#if i think about it too hard i will cry laughing

[lupinqs]

THE WAY I LOVED YOU ━━ paige bueckers x ex-girlfriend!reader

☆ ━ summary: a night out leads you right back to your ex-girlfriend’s bed.

☆ ━ word count: 10.8K

☆ ━ warnings: smut (oral, fingering, strappp, scissoring, pure filth)

☆ ━ links: my masterlist

☆ ━ author’s note: not proofread and basically just porn goodnight

THERE’S NOTHING WRONG with Lucas.

You tell yourself that a lot. Not because you don’t believe it, but because you do. You believe it so much, it almost feels rehearsed.

Lucas is easy to love. Easy to explain. He says what he means and he follows through. He’s the kind of person who brings you flowers on a random Tuesday and remembers your favorite kind without needing to be reminded. He holds the door open for you—not in the forced, performative way, but just because that’s the kind of person he is. Thoughtful. Steady. Soft around the edges in a way that makes other people relax just by being near him.

Your friends love him. Your mom keeps saying things like “he’s a keeper” and “baby, he is so in love with you” and it’s not like she’s wrong. He texts back. He listens. He laughs at your jokes, even when they’re not funny. He gets along with your dad. He plays video games with your little brother. He always smells like laundry detergent and cinnamon gum, and when he kisses you, he cups your cheek like he’s holding something precious.

You like that. You like him.

It’s good.

It’s normal.

It’s healthy.

And for the most part, you don’t think about anything else. Not really. You’ve been… training yourself not to. You’ve developed entire routines around the art of not thinking about her—deleting old playlists and creating new ones, watching different shows, changing your route to class, rewriting entire chapters of your day-to-day life just so you don’t trip and fall back into the places where she used to live.

And it’s worked. Mostly.

Until it doesn’t.

Because Lucas will be saying something—something sweet, something thoughtful, something that would’ve made you melt if this were your first relationship—and you’ll feel this tiny flicker of something you can’t name. Not sadness. Not longing. Just… something. A quiet, sinking realization that you should be feeling more than you are. That what he’s saying is right, and hood, and all the things you’ve ever been told to want—but it’s landing in your chest like a feather instead of a thunderstorm.

And that’s the thing. Lucas is feathers. Warm, light, gentle.

But Paige?

Paige was fucking weather.

Not sunshine or softness or stillness, but storms. Paige was thunder and static and lightning under your skin. Being with her felt like leaning too far out of a window just to see what would happen. Like running a red light or driving a hundred miles an hour. Reckless. Stupid. Exhilarating.

Not that you think about her. You don’t.

You don’t think about the way she used to kiss you like it was the last time, even when it wasn’t. You don’t think about the fights that started over nothing and ended with slammed doors and tear-streaked apologies. You don’t think about the 2 AM screaming matches in her car that would turn into the 2:07 AM make-outs that made your head spin and send heat to your core. You don’t think about how being with her made you feel like a live wire—shocking, wild, electric.

Lucas makes you feel like you’re being taken care of. Like your future has clean lines and soft landings. He respects your boundaries. He never raises his voice. He doesn’t make you wait three hours for a reply, only to show up at your window like he’s in a movie. He’s never left you crying in the rain. He’s never made you cry in the rain.

It’s easy, being with him. Comfortable.

And maybe that’s the whole point. Maybe that’s why you said yes when he asked you out, and why you kept saying yes after that. Maybe that’s why you’ve tried so hard to get used to all this normalcy. You wanted someone who didn’t make your heart feel like it was constantly trying to break out of your chest. You wanted someone calm, steady, safe.

Lucas is all of those things.

He doesn’t make you feel like you’re on fire. He doesn’t make you feel like you’re on fire.

There are no extremes. No chaos. No bruised egos or tearful apologies or scream-raw throats. He doesn’t make you second-guess yourself, and he never looks at you like he’s seconds away from either kissing you or shouting at you. He just looks at you with kindness, with a quiet sort of adoration, like you’re exactly who he hoped you would be.

And still—still—there are nights when you find yourself lying awake next to him, the glow of your phone lighting up the ceiling, and you feel something sharp and shapeless pressing at the back of your mind. Not a memory. Not a name. Just pressure. The kind you used to feel when things were about to go wrong. Or when things were too good to be true. Or when she was around.

You don’t let yourself go there.

You shut it down

Because it’s not fair to Lucas, and it’s not fair to you. You’ve moved on. You’re fine. Everything is fine.

And besides, you already tried loving like that.

You gave everything—everything. You screamed and sobbed and kissed like your life depended on it. You threw yourself into someone like Paige Bueckers and got spit back out with bruises you couldn’t explain. It wasn’t sustainable. It wasn’t good.

You remind yourself of that whenever your mind drifts.

Lucas doesn’t make you cry.

Lucas shows up.

Lucas texts back.

Lucas doesn’t run hot and cold. He doesn’t storm out of rooms. He doesn’t pull you into closets at parties and fuck you until your legs are shaking, only to pretend like nothing happened the next day. He doesn’t keep you guessing. He’s consistent. Warm. Soft.

You can trust him.

You just don’t burn for him.

And maybe that’s what growing up is. Learning to choose what’s good for you over what feels good in the moment. Learning to stay steady instead of chasing the highs and lows of a love that made you lose your mind.

So, no—you don’t miss Paige.

Or, at least, that’s what you’re currently telling yourself.

You’re at Ted’s. UConn’s beloved, grimy, too loud and far too small campus bar. It’s girl’s night out—no Lucas, no boyfriends, just you and your friends. The music is bad, the floor is sticky, and you’ve already had one too many drinks, but none of that is really the problem.

The problem is that she’s here.

Paige fucking Bueckers is here.

Of course she is. Of course she’d pick tonight to show up, like the universe just can’t let you have a single night off. She’s across the bar, flanked by her teammates, posted up like she owns the place. And she kind of does. She’s got that charm, that draw—the one that makes people want to be near her, even if they don’t know why. She doesn’t even have to try.

It’s not the first time you’ve seen her since the breakup—seven months, not that you’ve been counting—but that doesn’t make it easier. The sting hasn’t dulled. The ache hasn’t faded. Every time you see her, it feels like getting burned in the same exact spot over and over again. Your body should be numb to it by now, but somehow it never is.

And worst of all?

She looks good tonight. So good it makes your stomach twist and shrivel.

She’s wearing black cargo id that sit low on her hips and cling just enough to the right places. A white collared crop top, short-sleeved and perfectly fitted, which gives you a detailed fucking display of her biceps and abs—both of which are bigger, sharper, more defined than when you had her. She’s been hitting the weight room hard this summer. You know it. Everyone knows it. She must want that natty bad.

She probably wants it more than she ever wanted you.

You hate how bitter that thought tastes going down, but it’s not like it’s new. That feeling—that doubt—was there the whole time. The fights. The jealousy. The nights she didn’t text back. The way her phone would light up late at night and she’d just turn it face down and mumble something about it being nothing. You wanted to trust her. God, you tried. But it was always like walking a tightrope with her. One wrong move and you’d fall.

She was a fuckboy before you got together, and you’re sure she’s a fuckboy again now. Probably worse. Seven months is plenty of time for her to rediscover all her old habits. You can practically see it written all over her tonight—the loose body language, the flirtatious smile, the way her eyes scan the room like she’s picking her next fuck. She’ll take someone home tonight. You don’t even have to wonder.

Some girl—probably sweet, probably impressionable, probably someone who has no idea what it’s like to be wanted and discarded by Paige Bueckers—will follow her home. She’ll get to experience first hand what all the hype is about.

You try not to think about how that was once you. Try not to think about the way Paige would toss you onto her bed and kiss you like she needed it to breathe. Try not to think about the desperate way she’d strip you bare. Try not to think about the skill her hands and mouth and hips held. Try not to think about the way she used to look at you—like she couldn’t believe she got to have you.

You try not to think about any of it.

You stare at her, hating her and wanting her and hating that you want her. And her hair’s down tonight—down—long and straight and golden under the bar lights. She never wore it down when you were together unless you asked, unless she was feeling soft, unless you were the only one she wanted to impress. She’d preferred it up, out of the way in a bun or ponytail. But now it’s out and shining like a fucking halo or something.

She’s laughing at something KK said, her mouth open and easy and happy, and you hate how good it looks on her. How it makes her shoulders shake just slightly, how her head tilts back, how she glows. She’s got a Dirty Shirley in hand—of course she does—and a devil-may-care look in her eyes like she’s on top of the world. Like nothing, not even you, ever touched her deeply enough to leave a mark.

She doesn’t notice you staring.

Good.

You tear your eyes away with more force than necessary, like dragging a splinter out of your own skin. It leaves you raw. But you want let yourself look again. You won’t.

Your drink is almost gone. You need more. You need to blur this out, soften the corners of the room until her shape doesn’t stand out in it anymore.

You mutter something to your friends and slip away toward the bar. Your legs feel heavy. Your skin too warm. You feel her presence behind you like a heat lamp, burning a hole in your back even if she’s not looking.

You shove through a group of guys yelling about the Celtics and wedge yourself between a couple of juniors who are too busy taking selfies to notice you. The bartender glances at you once, uninterested. You order a shot.

Then another.

Then, one more with your friend who just walked over.

You were tipsy before—now you’re full-on drunk. It’s dangerous and smart for this situation. You needed it, but it could also make things catastrophically worse.

You glance back—just once, just to be sure—

And she’s looking right at you.

Her mouth is still curved in a half-smile from the joke someone made. But her blue eyes are locked into yours, and for a second, just a second, the noise of the bar fades.

And you remember everything.

Every fight. Every fuck. Every late-night apology. Every quiet morning. Every lie you swallowed. Every truth you ignored. Every time she held you like she’d never let go.

And then did.

You break eye contact first.

Not because you want to. Not because you’re strong enough to look away. But because the heat of her stare is too much—it crawls beneath your skin, presses against your throat, makes your chest ache in that way that only she ever could. And you’re too fucking drunk to pretend like it doesn’t affect you. Too fucking drunk to pretend it doesn’t burn.

So you look away.

Swallow hard.

And then you turn your back on her, like the coward you swore you wouldn’t be.

Your stomach twists as you push through the crowd, arms bumping shoulders, elbows knocking against glasses. You’re headed for the bar bathroom, and you don’t even care how pathetic it looks. You need a second. You need air. You need to not be near her.

You make it to the restroom, barely missing the girl stumbling out with her heels in her hand and lip gloss smeared against her chin. You shut the door, lean back against it, and exhale hard through your nose.

It’s a shitty little bathroom. One mirror. Flickering light that doesn’t help stop your intoxicated brain from spinning. Peeling poster on the wall advertising Tequila Tuesdays. You avoid your reflection because you already know what you’ll see: mascara slightly smudged, lips parted, that look in your eyes—like you’re unraveling. You can feel it. You’re slipping. The drunk is mixing with the memories now. You’re seeing her hands on your skin again, hearing her laugh against your neck. You’re remembering the way she used to back you into this same wall when the two of you would sneak off here together, tipsy and breathless and stupid in love.

You press your palms to your eyes and mutter, “Fuck,” under your breath.

You hate her.

You hate her so much.

Except… not really.

You swore you didn’t miss her. You swore you over it. You promised everyone, including yourself.

But underneath all the anger and the betrayal and the hurt you still carry in your ribcage like broken glass, you do fucking miss you. God, you miss her. The way she smelled. The way she’d look at you. The way her voice would soften when she said your name. You miss what it was like when it was good—when she let you in, when she chose you.

You squeeze your eyes shut. Try to breathe.

Then—the handle jiggles.

Your eyes snap open.

The door creaks. You forgot to lock it all the way.

And there she is. She slips inside like a shadow and shuts the door behind her, slow and certain. Her eyes are already on you—the same icy blue. You can tell by the look in them that she’s just as drunk as you are. You want to scream at her. You want to melt into her arms.

“You were looking at me,” she says simply. But there’s a rasp to it that makes your skin tingle.

You swallow and straighten your, your reflexes all sharp and brittle. “No, I wasn’t,” you snap, defensive, even though your voice cracks halfway through it.

She steps closer—crowding you, closing the distance in two long strides. You stumble back, spine hitting the cool tile wall behind you, and she plants her palms on either side your head, caging you in.

Her gaze flickers—your mouth, your eyes, your mouth again. She’s reading you like she used to. And then she’s leaning in, breath fanning against your face as she tells you, “Don’t lie.”

Your breath catches. You look up at her, feeling small beneath her height. She was always good at making you feel that way. She’s still staring at your lips. You try not to stare at hers. “Don’t,” you say, and your voice is small, too small.

But she already knows that “don’t” means “do.”

Her hands find your waist, hot and certain. You should push her away. You should tell her to leave. But you don’t. You can’t. Your fingers curl into the collar of her shirt instead, and then she’s kissing you, and it’s not gentle. It’s rushed and tough and months too late. Her lips crash into yours like she’s staring for you, and you let her take what she wants.

Because you want it, too.

Paige’s hands are everywhere and nowhere, gripping and slipping and dragging fire down your sides. You can feel her breath stutter every time your hips tilt forward just slightly, like your body is trying to remember hers on instinct alone.

You’re both far too drunk, you know that. Her balance is all fucked, her touch a little too eager, a little too messy to be calculated, but she’s trying to make it feel that way. She’s trying to keep control. Her arm is braced next to your head, her body angled so your only exit is through her. She always used to do that. Always made herself a wall. And now she’s doing it again, caging you in like she owns the right to.

And worse—you’re letting her.

You’re letting her and kissing her and grabbing at her like you never want her to leave. You’re cheating. You know that. You know that Lucas is probably asleep at home, completely unaware that you’re pressed up against a bar wall right now with your tongue in your ex-girlfriend’s mouth.

And you should care.

But you don’t.

All you can feel is Paige—her mouth, her tongue, her teeth. All you can taste is her Shirley and whatever shots she’s been drinking and your lip gloss that’s been smeared across both of your mouths.

And beneath that—deeper than the alcohol and the anger—is the hurt. Yours and hers, bleeding through your kisses like you’re both too stubborn to admit how much it still matters. You hate her. You fucking hate her for what she did, for how she made you feel, for the way she stopped calling and let everything rot in silence.

But you also want her.

Desperately. Viciously. Shamefully.

She kisses you harder, lips slotting with yours like she wants to devour you whole. One of her hands drags up your side, long fingers bunching in your tank top until it wrinkles under her grip. Her other hand finds your hip and squeezes hard—possessive, rough, like she’s trying to bruise herself back into you. And you don’t stop her. You tilt your head back when her lips begin to trail downward, dragging along your jaw, your neck.

She sucks there, open-mouthed, like she wants to leave a mark. You gasp. Your fingers tighten on her shirt. Your knees almost buckle, and you’re suddenly very grateful the wall is there.

She knows what she’s doing. Of course she does. She’s always known.

When she gets to your ear, she nips—just the edge, sharp and quick—and you inhale so hard your vision blurs.

Then her hands slide from your hips to your waist and she presses her mouth right against the shell of your ear, voice low and warm and dripping with something that feels way too much like the past.

“Come back to mine, mama,” she whispers, pinching your waist for emphasis. “Let’s leave.”

Your breath catches. Everything slows, just for a second. You hear the music pounding from the other side of the door, the sound of someone laughing in the hallway. You feel her breath fan across your neck, her body flush with yours, her large hands holding you with a firm grip.

And you want to say no. You should say no.

But you’re drunk. And this is Paige.

You lean your head back against the wall, eyes fluttering shut. Her lips brush your throat again.

“Okay,” you breathe, so quiet you’re not sure she heard it.

But she does.

She pulls back just enough to look at you, pupils blown wide, lips swollen and pink, face flushed. She doesn’t smile. She just lifts her hand, swipes her thumb across your lower lip and chin, wiping her spit away. And then she grabs your hand and pulls you toward the door.

You stumble out of the bathroom together, the door creaking wide and hitting the wall like a gunshot in the haze of noise and cheap bar lighting. Neither of you say anything—you just look at each other and then move in sync, turning toward the back entrance like it’s muscle memory.

It is muscle memory.

The same hallway, the same emergency exit sign buzzing slightly overhead. You’ve done this before—slipped out together, ducking before your friends could ask questions or try to convince you to stay, walking home in that stupid little bubble where it was just you and her and the fucked-up, magnetic thing that kept dragging you together. It feels like that again. Familiar. Dangerous.

You push the door open, and the rain hits you in the face like a slap. It sobers you up maybe half a percent, just enough to register how soaked the ground already is. You look up in disbelief. The sky is coming down heavy now, full-on pouring—of course. Of fucking course.

Paige lets out this short laugh, all breath and surprise, like she can’t even believe the timing either. “Jesus,” she mutters, throwing one arm around your shoulders, tugging you closer into her side. “We gotta walk.”

You just nod because you already knew that. Her apartment isn’t far—not that you’ve been to the new one, just that you know the building. It’s about ten minutes if you’re sober and walking with purpose. Which, neither of you are right now. You’re drunk. She’s drunk. You’re dressed for the bar, not a rainstorm. And you’re making the worst decision of your entire relationship history, possibly of your life.

But you go anyway.

The two of you start moving down the sidewalk, feet slapping against puddles, your arm wrapped tight around her waist now, because fuck it, she’s warm and solid and familiar. Her shirt is clinging to her by the minute—white cotton soaked through and sticking to her torso, giving you a clearer outline of the muscle she’s been building all offseason. You glance at her abs, now shiny and wet with rain, and immediately look away again. Mistake. Everything about tonight is a fucking mistake.

Still, your body keeps walking.

The rain is cold and heavy, but your skin is buzzing and hot from the alcohol and the adrenaline and whatever this horrible, electric thing is between the two of you. It’s always been like this—heightened. Too much. Like your nervous system doesn’t know what to do around her except overload.

You try not to think. You try not to remember.

But you do.

You remember the last time it was late at night and raining and you were with Paige. Screaming in the middle of the street, voices cracking and soaked to the bone, fighting like it was the end of the goddamn world. And it kind of was. You ended up having angry sex in her car afterward, teeth and nails and hands clawing for something solid, something familiar, even if it hurt. You broke up the next morning.

You remember the heat of her skin, the sting of her words, the way she looked at you like she didn’t know whether to worship you or run from you.

But that’s how it always was.

You and Paige were never soft. You were sharp edges and blood-hot emotions and never knowing whether the night would end in a fight or a fuck. You both went a little insane because of the way you felt about each other—because neither of you ever knew how to not feel too much.

And now, you’re cheating on your boyfriend just to feel it again.

You shove the thought down as hard as you can. Focus instead on the way Paige’s fingers dig slightly into your waist every time you slip a little on the slick concrete. On the way her hair, long and straight and down for once, is starting to curl at the ends from the water. On how your teeth are starting to chatter even though the warmth from her body is leaking into yours, bit by bit.

And then, out of nowhere, Paige just stops walking.

You barely register it at first—your steps carry you half a beat too far until she tugs you back by the hand. You turn to ask what the hell she’s doing, but then she’s already kissing you.

Right there, in the middle of the fucking sidewalk in a downpour. No warning. No buildup. Just her mouth on yours like gravity snapped and she had no other choice. And maybe she didn’t; maybe neither of you do.

It makes sense.

When you were together and she was drunk, Paige always got like this. Clingy. Touch-starved. She’d pull you into her lap at parties, curl up behind you on the couch, mouth against your ear saying dumb little things that would make you blush. Always wanting to be near you, in you, around you, on you—like proximity made it easier to breathe.

That version of her is here now, kissing you like she’s trying to devour you. Her hands cup your face, holding you steady, but her mouth is anything but—urgent, greedy, moving over yours like she’s trying to memorize every part she’s been missing. Her lips are warm and insistent even through the cold, even through the rain that’s coming down heavy, pattering against the sidewalk, running down your neck, getting between your clothes and skin. It’s kind of miserable, but it also kind of doesn’t matter.

Because Paige is kissing you like she’s pissed off. Like she wants to make a point. Like she’s angry she still wants you, and the only way to get it out is kissing you hard enough to bruise.

And God, you feel it. Your body is lighting up from the inside, every part of you buzzing. You can taste the rain between her lips, the mix of it and her chapstick and the alcohol on both of your tongues. Her hands slide into your hair, tugging you toward her harder. It’s enough to coax a gasp out of you, and that only makes her groan and lick further into your mouth.

It’s clumsy and wet and messy, teeth knocking a little, breaths hitching, the kind of kiss that leaves no room for rational thought. And you let it happen. You lean into it. You want to punish her a little, too—want her to feel it like you do. So, you kiss her back just as angrily, like she’s not the only one with something to prove.

But then the chill starts to creep in. You’re soaked to the bone now, both of you only in tank tops, and the wind cuts sharp across your face as it whips through the street. As hot as you feel inside, you’re suddenly aware your body is freezing. Besides, you need to be somewhere inside to satisfy your real need—the one resting between your legs, pulsing and aching with want.

You pull back just a little—your lips slipping away from Paige’s, breath fogging between you—and try to catch your bearings. But Paige isn’t done. She follows you forward, mouth chasing yours like she can’t stand even the smallest bit of distance. Her nose bumps yours, big hands still gripping the sides of your face.

“Okay,” you mutter, voice breathless, dazed, trying to push her back with shaky hands on her chest. “Let’s go, c’mon.”

She stares at you, blue eyes wide and glossy under the streetlight glow, lips kiss-swollen and parted.

“Needa—apartment,” you stumble, the words coming out in fragments because your brian is still somewhere back in that kiss. “Like, now.”

Paige blinks like she finally remembers where the two of you are. She exhales slowly before nodding quicker, saying, “Yeah. Yeah.”

It doesn’t take much longer to get to her apartment. She’s in a different building now, not the same one she lived in when you were dating. You don’t even get a chance to look around before she’s telling you, a little breathless, “Jana and Allie are both staying at Azzi and Morgan’s tonight. We ain’t gotta worry ’bout none of that.”

You nod. “Good,” you reply, but it’s barely out of your mouth before she’s already closing the space between you once more.

Her mouth crashes into yours with this messy, impatient heat that catches you off guard even though you probably should’ve expected it. You gasp slightly, back hitting the wall with a dull thud as her hands find your hips and press in like she’s trying to fuse herself to you.

She kisses you hot and desperate, tasting like her Shirley and rainwater and you, like she’s been starved for too long and forgot what moderation is. Or maybe she never knew in the first place. Her breath is shallow against your cheek when she pulls back just barely, only to bite at your bottom lip, gentle at first and then not. Your knees buckle a little.

She starts walking you backwards eagerly, quickly. Your shoes squeak faintly against the hardwood floor, and every few steps, she pauses to kiss you again—at your jaw, your neck, your collarbone—each one a little sloppier than the last, like she’s trying to leave her mouth on every inch of your skin that’s currently available. You stop for a second to kick your shoes off, Paige doing the same, before her hands are right back on you.

You let her guide you, stumbling slightly but somehow never really tripping, your hands tugging at her shirt now without hesitation. Your fingers find the hem and you push upward, palms grazing the warm skin of her stomach, the firmness of her abs. She lifts her arms to help you, eyes fluttering shut for just a second as the tank top peels off her like a second skin, damp from the rain and sticking to her in places. You toss it aside without even looking where it lands.

She’s gorgeous like this—hair damp and sticking to her temples, broad shoulders gleaming slightly from the rain, eyes half-lidded and wild, white sports bra soaking into her skin. You pull her back in. She lets you, fingertips digging into your waist as she spins you slightly and then walks you back the rest of the way.

The door clicks shut behind you, Paige’s hand still on the lock as she flicks it closed without even looking. You only catch a blur of her bedroom before she’s pushing you, your back hitting her mattress with a dull thud. The bed’s soft, and it dips underneath you as Paige follows right after, crawling on top of you without a second thought.

She kisses you hard the moment she’s close enough. No pretense. Just mouth on mouth, rough and messy and hungry. Her knee slips in between your thighs like it belongs there, and suddenly she’s pressing forward, using the weight of her body to open you up, her hands already sliding up your sides, tugging at the hem of the tiny tank top you wore out tonight.

She’s always been like this—especially when drunk. She got clingy, reckless, possessive. All hands and teeth and sharp exhales against your throat. She never hesitated to take what she wanted. Clearly, nothing about that has changed.

You can barely think. Your brain is cotton. Static. Her mouth moves down along your jaw, biting just a little at your skin as her hands palm over your chest through the thin fabric, rough and eager, hardening your nipples. It’s overwhelming in the same way you remember. Like she’s trying to devour your whole. Like you’re the last drink of water on Earth and she’s been crawling through the desert.

You let her take. You’re not even sure if you could stop her if you tried.

“Paige,” you murmur, just her name because you don’t know what else to say. She hums against your neck, doesn’t stop moving, doesn’t slow down. Her mouth catches your collarbone bow, her teeth scraping skin, and you can feel your tank top sliding further up, her hands bunching it near your ribs.

You try not to think. About anything. Not about where you are. Not about who’s on top of you. Not about Lucas. Definitely not about that.

But your guilt creeps in, just for a second. Just long enough to make your stomach twist.

You’re cheating on your boyfriend.

You’re actively cheating on Lucas with your sort-of insane ex-girlfriend—who, to be fair, is currently kissing along your body like you’re something deserving of worship. Like she wants to go back to the night you broke up, grab it by the throat, and shake it until it gives you a different ending.

And the worst part is that you want her to.

You want all of this. Even if it’s wrong. Even if it’s messy. Even if tomorrow comes and you have to lie through your teeth about where you were tonight.

Thankfully, you’re pulled from your thoughts as Paige’s fingers hook into your tank top, pulling it up over your head in one smooth, urgent motion. It gets caught for a second, snagged under your arm, but she doesn’t even hesitate. Just lets out a breathy laugh and helps you lift your arms the rest of the way, tossing the top somewhere behind her.

She pauses when she sees you.

You’re bare from the waist up—unlike her, you didn’t bother with a bra tonight. The tank top was enough. You shiver slightly, skin still damp.

“Fuck, baby,” Paige mutters hoarsely. Her eyes roam across your chest like she’s recommitting your breasts to memory—which, she probably is.

And then she leans back in, mouth fast and greedy. Her lips graze across the swell of your chest, her tongue flicking out against one of your pert nipples. She sucks, cheekbones becoming prominent, as her hand stimulates the other bud. You arch into the touch, a quiet gasp escaping your lips, and Paige just groans in response.

She moves even lower, trailing wet kisses down your stomach like she’s trying to worship every inch of you in the fastest way possible. Her hair is still wet from the rain. It sticks to her forehead, her cheeks. You reach down without thinking and brush some strands behind her ear, and for a flicker of a second, her eyes spring up to meet yours.

There’s something in them—something messy and unspoken and so achingly familiar it almost knocks the breath out of you. She looks at you like she doesn’t know whether to say “I missed you” or “I’m gonna ruin you,” and honestly, it might be both.

You swallow hard as her fingers slide down your sides, wet palms skimming your hips. She shifts slightly above you, her knee pressing deeper between your thighs, and then she mutters, low and little slotted, “’M takin’ these off.”

It’s not a question, or a warning. Just a statement of fact, like she knows it’s already a done deal. Like she knows how much you want her. It pisses you off, but she’s right. You don’t bother trying to argue; you’re too impatient for that right now. Instead, you lift your hips, giving her room.

The denim peels off in slow, wet scrapes—Paige tugging your jeans down clumsily, muttering something under her breath about how soaked they are. Her hands fumble at your ankles, pulling the cuffs off before she throws the mess of fabric to the floor. Her hands are cold and your skin is goosebumped from the downpour, but somehow it just makes everything feel sharper, more alive.

You watch as her gaze returns to you before stilling. The grin sidles upon her face before she even says anything. Her lip quirks, slow and smug. She blinks once, then twice, like she’s confirming something.

“Well, would you look at that,” Paige murmurs, titling her head. Her voice is thick with amusement.

You frown. “What?”

She reaches out, brushes her fingers over the lace of your underwear before snapping the waistband against your stomach. “You wore these,” she replies matter-of-factly. The way she says it makes your face go hot.

You glance down, your stomach twisting the second you register. Lavender lace. The soft pair she got you when you were still dating, the one that belongs in the set with the bra. Purple is her favorite color. You hadn’t meant to wear them tonight. It just—happened. Bad luck. Or maybe subconscious salvatore. You’re not sure.

“Shut up,” you mumble quickly, but your voice is weak, defensive. You shift your hips slightly, trying to throw her off, but she doesn’t let up.

“Nah, nah,” she says, laughing. “You wore these. Tonight. These.” Her fingers curl just under the waistband once more like she’s framing the evidence. “These are my panties.”

You groan, hiding your face in your hands. “Oh my God.”

Paige just chuckles again—low and smug, the sound all warm breath against your thigh—and leans in. She presses her mouth to the inside of your leg, right above the lace, and bites. Not too hard, just enough to make you gasp, make your hips jerk. Her hands grip your thighs, holding you still as she drags her teeth across your skin again.

You feel her fingers trail up between your legs, teasing, lazy. She doesn’t even go for the waistband. Not yet. Just presses her fingers over the damp lace, at your clothed clit, where she knows you’re already pulsing for her. Her touch is light, maddeningly so. Just pressure, then a slow little circle, then nothing. Then again.

You exhale sharply, a little whimpering escaping before you can stop it.

“Yeah,” she breathes, all cocky and satisfied, rubbing at your pussy through your underwear—her underwear. “You want this, huh?”

You want to roll your eyes. You want to curse her out. You want to tell her to shut up again.

But you also want her hand between your legs, so.

“Obviously,” you mutter instead, shifting your hips closer to her fingers. “Jesus.”

She smirks. “Still so easy for me,” she murmurs, running her thumb in a slow, purposeful drag over your covered clit again. “Still so wet, even with these on. Shit.”

You don’t respond. You can’t. Not with the way your body is reacting to her—how warm and staticky and shamefully good it feels, even after everything. Especially after everything. It’s fucked yo. It’s so deeply, stupidly fucked up. But the thing about Paige is that she’s always known exactly how to pull you apart, and tonight’s no different.

Her lips move up your thigh again, kisses slower now, mouth more deliberate. She’s still teasing you with her fingers, but at least she’s pressing harder now. Your legs twitch a little under her hands, breath coming faster.

You grab at her wrist. “Paige.”

She hums against your skin. “Mm?”

“Either take ’em off or don’t.”

Another smug little grin. “Bossy,” she mutters, but she finally starts to tug them down.

And you think she’s gonna rip them off just like the jeans and your tank top, quick and careless, like she can’t get them off fast enough. But she doesn’t. She goes slow with it. Real slow. The lace peels off your skin in soft, damp stretches, catching slightly on the curve of your hips, then your thighs, like it doesn’t want to let go. She’s careful with it, rolling them down past your knees, then over your ankles one at a time.

And then, instead of flinging them off to the side like the rest of your clothes, she hesitates.

She holds them, twisting the fabric around her fingers once. She looks at them for a second, like she’s remembering something. And then, without a word, she sets them down—right beside you on the bed, neat and deliberate like she’s placing something valuable. You roll your eyes; you know she’s trying to emphasize the fact that they’re “her” panties.

You watch as her blue eyes trail over you, before settling between your legs. She can see how soaked and slick you are. When she looks back up at you, that teasing edge in her expression is gone. Replaced by something darker. Heavier. Like the sight of you naked knocked the air right out of her.

“Fuck,” she breathes, more to herself than you.

And then she moves.

No more games. No more slow burn or smug comments or smartass remarks. Just Paige, leaning in with a newfound desperation.

The first thing you feel is her breath. Hot and shaky against your cunt, curling over you in waves that make your toes curl. Then her mouth—her lips, soft and plush and open, parting against you like a question she already knows the answer to.

Your hips buck involuntarily and she groans—low and satisfied and a little dizzy—like the taste of you hit her like a shot to the head. Her hands grip your thighs firmly, thumbs digging in just enough to hold you still as she licks a slow stripe between your folds.

Your breath hitches in your throat. Paige doesn’t say anything, but she hums like she’s pleased with herself, and the vibration makes you whimper. Her mouth works steadily, not frantic, not messy, just focused. Eager, but in control. She’s pacing herself like she knows exactly how long it’ll take to make you cum—and plans to stretch it out just enough to make you lose your mind before it.

You feel her shift, settling between your legs like she’s not planning on going anywhere anytime soon. One of her hands slides up, presses lightly over your stomach, while the other stays clamped around your thigh, keeping you open and spread for her. You’re breathing hard already, fingers fisting the sheets, head tilted back against the pillow.

But then she flicks her tongue just right—right there, straight on your clit, the perfect little spot she always used to find without trying—and your whole body goes tight.

“Fuck,” you choke out, hips twitching, hand flying to the back of Paige’s head without thinking. Your fingers tingle in her hair, damp and messy and soft, and she lets you, even leans into the pressure like it spurs her on.

“Mm,” she hums again, mouth still locked on you. Her eyes flick up for a second—just long enough for you to see the heat beneath them—and then she closes them again and gets back to work.

Her pace picks up, beginning to circle her tongue on your pussy with more pressure. Like she’s chasing something now. Like she’s chasing you. And when your hips roll up again, she moans softly like she loves that—like she needs it just as much as you do.

“Paige—” you stumble, her name coming out half-broken.

She pulls back for one second, breath ragged, lips slick and swollen, her nose a little wet too, and murmurs, “I gotchu, mama,” before ducking her head again.

And you know she does—in this position, she always does.

She sucks, lips around your bud, and your legs shake.

“Oh my God,” you whisper.

Her fingers finally move—trail up your thigh again, then find their way between your legs. Her mouth moves down, tongue finding your entrance, thrusting inside. Her fingers, on the other hand, rub over your soaked clit in slow strokes.

You’re a mess now. Moaning soft and breathless, biting your lip, fucking Paige’s face. It’s too much and not enough.

Paige’s grip tightens. She keeps moving her tongue, rubs her fingers faster. The sounds emitting are obscene. Your whole body is trembling, your thighs clenching around her shoulders, your heart pounding so loud you can barely hear anything else.

You’re about to cum. You’re right fucking there. You know it, Paige knows it too.

And then: she stops.

Just for a second. Just long enough to make you want to scream.

Her mouth doesn’t move far. Her fingers don’t leave. She just slows everything down—lets her tongue go lazy, softens the pressure of her fingers into something more like a tease than an intention. Just enough to cool the fire without putting it out completely. Enough to keep you hovering in that frustrating, impossible space where you can feel your orgasm burning in your gut, but you can’t reach it.

You whimper, pathetic and desperate. “Paige,” you say. It doesn’t even sound like a protest—it’s too soft. Too needy.

And she just chuckles. Low and rough and stupidly smug. “Sweetheart, I know you ain’t think I was gon’ let you finish that fast,” she chastises.

She licks a lazy stripe up your center, just enough to make you shudder, then pulls back again to speak. “Uh-uh.” Her lips brush the inside of your thigh now. “Nah, baby. Not yet.”

You try to buck your hips, to chase the pressure, but her hand flattens against your stomach again, pinning you down.

“Be good,” she scolds.

It’s cruel. So cruel. But it’s not mean. She’s not doing it to punish you—there’s no spite in it. It’s worse than that. She’s doing it because she wants to. Because she likes this. The control, the way she can make your whole body lose itself with nothing but her mouth and a couple fingers.

She starts again. Slow. Gentle. Just lips and tongue at first—no fingers—circling softly, tasting you with this lazy rhythm that makes your whole body ache. It’s good. God, it’s so good. But it’s not enough.

Every time she gets you close—every time your thighs start to tremble and your hands fist in the sheets and your stomach starts to tighten like you’re gonna explode—she backs off again. Pulls away just enough go to keep you right there on the edge. And it happens again. And again. And again.

You lose count around the fourth time. Maybe the fifth.

Your entire body is flushed, sweat beading down your neck and across your chest, your breathing ragged and high in your throat. You’re begging now, pride gone. Just soft, broken pleads slipping from your lips.

“Please,” you whisper, over and over. “Paige, please.”

She hums like she’s thinking about it. “Please what?” she asks, voice all innocent like she doesn’t already know. “Whatchu want, baby?”

You want to scream. You want to cry. You want to cum. But mostly, you want her—her mouth, her fingers, her everything. The full weight of her attention. No more teasing. No more games.

“I want—” You can barely get the words out. Your voice is hoarse. “I want to cum. Please.”

She grins into your thigh, and you can feel it.

“Yeah?” she asks. “You want me to let you?”

You nod hard, nearly gasping. “Yes. God, yes, baby, please.”

She takes her time, still. Like she’s filing that away for later—your voice all cracked and pleading, your body practically shaking with want.

But then—finally—her mouth returns, this time with her fingers. Two of them, slow at first, just enough to ease inside, stretch you open at this perfect pace that makes your eyes roll back. And then her tongue follows—firm and fast and focused again.

She doesn’t let up this time.

Her fingers pump deep, curling just right with every thrust. Her mouth locks onto your clit, her tongue flicking and circling, and you feel it. You feel the difference. You feel her let you.

It builds so fast you almost don’t believe it’s happening—like your body can’t trust it yet, like it’s waiting for her to pull away again. But she doesn’t. She keeps going. Keeps fucking you with her fingers and sucking with just the right amount of pressure until you’re moaning like mad. Until your back arches clean off the bed.

And when you finally cum, you really cum.

It hits like a wave—full-body, all-consuming, a rush of heat and noise and sensation that floods your chest and curls your toes and makes your vision blur. You cry out, loud and unfiltered, Paige’s name breaking on your tongue as everything finally snaps.

She holds you through it. Keeps her fingers moving just enough to ride it out, keeps her mouth pressed against you like she doesn’t want to miss a single second of it. And when your thighs tremble and your hips jerk and you try to push her away, overstimulated, and breathless, she only pulls back slowly, letting you come down soft and dizzy and completely gone.

You collapse against the bed, boneless, the sheets twisted beneath you and your skin flushed everywhere. Your chest is rising and falling like you ran a marathon, your eyes fluttering shut, and your lips are parted like you forgot how to close them.

Paige crawls back up your body, slow and smug and glowing like she just won something. Her mouth is shiny, her chin wet, her eyes softer now. She leans in, kisses the inside of your knee, then your thigh, then your hip, then right between your ribs like she’s following a map only she can read.

And then she finally kisses you. You taste yourself on her tongue.

“Still alive?” she murmurs, pulling back just barely, her breath fanning over your lips.

You nod tiredly. She grins.

“Good,” she says, nudging your nose with hers. “’Cause I ain’t done with you yet.”

“Paige,” you whine, eyes squeezing shut. You can’t, you swear. After all the edging and teasing, you’re fucking spent.

“C’mon,” Paige breathes as her fingers trail back down, teasing light circles on your clit like she’s checking to see if you’re still there. Still dripping for her. Still a mess. You are.

But instead of going soft or gentle—instead of giving you a break—Paige just laughs, low and smug and annoying, leaning closer until her forehead brushes yours. She’s smiling down at you like she’s seen this movie a hundred times before and already knows how it ends.

“You can’t take anymore? Really?” she asks, faux innocent, like she didn’t just spent twenty minutes dragging you to the edge and yanking you back every time you even thought about finishing.

You shake your head, too wrecked to even be embarrassed. Your legs twitch under her, and your breath stutters when she dips her hand again, rubbing faster now, rougher. Quick circles.

Your eyes fly open. “Paige—!”

She’s right there, hovering, looking so calm it’s almost rude. Her voice drops low, warm and coaxing. “You got it,” she murmurs, then leans in, kissing you languidly. “I’mma strap you, ’kay? It’s gon’ feel good.”

You blink at her, heart stuttering. The words hit you like a wave of something—lust, maybe, or memory, or just plain old holy shit, it’s been a while type of adrenaline.

Because, with Paige, the strap is something different. And you remember.

You remember how it used to turn her into almost someone else entirely—more focused, more intense, like she stepped into a role made for her. All that cocky, athletic confidence of hers funneled into every thrust. It used to drive you insane. She’d smirk down at you, hold you steady by the hips, mutter stuff under her breath that made your brain go static. Always so good at knowing when to push, when to slow down, when to whisper something filthy in your ear like she owned you. And, back then, she kind of did.

So, if you already here, already ruined and half-gone and trembling in her bed—you might as well let her finish the job.

You nod, barely, and Paige’s smile shifts into something more serious. Still soft, but hungrier now. Like she knows this means something and she’s not gonna waste it.

“Okay,” she says, voice lower. “Don’t move.”

Then she kisses your cheek. Your jaw. Your collarbone. Her mouth is everywhere at once, moving down in quick little bursts of affection like she can’t stop touching you, even for a second.

You hear the drawer behind her open, the soft jingle of the harness. It takes her no time at all. She shimmies out of her cargos and boxers thickly, and fits the purple thing—same color as those panties she got you—to her hips with the same efficiency she’s got on the court.

She climbs back over you, eyes scanning your face like she’s checking in, making sure you’re okay—not just ready, but okay. Her hand slips under your thigh slowly, lifting it gently to drape over her waist.

She doesn’t say anything at first. Just runs her fingers down your side again, resting them low on your hip as she settles between your legs. The silicone presses soft against your skin, and you twitch, already sensitive.

“Look at me,” she tells you, quieter now. Not demanding, more like a reminder. You do. You meet her eyes, and she gives you this look—tender, steady, locked in—that makes your stomach flip.

“You still want this?” she asks, even though she knows the answer.

You nod. “Yeah. Want you, P.”

Something flickers across her face when you say it. Then she leans down, kisses you once, deep and slow. Her hips roll forward just a bit, her strap dipping into your entrance.

“I’ve got you,” she mumbles.

Then she starts to move.

And—God.

You forgot how good she is at this. How well she reads you. How every stroke is meaningful—hips snapping forward in a rhythm that builds slow, steady, patient. She’s not fucking around anymore. She’s locked into this, onto you.

Your hands scrabble for purchase, fingers digging into her back, her shoulders, whatever you can hold. Your legs fall open wider around her hips, and the air goes thick between you—all breath and skin and sound.

She leans down, forearm braced beside your head, sweat already starting to gather along her hairline. Her voice is right against your ear now, rough and low, saying, “Fuck, missed this. Missed you.”

You gasp, nails digging into her skin.

She keeps going. Her hips rock into you steadily and your head tips back into the pillow. She’s so deep, so good, and your body is still humming from everything before—all that edging left you raw, still twitching and clenching down around nothing, and now she’s filling you. Driving into you with smooth, practiced thrusts.

She moves like she owns you—like this is hers, has always been hers, and you’re just finally getting back to what was supposed to be. You can barely catch your breath. The slick sounds between you, the pressure building low in your stomach, the quiet grunts coming out of her mouth every time she drives back—it’s a lot.

Paige’s body hovers over yours, strong and steady, blonde hair falling a little wild into her face—and yours—as she stares down at you. Her cross chain dangles above you as well. It makes you wet. Her eyes flick over your face like she’s tracking every breath, every twitch. Making sure she’s hitting the spot. Making sure you feel all of her.

You do.

Fuck, you really do.

Your fingers curl deeper into her shoulders, your voice slipping out in little gasps and stuttered moans.

“Shit,” you choke out.

“Yeah?” Paige says, breath warm against your mouth. She’s grinning again, cocky as ever. “That feel good?”

You nod, eyes fluttering shut. “So good. Jesus—”

“Mmm,” she hums, and then she leans in again, nipping lightly at your jaw and throat. Her hips roll deeper, sharper, like she wants to remind you exactly who is doing this to you. “Don’t bring him into this. You know I’m the one that fucks you like this.”

You shudder—because yeah. She is.

And this shouldn’t be different. Theoretically. Mechanically. You’ve been having sex with a man for months now—Lucas, your boyfriend. He has a real dick and everything. And, with him, it’s been fine.

But this?

This isn’t fine. This is Paige. And what she’s doing to you—this focused, obsessive, filthy thing she’s doing with her strap and her body and her mouth and her fucking words—it’s not even in the same universe.

It’s better. So much better.

She’s in a whole different mode now. Not the teasing, soft, cocky Paige from earlier—not even the sweet, grinning, “let me make you feel good” Paige. This version of her? The one who puts the strap on and immediately goes a little feral? You almost forgot about this side of her. Or maybe you blocked it out because of how goddamn dangerous it is.

She moves harder, faster, her rhythm never faltering as she slips a hand under your thigh and pushes it up, opening you more, giving herself a better angle.

Her voice drops again, gravelly and low, lips brushing your ear. “You miss this dick, huh?”

You gasp. “Paige—”

She laughs, all breath and grit. “Yeah, you do. Don’t lie. You’ve been lettin’ him touch you, yeah? That boyfriend of yours.”

You blink yo at her, brain short-circuiting, and she moans when she sees it—the way you clench around her strap, the way your eyes roll just a little. She knows exactly what she’s doing.

“You let him fuck you?” she asks, still thrusting, her voice starting to get breathless. “Let him hear you make all those sounds you used to make for me?”

You shake your head—not because it didn’t happen, but because that’s not what matters right now. Not when Paige is here, inside you, her hand gripping your thigh tight and her hips snapping forward like she’s trying to make you forget everyone who isn’t her.

She leans down, pressing her forehead to yours, still talking through shallow breaths.

“He ever get you this wet? Huh?” she asks. “You ever beg him like this?”

You’re too far gone to answer. All you can do is whimper, grabbing at her shoulders, your legs shaking with every thrust. Your body—your cunt, mostly—feels like it’s on fire.

“Fuckin’ knew it,” she mutters, more to herself now. “You can let him date you, whatever. But you always come back to me for this. Don’t you?”

You nod. Or try to. Everything’s blurry now—pleasure curling in your spine, building too fast again. The way she’s thrusting, angled to brush against that gummy spot deep inside you every time, it’s criminal. And she knows it. She keeps her hand on your hip, guiding you into her rhythm, using your body like she built it herself.

“Paige,” you gasp. “I’m—fuck, baby, I’m close.”

Her eyes flash, and she slows just slightly, grinding instead of thrusting, pulling out a ragged moan from your chest. “Yeah?” she whispers. “You wanna cum for me?”

You nod fast, begging with your eyes now.

She leans in again, presses a kiss to your temple, then your cheek, then your lips.

“Okay, baby,” she murmurs. “Go ’head. I got you.”

She thrusts—so fucking deep—and your body goes completely out of your control. That pressure builds too fast, too tight, and your thighs shake. You clench around Paige, voice cracking into a high whimper. Your legs go stiff, whole body arching. Paige rides you through it, hips still moving, her mouth catching the sounds you can’t control.

You cum harder than you have in a long, long time. Even harder than the first one tonight.

And Paige—sweaty, wild-eyed, her strap glistening between you—just smirks down at you like she knows.

“Yeah,” she murmurs, kissing your cheek again. “That’s my girl.”

She eases out of you slow, careful, knowing you’re tender, and even still, it makes you flinch a little. Your whole body’s buzzing—nerves fried, legs weak, brain a complete blur. And the second she’s out, that emptiness hits you like a gut punch. You sigh, deep and shaky, already missing the weight and heat of her even though she’s right there.

You’re still leaking, thighs sticky, body limp. You don’t move—can’t, really—so you just watch her through heavy-lidded eyes as she undoes the harness and slides it down her legs. She tosses it lazily toward the floor, not even looking where it lands, and then she crawls up beside you, her chest rising and falling with shallow breaths. Her pale skin is flushed and glistening. You feel the mattress dip as she pulls herself closer, wraps on long, sweaty arm behind your back, and drags to right on top of her like you weigh nothing.

You don’t resist. You just melt into her.

Her skin is damp and hot against yours, her abs tight beneath your belly, and she lets out a small, winded laugh as you settle in, tucking your face into her neck. Her other hand reaches up, pulls at the hem of the sports bra she’s still wearing. She shimmies it off with some difficulty, then flings it somewhere behind her with zero aim, sighing like she’s been dying to get it off for a while now.

You glance up at her, and she looks down at you, her mouth soft, a little swollen. Then, she leans in and kisses you again—slow this time. Not needy or rushes. Just warm.

You’re so lost in it that you barely notice the way she’s shifting—until her thigh hooks around yours and suddenly her cunt is pressed right against you’re. Skin to skin. Heat to heat. It sends a shockwave through you, makes your breath hitch in your throat and your hips jerk without thinking.

“One more, mama,” Paige murmurs against your lips. “Please.”

You almost say no. Almost.

Because your body is fried. You’ve cum twice—hard, both times. And you’re sore and wrung-out and still trembling in little aftershocks. But then she’s calling you mama in that voice again—sweet and wrecked and a little desperate—and you know exactly what she’s asking for.

She deserves at least once. She’s been so patient. So fucking good to you tonight. You don’t even think she cares about cumming, honestly—she’s always been the type to chase your pleasure more than hers—but still. You want to give her that. Want to watch her fall apart, too.

So, even though your body is screaming at you to rest, you give a little nod. And then another.

“Okay,” you whisper. “Yeah. One more.”

Paige kisses you hard this time, all teeth and tongue and gratitude, and then she’s adjusting your hips again, sliding one of her legs between yours and guiding your thigh up over hers. And then you’re there, pressed together, pussy to pussy, and fuck—it’s a lot. There’s no slow build. You’re already soaked and swollen, and so is she, and the friction is fast and immediate and sweltering.

She groans into your mouth as you grind your hips down into hers, and you can feel her grip tighten on your waist.

“God, baby,” she mumbles. “Fuck, you feel s’good.”

You whimper, already teetering on the edge again. “’M not gonna last,” you admit, breath catching. “I’m so—God, P—”

“I know,” she says, not missing a beat. “I know. Just wanna feel you. Wanna cum with you.”

She guides you with her hands, rocking your hips against hers, keeping the rhythm steady when your thighs start shaking.

“You’re so wet, holy fuck,” Paige breathes. “You’re makin’ a mess on me, mama. You hear that?”

You do. That obscene, slick sound where your pussies meet, the wetness mixing and sliding. It makes your cheeks burn, but it also pushes you closer.

You want to finish with her—you really do. You want to hold you, want to grind together until you both cum at the same time, messy and gasping. But your body has other plans. You’re too sensitive, too overstimulated, and it’s Paige. That combination doesn’t give you a lot of room to breathe.

So you finish first—again—your body seizing up on top of her. It’s not big like the others, but it’s sharp and sweet and hits you right behind your eyes, whitening your vision. You let out a breathy little moan and shudder all over Paige, your thighs twitching around her hips, your chest collapsing against hers.

“Fuck, baby, yeah,” Paige groans, feeling you cum against her, sliding along her own pussy. She doesn’t stop. She just keeps going, grinding up into you a little more insistently now, chasing her own orgasm.

Her grip on you tightens, essentially manhandling your hips now. She tilts up into you, breath catching, and you feel her tensing under you, her thighs locking around yours.

“God, I’mma cum—shit,” she yelps, one last grind of your pussy sending her over the edge.

Finally, you both go still, the air between you thick and humid and exhausted. You collapse fully on top of her now, cheek smushed against her collarbone, her arms wrapped loosely around your back, her heartbeat pounding under your ribs.

Neither of you talks for a minute. You just breathe.

And then Paige sighs, light and wrecked.

“Fuck,” she curses. “Are we gonna regret this tomorrow?”

You’re too tired to think about it. Too dazed to pretend like you have any clue what the hell any of this means.

So you just press your face into her shoulder, and mumble, because you do know this one thing, “Definitely.”

[jocelynellie]

Lover Boy -KA¹²

Kimi Antonelli x girlfriend!reader

Summary: Kimi being completely in love with his girlfriend Contains: fluff

Kimi stared at his phone, screen still glowing. His hand dropped slowly to his side. He didn’t speak.

She sat up from the couch. “Well?”

He looked at her. Eyes wide. Breath caught. And then—“I’m in.”

Her face split into the brightest, most heart-squeezing smile. “You’re—Kimi!”

Before he could finish breathing, she was in his arms. He wrapped her up, lifting her off the floor in a blur of laughing, breathless joy. She buried her face in his neck. He spun once, not even aware he was crying until her thumbs brushed his cheeks.

“You’re in Formula 1,” she whispered, grinning through her own tears. “You did it.”

“I only wanted to tell you,” he whispered back. “You’re the first person I thought of.”

“You’re the only one I’ll ever cheer for,” she said.

And in that tiny apartment, with his future finally unlocked, Kimi held the girl who had believed in him long before the world ever would—and realized this was what dreams really felt like.

It didn’t matter where Kimi was, on the starting grid under a sweltering sun or curled up on his couch with the lights off—his mind, without fail, found its way back to her.

Sometimes it was an involuntary reflex. A word, a smell, the way someone tied their hair or laughed too hard at a bad joke. Other times it was more deliberate, like now, in the paddock, where she walked three steps behind him, pretending like they weren’t about to melt into each other the second the cameras were gone.

He could hear her sandals slap against the concrete. Somehow, even her footsteps made him smile.

“Your zipper’s crooked,” she whispered, close enough that the back of his neck prickled.

Kimi paused mid-stride, grinning as he turned slightly. “Is it? Come fix it, then.”

She rolled her eyes but stepped forward without hesitation, fingers brushing his back as she tugged at the fireproof suit.

"Better?"

“Not really,” he said, teasing. “But you touching me helps.”

Her laugh was like a guitar string plucked inside his chest—sharp, warm, and unforgettable.

That night, back in the hotel room they shared, she sat cross-legged on the bed, wearing one of his oversized team shirts, face glowing from the post-shower warmth. She was watching something dumb on TV—some dating show with absurd challenges—but Kimi couldn’t focus on anything except the way she bit her thumb when she was trying not to laugh.

He sprawled beside her, head in her lap, pretending to be interested in the screen.

“Do you ever think about how this is it?” he asked softly, fingers drawing lazy circles on her thigh.

“This?” she tilted her head.

“You. Me. I mean this version of life. Like, I’m eighteen and driving in Formula 1, and I’ve got this, this perfect thing in my life.”

She leaned down to kiss his forehead, her hair falling over his face like a curtain.

“You’re being cheesy.”

“I’m being honest,” he murmured, nuzzling into her stomach.

She ran her fingers through his curls. “Well, I like your cheesy honesty. Even if you still snore.”

“I do not.”

“You do. Like a small, overworked tractor.”

Kimi groaned, but he smiled into her skin. Everything felt more real when it was her saying it, even insults sounded like lullabies.

Some mornings when they stayed together, Kimi would wake up before her just to watch her sleep. Her hair tangled on the pillow, face turned toward him, mouth slightly open. She drooled sometimes, but he thought it was the cutest thing in the world. He’d kiss her nose lightly and whisper things like “I love you” and “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” just in case dreams could hear.

One morning, she caught him.

“Are you watching me sleep again?”

“I’m admiring,” he defended, smirking.

She stretched like a cat, pulling the blanket tighter around her. “That’s creepy.”

“You say that,” he said, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek, “but you’re blushing.”

“I’m not.”

He leaned down, kissed her pink cheeks. “You so are.

After a particularly grueling race in Singapore, Kimi stumbled off the podium half-drenched in champagne and sweat, body aching, eyes stinging. It wasn’t even about the win—he’d placed third—but he needed her.

They barely made it to the motorhome before he collapsed onto the couch, and she was already beside him, pulling his boots off with a little wince.

“You’re too quiet,” she said gently. “Are you okay?”

He looked at her, eyes tired but so full of love it almost hurt to hold it all.

“I just wanted you.”

“You have me.”

“No, I mean—on that last lap, everything was so loud, I couldn’t even hear my engineer, but I kept thinking… If I mess up, I don’t see her tonight. I don’t get this.”

She climbed into his lap like she’d done it a hundred times—because she had—and wrapped her arms around him.

“You’d see me no matter what,” she whispered. “Even if you crashed, even if you came in last, I’d still be here.”

Kimi buried his face in her shoulder. “Don’t say crash.”

“Fine. Slow pit stop. Mechanical failure. Rain delay.”

“That’s better.”

The night before his home Grand Prix, Kimi stood at the balcony with her by his side, watching the city lights flicker like camera flashes.

“Do you get nervous?” she asked quietly.

“Yeah,” he said. “But not about racing. I get nervous about how lucky I am. That I get to do this—and then come home to you.”

She leaned into him, and he wrapped his arms around her, forehead resting on her temple.

“Promise me something?” he murmured.

“Anything.”

“When we’re eighty and grumpy, and I’ve retired with like twenty world titles—”

“Oh please.”

“—promise me we’ll still do this. Just… stand together and look at the lights.”

“Only if you promise to always let me wear your shirts.”

“Deal.”

He tried not to let it show in the paddock, but everyone saw it. Every mechanic, every engineer, every journalist.

They knew Kimi’s gaze always scanned the garage until it found her. Sometimes she wore sunglasses to avoid being too conspicuous, but Kimi could spot her from anywhere—like a lighthouse in the fog. He smiled wider when she was around. He was sharper in meetings, more focused on track. Someone once joked that she was his good luck charm.

“No,” Kimi had said, without a trace of humour. “She’s just my everything.”

Back in private, they had these quiet moments of electricity—those pauses between brushing teeth and turning off the lights, or while folding laundry on the rare Sunday afternoon they had off. Kimi would reach for her hand mid-conversation, or kiss her shoulder while passing behind her.

Sometimes they slow-danced in the kitchen. No music. Just the rhythm of dishwater dripping and the hum of the refrigerator.

“Why are we dancing?” she whispered once, arms around his neck.

“Because you’re in my arms, and there’s nothing else I’d rather do.”

“You’re such a sap.”

“But I’m your sap.”

She kissed his collarbone and laughed into his shirt. “Forever?”

“Forever.”

∘₊✧──────✧₊∘

Word count: 1.2k

[lov3lycosmos]

Hello darling, I wanna know if you could make a story about changbin and the reader with the kink that you wrote (thigh riding), please lovu♡

Hi sweetheart of course I can write that sorry for such a longgg wait (only 3 days but we can't keep you waiting 🖤)

genre: smut MDNI

pairing: changbin x fem!reader

wc: 664

warnings: thigh riding, dirty talk, teasing, multiple mentions of female arousal fluid, mention of round two/sex

my library~

You don’t even remember how it started. Maybe it was the way he stretched on the bed earlier, muscles flexing, thighs parting naturally like an invitation. Or maybe it was the smirk he gave you when he noticed you staring.

But now? Now you’re perched on his thigh, panties clinging to you—soaked, soft cotton dragging across his bare skin with each little grind you make.

And Changbin?

He’s just watching. Leaning back against the pillows, arms behind his head, smirking like he’s already won.

“You’re cute when you try to hold back your moans,” he teases, voice low and warm. “But I can feel how needy you are, baby. That pretty little whimper you let out just now? Didn’t miss it.”

You duck your head, hiding in your shoulder. “Shut up…”

He laughs—softly, almost tender. “I’m teasing. But seriously—fuck, baby—you’re making a mess. You feel that?” His thigh flexes beneath you, hard and intentional.

Your hips jerk.

“I—ah, Changbin—!”

“Ohhh, there she is,” he coos, sitting up just enough to nuzzle into your neck. “That’s the sound I was waiting for.”

His lips brush your jaw, teasing and featherlight, while his hands settle on your hips. He doesn’t guide you, not yet. He just lets you use him, lets you take your time—lets you feel him under you.

“Mm… so wet already,” he murmurs, running his nose along your cheek. “And I haven’t even touched you properly yet. All it took was my thigh, huh?”

You don’t answer—can’t. Every pass of your soaked panties over his skin makes your head spin more. It’s embarrassing how good it feels, how desperately your body reacts to the heat, the friction, the quiet approval in his voice.

“God, you’re so beautiful like this,” he whispers, pulling back to watch your face. “All breathy and squirmy, just because I let you ride my thigh. You like it when I sit still and let you use me, huh?”

His fingers dig in a little more now, holding you steady as your movements grow shakier. “That’s it, just like that. You’re doing so good, baby.”

You moan again—shaky, soft—and Changbin groans.

“Shit, look at that wet patch…” He glances down, watching the way your slick drags across his thigh in glossy trails. “You’re fuckin’ dripping. Soaking me. God, baby…”

You whimper, trying to grind down faster, but your thighs are trembling too much now, and your hands go to his shoulders for balance.

“I c-can’t—‘s too much—”

“Yes, you can,” he says, gentle but firm. “Just a little more, baby. You’re right there. I can feel it.”

You lean into him, face buried in his neck, grinding down harder as he flexes again beneath you. The wet sound of your panties against his skin fills the room.

“Ohh fuck, Changbin—!”

“There we go,” he whispers, breath hot against your ear. “That’s my girl. Let go for me. Mark me up, baby. Show me how good I make you feel.”

And with a broken cry, you do—shuddering as you grind through your orgasm, body twitching, breath catching in your throat as you leave a soaking, glossy patch all over his thigh.

Changbin groans like he’s the one cumming, his hand sliding up to cradle the back of your head as you collapse into his chest.

“Shit,” he breathes, kissing your temple. “That was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”

You stay there for a moment, catching your breath, but his hand moves—slides down your back, warm and slow.

“Baby?” he says after a beat, voice back to being teasing. “You, uh… might need to ride it again.”

You blink up at him, dazed. “W-What? Why?”

He grins. “Because now I really want to cum, and seeing that mess you left on me? I think you might need to clean it up. With those pretty hips.”

You groan and bury your face in his neck again, and he laughs, holding you tighter.

“You started it,” he whispers. “Now you gotta finish it.”

taglist: @vampzity @sooniedoongiedori25 @mhluvie @lze325 @felixleftchickennugget @m-325 @lezleeferguson-120 @psychicyouthfox @pixie-felix @angel-writes-here @galaxy4489 @minniesverse @gncbnahc @ari-hwanggg @alondra6011 @sk1ndx0

(I'M STILL ADDING PEOPLE TO TAG! comment on any post, send an ask or a message if you want added!)

[papayainsectorone]

Emotional Support Stranger

summary: stranded in a late-night airport hellscape with a dying phone and a delayed flight, you are one sarcastic comment away from a breakdown—until an unexpected laugh from the guy in front of her sparks an unlikely connection.

content: no real warnings

airport purgatory vibes™, emotional damage via sleep deprivation, crying in public (but make it sexy?), strangers-to-deliriously-flirty-to-???, phone battery anxiety, surprise first class reveal??, “wait... are you famous?” energy, terminal-based emotional intimacy, light angst, one shared headphone

word count: 3.3k

pairing: franco colapinto x fem!reader

You're standing in line at the rebooking desk, the strap of your carry-on digging into your shoulder like it’s punishing you for booking with this airline in the first place. Your phone's at 7%. Your charger is buried under everything you packed for what was supposed to be a nice trip, now turned emotional survival exercise. 

The clerk ahead of you looks like she'd rather be anywhere else on Earth. 

You're trying not to cry. 

Really, you are. 

You keep chewing the inside of your cheek, eyes burning as the guy in front of you hands back your passport and ticket with the words: 

“Thanks. Have a nice flight.” 

It breaks you. Not all the way, not loudly—but enough that the sarcasm slips out before you can stop it. 

“Yeah, hope it crashes.” 

Silence for a second. Then a laugh—quick and startled. 

You glance up, tense, expecting judgment. 

Instead, he’s smiling. 

And not in a mocking way. It’s this crooked little grin like he wasn’t expecting to laugh today, but you just made him. 

He’s... hot. You notice that, but not first. First, you notice how real he seems in a sea of people who are all pretending not to lose it. His hoodie’s a little wrinkled. His curls are a mess. He has dark circles under his eyes like you do. He’s leaning on the handle of his suitcase like he’s been here a while too. 

“Bit dark,” he says, voice light but low. 

You exhale—half a laugh, half frustration. “I’ve been in this line for hours, my flight’s delayed indefinitely, and the dude behind the other counter just told the guy two people ahead that the next flight out might be tomorrow.” 

You tilt your head toward the heavens—well, toward the buzzing lights—and add, “So, yeah. I'm in a bit of a mood.” 

“Fair.” He nudges your arm gently with his elbow. “You looked like you were about to leap over the desk. I was rooting for you.” 

Your laugh this time is more genuine, and your posture shifts just a little relieved not to feel entirely alone in your disaster. 

“Where are you headed?” he asks. 

You sigh. “San Fernando International. Supposed to be working.” 

He raises an eyebrow, then deadpans, “Maybe this is fate.” 

You scoff. “Or just hell with extra layovers.” 

That earns a grin. “That too.” 

You’re finally done with the rebooking desk. 

They couldn’t get you on another flight. Couldn’t even guarantee the one you’re already booked on will go at some point. They handed you a sorry-looking meal voucher like it was a prize for surviving airport purgatory. 

You spot him a few rows down—hood up now, slouched in one of those hard plastic seats by the gate, his suitcase serving as a footrest.

Without thinking much about it, you walk over and drop yourself into the seat beside him. 

It’s not graceful. More like a slow collapse. 

You lean your head back against the metal wall behind you, closing your eyes. 

“Bad news?” he asks quietly. 

You nod. “Worse. No news.” 

He exhales a laugh, not because it’s funny but because everything feels like a cosmic joke now. 

You crack your eyes open and glance at him sideways. “What time is it?” 

He checks his watch. “2:57.” 

“AM,” you clarify. 

“Yep.” 

You groan and rub your face. Your phone’s been dead for an hour, and the outlet near your seat refuses to cooperate, blinking out the second you plug in your charger. 

You try it again anyway, just in case the universe suddenly decided to cut you some slack. 

Nope. Still dead. 

He chuckles. 

You look at him. “Are you at least entertained? Or is your Spotify saving your life?” 

He holds up one earbud. “A bit of both.” 

You raise an eyebrow. 

He hesitates... and then offers the other bud. 

You blink. “Seriously?” 

He shrugs like it’s nothing. “Better than both of us being miserable.” 

You take it. 

The bud is warm from his ear and weirdly, you don’t mind. There’s something oddly intimate about it, like sharing a hoodie or a private joke. 

The music is something soft. Guitar, a little lo-fi beat under it. 

“Okay,” you say, settling back, letting your arm rest between you, not quite touching his. “I expected, like... EDM.” 

He huffs. “And you seem like the type to listen to... what? Heartbreak ballads in a coffee shop?” 

You smile. “Only sometimes.” 

The next track fades in. You don’t know it, but it fits. Everything slows a little. 

You're both still for a while, music filling the space between you. 

Then, he clears his throat, quiet. “You know... I can deal with it if you need to rant. About the flight. Or the apocalypse-level service desk. Or life in general.” 

You laugh softly, your head turning toward him. “Are you offering yourself up as an emotional support stranger?” 

He grins. “Pretty much, yeah.” 

You let out a breath. “Okay. Here goes.” 

And once you start, you don’t stop. 

About the mess at the gate. The rude lady who snapped at you like your very presence was an inconvenience. About your power bank dying. About the overpriced water bottle. About how the vending machine ate your last coin and gave you nothing. 

You don’t think he’d laugh so hard at that, but he does genuinely, hand-over-mouth, eyes-creasing laugh. 

When you finally sigh again and slump further into your seat, he says, “Feel better?” 

You nod. “Weirdly, yeah.” 

He glances over, soft smile still lingering. “So… what work got you flying at ungodly hours?” 

You huff, eyes flicking up to the departure board like it might remind you where you’re even going. “Conference. I’m in engineering.” 

His brows raise. “Oh, cool. What kind?” 

That’s all it takes. 

You don’t even realize how fast your words come, about structures and materials and that one project you’re working on that somehow turned into your entire personality for the past three months. You don’t even register how animated you are, hands gesturing slightly, voice picking up momentum like a train rounding a bend. 

You don’t notice, because he never interrupts. Never glances away. Just watches you with this sort of quiet focus that makes it feel like everything you're saying matters. 

You only pause when your throat goes dry and you realize you're smiling a little too hard. 

“Oh my god. I’ve been talking for, like—what? Ten minutes straight?” 

He laughs softly. “More like fifteen.” 

Your face flushes. “Why didn’t you stop me?” 

He leans his head against the metal wall, smiling crookedly. “Didn’t want to. You look happy when you talk about it.” 

That stops you. In a gentle way. 

He shrugs like he didn’t just knock the breath out of you a little. “I like people who light up.” 

You don’t know what to say to that. So you just smile and nudge his shoulder with yours. 

And then—quietly—you say, “What about you? Why’re you flying?” 

His mouth quirks a bit. “Work too.” 

“What kind?” 

He hesitates, eyes flicking away for the first time. “It’s a bit... niche.” 

You nod, not pressing. There’s a flicker of something behind his expression—not embarrassment exactly, just a desire to stay in this moment where things feel easy, where no names or titles are needed. 

So you don’t push. You just smile gently and shift the topic. 

The conversation meanders from there. One of you asks something small, and the other answers. Then it flips. Back and forth, for what feels like hours—but the good kind, the fast kind. You talk about favorite snacks, worst travel experiences, weirdest dreams. The kind of things only a half-lit terminal at 5 a.m. makes feel profound. 

Then it drifts again into music, and eventually, quiet. 

His playlist becomes the soundtrack to your shared waiting. 

You hadn’t noticed when your eyes slipped closed, but you must have drifted. The warmth from his side, the quiet static of airport announcements, the fading adrenaline of frustration—it all lulled you under. 

You don’t notice when he gets up. 

You don’t stir when he approaches the gate desk with a soft-voiced question and a charm that’s more polite than pushy. You don’t catch the way he angles your boarding pass across the counter with just enough casual confidence to make it all seem easy. 

When he comes back, there’s something in his step—a quiet buzz of victory. But he says nothing. 

He just sits again. 

And the subtle motion—the shift of weight next to you—is enough to nudge your head, gently, down onto his shoulder. 

His breath catches a little. 

Not enough to wake you. 

Then, gently, he tips his head—just enough for his cheek to graze your hair. 

He lets it stay there, barely touching, like any more might wake you. And maybe he wants to let you sleep a little longer. Maybe he wants to stay like this a little longer too. 

But the intercom crackles overhead, sharp and abrupt in the hush of the terminal. 

Flight 227 to San Fernando International now boarding. 

You shift beside him, blinking awake, your hand rubbing over your face as you sit up a little too fast. “Shit,” you mumble. “Did I—was I drooling on you?” 

He smiles, still a little sleep-warm. “Just a little. Adds to the charm.” 

You groan softly, dragging your hoodie sleeve over your mouth, cheeks burning. “God, kill me.” 

But he just chuckles and stands, brushing the wrinkles from his jeans. “Come on. Looks like our ride’s here.” 

Your boarding pass is wrinkled in your hand, thumb dragging over your seat number again and again, a nervous tic you don’t even realize you're doing. The gate agent takes it with a pleasant smile, scanning it with a soft beep. Then her eyes flicker to the screen, and she pauses. 

“Oh, Miss,” she says, reaching for a pen. “Looks like you’ve been upgraded.” She scribbles something quickly over your seat number before handing it back, like it’s routine. 

You blink. “I’ve been what?” 

But she’s already turning to the next passenger, smiling as if it’s nothing. And maybe it is. But your brain—still fogged from sleep and that strange, dreamy layover haze—doesn’t quite catch up. 

You go with it. What else is there to do? 

The jet bridge feels colder than you expected, your hoodie not quite enough against the sting of early morning air. You wrap your arms around yourself as the line creeps forward, every step oddly slow and too quiet. You rub the sleep from your eyes, phone clutched in your other hand, still dead. Everything feels like a dream—like you’re watching your own life through a half-fogged window. 

Then, as you step into the cabin, the flight attendant greets you with that practiced, polished smile. “Welcome aboard,” she says, checking your pass once more. “You’re to the left.” 

Left. 

You hesitate at the threshold, feet sticking to the floor like you missed a cue. “Sorry,” you ask, brow furrowed. “This is… first class?” 

The attendant nods without blinking. “Yes. Welcome aboard. You’re in 1A.” 

She gestures with an open palm like it’s the most natural thing in the world, and somehow your body moves before your brain can catch up. 

You walk in slow steps, the plush carpet soft beneath your feet, the lighting warm, impossibly golden. It smells like leather and something faintly floral. You pass other passengers already settled in—pressed shirts, neat hair, a man sipping champagne at 7 a.m. like it’s juice. 

And then you see it. Your seat. Spacious. Sleek. With a blanket folded neatly across it and a glass already waiting on a tray beside it, bubbles rising in perfect spirals. 

You’re still staring at it when he appears beside you. 

“Would you look at that?” he says, voice low and amused as he slides into the seat right next to yours. 

You stare at him. “This is first class.” 

He shrugs like he doesn’t quite know what you’re talking about, dropping into the seat beside you with casual ease. “Huh. That’s wild.” 

You scoff, sipping the champagne that’s already making your head feel a little floaty. You study him from the corner of your eye. “You didn’t… do something, did you?” 

He raises a brow, feigning offense. “Like what?” 

“I don’t know. Pull some secret-string or bribe someone with your—” You gesture vaguely at his whole face. “—unfair cheekbones or something.” 

He lets out a quiet laugh, reclines his seat just a bit, and fastens his belt like he’s done this a thousand times. “I think you might be overestimating the power of my cheekbones.” 

You turn more fully toward him, champagne resting lightly in your lap. “So this is just a cosmic coincidence? We both got upgraded to first class?” 

His mouth twitches. “Maybe the universe owed us something after a seven-hour gate delay.” 

You exhale a soft laugh, but there’s still something curling suspiciously warm in your chest. Gratitude. Disbelief. And something quieter. Something that makes you want to lean into the seat beside him and pretend you’ve always flown like this. 

As the cabin doors close and the safety video begins, you find yourself watching him instead of the screen. His eyes track the window lazily, fingers idly brushing the armrest, his whole posture relaxed in that way people are only when they’re somewhere familiar. You’re starting to realize he fits here. 

You don’t. But next to him, maybe it doesn’t matter. 

And when the plane begins to taxi, the low rumble beneath your feet swelling with momentum, you grip the armrest hard—knuckles whitening, body stiffening without meaning to. Your breath stalls somewhere in your throat, chest locked tight like the air’s already thinning. 

He notices. He doesn’t say anything at first—just watches the way your fingers curl against the leather, the way your shoulders tense like they’re bracing for impact. Then, quietly, without turning his head fully, he murmurs, “I don´t know if i have to ask… but are you nervous flying?” 

You glance at him, surprised by the gentleness in his voice. It’s not pitying or amused—just there, open and real. 

You nod, small and sheepish, biting the inside of your cheek. “I think even more so being in first class,” you admit, the words slipping out with a faint, breathy laugh. “Feels too high up. Like I don’t belong here. Like if we fall, it’s further to the ground.” 

That makes him chuckle, quiet and low in his chest, the sound warm and steadying. “That’s a first,” he says, and then—without even looking down—he reaches over and takes your hand. 

It’s not a showy gesture. It’s easy. Effortless. Like he’s done it a thousand times. Like it just makes sense. His fingers curl over yours, firm but not tight, thumb brushing softly against your knuckles. 

His eyes stay on the cabin wall ahead of him, but his voice drops just a bit more, close and sure. “It’ll be alright.” 

And for some strange reason, you believe him. 

The plane lifts from the runway with a low, drawn-out hum that vibrates through the cabin. Your fingers tighten instinctively in his, but he doesn’t flinch or tease—just holds steady, anchoring you through the ascent. His thumb keeps moving in slow, absent circles against your skin. It’s quiet up here—strangely soft, like the world below has muffled itself entirely. 

After a few minutes, your grip relaxes, breath coming easier. He shifts slightly in his seat, his body angled toward yours, and for a while you both just sit there in the low hum of first class silence, warm hand in warm hand. 

“You alright now?” he murmurs eventually, voice dipped low with fatigue. 

You nod, turning your face toward him on the plush headrest. “Yeah. You’re—really good at that, actually. The whole handholding thing.” 

A crooked grin tugs at his lips. “Thanks. I charge per flight.” 

You smile sleepily, eyes heavy. “Put it on my tab.” 

A pause drapes between you. Not awkward—just easy. Shared. You both sink deeper into it, exhaustion softening your edges. Your legs stretch out a bit under the blanket the flight attendant tucked over you earlier. He shifts too, letting his head lean lightly against the headrest. 

You both speak again at the same time. 

“What do you do—” 

“Do you always fly nervous—” 

You both laugh, just a soft puff of air and amusement in the dim light. 

“Go ahead,” he says. 

You shake your head. “No, you.” 

He lets his eyes drift toward the window, a soft shrug rolling through his shoulder. “I was just gonna say… you look like you don’t sleep much.” 

That catches you off guard. Your brow creases slightly, but there’s no sting to his words. Just observation. Care, even. 

“Yeah,” you admit. “I guess I haven’t. Not really. Not in a while.” 

His gaze returns to you—warm, thoughtful. “You should.” 

You smile faintly. “So should you.” 

He smirks. “I will. Right here. Got everything I need.” 

The flight levels out and the lights dim further. One by one, the cabin falls into a hush of flickering screens and quiet breathing. His grip on your hand never slackens—not tight, just present, like a tether. 

Eventually, your eyes fall closed. 

His follow not long after. 

When the attendant comes by to check on passengers, she pauses—smiling faintly at the two of you, slouched toward each other, hands still clasped between the seats, asleep above the clouds. 

The plane’s descent is gentle, the soft hum of engines lowering as the city lights begin to twinkle beneath the clouds. Your hand still rests in his, fingers intertwined, and though you’re tired, the closeness keeps a quiet energy alive between you. You glance around the cabin, noticing how the few other passengers steal brief looks your way. Is it just the dim light, or do they seem to recognize him? You blink, rubbing the sleep from your eyes, but the feeling lingers—whispers, soft murmurs, and the faint clicking of a phone camera. 

When the wheels touch down with a smooth thud, he squeezes your hand lightly, a silent reassurance. As the plane taxis to the gate, you both stir, stretching out the sleep from your limbs. You gather your things slowly, the haze of tiredness still wrapped around you like a blanket. 

The moment you step into the terminal, the sensation of attention intensifies. People glance your way, some whispering just loud enough to catch your ear, others sneaking pictures when they think you’re not looking. You’re half-tempted to ask him if they know him, but he just smiles softly, not drawing attention. 

He steps in front of you, lifting your carry-on with an easy grace. “Let me,” he says, his voice low but steady. You nod, feeling a strange mix of gratitude and intrigue. 

By the baggage claim, the noise picks up. A young boy, no older than ten, approaches, tugging at his mother’s sleeve before gathering courage to step forward. “Can I have a picture?” His wide eyes shine with admiration. 

He chuckles, nodding. “Of course, mate.” He crouches down, smiling warmly as the boy’s parents snap a quick photo. 

You watch, puzzled but smiling at the easy way he handles it, the humility that doesn’t demand attention but quietly commands it. 

As you head toward the exit, the crowd grows thicker, flashes bursting like fireflies from outside. You spot several cameras aimed your way before you even reach the doors. He notices your widening eyes and murmurs, “Sorry.” 

Then, without breaking stride, he grabs your hand again, shoving a small, crumpled piece of paper into your palm. “Text me sometime, stranger.” 

You blink, heart skipping. “Wait—what’s your name?” 

He grins when looking back. “Franco.” 

With that, he steps outside, and the air bursts with a chorus of screams and the relentless staccato of cameras. 

You stand frozen, the crumpled paper warm in your hand, a small smile tugging at your lips as the noise fades behind you. 

[orangesaek]

'level up' | streamer!Jeno

request: “Jeno (maybe him oblivious to it but falling for y/n who fell for him first)”

pairings: streamer!Jeno x afab-bsf!reader┊genre: slight angst, bsf-to-lovers, fluff┊wc: 2.8k┊cw: mild swearing/cursing

@bluedbliss 💗 tysm! i hope u like this one! Jaehyun’s will be out soon dw ☺️ xoxo

You’d been in love with Jeno for years.

It wasn’t a crush. It wasn’t fleeting.

It was something that rooted itself so deep inside you, even you didn’t notice it blooming until it was too late.

And Jeno?

Jeno was the rising Twitch superstar.

The face of esports, the hilarious, charming, handsome streamer who could break the internet with a smile and get a hundred thousand viewers just breathing into his mic.

Everyone loved him.

And you?

You were just the best friend. Always had been.

You told yourself it was enough.

But sometimes, being close to someone you love hurts worse than being apart.

It was just another night in voice chat.

You weren’t even gaming—just talking while Jeno aimlessly clicked around on a puzzle game and you scrolled social media in bed.

Your voice was soft in the quiet.

“You ever think about what life would be like if we didn’t meet?”

Jeno paused. “Uh, yeah. I’d probably be way more boring.”

You smiled faintly. “You’d still be famous though.”

“Maybe. But I wouldn’t have someone sending me memes at 3 a.m. or reminding me to eat.”

You chuckled.

“So I’m your meme provider and personal health coach now?”

“Exactly. And moral support. And emotional damage controller.”

You hesitated, voice turning quieter.

“I’d still choose to meet you… even if I knew you’d break my heart someday.”

He didn’t respond right away.

You heard him shift in his seat, clicking something aimlessly.

“You’re weird tonight,” he mumbled, like he didn’t catch the weight of your words.

You just laughed it off.

You told yourself it was enough.

But it kept happening—these little moments that chipped away at your resolve.

Then came the night everything changed.

You’d always suspected that one of Jeno’s fellow streamers, a popular female gamer named Karina, had a thing for him.

The flirty remarks, the way she laughed at every word he said—even the ones that weren’t funny—yeah, you noticed.

You never said anything. It wasn’t your place.

But it stung.

Especially when their fans shipped them hard online.

Edits, fanart, clips—everywhere you looked, it was “Jeno x Karina”.

That night, you were just hanging out off-camera, curled up on his couch while he streamed a group collab. You weren’t supposed to be part of the stream. Just quietly scrolling on your phone, handing him a drink now and then, and keeping him company like you always did.

“Jeno,” Karina giggled over voice chat, “if we win this round, you have to go on a date with me.”

Chat exploded instantly.

OMG DID SHE JUST—

👀 👀 👀

OMGOMGOGMGOGM

U GO GIRL LMAO

Jenrina CONFIRMED???!

You tensed, glancing over at Jeno.

He didn’t hesitate.

“Nah,” he said casually. “I’m already taken.”

That alone was enough to make the chat go feral.

But then he looked over at you, grinned, and with one arm, pulled you right into the camera frame.

“Guys, this is Y/N,” he said, as if it was no big deal.

“My girlfriend. We’ve been together for a while.”

Your eyes went wide. “Jeno—”

He cut you off with a smile.

“I know we kept it lowkey, but... I figured it’s about time. She’s the love of my life, and I’m way too lucky to keep pretending she’s just my friend.”

The stream exploded.

WHATTTT??!!

NO WAY YOU KEPT THIS A SECRET—

SHE’S GORG WTF

JENO?? MY HEART 💔💔

WTF HE’S SO GONE

IM CRYING WE LOST HIM

Karina laughed awkwardly in her cam window.

“Wow, uh, okay! Didn’t expect that. Congrats, you two.”

But the flash of embarrassment on her face was hard to miss. Especially with nearly a million live viewers watching it all unfold.

Jeno didn’t even blink. He was still looking at you, eyes soft.

Then he read a chat message out loud: “Bro, she’s so pretty. You lucky AF.”

He smirked at the screen and pulled you closer, your cheek pressed against his.

“She’s all mine,” he said, narrowing his eyes.

“And I’m not sharing.”

Your face burned, and you tried to hide it, but the chat was already blowing up again.

By the time the stream ended, both your names were trending worldwide.

And despite the chaos, the teasing, the panic in your chest... You’d never felt more seen.

But then again, it was all a lie anyway.

Then came that movie night. Just you, him, and a film that left both of you a little too quiet.

Halfway through the romantic drama, you noticed him wiping at his face.

“Wait… are you crying?” you asked, trying not to smile.

“N-no, this is sweat,” he said quickly.

“My eyes are just sweating.”

You softened. “It’s okay. I cry at this scene too.”

Jeno glanced at you, voice unexpectedly quiet.

“Do you think that kind of love is real? The forever kind?”

You shrugged. “Yeah. But it’s rare. Most people are too scared to say how they really feel.”

He stared at the screen for a long second. 

“That’s dumb. If you love someone, you should just tell them.”

“Exactly,” you said. “Unless they don’t love you back.”

Neither of you said anything after that. The silence spoke loud enough.

So finally, during one of your usual late-night hangouts, you cracked.

“Maybe I like you more than a friend.”

It slipped out.

Jeno froze.

You waited.

And he said nothing. Just blinked, glanced away, and mumbled something about getting more chips.

So you ghosted him.

“Still no reply?” Chenle asked, glancing at the group chat. “Dude, he’s been MIA for almost a week.”

“I called six times,” said Hendery. “Nothing. Straight to voicemail.”

Yangyang sighed, chin in hand. “He didn’t even tweet a ‘taking a break’ message. His fans are freaking out.”

“He left me on read,” Haechan added dramatically. “Me. That’s betrayal.”

Jisung frowned. “What if something happened to him?”

Taeyong tried to stay positive. “He’s fine. Probably just... I don’t know. Figuring something out?”

Chenle stared at the group chat, almost tipping over in his seat when he noticed Jeno’s icon blinking with ‘typing’.

“HE’S TYPING!!!” he yelled. The guys quickly opened the chat and waited anxiously for Jeno’s message.

And finally, he replied.

“Sorry guys. I’m fine... physically anyway. Just have something to figure out. Ttyl”

Jeno did. He finally did.

Sitting in his dark room, lights off, half-eaten ramen forgotten beside his keyboard, Jeno stared at the ceiling.

You said you liked him more than a friend.

And he didn’t say anything.

He started pacing, mind spiraling.

Why did he always reply to your texts within seconds and answer your calls before the third ring, when with others it took him at least 2 business days to respond—or sometimes he just forgot altogether?

Why did he drop everything, even mid-stream, when you needed help?

Why did it bother him so much whenever you were with other guys? Why was he suddenly willing to leave his house just to hang out with you, when everyone knew he barely ever went out before? Why did he spend so much effort choosing random gifts for you?

Why were his tears reserved just for movie nights with you, and never anyone else?

Why was he quick to dismiss anyone trying to flirt with him?

Why did you make him feel like home?

“Shit,” he muttered, dragging a hand over his face.

“I’ve been in love with her all along.”

He grabbed his hoodie and ran out into the rain.

You weren’t expecting anyone, especially not him—soaked to the bone, hoodie heavy with rain, sneakers squelching against your doormat.

“Y/N,” he said, out of breath. “Please open the door.”

You froze. Then unlocked it, heart racing.

“What are you doing here?”

“I need to talk to you.”

“You’re—Jeno, you’re soaking wet!”

“I don’t care.”

Then he kissed you.

It wasn’t soft. It was desperate, aching, like he was trying to make up for every second he hadn’t realized he loved you.

You stood frozen until you pushed him back, wide-eyed and breathless.

“What the hell was that?!”

Jeno exhaled sharply.

“I love you.”

You blinked at him, stunned. “What?”

“I’m serious.” His voice cracked. 

“I didn’t realize it until you stopped talking to me. Until you disappeared. And then I started thinking about all the times I dropped everything for you, and how I hated seeing you with other guys, and how you’re the only person who’s ever made me feel safe… like home.”

He laughed, dry and bitter. “I’m academically smart, but I’m so goddamn clueless. I didn’t get it...”

You blinked away tears. “You ignored me when I confessed.”

“I didn’t mean to. I panicked. I didn’t know what to say. I was afraid I’d lose you. But then I lost you anyway, didn’t I?”

He stepped forward slowly.

“I couldn’t stream. I couldn’t eat. Every time I looked at my phone and saw no messages from you, I felt like I couldn’t breathe.”

“You made me feel like a fool,” you whispered. “Do you know how hard it was to say that to you?”

“I know.” He swallowed. “I know now. And I’m sorry… for making you feel like your feelings weren’t important. They are. You are.”

The rain kept pouring, soaking the both of you.

You looked at him, your idiot of a best friend, soaked from head to toe because he just realized he loved you.

“Why are you like this?” you said, voice shaking. 

“Why do you only figure things out when it’s almost too late?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “Maybe because I’ve never had to fight for something I wanted… not until you.”

Your heart cracked open.

You threw your arms around him, not caring that he was dripping wet. He tried to pull back, worried.

“You’re gonna get sick,” he murmured.

You shook your head, pressing your forehead to his.

“I don’t care. I missed you so much, you stupid idiot.”

He finally smiled, eyes glassy.

“Can I kiss you again?”

You leaned in and kissed him softly. This time with no fear, no confusion, just pure, quiet relief.

Later, inside, wrapped in a blanket, you teased, “So... are you finally going to tell your chat why you’ve been MIA?”

Jeno smirked. “Yeah. I’ll say, ‘Sorry I disappeared. I was too busy realizing I’ve been in love with my best friend for like, 6 years and only figured it out when she ghosted me.’”

You burst out laughing. “They’re gonna roast you.”

“I deserve it.”

You rolled your eyes and kissed him again.

[cherrywriterrr]

haunted

bodyguard!rafe x reader

warnings: graphic violence, blood, torture, emotional distress, language, fear, obsession, captivity, mdni 18+

6 7 8

the sound of fists meeting flesh echoes like gunshots in the cold, dark room.

you don’t remember when the tears started—probably the second rafe hit the concrete the first time. maybe earlier, when he smiled at them, cocky and bloody, like he was untouchable. like he was trying to protect you even while chained to nothing, just pain and pride.

he grunts, coughs—his body jerking with each kick like it’s muscle memory.

you’re screaming, the chains rattling around your wrists, the metal burning into your skin from how hard you pull. “stop! stop it! you’re gonna fucking kill him!”

no one listens.

he spits out blood and looks at you through one swollen eye. “don’t cry,” he rasps, smiling again, fucked up and too cocky for a dying man. “it’s not that bad.”

a boot meets his ribs.

“please,” your voice breaks, high and raw. “please, if you kill him, my father will find every single one of you and—he’ll burn this place down. you think you’re powerful, but you have no idea who i belong to.”

the man in charge—the one with the dead eyes—strolls closer to you. “you think we care about politics, princess?” he crouches. “you think your daddy’s scary? i’ve gutted men twice his size just because they looked at me wrong.”

you flinch back, but your voice shakes out anyway. “then you’re a fucking idiot.”

he laughs, rough and mean. “this one’s got a mouth.”

behind him, another man’s holding rafe by the hair, forcing his head up. “he’s gonna pass out.”

“not yet,” dead-eyes mutters, standing up. “not until she sees what we do to heroes.”

“don’t,” you choke out. “please. he’s not a hero. he’s just—just my bodyguard. he’s nothing to you. just let him go.”

but rafe groans from the floor. “shut the fuck up.”

you blink. “what?”

he spits out blood again, lifts his head. “stop fucking begging for me.”

the man holding him throws a punch that snaps rafe’s head sideways. he crumples a little.

you scream. “you’re going to kill him!”

the leader turns to the others. “we’re done for now. we come back later, when she’s nice and broken in.”

they start to file out. one turns and glances back at you.

“sweet dreams, sweetheart. enjoy watching your prince bleed.”

the door slams.

the silence that follows is louder than the violence.

you look at rafe—what’s left of him. blood dripping from his lip, his eye purple and almost swollen shut, one side of his chest rising slower than the other.

you can’t stop crying. you whisper, “why the fuck would you tell me to stop begging?”

he coughs, grimacing. “because i don’t want you to beg for me like i’m some charity case.”

“you’re bleeding out, rafe!”

he closes his eyes, voice low. “i’ve had worse.”

you don’t believe him.

you pull against the chains again, even though it hurts. your wrists scream, your skin raw. but you don’t care. you’d do anything to crawl to him, to cup his face and stop the blood and tell him you’re sorry for everything.

“don’t say shit like that again,” you whisper. “don’t act like you’re okay with this.”

he smiles with his mouth full of blood. “i’m not okay. but you’re still breathing. that’s all i care about.”

you swallow hard. “they’re going to come back.”

“i know.”

you look at him. “then what the fuck do we do?”

he opens his eyes, bloodshot and black with something unhinged. “we wait. and when the time’s right—i kill every single one of them.”

you shake your head, tears falling freely now. “you can’t kill anyone, rafe… you’re barely breathing.”

he grins through the blood, all teeth and madness. “don’t need to breathe to slit a throat, baby.”

you sob. actually sob. not because he’s terrifying but because he still jokes, because he’s rafe, because he’s yours. your bodyguard. and he’s dying right in front of you. “shut the fuck up. just—shut up and come here.”

his smile falters. “what?”

“crawl to me,” you whisper, voice wrecked. “please.”

he doesn’t move at first. maybe it’s the pain, or maybe the disbelief, because for months you’ve barely let him touch you—always pulling away, always keeping walls up. but now?

now you’d give anything to feel him.

“why?” he breathes out, eye flickering up to meet yours.

“because i need to feel you breathing. i need to know you’re still here.”

he lets out a sound that’s almost a laugh, almost a sigh. then he groans, dragging himself across the concrete floor—his elbows slick with blood, his body trembling with the effort.

it’s agonizing to watch.

you start crying again. “rafe, stop—don’t, you’re hurting yourself,”

“no,” he mutters, low and cracked. “you asked.”

he reaches you with a grunt, collapsing against your legs, cheek pressed to your knee. “sorry,” he breathes, voice small. “this is the best i can do right now.”

you slide down the wall, chains clinking, and lean your forehead against his. his blood smears on your skin. you don’t care. you’d bathe in it if it meant he lived.

“fuck,” you whisper. “fuck, i hate seeing you like this.”

he smiles again, weak but smug. “don’t hate me anymore, baby?”

you let out a soft, broken laugh through your tears. “shut up.”

“nah,” he rasps. “say it.”

you close your eyes. “i don’t hate you.”

he exhales like that’s the only thing keeping him alive.

you whisper, “don’t die.”

“not planning on it.”

your hands curl in the chains. his body trembles against yours, but you feel it—his breathing, shallow and ragged, but there. still there.

so you whisper again, over and over. a prayer. a mantra. a threat.

“don’t die. don’t die. don’t die.”

his head still rests against your thigh, his blood warm and sticky where it smears over your skin. he’s quiet, too quiet, but then he shifts slightly, chest barely rising, mouth parting.

“i promise,” he breathes. “i won’t tell anyone about the tattoo, baby. not a single soul.”

your heart cracks wider.

you shake your head, jaw clenched, the chains rattling as your wrists twitch in frustration. “i don’t give a fuck about the tattoo, rafe.”

he blinks, stunned by your tone.

“i don’t care if anyone finds out,” you whisper, voice shaking now, louder, harsher. “i don’t care about the medusa or—or what it means, or what they think it means. i don’t care about my fucking sexual abuse, rafe.”

his face flinches, like the word cuts him more than the fists did.

your throat burns. the words spill like gasoline. “i just want to know you’re fucking alive. do you get that? i just want—” you choke. “to know you’re alive.”

he lifts his head again, barely, enough to meet your eyes. his lip is split, his brow busted, and yet… the look in his eyes? it’s devastating. like your pain is heavier than every hit he took. like your voice is the only thing keeping his heart beating.

“i’m alive,” he whispers. “for you.”

you let out a shuddering breath, body trembling. “don’t say that unless you mean it.”

his hand, bloodied and shaking, reaches for your leg—gripping your ankle like it’s the only tether left.

“i fucking mean it.”

your voice cracks, barely audible now. “don’t die on me, rafe.”

“not until you tell me you love me,” he mutters, trying to smile again.

you blink hard, tears falling freely now, mouth trembling.

“shut the fuck up,” you whisper, voice trembling.

but even as your heart pounds and the pain in your chest threatens to swallow you whole… you let him hold on.

you start tugging again, metal clinking harshly, wrists burning in the cuffs as you thrash like you’re trying to tear yourself free with nothing but your will. blood rushes to your ears. your arms ache. tears blur your vision but you keep pulling, keep trying, because he’s bleeding too much—too fucking much.

“hey, stop—baby, stop,” rafe rasps, crawling just a little closer on all fours, pain painted across every line in his face. “you’re gonna hurt yourself—look at me, stop.”

you shake your head, heart pounding like thunder in your throat. “you don’t get to say that.”

“what?”

“you don’t get to fucking care about me when you’re like this,” you snap, voice cracking. “you’re bleeding everywhere, you can barely crawl, and you’re still trying to calm me down?”

his lip twitches, maybe a smile, maybe a grimace. he shifts again, dragging himself with a low groan until he’s as close to you as the chains allow.

“that’s kind of my job, remember?”

“no,” you hiss. “not anymore. this isn’t about your job. this is your life, rafe.”

his chest rises slowly. “yeah,” he whispers. “and i’d still choose yours over mine.”

“stop saying shit like that,” you snap, and your voice breaks at the end. “you’re not allowed to bleed out on me while saying sweet fucking things like that.”

you tug your wrists again, whimpering when the skin pinches and burns. he notices and immediately leans forward, his voice panicked now.

“baby, stop—stop it,” he begs. “you’re gonna tear your fucking skin off. please.”

you don’t listen.

you can’t. because if you stay still, you’ll break. because you can feel the heat of his blood drying on your skin and the image of him getting kicked over and over is tattooed behind your eyes and—

his voice pulls you back again.

“look at me,” he says, softer this time. “just look at me, alright?”

you do. reluctantly. and when your eyes meet his, it’s like gravity catches you again.

“breathe,” he whispers. “you’re not alone.”

your throat tightens. the words hang in the air like lifelines you’re too afraid to grab.

so instead… you just breathe.

and you let him breathe, too. even if it’s broken. even if it’s not enough. it’s still something.

you don’t even realize you’re crying again until he leans in, just enough to rest his bloodied forehead against yours. his hands tremble as he does it—there’s still blood everywhere, still the iron stink of it, the pain etched deep in his bones. but he does it anyway.

he pulls you into the mess of him.

into the only kind of hug he can manage—slumped forward, half-broken, bruises blooming down his arms, and yet all he cares about is keeping your head close, your chest pressed to his.

his blood stains your shirt. smears down your collar. soaks into the sleeves you can’t even move.

but you don’t care.

not when he’s breathing against your neck like that. not when his heart’s still beating.

and then he laughs. a bitter, wrecked little thing.

“you know i never hated you, right?”

you blink, jerking back just a little so you can see his face.

he’s smiling, but it’s all wrong. crooked. full of hurt. his eyes scan your face like he’s memorizing you in case this is the last time.

“not once,” he breathes, resting his forehead against your shoulder this time, blood sticking between your skin. “not even when you screamed at me. not when you said you didn’t need me. not even when you looked at me like i was fucking nothing.”

you try to move your arms, but the chains only rattle. all you can do is lean your head into him.

“rafe…” your voice breaks. “you can’t say that like it’s a fucking goodbye.”

“i’m not,” he says, barely audible. “i’m just saying it in case you forget.”

he laughs again—low, sharp, and pained.

“god, you’re so fucking mean to me,” he mutters, voice cracking into something softer. “and i still fucking want you more than anything.”

your breathing gets sharp again. quick. ragged. the sobs crawl up your throat so fast you don’t even have time to shove them back down.

“we’ll get out of here, right?” your voice is shaky. too loud. desperate. “right, rafe? please tell me someone’s coming—tell me they’re gonna find us, please, i don’t want you dying in here.”

you’re panicking.

he sees it instantly—your wrists pulling too hard against the cuffs, your whole body shaking.

“baby—hey, hey—stop,” he rasps, cupping your face with one trembling hand even though his knuckles are cracked open and red. “don’t do that. don’t you fucking cry for me.”

his voice is hoarse. almost ruined. but his eyes are still locked on yours.

“stop worrying about me.”

“i can’t,” you breathe. “i can’t fucking do this if you die.”

he doesn’t answer. not with words.

he just looks at you like you’re the only thing that exists. and then he turns, dragging what little strength he has into crawling toward the chain wrapped around your ankle.

“rafe, stop—what the fuck are you doing—”

“getting you out,” he mutters, coughing, blood dripping onto the concrete. “you’re getting the fuck out of here, i don’t care if i die doing it.”

“rafe,” you scream, your voice cracking, “you’re barely breathing!”

he groans but keeps going, teeth gritted, using his belt buckle to saw at the rope around your ankle even though his own body is shaking from the effort.

“just let me do this,” he says, blood splattering on the floor with every breath. “you’ve gotta live, okay? not me.”

you sob harder, yanking against the chains again, trying to stop him, trying to do anything.

“you don’t get to decide that!” you shout. “you don’t get to fucking choose for me!”

but rafe just looks up at you with glassy, bloodshot eyes. “i already did.”

his hands are shaking.

he’s coughing blood, arms trembling, wrists raw, and yet—he still manages to work through the fucking pain. every inch of him screams, body failing him, vision swimming in red, and still, his voice comes out like a cracked whisper, like a prayer, as he works the final link of rusted iron that holds you down.

“almost there, baby,” he groans, almost collapsing over you. “just a little more. fuck, c’mon…”

you don’t dare breathe too loud. you’re frozen in that hellish silence, face soaked in tears, knuckles white from clutching the only thing keeping you together right now—him.

and then— click. the chain falls away.

and you don’t think—you just launch forward

into his arms. into the blood-soaked mess of him. it’s not even a real hug—it’s a crash, a desperate collision of limbs, hands cupping his face and feeling just how cold he is. your fingers tremble against the cuts on his jawline. his blood is everywhere. on your clothes. your neck. dripping down your spine. and still, you hold onto him like he’s your last breath.

“i’m so fucking sorry,” you sob, over and over, voice breaking. “i didn’t mean it, i didn’t mean it, i didn’t mean it. when i said i don’t need you, rafe, i didn’t—”

his arms wrap around you slowly, almost unsure

“shhh, baby,” he mumbles, head resting against your shoulder. “you didn’t mean it. i know. you were scared.”

but you’re crying too hard now to stop. your whole body’s shaking. you pull back just enough to cup his cheeks, your eyes scanning every gash and bruise on his face, wide and frantic.

“you were bleeding everywhere and you—you still tried to save me,” you whisper, forehead pressed to his. “you can’t say you care about me when you’re like this, rafe, you can’t—”

he lets out a bitter, broken laugh. still holding you close.

“you know i never hated you, right?” he says it so low, so hoarse it almost sounds like nothing. “not even once.”

you choke on another sob. “don’t say that like you’re dying, please don’t fucking say that—”

“i’m not dying.” he brushes a bloody thumb against your jaw, half-conscious. “not if you’re safe. i’m not dying, baby.”

but his body’s swaying now. heavier against yours. slower.

and the room still reeks of rust and salt and rot.

but your hands are on him. and he’s holding you like a man who already knows he’s losing. you don’t even care about him calling you ‘baby’ anymore.

you breathe into his neck, begging the silence not to return. praying someone finds you before it’s too late.

“i’m sorry,” you whisper again, like a promise.

you hold his face in both hands like it’s fragile porcelain.

his lips are cracked. there’s blood on his chin, down his throat, seeping into the collar of his shirt. you trace the edge of a bruise beneath his eye, brushing back the sweat-drenched strands of blond hair, and even in this moment—especially in this moment—he looks at you like you’re the only thing he’s ever believed in.

“i’ll get you out,” you whisper, so low it barely cuts through the stillness. “i’ll get you safe. no more bleeding. no more pain. you’re gonna be okay, rafe.”

his gaze drops to your mouth.

you see it—the flicker in his eyes, the heat behind his lashes, the unspoken thing that’s lived between your bodies for years but never surfaced this raw. he’s holding you like he doesn’t want to let go, and for the first time, you don’t want him to. not ever.

“baby,” he whispers, voice ragged. “you’re the only fucking thing keeping me alive right now.”

your hands shake on his skin. you feel the way his chest rises against yours, how his breath hitches when your lips hover over his cheek. your face is so close to his you can taste the blood and salt on his skin. so close you can feel his nose brush yours. so close it would only take a second—

“don’t die,” you whisper, voice cracking. “please.”

he presses his forehead against yours, mouth parting, heart pounding against your palm.

“i won’t,” he breathes, like a vow. “not when you’re still looking at me like that.”

your lips brush his. a whisper of a touch. fleeting. a ghost.

and then—BANG.

the door slams open.

blinding light spills in. you both freeze.

and in the doorway stands the silhouette of one of them, your captors, body outlined in blood-red light, shadow spilling across the floor, voice venomous:

“how fucking sweet.”

you don’t look away from rafe. you hold onto his face like it’s the last thing you’ll ever touch.

and then the man steps forward.

taglist<- ->masterlist ->next

taglist: 🏷️ @rafesbabygirlx @iconiccolo @viqtoria @devoutedlover @vaelyann @qversazex @scorpiosolar @rafestoothbrush @st8rkey @cherryhoneybabe @verycherryblossomhideout @pillowprincess4him @kieeslove @lanadelrey67 @letstryagaintomorrow @hunzzzzz @toterry @rcwhore @blissfulbutterfliess @sc05

[arbitrarykiwi]

*⁀➷ 15 Minute Lunch Break

Nam-Gyu (player 124) x Fem!Reader

Warnings: smut (18+)

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ - °❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

“F-fuck, c’mon…please.” The words are hissed through clenched teeth, blunt hanging loosely from his lips as his hands touch, grab, grope at anywhere he can

The car is already humid, windows fogged both from the blunt that is hanging from his lips and the more than intimate situation you found yourself in. The whole inside of the car was thick with need, lust, and sex- yall haven’t even fucked yet!!! But god he needs you so bad right now.

You promised you’d meet Nam-Gyu on his ‘lunch’ break (working at a club means that his ‘lunch’ is anywhere between 12am-4am), bring him a pre-rolled blunt, and smoke with him. Then you’d go back home and get right back in bed and drift off into dream land.

You were pretty naive to even think that’s how the lunch break would go. Nam-Gyu is stressed out constantly, every interaction his had with fucked up club goers or his shit-head boss, his muscles are tensing more and the throbbing headache that blooms in his temples worsens.

The only thing that he knows would help him, and not some ‘wait 30 minutes for it to kick in’ bullshit, was cumming balls deep inside your tight cunt.

“Fucking strip! We only have 15 minutes!” Nam-gyu orders, you’re cocking up an eyebrow and sitting back on your thighs- back bumping against the steering wheel uncomfortably. Laughing softly at his impatience and neediness, you’re moving to pull down your sleep shorts.

“No fucking time- fucking shit- here.” Nam-Gyu is placing one hand on your back and the other is collecting your shorts and underwear in a hooked thumb- pulling them to the side.

Hips jolting off the car seat, the fat, heavy weight of Nam-Gyu’s cock begins to push into you. Pulling his hand off your back, he’s gripping the base of his thick length, hissing with the contact.

When he begins dragging the leaking tip through your sopping folds, only to end with tapping the hefty weight of his cock on your clit with a wet plap! plap! plap! You’re falling forward, forehead resting on his shoulder.

“I need you so bad- fuck- they were so fucking stupid, while fucking bar staff is incompetent, broke a whole bottle of fucking top shelf tequila-“

As he’s ranting, rambling,- every other word an expletive- you feel the stretch of him. It’s welcomed, always is, but with little to no prep the stretch of his cock feels sooooo much more intense. Your thighs are burning, a white hot sensation is running up your spine, and you’re practically shaking against him.

“F-fuck ’s too much, too big!” You’re crying out, fingernails biting into the skin of his shoulders through the fabric of his shirt.

Large hands come down hard on your ass cheeks in mirroring smacks, the blunt seemingly long since forgotten about. He tightens his hold, fingers gripping into the flesh and aiding your hips down his cock.

“The fuck it is?!” He snarls, “You can take it.” As he speaks he’s working you further down his cock, “you’ve always taken my dick so fuckin’ well, now you’re just complainin’”

When you fall to his lap with a lewd, wet, clap of skin on skin, nearly sobbing out his name- you ashamedly can feel yourself creaming around him, the mess’s dripping out of you and surely staining the car seat below you two.

“See there ya fuckin’ go, that’s my girl.” Nam-Gyu growls, teeth clenched and forehead glistening with sweat. “We got 12 minutes left now,” he says, looking at the dashboard clock. “gotta make sure I’m cumming in you in 11.”

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ °❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

[allyeilishh]

i have a silly sappy request ☝🏻 it's a very specific scenario i've been thinking about lately but feel free to change what you feel like changing if you wanna lmao

something like billie and singer!reader and then billie is doing a pretty significant show (like either closing a tour or a one night only special show type of thing) and then she calls reader out to the stage to sing a song with her and then when they're done billie gets all giggly and mysterious and doesn't let reader get off stage yet and reader is like "👀 what's going on" and then billie gets all sappy and proposes on stage 🥹

and who knows maybe reader also has her own pair of engagement rings ready with her bc they're absolute fools hopelessly in love with each other

also finneas on stage too being the only one who knew they were both planning on doing it soon and having the laugh of his life

like very cutesy and fluffy and emotional also bc they both feel like they're at home on stage especially bc they both treat their fans like family but also bc their actual families are at that show too so they're very comfortable and happy up there 🥹 anyway just pure gay shit you know

anyway don't feel pressured to do it just thought of sending it to you 💖 thank you anyway wishing you the best 😚

ᥫ᭡ STAGE-POSAL ── .✦ B.E.

pairing: Billie Eilish x Fem!Singer!Reader

genre: pure fluff

synopsis: Billie was at her final show, putting her most into everything. And there was a surprise that only her and Finneas knew was going to happen. And maybe, you had a surprise of you own.

w/c: 2.3k

The crowd sang loudly, echoing throughout the entire stadium. They were all completely heartbroken and happy—a bittersweet moment. Billie was jumping around and running around the stage, doing her wonderful performance like she always did. The crowd almost as loud as her.

Her hair was flying around perfectly, some sticking to her forehead and even some on her jaw, beginning to dampen in sweat. Her jersey hung just right on her body, her baggy jorts looking perfect on her, going down past her knees. Everything about her was perfect. There was no other way to describe her.

You were standing backstage, looking in one of your hand-held mirrors, making sure everything looked perfect. Because tonight was special. It was Billie’s last show for the Hit Me Hard and Soft Tour, and you couldn’t have been any more proud of her girlfriend.

You knew how much Billie had put into this tour, working tirelessly on each show, a ball of energy. You had supported her the entire time, holding her hand whenever things got too much, when she needed to cry from the stress. You had always been there for her. And you were so proud of her for getting through it.

You knew how much the stress of a tour was—ending yours not too long ago. It was hard, stressful, and it put a lot of weight on your shoulders. And sometimes, having someone there to lean on and cry could be the best source of comfort you could have.

You began to hear the loud music begin to calm, lowering in volume, before finally cutting off, and the crowd had erupted with cheers. You could only watch from under the stage on the little tv as the camera pointed to Billie, sweaty and a little out of breath.

She was smiling with that goofy smile she always had on her face, like she had just won the lottery. Her hands were behind her back, looking up and around at the crowd. Her eyes were filled with admiration, looking at the crowd, cheering. Cheering for her, for what she did.

You could only smile like an absolute idiot—seeing her so happy made you happy. There was always something about her smile that was contagious—it could never go away once it appeared.

Eventually, you heard your name being called through the earpiece, Billie’s manager telling you and Finneas to start heading up onto the stage. You took a deep breath before starting to head to the steps. And within a few moments, you were up on stage, Finneas not straying too far behind.

And the second you were standing on the platform, cheers only got louder. But the only thing you could focus on was Billie. You quickly wrapped her in your arms, holding her close like she had been away for months.

Billie let out a little laugh, holding you back just as tightly. But slowly and reluctantly, she pulled away, taking in your form and outfit. You had a light blue, satin wrap over your shirt on, the hem tucked under your bra. You had light baggy jeans on, practically swallowing you whole. And you looked nothing less than perfect.

Billie wanted to stay like this forever, her hands resting gently on your hips, and staring at you like you were the Mona Lisa. But she knew she had to finish the show. So, she let out a little breath before pulling you over to the stools that had been set up.

Billie and Finneas sat next to each other, while you sat across from them, mic stands sitting in front of each of you. You adjusted yourself until you were comfortable, a gentle smile playing at your lips as you looked into the crowd, you gave small waves as Billie spoke.

Her voice instantly quieted the entire stadium, all of her fans listening to her voice intently. It was surprising, honestly—how quickly she could get an entire sold-out stadium quite so quickly. It was like she had magic powers.

You listened just as well, hearing her talk about who she was grateful for, and everyone who helped her support her through her journey of the tour. And then, she mentioned her mom and dad, who were up in the crowd, somewhere on the second floor, watching them. You could see Billie’s smile widening at the mention of her parents.

Eventually, Billie had stopped talking, and she began to start up the song. It was one of yours, but Billie was a huge feature on it. So you both just called it yours. You both began to sing the intro, holding onto the mic gently, making sure it caught every note and your voices. Finneas played the guitar, strumming every note perfectly.

As you two continued, your voices angelic and soft, you and Billie locked eyes. You both couldn’t take your eyes off each other. You two could still sing, could still move your bodies, but your eyes wouldn’t move from each other. It was like a trap. A trap neither of you wanted to get out of.

This was the moment you figured out the one thing you’ve been searching for—pure, undying love. It had been years since you two got together—just a few months after Billie turned 18. So just about 6 years you two have been through thick and thin, never once letting go of each other.

And you knew that this woman was the one. That you made the right choice, that this woman was the right one, and would forever stay that way.

Slowly, the song came to an end, and the crowd erupted into cheers and whistles all over again. You couldn’t help but chuckle from the praise, looking around at all the hundreds of thousands of people. It almost seemed unreal.

You never held your shows anything near something as big as this, so seeing so many people cheering for them was a little shocking to you. Like they had just heard the best news of their lives. The shock came first, then it would be the happiness and joy.

Your smile widened, before looking back at Billie. You could tell something was different. Her posture was just a bit straighter, her shoulders pulled back, and her leg was bouncing up and down on the stool’s footrest. Like she was getting ready for something.

Your eyebrows furrowed in confusion, seeing her look a little anxious. You looked between Billie and Finneas, who were now pulled away from the mics and their earpieces out, talking quietly amongst each other. Like a secret being passed. Even in a room full of thousands of people.

You saw Billie bite her bottom lip, a nervous gesture that she normally did. You didn’t understand what was going on, but you didn’t say anything, sitting there like you were a lost puppy. Because you were. You were really lost, trying to figure out what was happening.

But eventually, Billie stood, and she took the mic off the stand, holding it up to her lips as she walked closer to you. And she looked straight at you, one hand behind her back. You could see little beads of sweat forming on her forehead, and not from earlier. These were new. And then, Billie began to speak.

"Baby, you know I love you. I have always loved you, and I forever will. I love you like the moon loves the Earth, like the ocean loves the sand, and like flowers love water. I couldn’t live without you, baby. I will forever and always need you by my side, so this is why I’m asking you this…”

And before you knew it, Billie was down on one knee in front of you, pulling her hand out from behind her back. It was a red velvet box, gently shining in the lights of the stadium. And when Billie opened it, you almost sobbed. You quickly got off the stool, walking closer to get a better look.

It was a beautiful gold ring, an oval diamond placed right in the middle. And around the band, it looked like there were little diamond leaves, like on a stem of a flower. It was the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen, and the exact ring you showed Billie before.

"Will you marry me?”

The crowd went silent, waiting for your answer. But you knew it from the moment she got down on one knee. Tears streamed down your face as you nodded, letting out a small, happy giggle.

"Yes! Yes, of course I’ll marry you!”

Billie felt a wave of relief go over her body, a weight being lifted off her shoulders. She gently took your hand into hers, taking the ring out of the box and slipping it onto your ring finger. And it fitted perfectly on your finger.

You gently held Billie’s hand as you admired the ring, happy laughs and sobs mixing together. You gently pulled Billie up and into your arms, holding her tightly. The entire crowd was screaming and cheering for you two, but their voices faded as Billie held you. "I love you. I love you so much. I knew you’d say yes.”

She gently placed a kiss on your tear-streaked cheek, her own tears falling down. She couldn’t have been any happier than she was with you right now. She held you like you were her lifeline, her fingers tangling in your hair.

Finneas had watched from a few feet away, and was clapping and cheering along with the crowd. He knew that this was going to happen. He went ring shopping with Billie. But Billie wanted to keep it quiet, so he kept it quiet. He smiled as he watched his sister holding her now fiancé, happy for her.

But then, you slowly pulled away, letting out a small chuckle. The timing couldn’t have been any better. You wiped away the tears from your face, before gently letting go of Billie. You looked down at your feet, before reaching into your pocket, and pulling out a beautiful diamond ring.

You got down on one knee, holding up the ring. You had planned for tonight to propose to Billie, just not exactly like this. But this was even better than how you planned it. You had made sure the ring had stayed in your pocket, too scared to have a box hiding under the cloth due to the fact it would peek out.

The ring had a circular diamond in the middle, and little diamonds covering all around the band. You had made sure it was the exact one Billie pointed to when you two were out that one time, looking for jewelry. The exact ring Billie said she would love to have lying on her finger.

Billie gasped as she saw the ring, almost tripping over her own two feet. But the surprise quickly turned into happiness, tears falling down her face in complete and utter joy. She couldn’t help the sobs that left her throat. Gently taking your free hand into hers.

“Will you marry me?” You said softly, and before you could even process it, Billie had taken you back into her arms, a bone-crushing hug surrounding you. She was whispering little "yes"’s into your ear, like it was a secret only you two could know about. Even if you were on stage, surrounded by hundreds of thousands of people, even her parents and brother, just a few feet away, who were completely shocked by the revelation.

Billie shakily pulled away, tears falling down her face like a waterfall. Her hand lifted up shakily, and you gently pushed the ring onto her finger. A perfect size, yet again. Billie let out a soft chuckle, before quickly pulling you close again.

She gently took your chin into her fingers, before pulling you in for a deep, gentle, and sensual kiss. Your tears mixed in with your lips, desperate cries and sobs leaving both of you. You both couldn’t pull away, wanting to bask in the moment with each other. Like you were the only two people on the entire planet.

But eventually, oxygen was needed, and you two pulled away, a mess of tears and heavy breaths mingling between you two. You could hear Finneas laughing behind Billie, making the woman roll her eyes. She slowly stood up, but never once letting go of you. She held onto your hand tightly, not daring to let go.

She quickly picked the mic back up, before raising it to her lips, and happily speaking to the crowd. “My soon-to-be wife, fuckers!”

Everyone immediately cheered, whistled, completely happy for you two. Phones were still high up in the air, recording every moment that just happened. But it was okay. Neither of you cared that this would be public news by the morning, because all you two needed was each other.

Later that night, you and Billie were lying down together in the hotel room, everything packed and ready to go home. Her fingers were gently running through your hair, tackling each small knot with her fingers. Your head was gently pressed against her chest, listening to her steady heartbeat.

The adrenaline of the moment had still been running through your mind, taking in every little moment. But nothing mattered. Not in the pure silence of the hotel room, with your fiancé, who still had tears on her cheek. She loved you so much, she just couldn’t help them.

"You make me so happy, baby. I can’t wait to spend the rest of our lives together.” Billie said softly, kissing the top of your head, pulling you impossibly closer. “I’ll love you until I drop dead.”

You chuckled at her words, but you didn’t respond with something sassy, because you knew it was true. Billie never lied to you about her love. She would love you until her last heartbeat.

"I love you too, Billie.” ⋆. 𐙚 ̊

a/n: cutest thing I think I’ve ever written thank you anon !! 💗 also can you tell I suck at dialogue

My baby here you goooo @qreatest

[as-sweet-as-a]

can't rid myself of jealously - d.w.

summary; dean tried to make you jealous cos he thinks its hot, but it doesn't exactly go to plan warnings; drinking, kind of insecure!reader words; 940

It was late. Too late. You were tired and just wanted to crash back at the motel. But, since the job had been a success, Dean insisted you all went to the bar. So, here you were. Sam was nursing a singular beer, complaining about how he should be back in the room. Castiel was stood awkwardly by the bar. Dean, of course, had already had two beers, trying to get everyone more awake.

“Look, see, they’re having fun.” Dean grinned and nodded at a group of girls that were hanging around by the jukebox. You rolled your eyes and sipped your drink.

“I’m going to the bathroom,” you mumble. After you’d finished your business and splashed cold water on your face, you left. However, when you went to rejoin the group, you only saw Sam and Cas. Dean was gone. You looked around and your eyes landed on the girls by the jukebox. One of them transferred their bright pink cowboy hat to his head, making him chuckle. He caught your eye and winked at you. You felt your stomach boil.

“You’re discontent.” You jumped, not realising Castiel had appeared next to you.

“Uhm, I guess.” You shrugged and took your drink back off of him, sipping it. “It’s Dean. He’s trying to make me jealous?”

Castiel tilted his head and shot you his confused puppy look. “Hm? But you’re not jealous.”

You nodded. “Mhm…”

Sam approached you and Castiel, glancing at Dean and rubbing the back of his neck. “Hey, I’m about to head back. Dean said we’re good to take the car, something about not thinking he’d even be able to drive back later.”

You nodded and left the bar with Sam and Castiel, Sam placing a comforting hand on your shoulder.

You loved Dean, of course you did. His old habits? Not so much. Usually, you’d laugh it off. Or, if you were in a more confident mood, you’d go over and show yourself off to whoever Dean was flirting with while Dean grinned and wrapped an arm around your waist proudly.

He returned an hour or so later. You could tell because of the hushed voices of Sam and Dean in the hall. The lights were off in your motel room. You were under the sheets, swallowed by one of Dean’s hoodies and a pair of sleep shorts. Your eyes were fixed on some trash TV show about fishing.

The door creaked open and you heard Dean kick off his boots. He slid into the bed behind you. You could smell the beer on his breath and the sickeningly sweet perfume the girls were slathered in. You could also practically hear his grin. His arm fell over your waist as he began to pepper your neck in kisses. You shrugged him off, unamused.

Dean let out a low laugh. “Woah, hey. What’s this about, hm?” He joked, assuming you were playing hard to get or just messing around.

“Headache.” You mumbled.

He huffed a laugh. “Oh, really?” He leaned back in to kiss your jaw. You shrugged him off again. His eyebrows furrowed this time. “Sweetheart? What’s going on?” His hand began to softly run up and down your side and his tone turned gentler.

You stayed silent, curling up more.

“This is about those girls, isn’t it?” He asked. He took your silence as confirmation. “You know I only want you, right?” He nudged his nose against your shoulder.

“Mhm…” You couldn’t really help feeling insecure because of the bar. You were in dire need of a shower after runnng through the woods all day, your hair was dishevelled, eyes tired, and clothes dirty. Those girl were put together, nice dresses, well-groomed, pretty. Dean liked pretty. And right now, you didn’t feel pretty.

Dean sighed, mumbling your name softly with a sigh. He gently turned you onto your back, still rubbing your side. You didn’t realise you were about to cry until Dean was brushing your waterline with his thumb. “Talk to me.” He urged gently.

You sighed, unable to hide anything from the man you loved. “Dunno… just those girls from the bar.” You were almost whispering, hating how small you sounded.

“It’s never bothered you before. Besides, I think it’s hot as hell when you come over and show yourself all off and shit.”

You gave a weak amused smile at that. It was quick to fall. “It was different this time. I think I’m just tired from the hunt nd those girls were like… crazy pretty. I guess I was just feeling a bit off.”

Dean looked almost offended. “Pretty? Baby, they’re gremlins compared to you.” He explained. You shot him a ‘watch it’ look. “Okay, sorry, not gremlins, feminism and all. But, what I’m trying to say is that you don’t have to worry. I only have eyes for you. You’re the most beautiful girl in the world to me, okay?”

Despite feeling more convinced, you couldn’t help but tease. “But you have to say that, you’re my boyfriend.” You grinned.

“Hm, well, could those girls kill a wendigo in 2 minutes and 57 seconds?” He teased right back, leaning further above you, almost on top of you.

You rolled your eyes playfully and chuckled. “Probably not…”

“Damn right.” He grinned and leaned in to kiss you. You kissed back, of course,

The kiss got deeper until Dean was over you, trailing his lips down your jaw and neck. You noticed that he seemed distracted. “Dean, you okay?”

He paused lifting his head. You noticed that his eyes were fixed on the TV, squinting slightly. “That fish is fucking massive…”

[airybcby]

જ⁀♡⊹｡° i'm sorry every song's about you

( kenyu yukimiya x fem! reader )

♡ a/n — someone slap me bc i haven't written for my husband in ages

♡ word count — 3.2k

♡ content — yukimiya kenyu x reader, popstar! reader, set this in the canon (?) age range ( so everyone's 18 ), kenyu is with bastard munchen, mention of drugs and alcohol (briefly), reader has bad relationship with parents, dramatic airport scene, lowkey deep for .2 seconds, i think that's it?

♡ synopsis — You had fame. lights. parties. access to anything you could want. What more would a girl need? Well...you needed your boyfriend.

── .✦ i miss your early morning company

You were the youngest one on tour — eighteen and aching.

The party was too loud.

The lights flickered like strobe-induced migraines and the music thudded deep in your chest, as if trying to break something open from the inside.

People were laughing too hard, their voices slurred, eyes glazed over with whatever cocktail of substances they’d let past their lips, into their veins.

You didn’t want to know what they were doing — you’d seen enough.

There was a glass in your hand. Something fizzy and bitter and wrong.

You hadn’t taken a sip. Not yet.

“Take the edge off,” someone murmured against your ear — too close.

A man. Tall. Older.

You didn’t recognize his face, but he had the vibe of someone important. Someone who managed someone.

You stiffened as his arm snaked around your shoulders like it belonged there. Like you belonged to him. The glass in your hand shook slightly.

“No thank you,” you said quietly, voice firm but not sharp — you were raised polite.

Raised to be good, to have manners, to smile even when your hands trembled.

His hand stayed for a second too long. He chuckled, like he thought you were joking.

You swallowed your discomfort with the same patience you’d learned to swallow disappointment, nerves, and the burning in your throat when you tried not to cry.

“I—Excuse me,” you managed, barely louder than a whisper, your throat closing around the words.

You stepped away before he could stop you, navigating the crowded room with quick, small steps that felt like a sprint.

You just needed out.

You promised you’d stay for a few hours, that you’d be social, make connections, show your face like your manager asked.

But you couldn’t take anymore.

You bolted before anyone could see the tears start to spill, before anyone could ask you why your lip was trembling.

The elevator was slow. The ride to your floor slower.

By the time you made it back to your room and slammed the door shut, you were already crying, your breath hitching in your chest.

You kicked off your shoes, dropped your phone on the bed, and stood there for a moment in the silence — the kind that rang in your ears after too much noise.

You didn’t even bother turning on the lights. The streetlights outside cast pale shadows across the room.

You crawled into the cold sheets.

They didn’t smell like home.

They didn’t smell like him.

Your fingers trembled as you unlocked your phone, eyes blurry. You scrolled through your contacts until your gaze landed on the only one you ever pressed without hesitation.

Kenyu ❤️

You hesitated for a heartbeat. It was 11PM here. It was 3AM there.

You pressed FaceTime anyway.

The line rang once. Twice. Three times.

You let your head drop to the pillow, staring at the screen like you could will him into waking.

“…Please pick up,” you whispered.

You were about to give up.

The tears wouldn’t stop. Your chest hurt from holding it all in — the pressure, the loneliness, the dread. You hated this.

Three months of hotel rooms and stage lights and being surrounded by people who made you feel smaller than ever.

Three months gone. Three more to go.

Then the screen lit up — and there he was.

Messy brown hair flattened on one side. Squinting sleepily into the camera, his hand fumbling off-screen before pushing his glasses up his nose.

His voice was thick, barely above a whisper.

“Mm… what’s wrong, love?”

That was all it took. The sound of his voice broke you completely.

You choked on a sob and turned your face away from the camera, wiping at your eyes.

“I need you, Kenyu,” you gasped. “I need to come home.”

He blinked. The sleep vanished from his face almost instantly. “Hey… hey. Look at me.”

You did, barely.

“I can’t do this anymore. I—I missed your first big game. I missed everything. I didn’t even see the stream. I couldn’t. The Wi-Fi was shit and everyone was loud and drunk and—” You cut yourself off with a shudder, your breath coming short.

His brows drew together. His voice was still quiet, but steadier now, warm and grounding.

“Love…”

“No, Ken, I can’t. They’re all so—” You swallowed hard.

“I can’t be around them. They’re not bad people but they’re not… you. They don’t care. Not really. Not about music. Not about—me.”

“This is your dream.”

You let out a broken laugh. Of course he’d say that. Of course he’d remind you.

“I know. And I love it. I do. But right now I don’t care about sold-out shows or magazine interviews. I wanna be with you. I don’t care if it’s on a park bench in the rain or a one-bedroom house in the middle of nowhere—I just want you.”

You breathed in shakily. “I’m not asking for permission. I just want to come home. To you.”

There was silence for a moment.

His face softened — eyes glassy behind his lenses, jaw tight.

Even blurry in the dark, even pixelated through tears, he was still the most beautiful thing you’d ever seen.

He sighed. His hair flopped forward again as he leaned over and grabbed something. The screen jostled.

You caught the soft tap of fingers moving over a screen.

And then—reflected in the lens of his glasses—you saw it. The blue and white homepage of an airline website.

“What time?” he murmured, already typing.

You cried harder — this time with relief.

The room was quiet, but not peaceful.

You sat cross-legged on the floor beside your suitcase, tears running hot down your face as you tried — and failed — to zip it closed for the third time.

Your fingers were trembling, your jaw clenched so tight it ached.

Every time you thought you had it, a shirt sleeve or a sneaker heel would catch, and you’d have to unzip and start all over again.

The room looked like a storm had passed through it.

Clothes were strewn across the bed, the floor, even hanging halfway off the desk chair.

Your makeup bag lay open, half its contents scattered where you'd frantically tried to decide what to bring and what to leave behind.

A sob cracked out of your throat before you could swallow it down. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be.

You were supposed to be glowing, living your dream, writing music that moved people and feeling free.

But you weren’t free.

You were trapped — in a beautiful prison made of cold hotel sheets, shallow smiles, and backhanded compliments about how you were so mature for your age.

You leaned your weight against the top of your suitcase, trying to force the zipper shut with the heel of your hand, when the door burst open.

The noise made you jump, your heart lurching into your throat.

“I’m sorry, I don’t need room servi—”

“You aren’t leaving.”

You froze.

Of course. Of course it would be him.

Your manager.

Suit slightly rumpled, phone in hand, voice already raised with that tone of authority he always used when he didn’t want to listen.

“I can’t be here anymore,” you whispered.

“You don’t get to say that,” he snapped. “Do you know how hard I worked to get you here? The meetings I sat through? The strings I pulled? The hours I put in?”

You flinched. Not because he was yelling — but because it sounded like a script.

One you’d heard too many times. As if your existence was a product, a project. Not a person.

“And now you’re gonna throw it all away? The second it gets hard?”

“I’m not throwing it away,” you said, quietly. “I just—”

“For some stupid boy who may not even want you anymore?”

That hurt more than anything else.

You looked up at him, the tears brimming over. He didn’t know. He didn’t understand.

Because Kenyu wasn’t a stupid boy.

He was everything.

Your Ken.

Your safe place.

Your calm in the chaos.

He was the boy who read your lyrics before you sang them out loud. Who called you after every interview to ask how you really felt.

The boy who sent you photos of bookstore cafés in Germany, saying, you’d love this place — it plays vinyl and has amazing tea.

The boy you wrote every single song about.

Every lyric.

Every love note disguised in melody.

Every line that ended with longing, with hope, with him.

“I’m leaving,” you said, more firmly now.

He scoffed. “And say what? That you’re homesick? That you’re throwing up because you’re anxious? Tell them you’re pregnant, that you’re ungrateful. Is that what you want?”

You stood, wiping your eyes.

“Say whatever you want,” you said. “Call me whatever you need to. Say I’m difficult. Dramatic. A diva. Tell them I’m nothing but a brat who blew her shot.”

You took a deep breath, eyes burning as you looked him dead in the eye.

“But I am not staying here. Not with you. Not with these people.”

Your voice cracked at the end, and it made you furious.

You turned away, groaning in frustration as you grabbed a pair of boots off the bed and tried to shove them into the suitcase.

Nothing fit. Nothing worked.

“God, just—close,” you yelled, slamming the lid down and jamming the zipper shut with your whole body weight. The zipper finally caught, dragging shut with a screech.

Your manager stepped forward. “You are not—”

“God!” you snapped, voice raised — actually raised — for the first time in weeks. “I am leaving!”

The silence that followed was louder than the shouting.

You weren’t someone who yelled. You weren’t someone who exploded.

You were always quiet. Always smiling. Always polite.

But you had nothing left.

You stood there for a moment, hands clenched at your sides, breath coming in hard little bursts. And then you pushed past him, dragging your suitcase behind you.

“I really am sorry,” you murmured as you brushed past the door. “I loved this. For a while.”

You stopped in the hallway.

The world outside your door felt different — like it was waiting.

“But I have to go home.”

Not to a house. Not to a city. Not even to a country.

To him.

The terminal was packed, buzzing with energy — the constant murmur of boarding announcements, wheeled suitcases clacking over the floor, and the occasional rush of families or lovers hurrying toward each other. But you didn’t hear any of it.

Your heart was beating too hard in your ears.

You stepped out of the arrival gate, scanning the crowd so fast your vision blurred. Every face was the wrong one. Until—

Until you saw him.

Kenyu.

Your Kenyu.

Standing just beyond the barrier, dressed in sweatpants and a dark sweater, glasses perched on his nose, hair still tousled from where he'd clearly been dragging his hands through it.

In one hand, he held a small bouquet — pink peonies and white freesia — and in the other, a bar of your favorite chocolate.

There was a coffee stain near the bottom of his hoodie, and he looked half-wrecked from staying up all night and crossing the city to meet you here.

And still — he looked like the most beautiful thing you’d ever seen.

The moment your eyes met, his entire face lit up. His expression softened, melted into something so gentle it made your knees go weak.

He took one hesitant step forward, lips parting as if to say your name—

But you were already running.

Your suitcase slammed against the floor, forgotten.

You didn’t care that people were staring, that the rubber soles of your shoes squeaked awkwardly against the polished tile as you sprinted toward him, chest tight and throat already full of tears.

You crashed into him with a breathless sound — arms flinging around his neck, face burying into his shoulder as the sob you’d been holding in since takeoff tore out of your chest.

The bouquet dropped first. Then the chocolate. He barely noticed.

“Oh—love,” he breathed, stumbling back half a step before wrapping his arms around you.

One hand gripped the back of your jacket like he never wanted to let go. The other curled around your waist, grounding you like an anchor in a storm.

You were crying now — fully, without hesitation — clinging to him like he was air and you were suffocating.

“I missed you,” you gasped into his neck, voice shaking. “I missed you so much, Kenyu. I couldn’t do it anymore—I couldn’t—”

“I know,” he whispered, eyes fluttering shut as he pressed his lips to your hair. “I know, pretty girl. You’re okay now.”

“I’m just—” You pulled back a little, enough to look at him, eyes wet and swollen from crying. “I’m so happy to see you.”

And then, without another word, you kissed him.

It wasn’t planned.

It wasn’t posed like the ones your team had asked you to do for press events, or calculated like the ones written into your music videos.

It was clumsy and tear-soaked and a little desperate — your lips pressed to his with trembling force, your fingers slipping into his curls.

He kissed you back instantly, like he’d been waiting to breathe again.

His hands framed your face, thumbs brushing your cheeks. You could feel his heartbeat under your palms — racing to match yours.

When you broke apart, he rested his forehead against yours. His glasses tilted awkwardly, but neither of you adjusted them.

“You okay?” he murmured, voice rough with sleep and emotion.

You nodded, barely.

“I am now.”

Kenyu smiled — small, tired, and impossibly soft.

“You look exhausted,” he said, brushing a thumb under your eye. “Still the prettiest girl in the world, though.”

You laughed through a sob, letting your head drop to his chest. “You’re cheesy.”

“Only for you.”

There were flowers scattered on the floor, and a slightly smashed chocolate bar beside your overturned suitcase, but none of that mattered.

Because here — in his arms, in this messy little pocket of the world where no one wanted anything from you, where you didn’t have to perform or smile or pretend — you felt like you could finally breathe.

Home wasn’t a city.

It wasn’t a label, a tour, or a five-star hotel.

It was him.

It was always him.

The night wrapped around the apartment like a blanket — all muted streetlight and the soft hum of the city just beyond the windows.

Kenyu’s place wasn’t large. But it was warm. Lived-in. Smelled like bergamot tea and fresh laundry, like comfort, like him.

He let you shower first — tossed one of his softest hoodies your way and cued up the movie you’d been talking about since forever but had never gotten to watch together.

You were curled up against him now, legs draped over his lap, your cheek resting against his shoulder. The couch cushions had practically molded around your bodies at this point, showing just how long you’d been like this.

Takeout containers were balanced messily on the coffee table in front of you — noodles, dumplings, and that fried chicken he remembered you liked with the little rice balls on the side.

He didn't tell you he'd searched all over town for a restaurant that had the best reviews for these specific items.

He didn’t say anything when you accidentally dropped one between the cushions and made a show of retrieving it like it was a life-or-death mission. He just smiled and tugged you closer again.

You’d stopped crying hours ago. Now, there was just this… steady ache of comfort. Like a bruise being pressed gently — it hurt, but it reminded you that you were still here. Still real.

Your laughter echoed through the living room at a particularly dumb line in the movie, and Kenyu turned to look at you, a quiet smile playing at his lips.

You had food sticking out of the corner of your mouth, and your eyes were glassy with exhaustion but bright. So bright.

He reached up, brushing his thumb over your mouth with practiced ease — swiping the sauce off, soft and easy like he’d done it a hundred times before.

Then, in a quieter voice, like he’d been holding the question back for a while, he asked,

“Do they… your parents- know you’re done with…” He trailed off a little, brows drawing in. “Your stuff?”

Your eyes shot wide, like a deer caught mid-bite.

You froze, chicken halfway to your mouth, then dropped it back into the carton with a little thud.

“Uh.” You gave a nervous little laugh, licking your lips. “I haven’t told them. Not that they care.”

Kenyu looked at you, expression unreadable but soft. Concern flickered behind his glasses, but he didn’t push.

You swallowed. Set the container aside. You kept your gaze on the TV, though you weren’t watching anymore.

The light from the screen flickered across both of your faces, painting the moment in pale, quiet blue.

“You know the whole ‘be a popstar or you're not our daughter' kinda changed our relationship,” you murmured.

“They chose the version of me that had makeup on and made them money. Not the one who forgot to eat and cried into her pillow at night. So… no, I didn’t tell them.”

Silence.

You rubbed your thumb over your palm, like you could press down the guilt bleeding at the edges of your voice. “I was more focused on coming back to you,” you said, a little softer.

Was it really coming back to him if you were now in Germany with him for soccer? You weren't sure, but you also didn't care.

“You were the only thing that felt real.”

Kenyu’s jaw tensed just a little. He reached for you instinctively, pulling you closer — so close now that your knees were tucked beneath his, your head resting fully against his chest. He stroked his hand through your hair with deliberate gentleness.

“I hate that you had to make that kind of choice,” he said quietly, his voice low and steady. “I'm sorry, love.”

You closed your eyes, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt.

“I just kept thinking, if I could make them proud — if I worked hard enough — they’d want me again,” you whispered. “But I don’t think they ever wanted me. Not really.”

Kenyu let out a breath, pressed a kiss to the top of your head. “Then they never deserved you.”

You smiled bitterly, burrowing further into his chest.

“I don’t want to talk about them anymore,” you muttered. “They’ve had enough of my time.”

“Okay,” he murmured, pressing another kiss to your temple this time. “Tonight’s just about you and me.”

You looked up at him — his messy brown hair still slightly damp from the shower, his glasses a little fogged from the steam and the warmth of the room, eyes soft and golden in the TV light.

“How’d I get so lucky with you?” you whispered.

He chuckled, brushing your cheek with his knuckles. “Think I’m the lucky one, pretty girl.”

“You picked me up at the airport with flowers and chocolate.”

“I dropped the flowers and chocolate.”

“You still brought them.”

You kissed his cheek, slow and deliberate.

“I love you,” you said, quiet like a promise.

He looked at you like that was the only thing that mattered in the world.

“I love you too. Always.”

And there, tangled up in each other on that tiny couch in a city you barely knew — with cold takeout and a movie you weren’t really watching anymore — you felt more at home than you ever had in a stadium, or under lights, or in a hotel bed.

You weren’t just back.

You were free.

i actually hate this but it's okay

likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated !!

taglist under construction atm!

⋆.˚✮ 2025 ©airybcby ✮˚.⋆

[iluvhimxo]

🏄‍♂️ JJ Maybank x Kook Queen!Reader Who's Obsessed With Him Headcanons

You’re the Last Person He Expected to Like Him—So, Naturally, He Falls Hard

JJ always figured Kooks were a different breed, especially the rich, untouchable ones like you—flawless outfits, perfect parties, gossip royalty.

But when he finds out you’ve got a massive, almost embarrassing crush on him? He’s shocked. Suspicious even. Until he realizes it’s real—and it completely derails his usual confidence.

Your Obsession Is Lowkey Chaotic—and He Secretly Loves It

You know his surf schedule. You show up “by accident” at the Chateau with snacks, sunglasses, and iced coffee like it’s a runway.

You’ve defended him loudly at a Kook party when someone insulted Pogues, and he heard about it the next day. He tried to play it cool, but his ears turned bright red.

He Pretends to Hate Your World—but He Keeps Getting Pulled In

He’ll mock your themed parties and designer sunglasses, but he always ends up there, hanging out on the sidelines, trying to act like he's not waiting for you to notice him.

Secretly, he loves that you make him feel seen in a world that usually makes him feel small.

You Make the First Moves—and He Doesn’t Know What to Do With That

You're bold. You flirt. You call him ���JJ baby” just to see him blush and stumble over his words.

He’s used to doing the chasing, but your full-hearted obsession throws him off. And eventually, it turns into his obsession with you.

He Starts Noticing the Little Things You Do

You bring him bandaids after a fight, slip notes in his truck window, laugh at his worst jokes. He pretends he doesn’t care, but he keeps every note.

Eventually, you see him wearing the bracelet you made “as a joke.” He never takes it off again.

Protective JJ Mode Activated™

Once he admits his feelings, his loyalty is terrifying. Anyone talks down to you? He’s already squared up.

You become his favorite topic. “Yeah, my girl could totally do that. She’s smart as hell, don’t let the rich girl look fool you.”

You’re His Safe Place, Even If He’d Never Say It Out Loud

You offer softness he didn’t know he could trust. When he’s angry or spiraling, you sit with him in silence until he talks.

You’re the only one he lets see him cry.

You Balance Each Other Out Perfectly

You pull him into luxury and warmth; he drags you into spontaneous chaos and freedom.

He doesn’t care about your world—but because it’s yours, he’ll crash every party just to make you laugh.

He’ll Never Admit He Loves That You’re “Obsessed”

You think it’s one-sided, but he’s memorized the way your nose scrunches when you tease him.

JJ Maybank is absolutely, hopelessly, irrevocably in love with the Kook Queen who once decided he was her favorite person in the world.

🔥 Suggestive JJ Maybank x Kook Queen!Reader Headcanons

You Flirt Like It’s a Sport—And JJ’s Both Flustered and Turned On

You’ll whisper something outrageously inappropriate in his ear at a party just to see him choke on his drink.

JJ talks big, but the way your hand trails just a little too slow across his chest shuts him right up.

He tries to act unfazed, but one smirk from you, and he’s clearing his throat and pulling at the collar of his shirt.

JJ Loves That You're Bold Behind Closed Doors

You’re the one leaning in first. The one sliding into his lap. The one who says, “I’ve been thinking about you all day” with your lips brushing his jaw.

That confident, bratty energy? It drives him insane. But he adores putting you in your place with a low “You really like testing me, huh?”

The Tension Is Almost a Game—Until It Boils Over

The way he watches you walk across a room? Like he’s imagining tearing those designer clothes off.

Everyone can feel the energy crackling between you two. They know when you disappear together, you’re not “just talking.”

JJ Is Shockingly Possessive—In the Hottest Way

He’ll grab your waist when he sees another guy looking at you, leaning down to murmur “You’re mine, remember?” in your ear, fingers digging into your hip just enough to make your breath hitch.

You teasingly flirt with someone once just to rile him up—let’s just say it definitely ends with you pinned to the nearest wall.

He’s Addicted to How You Touch Him

You’ll run your hands under the hem of his shirt in public, just subtly enough that no one else sees—and he has to bite his lip not to react.

He acts cocky, but the moment you grab his thigh while he’s driving? He misses the turn.

Late Nights in the Chateau Get... Loud

The walls aren’t thick. Pope and John B hate it. You don’t care.

JJ’s a tease—he’ll kiss you slow, talk filthy in your ear, and then pull away just to make you beg.

You Know How to Break Through the “Pogue Tough Guy” Act

When it’s just the two of you, he lets the rough edges soften. That raspy voice turns gentle... until you say something that flips the switch again.

Your obsession with him makes him feel worshiped—and he returns it in ways that leave your legs shaking.

His Favorite Thing? Making You Fall Apart While Still Wearing Your Perfect Lip Gloss

You show up with your hair done and a little attitude, and he takes it as a challenge: how fast can I ruin her composure?

“Still wanna act like a Kook queen when you’re underneath me?” he’ll growl, and you’ll never say the word “yes” faster.

You Make Him Feel Wanted—In Every Way

JJ’s not used to someone loving every part of him. You do. His scars, his smirks, his smart mouth.

And in return, he makes it his mission to worship every inch of you—with hands, lips, and that grin that tells you he’s not nearly done yet.

(A/N): Hey y'all! Hope you enjoyed my first headcanons! I'll be writing more JJ headcanons and other obx characters x reader. Stay tuned!

[cosmiclily]

the one where ivy learns what it means to be a big sister - family au (part four)

★ vi x f!reader

part three

wc: 1.8k

Aisla was born at 6 a.m. on a Thursday—without complications and healthy as a horse.

At that same moment, Ivy officially became a big sister, a title she loved to announce to anyone who would listen.

Ivy didn’t know how being a big sister was supposed to feel—but everyone kept telling her it was a big deal.

She liked the sound of it. Big sister. It made her feel important. Grown-up. Special.

The very first chance she got, she told her entire class. And the first person she told was her best friend, Betty.

“I have a baby sister now!” she whispered to Betty before class even started, tugging at her sleeve with wide eyes. “Her name is Aisla, and she was born yesterday morning. I’m a big sister now.”

Betty had two older siblings, so she didn’t know what it meant to be a big sister. But Ivy told her with full conviction that it was the coolest thing in the entire world.

Betty blinked. “Cool! What do you do?”

Ivy opened her mouth. Then paused.

“I don’t know yet,” she admitted. “But I think it’s the coolest job in the world.”

Betty looked impressed enough, so Ivy stuck with that.

Truthfully, Ivy didn’t completely know what it meant either—not yet.

Not until Aisla was here. Not until she realized that babies didn’t just smile and sleep—they cried. A lot. Loudly. And sometimes for no reason Ivy could understand.

She started to wonder if maybe being a big sister wasn’t just about feeling important. Maybe it was about being patient. And helpful. And brave, even when the crying got really loud and kind of scary.

Her moms explained that it was normal. The world was brand new for Aisla. She didn’t know what it meant to be hungry, or tired, or too warm or too cold. Everything felt unfamiliar. She had spent months curled up safely inside her mommy’s belly, and now… she had to learn everything from scratch.

“She’s not mad at you,” You explained softly, brushing Ivy’s hair back as you stood by the crib. “She just doesn’t know what’s going on yet. The world’s really big and bright and loud for her right now.”

“She didn’t even used to cry,” Ivy said, frowning. “When she was in your belly.”

“That’s true,” Vi chuckled from the rocking chair, cradling Aisla against her chest. “But she also didn’t used to know what cold felt like. Or hunger. Or pooping herself.”

Ivy wrinkled her nose. “Gross.”

“Welcome to babyhood.”

Still, Ivy wanted to help. She wanted to be the best big sister in the whole world. So she started trying everything. And she took her role seriously—so seriously.

Whenever Aisla cried, Ivy would try everything she could think of to help. She made silly faces, puffing out her cheeks and crossing her eyes until Vi laughed so hard she nearly dropped the pacifier. She handed over her favorite stuffed animals (even Martha, which was a big deal).

And then, one afternoon, she climbed up onto the couch where Aisla lay swaddled beside Mommy and began to talk.

“Once upon a time,” Ivy whispered, “there was a princess with silver wings and purple hair, and she lived in a castle made of clouds.”

She told Aisla all about the princess, the knight who was scared of everything except spiders, and the tiny dragon who loved to eat marshmallows instead of people.

Aisla just stared, her big eyes blinking slowly, her mouth making soft little shapes like she was listening.

Then—maybe—she smiled. Just a little.

“Did you see that?” Ivy gasped. “She liked the story! She smiled!”

You leaned over to kiss her forehead. “Of course she did. You’re already her favorite storyteller.”

Vi grinned. “Looks like we’ve got a little bookworm on our hands.”

Ivy smiled proudly, pressing her finger gently against Aisla’s tiny hand. “Don’t worry,” she whispered. “I’m gonna teach you everything.”

And in that moment, with her baby sister nestled beside her, Ivy knew exactly what being a big sister meant.

It meant love.

──────────────────────

But it also meant resistance—especially as Aisla grew and started eating solid foods, which meant smelly, smelly diapers.

Ivy hadn’t expected that part.

The morning had started like most others—Aisla waking before the sun, wailing from her bassinet with all the drama of a Shakespearean actress. You, bleary-eyed but calm, had already been up for a while, tugging on your jacket as you kissed Ivy’s forehead and gave Vi a meaningful look.

“Don’t forget—her nap’s at ten, her bottle’s in the fridge, and the wipes are under the changing table,” you said in a rush, slipping on your shoes.

Vi waved a sleepy hand from the couch. “Got it, got it. Go, before you’re late.”

You crouched beside Ivy and smiled. “You’re in charge of keeping Mom awake, okay?”

Ivy beamed, her chest puffing with pride. “I’m good at that.”

You kissed both of them goodbye, whispered something to Aisla—who only babbled something incoherent back—and hurried out the door.

And for a while, things were great.

Aisla napped. Vi made pancakes. Ivy got syrup in her hair but decided it was worth it.

Then it happened.

The smell.

It hit them like a wall as they walked back into the living room. Aisla lay in her bouncer, calm and innocent, blinking up at them like she hadn’t just committed a biological crime against humanity.

Vi stopped in her tracks. “Oh no.”

Ivy pinched her nose. “Oh no.”

“She’s definitely got a dirty diaper,” Vi muttered, already sounding like she regretted every life choice that led her here.

“She smells like the dog park on a hot day,” Ivy whispered.

Vi sighed and scooped Aisla up, holding her at arm’s length. “Okay. Teamwork time. Ivy, grab the wipes.”

Ivy dashed to the nursery like a superhero on a mission, returning with the pack held high above her head like it was the Holy Grail. Vi laid Aisla down on the changing table and opened the diaper with the hesitation of someone defusing a bomb.

“Oh my God.”

Ivy gasped. “She exploded!”

Vi winced. “This is a Code Brown. I repeat—Code Brown.”

Together, they sprang into action. Vi tried to stay calm as she wiped and folded, while Aisla laughed like seeing them suffer was the funniest thing she’d ever witnessed. Ivy hovered nearby, handing over wipes with surgical precision and offering encouraging commentary like, “You’re doing so good, Mommy,” and “Wow, that was in her?”

It took ten minutes, two gag reflexes, and one emergency shirt change for Vi, but eventually, Aisla was clean, diapered, and cooing like nothing had ever happened.

Vi slumped into the rocking chair, baby in arms. “We survived.”

Ivy stood beside her, wide-eyed. “I didn’t know babies could do that.”

Vi chuckled and brushed hair from her face. “Oh, sweetheart. This is just the beginning.”

Ivy leaned against her leg, peering up at Aisla. “Being a big sister is harder than I thought.”

Vi looked down at her, softening. “Yeah. It’s not all cuddles and bedtime stories, huh?”

Ivy shook her head. “But it’s still cool.”

Vi kissed the top of her head. “You were amazing today.”

Ivy smiled, her eyes fixed on her baby sister, who had fallen asleep mid-babble.

──────────────────────

And it also meant patience, as Aisla started crawling and decided that every toy Ivy owned—no matter how precious or how not baby-safe—belonged in her mouth.

It meant patience when Aisla tried to crawl out of the picnic blanket at the park, heading straight for the sidewalk like she had a very important meeting with a rock.

It meant patience when her head, still too big for her tiny, wobbly body, led her straight into yet another face-plant in the middle of the living room.

Ivy would gasp every time—heart in her throat—rushing over to make sure Aisla was okay, only to watch her baby sister blink, pout, then giggle like nothing had happened.

She didn’t get it.

She didn’t get how her mommies weren’t constantly worried. How they could just watch her fall and stumble and eat sand like it was a snack. How they didn’t panic every time Aisla made a beeline for something dangerous or stuffed Martha halfway down her throat.

It was during one of these moments—after a particularly eventful afternoon at the park, where Aisla had tried to eat a leaf, crawl off the blanket, and then face-plant into the grass—that Ivy sat curled up beside you on the couch, unusually quiet.

You were rocking Aisla, who was finally fast asleep, cheeks pink from sunshine and dirt, her hair sticking up in soft tufts.

“I don’t get it,” Ivy mumbled, resting her head on your shoulder.

You looked down. “Don’t get what, baby?”

She hesitated, playing with a loose thread on your sleeve. “How come you’re not scared all the time? About Aisla. She just… does stuff. Dangerous stuff. And you don’t freak out. You just let her do it.”

You smiled softly, brushing a hand through her curls. “I get scared sometimes. Trust me, I do. But I also know she has us. All of us. And she’s learning—babies need to fall and crawl and chew on weird things to figure out the world.”

Ivy didn’t look convinced.

“She could choke,” she whispered. “Or hurt her head. Or run away. And I—I try to stop her, but she doesn’t listen, and I’m just… I don’t want anything bad to happen to her.”

You shifted so you could look at her better, resting your free hand on hers.

“Oh, Ivy,” you said gently, “you have such a big heart. You care so much. And that makes you an amazing big sister.”

She blinked up at you, eyes a little watery.

“But you’re also a kid, sweetheart. You’re not supposed to worry like that. Let the grown-ups do the worrying. That’s ourjob. Yours is just to be her sister. To play with her, love her, laugh with her—even get annoyed with her sometimes. That’s okay too.”

Ivy sniffed, trying not to cry. “But I feel like I’m supposed to protect her. Like you and Mommy protect me.”

“You do protect her,” you assured her. “Every time you show her how to hold a toy, or move it away when it’s too small. Every time you make her laugh or tell her a story. That is protecting her. In the way only a big sister can.”

She was quiet for a beat, then said, “It’s just a lot sometimes.”

You nodded. “Yeah. Being a big sister is a big job. But it’s not one you have to do alone.”

Ivy curled closer, her body relaxing against yours for the first time that day.

“Okay,” she whispered.

You kissed the top of her head, tucking her hair behind her ear. “You’re doing so good, Ivy. Better than you know.”

She smiled, just a little, and looked down at Aisla, now drooling peacefully in your arms.

“I guess it’s okay if she face-plants sometimes.”

You laughed softly. “It builds character.”

“And maybe if she eats one leaf… it won’t kill her.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Let’s not test that theory.”

And for the rest of the evening, you held both your girls close—one sleeping soundly and the other finally at ease.

──────────────────────

masterlist - part three - part five

[demie90s]

Whose Vet? Pt.5

꒰ 🍒 ꒱ Diana Taurasi x Reader ꒰ 🍒 ꒱

MASTERLIST

⭑ pairing: Diana Taurasi x reader (bold rookie!fem!reader)

⭑ summary: It’s a quiet ride back after a win—until a teammate jokes that Diana should “mentor the rookies better.” You don’t hesitate. You claim her. Loudly. Publicly. And the whole bus damn near stops breathing. Diana? She doesn’t deny it. Not even close.

⭑ genre: Flirty tension, locker room chaos, power dynamics, light humor, slow-burn legend x rising star

⭑ warnings: Strong language, teasing, very public claiming, rookie with too much confidence

⭑ word count: ~0.8k

The win was nasty.

Bodies hit the floor. Elbows were thrown. Scoreboard sang your name at least twice. But you? You’re already back in your slides, baggy tee slung over your shoulder, long legs stretched out across the back row of the Mercury’s team bus. One AirPod in. One eyebrow raised.

The bus is alive—laughing, buzzing, damn near echoing with energy. Lexie Brown’s got her legs tucked under her, showing someone a meme. Sophie’s holding court over snacks. And Diana? She’s sitting two rows from the front, hoodie on, water bottle in hand, watching film on her phone like it’s gospel.

Someone—probably Kysre—says it.

“Yo, DT don’t even talk to us rookies like that. She be mentoring y’all in Morse code or what?”

You lean your head back, let the hum of the bus vibrate through your spine. Then you sit up.

Loud.

Sharp.

Amused.

“She mentors me just fine. Real hands-on.”

The whole bus goes silent.

Like movie-scene silent.

One of the rookies chokes on her Gatorade. A vet in the middle row covers her mouth and wheezes. Even the damn Bluetooth speaker skips.

All eyes shift to the front.

Diana doesn’t turn right away. She pauses her video first, takes a sip from her bottle, and then slowly—like she’s clocking a foul—glances back over her shoulder.

You give her a little wave.

“Hi, baby.”

Lexie covers her face. “Bro.”

“She’s insane,” Sophie whispers, grinning way too hard.

“She been like this all season,” Kahleah mutters, shaking her head, “and Diana still ain’t packed her up.”

Diana just stares at you.

Unmoving.

Unbothered.

But her lips twitch.

Her eyes burn hotter than usual, but not angry—more like… entertained. Caught off guard but not mad about it.

You lean forward, arms resting over the back of the seat in front of you.

“She be mentoring me behind closed doors,” you add. “Real passionate about player development.”

Chaos.

Kitija drops her phone.

Shey lets out the loudest “AYO?” in WNBA history.

Even the damn bus driver laughs.

Diana finally exhales. Looks back forward. But she’s smiling. Not big, but just enough that the team clocked it.

And you? You sink back into your seat like nothing happened. Slide your AirPod back in. Smirk still painted on your lips.

Someone mutters, “She really think she Diana’s girl.”

You correct them without blinking.

“I don’t think shit. I know whose vet she is.”

—————————————

This LIVE?!?!

🗣️ “I’m sorry but the rookie flirting with Diana like she got a mortgage on her is ICONIC.”

“Somebody needs to sedate her before she proposes mid-season.”

“I just KNOW Diana’s letting it happen. The smirk? Yeah.”

“She not playing for the Mercury. She playing for Diana.”

“Y’all saw her mouth ‘hi baby’ on live TV?! 😭😭😭 I’m crying.”

@chocoramito69

[c4shm0neyxxx]

“Glass Cage: Part 5 – Almost Normal”

Geum Seong-je x fem!reader | dark romance, emotional intimacy, small town trip, slow burn, someone shows up from the past

⸻

He watches you from across the room — standing by the window, staring at the woods like they’re whispering promises of somewhere else.

So he surprises you.

“I’m taking you out today.”

You turn, startled. “What?”

“Town. A small one. Off the map. Quiet.”

He sets down a folded hoodie and sneakers at your feet. “No one’ll know you.”

You blink, barely believing it. “You’re serious?”

He looks up. Eyes soft, unreadable.

“I want to give you something.”

You ask what.

He answers without words.

Just freedom.

⸻

The drive is long and winding, the road narrow and wrapped in green. You watch the trees blur past the window, sunlight flickering through the leaves like gold. He’s quiet at first, one hand on the wheel, the other resting between you — close enough to touch.

You eventually take it.

And he lets you.

⸻

The town is small. Too small for crowds. Barely more than a gas station, a diner, and one dusty little grocery store with faded signs and empty aisles.

It’s perfect.

He holds your hand like a warning — not to you, but to anyone who might look your way.

You walk beside him through the store, looking at the shelves, grabbing a few things — fruit, snacks, tea you remember liking. Then you drift.

Your eyes catch the tiny beauty section tucked into the corner. Old shelves. Plastic bins of lip gloss, lotion, cheap face masks in wrinkled packaging. Useless stuff, really.

But something about it makes you smile.

You let go of his hand — just for a second.

And vanish around the aisle.

⸻

You’re holding a little blush compact and a pink tube of something when you hear it:

“ᴡʜᴇʀᴇ ɪs sʜᴇ?”

His voice.

Sharp. Controlled. But underneath it — panic.

You peek out from the aisle and see him talking to the bored cashier, who shrugs like it’s no big deal.

You step out. “I’m here.”

His eyes snap to yours.

He crosses the distance in three strides. Grabs your wrist, not hard, but firm.

“You don’t leave my sight.”

You nod quickly, whispering, “I just… saw this stuff.”

You show him the little basket in your hands. It’s got three sheet masks, a cheap perfume, two scrunchies, and a bottle of shampoo that smells like strawberries.

He stares at it. Then at you.

Then walks away with it.

You follow him, heartbeat still fast.

At the register, he adds a few more things. Things you didn’t even ask for — a soft brush, scented candles, a compact mirror.

He never asks if you want them.

He just buys them because you touched them.

Because if you want it, it’s yours.

⸻

The ride home is different.

You’re not looking out the window anymore.

You’re looking at him.

He drives with one hand on the wheel, the other resting beside you again — close enough to grab.

This time, you do.

Your fingers thread with his. And then — you laugh. Out of nowhere.

He turns his head, surprised. “What?”

You smile. “I was just thinking how weird this is.”

“What is?”

“I feel… happy.”

He doesn’t speak for a moment.

Then he says, without looking at you:

“You haven’t smiled like that since I took you.”

You squeeze his hand. “You’re the reason I’m smiling now.”

That gets him.

He exhales slowly, like your words knock something loose in him.

⸻

On the way back, you talk more than you ever have.

He tells you about his first fight. His first scar. The day he realized he was capable of hurting someone and how easy it was to never stop.

He tells you about music he likes (he doesn’t admit it, but he likes old love songs), and the time he got caught stealing a bike when he was twelve, and how he broke his hand punching a guy who insulted his mother.

You ask him things you were scared to ask before.

He answers all of them.

Not because he’s suddenly soft.

But because he knows you’re already his — and he wants you to know the man you belong to.

⸻

By the time you pull into the driveway, your heart is so full you almost cry.

He kills the engine.

The forest is quiet.

And you whisper, “Thank you.”

He looks at you.

Really looks.

Like he can’t believe the girl he once caged is now choosing him back.

His thumb brushes your cheek.

And he leans in slowly, pressing a kiss to your lips — not demanding, not claiming.

Just… grateful.

⸻

Inside the house, he puts your new things in his bathroom.

Not the basement.

Not a guest room.

His.

Because this is your life now.

And even the outside world can’t take it away.

———

You sit in the bathroom — his bathroom — on the edge of the tub while he silently unwraps the little drugstore beauty products you picked out.

He opens the strawberry shampoo.

Sniffs it. Blinks slowly.

Then holds it out to you.

“You like this?”

You nod, a little shy. “It reminds me of being sixteen.”

He says nothing.

But when you look in the shower later, the bottle is already there, standing like it belongs.

He placed it next to his expensive soap.

Side by side.

Like you’re already one thing.

⸻

He brushes your hair out on the bed.

You sit between his legs in one of his shirts while he runs the soft new brush through your hair — slow, patient, careful not to tug.

“Why are you doing that?” you murmur.

He doesn’t answer right away.

Then:

“Because no one ever brushed mine.”

The silence settles like mist.

You twist to look at him.

He’s watching the strands fall between his fingers, like they’re silk.

You lean into his chest. “I’ll brush yours tomorrow.”

His jaw twitches.

He kisses the top of your head.

⸻

The next morning, you wake up wrapped in him — arms across your waist, chest against your back, your legs tangled in his.

You lie there a long time.

Not because you’re scared.

But because it feels like home.

⸻

You cook breakfast together.

Which is to say: you try to stir the eggs while he stands behind you like a wall of heat, one hand on your hip, the other covering yours on the spoon.

“Let me help—”

“I am helping,” he mutters, lips grazing your temple.

You laugh.

He still moves like he expects someone to shoot through the windows. Still glances at the door. Still keeps a gun under the sink.

But with you?

He’s relaxed.

And with him?

You’re whole.

⸻

Later, curled on the couch with a blanket over both your legs, you look at him and say the most dangerous thing you’ve ever said:

“I don’t miss my old life.”

He blinks. Slow. Turns to face you.

“You mean that?”

You nod.

“I was lonely. Empty. The world had me, but it didn’t see me.”

You pause. “You saw me. You… chose me.”

His hand comes up to cradle your jaw.

“I’ll always choose you.”

Then he adds — lower, darker:

“Even if I have to burn the world down to keep doing it.”

And you believe him.

⸻

You go to sleep that night in his bed.

His arms.

His world.

And for the first time in your life… you dream of staying.

Forever.

—————

It’s been three weeks since the grocery store trip.

Three weeks of laughter, touches, stolen kisses in the kitchen.

You even started keeping your own mug by the sink.

You started calling it “home.”

He didn’t correct you.

And you thought — maybe the world forgot you.

But the world has a memory like a knife.

⸻

It happens on a Sunday.

You’re in the garden. He let you start one — just herbs and small flowers. You wear a hoodie two sizes too big (his), and you’re humming to yourself when the air shifts.

Footsteps.

But they’re not his.

You freeze.

Then — a voice:

“…[Y/N]?”

You turn.

And time stops.

It’s your friend. From your old life.

The one who cried when you vanished.

The one who swore they’d find you, somehow.

You whisper their name.

They step closer, wide-eyed. “Oh my god. You’re alive. We’ve been looking for you—where have you—are you hurt? What the fuck is going on?”

You open your mouth.

But the truth dies in your throat.

Because behind them—

Silent. Still.

Like death itself—

Seong-je.

⸻

Your friend doesn’t see him yet.

You do.

His expression is unreadable. Not furious. Not loud.

Cold.

Lethal.

Your friend grabs your hands. “We can go. Right now. I have the car. Come on. You don’t have to be scared anymore—”

You pull back.

They freeze.

“…What?”

You glance behind them.

“Leave.”

“What?”

“Now. Before he—before I—please. Just go.”

That’s when your friend finally turns.

Sees him.

And takes a step back.

But it’s too late.

⸻

He doesn’t touch them.

Doesn’t speak to them.

Just stands there, knife at his belt, calm as a shadow.

Your friend looks at you, desperate. “He’s brainwashed you. You think this is love? This is prison.”

You shake your head.

“No. My life before him was the prison.”

You look at Seong-je then. “This is the first time I’ve ever felt free.”

He finally moves — walks to your side, hand brushing yours.

And you take it.

In front of your friend. Without shame.

“You chose him,” they whisper.

You nod once.

“Always.”

⸻

He lets them leave.

No chase.

No threat.

But they leave pale. Shaking. And you know they’ll tell someone. Try to come back.

You don’t care.

You go inside with him. Sit on the couch.

You’re silent for a long time.

Then:

“You’re angry.”

“No,” he says. “I’m reminded.”

“Of what?”

He turns to you, fingers tightening around yours.

“That this world thinks it can take what’s mine.”

You climb into his lap. Wrap your arms around his neck.

“I told them the truth.”

His jaw flexes.

You kiss it. “I chose you.”

He nods.

“I’ll always choose you.”

⸻

That night, he doesn’t leave your side once. Not to check the locks. Not to patrol. He just holds you.

And whispers, “They can come back. But they’ll never take you.”

And you whisper back, “I won’t let them.”

————

Reading it back I didn’t know it was this long 😭😭😭😭

[xplicitviewz]

best friend!Jean who wanted to take you to see the movie you’ve been blabbering about as a surprise since your shitty boyfriend(who he hates) wouldn’t take you to go see because it was ‘too cringe and annoying’

After deciding on a casual outfit to where, he stop at the movie theater to buy the tickets for a later time knowing you would take a minute to get ready and head over to a food spot to pick up your favorites. He already stopped at the gas station grabbing some of your favorite snacks. While he waits for the food, he texted your phone.

Genie: hey y/n can I come over?

Y/n: yea the door is unlocked for you !!!

Genie: I’m otw 😎

Jean walks in your apartment about 10 mins later, holding the movie tickets in one hand and a bag of food to sneak into the theaters in the other, a smile plastered on his face waiting to see your reaction. As he’s walking to your room he halts hearing noises of a bed squeaking.

His face burns red when he realizes what it is after one of your soft moans ring in his ear, alongside skin slapping. He’s stunned for a moment before rushing back to his car and texting you ‘something came up’.

Ex-best friend!jean who stops talking to you for a moment because he realized he actually had feelings for you and couldn’t stand to see you with another guy, so he won’t see you at all. It was hard the first few days considering everything reminded him of you but hanging out with Connie and Sasha, hell even Eren helped.

You were a bit confused seeing Jean not respond to your memes you sent or funny videos you knew he would laugh at but left it alone. Maybe thinking he had stuff to do. You went along with your days, hanging out with your friends and your boyfriend mainly, still feeling off.

It was until a few weeks later your shitty ass boyfriend had the nerve to bring another stank ass girl to your apartment, cheating on you in your bed. You were furious, throwing anything you can grab at him them. Yelling and screaming- yes a total crash out you are. After kicking them out you immediately tossed your sheets and burned sage, crying for a few hours. How else were you supposed to react when your first boyfriend cheats on you.

You pull out your phone and text the one person who you know would help you feel better.

Y/n: Jean r u ok

Y/n: hey please can we talk?

After 20 minutes went by, you grabbed a Jean’s hoodie, not bothering to put pants one since your hoodie went to your mid-thighs. You grabbed your keys and headed to your car driving straight to his house. When you pulled up you looked at yourself in the mirror to see your tear stained face and red swollen eyes. With a sigh, you opened your car door and walked nervously to Jeans front door, putting on your hood.

You didn’t know if he was home to be honest. He parks in the garage and the lights looked off. You rang the doorbell and knocked a few times.

Ultimately giving up, you begin to walk away when you hear the door open. “Connie I literally said to come la- oh.” Jean stops when he sees it’s you and not Connie, who he was going out with later on.

You turn to face him, feeling the tears well up in your eyes again. Jean who was being quiet and tense, immediately softened when he saw you had been crying already, for a while it seems.

“Are y-you okay?” He opens the door wider for you to come in. Your lips quiver as you walk closer to him instead of going inside. You cry again as soon as your body clashes into him, his arms wrapping around you and holding you tightly. “What happened?” His voice softens as he lifts you to bring you inside and close the door. His carries you to the couch and sits you down before grabbing a blanket of yours (you had left there months ago during a movie night you both had. He uses it all the time) and covers you before grabbing his phone to cancel on Connie.

“He cheated on me….in my fucking house.” You finally say between tears. Jeans front door felt his body burn with anger but he stops it because now it’s the time to say I told you so, he wants to make sure your okay.

“And you, you’ve been ignoring me. Do you hate me?” You look into his eyes, his gaze avoiding yours. “N-no, I just been busy. You seemed happy with him and I didn’t want to be a bother.”

You scoff and shake your head looking away from him. Looking down at the blanket as you pull it closer to your body. “Asshole.” You mutter, “I can’t believe he did that.”

I could, Jean wanted to say but he kept his mouth shut, “He is an asshole, and an idiot.” He watches as you wipe your tears and get up from the couch, walking towards his kitchen. You know he usually keeps drinks stocked in his fridge and grabbed a few, bringing them back to the couch.

“Are you hungry or anything?” Jean asks you watching as you take a sip of the alcohol. You shake your head no and continue to drink more. Jean reaches for one himself, sitting back in the couch.

A couple hours go by and you both are now laughing about shit that’s been going on and for the first time in a while, you feel complete, happier. You were more intoxicated than Jean was. The doorbell rang and he got up to go answer, coming back with pizza and wings.

Your eyes lit up as you smelled the aroma of flavors filling the air. “When did you get this?” You asked sitting up in the couch to grab a slice. “When I asked you if you were hungry, I just scheduled a delivery for later.”

“Jean I love you so much, you know me so well.” You take a bite of the pizza, moaning at the taste. Jean chokes on his pizza, getting flashbacks of you moaning the last time he went to go see you. He clears his throat, grabbing a pillow and putting it over his crotch area, not trusting his tipsy self to accidentally get a boner.

“Thank you for this.” You look at him with a small smile, “I’m sorry I came unannounced, it’s just-“ you pause looking down at your lap, “I miss you Jean.”

He feels his heart melt when those words leave your mouth, he missed you it was hard for him to even go out sometimes. “I know you said you were busy but I just couldn’t stand us not talking. Whether I have a boyfriend or not, please don’t do that again.” Your bottom lip pulls out slightly.

Jean pretends to not be hurt at the boyfriend part and nods his head. “Yea, I’m sorry too. Work and life just got in the way.” He responds taking another bite of his pizza, grabbing for a wing.

“Did you ever go to see the movie you were talking about?” Jean asks changing the subject. “N-no. They stopped playing it in theaters already too.” You sigh, remembering how your ex never took you to see it. He never agreed to even going.

“Gosh I don’t know what I saw in him. He barely took me out, usually we split the bill. Bought me flowers once, and it was just for Valentine’s Day, plus the flowers weren’t even that nice, and they weren’t my favorite color. He would always start shit when I wanted to hang out with my friends. Always stayed at my house as if he doesn’t have his own space. Now to think of it, i don’t even know if he had his own place.”

Jean listens to you ramble and vent about how shitty your ex is. His eyes roll, taking another bite, knowing he could treat you so much better, he already has anyways. He always got you flowers, holidays and random days, to your knowledge, his mom had extra inventory from her flower shop and gave it to him to give to you. He always got you food when you guys hung out, made sure you were gonna be safe when hanging out with your friends and if you needed a ride if you were gonna drink.

He made it a point to take care of you, even if you saw him as a friend. It was hurting him more, mainly why he stopped talking to you altogether. He had to. It wasn’t healthy for him. Jean seen every meme you sent, every message. He wanted to reply so bad but he knew it wasn’t good for hi-

“Hell I don’t even think he made me orgasm.”

Jean choked on his pizza, “w-what?”

“Yea, no, not at all. I can’t believe I was that down bad for a man who said going down on me took too much work.”

Jeans eyes nearly bulged out of his socket as he placed the pizza down taking a sip of his drink. Did he hear you right? Are you drunk? You can’t be that much of a lightweight….can you?

“It’s so embarrassing.” You groan hiding your hands in your face wondering how and why you faked it.

Jean cleared his throat wanting to move on as fast as possible, “he’s not a man, he’s a man child.” He scoots over closer to you.

“There’s no need to be embarrassed, we all fell for someone who isn’t good for them.” He chuckles before lifting your face back up. If course he doesn’t think your bad for him, you just never gave him a chance, or maybe he didn’t give you a chance to know how he really feels.

“You don’t deserve a guy like him. You deserve someone who will buy you your favorite flowers in your favorite color any day. Who’ll give you compliments coming from the heart and truth. Someone who will take you places and show the world to you. You deserve someone who’ll drive you and your friends out and back home, who’ll buy you whatever you want. Someone who wants to see you smile and hear your laugh. Someone who’ll go to watch all the cringy annoying girly movies right alongside with you. And you definitely deserve someone who’ll go down on you for hours with no complaints because they want to please you and give you multiple mind blowing orgasms to the point you can’t even think properly.”

It definitely was the alcohol talking but also Jean. Your eyes already locked with his, and for the first time you are seeing him. Not your best friend!Jean, you are seeing how genuine and kind and hit Jean it. Before you can think, you kiss him. His lips were so soft. He kissed back before he pulls away.

“Oh my gos- I’m so sorry.” You say scooting back, thinking you misread the situation. “N-no it’s not th-“

“Jean that was totally out of line for me….I-I should go.” You interrupt him standing up, walking to the front door and grabbing your keys off the hook.

Jean rushes up to follows you, gently grabbing your arm and turning you back around. Before you could say anything he crashes his lips desperately on yours.

You both moved fluidly, your keys dropping to the floor as you reach to cup the back of his neck, his arms at your lower back, pulling each other in.

“Don’t go…please.” He pulls away, begging quietly, “I just wanted to ask if you were okay, if you were sure that this is okay. We’ve been drinking an-“

“I don’t think I’ve ever been more sure of anything in my life.” You mutter back looking down at his lips before back to his eyes. Jean curses under his breath before he pulls you back in, this time the kiss is more needy and desperate. His hands find your hips, lifting you easily off the floor, your legs instinctively wrap around him as he hold you. Soft moans leave yours swallowed by his own grunts as he feels his dick twitch again.

During your little break, he couldn’t stop thinking about the sounds you made, now knowing they were faked, he is more interested on what your real ones sound like.

You grind your lower body into him as he walks to his bedroom, your lips not stopping as he sits down on the bed. You gasped into his lips feeling his bulge-it’s so big (LETS BE SO FR- he got a big dick!!!).

Jean pulls away quickly, “Shit, we don’t have to. I- sorry.”

You giggle at his nervousness watching as he stutters over his words. “Jean it’s okay….i want to.” You cup his jaw, assuring him while slowly rocking your hips over him. Jean feels his stomach tense as you put more pressure, “y-you sure?”

You kiss him again pressing your chest into his. Jeans hands move down from your hips to the bottom of your hoodie, sliding his hands under feeling the warmth of your skin. You shudder as his hands touch your bare skin sending goosebumps all throughout your body. You take this moment to trail your own hands down his chest, stopping right at the hem of his shirt, lifting it up. Jean pulls away to take his shirt off and you shamelessly scan over his toned body, watching as his abs tense when you grind over his still growing boner.

Jean slowly lifts your hoodie off, seeing you were only wearing a bra and some spandex underneath. He sucks in a breath closing his eyes and gulping before he kisses you again, moving his lips down your chin, to your neck, all the way to your collar bone. He looks up at you, your head thrown back to give him more room, softly moaning as you run your clit along his jeans. One of his arms snakes behind you as you lean more back, the other groping your breast, while he sucks over them. He bucks his hips up moaning into your skin, you both helplessly humping each other like dogs in heat.

He unclings your bra strap with the hand behind your back, the other at your hips, using his teeth to pull the bra down off you, his lips attaching itself around your harden nipples. Your hands tug the back of this hair softly as you let out a moan, a real one. Jeans tongue flicks around your nipples before pulling back with a pop and attending to the other. Moaning into you skin as your boobs bounce from your movements. You felt your arousal seek through your panties as you grind at the perfect spot, the sensation of his lips sucking your skin.

“Jea-“

“Are you okay? Do you want to stop?” Jean pulls away quickly, his lips slightly swoll and wet. “No.” You quickly say stopping your hips. “More.” You desperately pant out, wanting- no needing more. You need him in so many ways. You never realize how much better your best friend treated you than your boyfriend. How much better he made you feel. You needed him in all ways, more specifically you needed him inside you.

“I need you Jean.” You bring your head to his, “Not just like this, but more.”

Jean beastly whimpers at your words before he presses his lips to yours again, his hands attaching itself around your hips before he flips you both around. You under him as he hovers over you, grinding into you. Your hands trail down his chest, his abs, stopping right at the button of his pants. Beginning to unbutton it, he stops you and shakes his head no. “Let me make you feel good.” He says against your mouth before his lips kiss down your neck again, over the light marks he made into your skin. Your stomach sucks in slightly from his teasing fingers tracing above your shorts while trailing his lips down your breast. Jeans gaze never leave yours watching you squirm under him until his fingers hook your shorts, before he pulls them down he stops and looks at you, “Is this okay?”

You shake your head yes feeling your heart warm at hik asking for consent again, making sure you’re comfortable. “Let me hear you say it baby?” He kisses your stomach softly, over and over.

“Yes it’s okay.” You breathlessly pant out sitting up on my elbows. He licks his lips kissing your stomach once more while pulling your shorts down, slowly, teasingly. He leaves light kisses down your thighs as your shorts and panties hit the floor, spreading your legs open to see the drooling mess between your legs. Your hips jerk up when he runs a finger down your slit. “Who wouldn’t want to eat this pretty pussy out for hours.” He murmurs before slipping it inside your slicked out entrance with ease. Your walls tighten around his finger at the sudden intrusion, “Relax baby, relax around me. It’ll help for later.” He kisses your clit, sucking on the bud. Your head falls back as he sucks, his finger moving slowly in and out of you, waiting for you to loosen up.

You moan out his name the tip of his tongue moves in circles on your clit, his finger keeping the same pace. His other hand placed at the back of your thigh, holding it open. He moans sending vibrations through your spine, adding another finger, slowly picking up the pace, turning his finger upright and curling it into you. “Oh fuck.” You whimper your other leg closing instinctively. He pulls away and looks at you, “hold your legs open for me.” His fingers still moving as you bring your hands behind your knees. “Being so good for me.” He kisses the skin around your outer folds, sucking softly before he reattaches his lips to your puffed out clit. Your nails dig in your skin when he adds a third finger, moving them faster and curling them simultaneously, rocking your hips into his hand.

“So needy baby. You hear that?” He gloats, kisses your skin again, “Such a mess for me huh,” his nose nuzzles on your skin, sucking gently, “wanna hear all the sweet sounds you make, sounds so much better than your fake ones.”

Jean moans feeling you squeeze around his fingers turning them over, rubbing over your other hole with his thumb, his pinky spreading one side of your outer lips spread. You gasps, squeezing both of your holes on impulse, feeling his thumb tauntingly push barely inside, chuckling at your reaction. He keeps going feeling your walls start to flutter slowly, squeezing tightly around his fingers and releasing over and over.

Your vision goes blurry, moaning helplessly and incoherently while squirming your hips matching his movements. Your eyes roll when he picks up his speed, sucking on your clit harder, his tongue working wonders on the growing sensitive bud.

“M’gonna c- oohh-nghh-Jeann ahh,” you cry as you release all over his fingers. He takes his fingers out, his tongue immediately replacing them, swirling around menacingly, his eyes still on you as he reaches his arm to stick his fingers in your open mouth. You immediately suck around them, gagging as Jean pushes them more down your throat, moaning around his fingers. His other hand placed under your ass, pushing it up towards his face while his tongue continues to torment your quivering cunt, lapping up every last drop.

His darkened eyes still follows every movement you make when he moves his lips to bite softly and suck the plush of your outer lips trailing down your thighs. You whimper out when he bites down a bit harder leaving a marks on your skin.

Jean smiles softly watching you catch your breath, moving his lips to your hips, sucking, licking, hell even smelling you. He wants you to know you’re worth it and more, your shitty bitch ass ex never deserved you. Your body rolls into him, his mouth as he leaves wet kiss all over you, moaning into your skin.

“So perfect,” he kisses your navel, “all mine,” another right under your chest, his hands roaming all over you. His eyes never leave yours, “fucking sexy,” he sucks your boobs, his tongue laps around each of your perky nipples, his big hands softly squeezing the other simultaneously. Your back arches into him desperately while soft gasps and cute little noises exit your mouth. Jean’s hands touching you so gently, every so often he squeezes with lust, his lips swollen from sucking your skin, the way he licks all over you like your his personal ice cream.

You feel shivers down your spine when he sucks your collarbone, gliding up to your neck, nipping behind your ear. He tugs his pants down, moaning loudly on you when his dick was finally free, using his hand to pump himself a bit before gripping your hips. His lips make its way back to yours, capturing you in a kiss, your arms wrapping around his broad shoulder, resting at his neck you pull him in closer.

It was when you guys finally parted and Jean sat up you saw just how big he is. Way bigger than you’ve ever had, ever seen. You sit up on your elbows and stare nervously, “We don’t ha-“

“No, I want to….you’re just.. so fucking big Jean.” You interrupt immediately, glancing at Jean who now has a flash of confidence, maybe cockiness.

“Really? I wouldn’t know.” He shrugs a smirk forming on his lips. Definitely cockiness. Jean knew he was bigger than average. He just has a big dick and he learned the hard way when he had to take this one girl to the hospital after he went crazy fr. Ever since then he came up with a plan. Not to put his entire dick inside. Still felt fine, but not as amazing as it would if pushed himself all the way in but good enough.

“Jean?” You call out to him and he looks at you, “Please hurry up and make me feel good. You’ve been teasing me all night.”

Jean chokes back a moan, needy and bossy, he thinks. “Yes baby whatever you want.” He lowers down to kiss you, positioning himself between your legs. He rest on one of his forearms while the other hand is sliding up and down your slick. You bring your arms under his arms, your hands resting on his broad shoulders, your nails threatening to dig into him when the tip of his dick flicks over your clit.

“Focus on me baby okay?” He says against your lips, guiding the head of him to your entrance. You nod kissing him back hungrily, gasping when he pushes himself in slowly. Your eyes flutter close, your mouth open slightly as you stop moving your lips against his. “Kiss me.” He whispers moving his hand from the base of his length to your hips, massaging you softly. Your lips quiver as they move against his, the stretch of his dick entering you had you whimpering.

“Hmmm.” You moan breaking the kiss your eyes watering. He moves his hand to your clit, rubbing slowly helping you ease up around him. Jean lips kiss beside yours, “You feel so good baby, it’s okay, relax for me. Don’t think okay.”

You open your eyes and look at him, “o-okay.” You whine bring your lips back to his. Jean groans when he feels you welcome more of him in, slowly pushing himself in, “shit baby, gonna take it all?”

“I want it all, please Jean, give it to me.”

Your walls flutter around his thick long cock as he pushes himself in all the way, his own thighs trembling a bit. You bite down on his lower lip, nails digging harshly on his skin, and whining when he bottoms out, his fingers still working around your clit, your arousal seeping all around him, pooling out.

Jean lets out the most lewdest whimper, his hips bucking into you at the sting of your teeth, your nails digging harsher on his shoulders, squeezing around him before finding yourself relaxing around him. His fingers slows down the movements as your hips squirm. You release your bite, sucking on his lips before parting slightly and moaning his name, and looking up at him. He brings his hand from your clit to hold down your thigh, pulling out slowly before thrusting back in.

“oh fuck.” You pant, eyes rolling, your head turning to the side where his other arm is, his cups the side of your face as he continues stretching you, “so good for me shit, you’re so pretty taking all of me.” He huffs moving his hips a bit faster. As much as you wanted to respond, you couldn’t, not when he was fucking you so deep and stretching you out so good. Your legs trembles as you feel a pit form in your stomach. This has to be the fastest you’ve ever came. Loud whimpers leave your lips as you lean in Jeans hands, your own hands aren’t even holding on to his shoulders anymore.

“M-more, baby please, I can take it.” You plead wanting more. You know he’s holding back on you. Jean sucks in a breath as you squeeze around his cock, your walls fluttering soon after. “You gonna cum baby? Want me to fuck you faster?”

He moves faster, each thrust more powerful than before, your jaw drops, moaning louder, rolling your hips into his thrust. Jean leaves kisses all over your face as he starts fucking you for real. He lifts his body up loving his other arm to your thigh that isn’t held down and squirming around.

He looks down watching your pussy suck him all the way in, your arousal coating his dick when he pulls out, moaning at the lewd sounds your pussy makes when he pushes back in. Your hands grip the sheets, toes curling when he moves faster, at the new angle you can damn near feel him in your brain.

Jean trails his eyes up noticing his the outline of his dick bulging in your stomach, making him go feral, “fuck baby, tell me if you want me to slow down.” He mewls, quickening his pace, the sound of his heavy balls slapping your skin is the only one echoing in the room. Your body fell a limp, no sound was coming out, the pit in your stomach building up more and more.

You don’t make any sound until you feel his palm press against your lower stomach, your body twitches, “j-jeannngh, c-cum please I wannacum.” Your words slur, “have to, can’t hold it.” Your vision blurs, eyes watering as your voice trembles in pleasure.

You heard him say something you couldn’t recall, throwing your head back into the pillow as your back arched off the bed, you moan louder than you ever been, your release gushing out, your whole body convulsing under him.

“Shit baby,” Jean moans slowing down his movements but still having a rhythmic thrust, rough yet steady, fucking you through your high. He moans watching your tight pussy cost his dick with your creamy honeydew like orgasm, sucking him back in and fluttering around him each time. He feels his dick twitch a few times trying his best to hold out, whimpering and moaning. You on the other hand were in a trancing state, it felt like your orgasm was prolonged, stretched out as Jean fucked you through your high at the perfect pace, perfect pressure.

Your body jerks at each thrust, legs wanting to close but it’s held open, you feel another pit form so quickly. Your eyes flutter, rolling back as you don’t even think about it, gasping loudly when you release.

Jean watched your expressions, listened to your moans, felt you tighten up around him. He watched as you squirted all over him, the milky sap hitting his stomach each time he pulled out. After the third time, his own high hit, stuffing his dick deep inside you, holding his hips at yours. His legs trembled as he nails dig into your thighs, head thrown back moaning with you.

Your hands cup his, bringing your lips together, panting heavily into the sloppy wet kiss, moans and whimpers escaping each time you guys nip at each other’s lower lip. Your chest pressing into his when he grinds himself deeper in you, wrapping your own legs around his waist. The kiss lasted for a few more minutes before you guys part, staring at eachother.

“Let me get you cleaned up, yeah?” Jean asked tapping softly at your thighs to let him go. You pout playfully and turn your head, “no I want you to stay inside.”

“There are plenty of ways for you to get used to my size.” Jeans smirks kissing your jaw.

“Huh?!”

“Huh?”

Eventually you did let Jean go and he got up and went to the bathroom bringing back a wet towel to clean you up. He was very gently and precise about it.

“Hey Jean?” You asked thinking about something he said earlier. “Yeah baby?” He looks at up, still cleaning you. “What did you mean when you said my moans sound better than the fake ones, or whatever you said.” You ask quietly, biting your lips.

Jean was stunned for a second, “oh well uhm, the last time I texted you if I could come over you said yeah and the door would be open,” he sat up after finishing, “and I came over and I kind of heard you and your ex having sex. That’s when I stopped texting back…”

You thought for a second confused, “I never texted that.”

“Huh?” He looks puzzled while coming to lay next to you. “I don’t think I ever texted you my door will be open. It must’ve been him. I would’ve remembered andI definitely wouldn’t be having sex if I knew you were coming.”

Jean stayed quiet, trying to keep his annoyance in check, “He’s an asshole.” He mumbles. “Enough about him….Wanna go again?” You ask a smile appearing slowly on your face, straddling him.

Jean looks up at you, “Hell yeah.”

Bonus:

“You really had to take a girl to the hospital?” You exclaimed cuddled up next to up, under the sheets, both of you guys still without clothes. “Yea it was bad,” Jean laughed, “the nurse ended up looking at my dick because I was scared, she was slightly horrified and told me I needed to be careful.”

“Oh my gosh.” You covered your mouth laughing harder.

******

I got lazy at the end but finally I finished this. Not proofread !!!!!!

If you guys want to be tagged in anything I post lmk too

As always hope you guys enjoy!!!!!

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<3

[agathariosslut]

Pretty Girl.

Natasha Romanoff x reader

Warnings: dubcon, Natasha is mean, mommy kink, manipulation, use of pet names & degrading names, spit kink, spankings. Knife play, blood. 

Summary: After a long day of being alone in Natasha's apartment while she was out "handling business" you find yourself in trouble...

You couldn't help yourself, the aching between your legs was growing, the wetness pooling below, and the way Natasha's voice rang in your head saying, "be good while I'm away detka." It was all too much, and you just couldn't handle it anymore. Your hand slowly comes up to tweak your pretty little nipples, as Natasha would quote. Your hand very hesitantly moves to your throbbing cunt. You begin by making slow circles on your clit, then pushing two fingers into yourself. Yes it feels good, but it’s not Natasha. Instantaneous regret washes over you. She always knows when you misbehave. Unbeknownst to you, Natasha has the entire apartment bugged. Your release creeps upon you, and you go faster. You can't help but moan out Natasha's name. A voice you've grown to be addicted to breaks you out of your trance, "and what exactly our we doing my love?" You look around like a deer in headlights. You curse yourself for doing this knowing what would happen for this mishap, to Natasha touching what was hers is enough to make her go crazy on you. " I'm couldn't help it Natty it was to much! It was so bad and I was imaging it was you the whole time... fuck I needed it so bad and you weren't here!!" You go on babbling, and she simply just wears her signature smirk. God you've royally fucked up.

"Strip, now." You can't hurry quick enough before Natasha takes her blade out and comes over and starts ripping your lacy panties paired with her t shirt off of you. Excitement and fear hits you like a bus. Her blade trails your sensitive skin, "come on slut don't act so scared, I know my little girl loves this." She was right. You know she an expert with weapons, which comforts you, but mostly scares you because you know that she'll sometimes "accidentally slip" the blade is trailing right between your breasts, that's when she makes the slightest the cut. You yelp loudly, she laughs. "What is it? Hmm... did it hurt my dumb little slut? Need mommy to make it all better?" She licks the blood off your skin, and you couldn't deny the wetness that was dripping between your thighs. She begins pinching your nipples, roughly. She then soothes it by sucking on them. She then makes her way down to your core. "Dirty little whore, all this for me? Does me hurting you turn you on... my sick little play thing." Right when you think she was going to soothe the aching, she quickly pops up and yanks you from your position on the bed and bends you over her knee. She laughs sadistically, "oh my precious bunny, you should know it's never that easy. Now you're gonna take everything I give you, and count each spanking. You will thank me for each one, and tell me why you deserve it. She administers the first slap, hard. "One, I was a bad girl who didn't listen to mommy." Five more come after, unforgiving. Your ass is already a shade of bright red. "Six... fuck... because you're always right and I'm just a dumb little fuck toy.

You're crying, Natasha is stoic. "Please mommy no more... can't take it.. fuck!" She then proceeds to give you ten more. 16 in total. She pushes you off her lap like a discarded toy. She strips, you're in awe at the sight, as it never gets old. You're face down on the bed, you can hear her rustling around in the walk in closet. You start thinking about why she would be in there, knowing her favorite strap is in the nightstand beside the king size bed. You finally get yourself up after your spanking, she walks out with a dildo no less than 10 inches in size, and very girthy. Panic rushes over you, realizing that that's meant to go inside you.

"Aww my girl looks scared, don't you worry that pretty little head... mommy is gonna make it all better." "No please! I can't take it!" Natasha fakes a disappointed look, "Don't you wanna make me happy?" The words sit deep in your chest, all you want to do is make Natasha happy, even if it's the last thing you do. Natasha tightens the dildo onto her leather stap. She maintains predatory eye contact with you as she stalks over to you on the bed. She pulls you quickly to the end of the bed, forces your legs open & coats the dildo with your slick. She grabs your jaw in a bruising kiss, he tongue taking over your mouth. "Open up slut!" You instinctively stick out your tongue as she spits on it. "Swallow." You obey, and she makes her way down to stand between your legs. She without warning shoves her cock in and instantly bottoming out, pushing through the resistance of your tight walls. "There's my pretty girl, opening up like a good little slut for me, this pussy is so perfect for me, too bad it's going to get ruined." The faux look of pitty crosses her face. Her actions say otherwise. She continues pumping rapidly in and out of you, ignoring soaking in the sweet sound of you yelling out her name. "Mommy please.. too much!!" She doesn't seem phased. "I thought you wanted this huh? The way your were touching yourself when I walked in, like a bitch in heat. The way you're squeezing around me like you're about to cum defies your cries, malysh." The sickest part is that she is right. You're getting dangerously close to your orgasm. After a few more hard strokes you're begging her for relief. " Please mommy can I cum?!" She laughs wickedly, "you can pretty girl, but if you do I won't stop, you'll have as many as I say you will. I don't care about your pitiful little cries, makes me want it more doll." You cum at her words alone, she then continues to give you 6 more. Holding up her word that she would ignore and enjoy your begging and pleading. She went harder and faster with after each one she tortured you with.

After she has her fun with you, she pulls out dangerously quick, you're already mourning the loss of not having her buried inside your pussy. She's glistening in sweat and her breathing is heavy as she throws you to the side like you're a weightless nothing to her. While calming down you patiently wait for her cooing and sympathy for how good you've been for her. Nothing. She finally breaks the silence, "Better get yourself cleaned up, pretty girl."