#goldfish to be precise

[skoff-the-artist]

A spell gone wrong RIGHT!!!

[indecisive-dizzy]

i hate puzzle games I hate puzzle games I hate puzzle games I hate puzzles games I hate

[all-purpose-dish-soap]

ok, i know it’s not may any more, but could we please have more mer au. ghost preferably, i just want to shake him around in a bag like that one little girl from finding nemo.

hands you a carnival prize plastic bag with a goldfish-sized mer Ghost inside. feed him twice a day. plastic shipwreck not included. he might look lonely but don't let him convince you to put your fingers in the bowl :)

take the first half of this thing too:

36 / 1k / shark mer Ghost tolerating remora mer reader

...

Ghost doesn’t look back at you as you swim meekly after him. You have to whip your smaller tail twice as fast just to keep up, and you're getting winded already. He makes it look so easy to glide through the water.

"What now?" he mutters.

"Nothing. I didn't say anything."

“You’re thinking it.”

"I was just--" A huge yawn overtakes your reply. You sink in the water for a moment, scrunching your eyes closed, before huffing and darting after him again. "--Just going this way, too."

He knows you've been following behind him since dusk. You should’ve given up some time ago, but you never learn. He slows imperceptibly, just long enough for your catatonic ass to catch up, and then veers to the side so that you--rubbing your eyes with sleep--bump into him. You rest your hand against his tail instinctively and stick to him with the suction pads on your palm.

Satisfied having you in tow, he speeds back up. "You’re not a very good liar, sweetheart."

You mumble under your breath and hand-climb up his back until you're nestled between his shoulder blades instead.

Lazy little thing. Pain in his ass.

Despite grumbling, he does nothing to dislodge you from your spot. You seem to be having a difficult day, and he’s primed to make it worse. You’re the perfect target. When he has the energy--like now, at night--bullying you is his small pleasure of choice.

Then again, he can feel the way you’re pressing up against him, small and clingy and cute as hell. It takes all his willpower not to roll over and stow you against his chest instead.

You remain blissfully unaware of his inner turmoil. You’re more concerned about the emptiness in your stomach.

"You're going hunting, right?" you mumble against his shoulder.

 “Trying to,” he says.

You’ve been tagging along on hunts for days, but you haven’t managed to snag any good scraps in a long while. But maybe tonight, when it’s just you and Ghost. "Mkay."

He keeps waiting for you to get in the way and then pout when he inevitably brushes you off. Instead, you’re silent. It’s bugging him.

Then, scanning the coral, he catches sight of a perfectly tasty-looking snapper. He puts your attitude out of his mind and instead tenses up to begin his hunt. You’re with him, so why worry. Watch and learn.

You peer past his shoulder curiously to see him work. His back muscles tense and shift as his eyes track every one of the fish’s movements. Then he bolts forward faster than the fish can dart away. It whips around in reflexive panic right as he snatches it in one fluid movement.

You watch over his shoulder as he kills it with a practical snap of the spine and begins to disassemble the creature piece by piece, eating the flesh and letting the bones and fins fall to the ocean floor below.

His focus is intense: attention trained on the task, his fingers work as precisely to strip flesh from bone as his jaw works on shredding the pieces of snapper he tears off into his mouth. The muscles in his shoulders ripple beneath your coiled-up body. As always, he moves with efficiency and a certain brutal grace, never wasting a single movement. It's the lethal behavior of a predator, yes, but falling into the repetitive, methodical habit seems to satisfy him.

You unfasten yourself from his back while he's absorbed in his task. The bones and bits of uneaten flesh sinking to seafloor have your interest. You swim after them.

“Don’t go far,” he warns after you. He’s not worried. There’s nowhere you could venture out here that he couldn’t find you within minutes.

You collect the scraps and eat what you can--mostly skin and fins, and they leave you feeling almost as hungry, but you're used to it. Ghost needs the food more than you do, anyway. You glide lazily over the sea floor to comb the sand with your fingers in hopes of finding another snack. Maybe a snail. A crab if you're lucky.

The search leads you to the edge of a long sandbar. It’s about a thousand minnow-lengths at its widest, and there are various shells and bits of debris scattered across the surface. You start to prowl the sandy floor for food, fingers stirring up soft sand into the water.

Ghost’s voice calls out somewhere behind you, but your exhausted brain isn't as reactive as it should be. If you could just find one or two more bites to eat, you think. You tug what looks like a crab carapace out of the sand, but it's just a strawberry-colored plastic bottle. You keep searching. Keep finding nothing of value. You come across a pile of barnacles, shards of coral, small rocks, a stray fishing lure you gnaw on just to be sure...

But no, nothing worth eating.

Your stomach rumbles again. You’re too tired and unfocused. Your movements are slow and clumsy, your senses dulled. You barely hear a sound until a hand comes down on your tail from behind and grabs you.

You jerk and dart away in surprise.

Your movement wrenches a sound from Ghost--a gruff huff of annoyance as he lunges after you. You're fast, but not fast enough. He catches your tail again immediately, dragging you back into his control.

"Idiot," he scolds. "I told you not to go far. If I had been a predator, you'd be dead meat right now."

You relax into his grip instantly. "Oh. Yeah."

He looks at you in that unamused way that says of course I was right. He looks you over with a critical eye. Your eyes are half-open and your muscles are slack. You must be exhausted.

He turns and heads for home with you still in hand. "Right, then."

You see what's happening and wriggle in his grip, hunger gnawing at you again. "Wait, aren't you hunting?"

"No." He's quick and harsh with his response. He doesn't appreciate unnecessary questions. "You're going home. Hunting can wait."

…

[part 1] / part 2

more mer au / more Ghost / masterlist tag

[sleepberries]

lapdance dance of suffering | a spideyhood ficlet

happy april fools y'all!! meanwhile, here's a silly spideyhood fluff set 17 months after redflags

Dick Grayson was going to need industrial-strength brain bleach. Maybe even a lobotomy.

It had started as a normal night out—well, as normal as any night could be when you were the designated third wheel to Gotham's most insufferable couple. Jason and Peter (who had officially weaseled his way into the family over a year ago, thanks to a lethal combination of charm, audacity, and Jason's questionable taste in men) had decided that a dive bar on the edge of the city was the perfect place for date night. Dick had somehow been roped into joining them, because apparently, his life wasn't painful enough already.

"I'm only coming for one drink," Dick had warned when Jason first extended the invitation with that knowing smirk of his. "One. Then I'm out."

Four hours later, Dick was still there, questioning every life choice that had led to this moment.

The bar was dimly lit, the kind of place where the stools wobbled and the drinks were strong enough to make Batman reconsider his no-kill rule. The air was thick with cigarette smoke and regret. Dick nursed his beer, watching as Peter—already three drinks in—gestured wildly while recounting some ridiculous story involving a pigeon, a stolen sandwich, and a very confused cop.

"So there I am, sandwich in one hand, pigeon literally attacking my face," Peter was saying, his eyes bright with mischief, "and this cop rounds the corner just in time to see me yelling profanities at a bird while covered in mustard."

Jason, leaning against the bar with his usual brooding intensity, smirked into his drink, clearly entertained despite himself. The leather jacket he wore hung open, revealing a worn t-shirt that hugged his frame a little too well for Dick's comfort given what was about to unfold. His eyes hadn't left Peter all night, tracking him with the same intensity he usually reserved for targets.

And then it happened.

Peter, mid-story, went to take a step—whether to emphasize a point or just because he had the coordination of a concussed toddler after his fourth whiskey sour, Dick wasn't sure—and somehow managed to trip over absolutely nothing.

"Whoa—!"

Dick saw it in slow motion. Peter's arms windmilled dramatically, his drink sloshed precariously, and then—with all the grace of a fainting Victorian heroine—he toppled directly into Jason's lap.

Jason, because he had the reflexes of a man who regularly dodged bullets for breakfast, caught him effortlessly, one hand snaking around Peter's waist while the other steadied his drink with the precision of someone who knew alcohol was too precious to waste. His hands automatically settled on Peter's hips to stabilize him, fingers splaying possessively against the fabric of Peter's jeans.

Silence.

Peter blinked up at Jason from where he was now sprawled across his thighs, looking equal parts surprised and way too pleased with himself. His hair was mussed from the fall, lips parted slightly in a way that made Dick want to throw holy water at both of them.

"...I slipped," Peter announced, not moving an inch, his voice dripping with fake innocence that wouldn't fool a concussed goldfish.

Jason's grip tightened slightly, his smirk deepening to dangerous levels. "Sure you did." His voice had dropped an octave, rough around the edges in a way that made Dick consider the merits of spontaneous deafness.

Dick's soul left his body, waved goodbye, and caught the first bus out of Gotham.

Because Peter, the little menace, didn't get up. Oh no. Instead, he wiggled, adjusting himself in Jason's lap like he was trying to get comfortable on a particularly appealing throne. Jason's fingers flexed against his hips, his expression shifting into something dangerously amused, pupils dilating just enough that Dick wished he'd never learned to recognize the signs of arousal during his detective training.

"You know," Peter murmured, just loud enough for Dick to hear and subsequently wish he hadn't, "your lap is much more comfortable than those bar stools."

Jason hummed, one hand sliding up to the small of Peter's back. "Is that so?"

Dick's eye twitched so hard he was pretty sure he'd pulled something. "I know you did that on purpose."

Peter grinned, shameless as a cat who'd just pushed a vase off a shelf. "Prove it."

And then—because the universe hated Dick Grayson with the burning passion of a thousand exploding suns—Peter rolled his hips, just enough to be deliberate, just enough to make Jason's breath hitch audibly. Jason's head tilted back slightly, exposing the line of his throat as his fingers dug into the fabric of Peter's shirt.

Dick made a noise like a deflating balloon that had just witnessed something unholy. "I'm leaving."

Jason, the traitor, didn't even look at him. His hands were still firmly on Peter's hips, thumbs now slipping under the hem of Peter's shirt to brush against bare skin. His voice was a low rumble that Dick desperately wished he couldn't hear. "You're something else, you know that?"

Peter, the absolute gremlin, just laughed and did it again, this time with a slow, deliberate precision that had Jason's jaw clenching in a way that told Dick far more than he ever wanted to know about his brother's self-control.

"You like 'something else,'" Peter countered, shifting to straddle Jason properly now, knees on either side of his thighs. He reached up to brush a strand of hair from Jason's forehead with uncharacteristic tenderness, the gesture somehow more intimate than the obscene grinding.

Dick pulled out his phone and opened the group chat with the speed of a man who had seen things that couldn't be unseen.

Dick: I need brain bleach. Industrial strength. — Or maybe a memory wipe. Is Zatanna available?

The responses were immediate, his phone buzzing with the collective curiosity of his siblings.

Steph: oh my god what did they do now 🍿

Tim: do i even want to know? — don't answer that.

Cass: send video

Duke: wait, who's "they" — OH

Damian: Ugh. Todd's disgusting flirtations strike again. This is why I refuse to accompany him anywhere.

Babs: Location? I'll hack the security cameras for posterity.

Dick didn't dignify that with a reply. Instead, he risked another glance at the disaster unfolding in front of him, immediately regretting his life choices.

Peter had settled in now, one arm slung over Jason's shoulders, fingers playing with the short hairs at the nape of his neck. He was still murmuring something that made Jason's eyes darken with amusement and something else that Dick refused to acknowledge. Jason's thumbs were tracing idle circles against the exposed skin of Peter's waist, and Dick was this close to throwing himself into Gotham Harbor.

"Y'know," Peter said, voice dripping with faux innocence as he leaned in until their foreheads were nearly touching, "if you wanted me in your lap, you could've just asked."

Jason snorted, but the sound was undercut by the way his hand had migrated to the back of Peter's neck, fingers threading through his hair. "Like you'd have waited for an invitation."

Peter gasped, pressing a hand to his chest like he was scandalized, though the effect was somewhat ruined by how he was practically melded to Jason's front. "Why Mister Todd, I am but a gentleman."

"A gentleman wouldn't be doing what you're doing in public," Jason countered, lips quirking up at the corner in that dangerous way that usually preceded someone getting shot. In this case, Dick feared, the shooting would be metaphorical in a way that would require years of therapy.

"You weren't complaining last night when I—"

Dick made another wounded noise, this one resembling a cat whose tail had been stepped on. "I hate both of you. So much."

Jason finally looked at him, smirk widening to shit-eating proportions. His hand hadn't moved from where it was now cradling the back of Peter's head, thumb brushing against his cheekbone with casual intimacy. "You love us."

Peter, because he was the absolute worst, grinded down with deliberate intent just to watch Dick's horrified expression. Jason's responding intake of breath was sharp enough to cut glass.

"That's it." Dick turned on his heel, nearly knocking over his forgotten beer in his haste to escape. "I'm texting Bruce."

Jason had the audacity to laugh, the sound warm and genuine in a way that Dick would appreciate if it weren't for the fact that Peter was now pressing open-mouthed kisses along his jawline.

"Tell him we said hi," Peter called after him, voice muffled against Jason's skin.

Dick's last image before he fled the bar was of Jason tilting Peter's chin up, eyes hooded as he murmured something that made Peter's expression soften before Jason closed the distance between them.

Peter's laughter, followed by the distinct sound of Jason's low groan, chased him all the way out the door and into the blessed reprieve of Gotham's polluted night air.

His phone buzzed again.

Alfred: Might I suggest a nice cup of tea and perhaps some memory-suppressing meditation techniques, Master Richard?

Dick groaned. One day, he was going to learn to say no when Jason asked him to hang out.

But for now, he was going to need that brain bleach.

[httpvomitello]

Don't Trust Sirius Black *⁠.⁠✧

Summary: Sirius Black was given one simple task: keep an eye on his friend's daughter. Easy, right? Wrong. Because Sirius, being Sirius, completely ignored the part where you told him you were taking her to visit Lily. So when he and Remus go to check on the baby and find the crib empty, pure chaos ensues.

dad!remus lupin x f!mom reader

It all started because Sirius Black and your husband Remus Lupin had the attention span of a goldfish.

"I'm taking her to visit Lily today," you had told them that morning while adjusting your daughter’s tiny socks. "I'll be back before dinner."

Sirius, however, was deeply engaged in a passionate debate with Remus about the correct way to make tea.

"Milk first is barbaric, Moony," he declared, waving his arms around like a madman.

Remus rolled his eyes. "It’s science, Padfoot. The hot tea scalds the milk otherwise."

"And I refuse to drink anything that sounds like a crime scene."

You had just sighed. “Okay, well, I’m leaving now.”

“Yeah, yeah, sure, whatever,” Sirius mumbled, not even glancing at you.

Remus at least had the decency to kiss you goodbye, but clearly, Sirius had absorbed none of the conversation.

Which led to the disaster a few hours later.

Remus stretched from his seat, glancing at the clock. “It’s about time to feed her.”

Sirius, now lounging upside-down on the couch like some sort of oversized bat, flipped through a Quidditch magazine. "Yeah, I’ll grab her."

He rolled off the couch (gracefully, of course—definitely not with an embarrassing thud) and strolled toward the nursery.

He opened the door.

He blinked.

He rubbed his eyes.

He looked again.

The crib was empty.

Sirius Black, infamous Marauder, Animagus, and all-around chaos gremlin, screamed like a dying banshee.

"REMUS!!!"

Remus shot to his feet, nearly tripping over the coffee table. “What? What?”

"THE BABY!" Sirius shrieked, hair now sticking up like a mad scientist’s. "THE BABY IS GONE!"

Remus paled instantly. “What do you mean gone?!”

“I MEAN SHE WAS HERE AND NOW SHE’S NOT,” Sirius wailed, already sprinting around the house like a headless chicken.

Cue complete and utter chaos.

Remus tore through the house, checking every room with military precision.

Sirius?

Sirius was on another level.

He flung open the pantry. “Maybe she learned how to crawl super fast and is hiding with the snacks?!”

Remus did not dignify that with a response.

Sirius lifted the couch cushions. “WHAT IF SHE SHRUNK HERSELF?”

“She’s not a teacup, Sirius!”

“YOU DON’T KNOW THAT, MOONY!”

They were seconds away from performing a full-scale international manhunt when Sirius dramatically collapsed onto the floor.

“She’s gone,” he whispered, staring at the ceiling. “I lost her. I LOST THE BABY. Y/N IS GOING TO MURDER ME. AND THEN SHE WILL REVIVE ME JUST TO MURDER ME AGAIN.”

Sirius groaned, gripping the sides of his head. “Oh my Merlin, James is never going to let me babysit Harry again—”

“James?” Remus’s voice cracked. “I’m never going to let you babysit anyone again!”

Remus took a deep breath, trying to gather some calm, running his hands through his hair. “Okay. Okay. We need to stay calm—”

"CALM?!" Sirius shrieked, flailing like a distressed seagull. "REMUS, I HAVE NEVER BEEN CALM IN MY LIFE!"

And just as Remus was about to completely lose his mind—

The front door opened.

“Merlin, what a day,” you sighed, stepping inside.

Both men froze.

You blinked at them. They looked down at your daughter, who was perfectly happy in your arms, chewing on her tiny fingers.

“…Why do you both look like you’ve seen a ghost?”

Sirius made a strangled sound, clutching his chest like he had just fought death itself.

Remus, still processing the trauma he had just endured, exhaled sharply. “Where—where were you?”

You frowned. "With Lily. I told Sirius this morning."

Slowly, very slowly, Remus turned to Sirius, his eye twitching. "You knew?"

Sirius blinked. Then blinked again. Then—

“OH FOR MERLIN’S SAKE,” he wailed, flopping onto the couch in agony. “I DIDN’T KNOW—I MEAN I KNEW, BUT I DIDN’T KNOW I KNEW!”

You crossed your arms. "I told you both, but you were too busy arguing about tea."

Remus groaned, rubbing his temples like he had the world's worst headache.

Sirius flailed dramatically. “I FELT MY SOUL LEAVE MY BODY.”

You rolled your eyes, stepping forward to kiss Remus on the cheek before sitting beside him. “Well, now you know how I feel every time I leave her alone with you.”

Sirius grumbled something unintelligible.

Remus finally exhaled, running a hand through his hair before leaning down to press a kiss to his daughter’s forehead. “I think I lost ten years off my life just now,” he mumbled.

The baby just giggled again, completely oblivious to her father’s near-death experience.

Sirius groaned from the floor. “Can we all just agree that we never tell James about this?”

You and Remus exchanged a look.

“Oh, absolutely telling James,” you said in unison.

Sirius whined dramatically, but despite his theatrics, his heart was still hammering in his chest.

[unforth]

As I deepen my study with Chinese, the more I'm struck by how word meanings work. The monolingual USAdians I know or encounter online, who studied only as much as needed to get through school, really do seem to think languages are plug and play: know the word in both languages, and swap.

But that couldn't be further from the truth. There's on Chinese word, 稳当 (wĕn dang), that's really struck me for that. Because my flashcards give three translations for 稳当: reliable, secure, and stable. And in English these words are all fairly different! Clearly related but very much do not mean the same thing. How can one Chinese word mean these three different concepts? Well, of course, it doesn't. 稳当 means 稳当, some fusion of those three concepts we have words for in English but not quite any of them, that makes it appropriate to use in places where English would use any of those three. There are surely shades of meaning, and which interpretation of the meaning is most appropriate to a given context will be understood upon reading.

Now, expand this understanding - that a word doesn't mean (exact direct swap in English) but rather the word means the word, and we approximate it to the closest English equivalent we can - to *every single word in every single sentence in an entire book.*

Then translate that book.

Translation is an art, not a science, requiring tremendous verisimilitude in *both* languages, and an understanding of the story, and a deep familiarity with the culture (social, historical, linguistic, etc.) of the original work, and often knowledge of the authors intent (if possible to ascertain), and a range of other skills. Translation will always be interpretive and transformative, because (word in one language) doesn't precisely mean (word in another language). They're not "the same." If I present you a sentence with 稳当 in it, does it mean stable, reliable, or secure? Well that depends. On what? How it's being used, the surrounding context, other factors, and of course... the reader or translators interpretation.

It drives me insane when I see people present alternate translations as some kind of "gotcha" that one translator got things wrong. And don't get me wrong - of course some translations ARE just wrong, obviously if I translate 稳当 to mean "goldfish" I'm not interpreting I'm just incorrect. But beyond obvious mistakes, a world of nuance exists, and different translators can in good faith reach different conclusions on the most appropriate translation. This is WHY famous books not in English get translated repeatedly by different people, and why a reader would want to read multiple translations of the same work - to see, in different translations, some shadow of the wonderful nuance embodied by the original words that do not, and cannot, simply be swapped 1 to 1 for a perfect English translation. And this is *especially* true of a language like Chinese, which is ancient and beautiful and deeply steeped in understandings of Chinese history and literature.

Why do you think I and many others are studying Chinese for years? For me, it's all so I can read the actual books myself and get that much closer to the story, that much closer to my own interpretation. I'll never have the skills of a knowledgeable translator - this isn't my profession, it's my hobby - but I'll gleen things nonetheless and it's important to me to try.

Too many of yall disrespect those skills so much that you'll throw a sentence of a language you know nothing about into Google translate and then declare the translator Wrong (and sometimes Bad and Malicious) based on that.

稳当 means 稳当. It doesn't mean "reliable." It doesn't mean "the exact translation of 稳" plus "the exact translation of 当". It's a Chinese word with a Chinese definition that we retrofit English on to.

And the hardest part? Look, I'm still a Chinese novice. For all I fucking know, 稳当 actually MIGHT have three distinct definitions. Everything I said about it above might be wrong. I don't know enough Chinese yet to know for sure, and that's a level of nuance and understanding I'll only reach by reading more.

Multiply that by *every single word in both the original language and the language it's being translated into.*

That's what translation is.

Good luck.

[the-saltiest-saltine]

Reservations and Repose

(Yan!Chrollo x Fem Reader)

@sukunasfavoritehole hopefully this is enough to tide you over until my ao3 finally gets an update hehe

Word count: ~7.3k

------

You’re naïve enough to believe Chrollo’s asleep. He loves that about you.

Warnings: NOT SFW, non -con thigh fucking, somnophilia, drugging, imagined not sfw scenarios etc

a/n: SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG IT WAS 3/4 FINISHED THEN I FORGOT ABOUT IT my sincerest apologies.

Also this is my first time writing smut so please go easy on me 😥

Chrollo is very disappointed in you.

You let him kiss your cheek this morning following a deep sleep. You didn’t reciprocate, though he continues to see your progress and knows that an ever-hopeful yet can be added to the end of that statement. To some extent, the allowance of such an act could be chalked up to his acceptance of you, flaws and all, willing to appreciate the neutrality of it as opposed to ardent rejection. In a matter of weeks, you’ll be returning the gesture. And in a matter of months, you’ll be doing it gladly. Warmth, or perhaps weariness, has slowly but surely seeped its way into your actions recently, your shaky hands finding a place in his, fingers interlaced.

Is that to say he was under the impression that you’d completely given yourself to him? Absolutely not. There’s fear in your smiles, as much as they may have metamorphosed from obviously and mockingly forced to meek and endearing. Chrollo has shown you all that you know he can do. This has been enough to keep you relatively restrained over the months. If he showed you all that he knows he can do, you’d most likely curl up into a ball and sob until you dried out. That’s not necessary, though. It’ll never be.

Like many things, it wasn’t linear. It was a path that went upwards and downwards and forwards and backwards and in cycles, cycles that would always leave you curled up, sobbing in his arms, grasping onto him for whatever comfort it would give. But progress is progress, right?

Ignorantly, he began to believe the crumbs of affection, of acceptance, of acquiescence. Stupidly, he thought you were making progress. It’s been a significant amount of time since he was last this naïve. If he wasn’t so disgruntled by your transgression, he’d most likely bask in the nostalgic feeling. But he can’t, for the time being, because you’re trying to do something very rash.

As unfortunate as it is, you’re trying to leave him.

It’s audacious, having thought that the monumental power difference between you two had been thoroughly demonstrated on multiple occasions, a well established and silently acknowledged fact of your travels with him.

It’s irritating, although regarded with the same irritation as one would have with a pet goldfish trying to jump out of its tank. You silly thing, why do you want to abandon the place in which you are safe?

It doesn’t particularly make sense, though. He’s checked his cards - nothing suspicious has been bought in his name. No travel tickets or prepaid car hire. He’s even checked the jewellery collection - maybe you’d snatched up a nice necklace or bracelet or pair of diamond earrings to pawn off. But again, nothing. No suspicious bags have been packed. No loose tiles or floorboards or ceiling panels to hide supplies in. Your clothes are all neatly folded and hung in your wardrobe. 

You’ve got something up your sleeve- something desperate and jittery and not fully thought out. Something that relies on luck and prayers far more than precision and blow-by-blow planning. He never particularly took you for a daredevil, but to see you get pushed to such a limit, to be forced against your own timid nature, is beyond satisfying. If he could pluck it out of you and analyse it under a microscope, he’d be elated. Or perhaps even, he supposes to himself, he’d be so fulfilled that he might abandon the current pathway of his life, aimless and bloody and cyclical, finally so consumed with his obsession over you that nothing else is valued in the slightest. 

He can’t say he didn’t expect an ulterior motive for your apparent benevolence, at least initially, but for it to be kept up for this long? The stares felt almost too natural. The gradual lessening of your flinches when he placed a hand on your shoulder, the way your gaze would be drawn to him rather than away, even if only to flick away immediately - the subtleties were downright impressive. To be able to track everything simultaneously, to be able to remember to exhibit so many behaviours at once…Perhaps he should be taking acting lessons from you.

Chrollo had watched you, humming a pop tune this morning, cheekily shaking your hips from side to side as you fried some eggs, over easy, the notes sometimes interrupted with a sharp inhale between your teeth when the oil spat just a bit too high and would burn you ever-so-slightly. A domestic sight.

You’d let him give you another kiss on the cheek before he shrugged his coat on, giving you one last lingering glance before he’d walked out the door and into the hallway of the apartment, locking it with warm Nen made of comfort rather than capture. He gave you another cheek kiss (despite his ever-growing urge to dip lower) when he got home to the smell of spices and vegetables and the bubbling sound of a low simmer. You don’t fight them anymore, and barely even recoil now, a result of steady but slight crossing of boundaries - his record was eleven times in one day (at least, his record for when you were conscious) when he was feeling particularly affectionate, although you’d definitely soured up by the end.

The…fantasies he’d had of domesticity…they were just that, weren’t they? Fantasies, mere ideas that were appealing enough to fully flesh out in his mind. Whatever actions you’ve taken, whether it be pecks to the cheek or folding his shirts, staining them with the scent of you, they’ve all been a means to an end. That certainly wasn’t part of the fantasy. 

You’ve been buttering him up like the thick slices of white bread next to his bowl. What a betrayal.

Tonight’s stew is spicy and chunky, served courteously by you. His palate is experienced from an adulthood of travel, wealth, and nights spent with gullible women who couldn’t tell the difference between a Prince Charming and a swindler. Truly, there is little he hasn’t at least tried. Including this.

So, if there’s no other signs of you wanting to leave the comfort of the apartment and the familiarity of his presence, then what could’ve possibly cued him into your motives?

It’s something tenuous, something that could’ve gone unnoticed to anyone else. It’s something subtle, buried under layers of rosemary and thyme and paprika. But diphenhydramine is such an acquired taste. And it’s one that’s made the past few weeks and months crumble to dust.

Oh, you sweet thing.

Acting as oblivious as ever, he spoons chunks of zucchini and carrot onto the bread, taking large bites, chewing and swallowing with purpose, the taste of the sedative lingering. He considers smacking his lips for good measure, to play around with you a bit, but eventually decides against it. That’ll come later.

You sit across from him, silence between you two. Normally, he’d fill it with tales from his busy day - but you’ve been so good lately, that he’s begun to refrain from doing that. Nowadays, he asks you what you’ve been up to, every painstaking detail from your dull days without him. But that’s only if you’ve been good, or at least if he’s under the impression that you’ve been good. As it turns out, you haven’t been good, you aren’t being compliant, and now he simply waits.

You stare into your bowl of stew, but he can tell you’re watching him in your periphery. It’s so very fascinating, the way you absorb each mouthful he takes, washed down with frequent sips of water (there’s no other substances in that, obviously). He takes another swill of the liquid, tilting his head slightly back, and in the corner of his eye, he can see the way you observe his Adam's apple bobbing with each gulp. Does it appease you, the sight? Does it intrigue you? Does it make you, even for a moment, reconsider what you’re about to do?

Chrollo pauses for a moment, before placing the half-empty glass back onto its coaster. He knows the smirk that comes onto his face is nothing short of wicked, but he truly can’t help himself. 

“Are you not hungry, my love? You’ve barely touched your food.”

Barely is an understatement. You haven’t touched it at all, in fact. Stupid, really. He knows that you know that he’s observant - but that information is irrelevant in this situation, considering it doesn’t take an keen eye to figure out your pattern of stirring your spoon around, picking up some carrot - even blowing on it for good measure - and nodding along with what few words he spoke initially, before giving an mhm! of agreement and letting it drop back into the bowl. You spend extensive amounts of time apparently fishing for just the right piece of zucchini, sorting through copious amounts of lentils (and seemingly taking the time to individually count them all), dragging chunks up the side of your bowl only to push them back down into the fray of assorted vegetables.

There’s almost a sort of jump in response to the words, ringing clear and well projected. But it’s contained above the shoulders - your head snaps to look at him, your eyes widening momentarily, staring into his own, trapped.

He can feel the shaky breath you take to steady yourself from over here, air stagnant and mouth dry.

“No,” you reply, “not particularly.”

He cocks an eyebrow at that, mouthing an oh before returning to his meal. It doesn’t matter whether you take the bait or not, his suspicions have long since been confirmed. Confirmed, in the sternest sense of the word, syllables enunciated with force, the knowledge of your true intentions well recognised. Whether that displays on his face or within his interactions with you is inconsequential to the known ending of your silly stunt.

The sound of you chewing is enough to bring his attention back out of the bowl. That’s not fake.

So you’re eating it too? It’s certainly a bold move, but one he wouldn’t dare put past you anymore. You were always a clever one, one to be placed a mere few tiers below his own intellect.

He hasn’t caught you swapping the bowl out for a fresh one. Maybe you’ve mastered the art so quickly that even he can’t notice?

No, not likely. Not in just a few months. That’d be impossible.

Your bites of pumpkin are preceded with the slightest hesitation, a quick breath to presumably psych yourself up to the self-sabotage. He hates to see you so scared when you’re properly sharing a meal with him like this, deciding to return to normalcy as a reward for your cooperation.

“Tell me, darling, what did you get up to today?”

Your eyes flick to his, momentarily ensnared in the grey, before looking up at the ceiling to aid in the process of giving a verbal description of what you read, how you cleaned, how you entertained yourself with rearranging your meagre book collection (not his, that would be asking for trouble). The response is practically identical to every other time he’s asked the question, plain and unindulgent. It’s boring, he thinks, even with the unacknowledged omission of the hours you spend staring at the walls and pacing around the living area. He’s tempted to pry into how you decided on tonight’s dish, but decides against it. Not for lenience or mercy, but rather amusement. To give away what he knows now would simply be a waste of a situation you’ll never attempt to put yourself in again.

If you knew what Chrollo knew, would you still bother to indulge him?

You stare at him for a moment, allowing him to draw things out, before nodding at the I see he gives in response. He gives a forward nod to your bowl, giving you gracious permission to eat again after starving you for the length of your interrogation, merciful as ever. Your fear is better contained behind a split second’s confusion before you register the nonverbal instruction, picking up your spoon once more and eating with more confidence this time, taking exaggerated bites of zucchini that barely make it past your teeth, chewed excessively into grey paste before being swallowed. Maybe you reason that if you chew enough, you can break the drug down into something that won’t knock you out. A cute thought.

The spices stain your lips an enticing red, the chilli making them plump up so deliciously. If he kissed them, would they burn him? Would the capsaicin leave his lips tingling, a reminder of your soft touch?

He likes to think he’ll know the answer soon.

Chrollo feigns sleepiness, furrowing his brows in mock confusion as he tells you that he can’t quite keep his eyes open - perhaps he overdid it at work today. 

Yes, work, as he loves to call it, like there’s the possibility of him spending his time away from you at a desk, punching in numbers on a computer, monotonous and repetitive and damn, couldn’t things just switch up for a day? Work, as in a beer-bellied husband whose idea of experimental fashion is changing which tie he wears with the same white button-up and black dress pants each day. Work, as in an assembly line employee who wakes up at three o’clock to be at the factory by four, ready and willing to make whatever sacrifices necessary to support his loved ones. Work, as in something at least vaguely respectable.

Work, as in literally anything other than stealing and slaughtering and scourging.

Chrollo relishes in the way your shoulders relax a little. It’s almost too adorable. Chrollo also relishes in the way they tense up again when he adds how it’s suspicious really. I don’t believe I’ve ever felt a tiredness such as this.

There’s an underlying anxiety in your pretty, pluckable, ever-so-slightly bloodshot eyes. Where others would be concerned for your health, he finds endearment, you precious thing. After admiring them silently for a moment, he announces that he’ll be off to bed now, darling. Remember to be there for me when I wake.

He leaves you alone in the kitchen to stew in your unease.

____________

Now he’s lying in bed, on the side closest to the door, limp as anything. It doesn’t matter whether his facade convinces you or not, he’ll have you in his arms by morning. The blinds aren’t fully down, leaving a pleasant blue hue that gives him a good visual of most of the room. Your side of the bed is still firmly tucked in from when he made it this morning, after running his hands up and down your arms until you’d given a great shudder and shoved him away - a pitiful attempt that he’d impishly gone along with. 

Anticipation tickles his nose and prods at his heart. Childishly, he wants you to get over with it already, to sprint in, swinging a knife wildly, or cue him to start the chase with a slam of the front door so violent that the hinges threaten to crack. It’s unfortunate how your faux compliance conditioned him to be unable to accept a halt, or even slowing, of progress.

Ah, some solace - he can hear your footsteps come up to the door, attempting, albeit poorly, to be quiet. Or maybe they are quiet, to the average man, but someone well-versed in the art of stealth can practically see the way you tiptoe closer. The faint sounds paint a detailed visualisation of your movements - the balls of your feet lifting from the ground, the flexing of your toes, the dorsiflexion at your ankles, the soft thud of your heels hitting the ground.

The bedroom door creaks open, a thin streak of light hitting his eyelids, making him see an ever-so-slight orange behind them. He might be able to visualise your walk accurately, but the same cannot be said for your face. Are you fearful, lips downturned and eyes wide? Are you determined yet cautious, eyes narrowed and lips pressed into a thin line? Are you smug? Condescending? Grinning from ear-to-ear, excited to finally have what you believe to be freedom?

You’re not, he discerns.

Instead, you huff a sigh, a sweet note that makes his heart jump, a small flutter that could only be instigated by you. It’s a sigh of relief. The door is shut. He expects another door to be slammed, too - the front door, hinges quaking as you sprint to the stairs as far as you can, too scared to wait for the elevator (and for your sake, he hopes you’ve brought a pair of running shoes - you’re on the 35th floor, after all). But that doesn’t happen.

Instead, he can hear the clanking of bowls and dishes, the smooth schwip as you push breadcrumbs off the chopping board into the bin with the back of the serrated-edge knife, and how you place said knife into the block without taking another one out.

So you’ve decided against stabbing him tonight? How agreeable.

In fact there seems to be no malice in the way you’re stacking the bowls, no scraps of extra force in how you shut the fridge. Whilst the sounds of your cleanup are nothing short of a ruckus to his alert ears, there’s an intentional tenderness he can hear. A conscious effort to be as quiet as possible with somebody sleeping peacefully in the next room.

It’s a gesture he’ll interpret in the best way he can. Even if he knows he’s deluding himself that you want to be quiet for his own peace rather than so you can escape, he’ll be sure to bring up the former as reasoning for your actions over the next few days, regardless of how you’ll spit venom at him, hissing that he couldn’t be more wrong.

Next is a movement he didn’t expect in the slightest.

You come back to the bedroom, with a pile of fabric in your hands - clothes, maybe? He thought you’d be off and away as soon as possible, or you wouldn’t get close to him again at the very least, standing patiently by the door until whatever you’re waiting for had occurred. 

The quiet-ish footsteps make their way past him this time, and straight into the ensuite.

There’s the soft sound of clothes falling, and then the tap is turned on.

You’re…showering before you leave?

You really are a good teacher of the quirks of humanity. Logical as ever, he’d most certainly take no time for hygiene practices if it reduced his chances of being able to go on a small, liberating adventure. But perhaps that’s part of the plan? Do you not want to have a speck of dirt on you so you don’t smell bad? Will you hide out at a fancy gala, and have to be as fresh as possible? Are you trying to wash off Nen, perhaps? 

No, that would never work, and he’s certain you know this too. Still, the idea of a little hopeless fire in you, taking a precaution you know is futile, makes his lips twitch.

So many questions, few of them answerable at present. His mind is stimulated so wondrously, for once not finding boredom in the predictability of human behaviour. He’s truly chosen well. 

And then there’s something else, rising above the sound of the rushing water, above the drain gurgling it down, greedily gulping it away.

You’re humming.

It’s relatively random, most likely improvised, and slightly off-tune, but endearing all the same. He can taste the notes, sweet and soothing, running down his throat smoothly and pooling warmth in his belly. 

You heave a sigh, and the tune changes. And then he recognises it.

It’s something he heard as a boy, back in Meteor City. He’d hear it at night, walking back to whatever semblance of a refuge he had with Franklin and Shalnark, past the hamlets of the younger children. Letting himself get lost in it, he can feel himself crawling to shelter on scraped knees, walking on calloused heels, eating stale bread, all accompanied by the faint smell of garbage, a smell that years of exposure had waned to a neutral accompaniment of the setting, rather than an inconvenience or hazard.

Despite the unhygienic nature of it all, it’s sweet. It’s these memories - memories of grime and rot and infection - that are the most pure. The most uncorrupted. They’re full of innocence and hope - just like you.

These qualities make you think you’ll leave him.

Upon remembering this, he’s tempted to barge in and ruin your peace, eager to hear your inevitable yelp and nervous laugh as he quizzes you about tonight’s events. But he doesn’t. Your lullaby is too enjoyable, the tune far too agreeable to stomp out yet. Resisting sin by committing another, he decides he doesn’t want to kill this mockingbird, if only to selfishly continue to hear it sing.

Few moments have come like this since you came to be with him. They’re all short-lived in comparison to the cold life he’s had, a firecracker popping on his tongue, fleetingly filling his mouth with syrupy sweetness before quickly dying off, barely an aftertaste to be savoured. He’s scratched them all down in an old leather journal with a quill and ink, lest he forgets what it feels like, or how to get that feeling again, but thankfully they’re scratched even deeper into his psyche. 

You’d been agreeable enough for a reward of a dinner somewhere several stories up, city lights shining behind you, framing your hair beautifully. You were reluctant at first, turning your nose up at him and the priceless food in front of you, opting for the bottle of red wine instead. It wasn’t supposed to be gulped down with such vulgarity like that, but that was part of your charm and by your second glass you were giggling and halfway through your third you looked at him right in the eye, cheeks tinged pink, and you smiled a smile that you’d forget by morning but he wouldn’t…

He’d returned to the villa after a long day to find the fans blasting, and you slumped over on the couch as credits rolled on the screen in front of you. He’d flicked the TV off, not before noting the rom-com’s name, and regarded you, with your deep, even breaths and singlet strap falling down. He picked you up and carried you to bed, laying you down on the thin blankets, fixing your strap despite the small voice that called to him to take off the thing entirely. Your head rested on the pillow, your face not scowling for once, and you’d huffed the sweetest of sighs…

That’s the kind of moment this is.

There’s no thought of what he’ll be doing with the troupe tomorrow, or in a week, or what move to make next depending on what you decide to do. Every nook and cranny of his mind, every convolution of his brain is filled with the thought of you. Tonight, it’s warm and viscous, slowing time and cutting both of you off from the rest of the world; the rest of its filth.

In this moment, he can see himself in the shower with you. He’s across from you, lathering body wash onto his shoulders, letting the foam run down his back. All the while, he keeps his gaze on you, watching how your hands run over your body, soap running along your sternum, between your breasts, along the curve of your hips, your ass, all whilst you hum that tune… shit, he can’t let himself get hard now. He manages to drag himself out of the daydream, barely, just managing to claw himself to the surface of reality.

Caps are popped open and the lathering of soaps can be heard over the course of your performance, with a finale of the tap being turned off. There’s a fumbling of fabrics before you come out, followed by yet another move he doesn’t expect.

You walk up to the bed, peel the sheets back, and lie down beside him. You then roll onto your side, facing him. After a few moments, you prop yourself up onto your elbow.

A moment of nothing. You’re frozen, as is he. Calm before the storm, he prepares himself to catch your wrist and hear you shriek.

You lean over.

And then there’s a featherlight sensation on his forehead, right in the middle of his tattoo. 

Had it been a split second later, he would’ve opened his eyes and turned to face you with a smirk as you screamed. But it’s not a split second later, it’s now, and now you’re kissing him. There’s no real benefit for doing such a thing that he can identify right now - perhaps you know he’s awake, and would like to make amends? Surely you know that that wouldn’t be enough to satisfy him.

The contact sends an electric zap to every corner of his body, although he manages to not make himself jolt. Months of stifled desire bubble up from his insides, desire that’s spent so long smothered by rationale of better outcomes and forcing himself to think of his bloodied obstacles and late nights alone in the shower. As often as his lips find their way to your forehead, unfortunately the reverse doesn’t occur even half as much.

You pull away, like you’re hesitant about what you’ve done, like you’re waiting for him to snap his eyes open and sit up with inhuman speed, ready to pin you down or tie you up or even slap you for tonight’s inconveniences. But that doesn’t make sense, because hesitation is supposed to occur before such an intrepid act, not afterward.

After receiving apparent confirmation that you’re not about to be attacked, he can sense your head slowly but surely coming to rest on your pillow. You shouldn’t strain your neck like that, someone like you could get hurt over time.

The back of his shirt is peeled up, slowly, delicately, and he has to focus to keep his breathing even.

There you lie, staring at the twelve-legged spider etched into his skin, his number a pale contrast to the black ink, practically jumping out at you.

0.

It’s your reminder, he supposes, of what he is. Theoretically and legally nonexistent, practically traceless. Zero evidence. Zero remorse. Zero morality.

Zero.

Then-

One, two, three.

Your lips mark a trail up his spine, at the bottom of the abdomen, right in the middle of the zero, on its head. Don’t shudder.

Once your deed is done, you pull back. There you lie, staring at the twelve-legged spider etched into his skin, so silent that you’re barely breathing.

The fabric of his nightshirt is guided back down. You roll over and proceed to go limp, succumbing to the drugs intended for him.

What was that?

You’re not touching him anymore. He can sense the gap between your bodies, one that he would close every night, pulling you close. 

Was it a relief? To go to sleep without him touching you?

You’d always stirred up such a fuss about his arms being around you as you slept. 

It had always been a cause for seething rage on your part, later argument, later whining, and more recently huffing. Even last night, the stiffness before you fell asleep was a cause of his own discomfort. But you didn’t have to deal with that tonight, and now you’ve fallen asleep in record time. He can’t say it was just from the pills.

Did you change your mind on leaving after you felt their effects? It doesn’t seem likely that you’d ditch all that to sleep. Rather, that you wanted to sleep on your own terms.

He’d spent so much time concerned with stopping a potential escape, that he didn’t stop to consider that maybe, just maybe, that was never the goal to begin with.

And now Chrollo rolls over to face you, gently tugging on your shoulder to pull you onto your back.

You’re serene as ever, a sight to behold. 

He brushes the back of his knuckles along your hair, feeling its texture, so light that his calloused hands - hands that have seen many a bruise and burn and slice and hangnail caught and ripped on the job - almost can’t feel it. Your exhales come out more as huffs and sighs now compared to gentle breathing, and he allows a chuckle (one that he finds incredibly endearing, as much as you’ve let your disagreement to that sentiment be known, preferring to describe it with wounding words such as “condescending” and “grating”) to slip past his lips. 

It reminds him of you when you’re awake, when you used to try so hard to be difficult for him, when you used to scream and scratch as he’d spoon you, grip ironclad, until all you could do was huff and puff and plead with him (and as much as he enjoyed your attempts to compromise, this was something he simply could not relinquish) and eventually, your cursing would die down, your muscles would go limp, and you’d fall asleep. 

Sometimes the sun would be up by the time you relented, and your breaths would be the heaviest then. It was amusing, how quickly you’d switch. One second, you were cussing him and his troupe out, the next, you were a paragon of tranquillity, the visage of an angel before him. He’d pray you love him.

He wants to grab your jaw, hold it firm, and kiss your lips as hard as he can. He wants to tilt his head and take and take and take. He wants to keep taking even if your breathing lightens. He wants to keep taking even if your eyelids flutter open, hazy doe-eyes looking at him with dozy confusion.

Well, he’d never deny his own indulgence.

Leaning in, he presses a kiss to your forehead, just as you did to him.

The touch is as gentle as he can make it, as gentle as he can permit himself to be. There’s a split second of what he could almost call fear, an image of accidentally squeezing you too hard and hearing your bones snap flashing in his mind.

He rubs his thumb over where his lips previously were, feeling an unanticipated wetness left behind.

It’s then that Chrollo realises his mouth is full of his own saliva - whether that was because he was so entranced by your actions that nothing else mattered, body as limp as he could allow, or because, like some sort of filthy animal, he couldn’t help but drool at the contact from you, starved for it like a hyena, he doesn’t know. He swallows. That’s better.

And now for the main event.

He dips down to your lips, and lightly presses his own against them. The feeling is so heavenly, he wonders if you really are an angel. If you were one, would you bless him? Would you destroy him?

If you were to know what he’s doing, would you hate him more?

He pulls away. 

The journey to get here was sizable. Memories of tonight flash by; your cooking, your conversation, your shower. Your humming.

Ah. The tune he heard as a boy. Innocent, naïve, hopeful.

Well, he’s a man now. And far less innocent.

He lets out a hum of his own, deep and rumbling.

Chrollo moves to straddle you, peeling the duvet and sheets back, layer by layer, unveiling the best present he’s ever gifted himself. Just moving into such an intimate position is enough to send pangs of heat downwards, the hardness he fought against earlier returning with an urgency.

For a moment, he tries to fight against it.

Is it to save himself from your hatred? Is it to save you from what he’s planning?

It’s neither, he discerns, as the attempt was doomed to fail before it even started. He knows it was never meant to succeed.

His groin only throbs harder, aching for friction. It’s a spur-of-the-moment thing, the way he presses it against your clothed crotch, rocking back and forth, the slight relief just momentary as his desire only grows.

He regards your unsuspecting face. Stunning. 

Restraint is draining faster now, but still is present just enough to stop him from grinding any harder despite the urge. But if he’s to stop his movements, he’ll need a different kind of stimulation.

He bunches your shirt up, pulling, sliding a hand under your back so he can slip it off your arms and neck.

Now your chest is bare. How ravishing.

His fingers hook under the band of your sleep pants, dragging them off in a clean motion.

And now your legs are bare. How alluring.

He doesn’t take your underwear off - that would simply be crude, and he doesn’t need to tempt himself anymore. If he got the privilege (or right, considering your standings) of seeing you fully nude, as opposed to having a single layer covering the most tantalising part of you, he’d be oh-so-inclined to do something regrettable. His logic fights to win space within his buzzing thoughts, fingers daring to twitch as his imagination fills in the gaps of what the thin black layer forces to be left to it.

Chrollo parts your thighs for good measure, the maximum he can allow himself at this moment. It’d be impossible to not let his hands and gaze trail up them, observing how as he roams upwards, your flesh gets softer, warmer; how the flimsy fabric can’t hide all of your darker flesh; how your lower lips are pressing against the cloth, visible despite the darkness…

God, you’re so fuckable.

There’s a pretentious voice in his head, albeit muffled, that cries protests at the use of such a word to describe you. You’re something far more than that - beautiful, exemplary, one-in-a-million, ethereal. Surely your mouth would be better put to use having a fulfilling conversation with him, a conversation he can dissect and steer and puppeteer, as opposed to just opening as wide as it can to accommodate his cock, taking it as deep as your gag reflex will allow, barely able to breathe, much less talk. Although, he thinks with a faint, deep groan, twitching in his pants, that’s certainly a hypothesis I’ll have to test.

With the sight of your breasts, nipples hard and skin goosebumped from the chill of the room, it’s decided. Just because making his cheeks warm and his cock rock hard isn’t your most prominent trait, doesn’t mean that you aren’t absolutely exceptional at it.

Temptation isn’t something he’s inclined to resist, brushing a thumb over your nipples before leaning down to take one into his mouth. He swears he can hear your breath hitch as his tongue swirls around, breathing getting slightly lighter. An eager hand reaches for the other one, kneading as gently as he thinks he can.

Soft is the first thing he thinks. Your flesh is so soft, so delicate, so tender. If you were awake, he’d vocalise his compliments - and do so loudly, unrestrained.

Your breathing changes as he points his tongue to lightly flick at your nipple repeatedly. Chances are you’re being taken out of REM sleep, but your consciousness doesn’t matter at this stage. And some part of him hopes for it, brief images flashing in his mind of barely-open teary eyes slowly rolling to the back of your head. They’re obscene, so utterly immoral to even fantasise about, yet even the split-second thought makes his stomach jump, shivering a bit as he feels himself be almost overcome by them.

He can’t help but slightly wet his lips in anticipation, relishing in the knowledge that his instincts are being held back with the slightest thread. If he moves even slightly faster than his rational, calculating, non-carnal mind intends, then it’ll snap. He’ll snap.

Almost trembling, he reaches across to his bedside table. The movements are imprecise, but he’s sure this practice will allow him to execute them with much more grace for the inevitable time you’ll be awake. Yes, you’ll be awake and whining and he’ll wet his lips in anticipation and be met with your lingering taste and you’ll want him as much as he wants you- 

He almost falls forward as his own lust threatens to overtake him. Focus on the necessary steps.

Taking a shuddering breath, he leans down to pull open the drawer, to find a bottle hidden at the back, purposefully concealed behind an upright copy of Tess of the D’Urbervilles. Quickly shifting his weight back, he pops the cap open, spreading some of the slick contents onto his fingertips. With his free hand, he pulls down the loose elastic of his pyjama pants, shucking them off, the cold air making him quiver slightly.

Time’s running out.

The movements are trembling, sloppy as he pours lube onto his length, and then onto your spread thighs. There’s a frantic inertia of sorts, a mad momentum - the more he does, the faster he has to go, the anticipation making his stomach swell and dip. He’s really going to do this. It’s really going to happen, and it’ll be amazing.

There. Done. Everything’s ready.

Chrollo takes a shaky breath, gripping just above your knees, and squeezes your thighs around his dick.

Jesus fucking Christ.

Your thighs are warm from the duvet, perfectly cosy and wet from the lube for his cock.

Little time is wasted as he begins to thrust his hips, trying not to give himself too much too soon. The steady pace is slowly increased, little by little, a fragile incline so he can drag this out for as long as possible. 

Can you feel it? Can you feel the warmth radiating from him? Is there some part of your mind that’s awake, but can’t do anything to stop him? Or better yet, is eager to please him?

He strains out a hiss through gritted teeth, peppering kisses over your exposed neck, trying his best not to bite. The pace increases yet again. His eyes are fixated on the mound in your underwear, a more sinister form of curiosity burning within. 

What does your pussy look like?

He won’t use En, that’s just cheating. He wonders and ponders and conjures up the most filthy images his mind can muster. A warm, tight hole that clenches for him as he slips in and out, teasing you. A pretty clit for him to tease with his fingers as you whine, for him to suckle on as you choke on sobs of pleasure. Folds for him to run his tongue through as you rut your hips against his face; for him to run his tip along, collecting your slick.

He imagines how his cock would look disappearing inside of your cunt, how your grip would be so suffocating, how your tits would bounce as he fucks it (because shit, they’re already moving so vigorously now, as he holds his strength, and he can’t even begin to picture what they’d look like if he loses control buried deep inside you, repeatedly stuffing you to the hilt as you cry out). He imagines how you’d tighten around him, babbling something incoherent as you wrap your arms and legs around him, and oh fuck, he can’t pull out now. He imagines the tension snapping, giving a rumbling groan as he shoves himself into you as deeply as possible, eyes screwing shut and burying his face in the junction between your neck and shoulder, riding out his high with a few shallow thrusts.

And finally, he imagines how his cum would look leaking out of your pussy, twitching and swollen from a nice good fuck. The afterglow. The squeak you’d give if he fingered it back into you, growling at you to not waste a drop, keep it all inside for me.

The thought makes his hips stutter a little, threatening to slip out of the plushness between your thighs. Once he regains his rhythm, though, they’re speeding up, relentlessly fucking himself into your thighs over and over, kneading the flesh as he squeezes them tighter and closer.

Chrollo cups your face with a single hand, and leans in. 

It’s the second time he’s properly kissed you tonight, and it feels fucking amazing. Your soft lips, your soft thighs, they’re all working together to make his head swim in bliss. You’re working to make him feel good. Yes, him. Nobody else. You’re his.

The thoughts run wild. He has as little control over them as he does his hips.

How would it feel to fuck you in some other position? How would it feel to flip you onto your stomach, pulling your hips back to meet his, as he stuffs himself into your sopping cunt over and over, watching your ass bounce? How would you cry out at the way his balls slap against your swollen clit, building up the pressure inside you until you just can’t take any more?

How would you grind on top of him? How would you moan as you bounce, tilting your head back as you stretch yourself on his length, panting? How many times could you do it until your legs trembled uncontrollably, forcing yourself to impale yourself on his cock just one more time? When he’d plant his feet on the bed firmly and thrust his hips up, grabbing yours and bouncing you in time, would you wail, or simply slump over, completely unable to form a thought as you cum around him for the nth time?

You’re flexible enough to fold into a mating press, right? How deep could he go? How fast could he go? How would your beautiful skin look covered in love bites?

The coil of pressure within him grows even tighter even faster, balls slapping against your thighs, hips pistoning rhythmlessly.

If he asked, oh-so-nicely, for you to get on your knees and please him with your mouth, would you oh-so-sweetly do it? Would you suckle his swollen tip? Would you tease him with a glint of mischief in your eyes? Would you find his most sensitive spots and exploit them? Would you trace your tongue along the veins? Would you massage his balls? Would you let him control the pace, a hand intertwined in your hair? Would you look up at him as you tear up, doe-eyes wide and eager to please? Would you rub your pretty pussy while he shoots thick ropes of cum down your throat, pressing your nose against his pelvis?

Yes, he decides as the coil begins to snap, you would.

Chrollo comes to a sudden halt, choking out a rich groan in a low timbre. The noise becomes more strained as he rides out the high, the overwhelming euphoria becoming just a bit too intense as it begins to morph into overstimulation. Once he’s sure the moment’s over, he lets go of your legs, pulling back to catch his breath and admire his work.

Ropes of cum paint your chest, some making it as far as your neck, your chin. It’s beautiful, the unruly mess he’s made - no, the mess you’ve made of him.

You’re a real beauty, you know that?

The bathroom tiles are cold against his feet as he grabs a washcloth to clean you up. It’s sad to see it go, to a primal extent, but it’s probably for the best to ensure he doesn’t get any ideas for a second round tonight.

For future nights, though? The chest he’s covering up will soon be exposed soon enough.

He’ll have to get more sleeping pills. You simply must try this again soon. 

Next time, he’ll taste you. The time after that, you’ll taste him. He can hardly wait, nor can he stop the dull throbbing starting up in his groin again.

He sates himself for the time being with the knowledge that the time after that, you’ll be awake.

[allgoodnamesrgoneee]

could you do a long smut where Jude and Reader are dating and she's just extremely innocent and that turns Jude on, but at the same time he wants to corrupt her, he wants to protect her innocence. The reader sits on his lap or is always wearing short clothes (as she is inside the house) and he can't take it anymore... one time, they are kissing and Jude loses control, he gets on top of her and kisses her with desire and So she's all confused because she feels strange, like she's never felt before and she wants more, but Jude gets off her right away and he's so hard and the reader can't help but watch that with curiosity... they don't They talk about Aquil, but as the days go by, she notices that he doesn't want to kiss her and always pushes her away and this makes her sad and she decides to talk to him about it... he is frank with her saying that she is extremely innocent and that the things he wants to do to her have destroyed her innocence; She says she trusts him and wants to go all the way with him (even though she doesn't know exactly what to do) and then Jude takes her virginity, being extremely careful and always asking if she's sure. Reader stares in fascination upon seeing him naked for the first time and Jude can't help but be enchanted by how adorable she is. She had never felt that way, Jude's hands are all over her body and when Jude enters her, no matter how much it hurts, it makes her feel so good (please could you put dirty talk in that, I'm just a bitch about Jude being naughty and talking dirty)

I finally did it! After two weeks of writing, I’ve finished this project! This is the longest fic I’ve ever written, and I poured my heart into it as an apology for my long absence. If you notice any repeated scenes… well, that’s because I wrote this over two weeks, and my memory is about as reliable as a goldfish’s. Plus, I was way too tired to edit. I tried to stick to the request as much as I could but my imagination got carried away.

-Much love, Bianca 🌻

Inocencia

Masterlist

𝒔𝒖𝒎𝒎𝒂𝒓𝒚 — In which you and Jude are soulmates.

𝒑𝒂𝒊𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈 — Jude Bellingham x you

𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒅 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒕 — 24.2k

Warnings! FLUFF! Jude is so soft with her, he's so in love, insecurities, first love, established relationship, this is the softest thing I've ever written, slight angst for the plot (nothing serious), NSFW! SMUT (18+), corruption kink, virgin reader, first time, unprotected vaginal sex, oral sex (f & m receiving), fingering, soft sex, multiple orgasms, dom!Jude, sub!reader, a little surprise at the end for y'all

Growing up, your life wasn’t just structured; it was scripted.

A carefully choreographed routine, every step dictated by expectations you had no hand in setting.

Your parents didn’t ask for much, just obedience, and you learned quickly that nodding and murmuring yes was easier than explaining the no lodged in your throat. Childhood wasn’t about exploration; it was about perfection. Whims were traded for polished manners, because mistakes were lessons learned the hard way.

Mornings began with perfectly made beds and meticulously crafted schedules, while evenings were reserved for review sessions of tests you wouldn’t take for weeks. Every minute of the day was accounted for, leaving little room for anything but perfection.

So you became a master of disguise.

The messy, loud, imperfect parts of you? Those were hidden away, locked behind a wall of politeness and precision. You never thought to question it. This was life, wasn’t it?

At school, the contrast was striking.

Your classmates had lives that seemed so chaotic, so mesmerisingly beautiful. At least to you. You dreamed of being like them. Of joining the dance team, of skipping class, of reading books that your mother didn't pick out for you.

They had the kind of freedom you couldn’t fathom. They whispered about parties that ended at sunrise, secret crushes, first kisses stolen under streetlights. You listened, fascinated but silent. Rules first, fun later.

But "later" had a funny way of never showing up.

And then came Charlie.

You first met her on orientation day, a whirlwind of awkward introductions and icebreakers that felt anything but natural. Later, you discovered she was your roommate.

At first, you weren’t sure what to make of her. Charlie was… a lot.

At first glance, she seemed like someone you might not click with—her energy almost too big for the room, her laugh too loud for the small spaces you preferred to inhabit. But Charlie wasn’t the kind of person you could easily dismiss. She had a way of pulling you into her orbit before you even realized it.

She was the type to breathe chaos into order, and somehow, it felt exhilarating instead of terrifying.

Her hair was perpetually tousled, like she’d just stepped out of a convertible, and her eyeliner was smudged in a way that teetered between effortlessly cool and slightly rebellious. Charlie didn’t believe in plans or schedules. She just lived.

And that scared you as much as it fascinated you.

Charlie’s world was the opposite of yours. Plans? Schedules? Those were foreign concepts to her. She moved through life with a kind of chaotic grace, unburdened by rules or the need to please anyone. It wasn’t just her confidence that drew you in; it was her freedom, the way she seemed to exist without fear of judgment.

So when she begged—insisted—you come to her boyfriend’s birthday party, you barely had time to think up an excuse. “It’s downtown,” she said, practically vibrating with excitement. “You never go downtown. You’ll love it. Or hate it. But at least you’ll survive it. Please?”

You hesitated, of course. Clubs weren’t your thing. Loud music, strangers, flashing lights—it sounded like a nightmare. But Charlie had this way of pulling you out of your shell with sheer force of will.

And that’s how you ended up there.

The nightclub was chaos incarnate.

The music wasn’t just loud—it was alive, a relentless bassline that seemed to sync with your heartbeat and vibrate in your throat. The air was thick with perfume, cologne, sweat, and the faint tang of spilled drinks. Lights pulsed like strobes, casting sharp shadows and brilliant flashes over the crowd.

You clung to the drink Charlie had handed you—something neon pink and overly sweet—sticking to the edge of the dance floor, hoping to blend into the wallpaper. But, alas.

“Having Fun!” She had shouted over the music when she found you a half-hour later. Her smile was wide, her cheeks flushed from dancing.

“Yeah!” you’d shouted back, though you were far from it. Your feet ached from heels you regretted wearing the moment you stepped outside, and your head throbbed from the bassline that seemed to shake the very floor.

Charlie didn’t buy it, but she didn’t press. She just grinned and teased, “Loosen up! We're here to partayyyy!” before spinning back into the crowd.

Loosening up was easier said than done.

You stayed, partly out of stubbornness and partly because she’d promised burgers afterward. But the crowd didn’t get any less overwhelming, and the bass didn’t grow any quieter. Soon enough, the drinks you’d nervously sipped started making demands on your bladder.

Navigating the club was its own kind of ordeal, like threading a needle through a sea of moving bodies. By the time you reached the bathroom line, you were convinced the club had been designed by sadists who enjoyed watching people suffer in heels.

And that’s when you met him.

You were half-distracted, balancing your drink in one hand while trying to make your way through the packed hallway without spilling it. Your friends had already disappeared into the crowd, and you were craning your neck, trying to spot them, when you took the corner too sharply.

It happened fast. A solid wall—or at least that’s what it felt like—stopped you in your tracks. Your drink, the bright, sticky concoction it was, jumped out of your cup, splattering the pristine white shirt in front of you.

“Ah, no!” you yelped, realizing what you’d done as you stumbled back a step. The sound of your drink hitting fabric was followed by an awkward silence.

Your eyes shot up, wide with panic. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry!” The words tumbled out before you could think, your heart pounding like it might leap out of your chest.

The guy blinked, looking down at his now-ruined shirt, then back at you. For a split second, you braced yourself for anger, irritation, or some sharp comment that would make the whole situation worse. Like you were so used to. Your head instinctively bent, ready for the scolding you were sure you'd get.

But instead, he laughed—short and low but unmistakable.

“Guess I shouldn’t have worn white, huh?” he said, his accent soft, the words rolling off his tongue like he found the whole thing funny.

You blinked, caught off guard by his reaction. “I—uh—wait, let me—” You spun around, spotting a table nearby and snatching up a handful of napkins. Your hands were shaking as you turned back to him. Memories of fists and broken plates and your fault, your fault danced in the corners of your mind.

You pushed them away.

The napkins were gone before you knew it, your fingers flying over his shirt, trying to mop up the pink liquid. His brows furrowing in concern as he watched your panicked motions, but when he reached out to touch your wrist, you flinched.

“Hey,” he said gently, “it’s okay.” And you had to force yourself to relax into his grip. “Look, why don’t I go clean up in the bathroom real quick, and you can take a deep breath. I’m sure we can get the stain out.”

He stepped away, and you could feel your breath return in increments, your heartbeat slowing as he spoke. Your gaze followed him, watching the way his shoulders moved under the white fabric, now blotched with pink. He disappeared down the hallway, leaving you standing there, clutching a pile of sticky napkins, cheeks burning with embarrassment.

You wanted to melt into the floor, vanish into the neon lights and pounding music. Instead, you took a deep breath, like he’d suggested, and tried to shake off the lingering panic.

When he came back, his shirt was damp but clean enough, a faint pink stain barely visible. “See?” he said, grinning as he gestured to his shirt. “No harm done.”

You managed a small smile. “I’m still really sorry. I wasn’t paying attention.”

He shrugged, the movement easy, as if he genuinely didn’t care. “It happens. You okay?”

The question caught you off guard. “Me? Yeah, I’m fine. Why wouldn’t I be?”

He tilted his head, studying you for a moment. “I dunno. Just… you looked kinda spooked back there.”

“Nah, I was just worried about your shirt is all.” You could feel your cheeks start to flush, a mix of embarrassment and self-consciousness. “I didn’t mean to ruin it. I'm sorry.”

He grinned. “I told, it's cool. How about this,” He gestured toward the bar, where a long line snaked out into the crowded hallway, before continuing. “Next drink is on me. You game?”

You hesitated for a split second. This was the part where you should say no, walk away and find Charlie or the bathroom. This was the part where your mom would warn you against talking to strangers. And then you’d go back to your normal, structured life and forget the whole incident.

But something about him made you pause.

For some weird reason, you felt safe with him, which was strange because he was still a stranger. But then again, that’s life, right? Making mistakes? Learning by them? Trying things and seeing if they work out or not? Maybe it was time to do that.

Maybe it was time to try.

So you nodded. “Yeah.”

*******

Eight months. That’s how long it’s been, and somehow, he’s still just as captivating as the first day. Maybe even more so.

You’ve never felt anything like this before—not with anyone. The way Jude looks at you, the way he listens when you speak, it’s like he sees through the layers you’ve spent years building up. Sometimes, it’s unnerving, how easily he seems to read you, like your thoughts aren’t secrets at all, but something written in a language only he understands.

He’s everything you never thought you’d find in someone—charming in a way that feels effortless, patient when the shadows of your past make you falter, and protective in a way that doesn’t smother but shields.

It’s in the way he holds doors open without making it a spectacle, or the way his hand hovers near yours, like he’s waiting for you to reach out, to let him in. He never forces, never pushes—just waits.

And when you finally let him, it’s like coming home to something you never knew you needed.

He makes you feel precious, in a way that’s unfamiliar. His touch is careful, his words thoughtful. He treats you like something rare, something fragile—not because he thinks you’re weak, but because he doesn’t want to be the one to hurt you.

And that’s a feeling you never thought you’d know.

Not after growing up in a house where fists spoke louder than words, where anger lived in every corner. Where the man who should’ve been your protector was your first lesson in betrayal.

For so long, that was all you knew. Rage masquerading as love. Pain disguised as discipline. You’d convinced yourself that was all there was, that kindness and warmth were things meant for other people, not you.

But then Jude came along. And with him, the impossible became real.

He showed you that there are more ways to love than hurt. That there are words that could comfort instead of cut, that there were hands that could hold instead of slap. That maybe—just maybe—you deserved more than what you’d gotten.

He tells you things that make you feel like a goddess, a queen, a princess. That you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. That he could stare at you all day and never get tired of it. That he’s falling in love with you, and every word makes you fall even more in love with him too.

He calls you his princess, and it doesn’t make you cringe like you think it would.

You like it.

You love him.

********

The shrill buzz of your phone pulls you from your lecture notes, dragging your attention away from the professor’s voice. You squint at the screen, the light stark against the dimmed classroom. A text from Jude lits up your screen: “I’m outside.”

Your stomach flutters, a small smile creeping onto your lips. Quickly, you tap out a reply, “Coming” before stuffing your phone back into your bag.

The professor's voice drones on, giving out last-minute details about the upcoming assignment, but your focus has already shifted. You glance at the clock, your heart ticking a beat faster. With a whispered "thank you" as class concluded, you gather your belongings in a blur of movement, slinging your bag over your shoulder as you make your way to the exit.

The crisp air outside greets you, a welcome contrast to the stuffy classroom. It doesn't take long to spot him.

Jude leans casually against his car parked by the curb, his hoodie slightly wrinkled and joggers hanging just right. The late afternoon sun catches on the strands of his messy coils, highlighting the slight curve of his lips as he catches sight of you.

“Hey,” he calls, his voice carrying over the hum of campus life. He doesn't move at first, just stands there watching you, a playful glint in his eyes that make your cheeks warm.

You wave, suddenly hyperaware of the way your bag bounces against your side as you walk. By the time you reach him, his smile has softened into something warm and familiar, and before you can say a word, he reaches out, opening the passenger door with a fluid motion.

“You’re late,” he teases, though the way he leans forward to press a quick, soft kiss to your lips told a different story.

"Am not,” you reply, your voice mock-indignant as you slip into the seat.

Jude chuckles, closing the door behind you before circling around to the driver’s side. Once he slides in, he immediately reaches for your seatbelt, the motion so casual it makes your heart skip. His fingers brushes lightly against your arm as he clicks the buckle into place. It's such a small gesture, but it carries a kind of intimacy that leaves you momentarily breathless.

“Safe and sound,” he murmurs, sitting back and adjusting his grip on the steering wheel. His gaze flickers over to you, lingering for just a second longer than necessary. “You good?”

You nod, still caught in the warmth of his attention. “Yeah. You?”

“I’m better now,” he says, flashing a grin that is so unfairly charming it should be illegal. He starts the car, the low hum of the engine blending with the soft music playing from the speakers. “Hungry?”

You tilt your head, pretending to think. “Hmm. Is that a trick question?”

Jude huffs, his smirk faltering. “Smartass.”

“Yup,” you agree, grinning back.

He shoots you a look—playfully annoyed but still affectionate—and you giggle in response. It’s the kind of thing that happens so easily between the two of you—a sense of banter that doesn’t feel like fighting, just friendly sparring. It took a while for you to get used to them.

“I can cook tonight,” you offer, reaching for your phone as he eases out into traffic. “What do you want?”

He shrugs. “Whatever you want, babe.”

“Okay,” you murmur, scrolling through your messages to pull up Charlie's last text. You’d asked her if she was staying over at her boyfriend's, and she’d replied with a thumbs-up and a string of hearts. A smile crosses your lips as you tuck the phone away.

“We've got the apartment to ourselves tonight,” you say, settling back into your seat and gazing out the window. “If you still wanna come over, that is. I can make you dinner.”

Jude's smile turns languid. “You know I do, princess. I’m always up for food at your place.”

“Okay,” you murmur turning to look at the passing scene as the corners of his mouth quirk even higher.

*********

The apartment feels quieter than usual without Charlie.

Not in an uncomfortable way—just different. Her energy always filled the space, a constant buzz of chatter, music, and the occasional burst of laughter that never failed to make you smile. Without her, the silence feels oddly still, like the apartment itself is taking a deep breath.

You emerge from the bathroom wrapped in your fluffy pink robe, the one Charlie always teases you about but secretly adores. Your hair is slightly damp from your shower, loose strands sticking to your neck. The cool air from the air-conditioning brushes over your skin, and you shiver slightly as you step into the living room.

Jude is exactly where you left him, sprawled on the couch like he owns the place, phone balanced precariously on his knee.

His brows are drawn together in concentration, and his thumbs fly over the screen at a speed that seems almost superhuman. He’s clearly playing some game, utterly absorbed in whatever digital battlefield he’s dominating.

You tread softly across the room, the plush carpet muffling your footsteps. He doesn’t even glance up, so focused that he doesn’t notice you until you’re right in front of him. When you settle onto the couch beside him, the cushion dips under your weight, and only then does he stir.

“Hey, baby,” he murmurs, his voice warm and slightly distracted. His arm snakes around your waist without hesitation, pulling you into his side. His eyes stay glued to his screen, but his lips find the top of your head in a lazy, affectionate kiss that makes your heart flutter.

“Hi,” you reply, your voice soft as you lean into him. His embrace is as familiar as it is comforting, the warmth wrapping around you and sinking into your bones. He smells like fresh laundry and that woodsy cologne he always wears, the one that lingers on your clothes long after he’s gone.

For a moment, you just sit there, tucked against him as he plays.

His body is solid, a loving strength that you’ve come to rely on without even realizing it. You let out a contented sigh, your cheek resting against his shoulder. Jude glances at you briefly, his lips quirking into a small smile as he presses another kiss to your temple.

“You smell so good, baby. Like strawberries,” he remarks, his tone teasing but fond.

“It’s my shampoo,” you mumble, feeling the heat rise in your cheeks. His ability to fluster you with the simplest comments is as maddening as it is endearing to him.

“Smells good.” He pauses his game just long enough to tilt his head down, his nose brushing against your damp hair. “Smells like you.”

You bite your lip, the corners of your mouth twitching upward despite yourself. His charm is relentless, and even when he’s trying to be casual, it lands like a full-force assault on your heart.

For a while, the room settles into a comfortable silence.

Jude’s arm stays around you, holding you close as he continues indulging in whatever virtual madness is happening on his phone. You don’t mind.

The warmth of his body against yours, the faint clicking of his fingers against the screen, and the soft hum of the air conditioner create a soothing melody, lulling you to sleep. And for a second you forget about deadlines and responsibilities, if only for a little while.

But eventually, the nagging thought of midterms creeps back in, pulling you away from the comfort of Jude’s arm draped lazily around your shoulders. You shift slightly, sighing as reality nudges its way back in. “I should study,” you mumble reluctantly, already regretting the words as they leave your mouth. “Midterms are coming up, and I need to get a head start.”

Jude freezes mid-controller click, his focus snapping to you with a speed that’s almost comical. His brows knit together in concern as he sets the controller down and turns to you fully. “Do you need help?” he offers, his voice warm, eager, and so earnest it makes your chest ache. He sits up straighter, reluctantly moving his arm so you can wiggle free if you want to. “I could quiz you or something.”

The way his brown eyes lock onto yours tugs at you. For a fleeting moment, you consider saying yes—just to keep him close a little longer. His enthusiasm, the little crease of worry between his brows, all of it makes you want to say yes. But you’ve been here before.

You bite back a smile and shake your head. “You know how it goes when you help me study.”

“What?” His face splits into a boyish grin. “I’m great at helping.”

“You get bored,” you counter, raising an eyebrow at him.

His grin widens, the mischief in his eyes almost tangible. “I don’t get bored. I keep things interesting.”

“Interesting?” You scoff lightly, though your lips twitch at the corners. “You mean you start distracting me.”

“Distractions are good for you," he says, leaning in closer. His voice dips into that flirty tone that always seems to weaken your resolve. “Keeps your brain from overheating.”

You try to hold firm, crossing your arms as you fight the smile threatening to bloom. “Distractions,” you repeat, deadpan, “like kissing me every five minutes?”

“Only every five minutes?” he teases, his lips quirking upward. “I’m slacking. I’ll make it every two.”

You groan, covering your face with your hands as your cheeks flare with heat. “Jude, stop.”

“Why?” he murmurs, lowering his voice as he leans closer, his hand slipping over yours to gently tug them away from your face. “You’re cute when you get flustered.”

You feel your heart do a little somersault as he takes your hand, his thumb tracing slow, lazy circles over your knuckles. His touch is maddeningly gentle, and his gaze is soft yet playful. “Come on, let me stay. I promise I’ll behave this time. Swear on… well, on your favorite pen or something.”

“You said that last time,” you remind him, though your voice lacks the conviction you want it to have.

“And I meant it," he says with exaggerated sincerity. “But then you started doing that thing where you chew on your pen and look all smart and adorable. What’s a guy supposed to do?”

“Focus,” you say firmly, though your lips betray you by curving into a reluctant smile.

He chuckles, the sound low and rich, sending a little flutter through you. “Alright, alright. I’ll leave you to it.” He raises his hands in mock surrender, though his grin tells you he’s far from serious.

True to his word, he pulls himself away from you, standing and stretching lazily before grabbing his phone. But before he leaves, he leans down, brushing his lips against your forehead in a kiss so soft and lingering that it leaves you momentarily breathless.

“Good luck, baby,” he murmurs, his voice warm and sweet. “You’ve got this.”

The soft click of the door closing behind him echoes in the quiet room, and you let out a long breath, trying to steady the racing of your heart. Even now, minutes after he’s left, his presence lingers—his touch, his whispers, his look that leaves you feeling shy and disarmed.

You force yourself to turn back to your notes, determined to focus on the task at hand. For sixty blessed minutes, you manage to keep your head down and concentrate, letting the scratch of your pen on paper drown out the memory of his teasing grin.

But, as if summoned by your thoughts, he slips back into your space without so much as a sound. You only notice him when you feel the featherlight brush of his lips against the curve of your neck. A startled gasp escapes you, and your pen stills in your hand as his warm breath fans over your skin.

“How’s the studying going?” he murmurs, his voice low and laced with playful mischief.

Your pulse quickens, and you try to muster some semblance of composure. “Jude,” you whisper, his name barely audible as your voice falters at his closeness.

“Hmm?” He hums, the sound rumbling softly against your skin as his hands settle on your waist, fingers toying idly with the hem of your pajama top.

“You’re distracting me,” you manage, though the tremble in your voice betrays your lack of conviction. You're a little thankful for the break he's forcing you to take.

“Am I?” he asks innocently, slipping his hand ever so slightly under your top, his lips now brushing the sensitive spot just below your ear. You can feel the curve of his grin, knowing he’s completely aware of the effect he has on you.

You grip your pen tighter, clinging to the pretense of focus, but the heat of his palm against your skin and the teasing lilt of his voice unravel you piece by piece. Desperate for some distance, you push his chest gently, your face flaming as you turn to face him. “I’m going to cook dinner,” you declare, your tone firmer this time, though your skin betray you, burning with an unmistakable flush.

His brow arches, and for a moment, you think he might relent. But as you make your way to the kitchen, his footsteps trail right behind yours.

“You don’t give up, do you?” you ask, glancing over your shoulder, though the teasing lilt in your voice takes the sting out of the words.

“Not when it comes to you,” he replies smoothly, his grin utterly shameless as he catches up.

Once in the kitchen, you busy yourself with pulling out ingredients, determined to create a barrier between you and his relentless touching. But Jude, being Jude, is relentless in his own way. He's being very clingy today, more than usual.

As you start chopping vegetables, he edges closer, his chin coming to rest on your shoulder. His arms snake around your waist, pulling you back just slightly against his chest.

“Jude,” you warn, your voice firmer this time as you wave the knife in a small arc in his direction.

“Dangerous,” he quips, leaning back just enough to dodge your playful swat, though he’s far from deterred. “You’re cute when you’re dangerous.”

Your lips twitch despite yourself, and you let out an exasperated sigh. “You’re impossible,” you mutter, shaking your head as you try to focus on the task at hand.

He chuckles, a low, warm sound that sends shivers dancing down your spine. “Are you sure?” he teases, pressing a soft kiss to your shoulder before leaning in to whisper, “But you love it.”

“I do not,” you retort automatically, though your voice lacks any real heat.

“Liar,” he teases, and you can hear the grin in his voice even without looking.

You spin around, your cheeks warm as you glare at him—or at least try to. “I need to finish dinner. Either help or sit down.”

He raises his hands in mock surrender, though there’s no hiding the amusement in his expression. “Alright, alright. What do you need me to do, boss?”

You hand him a carrot, your lips quirking into a small smile despite yourself. “Peel this. And don’t distract me.”

“Can’t make any promises,” he says with a wink, but he takes the carrot anyway, grabbing a peeler from the drawer next to you.

For a few minutes, there’s an ease of peace as the two of you work side by side. He whistles softly under his breath as he peels glancing at you every now and then, and you chop in rhythm, the sounds of the kitchen filling the space. It feels so incredibly domestic and your thoughts start to drift to a future that you don't often dare to dream.

Is this what he would be like if we're married? you ask yourself. And deep inside, a part of you aches, and longs to find out.

But then, as you reach for the salt, his hand brushes yours, and you freeze, thoughts scrambling at his touch. He’s quick to close the distance again, his lips grazing the corner of your mouth in a kiss so fleeting you almost think you imagined it.

Your breath catches, and you stare up at him, wide-eyed and utterly flustered.

He smiles, his eyes crinkling at the corners, and for a second, you can’t think of anything to say.

“Jude,” you manage finally, though your voice is embarrassingly breathless.

“Hm?.” His fingers trace lazy patterns over the curve of your hip, sending little shivers through your skin. “You look so good like this,” he murmurs softly, his lips brushing against your hair, making you shiver. “In your little robe, making dinner for me. Fuck.” The last word comes out as a groan, and he buries his face into your neck.

The sensation of his breath against your skin sends a ripple through your body, leaving your muscles soft and weak. You lean into his embrace almost automatically, your palms flattening on the counter to steady yourself.

You can’t help the little gasp that escapes you as he nips at the curve of your neck, the touch sending sparks coursing through you.

You try to catch your breath, your cheeks warming with heat as your thoughts scatter. His hand trails higher up to rest on your stomach, leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake, and you bite back a whimper. He’s being too bold, and it’s thrilling and terrifying and so, so good.

“Jude,” you stammer out finally. “We haven’t finished dinner yet.”

“I’ll survive,” he murmurs huskily, his tongue flicking over the sensitive skin behind your ear.

And before you can muster up a protest, he spins you around to face him, his grip firm and demanding on your waist. His lips land against yours without warning, all heat and pressure, and your breath stutters out of you as you cling to him, unable to do anything but hold on.

The kiss turns hot and breathless so fast it leaves you reeling, his tongue sweeping into your mouth in bold strokes that leave you dizzy.

Your lips part in response, inviting him deeper, and he takes you up on the offer with a low groan of pleasure. He presses you into the counter, the kiss so urgent it feels like he needs it to survive. Your skin flushes, your body humming with a need you’ve never known before.

It’s too much. It’s like a wildfire burning out of control, and Jude, Jude, Jude.

You’re not even sure what it is that you’re craving so desperately, but you know it involves him.

And when he pulls away abruptly, it feels like being dunked into an ice bath.

Your head spins, and for a moment, you can’t do anything but stare at him. Your breath is still ragged, your lips tingling, and the intensity of his gaze makes your heart stutter.

It’s dark, unreadable, and you feel like prey caught in the sights of a predator—not in a dangerous way, but in a way that makes you hyperaware of every inch of your body.

Your fingers tighten on the counter behind you, grounding yourself as the silence stretches between you. He looks like he wants to say something, but instead, he steps back completely, dragging a hand over his face in what feels like frustration. The absence of his warmth hits you immediately, leaving you feeling cold, exposed, and a little disoriented.

You lower your gaze, your cheeks burning, unable to meet his eyes. The apartment feels too quiet, too still, and when you finally dare to look up, he’s gone—retreating into the living room with an almost frustratingly casual stride.

Dinner is a blur after that.

You push food around your plate, barely tasting it, too caught up in the memory of his lips on yours, the way he’d kissed you like he couldn’t get enough. It leaves you feeling equal parts flustered and thrilled, and you hate how obvious it must be. Jude, of course, notices. He keeps sneaking glances at you, his smirk growing every time he catches you looking away too quickly or fiddling with the edge of your napkin. But he doesn't say anything.

After dinner, he suggests a movie. You agree, mostly because you don’t trust yourself to say no without stammering, and before you know it, you’re in your room. The lights are dim, the glow of the screen casting soft shadows across the walls. You sit beside him on the bed, your knees tucked up to your chest, trying not to focus on how close he is.

“Relax,” he teases, draping an arm over your shoulder. “I don’t bite. Unless you want me to.”

You swat at him, your face heating up. “Jude!”

He laughs, low and rich, and you feel the sound settle in your chest. “Alright, alright. I’ll behave.”

For a while, you focus on the movie. Or at least, you try to. Jude, apparently, has other plans. Somewhere halfway through the film, he shifts beside you, his arm tightening around your shoulders. You glance at him, confused, only to freeze when his lips brush against the side of your neck.

“Jude,” you whisper, your voice trembling.

“Hmm?” His voice is soft, playful, but there’s a heat to it that makes your stomach flip.

“I’m trying to watch,” you manage, though your resolve wavers as his hand finds your waist, pulling you closer.

“Am I distracting you?” he murmurs, his lips ghosting over your skin.

You nod, your breath hitching, but it only seems to encourage him. His kisses grow more deliberate, his hand sliding up to cradle your face as he tilts your head toward him. The movie is completely forgotten as his lips capture yours, and this time, there’s nothing hesitant about the way he kisses you.

This kiss is different than the one in the kitchen. This kiss is greedy and demanding, the type that makes you forget how to breathe. You melt into him without hesitation, your hand finding its way to his neck as he pulls you onto his lap.

He lets out a low groan that sends shivers down your spine, his hands coming to settle on your thighs. The kiss deepens, becoming something more, until the world narrows down to nothing but him. His touches are hot and firm, his mouth demanding in a way that leaves your head spinning.

It’s overwhelming.

His touch, his scent, the low hum of his voice when he whispers your name—it’s all too much and not enough at the same time. You’re hyperaware of everything: the way his hands skim your sides, the way his thumb brushes against your jaw, the way your own fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt as if anchoring yourself to him.

When a soft sound escapes you—half gasp, half moan—he freezes. His forehead presses against yours, his breathing heavy and uneven. Still lost in the haze of lust he's started to awaken in you, your lips chase his in a desperate pathetic attempt to keep him close, and you whine when he pulls back, the sound embarrassing you to no end.

“Baby,” he murmurs hoarsely, his voice the epitome of need and restraint. “Baby, you need to stop that.”

It’s only when you look up into his eyes that you realize how affected he is. His pupils are blown, his cheeks flushed, his breath quickening as he holds your gaze. The intensity of his eyes makes your stomach clench, but the effect is different this time—different in a way that you can’t quite place.

You stare at him for what feels like an eternity, searching for something, anything, to explain the strange flutter in your stomach.

His expression is unreadable, but as you sit there, chest heaving, thighs squirming restlessly on his lap, you feel something press into your inner thigh and Jude groans again, his head dipping to rest against your shoulder.

A little noise of surprise slips out of you, and before you can look down, he's flipping you over, pinning you to the bed with a groan.

“Fuck, baby. You don’t know how good you feel,” he whispers huskily, pulling back just long enough to let you breathe. The sight of him—so desperate, so needy, and so turned on—leaves you reeling.

Your heart is pounding, your pulse frantic in your ears as your body responds to his proximity. The feeling between your legs grows slick, the sensation almost strange enough to distract you from the weight of him above.

Jude must feel the way your body tenses because his voice drops, taking on a soothing quality that makes your muscles relax against him. “Shhh, baby. It’s alright.” He leans in, his lips trailing down the side of your neck to leave featherlight kisses there. “Relax.”

But the feeling of being pinned between him and the bed is overwhelming, and before he can kiss you again, you shift restlessly, trying to escape. He lets you get away, his hands following the curve of your sides as you sit up, his gaze roving over you hungrily.

Your cheeks heat, and your hands flutter over your stomach as if trying to find a way to hide yourself. “I—” you start, but then you stop, unsure of how to finish the sentence. “I’m sorry.”

The apology slips out of you automatically, though you’re not even entirely sure what you’re apologizing for.

Jude shakes his head, a wry smile tilting his lips upward. “Don’t be sorry,” he murmurs, leaning in to kiss your forehead softly. “I just…” He trails off, shaking his head again, though his smile turns into a smirk. “I want you so bad it’s driving me fucking crazy." His voice drops into a growl, his hands tightening on your thighs, and you gasp softly. "And it's—fuck. It's turning me on so much." He leans down, pressing you against the mattress once again, and your whine is audible.

“Jude…” you whisper, your voice quivering as your hands press against his chest in a weak attempt to create some distance. But your resolve falters when you meet his eyes—stormy and filled with a look that leaves you breathless. Hunger.

“Yes, baby?,” he murmurs huskily.

But you don’t get a chance to answer because his lips close over yours, pulling you into a kiss that’s everything and nothing you imagined a kiss to be. It’s urgent, hungry, and maddeningly sweet, and you cling to him without a second thought, your legs wrapping around his waist as if by instinct alone.

It feels like everything in the room blurs to nothing around the two of you, like the world has stopped turning.

The sensation between your legs turns wet, slick, and you can feel his hardness through the thin fabric of your shorts, the sensation both thrilling and overwhelming. He groans into the kiss, his hips rocking against you in a motion that leaves you gasping.

You feel so hot all of a sudden—like your whole body is on fire. Your thoughts scatter as you cling to his shoulders, his name on your lips, and it's like he's pushing you higher and higher.

The kiss becomes messy, teeth clashing, lips biting, his hands pulling at your shirt as if trying to pull it off. You’re completely lost to his touch, your body moving against his in a needy rhythm that feels like instinct alone.

But just when you think he might push you further, Jude pulls away abruptly with a sharp groan, his chest heaving as he buries his head against the curve of your shoulder. You’re left with your arms wrapped around his neck, your body trembling as you struggle to catch your breath.

“Fuck,” he mutters, the word hot against your skin. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” His body shudders, his hips rocking forward once, then twice, then he's yanking himself off you like you've just burned him.

You try to hold him closer, but he's too strong and it only seems to make him pull away harder.

“Jude?” you ask, your voice trembling as your thoughts catch up. You’re breathless, your body aching for something you don’t even know how to ask for. "What’s wrong?”

He doesn’t answer. Instead, he just rolls away from you, his hands burying in his hair as he lets out a long groan of frustration.

Your cheeks warm, but there’s something in his look, something that makes your chest flutter. It’s dark, almost possessive, and the intensity steals your breath. You open your mouth to say something—anything—to fill the silence, but before you can speak, Jude rolls to his feet, standing up with a swift motion that sends you sprawling on your back.

“I’m…” He swallows again, “I have to go,” he says, his voice thick, rough. “I’ll see you later, alright?”

You open your mouth, ready to ask why, but he’s already halfway out the door. You catch up just in time to watch him slam the front door closed behind him, the sound of his car roaring to life outside.

You stare at the closed door for a moment, blinking slowly as if you’re half-asleep. Your body still hums from his touches, your muscles soft, your heart pounding, and all you can think is: what did I do wrong?

*********

You don’t see him again for a couple of days.

It’s not unusual for Jude to be busy, his schedule crammed with training sessions, meetings, and endless obligations. But this feels different. He’s never been too busy to send a good morning text, check in with a quick call, or find some excuse to see you, even if it’s just for an hour.

Now, though? It’s radio silence.

The first day, you try to brush it off. You tell yourself that he’s probably exhausted and needs some space. By the second, the worry creeps in, uninvited but persistent. Did you do something wrong? Was it something you said? Something you didn’t say?

By the time he texts you to come over on the third day, you’ve practically convinced yourself he’s about to break things off. The idea leaves your chest feeling hollow.

When you step into his house, he greets you like always, flashing that charming grin that makes your stomach flip. But there’s something off in his posture, the way his arms wrap around you just a little too loosely.

The two of you settle on the couch, a movie playing in the background. Jude is quiet, his arm draped casually over the back of the couch but not quite pulling you in. Normally, he’d be all over you by now, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your thigh, his lips brushing against your temple. Tonight, he’s… distant.

You bite your lip, stealing glances at him. He seems engrossed in the screen, but his jaw is set tightly, and his hand keeps flexing like he’s restless.

The movie plays on, and you feel like you’re sitting next to a stranger. Your heart pounds as you shift closer, testing the waters. His arm twitches but doesn’t move to pull you closer.

Your voice comes out soft, hesitant. “Jude?”

He hums, not looking at you.

“I missed you,” you admit, hoping it doesn’t sound as needy as it feels.

His lips twitch into a small smile. “Missed you too.” His tone is distracted, his gaze not straying from the screen.

You frown, your brow furrowing. Something’s wrong. You can feel it in the way his body tenses every time you shift a little closer. His hand tightens, loosens, tightens again, but he still doesn’t look at you.

“Can I ask you something?” you start, your voice tentative. When he doesn’t respond, you clear your throat. “Why didn’t you call me this week? You’re always so busy, and I know that, but—” You trail off, hoping he’ll fill in the blanks.

For a moment, he doesn’t respond. The silence between you stretches out uncomfortably, but then his gaze shifts, and you catch the way his eyes soften as they land on you. “It’s nothing.” He reaches for your hand, his fingers intertwining with yours.

You let him take your hand, but the touch feels fleeting, hollow—like he’s holding back. Your chest tightens, the ache spreading to your throat as you try to steady your breathing. You don’t want to push him, but the silence between you is unbearable.

“Jude,” you whisper, squeezing his hand. “It doesn’t feel like nothing.”

He sighs, leaning his head back against the couch. “Look, I’m just busy. That’s all.”

“You’ve always been busy,” you point out, feeling the sting of rejection. “I don’t understand why you couldn’t find time to call me this time.” Your voice cracks, and you look down at your lap to hide it.

He shifts then, his body twisting to face yours, his hand cupping your chin as he forces you to meet his eyes. His expression is soft, his brows furrowing as he studies your face. “Hey,” he murmurs. “I'm sorry, okay? I didn’t mean to upset you. It’s not your fault. I just… I was busy with some things.”

“What things?” you press, frowning at the way he looks at you like you’re a puzzle he can’t figure out. “What did I do? You don’t have to sugarcoat it for me. I promise.”

Jude’s lips quirk, his smile almost wry. “I’m not trying to sugarcoat anything, baby.” He leans forward, pressing a soft kiss to your cheek. His voice drops, turning soft. “It’s just hard for me to be around you.”

“Why?” you breathe out.

He hums, his nose nuzzling against your temple. “You're so… fucking innocent, baby. And you have no idea how much that fucking turns me on. I just can’t—You deserve everything, and I don't want to fuck this up.” He pulls back, his expression shifting to one of frustration. “I’ve never felt this way about anyone before. I want to be good for you, baby.” His thumb brushes against your cheek as he whispers against your skin. “I wanna ruin you."

His words make heat pool low in your stomach, your thighs pressing together. His voice is hypnotic, low and husky, and it takes you a moment to respond. "How would you do that?” you whisper.

His pupils dilate, his lips parting. “Oh fuck.” He swallows audibly, his gaze dropping to your mouth. Jude groans softly, his hand trailing up to cup the side of your face, his thumb stroking your cheek. "You don’t wanna know, sweetheart," he says, his voice thick with restraint. "I shouldn’t even be saying this."

You blink up at him, your lips parting to protest, but no sound comes out. His confession leaves you breathless, and your heart stumbles in your chest. "But I want to know," you whisper, feeling the heat of his gaze settle over you like fog.

His jaw tightens, and he leans in, his forehead pressing gently against yours. "You’re playing with fire," he murmurs, his breath warm and tantalizing against your lips. "Do you have any idea what you do to me?"

You don't move—can't move. It's like his words are pinning you in place with the weight of their meaning.

Jude chuckles softly, the sound low and almost reverent. "God, you’re so cute when you’re shy." His other hand moves to your waist, his fingers brushing against the fabric of your shirt. "I missed you like crazy these past few days, you know that? Couldn’t think straight, couldn’t focus. Just kept picturing you." He swallows thickly, his voice dropping to a low whisper. "Your lips are so fucking soft, and you taste like fucking honey."

His hand cups your face, his eyes burning into yours as he pulls back enough to meet your gaze. "Do you know how many times I've jacked off this week just thinking about your mouth? About what it would be like to fuck you?" He leans in closer, his voice turning harsh. "Do you even realize how fucking sexy you are? You make me lose my goddamn mind, baby."

You don't answer. You're not even sure if you can. His words have your head reeling, your breath catching in your throat. Heat pulses between your legs, making your thighs clench and unclench restlessly.

Jude groans, his face tucking into the crook of your neck as if seeking shelter. "Fuck. See what you fucking do to me? I can't even have a conversation around you, baby. I'm fucking obsessed." His fingers flex against your skin, his hot breath gusting over your neck. "Just being this close to you is driving me crazy."

Your breath hitches, a small noise escaping you as you wrap your arms around his shoulders instinctively. His words are making you feel… something. Your brain can't quite put a name to it, but it's making you feel soft and needy and… wet.

Jude seems to notice because he freezes, his nose dipping to the side of your neck, breathing you in deeply. "Are you wet, baby?" he murmurs, the question sending a flush up your cheeks. His voice is low, dark, and it does nothing to help the ache between your legs.

You squirm against him, pressing your thighs together in an attempt to alleviate the sensation. His hand cups your ass, pulling your body flush against his as he growls low against your neck.

"Answer me," he grunts, his hips pressing forward with a motion that makes you gasp.

Your head swims as if from a lack of oxygen, but you manage to whisper, "Y-yes."

Jude's whole body shudders against you , his head dropping to the crook of your shoulder as he groans again. "Fuck, sweetheart." His voice is hot against your skin, the words a mix of frustration and desire. "What did I tell you?" he murmurs almost absently. "About making me lose my fucking mind?"

The tension between you seems to grow thicker with every second that passes, and before you know it, you're being pulled onto his lap, his mouth crashing over yours in a desperate kiss. You cling to him, letting him devour you completely, and it feels like nothing else in the world matters but this.

Except he pulls away again just as quickly, his hands coming up to grip your shoulders and hold you at arm's length. You stare at him, confused, your cheeks flushed, your breath coming out in quick pants.

"Jude," you breathe out, reaching for him.

But he shakes his head, his jaw flexing with restraint as he holds you still. "No, baby. If I touch you again right now, I don’t think I'll be able to stop myself." His voice dips, growing rougher. "You're not ready for that." He leans in to nuzzle your nose, his words coming out as a soft apology against your skin. "You deserve better than me losing control like this."

You frown at his words, feeling them hit somewhere deep in your chest, but before you can find a way to respond, he pulls away and stands up. "Wait!" Your hand shoots out and drags him back to the sofa with a strength that surprises both of you.

"I—I want it. I want you to… have me." The words come out before you can take them back, but instead of being met with rejection, Jude’s eyes darken, his pupils expanding to eat up the color of his eyes. His grip tightens on your hand, and you hear him swallow thickly.

"Are you sure?" he asks, his voice husky and soft. "Baby, if you let me touch you like that, I won’t be able to hold back." He leans forward as if drawn by gravity, his lips grazing against yours as he murmurs against your mouth. "You want that?"

The question makes your cheeks flush, the sensation traveling down to pulse between your legs. Your stomach clenches, and you find yourself nodding, your lips brushing against his with the motion.

His soft groan vibrates through your entire body. His hand cups the side of your face with a gentleness that contradicts the heat in his eyes. "Baby," he whispers, his lips ghosting over yours. He leans back then, his expression softening, a hint of amusement tilting the corner of his lips upward. "You sure? You’re not just saying that because you think it’s what I want to hear?"

You shake your head , your breath hitching when his thumb trails over your bottom lip. "I trust you." The words slip out of you on a whisper, but they seem to mean something to him because he lets out a soft exhale.

“Fuck,” he groans, dropping his forehead against yours. “If you don’t stop being so fucking sweet, baby, I’m gonna fuck you on this couch, and neither of us will be ready for that.” He lets out an unsteady laugh, his words making heat spread through your body. "You don’t know what you’re getting yourself into." He tilts his head, his eyes narrowing, a small smirk twisting his lips. "But if you still want me to teach you after tonight, then I promise you that I’ll be the one to ruin you like you want." With that, he leans in and kisses you gently, the motion soft and sweet.

When he pulls back, his voice drops to a growl. “I can't wait to ruin you.” His words are so low, so full of warning that you wonder what he plans to do to you. The idea makes your pulse quicken, your stomach fluttering.

Jude leans in to press another kiss to your lips, his tongue darting out to lick at the seam of your mouth. “I’ll show you just how good it can be,” he whispers against your mouth, and then he pulls away with a soft bite to your bottom lip, leaving you breathless and wanting so much more.

He gives you another kiss that promises to corrupt, then leaves you on the couch feeling like your whole world has been flipped on its head. You wonder what the next few weeks will be like now.

********

"I want to learn how to please Jude." Is not what Charlie expects to hear from you.

You who are painfully shy and would rather hide under the covers than have a conversation about this sort of thing. So you imagine that your words catch her off guard when you approach her in your room, both of you lying on the bed side by side.

Charlie looks at you with a mixture of shock and amusement. "Well shit, girl. What brought that on?" She reaches over and puts a hand on your arm in comfort. "What happened?"

You fidget nervously. "It's just… I want to please him, and I don't know how. We've been dating for a while now, and I feel like it's time to try something new." You lower your eyes at the last part, your cheeks burning like crazy. "We've been together for so long and we still haven't done anything." You take a shaky breath. "I don't want him to get tired of me."

Charlie stares at you for a long moment, then she cracks out laughing. "Girl, you're so silly."

"What?" Your voice comes out pouty.

"Oh, come on." She chuckles. "You're being silly. There's no way in hell that Jude could be upset with you." She gives you a playful push, "Y/N, that guy is madly in love with you. He looks at you like he's obsessed. There's no chance he's getting tired of you."

You smile softly at her words, hope blooming in your chest at her confidence. "Yeah?" you ask, your tone breathless.

"Yeah." Charlie's expression softens, her voice turning gentle. "He looks at you the same way you do him. So please, stop worrying about it and just let him make the first move. Don't feel pressured into doing something you don't want to."

You nod, your brows furrowing as you look away. "That's the thing though. I do want to." Your voice drops to a whisper. "But I don't know what I'm doing."

Charlie looks at you for a second, then nods. "Ok. So what do you want to do?" She asks, her tone soft.

You look up at her, "What do guys like?" You ask, the question slipping out before you can stop it. You bite your lip and look away, feeling your cheeks burn.

Charlie laughs softly, the sound almost like a purr, "Ooo, Y/NNNN. Are you trying to turn me on?" She jokes. You know she's kidding because she's making that face she always makes right after telling a really funny joke.

"Charlie!" You push her with a giggle.

"What?" She pushes you back with a grin, "Come on, Y/N. If you're going to be a big girl and have sex, you should be able to talk about it."

You pout at her. "That's not fair. I ask you for help, and you're teasing me."

She chuckles and rolls her eyes with a smile, "Ok, ok. What do you wanna know?"

"Everything." You say, your face heating up even more.

"Everything?" Charlie quirks a brow, propping herself up on one elbow to get a better look at you. "Girl, that's a tall order. Are we talking the birds and the bees 'everything' or just the Jude-specific 'everything'?"

You bury your face in your hands, groaning. "This is so embarrassing."

Charlie laughs, a genuine, warm sound that makes you peek at her through your fingers. "Y/N, relax. Seriously. This is normal stuff. And you’re with Jude Bellingham, of all people. Do you have any idea how hungry he is? That man eye fucks you everytime you're in the room."

You groan again, rolling onto your stomach and burying your face in the pillow. "Stop! You're making it worse."

Charlie snorts, patting your back. "Okay, okay, I’ll stop. Let’s get serious for a sec. First of all, there’s no ‘right’ way to do anything. Everyone’s different. But if you really want to know what Jude likes, just…ask him. You already know him better than anyone else."

You lift your head slightly, just enough to look at her. "But what if I mess up?"

Charlie tilts her head, giving you a soft smile. "Y/N, you can’t mess up with someone who loves you. Jude’s not going to care if you don’t know everything. He’s crazy about you—trust me, I’ve seen it. The guy practically glows when you’re in the room. Just talk to him, be yourself, and let things happen naturally."

You chew on your bottom lip, processing her words. "I guess that makes sense. But what if—"

You’re interrupted by the familiar sound of your phone buzzing on the nightstand. Charlie smirks knowingly. "Bet you ten bucks it’s him."

You reach for your phone, and sure enough, Jude’s name lights up the screen. Your heart does a little flip, and Charlie cackles at the way your face immediately softens.

"Go on," she says, waving her hand. "Answer it. Lover boy’s probably wondering why you’ve been ignoring him all evening."

You hesitate for a moment before swiping to answer. "Hey," you say softly, your voice a little shaky.

"Hey, love." Jude’s deep, smooth voice comes through the line, instantly putting you at ease. "What’re you up to?"

"Just hanging out with Charlie," you reply, glancing at your friend, who’s grinning like a Cheshire cat. You roll your eyes at her. "What about you?"

"Thinking about you," he says, and you can hear the smile in his voice. "Missed you today."

Your cheeks flush, and Charlie makes a gagging motion, though her grin only widens. "I… I missed you too," you admit shyly, your fingers twisting in the hem of your sweater.

"Yeah?" Jude’s tone is playful, but there’s an edge of sincerity that makes your heart flutter. "What’re you doing after Charlie goes? Can I come see you?"

Your stomach flips, and you glance at Charlie, who’s mouthing Say yes! with an exaggerated expression. "Um, yeah," you say, trying to sound casual despite the way your voice wobbles. "If you want to."

"Of course I want to," he says, chuckling softly. "I’ll be over in a bit, yeah?"

"Okay," you whisper, unable to keep the smile out of your voice.

"See you soon, love."

You hang up and immediately bury your face in the pillow again, earning a loud laugh from Charlie. "Oh my God, you’re hopeless," she teases, nudging you with her foot. "You’re like a lovesick puppy. It’s adorable."

"Shut up," you mumble, though you’re smiling. You peek at her as you sit up. "Thanks, though. You were really helpful."

She snorts. "Clearly. But seriously, just relax. Be yourself. I promise he’ll love it. And if all else fails just give him a blowjob" She ducks just in time to miss the pillow you chuck her way. "I’ve gotta go. My ride’s coming in a minute." She climbs off the bed and heads over to the dresser to grab her phone. "I think I left my keys downstairs. Tell Jude I said hi."

"Will do," you say, smiling softly.

She waves before heading out the door and leaving you alone. You sink back into the covers, trying not to let your nerves get the best of you.

**********

A half hour later, you’re pacing in front of the living room door, your nerves bubbling up with every step. You keep glancing at the clock, willing the minutes to tick faster and slower all at once.

Your hands feel clammy, and you’re acutely aware of every tiny sound in the apartment—the hum of the refrigerator, the distant chatter of your upstairs neighbors, the soft patter of your socked feet against the floor. You’ve checked your reflection in the hallway mirror at least five times, brushing nonexistent lint from your sweater.

When you finally hear the familiar, rhythmic knock that signals Jude’s arrival, your heart skips a beat. You nearly trip over your own feet as you hurry to the door, pulling it open so quickly that Jude looks startled for a split second before his expression melts into that devastatingly familiar grin—the one that never fails to make your stomach flip.

"There’s my girl," he greets warmly, his voice a velvety blend of affection and amusement. Before you can even stammer out a hello, he steps forward, slipping one arm around your waist and pulling you into him. His lips find yours in a heartbeat, soft and warm, and you let out a small, involuntary sigh as his other hand settles on the back of your neck.

"Hi," you manage to mumble against his lips, your voice barely above a whisper.

Jude chuckles, the sound rumbling low in his chest as he pulls back just enough to meet your gaze. "Hello to you too," he murmurs, his thumb brushing an absentminded circle against your hip. His brown eyes are locked on yours, teasing. "You seem a little eager tonight. Miss me, baby?"

The heat rushes to your cheeks in an instant, and you lower your gaze, biting your lip to suppress the shy smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. "Maybe," you mumble, your voice so soft it’s almost lost in the space between you.

Jude’s grin widens, and he cups your face with one hand, his thumb brushing gently over the apple of your cheek. "Maybe?" he echoes, pretending to be wounded. "I’ve been thinking about you all day, and I get a maybe?" His tone is playful, but his eyes are so full of adoration that it makes your chest ache in the best way.

You fidget under his gaze, your hands instinctively gripping the hem of your sweater. "Of course I missed you," you admit shyly, barely managing to look up at him.

"That’s more like it," he says softly, leaning in to press a kiss to your forehead. His lips linger there for a moment, and when he pulls back, there’s a tenderness in his expression that makes your heart flutter. "Missed you too, you know. More than I probably should admit."

Your stomach flips at his words, and you let out a breathless laugh, not quite sure how to respond. Jude doesn’t seem to mind your silence; he just brushes another kiss to the tip of your nose before letting his hand slide from your face to your hand, lacing your fingers together.

"So," he starts, his voice dropping into a conspiratorial tone, "is Charlie still here, or do we have the place to ourselves?"

You shake your head, feeling your cheeks warm again at the implication. "She left about an hour ago," you reply, your voice still soft.

Jude grins. "Perfect. Let’s do something scandalous then," he teases, his voice dripping with faux mischief.

You blink up at him, wide-eyed. "Scandalous?" Is this it?

"Yep," he says with a wink. "Like…watching a movie we’ve already seen twenty times while cuddling on the couch. Absolutely outrageous, right?" You try not to deflate at his words and he must've noticed because he smirks down at you.

You let out a soft force chuckle, not seeing the teasing grin on his face. "Yeah, sure."

"Great!" Jude quips, tugging you toward the living room. "C’mon, let’s pick something good."

By "good," you know he means your favorite DVD, the one you’ve insisted on watching so many times that you’re sure he knows half the lines by heart. Sure enough, you makes a beeline for the small shelf in your room, plucking the case from its spot with a triumphant flourish.

"We have to find something new, you know that right?" he teases as you holds it up for him to see. Like he doesn't love it just as much as you. Maybe more. Not that he'll ever admit that to you.

"And yet you keep coming back," you counter quietly, feeling braver than usual.

Jude’s grin softens into something sweeter as he crosses the room to stand in front of you. "Because you’re worth it," he says simply, his voice so sincere it makes your chest tighten. He leans in, pressing a quick kiss to your temple before taking your hand again and leading you to your bed. "Now let’s go watch our favorite movie while cuddled in bed like good little nerds."

You follow him, feeling like you’re floating.

The movie’s been playing for about twenty minutes when you finally start to relax, tucked under Jude’s arm with a cozy blanket draped over both of you. The familiar dialogue flows easily in the background, and you can feel the steady rise and fall of Jude’s chest against your side. You're lulled into a state of peace, your head resting against his shoulder, your leg draped over his as you settle in.

It's when the movie gets to the good part that you hear (feel) Jude's stomach growl from under your ear, the low sound vibrating up his chest.

"Shit," he mutters with a quiet laugh, rubbing a hand absently over his stomach. "I’m fucking starving."

You lift your head from his shoulder to peer at his face. “You want me to make you something?” you ask, even though you don't feel like cooking, your hand coming up to copy his gesture.

His eyes flick down to yours, "Yeah," he says slowly, his voice low and soft. He lifts a hand, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear with a touch so gentle you barely feel it. His gaze follows the motion, his eyes darkening. "That’d be great, baby."

Your pulse quickens at the softness of his tone, but you nod and slip out of his arms, the movement sending the blanket tumbling to the bed. You slip out of the room, feeling his eyes on your back like a caress.

When you return with two bowls of popcorn in hand and a couple bags of snacks, Jude looks up from the spot he's settled in on the couch, his eyes sliding to yours for a heartbeat before dropping down to the food.

“Thank God,” he murmurs, taking one of the bowls from your hands with a grin. You try not to notice the way he brushes his fingers against yours as you pass him the bowl, but the touch makes your stomach flip anyway.

You sink back down beside him on the bed and take a seat. His leg presses up against yours, warm through the fabric of your jeans, and you feel yourself melting into him automatically, his warmth and scent pulling you in.

Jude lifts a handful of popcorn to his mouth, chewing as he settles his arm around your shoulder, the motion drawing you in even closer, until you're practically nestled against his side. His other hand lands on your thigh, his thumb brushing a slow pattern against your leg as he watches the movie. The motion sends a shiver up your spine, and you find your eyes dropping to the sight of his large hand against your leg, his fingertips lightly tracing the soft skin.

The feeling of his hand on you, the heat of his body against yours, is so good that you forget everything else around you—his soft, contented munching, the gentle way he tugs you in closer every now and then, the way you can feel his breath ghosting along the back of your neck and sending shivers up your spine.

You forget about it all until you feel his eyes on you, and you glance up to meet his gaze.

Jude is staring at you, his eyes half-lidded and his face tilted toward you. His expression is soft, his gaze almost… hungry. His tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip, his teeth catching it for just a heartbeat before he lets it slide free. You watch the whole thing in rapt fascination, your cheeks flushing when his gaze flicks down to yours and catches you staring.

"See something you like?" he asks with a low smirk, his voice soft and playful.

You feeling your skin heat up, feeling your pulse quicken and your stomach clench. You lower your eyes, biting your bottom lip to try and contain the frown that's threatening to break across your face.

"Y/N." His voice drops even lower, his hand tightening on your leg as you feel him lean in. His warm breath feathers along the shell of your ear, making you shiver and squirm. "Look at me."

Your eyes flick up to meet his, and his gaze is so warm that you can't look away. You're caught in his stare, the heat building between you like a flame.

"You're really fucking cute when you're shy," he murmurs softly, his grin widening as he reaches up to brush his thumb against the apple of your cheek, his touch feather-light. His eyes follow the motion, and his lips part as he takes a shallow breath, his body seeming to lean in on its own.

Your breath catches in your throat, and you forget to breathe for just a heartbeat as he presses his lips to yours, the kiss light and quick. When he pulls back, he doesn't go far, his face still hovering just a breath away.

"What?" you whisper, your pulse quickening at the way his eyes seem to darken as they drop down to look at your lips.

He lets out a soft, deep chuckle that vibrates through his chest. "What do you think?" His gaze is full of heat as he leans in again, the kiss softer this time, his lips barely brushing over yours. The motion makes you melt into him, your body seeming to go pliant under his touch. "You're too fucking sweet."

Your stomach flips at the way he says that, your hand coming up automatically to cup his neck. You draw him in, deepening the kiss with a soft sound, and he makes a pleased noise against your lips as he opens for you, letting you in.

The kiss turns soft and gentle, a sweet press of lips that makes you feel all fluttery inside, and you sink into it like a fish to water, losing yourself in the heat between you.

When Jude pulls back this time, it's with a groan, his brow furrowing as he tugs away, his breathing a little ragged. "We gotta stop."

You frown, feeling the sudden loss of him like a cold shower. You hesitate for a second, then reach out to cup his face with your palm, my thumb brushing over the sharp curve of his cheekbone.

"Jude—" you start softly, and he lets out another soft groan, sinking into your touch as he closes his eyes for a moment.

"Hm?" he hums against your palm, his tone low and tortured.

"I want you," you whisper, the word slipping out before you can stop it.

His eyes fly open at your words, his gaze snapping back to yours, and for just a heartbeat, he looks almost pained. Then he lets out a harsh breath and drops his head to yours, burying his face in the crook of your neck.

"I—fuck," he mutters, his voice muffled against your skin, and you can feel his body vibrating with the tension of his emotion. His hand cups the back of your skull, pulling you in closer. "I need a minute."

Your brows furrow at his words. What's wrong? you want to ask, but then Jude lets out a soft groan and bites you lightly on the neck, and all thoughts fly out of your mind.

His lips press to your skin with a soft, wet sound, the suction making your stomach flip. When he pulls back to look up at you, his mouth is swollen, his eyes heavy-lidded. He stares at you for a long moment, his gaze roaming down over your features before meeting yours again.

"Are you sure?" he asks, his voice almost a growl.

You nod, swallowing hard, your heart beating in your throat. I've never been more sure of anything.

Jude groans softly and kisses you again, the motion firm and deep as he pushes you backward until you're lying flat on the bed, his body covering yours. "How far do you want to go?" He mutters against your mouth, his voice deep and husky, his tongue darting out to trace your lips.

You hesitate for a heartbeat, unsure of how to answer. "Just… more than this?" you mumble softly, your hand tracing up his arm and coming to rest on his chest.

His other hand slides down to your waist, his fingers curling around your hip as he shifts, pressing you back into the bed. The weight of him, the heat of his body against yours, is overwhelming in the best way, and you can’t help the soft sound that escapes you.

"God, you’re perfect," he mutters. His lips trail down to your jaw, then your neck, leaving a trail of soft, heated kisses that make your skin tingle. "Tell me if I’m going too far, okay? Promise me."

You nod wordlessly, unable to speak around the pulse pounding in your throat.

Jude trails his lips along your collarbone, nipping gently at the skin before he lifts his head and catches your eyes with a heated look. "If it feels good," he starts slowly, his gaze locked on yours as his hand shifts up to cup your face, "tell me."

His other hand drops to your waist again, his palm skimming along your hip before sliding up underneath your shirt to land on the bare skin of your stomach. You gasp at the feeling of his warm palm against your skin, your breath catching as his fingers splay out over your belly, his touch sending a shiver up your spine.

"You like that, baby?" His eyes are dark with arousal as he stares down at you, his fingers sliding up to trace over the underside of your breast through your bra. The touch sends a shock straight through your body, your eyes fluttering closed. "Tell me, Y/N," he urges softly.

You gasp softly, letting out a wordless sound as you arch under his touch, your hands coming up to cling to his shoulders. You feel like you're melting into him, like your body is going limp as you let out another soft sound. "Yes."

Jude groans and presses a kiss to your neck, his mouth moving against your skin as he speaks. "Good girl." His hand moves up again, his fingers tracing up the bare skin of your side before his palm cups your breast, his thumb brushing lightly over your nipple.

You gasp again, your breath catching in your throat as you squirm under his touch. He doesn't stop, though; his fingers slip under the edge of your bra cup to brush over your nipple with a feather-light touch.

"God," he mutters hoarsely against your skin, his palm moving in a slow circle over your breast. "You have no idea how fucking good that feels."

His other hand shifts down to settle on your thigh, just above the knee, and you feel a shiver run through you. Your pulse is racing in your ears, the touch of him setting your whole body aflame.

You squirm under him, a soft, high-pitched moan slipping from between your lips, and Jude’s groan is immediate and deep. He shifts to settle his leg between your thighs, and you gasp again at the feeling of him against you. You can feel the hard length of him through his jeans, and the sensation sends another shiver up your spine.

"Fuck, Y/N," he rasps against your neck, his breath hot against your skin. His fingers trail down your ribs to your stomach, his palm landing flat against your belly with a soft press. "You’re gonna kill me."

The feeling of his hands on you is too much, and you squirm again, arching under his touch as you let out a high, breathless sound. Jude curses softly, shifting his leg against your center, and you feel another rush of wetness slip from you. His palm moves down to settle between your legs, his hand covering your mound with a warm press that makes you gasp.

"Tell me," he rasps, his voice full of emotion as he kisses your neck again. "Does this feel good?"

You can’t speak; all you can manage is a wordless nod, your hips arching up against his hand. Jude groans again, his breath feathering along your neck, his lips brushing a trail down to the neckline of your shirt.

He's still kissing you when he slides his hand down the waistband of your pants, his fingers trailing over the wet cotton of your panties before slipping under the edge to press against your bare skin. You feel a rush of pleasure at the touch, your whole body tensing, and Jude curses again softly as his palm presses against you, the weight of him making you feel warm and safe.

"Is this okay?" he asks raggedly, his fingers moving up to stroke against your clit through your panties.

The sensation sends a jolt of pleasure through you, and you let out a soft gasp as your hips shift against his palm. You nod wordlessly, your hands shifting up to clutch at his shoulders, and Jude groans again at the sensation of you against him.

"I need words baby," he rasps, his finger slipping under the cotton to brush against your clit with a slow press.

You let out another high-pitched sound, squirming under his hand as his finger shifts to rub against you in slow circles. His palm presses against your mound with a gentle weight, the pressure building between your legs and making your breath come in short, shallow gasps.

"Jude…please," you gasp, your hips shifting against his hand again.

"Please what?" He nuzzles your neck again, his lips feathering a trail along the skin. His finger doesn't stop moving, though, the feeling sending a rush of warmth through you. "Tell me what you need."

Your cheeks flush at his words, and you swallow hard. "Jude…" you murmur, your voice barely above a whisper.

"Come on," he rasps gently against your ear. "Tell me."

You squirm again, trying to get away from the feeling of his finger on your clit and the sudden wave of embarrassment that crashes over you. Jude doesn’t let you escape, though; his other arm tightens around your waist as his finger presses down harder against your clit, making the pleasure build between your legs.

"Yes!," you moan again, your voice high and breathless, your legs squirming against his hips. "More! P-please."

He groans loudly against your neck, his teeth catching at the skin in a sharp nip that makes you cry out. "God, fuck. You’re so good for me," he mutters in a hoarse rasp. Then he's pulling away. "Take off your pants for me baby. I wanna see you."

You nod, your hands dropping to your waist as you shove the fabric down. You’re not even fully out of them when Jude slides in the bed behind you. His arms come up around your waist, drawing you back against him, and his mouth drops to nuzzle against the back of your neck, the warmth of his breath sending a shiver down your spine.

He pulls you flush against him, his hips fitting against your ass in a way that makes you realize just how turned on he is. You let out another soft gasp, squirming back against him as you feel the length of his cock pressing between your ass cheeks.

Jude groans loudly again, his hands coming up to grip your hips as he pulls you more firmly against him. "Fuck, you feel so good," he rumbles, his mouth nuzzling a trail up the back of your neck. He kisses your skin softly, the warm press of his lips sending another shiver through you.

His hands move down to slip under the edge of your underwear, his fingers brushing against the bare skin of your thigh. You feel your stomach clench, the anticipation building inside you as his hand skims up to press between your legs. His fingers slide against your wet pussy, his palm cupping you firmly with a possessive press that makes your whole body tremble.

"Fuck," he growls hoarsely again, his lips trailing down to press a kiss to the back of your shoulder. "You're so wet for me." His fingers shift to press your folds through the fabric, stroking lightly against your clit as the wet slick sound of your arousal fills the air. "Do you like it when I touch you?"

You gasp at his words, feeling a hot blush rise up your neck. "Y-yes…" you gasp out.

He groans again, "You're really fucking perfect for me, you know that?" he rasps. "Take these off for me, baby."

You swallow hard, your hands lifting to your sides as you move to shimmy out of your panties, quickly closing your legs as soon as they're off. You hear Jude’s groan against your hair a moment before you feel his palm press down to your thigh.

"You getting shy on me, princess? Hm?" His voice is teasing as he nudges your legs apart again, his fingers trailing down over your skin as he pulls them further and further apart. You gasp softly as you feel your pussy lips spread with the movement, your clit throbbing. "Open up for me."

Your blush deepens, and you hesitate for a moment, unsure of what to do, but Jude’s warm breath on your neck is making you melt and your thigh part for him.

"Good girl," he praises softly. "Now let me see what's mine." His hand trails down to settle between your spread legs, his palm cupping your pussy firmly with a warm weight. Your eyes roll back at the sensation. "Look how wet you are," he groans. "You're fucking dripping for me, baby."

His hand shifts, his fingers dipping down to press against your folds, and the feeling is so good it makes you shiver. You gasp again, feeling another rush of liquid heat slip from you as his fingers spread your lips apart. You feel the cool air brush against your wet skin, and you blush hotly again at the sound of your own wetness filling the air.

"Look at that pretty pussy," Jude rasps, his voice deep and rough as he looks down over your shoulder at your wet folds "Fucking gorgeous."

His fingers shift to press against you again, and he lets out a pleased sound as he feels your wetness, his voice dropping to a deep whisper. "You love it, don't you?" he rumbles. "I can tell by the way you soak my fingers." He nuzzles his face into the back of your neck again, his breath making your skin prickle.

"Yes," you moan softly, your eyes drifting closed at the pleasure of his fingers against you.

Jude groans in response, his hand tightening around your hip as his fingers stroke against you faster. The feeling is so good that you can’t hold back your high-pitched sounds.

"Want me to make you cum, sweetheart?" he rasps against the skin of your neck, his fingers finding your clit with a sure press. The pleasure is so intense that you cry out at the sensation, your legs quivering as his thumb begins to rub against you with slow circles.

"Yeah?" Jude whispers in your ear, his voice low and husky. "Give it to me, baby." His voice is like liquid honey against your skin as his fingers shift, two of them sliding up to circle your clit in tight motions, the pad of his thumb rubbing against you in a steady, soft press.

You're so wet that you can hear the sloppy sound of him touching you, his palm cupped around your mound to shield it from the cool air of the room. You can tell he likes it, too; his breath is hot against your neck, and he groans roughly at the feeling of you in his hand.

The contrast between the heat of his palm and the chill of the air makes you shiver, but it’s nothing compared to the way his fingers are lazily stroking through your slickness, his touch teasing, reverent.

“God,” Jude groans, the sound raw, like he’s barely keeping himself together. “You hear that, sweetheart?” His voice is heavy with something dark and sweet, something that makes your stomach flip. “So fucking wet for me.”

You let out a tiny whimper, embarrassed but unable to deny how much you like the way he’s touching you, the way he’s looking at you—like you’re the only thing in the world that matters. You try to close your thighs instinctively, but he doesn’t let you, his hand pressing you open again with a quiet chuckle.

“No, no, don’t get shy on me now,” he murmurs, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear, sending a fresh wave of heat through your body. “Let me make you feel good, baby. Let me take care of you.”

You don’t trust yourself to speak, so you just nod, your face burning, and he exhales a quiet curse before pressing a kiss to the side of your neck.

“Can I stick a finger in, sweetheart?” he asks, his voice low and smooth, like honey, like he already knows the answer. He presses the tip of his middle finger against your entrance, just barely there, waiting, teasing.

You gasp at the sensation, your hips arching against his hand without thinking, seeking more. You don’t even realize how eager you are until you hear the sharp breath he takes in, feel the way his other arm tightens around your waist, holding you flush against him.

“That’s a yes?” Jude teases, but his voice is strained, like he’s holding himself back.

You nod, swallowing thickly, and then his finger presses inside you, sinking in slowly, inch by inch, stretching you open in the most delicious way. Your breath stutters, a soft, helpless sound escaping you as your body adjusts to the intrusion, and Jude groans in response, his face pressing against your hair.

“Fuck,” he mutters, his voice rough, almost pained. “You’re so tight, baby.”

You whimper, overwhelmed, your hands clutching the sheets beneath you as he strokes his finger in and out, curling it slightly with each movement. The sensation is foreign but intoxicating, sending little sparks of pleasure through your body with every slow, deliberate thrust.

His lips find your shoulder, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses against your skin as he moves, his breath fanning over you in hot, uneven bursts. “Little virgin pussy just for me,” he whispers against your skin, and the words send a rush of something heady and desperate straight to your core.

Your body clenches around him involuntarily, and he groans at the feeling, his whole body shuddering behind you. “Fuck, baby. Do that again.”

You don’t mean to, but the way he’s touching you, the way his palm is dragging against your clit every time his fingers move, it’s too much. Your body reacts on instinct, tightening around him again, and he curses under his breath, his teeth sinking lightly into your shoulder as if he needs something to ground himself.

“Jude,” you whimper, unsure of what you’re asking for, only knowing that you need more.

“I got you, sweetheart,” he murmurs, and then he’s slipping another finger inside you, filling you even more, stretching you in a way that feels impossibly good. His other hand slides under your shirt, palms up your stomach until he finds your breast, cupping it gently, his thumb rubbing over your sensitive nipple. “You’re taking me so well,” he praises, voice thick with adoration.

The combination of it all—the heat of his body, the skill of his fingers, the sweetness in his voice—is overwhelming, and you can feel something building, coiling tight in the pit of your stomach, desperate to break free.

He can tell. Of course, he can.

“That’s it, sweetheart,” Jude murmurs against your skin, his fingers moving faster, his palm pressing just the right way against your clit. “You’re close, aren’t you? Gonna come for me?”

You nod frantically, your breath coming in short, uneven gasps.

“Good girl,” he breathes, his voice dripping with pride, and the praise sends you spiraling.

The pleasure crashes over you like a tidal wave, your whole body trembling as your release washes through you.

"Oh, God!" You cry out, Jude’s name falling from your lips in a breathless moan, and he groans, holding you tightly as he works you through it, his fingers never stopping, drawing it out until you’re completely spent, boneless in his arms.

You don’t realize how loud you were until the room falls into a thick silence, the only sound left is your heavy breathing and the faint rustle of the sheets.

Jude presses a slow, lingering kiss to the back of your head, his fingers slipping out of you with a wet pop, and you whimper at the emptiness, the oversensitivity. He shushes you gently, soothing you with soft touches, sweet kisses.

“You did so good, baby,” he murmurs, nuzzling against your hair. “So fucking perfect for me.”

Your heart is still pounding in your chest, your body still tingling, but all you can focus on is the warmth of him, the steady rise and fall of his breath against your back.

For the first time in your life, you feel like you’re seeing color.

"That good, huh?," Jude murmurs as he pulls his fingers from between your legs, sliding them up to cup your pussy possessively with a slow rub. Then he brings the fingers to his mouth, sucking them clean with a quiet groan of pleasure as you watch, your breath catching in your throat at the sight. His eyes locks on yours, the heat between you palpable as you gasp.

You nod, your cheeks flushing as he smirks, his tongue darting out to lick his palm.

"Tastes so fucking good too," he mutters, his voice dark with emotion. He drops his head to press a kiss to your neck, your collarbone, his hands slipping up to grip your shoulders firmly.

It's like a switch had been flipped inside you—And all you know is that you never want to go without feeling that again.

You're still breathing fast, your heart still pounding in your ears, "God damn, baby. You're gonna be the end of me."

***********

Pleasure has had a whole new meaning for you since that night.

And Jude is relentless. Ever the indulger.

There are moments when it feels like he can't keep his hands off of you at all. It's like he's gone feral.

Like the other day when you were cooking dinner, and you were wearing nothing but shorts and a tank top that barely covered your ass.

You were leaning over to stir the pot of pasta, completely focused on your task, until you felt Jude’s arms curl around your waist, pulling you back against him. His chest was warm, solid, and you felt the slow rise and fall of his breathing against your back before his hands slid up to cup your breasts, squeezing them roughly with a low groan.

“You’re tryin’ to kill me, aren’t you?” he murmured against your neck, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses along your skin. “Walkin’ around like this, actin’ like I won’t do anything about it.”

Your breath hitched as he rolled his hips against your ass, making you gasp. “J-Jude, I’m cooking.”

“Mhm.” He hummed lazily, fingers toying with your nipples through the thin fabric of your top. “And I’m hungry for something else.”

That ended with him eating you out for the first time, right there on the kitchen counter. An experience unlike any other. The way his tongue moved against you, how his fingers rubbed over your clit as he lapped at you—fuck. Just thinking about it makes your cheeks flush and your panties wet.

Then there was the time you fell asleep in his lap while watching a movie at his place.

You woke up to his hands between your legs. He wasn’t even doing anything, just keeping his hand there, warm and possessive. When you stirred and gave him a sleepy, questioning look, he just smirked down at you, dimples flashing.

“S’ mine,” he said simply, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. As if you belonged to him in every possible way.

And, god, the way he looks at you sometimes. Like he’s starving. Like he’s memorizing every inch of you. Like he’s still in disbelief that you’re his.

Right now you're at his apartment getting ready for your picnic date. You've decided to spend the summer with him since going home is out of the question for you this year. You're super excited to go on this picnic. It’s a surprise, so you have no idea where you’re going. But, from the way Jude looks, you’re pretty sure it's going to be great. He's practically bouncing in excitement.

Jude’s apartment smells like sandalwood and something faintly citrusy, a scent that clings to his skin, to the soft cotton of his hoodie, to the air around you. You’re standing in front of the full-length mirror in his bedroom, smoothing out the fabric of your sundress, your heart fluttering with the kind of nervous excitement that makes your fingers tremble just a little.

Behind you, Jude is practically bouncing on his heels, barely containing his excitement. It’s endearing, the way he can hardly stay still, like a golden retriever about to go on a walk.

“You almost ready, sweetheart?” he asks, his voice warm, teasing.

You catch his gaze in the mirror—he’s watching you with an expression that makes your stomach tighten, makes heat rise to your cheeks. The way he looks at you, dark eyes smoldering with something unspoken, always makes you feel like he’s seeing more than just what’s on the surface. Like he’s memorizing you.

“I—I think so,” you say softly, reaching for your cardigan, but before you can grab it, Jude steps in behind you, his chest pressing lightly against your back. His fingers brush over your bare shoulders, slow and deliberate, sending a shiver down your spine.

“You don’t need this,” he murmurs, lips so close to your ear that you feel the warmth of his breath. “It’s warm out.”

You swallow hard, your skin prickling under his touch. He knows exactly what he’s doing, and the worst part is that he enjoys it—loves the way you get all shy and flustered under his attention.

“I might get cold later,” you mumble, looking anywhere but at him.

Jude grins against your hair, his arms slipping around your waist, pulling you back against him. “I’ll keep you warm, baby.”

Your breath catches. The way he says it, so effortlessly, like a promise wrapped in silk, makes you dizzy.

“Jude…”

“Mm?”

“I—I thought we were leaving?” you manage, heart pounding.

He laughs, nuzzling into your neck, pressing a slow, lingering kiss just below your ear. “We are. But you keep distracting me.”

Your entire body feels like it’s on fire, and you don’t trust yourself to say anything without making a complete fool of yourself, so you just push lightly at his arms. He chuckles but lets you go, stepping back with his hands raised in mock surrender.

“Fine, fine. But you really do look beautiful, sweetheart.”

You duck your head, smiling despite yourself. “You always say that.”

“Because it’s always true.”

You shake your head at him, but the warmth in his gaze, the sincerity laced in his words, makes your heart swell.

As you gather your things, Jude grabs the picnic basket, still humming under his breath, his excitement infectious. He won’t tell you where you’re going—he’s been annoyingly secretive about it all morning—but from the way he keeps stealing glances at you, like he’s holding onto some grand secret, you know it’s going to be something special.

The car ride is filled with soft music and Jude’s hand resting comfortably on your thigh, his thumb tracing absentminded circles on your skin. Every now and then, he glances at you, a small, knowing smirk playing at his lips whenever he catches you sneaking a look at him.

“Excited?” he asks.

You nod, fingers twisting together in your lap. “Yeah. I love surprises.”

Jude grins, squeezing your thigh. “Good. ‘Cause you’re gonna love this one.”

The drive takes longer than you expected, but you don’t mind. With Jude, time always seems to melt away, the world outside shrinking until it’s just the two of you, wrapped in a little bubble of quiet intimacy.

When he finally pulls up to the destination, your breath catches. The sun is beginning to dip in the sky, casting everything in soft golden hues, and in front of you is a secluded little meadow, framed by towering trees. It looks like something out of a painting, untouched and serene.

“Oh,” you breathe, stepping out of the car, eyes wide. “Jude… it’s beautiful.”

His arms wrap around you from behind, chin resting on your shoulder. “Yeah? You like it?”

You nod, unable to find the right words.

“I wanted it to be special,” he says softly, pressing a kiss to the side of your head. “For you.”

Your throat tightens at that, and you turn in his arms, looking up at him. The sunlight catches in his eyes, turning them into molten honey, and for a moment, all you can do is stare.

“Jude…”

His fingers tilt your chin up, his gaze flickering down to your lips. “Can I kiss you?” You swoon at how he still asks.

You don’t even have to answer. You lift onto your toes, closing the space between you, and he meets you halfway, his lips capturing yours in a kiss that’s slow and deep, filled with all the things he doesn’t need to say out loud.

When you finally pull back, breathless and warm, he smiles against your lips. “Told you you’d love it.”

You laugh, heart full, and let him lead you toward the picnic he’s set up under the trees, the blanket spread out beneath the stars. It’s so romantic you could cry.

Jude wasn’t lying when he said you’d love it.

The picnic setup is nothing short of breathtaking. A thick, cozy blanket is spread over the grass, weighed down at the corners with a wicker basket, a bottle of wine, and a few lit lanterns that flicker warmly against the encroaching twilight. A small tent is pitched just a few feet away, its entrance left open, revealing plush pillows and more blankets inside. Everything about it feels intimate, private, like your own little world hidden away from everything else.

And Jude—God, Jude looks so pleased with himself, hands on his hips, watching your reaction with a boyish grin.

“You really did all this?” you ask softly, still a little stunned, still trying to process just how perfect it all is.

Jude chuckles, stepping behind you to wrap his arms around your waist, pulling you flush against him. “Of course,” he murmurs, nuzzling his nose into the crook of your neck. “Wanted to spoil my girl.”

Your face burns at that, heart skipping an entire beat. His girl. It’s ridiculous how much those two little words make you melt, how they settle so easily into your chest like they’ve always belonged there.

“I—I love it,” you manage, voice barely above a whisper. “Thank you.”

His lips graze the sensitive spot just behind your ear, and you shiver, hands gripping his forearms instinctively. “You can thank me later,” he teases, his voice laced with something dark, something promising.

Your breath hitches. “Jude.”

He just chuckles, pressing one last kiss to your neck before pulling away. “C’mon, sweetheart. Let’s eat before you get all shy on me.”

He’s right—you’re already flustered, barely holding yourself together as you kneel on the blanket. Jude joins you, opening the basket to pull out an assortment of food. There’s fresh fruit, sandwiches, some of your favorite snacks, and even ingredients for s’mores.

“You thought of everything,” you muse, watching as he uncorks the bottle of wine with practiced ease.

“‘Course I did,” he says, winking. “Gotta impress my girl.”

Your stomach flutters. You shake your head, biting your lip as you take the glass he hands you, trying to suppress the ridiculous smile threatening to take over your face.

The two of you eat leisurely, the conversation flowing as effortlessly as it always does. Jude makes you laugh until your sides ache, teasing you in that way only he can—flirty, playful, but always affectionate.

It’s easy. Being with him.

Eventually, the stars come out, a sprawling canvas of light stretching endlessly above you. You lay back on the blanket, staring up in awe, while Jude props himself up on one elbow, watching you instead.

“You brought your telescope, yeah?” he asks.

You nod, turning your head to meet his gaze. “Mhm. It’s in the car.”

Jude smirks. “Think you could teach me some constellations?”

You hum, considering. “Depends.”

“On?”

“On how well you listen.”

He grins, leaning in, his face dangerously close to yours. “I always listen to you, sweetheart.”

Your breath catches. His hand finds your hip, fingers tracing slow, lazy patterns through the fabric of your dress. “Jude…”

“Mm?”

“You’re distracting me.”

He laughs, low and deep. “Am I?”

You nod, cheeks burning. “Very much.”

Jude’s fingers tighten on your hip, just slightly, just enough for you to feel the possessiveness in the gesture. “That’s funny,” he murmurs, dipping his head so that his lips ghost over yours, not quite kissing you, just teasing. “Because you’ve been distracting me all damn night.”

Your pulse stutters. “I—I have?”

Jude exhales sharply, like he can’t believe you’d even ask. “Sweetheart,” he murmurs, pressing a lingering kiss to the corner of your mouth. “You have no idea what you do to me.”

Your hands grip at his hoodie, trying to ground yourself, trying to breathe through the sudden onslaught of heat pooling low in your stomach. “Jude,” you whisper, barely able to get his name out.

He groans, like you saying his name alone is enough to drive him insane, and then he finally closes the distance, kissing you deep and slow, like he has all the time in the world to unravel you piece by piece.

And you let him. Because it’s Jude. Because you trust him. Because he makes you feel safe even when he makes you feel like you’re coming undone.

When he finally pulls away, you’re breathless, dizzy. He rests his forehead against yours, breathing heavily, his fingers still gripping your hip like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

“You’re gonna be the death of me,” he mutters, but he’s smiling when he says it, and you can’t help but smile too.

“You started it,” you tease, voice barely above a whisper.

Jude laughs, shaking his head. “Yeah, yeah.” He presses a quick, final kiss to your lips before rolling onto his back, staring up at the sky. “Go on, then. Teach me something.”

You giggle, reaching for his hand, lacing your fingers together. “Okay,” you say softly, squeezing his hand once. “See that bright one over there?”

Jude hums, squeezing back. “Yeah.”

“That’s Vega.”

He turns his head to look at you, eyes full of something unbearably fond. “Is it the prettiest star?”

You blink, caught off guard by the question. “Well, I—”

“Because if it is,” he interrupts, grinning, “then it makes sense why it reminds me of you.”

Your heart stutters, cheeks burning, and you groan, covering your face with your hands. “Jude.”

He laughs, warm and rich, pulling you closer until you’re curled into his side, the steady thrum of his heartbeat against your ear.

You stay like that for a couple minutes, his fingers trace lazy patterns along your arm, his warmth seeping into your skin, grounding you. You feel safe here. Cherished.

And you make your decision.

“You’re quiet,” Jude murmurs, tilting his head down to look at you. His voice is low, roughened by the night air, by the intimacy wrapped around you both like a second skin.

You swallow, nerves bubbling in your stomach. You’ve been thinking about this for weeks now, letting the thought sit in the corners of your mind, letting it grow into something more solid, more certain.

And now, in the golden glow of this moment, with the stars watching and Jude holding you like you’re his world, you finally gather the courage to say it.

“Jude…” Your voice is small, hesitant. You shift slightly so you can look up at him, your heart hammering against your ribs. “I—I think I’m ready.”

His brows furrow, lips parting slightly as he processes your words. Then his expression softens, something warm and deep flickering in his gaze. “Ready for what, sweetheart?” He knows what you're asking for. But he doesn't want to get ahead of himself, so he waits for you to confirm.

You bite your lip, fingers twisting in the fabric of the blanket. It takes everything in you to hold his gaze, but you do, because you need him to know that you mean this. That you want this.

“For… us. For that.” Your cheeks burn, and you’re sure you must look ridiculous, but Jude just watches you, patient as ever. “I want to be with you. I want you to be my first.”

For a moment, he doesn’t say anything. Just stares at you with an unreadable expression, his grip on you tightening slightly. Then, slowly, his thumb brushes over your cheek, his touch feather-light.

“Are you sure?” His voice is barely above a whisper, careful and deliberate, like he’s giving you one last chance to change your mind.

You nod, pressing your cheek into his palm. “I’ve never been more sure about anything.”

Something shifts in his gaze—something deep, something intense. His jaw tightens like he’s holding something back, but then he exhales, his hand slipping from your face to intertwine with yours.

“Okay,” he says softly. “Okay, baby.” He lifts your hand to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss to your knuckles. “Let's go inside then.”

You nod and he helps you up, his movements slow and deliberate, as if he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he moves too fast. He doesn’t rush, doesn’t push. Just holds your hand as he leads you toward the tent, zipping it open and stepping aside to let you in first.

The inside is cozy, lit only by the soft glow of the lanterns Jude set up earlier. The air is warm, thick with something unspoken, something electric. You settle onto the pile of blankets and pillows, watching as Jude kneels in front of you, his hands resting on his thighs.

“You’re so beautiful,” he says, his voice barely above a breath, as if the words are meant only for you and the universe.

You duck your head, suddenly shy, but Jude doesn’t let you hide. He reaches out, tilting your chin up so your eyes meet his. “You don’t have to be nervous,” he murmurs, brushing a kiss over your cheek, then your jaw, then the corner of your lips. “I’ve got you.”

You nod, exhaling softly. “I know.”

His lips find yours then, slow and tender, like he’s savoring the moment. His hands are gentle as they slide up your arms, over your shoulders, down your back. There’s no rush, no urgency—just soft touches, soft kisses, soft whispers.

The world outside fades into nothingness, leaving only the two of you. The stars, once so distant, now feel like they're watching closely, witnesses to something both innocent and deeply intimate. His kiss deepens slowly, the pressure of his lips soft and coaxing, as if he's waiting for you to lead, to guide him through this moment. His hands are everywhere, but always with a reverence, like he's treating every inch of you as something precious.

You feel your pulse quicken under his touch, the fluttering of nerves mixing with something else, something sweet. He can sense it, too—how your breath catches every time he moves, every time his fingers graze your skin.

“Hey,” Jude murmurs against your lips, his voice a touch rougher now, laced with need. He pulls back just enough to meet your eyes, his gaze dark and intense. “It's just me, okay? Always just me.”

You nod, swallowing hard, but Jude's fingers tighten on your waist like he needs more assurance. Like he needs to hear it from you.

“Just you,” you manage, your voice barely above a whisper.

Jude's eyes flash with something like triumph, and his lips find yours again in a kiss that's soft, deep, devouring.

Jude is gentle, almost unbearably so, as he slowly tilts you back onto the pillows. The world seems to narrow to just the two of you—the rustling of the blankets beneath you, the warmth of his hands steadying your body, the quiet exhale of his breath fanning against your skin. Your hair spreads out like a halo against the sheets, and Jude just stares for a moment, his gaze roaming over you like he’s seeing you for the first time.

"Fuck baby, look at you," he murmurs, voice rough, reverent. "You don't even know how pretty you are, do you?"

You swallow hard, looking at him through wet clumpy lashes, the warmth of him overwhelming you already. Jude bites his bottom lip at the sight of you already so fucked out for him. You're so fucking pretty and he can't wait to ruin you.

Jude’s weight shifts over you as he lowers himself between your legs, his body pressing against yours in a way that steals the breath from your lungs. He’s everywhere—his scent, his warmth, the solid weight of him pressing into you in all the places you’re most sensitive. You feel him, all of him, and your lashes flutter as you try not to tremble beneath him.

His hands slide up your sides, slow and deliberate, his fingers catching the hem of your dress. He pushes the fabric up inch by inch, exposing more of your skin to the cool air, and then he makes a sound—low, almost pained.

"Jesus, sweetheart," he breathes, dipping his head to your neck. He kisses you there, soft at first, then with more intent, dragging his lips over the delicate skin until he reaches your collarbone. His mouth is hot, open-mouthed, tasting you, lingering. The smell of you putting him in a haze. "Need to taste you. Gonna let me? Mhm?"

The words send a bolt of heat straight to your core.

You nod, but the motion is shaky, your lips parted as you struggle to find your voice. "Y-yeah," you whisper, barely more than breath.

Jude smiles against your skin, finding your shyness utterly endearing. Even after all this time you're still so fucking cute. "That’s my girl," he murmurs, his fingers trailing lower.

You feel them at the edge of your panties, feel the soft tug as he starts to slide them down. Your breath hitches, and Jude pauses immediately, glancing up at you. His eyes are warm, searching.

"Hey," he murmurs, pressing a kiss just above your navel. "You okay?"

You nod again, but he doesn’t move right away. He watches you, patient, waiting for you to really settle before continuing. It’s so incredibly tender that your heart squeezes in your chest.

When he finally does pull your panties away, his breath catches. His hands part your thighs, thumbs stroking over the sensitive skin there, and he exhales like he’s been waiting his whole life for this moment. He has.

"Fuck, baby," he whispers, pressing a kiss to the inside of your thigh. "Such a pretty pussy."

Your fingers curl into the sheets as he works his way lower, his lips tracing paths of fire down your legs, teasing, deliberate. You’re already shaking by the time his breath ghosts over the sensitive skin of your mound.

"Can I kiss it, baby?" His voice is low, dark, laced with something sinful, something that makes your entire body burn.

You can’t even speak. Your lips part, but no words come out, just a soft whimper that makes Jude grin against your skin. He loves this—the way you melt for him, the way you look at him with wide, innocent eyes like you can’t believe what’s happening.

"You’ve gotta tell me, princess," he murmurs, his hands gripping your thighs, his thumbs tracing slow, soothing circles. "Need to hear you say it."

"Y-yeah," you stammer, barely audible, but it’s enough.

Jude groans, his lips pressing one last kiss to your inner thigh before finally, finally—

The first touch of his mouth is pure ecstacy. You gasp, your body jolting against the bed, and Jude hums in approval. His tongue moves slowly, languidly, savoring every inch of you like you’re the sweetest thing he’s ever tasted. You are.

"God, baby," he groans into you, his voice vibrating against your skin. "Taste so fucking good. Could stay here all night."

His hands slide beneath your thighs, pulling you closer, tilting your hips just right so he can get even deeper. His tongue flicks over your clit, teasing, and your entire body tenses. Your fingers shoot to his hair, gripping onto the dark coils as if they’re the only thing keeping you tethered to reality.

Jude chuckles, and the sound is pure sin. "That good, huh?"

You let out a broken whimper, your head tipping back, your cheeks burning. He’s watching you—God, he’s watching you. His eyes flicker up to meet yours, dark and hungry, and the sight alone is enough to make your stomach twist with want.

"Look at you," he murmurs, licking into you again, slow and deep. "So fucking pretty when you let go for me."

You squeeze your eyes shut, overwhelmed, but he’s not having it. One of his hands moves up your body, sliding beneath your dress until he finds your hand, lacing his fingers through yours.

"Don’t hide from me, sweetheart," he murmurs against your skin. "Wanna see you. Wanna watch you fall apart."

And you do.

With every stroke of his tongue, every whispered praise against your skin, and wet slick sound of his mouth, your body coils tighter, your breath coming in sharp little pants. It feels like you’re being pulled apart at the seams, every nerve on fire, and it’s terrifying, overwhelming, but Jude—he’s there, holding you, grounding you, whispering sweet nothings against your pussy.

When he flicks his tongue over your clit once more, you lose it.

Your body convulses, your thighs squeezing around him, and Jude holds you through it all, his tongue never ceasing its motion. He groans against your skin, his hand gripping your thigh hard, but you barely feel it. All you can do is sob his name, your head tipping back in a silent scream, your body shaking with the force of your orgasm.

Jude stays with you through it all—licking, sucking, slowly bringing you down from the high. He doesn’t stop until your body finally relaxes against the mattress, limp and warm and pliant. Then he moves up your body in a slow, languid crawl, lips dragging over your skin, kissing everything he passes. His fingers find your hair, stroking it back from your face, and then his mouth meets yours.

You're still reeling from what he's done, from the way he’s touched you, taken you apart like he was born to do it. Your body is thrumming, heat pooling low in your belly, and yet Jude’s kiss is gentle—softer than you expect, coaxing you back to reality, back to him.

He tastes like you—salt and sweetness mixed into something heady and intoxicating. The taste of him makes you whimper against his lips, and he swallows the sound like it’s his favorite thing in the world.

"Hi, baby," he murmurs, his nose brushing against yours, lips barely ghosting over your mouth as he speaks. "Still with me?"

You hum, nodding shyly, your fingers fisting the sheets beside you.

Jude grins against your lips, his voice turning teasing. "Good girl."

His words send a ripple of warmth through you, but before you can say anything, he leans back, arms flexing as he peels his shirt off in one smooth motion. The sight of him, shirtless and breathtaking, has your breath hitching. His body is all lean muscle, defined and golden brown. Spit pools in your mouth, and you have to swallow quickly to stop from embarrassing yourself.

Jude notices. Of course, he does. His smirk is knowing, his dark eyes full of mischief as he tosses the shirt aside.

"Like what you see, sweetheart?" he teases, voice dipping low, sinful.

Your face burns, but you can’t look away.

His laughter is soft, affectionate. "You’re too cute," he murmurs, brushing his fingers over your flushed cheek before dipping lower, reaching for the hem of your dress. His knuckles graze your skin, making you shiver. "Let’s get this off you."

Before you can protest, the fabric is slipping over your head and then—then you’re bare for him.

The moment stretches, thick with anticipation. You shift slightly, suddenly shy under his gaze, but Jude just looks at you like you’re a masterpiece, like he’s afraid to blink in case you disappear.

"Fuck," he breathes, his voice rough, reverent. "You're so fucking pretty."

You barely have time to register his words before his lips are back on yours—hotter this time, more insistent. There’s no hesitation now, no teasing restraint. He kisses you like he’s starved, like he’s trying to consume every last bit of you.

You gasp against his mouth, arching into him, needing more, and he groans, gripping your thigh and pulling it over his hip. The new angle has you feeling him more, the thick press of his cock through his pants sending sparks of desire shooting straight to your core.

"Jude," you whisper, breathless.

He presses his forehead to yours, his breathing ragged. "I know, baby," he murmurs, rolling his hips against yours. The friction is maddening, sinful. You moan, and he catches the sound with his mouth, swallowing it greedily.

"You're so soft," he whispers, his hands roaming, fingertips dragging over your skin like he’s memorizing every inch of you. "So warm." Another roll of his hips, slow and deliberate. "I need you, baby."

His words send a shiver down your spine, heat curling deep inside you.

Jude’s mouth finds your throat, pressing open-mouthed kisses down to your chest. His hands follow, palms covering your breasts, kneading softly before his thumbs brush over your nipples. The sensation is too much, not enough, all at once.

You whimper, your hands flying to his shoulders, clutching him.

"You're so sensitive," Jude mutters, voice thick with want. He pinches one of your nipples lightly, watching as you jolt beneath him. "Makes me so fucking hard."

His words are filthy, but instead of making you shy away, they send another wave of heat pooling between your legs.

Your eyes flicker downward, and you see it—see the thick outline of him straining against his pants. Your breath catches.

"Take them off," you whisper, surprising yourself.

Jude stills, his gaze snapping to yours, surprised. Then, he smirks, but there’s something darker, hungrier beneath it. "Yeah?"

You nod, biting your lip.

He doesn’t need to be told twice. In one swift motion, he kicks off his pants and boxer briefs, and then he’s bare before you.

Your breath stutters. He’s—God.

Thick, veiny and oh so hard.

Your thighs press together instinctively, and Jude notices. His smirk grows, but there’s a softness in his eyes, too. He leans down, brushing a kiss to your jaw, your cheek, your nose.

But then—

"Shit." He suddenly freezes, his face scrunching in frustration. "I don’t have condoms."

You blink, his words slow to register through the haze of desire clouding your mind.

Jude groans, dragging a hand through his hair. "Fuck, I’m so sorry. I didn’t think we’d be doing this tonight."

You hesitate, then swallow your nerves. "It’s okay," you murmur. You reach down, wrapping your fingers around him, feeling the warmth, the weight of him in your palm. He sucks in a sharp breath. "I’m on birth control."

"Sweetheart," he groans, his hips jerking slightly into your hand. "Don’t do that."

But you do. You stroke him slowly, experimentally, fascinated by the way his breathing stutters, the way his jaw clenches like he’s barely holding himself together.

Jude curses under his breath, his head dropping to your shoulder. "You’re gonna make me cum if you keep that up."

You hum softly, dragging your thumb over the tip, spreading the precum leaking out. He chokes on a groan, his hands gripping your hips tight.

You’ve never seen him like this—so undone, so desperate.

And God, you love it.

"Please, baby," he rasps, his voice thick with need. "Squeeze tighter for me."

You bite your lip as you obey, watching him through your lashes. He’s so big, so hard for you. Your walls clenches just thinking about it, a rush of slick flooding your core.

Jude notices. His eyes flick down to where your thighs press together, and then the last of his control snaps.

He grabs your wrist, pulling your hand away from him.

His hands slide down, tracing the curve of your waist before gripping your thighs, spreading them open carefully.

"Tell me if it hurts, sweetheart," he murmurs, reaching down to stroke himself. He brushes his lips over your forehead, your nose, your cheeks, soothing you in every way he can. "I’ll stop if you need me to. I’ll take care of you, I promise."

You believe him. You always have.

Then, he shifts, and you feel him at your entrance, his heavy gaze locked between your thighs. A nervous breath hitches in your throat, your fingers fisting into the sheets. Jude notices, of course he does, and his lips curve into a teasing smirk.

“Relax, sweetheart,” he murmurs, his voice low and sweet like honey. “I got you.”

You nod, though your body remains tense, overwhelmed by his closeness, by the way his touch ignites something deep inside you. Then, he moves the head of his cock over your clit, slow and deliberate, rubbing lazy circles that have your breath stuttering. The sensation is new, foreign yet delicious, and just as you’re adjusting to the pleasure, he taps it against your swollen bud, making you jolt.

A soft gasp escapes you, your fingers gripping the sheets tighter.

“Jesus fuck,” he groans, shaking his head as he watches how his thick head glides easily between your slick folds. The sound it makes makes you bury you face in his shoulder “You’re so wet, baby. All fucking mine.”

His words send a rush of heat through your body, your cheeks burning as you turn your face to the side, too shy to meet his gaze. But Jude isn’t having it. He cups your chin gently, coaxing you to look at him.

“Don’t hide from me,” he whispers, pressing a tender kiss to your lips. 

The hunger in his voice makes you clench and he groans at the feeling. Then, he’s pressing in, the thick head pushing past your entrance, stretching you in a way that makes you suck in a sharp breath. Your lashes flutter, but Jude’s there, his eyes locked on yours, his lips brushing reassuring kisses over your nose, your cheek.

“I know,” he murmurs. “I know, baby.” 

He slides in further, slow, slow. You feel yourself spreading around his girth, the feeling of fullness intense but not quite painful. The dull pressure borders on discomfort, but Jude doesn’t rush you. He moves slowly, carefully, inch by inch, pausing to let you adjust, his hands soothing over your sides.

“You’re doing so good for me, baby,” he praises, his lips brushing over your cheek, your jaw, down to your throat. “Just breathe. I’ve got you.”

You exhale shakily, trying to relax as he pushes deeper. There’s a slight burn, your body resisting the intrusion, but the way Jude watches you—so patient, so gentle—eases the tension. He strokes your thigh, his thumb rubbing slow, reassuring circles into your skin.

“Almost there, sweetheart,” he murmurs, brushing a stray strand of hair from your damp forehead. His voice is wrecked, thick with restraint. “God, you feel so fucking good. So warm, so tight.”

Your nails dig into his back as he finally sinks in all the way, filling you completely. A whimper leaves your lips, overwhelmed by the stretch, by the feeling of being utterly, entirely full. Jude stills immediately, concern flickering across his face.

“Too much?” he asks, his thumb brushing your cheek.

You shake your head quickly, blinking up at him. “No—just… full,” you admit breathlessly, your voice barely above a whisper.

His expression softens, pressing a kiss to your temple, his lips lingering there.

He doesn’t move, just holds you, letting you adjust at your own pace. His lips find your neck, trailing slow, reverent kisses down to your collarbone. His hands never stop moving, caressing your thighs, your hips, your waist—everywhere. It helps, the ache easing into something warmer, something better.

You shift slightly beneath him, testing the sensation, and a tiny moan escapes you at the delicious friction. Jude groans, his fingers tightening on your hips like he’s barely holding on.

“Fuck,” he rasps, his forehead dropping to your shoulder. “You’re so fucking tight. Pussy feels like heaven, baby.”

His words send a fresh wave of heat through you, making you squirm in embarrassment. You bury your face against his neck, but he only chuckles, pressing a kiss to the shell of your ear.

“Don’t be shy,” he coaxes, his voice laced with amusement. “I wanna hear you, sweetheart.”

His hands slide down to your hips, gripping them gently as he pulls out, slow and careful, before sinking back in. The friction sends a shiver up your spine, something new and intoxicating unfurling in your belly. Your breath stutters, your fingers digging into his shoulders.

Jude watches you closely, his eyes dark and heated. Then, his lips twitch into a knowing grin.

“There it is,” he murmurs, his voice thick with pride. “You like that, baby?”

Your cheeks flame, but the pleasure is too much to deny. You nod, barely able to form words, and Jude groans, dropping his head to your collarbone as he fights to keep himself together.

“Fuck, this pussy,” the last sound drags out as his jaw goes slack. “fucking made for me.”

His thrusts remain slow, deep, every roll of his hips sending a ripple of pleasure through you. It’s like nothing you’ve ever felt before, a sensation you can’t begin to describe. Every brush of his skin against yours sends sparks of sensation through your body.

It’s not long before you find yourself moving with him, arching beneath him, searching for more. He hums in approval, his teeth nipping gently at your neck as he thrusts into you deeper, harder. You cry out, a high whimper, and Jude swallows it greedily.

You’re completely lost in the sensation of him, the way he moves above you like a dream, like a vision. The way his lips drag over your skin, the soft praise against your ear, the heavy weight of him on top of you. It all feels so good, so overwhelming, that you find yourself clinging to him, your arms wrapping around his shoulders like he’s the only thing that exists in this moment.

Jude growls, his mouth finding yours as he kisses you hard, deep. He fucks you into the mattress, hard and fast, rougher than he ever thought he’d be with you. But you—it’s like you were made for him, like your body was built for this, for his cock.

And it makes him crazy.

“Fuuuckk,” he rasps into your mouth, your lips barely parting for words. “Gonna cum for me? Hm?”

He slips a hand down between your bodies, his fingers finding your clit. He strokes it, hard, slow circles that make you cry out. Your walls clench around him as he rubs you faster—it’s like the best thing you’ve ever felt.

And then…

"Oh, fuck! Jude!" you cry out, your back concaving into him as his tip grazes a spot that has tears spilling down your cheeks. You can only describe it as pure ecstasy and he’s not letting up. “Oh, God. Oh, God”

Jude curses, his hips moving faster, thrusting into your gspot over and over again. You’re sobbing now, "Found it."Jude whispers, a triumphant smirk spreading across his face as he angles his hips to hit that sweet spot over and over.  You're getting so close, your body’s a live wire, waiting to snap.

“Jude—fuck! I-I’m gonna cum!” you sob.

His hand tightens on your hip, his fingers bruising. “Then cum, baby,” he grunts, his own body tense, close. “Let me feel it. Cum for me, sweetheart. Fucking milk my cock.”

The filthy words send you over the edge, your body arching as waves of pleasure crash over you, a force so intense it steals the air from your lungs. Your fingers clutch at Jude’s broad shoulders, nails pressing into his flushed skin, as a broken sob falls from your lips. The pleasure is overwhelming—too much, too deep, too consuming—but you surrender to it, trembling as your body spasms around him.

"That’s it, love," Jude groans, his voice rough with desperation, his fingers tangling with yours as he pins your hands above your head, holding you there, helpless beneath him. “Jude,” you gasp, voice trembling, eyes glazed over with pleasure.

The sight of you—flushed, trembling, your lips parted in a breathless moan—Your slick gummy walls spasm around him, clenching tight, and it’s all Jude needs to follow you into the abyss of bliss.

A deep, guttural groan rumbles from his chest, his head tipping back as his thrusts turn frantic, desperate, chasing his own pleasure. You watch as his eyes roll back and his jaw goes slack as his mouth forms an 'O'. “Fuckkkk,” he grits out, his entire body shuddering. “That’s it, princess. Love this fuckin’ pussy.”

His hips stutter, his thick cock jerks inside you once, twice, then he’s gone—spilling deep inside of you with a strangled moan. You feel it—the warmth of him, thick and hot, filling you up completely. His body trembles against yours as he collapses, his chest pressing against your own, heartbeat wild and erratic.

For a few moments, there’s nothing but the sound of your mingled breaths, the cool night air brushing over your sweat-slicked skin. The world outside the tent is quiet, save for the occasional chirp of crickets or the distant rustling of leaves.

Jude’s nose brushes against your temple, his lips following in a lazy path along your hairline, down your cheek, over your jaw. He peppers soft kisses across your skin, like he can’t bear to stop touching you. His arms tighten around your waist, pulling you impossibly closer, like he’s afraid you might slip away.

You blink up at him, your vision still hazy, your body still trembling from the aftershocks. And then, unexpectedly, a giggle bubbles past your lips. 

Jude stirs, lifting his head to look down at you with a lopsided grin. His honey brown eyes are filled with amusement, mischief, and something far softer—something that makes your stomach flip.

“What are you laughin’ at, princess?” His voice is hoarse, still rough with pleasure and a hint of exhaustion. His thumb strokes slow circles over your hipbone.

You shake your head, a little breathless, still giddy. “That was…” You pause, searching for the right words, but nothing feels like enough. Your cheeks burn as you hide your face against his shoulder. “I don’t even know how to describe it.”

Jude chuckles, the deep sound vibrating against your skin. “I think I do.”

You peek up at him, curiosity flickering in your dazed gaze. “Yeah?”

He hums, pressing another slow, lingering kiss to your lips before pulling back just enough to study your face, propping himself up on one elbow so he can look down at you, his fingers tracing absentminded circles against your skin

“It was,” he starts, dragging the moment out, watching the way your lips part slightly, the way your lashes flutter. He smirks. “Pretty fuckin’ perfect.”

Your blush deepens, and you swat at his chest, but your hand has no real strength behind it. “Jude,” you whine, embarrassed, but he only laughs, catching your wrist and bringing it to his lips. He presses a kiss to your palm, then your fingertips, his eyes never leaving yours.

“I mean it,” he murmurs, voice lower now, more serious. “You’re perfect.”

Your heart stumbles, skipping a beat before thudding heavily against your ribs. You swallow, suddenly shy, suddenly overwhelmed by the depth of emotion in his gaze.

The way he's looking at you now. It's too much.

“I…” Your throat feels tight, words catching. But Jude just smiles, like he understands, like he doesn’t need you to say anything at all.

He shifts, rolling onto his side making you wince as you remember he's still inside you, bringing you with him so that you’re tucked against his chest, your leg draped over his hip, your face buried in the crook of his neck. His fingers trace lazy patterns down your spine, soothing, grounding.

It's so intimate; knowing that's he's inside you, the warmth of him filling you completely as you involuntarily clench around him. The knowledge of his cum still inside you and the slight burn from the stretch that's making your hips sore.

Jude groans quietly, his head tipping back at the overstimulation, his eyes falling closed as he tries to calm himself down. “Hold on, love, just a second.” He hisses out a breath and reaches down to grasp himself at the base before gently pulling out, whispering sweet nothings and soft apologies at the wince you let out.

The feeling of emptiness is immediate, your walls clenching, but you say nothing, just bite your lip and look away as Jude reaches for his shirt. He wipes himself clean before he getting up. You watch with confusion as he slips on his boxers and slides out of the tent. But it's not long before he's back. He crawls back inside with a wet cloth, a small bowl of fruits you packed earlier and your water bottle. He sits down next to you with a soft smile, the cloth held out in his hands. Your cheeks grow warm as you realize what he’s doing. 

“Spread your legs for me, princess .” His voice is soft, gentle. He waits patiently for you to do as he asks, and the way his eyes soften as you listen… It makes tears well up in your eyes. To be taken care of like this—is beyond what you expected. He cleans you gently before he sets the cloth down and reaches for the bowl of fruit.

His eyes light up as he holds a grape to your lips and you accept it with a giggle. He hands you a slice of apple next, and you take a bite, smiling softly at the sight of his relaxed expression. It's like nothing else exists, like only you two are here in the moment. After you finish your snack, he holds out your water bottle and you thank him as you take a long drink.

Jude watches you with something dangerously close to adoration, his gaze flickering over your face like he’s memorizing every little thing—your flushed cheeks, your sleepy eyes, the way your lips glisten as you sip from the bottle. His fingers trail absentmindedly over your thigh, warm and soothing, tracing lazy patterns onto your skin.

“You okay, love?” he murmurs, his voice thick with something soft, something that makes your chest feel too tight.

You nod, still shy, still unsure what to do with all the emotions swirling inside you.

Jude must sense it, must see the way you hesitate, the way your fingers fidget in your lap. He tilts your chin up with the barest touch of his fingers, forcing you to meet his gaze. His thumb brushes over your lower lip, his expression unreadable.

"You're thinkin' too much," he teases gently. "Wanna tell me what's goin' on in that pretty little head of yours?"

You hesitate, your throat bobbing as you swallow. But under his gaze, so open and patient, you find yourself whispering, "Just… I don’t know how to explain it." Your fingers toy with the hem of the blanket, suddenly fascinated by the texture. "I just feel… full."

His brows lift, and for a second, a wicked smirk plays at the corners of his lips. “Full, huh?”

Your eyes widen as you catch the meaning, and you smack his arm with an indignant squeak. "Not like that, Jude!"

His laugh rumbles deep in his chest, rich and warm, and you feel it against your cheek where you’ve buried your face again, hiding. His arms wrap around you, pulling you against him with ease, his lips brushing against your temple.

"Alright, alright," he murmurs, amusement still thick in his voice. "I’ll behave."

You huff, but the way his fingers thread through your hair, his touch slow and methodical, makes your body melt against him. He presses a kiss to your forehead, then your nose, then your lips, taking his time with each one like he’s savoring the taste of you.

“You feel full,” he echoes, more serious now, as if he’s trying to understand. "Full of what, love?"

Your lashes flutter as you blink up at him, "I love you, Jude Bellingham ."

His eyes widen, a flicker of surprise crossing his features, but then a softness takes over, and his arms tighten, his hands cupping your face with such gentle care.

“Y/N Y/L/N” His voice is low, raspy, filled with something deep and real. "I love you too. More than I ever thought it was possible to feel. You’re my everything, Y/N. I never wanna spend another night without you in my arms. Every day without you feels too long, too much, too wrong. Will you marry me?"

The world slows, the weight of his words sinking into your bones, melting into the marrow. You blink, stunned, your breath caught somewhere between your ribs as your heart hammers wildly against your chest.

He shifts slightly, one arm still wrapped around you, the other reaching into the pocket of his discarded jeans. You watch, wide-eyed, as he pulls out a small velvet box. The soft glow of the lantern casts golden hues on his face, highlighting the nervous anticipation in his warm brown eyes.

“Jude…” Your voice is barely a whisper, your fingers trembling as you reach up, touching his cheek as if to confirm it’s real and not some dream spun from the afterglow of your love.

He smiles, tilting his head just slightly into your touch, his thumb tracing gentle circles against the small of your back. “Yeah, love. It’s real,” he murmurs, as if reading your thoughts. “Been carryin’ this around for weeks, waitin’ for the right time. And I realized… there’s no better time than right now.”

He flicks open the box, revealing a delicate ring, the band slender and elegant, a diamond nestled in its center, catching the lantern light and scattering it in tiny flecks across the canvas of the tent. Your breath catches, tears welling in your eyes, blurring the sight of it.

“Y/N, you are the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” he says, his voice steady, thick with emotion. “I know we haven't been together long, but I can’t live without you. Every single day, you make me happier than I ever thought I deserved. I love you. I love your shy little smiles, the way you tuck your face into my neck when you get flustered. I love the way you look at me like I hung the stars, when really, you’re the one that lights up my whole world.”

A soft, overwhelmed sound escapes your lips, something between a laugh and a sob, and he grins, his dimples carving into his cheeks.

“You don’t have to say yes right now,” he adds quickly, as if he’s worried you might feel pressured, as if he can’t bear to see even a hint of hesitation in your eyes. “I just… I want you to know that I’m all in. I wanna be yours for the rest of my life. Whenever you’re ready, whenever you want me—I’m here.”

Your hands shake as you reach for the box, fingers barely brushing the velvet before you shift, pressing forward, wrapping yourself around him as best as you can. Your lips find his—soft, eager, trembling against his own. He catches your breathy gasp with a quiet groan, deepening the kiss, his hands firm at your waist, pulling you impossibly close.

When you finally pull away, you’re breathless, your forehead resting against his. “Yes,” you whisper, voice thick with emotion. “Yes, Jude. I want you—I want forever with you.”

The way his face lights up, the way pure joy radiates from him—it steals the very breath from your lungs. “Yeah?” His voice wavers just slightly, disbelief laced into the happiness.

You nod fervently, laughing softly as tears slip down your cheeks. “Yes. A million times, yes.”

A sound rumbles in his chest—something between relief and elation—as he slips the ring onto your finger, his hands shaking slightly. And then he’s kissing you again, laughing against your lips, his hands tangling in your hair, his body pressing you back down onto the soft blanket beneath you.

“You’ve just made me the happiest man alive, love.” His voice is warm, reverent, as his lips trail along your jaw, down the column of your throat. His fingers find your hand, threading through yours, the cool metal of your new ring pressing against his skin. “I swear, I’ll spend every day making sure you never regret saying yes to me.”

You smile, your free hand slipping into his curls, tugging just slightly until he looks up at you, his eyes dark with something deep, something infinite. “I could never regret you, Jude.”

His breath stutters, and then he’s kissing you again, deep and slow, his love spilling from his lips, from the way his hands trace over your skin.

When he finally pulls away, you’re dazed, breathless, your fingers still curled into his like you don’t want him to go too far.

Jude chuckles, resting his forehead against yours again. “Gotta say, camping’s never been this fun before.”

You giggle, and the sound makes something warm bloom in his chest.

“I think I like it too,” you admit, your voice small, “Especially… with you.”

His arms tighten around you, and when he speaks next, his voice is quieter, raw with something unspoken.

“Good. ‘Cause I plan on makin’ a lot more memories with you, princess.” He tilts his head just enough to steal another soft kiss. “Forever and always, huh?”

“Forever and always,” you echo, smiling into the next kiss.

-Bianca🌻

[kiss-me-muchoo]

𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐛𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 || 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐦𝐚𝐧 𝐱 𝐟𝐞𝐦!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐱 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐦𝐚𝐧

summary_ your heart was big enough to love two men, but your head too messy to pick one, so when both stood you up on your birthday, when you thought everything was over, you realized it had just started.

warnings_ AGE GAP (reader in her early 20s and American), literally implied threesome at the end, implied sex, cheating, in-ho and salesman have a really good relationship with reader, questionable morals, do not romanticize irl.

notes_ today is my 21st birthday omg, wasn’t on my bingo card to fall for older Korean men while in my twenties. I’m obsessed with JENNIEs new album, this is inspired by starlight bc I was just a white lie!!!!!!!!!

♫ ♪ the worst playlist 4 gong yoo

♫ ♪ the worst playlist 4 lee byung-hun

✰ Index (+ fics here)

୨ৎ───୨ৎ───୨ৎ———୨ৎ───୨ৎ

It’s cold, foggy, and rainy when you turn off the shower. Your apartment had a large crystal window that allowed you to see the landscape of Seoul. And although the view was unclear thanks to the clouds and fog, you just knew the city looked as beautiful as always.

You enter your bedroom with your semi-wet hair hanging all disheveled and a towel around your naked body. You start grabbing a pair of underwear, dress pants, a sweater, and picking a pair of boots.

The towel falls to the ground and you look back at your bed. Tangled with a mess of sheets, there lays your boyfriend, already eyeing you with a sleepy smile.

“Morning, gorgeous” You blow him a kiss and he smiles even more, rubbing his eyes and starting to stretch. “I left you scrambled eggs, turkey bacon, and bagels”

“Is there anything you’re not perfect at?” He questions as you kneel beside him in the bed while in underwear.

“If you stayed a whole week with me… you’ll realize I’m far from perfect” You lean to kiss him, which he doesn’t reject.

His hands end in your back, palms softly pressed against your skin before unclasping your bra.

You laugh amid the kiss, you feel him smiling as well as his big hands start caressing your breasts.

Maybe it’s because his touch was gentle, precise, and very distracting, but you let him slip his tongue and the kiss turns a mess.

Until you moan and realize it’s Tuesday and you have to be punctual.

“Nice try, but I won’t be late to work again, In-ho” you whisper, leaving one last kiss in his mouth, knowing damn well you will leave him hard and needy.

“You’re bad…”

“Not really” You grab your boots and bag before turning to look at the man in your bed.

Damn, he had a great body to be an old man.

“When are coming back?” You ask, leaning on the doorframe. In-ho sighs, brushing some hair off.

“Thursday and Friday” you nod.

“Okay, bye, baby. Kisses!” You finally leave.

When you met In-ho at a pet store, you literally laughed at the sight of him buying a goldfish. You bought a hamster and In-ho said it was ugly as fuck.

And you ended up fucking him that night after having casual dinner.

The hamster died two days later.

He was a retired cop, single, had a wife who sadly passed some time ago, was sweet but rough in bed, and enjoyed when you cooked for him.

Eight months ago you started seeing him. And he earned the privilege of having the key to your apartment.

Well, one of your apartments.

Your phone started ringing when you hopped onto the train. Your shift as head pharmacist was about to start and you weren’t expecting a call until 3:00pm.

“Hello?” You say after answering. “Why are you calling so early?”

“I slept well and woke up early…” you smile.

“I have a proposition…” your smile grows.

“Oh…” you can hear him chuckling at the other side of the line.

“Perhaps the lovely lady I’m talking to is free this weekend to go on a little trip?…”

“To where?” you just know he’s smiling.

He always smiled when you were clueless, being reckless and showing him traces of affection.

“It’s a surprise…”

He and his surprises.

“Pick me up Saturday morning” The way you were smiling like an idiot while still on the train was enough to let you know how down bad you were. “Any recommendations for clothing?”

“A fine dress, like the sapphire one you wore for our last date. And something to get in the water…”

“Hmm, good clues” he chuckles again.

“No clues, baby”

“How am I supposed to wait till Saturday?” You dramatically ask. “I already miss you so bad”

“I miss you too, love”

“Just some days and then I’ll have you the whole weekend and Monday” You knew what he wanted to add. That he will ruin you.

Your legs rub together before any wet mess can happen and the anticipation begins.

“You’re a tease! I’ll pick only outfits that’ll make you cum as soon as you see me”

He lets out a laugh.

“I have a lot of self-control, darling”

“Mhm, I’m sure you do. But I’m afraid I have to leave you. I need to go to the restroom. I’m starting ovulation week and I’m so wet all the time. Bye, baby!” you hang up, a cheeky smile plastered all across your face.

Your boyfriend was cold but easily melted for you.

He also had a key to your apartment, just not the same as In-ho.

You had been dating him for six months. And he was a core shaker. Your salesman had so many secrets, you knew. How he avoided talking about his job, infancy, and the lack of empathy with the poor.

But you also had one or two things well hidden under your sleeve.

Starting that you were not a pharmacist. You were a biomedical chemist and every two months you took a boat ride to an island, where once a year you were in charge of picking the right organs from deceased people.

Morally wrong, financially right.

Just as you and your two lovers.

Morally wrong but emotionally and sexually right.

…

To say you were spoiled by your salesman boyfriend was an understatement. You never asked for anything from him. He was the one buying your stuff out of nowhere.

Your cheeks felt hot while you waited for an assistant to come with your Tiffany box.

“Why did you pick a necklace instead of a ring,” your boyfriend asks, getting distracted by your asymmetrical skirt and black top.

“Because, my dear, when I get a necklace, I never take it off” he smiles, pleased with your answer.

He wanted you to emotionally depend on him. He wanted you to be as obsessed with him as he was with you.

And so far, he felt pleased.

Like a good girl, you thanked him with a big kiss at the parking lot of the luxurious mall. Your salesman grew impatient and shoved you into the backseat of his Maserati.

Quickly, you ended up straddling him, grinding against the tent in his dress pants and mixing your saliva with his through a sloppy kiss.

“Please” you don’t even know what you’re pleading for. His kisses were some addicted poison that could never get enough from.

He was so odd that just by the touch of his lips, he had you clenching around nothing and soaking your underwear.

“Please what, baby?”

“Don’t make me say it” you say between moans. He smirks, holding you by the hips and motioning you to move against his erection.

“You have to use your big girl words, baby” he says, looking in awe at your beautiful sweaty body.

You take off your shirt and bra and your salesman wastes no time in leaning to suck on your breasts.

“Please fuck me”

“What did you say?” He was mocking you, twirling his tongue around your nipple and making you look stars.

“Please fuck me!” You repeated with urgency, pulling at his soft dark hair.

“I’ll do more than that…”

He kept his promise.

…

You feel your mascara running down your face, it’s all because of the mask. Different from the pink guards one, but still a mask that kept your identity private.

The late Il-nam hand-picked you after you started treating his illness years before he died. He said you had vast talent and urged you to work for him.

Your condition was to keep your identity private, he agreed.

The first weeks of inspecting dead bodies, weighing human organs with thin gloves, and feeling the weight of death, all used to haunt you.

Until you grew used to it. And you weren’t proud of your hidden job. You were not at peace with your tasks and you’d never understand the mentality of the people who paid and gambled to see people dying.

Those were steps of capitalism you’d never reach as much as you worked for the ones leading it.

You sigh, looking at the blood-drenched gloves and dropping the metal silver tools into a bassinet.

Once you step out of the procedures room, you see the man expecting you; the frontman.

“What are today’s numbers?” His cold and modulated voice from the black mask he wore sent shivers through your spine.

“Sixty-three bodies. 38 females and 25 males. Two were fully discharged because the livers, kidneys, and hearts weren’t in perfect condition” he nods once.

“Good. Send the full report to my office and then you’re dismissed”

Your hands looked young. He can’t see well enough because of the blood covering your gloves, but he knows he’s speaking to a young woman.

In-ho wondered why such a young person was already involved in such a dark matter like the island. And you came into his mind.

His young pharmacist girlfriend.

He wouldn’t like it if you were involved in a job like his.

But you already were, and you were mastering it.

…

As if it were an alternative reality, In-ho and you are not strangers working on an island holding child games to kill people and traffic their organs. There is no pleasure in death and the air is light with pure nature and virgin sand.

In-ho and you are a couple. He took you to the beach to the opposite sea of country, parallel to the island.

There’s a hill to walk down.

“Look!” you say excitedly, pointing at the sunset. In-ho stops to turn and see you, taking pictures.

Your happiness made him smile. He had a lot of free days ahead. With you by his side, he easily forgot about his job as the frontman. He wishes there was no frontman job, that way he would feel completely worthy of being with you.

Only that way he wouldn’t feel like his wife was seeing him proudly, wherever she was.

“Isn’t it pretty?” You ask, but upon no answer from him, you turn. “In-ho, darling, Are you okay?”

You pull him out of his thoughts.

“Uh, yes. So sorry, love”

His English was so perfect. You always tell him he sounded almost like he had an Aussie accent.

“I was thinking that maybe we should have dinner…” he says, his right arm around your shoulders as both of you kept walking.

“That sounds nice” you agree. “And then, we’ll wait until midnight to get into our private pool”

In-ho starts chuckling.

“Why until midnight?”

“The energies, In-ho! We have a gorgeous full moon about to come out” you tell him as if it was the most obvious thing.

Sometimes your older boyfriend would forget how superstitious and younger you were.

“You and your witchcraft” At his words you start cackling. You nudge him as walk past him, pretending to be annoyed.

“I was joking, darling”

He jogs to be by your side again, chuckling and putting his arms around you to prevent you from walking.

“You’re still fast to be an old man”

“I was a policeman” you roll your eyes playfully.

“Theory; your policeman instinct left you developed tons of stamina in your late forties” Both of you start laughing.

The last rays of the sun are directly hitting your face. You have to close your eyes but there was a playful smile on your face.

And In-ho notices the necklace hanging on your neck. Golden with a little heart plaque pendant.

“Is that a new necklace?” you open your eyes and look down at your cleavage.

“Yes, I bought it last week…” you reply sounding calm and confident.

If only he knew.

“Is pretty…” In-ho answers.

He isn’t fully convinced. He has an odd omen after paying attention to the necklace but tries to ignore it.

The feeling returned when you were changing into your bikini to get into the pool with him. He was looking for a balm you asked for in your bag.

In-ho stumbled across a golden lighter. It wasn’t his, it wasn’t you because you didn’t smoke.

Have you started smoking? There was no trace of a package. Something was off?

Just as a certain salesman found a locked drawer in your place. He forced it open and found three different cracked phones, lots of keychains, stacks of money, and two guns.

Something was off.

…

There are two rolls of sushi, previously folded in aluminum wrap, three different sauces, two beers, and tempura between you and the salesman.

You lean forward as he places his golden lighter in front of you to get you going with your cigar.

Both of you start smoking in silence, the city is far from being silent but the sounds of the traffic, and the bright lights in the middle of the night form an appealing silence between you and your boyfriend.

“When I was little I always used to say I’d never live where there wasn’t a city” you start, blowing out the smoke from your cigar. “And now that I’m getting older, having a ranch and living in the countryside sounds more appealing”

The salesman pays attention to your words. He never thought about it. He always knew that where he lived didn’t matter since his misery would always be carried along.

“I’m bringing it up because I really liked our rural trip some weeks ago”

“Maybe when we’re older…”

Your eyes snap open.

Was he hinting at a possible future together?

Of course, you wouldn’t reveal your sudden love for the countryside because both of your boyfriends spoiled you with nature-filled trips and you wanted to live happily ever after with both.

Would it ever come the time to pick one man?

Or would karma take what’s theirs and make you end up alone?

You know you’ll go crazy if that happens one day. It wasn’t your intention to be with both. You would never hurt your boys. But you knew the guilt you felt was justified.

And it’s wrong, but that guilt is the only thing you need to know you’re not insane for dating two men at the same time.

“Hey, your birthday is coming right?” Your salesman asks, pulling you out of your thoughts.

You never thought he’d remember.

“You remember…”

“Of course I do” he answers with a proud smile. “What do you want to do?”

In-ho asked you the same question days ago.

“I don’t know. Maybe dinner…” he nods in agreement.

You didn’t know who would you spend the night with.

It was at that moment that you questioned how far you had gone for love.

…

All your birthdays had been good as a kid. Each year there were fewer invitees, but they didn’t stop being good.

Your first birthday in Korea is rather bittersweet. Your boyfriends stood you up on your birthday.

Were you really that much of a bitch?

Being part of an organization that was cruel, and shushing while allowing people to take more power than granted. And then, dating two men at the same time.

Neither of them answered your phone calls.

You start weeping as you walk back home. The guilt of seeing both started weeks ago, it should have been enough proof of what was about to come.

You open the door of your main apartment. The biggest out of the three you owned. There were your most personal items and all your secrets.

And when you drop your keys in a random bowl, you see two silhouettes sitting in your coach.

You get startled, until you distinguish who were those two silhouettes.

“I’m sorry” you whisper loud enough for them to hear.

They don’t look at you until you start walking towards the living room.

Not a good start but at least it was honest.

They look a little taken aback but calm.

“We’re sure you are” The tone the salesman used made you shiver, questioning that mocking and arrogant face he used to recruit players.

“Tell us, Why couldn’t you just pick one?” In-ho indicates you.

You sigh, walk further inside, and step away from them, only your living room table separating the pair of men with you.

“Because both are perfect for me. I’m so selfish that I want to keep you both…”

Both chuckle and you don’t know how to feel. Maybe pathetic…

“Why do I feel like you’re lying to us?” Asks In-ho. He was only playing with you.

“But I love you both so much!” You say sobbing. Your knees nearly wobble but you do your best to stand still.

“Oh, Should we pity you?” Asks In-ho, he turns and exchanges looks with the salesman.

They both love you too. Deep in their hearts they feel betrayed. But the luck of having you unconsciously on the same side as them, was bigger than their ego.

Both are broken enough to not mind being in an unhealthy relationship. As long as the dynamics with each one of them didn’t change. They could survive.

Until one proposed marriage or one ended up knocking you up.

You can’t tell what they are implying with the exchange of looks. But they are plotting for sure.

You see how your salesman takes out the golden lighter you know so well.

There’s a cake you hadn’t acknowledged, and he’s lighting the candles. It’s pink, and round and it had some baby pink roses as well.

Your eyes tear up again. It was your birthday.

“Take off your clothes,” your salesman says.

You grow confused, tears still spilling.

“What?” You ask.

“Now don’t be shy, darling” In-ho urges you with a sultry voice.

Your fingers shake but not out of fear. But thrill…

Your coat lands on the floor and slowly, you let the straps of your dress slip. You make eye contact with both.

You can now see what rules are in their hearts. You understand why life with In-ho felt domestic and why with the salesman felt euphoric.

Neither of them are good men. But you also are far from being a good woman.

For three different reasons, the three of you ended up working in the same place.

Feeling beyond vulnerable, you can only wait until both stop scanning your male body. In-ho was softer when he fucked you. The salesman was rough no matter what.

The salesman kissed you more often than In-ho.

You had never compared them before.

“Blow the candles, darling…” you deserved to be dumped. “Good girl, happy birthday”

But they weren’t good either. They killed people, they weren’t morally right.

You couldn’t feel completely guilty. Right?…

The only thing messing with your head was the uncertainty of what would eventually happen.

“Now what?…”you ask, kneeling at the little table.

The salesman smiles, In-ho doesn’t smile, but you can see there’s some hidden joy behind his straight face.

You blow the candles, the room falling into some heavy silence.

“We’ll share you” you hear In-ho saying.

Through the silence and complete darkness, you start smiling.

Happy fucking birthday to you.

Despite your errors, your treasons, your secrets… they’ll share you?

Who were you to complain?

________________________

Short but I just wanted to write something for my birthday. Next week finally I’ll post the Han Yun Jae fic and I’m eager to finish Coffee Prince to start part two of twin with Han Kyul.

this week I bought tickets to see Blackpink 4 for the second time with my bffs in LA, yesterday I had the most wholesome hangout, I ate so much sushi today and I’m about to cut my birthday cake with my family and drink a lot, literally a perfect week <3

oh I’m so in love with gong yoo <3333

[azzifudd19]

New Teammates, Old Baggage

Chapter 1: New Teammates, Old Baggage Part 1

The early June sun poured down on the Los Angeles Sparks practice facility, drenching the polished court in golden light. The buzz of basketballs thumping against hardwood echoed off the walls like a heartbeat — fast, loud, and full of pressure. It was media day, but Paige Bueckers didn’t have time for glamor. She was late. Again.

“Jaz, let’s go, baby,” Paige urged, shifting her gym bag on one shoulder while holding her daughter’s hand with the other. Jazlyn, all four years of sass and sunshine, was too busy humming to herself and watching her glittery sneakers light up with every hop.

“But Mama, they sparkle!” Jazlyn exclaimed with a toothy grin.

Paige couldn’t help but smile, even as anxiety bubbled in her chest. “I know, baby. But we’re already behind. Let’s save the sparkles for later, okay?”

She pushed through the gym doors, her heart pounding—not from nerves, but from a cocktail of exhaustion, expectation, and the ever-present fear that she was somehow already failing at everything.

Heads turned immediately. Coaches, trainers, and players noticed her entrance, especially one in particular: Azzi Fudd.

Azzi stood at half-court, arms crossed, water bottle in hand, brow raised. Her posture was all precision and control like always. She’d already finished her morning drills before most had shown up. Punctual. Disciplined. Serious.

Exactly the opposite of Paige.

“She’s late again,” Azzi muttered to a teammate beside her.

“She’s got a kid, Azzi,” her teammate replied with a shrug.

Azzi’s jaw tightened. “She’s got a job too.”

Paige walked Jazlyn over to the bench and handed her the tablet with her favorite shows downloaded.

“You know the drill, bug. Stay right here, headphones on, and if you need to potty”

“Tell Auntie Janelle,” Jazlyn recited, already putting her pink headphones on.

Paige kissed her forehead quickly, then turned toward the court. She could feel the weight of Azzi’s gaze like a spotlight.

“Sorry, Coach,” Paige said, jogging over.

Coach Thompson gave her a look but nodded. “Just get warmed up. We’ll start in five.”

Azzi didn’t say a word as Paige joined the team for drills, but her silence was loud. Paige ignored it. She wasn’t here to make friends especially not with the girl who looked at her like she was baggage, not a baller.

Azzi watched Paige run drills with surprising speed and sharpness. She couldn’t deny Paige’s talent she was one of the most naturally gifted guards in the league. But talent wasn’t everything. It didn’t raise a kid. It didn’t fix inconsistency.

As the team broke into scrimmages, Azzi found herself opposite Paige of course.

Paige smirked. “You sure you want this smoke?”

Azzi rolled her eyes. “I’d rather guard a toddler.”

Paige raised a brow. “You saying I play like your little cousin?”

“No,” Azzi said coolly. “She has better time management.”

It hit a nerve. Paige’s eyes flickered, then narrowed. “Real original.”

They played aggressively. Too aggressively. Azzi boxed out hard. Paige elbowed back. The coach blew the whistle three times in a row before finally shouting, “Enough!”

They walked away from the scuffle in opposite directions, breathing hard.

From the bench, Jazlyn clapped. “Go, Mama! And go Miss Azzi!”

Azzi froze. Paige looked over, startled.

Miss Azzi?

Azzi turned just in time to see Jazlyn waving at her with both hands, beaming.

“Oh no,” Azzi muttered, turning back toward drills. “Not the kid too.”

Azzi wiped the sweat from her forehead and took a long drink from her water bottle. Practice had wrapped, but the sting of Paige’s elbow to her ribs still lingered. Not that she was about to complain — she could handle rough play. What she couldn’t handle was Paige’s attitude.

She glanced toward the bench, where Jazlyn was now perched, swinging her little legs and munching on a bag of goldfish crackers. Azzi couldn’t help but smile. The kid was… adorable.

“Hi again,” Jazlyn said brightly, looking up as Azzi walked past. “You’re really good. You run super fast.”

Azzi chuckled. “Thanks. You’re pretty fast too, I bet.”

“I am! Wanna see?” Jazlyn hopped down and started sprinting across the sideline in her light-up sneakers.

Azzi instinctively stepped forward, worried she’d trip, but the little girl was surprisingly graceful. When she finished, Jazlyn came running back, breathless and proud.

“Was that good?”

“It was amazing,” Azzi said, crouching down to her level. “You might be the fastest person on this team.”

Jazlyn beamed. “Even faster than Mama?”

Azzi opened her mouth, but a voice cut in behind her.

“Jaz, what did I say about talking to strangers?”

Azzi turned to see Paige standing a few feet away, her expression sharp. Her tone wasn’t loud, but it was enough to make Jazlyn’s smile falter.

“She’s not a stranger, Mama,” Jazlyn mumbled, suddenly sheepish.

“She’s a teammate,” Azzi said gently, rising to her feet. “And she’s got good taste in shoes.”

Paige crossed her arms. “You don’t need to babysit my kid.”

Azzi’s brows lifted. “I wasn’t. She said hi. I said hi back.”

“Well, don’t get used to it. She talks to everyone like they’re her best friend. It doesn’t mean anything.”

Azzi stiffened at the bite in Paige’s voice, but kept her tone calm. “Maybe it means she has a good heart.”

Paige’s eyes narrowed. “Maybe it means she trusts too easily.”

With that, Paige held out her hand. Jazlyn took it reluctantly, glancing up at Azzi with a soft wave.

“Bye, Miss Azzi.”

Azzi waved back, heart tugging a little. “Bye, Jazlyn. I’ll race you next time.”

Jazlyn smiled again, then followed her mother toward the locker rooms, her small fingers tucked inside Paige’s larger, calloused hand.

In the locker room, Paige sat on the bench, towel draped over her shoulders. Jazlyn sat beside her, humming as she arranged her goldfish into a little circle on the bench.

“You like her or something?” Paige asked, voice low.

Jazlyn looked up. “Miss Azzi? Yeah. She’s nice.”

Paige huffed a laugh, almost bitter. “Nice doesn’t mean anything. People are ‘nice’ until they’re not.”

Jazlyn blinked. “But she smiled at me. Real smiles mean something.”

Paige didn’t respond. She just stared at the floor for a long moment, lost in her thoughts a quiet storm always brewing beneath the surface.

Outside the facility, Azzi walked to her car, tossing her bag in the trunk. As she climbed in, she glanced at the door, half expecting to see Jazlyn again, waving like she had earlier.

But the door remained shut.

“She’s just a kid,” Azzi whispered to herself.

But even as she pulled out of the parking lot, she couldn’t shake the feeling that this season was going to be more complicated than she’d planned.

[rizzlesregal13]

Step One: Say No to Pets! Step Two: Welcome Home Señor Scratchy!

***Agatha x Reader 💜 When Nicki & Ella are desperate for a pet, one extremely cute (and very judgy) rabbit joins the Harkness family.***

What’s the one thing about parenthood no one warns you about, I hear you ask? 

LEGO.

Tiny, malevolent blocks, engineered for maximum foot pain and perfectly camouflaged against hardwood floors.

I’m halfway down the stairs carrying a heavy basket of laundry—dirty laundry, which somehow, always feels heavier than clean—when my bare foot narrowly avoids one brick, only to slam directly into a second.

“Oh you mother fudger…” I hiss through clenched teeth, as I stumble forward. The basket tips, a sock threatens to make a break for it, but by some miracle…maybe actual magic… I manage to stay upright avoiding a full-blown tumble that would likely have resulted in me landing in a heap on the hallway floor.

I’m glaring murderously at the offending blue plastic when I hear them.

Tiny, high-pitched, scheming voices.

You promised, Mommy,” Ella’s voice piped up, tiny but firm with that unshakable four-year-old conviction.

“I did no such thing, darling,” Agatha replied, tone as dry as the Sahara. “I said we’d think about it. That’s practically a parental euphemism for never.”

I pause just before the living room doorway. Not because I’m eavesdropping… I totally am, but because I know this tone. I know her tone. It’s the one she uses when she’s being particularly patient with the kids. Or particularly devious. The line between the two is virtually invisible.

“…but why can’t we have a pet?” Nicki asks, his voice halfway between pleading and logic. “All my friends have one.”

Ella’s chiming in before Nicki even finishes. “I want a kitten, Mommy. A tiny one with big eyes, and a busy tail.”

I peek around the corner, laundry basket still cradled in my arms, threatening to topple with every shift. There she is, our daughter, sitting cross legged on the rug, back straight like she’s presenting her case to a court of law. Her little hands flying about for emphasis as she speaks.

Agatha sits behind her, legs tucked neatly to the side, not a flicker of magic in sight. Just her fingers, slender, precise, and uncharacteristically gentle, moving steadily through Ella’s dark hair, twisting it into a braid with the kind of patience she reserves exclusively for this tiny human who has her utterly bewitched in ways no magic ever could.

Agatha glances up at me for the briefest moment. Just enough time to flash that sideways smirk; the one that says, are you hearing this? and also yes, I’m encouraging it and no, I’m not sorry.

I sigh, loudly, and finally step into the room, setting the basket down with a thud that makes Nicki jump.

“We’ve talked about this,” I say, aiming my words mostly at Ella but with a warning glance toward Agatha, too. “You know I’m allergic to cats.”

Ella turns to me with the most devastating pout I’ve seen since the last time she couldn’t find her favourite stuffed animal.

“But you wouldn’t have to touch it,” she says, as if that solves everything.

Nicki jumps in, sensing his moment. “What about a dog then?”

“Dogs require a lot of care,” Agatha says, not missing a beat. “Walks twice a day, Grooming. Training. Pick-up-their-poop-in-a-bag kind of care. Are you two going to do that?”

Nicki and Ella exchange a quick glance, the kind that siblings somehow telepathically learn to do.

It means: we’re lying but let’s go with it.

“Yes,” they say in unison. Nicki even adding a “Totally” and Ella a “Every day… forever”

It’s cute. It’s bold. It’s complete fiction.

I snort and drop onto the sofa.

“You two can’t even remember to put your cereal bowls in the sink.”

“We can now,” Nicki promises, which is both touching and entirely unconvincing.

Agatha raises an eyebrow, looking at me. Her lips twitching in the way that means she’s enjoying this far too much.

“What about a goldfish?” I offer helpfully. “Low maintenance. Won’t trigger my allergies…”

Ella makes a face like I just offered her a wet sock. “That’s boring, Mama.”

“And it doesn’t even do anything,” Nicki adds. “It just… swims.”

“That’s sort of the point,” I mutter, pinching the bridge of my nose. “No fur. No barking. No dead mice on my pillow. Just peaceful swimming.”

They ignore me completely.

“A lizard?” Nicki says.

“A hamster” Ella counters.

“A snake!”

“A spider!”

“Like hell that one is happening!” I snap, a little too quickly.

Agatha lets out a soft laugh through her nose, as her fingers continue to braid.

“Oh, you walked right into that one.”

“Spiders,” I say, pointing at both of them, “are where I draw the line. Eight legs? Too many. Too fast. Too… just, no!.”

“But they eat flies,” Nicki says innocently.

“So do frogs,” I shoot back. “But I’m not about to let you bring a swamp home.”

“I knew you’d draw the line somewhere,” Agatha says under her breath, her voice low and smug with amusement, just for me. She doesn’t even need to look up from Ella’s braid to land the hit, but she does, of course. Just a flick of her blue eyes, a curl of her lip, and bam… my insides do that annoying flippy thing.

Even after all these years and two children, she still manages to make me feel like I’m about to spontaneously combust with one look.

I give her the kind of glare that has no real heat behind it. She knows. She always knows.

Meanwhile, the kids are still listing off creatures like they’re conjuring Noah’s Ark, but with more questionable judgment and fewer rules.

“A parrot!”

“A guinea pig”

“A turtle!”

“Oooh! A pigmy goat!”

Finally, Agatha claps her hands together, making Nicki and Ella jump.

“Alright,” she says. “New rule. If you both go upstairs and clean your rooms… properly, no stuffing things into the closet and calling it ‘tidy’, then maybe, we’ll go to the pet store.”

Cue the stampede.

Nicki’s halfway up the stairs before Agatha finishes the sentence, and Ella’s already shouting “I’m gonna need a box!” for reasons I just know, I don’t want to understand. I listen as doors slam and the sound of frantic cleaning erupts upstairs like a domestic hurricane.

I look at Agatha. “You’re seriously considering this?”

She shrugs. “Depends on what’s at the store. Maybe a rabbit. Maybe a two-headed snake.”

I raise a brow. “You love messing with me”.

Her lips curl into that familiar, wicked grin.

“Of course I do. It’s the cornerstone of our marriage.”

I shake my head, but I’m already smiling.

“Remind me why I married you again?”

Agatha leans in, her voice low and silky soft, all teasing warmth. “Because I make life interesting… And... because I look good in leather.

I roll my eyes, though my heart’s already doing that annoying fluttering thing it does when she turns the charm up to eleven. 

“You do look good in leather.”

“Mm.” She smirks. “I know.”

She rises from the floor with her usual grace before dropping down beside me on the sofa.

Closer than close.

Her thigh brushing mine, her perfume curling around me like a spell I never want broken. She leans in, slow and deliberate, her lips barely ghosting over mine, but just enough to set every nerve in my body on high alert. Her blue eyes flick up to meet mine, daring me to close the distance. To give in.

I’m about to…

When from upstairs, there’s a loud crash, followed by the unmistakable sound of something tumbling, a brief moment of silence, and then Nicki yelling, “I’M OKAY!” in that way that means he is definitely not okay, but doesn’t want us to check.

Agatha doesn’t even flinch. She sighs like a woman preparing to surrender to fate, which, in a way, she is.

“And just like that,” she says, dramatically, “our peaceful moment dies a noisy death.”

I laugh and lean my head against her shoulder, breathing her in. “Enjoy the quiet while it lasts. In an hour’s time, we’ll probably be driving home with a one-eyed chinchilla or a guinea pig named… I don’t know. Little Wigglebutt.”

Agatha hums thoughtfully, her fingers tracing lazy, slow circles on my knee like she’s painting some ancient sigil there. “Little Wigglebutt would be a lovely name for a familiar.”

I groan, half-amused, half-resigned.

“That wasn’t meant to be encouragement… The kids just want a nice, normal pet. No familiars, no magic.”

She pulls a face like I just suggested we live without indoor plumbing.

“Define ‘normal,’” she says, already deeply unimpressed.

“You know. Something that doesn’t glow. Or talk. Or vanish into thin air."

Agatha scoffs. “So, a disappointment, then.”

“A hamster,” I say pointedly, “is not a disappointment. It is a small, manageable creature that fits in a cage."

“But if the hamster happens to be a little… special, who are we to stifle its potential?”

I squint at her. “Define special.”

She grins, blue eyes twinkling with mischief. “You’ll know it when you see it.”

And somehow, I know… I just know… we’re going to walk into that pet store and come out with something absolutely ridiculous.

                                ***

The second we step into Westview’s "Pet Emporium", I immediately begin questioning every decision that’s led me to this moment. 

Who knew it was so big in here? Endless aisles of glass tanks and cages, the smell of sawdust, hay, and something that was once alive and now very likely isn’t hangs in the air. As well as the unmistakable sound of a parrot somewhere in the distance yelling something that should definitely not be repeated by a bird.

Ella darts off to a cage near the wall, gasping with wonder. “Mommy look! A rat! He has whiskers!” Her voice is pure delight and zero hesitation.

Nicki veers in the opposite direction, heading straight for the Reptiles sign. I glance at Agatha, prepared to launch into a speech about boundaries, appropriate pet sizes, and definitely no tarantulas, but she’s not looking at them.

She’s looking at me.

And then she’s tugging gently on my hand, lacing her fingers through mine as she pulls me deeper into the store. Her grip warm, steady, and just a bit dangerous.

“You’re up to something,” I murmur.

“I’m always up to something,” she replies, smiling over her shoulder. “Try to keep up.”

We round the corner into a quieter aisle, away from the chatter of other customers and the vague croaking of something amphibious. And that’s when she stops...

In front of a glass enclosure, simple and unassuming, sits a small rabbit… white with soft brown and black spots dappling it's ears and back. He’s got this sleepy, self-important look about him, like he’s judging the world but doing it politely.

Agatha crouches slightly, her expression softening in that rare way it does when something genuinely surprises her.

“He’s got attitude,” she murmurs.

The rabbit looks up at her.

Then, like he knows exactly what he’s doing, he hops closer to the glass and sits, perfectly still, one back leg twitching ever so slightly.

She glances back at me, and I already know. She’s decided. Jesus, we’re getting a rabbit.

“Kids!” she calls, her voice echoing just enough to send them skidding around the corner in under ten seconds.

Ella gasps. “He’s so FLUFFY!”

Nicki drops into a squat, staring through the glass. “He looks like he knows kung fu.”

The rabbit thumps one leg and then pauses, as if catching himself mid-showoff. I swear, he makes eye contact with me. Like he knows.

“What should we name him?” Agatha says casually, too casually.

Ella bounces on the balls of her feet. “Cottonball?”

Nicki scrunches his nose. “No, that’s stupid, it needs to be something cooler.”

Agatha tilts her head thoughtfully, eyes still fixed on the rabbit. “What about… Señor Scratchy?”

The kids lose their minds.

“Yes!”

“Perfect!”

“He’s definitely a Señor!”

I blink. One second, we were browsing. Now we’re naming, celebrating… and practically drawing up a birth certificate.

I shake my head slowly, mouth open just enough to express the internal how the hell has this happened that’s currently blaring in my brain. This was supposed to be a “just looking” trip. A stall tactic. A test of responsibility.

And now?

I look down at the rabbit. He’s watching me through the glass. Not in that vague, uninterested pet-store way… oh no. He’s really looking at me. Like he knows. Like he saw straight through the sarcasm and resistance and picked me anyway.

His little nose twitches once. Then he sits taller.

I narrow my eyes at him. “We are not bonding.”

His whiskers twitch like sure we’re not.

The next thing I know, we’re outside. The sky’s gone soft and overcast, and I’m standing at the back of our car, loading in a ridiculous amount of hay, bedding, food pellets, chew toys, a rabbit-sized water dispenser, and something called a “burrow blankie.”

A freaking burrow blankie…

I sigh, rearranging the stack of items so the bag of treats doesn’t crush the box of pine shavings.

This is what my life has come too…

In the backseat, nestled in a pristine white carry box between Ella and Nicki, sits Señor Scratchy himself; regal, composed, and completely unbothered by the chaos around him, like he’s always known he would be chauffeured away from a pet store by a loving, if mildly bewildered magical family.

Ella is softly singing a made-up song, something about bunnies, stars and jellybeans, her voice gentle and oddly on pitch. Nicki, bless his heart, is reading his comic book aloud to the rabbit, as he explains plot points like “this guy’s a good guy, but he made some bad choices.”

And there sits Señor Scratchy, thumping once, not out of fear… just to let us know he’s listening.

Agatha slips into the passenger seat beside me, the door closing with a solid thunk. She lets out a content sigh, tossing her sunglasses onto the dashboard like this is just another perfectly executed scheme.

Which knowing her, it probably is.

Without a word, she rests her hand gently on my thigh… warm, smooth, and annoyingly smug in its casual claim. Her thumb strokes slow circles through the denim of my jeans, a silent told you so wrapped in touch.

I glance over at her. “You planned this.”

She smiles without looking at me, her blue eyes fixed on the road ahead.

“I nudged the universe.”

I snort. “You nudged it off a cliff.”

Her smirk deepens. “And it landed in a soft pile of hay with a bunny named Señor Scratchy. You’re welcome.”

I shake my head, turning the key in the ignition.

“You know,” I murmur, eyes on the road, “if that rabbit starts levitating or speaking Latin, you’re sleeping on the sofa.”

Agatha leans closer, lips brushing my ear. “If he starts speaking Latin, I’m training him to do your morning affirmations.”

I groan.

She laughs.

And Señor Scratchy thumps once, as if to say: Good luck, Harkness’. You’re mine now.

                                 ***

Later that night, the house is finally, quiet.

The kids are asleep, both of them spark out in their respective beds, sprawled in tangled piles of sheets and stuffed animals. Nicki zonked out mid-sentence while telling Señor Scratchy about the superhero rabbit team he was going to invent. Whilst, Ella had tried to sneak the rabbit into her bed and got as far as pulling a blanket halfway over the carrier before giving in to sleep, her tiny fingers still curled around the edge.

And Señor Scratchy?

He’s not just surviving. He’s thriving.

He’s made himself at home with an unsettling speed, like he’s lived here his whole rabbit life. His new indoor enclosure is set up in the basement…just for nighttime and quiet hours… complete with cozy bedding, food, a small plush carrot he's already flung with great force across the cage, and one spell I’m told is just to keep the temperature stable. I’m keeping an eye on that.

His outside hutch is on order. Agatha picked one that looked like a rustic French cottage and cost more than our first sofa.

And now, he’s curled contentedly in her lap like a tiny smug prince, his back leg twitching now and then, his eyes half-closed as she runs her fingers through the soft fur behind his ears.

Agatha is reclined across the couch, long legs stretched out, her bare feet resting on my lap. I absently rub my thumb across the top of her right one, slow, easy strokes. It’s quiet, but it’s us quiet. 

“He’s smug,” I say, watching the rabbit twitch his nose with absolute self-assurance. 

“No, actually, his judgy and I don’t trust him.”

“He’s perfect,” Agatha murmurs, eyes still on him. “He’s dignified.”

My hand slows on her foot. “You mean you used magic.”

She grins, all teeth and mischief, but there’s a softness underneath. “Nope. That one was all him.”

I tilt my head, studying her. “You’re telling me a regular, non-enchanted rabbit took one look at our family and thought, ‘Yes, this semi-responsible, unhinged bunch is exactly where I should be?’”

She shrugs, utterly unapologetic. “Maybe he’s a little unhinged too.”

I squeeze her foot affectionately, and she moves it off my lap, scooting closer with that deliberate slowness she knows drives me mad. With one hand, she gently lifts Señor Scratchy and sets him on the cushion beside her, like he’s some kind of tiny, furry chaperone.

Then she leans in and kisses me.

It’s soft at first. Familiar. Warm. But then her fingers curl into the hem of my shirt, and it deepens… her lips brushing mine just enough to send my pulse tripping over itself. God, she drives me crazy. But she’s my crazy.

I reach for her jumper, curling my fingers in the navy fabric, pulling her closer with a breathless little laugh… and that’s when we hear it.

Thump.

Agatha jerks back with a startled noise, somewhere between a yelp and a moan, as Señor Scratchy leaps back into her lap, thumping dramatically before settling into a loaf, looking very pleased with himself.

I blink, stare at the rabbit, then up at Agatha, then back to the smug little fluffball.

“Look, buddy,” I say, pointing at him like I’m negotiating with a very entitled roommate, “let’s get one thing straight…”

He stares at me.

Unblinking.

Judgy.

I lower my voice. “You may have claimed the kids, the blanket, and the best spot on the sofa, but when it comes to her?” I glance sideways at Agatha, who is biting back a laugh. “She was mine first...so you can back off with."

Señor Scratchy lifts one paw.

And thumps.

Once.

Agatha laughs, reaching for her glass of wine on the coffee table with a smirk.

“He accepts your terms.”

I narrow my eyes at the rabbit. “I’m watching you, Señor.”

He blinks slowly, utterly unimpressed.

Agatha leans her head on my shoulder, still laughing.

“You know he’s going to end up sleeping on our bed at some point, right?”

I groan. “This was supposed to be a normal pet.”

She kisses my neck, all honey and sin. “There’s nothing normal about us, love.”

And honestly?

I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Also on AO3 - Writtenwhiledreaming 💜 (Fourth chapter of No! You Can’t Hex A Four-Year-Old).

[wonryllis]

미래, 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐋𝐎𝐆𝐔𝐄: the backstory

FEATURING. insanely love struck BRAT TAMER lee heeseung with his SPOILED BRAT RICH GIRL reader GENRE. smau, fluff, smut, crack WORDCOUNT. around 800 ( MASTERLIST )

to say you and heeseung were from two different worlds would be an understatement. you were from two completely different galaxies. emphasis: completely.

if the world was your home and the galaxy was your entire lifestyle, then heeseung swears it would take him more than a billion light years to reach even the place he could stand to have a little glimpse of you who lights up everyone else's worlds around you.

reaching you is a long journey and attaining you: impossible in the advancement of science.

yet you were merciful enough to let— to want someone like him to stay, to hover around you like a housefly, to grow to have the guts to want you.

heeseung's uncle and aunt, deprived of parenthood for various reasons, had always loved to have him stay with them during summer breaks. an hour's drive from his house, a duplex that resembled his own albeit a bit smaller and two months of enjoying trips to water parks, amusement parks, aquariums and everything he ever wanted all in the short span.

he remembers little of it now, but sometime around when he celebrated upgrading from preschool to elementary with a little toy plane they gifted, came the news that their small business took a turn for the good and within a few months of it they moved.

the first time he went over after that was like stepping into a dream. the big mansion, the rich neighborhood and the nice neighbours, the pretty neighbour.

even for a five year old with the memory of a pea sized goldfish and a mind that had no sensible knowledge of romance and love, heeseung can precisely recall the moment he fell. fall, fall, fell, fallen. down that rabbit hole of special feelings that took him seven years to realize.

your brothers were nice enough to let him wander around their precious baby sister they so obviously were overprotective over, yes even for a six/seven year old. and soon that hospitality and little playdates turned into actual and genuine friendships and relations that heeseung grew to cherish, his prized little treasured found family. and love.

summer breaks turned into winter breaks and then into every opportunity he could find to pay them a visit longer than a week.

he was there during every big occasion of your lives and you and your brothers were there for his. probably because your families never minded the difference in class and always welcomed the other's presence.

it was just before the fall of his senior year in high school when heeseung took the decision to apply for scholarships in your city. his middle class family still lived in their cozy old house in the small town he had known his entire life and the city waited him a lifetime of opportunities he couldn't dare to lose. especially if he ever decided to woo you in the future he must have the capacity to pamper your spoiled heart.

you weren't just the daughter of a rich family. you were the only precious little lovely, beyond spoiled rotten daughter of a family that came from old money. old money bridging middle class. something he could never achieve, but to have the slightest chance he must be in position to give you whatever you want (besides an island like you asked for your 18th birthday, but that's okay he loves that side of you and perhaps he's sick for that, but he's far too in love.)

when his scholarship was approved and he scored a seat in one of the prestigious colleges near your neighborhood, it gave him the perfect opportunity to move in with his uncle and aunt, to move in next door to you.

to be blessed to have the chance to catch sight of you everyday. and to have the chance to hangout with you whenever he wished to and whenever you wished to.

always at your beck and call like your obedient little lord in waiting.

heeseung's actual love life (his efforts to get you to fall for him as he calls it) started in the third year of college when you joined as a freshman. and two years since, he's been trying. you're just way too oblivious to notice his subtle moves and heeseung is way too scared of your brothers to confess bluntly.

it's all just been a huge mess, and everyone (his and your friends) is just here for the comedy heeseung's life has turned into .. especially with you crushing on beomgyu—

PREV | NEXT

PREVIEW. you always get what you want, spoiled with the love of everyone around you. and it's all innocent love, at least that's what everyone thinks. it comes with much surprise therefore, when heeseung makes a move on you. thirteen long years of being in the brother zone having made him utterly clueless that if he’s going to date you he has to pass through your actual brothers first. and he knows how scary they can be. especially since they are known to have a sister complex and he’s been the third scary one with them, numerous times before.

taglist ( open ) @s00buwu @lilyuwon @pockyyasii @nctislifue @shawnyle @enhastolemyheart @aaa-sia @snoopypupp @criminalyun @oddracha @satan-223 @diorsyun @hooniehon @fakeuwus @caramelcandescence @intromortal @kookify @yutasberryy @sumzysworld @nikiswifiee @shuichi-sama @primroselover @rayofsunshineeee @aishigrey @yjwluvs @soraokkotsu @nyfwyeonjun @srhnyx @trashx678 @wondipity @winuvs @hoondiors @niniissus @firstclassjaylee @biancaness @enhaz1 @sophi-ee @un06 @heelariously @d-earlog @pharaways @ethelia send an ask to be added! (if your comment goes unnoticed it is not my responsibility)

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

If Elon Musk’s week were a Tesla, it would be the one parked outside a dealership in Oregon — the one with bullet holes in the windshield, a Molotov cocktail smoldering underneath, and the word "NAZI" scrawled across its hood. That’s not an exaggeration; that’s just Musk’s ego finally colliding with reality at high speed.

The man who once promised to colonize Mars now seems content burning down Earth. As Musk prances around Washington in his new role as Trump’s favorite government hatchet man, his so-called Department of Government Efficiency (DOGE) has turned out to be less about saving tax dollars and more about gutting everything that remotely resembles structure or accountability. Federal employees? Fired. Foreign aid programs? Slashed. Amtrak? Musk’s been eyeballing that one like a cat stalking a goldfish bowl.

Naturally, people aren’t happy. And when Elon Musk pisses off the public, they respond with a fury that makes Mad Max look like a yoga retreat.

TESLA GOES UP IN FLAMES — LITERALLY

This week alone, a Tesla dealership in Oregon was riddled with bullets like someone mistook it for a Wild West saloon. In Boston, a Tesla charging station was torched in what police believe was deliberate arson. In Colorado, someone planted a Molotov cocktail near a Tesla dealership. Over in France, a dozen Teslas were reduced to smoking husks outside a dealership near Toulouse. If Musk’s vision for the future was electric cars in every driveway, he probably didn’t imagine half of them looking like props from a Michael Bay movie.

In Manhattan’s West Village, protesters flooded a Tesla showroom chanting, "Nobody voted for Elon Musk!" — a fair point, since the only ballot Musk ever seemed interested in was whatever half-baked Twitter poll he was running to justify his latest tantrum. Six people were arrested after demonstrators stormed the showroom, with one unlucky soul charged with resisting arrest and obstructing government administration.

Meanwhile, in Massachusetts, one protester decided to skip the firebombs and go the arts-and-crafts route: he plastered stickers of Musk’s face on several Teslas — an act Musk angrily declared was "vandalism." Which is rich, coming from a man whose entire career is essentially high-speed vandalism of logic, decency, and common sense.

MUSK’S “MARTYR” ACT FALLS FLAT

Naturally, Musk reacted to all this chaos with the grace of a raccoon cornered in a dumpster. He claimed on X that ActBlue-funded leftist groups were behind the violence. Never mind that Forbes found zero evidence to support that claim — Elon’s approach to facts is about as precise as his driving instructions for Tesla Autopilot.

The man’s spent so much time in right-wing echo chambers that he now sees George Soros lurking behind every broken window and paint can. According to Musk’s logic, protesters torching cars across multiple continents are all part of some vast conspiracy to... make him look bad? No need, Elon — you’re doing that just fine on your own.

WHEN EVEN TESLA OWNERS ARE EMBARRASSED

The backlash isn’t just limited to Molotov cocktails and spray paint. Tesla owners — the very people who once bragged about their sleek, zero-emission status symbols — are now dumping their cars just to distance themselves from Musk’s political dumpster fire.

“I’m sort of embarrassed to be seen in that car now,” one former Tesla owner told The New York Times before trading in his Model S.

Imagine spending fifty grand on a car only to feel like you’re cruising down the street in a MAGA parade float. For years, Tesla owners took pride in driving the car of the future — now they’re just trying to avoid being seen in public like they’re piloting a clown car through town.

THE KING OF COLLAPSE

Musk’s descent into unhinged paranoia has turned his once-vaunted empire into a bonfire. His crusade against “woke culture” has driven his businesses into chaos. His obsession with control has gutted Twitter, slashed Tesla’s reputation, and made DOGE a bureaucratic joke.

The man’s ego is writing checks reality can’t cash. His cars are getting torched, his employees are fleeing DOGE like rats from a sinking ship, and his credibility is burning faster than a Tesla Supercharger station in Boston.

Elon Musk wanted to be humanity’s savior — the genius billionaire who would drag us into a brighter tomorrow. Instead, he's become the guy with too much money, too little sense, and a talent for turning everything he touches into scorched wreckage.

(Fear and Loathing Closer to the Edge)

[hanihazeljade]

Three Days

Three days before Tim loses his shit the wedding

Tim noticed it.

He might be retired but being observant was his one and only talent since he was a kid. It was engraved in him. 

He knows that everyone in this damn house was trying their best to spend his remaining three days in Gotham. And in Tim’s humble opinion, it is fucking annoying.

Like don’t get him wrong, but if he spends one more minute being surrounded by the Waynes, buttering him up to extend his stay in Gotham, he might really just fall off the grid once again and he doesn’t want that.

+++++

Dick has been catering every whim he said out loud, a little bad habit he developed while living in Hokkaido. Now, Tim has to revert back to keeping his mouth shut and a little annoying since he cannot say that he wanted that amazing strawberry crepe that pass through his Instagram feed or that delectable taiyaki that he craves since getting out of Japan, it is winter and taiyaki is a must have.

“Tim, do you really not like this crepe that I bought for you?”

“No.”

“But you just said earlier—”

“No is no, Richard.”

But now, he cannot say it or even just look so hungry looking at his phone, because Richard John Grayson is definitely gonna buy or make it and Tim will never eat it. Because he wants no connection of the hot and sweet taiyaki to any of the Waynes once he goes back to Japan.

+++++

Jason reads him whenever Tim is playing with his phone and Tim will just put on earbuds. In Timothy’s perspective and based on the years that he lived in this house, Jason has always read outloud just to annoy him. How does Tim know that Jason was trying to bond with him? However, Jason was not cowering and just letting Tim to not bond with him. 

So, he invited Tim to a shooting range and Tim is kind off hesitating as he sworn of guns but that is because he has the chance to become Gun Batman and now that he is not in the cape community, he already get rid his sense of justice (he never had in the first place), and he does not care about Batman anymore. So he said yes, and he is please to see that his precision is still at it’s top shape. Maybe he might not be actively throwing batarangs and grapples, he has been playing shooting games and goldfish scooping. Jason is shocked to see that the retired Robin has a better aim than him, after 7 years of retirement, but still not strong enough to handle teh recoil of Alfred’s shotgun.

“How the fuck you have a better aim than me?”

“Arcade games and catching a lot of fish, baka.” 

“I can understand Japanese!”

+++++

Damian tried his best to spend time with Tim everytime the latter has photographing in Alfred’s greenhouse. And throughout the whole time, they are minding their business. Tim is photographing in his space and Damian is painting in his. And in the end of the day, Damian gives Timothy his finished piece with the excuse of trying out new technique or art style, and Tim knew after three paintings, was a bullshit excuse as there were never anything different in each painting.

“Timothy.”

“What is this?”

“A finished piece.”

“Why are you giving it to me?”

“It clashed with the style of my previous works.”

“Kind of ironic. You embody chaos.”

+++++ 

Bruce is trying his best to spend time with Tim, however the late changes in Cass and Steph’s wedding has kept him busy. Tim truly missed the butting heads between him and Bruce on certain debates and all but he understands that Bruce can finally bring Stephanie in his family after years of wanting to. After all, Bruce could not adopt Steph, so this is a way for him to finally legalise Steph in his family.

+++++

Alfred is there spending time with him in silence when he is editing his photos and answering emails in the kitchen counter and Alfred is there either washing the dishes or preparing a meal and will occasionally put down a treat and beverage mostly just cookie and tea. Tim appreciates it, he likes the tranquility Alfred gave him with the bonus of spending time with him.

“I hope the snack was to your taste, Master Tim.”

“It was Alfred. I will miss it.”

“Well, you could have not.” 

Tim just smiled.

+++++

Cass and Steph occasionally pooped out to drag Tim out of the manor to try something that changed throughout the 7 year leave. He tried the new tanghulu stand in Diamond District, he also tried the new trift shop in Old Gotham, and the new addition in Robinson Park that Ivy reserved only to her trusted people.

“I don’t know how you and Cass can do this in a day.”

“That is a sign of aging, you know.”

“Hey!”

“It’s fine. I love you, still and always.”

“Cass, you're supposed to be on my side!”

+++++

Tim is not lying when he said that he likes the attention that he is currently receiving because he indeed likes it. He loves any attention that he gets. But he is not an idiot, he knows it is temporary, once he comes back for good in Gotham, this newfound attention will dissipate in air. Like his time back then.

Tim knows that he is not gonna settle back in Gotham. Hokkaido is his home now. He loves the peaceful blue sky every morning, not a gray cloud that the polluted city of Gotham could offer him. As much as he loves the service and food Alfred could give him, he rather have to eat out of a takeout box or go out of his house and walk around and talk to the baba that gave him daikon or the jiji that asked him to drink tea and chat with him. Or to go to his part time job at the local coffee shop.

He already settled in Japan and he plans to stay there for much longer.

Tim is leaving and no one can stop him.

[wordsandrobots]

All right, to heck with it. Here's the basis for how you do something like Char's Deleted Affair and actually have it play into Char and Haman's characterisation rather than fucking them over six ways to Sunday.

Char is flapping in the wind after A Baoa Qu. Haman is a product of the Zeon upper classes, a newtype raised in the middle of a fascist cult of personality.

Char has just lost both the things he defined himself by for the last however long, his revenge and the glorious newtype future Lalah represented. Haman is trapped in rounds of lab testing and a social hierarchy centred on the people who got her older sister killed.

So they meet and to Char, Haman is a replacement goldfish for Lalah, while to Haman, Char is someone genuinely in awe of her abilities, who will flatter her for what she can do.

Which is fine for a little while but solves precisely zero of their problems. They're both still stuck on Axis, in the middle of nowhere, dwelling on their mutual lack of purpose.

And slowly the cracks set in. Because where Lalah was the sunny uplands, Haman is the cold, remote mountain peaks, and more than that, in some ways she reminds Char of Amuro instead, and he still isn't used to feeling scared by someone else's combat ability (he never gets used to it). And Haman is too acute, too tuned into the currents of her surroundings, out of pure survival necessity, to overlook a faltering heart.

Maybe she tries to pull him closer, as the one thing in her life not defined by the Zeon cause or her treatment as another weapon to ensure Zabi supremacy. Maybe we steal the one good idea CDA has and she catches a glimpse of his real past through her powers, a moment of crystal clarity about the man before her, which naturally causes him to angrily freak out, how dare she pry into his mind?

But the break isn't the anger itself. No, it's the realisation that beneath Char Aznable is Casval Rem Deikun. The one person who might be able to root out the last of the Zabi influence on Zeon and rebuild it into something positive, something that truly serves newtypes, rather than a fantastically corrupt bunch of old men.

And Char refuses to do that. Has refused to do it all this time, for no reason other than his own dislike of the spotlight.

Thus his cowardice condemns Haman to an existence in the cold, unforgiving reaches of space, in the clutches of a cold, unforgiving society, while she proves to be a prickly real person with needs and stuff that require consideration, rather than a pure guiding light to ease the emptiness in Char's soul.

So Char runs back to the Earth-sphere to give revolution a try, and Haman wraps herself in the cloak of her loneliness, warping Neo Zeon around her, because what else is going to keep her safe?

There. That took me about five minutes to think through.

[the-offside-rule]

Marc Spector & Steven Grant (Moonknight) - First of Many Times

Requested: yes

Warnings: getting a blow to the side of the head ig

Divine Intervention Series

The crisp London air wrapped around Y/n as she strolled through the quiet streets, the faint sound of traffic in the distance. The city had always felt alive to her, but tonight, something was different. There was a tension in the air, a pull she couldn’t quite place. As she walked, she could sense them, Anubis and Set, following her from a distance, their ancient presence both comforting and unnerving.

Anubis, the god of the dead, was always with her, watching over her like a silent protector. She had grown accustomed to his presence, his whispered guidance in times of danger. But Set, the god of chaos, was different. He lingered in the shadows, unpredictable and volatile. "This place is a dump." Set snarled. Y/n couldnt exactly disagree; London was a dump. She came here to get away from the troubles that her home town gave her, now she had to worry about an overpriced, overhyped dump of a city? She looked to her left, seeing Set looking around as if this whole place was beneath him. Though Y/n had never allowed him to possess her, she could feel his chaotic energy stirring. Tonight, it was sharper, more insistent.

As she turned a corner, the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. "Why have you stopped now you insufferable-" Something was wrong. Glancing up, Y/n froze. Perched on the rooftop of a nearby apartment building was an Egyptian jackal, its eyes glowing eerily in the dim streetlight. It stared down at her, its presence a clear sign of danger. "Anubis." Y/n muttered, her eyes narrowing. "That’s not one of yours." Anubis’s voice echoed in her mind, deep and calm. "Indeed. Something evil stirs. Be cautious, Y/n."

Without hesitation she walked into a nearby alleyway, and she summoned her ceremonial armor, feeling the familiar weight of the golden chestplate and gauntlets settling over her body. The jackal snarled, baring its sharp teeth, as if sensing the shift in the air. Before Y/n could react, Set’s voice slithered into her thoughts. "Let me handle this for once. Chaos calls to chaos." For a split second, she hesitated. Anubis always inhabited her during battle, guiding her with precision and skill. But tonight, she felt the pull of Set’s power, raw and tempting. Before she could protest, Set seized the opportunity and forced his way in.

The change was immediate. Her vision sharpened, and her movements became faster, more erratic. There was a wildness in her actions now, a reckless abandon she had never experienced before. With a fierce battle cry, Y/n leaped towards the rooftop, landing in front of the snarling jackal. Set’s chaotic influence coursed through her as she struck at the creature, each blow landing with unnerving precision. The jackal was strong, but under Set’s control, Y/n fought with relentless aggression, overpowering the beast with raw strength and unpredictable tactics.

As the fight raged, another figure appeared; an avatar, masked and radiating power. They moved with practiced ease, stepping into the battle as if they had been waiting for this moment. In the chaos, Y/n barely noticed the figure until she collided with them, thrown off balance by their sudden presence. The jackal staggered back under her final strike, crumpling to the ground in defeat. Y/n turned, breathing heavily, only to be met with a hard impact to the side of her head. The world blurred, spinning around her as she dropped to her knees. The last thing she saw was the masked figure looming over her before everything went black.

When Y/n awoke, her head throbbed with a dull ache. Blinking, she found herself in an unfamiliar apartment. The room was dimly lit, save for the soft glow of an enormous fish tank occupying an entire wall. A single goldfish inhabited the tank, it'smovements strangely calming. She moved her arm, but not very far without it clicking for some reason. Her eyes lifted from the fishtank to the chains around her wrists, and when she looked to her ankles, another set. "What kind of weirdo has chains on their bed?" She mumbled. As she glanced around the room, she spotted a mirror, realizing she was still suited and masked. Hearing a rustling sound nearby, she turned to see a man sitting at a small table, a cup of tea in his hand.

“You’re awake.” He said, his voice clipped and... American? Y/n’s brow furrowed. She knew this man, she had seen him working at the museum gift shop just a few weeks ago. Steven Grant. But this wasn’t Steven. The accent, the demeanor, it was all wrong. "Do you usually chain girls to your bed? Let me tell you, it's not a great look nowadays." She said coyly. Steven groaned. "Believe me, I didn't want to chain you there but I thought you'd try escape if you were restrained so here we are." Silence fell between them.

“I made tea.” He continued, glancing at her briefly before looking away. “I dont want tea.” She mumbled back. "Well good, I only made one cup."

"Then why mention it?"

"Start a conversation?"

"How's that going for you?"

"Well, we're conversing aren't we?"

Y/n’s mind raced. He didn’t know who she was, couldn’t see through her mask. And it seemed he didn’t realize she knew him either, well, not exactly him. Set stirred restlessly inside her, eager to break the chains and slaughter the man for even daring to capture them, but she pushed him aside, focusing on 'Steven' before her. He bombarded her with questions, his voice gruff and demanding. “Who are you? What happened out there? What’s your deal?” Frustration flared in Y/n’s chest as Steven kept firing the questions at her, not even giving her a chance to think of an answer, and before she could stop herself, she shouted. “Steven, stop!”

He froze, confusion flickering across his face. “Steven?” Realization dawned slowly. “I’m Marc.” He said, his expression hardening. “Steven doesn’t front during confrontations like this. Wait- how do you know about him?” Y/n stared at him in silence for a moment before her suit melted away, revealing her unmasked face. Marc’s eyes widened in surprise, but before he could react, there was a flicker in his gaze, and Steven surfaced. His British accent returned as he blinked at her, clearly startled.

“Oh my days.” Steven muttered, clearly panicking and walking towards her with the key to the cuffs. “Are you alright? I-I didn’t mean for Marc to- well, he didn’t mean to either. It’s just that things get a bit tricky when- you know.” Y/n looked at him confused as the suit vanished and her rain-drenched clothes were all that was left. "Who's Marc?" She asked as Steven unlocked the cuffs. "Long story, but he's like another version of me. We all co-exist." He replied. "All? What do you mean 'all', Steven?" Y/n sighed, exhaustion pressing down on her shoulders. "Well, Jake's in there too. He's actually the reason I got my job back in the museum." He chirped as if this was all just normal. "Is this why you went to the exhibition? For the whole being a new avatar thing?" He smiled as he chucked the chains to the side and let Y/n sit up.

“No, no. Ive been an avatar for a while now. I just wanted to know what being the avatar for... two gods meant.” Steven’s eyes widened even more, and he nervously adjusted his sleeves. “Two gods, huh? That’s, um... complicated. More than usual, I’d say.” He paused, his mind racing. “You could stay here. Y'know, just until you figure things out. We’ve got plenty of room, and... well, someone’s got to help sort this out, right?” Y/n looked at Steven, soft, nervous, completely out of his depth and for the first time that night, she felt a strange sense of relief. "Steven, I can't ask you to do this." She replied. "Oh please, whats the worst that could happen?"