,” he lies, “But I think you’re killing it with those squats.”

“And if I turn around to finish my set, what then?” she whispers, a challenge glinting in her eyes as she brushes the tip of her tongue against her lower lip.

His breath is shallow the moment he decides to abandon his exercise. “Then you would be killing me,” he admits with no restraints. “So, by any means, proceed. Please.”

She glances over to see Lando lying flat on his back, one arm draped dramatically over his eyes, as if he’s in serious pain. His other hand is splayed over his stomach, fingers tapping a nervous rhythm. It’s still funny to see him like that, but then she notices the way his chest rises and falls a bit too fast, and her eyes drift lower, catching a glimpse of the growing bulge in his shorts, an unmistakable proof of what she’s actually doing to him.

Suddenly, all the amusement disappears from her face, being replaced by a warmth that wraps around her neck that’s slowly rising to her cheeks. Her heart is starting to race, small impulses between her thighs forcing her to close them together.

Swallowing hard, she crosses the small space to kneel beside him, gently pulling his arm away from his eyes. His lashes flicker open, meeting her gaze with a mix of embarrassment and desire. And so much lust.

“How can I help you?” asks Lando, his voice rougher than usual, trying to keep things light, though the hint of vulnerability shows in his eyes, and it’s not that hard to read.

She chuckles nervously, “The question is how can I help you?”

In response, Lando uses the same hand to wrap his fingers around her neck, pulling her in for a kiss. She feels his hand squeezing a little, the other one moving to her waist, hesitating before pulling her completely on top of him, without breaking the kiss. His tongue slips firmly into her mouth, just as it has done so many times before, but now it feels somehow different. Somehow, they both know that the kiss is meant to lead to something much more intense, because there’s nothing stopping them anymore.

In the intimacy of his apartment, without interruption, Lando lowers his hands to her waist, rubbing her against him. Slowly. Repeatedly. The pressure forces them to moan in unison, a brief taste of the pleasure they are about to share. His hands then drop lower, roaming over her thighs, then back down to her ass, cupping it in his large palms.

He breaks away just enough to murmur, his voice low and almost reverent, “That enough of an answer?”

“Positive,” she replies, feeling his breath hitch as she shifts on top of him, straddling his hips, her hands splaying over his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart beneath her fingertips.

Her lips find his again, sweet and intoxicating, each kiss sending sparks to her core. The new position makes her feel him much more firmly between her legs, taking Lando by surprise when her hand lowers to cover his length, massaging him through the thin material of his shorts.

“Fucking hell,” his lips stutter against hers, while rocking his hips into her touch.

“Yeah…” she agrees, breathing hotly above him, “Did I do this to you?”

Before Lando gets a chance to even think of an answer, she slips her hand under the elastic band of his boxers, taking him in her hand, feeling him in his entirety; deliciously soft skin, warm and ready, and so painfully hard.

It makes her ache for him.

She pumps his cock in her hand a few times, enough for her to feel how he shifts under her. It takes her a lot of self-control to stop herself from taking him in her mouth the second she hears his sweet little panting, her thumb rubbing gently over his swollen tip.

The workout itself had left Lando’s muscles burning, but her touch it’s something else entirely, igniting a heat in him that burns deeper than anything he’s felt before. Five more minutes enjoying the same high and he can give up cardio completely. Guaranteed.

Slowly coming back to his senses, Lando realizes that he has free will, so he slips his hands under her sports bra, palming her hungrily until he feels her nipples hardening under his touch. He breaths heavily as he rolls them between his fingers, managing to make her respond with a soft meowl, her grip on his cock losening.

That’s his cue to take the lead, pulling her bra over her head in a quick move, and flipping their bodies over so that now he’s hovering above her, eyes filled with need while looking down at her.

“Hi there,” Lando copies her tone from earlier, feeling a little fraction of the power she had over him.

She wants to talk back so badly — one of her sarcastic little comments that she knows he loves — but all she can do is let out a pathetic whimper between her lips when his mouth finds home on her bare breast. At that, Lando feels a shiver running down his spine, looking up at how she closes her eyes in pleasure, arching her back more against his mouth.

“Driving me insane with your pretty ass, baby,” he says, breathing heavily, managing to cover her body in a thin layer of goosebumps, “And your pretty fucking nipples.”

“Lando…” she lets another cry slip out, opening her eyes to look at him.

The image that greets her makes her breath catch in her throat. The way he sucks on her nipple while playing with the other one, and the way he looks up at her through his eyelashes. It’s all too much. She ends up wrapping her legs around his waist, pulling him down with her. Then she runs her hands down his back, tugging at the edge of his shirt, tossing the useless material carelessly to the floor before pulling him closer for another kiss.

Mouth to mouth, chest to chest, skin on skin — who says heaven isn’t real?

But if that’s heaven, then what can she name the feeling she gets the moment his hand slips into her gym shorts and his fingers brush against her soaked entrance? Because it feels way too fucking good, much better than she expected, and certainly much better than her own hand whenever she pictured his face while fingering herself.

Lando starts slowly, spreading her wetness around her pussy, then fucking his fingers in and out, while cautiously watching her facial expressions changing. It’s not taking him long before finding that sweet, sweet spot that makes her roll her hips into his hand, desperation painted all over her face.

“Lan…,” she starts panting, “That’s—yes, right there.”

He hums proudly, sealing his mouth to hers, while parting her thighs with his knee so he can spread her more in front of him. Feeling herself open to his touch, so easy and wet, he no longer feels self-conscious about the way she’s so quickly tunring him boneless under her gaze. He realizes that the feeling is mutual, and it makes him want her even more.

If that’s even possible.

The sound of his fingers repeatedly fucking into her is all that anchors her in the present moment, but the second Lando feels her squeezing around them, he stops so he can silently ask for her permission to take the last piece of her clothing off.

She nods in a rush, swallowing the lump in her throat in anticipation.

Every inch of her is now bathed in the soft, golden light streaming through the window. Warm shadows are cast along her curves, the light outlining each delicate contour of her body as though the sun itself is painting her in real time. The image is so powerful yet vulnerable as she stands there, her figure glimmering with an almost unearthly serene confidence. Lando is utterly captivated by how ethereal she looks, like a goddess come to life, the kind he never imagined he would be close enough to even touch, let alone enjoy. He feels like he’s witnessing something sacred, something so incredibly rare, and the awe he feels is mixed with gratitude that she’s here with him, letting him see her in a such perfect lighting.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” Lando finally manages to say, hoping that he hasn’t started drooling all over her in the meantime. “All of you.”

“Your turn,” she says in a muffled voice, slightly bashful at the way he stares at her like he wants to devour her. Which is not far from the truth.

He agrees that it’s a fair request, realizing that the only thing separating them now are his own shorts. Without protesting — because that would be so fucking dumb considering how hard he is — Lando gets rid of them with the speed of a perfect qualifying lap.

Matching the same pace, Lando’s hands slide around her waist, his fingers pressing gently into her hips as he guides them both to the side so they can face the window. Or that’s what she thought. Confused at first, she’s frowning at him, then follows his gaze, lost in the direction of their reflection, understanding immediately what he really wants: a show. A show just for them, in which they can lose themselves together, without limits.

She sighs at the sight of their hot, naked bodies, the way he aligns himself with her, and how he’s finally pushing inside, enough to hear her whimper. She watches as he stands above her, his hands gliding slowly over her sides, up her arms, grounding her in his touch. The image of them together, framed in the soft glow of the room, feels surreal, so intimate and vulnerable in a way that’s completely new for both of them.

Lando pauses, pulling out at her little whimper, then pressing back in, but just the tip.

“Fuck, baby,” he whispers, “You’re so fucking wet it keeps slipping out,” adds Lando in a low tone, so turned on that it makes her clench around him.

To her frustration, the speed at which Lando pushes back inside might as well be negative, causing her to explode with how needy she becomes in the meantime. But just as she’s about to encourage him to sink further, he buries himself to the hilt in one powerful thrust.

“Lando,” she says as she wraps her arms around his shoulders, “You… feels so good, shit,” she takes a moment to breath into his skin, then she turns her head to catch their reflection once again.

Lando is already looking, and when they make eye contact through the mirror, he starts fucking her slowly and gently, as if he could break her.

“See how silly you look for thinking we won’t match?” he sounds so amazed by how easily she opens up for him, over and over again, with each steady thrust of his hips, “See that? Taking all of me so well, baby.”

“Mhm,” she cries out at the way his cock throbs against her walls, because she knows it’s way too slow, even for him.

It’s simply agonizing.

“So perfect around me,” he states, “Can’t believe I lasted that long. Should’ve fucked you from the first night.”

At this point, he’s just rambling, but the thought makes her stomach tie in a knot.

“You would’ve let me, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes,” she speaks, already drunk on the way he feels inside her, “I would have let you fuck me in the plane bathroom, on the way to Imola. And back in your driver’s room, when Oscar caught us kissing. And last week, outside the club. Fuck. I wanted you to fuck me there so bad.”

His mind goes blank with all the lost opportunities, causing him to gradually increase his pace, the sound of them connecting so obscene.

“Wh—” he almost chokes on words, “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“You… stressed about work. I didn’t want to be… distraction,” she tightens her legs around him, keeping him inside her, the words losing their meaning as Lando shifts his position, wrapping his arm around her thigh to open her up even more for him. “Oh. Yes, like that!”

“Fuck, you’re so tight,” he swallows hard as he squeezes roughly at her thighs. “I’m so close.”

She knows that will leave marks on her skin, but nothing beats the pleasure of having Lando fucking himself so deep inside her, that her vision starts clouding.

All common sense went out the window the moment she stepped through his door, anyway.

She can feel his breath warm against her neck, hear the soft hitch in his breathing as he leans in, his lips brushing her shoulder, never breaking eye contact with her in the mirror. Lando’s hands are making their way to cup her ass, pulling out all the way, before fucking back in, all over again, until he finds the perfect rhythm between their bodies. He moans loudly, pressing his upper body on her, their scents blending together and sweat transferring from skin to skin. They move so in sync, completely attuned to each other, and the sight of their shared pleasure, reflected back at them, turns everything into fireworks, her mind completely empty. Except for how well she’s being fucked.

“Lan—Lando,” she’s so close to sobbing that she shuts her mouth at the sound of her voice, thinking it’s too pathetic to whine as she cums around him, her release dripping all over between their bodies.

The wet sound her pussy makes gives Lando way to fuck in deeper, taken by surprise that she finished without any warnings whatsoever. He grips her ass one more time before he stills inside her, his cock throbbing, and pulls out right before he starts leaking, resting his cock against her thigh, his entire length coated in her release. His cum drips from his tip to her inner thigh, making him groan while he fixes his gaze on the mirror at the image of them.

She buries her fingers in his curls after he finally collapses on top of her, their heavy breaths echoing throughout the room. With his head on her chest, he can feel her heart racing, gradually slowing down, and lets out a soft laugh as she shifts a little under him.

“We’re so fucking matching, baby. Let’s gooo!” exclaims Lando, exhaust evident in his voice.

She feels her cheeks warm, “I think you’re a little biased right now,” she jokes.

Lando shifts slightly so he can see her face, brushing a thumb tenderly along her side. He smiles softly, the usual spark in his eyes softened by something deeper, so gentle. “I’m just so happy for us.”

Her heart flutters, and she feels him sink even closer to her, threading his fingers through hers.

“And very sweaty,” she adds with a chuckle.

“Nah, I’m pretty sure that’s you,” he teases, letting the moment pass slowly, then calling out her name in a serious voice.

“Mhm?” she hums while turning to look in the mirror, watching him getting comfortable on top of her.

“Where do we go from here?” asks Lando.

“Your bedroom, I hope. The floor is killing my back.”

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ MASTERLIST . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

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whocaresstillthelouvre · 10 days ago

Text

Chapter 3: Steps

Pairing: Jackson Joel Miller x Doctor Female Reader Chapter Rating: T. Chapter Summary: You've been preparing him for this moment for weeks. The exercises you help him through, strengthening his legs, rebuilding his muscles that had begun to weaken during his bedridden days. He’s been determined to regain what was taken from him, no matter how much it hurts. Chapter Warnings: HEAVY SPOILERS FOR S2E2, FIX IT FIC, pov switching, joel survives abby's encounter, injuries, healing, domesticity in the apocalypse, joel teaches you wood carving, first steps, maria seeing things before everyone else, beard trimming, so much pining and yearning (promise it pays off next chapter) Words: 4,030

A/N: It's been SO HARD staying away from smut, but the slow burn has been so fun. Though, I'm not giving too much away for next chapter.... the rating WILL turn to E. Thank you to @mothandpidgeon, @schnarfer, and @for-a-longlongtime for all of their help and plotting.

Healed Masterlist AO3 Link Masterlist

Previous Chapter

—-

He wonders how it happened. Why he survived. Why he was saved.

How, out of all the people in the apocalypse, you were the one fate chose to pull him back from the dead.

How you’ve become more than just his doctor.

How the lines between caretaker and something else have begun to blur beyond recognition.

The questions circle endlessly through his mind. Questions too large for him to hold.

He settles himself the only way he knows how to now. By looking at you.

You’re sleeping in the recliner, the same chair he used to rock alone in and wonder just how silent his life could stay, once Ellie moved to the garage. He tries to look away from you, but you look too peaceful to ignore. Your breaths come out in small puffs between your slightly parted lips, your features softened as you’re unburdened now by the weight of keeping him alive.

He thinks he’s only here because of you.

Because you never gave up.

Because you heal him every day, piece by piece.

—-

Everything feels more alive as Joel’s health improves. The days seem brighter, the sunlight shining in through the windows stretches farther across the floors, as if the beams are following his progress.

You’re learning more about him every day, as he gets better. He’s a contradiction. His gruff, sometimes intimidating exterior is a shell that holds in his gentle ways.

There’s been a constant low thrum of tenseness since the bathing incident, neither of you have mentioned it—but there is a new kind of awareness between you.

There’s now a familiar sound of Joel’s wheelchair gliding across the hardwood as he masters navigating his home with it.

As expected, there are hiccups.

You’re in the kitchen, peeling potatoes for dinner, when a loud crash of ceramic shattering across the floor makes you jump.

“God damnit,” Joel growls from the living room.

He’s there, gritting his teeth and shaking his head as he surveys the broken lamp on the floor.

You immediately spring into action, doing what you’ve been doing for the last few months, fixing his problems. The broken lamp is quickly swept up as you reassure Joel it’s not a big deal, things like this are going to happen.

He gives you a look of understanding and acceptance, before telling you “thank you” in a low voice that sends goosebumps across your body.

Soon, Joel spends all evening in the dining room where Tommy has set up a small workshop for him to pass the time. Tiny animal figures line the tabletop, some as small as a few inches.

He sits in his wheelchair at the table, leaning forward and focused, holding a small knife, his large hands guiding the blade over a piece of pine. Wood shavings pile on the tabletop. His brows are furrowed in concentration, eyes narrowed and focused behind his reading glasses as he turns the small block of wood.

You've been watching him from your chair in the living room, too fascinated by this side of him to look away. You find yourself watching him a lot, not just to make sure he’s doing okay, but because you can’t help yourself. There’s something that mesmerizes you… The way his calloused hands move with such confidence and precision despite their size.

"What are you making?" you finally ask, getting up and moving closer to see the small sculpture taking shape in his hands.

Joel looks up his glasses perched on the end of his nose, as he turns the wood over in his palm, examining it.

"Bear," he rumbles.

“He’s so tiny. You’re really good at that.”

Joel shrugs, thumbing away a splinter. "Used to do it a lot. Before..." He doesn't finish the sentence. He doesn't need to. Before. Before the attack. Before you saved his life. Before everything changed.

"Can I watch?" you ask.

He nods, gesturing to the chair beside him. You pull it closer, sitting close enough to feel the heat radiating off of his body, to smell the scent of pine and cinnamon, and something distinctly Joel.

You lean even closer and watch as Joel's hands move, the knife peeling away thin layers of wood to reveal the features of the bear.

His eyes flick up to yours, then back to his work. His knife pauses mid-stroke. "Want to try?"

The offer catches you off guard. Joel Miller, who bristles at help, who growls at vulnerability, is offering to teach you something.

"Sure.”

He pulls out another piece of wood and a small knife from a storage box next to him. Tommy must have brought his entire collection down from upstairs. Joel places them on the table, sliding them toward you.

"Here. Start with something simple. Maybe a duck."

“Oookay,” you sigh, turning the wood in your hand, unsure where to begin.

"Think of the shape, and just start. Like this," Joel instructs, demonstrating on his bear. "Always cut with the grain and keep your fingers clear of the blade."

Your blade catches the wood on your first cut. You try again, cutting against the grain, your knife skidding across the wood.

Joel watches, letting you try and fail a few times before he sets his bear down. "Here," he says, leaning a bit closer. "Let me show you."

His hand covers yours. He’s so warm. You can feel the strength in his fingers as he positions your hands on the knife.

"Hold it like this," he says. He’s so close you can feel his breath against your ear. "Thumb here, against the handle for control."

You have to tell yourself to breathe as Joel adjusts your grip. His other hand covers yours on the wood, angling it for you.

“Be gentle," he guides your hand, helping you make a smooth cut along the block of wood. "See? Let the knife do the work."

You nod, finding it difficult to speak. His hand guides yours in a slow, smooth motion, and a curl of wood peels away.

"Good," he praises when you make a particularly nice cut. "You're getting it."

He doesn't pull away. He leans in closer, watching you work. Your whole body is heating under his attention and closeness, but you focus on carving, holding the wood tight with as steady of hands as you can muster.

“Now,” he rumbles next to you, removing his hands from yours. “Try on your own.”

Curled and thin wood shavings gather on the table. Joel leans back, watching you with the almost-smile of his you’ve been seeing more often.

Soon, a shape resembling a duck begins to take shape thanks to Joel's occasional instructions.

He hums an approving noise. "Took me months to get cuts that clean. You're good with your hands.”

“I’d hope so,” you reply, without looking up from your duck. “I have to be. I'm a surgeon, remember?"

The sound that comes from Joel startles you—a chuckle. It’s the first time you’ve actually heard him laugh.

"Keep going," he says softly, nodding toward your carving. "You're doing good."

A comfortable silence settles between you and Joel as you both work together. Occasionally, he glances over, giving you a nod of approval. When you’re all done, something resembling a duck sits on the table amongst his lineup of carved animals.

"Not bad for your first try,” he admires.

You snort, trying to keep your smile at bay. “You don’t have to be so nice.”

“No, really,” he says. “Pretty good for your first try.”

“I guess I owe you, I’ll have to teach you knitting now.”

He turns and looks at you, his brown eyes staring into yours. “You’ve already done enough for me.”

Not nearly enough you think to yourself, as you feel the tension settle heavily between you.

—-

As the cherry blossom tree outside trades its petals for leaves, Joel’s ready to walk again.

You've been preparing him for this moment for weeks. The exercises you help him through, strengthening his legs, rebuilding his muscles that had begun to weaken during his bedridden days. He’s been determined to regain what was taken from him, no matter how much it hurts.

All for these first real steps.

"Remember," you say, handing him the cane. "We're not rushing this. If it’s too much, we stop and try again tomorrow."

To hell with that.

He’s tired of not being able to help, of not being able to shoulder some of the burden of his injuries.

He’s ready.

Now, he sits on the edge of his recliner, knuckles white around the handle of the cane.

Joel grips the cane tightly. Too tightly. He lifts himself from the chair, fighting a rough sound tearing from his throat, his body trembling as he balances on his good leg.

He hates this. Hates the struggle, hates the slow progress, hates the way you hover in case he falls. Most of all, he hates the weakness. But you, he looks at you, your eyes wide, a proud smile lifting your lips. He wants to make you proud. He wants all of your efforts to be worth it. He wants to be worthy of your pride.

He takes a deep breath, his chest rising with the effort of it, then forces his left foot to move. It barely moves, but it’s just enough to send a spike of pain through his leg. His whole body protests. His knees almost buckle under the stress, making him stumble.

You’re there instantly, reaching out and helping him stabilize himself before he falls. He’s grateful for your help, but the embarrassment and frustration escape before he can stop it.

“Don’t need help,” he grunts.

You ignore him, like you always do.

"Again," he says, shrugging off your hands as soon as he's stable.

"Maybe rest a minute—"

"Again," he repeats, more firmly this time. "I've had months of rest."

His second attempt goes better. He manages three steps before needing to rest. You stay beside him, hands hovering just inches from his back, ready to support but not interfere.

"Good," you encourage. "That's it."

He’s going to make you proud, he’s going to prove to you that all of your care and dedication have paid off. It’s what gets him halfway across the room before his strength dissipates. When his balance begins to falter again, he reaches for you on his own this time, his hand gripping your forearm as he steadies himself.

“I got you,” you comfort. He doesn’t know why his heart is racing, if it’s from moving so much for the first time in months, or the way your hand runs up and down his back soothing him.

And then, he pushes off and moves again, all the way across the living room, your voice cooing soft words of encouragement to him, giving him the strength he needs.

With only five steps, he can be at the kitchen table. He pauses, breathing heavily. He’s exhausted and sweaty, but his eyes remain fixed on his destination. With a final surge of determination, he covers the remaining distance.

His free hand grips the back of a kitchen chair. Made it.

He sways slightly, catching his breath before collapsing into the chair with a deep exhale.

“Joel,” you say, a huge grin lighting your face, "you did amazing.”

He knows now why his heart is shattering against his chest… it’s all because of you. He’s made you proud, he wants to make you prouder.

"Tomorrow,” he says. “We go further.”

—-

Joel keeps his word, and he goes further every day. He moves, then rests. Moves, then rests. And so it goes.

With each new day, he adds a few more steps to his count. Always, you’re there with him, ready to help if he stumbles, yet still allowing him the dignity of trying on his own.

He struggles some days, breathing hard, stopping and resting his weight against the wall or a chair. Sometimes you notice him glancing towards you, taking in your reaction, his breathing evening whenever he sees your encouraging smile.

You fall into a familiar routine.

In the morning, you stretch his tired limbs, helping him build his muscles.

During the day, he moves as much as he can before it’s too much for him to stand. You help him settle into his bed, rubbing salve all over his aching limbs, trying hard to ignore the sound of his soft grunts before he takes a nap, letting his body and mind recover.

Lonesome Dove sits unfinished on the table next to the recliner you sleep in. Now, your evenings are spent together differently, both of you in the dining room at the table across from each other as you knit and he whittles.

You look forward to it. The companionship. Sometimes you talk, other times it’s silent, save for the sound of his knife against the wood and your needles clicking against one another.

It’s all so domestic, so comforting.

It’s all beginning to feel like Joel’s more than just your patient.

—-

“So,” Maria begins, combing through Joel’s hair with gentle fingers, “how are things going with you and your doctor?”

He shifts uncomfortably in the dining chair she’s placed in the center of the living room. A towel drapes his shoulders, snippets of his hair falling onto it with each clip of her scissors.

“Hm?” he grunts, trying to calm his racing heart at the thought of you being called his.

“Tommy says you’re getting stronger every day. My guess is she can move out soon.”

He tries to hide the tenseness that overcomes him.

"Move out?" The words come out sharper than he intended.

Maria's hands pause in his hair. "I mean, she's been here for months. I figured once you're mobile enough..."

Joel swallows, his throat suddenly dry. "Right."

He hadn't considered it. Hadn't let himself think about what happens after he heals. About an empty house again. About waking up without the sound of your soft humming from the kitchen, or evenings without you sitting across the table from him.

Maria resumes cutting, her voice careful. "Unless you want her to stay?"

He doesn't answer; his silence says enough.

“Joel,” she sighs. “You’re allowed to want things. To have things.”

Before he can even respond, the front door swings open, you’re lit by the bright afternoon light shining in, holding a small tote with a wide smile across your face.

“I traded a scarf for a steak!” you exclaim proudly as you make your way to the kitchen. “Biscuits and steak for dinner tonight?”

A scarf. You created something, and here you are trading it for a steak—something he can’t remember having in ages. All just for him. He wants to tell you that you didn’t have to do that, but he knows the look you’d give him. He knows you’d insist, because that’s the type of person you are.

Joel nods. “That sounds great,” his voice cracks at the end, torn between gratitude and guilt.

“Good,” you pause. “I’ll go tell Ellie, and we’ll celebrate you getting all cleaned up. Leave the chair there, I’ll trim your beard once I get the biscuit dough made.”

The smile you send him makes his heart race even faster.

He can feel Maria’s shrewd, knowing eyes flicking between him and you before she goes back to cutting his hair.

“Or she can just stay here with you,” she murmurs just loud enough for him to hear.

—-

"Comfortable?" you ask, draping the towel around Joel’s shoulders.

He nods, his brown eyes following you as you pick up the scissors. Maria’s haircut has already done wonders for him, his dark, salt and peppered waves now sit just above the collar of his cream colored button up.

“Ready?”

Joel nods. His long, scraggly beard with wiry white hairs has become unruly. Despite your combing and applying oil, it's grown into too much of a tangled mess during his recovery.

"Going to trim it first. Then shave. How do you want it?"

"Used to keep it trimmed. Not this wild."

"Like in Ellie's drawing?” you ask, tilting your head towards the fireplace.

His face softens when he looks over at the paper propped up on the mantle. "Yeah. Like that."

You nod and step closer, positioning yourself between his spread knees. All of a sudden, the living room feels too small and intimate, as you quickly realize just how close you are to Joel. You've been this close to him countless times during his recovery—changing bandages, helping him bathe, supporting him as he gained his strength—but this time it feels different. More deliberate.

"Tilt your head back.” Your fingers gently tilt his chin, positioning his head before you make your first cut.

Dark brown and silver clippings fall onto the towel and floor as you work the scissors around his face, slowly revealing his handsome face beneath the tangled wilderness of his beard.

Soon, his beard is trimmed to just a few inches long. You step back, trying not to let Joel see the way your breath catches as you take in just how handsome he is beneath all that hair.

“How’s it look?” he asks.

"G-good,” you say so low it’s almost to yourself. “I mean, a lot better. I can actually see you now.”

His brown eyes darken as they stare into yours. You clear your throat and reach for the small bowl of shaving soap you made earlier.

“I made this soap to help your skin,” you say, trying to focus on anything else besides the intensity of his gaze. “It’s made from aloe and yarrow.”

“You didn’t have to do that, I don’t need anything fancy like that.” “Your skin does,” you counter, dipping your fingers into the soap. “It’s been through enough.”

You try to hide your trembling fingers as you begin to lather the soap over his face.

Alive and vital. His pulse beats steadily against your fingertips as they glide across his warm skin. It still amazes you after seeing him so close to death.

Joel's eyes flutter closed as your fingers move through what’s left of his beard, massaging the soap against his skin.

“Feel good?” you ask.

"Hmm," is his only response, a low rumble you feel more than hear.

You rub the soap into his skin slowly, stretching out your time to be able to touch him so freely while also letting Joel melt under your touch.

“I’m going to shave you now, okay?” you say quietly as you wipe your hands on the towel.

"Hmm," he hums again, fluttering his eyes open and sitting up straighter.

You reach for the straight razor Tommy sharpened for you on the side table.

“You’re going to need to hold very still for me,” you say, your voice soft. “I don’t want to nick you.”

“Right.”

You work carefully, gently pulling the skin taut with one hand while the other guides the blade in short strokes.

You’re so focused on the razor scraping through the soap and hair, that you don’t notice how close you’re leaning in. You don’t notice the way Joel’s openly watching you, studying you, and the way you’re biting your lip as you concentrate.

The sharp line of his jaw is slowly revealed to you. God, he’s handsome.

As you work, Joel remains perfectly still, following every instruction you lowly tell him to do.

"Almost done," you tell him, wiping excess soap from his cheek with a damp cloth.

Just a couple more swipes of the razor against his skin, and the Joel Miller from before the attack is revealed to you. The neatly trimmed beard now frames his face perfectly, lining his strong jaw. You knew he was good-looking, but he truly is otherworldly. He might just be the most gorgeous man you’ve ever seen.

You swipe away the last remnants of the soap with your thumb, wanting to feel his skin against your fingertips for just a little while more.

"There," you whisper, still closely hovering over him. "Much better."

For a moment, you both remain perfectly still. His eyes lock with yours, before they drop to your lips, then back up to meet your gaze. “Thank you,” he says. His mouth is so close to your skin, you can feel his words.

You nod. "You're welcome," you reply, your voice barely above a whisper. The tension is too much for you to take, finally, you pull away, and hand Joel his cane. “Why don’t you go take a look in the mirror and rinse your face off while I clean up?”

—-

He swears you can do it all. You’re a marvel. He can’t stop feeling his smooth skin. Sure, there are now a couple ridges from the new scars that lay across his face, but he’s almost forgotten what his skin felt like underneath everything. He feels so much lighter.

Once again, you’ve helped unburden him.

You’re in the kitchen, humming while you prepare dinner. Sometimes you’ll peek your head out to check on him, as he rests in the recliner with a book in his hand. Honestly, he hasn’t read a word. He’s far too busy remembering the feel of your touch against his skin, the way you bit your lip as you concentrated, how low your voice would get as you’d tell him how to move.

Seems these days all he can think of is you.

He’s so deep in thought that he nearly jumps when the front door swings open, breaking him from his reverie. Ellie breezes in, throwing her jacket haphazardly against the coat rack before she even looks at Joel.

When she does, her eyes go wide, her mouth falls open as she takes in his freshly shaved face and haircut.

“Oh shit,” she breathes. “You almost look like you.”

“Thanks, I reckon,” he replies.

You step into the living room, wiping your hands with a towel. The whole house smells delicious, he can tell you’ve been hard at work in the kitchen.

“Oh good, Ellie, you’re here just in time,” you greet. “Dinner’s almost ready. Why don’t you set the table for us?”

Ellie follows you into the kitchen without a word.

From his chair, he can hear the two of you laughing and talking. A warmth spreads through his heart at how you’re slowly making parts of his life a part of yours. It’s a feeling he never thought he’d allow himself to want, and yet, here he is, smiling to himself as he hears Ellie’s indisputable giggle floating through the house.

“Joel!” Ellie calls out from the kitchen, "Dinner’s ready!”

He stands, running a hand through his hair that he’s taken the time to slick back before he grabs his cane, pushing himself up before moving to the kitchen. He’s getting better and better every day with it.

When he walks into the kitchen, you glance over your shoulder at him, checking to see if he needs any help, but he doesn’t. It’s hard to focus on each step as he watches you do such a simple act as brushing butter on top of biscuits. He can’t imagine not having you share this home with him.

He takes a seat at the table, resting the cane against the wall. His mouth is watering, he’s not sure if it’s from the food or watching you move around the kitchen.

Ellie plops down in the chair next to him, her eyes surveying the steak, peas, and mashed potatoes on the table.

He can’t keep his eyes off of you as you bring over a basket filled with golden biscuits. You give him a shy smile as you sit across from him.

He looks at Ellie and then back at you, realizing just how much at home he feels right now, right here.

The thought hits him then, as he sits with the two people who make him feel the most at home.

He wants you to stay… especially when you pick up a biscuit, breaking it open with your delicate fingers that he just felt against his skin. He tries hard to look away, but he can’t. You bring it to your lips, eyes fluttering closed when you take the first bite.

“Mmm,” you sigh, humming with satisfaction.

His posture stiffens as you enjoy such a simple pleasure—a biscuit. He swallows hard at the thought of making you moan like that.

He needs you to stay.

Next Chapter

—-

A/N: My taglist has grown too large. Please follow @whocaresposted and turn on notifications to be alerted about new chapters!

My perma tags: @forspringcleaning, @schnarfer, @mothandpidgeon

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kingkaisen · 1 year ago

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♡ — SUMMARY: gojo wants to secretly hook up with you although you’re his rival, as well as a teacher and sorcerer from the sister-school in kyoto.

♡ — CONTENT: 18+ only || mdni — smut, outdoor, fingering, stroking, bickering, oral m! receiving, & fluff.

♡ — WC: 2.3K

♡ — A/N: I would let this man rob me btw (:

“If we’re going to fuck, we better do it now.”

“Hush, Satoru! That’s not appropriate.”

“And why not?”

Satoru’s lips were pressed against your ear as he spoke. Those large hands of his — which were previously in his pocket — snaked around your body, and he grabbed your ass with little care regarding who might have seen him.

“I know you want to. Don’t we always fuck before the exchange event? Why so shy this year?”

Slowly, the white-haired man trailed his lips down your neck, leaving soft, gentle kisses.

“Because,” you mumbled. “I think it’s bad luck. My school’s competing against yours. Our students are gonna fight each other, and yet, their teachers have the nerve to fuck in secret? It’s disgraceful.”

A smile spread across Satoru’s gorgeous face, and he simply ignored your words.

After all, you said the same thing every year; you would go on and on about how much trouble you both could get into with the higher-ups for engaging in sexual activities with one another.

You were both honorable teachers, both from different schools — you worked at the sister-school in Kyoto, whereas Satoru worked for the school in Tokyo.

Not only that, but you were both in an unofficial competition with each other. Not only were you both hoping for your students to win each year, but you wanted to outdo each other as well.

Strength meant nothing in the hands of someone irresponsible and lazy — that was your belief, at least.

And Satoru believed that being too responsible and overworked was no way to live.

So, all year long, you’d keep track of how well your students were doing, how many curses you both exercised, and who attended the most meetings — and who showed up on time.

But, eventually, competing against your natural-born rival started to become a bore.

That was when the fucking started.

Whenever the exchange event rolled around annually, you and Satoru would find a secluded place on campus to be together before the event officially started.

You only saw each other once a year, too. No more, no less.

Just one little hookup in a random storage closet — or bathroom, or empty classroom — and never again until next year.

And, like clockwork, pitiful whines and groans would fall from your lips as you’d ramble about how wrong it was, and yet, an hour later, you’d be the one riding his dick and begging for more.

“Hush, and let’s go already. We only get to do this once a year, so quit wasting time,” Satoru pressed a kiss against your jaw. “Are you being so whiny because my students won last year? Is that it? And you think it’s because you let me cum inside of-”

“Satoru!” Your eyes widened a bit as you interrupted his filthy words. “Someone’s gonna hear you, and then we’ll both-”

Suddenly, Satoru covered your mouth with his hand.

“Shut up,” he said playfully.

Once again, Satoru’s lips returned to the sweet skin on your neck, and he started to softly suck, moaning as he did so.

His tongue graced a sensitive spot right below your jaw. When he focused his attention right there, sucking in one spot instead of trailing his mouth up and down the length of your neck, you couldn’t help but moan.

It was muffled thanks to his hand, of course, but even so, feeling your warm breath against his hand made him suck even harder until a hickey formed — one you’d complain about trying to hide later on.

Satoru’s other hand started to play with the button on your pants. He didn’t care if you were both outside, standing underneath a tree, risking your careers and reputations.

First, he played with the top of your underwear, refusing to lower his hand to the spot where you really needed him.

You groaned in frustration.

With a cocky smile, Satoru removed his hand from your mouth and said, “Something wrong?”

“We don’t have time for you to tease me like this. If you’re going to do something, get on with it already.”

“Really? Now you wanna rush me?” He started to dip his fingers into your underwear. “I don’t think a needy brat like you has the right to order me around. I’ll listen to you when your curse kill count is as high as mine. Until then, I’m gonna do whatever I want with you whenever I want to.”

You wanted to snap at him, toss out some sort of witty remark, but as soon as Satoru spoke those aggravating words, his long fingers suddenly — or, rather, finally — made their way to your awaiting clit.

He held your pussy lips open with his fingers, and slowly, he drew circles around your sensitive button.

Moaning softly, you gripped his arm. He couldn’t help but smash his lips against yours. You were just too cute.

He increased the speed at which he rubbed your clit. Your moans grew louder even though they were muffled by Satoru’s tongue swirling around yours.

The white-haired man pulled away with a soft moan falling from between his buttery lips.

“Tell me,” he paused. “Do you think you’ll be exiled from the jujutsu sorcerer society if they catch us?”

“Of course, I will,” you frowned. “And you will too.”

“Probably, but that wouldn’t be so bad, would it?” Satoru gripped your hair and pressed his lips against your ear. “I can take care of you, sweetheart. I doubt the higher-ups will miss having a weak sorcerer like you around anyway.”

“Go to hell.”

Satoru laughed a bit. He softly licked your ear, and the little noise that erupted from your throat made his heart skip a beat.

He was well aware that he was falling in love with you; there was nothing he could do about it.

“I’m just messing around, calm down,” he said.

“You’re being rude,” your frown deepened, and Satoru kissed your cheek.

“I’m sorry,” he dragged his fingers from your clit to your hole. “Let me make it up to you, okay?”

Slowly, he pushed two fingers in. The loud, unholy moan he elicited from you made you cover your mouth with your own hand and glance around in search of any prying eyes.

“Relax. No one’s around, I promise.” Satoru tried to sound calm and collected, but truth be told, your juices were soaking his fingers as he pumped them in and out of you.

Your uncontrollable moans made his dick harden against the fabric of his pants.

You were driving him crazy.

He pressed his clothed cock against your body, needing to feel something — anything — and he started to grind against your side.

It was funny. How desperate he was to fuck you. Touch your body in any sort of way.

And yet, he also wanted more.

Not in terms of you riding his cock or letting him lick at your clit — all of which he enjoyed, of course — but he also desired other things as well.

Some nights, after stroking his cock underneath his bedsheets as he thought about your annual hookup, he’d roll over onto his side, lay his head against his pillow, and daydream about what it would be like to go on a little date with you to a local coffee shop, and sip on lattes and cappuccinos while complaining about the stale pastries and getting to know each other.

Or, as he drifted off to sleep, he’d think about going to watch that brand new movie hitting the theaters that weekend with you. Two sodas. One bucket of popcorn to be shared. He’d let you hold it and cover it with as much salty butter as you wanted.

He thought about all the other things too. Not your curse kill count or the rankings of your students, but what your favorite color might have been, or if you liked to shower at night or in the morning. If you enjoyed the rain. What career path you would have taken if curses didn’t exist.

He wanted to know it all, but he couldn’t.

Because those details were only shared between lovers, not rivals with benefits.

“Wait,” you suddenly said.

Sliding your hand in between your bodies, you cupped Gojo’s dick through his pants, and slowly, you rubbed your fingers and palm over his bulge.

“Shit,” he groaned softly.

Satoru increased his fingering speed, curling those long fingers of his just right.

You put your hand down his pants.

Feeling your soft fingertips against his actual dick made Satoru gasp in pleasure, and when you started to stroke him — god, was he ready to cum into his own pants.

“We’re having a little competition right now, huh? See who cums first?” Satoru said breathlessly.

“Not . . . fair,” you paused, as his fingering technique was starting to take away your ability to think properly enough to form coherent sentences. You could only think about cumming all over his fingers. “You had a head start.”

“Speaking of head,” Satoru paused — he could hardly catch his breath. “If I win and I make you cum first, how about you get on your knees for me and suck my cock?”

Naturally, if you won, he’d eat you out until his mouth and tongue would never forget the taste of you, but truth be told, you were both winning either way.

At this point, you could barely focus on what the man was saying. No words fell from between your lips, only soft moans.

The rhythm in which you stroked Satoru’s cock had started to grow sloppy, while your thighs had begun to shake.

“Damn it, I’m-” you were interrupted by Satoru kissing you once again.

He couldn’t explain it, but he loved having his tongue down your throat whenever you’d cum, giving himself the privilege of swallowing every single beautiful noise you made.

Satoru fingered you roughly and deliciously as you moaned into his mouth. As you came all over his hand, he sucked on your tongue before pulling away.

Pulling his fingers out of you, Satoru raised his soaked hand to his mouth and licked them off.

“That’s nasty,” you glanced away shyly.

“You just don’t know how good you taste,” he started to pull down his pants. “I’m kinda sad that I won because your pussy is just fucking delicious. Now get on your knees.”

You lowered yourself onto the grass. As Satoru gripped your head and started to thrust in and out of your warm mouth, he tossed his head back, moaning.

He wanted to fuck your throat for hours and hours, cum into your mouth repeatedly until his body was incapable of producing anymore. Then, he would eat your pussy for as long as he could before fucking you in every position he could think of.

That’s what he wanted.

But he couldn’t.

You were both already running late. Everyone else must have been waiting in the spectating room for you both to arrive.

With that knowledge, he bucked his hips wildly, chasing his own release as soon as possible.

“I’m gonna cum, baby,” He moaned. “Swallow all of it for me . . . every last drop.”

His heavy load sprayed down your throat as if it belonged there, and the sound of Satoru’s lovely moans eased any difficulty you might have had with swallowing it all. To hear him make those noises, even if he was your rival, made you also wish that you could stay on your knees and suck his cock for hours.

Unfortunately, all good things must come to an end, and he pulled his dick out of your mouth and helped you onto your feet.

“I’m afraid that’s all the time we have this year,” you said, wiping off your lips with the back of your hand. “It’s been fun.”

You gave him a pleasant smile, signaling your goodbye, and turned away, getting ready to head to the spectating room and watch the exchange event.

Satoru would surely join you in a few minutes — arriving separately would ease any suspicions — and afterward, you’d both pretend that your relationship amounted to nothing except professional, friendly competition.

Satoru suddenly wrapped his hand around your wrist, halting your footsteps.

“Wait,” he said. His tone was rather serious.

You turned around, looking into his eyes, and staring back at you was a look of complete nervousness; it was an expression that you had never seen grace Satoru’s face.

“What’s wrong?” You questioned. “We’re going to be late.”

“I was just thinking . . .” His eyes flicked down to his feet, then back up at you. His cheeks were turning pink.

At that moment, you realized that despite his outrageously big ego, handsome appearance, incredible power, and sinful dirty talk, Satoru Gojo was shy.

“There’s no reason why we should only see each other once a year.”

“Hm?” You raised your eyebrows. “You wanna hook up more often than that? Won’t that raise the risk of getting caught?”

“Yes-well, no . . . I mean, I don’t really care what we do, I just wanna see you.” Satoru paused. “There’s no written rule that says two teachers from the sister schools can’t date or hook up. Maybe we’d get in trouble for doing it during the exchange event, but if we went to the cafe down the street together around noon this Saturday, I think it’ll be fine.”

“You want to go out with me?” You gave him a look of surprise, but then, the corners of your lips fell into a frown as you furrowed your brows. “This isn’t a prank, is it?”

“No, not a prank. I’m being serious.”

You slowly started to smile. At the sight of your pretty grin, Satoru smiled as well.

“I’d love to,” you said.

Satoru’s heart skipped a beat. His grin widened as he cleared his throat, attempting to keep his cool and failing miserably.

“Okay . . . okay, great. Well . . . you better start heading back. I’ll come in after you.”

With a nod, you walked off.

Satoru fell back against the nearby tree, pressing his hand to his head as his heart pounded and fluttered.

Nothing could wipe that grin off of his face, nor wash away that rose pink color decorating his cheeks.

#jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk smut #jujutsu kaisen x reader smut #jjk x reader smut #jjk gojo smut #satoru gojo smut #satoru x reader #satoru x reader smut #gojo x reader #gojo smut #gojo x reader smut #satoru gojo x reader smut #jjk fic #gojo fic #tw smut #tw sex mention #cw smut #cw sex mention

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4theitgirls · 1 year ago

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a beginners guide to pilates

🎀 what is pilates?

pilates is a form of strength training exercise that focuses on low to medium impact movements to improve muscle tone, stability, endurance, and mobility. pilates also focuses more on the smaller muscles of the body compared to traditional strength or weight training.

🎀 benefits of pilates

including the benefits that exercise generally brings, pilates:

improves mind-body connection and body control

improves active flexibility and mobility

works the core, improving stability

improves coordination and balance

reduces mental and physical stress

works muscles that can be neglected in our daily lives

treats and prevents body pain, including menstrual pain

teaches you how to pair your breath with your body

keeps the joints healthy without putting pressure on them

🎀 where to start

while you can absolutely start with studio or reformer classes, you can also do pilates routines on youtube! i recommend move with nicole and dansique fitness. if you want to get your cardio in as well, i absolutely recommend eleni fit. her workouts are some of the best i’ve ever tried!

🎀 personal tips

keep your core in mind. core strength is a major benefit of pilates because each movement requires at least a mild amount of core work to keep your body stable, so do your best to keep the engagement throughout.

start slow. pilates movements can take a while to fully understand and it can take a while to build the mind-body connection, so don’t push yourself too far in the beginning. your coordination will improve over time!

don’t underestimate it! while the movements are generally slower than other types of exercise, you will work your muscles just as much and in a way they may not have been worked before. sometimes i even find pilates more difficult than hiit or weights!

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becomingthatgirl111 · 2 months ago

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Definitive Guide to Stop Checking Your Phone Compulsively

1. Set Specific Check-in Times – Limit phone checks to designated times, like after a relaxing activity or during breaks.

2. Keep Your Mind Busy – Engage in activities like reading, exercising, listening to music, or creative hobbies.

3. Practice Mindfulness & Breathing – When tempted, take deep breaths and remind yourself of your well-being goals.

4. Remember Your Purpose – Stay focused on your inner peace and personal growth.

5. Redefine Your Focus – Visualize how you want your day to end—calm and fulfilling.

6. Find Alternative Activities – Replace phone-checking with reading, journaling, or relaxing exercises.

7. Create “Phone-Free Zones” – Avoid your phone during meals, walks, or before bedtime to be more present.

8. Use Reminders & Affirmations – Place visible notes or phone reminders like “I choose peace over uncertainty.”

9. Take a Mental Pause – If overthinking, focus on your breath or something positive to regain clarity.

#that girl #clean girl #it girl #mindset #high value mindset #habits #pink pilates princess #self love #self improvement #self worth #level up #healthy tips

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nianeyemystic · 1 year ago

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Sextrology Observation 💦🤤😈

Where Saturn is placed in your chart, can show you what prevents you from being able to cum

- please keep in mind these are my OWN interpretations. they may or may not resonate with you, and that’s okay. I’m open to opinions & conversations however let’s keep it cute (rudeness is not acceptable in this safe space ) & learn from one another. Please do not copy of plagiarize , any reblogs & shares are greatly appreciated. This information may help somebody 🥰

Saturn in 1H:

You can be in your head alot during sex, you have to learn to let go so your body can feel & relax. it’s sometimes hard for you to experience emoting freely in front of others. Also how you feel about yourself & the person

Saturn in 2H:

Your self esteem. Your confidence an what you value can be a huge factor here. You should do affirmations, listen to sensual music before or even have your partner engage in praise kinks & compliment you during.

Saturn in 3H

Inability to communicate what you need & desire during sex. Communication is key here for you, you can limit yourself to cumming just based on lack thereof. Your partner may not know how to please you unless you say it.

Saturn in 4H:

Your emotional needs, home life & even sense of security with your partner. A lack of stimulation surrounding the home environment you’re in during. Maybe try changing up the atmosphere.

Saturn in 5H:

You place a lot of pressure on yourself during, there needs to be a balance of this is a devoted action & something fun & creative. Try new positions, have exploration in the bedroom & music / good vibes are needed.

Saturn in 6H:

You’re too focused on work maybe. Or your career is heavily on your mind during sex. Also if you’re not in good health mentally or physically this can hinder you as well in the bedroom. Try to meditate, do breathing exercises & completely change out of “work mode” before engaging

Saturn in 7H:

The need to feel secure in your relationship. Their needs to be reciprocal loyalty & commitment before you can release. Your relationships can deeply effect your sensuality so be careful who you’re getting into bed with

Saturn in 8H:

Your sexuality may have been something you’re ashamed of before. Maybe you’ve held onto view around sex as taboo, or have not gotten fully comfortable with exploring your sexuality. The right healing work & sexual expression will help you get there. Sacral chakra & Root Chakra yoga could help here

Saturn in 9H:

You may be too intense or focused on your intellectual pursuits. Sex has be to stimulating for your mind as well. So maybe conversations that lead to sec should involve topics like expansion, travel & self discovery. Or you could need to engage in more of those to feel sexually aroused

Saturn in 10H:

Reputation of the person your having sex with & maybe even their social status could effect you here. Maybe try finding partners who fit the ideal you’re attracted to in social world or simply forget about that & let go.

Saturn in 11H

The money & income of either yourself or your partner could effect your sexual stimulation. Even the social circles you hang in. If you’re attracted to a person but his/her friend group doesn’t align you maybe turned off. Also patience, you might be rushing the act to get there. Take your time

Saturn in 12H:

Your intuition will tell you everything. So if you’re not aligned spiritually, or have some sort of connection with a partner you could hav trouble cumming. Sex should be a sacred & devoted practice. Also your needs for solitude might be a huge indicator of not being able to cum

@nianeyemystic

#sextrology #sex astrology #astrology #astro notes #astro observations #astro tumblr #synastry aspects #love astrology #astro community #astrology aspects #lovers astrology #mysticism #random astrology notes

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captainmalewriter · 3 months ago

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The Jock Spell

With bated breath and blurry vision, Jeremy(?) stumbled over to the nearest mirror in the locker room. He looked at himself in the mirror while using the counter to hold himself up, and his jaw dropped when he saw his reflection.

“No, this wasn’t supposed to happen… Is that me?”

A couple of weeks ago, Jeremy Nguyen was just an average nerd with nothing particularly remarkable about him. He had a deep interest in all things fantasy-related. He graduated from college with relatively high marks and worked as a science teacher at his old high school. It wasn’t an exciting life by any means, but Jeremy was content with his simple, happy life.

Aside from his usual nerdy hobbies, Jeremy had also started regularly hitting the gym ever since the new year rolled around. Sure he couldn’t lift more than 10 pounds and got tired after only about 8 minutes of light cardio, but it was the thought that counts. Not that it really mattered to Jeremy anyway. He wasn’t interested in becoming a full-blown gym rat or anything like that. Jeremy only started exercising so that his doctor wouldn’t give him yet another lecture about his health during his yearly physical.

Jeremy pulled up to the gym one early afternoon. He normally went to the gym at night due to his busy work schedule as a teacher. However, thanks to an obscure local holiday, the schools were closed and he had the day off. Jeremy decided to switch up his usual routine and work out in the afternoon instead. He walked inside, did his warm-up stretching, and began his workout with some light hammer curls. The gym was surprisingly very packed that afternoon, especially compared to how empty it was at night. There were people everywhere!

As Jeremy continued his workout, he noticed his gaze kept coming back to one particular man just across the free weights area from him.

The guy was absolutely jacked from head to toe! Standing at 6’2” tall, he made a lot of other people in the gym look tiny by comparison. Jeremy watched with great awe as the muscular Adonis hit shoulders with dumbbells he could only ever dream of lifting off the ground, let alone work out with!

However, despite the man’s amazing physique, Jeremy wasn’t attracted to him. He never liked the muscular look in men. Wasn’t really his type at all. Yet at the same time, Jeremy couldn’t stop looking at him for some reason. The man looked vaguely familiar. Jeremy racked his brain but couldn’t place his finger on it. It was weird. He tried ignoring him and just focusing on his workout, but then the man did something that made him remember exactly who he was. Near them was an overweight man who was struggling to get through a rep with just the barbell. The man watched him from afar and sneered like it was the funniest thing in the world. It was that cocky smirk that made bad old memories come flooding back in.

The man’s name was Jared Taylor.

That name and the arrogant smile that came with it haunted Jeremy for most of his teen years. To put it shortly, they had the stereotypical high school jock bully/scrawny nerd relationship you see in movies and TV. Jared loved teasing and making fun of others. Especially quiet nerds like Jeremy who played Pokémon in class after already finishing their work. Needless to say, Jeremy hated Jared with a passion. He was thrilled to finally be rid of the bastard when they graduated and went their separate ways. Jeremy went to study chemistry while Jared continued playing for some college football team.

Jeremy never would’ve expected to see his former high school bully back in town. Thankfully, it didn’t seem like Jared recognized him (you would think he would after tormenting him for 4 years…) Plus, Jeremy always went to the gym during the nighttime anyway. He wouldn’t have to worry about seeing Jared Taylor ever again!

Or so he thought.

Much to Jeremy’s dismay, he kept seeing Jared every time he went to the gym. It didn’t matter if he went late at night or early in the morning before work, Jared was there— working out with some of the heaviest dumbbells the gym had to offer.

Jeremy tried shrugging it off as mere coincidence, but his patience grew dangerously thin with every passing day he saw him. Jared’s cocky smile. His dominating presence. His haughty laugh just screamed, “I’m bigger, stronger, and just overall better than you!” Jared was already bad enough in high school, but he had only seen to have gotten worse with age!

Then, on a random Saturday, Jeremy decided he had finally had enough. It was time someone stepped up and knocked the arrogant asshole down a peg or two. And who better to do it than the nerd he loved bullying every day?

And so, Jeremy devised a plan to rid Jared of the one thing he loved more than trolling: his muscles. Jeremy scoured through his massive collection of fantasy books and trinkets, searching for the magic he would need to pull off his plan. There were plenty of naysayers who didn't believe in magical powers, but Jeremy was never one of those muggles. He believed in magic ever since he was a kid and never stopped, even as he grew up.

After extensive searching, Jeremy finally found a very old book of spells from back when he used to play D&D. The book puffed out a cloud of dust as Jeremy opened it for the first time in forever. An eerie smile emerged on Jeremy’s face as he read up on a spell designed to reverse a character’s stats and build. It was exactly what he needed to get revenge on Jared.

Once he memorized how to perform the spell, Jeremy left for the gym that same night. Just as expected, Jared was there too.

Luckily for Jeremy, the gym was empty that Saturday night, save for about a dozen people. The fewer potential witnesses, the better.

Jared was busy hitting shoulders in the free weights area. Jeremy positioned himself so that he was just across from him in the cardio section. He had a clear shot of him. Once he was sure there was absolutely nobody watching, Jeremy set his plan into action. He used his fingernail to scratch the tip of his pointer finger until he bled out a couple of drops, then smeared it with his thumb and forefinger. Once that was done, Jeremy focused on his target and recited the spell.

aketay awayyay isthay ansmay onfidencecay ybay urningtay imhay intoyay ethay ingthay ehay ateshay ethay ostmay

Jeremy’s finger shined a brilliant red as he finished casting the spell. A beam of light shot out of him as soon as he recited the last syllable, heading directly towards Jared. Jeremy smiled maniacally, knowing he was finally going to get his revenge after years of torment, though unfortunately, his pleasure was only short-lived. His smile faded as he watched Jared bend over to pick up a dumbbell, causing the spell to miss its intended target. Instead, the light hit the mirror, ricocheted, and hit Jeremy square in the chest, knocking him off the treadmill.

God-DAMN IT!! How could I mess up such an easy shot!?

Jeremy writhed in agony. He couldn’t believe his plan failed just because of a little timing slip-up. Red with embarrassment, Jeremy forced himself to get up despite the great pain he was in. As he rushed over to the guy’s locker room to hide himself, the spell activated.

Jeremy held his arms to his stomach as an intense wave of nausea washed over him. A strange warmth was radiating from his torso. His walking speed slowed as Jeremy found himself suddenly struggling to breathe. Low groans and growls escaped his mouth as his chicken legs exploded with body mass growth. It felt like his legs were on fire! The muscle fibers in his legs broke down and grew back rapidly until he had legs as strong and thick as a horse. Confused at what was going on, Jeremy looked down and audibly gasped when he saw his upper body transforming right before his very eyes.

His chest puffed out as his pectorals grew and grew until he had a nice, firm set of daddy milkers. His shoulder span nearly doubled in length as the muscles in his back rapidly tore and regrew back within a matter of minutes. His arms thickened and hardened with muscle mass too. His once pencil-thin arms had become absolute cannons with biceps the size of melons and veins throbbing with strength. With a set of washboard abs to boot, Jeremy had become an insanely ripped bodybuilder— completely unrecognizable from his former skinny and weak nerd self.

“Nnnn… What’s happening to me…!?” Jeremy huffed out a moan as forced himself to keep moving. He powered through the transformation pain and made it to the locker room where he could be alone. With bated breath and blurry vision, Jeremy stumbled over to the nearest mirror in the locker room. He looked at himself in the mirror while using the counter to hold himself up, and his jaw dropped when he saw his reflection.

“No, this wasn’t supposed to happen… Is that me? And since when did I become so… Jacked?”

Jeremy’s shocked expression morphed into a grin as he inspected his new body. Although he was never a fan of the muscular jock look, his tone quickly changed now that he was the buff one admiring himself in the mirror. He was practically purring with delight as he ran his hands over his arms, savoring the feeling of new, firm muscle on his body. Jeremy's original nerdy personality began fading away with every flex of his new muscles, leaving space for his new cocky gym bro attitude.

Then, wanting to get an even better look at his body, Jeremy stripped down to just his underwear.

“Heheheh… Just LOOK AT MY MUSCLES BRO! I’M A GREEK GOD NOW!”

His voice boomed with newfound confidence as he spent well over half an hour just checking himself out. As he struck the double bicep pose, a sudden head pain brought Jeremy back down to reality.

“Huh? What the hell am I doing?” Jeremy thought to himself. He massaged his forehead as he thought about the answer to his own question. However, the more he thought about it, the more questions about who he was began to pop up.

“Who am I? What’s my name? What do I like? What do I dislike?”

He thought long and hard, but couldn’t find anything. It was like his own brain had been enshrouded in a deep fog. He kept thinking and thinking until for a brief moment, he had a glimpse of what seemed like an old memory. He was… Jeremy Nguyen? And he liked… video games, anime, and fantasy books—

He shook his head. There was no way that description was right. He wasn’t a fucking nerd. Far from it. He took a deep breath and tried remembering his identity again. This time, the correct info came flowing in like water.

His name was Isaac Nguyen and to him, working out wasn’t just a hobby but a lifestyle and a passion. He played football both in high school and in college, then dedicated his time and energy to bodybuilding once he graduated. His body was like a golden medal to him. It was his pride and joy, and he loved nothing more than getting a good pump and flexing in the mirror whenever he had the chance.

With his new identity securely established in his mind and spirit, Isaac stepped out of the locker room to finish his upper body workout for the day. As he made his way to the free weights area, he noticed some scrawny dude with glasses struggling to curl a 10-pound dumbbell. Isaac had to stifle a laugh as he walked past him.

“Heh, can’t even lift the beginner weight, what a fucking loser… Bet he spends all his time playing video games with his other dork friends. God, I can’t stand these kinds of dudes…”

As Isaac finished that thought, he ran into an old friend he hadn’t seen in a long time.

“Oh shit, Jared! Where ya been, bro!?”

“Long time no see, man! Looking swole as always, big guy!!” Jared responded.

The two men pulled each other in for a bro hug. As they pulled away, Isaac felt himself hating the man he just shook hands with. It was weird. Like he had some sort of deep-rooted resentment against Jared. But that couldn’t possibly be right. Isaac and Jared were best bros since they joined the football team together back in freshman year of high school. They were basically the kings of the school back in the day!

Yes, that’s right… Isaac was a jock, just like Jared. He had always been one. Never a nerd.

Never.

#male transformation #male tf #permanent change #mental change #muscle tf #nerd to jock #personality change

533 notes · View notes

after-witch · 1 year ago

Text

Check Out Time is Eleven [Yandere Chrollo x Reader]

Title: Check Out Time is 11 [Yandere Chrollo x Reader]

Synopsis: You're invited to a hotel for a warm meal and a place to sleep by a mysterious stranger. Soulmate AU.

Word count: 7100ish

notes: yandere, kidnapping, mentions of drugging, a really useless and non-philosophical reference to My Dinner with Andre

The red thread on his finger loses slack for the very first time in his life, and for the smallest of moments, Chrollo Lucilfer forgets himself. His steps falter, expensive, stolen shoes nearly scuffing on the sidewalk, and a startled breath quivers through his chest. His mouth gapes, ever so slightly.

In surprise.

In trepidation.

In realization.

The red thread was, had always been, attached to you. His soulmate. Whoever you were. The gentle tugging of the thread meant that after years of fruitless searching, you were finally somewhere nearby, close enough to reach. Probably, given the tautness of the thread, even within walking distance.

How lucky for him.

How unfortunate for you.

You were finally discovered. You were finally within his grasp, fingers itching, warm satisfaction blooming through his skin. How often had he ruminated over the fact that you had yet to belong to him? How often had he wondered what you would look like, how you would feel under his touch? And what you might do to him when he had you in person? Would he find himself changed, however slightly, as the others in the Troupe had been? Or would he mold you with his own presence, looming over you like a shadow?

The mere thought of you is enough to get his heart racing, bring a bead of sweat to his neck. It was so unlike him, and wasn’t that a thrill?

And then, just like that, the moment is over. He recollects himself and his mouth closes and his mind whirs back into focused gear.

He needed to find you, first thing. The rest of the logistics could come later.

His eyes track the movements of the thread, and without missing a beat, he turns on his heels to follow the direction of the movement. It was possible--no, highly probable--that you were close enough to reach on foot. Within the city, certainly, and he didn’t mind the exercise.

As he continues to walk, the cold gleam of the business district turning into rows of glitzy restaurants and downtown attractions, he’s glad that you weren’t too close. It gives him more time to think about what he wants to do with you.

The Troupe members that had already found their soulmates--and Chrollo feels a surge of pride in his chest, counting himself among them now, fulfilled in that goal--had taken on different approaches.

Some merely kidnapped their soulmates and kept them in secure locations. Simple, effective in terms of security, but that would ensure it would take him a long time to win you over. And he knows that he will do just that, eventually, no matter how he decides to keep you. Others took their time, attempting to strike up something of an ordinary relationship before revealing their knowledge of the red thread, and persuading their soul mates to come with them for safety (and romance)’s sake. Surely the more appealing of the two options, but it did come with the downside of expended time and energy.

What he would do with you depended on so many factors. Did you live in some stationary location, or were you prone to travel? What did you do for a living? Were you already in a relationship, some inferior partnership with someone who could never appreciate you the way that he could, as your only soulmate?

All of these questions circle heavily in his mind as he walks, following the thread that was becoming tighter and tighter between the pair of you. The ritzy downtown buildings were now gone, replaced by rows of old buildings that had seen better days. In place of fine dining were small cafes and diners that practically exuded grease, laundromats with blinking signs, and the occasional busted out window. The scores of people walking, gabbing, waving around fancy handbags were replaced by only the occasional person walking with clear destinations in mind, eyes in front.

As the thread becomes even tighter, it leads him down an alley that most people would have surely avoided. But he doesn’t worry about the glances of the people leaning up against heavy exit doors, or the people crouching on the ground with needles against their arms. He thinks about you. Will he find you here, perhaps, curled up in the arms of a drug dealer pumping you full of toxic chemicals that flushed you with endorphins and heat? Or you might be on the other side of the needle, pocketing cash and going on your merry way?

But, no. Perhaps not. Instead of leading him further into the den of seedy dealings, the thread brings him away, feet crunching on broken bottles, towards some type of fenced-in parking lot. Or it had been a parking lot, once

From a short distance through the metal fence, he can see burning barrels, tents, carts. The smells of cooking grills waft over, greasy foods, easy to cook outdoors. It wasn’t a new sight, in this city or otherwise. Chrollo had seen worse. Had lived worse.

And then, there--at the end of the red thread that weaved in between one of the fence’s metal honeycombs: you.

He sees you for the first time and knows, with a burning intensity that threatens to knock him over, that he needs you. He needs you now. He needs you always. You have something that he lacks and perhaps possessing you will give it to him.

Is this what the others felt, when they first saw their soulmates? Or is it something unique to you and him? Some unfathomable bond that has shaken him to his core? Not for long, of course, never for long. He regains his senses within moments and catalogs the feeling away for later analysis.

It’s you that he focuses on, now. And the fact he will have you, as soon as he decides on the where, when, and how. He wouldn’t be the leader of the Phantom Troupe if he wasn’t skilled at taking what he wanted.

Today what he wants is not a gallery of paintings or a rare gruesome artifact, but a person.

You.

What to make of you?

You’re standing in front of one of the burning barrels, rubbing your hands together. They look red and chapped, even from his vintage point. Behind you is a shopping cart filled with odds and ends. On the side nearest the fire, you had clearly laid out clothes over the edge of the cart--wet ones, from rain or maybe you’d had the opportunity to wash them. Your current ensemble is a simple hodgepodge. Clearly, you wore whatever was cleanest, whatever was warmest, whatever you could find.

He remembers such a living.

You appear to be on the outskirts, avoiding the groups scattered around the encampment. No one approaches you and you don’t approach them. A loner… by choice, or not? You wouldn’t be alone for long, if it wasn’t by choice, and in time you might be grateful for it. If it was by choice, well, there were ways to tame feral cats.

It doesn’t take much analysis to decide what to do with you, to decide how best to approach things. He’s glad that he wore something casual today. Just some simple slacks and a nice sweater. If he was overdressed, it might be more difficult. Not that he couldn’t manage it, but he enjoys advantages when he can get them.

With no hesitation, he walks through one of the ragged gaps in the metal fence and begins to approach you.

Your head jerks towards him the moment that his steps become even remotely close. He doesn’t mind. It’s only natural, especially for someone who has been living the way you surely have. There’s a tugging somewhere inside him--memory of himself and connection with you.

He smiles, not broadly, but in a way meant to disarm.

“Hello,” he says, stopping a few feet away from you.

You stiffen.

“I’m Chrollo,” he continues. His voice is undisturbed and calm. As if he was meeting you on a sunny afternoon in the park while you were both buying ice cream from the same cart. That might have been a more charming meeting, he muses, but this one can work to his advantage just as easily. “Won’t you tell me your name?”

You snatch your hands back from the barrel and step, refusing to turn your back to him, behind your cart.

“None of your business,” you say.

And oh, he thinks, it would be heaven if he could somehow bottle the first time he hears your voice and listen to it on demand. But he supposes, he has the rest of his life--and yours--to hear you speak.

“That’s all right.” He gestures towards you, the cart, your life. “I see you are in need.” You frown at him, but he continues. “How would you like to go somewhere warm?”

Your lip pulls back in a sneer and you move yourself on the other side of the cart.

“I don’t do that. Fuck off.”

Ah. You thought he wanted you to--well. It wouldn’t be the first time people took advantage of others in less fortunate situations. There had been enough of that in Meteor City.

“No, nothing like that,” he says, voice going soft. “I should have clarified. I’m a… missionary of sorts. I look for people in need and offer what help I can give. I’d like to buy you a hotel room for the week.” He notices your wary expression. “Or even the day, if that would be more comfortable for you. Somewhere you can get some safe sleep, a shower, something to eat. I wouldn’t even be there.”

He recognizes the look on your face all too well. Wariness. Suspicion. The face of someone who knows that people are tricky and greedy and cruel. That people will take things that they haven’t earned. Oh, yes-- he knows all of that so well, from both sides.

And he also knows how to get your guard to drop enough for him to accomplish his goal. Sure, mistrust is essential in an environment like this. But mistrust can always be overpowered when there’s something essential within reach. Like comfort. Or food. A warm place to stay, even if it’s just for a few hours. A private bathroom, a toilet, a tub.

“I don’t know,” you say, finally, having given him the appropriate stare down.

He nods his head.

“I understand. I would feel wary myself, in your position. It’s perfectly reasonable.” It is more than reasonable, he thinks, but you don’t need to know that. You just need to believe that coming with him will be worth your while, worth ignoring what he’s sure is a growing pit in your stomach.

“What I would like to do is accompany you to a hotel where I often book rooms for those in need. It’s a private room, of course. And I will pay for your meals.” He sees the gears turning in your mind at the promise of a bed. The promise of food. “I have my own room in the hotel, but it’s on a different floor, and I won’t have to see you at all,” he adds, and this is how he will make you step over that cautionary line. “I wouldn’t want to make you uncomfortable. Everything is pre-paid on my card, of course, and you’re free to order whatever you’d like. What do you say?”

He lets his words hang in the air, wafting like smoke from the nearby barrels.

You wet your lips. You glance around at the people around you. A few of them have taken notice of Chrollo, perhaps as a mark, perhaps more; but he pays them no mind. He could kill them in a fraction of a second and whisk you out of here just as easily, if he needs to… But he hopes it will not come to that.

“All right,” you say suddenly, softly. “If… you’re just going to give me a room and feed me, then all right.”

Chrollo smiles. It is, he thinks, perhaps close to a genuine one.

“Wonderful. Follow me, if you please.”

The hotel is expensive, but thankfully not terribly ostentatious. Chrollo would hate to put you off by throwing you into some gilded lion’s den. But the hotel is more reserved, classy. Comfort and luxury without any of the ridiculous trappings that often come with them.

Chrollo does bring you with him to the front desk, if only to reduce the chances that the security will kick you out for looking out of place. And you do look out of place, but perhaps that’s for the better. It will make you appreciate what he’s going to do for you more, won’t it?

You’re quiet all the while, but that’s to be expected. You only hold tight to your backpack, where everything you hold dear has been crammed, and let him do the talking. A reservation is easily made under the guise that only you are to know the room number--you certainly don’t need to know that he’ll swing back and reserve the connected room next door--and the key is given without fanfare from the polite desk clerk who gives you curious glances but nothing more.

Chrollo walks you to the elevator, ever the gentleman, and hands you the key. You stare at it. The uncertain expression on your face is unbelievably precious, he thinks. He hopes he can see more of it before it inevitably morphs into shock and anger and fear.

“Would you like some new clothing?” Chrollo asks, after he pushes the button on the elevator for you. “I can have some sent up from the hotel’s boutique. I’ll tell the front desk, so they can give the concierge the room number. Ah, and I’ll need to know your size, if you’re willing to give it.”

“You want to buy me clothes?”

You almost splutter out the words, and he has to restrain himself from kissing you right then and there. You are terribly cute, and there’s a slight disturbing tinge to how much he finds everything about you enticing so quickly. The way you furrow your eyebrows at his question. The slight look of embarrassment, the twitch of your lips.

He needs you so much, and he’s only known you for a few moments.

You tell him your size, then glance at him before staring at the glossy metallic doors. “Um, I need something warm. No useless stuff.” Your head gestures back towards the hotel lobby, where a few women are walking on the arm of male companions, dressed in sleeveless dresses and likely heading for the restaurant.

“Of course.” Chrollo does not tell you that he can envision you wearing all sorts of useless things in the future his mind is creating, brick by brick. You would look heavenly in something strapless, something slinky. Something that hangs off your shoulders. He would drape a fine wrap over them, were you behaving enough to go out with him--no one else but him will be privy to such delicacies.

For now, though, he resolves to send you the clothes he knows you want. Things will be a little more seamless if your guard isn’t entirely raised.

The elevator doors open.

Chrollo steps aside, and gestures for you to enter.

“This is where I take my leave. I will let the restaurant host know your name, and you can order whatever you’d like. It’s on my card. Please, don’t feel the need to hold back.”

You take a step inside the elevator and ah, there it is. Just the slightest hesitation. The slightest jerk of your head as you look back at him. Do you feel bad, leaving him in a lurch when he’s giving you charity? Do you feel beholden to him in some way?

“I guess it’s okay if we share a meal. You’re paying for it, anyway. It’d be awkward otherwise.” You stare down at the elevator carpet as you say the words, and Chrollo realizes that he’s perhaps misjudged the gesture. Your sense of shame, maybe, outweighs your desire to be rid of him and his potential alternative motives for assisting you.

That might come in handy.

He nods, as you turn around and make brief eye contact with him.

“Well, then. How about we meet here in 5 hours for dinner? I can send something dressy to your room, if you’d like.”

You shrug your shoulders as the doors close, which is as good as assent in his view. The string on his finger rises with the elevator, but now there is no fear that he’ll lose you. The string, something which had been maddening in its slackness for so long, is now something of a treasure itself. A little leash, keeping you to him, wherever you go.

Which, for now, is your hotel room--meaning he needs to get moving. He won’t pick anything too flashy out from the boutique; something modest, something simple. There are delicate steps to take to avoid making you feel ashamed without offending your sense of dignity all in one go.

Thankfully--for you and himself--he’s attuned to such needs.

5 hours. That would give you enough time to take a shower or bath, to change into the fresh clothing he’ll send up, to take a nap. Perhaps you’ll stare out the hotel window at the view or curl up in the bed, rolling on the fresh sheets.

Five hours would give you time to freshen up and relax, yes. And it would give him enough time to get hold of Shalnark and procure anything he needs to make your removal from the hotel as smooth as possible.

The shower is running again. He doesn’t blame you. He remembers days where a hot shower was a luxury beyond imagining.

He keeps his side pressed against the door connecting your rooms--not that you know he is on the other side with a key to yours, of course--and holds back a contended sigh as he watches the red string on his finger twirl and shift with your every movement.

What are you thinking about? He wonders. Are you thinking about how long it’s been since you had a hot shower? Are you thinking about slipping the shampoo bottles into your backpack?

Perhaps more inviting… are you thinking about him?

He knows what’s on his mind, and has been for the last few hours now. You.

What were you like, deep down, underneath your layers and justifiably guarded stance? Maybe you liked to read, maybe you once had a dream of being a dancer before life went to hell, maybe you were shy, maybe you liked to get drunk and sing your favorite songs at full volume.

What would you be like, once you were fully his?

What do you look like, underneath all of your clothing? What has nature and nurture shown fit to bestow upon you, your skin, all those secret places you keep hidden?

The thread bobbles again. Are you stepping out of the shower soon, or still scrubbing yourself? You’re so vulnerable, naked and unawares, just a few feet away from him. The water running is a delicious sound to his ears, because he knows that you’re underneath it.

He imagines what you might look like naked. He imagines what sounds you might make, underneath him, gasping and--

Oh, but he’s getting ahead of himself. He smiles and shakes his head at the rush. He should slow down, yes. Slow down and savor it all.

He clenches both of his hands. In one is the duplicate key, in the other is a syringe. Both go into opposite pockets, awaiting their respective time to shine.

The dress that arrives at your door with a prim knock from a porter is not quite what you expected--which is a relief. You expected the stranger to send up something ridiculous. Something slinky and glittering, maybe with only a half shoulder.

But instead it’s a simple dress with a flared skirt, all made from dark blue fabric. The sleeves are elbow length, the neckline isn’t too low, and there’s a matching black belt to go with it. He’s even sent up a pair of nylons, which are something you haven’t worn since you were a little kid, desperately trying to mimic your mother’s fancy outfits.

He also--and maybe this is overkill--sent up a few pairs of shoes in different sizes, along with a transcribed note instructing you to call the front desk if none of them fit, or simply wear your own shoes if you are uncomfortable with it.

This stranger--Chrollo--is awfully accommodating. And kind. And considerate.

Which is exactly why, when the dress is on and your nylon-clad feet are resting in the shoes easiest to run in, you tuck your switchblade into one of the dress pockets for safekeeping.

Maybe he is just kind. Or he’s one of those people that makes themselves feel better by occasionally being charitable; he’s harboring some sort of guilt that can be alleviated, however temporarily, by buying a person a sandwich or two.

But maybe he’s not. You’ve known people who have been hurt or killed or sometimes worse by so-called charitable people. People that lure you in with showers and hotels, meals and clothing. People that slit your throat before or after they have their way with you.

Life was dark and life was shit, and you weren’t born yesterday. If this stranger had any nefarious intentions, you certainly weren’t going to walk into them like a bleating lamb.

And yet, and yet… some part of you wanted to believe he had good intentions. You’re not sure why, exactly. You weren’t the type to look on the bright side or always see the good in people--or at least, you hadn’t been that way since childhood. Yet something about this Chrollo made you hope that he was a good person. That you’d have a nice conversation and he wouldn’t do anything more than give you a nice afternoon and a place to sleep comfortably for a bit.

It was an almost primal feeling, which made it all the more stranger. Your gut feelings usually told you something like: this place is dangerous, this guy’s probably got a gun, that alley’s too notorious to use as a shortcut.

Your gut didn’t give you silly notions, like wanting to trust someone, hoping they would talk to you during dinner, wondering if they’d be pleasant to be around for longer.

At least, not before today.

“And the lady will have the cailles aux raisins.”

You raise an eyebrow.

“Quail,” Chrollo says, allowing the waiter to take the leather-bound menu from his hands. As if your issue was with the choice of food--okay, you didn’t know what it meant, but still--and not that he ordered for you. “Stuffed with shallots, grapes, liver, and ah, I believe, some cognac, if I’m not mistaken.”

“That’s correct, sir,” the waiter says, not giving you a second glance--you didn’t even get a menu, which irked you, but considering you had nothing to pay with and perhaps the hotel staff knew it, it was a practical snub.

Your lips twist into a frown, although you suppose you can’t complain. The dish does sound good. Not that you’ve ever had quail. But it can’t be that different from chicken. Or duck. You had duck, once, as a kid. Your mother brought you to a hotel just like this for a Mother’s Day brunch and you sat at a table with an embroidered cloth and wore a pair of your mother’s white gloves, so that you would look extra fancy.

“I apologize,” Chrollo tells you. “I should have asked your preference first.” The strangest part is how sincere he sounds, like he really didn’t want to offend you. Like he actually might be interested in what you want to eat. Part of you can appreciate that, and part of you wants to finger the handle of your knife inside your pocket.

“It’s fine.” You shrug it all off. Because you can, and you choose to--but also because you’re famished and the smells wafting from the other tables is enough to make your stomach growl. “People usually don’t order things like this for me, anyway. If they do give me anything.”

Chrollo tilts his head slightly, looking at you like a particularly interesting painting on a wall. “No?”

You smile thinly. “Nope. I’m lucky if I get someone’s leftover fries from a fast food shop.”

“What a shame.” He places both hands on the table, clasping his fingers together. His gaze bores into yours. You look away, briefly, but find yourself wanting to look back. How odd. “I’m sure,” he begins, talking slowly, measuring out his words, “that must be demoralizing--to be treated as lesser-than.”

You can’t help the snort that comes out your nose, or the quick words that follow. “Yeah? And what would you know about that?” Your eyes rake over his outfit, your mind whirls over how much money he’s spent on you alone, as if it was nothing. A drop in the bucket. Some rich man playing with his money. Or daddy’s money, depending on the circumstance.

Of course, you expect him to get offended. You expect him to call you ungrateful and cancel the order and ship you out of here like yesterday’s trash. It wouldn’t be the first time someone has gotten angry that you didn’t play into their savior fantasies. Your muscles even prep to stand, your face goes stony, ready to block the anger that he’ll throw your way.

Only... none of that happens.

His face looks--it’s hard to describe, really. It’s almost like it glitches for a moment, and you see something you weren’t meant to see. You’re not even sure if he realizes it. And then his expression gets so remote and so quiet. He looks away from you for perhaps the first time, looking instead, at his hands.

“I know a lot about that, actually.”

It’s not offense in his expression but… sympathy? No, that’s not it either. You know “sympathy face” like the back of your hand, for all the good it does you.

It’s empathy. Trace, but there. A shared experience between you. Maybe that’s why you’ve felt inclined to give him the benefit of the doubt all day. Why you went with him in the first place, hunger pangs aside.

“So you’ve been…” You begin, but is there a need to finish. He’s been homeless, or something like it. Downtrodden. On the bottom.

He nods.

“Sorry.” The word comes out blurted but soft. Well, I’m an asshole, you think.

He smiles at you, a soft, thin thing--almost like a gloss that covers up his previous expression. “No, don’t be. You had no way of knowing, dear.”

Dear.

The word hangs between you silently, as if it’s being dangled on some sort of invisible string. He opens his mouth slightly--maybe to apologize--but shuts it when you don’t say anything. Instead, he simply blinks, and watches you.

Perhaps a minute ago you might have bristled at the nickname, might have sought to cut it right down, in fact. But for now, you brush it aside. He’s being nice--he knows what you’re going through. And sure, there’s some sort of guilt relief in his actions, but it’s not coming from the place of a rich man making himself feel better. It’s coming, you think, from a place of not just knowing where you’ve been but having been there himself.

Before either of you can speak, the waiter returns with your appetizer and despite the guilt in your gut, your hunger practically sings at the sight of the plate of bread and butter. It’s fancy bread, already cut, gleaming with what smells like garlic butter spread over the top.

The flavored butter is shaped like a rose and it’s only after you childishly dip your bread right into it and take a loud, chewy bite of the delicious goodness that you realize you’ve committed a faux-pas. There’s a tiny butter knife on the plate, obviously meant to delicately smear the butter onto your bread. And here you are, gnawing on the piece like some sort of medieval peasant during a bad harvest.

A pang of shame tingles over you. It’s a silly kind of shame--inconsequential, really. Who cares how you eat bread at some hotel you’ll never step foot in again in your life? But it lingers terribly. Until Chrollo picks up a piece of brand and dips it right into the butter, too, taking a chewy bite with far less graciousness than you imagined with his sophisticated appearance.

“It’s good, isn’t it?” He asks, not even bothering to cover his mouth.

You smile. You almost-snort. And the shame dissipates like ice crystals on a sunny day, as you and Chrollo both finish off the appetizer. He lets you eat more without saying a word, which you appreciate.

There’s a lot to appreciate about him, really. He’s been kind. He hasn’t been terribly condescending, dinner order notwithstanding. And he seems to know how to approach you with actual empathy and not just the sticky, coddling sympathy that most people do.

And you won’t lie--he is nice to look at. He even smells nice, but with the amount of money he had to spend on the clothing he sent up to your room, he can likely afford to buy expensive cologne.

If he notices you staring, he says nothing. Instead, he half-closes his eyes and appears to be deep in thought. Over… you? Or dinner?

He hums a bit under his breath, and you realize: it’s the music. It’s a delicate song being played by a small group of musicians set up on a stage in the corner. It’s familiar… your brain strives to catch up with your ears.

“You like this song?” You ask, because the silence has stretched too long, and the bread is now gone.

Chrollo opens his eyes and regards you with a sober smile. “Yes.” He pauses, then. “It’s--”

“Elgar's Chanson de matin,” you blurt, before he can. “I know it.”

His eyes widen, just a tad. Enough to show that he’s curious. A funny bit of pride thrums through you. It can be retribution for the quail earlier, you decide.

“You’re familiar with his work?”

You feel your cheeks heat up, even though you don’t get the sense that he asked to be cruel. He seems actually interested. Like he wants to know you. It’s nice, and confusing, and a little startling.

You nod, wishing there was more bread to break up the conversation. “What, you think someone like me can’t be interested in classical music?

“Of course not.” He answers swiftly, resolutely.

He reaches his hand towards yours and grasps it before you can think to pull away. It seems silly to yank your hand out of his, so you don’t. Even if the way he looks down at your interlocked fingers makes goosebumps dance up your arm.

His expression is so strange. He looks… lonely. And desperate. And relieved. But why?

Both of your gazes meet for one electric moment and for that moment, you feel like he sees you. And you see him. Not as clearly. But you see something inside him that is not quite on the surface. Something which does make you pull away, but not with distaste. You withdraw your hand from his slowly, like he’s a wild animal that you don’t want to startle.

The waiter, impeccable timing as ever, arrives with the main courses just as your hand makes its way into your lap.

And just like that, the spell is broken. Ripples of water dash whatever it was between you, and he’s speaking charmingly to the waiter, who appears swiftly again with a glass of champagne for each of you. You weren’t intending to drink, but maybe it wouldn’t hurt. It could calm your nerves.

Neither of you talk much for the rest of dinner. It’s not tense, exactly, but you can tell there’s something in the air. Questions unspoken, maybe, or just an awkwardness between two strangers who seem to both understand and misunderstand each other in equal measure.

The hotel’s restaurant begins to thin out after your main courses are taken away. A dessert menu is brought, and Chrollo orders a simple slice of cake for both of you.

Real vanilla bean frosting is on your lips when you ask your question. Quiet, but with most of the other guests gone, he has no trouble hearing it.

“So you were… homeless, before?”

You’re not sure why you need to know this. To confirm that he’s not some rich boy playing with his father’s money? To see how much he can really understand you? Maybe the champagne went to your head. You don’t normally drink, it wouldn’t be impossible.

His fork stalls as the question comes out. He glances up at you and there’s nothing offended or hurt in his eyes. He seems to weigh his answer before he gives it. It doesn’t really surprise you; he could be just as mistrustful of you as you are of him, couldn’t he?

“Something like that.” He rests his fork on his plate. “I suppose you are trying to decide just how much I can sympathize with your… situation.”

Heat floods your cheeks, and you’re grateful the water brought another glass of champagne that you can sip from to loosen the tightness in your chest.

If he notices your flushed countenance, he doesn’t remark on it. You like him better for it. He continues speaking, looking at you with a measured expression. Like before, his words come slowly and carefully, given to you with something akin to grace.

“Our situations were not exactly similar. I don’t find it terribly useful to compare them. Better in some ways, worse in others. Like anything.”

“Better?” You dab at your mouth with a napkin.

“Ah.” He seems to weigh his next words with even more scrutiny before he decides on them. “I had something you didn’t, which surely benefited me.”

“Which was?”

There’s something wistful in his voice now. It makes you lean forward over the table. With most of the other guests gone, it feels strange to talk so openly about clearly delicate matters. Chrollo mimics your lean, and while he doesn’t take your hands across the table into his, you get the feeling he’d like to, if you let him.

“Companionship,” he says simply. The word settles in the air like a brick that seems to land right on your chest. You blink and feel the beginnings of tears in your eyes. You really did have too much champagne, and this is all getting to be a lot. You start to lean backward when he speaks again.

“Aren’t you lonely?”

“No,” you lie. The shock of the question does make you lean back fully. Then, to be spiteful. “Are you?”

He doesn’t answer. He only looks down at his hands and the empty spot where yours used to be, and then back at you.

Nothing more is said on the matter. He pays for the meal and leaves a nice fat tip for the waiter--who has, you think, been lurking nearby either to witness your drama or to make sure no one swipes his tip from the table--before escorting you back to the elevators.

Shame slams back into you while you’re standing in front of the elevator doors.

“I’m sorry.” Sure, he asked it first, but fuck--you hate being rude. If you were rude. It was hard to tell how Chrollo felt about anything. The champagne making your head fuzzy doesn’t help. Not at all.

He tilts his head a little. “What for?”

Your eyebrows furrow together. “You know, for asking… for being…” You wave your hands around a little. It’s too hard to put into words. You’re tired, you feel out of sorts, and you’re tipsy bordering on drunk. You can give yourself some forgiveness in a lack of coherency in this matter, at least.

Chrollo regards you for a moment before he shakes his head, scoffing a little as he smiles.

“For being yourself? Or at least showing some small part of it to me? I don’t mind.” He holds out his arm and you, unsteady champagne fuzz in your head, take it. “I’ll escort you to your room, if that’s all right. I don’t feel comfortable letting you go there alone.”

You should tell him that you’ll be fine. You should. But the champagne in your brain and the way you feel drawn to him--however slightly--makes “should” fly out the window. So you nod and let him lead you into the elevator, where the ride up makes you dizzy enough that Chrollo has to steady you carefully, and you mumble out another apology.

He only chuckles a little and helps you walk out of the elevator without stumbling over the threshold. Your room is just down the hall and he keeps a steady grip on you the whole way, even though you’ve told yourself that you won’t stumble anymore. It feels weird, to have someone so close to you; to smell his cologne and feel the warmth of his skin.

It feels weird, yes, but giddy too. He is handsome. And he did buy you dinner. And clothes. And he’s not as shitty as you thought he might be at first. The way he ate the bread in solidarity with you earlier--you can’t forget that, can you? It was… cute, even. If someone like Chrollo could be called cute.

Is it the champagne, the newness of this stranger-but-not-entirely, the rich disarmament that comes with a full stomach and freshly washed face? All of the above? Whatever it is, it’s got you thinking too much about Chrollo as he gently takes the key from your hand and opens your hotel room door.

A gentleman, he only sees you just inside before taking his leave, promising to meet you for breakfast in the morning--if you’d like.

You would like, you tell him, and the door shuts and locks swiftly afterwards. Chrollo’s cologne lingers in the air, or maybe it rubbed off on you from all the steadying he had to do.

The hotel room is just as you left it. Clean and pristine, smelling vaguely of lemon. Your duffel bags and personal belongings are shoved in the corner. Maybe you’ll try to read one of your books tonight, before you sleep? It would be the first time you read on an actual bed in ages. Maybe you could even call for room service? A little midnight snack? It’s not like Chrollo would mind, or at least, he probably wouldn’t. It’d be something small anyway, nothing wild.

Unless you wanted a bubbly nightcap.

Full of ideas, you take your giddy champagne self back to the bathroom to change into pajamas that he sent up earlier, humming Elgar’s Chanson, thinking about bread and quail and… Chrollo. The knife in your dress pocket gets left on the bathroom counter. It was silly to bring it, now that you think about it.

Still humming, you flop on the bed and grab the menu for room service. It wouldn’t hurt to order some extra dessert. And another glass of champagne. Maybe two…

You’re so out of sorts that at no point for the rest of the night, before your weary head hits the soft pillow, do you stop to wonder how Chrollo knew your room number.

There are few things Chrollo truly regrets in his life. One of them, he knows, will be that he couldn’t plant himself in this town for a few months in order to properly court you; to introduce you, gradually, to the concept of nen. To the knowledge that you were his soul mate.

But it can’t be helped. He has to leave tomorrow night, come hell or high water. And he certainly won’t let you drown here a moment longer. It’s for your sake. You’ll come to realize that eventually, just as you will--in time--come to forgive him for what he must do.

You’ll no doubt regret letting down your barriers in the morning. But if you hadn’t been so keen to trust in someone, to trust in him, then he wouldn’t have gotten to see something of the real you underneath all of that built-up survival instinct. And didn’t you see something of him, too? He thinks you did. Just a moment, a spark, but it was there.

You sweet thing. He could hear you humming through the door earlier; heard you order room service (champagne and desserts) and he regretted not having Shalnark swoop in during dinner to set up some security cameras.

The key to your room feels heavy in his hand. On this side, he is simply himself, staring ahead as the red thread of his soulmate leads away from him. But once he turns it into the lock and quietly opens the door, there will be nothing between you but sleep.

He opens the door and relishes in the way the thread sags even further downward. If only you could have seen how beautiful the thread looked during dinner, all tangled up as he clasped your hand in his. That’s how the thread was meant to look. Not tight and taut and unforgiving.

You’re fast asleep when he silently enters the room and unlocks the deadbolt so that Shalnark can help him remove you from the premises. Curled up underneath the covers, you look like you’re in bliss. It’s likely the first restful sleep you’ve had in a long time. Months? Years?

How awful for you, to wake up tomorrow and realize that you’re no longer in the hotel bed. And that he’s the one to blame for it. How awful for him, too, to lose his grasp on the tentatively pleasant and revealing evening you had together. But he doesn’t think you’ll be empathetic on that matter. Not for a while, anyway.

He sits down on the bed next to you and it takes a considerable amount of self-control not to curl up against you. It’s not worth the risk of you waking, although the tranquilizer in his pocket could be jabbed into your thigh early, if need be.

Besides… you’ll have a lifetime of nights together after this.

There’s no need to rush what is finally his to keep forever.

#yandere chrollo #yandere hunter x hunter #chrollo x reader #yandere #yandere chrollo lucilfer #afterwitch writes

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