#i am expecting things to be quiet for a little while!

[theonottsbxtch]

THE LOCKER NEXT TO HIS PT2 | LN4

an: the forth installment! i had a lot of fun writing this one as you can tell it is much longer than all the other ones, this one i am holding very dear to my chest and would die for this version of lando, following this one is med school!isack, i hope you enjoy this installment! i have to post them in two parts because its too long lmao

wc: 17.2k (both parts together)

warnings: mentions of death & trauma

summary: lando was just a tired firefighter in a flat that smelled like rice and regrets. then she showed up, quiet, sharp, accidentally charming. and suddenly things weren’t so routine. they flirt like it’s an olympic sport, but grief lingers like smoke. somewhere between post-it notes and midnight gelato, they start to save each other.

PART ONE

uniformed hearts masterlist

AFTER THAT NIGHT, there was a slight shift between her and Lando.

It wasn’t all that noticeable to them, not at first. Nothing dramatic changed. No declarations. No sudden hand-holding or whispered conversations in dark corners.

But to everyone else, it was blindingly obvious.

There was an ease between them now, quiet, constant,  like an invisible thread had stitched its way between their sleeves. They didn’t cling, didn’t hover, but somehow always seemed to occupy the same airspace. When he wasn’t around, she found herself looking up, expecting him. And when he was around, he looked at her like she was a little more known than she’d been before.

His flirting hadn’t stopped. If anything, it had levelled up,  not in volume, but in weight. He still made jokes, still leaned on her desk like it owed him money, still offered her half of his snacks with a wink. But now there was something else beneath it. A softness. A certainty.

And she didn’t roll her eyes as often.

Oscar had definitely noticed. Every now and then, when Lando was leaning too close or she was smiling too much, Oscar would glance in their direction with a look that was somewhere between amused and concerned, like he was watching a film he couldn’t pause.

She pretended not to notice.

Then, one afternoon, her dad called her into his office.

She knocked once, as always.

“Close the door,” he said.

She raised a brow. “Sounds serious.”

“Just humour me.”

She shut the door, folded her arms. “What’s up?”

Her dad looked at her for a long moment. The sort of look he used to give her when she was younger and thought she’d hidden a broken window with a strategically placed poster.

“What’s going on with you and Lando?”

She blinked. “Sorry?”

“You heard me.”

“I—nothing’s going on.”

He didn’t look convinced.

She frowned. “Why would you think something is?”

“Well,” he said, slowly, “you’re not normally the type to tolerate grown men sleeping in your office.”

She flushed. “He doesn’t sleep in there. He just occasionally shuts his eyes while pretending to help with stock lists.”

“He drools.”

She looked away. “Only a little.”

Her dad leaned back in his chair, watching her. “You’re protective of him.”

“I’m protective of a lot of people.”

“Not like this.”

She didn’t answer.

Mostly because she wasn’t sure what the answer was.

The truth was, she had become a little protective. She noticed when he came in late and didn’t meet anyone’s eyes. When he was quieter than usual after a bad call. When he loitered by her door with that specific slump to his shoulders that said I need to be near someone safe, but I won’t say it out loud.

And so she let him in.

Sometimes he talked. Sometimes he didn’t. But she always let him sit. Sometimes she’d keep working like he wasn’t even there, just let him doze with his head tipped back and his arms folded, mouth open slightly like a tired child.

And she never said a word.

Her dad gave her a long look, then sighed. “Just be careful, alright?”

She nodded. “I am.”

That was the end of it. No lecture. No warning. Just a father seeing something his daughter hadn’t quite figured out herself yet.

When she got back to her office, Lando was already there. Head tipped back, cap pulled low, legs stretched out under her desk like he owned the place.

A crumpled post-it note was stuck to his chest with her pen.

this is not a nap zone.

He snored gently in response.

And she smiled.

Later that week the station was quiet. The kind of quiet that only came after most of the day crew had gone and the evening lull hadn’t quite ended. No calls, no chaos, no kettle boiling in the kitchen. Just a low, settled hush, broken only by the occasional creak of a radiator or the hum of the lights overhead.

She hadn’t meant to wander off. But something about the stillness made her restless, and she’d found herself down in the bay, sat on the edge of one of the trucks, legs swinging, fingers tracing the edge of her lanyard, eyes distant.

She liked it here. The smell of rubber and fuel and polish. The way everything had its place. Like it was waiting, but not idle.

She didn’t hear him until he was standing beside the engine.

“Alright, mystery woman,” Lando said gently, voice soft like he didn’t want to startle her. “You hiding or loitering?”

She looked down.

He was stood below her, hands in his pockets, peering up at her with the softest expression,  brows slightly drawn, head tilted, eyes warm and open in a way that made something shift in her chest.

She gave a small shrug. “Bit of both.”

He stepped closer, leaned against the side of the truck, looking up. “What are you thinking about?”

She hesitated. Then looked away.

“My placement finishes in four weeks.”

He blinked. “That soon?”

She nodded. “Feels weird. Like I’ve only just figured it out, the rota system, the stock room, everyone’s tea order.”

He smiled faintly. “And mine’s the most complicated.”

“Yours is a full drama.”

He laughed, quiet, but didn’t say anything else.

She toyed with the hem of her sleeve. “It’s stupid. But I feel like I’ve built something here. Not just work. Something else.”

His voice was barely above a whisper. “Then stay.”

She looked at him.

His eyes hadn’t left hers.

“I mean it,” he said. “Stay.”

She felt her breath catch.

“I’ll speak to the big boss,” she said, voice light, even though she could feel the weight of it behind her ribs.

“I’ll fight for you,” he added, half-smiling. “If it comes to that.”

She gave a soft laugh, leaning forward slightly where she sat. “How chivalrous.”

Then, without thinking, she reached down and ran her hand gently through his hair, tousling it lightly, fingers brushing just behind his ear.

He didn’t flinch.

Just closed his eyes for a second, like he wanted to remember the feeling.

She let her hand trail down, slowly, across the side of his face, along the line of his jaw. Warm skin, soft stubble. He didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

When he looked at her again, he looked a little like he’d forgotten how to breathe.

It had been a week and a half since that evening in the truck bay.

She hadn’t said anything. Not to her dad, not to her Andrea, not to anyone. Part of her didn’t want to jinx it, whatever this was. Part of her was waiting, quietly, as though timing might settle something in her chest.

Lando hadn’t brought it up either.

But he still came by her office most days. Still left half-eaten biscuits on her desk. Still dropped the odd look when no one else was watching, eyes softer, steadier than they used to be. Like he was still checking she was real.

It wasn’t nothing. But it wasn’t named yet, either.

The call came in mid-afternoon, smoke spotted near the edge of the industrial estate, possible warehouse fire. She wasn’t needed for it. Just sat back, watched them gear up, watched Lando throw her a grin as he jumped into the truck, and then the station was still.

Quiet.

She didn’t mind the silence. Tapped away at her report, kept an ear half-out for the radio.

Nearly three hours passed before she heard them return, the usual shuffle and low voices, heavy boots on concrete, the bay doors rolling back up.

But something was off.

She stood slowly, notebook still in hand, and peered out through the office window.

Lando was shrugging off his jacket with that lazy carelessness he always used when he didn’t want to admit he was rattled. Oscar stood across from him, jaw tight, arms folded, his whole stance wrong.

The air between them was charged. Like a fuse had been lit.

She stepped closer to the doorway, instinct prickling.

Lando said something low, sarcastic. She couldn’t hear it.

And then Oscar snapped.

“Don’t pull that shit again.”

The room froze.

Lando raised an eyebrow, all mock arrogance. “What, saving the day?”

“Don’t.” Oscar stepped forward, voice rising. “Don’t play it down, Lando. You know exactly what you did.”

“I got the job done.”

“You went in without waiting for backup. Without comms. You disappeared.”

Lando’s expression didn’t change. But his jaw twitched.

Oscar kept going, words sharp with something too close to fear.

“You’re like a brother to me, alright? It would kill me if something happened to you because of your reckless bullshit.”

Something in Lando’s face flickered.

“Get it together,” Oscar finished. Quiet. But final.

Lando took half a step back.

And then his breath caught.

She saw it, saw the way he blinked too fast, hands twitching slightly at his sides. Saw the way he didn’t answer, didn’t move. His chest rose, too quick. Too shallow.

Oscar frowned. “Lando?”

No response.

“Lando. Mate, breathe.”

But he wasn’t.

His back hit the side of the truck as he stumbled, palms braced against metal, mouth open like he couldn’t get the air in.

She dropped her notebook.

Rushed to him.

“Oscar, move!”

Oscar looked at her, startled. “What’s?”

“Panic attack,” she said, already kneeling in front of Lando, her hands moving on instinct, not touching yet, just there.

“Lando. Hey. It’s me.”

His eyes darted, unfocused.

“Look at me.”

He tried.

“You’re not there. You’re here. You’re safe.”

His breath hitched again.

She stepped in, slow but firm, resting one hand on his chest, over his jacket. “Breathe with me, yeah?”

She exaggerated it. In. Out. Calm. Slow.

He tried to match it. Failed. Tried again.

She stayed with him. Voice low. Gentle.

“I’ve got you. You’re alright. You’re alright.”

Oscar was frozen, still nearby. “I didn’t. I didn’t know—”

“Not now,” she said, quietly. “Let me help him.”

Lando’s fingers curled in the fabric of her sleeve.

He was spiralling.

She could see it in every inch of him, the tension in his jaw, the way his chest was seizing up like it was trying to lock itself, the frantic darting of his eyes. He wasn’t here. Not in the truck bay. Not with them.

She edged closer, voice still low, steady as stone.

“Lando. Lando, baby, come on.”

His whole body flinched at the sound, her voice, the softness in it, the truth in it.

“You’re here with me, alright? You’re not there. You’re here.”

His fingers twitched against the side of the truck, white-knuckled, “Just me and you,” she whispered. “You’ve got this.”

And then something shifted.

A flicker in his eyes, like a light had come back on. Not all the way. But enough.

He looked at her.

And the look he gave her nearly undid her.

It wasn’t fear anymore. It wasn’t shock or even confusion.

It was heartbreak.

The kind that had been waiting, quietly, behind everything else for years. The kind that had never been given the space to breathe, let alone fall apart.

She reached for him slowly and cupped the side of his face, thumb brushing his cheek.

And that was it.

He collapsed into her, arms wrapping around her waist as he buried his face into her shoulder, whole body shaking.

She caught him.

Held him.

One hand cradled the back of his head, her fingers slipping into his hair, stroking gently as he clung to her like she was the only thing keeping him from falling through the floor.

She didn’t speak. Didn’t shush him. Just rocked slightly where she knelt, her chin resting on his shoulder.

Oscar had gone still somewhere in the background. She barely registered him.

All she could feel was Lando, shaking, sobbing, finally letting go.

And all she could do was hold him tighter.

“I’ve got you,” she murmured, fingers threading through his curls. “I’ve got you, I’ve got you, I’ve got you.”

It didn’t matter how many times she said it.

He’d never heard it said like that before.

His breathing had steadied, just a little. The worst had passed, the sharp edge of it, but he was still folded into her like the moment might collapse if she let go. His face pressed into her shoulder, his fingers twisted in the back of her jumper like he didn’t know how to stop holding on.

She ran her hand gently through his hair, slow, grounding strokes. He hadn’t made a sound in a while, but she could still feel the faint tremble in his arms, the occasional hitch of breath he was trying too hard to suppress.

After a few minutes, she whispered, “You should go home.”

He didn’t move.

For a moment, she thought he hadn’t heard her.

Then, barely audible, just a whisper, raw and ashamed, he said, “I don’t want to be alone.”

Something in her chest cracked.

She pulled back slightly, just enough to look at him. His eyes were bloodshot, his cheeks streaked with dried tears, and he wouldn’t quite meet her gaze. There was a flicker of embarrassment in him now, like he'd remembered the world was still watching.

Before she could say anything, movement behind him caught her eye.

Her dad.

Standing just inside the bay doors, arms crossed, expression unreadable. He looked at her. Looked at Lando.

Then gave a small, subtle nod. Not a push. Not a command.

Just a quiet signal that said go with him.

She gave a single nod in return.

Lando still hadn’t moved. Still hadn’t spoken. Just sat there, fingers loosely curled now, like he was finally tired enough to let go of whatever he'd been gripping onto for years.

She helped him stand and walked him out through the back, away from the others.

The sun was beginning to set over the car park, casting long shadows across the tarmac. The air was cool. Still.

And there it was, the black Mercedes, parked quietly at the edge. Lando weakly passed her the keys and she opened the passenger door without asking. He didn’t question it. Just got in, eyes glassy, body heavy.

When she slid into the driver’s seat, she saw it on the screen.

The sat nav, pinpointing home. 24 minutes.

She didn’t say anything.

Just tapped the screen to confirm the route, eased the car out of the lot, and drove.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t fidget.

Just stared quietly out of the window.

And she let the silence sit between them.

Not cold. Not awkward.

Just understood.

She would get him home.

That was enough for now.

By the time they pulled up outside his flat, the sky had shifted to navy. A single streetlamp buzzed nearby, casting pale yellow light across the bonnet of the car.

He didn’t move at first. Just stared straight ahead, like getting out might take more energy than he had.

So she got out first, came round to his side, opened the door, and offered her hand.

He took it without a word.

The flat was quiet when they stepped inside, Franco clearly out, Isack’s shoes gone from the hallway. A blessing, really.

She helped him take off his hoodie, folded it over the arm of the sofa without thinking. He stood there, awkward, like he didn’t quite know what to do with his limbs anymore.

“You need to change,” she said gently. “You’ll feel better.”

He nodded, slow and distant, and disappeared into the bedroom.

She hovered in the kitchen for a moment, unsure.

Then he called, voice faint, “Can you—?”

She didn’t wait for him to finish. Just went to him.

He was sat on the edge of his bed now, t-shirt clinging slightly to his back where the heat of the panic hadn’t quite faded. His bottoms had been half-tugged off but abandoned halfway. He looked up at her, cheeks still slightly flushed, like he hated himself for needing the help.

She knelt in front of him, undoing the belt and gently easing the fabric down over his legs, folding them neatly beside the bed.

“Alright?” she asked.

He nodded.

She stood and reached for the drawer, found a clean pair of joggers and handed them over without making a big thing of it.

He changed in silence.

When he sat again, she brushed a hand lightly through his curls, tidying them from where they’d stuck to his forehead.

“I’ll make some tea,” she murmured, starting to turn away.

“No,” he said, quick and quiet. “Please stay.”

She stilled.

Looked back at him.

He looked smaller somehow, in that oversized t-shirt, bare feet pressed to the floor, shoulders hunched like the weight hadn’t fully left him yet.

So she nodded.

“Alright.”

They climbed into bed together, no drama, no hesitation. Just the quiet understanding that, tonight, he didn’t want space.

He lay on his side, back to the wall, and she tucked herself in beside him, facing him, close but not crowding. The duvet was warm. The room dim. His eyes fluttered shut the moment she rested a hand on his chest, just over where his heart was still beating a little too fast.

She curled her legs around his, tucked her head beneath his chin.

He sighed, low and content, like the tension had finally let go.

One of his arms found its way around her waist. The other slid under her neck, fingers curling into her sleeve.

They didn’t say much.

Didn’t need to.

But before he drifted off, voice barely audible, he whispered, “Thank you.”

She whispered back, “I’ve got you.”

And she did.

She really did.

The following morning she woke before him.

The light in the room was soft, filtered through half-drawn curtains. Lando was still curled beneath the duvet, one arm sprawled across her waist, the other tucked under his pillow, lips parted in sleep. He looked peaceful. Less like someone who’d fallen apart in a truck bay and more like someone finally allowed to rest.

She eased herself out of his hold as gently as she could, sliding from the bed without waking him.

She padded into the kitchen barefoot, slipping on one of his hoodies, and flicked the kettle on. The flat was still, the quiet kind that only came when three twenty-something men were actually asleep at a reasonable hour.

She found bread, eggs, a questionably clean frying pan, and started pulling together breakfast, something simple. Something warm.

She was just plating up the first egg when she heard the creak of a door behind her.

And then footsteps.

She turned.

And came face to face with a half-asleep, entirely shirtless man.

Tall, wiry, curly-haired, wearing joggers slung low and absolutely no shame.

He blinked at her. “Oh.”

She blinked back. “Hello?”

He stared a moment longer. Then, as though suddenly reminded of basic social rules, grabbed the first t-shirt he could find on the back of a chair and tugged it on while walking backwards out of the room.

“Sorry. Hang on, just… didn’t realise there was a woman in the house.”

She turned sharply back to the cooker, cheeks flushing. “You must be Isack.”

He reappeared, fully clothed now, running a hand through his hair. “I am. And you are…?”

“I work at the station. Sort of. Admin, logistics, general menace. Lando and I are friends.”

Isack gave her a slow look, the kind that said sure, but not unkindly.

“Well,” he said, after a beat, “that’s new.”

She raised an eyebrow. “He doesn’t bring people back?”

He shook his head, coming further into the kitchen and pouring himself a glass of water. “Not like this. Not someone who makes tea.”

She snorted. “Is that the bar?”

“Lando’s bar is low. Emotionally speaking, anyway. Otherwise he’s very fussy.”

She plated up another egg.

Isack leaned against the counter, arms folded, expression softening. “He’s hard on himself, you know. Always has been. Thinks me and Franco don’t notice, but we do.”

She glanced at him.

“He talks a good game,” Isack continued, “but he carries things. Heavy things. Quietly.”

She nodded, slowly. “I know.”

Isack gave her a small, thoughtful smile. “Good. I reckon he needs someone who does.”

Before she could reply, another door creaked.

Franco wandered into the kitchen in nothing but boxers, yawning so hard he looked like he might dislocate his jaw. He paused mid-step when he saw her.

Then said, vaguely, “Morning,” and reached for the cereal.

She stared at him.

Then at Isack.

Then back at Franco.

“What is this?” she demanded, gesturing wildly. “A bloody whore house? Put some clothes on!”

Franco looked down at himself like he was surprised to find he was still half-naked. “This is clothes.”

“It’s boxers!.”

“Boxers are a garment.”

“I am making eggs!”

Isack snorted behind his water glass.

Franco just shrugged. “Suit yourself, woman. It’s your trauma.”

She turned back to the hob, muttering under her breath.

Behind her, the sound of Franco hunting down a spoon was interrupted by the unmistakable rasp of Lando’s voice from down the hall.

“What’s going on out there? Why are you all yelling?”

She smirked. “Your housemates are indecent.”

“They live here”

“I am traumatised.”

He appeared a moment later, hair tousled, shirt slightly wrinkled, eyes still half-lidded with sleep, but the second he saw her, he smiled.

And somehow, it made everything else fade into background noise.

Even Franco’s boxers. Her attention became so caught on Lando that she hadn’t notice Isack take a seat at the table or Franco lie on the sofa with the box of cereal.

Lando walked up to her and slipped his arms around her waist, pressed his chest gently against her back, and rested his chin on her shoulder like he’d done it a thousand times before.

“Thank you,” he murmured. “For yesterday.”

Her heart stuttered in her chest.

Before she could say anything, Franco let out a low, exaggerated whistle.

“Oooooooh,” he sang. “Lando has a cruuuush.”

Isack didn’t look up. Just sipped his water like it was none of his business.

Lando didn’t even flinch. “Yeah and what?”

That shut Franco up for about two seconds.

She, meanwhile, was bright red.

She didn’t reply, couldn’t, really, just focused all her energy on flipping the eggs without flinging them halfway across the kitchen.

She could feel Lando smiling against her shoulder.

Eventually, she cleared her throat. “Breakfast’s ready.”

He let go, slowly, pressing a hand to the small of her back before stepping away.

She plated everything up, three plates, eggs, toast, beans on the side, and carried them over to the table.

One plate went in front of Isack.

One for Lando.

Nothing for Franco.

Franco blinked. “Sorry. What’s this?”

She raised an eyebrow, deadpan. “It’s called consequences.”

“For what?”

“For failing to meet the very low standard of decency expected in a shared kitchen,” she replied, sipping her tea. “Isack had the courtesy to put a shirt on. You, however, remain in socks and boxers. And socks and boxers,” she added pointedly, “do not count as being dressed.”

Franco looked genuinely affronted. “These are good boxers.”

“Not relevant.”

He glanced around the room for support.

Isack didn’t look up from his eggs.

Lando, mouth full, said, “She’s got a point, mate.”

Franco sighed dramatically. “This house is a dictatorship.”

She smirked.

And as she sat down between them, Lando on one side, Isack quietly eating on the other, Franco sulking in cereal exile, she let herself have the thought.

I could stay here. Not just in the station. In this.

In the quiet chaos. The warmth. The way Lando looked at her like she was the calm in his storm.

And, just for a second, it didn’t feel so terrifying to want something permanent.

The rest of the day went by in a breeze.

There was something about slow mornings in shared kitchens and warm laughter that made everything feel a little softer. She and Lando headed back to the station together after breakfast, her tucking her feet up in the passenger seat, his hand occasionally brushing against the gearstick like he couldn’t quite sit still.

At work, things settled into their usual rhythm. Paperwork, stock checks, chasing missing forms that had been “definitely handed in” (they hadn’t). Andrea gave her a wink when she walked past. Her dad didn’t say anything, but there was the smallest twitch of a smirk when he handed her a rota update.

Lando was Lando. Flirty, casual, helpful in that deliberately half-arsed way he thought made him look cooler than he was. But underneath it all, there was a shift, the way he hovered a little longer in doorways, how his glances lingered just a second too long.

And she didn’t mind it.

Not at all.

As they packed up at the end of shift, he offered, casually, “Want a lift home?”

She pretended to consider it for all of half a second. “Yeah. Alright.”

They drove in easy silence, window cracked slightly, music low. The sun was starting to dip, painting the sky in pale orange and dusky pink.

“Where am I going?” he asked, one hand on the wheel.

She rattled off the address.

When they pulled onto her road, she saw it happen, the way his eyes flicked to the familiar car in the drive, then up to the front door, then back to her.

“Isn’t this Chief Zak’s house?”

She inhaled slowly through her nose. “...Yeah.”

He turned to her, staring.

“Wait.”

She didn’t look at him.

“No. Wait.”

She stayed facing forward.

“You’re—you’re his daughter?!”

She winced. “Surprise?”

Lando sat there, mouth open like he’d just been personally betrayed by the universe. “Are you joking?”

“I didn’t lie,” she said quickly. “I just… didn’t tell you.”

“Oh my God,” he said, dropping his head back against the headrest with a loud exhale. “This explains so much.”

She folded her arms. “I genuinely don’t know how you didn’t figure it out.”

He turned to her, still mildly scandalised. “He called you princess. Out loud. At work.”

“And you overheard it.”

“I did! But I thought—” He paused, looking at her like he was re-evaluating everything. “I thought you were just into that.”

She stared at him.

“That whole older man thing,” he said, like it was obvious. “You know. Authority. Power dynamics. Bit of a thing, innit.”

Her face was a perfect picture of horror. “WHAT.”

“I don’t know!” he defended. “A lot of girls are into that!”

“Oh my God, Lando!”

“What was I meant to think?! You called him sir in the hall once!”

“He is my boss!”

He groaned, collapsing dramatically against the door. “I need to re-do my entire internal narrative. I need to journal about this.”

She was bright red, hands over her face, dying a slow death in the passenger seat. “Please don’t talk to me ever again.”

He was laughing now, the kind that made his whole chest shake.

She huffed. “I hate you.”

“You love me,” he shot back, grinning.

And the worst part was, she didn’t say no.

Later that evening, Lando practically bounced into the flat.

Not literally, he had some dignity left, but the door definitely shut behind him with a little more enthusiasm than usual. He tossed his keys onto the side, missed completely, and left them clattering to the floor. Didn’t even care.

He was smiling.

Like, actually smiling. That annoying, unconscious kind that tugged at the corners of your mouth even when you tried to play it cool.

He wandered into the kitchen, pulled open the fridge, stared into it blankly.

Behind him, Franco looked up from the sofa.

“What’s wrong with you?”

Lando glanced over, trying and failing to look casual. “What?”

“You’ve got that look,” Isack added, appearing in the doorway with a bowl of cereal and his usual unimpressed tone. “The ‘I’ve just been kissed or committed a crime’ look.”

“I have not been kissed,” Lando said, a little too quickly.

Franco narrowed his eyes. “But you could have been.”

Lando opened the fridge again, stared harder.

Isack raised an eyebrow. “Do we need to stage an intervention?”

“No,” Lando said firmly.

There was a pause.

“...Maybe.”

Franco sat up straighter. “Right. Spit it out.”

Lando closed the fridge, turned to face them, arms folded, defensive already. “Look, it’s nothing.”

“Mate,” Franco said. “You’re glowing. You walked in like someone dropped a serotonin bomb on your head.”

“It’s just…” Lando shrugged, running a hand through his curls. “We had a moment. In the car. After everything.”

Franco blinked. “Like… a moment moment?”

“Yeah.”

Isack frowned. “What kind of moment?”

“Well first I found out she was Zak’s daughter and then–”

Both boys exploded before he could finish his sentence. 

“You’re joking.”

“You’ve been flirting with the Chief’s daughter?!”

“You’ve slept in the same bed as the Chief’s daughter’s—”

“Cried in the Chief’s daughter’s arms—”

Lando held up his hands. “Alright, alright, alright! I know! And she never told me! Not properly!”

Franco was laughing so hard he nearly fell off the sofa. Isack just stared at Lando like he was some sort of romantic soap opera.

“Anyway,” Lando said, trying to steer the conversation. “That’s not the point.”

“Oh, no,” Franco wheezed. “That’s definitely the point.”

Lando shook his head, half-smiling. “The point is… I like her.”

Silence.

Then Isack said, “Well, yeah.”

“Obviously,” Franco added.

Lando looked down at his hands. “I don’t really know what to do about it.”

There was a long pause.

Then Isack said, “Then do something. Show her. Make it clear.”

Franco nodded. “Yeah. Big gesture. Or small gesture. Just gesture.”

Lando hesitated. “Like what?”

Franco spread his arms. “I dunno. Flowers. Food. One of those keyrings with her name on it.”

“She knows her name.”

“Then one with your name. So she remembers who gave it to her.”

Isack rolled his eyes. “Ignore him. Just do something honest.”

Lando nodded slowly.

“Write a letter,” Franco added unhelpfully. “Write her a poem. Read it from the top of a fire engine. Shirtless.”

“I’m going to my room,” Lando muttered.

“Make a mix tape!”

Isack smirked into his cereal.

When he got into his room, he lay on his back in bed, staring at the ceiling.

Isack had clearly gone back to studying. Franco was watching some awful reality show at full volume in the lounge. And Lando, for once, couldn’t quite settle.

His thoughts kept circling back to her.

The way she looked that morning in his kitchen, barefoot and bossy, telling Franco off like she’d lived there forever. The way she touched his hair, soft and grounding. The way she’d said I’ve got you like she’d meant it.

He liked her.

And for once in his life, he didn’t want to flirt his way into her good graces. He already had them.

He just didn’t want to mess it up.

He thought of what he could do but everything felt wrong. 

Flowers? Too much.

Poem? Franco would never let him live it down.

Something quiet. Something small.

Then he remembered the biscuits.

The Post-it notes. The fridge list. The playful argument that had somehow turned into something steady between them.

He sat up suddenly. 

That was it. 

Sainsbury’s was mostly empty at this hour, apart from a very loud toddler and a man having a stand-off with a self-checkout. Lando weaved through the aisles like a man on a mission.

He found them quickly, her favourites.

Chocolate digestives. 

He grabbed a packet. Then a second. Then, on a whim, a third.

Because if he was going to be the idiot who leaves biscuits in a locker like some kind of lovestruck Year 9, he might as well commit.

On the way home, he stopped at the corner shop and picked up a small envelope. Blank. Nothing fancy.

Back in his room, he sat at his desk, the one mostly covered in loose receipts, odd bits of kit, and an abandoned screw from the toaster, and pulled out a pen.

He sat for a long time before he started writing.

The following morning he got in before her.

Just.

The station was quiet, save for the hum of the kettle and the distant bark of someone swearing at the printer. Zak was already in his office, blinds half-closed. Oscar gave him a tired wave from the corridor.

His locker sat near the end of the row, the one with the dent in the side from that time Max kicked it open for “training purposes”.

Hers was right next to his.

He knelt, opened it gently, and placed the three packets of chocolate digestives inside.

On top, the envelope.

Her name on the front, written in his best attempt at normal handwriting, neat-ish, but unmistakably his.

He shut it carefully.

Stood.

And walked away before anyone could see.

She arrived later than usual.

A delayed bus, some minor faff with a coffee cup lid, the usual Monday nonsense. The station was already half-awake when she came in, the clatter of boots, the hum of voices, her dad’s office door already shut.

She made her way to the lockers, tugging off her coat, yawning behind one hand.

Then she opened her locker.

And paused.

Inside, balanced carefully between her work polo and a folder of half-filled forms, were three packs of chocolate digestives.

On top, an envelope.

Her name written across the front in handwriting that was scruffy but oddly endearing.

She stared at it for a second. Heart already thudding.

Then opened it.

She found him in the mess room,  sat alone at the table with a tea he probably hadn’t touched, thumbing absently at the corner of his phone.

He looked up when he heard the door.

And froze.

Because she was standing there, still in her coat, holding the packet of biscuits and the envelope, her eyes shining suspiciously.

“Lando,” she said, soft. Barely a whisper.

He stood slowly, nerves flooding him. “Did you—?”

“I read it,” she said. “All of it.”

And then she looked at him, like she could see straight through to the middle of him.

“I meant it,” he said, voice low, almost hoarse. “Every word.”

She didn’t speak.

So he did.

“I’ve never had anything stable,” he said. “Not really. Not since my brother. Nothing that made sense. Nothing that felt safe.”

She took a step closer.

“And then you showed up. Quiet. With your clipboard and your eye rolls and your weird tea preferences. And you saw me. Like, really saw me.”

His voice cracked slightly.

“And you never asked for anything. You just let me be. Even when I didn’t know how. And I–”

Another breath.

“I’ve never had someone who made me feel seen before.”

She was right in front of him now.

“And especially with you leaving…” he added, quieter still. “It’s like, just as I started to breathe again, it’s going away.”

Her hand came up to cup his cheek. Gently. Steadying him.

His eyes closed under her touch.

And then she leaned in.

And kissed him.

It wasn’t rushed. Wasn’t messy. Just full of everything they’d been holding back for weeks, soft, aching, a little clumsy, and utterly, utterly right.

His arms wrapped around her like he’d been waiting his whole life to do it.

She smiled against his lips.

And then she whispered, breathless, barely a breath between them:

“I’m not leaving.”

He opened his eyes, stunned.

She rested her forehead against his. “I could never leave you behind.”

Lando let out a shaky breath. “Can I kiss you again?”

She didn’t answer.

She just did it.

This time slower, deeper, her hands curling into the front of his shirt like she already knew every thread. He kissed her back like he was learning her by heart, soft and unhurried, like they had all the time in the world.

When they finally pulled apart, she rested her head lightly against his chest.

His heart was hammering.

“I spoke to my dad,” she said quietly.

He froze.

“Yesterday. Before my shift.”

He tipped his chin down to look at her, cautious. “Yeah?”

She looked up at him, eyes shining with something good. “He’s offering me a full-time role.”

Lando blinked. “Wait—like you’re staying staying?”

She nodded.

A grin cracked across his face, wide and unfiltered. “You’re staying.”

“I’m staying,” she echoed, laughing a little now, breathless with how ridiculous and right it all felt.

He dropped his forehead against hers with a soft, relieved sound, not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh.

“I was this close,” he murmured, “to staging a one man protest if you didn’t.”

“You’d have been arrested within the hour.”

“Worth it.”

She laughed again and he kissed her nose, then her forehead, then her lips, because he could. Because she was here, and she wasn’t going anywhere.

“I brought you biscuits,” he said, like it meant something.

“It meant everything,” she whispered.

And she meant that, too.

To Lando, no day would ever beat that one.

Not his promotion to watch manager. Not her promotion to fire service project officer. Not even the day he signed the mortgage on the house with his name and hers side by side on the paperwork.

Nothing could top that morning in the mess room, her in front of him, cheeks flushed, biscuits in her hand, love pouring out of her like sunlight through a window crack.

They’d tried to keep it secret after that.

Really, they had.

But it was nearly impossible. He couldn’t look at her without softening. Couldn’t sit next to her without shifting closer. Couldn’t pass her in the hall without wanting to reach out, just a brush of her hand, a press of fingers at the back of her wrist.

It lasted a month, maybe two.

Oscar was the first to catch on, obviously. Followed shortly by Andrea, who clapped him on the back in the yard one day and said, “Knew it. You’ve got that smug glow about you.”

She tried to keep a straight face. Failed. Everyone knew by then.

Her dad didn’t say much. Just raised an eyebrow one day and asked, “You treating her properly?”

And when Lando nodded, genuinely, quietly, “Always.”

That was the end of it.

It hadn’t all been easy.

Lando still struggled, even after the panic attack. The weeks that followed were a slow, sticky sort of mess, good days and bad ones. Days where he showed up like normal, and days where he didn’t answer the phone.

But she was patient.

And one day, after a night of little sleep and a long silence, she’d sat him down, proper serious, and said, “Let’s get you help.”

So he did.

Therapy wasn’t a miracle. But it gave him something to hold onto. Gave him tools, words, space. Gave him permission to feel everything he’d kept buried since he was eight years old.

She went with him sometimes. Just to wait outside. Just to be near.

And he got better.

Not perfect. But better.

They went on a group holiday the summer everything settled, to Cornwall, so many of them crammed into a big converted farmhouse by the sea.

Franco brought his girlfriend, their last trip before they went to visit Argentina, and immediately lost three towels.

Max turned up late with his wife and their son, who insisted on staying in swim trunks even when it rained.

Oscar’s wife brought colouring books and sun hats, and Aurelia  wore sunglasses too big for her face and bossed the whole group around like a seasoned general. Isack turned up last, grinning, with “a friend” he kept calling the “first aider”, refusing to label it because, in his words, “If I say girlfriend, she’ll leg it.”

On the third evening, Lando proposed.

No audience. No ring hidden in cake. Just the two of them on a quiet bit of beach, her feet buried in the sand and his hand fidgeting in his hoodie pocket.

He said, “I love you. I want to do life with you. All of it. Will you let me?”

And she said yes like she’d been waiting to all her life.

They married in spring.

Aurelia was their flower girl, glittery trainers under a white dress, confetti stuck in her curls, beaming like it was her big day.

Oscar cried. Max cheered too early. Franco forgot the rings. Isack kissed his “first aider” in front of everyone but thought he got away with it.

And Lando couldn’t stop smiling.

At first, he didn’t want kids.

Not because he didn’t like them, he did. He was good with them, even. But something about having his own terrified him. Too much responsibility. Too much fear of history repeating.

But the more time he spent with the others’ kids, with sticky fingers and “watch this!” and spaghetti on the floor, the more he thought maybe.

Maybe he wanted that too.

They talked about it one night, wrapped in a blanket on the sofa, a film humming in the background.

“I’m scared,” he admitted. “What if I freeze? What if something happens and I can’t move, like before?”

She took his hand.

“What happened to your brother was a freak accident,” she said gently. “It won’t happen again. You’re not the boy you were then. You’re not alone anymore.”

He looked at her,  really looked.

And something settled.

Their daughter was born on a rainy Tuesday. Dark curls, stormy eyes. Loud from the moment she arrived.

He cried holding her for the first time.

But it wasn’t fear, this time.

It was joy.

They still bickered over biscuit rankings.

He still left mugs half-finished all over the house. She still called him an idiot when he forgot the washing.

He still kissed her like it was new.

And every now and then, he caught her watching him with that look,  the one she used to give him before she ever kissed him, like he was hers, full stop.

And he was.

He always would be.

Because at the end of it all, she never left.

And now, neither would he.

Because every fire he’d walked through led him to her, and he’d do it all again, just to find her waiting at the end.

the end.

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[ray935sworld]

I wish I could believe you

Part 3: The lie you told (it's breaking my heart)

Marc didn’t fully notice when it started.

He noticed that sometimes, his boyfriend acted different around him. But he didn’t know why. He did asked but he would never get an answer.

He noticed how he was more clingy towards him. How he would hang on his every move, his hand always touching him.

Marc loved his boyfriend attention so he never complained when he got some more of it. He loved when Marco would sneak his arms around him, pull him closer. How he would whisper in his ears how he was only his.

“You are mine” he would say, while Marc wore an oversized shirt, a scorpion drawn on the front, Bez and a 72 written on the back. “Everyone else can look but I am the only one touching you like this”

He would have his hand in front of his boxers, cupping his hard dick, squeezing. Marc would lean his head back, leaning against the Italian as he tried to suppress the moan.

“You are only mine. Right? Right, Marc? There is no -  no other? Only me…?”

Sometimes he had heard the insecurity in his words. The desperation and the need to be reassure that yes – Marc was actually only his.

Sometimes he didn’t hear it. He was regretting those times now.  

Then Bez had started to be distant. It started with taking longer to reply. Shorter texts. But it still felt so normal. Bez had been in the gym. Or on a run. Or in a meeting. And afterwards things were back to their routine so Marc never dug deeper.

Until Bez acted too different from the man Marc knew.

He was more closed off, his smile seemed more fake. Less clingy. Less happy.

There was this damp of sadness every time Marc would sneak into his motorhome before he smiled a smile that never quiet reached his eyes.

Marc had been worried. He pressed him for answers, an explanations, something that would tell him why the other was acting so different. He wanted answers but all he got was excuses.

“I’m just tired” or “Things aren’t going as hoped with Aprilia” he would  say and Marc tried to understand.

But even during the last months with the VR46 team when Bez had been devastated about his results, he hadn’t been like that. He had turned more clingy to him, had buried his face in his upper body and let out a silent scream. Marc had caressed his hair softly, whispering sweet things.

He tried to ignore that change but his mind was screaming about it too loudly.

He had asked Alex about it, what he thought. To get another perspective.

“How am I supposed to know?” he had said. “I am not your boyfriend. Talk to him!” “Well he doesn’t talk to me! So? Thoughts?” “Sounds like a communication problem-“ he mumbled.

Alex had looked at his brother, seeing his anxious expression. He noticed the fear his words had bought into his eyes. He sighed. He knew the young Italian meant the world to him and he wasn’t really helping.

“Look, maybe” Alex tried a little softer. “Maybe you two are just setting into a routine. I mean – Come on, you’ve been dating for close to a year now… Maybe the red glasses have become a little bit clearer by now”

Marc had huffed and immediately shook his head.

“No. I am not allowing it!” “That is… Not how that works” “Well now it is”

He knew something was up and he knew he had to wait for the younger to be ready to tell him. And he was willing. He wouldn’t push. He wouldn’t press. He wouldn’t risk making him uncomfortable.

But now that he finally got his answer, he just felt even more helpless. he hadn’t expected this. He hadn’t expected things would take a turn like that and he didn’t want to allow it.

His relationship with Marco was too important to let it down over that. Not because of a lie. Not because of fucking Pecco.

The thought alone made him angry. He was boiling with rage.

He could handle hits against him about his persona. Against his racing. Even on track. He didn’t mind. It was part of his job. But he drew the line at his family. And his beloved boyfriend was part of this family.

It made him angry. To think that somehow Bez – Marco of all people had been hurt in whatever mind game Pecco was now playing – had been hurt. Marco and his relationship had been hurt.

It made angry. He was pissed and he refused to hold back.

If Pecco wanted to play dirty, Marc could match that. He was sure he knew more dirty tricks than him.

So he started with pushing Pecco against the back of the wall and stepped close. Close enough to smell the mixture of sweat and perfume on his body.

“What? No ‘amore mio’ for your Spanish lover? How disappointing. Or do you wanna reserve that to solely when you are fucking me?” he spit out. He let a few seconds passed. “What? Come on, I thought you like it when I am desperate for you…”

“Marc-“ “What?” he leaned in, their faces almost touching. He saw the discomfort in the younger mans eyes. Normally he wouldn’t do that. He wouldn’t cross a line so obviously, but right now he didn’t care.

He wanted it actually. He wanted to make Pecco uncomfortable. He wanted to make him angry. He wanted him to feel just a fraction of what he felt.

“Marc, what?” he teased, finding it amusing how easy it was to throw the younger Italian off. “Did the cat got your tongue or are you so used to being gagged you forgot how to speak?”

“I-“ “Yes…?” He put his fingers around his chin, turning his face to him. He felt his beard against his finger and immediately hated the feeling. He only wanted to touch Bez’s face.

“Be my good little boy and tell to me, Bagnaia. I don’t like being lied to or do you wanna be punished?”

“I… I don’t know what you-“ “Oh so you don’t fuck me? Suddenly you don’t fuck me?” his voice was poisonous. Threatening. “Come on. Show me that you can fuck me. Bite the fuck back, you little fucker…”

He grinned. His dark eyes carrying a dangerous spark. He got exactly what he wanted. He watched how Pecco suddenly tried to push him away. He actually had to take a step back.

“Back the fuck off” he said, his voice darker than before. Marc just laughed.

“And here I was, thinking you were going to fuck me. That’s what you’ve been telling your little friends, isn’t it?” The wide eyes he got from his teammate was answer enough. But Marc didn’t had enough yet.

“What were you saying? That I was screwing you on track, so you fuck me off track? That you were fucking me until I’m desperate for you?”

He spit the words out. He wanted to get rid of them. Get rid of them in his mind. In Marco’s mind. Ban them from earth. He wanted to make just the thought of it look ridiculously impossible.

He stepped closer, hissing the following words, while staring right in Pecco’s eyes.

“Trust me, I wouldn’t even let you touch me if my life depended on it. Especially now that I know that you get an ego trip from lying about who you sleep with. The same way you can’t keep up with me on track, you couldn’t in bed as well…”

Finally he stepped a little bit back, giving the Italian room to breathe. He took a deep breath  himself. He still felt the rage in his chest. “You are even more pathetic than I thought you were, Bagnaia.”

“Marc, I-“ Pecco started but he fell silent when Marc turned back at him. His arms crossed on front of his chest.

“I am going to ask you that one time… Did you tell anyone- and I mean any living soul – that we ever had sex?” “Marc it… it was just a dumb lie.” He admitted. Marc shook his head. He looked down with a chuckle. “So you did?”

A dumb lie. That was what was ruining his relationship. It was what had absolutely nuked his relationship.

“As a joke! I- I just wanted to not look like a total loser in front of the academy. I mean – you join the team and immediately make me look like a nobody. I didn’t want them to continue joking about that so I said we’d sleep together. Nothing more. Hell, chill.” He said, rolling his eyes.

“Well maybe you should stop acting like a loser in front of your friends if you don’t want to be seen as one” “I’m sorry but what the fuck is your problem?” He shot back. “Sure it wasn’t the best thing to do but I am sure that this isn’t the first time someone said they had sex with you”

“No.” Marc said in all honesty. “But it is the first time the best friend of my boyfriend claims to have been sleeping with me, leading my boyfriend to think I have cheated.”

He felt a pang in his heart. It hurt to say it like that. And he wondered if he was even still allowed to call Bez that.

“Which I don’t.” he continued quickly. “Never. I hate cheating. It’s disgusting.”

The colour drained from the Italians face as he slowly seemed to understand what he was saying.

“So right now you – you! You and your stupid fucking lie! - are the reason my very good – and I mean extremely good and perfect – relationship is breaking down.” he cursed in frustration.

“Fucking hell, do you have any idea how obsessed I am with him? How much I love him? He met my god damn parents! Do you have any idea how many relationships I bought home?! And then it’s breaking down because of you?! Because you have self-worth issues?! Booh fucking hooo! Fucking hell!”

He was gesturing angrily and Pecco felt the shame creep in. He hadn’t enjoyed to lie to his friends but he hadn’t expected that things would turn out like this.

He had never even meant for things to go as long as they did. Never mind spiral down like this. It shouldn’t even have left the academy circle.

He had no idea how Marc even heard about it.

“Oh my god you have a – I didn’t know. I thought… I thought you were single –“ He tried to explain himself. “I never meant that this actually affects you. I just.”

Then he remembered what Marc had said. His best friend was Marc’s boyfriend. And he had only told the academy about the lie of sleeping with Marc. Which meant…  

“You.” He tried to make it make sense. “You are dating someone from the academy? Who?!” “Was. I fear. Thanks to you.” He growled, giving him a look that could surely kill.

“I… I am so sorry. I didn’t… I shouldn’t have said anything. I swear it was just a stupid lie that apparently spiralled out of control…”

He saw the frustration, the sadness and the pain etched in his face. He had really fucked up.

“Doesn’t matter now anyway” “Can I …? Maybe I can talk to him. Explain. Who… Who is it actually?” “No. I… I am pretty sure that will just make it worst” he muttered.

“Marc, I am really sorry. I didn’t-“ “Just… Fuck off”

With that he turned around and stepped back into the hazzle of the paddock. He disappeared, leaving Pecco confused and guilty. He knew he had to fix this. He had to tell Marc’s boyfriend that it was a lie. He had to come clean. But therefore he needed to know who his boyfriend was.

He thought back if any of his friends had mentioned a relationship. No. But as he thought back to the last weeks, ever since he had started that lie, he realized that one of them had started to act even more off than usual.

Bez.

His eyes went wide. “oh no” he mumbled. Suddenly a lot of things started to make sense.

Why Bez hadn’t been as joyful and clingy to him as usual. Why he had been so secretive about what he was doing for a few days at a time. Pecco now assumed he had been in Spain.

Why he left earlier and more often declined academy hang out during the race weekend. He had spend time with his boyfriend. With Marc.

Why he sometimes looked at him with a sad expression.

He couldn’t imagine what kind of pain he had caused his best friend.

He tried to imagine what Bez must have felt. The hurt. The betray. Not just from his boyfriend but also from his best friend. And he had kept it to himself for so long.

He wanted to hit himself. He had to figure this out. Somehow.

He started running. He knew he had to talk to Bez. He had to fix this somehow. So he ran to the Aprilia motorhome. He knocked and knocked. He called out for him, but didn’t got an answer.

He took out his phone and texted him. Left unread. He called him. It went to voice mail.

“Marco, hey” he said. “Call me back when you hear that. I need to talk to you. I really, really do!”

Pecco didn’t know that Bez’s phone was laying in the Italians hand, inside the motorhome. He had seen the incoming message, watched the call ring, listened to the song he had set for his best friend.

Marco had heard him yell out for him, knock on his door.

But he had just sat there, not moving, not saying anything, waiting for him to leave.

He didn’t want to see him. Or anyone. He was still 100% there for his job but as soon as he was done with his racing duties, he was done with socializing.

He had closed his eyes, wishing he could just disappear and not deal with anything and anyone anymore.

[jjoelmillers]

sherlock holmes - confessions

♫ billy joel - just the way you are

are we still alive in 2025, sherlock fandom? i have a gift for u <3

main masterlist | blog playlist

The four walls of your flat were suffocating. Every day was the same thing, over and over and it was growing tiresome. You couldn't remember the last time you had stopped to just relax. Work kept you at your desk long after most others would have finished, and it was an ever growing pile of papers. Sighing, you stood to stretch. 

"Jesus," you muttered to yourself as your back cracked. "I should move more, my god."

"Yes, you should."

Jumping, you spun round with a hand on your chest and wide-eyed. The surprise of the voice caught you off guard. 

"Fucking hell, Sherlock, could you not have knocked or something?"

"Didn't think I had to," Sherlock mused, his face unassuming but with a quick, small smile at you. Not uncommon for him, but you knew when he was actually in a mood and when he was just being Sherlock. He continued, going about his business as he spoke. "Why are you so jumpy, anyway? You normally hear me even when I'm quiet."

"I know," you sighed, moving to sit on your couch. "I've just been so swamped with work, I think my brain has just stopped functioning. I am running on fumes right now."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at you, seemingly unimpressed with your current state. Not out of annoyance, more out of care. He cared about you, and he hated to see you not taking proper care of yourself. Sherlock sat next to you on the couch, leaving the seat in the middle as a gap.

"You're overworking again, that's why you feel so bad. Take a break."

Turning to the curly haired man, you scowled a little and raised your eyebrows. 

"I'd thought about it, but upon realising how much I have left to do, it wouldn't be wise to lose my job over a break. I really have to get it done."

Your voice sounded exhausted, and Sherlock couldn't stand it. He watched on as you put your head in your hands, leaning on your elbows as they dug into your legs. Letting out a harsh sigh, you bit your bottom lip in frustration. Feeling a hand on your back, rubbing gentle lines up and down, your gaze turned round to the man beside you. 

"Relax," Sherlock said, his voice far softer than usual. This was probably the most emotion you'd seen from him in a while. He only got like this when you were really bad, or crying. You laughed, partly out of disbelief. 

"And how do you expect me to do that?" you asked, not unkindly. The detective pondered for a moment, before leaning back. 

"Come here."

Narrowing your eyes, you obeyed and moved to the seat over. Sherlock reached out and pulled you into him, so you rested in his side. One arms wrapped itself around your shoulders, the other one holding your head to his chest. His thumb ran gently along your jaw as he held you, and on instinct you wrapped your own arms around his waist. Listening to his heartbeat, you found yourself relaxing more and more. 

You didn't want to break the silence, it had become comfortable between you both as you lay there with him. Sherlock hadn't moved a muscle, allowing you to adjust and get settled however you need to. It was his silent admission that he was there, that you weren't alone and you had someone to help you with the stress. 

It had been like this between you both for a while, though there was no label. It wasn't romantic by any means, there was no kissing or other things involved. It was just intimacy, one being there when the other needed them. It was hugs and cradling each other, soothing panic attacks and fighting away tears. It was long chats into the night and midnight walks through the moonlit streets of North London. It was holding hands and smiles in times of happiness, and fighting each others demons in times of sadness. 

It was a strange relationship, but it worked for you both.

Sherlock felt you get heavier, knowing you were beginning to fully relax into him. Leaning his head down, he buried his face into your hair and placed a soft kiss atop your head, murmuring something you couldn't hear properly. Your grip around his waist loosened a little, and you rested your hand against his chest beside your head. 

"It's okay," you heard Sherlock whisper, almost inaudibly. "I've got you."

This had gone beyond previous times of help between you, it felt far more loving than ever. You weren't about to voice it and potentially ruin the moment, but it felt different. It felt as though something had shifted in this relationship, and as you lay there you began to think back to the past week. 

Sherlock had become more protective of you lately.

You noticed first when it came to a case he was working on, something about a man that was kidnapping people and asking for ransoms. You didn't know fully, you weren't allowed to. That wasn't normal, he always let you in on the case details because sometimes you could help and spot things he may miss, offer a different view and Sherlock appreciated your mindset and perspective. But this one he said was too risky, and he didn't want you hurt. He let John help, but not you.

The second was on one of your late night walks. He insisted on holding your waist and keeping you close to him the entire way. Sherlock said he had heard of some rather unsavoury people hanging around, but you hadn't and when you enquired about it, neither had John. One might say it was just an excuse to hold you, but Sherlock wasn't the type of man who would make something up just to do that, right?

The last time was now. 

Here you were, lay in the arms of the worlds only consulting detective. He was her with you, soft and gentle and a mile away from the Sherlock he presented to the world. Behind closed doors, inside the confines of your home, he was a different person. The Sherlock Holmes that Scotland Yard dealt with was not your Sherlock. For the most part, he was helpful and calm and kind. He was still forward and honest, and very much himself, but there was a difference you felt whenever you were alone with him.

"Something on your mind?" Sherlock's voice broke through your thoughts, and you lifted your head to look at him. 

"Oh, no," you lied. "Nothing, what makes you say that?"

"You've been fiddling with my shirt for the past two minutes, unbuttoning and rebuttoning that one there."

His voice was matter of fact as he nodded down to his currently unbuttoned shirt. Your eyes widened as you redid it and sat up, embarrassment settling in.

"Oh my god, I'm sorry! I didn't even-"

"It's not a problem," Sherlock cut you off, taking your hands in his own larger ones. "I'm not mad, I just wanted to check you were alright. You fiddle a lot when you're anxious or overthinking."

Had he noticed that all this time? He wasn't wrong by any means. You knew you got fidgety when nervous, or when your mind ran away with itself. Your fingers would find anything to play with, be it the hem of your shirt, a pen or anything you could get your hands on. Or in this case, Sherlock's shirt buttons. As long as it stopped you from biting your nails, that was all that mattered. But he had picked up on that, and taken it into account. 

 "No, I'm alright. I just got sidetracked with thinking about us, and all of this that we do."

Sherlock said nothing, but nodded as a sign for you to continue. You shuffled on the sofa, turning to face him a little better.

"I don't know, I don't know what I mean, Sherlock. I'm just thinking about us, because I love what we have here. I like that I can rely on you, and you care. And I'm glad you have me to help you when you need that same comfort. I've been thinking more about how much you care, and it feels like in the past week that you've started to show me a lot more care than you did."

Sherlock nodded again, allowing a small smile to creep onto his face. 

"You aren't wrong," he answered, placing his hand on your thigh. "I have shown you far more care than I have ever done as of late."

"Why?" you asked, in a voice so sweet and soft that Sherlock stuttered for a second. That never used to happen before. 

"I- Well, I- Things have changed for me now." Sherlock leaned forward so his face was closer to you, meeting you head on. His hand cupped your face, sitting comfortably there as his elbow leaned on the back of your sofa. He started again, and you listened like you never have done.

"I've realised I feel more for you than I ever have done for someone else. I care about you, but not like I care for John. My thoughts every morning are of you, and before I sleep it's always you. I always text you after work to make sure you got home safe, I'm here on call whenever I'm needed because I realised that you are exactly what I've needed."

Too stunned to speak, your mouth sat open a little as you took in his words. If you'd blinked you could have missed it, but for a second Sherlock's eyes left yours and dropped down to your lips briefly. Absentmindedly, his thumb traced along your bottom lip as his eyes regained contact with your own.

You just took in the moment. Sherlock Holmes was sat in front of you, looking at you with all the love he could hold and you couldn't think of how to respond. His touch felt like fire now, and you knew what he meant when he said he cared for you.

You were pulled away from your mind when he spoke your name, so low and full of love. 

"If you-"

"I feel the same, Sherlock." It was your turn to cut him off as he blinked a few times, his brows furrowing just a little. He was expecting rejection or dismissal of his confession. In his mind, who would want anything to do with him romantically? He hadn't really done it before, he had no idea how to handle a relationship. But, he felt something for you. With you, he would try. But hearing you say you felt the same unleashed another round of feelings for him.

Sherlock leaned forwards and took your jaw between his thumb and forefinger, his face so close to your own. Closing your eyes, you were expecting him to kiss you. Instead, you were met with a whisper as he leaned in to your ear, lips brushing against your skin lightly.

"May I kiss you?"

His request and asking for consent warmed your heart, even in his most vulnerable and open state he was still a proper gentleman. 

"Yes," you breathed out, and he placed a hand on your lower back and pulled you close, allowing his lips to find your own. The kiss was feverish, strong emotions being pulled from you both and sunk entirely into this one moment. Your hands found his hair, fingers scraping along his scalp as he held you close. Sherlock's arms found a home around your waist as he hoisted you up, onto his lap. There was no way he hasn't done this before, you thought. 

Breathless and in a state of bliss, you both pulled back to look at one another, eyes shining with a new found adoration. Sherlock had a lazy smile on his face, looking up at you as you held his face in your hands. You smiled back, pecking his lips again before speaking. 

"Is this what you want?" you asked, making sure he didn't regret what he'd just done. 

A look was shared between you both for a moment; a look that stated the obvious. If this did go ahead, it would be dangerous, and you would be a target for anyone wanting to get to Sherlock. He vowed to always keep you safe, and you trusted him to do so. You knew the risks and so did Sherlock. He squeezed your hips with his hands, nodding.

His answer came quietly, low, with an underlying hint of protection behind it. 

"This is all I have ever wanted."

[cupidstrace]

Two Days Before Goodbye

Summary; Two days isn't a second chance. It's not enough to fix the fact that he left, chasing the stage, the spotlight, a world far away from your own. But he's home for the weekend, and for a little while, it feels like you never had to say goodbye in the first place. Pairing; Geto Suguru x Reader

You ring the doorbell and wait, tapping your wrist like it might make time move faster. It doesn’t. That’s not how things work.

The door swings open without warning, and before you can react, two girls barrel you to the ground. They throw themselves at you, laughter spilling like the sunrise through a crack in the curtain.

One of them wraps her arms around your waist and buries her face in your stomach. The other rests her cheek on top of your head, giggling like this is routine. It is. You have a bad habit of being unable to reject their parent’s requests. “Are you babysitting tonight?”

You nod, a hand smoothing down her hair, letting yourself laugh. “I am, Mimi. Is your mom inside?”

She grabs your hand without waiting for a response and tugs you into the house. “Mommy and Daddy are getting ready. They’re going to the movies–”

Nanako cuts in, voice scandalized. “Without us!”

You bend down and scoop her into your arms, smiling when she squeals.

“You can’t watch those movies before bed,” you tease. “You’ll dream of ghosts and monsters.”

You pause, then grin. “Boo.”

She shrieks and buries her face in your neck.

Nanako and Mimiko are your family friend’s kids. You’ve been watching them since their older brother left home chasing something brighter. As if the world would give it to him if he just reached far enough.

You remember long nights on the rooftop, whispered dreams between mouthfuls of soda and sky. You said you’d stay nearby. Find a stable job, live a comfortable life. He said he’d change the world.

He was always an idealist in that sense.

Their parents leave with gentle smiles and the kind of kiss that says this is enough. You watch them from the doorway, heart tugging just slightly at the smallness of it all. Small house. Small town. Small, quiet happiness that doesn’t ask for more than what it has.

You settle the girls on the couch and flick through channels until a familiar voice crackles through the screen.

Suguru.

He’s in all black, hair slicked back, if only to look professional for the camera. His signature smile is on, and you wonder, briefly, if he rehearsed it in the mirror like he used to back then.

He’s smiling at a reporter, talking about duty and expectation and changing the world, just like he always does. “I write my songs for what I believe in. It’s a message that I’m unafraid to share, with or without a back track.”

Nanako has fallen asleep in the corner of the couch, a throw pillow cuddled to her face. Mimiko sits on a beanbag, eyelids drooping.

You smile gently and reach over to brush a bit of hair from Nanako’s cheek, lowering the volume to a gentle hum. On screen, Suguru continues. Calm. Self-assured. So different from the awkward boy who used to make up dumb songs on the ukulele just to make you laugh.

“He’s so cool,” Mimiko mumbles, rubbing her eyes with a small fist. “Everyone at school says he’s gonna be famous forever.”

“He already is,” you reply.

It’s strange, seeing him like this. Part of you still thinks of him as the boy who used to sneak out the window just to meet you at the gas station for slushies at 12 am. Not the man giving interviews in tailored jackets, not the voice playing on the radio every other hour.

The door opens.

Softly. Without announcement. Like something returning instead of arriving.

You turn, heart stalling in your chest.

Suguru stands in the entryway, suitcase in hand, jacket slung over his shoulder. His eyes scan the room, Nanako sleeping on the couch, Mimiko dozing off on the floor, and then land on you.

For a moment, neither of you says a thing. You feel like you’re drowning.

“Didn’t know you’d be here,” he says finally, setting down his bag.

You cross your arms a little too tightly, bracing for a hurt you already know. “Didn’t know you were coming home.”

He shrugs like his return doesn’t mean everything. “Figured I’d surprise them. Didn’t expect to surprise you too.”

You watch as he walks over and drops a kiss to the top of Mimiko’s head. She stirs, half-asleep. Then lights up. “Suguru!”

He grins back. Softer now. Not the smile he wears on billboards. “Hey, monkey.”

You should get up. Say goodbye. Maybe offer to stay the night and let him rest after his flight. 

But you don’t.

Instead, you let the silence settle again, thick and full of things neither of you have the courage to name.

“Still working at the bookstore?”

You blink. “You remembered that?”

He smiles, almost sheepish. Like he doesn't notice your heart is pounding and melting and aching all at once. “Hard to forget the way you talked about books.”

You laugh once. Quiet. “Yeah, still there. Stable job.”

He nods. “I always admired that about you. You knew what you wanted.”

“And you didn’t?”

“I did,” he murmurs. “Just didn’t think I’d have to give up everything else to get it.”

The weight of that settles between you. Nanako shifts in her sleep.

You want to ask if “everything else” means you. But you’re not seventeen anymore, and this isn’t the roof of your parents’ house. So instead, you say, “They’re good girls.”

He nods. “They love you.”

“Do you?”

The question leaves your mouth before you can stop it, and once it’s out, it sits between you like something fragile and splintering and crumbling into little pieces in your gut.

His eyes widen. Then he looks down.

“Of course.”

You don’t say anything.

Then, finally, you sigh. “You’re only here for the weekend, right?”

He hums in affirmation. “Sunday night flight.”

Two days. Forty-eight hours. You could measure it in sunrises or spoons in the sink or seconds spent too long looking at each other, and it still wouldn’t be enough.

You nod, standing slowly. “Then we’ve got two days.”

“Two days for what?”

You reach for a blanket to drape over Nanako’s shoulders. “To catch up. There’s leftovers in the fridge.”

Suguru doesn’t speak. Just watches you like he never stopped. Like he’s not someone famous, like he’s still the boy who loved the taste of gas station slushies and the sound of cicadas and laughter on summer nights.

Then he grins, the same crooked grin from years ago, when his lips were sticky with red syrup and his teeth were blue from brain freeze. “Lead the way.”

You head to the kitchen, flicking the light on as he follows behind. He starts humming some tune you recognize from the radio, softer than it sounds in your car.

Mimiko shifts on the beanbag, murmuring something about unicorns in her sleep, and you share an amused look.

For a moment, it feels like nothing’s changed at all. Like you’re seventeen again, like he’s still your best friend and not someone the whole world knows by name.

You open the fridge.

Behind you, he says, almost too casually, “I still remember your favorite.”

You glance back at him, a smile tugging at your lips. "Then you can help me plate it."

He hums in response. Familiar. Like he used to under the stars, back when time felt slower and the future wasn’t so far away.

And, if only for tonight, the world feels small again. Small enough to hold in your hands.

Two days won’t change anything. Not really.

But they might be enough to remember what it felt like before everything did.

[threegoldfish]

Tell him I said thank you, Harrow says - follows it up with some more words, an apology even, and Marc presses his lips together into a thin line as they continue to walk closer and closer to that damn supermarket that just exists there like nothing had ever happened to begin with.

The planet continues to spin - had always done such, will always do precisely that in the future. No matter whether someone was shot to death, the entire world about to crumble into pieces, a single individual on a mission with another managing to stop it all from happening in the end. I am sorry, Harrow said to that, and something inside Marc feels the urge to let out a sharp, humorless laugh at that.

---He does not, just remains quiet. Sure thing, not only had that guy who's currently strolling into that damn building with him shot and killed him - he'd also sent a Jackal after Steven, made him lose his job, judged people based on some bullshit that hasn't even happened to begin with, tried to eradicate a good chunk of humanity---

A lot to unpack there, a lot of feelings that bleed into one another, both from Marc and Steven, perhaps a hint of Jake even though he's not around currently. Marc had expected to be done with the whole of what this bullshit is - had told himself he'd worked through it all somehow, as if existing next to his two alters is some sort of therapy for him, making those nightmares and PTSD easier to endure; He was wrong, apparently, because here he is and while he is currently taking that guy with him to buy him something to eat and drink - because fuck, look at Harrow, he's a damn husk of his former self! - he's also struggling with... all of this. The weight that keeps lingering, the truth that makes the air feel thick and hard to breathe.

The inside of that supermarket is as cold and sterile as that damn sign is - but on the better side of things, still. Carries a lot of vegan stuff, so they allow themselves to be a bit more posh, add some decorations here and there, keep the aisles clean and present everything rather nicely; One reason for them to raise the prices, but it's fine, because Marc's kind of a rich bitch thanks to his wannabe-gangster-partner going out at night to do his thing. Lucky Steven getting to enjoy his Almond Milk and vegan treats this way.

A basket is being grabbed at the entrance, a motion Marc has done a million times by now.

"I-I'm... not sure what to say to that.", Steven mutters after a while, having needed a moment there to think about Harrow's apology; A reflection of him pops up when Marc walks along one aisle, existing within a piece of shiny plastic...

"It's alright. No need to even give an answer to begin with." A glance at Steven's expression, silent affirmation, something soft before a gaze hardens again and trails elsewhere.

"---Lets start with something to eat."

Yes, Marc is ignoring the other's previously spoken words on purpose here; A nod over to where some ready to eat meals are, like sandwiches and whatever, he gestures for Harrow to follow him as he makes his way over. "I'm sure you're hungry. Grab something. Anything. ---Or I'll do it myself and you gotta live with whatever I take for you."

It sounds like a mild threat of sorts, but it also doesn't at the same time - more like a joke of sorts, just very dry, plain. Dark eyes linger at the selection in front of them...

"---He's a tour guide now. At the very same museum." A pause. "Steven, I mean. Doing tours for the ancient Egypt exhibition. He's real good at it." Not that Harrow needs to know this little detail, but... well, perhaps Marc just wants to let that man know that his efforts to try and kill Steven - causing in the poor man to be kicked from the museum back then - only managed to give him something better in the end.

If he were a damn kid still, he'd stretch his tongue out at Harrow. He doesn't, obviously, but the urge is there.

Arthur nodded, slow and shallow. He wasn’t here. That should have felt better than it did. The last thing he wanted was for Khonshu to be here - and yet he still found himself disappointed. 

He swallowed, eyes flicking to the supermarket sign that sat up ahead. It was glowing faintly in the grey light of day - too ordinary to be comforting, and yet too mundane to feel real. He wasn’t used to places like this, and he didn’t know if he ever would be. Not when he was used to temples, blood, the community that he had built only to have destroyed around him. 

“Good,” he said eventually, though the word came out strange. Thin.

He didn’t elaborate. He didn’t say that part of him still half-expected to turn his head, and catch that skeletal beak looming over him, the hiss of a voice that curled into his bones. He didn’t say that he sometimes still felt Khonshu’s eyes watching him - that he sometimes missed the structure of it. 

There had been order, at the very least. It had been cruel, it had been twisted and hollow, but it had made sense. 

He preferred the silence, allowing it to sit for just a moment. The world was so much quieter than he’d remembered - sometimes to the point of being painful, and sometimes to the point of being therapeutic. Sometimes it was lonely, sometimes it was relaxing to be so independent. 

He wasn’t certain whether or not he would be better off dead. But with death being a promise at the end of his life, it seemed right to not waste this time. 

Arthur glanced to Marc, and then away. Nothing big, just a small look. “Tell him I said thank you,” he answered, not entirely certain how communications between them worked. “And… that I’m sorry. For everything. And for making him… lose his job.” It felt like a worthless thing to be sorry for, when compared to the worse things he’d done, but it still felt important at the same time. It had been clear that Steven had enjoyed his job, to some extent. 

Arthur liked to think that he wouldn’t’ve attacked him there, had he known that Steven was a separate being from Marc. He knew, however, that he would have done anything Ammit wanted - and she had wanted Marc out of the picture. Rightfully so, seeing as how Marc had been able to singlehandedly undo Arthur’s years of work. 

[somnoir]

Little star's favorite

It all started when Talia came to Gotham with a gift.

The gift in question was a twelve year old boy.

Bruce stared at the boy who was almost the exact replica of Damian if not for the blue eyes and longer hair. He looked utterly perplexed at the sight of Bruce, tilting his head before frowning at his mother with a visibly displeased look.

"Beloved, may I introduce you to Danyal, our Damian's twin brother. He was... Away... On a mission until recently." Talia hummed, a hand on Danyal's back.

"You... You didn't think to tell me about him when you told me about Damian?" Shutting his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose. He looked down at the boy who looked a little more like him than Talia and felt himself softening. "Hello Danyal."

"Hello."

Talia smiled, before her expression fell. "A little warning, beloved. The twins do not get along. Damian is quite the competitive child and Danyal... Well, he's the nicer one if I must say." She shrugged, running her fingers through her son's hair before pressing a kiss to his forehead. "Go on now, Najmi As-Sagheer (my little star)."

"Ummi... Must I join them? I am perfectly fine with remaining in the league." Danyal muttered, eye twitching but his expression was quickly schooled into neutrality.

"Yes, Danyal." She sighed, "I have no intention of letting father keep you."

Bruce raised a brow at her words.

"That is a conversation for another time, habibi." Talia lazily insisted, gently pushing Danyal towards Bruce.

Bruce, for all he's lived, immediately recognized a feral cat in the form a child. Yep. Another Damian. That was seemingly the nicer one.

But he was scruffy little thing who was being called little star by his mother. Bruce blinked, offering his hand to Danyal (like how a person would do by letting a cat sniff his hand to see if they were safe).

Danyal, more twitchy and annoyed than his brother, looked at the hand like it had personally offended him.

And that is how Batman brought home another child while holding him by the scruff.

(Danny hated everyone except for Alfred—both cat and butler)

Danyal was a much quieter person compared to Damian. Unlike his brother who had practically came into their lives guns blazing and declaring that he was the rightful heir to the bat, Danyal mainly ignored them. He would glare, snarl, and scowl, but not in the way Damian did. The kid was obviously threatened by them, but more for his own safety rather than inheritance.

He avoided them like the plague, only welcoming the company of Alfred and occasionally Cass.

He didn't join in on the vigilante business, opting to stay back with Oracle and just quietly direct them on their missions. It was strange in all honesty.

They didn't know much about Danyal, aside from the fact that his mother called him little star for his natural love of space. That he liked to tinker with gadgets and make his own weapons. That he really liked fudge.

Aside from that, the kid was quiet and was usually hiding out in his room.

Tim wasn't particularly thrilled to have another demon brat in the family. He avoided Danyal as much as possible expecting for the boy to be just like his brother and attack him.

But apparently not.

It's one of those unfortunate times that Tim's sleep deprivation and overload on energy drinks gets him benched by Alfred and not Bruce. No one particularly wanted to argue with their beloved butler/grandpa so Tim was stuck in place. It was a much quieter night than usual, almost peaceful (as much as Gotham can get).

Babs was relieved of her duties to have a night off, rest and relax and such, while Tim manned the bat computer in Oracle's place. He almost didn't notice the mop of black hair that suddenly appeared beside him.

Tim didn't want to admit it, but he flinched at Danyal's presence and how he was quietly standing there with a tray of coffee and cookies. Blue eyes blinked at him, silently pushing the tray forward to offer Tim the lone cup (most likely for him) and the plate of cookies.

Suspicious, Tim narrowed his eyes. "Alfred wouldn't make me coffee after benching me for this kind of thing."

Danyal shrugged, "Made it myself. Thought you'd need it since the others will be gone for a while."

"That's poisoned."

"It's not." Danyal frowned, immediately taking the cup and taking a couple sips himself before once again offering it to Tim.

Now, Tim wasn't stupid enough to ignore the possibility of Danyal having some tolerance to poison. But Tim was also tolerant to a lot of poisons so might as well.

When taking one sip, he was already feeling weird. One, there was no poison. Two, it was actually pretty good.

Danyal just sat there and stared at the screen, munching on cookies and pointing at the screen whenever Robin started to stray from the patrol route. Tim had a lot of fun reportingtattling to Bruce about it.

Eventually, it became a routine.

Danyal always sat beside Tim. Quiet and just offering random stuff, either food, some little gadget he made, or just the most bizarre stuff he found while at school.

Tim learned many things about his weird little brother. How cameras go crazy around him. How he had his reasons for not being touched. How Danyal was more silent than Cass. How Danyal vanished and reappeared at times.

(The glowing green eyes were the most concerning.)

He never really took notice of how Danyal started to gravitate to him. Always with him, barely without.

(Tim refused to admit that he was just the same.)

"Can I go on patrol with you?" Danyal asked, tugging at his Red Robin suit with a curious look. "I wanna meet Poison Ivy and Harley Quinn."

And Tim didn't really see much of a problem with that. Danyal was a highly trained assassin that Ra's apparently trusted to go on a solo mission while Damian had to be whisked away from the league. It wasn't too absurd for Tim to just shrug and let his kid brother tag along.

He was also very sure that his baby brother was an eldritch being with how the shadows seemed to rise around him. Yeah, the baby was a cryptid amongst a family of supposed cryptids. Very fitting.

It's a nice night. With Danny running amok with Tim, clearly having fun. But that one looks of sadness didn't escape Tim when Danny paused and looked to the sky with longing.

Tim remembers how Danny rambled about the stars in their shared moments, where it's just them.

Tim remembers how Danny would describe the sky in Nanda Parbar and how he often snuck out just to see it.

Tim remembers how much his little brother likes space and turns to the cloudy sky of Gotham that hides the stars.

Tim remembers how he was often depraved of the brotherly love he wanted. How he didn't get the full experience of having an older brother.

"You okay, little star?"

Danyal snapped his head towards Tim, eyes blown wide and flashing green (he knows that wasn't normal but he ignores that in favor to the way Danyal visibly softens at the nickname).

"'m okay, akhi." Danyal muttered, following after Tim after adjusting his own hood.

And it's like his heart stops.

Yep.

Tim has had Danyal for barely a year and he was willing to throw hands with Ra's, Talia, and Bruce for him.

"C'mon, qalbi(my heart). Batburger's still open."

He barely noticed the shift after that. But others think it's a glaring change that often made them stop and stare.

Danyal went to Tim whenever he needed anything.

If Danyal wasn't in bed, you'd find him snuggled up to Tim.

Danyal hated it when people touched him... Except for Tim.

Danyal liked Tim the most.

The day Dick thought it was a good idea to call Danyal 'Danny' (a nickname that was only used by Tim and Alfred), he almost got stabbed. Well, that's where all the stabbiness went to.

Safe to say, Tim was Danny's favorite.

And Danny was Tim's.

"Drake! What have you done to my brother?!" Damian pointed a katana at Tim, who lazily glanced his way before turning back to Danny who was comfortably snuggled up to him and watching Blue while Tim scrolled on Tiktok.

"I haven't done anything to Danny, demon brat. Now shoo!" Tim's irritation could be heard from a mile away, shamelessly shooing Damian away with a flick of his wrist. Then the next second, he was combing his fingers through Danny's hair and listening to his younger brother make a purring noise.

(Another point of investigation because that is not fucking normal, Tim. Cute though!)

"I refuse to believe that Danyal would prefer you over me!"

"You're just salty that he stabs you like you stab me." Tim waved him off again, watching as Danny yawned and continued to ignore everyone else.

The click of a camera immediately alerts him and he's tugging Danny down before the much younger boy lunges at Dick.

"Woah! What's up with him?" Dick nervously asked, instinctively raising his phone above his head.

"Delete that!" Tim snarled, pulling Danny closer and guiding his brothers face to his shoulder. "You know he hates it when people take pictures without consent!"

(Tim doesn't tell them that something goes every wrong with the footage if Danny was ever in the picture.)

"Dick." Tim warned, effortlessly picking up Danny, because yes, his seemingly cryptid baby brother could become weightless, and snatched Dick's phone. Yep. Instead of Danny, there was a very strange figure, a glitching silhouette of black and green. He deletes it immediately.

Dick was pouring, "I don't have any pics of Danny—"

"Don't call me that, Richard." Danny scowled, clinging to Tim like a koala. He was strangely more child-like than Damian, muttering about annoying people who interrupted bonding time. (Dick was just forced to pout.)

"Danyal." Damian crossed his arms, scowling at Danny who was still comfortably cuddled up to Tim. "It is not appropriate to cling to Drake in such a way! You will embarrass our mother and father if you are seen acting like a petulant child!"

Tim wanted to argue that no, he wouldn't embarrass Talia and Bruce by being a kid, but Danny just grabbed a cookie from nowhere (note to self, add possible teleportation powers to cryptid baby) and shoved it into his mouth.

Danny just yawned, fixing Damian with a lazy glare.

"Tuhali, can you shut up?"

Damian stood stock still, while Jason and Bruce choked on their own spit. Jason slapping a hand over his mouth and Bruce just staring at his twins like the apocalypse was about to return.

"What did you just call me?"

Danny yawne again, "My spleen."

Tim knew what Tuhali meant. Of course he fucking knew Arabic! But to think that his cryptid baby brother was straight up calling Damian his spleen?

The spleen that Tim doesn't have.

The spleen that's important to the immune system but you can survive without it?

Tim grinned, grabbing his cryptid baby and made a run for it.

Yep.

Danny was definitely his favorite.

Credits to: @strangergraphics for the dividers used.

[stellamarielu]

first thing

jack abbot x female reader

summary: lazy mornings with jack are few and far between, but they always exceed your expectations or jack topping you from the bottom while you ride him first thing in the morning!

content: nsfw, 18+ mdni, literally nothing but smut, established relationship of some sort (let your imaginations run wild), p in v sex, dirty talk bc of course, excessive use of the nickname baby, jack being a veryyy lowkey pleasure dom

word count: 1.1k

author’s note: i’m a firm believer that our dear dr. abbot has a filthy mouth, so of course i had to write something nasty for him. the lack of smut for that smug son of a bitch is criminal. also i am convinced that he would call you baby in bed, but only in bed. i dont think he’d be one for pet names, but something about him being all pussy drunk and calling you baby through low raspy groans. yeah. that is all… enjoy!

“You havin’ fun up there?” Jack’s voice was peppered with self-righteous teasing. His words melted into the air through a lazy drawl as you straddled his lap, his dick buried deep between your legs.

Fifteen minutes ago, you were both fast asleep, bodies intertwined under his linen sheets.

You stirred awake in each other's arms, a tangled mess of limbs in the soft yellow hues of morning light that fought through the blinds. Slow sensual touches on bare skin led to your body on top of his. Feeling the familiar stretch as you sunk down on him, you took your time rolling your hips and coaxing quiet grunts from the man below you before either of you could even think about getting out of bed for the day.

It was rare for you to have an upper hand in the bedroom. When it came to Jack, dominance was his territory, the power associated with it fed his ego. It was uncommon to catch him in a moment of vulnerability, but sometimes you found him trading his strong willed attitude for a more docile demeanor. It often appeared when he was preoccupied or overcome with the need for relief, giving into the soft comfort of your hands on his body. He had to be just needy enough to willingly let take the lead, and even then, he could never fully submit.

He used his words in retaliation.

Maybe his rigid frame would melt under your touch, or his inhibitions would fall to the side at the sound of your pathetic little moans, but he would always rely on his words to remind you who was really in charge. 

“Nice and slow just like that.” The deep rasp of his voice echoed between your bodies; his instruction still laced with sleep. 

A smirk peeked through his slumber worn expression, fingertips resting at the flesh of your waist as your body pressed into his.

His head fell back into the pillow, eyes threatening to close, and you could feel his fingers hug harder into your skin with each rock of your hips.  

“There you go.” He held you, trying his best to let you set the pace, but desperately wanting to tighten his grip and drag you along his body— rough and impulsive. 

Your fucked-out stare scanning him from above was the only thing keeping him in check.

Your pleading eyes begged for control. They practically oozed with desperation as you rode him. It was enough to make his grasp soften as he surrendered to your desire, watching as you used him to please yourself. Used him. His dick pulsed at the notion. 

Jack was addicted to you, mind numbingly obsessed with the soft gasps that fell from your lips every time you came. He swore those sounds alone could give him a buzz unlike any drug. Some nights, he’d make you finish on his fingers so many times he’d lose count. He needed to make you feel good— wanted to watch the way your body reacted to his touch. It held a different kind of control, witnessing you give yourself over to him with your back arched and your head thrown back.

“Show me how you want it baby.” His voice was attentive as he fed into your delusion of power. 

You were grinding into him. Your movements bordering on pitiful with your palm flat against his chest as you held yourself upright. Little whimpers of surrender made their way from your chest with each pass of your hips over his, angling yourself just right so that his tip brushed against the perfect spot with every movement. 

Fluttering shut in the inevitable anticipation of release; your eyes left his. You were basking in the warmth of his hands on your bare body; one of them trailing up your torso, the pads of his fingertips tracing into your skin, higher and higher until,

“Eyes on me.” Delicately, he held the nape of your neck, forcing your stare back on his as he pulled you closer to him. 

You dumbly nodded your head. Handing him back an ounce of authority as you followed his command through a hooded gaze.

“Look at you. So goddamn pretty for me.” 

Your jaw went slack at his words, mouth slightly open and brows knit together as the pressure building in your abdomen threatened its release. 

He could feel each greedy response of your body— could sense your impending orgasm with every clench of your thighs, and he was done letting you take the reins.

His hips snapped up to meet yours. Thrusts moving in tandem with each grind of your hips.

“Shit- you feel too fuckin’ good.” Profanities spilled from his throat at the satisfaction of having full control.

He was holding onto your hips and fucking into you from below. The tensing of your body and the sweet moans dripping from your tongue only adding to his pleasure. You were his. He needed it— craved the promise of your devotion in the breathless praise of his name on your lips.

“Come on baby let me have it.” Growling out in a low moan, he all but begged you to finish for him— finish on him. Pushing you right over the edge with just a few simple words and the persuasive quality of his voice. 

Your walls hugged tight in obedience, a string of whines leaving your throat as you came undone around him.

“There she is.” His statement of recognition seeped with affection while his grip on your hips remained unrelenting.

The high of your release persisted as Jack’s thrusts kept purpose, his hands on your body holding you steady. 

“Got another one for me?” A sadistic warmth took over his voice, and he drove into you harder. The question obviously rhetorical as he made sure to hit the spot that made you clench around him.

The day began around you as gentle sunlight filled the room, but neither of you had a single thought of getting out of bed anytime soon.

[incognit0slut]

Angel

PART 5 OF KINKTOBER | MAIN MASTERLIST

Single Dad!Spencer x Nanny!Reader Spencer likes having you around to look after his daughter, in fact, he likes you a bit too much.

content: (18+) 5.4k, breeding kink, fingering, fem oral, unprotected p in v sex, creampie, overstimulation, d/s dynamic but he still tries to be a gentleman although reader doesn’t want him to, mutual pining, body worship with slight religious metaphors bc he’s down so bad, and of course sweet aftercare a/n: 1) i know the gif isn’t spencer but i just had to; 2) i changed the title from the original plan bc i was listening to angel baby while writing this; 3) if i have the chance to describe his happy trail and tummy i will in a heartbeat; 4) this fic is basically the epitome of D-I-L-F!

“I want you to understand,” he mutters against your skin, kissing the sensitive spot just below your ear, “that I’m not trying to take advantage of you.”

A hand creeps up the back of his neck. “What if I want you to?”

“I’m serious.”

“I am serious. I’m not the one hesitating.”

His hand glides slowly up your side, fingertips barely ghosting over your skin, and a soft, shaky breath escapes his lips. “I’m trying to be responsible."

“I think we’re past being responsible,” you counter as his fingers trace your waist. “What are you so worried about, anyway? You’re not forcing me into anything.”

“I want to make sure you don’t feel like—” his fingers twitch, lingering over your bare skin, “—like I’m taking advantage of the situation.”

“I’m literally naked under you,” you remind him. “If anyone’s taking advantage here, it’s me.”

His forehead drops to your shoulder, and you feel the slow rise and fall of his chest as he exhales. “You’re making this really hard, you know that?”

“That’s kind of the point.”

And it’s true, Spencer realizes with a rush of heat, because he’s incredibly hard, the heavy length of his cock pressed against your stomach while he braces his weight above you. His lungs tighten, squeezing around breaths that feel too thick to swallow as his teeth graze his lower lip. It takes everything in him to keep from losing himself when his mind is already slipping.

How could he have ever imagined it would go this far?

Spencer can’t quite make sense of how this quiet, unassuming crush that crept in the first time he saw you with his daughter has led to this. It wasn’t anything grand or sudden, just this slow bloom that unfurled every time he caught you reading to Violet or laughing with her over some little joke in the living room. There was just something about the way you slipped so easily into his life, fitting into the spaces he hadn’t realized were empty until you filled them.

He’d never let himself imagine it would go beyond that. He’d convinced himself those feelings for you were just something he’d have to live with quietly, a small ache that would fade with time. But somehow, despite his best efforts to keep it hidden, you’d found your way to him. And against all his expectations, you liked him back. You like him enough that you’re now wearing nothing but a smile.

Flushed skin kissed by the moonlight spilling through the window.

Innocent eyes touched with a hint temptation.

It all feels like some sort of surreal dream.

The moment that led to this replays in his mind, clear as daylight even if it happened well past midnight. He’d gotten home somewhere between too late and way too late, running on nothing but caffeine and sugar, and there you were, leaning casually against the kitchen counter like it was the most natural thing in the world.

You started talking about your day with Violet, recounting how you’d taken her to the park, read her favorite book before bed, and how she’d peppered you with endless questions about why the sky changes colors when the day changes into night. But something was different in your voice, a softness to the way you said his name, and your gaze lingered on him just a beat longer than usual. It wasn’t anything obvious, nothing he could point to and say that’s it, but he felt it. An almost imperceptible shift in the air.

Before he knew it, he had crossed the room and kissed you. He should’ve thought it through or paused to consider the consequences, but the way you responded made it clear you’d been waiting just as long for his attention.

His shoulders fall with a quiet exhale.

“This could get complicated,” he continues, as if reminding you (and maybe himself) that there’s a line between employee and employer that he’s about to cross. A line that could change everything between you both once it’s blurred. “We should think about what this means.”

“We’ve had plenty of time to think. If you wanted to stop, you would’ve done it already.”

“I don’t think you understand what I’m trying to say.”

“Then please enlighten me.”

Instead of answering right away, he leans in, his lips finding the curve of your neck. His breath is warm against your skin, and then he’s gently pulling the tender flesh between his lips that draws a sudden moan from your throat. The sound seems to fuel him, and before you can even register what’s happening, his fingers are already slipping lower, exploring the soft space between your thighs.

“What if I want more than this?” His fingers inch closer, teasingly brushing against your heat with a slowness that borders on torment. “What if I want everything?”

Your hips buck against his hand. “Everything?”

“Everything,” he confirms. “Not just tonight.”

The words send a ripple of electricity that blooms deep in your core. When his fingers finally slip between your folds, a sharp gasp escapes your lips before you can hold it back.

“You… you mean you want… more than this? More than just us… here?”

“Yes,” he replies, his voice catching like gravel in his throat as his fingers trace over the slickness he’s found. “Does that scare you?”

For a moment, words fail you. The slow, coaxing rhythm of his fingers pulls you deeper into a haze where coherent thoughts are hard to grasp. There’s a pause, a heartbeat where he stops. Waiting.

“No,” you confess, the truth slipping out more easily than you expected. “It doesn’t.”

He pulls back just enough to meet your eyes. “It doesn’t?”

Your lungs expand, filling with a rush of oxygen and a nervous flutter that lands somewhere in the pit of your stomach. “I think this is the right time to tell you I’ve had a crush on you for a while.”

Spencer stays motionless for a beat. Then something shifts—his gaze softens, and a small, almost incredulous smile curves his lips. “You have a crush on me?”

“Yeah.”

“As in… you have feelings for me?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“So you’re not just… turned on right now?”

“Well, that too,” you admit with a grin, your fingers brushing the back of his neck. “But it’s more than that. I really like you.”

His smile widens, and his fingers begin to move again, circling your clit with just the right pressure to pull a sharp intake of breath from you. It’s as though your confession is a final green light he’d been waiting for. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

Your teeth catch your lip, struggling to hold back fragments of breath. “I thought it was obvious,” you manage between heavy exhales. “Why do you think I always stay late?"

"To avoid traffic?"

You huff. "I tried to be around you as much as possible, Spencer."

His fingers toy at the edge of your entrance, tracing the slick, warm wetness that clings to his skin as a quiet hum rumbles in his chest. “You know I’m not always the best at picking up social cues.”

“You’re a profiler.” Your breath catches halfway between a gasp and a sigh when he slides a finger in. “You're supposed to notice everything."

He lets your words settle, eyes narrowing slightly as he turns them over in his mind.

“I guess I was too focused on trying not to cross any lines to see the ones you were trying to draw."

A soft moan escapes your lips as another finger slides in.

“I'm… glad you finally caught on."

"I'm catching on now.”

His eyes drop to the way your body greedily takes his fingers. The sight alone sends a rush of heat straight to his gut like a line of fire winding up through his chest and spreading into his limbs. You’re dripping, the slick sound of your arousal nearly derails him as he continues to watch the wetness coat his fingers with every slow thrust.

“Since when have you had this crush?” He asks curiously.

There’s a beat of silence, only punctuated by the soft, breathy noises escaping you. When he finally looks up, he catches the way your face scrunches in pleasure, brows furrowed and eyes barely open, and he can’t help but find it almost unbearably adorable. The corners of his lips twitch with a quiet laugh before he leans in, pressing the softest it’s okay, you can tell me kiss against your lips.

“Since when?”

You blink your eyes open at his question, and there’s a flush of embarrassment in your cheeks.

“Since—” you start, but your voice catches when he curls his fingers slightly, and you bite down on your lip to keep from moaning. He raises an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth quirking up in a barely-contained grin.

“Since?” he prompts again.

You swallow the lump tightening in your throat. “Since you interviewed me for the job."

He absorbs your words. "That’s… more than a while."

"It was innocent at the time," you confess, trying to regain some control over your thoughts. "Just a silly little crush."

His pace quickens, fingers plunging deeper, and whatever sense of composure you had left is slipping away piece by piece. “What changed?”

Desperation claws at you with every passing second, your hips moving against his hand as you scramble to gather your thoughts. But the way his fingers are mapping every sensitive spot makes it nearly impossible to articulate anything coherent. He doesn’t miss the way your breath stutters, or how your words break apart into fragmented attempts to answer.

“I-I—” you stammer, wincing as the words catch in your throat before you finally manage to continue, “I probably shouldn’t say…”

“Why not?”

“It’s embarrassing."

He lets out a soft laugh. “Tell me anyway,” he urges. “I want to hear it.”

You fall quiet again, and the only sounds that fill the space between you is the ragged pull of your breaths and the slick rhythm of his fingers pumping lazily inside you. The words sit heavy on your tongue, threatening to disappear if you don’t say them quickly enough.

"Remember when… you taught Violet how to… ride her bike?”

He tilts his head slightly. There’s a furrow in his brow as he searches your face. “You’re going to have to be more specific, there were a lot of lessons.”

“The very first time.”

“Ah,” he muses. “Around June, then.”

You nod. “When I… saw you with her that day, I-I… I got curious.”

His fingers falter, just slightly, the subtle pause enough to show that you’ve grabbed his attention. “Curious?”

“Yeah,” you whisper. “You were so adorable with her… and I started thinking about what it would be like… to have your kids.”

If there was ever a moment to leave him utterly speechless, this was it. His brain seems to stall, the gears grinding to a halt as the reality of what you’ve said settles in. He’s spent so much time trying to be the one holding it all together, but now? Now all he could picture was you holding a baby—his baby—and the thought sent his mind reeling, knocking him off balance in a way he didn’t expect.

“You… thought about that?”

Your fingers trails his shoulder before slipping up into his hair, curling gently at the nape of his neck. “It crossed my mind more than once.”

“That’s—” wow. He leans his forehead against yours. “Not embarrassing. At all.”

“Really?”

“That’s probably the hottest thing I've ever heard in my life.”

You let out a soft chuckle, gently pulling on his curls before drawing his bottom lip into a gentle suck. “It’s never been innocent since then.”

Goosebumps rises along his skin, and the heat pooling low in his stomach tightens as he grows impossibly harder. “Yeah?”

“I’ve wanted you to fuck me for a long time.”

His jaw clenches.

He’s so close to completely losing it.

“You shouldn’t say things like that,” he mutters, pressing his fingers deeper inside you.

“Why.. why not?”

“Because I might give you exactly what you want.” When he feels you clench around him, he huffs in amusement. “Oh, you like that, don’t you?”

There’s a tender spot he finds deep inside, one that feels achingly sensitive, and your mouth falls open, a soundless gasp escaping before you can catch it.

“You really mean it,” he says, more a realization than a question, as he watches your body go pliant beneath his touch.

“I do,” you manage to say.

“You want me that way?”

You nod frantically. “Want your cum in me.”

The second those words leave your lips, his groan rumbles through his chest, and you swallow it down as his mouth crashes into yours. The kiss is messy, teeth clashing and tongues tangling in a chaotic rhythm that’s both desperate and needy. When he finally pulls away, you’re left panting, your lips swollen, his forehead resting against yours.

“Never would’ve guessed you had such a dirty mouth."

"There's a lot of thing you don't know about me."

His breath brushes against your lips as he whispers, “I’m starting to figure that out.”

When he slowly withdraws his fingers, you can’t help the soft whimper that escapes your throat. Your eyes follow his every move as he sits up and settles between your thighs. You’ve always thought Spencer was an attractive man, and you’d be lying if you said you hadn’t admired the way his shirts fit just snug enough to hint at what was underneath. But seeing him naked like this? That was a whole new level of breathtaking.

Your gaze trails down his frame, landing on the soft curve of his stomach, something you'd secretly adored every time it pressed against his dress shirts. It was even more captivating without anything hiding it now, especially with the trail of dark hair leading down. Soft, scattered strands, drawing your eyes right to the place where you can’t help but stare.

He gives himself a slow pump. Once. Twice. And then, finally, you feel the firm pressure of his tip pressing between your folds.

“Are you sure?” he asks, the head of his cock sliding over your sensitive skin. “There's a condom in my drawer."

Your body tenses at the thought of him pulling back, and without thinking, your hand reaches between the two of you, wrapping around his cock before he can pull away. “When was the last time you got tested?”

He exhales sharply. “A few months ago,” he mutters, hips twitching against your grip despite himself. “If there was any risk, I wouldn’t even consider this without telling you.”

“I got tested last month,” you assure him quickly. “We’re both safe.”

He nods absentmindedly. “We can… still grab the condom if you want…”

“Spencer,” you interrupt, gently brushing the bead of precum that had formed at his tip. “I thought I made it clear I want you to cum inside me.”

He can only stare as your delicate finger trails along the thick vein. It feels like all the oxygen he’s desperately clinging to has been sucked from his lungs.

“I know you said you don’t want to take advantage of me…” you continue, guiding him right to your entrance. “But I really want you to.”

He finally lets out a low, gruff sound, something between a growl and a sigh as he slowly pushes himself in. His eyes are locked on the sight of your walls stretching to accommodate his size, watching as your body struggles to take him.

"You should stop talking like that," he rasps through gritted teeth. "I’m barely holding it together."

"Here's another thing you should know about me.”

He ruts gently into you. A push. A pull.

A heartbeat in between.

“I really like it rough."

That’s all it takes.

He slams his hips into yours.

Intense doesn’t even begin to describe what he feels. It’s more like a surge, a rush of heat and desperation that floods every inch of him the same time you cry out. His throat tightens, constricting around breaths he can’t seem to catch as he resorts to inhaling sharply through his nose.

“Jesus… you feel so—” His words falter, his voice rough and breathless as his fingers figs into your skin. His chest rises and falls with each labored breaths, and his eyes squeezes shut for a moment.

Tight. Warm. Wet. That’s exactly how you feel.

"Perfect." His large hands grips your waist. “You’re perfect.”

You mewl at his words, the sound spilling from your lips before you can stop it, and the soft, needy noise is enough to make his eyes flicker open. He begins to pull back, just enough to make you whimper from the sudden loss of contact, but before you can catch your breath, he snaps his hips forward with a rough, powerful thrust.

Your hands fly to his arms, holding onto him tightly. "Spencer… Please…”

He lets out a sigh.

No man is immune to that tone of desperation, least of all Spencer. Not when you’re offering yourself to him like something out of a dream. Not when your eyes lock onto his with a look that belongs more to an angel—if angels could be so helpless and desperate. Because what angel pleads with every breath for more?

What angel cries out as he holds your hips firmly in place and thrusts with a force that drives you to the brink of sanity?

He’s mesmerized. His eyes track the way your breasts bounce with each snap of his hips. There’s something almost greedy in the way his gaze roams over you, but it’s when he locks onto where your bodies meet that he really loses himself. A glossy ring coats his cock each time he pulls out, and when he pushes back in, the friction between your bodies creates a lewd, wet sound that fills the room.

He laughs. Not out of mockery, but out of sheer delight.

You’re an angel wrapped in sin.

“I can’t—oh god, right there—” Your nails leave little crescents moon on his skin. “You’re so… so deep.”

You’re really testing his limits, and Spencer knows he’s very far from a violent man, but right now, the temptation to cover your mouth with his hand is becoming dangerously real. Although with the way you’re writhing beneath him, rolling your hips to meet his thrusts, he’s sure you’d probably enjoy it.

“Spencer…”

His balls slaps your ass as he slams into you.

“O-Oh—fuck, I’m gonna cum.”

He squeezes your waist tightly. “Already?”

“Ngh.”

Your grip loosens on his arm, and before he can fully process what’s happening, your fingers dance along your clit. It takes all his willpower not to spill into you right then and there when he feels you tighten around him in response. But he holds on, because he needs you to cum first. He needs to feel your velvety walls flutter along the rigid veins of his cock, needs to watch the way your body tenses with pleasure.

He needs to feel it more than once.

He lets you have your first orgasm. Although letting seems like the wrong word. There’s nothing passive about it. He’s making you cum, driving you to it with each calculated thrust. You’re toying with your clit, rubbing in frantic circles just like you do whenever you touch yourself with the thought of him, but this time, it’s even more intense. This time, he’s inside you. And this time, it takes only a few moments for the tension to snap.

You clamp down on him. Hard. So hard that his movement falters for a second, but he quickly recovers, thrusting into you with a relentless rhythm. Just as you start to catch your breath, he pulls out, and you’re left in that delicious, dizzy haze, but your mind is even more disoriented when his face suddenly lowers between your thighs.

“Oh, you’re gonna—” you moan as his shoulders nudge your legs apart, opening you wider for him. “Spencer, you don’t have to—”

Before you can finish, before you even take another breath, the tip of his tongue flicks out.

“I want to.”

And he means it. He dives in with a hunger that leaves no room for doubt. His tongue starts firm and flat, pressing against you before dragging slowly upward, gathering your slickness in one deliberate sweep. Then he changes rhythm, the broad strokes shifting into something more focused, alternating between gentle flicks and deep, hungry pulls, and it’s doing things to you that no amount of late-night fantasies could have prepared you for.

Your head is all over the place that you reach out blindly, trying to find something solid, but the air merely glides over your skin. You stretch for the edge of the bed, fingertips just skimming the surface before your arms flail helplessly in the empty space. He notices your struggle almost immediately, and without missing a beat, he pulls back, lifting your legs to rest on his shoulders.

“Here,” he says, reaching out his arms toward you. “Give me your hands.”

Gladly. The second your fingers lock with his, a sense of grounding floods you, though it does nothing to ease the intensity of what he’s doing. If anything, it sharpens. You can feel the muscles in his shoulders flex under your thighs as he positions himself. And sure, your legs somehow feel weightless, like they’re floating in the air, but the rest of you?

You’re a mess of nerve endings on fire.

It’s impossible to think clearly when every cell in your body is buzzing. Your thoughts scatter the second his mouth moves in that devastating way, driving you out of your mind. You try to hold on to some semblance of control, but who are you kidding? He has officially turned you into a puddle of desperate, needy nerves, and you don’t even care.

It doesn’t take long before that coil snaps, and when it does, your entire body trembles. It’s always the second orgasm. The first is a tease, a little warm-up. The second one is the worst—or the best, depending on how you look at it. It doesn’t just tug at your edges, it tears right through, leaving you gasping and shaking and completely undone like every part of you has been pulled apart and put back together very wrong.

His mouth is glazed with your slick when he finally pulls away. “Good?”

You can barely feel your legs.

“Speechless,” is your answer.

His nose twitches in amusement as his hand leaves yours only for them to slide down your body, gently coaxing your legs to wrap around his waist. “Continue?”

“Please.”

A palm slips down your thigh. “Did you mean what you said earlier?”

You swipe your tongue across your bottom lip as he hovers above you. “About what?”

“About taking advantage of you.”

You huff out a sigh. “I wouldn’t have said it if I didn’t mean it.”

“Say it again,” he urges, guiding his cock smoothly along your folds before your whines travel into his ears. Ah, there it is. This is the sound that would greet him in heaven, if such a place existed for someone like him. Men who’ve taken lives to save others. Men who carry too many regrets to count. Spencer knows he’s not the kind of person heaven was built for, but if it were, he’s certain it would sound exactly like the breathy moan that escapes your lips.

And he’s tasted the afterlife, once, when he was younger—drifting somewhere between consciousness and oblivion with a ghost of a needle stuck in his arm. But nothing about that brush with death was like this. This feels like he’s been pulled back into something he didn’t believe he deserved.

“Say it again.”

He’s pleading now. It sounds awfully like a prayer.

“I want you to take advantage of me,” you say, the words spilling from your lips like a soft, sinful confession, music to his ears. An angel. “I want all of it.”

He takes your hands again. “So you won’t be mad if I get a little rough?”

“I’d be disappointed if you didn’t.”

That’s all he needs. He gently pushes your hands above your head, pinning them to the mattress, his fingers lacing through yours as his weight presses you into the bed. There’s a sudden rush—like a switch has flipped that it knocks the breath out of you. Your heart skips a beat, but not from nerves. No, this is anticipation, excitement.

You test his hold on you, just to see what happens, but his grip stays firm, almost daring you to resist.

“You asked for this,” he warns as he shifts his hips, aligning himself right to your entrance.

You shake your head. “I begged for this.”

He laughs, a flash of teeth in the dim light. “Yeah,” he breathes, his grip tightening as he presses deeper, “you did.”

A breathless whine escapes your lips as he fills you.

Angel, angel, angel.

He looks at you with a kind of reverence that borders on worship, though his movements are anything but saintly. There’s nothing gentle or innocent about the way he’s taking you, and there’s a quiet madness in the way you respond. Making love would be too tame, too soft for what this is. But fucking seems too crude, too disconnected for the way your eyes meet his, for the way you say his name like a prayer and a demand all at once.

The moment your voice breaks, breathless and needy, something inside him snaps. He feels the tightness coiling in his gut, and once it starts, there’s no stopping it. The pressure is mounting, and with every hard thrust it becomes harder to hold back. He knows he should slow down, give you a moment to catch your breath, but he can’t—his body won’t let him.

His fingers tighten around yours. He’s moving with a single-minded intensity now, pushing you flat against the mattress, your body pliant beneath him. The bed creaks every time he moves and your legs wrap tighter around his hips as you squeeze your eyes shut.

Spencer leans down, brushing his lips against yours, so close but never quite closing the distance, like even the simplest kiss would shatter him too soon. Instead, he rests his forehead on top of yours and whispers, “l’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” over and over, like he’s stuck on some endless loop. It’s not a real apology, not for anything he’s done, but for how much he needs you and how he’s afraid of breaking you with how much he can’t hold back.

He’s so close and he knows he’s not going to last much longer.

“I’m—” He groans as he feels the tension in his body snap, the wave building up in his spine and crashing down with brutal intensity. “I—fuck—I can’t hold it—”

You’re barely coherent yourself, but your voice comes out strong. A little breathless.

“Inside,” you gasp, your legs tightening around his waist. “I want it inside.”

Your words push him over the edge. He shudders, hips stuttering as he buries himself as deep as he can the moment the last thread of his restraint snaps. He can feel it, the way he pulses inside you, filling you completely. Every thrust is accompanied by a harsh groan as his release paints your walls, and the sound of your soft, desperate whines only pushes him deeper into the overwhelming pleasure.

When it finally becomes too much, he carefully pulls out. But the intensity is still coursing through his veins, and he’s too addicted to the sound of your sound, too drawn to the way your body trembles beneath him.

His hand drifts from your wrist almost on instinct, tracing its way down between your legs. He doesn’t need to see the mess he’s made—he can feel it. There’s a fleeting moment where he pauses, almost in awe, before his fingers brush over your clit, and your hips jerk in response. He’s not even sure if he’s teasing you or himself at this point, but he’s too far gone to care.

He slides two fingers inside you.

Your back arches instantly, your nipples brushing against his chest, and you gasp, fully aware of what he’s trying to do. “Oh… I—I can’t…”

He shakes his head. “You can,” he reassures you, watching in fascination as he pushes the white liquid of his release deeper into you. His gaze snaps back to yours. “I think you can give me one more.”

Your body trembles, and you can’t hold back the soft, broken cry that escapes your lips.

“Spencer…”

He loosens his grip on your hand, guiding it gently to rest around his neck. “Please,” he begs, his lips brushing your skin, “for me?”

The way he says it makes it impossible for you to deny him. And he knows it. He feels it in the way your nails dig into the back of his neck, pulling him closer as the tension inside you builds again. His fingers work faster, more desperate now, curling inside you just the way you like.

He’s watching, waiting, and when you finally cum again, it’s like witnessing something so divine. Your body shakes beneath him, a violent, beautiful quake that feels like it’s pulling him into its orbit. He’s unable to tear his eyes away as your head tilts back, lips parting with a choked moan that’s as delicate as it is devastating like an angel’s breath caught on the edge of rapture.

If angels looked this breathtaking in heaven, no wonder people were willing to risk damnation.

Spencer smiles wryly to himself.

Since when did he become so religious?

Another strangled moan escapes your lips. When your orgasm finally subsides, your chest heaves as you try to catch your breath, and with what little strength you have left, you reach up and yank weakly at his mop of brown curls.

“…no more.”

He smiles softly, leaning down to press a gentle kiss to your temple. “No more,” he agrees, pulling his fingers from you carefully.

Without saying a word, he slips off the bed and disappears from the room, only to come back with a damp towel in his hand. You expect him to hand it over to you, but you’re surprised when he kneels at the edge of the bed, gently spreading your legs apart.

Your skin tingles under his gaze as he stares at the mess between your thighs.

“That was…” he starts as he begins to wipe the towel over you. “…very reckless of us.”

With a small, tired smile, you mutter, “You don’t seem too bothered by it.”

He glances up at you. “I’m not,” he admits, finishing his cleanup and setting the towel aside. “But that doesn’t mean I shouldn’t at least pretend to be responsible.”

You reach for him as he climbs back into bed. “Would it make you feel better if I told you I’m on birth control?”

He exhales a breath he didn’t even realize he was holding, his body visibly relaxing as he lets out a quiet laugh. “It definitely helps,” he says, tucking you under his chin, “but I’m still going to try to be more careful next time.”

Your grin is as wide as the warmth spreading through your chest. “Next time?”

He smiles softly. “I meant what I said earlier.”

“Which part? You said a lot of things.”

“You know what I mean,” he insists.

“I know. But I want to hear it again.”

The tip of his nose brushes yours. “I want everything.”

“Everything?”

“Every single part of you.”

You take a deep breath. A whiff of his sweat and the faintest trace of soap clings around your senses until you release a happy sigh. “Do you think Violet will be okay with this? With us?”

His hand slips to the back of your neck, fingers threading through your hair as he tilts his head to look at you. “She already loves you,” he reassures you. “She’s more adaptable than you think. And she trusts you.”

“But... what if it changes things for her?”

“It will change things,” he admits. “But all the changes will be good ones."

You mull over his words. “You think so?”

“I know so, because you make her happy. You make both of us happy, an—”

He stops, his lips just barely parted as he catches himself.

He almost said it. He almost called you angel.

“What?”

He shakes his head slightly, a faint embarrassed smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"I’m just really happy,” he explains, his fingers absentmindedly brushing a stray lock of hair away from your face. There’s a curious look in your eyes, but instead of pressing him, you bury yourself into his neck, which he’s quietly grateful for because he’s not sure he could have explained himself without sounding like a total sap.

And maybe he is a sap, but even he’s aware that words like that shouldn’t be thrown around too soon, especially after just one night. Not before things settle in, before everything feels a little less like a dream and more like reality.

But he thinks about it. Oh, he thinks about it. The word stubbornly lingers at the edge of his mind he’s keeping for another time. He imagines letting it slip on some quiet morning, when you’re half-asleep and bundled in his shirt, golden sunlight filtering through the window to cast a warm glow across your skin. Or maybe when you meet him at the door after a long day, and Violet runs up, chattering away while you smile at him with that look that feels like coming home.

He can picture it falling easily from his lips someday, maybe even in a future where you’re holding the baby you had wondered about having with him and he’s standing there, watching you like someone who can’t quite believe his luck.

He’ll say it with a kind of certainty then. Not as a prayer, not as some lofty declaration of divine grace.

And when that moment comes, without hesitation, he’ll finally call you his angel.

[jj-one]

STUDY HARD, GET EDGED HARDER!

this is smut, do not interact if under 18

jisung’s trying to finish this code, but the minute you sat on his lap, he knew the only thing getting finished today was him.

pairing: nerd!han jisung x popular!f!reader, established relationship genre/tags: college au, smut with very little plot, semi-public s*x, sub!jisung, he whines and begs a lot (how i like my men tbh), thigh riding, overstim, light degradation, handjob, orgasm denial, oral (m. receiving), cum eating words: 5.2k

[ note. ] — another jisung fic, are we surprised ?? (no.) it’s the way this was supposed to be under 2-3k but clearly i’m incapable of writing anything short sooo..

He checked his phone sixteen times within the past hour. At first, Jisung told himself it was fine, you were in class, you needed to focus, you were probably taking notes or doodling a series of hearts in the margins of your planner like you always did. But now it was 2:34 pm and he was one ‘are you mad at me?’ text away from losing his goddamn mind.

Usually, you’d text him the second class was over. A little “miss you” here, a blurry selfie there, a not-so-subtle thirst trap when he least expected it, something to let him know you were thinking about him. But today? Nothing. Not since that teasing message you sent earlier at 11:47 am:

you left a hickey above my bra strap, you menace ;(

i’m wearing a tank top. if anyone asks i’m blaming it on a curling iron burn.

That had launched him into a full-body crisis in the middle of Comp Sci lecture. Now he was half-hard, suffering from sleep deprivation, and trying to tackle three weeks’ worth of broken functions with his already fried brain— while simultaneously spiraling over why you hadn’t texted him again yet.

Which brings us to his current dilemma.

The library’s unusually quiet for a Thursday afternoon, except for the faint rustles of pages turning and the occasional exasperated sighs from stressed out students spread throughout the space.

Jisung sat tucked into the farthest corner, wearing a slightly oversized hoodie with the sleeves bunched up to his elbows, staring blankly at the same lines of code on his laptop. He’d been stuck in the same recursive function that kept crashing his entire program— something about an ‘undefined base case’, but he couldn’t focus long enough to fix it. The error messages meant nothing when all he could think about was the flash of your thighs in that skirt you’d been wearing this morning.

And across from him, not helping even a little, was Jeongin, who was currently detailing the world’s most cursed porn plot with way too much enthusiasm.

“So then the girl just spits on it like it’s no big deal and starts- bro, are you even listening?”

Jisung snaps out of his trance, looking up too fast. “Huh?”

Jeongin rolls his eyes, shaking his head, “knew you weren’t listening.”

“I was,” he lied, voice slightly cracking, and it only made Jeongin raise an eyebrow and gesture pointedly toward his friend’s phone, which lit up for the third time in under a minute.

Jisung snatched it up before even checking the name, heart already doing backflips.

sungie, where are youuu

i’m done with class and i’m boredd, wanna see you

He was now internally screaming. If Jeongin wasn’t here right now he’d be kicking his feet and giggling like a school girl right now. But instead he tries to keep his composure, though he’s failing miserably.

He swallows thickly, ears immediately turning red as he reads your message over and over. Recollections from last night were now running through his head, the mental image of your body under his, breathy moans in his ear, the feeling of your lips on his neck— it was burned into his memory forever.

Jisung’s brain short-circuited. His heart launched itself straight into his throat. And his dick? Yeah, it had ideas..

Jeongin tilts his head, catching the panicked expression on Jisung’s face. “Dude,” he muttered, scrubbing a hand over his jaw. “Just go meet up with her already. You’re useless like this.”

“I’m not useless,” Jisung said defensively, even as his fingers fumbled to type out a reply with hands that were very much trembling. “I’m trying to debug this stupid loop!”

“You’re trying to not bust a nut thinking about her,” Jeongin deadpanned. “You’ve copy-pasted the same broken function like six times in ten minutes. I’m still confused how you even managed to bag the hottest girl on campus.”

“I didn’t bag her,” Jisung mumbled, his face growing hot once again. “She… likes me.”

“No shit she likes you. She owns you.” Jeongin pointed at the now purplish-red bruise on Jisung’s neck. “That’s a leash, not a love bite.”

“Stop talking, I’m trying to finish this code.”

Jeongin leaned across the table, squinting at his screen. “You haven’t written a single working line in the past thirty minutes. The cursor’s been blinking in the same empty function this whole time. You typed ‘y/n’ in the comment section of your code, and then drew a dick in ASCII next to it. You know damn well you’re not debugging anything except your feelings.”

Jisung groaned loudly as he slumps forward, his forehead hitting the keyboard with a soft ‘thud’. “She just- she’s distracting, okay?”

“She’s not even here right now.”

“She lives rent free in my head.”

“You pay her rent,” Jeongin quickly corrected, “with your dignity.”

Jisung barely had time to fire back before his phone buzzed again. His posture instantly straightens, reaching for his phone like it contained the meaning of life.

so why haven’t you kissed me today? why do you hate me?

He wheezed. “She thinks I hate her—!”

“You’re literally wearing the hoodie she gave you,” Jeongin cuts in dryly. “You made her a playlist last night called ‘songs that remind me of her moaning.’ She’s obviously fucking with you, bro.”

Jisung was only half-listening, already typing like his life depended on it.

i’m in the library, baby. i thought u had another class??

also i don’t hate u i’m OBSESSED w u

Your reply came not even a minute later.

mhm. obsessed? prove it. where exactly in the library are u?

He froze, looking up like a deer caught in headlights.

Jeongin didn’t even flinch. “Don’t panic,” he responds flatly, reaching for a pretzel stick. “Just give her your location and accept your fate.”

Jisung completely ignores him, fingers moving fast, typing out a rushed response that was borderline devotional.

back left corner by the windows. alone. i mean, with jeongin. but like mostly alone.

u coming?

depends.. are you gonna leave me another hickey this time or nah?

He slammed his forehead against the table.

“You good?” Jeongin asked casually, chewing on his pretzel like his friend wasn’t in the middle of a full-blown mental breakdown.

“No,” Jisung mumbled into the wood. “I’m gonna die right here. On this table. Tell my computer I love her.”

“Death by horny girlfriend.” Jeongin chuckled, “you’d be the third one this semester.”

Jisung turned his face, still smushed against the table, eyes glazed with academic doom. “I’m so gonna fail this exam..”

“You’re gonna fail life if she sits on your lap again and you cream your pants in front of me.”

Jisung glared. “I didn’t cream my pants last time.”

“You moaned when she kissed your jaw, bro. Out loud. In public..”

“It was a low moan.”

“A moan is a moan, my guy.”

Before Jisung could argue back, he receives yet another message.

look up, dummy.

His entire body went rigid, hands hovering midair, pupils dilating like a cat spotting a nearby predator.

“Bro?” Jeongin asked, watching the color drain from his face.

“She’s here,” Jisung whispered. “Oh my god, she’s actually here.”

And just like that, his palms were sweating. His heart beating abnormally fast as if a bomb was about to go off in his chest. He knew what was to came next. You were going to strut over here in something tiny, say something filthy, and sit in his lap like you owned both the chair and the man in it.

Jeongin turned just in time to see you coming.

“Oh nope. Nope.” He grabbed his stuff immediately, like a man narrowly avoiding trauma. “I’m not third-wheeling this lap dance sequel. I’ll be in the café. If I’m not back in an hour, it’s because I died of secondhand embarrassment.”

Jisung was still trying to stammer out something when Jeongin patted him on the shoulder with mock sympathy and left him for dead.

You were in a tiny black pleated skirt that flared when you walked, paired with a white, paper-thin tank, barely clinging to your frame. The outline of your lace bralette clearly visible beneath it under the warm library lighting. Your lips were glossy— glistening with that pink shimmer you knew drove him crazy, a hint of eyeliner, and that signature flirty sparkle in your eye made Jisung forget his own name, and why he ever thought he could handle you.

His mouth slightly parted as you spotted him and waved with a little grin that caused him to hold his breath. Every guy in the vicinity turned to look. Of course they did. You looked like you’d walked straight off the cover of a playboy magazine.

Except you weren’t paying attention to anyone else, walking straight towards him— past the tables, past all the stares, and before he could even think to slide over and offer the empty seat next to him, you climbed right onto his lap like you belonged there.

You casually slung your arm over his shoulders, settling against him like it was a normal day and you’d done it a hundred times before. Your thighs framed his, the sweet scent of your perfume clouding his senses while the softness of your chest against his front made him see static.

“Hi, baby,” you leaned it, trailing your fingers along the edge of his jaw. “You looked like you were missing me.”

“I-I uh-” He blinked rapidly, trying to process literally anything. “You’re- you-”

You couldn’t help but giggle at how much of a nervous wreck he was, but kept teasing him anyway. “Use your words, handsome.”

“You’re wearing that.”

You raised a brow, wide-eyed, feigning innocence. “This?”

Shifting slightly on his lap to get more comfy, your hips tilted just enough for your warmth to press more directly against the growing tent in his jeans. His soul left his body once again.

“I was gonna sit in the chair,” you said, glancing lazily at the empty seat beside him, “but you looked so cute and lonely over here. So serious. So tense.”

“I am tense,” he squeaked.

“You wanna know why?” he added quickly. “Because you’re literally sitting on me in the middle of a public—”

Your fingers slid into his hair, playing with the strands at the nape of his neck. “You don’t want me to sit here anymore?”

Jisung’s hands flew to your waist without realizing, fingers splayed against the thin material of your top like he was trying to will himself into self-control. “No- I mean, yes- I mean- I love when you sit here.. but—”

“But?” You echoed sweetly, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth.

“People are looking,” he hissed through clenched teeth, heat blooming all the way to his ears. “Everyone’s looking. I-I can feel my GPA dropping just from this. My professor probably sensed it through the air.”

You didn’t seem fazed at all by his comments, letting your nose brush his cheek. “Let them look. You’re my boyfriend. I wanna show off what’s mine.”

He whimpered— actually whimpered. In the middle of the damn library.

You were just smiling, completely calm, perfectly poised, one hand lazily tracing the edge of his hoodie while your weight shifted subtly again, your thigh dragging ever so gently across his cock, already painfully hard beneath you.

You weren’t even grinding that hard.

You didn’t have to.

Because his sanity’s already slowly unraveling.

“Y/n…” he whispered, barely coherent. “You’re gonna kill me.”

“I barely did anything yet.”

“That’s the problem..”

You looked down at him, lips curved into something wicked. “You’re such a dork.”

He huffed, letting his head fall back against the seat.

“But you’re my dork,” you added, embedding a kiss to his cheek and then his temple. “My cute, squirmy, overstimulated little dork.”

“I’m not overstimulated.”

“You’re rock hard.”

“I’m emotionally vulnerable.”

You cackled. Loud enough for a student at the next table over to side-eye you, which you promptly ignored.

Jisung, meanwhile, tried to slowly roll his hips under you, praying to all gods that no one could tell how close he was to combusting. Your thighs were so soft. Warm. You smelled like vanilla and something sinfully feminine. The way you sat on him like nothing was happening, like your soaked panties weren’t dragging back and forth over the flexed muscle of his thigh— made his whole body lock up.

“If you’re this worked up now…” you murmured, voice sultry and featherlight, “…how are you gonna survive when I ride you later?”

His eyes rolled back.

A shaky breath punched from his chest. He choked on it, hands gripping your waist even tighter as his legs jerked beneath the table.

You pulled back just slightly to watch him come undone with a satisfied little smirk. “Color’s back in your cheeks. Must be working.”

“I’m begging you,” he croaked, “please just let me finish this. I need to pass this class.”

You thread your fingers up into his hair again, tugging gently at his roots. “Mm. If you get an A, I’ll let you do whatever you want to me. Desk. Mirror. Kitchen table. You name it.”

Jisung whimpered again.

Someone coughed in the next aisle. You didn’t care.

He tried to keep his cool. He really did. But when your lips would brush up against his ear, and your fingers slipped just slightly beneath his hoodie to rest on his bare skin, he knew he was beyond the point of no return.

You stayed perched on his lap, the model of calm— like you had no idea what you were doing to him. Like his cock wasn’t straining in his jeans so hard he thought he might pass out. His jaw was tight, lips bitten red, and his entire body’s trembling with effort.

The worst part of it all was how deliberately slow your hips circled over his thigh. It was so subtle. Calculated. The tiniest roll forward, just enough to let your clothed core drag across the curve of his thigh. Not bouncing. Not humping. Just that slow, lazy grind of slick heat over denim— completely hidden from view beneath the table.

“Shhh,” you muttered, completely unaffected. “Thought you wanted to finish your code?”

He was trying to finish this script. He really was. But the lines of code on his screen were blurring together, his glasses fogged-up and slipping down his nose. He bit down hard on the inside of his cheek, stifling a noise he didn’t even recognize.

“I-” he gasped, the only thing anchoring him being the white-knuckle grip he had on the edge of his laptop. “I can’t think like this-”

“Like what?” You asked, lips brushing his jaw as your hips picked up it’s pace. “Like your girlfriend’s grinding her needy little cunt on your leg while you’re trying to finish your sad excuse of a Python script?”

He bucks into you helplessly. His cock throbbing in utter desperation. His jeans were already soaked. You were soaked. The cotton clinging between your folds as warmth spread across your thighs like wildfire. His thigh pressed perfectly against your cunt with every slow grind, grazing over the sensitive bud just right.

Jisung clenched his jaw, eyes fluttering shut. He could feel it. The outline of you. The mess you were making on him. The sharp, desperate ache in his cock that had him this close to snapping. The denim of his jeans felt tight, unbearably tight, and every shift of your hips sent him teetering over the edge.

“H-holy shit, y/n…” Jisung’s voice cracks, sharp and frayed. “You’re so wet. I can feel it through- fuck- through everything.”

“Mmh?” You hum softly, “what was that, baby? Speak up.”

“You know what,” he whined. His thigh twitched again, and you seized the opportunity to grind harder, dragging your soaked center over the thick muscle.

“You’re gonna get us caught,” he hissed, looking around uncomfortably. “You’re seriously gonna.. I can’t, baby—”

“No one’s looking,” you interrupted calmly, your hot breath fanning over his neck, fingers curling into the back of his hair like a gentle command. “Unless you make them look. Unless you start moaning like a little slut who can’t control himself while his girlfriend gets off on his leg.”

“I’m not-” He swallowed, but his voice was weak. Broken. “I’m not a slut.”

“No?” You mocked, your voice all honey and knives. “Then why’re you twitching every time I say something filthy? Why are you leaking through your boxers when I haven’t even touched your cock?”

He let out another pitiful sound.

“Please,” he begged. “Please, I’ll do anything. Anything, just let me cum, please. I can’t- fuck- I can’t take it anymore.”

The way he looked up at you, all teary-eyed and trembling, it sending a rush of heat pooling to your core. His cheeks were flushed a baby pink, lips slightly parted, chest heaving like he’d just run five miles. Your good boy— smart, nerdy, sweet Jisung— reduced to a desperate, needy mess just from the way you were riding his thigh in public like it was your seat.

“You’d do anything for me?” You asked, rolling your hips again, slowly, letting your clit drag perfectly over the seam of his jeans.

His hands spasmed on your legs.

“Yes,” he gasped. “Yes, please. I’d do anything- I’ll get on my knees right now, I’ll eat you out under this table if you let me. I’ll fucking worship you, y/n, just pleaseplease let me cum—”

Your lips curled into a smirk. “You sound so pathetic,” you scoffed. “So needy. And all I did was sit on you.”

He nodded frantically, his breathing ragged.

“I am pathetic. I know I am. I can’t help it, ’m so obsessed with you. I think about you all the time. I jerk off thinking about you sitting on my face. I came in my hand the other night just imagining you calling me your good boy.”

You clenched at that.

“Oh, baby,” you cooed. “You’re so fucked up.”

You spread your knees a little more over his leg so you could rock harder, now deliberately dragging your wet pussy over the wet patch of denim he’d soaked through. Tensing up as he fought not to move, to grind up into you like he wanted.

His breath came in short, silent bursts now. Chest rising and falling beneath you, lips parted, sweat beading at his brow.

“Y/n…” he breathed, trying so hard to sound composed, but nearly sobbing from how fucking good it felt.

“What is it, baby?” You bat your lashes at him, hips rocking forward again. “You’re not gonna cum in your jeans, are you?”

His entire body shivered.

“I-I will,” he stuttered. “I swear, if you don’t stop.. mmph, ‘m already so close, you’re- your pussy’s so wet—”

You leaned in slowly, lips grazing over the shell of his ear. “If you cum now…”

He gasped, throat catching on the first syllable.

“…you’re not fucking me later.”

His breathing stopped.

You pulled back just enough to see the panic settle in his eyes.

“You hear me, Ji? If you cum in your pants like a desperate little virgin, I’m walking out of here and locking my legs until next week.”

“I want you to feel how wet I am for you,” you whispered. “I want your thigh soaked. I want your cock leaking. But you don’t get to cum unless I say so.”

Jisung was panting now. He was actually trembling— not shaking, not twitching— trembling, like he was barely surviving.

“Y/nnn,” he whined. “This isn’t fair.. ’m not gonna make it.”

“You will,” you said, rolling your hips harder, dragging the mess between your thighs across the thick ridge of his leg again. “You will because you want to fuck me. You wanna cum inside me, don’t you?”

He groaned, mouth agape, eyes half-lidded and glazed over.

“Yes,” he pleaded. “God.. yes.”

You rewarded him with one more slow grind, your drenched panties catching perfectly on your clit— and it took everything in him not to buck up or spill into his boxers right then and there.

He almost disobeyed. Almost gave in. But somehow by some miracle of sheer desperation and willpower, he held back. Barely. Just barely.

You could feel him clenching under you. His cock twitching behind the zipper, leaking so much precum he’d made a dark patch on his jeans, mixing with the slick you’d left behind.

“You’re so good for me,” you praised, pressing light kisses against his jaw. “Sitting still, letting me use you. You’re so close, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” he strained. “I can’t take it anymore, please—”

You smiled against his skin, kissed him again, then pulled back.

“Then come with me.”

His eyes widened. “W-What?”

You stood up, skirt fluttering down your thighs, straightening your tank top like you weren’t dripping down his leg seconds ago.

“Archives section.” You whispered, voice honeyed and commanding.

And just like that, Jisung— flushed, throbbing, soaked, and desperately blue-balled, let you pull him through the rows of books, already dizzy with the promise of what’s to come next.

+

Jisung’s wrist was still pulsing with warmth from where you grabbed him, dragging him down two flights of stairs with no explanation and zero resistance. He followed like a lost puppy, notebook half-open, backpack swinging awkwardly behind him as you led him past the “ARCHIVES ONLY” sign and into a forgotten aisle of books no one under 65 had ever touched.

The hallway past the microfilm cabinets was barely lit, tucked behind a wall of outdated journals and abandoned thesis papers. No one ever came back here. The security camera hadn’t worked in months and you knew that because you checked the first week you started fooling around with Jisung in public. It was the perfect spot for what you had in mind.

His hoodie was crooked. His hair was a mess. His jeans were stained — not enough to be obvious to anyone else, but you saw the evidence of your slick and his precum smeared across the thigh you’d just used like your personal toy minutes ago.

His eyes were blown wide. Glazed. Wild with the kind of desperate frustration that came from being edged and denied so thoroughly he could barely think. Your skirt was still slightly rumpled and your lip gloss a little smeared like you planned it. You looked wrecked in the prettiest way and he couldn’t stop staring.

You gently pushed him up against the bookshelf, meeting the cold tiles as you dropped to your knees, looking up at him with the sweetest, filthiest smile he’d ever seen.

“W-What are you doing?” He blinked like rapid fire, turning into an even blushier mess. “Wait- wait, are you—?”

Without a word, you reached down and pulled his jeans further open, just enough to free his cock. It sprang up against his stomach— angry red at the tip, twitching, wet with a fresh bead of precum leaking from the slit.

“Ohh, Ji,” you cooed, brushing your thumb across the tip, smearing the slick mess down his shaft. “You really are about to cum, huh?”

“Y-Yeah,” he choked, breath hitching as his needy hips jerked into your hand. “Please touch me, ‘m so fucking close—”

“I am touching you,” you teased, wrapping your fingers around him slowly, deliberately. “What, not good enough?”

He let out a ragged moan, head thunking back against the wall.

Your grip tightened just enough. Your fist started moving slowly, not enough to bring him over, but enough to torment him. Just enough to keep him right there, on the edge, nerves strung taut like piano wire.

“F-Fuck, that’s—” he gasped, hips stuttering. “That’s so good.. please, faster. Baby, please—”

You smiled while looking up at him. “You begging already?”

He whined, high-pitched and wrecked, his hands twitching like he didn’t know where to put them, like if he touched you, he’d explode.

“I’ll do anything,” he whispered. “Just let me cum- I’ll eat you out for hours, I swear- please y/n—”

You tightened your grip and gave a long, twisting stroke that made his whole body jerk.

“Mm-mm,” you hummed. “Didn’t I say you don’t get to cum unless I say so?”

His hips bucked wildly into your fist. “I’m trying,” he moaned. “I’m trying so hard, but it feels so fucking good- your hand feels so good..”

“Yeah?” You whispered, pumping him harder, “my hand feels good? Poor baby. Can’t even handle a handjob without crying.”

“I’m not crying—”

You glanced back up.

His eyes were glassy. His lashes were damp. And his cock was throbbing so hard in your fist it looked painful.

“You are,” you murmured. “You’re crying ‘cause you want my mouth, huh?”

He whined like a kicked puppy.

You grinned.

“You want me to suck you off so bad you’d get on your knees and beg, wouldn’t you?”

He nods frantically, gasping for air. “Yes, yes. I would- I’d do anything- please, y/n, I need it. Need your mouth, wan’ it so bad—”

“You’re so cute,” you giggle, twisting your wrist mid-stroke just to make him squirm. “So fucked out and needy over something you haven’t even felt yet.”

“I’ve imagined it,” he blurted. “I’ve thought about it so many times- your lips, your tongue, I touch myself to it- fuck, ‘m gonna cum—”

Your hand stops immediately.

He let out a strangled, broken moan, the kind that came from the soul. As his cock throbbed helplessly in your hand, right on the edge, aching for release.

“Don’t you dare cum,” you hissed. “Not unless you want me to walk away.”

He whimpered. You watched the muscles in his abdomen tighten, his thighs shaking as he fought it— struggled against his own body, literally holding back an orgasm with every last shred of willpower he had left.

His eyes fluttered open again, desperate, ruined.

“You did good, baby,” you whispered. “But I’m not done with you yet.”

You let go of his cock and pulled your hand away, sticky, soaked in his precum, still warm with the weight of him.

He sobbed— a tiny, wrecked sound that made your thighs clench.

You hadn’t even taken him in your mouth yet, and Jisung was already about to cry.

The flush on his cheeks crept down his throat, his hands struggled to stay put, not knowing what to do with them. His cock was hard. So hard. Red and slick and visibly throbbing as you pumped it slowly in your hand. Every now and then, his hips jerked subconsciously, helpless, like his body was trying to chase something even his mind couldn’t form words for.

You looked at him from between his thighs, chin tilted, lips parted just enough to tease.

“Still with me, baby?”

He nodded a little too fast. “Y-Yeah. I think. Maybe. I don’t know.”

You smiled. “You’re doing so good.”

And then you slowly licked a stripe from base to tip, watching his entire body flinch.

“Nngh,” his mouth flew open, head tipping back to hit the shelf behind him. “Oh my god.”

“Not yet,” you remind, letting your tongue flick beneath the head, collecting every drop of precum you’d pulled out of him. “But you can pray if it helps.”

He let out a strangled laugh, cut off halfway by a moan as your lips finally wrapped around the tip and sucked— lightly, just enough to watch his knees buckle.

That’s when you gave him what he really wanted.

You slid up and down, slowly, letting him feel every inch and crevice of your mouth, your tongue pressed firm against the underside of his cock, and didn’t stop until you had him nearly down your throat.

You look up through your lashes, gaze dropping to his lips, then back up to his eyes.

His eyes were already rolling back when yours locked with his. The second he realized you were watching him— deepthroating him while holding eye contact, he let out the filthiest, most guttural groan you’d ever heard come out of him.

“Y-y/n fuck- fuck, your eyes- your mouth- baby, please, please don’t stop—”

You moaned around him, the vibration making his thighs shake.

You sucked harder now, faster, bobbing your head as your hand stroked what your lips couldn’t take. Drool started to peak out from the corners of your mouth and dripping down to your chin. Your jaw ached. Your eyes were watering. But you loved every second of it because he looked absolutely wrecked.

He was trembling like a virgin sacrifice, hips twitching, mouth open in a soft, breathless ‘o’ as his hands finally came to your head— not pushing, not guiding, just holding, as if he needed something to cling to so he doesn’t burst at the seams.

You were soaking wet.

Your thighs pressed together under your skirt, heat thobbing between your legs. Every time he moaned, every time he whimpered your name with that desperate, wrecked voice, you felt another pulse of wetness soak your panties.

You loved this.

Loved watching him come apart because of you.

He was a babbling mess now, muttering nonsensical praise and pleas spilling from his lips.

“Your mouth’s so warm, oh my god. So good, so fucking good, feels better than anything.. Think m’gonna cum, please let me cum in your mouth..”

You pulled off just enough to say, voice breathless, “then do it. Cum for me.”

And then you swallowed him whole again, deep and wet and perfect, not stopping until his entire body went still, shaking, before bucking up into your throat as he finally came.

“Fuckfuckfuck, I’m cumming—!”

His head dropped forward, eyes wide and panicked as his cock twitched hard, spilling thick spurts of cum hot and heavy down your throat. You sucked him through it, not letting up until he was whimpering, thrashing, his knees buckling as he slumped back against the shelf.

You swallowed everything, not a drop of him wasted.

Then licked your lips, smugly grinning.

When you stood back up, he was still dazed. His eyes followed you like you were gravity itself.

“That was—” He wheezed. “I think I just- did I die? Am I dead?”

You leaned in close and whispered, “You died a slut.”

He choked on his own saliva.

And then, of course.. came the sound that ruined everything.

His phone buzzing. Loudly. With that stupidly obnoxious ringtone.

A Zelda theme remix.

“Oh my god,” you muttered, eyebrows lifting. “Is that your mom?”

Jisung turned redder than you thought humanly possible.

He yanked the phone out of his pocket and hissed, “Yes.”

“Answer it.”

“I will not—!”

You reached for it and put it on speaker before he even had the chance to protest and stop you.

“Jisung?” His mom’s voice rang out. “Did you remember to eat something today?”

He turned paler than a ghost.

You smiled sweetly, reaching over for a tissue and using it to wipe the corner of your mouth.

“He’s getting plenty of protein,” you said, and swiftly hung up.

Jisung let out a noise that could only be described as dying baby animal.

“I’m never recovering from this,” he smacks his forehead with his palm.

You peck his cheek. “You’ll recover. Eventually. After I sit on your face.”

He whimpered again. “You’re gonna be the reason I fail out of college.”

“And you’ll love every second of it.”

[chrlisangels]

𝐁𝐎𝐁 𝐑𝐄𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐋𝐃𝐒 𝐀𝐒 𝐀 𝐁𝐅

constantly following you around the tower like a lost puppy to the point the other avengers start just assuming he’s always where ever you are. (he usually is)

“is your little puppy with you? its usually the time me and him train.” bucky asks as he walks into the common room.

“why do you always assume he’s with me?!?” you practically cut yourself off mid sentence with a laugh “but no he’s not, he’s in that beanbag thingy reading that new book yelena bought him.”

bucky nods “ya know that’s really surprising right?” you cut off his laugh with a throw pillow to his face.

he’s not new to relationships, i mean he had a few back in florida but this is the first one he’s completely sober for, one he wants to last so bad cause he loves you much.

he’s such a clingy person, not in a bad way just a he wants to consume you whole being way. like cant sleep without him being in your arms or vice versa.

“bobbb” you groan as you try to push him off you to no avai, “wake up baby! we need to get up for training..” you trail off.

“be quiet and stop moving please, ya know im trying to sleep here!” bob mumbles his voice all groggy.

you let out a soft groan leaning you head back against the pillow before continuing to try to push him off (the sentry strength sucks ass when it comes to trying to get him off) “bob seriously i love you and your clingy self but we seriously need to get up before john comes in here again like last time to get us up.”

“you my pillow sweetheart and pillows don’t talk so shushh..”

loves cooking for you well he cooks for the team but he doesn’t do it because the team loves his cooking and they lowkey expect it but he does it because he knows how happy it makes you.

he totally just buys you flowers for no reason! theres this cute flower shop that’s down the block from the tower and he’s definitely a frequent customer.

“what are these flowers for this time?” the florist teases as she scans the flowers “is it cause she breathed your way? maybe she called you pretty?”

“nooo.” bob drags out while shaking his head “im getting them just because, i mean shes great so yeahh.” he says as a smile graces his lips.

“well thats certainly very sweet of you. she sure is lucky to have a guy like you in her life, you totals $15.99 by the way.” she says as she hands bob back the flowers.

bobs definitely a experienced guy i mean he was addicted to meth and due to research i’ve learned it can make you very horny so i think he takes sex very personal because i mean during his past experiences he was high, he wasn’t fully coherent to experience it as well so when things get streamy (i hate that word) between you guys hes very sweet i wouldn’t say vanilla but hes not gonna hurt you, he wont hit you, he may be a bit rough but not enough that would cause pain.

lei lei’s notes… this is inspired after lacyydollette post for s2!rafe as a bf !! um lewis pullman brainrot has taken over and i am in love with this man <3 also this got a little nsfw at the end so this is 18+ i guess

[jungwnies]

f1 grid (1/2) | orange theory

୨ৎ : featuring : max verstappen, lewis hamilton, george russell, carlos sainz, charles leclerc, lando norris, oscar piastri (click here for part two) ୨ৎ : synopsis (requested by @holycastles) : quiet moments where love is tested through the smallest acts because sometimes, peeling an orange says more than 'i love you.'

୨ৎ : genre : fluff & romance ୨ৎ : word count : 1214

୨ৎ masterlist ୨ৎ

ᡣ𐭩 a/n : i love love love writing things based off of tik-tok trends, it's so sweet and cute >.< also i know these are super short but i think that it reallyyy captures their personalities :)

ʚ・max verstappen

you toss an orange at max during downtime and go, “peel this for me?”

he catches it mid-air, looks at you, deadpan. “what am i? your personal chef?”

you snort and walk away, not expecting anything. max doesn’t do sweet, right? not like that.

but a few minutes later, you find the orange sitting on the counter, peeled perfectly — skin discarded, slices arranged in a neat spiral.

you eye him across the room, arms folded. “did you peel this?” he shrugs without looking up from his phone. “was bored.”

you know better. max verstappen doesn’t get bored. he gets intentional.

the next day, he grabs one for himself — and another for you. doesn’t say a word. just peels both and hands one over like it’s routine.

when you try to thank him, he waves it off. “don’t get soft on me now.”

but when he catches you smiling, he smirks.

because of course he peeled it. of course he cares.

he just needs you to understand that his love isn’t loud — it’s in the quiet things. like protecting you from citrus juice and acting like it means nothing.

ʚ・lewis hamilton

you barely get the words out, “can you peel this for me?”

and lewis is already taking the orange from your hand.

“no problem, babe.”

he sits beside you, cross-legged on the couch, and starts peeling it with careful fingers, chatting about his day while he removes the white pith piece by piece.

then he gets up, walks to the kitchen, and returns with it sliced.

“i thought we’d elevate the citrus experience.”

you stare at him, wide-eyed. “lewis, it’s an orange.”

“exactly,” he grins. “you deserve your fruit with style.”

he kisses your forehead, then curls up beside you as if he didn’t just turn a tiktok test into an act of service so soft it made your heart melt.

he never calls attention to it, but he always peels your oranges after that. leaves them in little containers when you’re busy. packs them in your bag before flights.

you never have to ask again. and you know why.

because lewis isn’t just your boyfriend — he’s the kind of person who peels oranges like he’s caring for your soul.

ʚ・george russell

george blinks down at the orange you placed in his lap like it’s a bomb. “…you want me to peel this?”

“yup,” you grin. “no knife allowed.”

he stares at it, then at you. “this is a trick, isn’t it?”

“nope. just love language stuff.”

he huffs but you can see the gears turning. within two minutes, he’s looked up the most efficient orange peeling methods on his phone and begins carefully creating what can only be described as citrus origami.

“george, you’re taking this too seriously.”

“incorrect. i’m taking you seriously.”

he finishes with a perfectly spiraled peel, hands you the orange like a gift, and raises his brows. “well? did i pass your little test?”

you bite into a slice and nod, stunned. “you aced it. definitely best in class.”

he beams and mutters something about how he’d like that on the record.

you find out later that he’s now obsessed with fruit prep. pineapples. mangoes. grapefruits. the works.

all because you handed him a single orange.

and george russell doesn’t do anything halfway, especially not love.

ʚ・carlos sainz

you hand carlos an orange and say, “can you peel this for me?”

he blinks. “are your hands broken?”

you give him a look. he gives you one back.

he sighs. “you’re doing one of your tiktok psychology things again, aren’t you?”

you say nothing. just smile sweetly and leave the room.

a few minutes later, you hear him mumbling in spanish, something like “why do i always fall for this nonsense…”

but sure enough, the orange is peeled. slices separated. a napkin even folded beside it.

you grin. “i knew you loved me.”

he points a finger. “i only did it because i didn’t want you making a mess.”

“sure,” you say, popping a slice in your mouth. “that’s the reason.”

the next day, you find two oranges in your lunch bag. peeled. packed. one labeled “for mi amor” with a heart.

carlos acts like he has no idea how they got there.

but when you thank him with a kiss on the cheek, he just hums and goes, “well… i do spoil you.”

and you both know the truth: he always will.

ʚ・charles leclerc

when you ask charles to peel an orange for you, he doesn’t even blink. “okay.”

you expected teasing. maybe a confused “why?” or at least a sarcastic comment.

but no, he just quietly takes it and starts peeling like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

halfway through, he looks up. “…wait. is this a test?”

you nearly choke laughing.

“oh my god. it’s one of those tiktoks, isn’t it?”

you nod. “so? did you pass?”

he pauses, holding out the perfectly peeled fruit. “i mean… it’s in one piece. that’s worth at least a b+.”

you take a slice and smile. “a+ for effort.”

charles keeps stealing glances at you the rest of the day.

that night, he casually places another peeled orange on your nightstand before bed.

no words. just soft fingers brushing yours as he hands it over.

and in the quiet, you realize this man would do anything for you.

even pass little love tests without realizing he was taking them.

ʚ・lando norris

“peel it yourself,” lando says immediately when you hand him the orange.

you pout. “fine. i just thought you loved me.”

he groans like you just kicked his puppy. “oh come on.”

you walk away.

ten minutes later, you hear him cursing softly in the kitchen.

“why is this so hard?! this peel is evil.”

he returns with a mangled, chaotic-looking orange and dramatically sets it in front of you.

“it’s done. don’t say i never do anything for you.”

you try to bite into a slice and get hit with the bitterness of leftover peel.

“you suck at this,” you laugh.

he grins and kisses your temple. “yeah, but i tried. and that counts.”

the next day, he hands you a pre-peeled orange in a ziploc bag like he’s been training for it.

he also printed a label that says “from your emotionally available boyfriend.”

progress.

ʚ・oscar piastri

when you hand oscar an orange and ask him to peel it, he gives you the driest look imaginable. “…why?”

“just do it,” you say, kicking your feet on the couch. “please?”

he doesn’t ask questions. just takes the orange and gets to work.

two minutes later, he hands it back, peeled clean, slices stacked neatly like a pinterest tutorial.

you raise a brow. “…that was suspiciously fast.”

he shrugs. “it’s not that hard.”

“you didn’t even ask why i wanted it peeled.”

“didn’t need to. you wanted it, i did it. simple.”

your heart actually stumbles.

later that night, he places another orange in your hands, already peeled, in a container, lid snapped on.

he doesn’t say anything. just walks off like it’s no big deal.

but you’re left there holding the container like he just proposed.

because when oscar piastri quietly decides to care about you he really means it.

2021-2025 © jungwnies | All rights reserved. Do not repost, plagiarize, or translate

[mylonelylife135]

My pathetic Family

Vigilantes.

TW: Injuries, violence against (you).

.

.

.

Dick's parents died.

You found that out when you were eventually asked by Alfred how it went 'bonding' with your new brother.

You told the truth. Why wouldn't you? it's not like you had played with stuffed plushies and ate cookies together.

You tried to get to know this new sibling, and got yelled at.

What else was there to say?

"(____), The reason why Master Richard got angry is because... Because his parents are gone." Alfred's voice sounded guilty, like he didn't want to tell you this information without Richard's consent.

Gazing up at Alfred, you couldn't help but blurt out the words "Like my mommy?"

Alfred eyes widened in surprise momentarily before he regained his composure and ruffled the top of your head. "Yes, just like your mother, (____)."

You couldn't help but wonder why it was such a big deal, then? you didn't even know your own mom, let alone your dad.

Then again, if it was Alfred you would be very sad. So I guess you sort of understood where your new brother was coming from.

Of course, once Alfred found out that you and Richard had what could be honestly said as a horrible first meeting: He told Bruce about what had transpired between the two of you.

You didn't expect that it would strain your relationship further with your new brother when Alfred had informed Bruce of your unfortunate interaction with Richard.

It hadn't been more than a day after your interaction with Richard that he had barged into your room while you were playing by yourself, slamming the door open and looking furious.

It wasn't hard to find your room. Especially since Alfred and Bruce had Richard's room set up right next to yours in the hopes you would body with each other by being in close proximity.

Of course, that would never happen.

"You told on me!? Thanks for getting me in trouble you little-" Richard cut himself off, hands clenched tightly.

You stared at Richard wide-eyed on the floor, clutching a teddy plush to your chest tightly.

"I didt-didn't lie. Y-You yell at me bev-before and now." You responded back, confused since it wasn't like you lied.

Alfred told you to tell the truth! Like when you accidentally broke a plate or you took snacks from the fridge!

What was so wrong with telling the truth?

"It doesn't mean you have be a snitch!" What was a snitch?

"I-I am not!" You denied, clutching your stuffed teddy tighter.

You didn't know what a snitch was, but it sounded like a bad thing with how your new brother was saying it.

"Whatever, just don't do it again!" Richard turned on his heel, about to leave.

Your eyes were to the ground; You were tearing up again, you didn't like being yelled at.

It made you feel like you did something wrong.

"Are you mat-mad at me bew-becawse of your mommy and daddy being gone?" You asked, eyes teary and your voice shaky.

"...What did you just say?" You could hear your brother stop in his tracks, his voice suddenly quiet.

Maybe now you could try again, another chance. Another chance to get on the right track.

You didn't entirely understand your brothers situation but you did have something in common.

"My mommy is aw- also go-" you couldn't even finish your sentence before the back of your head hit your bedside table and both your face and back of your head burning with pain.

An ear-piercing shriek of pain escaped you, your tiny hands going up to clutch your face, blood gushing out of your nose and tears dribbling down your cheeks.

You looked up with blurry vision only to see Richard's baby blue eyes full of fury, then watched as it quickly turned to shock as he had realized what he had done.

He kicked you in the face.

He had just kicked Bruce's child in the face.

Richard took a step closer to you with a hand outstretched, and you instinctively backed up only for your back to hit the bedside table.

You immediately screamed, crying incoherently at Richard to go away and for your daddy.

Just as quickly as you had screamed, footsteps came rushing towards your room to the sound of screaming and crying.

You didn't remember much of what had happened afterward other than stumbling towards Alfred's legs and hugging them tightly before you were picked up. You rested your head on his shoulder, sobbing and clutching his neck.

You looked back with blurry and glassy eyes as Alfred rushed you out of your room; seeing Bruce standing in front of Richard and Richard's pale expression. Droplets of blood stained the wooden floors.

.

.

.

It was a miracle you didn't have to go to the hospital.

Fortunately, you only had a bloody, bruised nose and a bump on the back of your head.

Other than a slight headache and your face burning, you were fine.

You were fine. You were fine. You were fine. Alfred was furious and didn't leave your side, making sure to keep gauze in your nostrils, a cold compress on the back of your head and once your nose stopped bleeding some ointment to ease the pain and bandages on your nose.

Only when did you manage to fall asleep late into the night did Alfred leave your side to have a discussion with Bruce and Richard.

"Master Bruce, this is unacceptable! Do you know how badly he could have hurted (____) very badly if he hit any harder!" Alfred cried out, his voice full of anger at how the man he considered his own son was so apathetic. Bruce inhaled sharply, putting his cowl over his head "Alfred, I've already forbidden Dick from crime fighting as Robin. He will also apologize to (____)-"

"Master Dick has hurt your child! What good is an apology if (____) starts crying at the mention of his name!?" Alfred raised his voice, a hand on his head as he let out a heavy sigh. "Bruce, (____) is too scared to tell even me the truth about what had happened. All she is saying is that she 'fell.' No child manages to get injuries such as this unless she has fallen from a high tree." "..."

Richard was standing off to the side in the batcave, his head hung low in shame as he listened to his mentor and his butler arguing.

It was around 8 or 9 PM last time Richard checked, he didn't get the opportunity to find what time it was now since he had been yelled at for the last hour by Bruce and now was listening to Bruce and Alfred arguing about what he did.

Bruce was putting on his batsuit as he argued with Alfred, it was clear that what had happened was not going to stop him from going out and fighting crime tonight.

Richard glanced upwards as he heard small movements that he was positive wasn't Bruce putting on his batsuit as he argued with Alfred. He swore he could hear tiny pitter patters of footsteps- "Oh jeez!-" A curse almost escaped Richard's lips, causing Alfred and Bruce's to turn towards Richard before becoming dead silent.

You were in the batcave at the end of the steps, your eyes dead set on the three and clutching your favorite chameleon plush close to your face, as if to cover how bad your nose looked.

How did you even get into the batcave? Alfred was sure he put you to bed and the grandfather clock entrance that covered the stairs was covered as usual and even then there's a code that you shouldn't know unless-

"I heard yelling." You say quietly, a sniffle escaping you as you tried to breathe through your nose and it ached.

Your eyes were on your dad in a bat suit.

Batman.

He was Batman, You've seen him on T.V before with a boy in a red suit. You chattered excitedly to Alfred many times whenever you saw Batman on T.V about how Batman and Robin were so cool.

If Batman was your daddy, then Robin was Richard.

"A-Are you Batman, da-daddy?" your voice was scratchy from how much you cried before, you didn't like how your own father could choose to spend time with some lost kid over you voice sounded so full of pain.

Bruce and Alfred exhanged shocked glances, unsure of how to proceed.

Richard took a step forward, "I-"

"I will never forgive you or forget this. It-It is okay." You murmured tiredly, taking a step back instinctively and averting your gaze away from the older boy.

Alfred would gently pick you up and

That was it.

It may have only been two bad interactions, but these interactions would cement your relationship with Richard Grayson.

Or lack of a relationship, that is.

After this incident, you no longer played with your toys of stuffies to Alfred's concern.

You didn't really do anything until he gently suggested that you find a new hobby if perhaps you didn't enjoy your stuffies or tea party's by yourself anymore.

You would eventually chose a new hobby in a couple of months after this incident. That hobby would be (___________).

Alfred swore to himself to keep more of an eye on you after the incident since you were starting to act oddly.

Bruce would move on from this incident after a couple of weeks.

Richard? You didn't speak to him. He didn't speak to you. His room was moved away from yours after he hurt you.

You were scared of him and avoided him.

You had to give credit to Dick, though. He taught you something very important that you would never forget:

Lying is better than telling the truth, telling the truth would get you hurt.

Relationship Status!

Bruce Wayne (Your father): 0/100

-Why does he care more about some orphan over you?

Alfred Pennyworth (Your only friend): 85/100

-At least you can count on Alfred.

-He chose you.

-That means he loves you.

Richard Grayson (The one you fear): -30/100

-You don't like Richard.

-You're scared of him.

-Are you why my father doesn't spend time with me?

-He broke something inside of you.

A/N: You thought Damian would be the one to hurt you? NAHHHHHHHH THAT'S TOO COMMON IN THESE STORIES, HERE'S SOMETHING TO CRY ABOUT. If you did cry my bad. If you end up hating Dick? GOOD. It means I did a good job. ALSO there will be a poll up today! It will be up for until maybe tomorrow and will be relevant to chapter 4 and what your hobbies will be! (This will totally not have consequences later on.) Taglist!

@the-dumber-scaramouche

@sirenetheblogger

@bellethesleepypotato

@mev-fizzah-writes

@tsxukikami

[xlettex]

You’d never slept over before. Not for lack of trying—he’s invited you a few times now, usually in that whirlwind, fast-talking, Bokuto way: “You should stay! I’ll make popcorn! We can watch that terrible space movie you love—wait, not terrible, just… objectively confusing!”

And eventually, you said yes. You’re newly dating, still figuring each other out. Still brushing pinkies under the table, pretending not to smile when he calls you his favorite distraction, and marveling at how easily he can light up a room. Last night was nice. Messy and real. He made you laugh so hard you snorted water out of your nose. You fell asleep curled around his arm, warm and stupidly happy.

You wake up expecting him to be gone. You’ve heard the stories—how Bokuto’s up with the sun, always the first at the gym, how he “accidentally” does 200 push-ups before breakfast because he couldn’t sit still. So when you stir around 9:47 a.m. and find him still beside you, wrapped in blankets and very much not at the gym, you blink in quiet confusion.

And when you try to sit up?

He groans. Loud and pitiful. Then immediately rolls toward you, snaking an arm around your waist, and slumps half his weight on top of you. “Don’t,” he says, voice scratchy with sleep.

“…Don’t what?” you whisper.

His face is in your neck, voice muffled and petulant. “Don’t leave. Too early.”

You laugh under your breath. “It’s basically ten.”

“I’m not emotionally ready for ten.”

You freeze a little, startled by how different this is from what you imagined. No bouncing. No bright energy. No dramatic grin. Just a sleepy man-child melting into you like the mattress is quicksand.

“Aren’t… you a morning person?” you say cautiously.

He groans again. “I am,” he mumbles, “just not when you’re here. You ruin everything.”

"Wow. Thanks."

“No, I mean… you’re warm. And you smell good. And your shoulder’s soft. And the bed feels better with you in it. So now I’m clingy and helpless. Congrats.”

You turn your head, just enough to glimpse his expression—eyes closed, brows drawn, nose scrunched into your skin as if he’s memorizing it.

“I was gonna make coffee,” you murmur.

“Betrayal.”

“You didn’t seem like the clingy type,” you tease, trying (and failing) to pry yourself from his arms.

He only holds you tighter, tugging you closer until your back is flush to his chest. “Yeah, well,” he mutters, lips brushing your collarbone. “You weren’t supposed to find out on the first sleepover.”

You go still. It’s the first sleepover. This was supposed to be casual, a night of snacks and movie reruns while trying not to overthink anything. But this? You weren’t prepared for this.

You clear your throat, flustered. “I could… come back after coffee?”

“No."

You laugh, helpless. “Koutarou—”

He silences you with a gentle touch, turning you toward him until there’s barely any space left between you. His voice is soft now—quieter than before, careful. “Just five more minutes.”

Then he kisses you. Soft and slow, not wanting to startle you. But when you don’t pull away—when your breath catches and your fingers curl instinctively into his shirt—he deepens it. His hand finds the small of your back, drawing you in, needing you closer. There’s no such thing as close enough. He’s still half-asleep, but he’s fully sure of this—of you. 

When his lips leave yours, he says nothing. He just buries his face in your stomach and wraps his arms around your waist. 

You lie there, stunned—lips tingling, the warmth of the kiss still clinging to your skin. Your fingers find his hair, brushing through the tangled, sleep-ruined strands without thinking. His breathing slows. His weight settles against you, easing something deep in your chest.

And even though your brain is buzzing and your heart is screaming, this is really happening—you somehow manage a soft response. “…Okay. Five more minutes.”

(You don’t leave for another hour and a half.)

[leeeedith]

STRAY KIDS reaction when they realize they're in love with you

Bang Chan 🐺

It hits him in the quiet moments. You're next to him, head resting on his shoulder as you scroll on your phone, and he's just... watching you with the softest smile. You laugh at something and show him the screen, completely unaware of the storm inside his chest. And that's when it hits. "Oh," he thinks. "I'm in love with her." He gets quiet for a second, just staring at you like you're the most precious thing he's ever seen. And when you ask, "What?" with a little smile, he just shakes his head and says, "Nothing. Just... you make me real happy."

Lee Know 🐰

He's helping you cook, and you're singing badly to a song on the radio—dramatically off-key, swinging your hips, making him laugh more than he has in weeks. You accidentally get flour on his nose, and instead of being annoyed, he grins. And in that moment, he realizes he never wants to spend his evenings without this kind of joy again. His heart stutters. "I'm so in love with you," he thinks. He doesn't say it out loud, but later, when you're not looking, he snaps a photo of you laughing—just for himself.

Changbin 🐷

He's walking you home, jacket slung over your shoulders because you forgot yours again. The air is crisp, your hand is swinging in his, and you're telling him a story animatedly. He's not even listening fully, just watching the way your eyes light up, the little crinkle at the edge when you smile. Something in his chest aches. "I'm in love with her," he realizes. He stops walking for a second and just stares at you. You're like, "What? Why are you looking at me like that?" and he shrugs, blushing, "Just thinking about how lucky I am."

Hyunjin 😺

You're sketching quietly on the couch, your lip tucked between your teeth, brows furrowed in concentration. He's watching from across the room. You don't notice him—too in your own world—and that's when it hits. That he's completely, terrifyingly in love with you. That even your silence feels like home. He walks over slowly, wraps his arms around you from behind, and buries his face in your neck. "What's gotten into you?" you giggle. He just murmurs, "Nothing. Just don't ever leave, okay?"

Han 🐿️

You're sharing headphones, lying on your backs in the dark, listening to a playlist you made for him. You're humming along, totally offbeat, but it makes him smile like an idiot. He turns his head to look at you, your features soft in the low light, and suddenly the words hit him louder than the music: "I'm so in love with her." It's scary and beautiful all at once. He doesn't say anything, but he scoots closer and links your pinkies together. It's his quiet way of saying "I'm yours."

Felix 🐥

You're baking together, and you're smudged with flour and laughing like you haven't a care in the world. You give him the spoon to taste the frosting and look up at him, expectant, with that radiant smile of yours. And he just stops. He feels is heart bloom like spring. "I love her," he thinks. Not in the sweet, crush way—no, this is deep. Real. Forever kind of love. He leans in, presses a kiss to your forehead, and says, "You make everything feel like magic."

Seungmin 🐶

You're talking to a kid at the park, tying their shoelace, laughing with them like it's the easiest thing in the world. He watches you from a distance, hands in his pockets, and it hits him all at once—like a breath he didn't know he was holding. "She's it." He's never been the overly emotional type, but his chest feels full to the brim. Later that night, he'll say it softly, while you're curled up in bed, "Hey... I think I'm in love with you." And when you smile into his hoodie, he knows it's real.

I.N 🦊

It's during a grocery run. You're picking out snacks, holding two up and asking which one he likes better, completely serious about it. And he's just... standing there, realizing that even the most mundane moments feel like a dream with you. "I love her," he thinks, stunned by how simple and true it feels. He chooses a third snack and adds it to the basket, mumbling, "Let's get all three. You deserve all the good things." You just grin, and his heart completely combusts.

[faeyun]

ˋ 𑁍 ⨾ HALF-SMOKED CIGARETTES

the last thing you were expecting when taking a smoke outside was to see someone trying to sneakily cut flowers off your mom’s bushes in the front of your house in the middle of the night—nor were you expecting to become so enamored by him, either. and it seemed that the feeling was completely mutual.

❛ 이희승 𝑥 𝑓!reader ❜ 𓈒𓈒 ❨ 歌 𝑝𝑙𝑎𝑦𝑙𝑖𝑠𝑡 ❩ 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗌, 𝗌𝗆𝗎𝗍, 𝖿𝗅𝗈𝗐𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝖾𝖿 ＆ 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝖽𝖺 𝗁𝗂𝗆𝖻𝗈!𝗁𝖾𝖾𝗌𝖾𝗎𝗇𝗀, 𝗍𝖾𝖾𝗇𝖺𝗀𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝗋𝗍𝖻𝖺𝗀!𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋 (𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝖺𝗇 𝖺𝖼𝗍𝗎𝖺𝗅 𝗍𝖾𝖾𝗇𝖺𝗀𝖾𝗋), 𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗂𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝖻𝗂𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝖺𝗇𝗀𝗌𝗍 ＆ 𝖿𝗅𝗎𝖿𝖿, ✴︎ 𝘴𝘮𝘰𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 ／ 𝘤𝘪𝘨𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘴, 𝘢𝘭𝘤𝘰𝘩𝘰𝘭, 𝘩𝘦𝘦𝘴𝘦𝘶𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘴 𝘢 𝘣𝘪𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘢 𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘷, 𝘢 𝘭𝘰𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘴𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘤𝘩!𝘩𝘦𝘦𝘴𝘦𝘶𝘯𝘨, 𝘮𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘣𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 (𝘮. 𝘳𝘦𝘤), 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘥𝘳𝘺𝘩𝘶𝘮𝘱𝘪𝘯𝘨 (𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘥𝘢), 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘨𝘩 𝘧𝘶𝘤𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘶𝘯𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘵𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘴𝘦𝘹, 𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘧𝘶𝘤𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘫𝘰𝘣, 𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘮𝘱𝘪𝘦, 𝘱𝘦𝘵𝘯𝘢𝘮𝘦𝘴 (𝘣𝘢𝘣𝘺), 𝘤𝘭𝘪𝘵 𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘶𝘭𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯, 𝘤𝘶𝘮𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘵𝘴, 𝘱𝘶𝘴𝘴𝘺 𝘥𝘳𝘶𝘯𝘬!𝘩𝘦𝘦, 𝘩𝘦𝘦𝘴𝘦𝘶𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘩𝘰𝘳𝘯𝘺 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘦, 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘥𝘢 𝘨𝘦𝘵 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘮𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘺, 𝘮𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘶𝘱 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘦𝘶𝘱, 𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘰𝘧 𝘱𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘺 𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘢𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘦 𓏸 1O,OOO ╱ ��. list

( 𝓷 )。 a month and a half, a new username, and a new theme later… i am back!!! hello my lovelies, i hope you been well!! (>人<)♡ enjoy this lil fic while i work on some of my bigger wips! lowkey, i don’t like this one that much, but we prevail ... kisses mwah!! ♡♡

͏ ͏ ͏͏ ͏ ͏͏ ͏ ͏ ͏͏ ͏ ͏͏  ͏  ͏ ͏ ͏͏ REBLOGS ◜◡◝ FEEDBACK APPRECIATED!

The cold night air bit at your skin through the thin cardigan you had thrown on minutes prior. It didn’t help that the only thing you had on underneath it was a simple tank top. You curled more into the cushions of the wooden porch swing you sat on, but it gave you no more warmth. Sighing at yourself, you let the smoke curl out from your nose and fill the air around your face. The least you could’ve done before creeping out of the house was put on something warmer than the—also—thin shorts you wore.

It was a rather quiet night, the only other noise coming from the slight wind that picked up here and there and the sound of you taking another drag of the burning cigarette between your fingers. The blackness of the night draped over you like a blanket, giving you slight comfort at the thought of sitting outside alone. Taking another drag of the cigarette, you were pulled out of your thoughts by the soft sounds of grass under the soles of shoes.

Your head turned towards the sound. A blur of black and denim passed in front of you and stopped in front of the beautiful arrangement of hydrangeas and azaleas your Mom had planted in front of your house. You froze in your spot on the porch swing, your cigarette halfway to your parted lips. Heart thumping in your chest, you forced yourself to take a deep inhale of the cool spring air and calm your nerves. 

Little by little, you stood from the porch swing and tried your best for it not to creak as you moved across the porch silently in your mismatched slippers. The blurry figure came more in view as you rounded the column, and if you weren’t so shaken you would’ve laughed.

You let the smoke spiral from the cigarette as you watched some guy cut flowers from the bushes your Mom delicately planted in the front yard. Somehow he hasn’t noticed you practically standing above him, despite his head being on a swivel for potential onlookers. A heap of hydrangeas and azaleas sat next to him as he cut another one off from the bush at an angle. Was he really stealing flowers from your yard right now in the dead of the night?

“Hey!” you called out, making sure not to be too loud that you might accidentally wake your Mom. The flower thief’s eyes darted up to yours in sudden fear. You raised an eyebrow at him, the corner of your lips lifting as you brought the cigarette to your lips and inhaled more smoke into your lungs. He jumped up, stolen flowers in a death grip in one hand and scissors in another, and suddenly came face to face with you. You blew the cigarette smoke in his face.

He took a couple steps back, coughing and waving the smoke away from his face with the hand that held his scissors. They glinted in the moonlight, the metal catching your eye. You chuckled a little to yourself, mainly because you thought that he was actually something to be afraid of at first. Who steals flowers from their next door neighbor?

You gasped, pressing your free hand to your chest in mock fear, “Are you trying to kill me with scissors right now?”

The flower thief looked like a deer caught in headlights. You could see the fear rippling through him like a stone in water as his wide eyes stared at you. He was frozen in his place. “What? What? No! I-I… Uh—”

He looked down to the flowers in his hand with furrowed brows and then held them out towards you. You chuckled again from your place on the porch still, the smile on your face growing as he stumbled over more and more of his words. You took one last drag from the cigarette before dropping the butt to your feet and smothering out the flame with your slipper. The flower thief persisted, continuously cutting himself off, “I was just… You see, it’s—”

You crossed your arms against your chest, trying to seem nonchalant but really trying to mask how cold you were right now, and got a good look at him. If you thought about it, he was pretty cute with his round features. He seemed rather tall—clad in a black oversized zip-up hoodie, loose denim jeans rolled at the bottom to show his funky socks that you couldn't make out that well, and dirty converse that were grass stained.

He must steal your Mom’s flowers a lot.

His brick red hair was disheveled and his wide brown eyes landed on just about anything other than you. “So you’re just a petty thief then, huh? Is that it? You like to steal flowers from poor innocent mothers who break their backs planting them, don’t you?” you ask him, trying not to let the laugh come out through your voice and barely succeeding.

“No!” he exclaimed, shaking his head rapidly with his arm still outstretched. “No… it’s for—I’m… I—”

The flower thief suddenly surged forward towards you and the flowers, making you take a wild step back. He quickly cut another flower from your Mom’s hydrangea and azalea bushes and took off towards his own house. “Sorry!” he threw behind him, giving you one last look.

You ran off the porch and into your yard after him, but stopped yourself short. “What the fuck, dude? Those are my Mom’s flowers!” you shouted in his direction. He threw more apologies at you, but didn’t stop his sprint. You just shook your head at him. Let him keep the flowers if they were so important to him that he had to steal them in the middle of the night.

You finally let out the laugh you were trying so hard to keep in. You tried your hardest to keep it relatively quiet, but knew you didn’t succeed when the neighbor across from you’s light flicked on. Taking off yourself, you darted back onto the porch and towards your front door, flinging it open and hiding yourself within the comfort of your own home.

“I wish you’d stop wearing these beat up shoes,” Heeseung’s Mom said as she examined the outfit he came downstairs in. She still hadn’t told him what he needed to get dressed for so he didn’t put much thought into his outfit. But, seeing how nice she cleaned up in a pretty jewel-toned dress, made him realize that that was a mistake. Heeseung’s Mom sighed in an ‘it’s good enough’ way as her gaze flicked back up to meet her son’s. “And you desperately need better clothes,” she continued, waving her hand in the air at him. “Did you not buy any new ones? Have you just been walking around your dorm and campus in this… questionable attire?”

Heeseung sighed at the way his Mom raised her brows at him in question. He couldn’t tell her that his shoes were so beat up because he’s been dragging them through dirt and along grass. As for his clothes… That was just his style—and he hadn’t thought there was anything wrong with it until now. Heeseung decided to not answer her and instead guide the conversation in a different direction. “You never said where we are going and why it’s so important for me to go with you,” Heeseung asked instead. 

After fiddling with the collar of his faded t-shirt, Heeseung’s Mom smiled up at him. “The neighbors have invited us to dinner! I hear their daughter is also back from college on spring break!” she exclaimed. Heeseung knew his Mom well enough to catch the hint in her words. This was all some elaborate set up to bring him and this poor random girl together, and the neighbors were most likely also part of it.

“Mom—” Heeseung started, but was cut off by his Mom raising a finger, the smile still on her face. 

“From all the stories I’ve heard she’s a nice, sweet girl and I think that the two of you would get along well. Now, go grab your jacket. It’s chilly outside.” Heeseung just sighed, a slight pout forming on his lips as he walked over to the coat closet.

When his Mom was grabbing her own jacket, Heeseung pulled the vase full of hydrangeas and azaleas out from its hiding place and presented it to her turned back. When she turned, her eyes landing on the beautiful display of flowers, she gasped. “For you, Mom,” the smile on Heeseung’s face grew wider with how his Mom’s face lit up.

She took the vase of flowers from his hands, smiling softly down at them. “You are so very sweet! But, don’t think that this is getting you out of this dinner.”

Heeseung groaned as his Mom placed the vase down by the window. Together, they stepped out of the house.

“So which neighbor is it?” Heeseung asked. He looked around at the houses that surrounded him. Heeseung wasn’t that familiar with his neighbors, especially not since he’s been at college, so it really could’ve been anyone. 

Heeseung’s Mom tilted her head towards the house right next to theirs, “The ones right next door! Come on, I don’t want to be late.”

Heeseung froze in place. Surely his Mom meant a different neighbor, right? One where he hasn’t been stealing flowers from every odd night since he came home? Too late his mind was putting together the pieces. The daughter that is back for spring break… That must’ve been you. He couldn’t come face to face with you again after that embarrassing encounter from last night! What if you exposed him? “Maybe we should skip out this time,” Heeseung practically begged.

“Nice try,” his Mom replied, “let's go.” She pushed him in front of her and towards the house. Defeated, Heeseung accepted his fate and crossed the shortcut through the grass to where your front walkway was. He stood behind his Mom hunched over himself—he really didn’t want to be standing on your doorstep right now.

A woman who he could only assume was your Mom opened the door after his knocked, a welcoming and warm smile on her face as she beckoned the both of them inside. Heeseung didn’t hear what your Mom was saying she cooked for dinner tonight, he was too busy scanning the living room for your presence.

Your home looked like any old suburban home in the area. As his Mom and yours began to chat, Heeseung looked around more at the photographs that hung on the wall. There were various photos of you and your Mom at different stages of your life—some where you were at a pool and others where you were holding trophies for an achievement Heeseung couldn’t make out.

His gaze lingered on the photographs that seemed more recent that were in frames along the table by the front door. You looked so different from how he last saw you at dead of night. In the picture, you didn’t have the smudged dark eyeliner around your eyes or the cigarette smoke clouding around you almost like a halo. It was somewhat odd to Heeseung to see you without them.

Heeseung’s name being said lowly caught his ears. He looked to the side to see his Mom and yours chatting in low—but not low enough—voices about the two of you, a please smile on their faces. “I told you he’d be interested!” Heeseung’s Mom whispered, her eyes quickly darting to where he stood, still bent over slightly to get a better look at your picture. “Speaking of, where is your daughter?”

All heads turned to the descending sound of footsteps at the staircase, your arrival coming at the perfect moment. Heeseung couldn’t deny that you were absolutely gorgeous. Your eyes met his and it felt as if time started to move more slowly. As you rounded the stair landing, your Mom rushed towards you and practically pulled you right in front of Heeseung before you could even have the chance to blink. “Honey, come greet our guests,” your Mom says.

You tilt your head at the guy standing before you, barely hearing your Mom give you his name. You almost couldn’t believe your eyes—this was the guy who was stealing flowers from the bushes out front last night! Did he have no shame? Why was in your house having dinner with you and your Mom?

You could, once again, see the barely disguised fear in his wide eyes. Lifting a finger at him, your brows furrowing, you began to speak but was quickly cut off by your Mom beating you to it. “Well, Heeseung’s Mom and I are gonna finish up here in the kitchen. Why don’t the two of you wait on the couch? Get to know each other before we eat dinner?”

It wasn’t like they gave you both a choice. One moment you were seconds from confronting the late-night landscaping larcenist and the next you were shoulder to shoulder on the couch with him while your Moms giggled and scurried off to the kitchen. You both jumped away from each other, and you gave him a glare.

“Listen,” Heeseung started, “I’m really sorry about the flowers. Please don’t tell your Mom! It’s just—I… They’re my Mom’s favorite flowers and they were just so accessible being in your front lawn, I thought it wouldn’t be that big of a deal! You know, shave some off the top and—”

You cut off his rambling by pressing a finger to his lips to silence him. Chuckling a little, you say, “I don’t really care about the flowers. Just… Why in the middle of the night? Why didn’t you just ask for some? I’m sure my Mom could've even given you some seeds or something.”

Heeseung’s stare immediately dropped to your finger still on his lips, to the chipped black nail polish that coated your nails. He could smell the perfume you sprayed on yourself and it briefly clouded his senses with its sweetness. For a moment, he didn’t say anything. His head was completely empty as he dragged his gaze back to you. It took you raising an eyebrow at him for Heeseung to snap back to his senses. “Uh… I don’t know. I guess I just didn’t really think about it,” he finally says, his voice slightly muffled.

You retracted your finger and Heeseung’s lips immediately felt cold without it. Lifting the corner of your lips up at him, you leaned back onto the couch, “I guess I’ll keep your secret, flower thief.” You said it loud enough for your Mom to potentially hear and Heeseung sat up straighter, peering over the couch to where the entrance to your kitchen was. You laughed, and Heeseung looked back at you shaking your head at him. “Don’t worry, they can’t hear us. They’re probably in there, like, planning our wedding or something… You do know this whole dinner is a set up, right?”

Your face grew serious for a moment before you broke out into another laugh. This time, Heeseung joined in. “Yeah, I figured. I wonder what made them put the two of us together.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” you asked, an offended look passed across your face. “Were you expecting something else? Am I not up to your standards?”

Heeseung was quick to say that that wasn’t the case, stumbling over his words on how pretty you were and that he wouldn’t mind being with you or even someone like you, before you cut in with another laugh. His heart was racing, but he awkwardly laughed along with you as he brought his hand up to scratch the back of his neck. Heseung was glad that the length of his hair hid how red the tips of his ears no doubt were.

“I’m just fucking with you,” you say, patting his shoulder. “You don’t have to fall over yourself trying to make me feel better.”

Before Heeseung could respond, his Mom poked her head out from the entrance of the kitchen. Behind her, the sound of your Mom’s voice caught both of your attention and you turned around at it, “—come hell or high water! Just you wait, they’ll be together!”

You looked over at him and gave him a wink. A smile pulled at Heeseung’s lips and his gaze lingered on you as you stared at your Moms emerging figures from the kitchen. “Dinner’s ready!” your Mom says, a delighted smile on her lips.

The two of you rose from the couch and made your way to the kitchen to help set out the dishes in the dining room. Each time Heeseung passed you, you made sure to graze your fingers along his bicep or let the fabric of your flannel brush his shoulder. When the two of you were alone in the kitchen, you pulled him down a little so your lips were at his ear and whispered: “Let’s give them something to be excited about.”

Dinner consisted of fake stolen glances and laughing a little too hard at anything Heeseung said. Between the act the two of you were putting you on, Heeseung was trying his absolute hardest to not let his face heat up to the point where everyone at the table could see how red he truly was. You subtly taunted him, bringing up the flower incident in front of your Mom without her putting two and two together.

“Mom,” you spoke, garnering the table’s attention, “I love the flowers you have planted out in front of the house. Don’t you like them too, Heeseung?” You turned to look at Heeseung and suddenly the table’s entire attention was on him.

Heeseung shifted in his chair, the cushion suddenly uncomfortable. He finished chewing, swallowing hard, giving him precious seconds to think before answering. “Y-Yeah—Yes, they’re very beautiful!” Heeseung’s voice came out a little strained, but he hoped that your Mom didn’t think too deeply about it. He glanced at you, raising a brow ever so slightly. What happened to keeping his secret?

You cleared your throat, clearly a tactic to mask your laugh as you hid your smile with your hand. You rested your head on your hand as you looked at him. Heeseung felt the toe of your boot at his ankle, slowly making its way further up his leg and dragging the bottom of his rolled up jeans with it. He shifted in his seat a little again and you smiled a little more, biting your lip.

“My exquisite hydrangeas and azaleas…” your Mom trailed, tsking and shaking her head. “I think we’ve had an uptick in bunnies or something! Every time I go outside to water them and make sure they are doing okay there’s always some that has been chewed off.” You looked over to Heeseung and he looked over to you. You shook your head at your Mom’s words, pretending to be sorrowful. “It’s so strange too! I never see any bunnies around, but I don’t know what else it could be,” your Mom continued.

“Such a shame…” Heeseung’s Mom trailed. He was glad that she didn’t piece together that the flowers he gave her earlier were the exact same flowers that were in front of your house—same color and all. If he was lucky, she must think that he had gotten them from the shop. Heeseung made sure to keep his mouth shut.

Under the table, your foot had traveled all the way up to right below Heeseung’s knee. He was trying his hardest to keep composed, but it was glaringly obvious that something was wrong with him by the way he kept squirming in his seat. His Mom’s eyes flicked over to him in question and Heeseung inhaled deeply. You tilted your head at him in concern, your brows furrowed. “Everything alright, Heeseung?” you asked him, trailing your foot up further.

Heeseung pushed back from the table, his chair scraping along the hardwood floor and making an awfully loud and grating noise. Your foot dropped, and you tried your hardest not to laugh at his reaction. “S-Sorry,” Heeseung spoke, looking around the room. Forks were stopped halfway to mouths and all sound in the air died out. “Uh—Where’s your restroom?” he asks, standing to his feet awkwardly.

“Down that hall and to the left,” you smiled, there was a hint of knowing in your expression that made Heeseung feel even more embarrassed. You rested your head in your hands again, looking up at him. Heeseung apologized again, rushing towards where the restroom was located and adjusting his jeans in the process.

He didn’t understand you. Heeseung thought that when you said to give your Moms something to be excited about, that your actions would be a lot more out in the open. What was the point of teasing him under the table? Did you just want to see him flustered? Maybe that was it.

Heeseung couldn’t stop thinking about your touch—your finger on his lips and the graze of your fingertips on his bicep or the feeling of your knuckles brushing together when you both accidentally reached for the same platter. It was driving him a bit crazy at this point, and it didn’t help that the potential threat of his secret being exposed by you loomed over him. He couldn’t tell if this was all to make your parents happy still and if he was supposed to just play along, or if it had somehow along the way turned into actual flirting. Heeseung turned on the faucet and splashed cold water on his face.

It was undeniable that you were attractive. Your smudged eyeliner and chipped nails just made Heeseung even more attracted to you. He wouldn’t mind if things between the two of you delved deeper than the surface, if possible. He wanted to ask you what your end-goal was, but he also didn’t want to possibly mess up his chances of getting to know you better. Either way felt like a lose-lose battle to him, and that drove him even more crazy than before.

Heeseung looked at himself in the mirror, the cold droplets of water running down his chin and dripping off his face and into the sink below. Heeseung liked you, that he couldn’t deny anymore.

He cut the water off and dried his face with the hem of his t-shirt. Heeseung took another look at himself in the mirror, sighing softly, before exiting the bathroom and making his way back to the dinner table.

The first thing Heeseung did when getting home from the dinner with you and your Mom was immediately rush up to his room. He pressed his back against the coolness of the wooden door, finally feeling like he was able to breathe fully as he shut his eyes. He stayed there for a moment, just slowly inhaling and exhaling until his body didn’t feel like a livewire anymore.

Heeseung opened his eyes and his gaze fell on the way the moonlight filtered through his still-open blinds. He exhaled again and pushed off the door to go close them. What he wasn’t expecting to see was you. Your window was right across from his and you looked to be getting ready for bed as you moved about your own room, the light from your room flooding outside the panes of your window and onto the side of your house. Heeseung was mesmerized for a moment as he watched you. You were completely oblivious to him, and most likely at the fact that your windows faced each other too. 

Heeseung swallowed hard when you stripped off your shirt right in view of the window for him to see. You turned towards the window and he could see the black bra you wore before you bent down to take off the black denim shorts you had on, leaving you in a matching pair of black panties. Heeseung’s eyes widened. He knew he shouldn’t be watching you get undressed right now, but he couldn’t tear his eyes away from you either.

You turned your back to him, unclipping your bra and letting it fall to the floor. Heeseung’s breathing picked up and he was so focused on you that he didn’t even notice the growing bulge in his jeans—nor how it was on full display for you too, if you happened to turn back around and look up at your window. Heeseung was glad that the darkness gave him a bit of coverage as he pressed more against his window, taking great care to get a good view from between his blinds. Only when you hooked your thumbs onto the hem of your underwear and began the action of pulling them down your legs did Heeseung finally snap back to his senses and practically fling himself away from the window.

He fell into his desk next to the window, various trinkets and pencils falling off from the surface of it and onto the floor. What was wrong with him? What if you caught him in the act? Heeseung looked down at his pants and the insane boner he had. “Fuck,” he breathed, bringing his hands down his face as he caught his breath. He moved from the desk to his dresser so he could grab some clothes for a shower.

As he stood under the hot stream of the shower, he couldn’t stop his mind from running rampant with thoughts of you. No matter how hard he squeezed his eyes shut, all he saw was you in front of that window, stripping for him. He couldn’t stop himself from conjuring up the image of what he would’ve seen had he stayed for a few seconds longer and watched the black fabric of your underwear fall down the curve of your ass. Heeseung imagined what your tits might’ve looked like when they weren’t below the fabric of your shirt or bra. He jerked himself off faster at the thought.

The stream of water ran down his shoulders and he inhaled sharply, slowing his hand until he was gripping just the tip of his cock. No matter how hard he tried wiping his mind clean, the images just kept appearing. Heeseung cursed under his breath and started to move his hand again, at first starting slowly before he couldn’t pace himself anymore. He was so glad that the sound of the water muffled the mewls spilling from his mouth.

His hand moved hastily, like he couldn’t bring himself to wait any longer, and Heeseung squeezed his eyes shut and pretended that you were in front of him—stripping for him. A gasp left his parted lips and he braced himself with a hand on the tiled wall. In his mind, you were smiling that knowing smile from the dinner and beckoning him forward. And of course, he followed.

It's almost like he could feel your touch still—that it wasn’t his hand fisting his own cock right now, but yours. If he thought about it harder, which he was desperately trying to do, maybe he could even feel your lips around him too. Or, even better… Maybe he could feel the way you wrapped around him until his cock fully disappeared inside of you. The thought brought him over the edge and he fell into the tile in front of him, the stream of hot water suddenly hitting his back.

Heeseung’s cum sprayed all over the front of the tub below him and washed away with the water down the drain. His chest heaved and he forced himself to take deep breaths as he slowly stroked himself to come back down to Earth, more spurts of his cum spilling from him as he emptied himself out completely. Heeseung’s eyes fluttered open finally and he was disappointed to find himself still in the shower. God, what were you doing to him?

He cleaned himself up and left the shower, the feeling of embarrassment and slight shame weighing down his shoulders. After he was dressed and all ready for bed, he checked his window again. Part of him was hopeful that you’d still be standing there—and another part beat himself up over the fact that he was being a creep. Still, he made the short trek to his window to see anyway.

Your light was off and your blinds were closed, much to Heeseung’s disappointment. But, to his surprise, there was a piece of paper with writing on it taped to your window for him to see. On it, the paper read: “Perv” with a smiley face sticking its tongue out next to it in bold, sharpied letters. For a second, Heeseung’s heart dropped. He had been found out and you actually did see him after all. But… Did the note and the smiley face next to your writing mean that you didn’t mind it? Heeseung’s head felt even more clouded, but he couldn’t stop the smile that pulled at his lips.

Maybe the lines between the two of you were getting more and more blurred like he thought. Maybe it wasn’t so surface level and you were flirting with him at the dinner after all, and he was just too stupid to realize. Whatever the case, Heeseung knew that he had to see you again, no matter the cost.

You were back outside at the dead of night again, sitting on your porch swing as you looked out into the vast, dark sky and breathed out cigarette smoke. Some random bottle of wine was at your side, and you occasionally took swigs from it. The alcohol left you hazy, your eyelids weighing heavy the more you drank. It was another quiet night, much to your dismay. You had been coming out the past couple of nights to see if you could catch Heeseung in the act of cutting your Mom’s flowers again, but it's been a few days since you last saw him at the dinner your Mom hosted. If you were being honest, you thought it wouldn’t have taken this long—not with the whole window interaction. You had thought you made your intentions clear, but now you weren’t so sure.

Or, maybe he just didn’t feel the same way you did and was intentionally ghosting you.

You sighed, ready to retire for the night and call it quits before you heard the sound of someone walking near you. Looking up, you scanned the yard and saw the blur of a hoodie. Your face broke out into the slightest smile and you sat up a little straighter, standing from the swing.

“Hey,” you said, your eyes falling on Heeseung’s figure walking up to the stairs of your porch. He jumped, clearly not expecting you to be there, before smiling. You nodded him over to the porch swing you stood in front of and he climbed up the stairs while awkwardly fiddling with the hair at the back of his head. You sat back down and he sat down next to you, close enough that your shoulders touched and your thigh brushed against his. “What are you doing here?” you ask, looking over at him before taking another long drawl of the cigarette. You made sure to blow the smoke away from his face this time. “Here to steal some more flowers, thief?”

Heeseung laughed, waving a hand in the air. “No, I—Uh… I came to talk to you actually.”

You raised a brow at him, curious as to what he wanted to talk about. A chuckle fell from your lips, “Oh, really? About what?” You handed the half empty bottle of wine to him and he graciously took it. You’d offer him a cigarette as well, but he didn’t look like the type to even know how to light it, nevermind smoke it. Heeseung took a large swig from the bottle, thickly swallowing the wine down before he brought it back up to his lips to take another. “Woah… You must need to tell me something serious. Take it easy,” you told him before taking the bottle away.

Heeseung wiped his lips, looking at you with big eyes. He fumbled over his words, nothing coherent coming out. You smiled at him and leaned over to the small table next to the swing to put your cigarette out in the ashtray. “Here, let me start. I have something I want to say, too,” you say.

Raising the bottle to your lips, you drink some more of the wine before clearing your throat to speak. “Listen, I get it if you aren’t looking for something right now. Or-Or, maybe I wasn’t clear on what I wanted? Fuck, I’m so bad at this…” You ran a hand down your face, shaking your head a little. Your brain was already foggy from the alcohol and trying to think right now wasn’t exactly working. “You’re hot, okay? And-And I like you.”

You avoided Heeseung’s gaze, opting to look back out at the sky and the stars. In your peripheral vision, you saw his face change, but couldn’t see to which expression. “And I think that… maybe you like me too?” you continued. You dared to look back at him and your eyes met. Heeseung looked stunned, like he couldn’t believe that those were the words that came out of your mouth and he was actively trying to figure out if he was hearing things or not.

When he was silent for a moment, you quickly stood from the swing, bringing the bottle of wine with you. “Y-You don’t have to say anything. We can finish this talk when it’s daylight,” you rushed out. You moved past him, feet moving quick to get to your front door before Heeseung’s hand wrapped around your wrist and pulled you back towards him. In the seconds it took for you to turn to him, his other hand reached up to cup your cheek and his lips pressed to yours.

You stumbled backwards a little, shock flooding you like the breaking of a dam, before you wrapped the arm that wasn’t holding the wine bottle around his neck to pull him closer to you. Your lips moved in perfect sync with his and you melted into the kiss. Heeseung’s other hand snaked up your side and pulled you close to his chest.

You didn’t even think about the fact that you needed to breathe. The only thing that ran through your mind was his soft lips against yours and your bodies pressed together. You wished that the two of you had kissed sooner. You wished that when the two of you sat on that couch together that you had climbed into his lap and brought your lips to his then. What a whole world you were missing out on.

Despite his better judgement, Heeseung was the one to pull away, his breathing falling heavy and his eyes shining. You smiled at him, shy all of a sudden. You didn’t really know what to say, even with Heeseung’s grand display of how he also felt about you. Finally, you settled on, “Do you wanna come inside?”

The two of you laughed, but Heeseung shook his head, his smile lingering. “Next time,” he said. “I want to be completely sober for this. I want us both to be completely sober for this.”

You laughed harder, pulling away from his grasp. He sounded like he was waiting his whole life for this moment and he didn't want anything to potentially taint it. You doubted the alcohol would make much of a difference, especially for him since he barely had any, but you nodded along anyway. “Next time, then,” you say, heading towards the door. “Goodnight, Heeseung.”

“I meant what I said, by the way,” Heeseung called after you. You turned back towards him, confusion written all over your face. He hadn’t said much of anything. And if his large gulps of wine were anything to attest to, you supposed it was from the nerves. “Before dinner, on the couch,” he clarified.

You took a second to think back to that night, to think back on the conversation the two of you had and go back over it in your mind. You came back with your own words: “You don’t have to fall over yourself trying to make me feel better.” You had jokingly said it when he started to ramble on about how he would love to be with you or someone like you. A smile pulled at your lips as realization fell over you.

“I know I was pretty awkward with it, but I was serious,” Heeseung says.

Rushing forward, you bring your lips to his once more, but only for a brief moment before pulling away. With your lips just centimeters from his, you say, “See you next time.” You turn again, heading for the door, and right before going inside you give Heeseung one last look before closing the door completely.

Heeseung is still awestruck that this all even happened, that you actually liked him like he liked you. He truly couldn’t believe it. He was sure that any moment now he would wake up in his bed and it all would’ve been a dream—he even pinched himself on the way from your porch to his house to confirm it for sure. But, it wasn’t. It all really happened, and that made Heeseung light up inside again like no other.

He wanted to jump up and shout from the rooftops and click his heels together. He couldn’t wait to see you again, and he especially couldn’t wait for that “next time” to finally happen.

A knock on the door sounded throughout the house and Heeseung looked towards the door from his spot on the couch where he was lazily flipping through channels on the TV. He wasn’t expecting any company, and his Mom didn’t tell him to expect anyone either. Heeseung raised a brow and he stood to his feet and let the remote fall somewhere on the couch from his hand.

When he pulled the front door open, he surely wasn’t expecting you to be on the other side of it, a big smile on your face as your figure basked in the springtime sunlight. For a moment, Heeseung was stunned. He hadn’t really seen you in the daylight before, as the majority of your encounters had taken place at night. He loved the way the sun made you glow like his very own angel sent to see him.

After the kisses the two of you shared, you both mainly spent time together in the middle of the night outside on your porch swing talking about everything and nothing. The two of you haven’t even kissed again. Everytime Heeseung would lean in and try to kiss you, you let him get as close as a brush against your lips before pulling away teasingly—telling him that “All good things come to those who wait.” He didn’t know how much longer he could—didn’t know what was taking him so long. He was so focused on finding the perfect moment that he seemed to be missing out completely.

It seemed you couldn’t wait much longer either, deciding to take matters into your own hands.

“Hey,” Heeseung smiled at you as he stepped to the side to let you in, “what are you doing here?” You entered his house, taking a brief look around the place before spinning to face him, the smile still on your face. You kicked off your boots and adjusted the leather jacket that you wore. Heeseung shut the door, giving you his full attention.

“It’s next time,” you say, taking a step towards him. Heeseung’s eyes widened, his face surely showing the shock he felt. Did you mean right now? Not that he didn’t want it, but Heeseung didn’t have any time to prepare. He doesn’t even look his best, either. And where were you supposed to do it, here on the couch? What if his Mom walked in?

Heeseung began pulling his shirt off but you grabbed his arms to stop him. “Not right here! Take me up to your room or something!” you exclaimed, looking at him incredulously. You slid your hand in his.

“Right, right,” Heeseung says, laughing awkwardly.

He pulled you with him towards the stairs and up to where his bedroom was, his heart racing with each step he took. Behind him, you giggled at his behavior and how nervous he was to finally sleep with you.

When you got to his room, he let go of your hand to hurriedly dart around his room. He rushed to pick up random shirts and jeans on the floor and shoved them into his closet along with throwing away any garbage that was still on his nightstand. As he cleaned, you walked over to his desk and shrugged off your leather jacket and laid it on top of the back of the desk chair. You turned and watched him, trying to keep your laugh in, as you patiently waited.

When he was finished he rushed up to you, pulling you to him by your waist. “Sorry… I wasn’t expecting you to come over,” Heeseung said, a bit breathless. You smiled at him, leaning forward to press your lips to his. Oh, you’d bet. A girl can only wait for so long—and if you left Heeseung in charge, you would’ve been waiting forever.

“Don’t worry about it, it’s not what I would’ve been paying attention to anyway.” Your hands trailed down Heeseung’s chest to his stomach as you slowly pushed him back towards his bed. He followed your lead, letting you back him up until the back of his knees hit the side of the bed and fell down onto it. He looked up at you with those big eyes, desire swirling inside of them as he hungrily looked over you standing above him.

You slowly stripped off your long-sleeved shirt and let it fall to the ground below you, your dark red bra pushing up your tits. Heeseung sat up further—his hands reaching for you—but you pushed him back down, wiggling a finger at him. “You really know how to make a girl wait,” you tell him, hooking your thumbs into your jeans to pull them down. “I had thought you’d change your mind.”

“Never,” Heeseung breathed as his sweatpants got tighter and tighter the more clothing you took off. There was practically a tent in his pants, and for once he wasn’t ashamed about it. Your jeans fell down to the floor and you kicked off the rest, smirking at him.

“Look familiar?” you ask, referring to him seeing you in just your matching dark red bra and panties. You turned your back to him, unhooking your bra and letting that fall, too, before looking over your shoulder at him. “Maybe this will jog your memory?”

Heeseung’s mind was taken back to that day he watched you strip through the window, his thoughts now finally being confirmed that you did in fact see him. His face completely flushed and he opened his mouth to speak, but only jumbled words came out. You giggled at him, turning to face him again, but Heeseung could only focus on how he finally got to see what your perfect tits looked like. His eyes widened even more.

You grabbed onto the band of his sweatpants, pulling at them to signal Heeseung to lift his hips so you can take them off. “That was a pretty big boner you had that day, don’t you remember?” you ask, your hand trailing over the boner he had currently. Heeseung’s hips jerked from the action. “Let me guess, you immediately ran to the shower, didn’t you? Disguised all of the noise behind the sound of the water?”

With his sweatpants, you had started to pull down Heeseung’s boxers too. They were halfway down his thighs when his cock sprang free out of them, the tip of it flushed and leaking. You didn’t even bother pulling his pants and boxers down further, too impatient to finally get your hands on him. Instead, your hand grabbed his rock-hard cock firmly, slowly stroking it as you leaned forward to press chaste kisses to Heeseung’s lips. Heeseung tried to keep his moans of pleasure down—even trying to kiss you for longer—but you wouldn’t let him. You wanted to hear him.

“I bet you fucked your fist all night and imagined it was me,” you say in a low voice against his lips.

You picked up the pace and Heeseung broke away from your lips, his head falling back as his eyes rolled to the back of his skull. He struggled to keep himself upright—and if you kept pumping him he was sure to cum at any moment. “Nothing…” Heeseung started breathlessly, taking a moment to find his words through his heavy breathing and shallow pants, “Nothing compares to the real thing.”

You stopped stroking him, your hand stopping at his leaking tip and running your thumb along the slit of it. Heeseung moaned loudly, his eyes fluttering open so he could look at you in question. He was so close, why would you stop? Before Heeseung could ask, you pushed at his chest so he laid on his back fully and climbed on top of him. You sat your clothed pussy right on the base of his cock and slowly started to move your hips.

Heeseung desperately wished there wasn’t fabric separating the two of you. He needed to feel you—needed to feel the way you wrapped around him as your arousal got him even more wet. He wanted you to roll your hips against him until you accidentally rolled them a little too much and he slipped inside you. But, you were having none of that. You were going to make him wait, like he had made you wait.

“Yeah?” you asked, your lips smashing against his in a sloppy kiss. His words must’ve ignited something in you because it wasn’t long before you were both moaning into each other’s mouths. Heeseung nodded, his hands coming to rest at your hips to help aid them in moving faster.

Breaking away from his mouth, you placed both hands on his chest, brows furrowed in pleasure as you continued to rock your hips. Your panties were completely soaked through and they stuck to your wet folds as you grinded against Heeseung. You moaned so prettily, the soft sounds escaping through your plump lips, that Heeseung wanted to hear the sound forever. He never wanted you to stop—in fact, he wanted to make you moan louder, have you feel so much bliss that you didn’t even think to muffle your alluring noises by taking your bottom lip between your teeth.

Heeseung’s hands reached up to your chest, taking your tits in them and squeezing. He needed to know what cumming inside you felt like. He needed to know how it felt to see your mixed cum pour out of you from around him as he fucked it back inside of you. His hands settled down at your waist and he flipped you over to where his pillows were at so that you were on your back instead.

You gasped, stunned by the change in position and the sudden lack of friction. Heeseung spread your legs apart so he could get a full view of you. Your dark red panties almost looked black from how soaked they were, and Heeseung wasted no time as he pulled them off—tossing them somewhere towards his dresser so he could remember to steal them later.

He froze for a moment as he looked down at you completely bare for him. Heeseung dropped his fingers towards your folds, smearing around your arousal in a trance. You watched him as you caught your breath, twitching slightly at his touch. It was so lewd how wet you were, with each pass of his fingers it felt like the sound reverberated off the walls of the room. “I can’t believe this…” Heeseung muttered to himself, barely loud enough for you to hear. His words only made you wetter.

Heeseung pulled off the rest of his clothes. He didn’t want any barriers stopping him from being able to feel you completely.

Grabbing his hard cock, Heeseung slid it between your folds, giving you a slight taste of your own medicine as he watched the way your back arched off the mattress. The joke was complete on him, though, because you squeezed your thighs together and trapped his cock with them.

Heeseung’s mouth fell open and you giggled at him. “It won’t be that easy,” you say, sitting up on your elbows. Heeseung groaned but you cut him off by sitting up fully and kissing him. “This is for the flowers, you thief.”

You turned so your back was flat against his chest, his cock between your thighs begging you to give it some release.  You then grabbed Heeseung’s hands and brought them to your tits as you squeezed your thighs together tightly. Heeseung moaned at your ear, his hands squeezing you once again. “You’ll have to get off like this, first,” you told him while pressing your ass to his hips.

You looked down at his big cock between your thighs, at how flushed it was. Every small move Heeseung made drove you crazy because of the way he brushed against your clit. Each touch felt like a shockwave through your body, but you were too stubborn to let it go any other way. “You’re killing me,” Heeseung groaned again. “Haven’t I paid my dues?”

“Not even in the slightest,” you replied, moving away from him a little before pressing your ass back to his hips again so he took the hint. You hummed in pleasure, your gaze flicking towards him. If he wanted to be inside you, he better start moving.

Heeseung’s hands trailed down to your hips and he held you against him tightly as he leaned forward a little to catch your lips. He began using your thighs to fuck himself, his pace starting leisurely before all the pent up desire caught back up with him. Heeseung’s lips never left yours and the kiss only grew more and more sloppy as he pushed his tongue into your mouth to taste you.

You couldn’t hide your moans from him now, even despite them being muffled by his lips. Heeseung had you right where he wanted you and every brush of his cock against your clit made you dizzy, too dazed to notice the tremor in his hips against your ass as he fucked your thighs nor the way his abs tightened against your back. Heeseung only held you tighter to his body, his skin slapping against yours and mixing with the sound of your shared moans.

Soon, Heeseung’s hips jerked and he groaned against your lips. “Fuck, baby, I need to be inside you right now,” he dragged out. “Please. I want to cum inside of you.”

You shook your head at him and squeezed your thighs together tighter. Curses flew from Heeseung’s lips and his pace slowed. “Not yet,” you said, raising your hand to grab his face so you could kiss him again.

A thin layer of sweat coated the both of you and your body felt like if it burned any hotter it might explode. Heeseung had a death grip on your hips, like he was afraid that after he was done fucking your thighs you might change your mind on letting him fuck you fully. He stilled as he pressed you to him tighter, if possible. “Fuck, fuck, fuck—” Heeseung spewed out.

He barely moved from against you, too obsessed with the way you squeezed him to pull away from it. Thick, white ropes of cum gushed from him and coated the front of your thighs. Heeseung kept sloppily fucking you, a sigh releasing from his lips as more of his cum splattered across your lap.

You were dripping down his cock and all of the teasing and waiting you did backfired and was starting to make you desperate. You wasted no time flipping into your back, not even letting Heeseung come down from his high for even a moment. His cock hadn’t even stopped leaking cum—the rest of it dripping along your lower stomach—before you were rubbing it along your needy pussy. “Put it in… Hurry.”

Of course, Heeseung wasn’t going to wait any longer either.

He pushed inside of you, not being able to hold back any of his loud moans as he finally was able to feel what he’s been dreaming of. “You feel so good,” he breathed, bringing his thumb down to rub at your clit.

Heeseung let himself sit inside you for a moment, just really appreciating how amazing you felt wrapped around him—how deep your pussy swallowed him up until he was inside of you completely.  He was pulled back down to Earth by the sound of your whine and the way you rolled  your hips up. The movement sent a wave of pleasure throughout his body and he pressed down on your hips to keep them still without thinking.

“Please move,” you begged him, holding tightly to his wrists.

Heeseung pulled his hips back and watched the way his cock slid out of you covered in your arousal. The sight turned him on so much that he felt like he was going to cum again just from that. He brought his cock out until just the tip of it was still inside of you. Heeseung then wrapped his arms around your thighs, smearing his cum that was still splattered on top of them, while moving your legs to rest on his shoulders.

You were expecting him to start slow and build up to a faster pace, but Heeseung skipped that completely. Instead, he pushed into you completely—the sound of his skin slapping against yours filling your ears—until his hips were flush with yours and pulled out of you again just as quick to repeat the process. You cried out, clawing at the sheets as you were hit with intense euphoria.

His cock didn’t even have to try at hitting your sweet spot, he was already there by just being inside of you. With each thrust he hit it more and more and more until your back was arched up off of the bed and you were seeing stars. “Fuck, right there! Please, don’t stop!” you moaned. You couldn’t even begin to care how loud you were being. All you cared about was how good Heeseung was fucking you.

Heeseung was panting like a dog and not once did he even think of stopping. He was chasing that high he first felt when he jerked himself off to the thought of you in the shower—when he imagined how it would feel to be fucking your pretty little pussy the way he was right now. It was complete heaven, better than that even. His words from earlier rang truer than ever before right now: Nothing compares to the real thing. 

“You like that?” Heeseung asked, his eyes moving up your body from the way your hips rolled up to try to meet his, to the way your tits bounced with each thrust he made, then to the harsh rise and fall of your chest, and finally to the purely fucked out expression on your face. Heeseung’s chest swelled with pride and he couldn’t help but smile. He was making you feel this way—he was causing all of these pretty whines and moans to fall from your parted lips. It was all him.

Your head was way too clouded to even answer him, the sound of your own euphoria drowning his words out. Heeseung knew as much, but that didn’t stop the next words from coming out of his mouth. “Yeah, you like that.”

He was slipping in and out of you so easily, it truly felt like your pussy was made to take his cock—and you were taking him so well. Tears formed in your eyes from all of the pleasure and messed up your already smeared eyeliner until streaks of black were running down your cheeks. Your body tensed and you squeezed down on him, letting Heeseung know you were close before you even had the chance to say anything.

“Keep going… fuck—” you cried. You tried pulling your legs away from Heeseung, but he wrapped his arms around them tighter and held them firm to his chest. You squirmed and pulled at his bedsheets, the euphoric bliss suddenly too overwhelming. Your body started to shake all over, and Heeseung relished in it all.

Seconds later, you're cumming all around his cock—some of it even spilling out from around him and dripping down the curve of your ass. Heeseung moans at the sight and angles one of his arms down so he can run his fingers along your folds, coating the tips of his fingers in the creamy white. You jolt at his touch, gasping. 

It’s not long after until Heeseung’s thrusts get sloppy and his hips start to jerk. He pushes himself inside you completely, stomach tightening as his head falls back and he releases another load of his cum—this time inside of you like he’s been dreaming and begging for. Only when he’s sure that all of his cum is inside you is when he painstakingly starts to move, chasing the last bit of his high. 

Heeseung slowly pulls out of you and watches the way all of the cum he pumped inside of you spills out until it’s forming a puddle beneath where your two bodies connect. “You just made all my dreams come true,” he says awestruck, pushing apart your thighs more so he can see the way your pussy glistens in the sunlight coming from his window. “Every single last one of them.”

You barely have the energy to laugh, but you do. Did Heeseung just basically call you his dream girl?

It catches you off guard when he takes the tip of his cock and scoops up some of the cum that dripped down your ass and pushes himself back inside of you. A loud whine leaves your lips and you press your thighs together. “S-Sorry, I—Uh…” Heeseung mumbles, his mouth falling open with another moan. “I don’t think I’ll ever get used to this feeling. I need to be inside you forever. Would you let me?”

You rapidly nod, but push at his arms when he starts to move his hips again, slowly pushing in and out of you. “Heeseung,” you whine again. He chuckles a little before pulling his cock out of you completely.

Heeseung leans down so he can sweetly kiss your lips, his hand caressing the side of your face. “Good?” he asked you, a bit shy.

“Amazing,” you reply. “Next time, let’s not wait as long.”

Heeseung perks up at your words, “Next time?” You laugh at him, cupping his face with both of your hands. How can he be this clueless? It was genuinely astonishing. You kiss him.

“Yes, of course there will be a next time.” Heeseung’s face lights up and he gives you the most passionate kiss the two of you have shared yet. You laugh more in the middle of it. He is so adorable, it blows your mind that all of this came from him stealing flowers from in front of your house. “Now go get something to clean me up,” you say.

Realization crosses Heeseung’s face. “Oh, yeah. Right.” He gets up from the bed, still fully naked, and flings his door open to rush to the bathroom. Distantly, you hear water running before he’s back with a wet washcloth in one hand and his other hand tucked behind his back. When you raise an eyebrow, he smiles brightly at you.

“For you,” Heeseung says as he reveals the flower behind his back. Funnily, it’s one of the flowers he stole from your house. You burst out laughing, and he joins you, crawling back on the bed so he can start cleaning you up. You take the flower from his grasp.

“Wow, thank you for the flower that was already technically mine! It’s beautiful. Where did you get it?” you ask. Heeseung looks away, the smile still on his face, as he opts not to answer. You shake your head at him, sitting up so you can bring his lips to yours.

He can steal all of the flowers he wants, as long as he steals your heart next.

✉️ ⦂ there’s a lottienat everywhere for all eyes to see… himbo heeseung with a big dick please come and save me i’m begging

𖥦 ﴾ 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗎𝖾 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗈 . . . 𝗽𝗹𝗮𝘆𝗹𝗶𝘀𝘁 , 𝗺𝗮𝘀𝘁𝗲𝗿𝗹𝗶𝘀𝘁 , 𝘁𝗮𝗴𝗹𝗶𝘀𝘁 ﴿ REBLOGS ◜◡◝ FEEDBACK APPRECIATED!

🏷️﹙ 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝖻𝖾 𝖺𝖽𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗆𝗒 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗆𝖺𝗇𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝖺𝗀𝗅𝗂𝗌𝗍? 𝖼𝗅𝗂𝖼𝗄 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 ﹚ @jjunberry @gothgyuu @gyuuberries @hyukascampfire @xylatox @ghstzzn @izzyy-stuff @sunoosgfv @heechwe @whosserina @jellymochii @innocygnet @sumsumtingz @riribelle @bambiihee @minaateez @luvsicktyun @lvrs-street2mmorrow @tinycatharsis @everythingvirgoes @beomieeeeeeeeeeees

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[specialgradefckr]

Satoru Gojo who thinks you're only with him for the money.

He's pretty insufferable, after all. And a shitty boyfriend to boot - always bailing on dates, showing up at weird times, telling you vague stories about his work that don't make sense.

Honestly he's surprised you've stuck around this long.

That you still read every message he spams you when he's bored and lonely fighting special grade curses.

(after all, he always has to go on those missions alone. there's no one who can go with him.)

You still text him back. Open the door to let him in. Smile when you see him, like it's the very first time and he can tell you're just so star-struck by his eyes as he tugs down his blindfold with a grin, "Do I look blind to you?" "Blindingly handsome!"

He'd laughed at that. You're shocked by his appearance, but you're earnest, and so obviously smitten, and he loves a woman with a little humor.

Satoru Gojo who didn't expect you to text him back after the first night, but you did.

cutie pie: omg, those look so good! what flavor? satoru: my favorite, the edamame and cream~ cutie pie: bring some for me next time you visit <3 i'll feed them to you ;)

On a lesser man, that might have sounded presumptuous. To Satoru, it's the perfect come-on. Casual, flirty, and easy to do - all the makings of a great hookup.

He hadn't expected to spend half the night on his knees like a dog, licking at your fingers. Watering over a thumb pressed down against his tongue while you drooled your mochi-sweet saliva straight into his open mouth.

Unexpected, but amazing! Satoru knew then that you were going to be a treat worth savoring.

It was just a shame that he could only enjoy you for one night.

Not even that much, really. He'd been called away in bed; one arm wrapped around your darling naked form, holding you pressed against him.

Left while you were asleep without a word. He'd texted you on the way, a blase little "sowwyyyyy smth came up! u were gr8 last night." and no real expectations of a return.

If you were (reasonably) upset with him, he'd block you - his one act of kindness to a woman he couldn't treat right.

Instead he gets "thanks! you weren't so bad yourself haha" and your enthusiasm is obviously a bit defused, but he can work with this.

He lays it out to you, next chance he gets. Tries to text you often enough to make sure you don't think he's ghosted you.

"I know this might sound like the kind of thing married men say," He says with a big, sardonic smile, "But I have a very demanding job. I don't have time for a relationship. And for personal reasons, I can't agree to be exclusive, either."

There's a look you give him that makes him wonder what exactly you think of his job. Satoru vaguely wonders if you think he's a sex worker.

He hopes you try to find him on porn websites later. Maybe he should film himself jerking off real quick sometime so you can watch it.

"That makes sense," Is what you say, instead of any of the ridiculous thinks he'd imagined.

You don't seem thrilled about it, but you don't look immeasurably disappointed, either. You're a smart girl. You'd probably already figured he couldn't commit.

"But!" He chirps, "I am very very interested in seeing you again. Multiple agains. And I'd like to come to an arrangement that makes that easier for you, since my schedule is so tight..."

For a moment, you stay quiet, and Satoru wonders if he should just offer you cash upfront. But you're receptive, and things go well.

Worryingly well, to be honest. What type of girl are you, exactly? Naughty thing. Get money from a lot of men, do you?

You laugh when he tries to bring it up in bed, "You're one to talk, Mr. can't-promise-exclusivity," you tease, running a hand through his hair while you smile at him.

He likes it when you do that. He likes a lot of things you do.

The real wonder is - although he is absolutely spectacular in bed of course - how much do you like it?

The whole relationship has to happen on his shitty, inconsistent schedule. He can't commit to a relationship or tell you about his job - you're better off that way. Even if you don't know.

Satoru Gojo who pretends to go on dates with other girls sometimes just so that no one watching him thinks he's serious about you. He can't have the Higher Ups thinking of you as a tool to use against him.

He can't even offer you exclusivity. Even if he wants to. Even if he struggles to get it up with those girls - his heart just isn't it in - when he's making sure everyone who's watching him knows you're just one of several people he's having sex with.

After all, the only thing that could be worse than people thinking you were the strongest sorcerer's weakness, was if they thought you might be pregnant with the strongest sorcerer's child.

But if he's fucking around, if he's the whore his so-called superiors make him out to be - then you're safe. Just another girl.

And god, does he take advantage of it.

Texting you late at night. Early in the morning. Times don't mean a lot to him these days.

The most sleep he ever gets is the rare night he spends with you, maybe once or twice a month, five hours in your arms before he pulls himself away and slinks out of bed while you're still asleep like a guilty dog.

He doesn't deserve your warmth or your bed. But he'll take it while you're offering. Eat it all up and beg shamelessly for seconds.

He makes up for it with money, or tries to. Leaves you treats and sweets and other gifts. Spam texts you and facetimes you constantly - when he can.

To be perfectly honest, he's kind of expecting to be dumped any day. He'll take whatever he can get.

If paying your rent or buying you a house makes you feel guilty enough to stay a few days longer with him, that's a good use of his money.

He arranges for you to receive an offer for a remote job, something flexible that will let you meet him whenever he comes calling.

His gifts get more lavish. He's always generous in bed, makes sure you have a good time.

He has a reputation to uphold, after all.

Sometimes he just stares at you when you're asleep. It feels like a waste to spend his precious few hours with you sleeping.

Look at you. All peaceful in his arms. Cuddling up to him.

He can admit, in the dead of night, with no witnesses but himself; the sight makes his heart tug.

If he could, he'd stay. Wake up next to you in the morning. Make breakfast, flirt, joke, maybe even take a little ~morning shower~ and have some fun in there.

It's so clear in his head. How you'd joke back. Smile and giggle and playfully bump against him. Give him a little kiss, a little hug before he leaves for work.

You would kiss his forehead when he got migraines. Hug him when he talks about his difficulties at work.

Your soft smile, your warm lips, your tight hug. It's all so vivid in his head. How you'd look in the morning light, staring at him while you think he's asleep.

Would you stare? What would show on your face, then?

He tries, very hard, not to imagine what your face must look like when you wake up alone every time you sleep with him.

What you think about when he's not there.

Do you wonder if he's with other women? Do you see his flirty texts - "sorry kitten daddy's gotta work late" "babygirl you're not my dad, he goes to bed at 9." - and wonder if he's said that to a hundred other girls?

Because he has. And that's what hurts, really. He could message a hundred girls and get a hundred vapid responses, all those notifications could build up in his phone and he wouldn't care.

But when it's you messaging him?

When you tell him about your day, or text him a picture, or pick up on the rare phone call he gets to make - Satoru's heart skips a beat.

What about you? He thinks about you checking your phone constantly to see anything from him, and it hurts.

You don't show any unhappiness about the arrangement. Every gift, every little arrangement or donation he makes, you accept it all with grace. Everything money can buy is yours, he makes that clear.

As long as you're with him, he'll spoil you rotten. And you were starstruck in the beginning, he could tell.

Expensive hotels, exclusive restaurants. First class flights everywhere, even a private jet if you want it. He brings you custom made jewelry worth more than people make in a year, pulls it out of his pocket and clasps it around your wrist like a passing trinket.

You get used to the constant spa days, the shopping trips. Ordering food for every meal. Living in a city center in a beautiful penthouse with brilliant fixtures. And you're happy like that. At least you look like you are.

But every time he sees you, you're with him. He can't tell if you miss him, if you're sad when he's not there.

He... he sort of doesn't want to know.

Satoru Gojo who loves you. And he hopes to god you don't love him back.

After all, if you did, then you'd want things from him he can't give. Shouldn't give.

But if all you love is his money? He's got tons of it. You can have as much as you want. He can make you happy. He can buy the love he can't afford to earn. He'll never run out of funds.

As long as it's only his money you love, he can have you forever.