#it’s not the first time I’m making a story that makes no sense

[pinksplace]

Immovable Object, Unstoppable Force

alternatively: Clark Kent and the Art of the orgasm

18+ MDNI

what’s this? Oh it’s Clark Kent’s poorly disguised overstimulation kink

word count: another drabble, probably 1-1.5k

warnings: overstimulation, some overstimulation, maybe a hint of overstimulation, some overstimulation if you squint, oh god I almost forgot overstimulation

fem!reader, no use of Y/N

You felt like you were missing something.

Your girlfriends would talk about it, giggle about how their boyfriends had managed to get them off, sometimes even twice. You’d smile and nod, pretend to be happy for them. Sometimes you’d fib, tell a salacious story of your own, never admitting that none of boyfriends had ever actually gotten you there.

As time went on, you began to just assume your friends were lying, or worse maybe, there was just something wrong with you.

Then you met Clark.

You’d told him before you slept together that you’d never actually orgasmed before. The words tumbling off your tongue in a moment of insecurity and nervousness. Years of lame, lazy lovers tricking you into thinking it just wasn’t possible. You thought he deserved to know. You assured him you would still enjoy it, still wanted to feel that closeness with him, just that he shouldn’t be offended when it doesn’t happen.

Clark just kissed you, and said “I’ll take care of it.”

He made you cum three times that night before he even got inside you.

He became obsessed with it after that.

Clark Kent, your sweet boyfriend, the mild mannered momma’s boy, the clumsy reporter in his too-big suits, is absolutely insatiable. He lays you out, expertly kisses you until your lips are numb and presses you until the mattress until you have no choice but to melt.

He crawls down your body, joking that he’s visiting his second home. Then he eats you out until his glasses fog up, when most men might take that as a sign to stop, Clark just takes them off, places them carefully on the nightstand, and keeps going.

He ignores your whines, the way you tug his hair, the way your legs clamp around his head. If anything, it all spurs him on, making him even more enthusiastic. He uses every part of his face to make it happen, his tongue dexterous and fast, never tiring. His nose finding a way to nudge your clit just right.

Clark only uses his hands when he wants to tell you something, using his fingers to get you stretch you, his thumb circling your clit. He’s never not working you over.

“Sweetheart, I missed you so much.” He says, voice dripping with affection, as if you’ve ever spent longer than two days apart.

“Honey you taste so good, please can you give me one more?” Please, as if it’s really a question, you know better and it’s never just one more.

When you’re shaking with overstimulation, thighs clenched around his head, “Baby, stop. I’m doing something important.” He never gives you a chance to comply, instead taking your thighs in his hands and pressing them into the mattress, spreading you open for him.

When he fucks you, it’s all-consuming.

He thrusts deep, each stroke is well aimed, perfectly timed, and leaves you agonizingly full. Clark found that soft spot inside you (the one that makes your vision white out), that first night too. He makes sure to hit every-time now.

By this point, you’re jello, or at least close to it. Half the words out of your mouth make no sense, just babbles of his name and half-slurred ‘I love you’s.

Your hands scratch down his back, never making purchase, never breaking the skin despite your attempts (and much to Clark’s dismay, he loves being marked by you, reminders that he’s yours just as much as you’re his).

Clark has surpassed every man you’ve ever been with, in skill, size and stamina. You thought it would be over after he came, thought it was just average human male biology.

Once again, Clark proves himself to be above and beyond average.

He can go for three, some nights even four rounds. Half the time he doesn’t even break a sweat, he fucks like he’s superhuman. He fucks like it’s what he was made for, specifically like he was made for you.

He tells you as much. His words saccharine and sinful.

“This is everything, you’re everything.” He murmurs against your neck, grinding deeper than you thought possible.

“Never wanna leave you, gonna stay right here, forever.” You believe him. You honestly believe he would spend the rest of his life inside you, you would let him.

“They didn’t deserve you, didn’t know how to touch you. Properly.” He laments, as if you even still think about them, as if you could remember their names when he’s this deep.

“Always gonna make you feel good, always gonna put you first.” He promises, and despite your better judgement, you believe him when he says that too.

You tighten around him, again, and again and again. You moan his name until you’re blue in the face. Wrap your legs around his waist and even though every part of your body feels like it’s on fire, you pull him closer. You kiss him hard, and tell him to cum deep.

Clark has ruined you, if he ever ended things you’d be forced to join a nunnery or risk spending the rest of your life comparing everyone else to him. Then you look in his eyes, and see the future you’re still too scared to talk about out loud, and think that you have nothing to worry about.

He pushes you over the edge again. Apologizing for it.

“I’m sorry Honey, I’m so sorry, I know it’s a lot.” Clark’s like a man possessed. Your cunt is so wet and sticky he almost slides out every time he draws back. He wipes the tears from your cheeks, and presses the softest kiss to your lips.

“Just one more, c’mon baby, one more.” You give it to him. body tensing at his command, you don’t even try to fight it this time, you know it’s no use. Clark the immovable object, your orgasm the unstoppable force.

You asked him why one night, after he had cleaned you up and rolled you into his arms.

“I’m making up for lost time.” He said, kissing the top of your head. It’s almost a gentleman’s answer, but you know better. You know the real answer, he says it everytime, right before he falls over that last edge. When he’s too lost in pleasure to pretend like he’s doing this just for your benefit.

“I love that I’m the only one who can make you feel like this.”

It’s usually what sends you over the edge, for the real last time.

You love it too.

The chronicles of Clark Kent and MY poorly hidden overstimulation kink <3

Thank you for reading my friends!!!

Masterlist

[coffee-and-geto]

SAY YES TO THE SET - SATORU GOJO

“You perv.” “Me? Are you blaming a man? What am I saying— YOUR man. Actually—your very lucky man.”

pairing: husband! satoru gojo x f!reader

summary: after a long, tough day, satoru usually comes home to find you there. however, you have a surprise planned for him, which he will be delighted to discover before turning it into yet another opportunity to jump on you!

warnings: MDNI, suggestive, dirty talk, fluff, quite domestic, mention of yuji, megumi and nobara, just a whipped husband with his beloved wife <3

wc: 1,714

Satoru Gojo fell in love with you more than once.

He’s always willing to do anything you ask for, because every time he looks at you, the white-haired man feels like a teenager again, exactly at the time he met and knew you were meant for him.

So basically, his love language is gift-giving.

Or commonly called by you spoiling a bit too much.

A little bit too much.

Not counting the times he literally booked an island for the two of you for your honeymoon, bought expensive vintage cars for your beautiful eyes, bought brands (yes, you read that right) as soon as you vaguely mentioned liking a brand or two in particular, or even bought several penthouses in every city you might be interested in visiting on your next trip with him.

As said, maybe a little bit too much.

Maybe.

But when it comes to spoiling him, it’s a whole different story.

Satoru acts like a puppy. A lost one? A loyal one? A clingy one maybe? You never can tell. He’s a mix of all possible puppy types. He almost feels undeserving of you spoiling him. The idea of you giving him or providing him anything doesn’t make sense in his mind.

Not a hint of patriarchy or dominance comes into play here, but rather because he prefers to give rather than receive.

It’s in his nature.

So one day, you decide to wait for him in front of his car after his long day at Jujutsu High. His students—Yuji, Nobara, and Megumi—wave to you from afar before heading back to their dormitory, while a slender figure approaches you with long strides.

“Is that a dream? Am I in heaven?” And immediately, Satoru’s arms find your waist to hold you tighter than ever in his familiar embrace.

“Maybe both,” you crackle, cupping his cheeks while your lips peck his whole face. “I checked your schedule and came earlier.”

He presses a firm, (loud) and loving kiss on your own lips. “I hope you haven’t been waiting long, love.”

“It’s never too long when I’m waiting for you.”

And damn.

He’s a full mess now, heart beating like a cannonball, body temperature hitting impossible degrees until his hands are sweating and he’s ear-blushing just as his teen self used to.

“Can we go to the mall right now?” 

A smile followed by a little scratch on his undercut? He’s already carrying you to the passenger seat while he busies himself with starting the engine as quickly as possible. And as if he were afraid you would disappear if he didn’t touch you, Satoru’s large hand rests on the inside of your thigh, the perfect spot for him to feel safe with you and for you. A huge smile refuses to fade, and you immediately guess that even under his black blindfold, Satoru’s smile reaches his eyes.

“What do you wanna do at the mall?” he asks casually, his free hand pulling that move he always does when parking — spinning the wheel in one smooth circle with just one hand, head turned over his shoulder as he checks behind the car.

And of course, you catch the way his Adam’s apple bobs slightly as he moves — a small detail that makes your thighs instinctively squeeze together.

“Some clothes. I need your opinion.”

He raises both eyebrows and holds out his free arm once he has locked the car. “Of course you need me for that. How could you even breathe without me by the way? You need my air.”

On the way, a cute lingerie shop catches your eye, and you gently pull Satoru inside.

He opens his mouth, a little confused at first.

“Didn’t you say clothes?”

“Aren’t they clothes?” you smile.

He clears his throat but finally glances at you. “Clothes. Alright.” But he was silently screaming naughty girl and you’re snorting.

The inside of the boutique is small and quiet, almost cozy. A few narrow racks line the space, each holding unique and delicate sets — but what really catches your eye are the dainty, coquette-style pieces. Soft pastel colors, flirty floral lace, and little sensual details that feel like summer tempt you enough to pick out one or two sets.

When you glance over at Satoru, he’s distractedly staring at the display of blue lingerie, eyes half-lidded and lost in thought.

“You know, I said I needed your opinion,” you comment, a small smirk tugging the corner of your lips, “so… if you like any—”

You don’t have time to say anything else before he’s already picked up a dozen sets of lingerie—your own items looking pretty meager in comparison.

Sighing, you head for the deserted fitting rooms. Perfect.

And as you turn to draw the curtains away from prying eyes, you come face to face with Satoru, standing with his feet firmly inside the fitting room, a questioning look on his face.

“Out.”

“Pretty, please—”

The next second, he is sitting on a chair, his left ass’ cheek still sore and kinda burning from your kick.

Putting on the first set, a light blue baby doll adorned with discreet white lace, you admire yourself in the mirror before opening the curtain slightly to call Satoru. He hurries to come in before even seeing you.

And when he finally gets to admire you, he has no comment to make. His gaze gradually softens behind his blindfold, his mouth slowly parts, and his arms, once crossed over his chest, fall to his sides, not knowing what to do with themselves. He’s dying to wrap them around you as he usually does, but something freezes him in place.

His eyes sparkle with admiration, but less mischief than usual.

Just pure love. It wasn’t the cute outfit that made him fall in love for the umpteenth time in his life. It was just you. You and your smile, anticipating his reaction—more specifically, about to laugh at a potentially charming and flirtatious comment he usually makes; your bright eyes fixed on him, your cheeks slightly flushed from the heat in the store and even more so in the fitting room.

“You are beautiful,” he finally says quietly.

A faint blush creeps up your cheeks, reddening them even more. “What about the baby doll?”

He shakes his head. “You are stunning in everything.” His arms finally wrap around you and he turns you toward the mirror, meeting your gaze, which you know is on you despite his blindfold. “See?” he whispers next to your ear, chest pressed against your back. “That’s my beautiful wife. The one I am lucky and grateful to see every day when I wake up. My first and only love.”

“Hey, you are not allowed to make me cry,” you protest, swallowing to make the lump in your throat go away as he kisses the side of your neck.

“Guilty as charged,” he sighs, stealing another kiss on your cheek and pats your hip. “Next one now.”

“Fine.”

The next isn’t as simple as the previous one. More girly, you think, eyes darting the small flowers all over the corset. An admiring whistle is heard right behind you, and through the reflection in the long mirror in the dressing room, Satoru has lifted a corner of his blindfold to admire you from head to toe. “I quite enjoy the view right now.”

“You perv.”

He takes a dramatic shocked expression and brutally hits his hand right where his heart beats. “Me? Are you blaming a man? What am I saying— YOUR man. Actually—your very lucky man.”

You hide your face behind your hands in an attempt to muffle your bursting laugh, and Satoru grins proudly, shoving his hand in his jacket’s pockets.

“Anyways. I love this one.”

“You do?” you ask, calming down. You spin around slightly to give him a 360 view of the set. “It’s… floral. I like the— What’s that look for?” you ask, your hands on your hips in a disapproving stance.

“Tell me, wouldn’t you look good if you wear that while I make you cum on my cock?”

Your face flushed immediately when your brain pictures it perfectly. “Satoru!” you hiss. “We’re not alone!” And you push him out of the dressing room, glancing nervously at the saleswoman at the store entrance, who looks at you with a slightly confused expression.

The third set is a simple pastel yellow nightgown that you picked up earlier. Its straps are made of lace in equally light shades of pink and turquoise with small fruity details—including mini grapefruits and lemons. It’s long enough to cover most of your torso and almost all of your rear. However, Satoru notices a second later that a single movement allows him to see that the nightgown comes with a thong of the same color, so thin that he almost didn’t notice it.

And before you even think about giving your opinion, Satoru is already lifting you up in his arms and pressing you against the wall.

You gasp, nails digging into his broad shoulders as his nose buries itself between your clenched legs. “Satoru, what—”

“Just let me eat you out in this set,” he mumbles, tone muffled as you struggle. “Pretty, please—”

“We can’t!” you protest. “The saleswoman could—”

“Is everything alright here?” she suddenly asks from behind the curtain. You didn’t even hear her come in.

Satoru freezes under the nightgown and holds his breath as you hold back from yelling at him.

“Y-Yes, I’m just on the phone right now,” you respond nervously. “Sorry.”

“Oh. No problem, take your time,” she responds sweetly before the sounds of her footsteps fades away.

And as if he had guessed that you were going to kill him on the spot, Satoru pressed a chaste kiss on your clothed clit.

You gasp, nails digging into his muscles even deeper. “I swear, if we get banned from another lingerie store—”

“That’s their problem,” he mumbles against your inner thigh now.

“Satoru, stop talking—”

“Only if you stop looking that good.”

You slap his head lightly. “Home. Now. I’m putting you on a leash.”

“Kinky,” he grins, looking up way too fast.

And with that, your very problematic, very whipped husband drags you out of the store with five lingerie bags and zero shame.

a/n: here comes a fic after 3 months of inactivity, i'm sorry! i have a lot to write and i'm planning soon to finish them, i promise <3 how are yall doing btw? i miss posting here 🥲

reblogs, likes and comments are very appreciated! <3

tags: @bearwithmoo @elliesndg @lymsfm @mutsu422 @drippymcdrippison @koshhin @v31v3t @wisheclairr @sanemistar @monokaix @starmapz

[gay-space-diaries]

“Do you ever find it weird that we’re the only ones not in committed relationships?” Eddie asks one night after dinner. They wandered to the couch for late night beers and to continue to binge watch a tv show that Eddie has lost all sense of the plot. Something about it though had got him thinking about Hen and Karen, Maddie and Chimney, and Bobby and Athena before pinpointing that every friend he has is married. Even Ravi is supposedly seeing someone though no one knows any details about his mystery partner.

Buck shrugs, still half caught up in the show. “Maybe you’re just a bad kisser.”

“I’m a bad kisser?” Eddie wrinkles his nose. “I don’t see you out on a date tonight either.”

That finally gets Buck’s full attention—it’s too easy; sometimes Eddie can just say one word and Buck is all his. His smile, though, slightly concerns Eddie. “Guess you’ll just have to prove it. Put your money where your mouth is.”

“Put my money where” —Eddie shakes his head, exasperated; he sighs— “And how do you suggest I do that?”

Buck lounges against the corner of his couch like a cat. One arm is thrown across the back, the other on the arm rest. His legs are too long to fit on the couch without ending up in Eddie’s lap so they’re half curled towards him, half hanging off. It can not be comfortable yet he looks perfectly at home. Enough that he stares at Eddie as he cocks his head and taps his lips. He wears a smirk that Eddie fears might be one of those leftover remnants from Buck 1.0 based on the stories he’s heard. “I’ll be an impartial judge, I swear.”

Eddie has had one too many beers tonight, clearly based on his current thoughts. Though strangely he doesn’t remember even finishing the first one. In fact, it sits half drunk leaking condensation onto his coffee table. So really nothing can explain why he says,

“Well only if you’re impartial.”

Buck’s eyes widen when Eddie starts to scoot forward, like he didn’t think he’d actually get this far or maybe excited that he has. Eddie doesn’t care. He’s just happy to prove Buck wrong that ‘no, the reason he is not currently in a loving relationship is not because he’s a bad kisser.’ Neither Shannon, Ana, nor Marisol ever remarked otherwise. His relationships broke for all sorts of different reasons but never because of that.

Buck waits for him patiently, not making a single effort to meet Eddie in the middle. He’s way too pleased with himself. Or perhaps he’s scared of jostling Eddie back to reality.

Eddie cradles Buck’s face until they’re sharing a breath between them like a piece of gum. His heart thumps against his chest, two beats, before he parts his lips and steals the gasp from Buck’s mouth. Buck reciprocates almost immediately; barely a second passes from the time his breath hitches from the shock of the contact to fully falling into Eddie. Buck’s nighttime stubble scrapes against his chin as he deepens the kiss. His hand slides into the messy curls on top of Buck’s head. Hours it takes to separate or maybe it’s only been minutes. Either way, when Eddie breaks off the kiss, both of their mouths are kiss-bitten and wet.

“How’d I do?” he asks, never breaking eye contact from Buck.

“Mm, don’t think kissing’s been your problem,” Buck mutters, fingers toying with his lower lip, a stark pink just like his birthmark. He bites at the pad of his thumb.

Pleased, Eddie returns to where he’d been previously sitting. “Told you.” He makes a grab for his half drunk beer but still doesn’t take another sip. 

“Wait. You need to judge me now.” And Buck suddenly follows him to the other side of the couch and kisses him just as passionately. Eddie barely has time to set his beer down before he gasps, surprised.

Eddie’s never been kissed with so much tenderness and care. There’s heat laced in the movements but Buck brushes his thumb against Eddie’s cheekbone as he pulls himself impossibly closer. Every point of contact buzzes against his skin: the scratch of Buck’s stubble, the weight of his body straddling Eddie’s lap, his hands digging into his hair, blunt nails against his scalp. It’s different kissing a guy than any woman he has before—and now this is his second time in as little as a minute.

When Buck breaks away, he blinks before a slow smile works its way onto his face. “So, how was it? You have to be impartial too. It’s only fair.”

“I don’t think I can let you date anyone if you kiss like that.”

“That bad, huh?” Buck laughs, knowing Eddie teases. But Eddie isn’t joking. He’s serious. Why would he let Buck date someone else after all this?

“I think we’ve both been extremely stupid for a long time.”

Buck blinks, mouth snapping open like a fish before he regains control of himself to utter, “Eddie—”

“Buck.”

A silent understanding passes between the two of them as Eddie refuses to lose the staring contest and Buck feeds that competitive streak. Slowly that 1.0 smirk returns with a vengeance. “More kissing practice, talk later?”

Eddie already starts to lean into him. “Sounds good to me.”

[natasharomanoffquotes]

𝐬𝐡𝐞'𝐬 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐩𝐭.𝟏

my first time writing/posting !! wanted to give a special thanks to my bae @thesvnandthemooon for helping me bring this story to life :)

important info: based on the 1999 romcom she's all that but with my own modifications and twists. reader is a poetry nerd and it takes place in modern times.

story info: after being broken up with by her cheerleader girlfriend wanda maximoff, natasha romanoff's popularity starts to decline. she resorts to making a bet -- in just a few weeks, natasha has to gain your trust and make you prom queen.

wc - 2.9k

𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟏, 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟐, 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟑

—

Natash Romanoff. Outstanding soccer player, surprisingly intelligent in the classroom, and capable of getting any girl to fall to their knees when she walked into the room. However, Natasha became completely untouchable after she got with the most well-known cheerleader and queen bee, Wanda Maximoff. Wanda had always been known to be the “mean girl”. Being captain of the cheerleading team and having been from a wealthy background because of her parents, but Natasha was surprisingly very different from her girlfriend. They were the ideal couple that everyone aspired to be or be with. 

You seemed unconcerned with being popular. You were too busy studying to care about games, cliques, or friendships. The only connection you had to high school outside of your textbooks was your best friend, Kate. You never had time for drama, parties, or feeling compelled to fit in with things that didn't make sense to you. The goal of graduating with honors was your constant focus. Eventually, your hard work got you to be right on track to become valedictorian of your graduating class.

---

Walking through the hallways eager to find Wanda, Natasha spots Pietro and Maria. “Have you guys seen Wanda?” Natasha asked with irritation in her voice, walking up to Pietro and Maria. “She hasn’t responded to any of my texts since she left for that stupid Florida trip.”

“Uh? What?” Maria tried to respond casually, but failed. “I have no idea.”

Pietro shifted awkwardly, and didn’t look at her.

Before Natasha could ask, she saw a familiar flash of red hair in the hallway - Wanda.

There she was, but something was different. Natasha couldn't quite put her finger on it but she knew something was up with her. Was she mad at her? Did she do something to upset Wanda?

Natasha felt her heart sink. She stepped forward and spoke tight. “Wanda? What’s wrong?”

Wanda looked up, but her eyes told a different story. “I’m fine, Natasha.” She quickly cut her off.

“Where have you been? I was looking for you. You come back with a new tattoo and act like this?” Natasha pressed, as confusion and hurt was evident in her voice.

Wanda sighed, her eyes flicked up to Natasha before looking away. “Nat, I need to talk to you. Not here.”

Without responding to Natasha, Wanda turned and walked toward the quad.

When they reached an open table, Wanda sat down, her posture stiff. Natasha followed suit, taking a seat next to her.

“What’s going on, Wanda?” Natasha asked. “You haven’t replied to any of my texts since you left for Florida.”

Wanda finally looked at her, a faint sigh escaping her lips. “Nat, I met someone.”

Natasha’s eyes widened and she looked at Wanda in disbelief. “Someone?”

Wanda nodded slowly. “Yeah, at the pool party. Some guy pushed me in the pool, but I grabbed onto someone's shoulders before I fell and caught myself. We spent the rest of the time I was there talking. He’s on a reality show, Nat.”

Natasha’s heart raced. “He?”

Wanda nodded again, her gaze hardening. “Nat, we’re over”

Wanda’s revelation hit Natasha hard and fast. Natasha tried to respond, but Wanda was already standing up. “We can still go to prom together. We have plans and I don’t want them to go to waste.” Wanda finished, winking at Natasha.

Wanda turned and walked away, leaving Natasha sitting there, confused and in disbelief.

Natasha sat frozen, the weight of Wanda’s words and the reality sinking in. Looking over her shoulder, she spots Carol and Steve. Carol had a smirk on her face and Steve looked like he had just been told that his mother died.

“What the hell was that?” Natasha mumbled as she stood up and walked towards her two friends. “Nat, it’ll be okay. I’m sure the dude she’s with isn’t worth it anyways.” Steve said, trying to console his friend. Just as he finished talking, the intercom came on. “Hey folks! A little birdie told me that Natasha Romanoff, yes THE Natasha Romanoff just got dumped by Wanda Maximoff! Ouch, looks like the school's hotshot lost her spot. Better luck next time!” said Tony Stark, who almost burst out laughing at the end of his announcement.

“Looks like the great Natasha Romanoff got a taste of her own medicine.” Carol snickered from behind Natasha.

“Got something to say, Danvers?” Natasha turned, clearly impatient with her friend. 

“I just find it hilarious that the girl who always had it all – the girls, popularity, smarts, everything – gets dumped, and suddenly she's got nothing left.” Carol challenged Natasha as she took a step forward.

“I’m still the same person, Carol. One breakup doesn’t change anything.” Natasha breathed out, continuing to walk.

“Oh really? Prove it then.” Carol suggested, now on Natasha's side.

“Let’s make a bet,” Natasha proposed. “Find me a girl who’s a total disaster, and I’ll turn her into prom queen by the end of the year.”

“A disaster?” Carol questioned.

“Yeah, like a total disaster. Like someone who’s never been to a party, never been on a date, doesn’t know how to kiss…” Natasha said as they stopped and looked around.

Then—

“You think you can take someone like Y/N and turn her into prom queen?” Carol said as she watched you trip up the stairs.

“Yeah, I do.” Natasha let out as a smirk formed on her face.

“Alright then, I’ll take that bet. You pull this off and I’ll take care of everything else. When she’s crowned, you win. You get the girl, you get everything.” Carol said.

“Done.” Natasha reached her hand out to Carol and they shook hands, solidifying their deal.

---

At the end of the school day, Natasha spotted you across the courtyard. Hunched over your book, legs crossed beneath you. You were completely oblivious to the social hierarchy unfolding around you, the different groups, the gossip, the whispers. All you cared about was the book in front of you and nothing else. Either way, Natasha thought that there was something different about you.

Taking a breath, Natasha approached you.

“Hey, you’re Y/N right?” She asked, standing just a few feet away. You looked up at her, confusion written all over your face. “Yeah?”

“I’m Natasha. Natasha Romanoff.”

“I know who you are.” You said looking back down at your book, hearing the nearby students start to whisper about the scene unfolding in front of them.

“So, Y/N, listen – I was wondering if you’d maybe wanna-”

“I gotta go, my rides here.” You cut in, causing Natasha’s words to die as you stand abruptly.

“Or you could just embarrass me in front of everyone…that works too.” Natasha mutters to herself. Looking behind her, she sees Carol with her hands on her knees laughing hysterically. “You’re never gonna win this.”

Directing her attention to the parking lot, Natasha spots Wanda, who was walking towards a car. Stepping forward in an attempt to get a better look, a guy steps out. It was Vision. The guy from that stupid reality show The Real World. When he steps out, girls start to swarm him asking for autographs. He cuts past them and rushes to Wanda, lifting her up and kissing her. When they break apart, he looks Natasha dead in the eyes and smirks.

---

Opening her front door, Natasha sets her bag down with a sigh. She walks towards the kitchen and spots her sister, Yelena watching The Real World and eating a bowl of cereal. 

“Why are you watching that crap?” Natasha asks as she takes an apple from their fruit bowl.

“Please, it’s only background noise while I get ready so I don’t get bored,” Yelena turns to look at Natasha. “So, who's the lucky rebound skank?”

“Rebound skank?” Natasha asks as she takes a bite of her apple.

“Well I mean there's gotta be someone right?” Her sister replies, turning to fix her eyeliner.

“Well I wouldn’t say somebody, but there’s some sort of a project I have with Carol,” Natasha explains, her eyebrows raised. “To tell you the truth, she kinda blew me off.” Natasha finishes

“I like her already.” Yelena snickers as she looks at her sister.

“I just didn’t think it would be so difficult, I mean girls usually fall to their knees right away.” Natasha frowns as she takes another bite of the apple.

“Did it ever occur to you to put in a little effort?” Yelena retorts. “Find out where she hangs out, find out what she likes,” As Yelena finishes her sentence, the front door opens. “Mom and Dad are home, I’m off to hang out with some friends,” She says as she gets up. “Good luck! Don’t beat yourself up if you fail!”

Frowning, Natasha walks towards the living room where her parents are now. “Natasha, there’s still no word on the Columbia application?” her Dad questions as he flips through the mail.

 “Obviously not.” Natasha snaps back.

“You haven’t heard back from a single university. Isn’t that a bit unusual around this time of year?” Her dad says throwing the mail back onto the counter.

“Not really.” Natasha replies casually.

“I oughta give the admissions officer a call, I owe him one anyway.” Her Dad explains, walking towards his office.

“No, no. Let’s give it a couple days, I’ll probably hear back by Friday.” Natasha's poor attempt to reason with her father has her questioning if she seemed suspicious.

“Whatever” he grumbles out, shutting the door to his office.

Turning to walk up to her room, Natasha's Mom shoots her a look, she decides to shake it off and walks up the stairs and into her room. Sitting down, Natasha opens a drawer full of college admission letters and picks them up. The letters range from universities like Dartmouth, Harvard, Yale, and Columbia – all to which she had been accepted into. With a sigh, she returns the letters back into the drawer.

---

On the other side of town, Wanda was out shopping with her two best friends. She was completely unaware of Natasha’s intricate plan and the bet that she had made with Carol. Looking into the mirror of some tacky clothing shop, she eyes the tattoo that she had gotten with Vision.

“Does this tattoo look red to you?” she asks Agatha. “It hurts like a bitch, I’m starting to wonder if the guy who did this was even legit.” she finished lightly touching the tattoo behind her shoulder.

“Come on Wanda, don’t you care about anything anymore? Just two weeks ago we were helping you plan your prom queen acceptance speech, and now you’re Vision this, Vision that. What’s going on?” Agatha questioned her best friend, slightly annoyed with the girl.

“Yeah Wanda, the last thing you wanna do is alienate people 5 weeks before the election.” Monica says, backing Agatha up as they walk out of the store.

“And what is that supposed to mean?” Wanda scoffs out, shaking her head.

“I think what she’s trying to say is that you need to be careful, Wanda.” Agatha comments, giving Monica a look of worry.

“Careful of what? I can literally win this thing in fluorescent lighting, on the first day of my period, and a dress that’s been run over 50 times, okay? My mom was prom queen in 2002, my cousin was prom queen in 2012, and my sister would have been prom queen in 2023 if it weren’t for that stupid scandal about what went down in her prom limo. Okay, I am a fucking legacy. Alright? And besides, not to be a bitch, but who’s gonna beat Wanda Maximoff?” Wanda snaps, putting up the most absurd hand gestures and picking up her pace, walking away from the two girls behind her.

“God I hope that’s not your acceptance speech.” Agatha scoffs, turning to Monica as the other girl lets out a laugh.

---

As Natasha approached your workplace, she was determined to change your mind and win you over. Having gone over the plan multiple times in her head, and even going as far as writing it down step by step numerically, she was confident in her abilities. Opening the door to the diner, she immediately spots you at the register talking to a customer.

“Okay sir, that’ll be one cheeseburger, with a side of french fries. Would you like those fries extra large or large?” You ask in a warm tone. The man who was ordering the food looked off and started to think.

“Hmm. Let me see.” He says, tapping his fingers on the counter.

Just then, Natasha walks in, the bell above the door ringing. “Y/N.” She calls out as she closes the door behind her. You look over at her with wide eyes.

“What exactly does the extra large entail?” The man in front of you questions.

Tilting your head to the side, you look at Natasha. “Stalking is illegal in all 50 states.” You say giving her a slight smile.

“Come on, I just wanna talk.” She shakes her head and points to herself. The man ordering food looks straight at her and back to you.

“Perhaps I could have a sample fry to better equip myself with such a decision.” He suggests with a giddy smile on his face.

“Don’t you have a break coming up or something?” Natasha cuts in, attempting to pry as best as she can.

You roll your eyes at her and scoff, “One moment sir.” You say, putting a finger up to the man in front of you. You walk from behind the counter to the other side, where Natasha is standing. You grab her arm and drag her back a few feet.

“I know I’m smart, okay?” You say, patience running thin.

“What?” Natasha questions, confusion written all over her face. Before she can say anything else, you cut her off. “What? You figure I could tutor you or something? You see me and think that–”

“Y/N”

“I can tutor you just because I’m a nerd-”

“Y/N”

“Well, I’m not going to tutor you. Go find someone else who can.” You finish saying.

“Y/N! I have the fourth highest GPA in our class.” Natasha finally manages to say. You look at her in disbelief, turning to Kate, who's sitting at the bar. Kate nods her head, confirming Natasha's statement.

“Oh. Then what is this? Some kind of nerd outreach program?” You ask, looking up at Natasha while shaking your head.

“No, what? Are you always like this?” Natasha chuckles out as she stares straight back at you.

“No.” You scowl.

“Yes.” Kate lets out at the same time as you. You turn to look at your best friend, the same scowl playing on your face as she just shrugs back at you.

“Come on, five minutes.” Natasaha pleads, even making a pleading hand gesture in an attempt to persuade you.

“Five seconds.” You finally say, after all, you were still at work and had a customer to attend to.

“Okay. I really wanted to talk to you about…” Natasha trails, searching for something to give her an idea. She spots a pin on your uniform with a quote from one of Emily Dickinson’s poems. “Poetry!” She finally says.

“Poetry? Do you even take a class that touches that topic?” You question her, raising an eyebrow.

“But listen, I saw some of your poems in class, and they’re really good. So any kind of help you could give me, I’d really appreciate it.” She sighs out, eyebrows knitting together in a final attempt to win you over.

“Ugh, sure. Maybe sometime.” You state, feeling suspicious about the whole interaction.

“How about tonight?” Kate butts in. You and Natasha turn to her, a look of disbelief on your face. “There is a slam poetry contest tonight at the Westview Theatre. Here, take my ticket!” Kate says excitedly, reaching into her pocket and handing Natasha a ticket.

“That’s great!” Natasha beams, taking the ticket from Kate's hand gratefully.

“One moment please,” you turn to Natasha. Looking back at Kate, you fist her shirt, pushing her back to sit down in her seat. “Listen, I kicked your ass in the third grade. I can do it again.” You threaten, gaze hardening.

“Okay, for one, I was sick that day, and two, are you crazy? The best looking girl in school is stalking you, and you’re not even a little curious?” Kate defends herself, raising her eyebrows at you. You finally let go of her shirt, shaking your head at her and turning to walk towards Natasha.

“Okay, here's the deal,” you say, crossing your arms and stepping close to Natasha. “The contest starts at 7:30. Parking can be a problem. Meet me there at 7:00. Don’t be late.” You tell her sternly. Pivoting your foot, you walk back behind the counter to face the man that had been waiting for you.

“7:00 it is,” Natasha chuckles, her line of sight following you. “Hey, do you maybe wanna grab some dinner before–”

“No.” You say, cutting Natasha off.

“I’ll see you at 7:00.” Natasha agrees, a smile playing on her face as she turns to walk out of the diner.

It was weird, because for the first time in a while, Natasha was actually looking forward to something. Even if that something was something she had never talked about or been interested in. 

[mcu-binge]

Coconut lotion and Betrayal || Clark Kent x Reader ||

Pairing : Clark Kent x reader Word count : 3457

Summary : When your brother Jimmy offers his best friend Clark a place to crash after a plumbing disaster, you don’t expect to find him shirtless, charming, or completely off-limits, but you do and things take a turn.

Tags/warnings : confident!Clark, Jimmy’s sister POV, smut, oral (fem receiving)

====================================

When I got home from work, the only plan I had was to ignore my inbox, microwave leftover penne vodka, and fall asleep to a comfort movie I’ve seen a hundred times, probably Clueless or 13 going on 30. I’d earned it. My boss had yelled at me (again), some toddler had thrown pudding on my jeans during the lunch rush, and I’d somehow walked five miles in flats that were not made for walking.

What I didn’t plan for?

A wet, six-foot-something, glasses-wearing Greek statue of a man standing in the living room when I walked in.

“Hey,” Jimmy called from the couch, like this was normal. “Clark’s crashing for a few days.”

I stopped in the doorway, blinking like the water dripping from his curls was actually messing with my brain.

“What?”

Clark turned, smiled sheepishly, and raised a hand in a little wave. “Hi.”

“Hi,” I said, slowly shutting the door behind me. “I—uh—what?”

Jimmy sighed dramatically, tossing a throw pillow at his own knees. “A pipe burst in his building. It’s flooded his whole floor. The poor guy’s place is a disaster. So I offered him the couch. Figured you wouldn’t mind.”

I glanced at Clark again. His white dress shirt was soaked and clinging to him like it had beef with my self-control. He held a beat-up duffel in one hand and had ditched the tie somewhere between the storm and the foyer. His glasses fogged slightly in the warm apartment air.

I forced a smile. “No, yeah. Sure. Totally fine.” I’m such a liar. Because Clark Kent was staying here. In my apartment. With me. And my brother. For days. Kill me.

Let’s get this out of the way. I’ve had a crush on Clark since Jimmy first dragged him to family dinner six months ago. There was something about him, awkward but observant, charming without trying, the way he listened when I talked like he was gathering puzzle pieces. Plus, he was built like a linebacker and had arms that could hold you and make you feel like nothing in the world could touch you. Not that I’d thought about that or anything. I definitely didn’t plan on him sleeping twenty feet from my bedroom.

Jimmy, of course, had zero clue.

He ordered enough Thai food to feed a small militia, which honestly made sense. He eats like a teenager on a growth spurt and Clark…well. The man is built like a tree. A very polite, Midwestern, journalism-degree-holding tree.

We were spread out across the living room, sitting on mismatched cushions and couch throws like it was an unofficial sleepover. Jimmy had already annihilated two egg rolls and was deep into arguing why Die Hard is absolutely a Christmas movie.

Clark and I were quieter. Not silent, just… tuned into each other in that way where you feel someone looking before you even check. I kept catching him watching me out of the corner of his eye. Not in a creepy way. Just curious. Focused. Like I was the story and he was mid-interview.

He held chopsticks perfectly, of course. Neatly picking through his food while Jimmy gestured wildly with a skewer of chicken satay.

“You good over there?” Clark asked, voice low, private, like the room wasn’t full of curry fumes and my idiot brother quoting Bruce Willis.

“Mm-hmm.” I chewed slowly. “Just trying to survive dinner and a mansplainer at the same time.”

He snorted, eyes twinkling. “Is it working?”

“No,” I deadpanned. “But you showing up soaked and apologetic definitely helped.”

Clark flushed a little. A little. Not from embarrassment, though. No, this man didn’t fluster easily. Not anymore. I was starting to learn that the deeper his voice got, the calmer he looked on the outside, that’s when he was thinking about something he wasn’t saying. I liked it. Maybe a little too much.

After dinner, Jimmy pulled out an old board game that was missing half the box but still had all the pieces. Something trivia-adjacent with pop culture questions and mini-challenges.

“I call Clark,” I said, before I could second-guess it.

Jimmy narrowed his eyes. “You just want to team up with him because he’s full of random facts.”

“I want to win,” I said, shrugging. “If you’re scared, just say so.”

Clark chuckled, already scooting closer, thigh brushing mine. “You heard her, Jimmy.”

Game on. What followed was ninety minutes of barely restrained chaos. Jimmy kept trying to distract us by tossing popcorn. I rolled my eyes so hard I probably sprained something. Clark? Clark was lethal. Quietly competitive in the way that meant he knew everything, but never bragged about it. He’d lean into me, whispering answers like secrets, his voice curling against my ear and sending little shivers down my spine.

“Name five movies Tom Hanks starred in before the year 2000,” I read aloud.

Clark raised an eyebrow and grinned. “You want ‘em in alphabetical order?” I snorted, shoving his arm. He didn’t budge. Just watched me laugh with this look, that look, like he wanted to tuck it away in his pocket and keep it forever.

“Stop looking at me like that,” I muttered, brushing imaginary lint from my pajama shorts.

“Like what?”

“Like you’re cataloging my expressions.”

He leaned a little closer, voice dropping just for me. “Maybe I am.”

We didn’t win the game. I didn't need to. Because by the end of it, his leg was pressed against mine. His hand brushed my knee when he reached for a card. His laugh had grown deeper, softer, and my stomach kept flipping like I’d swallowed half a bottle of sriracha.

And when Jimmy finally yawned and stood, stretching like a bear, he didn’t miss a beat.

“All right,” he said, turning toward Clark. “Couch is yours. Sheets are clean. Bathroom’s down the hall. And…”

He pointed dramatically at Clark, then at me.

“Stay away from my sister.”

Clark put a hand over his heart, mock offended. “I’d never.”

Jimmy squinted. “That’s not even convincing.”

Clark’s eyes flicked toward me once Jimmy had disappeared behind his door. “No promises.” I rolled my eyes in mock annoyance.

“I have work tomorrow and so do you,” I say, moving to stand up.

“No goodnight kiss?” Clark asks, looking up at me.

“Goodnight Clark,” I tease. Bending down to kiss his cheek. I can feel his eyes on me as I retreat into my bedroom. Jimmy would kill me if I went back out there.

2:47 am

The pad Thai wasn’t calling my name, it was screaming it.

I crept to the kitchen in an oversized tee and nothing underneath, hair in a messy bun, body sleepy and craving carbs. The light over the stove cast a soft golden glow, and I was halfway through shoveling cold noodles into my mouth when I heard footsteps. I turned, chopsticks frozen mid-air. Clark.

Barefoot. Shirtless. Wearing only low-hanging gray shorts that left nothing to the imagination. His chest was broad, tanned, strong. Hair mussed. Glasses slightly crooked. And he was watching me like he was the one who was starving.

“Midnight snack?” he asked, voice thick with sleep. .

I swallowed hard. “Couldn’t sleep.”

He walked closer, slow, unhurried, every step deliberate. “Neither could I. Must be something in the air.”

He stopped in front of the fridge, but he didn’t open it. He just looked at me.

Not my face, just me. My legs. My shirt. My lips. His eyes dropped like gravity had hold of them.

“God,” he muttered, almost to himself. “You really gonna do this to me in a t-shirt and bare legs?”

My breath caught.

“You always sleep half-naked?” I countered, voice shaky but trying to be bold.

He tilted his head, the corner of his mouth curling into something sinful. “Just glad someone’s awake to see it.”

My thighs pressed together on instinct.

He stepped in, closing the distance between us with one smooth motion. My back hit the counter. His hands braced on either side of me. His chest was right there, solid, warm, so close I could feel the heat rolling off him.

“I’ve been trying to be respectful,” he said quietly, gaze locked on mine. “Jimmy’s my best friend. I told myself I’d behave.”

My breath was shallow now. “And?”

He leaned in, voice a low growl against my ear. “And then I saw you standing in the kitchen with your lips parted and no bra. So you tell me.”

A tiny gasp escaped me. “Tell you what?” I whispered.

“If you want me be respectful,” he murmured. “Or if you want me to show you what I’ve been thinking about since the night I met you.”

My hands moved before I could stop them, fistfuls of his shorts at the hips, pulling him closer. He grinned.

“I knew it,” he breathed. His hips pressed forward. A low groan left him. “Wanna talk about what I’ve imagined doing in this kitchen?”

“Clark.”

He kissed my jaw. My throat. His voice dropped like thunder. “You're wearing my shirt.”

“What?”

“Tomorrow morning,” he panted. Then his mouth was on mine. And God, it wasn’t sweet. It was hot. Heavy. Desperate.

His hands slid up under my shirt, slow but greedy, fingers splayed over my back like he’d fantasized about it. His tongue teased mine, hips pressing between my legs, anchoring me to the counter like I might float away. I moaned into his mouth, breath hitching when he groaned against me.

“This is crazy,” I panted, pulling back for air.

His lips brushed my jaw. “So stop me.” But I didn’t. I kissed him harder. His hands gripped my thighs, lifted me onto the counter like I weighed nothing. His mouth moved to my neck, teeth grazing just enough to make me arch.

“Clark,” I gasped.

He pulled back, eyes dark with heat, pupils blown wide. “Say that again.”

I grabbed the collar of his nonexistent shirt, tugged him back to me. “Clark.” He kissed me like he’d waited, like he’d imagined every version of this and now he had to memorize it. When we finally broke apart, lips swollen, breath uneven, he leaned his forehead against mine.

His arms slid beneath my thighs, lifting me like I weighed nothing. His lips brushed mine again, feather-soft this time, like we were about to step into something dangerous. Sacred. Addictive.

“You sure?” he whispered, voice low, thick with restraint he clearly didn’t want to hold.

“I should say no,” I breathed.

“But you won’t,” he said, already turning toward the hallway.

My arms wrapped around his shoulders as he carried me. Bare chest pressed to mine. Every step was careful. Slow. Silent. The hardwood creaked once and we both froze, still and breathless. Clark looked down at me, wide-eyed, lips parted like this, this sneaking, heated, reckless thing, was thrilling him just as much.

“Bedroom?” he mouthed.

I pointed with a grin. He smirked and continued down the hall.

When we slipped inside, he kicked the door shut with his foot. Gently. Almost too gently. We both listened for a beat, silence. No creaks from Jimmy’s room. No angry sibling voice yelling “Are you kidding me?”

Clark’s mouth was on mine before I even settled on the bed. His weight hovered over me, strong arms braced on either side of my head, body grazing mine but not quite pressing down. Teasing. His lips dragged along my neck, jaw, behind my ear, each kiss slower than the last.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmured again, voice like hot silk.

“Clark.”

He smiled, eyes fluttering shut for a second like hearing me say his name physically affected him.

“I want you,” I whispered. “I’ve wanted you.”

His mouth met mine again, hungrier this time. More deliberate. His hand slid up under my shirt again, this time, slower, bolder, fingers skimming up my ribs, tracing the underside of my breast. When his thumb brushed over my nipple, I gasped, arching into his touch.

His breath hitched, forehead pressed to mine, lips barely brushing as he murmured, “you’re driving me insane.”

His other hand found the waistband of my panties, curling just inside. Not pulling. Not pushing. Just hovering, knuckles grazing my hip, making me burn.

“Still okay?” he asked, eyes dark, searching.

“More than okay.”

That’s all it took.

His mouth dropped to my collarbone, kissing lower as he pushed the hem of my shirt up with both hands. I raised my arms, and he tugged it off in one smooth motion, tossing it somewhere into the dark. His hands immediately found my bare chest, warm palms cupping, thumbs circling my nipples until they were tight, sensitive, and aching. His mouth followed, hot and open, tongue flicking over one before he sucked gently, drawing a moan I tried to stifle into my hand.

“Shh,” he teased, pulling back, breathing warm against my skin. “Can’t have Jimmy waking up and finding me with his sister half-naked and panting.”

“Then stop making me pant,” I whispered, eyes narrowed.

He grinned, leaned down, to bite my bottom lip, just enough to make me gasp again.

“No chance,” he said.

His hands slid down to my thighs again, kneading the softness like he couldn’t get enough. Then eyes locked on mine as he did it, watching me writhe beneath him.

I was in just a pair of panties, and his eyes dragged over every inch of me, jaw tight.

“You’re perfect.” he whispers.

I reached up, fingers threading through his messy hair, and pulled him down into another kiss, deeper, wetter, full of tongue and need. He settled between my legs and rocked against me slowly, the fabric of his shorts dragging over my heat in the most perfect kind of torture.

“Feel that?” he whispered into my mouth, hips grinding gently. “That’s what you do to me.”

“Clark…”

He kissed down my stomach, hand grazing the front of my panties, teasing.

“You know I’m not sleeping on that couch tonight,” he said, pressing a kiss just below my bellybutton.

“Clark.”

“I’m staying,” he murmured, fingers stroking slow over damp fabric. “If you want me.”

I looked down at him, all messy hair and hungry eyes and soft, slow breath warming my thighs.

“I’ve always wanted you.”

His mouth hovered just above the waistband of my panties.

“I should stop,” Clark whispered, his voice a rough edge against my skin. “I should be a gentleman.”

I arched, breathless. “Don’t be.”

That broke him. His hands slid up the backs of my thighs, slow and warm, spreading me just enough that his body fit perfectly between mine. He kissed my hip, then the other, his lips soft, deliberate, reverent. His fingers brushed over the damp fabric between my legs, knuckles grazing so lightly I nearly whimpered.

“Jesus,” he murmured. “You’re soaked.”

My hips shifted involuntarily, chasing his touch. He pressed his forehead to my inner thigh, exhaling like he was trying to keep it together. And failing.

He hooked his fingers under the waistband, slowly, watching my face for any hesitation.

There wasn’t any. He peeled them down, inch by inch, baring me completely. My thighs trembled. Clark looked up at me with those devastating eyes, half glasses, half sin.

“You’re gonna have to be quiet, sweetheart,” he whispered, voice dark silk. “And I’m not making it easy.”

I bit my bottom lip, nodding once.

And then his mouth was on me. Hot. Slow. Focused. His tongue moved in soft, deliberate strokes, like he wanted to taste every inch of me, like he needed to learn what made me gasp, what made me shiver. I clamped a hand over my mouth, eyes fluttering shut, head pressing back into the pillow as pleasure rippled through me.

He was good. Too good. Clark Kent, sweet and polite in the newsroom, filthy in the dark. He moaned into me, like the taste of me was wrecking him. His fingers gripped my thighs tight, keeping me open, keeping me there. When he sucked my clit just right, I arched off the bed, whimpering against my palm. He didn’t stop. Didn’t let up. He kept going until I was a mess beneath him, shaking, biting my knuckle, so close. And then he pulled back.

“Clark,” I whimpered, hips chasing him.

“Shh,” he murmured, crawling back up my body, kissing his way to my mouth. “I want more than just that.”

When his lips met mine again, I could taste myself on him, and I kissed him harder for it.

His hands palmed my breasts again, thumbs circling, teasing, making me cry out softly into his mouth. He swallowed the sound greedily, his hips grinding into mine, hardness pressing against my bare, wet skin through those shorts.

“Take them off,” I breathed. He obeyed, kicking them off letting them fall off my bed.

He rocked into me again, slower this time. His cock pressed right where I needed him, and the friction made me gasp. He was teasing me. Over and over. Letting me feel everything without giving it all. I dragged my nails down his back, hips lifting to meet every movement.

“You feel what you’re doing to me?” he whispered against my neck. “You’ve been driving me crazy. Every time you walk into a room. Every time you laugh. Every time you wear those damn shorts.”

“You think I wore them for you?” I panted.

His grin was pure heat. “Did you?”

I bit his earlobe. “Maybe.”

He groaned, deep and low, hips stuttering against mine. Then he pushed up on his elbows and looked down at me, hair wild, chest heaving, glasses slightly fogged. A man on the edge.

Clark lowered his forehead to mine, still grinding slow and deep between my thighs, every roll of his hips making me moan into his mouth.

“I’m gonna ruin you for anyone else,” he said, voice thick. “And you’ll ruin me right back.”

“Then what are you waiting for?”

His breath caught. Then he kissed me again, hot and full of promise, and pressed down harder, hitting just the right spot. I moaned. Loud. We both froze. A creak in the hallway. Silence. Clark stared at me. He grinned. Slow and wicked.

Then whispered against my lips “Guess we’re not great at being quiet.”

“WHY is the kitchen light on?”

Clark’s eyes widened. My heart stopped. We both turned toward the door like we could will it invisible. Then came the unmistakable sound of footsteps. Heavy ones.

“Oh my God,” I mouthed, scrambling to yank the blanket up.

Clark bolted upright and hissed, “Where are my shorts?!”

“I don’t know!”

“Good gosh.”

Bang! Bang! Bang!

“Why is your door locked?” Jimmy’s voice was muffled through the wood but absolutely full of suspicion. “And why the hell are you not answering?”

Clark flinched. I started laughing into the pillow. Silent, shaking, nearly hyperventilating.

“I swear to God, if I open this and Clark is in there—”

“Don’t you dare!” I yelped, trying to throw on a shirt and immediately putting it on backwards. “Jimmy, I’m—asleep! I’m—sick!”

“Sick?” Jimmy barked. “Is that why it smells like coconut lotion and betrayal in this hallway?!”

Clark was standing now, still naked, hands on his hips like he was in a hostage situation.

“This is it,” he whispered. “This is how I die. Your brother’s gonna kill me in your bedsheets.”

BANG.

“CLARK! I KNOW YOU’RE IN THERE. I WILL GET A BUTTER KNIFE.”

“Why a butter knife?!” Clark hissed.

“I don’t know!” I whisper-yelled. “He gets weird when he’s mad!” Clark looked around, panicked, and spotted his shorts on the floor. He dove for them, pulling them on backwards and inside-out like his life depended on it.

“I’m coming in!” Jimmy warned.

“NO, YOU’RE NOT!” I shouted.

Dead silence. Then “…you moaned his name!”

I slapped my hand over my mouth in horror. Clark paled.

“Oh my God,” Jimmy said, scandalized. “My ears. I heard it. Clark.” He mimicked me in the most unholy voice known to man. “CLAAAAARK.”

“I’m gonna jump out the window,” Clark whispered. “This is it.”

I wheezed, now fully collapsed in a fit of mortified laughter. “You’re not helping!”

“Neither are you, moaner.”

“Okay, I’m leaving!” Jimmy groaned. “But tomorrow, we are having a deeply upsetting conversation about boundaries, decency, and who I let crash on my couch.”

His footsteps retreated down the hallway. Clark stared at the door, then at me. We were both panting. And then, we burst out laughing. Uncontrollably. Loud and stupid and half-naked under the covers.

“Well,” I said, wiping tears. “That was subtle.”

Clark grinned, still breathless. “Think I’ll still get invited to family dinners?”

“Not unless you bring Jimmy a noise-canceling headset.”

[siennayaps]

Ex-Boyfriend Satoru sends you a voice note at 3 AM that’s just him whispering: “Hey… I didn’t know I remember the way your conditioner smells? Because I walked by a Lush and nearly sobbed.”

Ex-Boyfriend Satoru sits outside your apartment like a sad little cat, holding an umbrella, sunglasses and a single plushie shaped like a white cat. “I bought you this. His name is Sir Meowgumi. He misses you too.”

Ex-Boyfriend Satoru texts you that “I haven’t flirted with anyone in 18 days, 4 hours, and 11 minutes. My charm is broken. You’re the only one it works on.”

Ex-Boyfriend Satoru Gojo shows up at Jujutsu High with eye bags, no gel in his hair, mismatched socks, and a hoodie that says “Property of My Ex (I Hope).” Everyone’s worried. Nanami files a wellness report.

Ex-Boyfriend Satoru says, “I miss the taste of your lips. I miss the way you used to threaten to punch me for eating all the fries. I even miss how you bullied me when I got emotional watching K-dramas.”

You: “Gojo. We were watching Extraordinary Attorney Woo.”

Satoru: “THE DOLPHIN SCENE BROKE ME.”

Ex-Boyfriend Satoru posts an Instagram story that’s just your shared playlist on loop and the caption: “Somebody sedate me I miss her.” You unfollowed him. He sends it to you over text anyway.

Ex-Boyfriend Satoru dramatically declares: “I’m not the strongest without you. I’m like… a sexy rice cracker. Crispy. Crumbly. Alone in plastic.”

You: “That doesn’t even make sense.”

Satoru, dead serious: “Exactly. I make no sense without you.”

Ex-Boyfriend Satoru finally gets serious.

“I messed up. I know I did. I let my ego win. I didn’t show up when I should’ve. But I’ve been showing up every day since you left, just without the privilege of being yours.”

Ex-Boyfriend Satoru sends one final message before going radio silent:

“I miss the warmth of your touch. The smell of your shampoo. The little noises you made when you fell asleep on me. …I even miss your cat judging me.”

You don’t reply. And then…

Ex-Boyfriend Satoru shows up at your door, completely soaked in rain, hair clinging to his forehead, sky blue hoodie dripping. No umbrella. Just him. And a box of your favorite snacks.

“I didn’t know where else to go.” You stare. He looks like the saddest wet anime boy in existence.

“…I miss your kitty,” he adds softly.

You slap his arm. “Satoru!”

He grins, hopeful and ridiculous. “I meant the cat, I SWEAR.”

You pull him inside anyway.

You hand him a towel.

You kiss him.

He melts.

Ex-Boyfriend Satoru isn’t your ex anymore.

He’s just your idiot, again.

—————————————————————————

Satoru 3 hours after you let him in 😌

Credits: harlspoison

[fixyourwritinghabits]

How do I outline for a book? I’ve been thinking about a book idea for years and have started it a couple of times, but I have a really hard time actually planning and outlining. I couldn’t really grasp the whole hero’s journey template thingy they showed us in middle school. I understand it a little more now, but I still have a hard time following that. I have a very general idea of how I want the story to go, I have the main characters kind of figured out, and I know (vaguely) how I want everything to end, it’s tying it all together that I’m struggling on. I don’t know how to plot to get characters from point A to B while also making sure it makes sense. I’ve always been a “just write and it’ll come together” type of author and that’s worked for short stories and fanfic for the most part, but I have no clue how to do this for a full length novel. I hope this makes sense and I’m sorry if you’ve already gone over this before, I appreciate any time taken to answer me. Love your page!

We have a huge outline | outlining tag list that I highly recommend you check out. I also write a Plot A Month series awhile back that might be good to check out. but regardless of any structure you choose to move forward with, keep the following in mind:

Start with what you have. Break out an Excel sheet, a piece of paper, flashcards, whatever you want to build off of, and put down what you know at those points (beginning scene, end scene, cool scene you want in the middle, etc). Laying out what you already know you want to happen will help you figure out the rest of the plot.

You don't have to figure out every step on the way. An outline is a guide, not a hammered down plot. If you're a pantser (someone who doesn't outline), free-writing when you get stuck or when you hit a part of the plot is perfectly fine!

The only "right way" to outline is the way that works for you. There are many, many different kinds of outline structures, and sometimes you need to experiment to find what works best for you. Don't trap yourself in a system that isn't working.

Also keep in mind:

The first draft doesn't have to make sense. You are figuring out the basics. Don't stress plot points that aren't completely working yet!

No writing is wasted writing. You will have scenes, chapters, and moments that will get cut. Don't waste time anticipating what those are ahead of time. Writing that doesn't end up in the final story is still useful, because it helps you figure out how to tell a better story.

If the outline isn't working, change it. Don't hold onto an outline that no longer fits your story! Revise it when you find a better plot to follow.

[fashionteahouse]

Can you do one where Paul and Jacob imprint on an innocent reader. Paul is more dominant than Jacob. Jacob is more of a soft dom. If that makes sense. After words, both take care of the reader who smiles lazily at them.

yes ❤️ sorry for the absence guys I’m currently on vacay hope you enjoy :)

neon guts - paul lahote and jacob black x reader

It had never happened before.

Two wolves imprinting on the same girl.

It was confusing but not unsettling as both Jacob and Paul feel their wolves humming in satisfaction of imprinting on you.

You were the center for both wolves, grounding the soon to be alpha and the hot headed third in command.

The first time you saw them both together, it felt like standing too close to the edge of something wild and unknowable.

You didn’t expect the excitement to lurch in your stomach that would debut every time you saw them.

The kind woman Emily, the imprint of the current alpha, Sam Uley, kept you around. Inviting you over to help her cook, inviting you over for girl talk, and finally the bonfire.

Laughter crackled in the dark, boys with impossible bodies and eyes filled with solemn, and stories told by ancient mouths that felt like warnings rather than entertainment.

Paul Lahote and Jacob Black arrived side by side, but you picked up the difference in their energies.

Jacob’s presence was warm and comforting, like the sun bleeding through storm clouds. Paul’s presence was thunder, sharp, crackling and dangerous.

Paul barely looked at anyone as he walked but his eyes eventually landed on you with a force of a tidal wave. Jacob trailed slightly behind, his gaze following Paul’s before meeting yours as well.

They were everywhere now.

It was subtle at first.

At first, you didn’t understand why they acted like you belonged to them. You weren’t used to this kind of attention because you were shy but this kind of attention was different.

It was the way Paul would hover too close. It was the way Jacob would brush past you when he had to walk pass.

You found yourself drawn to the two personalities.

Paul was magnetic. Everything about him made your pulse race. His voice, the sharp glint in his eye, the way he made you nervous and feel like prey.

Jacob was warmth. Safety. He listened. Gave you space but not too much. His hands were always gentle, even when he was visibly holding back something primal underneath his skin.

Hands in your pockets, you thought nothing of it when you walked back to your place. After spending time with Emily helping her volunteer at the tribal center, you just wanted to relax at home.

You froze in your tracks once you saw a shirtless Paul near your front door with his fists clenched. Jacob only stood near, arms crossed with his jaw tight.

Jacob’s eyes snapped to yours as he perked up at the sight of you, “Y/N.”

Paul immediately stopped his pacing before he went right towards you.

“Where the hell were you?” Paul asked with his voice low, “Not even answering the phone and we’re blowing you up.”

You pat your phone in your pocket, “It died.”

“You didn’t bring a charger so you could charge it? What if something happened?” Jacob asked but his voice wasn’t as rough as Paul’s.

“Nothing was going to happen. I was only with Emily.” You say to Jacob.

“Yeah, well, you didn’t tell me.” Paul interjected.

Jacob immediately stepped in, putting an hand on your arm, “Back off, Paul.”

Paul smacked Jacob’s hand off of your arm, “Don’t start with me Jacob.”

“She’s not your property.” Jacob scowled.

“She’s not yours either.”

Their eyes glared at each other as heat was rising between them like a storm about to snap. You felt too small, too soft, too human.

“Stop it.” You whispered.

Jacob looked down with his shoulders trembling, keeping control.

Paul exhaled sharply.

“I didn’t mean to upset you. Either of you.” You swallowed.

“You didn’t, honey. It’s just,” Jacob sighed a bit, softening his features, “It’s us. Were..We’re not used to this.”

“To what?” You ask.

“To sharing.” Paul clarified with his eyes darkened.

“It’s alright. But, I’m safe. Really.” You reassure as you unlock your door with your key.

You felt heat beat your back as you entered your home, knowing that they followed you in.

Jacob flopped down on the couch completely and Paul followed as he tugged your arm a bit.

You were sandwiched in between them.

“You can’t worry us like that, Y/N. We didn’t know what to think.” Paul spoke, his voice a bit softer than earlier but he caressed the side of your face.

The burst of energy erupted from that touch. It was unerringly soft.

“I’m sorry. Emily was with me. I’m surprised Sam didn’t tell you.” You replied coyly.

“He was too busy pacing outside of your door.” Jacob says as he rolled his eyes a bit, pointing his thumb at Paul.

You break a smile before you and Jacob share a chuckle. The eye contact was prolonged and you saw Jacob’s relaxed state, his worry melting away.

Then, you felt your head be turned in the opposite direction to face Paul. His look on his face was purely focused.

Having a large hand cup your face, he pulled your face to him as you share a lingering kiss.

It spun your brain, it made you forget that you were in your living room. A breathy sigh made your mouth crack open and he slipped his warm tongue in.

It was surprising as you never kissed him or anyone this intensely.

You exhaled as soon as you both pulled away.

“Did you forget she has to breathe?” Jacob asked sarcastically.

Paul licked his lips a bit as he watched you regain your breath before he snapped his eyes to Jacob.

“It’s a kiss. She’ll live.” Paul spoke in a raspy voice.

Jacob slightly shook his head before you kiss him too, so he wouldn’t feel left out. Jacob cupped your jaw as the kiss lasted longer than Paul’s. It was sweet but he still had control. A soft sigh escaped from you when the brush of his tongue licked your bottom lip.

Paul turned your face back to him, breaking your kiss with Jacob. With you being so delirious, you didn’t care. You fell into his rhythm of a kiss.

It was hungry, dominating, and purely passionate. Your hand ended up snaking up his neck into his soft bed of hair and fisting it to anchor yourself. A low groan from him erupted into your mouth and it shot to inside of your pants.

You were panting embarrassingly loud but at that moment neither of you didn’t care.

It was suprising to you when you felt Jacob shift your upper body to have your back laid against him on the couch.

You saw his face peer over you before he planted a kiss on your lips. It was your first time kissing him or anyone in this position.

Paul had no problem undoing your pants since your legs rested at his waist. Your hands fly to his hands that didn’t dare to pause. Your lips were too busy being occupied, so a muffled noise was made.

“It’s been so long…All day I couldn’t stop thinking about you. I need this.” Paul roughly spoke as he brushed your hands away and tugged your pants from your legs.

Your body twitches as bit as you felt Jacob’s rough but soft hands run up your stomach before lifting your shirt, exposing the stiff nipples on your chest.

A soft groan was made from your mouth as you felt Jacob’s hands caress and squeeze your tissue.

You couldn’t help but bring one hand to rest on his forearm.

“Do you feel good?” Jacob whispered.

“Yes.” You whispered back but you couldn’t say anymore because Paul’s thick finger rubbed against your underwear covered center.

The feeling of Jacob messaging your chest and Paul messaging your center, made your brain turn into pure mush as your eyes closed as you felt the overwhelming sensation.

Your eyes popped open from hearing a tear, only to see Paul with your shredded underwear in his large hand.

You were exposed as his eyes lit up like he ripped open a gift.

“Lift her.” Paul demanded.

Jacob had you lifted with his large hands under your arms, your back glued to his chest.

Paul went to his knees, putting your legs on his shoulders and ate at his your center.

You mewed out, the sensation overtaking your entire body as you were in disbelief that he could make you feel so good but, you expected nothing less.

The tingles coiled inside of your stomach as you felt like you couldn’t move anything but your hands that tangled in his hair.

“I have to pee!” You moan out as your breath turned rapid.

They both hummed out a chuckle.

“You don’t . You just feel really..Good.” Jacob gently reassured.

You heard another rip. This time it didn’t come from Paul, it came from Jacob. Fully bare and exposed, his warm lips assaulted your neck as the back of your head rested back against him. His large calloused hands, especially his fingers, traced your nipples.

Paul’s tongue continued to flick and eat at your pulsating center.

Jacob’s encouraging hums in your ear and Paul’s deep dark groans, had you losing the last bit of your mind that you were holding onto.

It felt like you had neon guts. You couldn’t see nothing but stars, it felt like you were tasting star dust. The tingles danced on every inch of your face.

You moaned out each of their names like prayers. You didn’t know what you were begging for. All you knew was that every lick, every touch, was a lot.

Paul came up for air. Your legs were so weak.

“Give her to me.”

It was Paul’s turn to have your back pressed against his chest.

Jacob kneeled, propping your shaky legs on his shoulders.

You hum out a protest but Jacob shushed you gently while rubbing your inner thighs.

“Just fuck his face for me.” Paul whispers as he sensually messaged your breast.

“Just let me taste you.” Jacob whispered.

Your head threw back as he took you in his mouth. Your hips waved against his face as Paul’s touches were making you feel an overwhelming sensation of euphoria.

“Yes. Just like that.” Paul whispered as he ran his hands down your sides, making your body react to his touch. He captured your lips since your head was tilted in his direction.

You could only moan into his mouth, you felt another wave of energy coming.

You tried to pull away from his face but his lips found yours every time.

Your face crumbled as you came so hard, you gave up on all control. Falling into the buzz, your lower stomach violently burst with tingles, enough to make you want to cry. It felt like you were floating in the room like a reefer.

Only they could make you feel like this.

Blinking away the stars, you didn’t register them ever putting you on your back in your bed.

Your chest rose and fell as you tried to catch your breath.

Two men lay beside you. Paul was propped on one elbow as he tilted his head a bit, caressing your arm.

“How do you feel?” Jacob asked quietly.

You couldn’t even speak. You let out a satisfied sigh, smiling a bit. This amused Paul.

“We took real good care of you. Didn’t we?”

You could only tiredly but lazily stretch your face into a genuine smile. You felt like you were on top of the moon.

[cxsmicbaby]

I’m dying from the Johnny storm x publicist story! would u ever consider doing another part where they finally do p in v? or even where the other fantastic 4 find out about them? sorry im becoming too invested, your work is amazing!

hiii anon don't be sorry it makes me so happy that you guys are loving this because i'm loving writing it <3 sorry for the wait with this one ;) enjoy

i def struggled more with this part than the other three but i think it's because i was trying to make it more like... yearning... if that makes sense. anyways this and all the other things i publish are not proofreaded so pls give me grace... this one is also longer than the others heh sorry abt that

mdni as per usual; there's no smut until the end and i'll put a little note when it's about to start

part one | part two | part three

johnny has been called a lot of things in his relatively short-life—dickhead, idiot, good-for-nothing, narcissist... the list goes on. fortunately (for him, not so much the insulter), most name-calling rolls effortlessly off his back like oil on water. it used to be that just knowing one person was disappointed in him made his entire being crumble, desperate to make them see he could be better. the armor he's constructed around his heart prevents this, keeps nasty words from piercing him—it also keeps out the visitors, knocking gingerly against the gates, defenseless but somehow even more terrifying than bloodthirsty warriors with snarled mouths for swords.

the trouble is when those soldiers rise from behind the walls, traitorous to the very beating heart they've been tasked to protect. when the words come from his own mouth, whispering to him when he lies awake into the late hours of the night.

johnny storm, you are an incredible asshole.

he's thinking this, when he sees you give him that look—he's come to know it well in the past week, since he's started ignoring you. ignoring is a harsh, ugly way to say it, but it's just the truth. ben said it, when they were sitting in johnny's room playing cards, a pasttime they employ when they're particularly bored with no one else to turn to.

"she's definitely pissed about it," ben had grumbled, gathering his over-sized cards in both hands. uno is really the only card game they can play; they're the only brand that has a giant version. "what happened? you didn't hook up with her, did you?"

johnny huffed, not even bothering to deny it. he suspected ben was only asking as a courtesy, anyway; he'd probably known the whole time.

"oh, boy. come on, johnny. you don't one night stand our goddamn publicist," ben chastised, voice gruff as he shook his head. he was still looking at his cards, brows furrowed, trying to figure out what his first play should be. johnny knew not to take this personally—ben is just very serious about his uno winning streak. "for christ’s sake, she lives here. you're a real ass sometimes."

"i didn't one night stand her," he'd stammered, but as he said it he knew he was not helping his case; ben finally looked up from his spread, with an expression of pure disappointment.

"how many times, then?"

johnny sighed. "...three."

"jeez. i should've known! you've been making goo-goo eyes at each other for weeks."

it started last wednesday, the morning after you'd slept over in his room. it had been a while since johnny'd woken to a bed that wasn't empty and he'd forgotten how much he liked it. he was up before you, and took the time to admire how beautiful you looked sleeping. you'd shifted overnight; your back was to him, but you were curled into his open arms, clutching a spare pillow to you like a stuffed animal. he wondered if you usually slept like that, teddy bear held close to your chest. the thought made his heart swell in a way that was almost uncomfortable.

you laid like that for a little while; his fingers brushing lightly against the soft skin on your upper arm, tracing shapes into you, and his name, which he really hoped you wouldn't wake up for.

you'd stirred, stretching, then condensed back into his arms, a little smile on your tired face. johnny's head was clouded with sleepy adoration and he kissed you, for once not caring about his morning breath—oral hygiene is very important to him. the whole thing was quite domestic; thinking about it now makes him feel light-headed.

you'd gone out for an early breakfast, slipping out of the tower before the rest were up and wandering. you were really craving a croissant, and johnny knew the absolute best place to get one. he'd almost reached to hold your hand as you walked down the street together but thought better of it.

it was early enough that you hadn't had to wait in line at the cafe, so you'd taken johnny to your favorite spot to eat in the city—a grassy little knoll with two stone chairs and a very weathered chess table. johnny was quite satisfied with how much you enjoyed your croissant, and you'd even told him he had good taste, which made him smile.

you were telling him a story about almost getting run over when his digiwatch beeped. it was a little unnecessary, as he'd seen the explosion above your head a second before it went off; a building close enough that he heard the screams, but not enough that you were in immediate danger.

"shit," he'd muttered, almost in awe. he stood, eyes reflecting the mayhem, mouth open in disbelief.

the building was crumbling quickly; he was moving too slow, but he found himself scared to leave you. you looked frightened, standing up with him—did he have time to fly you back to the baxter building, just to be safe? but what if whoever had done this decided to target their home, too? the safest place for you was with him but he couldn't fly you into a burning building; he couldn't afford to be distracted with your safety, didn’t know what he’d do if you got hurt.

his head was starting to ache.

"johnny, what are you doing? you have to—"

he saw it before it happened. a craft that had to be alien in nature, hovering high above the building right above you. it was gone in a flash but it was already too late; a deafening strike of thunder sounded, and then everything was silent—a flash of white, and then you screamed, and he was blown off his feet with a gust so powerful he barely registered it hit at all.

then he was waking up on the concrete, ears ringing; his vision was choppy and blurred, chest heaving in an erratic rhythm. smoke and ash billowed through the air, filling his lungs with grey, making him cough.

and then he thought of you. his body filled with such a panic he felt the rattling in his teeth.

he screamed your name, his voice muffled by his shrieking ears. he stood unsteadily, head on a swivel, trying to spot you. there you were—splayed out in the small plot of fenced off grass, eerily still. johnny's legs were moving before he could think; he skidded to his knees beside you, hands frantically reaching for your face, your neck, feeling desperately for a pulse. your eyes fluttered open, and johnny almost sobbed.

he took you in his arms and flew you to the nearest hospital. he tried very hard not to burn you but his emotions were making his flames irresponsive to his commands and he knows he may have made it an uncomfortable flight. once he'd begged the nurses to take good care of you johnny forced himself away, toward the two deteriorating buildings. reed was furious with him for being so late and johnny, in his emotional stupor, had almost cried—they'd let him off the hook after that.

you were discharged by the end of the day; you had a slight concussion and a bruised rib, but other than that and a few scraps you'd escaped fortunately unscathed. sue picked you up. johnny did not go see you in the hospital.

when he was getting his injuries treated, he kept thinking of your unconscious face—of how sickeningly similar you'd looked knocked out in the street, and peacefully asleep in his bed. he thought of how easily he'd almost lost you, of how easily he'd collapsed into himself, unable to do his job because he was so worried about you.

so, johnny has done his absolute best not to speak to you since then. the worst was the first two days, when you were still trying to engage him, but now you're returning his chill with a vengeance.

i'm an asshole. he thinks this, when he walks into the kitchen to see you standing there, chopping some vegetables for dinner. you're dressed down, big shirt and jean shorts—sue's encouraged you to take it easy, and though johnny feels like you could be taking it easier, you're at least trying. he knows it's hard for you. working makes you feel good.

instinctively, you look up at johnny when he enters. when you catch his eye you immediately avert your gaze, focusing on the task at hand. you try not to turn your mouth up in a scowl at his mere presence but it proves difficult.

he stands there in the archway, like he's forgotten why he was coming in at all. you feel like you're going to explode with anger just being in the same room as him. you cut the zucchini with a little less finesse than usual and almost nick yourself on the final slice.

before you can properly reach your limit, sue saves you, wandering in from the other direction with a flourish—she's dressed quite fancily, must be going somewhere. reed follows behind her, and you connect the dots; they’re going on a date.

good for them. you envy the health of their relationship. you wish you could be attracted to good, loyal men like reed, instead of men that slept with you like you were married, and then pretended you didn't exist.

"you're really letting her do all the work? she's still concussed, for christ's sake," sue scolds, shaking her head as she walks past the kitchen, toward the door. well, so much for your savior.

"it's okay," you blurt, almost a little too suddenly; you force a soft smile when sue gives you a suspicious look. "i like cooking alone."

you think you're being unconvincing but it seems your words placate her—at least, enough for her and reed to leave a few moments later after a hug and an excited suggestion that you and her make dinner tomorrow. johnny stands there like an idiot for the minutes after they're gone, checking his watch, his phone, looking around the room. you can't stand it anymore and you're worried you'll burn the food if he's here distracting you for a second longer.

"can you stand around somewhere else?" you finally say, your back to him. you're tossing the zucchini in ben's famous marinade, eyes on the food and not daring to look up at him.

johnny doesn't say anything. you think maybe he's determined to keep his ignorance streak up—you gamify his actions, because that's what this all is to him, a game—but then he's moving closer, almost taking a seat at the barstools across the counter from you.

"how, um... how's your head?" his voice is so weak and unsure you almost feel bad, but it turns into anger before it can settle.

you decide to stay silent, pretend he isn't there. this is the closest you've been to him since it happened, the longest you've spent around him without either one of you making a shitty excuse to run off. (he's the only one that really bothers with excuses—you just walk right past him). you want to make him hurt the way he's hurt you but you doubt he has any feelings to hurt in the first place.

johnny says your name, and it almost gets you, but you just move to the stove. you turn the heat on and begin sautéing the vegetables, hoping you won't be able to hear him over the sizzle.

"so," he starts—unfortunately, his voice is still loud and clear— "reed told me you're healing up well. which is good. and... sue says you're not working as hard. that's also good. you're not supposed to look at screens too much when you have a concussion, you know."

the concern in johnny's tone pushes you over the edge.

"spare me. i don't need you to pretend like you care," you say, cursing yourself for how upset you sound, even as you're trying to sound flat.

johnny is silent because he knows there's nothing he can say. why would you think he cared, after he dropped you off and then proceeded to ignore you, like a child? he wishes it were easier to just tell you all the things he feels. he wishes he weren't so scared. he's fought aliens and monsters and just regular, fucked up people, but he's more afraid of you than any of them.

"look, i'm—i'm sorry, i didn't mean for... shit. i'm just sorry, okay? and i do care. i get why you don't think i do, but i just... want you to know that. i do care." too much.

you finally turn to him. his heart drops into his ass at the look on your face. you look like you might cry. johnny has done a lot to you but he's never made you cry.

"save it, johnny. save it for someone who doesn't know you well enough to know they can't trust a word you say."

it's pure venom when you speak, and he feels the burn, acid sinking through his clothes and clawing at his skin. johnny thinks he would rather have never met you than know he's hurt you like this. he steels his brow; he lets the childish, emotionally immature part of his brain shield him.

"hey, i basically saved your life, sweetheart. i'd be a little nicer." ouch. it's been a while since johnny's said something so callous and it stings a little when it comes out.

your eyes flash bright with rage. you pace toward him, only the countertop between you, forgetting the food cooking on the stove. "fuck you. and don't fucking call me that."

it hurts. johnny knows he has no right to feel that way, but it hurts, just in the way he's been trying to avoid this entire time. he realizes, in that moment, that ignoring you has done just about as much good as flying directly into the sun. maybe he should do that, right now. just to escape that searing, disgusted look on your face.

then, your eyes squeeze shut, and your brows furrow. one of your hands come to your temple and you wince, the other flat on the counter for support.

johnny stands, and he looks like he might be trying to move around the bar to you, but you hold up a shaky hand, trying to breath through the ache in your head.

"don't come any closer. please, johnny... just leave me alone." your voice breaks and johnny falters, like he's weighing his options. then, he sighs, lingers a second more, and walks off into the hall.

the smell of burning vegetables makes your headache worse, so you turn the stove off. looks like you'll be ordering in again tonight.

another week passes. you're all but healed now, achey spells not as intense and much further between. you spend more time alone; you hadn't realized johnny was occupying so much of your day, and without him each hour feels much, much longer. not that you're eager to have him back in your life like that. in fact, it's really you ignoring him now, and not the other way around.

it's as though a switch has flipped, and now johnny's like a puppy dog, lingering in a room when you come in, nervous eyes trailing you in the hall, working up the nerve to try talking. you walk past him every time, gaze trained straight ahead, not even getting close enough to brush past. you're sure everyone has picked up on it now—sue's asked you about it, but you just say you had a falling out, and refuse to explain further.

what else can you say? your dickhead brother made me fall in love with him and then broke my heart.

it would be quite unprofessional to gossip like that with what is essentially your boss, but at the same time, you haven't really been concerned with professionalism in a while.

you're content to go on this way (at least, you say you are). you can't ignore johnny forever; you do have to interact eventually, considering your job, but you decide you'll talk to him in those situations only, and never otherwise.

you're sitting in your bedroom, thinking about just that, when you hear a timid knock on your door. it surprises you—reed interacts with you only on a professional level, sue would never bother you this late, and ben is off doing a press run for his new animated show. so, it can only be one person, but that one person wouldn't have the gall to show up at your door, would they?

johnny calls your name, softly. "i know you're awake," he says, a bit brashly, and then seems to regret it— "if you're too tired to talk, that's okay, that's totally okay. just... at least open the door. please."

he really just wants to hear your voice directed his way, even if it's to say fuck off, or something closely related. he doesn't expect you to open up, but a moment after he's spoken, the door swings on its hinges, and you're standing there.

you're wearing pajama shorts he's never seen; they've got a cartoon character on them that he knows you like. your tank is a little too tight, probably because it's old.

johnny came here to beg your forgiveness and he's already getting distracted—he wants to say it's your fault, but he knows that even if you'd been covered head to toe he might've had the same problem.

"yes?" you say, hand on the doorframe, keeping it open only about halfway. you don't sound as hateful as you did the last time you spoke; more just tired. johnny swallows hard and forces himself to look into your eyes.

"can i... can we talk?" he almost asks to come in, but figures it's better for you to invite him.

you consider him for a second. he's wearing a tattered graphic shirt and the human torch theme flannel pajama pants that ben got him for his birthday. you're almost so hurt by him that you're able to ignore how good he looks. almost.

"about what?" you counter, deciding to torture him just a little more. he takes a sharp breath in, looks guilty. "johnny, it's late. i don't know if i can talk right now."

johnny sighs, hangs his head just the slightest bit. "i get it, i get it—it's just, i need to talk to you, okay? and you haven't really been available, so..."

you scoff. "you expect me to be available for you?"

silence. and then, you're stepping aside, wordlessly letting him in. you know you're going to regret it.

counting this, johnny's been in your room a total of three times. the other two were brief, and he wasn't exactly welcome—moments of extreme boredom in the awkward hours between afternoon and evening, where he'd stopped by unannounced and goaded you into spending time with him.

seeing him in your space is unsettling to you. you've spent a good amount of time decorating and making it your own; you do your best to keep mess from piling up and you clean your bathroom regularly. it's your safe haven, from the sometimes-overwhelming world that exists right outside your door; from your reality, that you live with four metahumans, that you can be outside and a building can just explode and you can die, just like that.

and now johnny is invading that safe space. your arms are crossed over your chest as you regard him coolly. he's looking around like he just gained sight for the first time and you're getting annoyed with his inability to just say what he wants to say. does he even know what he wants to say? does he even know what he wants?

johnny clears his throat, turning to face you. his hands are at his sides and if he was wearing jeans they'd probably be stuffed in his pockets.

"how've you been?" he starts, and you groan in frustration, moving so you can sit down on your beanbag.

"johnny, quit the bullshit. you wanted to talk, so talk."

he pauses, like he's weighing his options. then, he inches closer, taking a seat on the floor in front of you. you like that you're sitting higher up than he is—it gives you the illusion of control. really, you know that if he says the right things, acts the right way, you're going to end up in his arms again.

yet, here you are.

"listen," johnny says, hands wringing themselves in his lap. "i fucked up. i know i did."

you stare back at him, unmoved. you want to make him squirm.

he swallows hard, looks away. "ignoring you was really stupid. and childish. and i... i can't stop thinking about how much i've probably hurt you. i can't imagine how you feel... after everything."

it echoes his previous confession—i can't stop thinking about you. you hear it but you just keep watching him, waiting for him to say something to make any of it make sense. you've always known johnny was an asshole but his actions in the past two weeks have confused you so much you're not even sure you know him anymore.

"so." johnny shifts; he's nervous. "i thought i'd... i can just tell you how i feel. and then maybe... you can tell me how you feel. if you want to. really, i'm just asking you to listen to me, so if you wanna kick me out right after i'm okay with that. well, maybe not okay, but—" he sees the slightly amused look on your face and cuts himself off. "right. anyway."

johnny stands suddenly, like his anxious energy won't allow him to stay still. he paces slowly, taking a few steps one way and a few the other. your eyes trail him; your heart is pounding, but your face reveals nothing.

"i know i'm a dick," he begins; not the best opener, but you want to see where he's going with it, "and if i was you, i wouldn't think i cared at all, about you. well, about me. if i was you. sorry."

you sigh. "johnny. slow down.”

it's like you haven't said anything at all. he won't even look at you, just staring at the ground as he moves almost frantically from side to side. you've never seen him like this and it's becoming a little difficult for you to remain so standoffish.

"i'm not—used to this, you know? it sounds so stupid to say out loud, but.. i'm really not. i honestly didn't think—" he pauses, inhales deeply, like the words are heavy and require much physical strength, "—didn't think... it was possible for me. to care about someone, the way i care about you."

you swallow hard, feeling yourself falter. johnny finally stops moving, brings his eyes to yours, and to your surprise and utter elation, he slowly approaches you, then falls to his knees. he's right in front of you, hands flat on either side of your body; trying to be close, without encroachment.

"when i saw you, lying there," his eyes flash, brows twitching, like he's watching the memory play out, "i mean, you looked—you looked dead."

his voice shakes just slightly as he says it. he's got this tender look on his face that makes you want to reach out and hold his head between your palms.

"but i wasn't," you say, and your voice is the softest it's been in a week. johnny's adam's apple bobs and he braves a few more inches, one hand now wrapped carefully around your ankle.

"but you could've been. and i got so fuckin' scared—i swear, i've never felt fear like that in my life," he's almost whispering now, other hand now resting on your shin, just gently, like you're a frightened animal that could bolt any minute.

it's not lost on you that johnny's life has been full of scary things up to this point; deep space cosmic rays that mutate his DNA, aliens, monsters, near-death experiences. it's not lost on you that despite all of that, losing you is the worst johnny can imagine.

"and then i started thinking about you, and—and how fucking terrified i am, that one day something will happen, and i won't be there. and i just kept getting more and more scared, because, if i'm being honest, the fact that i was so scared to lose you was almost scarier than anything else."

johnny inches even closer, and you let him, all your anger melting away with what you think is a pathetic quickness. he's bearing himself open to you, showing you his bleeding heart. you can see it pumping vigorously, nervously, opening its gates despite history saying it will only bring him pain.

you lift one hand to hold his cheek. he leans into your touch, in a restrained sort of way, like he doesn't really want to but can't help it. your eyes are a little glossy, darting over his face as you wait for him to continue. you're not sure if you forgive him yet but you certainly don't want him to stop.

"i almost let a whole building of people burn just so i could make sure you were safe. what kind of hero am i, if i'd do that? and what kind of man am i, if i know i'd do it a million times, but i still can't tell you how i feel?"

you want to cry, just looking at him. it's not fair. it's not fair, that he can say this to you, after the two weeks you've spent convincing yourself he means nothing, that you don't need him, even though you need him so much you can't breathe, even though he means more to you than you thought possible. it's not fair.

"i'm sorry. i don't know how to make it up to you. i just... i was doing what i always do, putting up walls, icing you out so i could feel safe again. but i can't do that, not with you. not this time." johnny's voice is hushed and watery. you stare at him with a gentle gaze, trying to subdue the war inside you. you don't want to forgive him so easily, but all you want to do right now is kiss him.

"you really hurt me," you finally manage, hoping you don't sound as pathetic as you know you do. your hand falls from his cheek and his eyebrows turn up at your words, at the clear damage in your voice. "you made me feel—disposable. like i meant nothing. that felt like shit, johnny. i thought at the very least we were friends."

johnny looks like he's been stabbed. "we are friends. we're—we're more than friends, you know that. we've always been."

you sigh, turning away—johnny chases your eyes, hands sliding up to rest on your knees, and then your upper thighs. he's almost kneeled between your legs now, and you try to ignore the memories of the other times he's been in this position.

"let me make it up to you. let me prove it. i swear, i'll do anything. i'd set the moon on fire if that's what you wanted."

you almost laugh, but a little smile breaks through, despite your efforts to remain stoic. johnny sees it, and it's like someone's fangs have been removed from neck, like he's been slowly dying and suddenly he's gotten a fresh dose of life-saving medication.

"is that what you want? i'll do it, right now. it might cause some issues, but i'm sure it'll be okay." he's teasing you. you want to hate it but it feels like a return to normalcy; you didn't know how much you were craving that, normal, until right now.

you look at him again, little tears making clear paths down your face. you're smiling though, something soft and disarming. it makes johnny's body tingle, like he's got pins and needles all over. you don't know what to say, so you just stare, and he stares back. it feels like he's trying to tell you something with his eyes but you're not yet fluent in that language.

johnny says your name, under his breath. almost like a curse.

"i think i'm in love with you," he mutters, and the air goes still. you stop breathing. "and i don't think i've ever been in love before—i thought i had, thought i knew what it felt like, but clearly i had no fucking clue what the real thing was, until now. until you." johnny stares at you like you're both his angel and executioner; the meat of his flesh rendered invisible so he can show you his gaping, lovely wound. there's an unspoken plea in his confession, but you hear it—please don't break my heart.

"johnny," you whisper, and your voice is boneless, breath stolen from your lungs. "don't say that if you don't mean it."

"but i do," johnny sputters. "i do. i didn't mean to say i think—i know, that i'm in love with you, and i don't know if i can say it again unless you say it back, so... please," he lets out a deep exhale, chest deflating with his words, "please, say it back."

he waits a moment, lets his prayer sink in; his hands rise to hold your cheeks, slowly scooting forward so your legs are around his torso.

his face is now close to yours, so close that it would only take a single movement to be kissing him again. you want to. you've never wanted to kiss anyone so much, and it feels like his skin is full of magnets, lulling you forward (almost) against your will.

you kiss him, finally—it takes johnny no time at all to return your gift with reverence, lips sculpting against yours like it's all they've been made to do. your fingers rake into his hair, dragging him closer, into you. his arms fall from your face, caging your waist, holding him up as he lets you bring him toward you.

you pull away, panting; johnny is halfway on top of you, and the glazed over look in his eyes makes your stomach drop. you smell him; the slight musk of burnt wood, mixed with the lavender laundry detergent he likes.

"you're trying to distract me," he rasps, a teasing smile playing on his lips.

you give him a little grin back, but your lips remain sealed. you need him to drag it out of you, you think; you've buried it and now it's too far down for you to reach on your own. you think you may be scared, too—you're not entirely sure. you feel so much at once you almost feel nothing at all. almost.

johnny understands, somehow. he knows it's not that easy. he's hurt you, made you feel like you don't matter. sometimes words aren't enough—sometimes, you need to be shown. he's happy to provide that for you.

nsfw below

"ok, fine," he breathes, head dipping down to lay dutiful kisses on the slope of your neck. his arms snake around your waist and hold you closer to him, his thigh falling between your legs. "i'll prove it to you. i promise."

you sigh, hands wrapping around johnny's shoulders, palms dragging against the cotton of his shirt. the friction on his skin makes him shiver.

"tell me what you need. whatever you want, just tell me." johnny's breath is hot on your neck and you suddenly know what to ask for.

"i want your mouth," you say, a little taken off guard by your own boldness. johnny is too, but if the little grunt he lets out is any indication, he seems to like it. "and your fingers."

"yeah?" he lifts his head to look at you, eyes sparkling with gentle playfulness. "feeling greedy, huh?"

but he's already touching you, and kissing you—hands squeezing your breasts over your tank, calloused fingers soothing the skin he pinches. his tongue is in your mouth, burning you up, molding to your mouth as though it's the last time he'll ever get the chance. when he pulls away, you let out a heavy sigh, like you won't be able to breathe without him.

"that's okay, baby," johnny says, in a hushed tone; his warm hands slide under the thin fabric of your shirt, his fingers splaying across your ribs. "i'll always give you what you want."

he kisses you again, a little softer, hands trailing down your stomach, and then to the edge of your shorts, dipping beneath the fabric with an ease that makes you shudder. his eyes flicker down as he carefully pulls them off, tossing them gingerly on the floor. he sinks to his knees, palms of his hands a little rough when they slide from your hips to your thighs, positioning himself between them.

"you really are so beautiful." johnny whispers it, like he's trying to convince himself he really has you in front of him. "you're beautiful all the time. even when i'm not between your legs."

you smile, even though you don't want to, and hit him gently over the head. he laughs, and you realize you haven't heard that in a while. you realize how much you like it.

johnny runs a finger through your folds, spreading you apart. his dark blue eyes watch your face as he dips his head, licking a flat stripe over your exposed cunt, smiling when you let out a high-pitched gasp. your hand is already in his hair, tugging him back when he pulls away—he lets you, moans into your heat, grip so tight on your thigh it almost hurts.

you sigh dreamily, writhing a little against his tongue. he loves the way his name sounds from your mouth, especially like that; he rewards you by sliding two fingers inside your twitching pussy, tongue kitten licking at your clit.

"oh—johnny," you moan, and johnny's eyes flutter shut; he forces his mouth off of you for just a moment, replacing his tongue with his calloused thumb.

"there's that pretty voice," he says, and when you look down at him you see his glistening mouth, blown pupils, lidded eyes—the sight makes you whine, feeling his fingers pump out of you at a steady rhythm. "feels good, honey? this what you wanted?"

"y-yes—" you manage, voice jumping when his lips find your clit again. "so good."

johnny licks into you like he's worshipping at an altar, the swipe of his tongue reverent and desperate, hips twitching at every sweet sound you make. before, you would catch glimpses of adoration, but now it's written all over his face, eyes darting lazily over your body as if though he's reminding himself you're all there, and you're really giving this to him.

you let it go on for just a minute more; then you're suddenly pulling hard on his shirt, forcing him up—the groan that leaves him is almost disappointed and it makes your vision blurry.

"what is it, sweetheart?" he exhales, palm coming up to wipe his chin quickly before he's dipping down to kiss your neck.

"i need you," you blurt, eyes fluttering shut as his lips find the spot below your ear; it spreads heat across your skin, prickles goosebumps. you'd never really thought about how warm he was, but you guess it makes sense that he runs hot.

johnny knows what you mean. of course he does. maybe it's his incessant, seemingly impulsive need to see you flustered; maybe it's because he really needs to make sure you mean it, that this is actually happening and that it isn't all some big misunderstanding.

"you want me to fuck you?" he says it so casually you almost laugh, but you're subdued by the very serious look on his face, and the way his bulge presses against your exposed heat. "is that it?"

you reach down, palm pressing flat against his stomach before you palm his dick through the worn pajama pants; his breath stutters against your neck.

"hurry up," you whisper, leg bending so your knee is brushing against his hip. "before i change my mind."

johnny's moving before you can finish—first, he's moving you both to your bed, and then your shirt is off, his next. he looms over you for a seconds, warring between playing with your tits a little more and fulfilling your request, but then you're sitting up, tugging at the drawstring of his bottoms, and he finds his answer.

he lets you pull them off, and can't help the wince he hisses out as the air hits his cock; he's so hard he swears he's a little lightheaded, and when your hand wraps around him he almost slumps forward, hips angling toward your touch.

johnny slowly crawls over you, heart pounding so violently he's sure you can hear it. he swallows, trying to subdue the nerves rising in his stomach. your sparkling eyes lock onto his and you lean in for another soft kiss.

neither of you can say anything now. you guide him to your heat, sighing into each other's mouths as you grind against his length. you feel like you're in a bubble, sealed off from any of the world's cruel and unbiased horror, protected by his arms, his heat, his loving gaze that makes your breath tremble.

he rolls his hips forward slow, catching your clit as he moves up; your nails scratch at his shoulderblades, and he rests his forehead onto yours, lips slanting affectionately against your own.

his tip nudges into you, forcing a huff straight from johnny's chest. he wants to look at you, into your eyes, but he's overwhelmed—his head slinks to the crook of your neck when he pushes forward slowly, rocking all the way out only to slide back in, deeper, deeper. you feel him in your stomach when he's finally bottomed out; you can't help how you're clenching down on him, even as he's whispering, pleading with you to stop.

"sweetheart," johnny croaks, voice achy and saturated. "let me start moving, at least."

your hips grind down on him in response, thighs tensing as you feel him against that spot, the one you can hardly reach on your own, the one that brings tears from your eyes. johnny bites down softly on the flesh of your neck at the way you squeeze around him.

"fuck," he mutters, and then his hips draw back carefully, rocking forward, setting a steady pace. each drag forces a soft gasp from you—it feels like molten lava, searing you so deliciously, heating you up from the inside. "you feel so fuckin' good. like you were made for me."

johnny's tongue goes flat against your jugular, licking a soft stripe from the space right above your collarbone to right behind your ear. you tug at his hair, pulling him up and to your lips—his hips stutter, and then they begin to pick up speed, tongue tangling with yours, hands squeezing at the flesh of your hips, your waist.

he bites your bottom lip, dragging it out just a little before he kisses you hard again—you can hardly breathe, but you just hold him closer, heels digging into his hips to push him deeper, faster.

"you think you can cum like this?" johnny rasps, finally lifting his head from yours to watch your face. his skin is flushed from shoulders up, eyebrows furrowed in concentration, lips parted in a permanent gasp. "i want you to cum so bad, baby. wanna feel it."

you nod almost frantically, and johnny sits up suddenly, hips slowing; he scoops his hands under your thighs, pushing them so your knees are resting on his shoulders. he leans down, putting a slightly uncomfortable strain on your hamstrings, but the way he slides even further inside you makes up for it—you keen, hands digging into the sheets as he starts rolling his hips again.

johnny's hands are planted firmly on your calves, rubbing in a manner that is almost shockingly soothing compared to the unrestrained way he's now fucking you. you feel yourself on the brink of something so intense you're almost scared, trying desperately to move your hips to the same rhythm as him.

"c'mon, honey—" he cuts himself off with a ragged gasp, hips twitching before he forces himself to slow to a more steady pace. "tell me how bad you wanna cum. i know you want it."

you shiver, trying to catch your breath. your hand slithers down your body to play with your clit, but johnny's hand slaps you away, and his palm smooths down your stomach. he presses down on your lower stomach, thumb circling your throbbing bud—your legs begin to tremble, and pressure starts building in your core, gasp catching in your throat.

"holy shit, johnny," you whine, chest heaving. "i wanna cum so bad—please."

johnny's hips jump forward, and he groans like he's surprised at his own movement, but he keeps the new pace, fucking into you with such a determined expression you would've been endeared, if you had the wherewithal.

"i'm all in your fuckin' stomach, honey. fuck—you feel that? nice and deep inside this greedy pussy," he rambles, sweat making his chest glisten, stomach muscles twitching as he fights off his impending finish. he's never found it hard to last longer than a girl but right now he's a little afraid he's going to break his winning streak.

his words make you whimper, a wounded sort of noise he didn't even know you could make, and then you're cumming, lips parting in such a wanton moan he has to cover your mouth. he fucks you through it, teeth bitting his bottom lip so hard he's sure he tastes blood, hand moving to pin your hips down as you try squirming away from him.

"i—" johnny's eyes flutter shut, voice tapering off into a punctured groan. "fuck, i'm gonna cum. fuck, fuck..."

he folds over you, forearms caging your head, your legs falling from his shoulders and wrapping around his waist. tears prickle at your eyes and fall like feathers against your skin, body on fire with a never-ending pleasure that feels like sparklers going off in your blood.

"johnny," you whisper, hands finding his face, bringing his eyes to meet yours. "johnny, i—i love you, too."

you're not prepared for the way he drives into you then, once, his eyes wide with shock and stomach caving like he's been punched in the gut. he buries his head half into your neck, half into your hair, groaning long and broken, cursing with a trembling voice as he slowly rolls his hips forward, fucking himself through it.

it's silent for a little; johnny slowly eases himself down, resting all his body weight on top of you. it's a bit like a heated blanket and you close your eyes, relishing in the peace of the moment, fingers tracing the contours of his back.

"sorry," he finally mumbles, into your skin. "i did mean to pull out. pinky promise."

he doesn't sound very sorry. you smile softly at his tired voice.

"it's okay. i'm on the pill." you're a little surprised at how raspy and quiet your own voice sounds. your cheeks warm as you think about how loud you might have been being—you can't even let yourself think about if the others had heard, because you don't know what you would even do if that happened.

johnny raises his head, staring at you with dazed devotion, and something like awe. he nuzzles his nose against your cheek, taking a deep inhale, making you giggle softly, scratch his scalp. he slides out of you slowly, coming to rest on his stomach, half on top of you and half on the mattress.

"can you say it again?" he asks, just above a whisper. his eyelashes flutter against your cheek.

"that i'm on the pill?"

johnny grins, huffs against the side of your face. then, he's pulling his head away, so he can look you in the eyes. "yea, sure. just to reassure me. i'm not exactly ready for kids, sweetheart."

he doesn't say anything else, and he thinks about just letting it go, his pride worn but still there enough to keep him from asking again. but then your hand is caressing his cheek like you're holding someone's finest ceramic, and his mouth goes a little dry.

"i love you, johnny. don't ever treat me like shit again."

he smiles so wide he's sure his face is gonna crack in half. you're staring up at him that way he really, really loves—like he's something more, like he's everything, and for once it doesn't scare him. not even a little. he'd pay good money to make you look at him like that the rest of his life.

"i swear on my life, i'll never make you feel anything less than awesome. i'll treat you so good you forget this even happened. well, maybe not this exactly, but, like, everything that lead up to it. not everything, though—we had some pretty good times before this. so... just forget the bad parts, okay?"

johnny winces and you laugh under your breath. "that's not what i meant. definitely remember the bad parts, because... that's healthy, right? but, you know—i'm just trying to say, i'm never gonna make you feel like that again. ever. i'll die before i let it happen."

"alright, enough. i believe you."

you let your eyes shut, the weight of him making your own body feel even heavier. you're still tingling, like stars are swimming through your bloodstream, but you feel like if you try to get up you'll just sink through the mattress.

a blissful moment of silence passes; you think johnny might have fallen asleep; his breathing gets shaky and then even, body completely still atop you. sleep sounds like a nice idea—you can work out all the details of whatever this is between the two of you tomorrow. maybe over a nice cup of coffee and a croissant. you'll definitely have to sit somewhere else this time, though; that spot is ruined for you.

"you think they heard us?" you finally ask, timidly. a beat goes by, and then johnny chuckles into your skin.

"definitely."

[cvldbones]

@kingdonmicrofic Day 4: Garden (477 words) | ao3

Her mother had been chock-full of idioms. She would intersperse them through her daily language like punctuation marks, little diatribes that sometimes didn’t even make sense in the context of the situation. The early bird gets the worm as she was knee-deep in scrubbing their pink-tiled shower. An apple a day keeps the doctor away while stirring the chicken noodle soup on the stove. Silly, mindless things for the most part.

Her mother had been particularly fond of the ones about flowers. In another life, Melissa, she’d sigh, staring out the window of their sixth-floor apartment with melancholic eyes, I’d just be livin’ my days out on the land. Tending to a garden.

For some reason, those are the ones that stuck with her long after her mother was dead and buried in the tiny cemetery around the corner from their old place. Everything’s coming up roses when she got her first medical school acceptance letter. They’re just trying to cut down the tall poppies after her general surgery attending screamed at her in the middle of the floor during her first-ever clinical rotation as an M3.

It is no surprise, then, that when she met Mr. Langdon – sorry, Dr. Langdon – all she could see were the cornflower blue of his eyes. The reedy muscles of his forearms, popping out like exposed roots. The seeds of gray just at his temples, barely noticeable unless you tilted your head just right.

He was handsome. He was kind. His questions were thoughtful and genuine, though never probed too deeply beyond what might be construed as friendly interest, a father trying to get to know the girl spending an awful lot of time with his two young children. When he invited her to dinner, she sat wedged between Tanner and Millie, helping them cut their homemade pizzas while they regaled her with stories about all the summer camps they’d attended in the past, and then he pressed a crisp fifty-dollar bill into her hands as she was leaving. For the swim lessons, he reminded her. Plus a little extra. You were great.

Oh, she said. Right. Thank you, Dr. Langdon.

Frank, he corrected. Gently. Teasingly.

Frank, she agreed.

His kids would be going back to pre-school in a week. The pools would be closing down for autumn, and she’d need to find a new steady gig to get her through these didactic years. She was already dreading it.

Three days after she left the Langdon house, her wet t-shirt sticking to her skin, It’s Frank, actually ringing around her skull, she got a text.

Dr. Langdon (Frank) I’m stopping by Pitt tomorrow for a meeting. Would love to treat you to a coffee, if you have the time.

And, strangely, she thought of her mother. Bloom where you’re planted, love.

Mel was many things. But she was no shrinking violet.   

[midnightexe]

So. EAPS is essentially over, and I haven’t yapped about it or touched tumblr in a hot minute.

Thank you, Eclipse and Puppet Show, for everything. Thank you Matt, Davis, Flora, and the wonderful team of BA/VA’s, editors, thumbnail artists, who’ve been along for the ride with us.

Affectionate ramble under the cut.

I’ve been into EAPS since it started. The first video, the last video; I’ve been here since the start. I’m lucky enough for that. I’ve even been lucky enough to have the opportunity to help with the behind the scenes for this show as a body actor. Nothing grand, but still fun and an honor nonetheless.

Eclipse has, without a doubt, been my favorite character since I learned about him. I wasn’t here at the start of TSAMS—in fact, ironically, my partner and I got into it because of the death of Solar. A “Good Eclipse”, of all people... I never loved him as much as I love Eclipse. I still don’t.

It has meant far more then words can describe to watch him turn better, then worse, then better again. EAPS has done an amazing job to portray the process of healing, accepting yourself, and realizing it’s never too late to start working on yourself. Time is fluid, and so are people, in a sense. Watching him confront the bad in him, watching him spiral, get back up again, spiral again, and repeat. Watching him hurt inside and hurt others, but also heal and help heal others, in turn. Watching him grow and shrink. Healing is not a straight line, and Eclipse as a character has been one of my favorite portrayals of the healing process. It’s not perfect, nothing here is, but it’s still very clear that there was passion and effort behind each character, arc, and storyline. Even despite the pressure of keeping the show running with daily uploads, the leads (Davis, Matt, Flora) created a story with a cast that we as fans have laughed, yelled, and cried with.

I don’t know if I’ll cry after it sinks in that no more EAPS episodes will be posted, but I’m conscious of the part of me I’ll be leaving behind. I know the characters may make appearances in the future, I know they love cameos far too much to let them collect dust, but it will still hurt to not see them in their own little spotlight. To be honest, I’m grateful it ended like this. By choice. I’m grateful we got to see an ending the show deserves; a happier one, at that. There’s a lot of damage, a lot of loss, and certainly more cuts that have yet to heal, but there’s a much more peaceful road ahead of the EAPS cast, now. I, for one, am glad it’s going to happen off-screen. They can take that heavy spotlight off themselves and focus on a better, brighter future.

Eclipse still means the world to me. He’s my favorite character to draw, my favorite TSBS character, one of my favorite redesigns, concepts, tropes, all of that. I don’t think I’ll forget about the impact watching this show has made on me, as cheesy as it is. Puppet, Charlie, Foxy, Henry, FC— everyone in the cast, new or old, have helped with that. But Eclipse has taken the majority of it, probably because I see myself the most in him. I can relate to him.

I’m going to miss EAPS. I’m going to miss seeing the stitchlets and Charlie annoy the hell out of Eclipse. I’m going to miss seeing this patchwork-like family. But I’m glad I got to see them while they were around.

Thank you, TEAPS, and goodnight.

[urfavmaknae]

Don't Make It Weird

pairing: roommate!hueningkai x fem!reader, non idol au

genre: roommates to lovers, fake dating, slowburn, angst, fluff, romcom?

summary: in which a fake relationship for cheaper rent spirals into late-night forehead kisses, game night confessions, and two roommates falling for each other without meaning to.

w/c: 13.3k

warnings!!!: slowburn again, second hand embarrassment lwk, romantic whiplash from hueningkai being 0% subtle

a/n: yeesh i really put off the kiss in this one, also i had to go in and shorten half of it bc it wouldnt let me keep it all 😭, just me or is this lwk giving back to friends by sombr?

The listing was already giving red flags.

"Two-bedroom unit. Central location. Immediate move-in. Pets allowed. Discount for couples."

I squinted at the last line. Was it… a dating scam? A weird boomer landlord trying to manifest love through tenancy? I didn’t know, and I didn’t care. I needed a place. Fast.

One more roommate horror story and I was going to start living in a library storage closet. At least it would smell like books and trauma instead of unwashed protein shakers.

So when the agent said someone else had booked the same inspection slot, I said fine. I’d seen six places already. What was one more disaster?

I wasn’t expecting him.

He showed up in a hoodie two sizes too big, track pants, and that kind of stupidly soft face that made you feel like he’d never been sad. Tall, lanky, very boy-next-door — if your next-door neighbour happened to look like he narrated Studio Ghibli films in his spare time.

"Hey," he said, giving me a quick smile. "Roommate speed dating?"

I blinked. "Apparently."

He stuck his hand out. "Hueningkai."

"...Is that your first name or last?"

"Both," he said proudly. "Or neither. Depends who’s asking."

Okay. So he was one of those people — mildly unhinged, weirdly charming, and somehow pulling it off.

The apartment was surprisingly decent. No mystery stains. The kitchen didn’t look like it would actively fight me. There was actual sunlight in the living room.

"You're thinking what I'm thinking?" he asked, halfway through the tour.

"That this place is haunted and Dennis the landlord is secretly a ghost?"

"I meant splitting the lease. But yeah, that too."

Honestly, it made sense. He didn’t seem like a total creep. Plus, something about his energy — chaotic, sure, but harmless — made it easier to consider.

"Yeah," I said. "I’m down."

Dennis blinked between us like we were a little too loud for his 9am brain. "Great. Since you're applying together, you qualify for the couple's discount."

I opened my mouth. I could’ve said, we’re not a couple. I should’ve. But for some reason — probably sleep deprivation and panic — what came out was:

"Right. Of course."

I felt my soul leave my body.

Before I could backtrack, Kai jumped in like it was a planned bit. "Yeah, we’ve been together a while. Big fan of love. And rent."

Dennis looked mildly overwhelmed. "Well, then. Just initial here and here..."

I looked at Kai. He looked back at me with the calm, excited eyes of a man who had just gotten away with something.

I signed.

Outside, the sun was way too bright for the life crisis I was in. Kai walked next to me, completely unbothered. "So. Girlfriend."

"Don’t."

"I just think our connection in there was really special."

"Mutual panic is not a connection."

"It is when it saves you three hundred a month."

I groaned. "You’re really gonna commit to this fake relationship thing, aren’t you."

"I was born committed. I’ll start brainstorming matching keychains."

"Unmatch. Yourself."

"You don’t want pet names? Babe? Honey? Little spoon?"

I started walking faster. "I’m gonna live in a bin."

He caught up easily. "It’ll be our bin. Our cozy love nest."

"Hueningkai."

"Yes, my love?"

I stopped talking. Maybe if I just accepted death, he’d quiet down.

We moved in the next day. His room was the one with the broken heater, and I was halfway through unpacking when he knocked on my door wearing a blanket like a cloak.

"It’s freezing," he said mournfully. "I think I lost circulation in my soul."

I stared at him. "No."

"Just for tonight."

"No."

He tilted his head. "Please?"

I exhaled. Loudly. And let him in.

"Stay on your side," I warned, already regretting everything.

"I respect boundaries," he said, immediately taking up 70% of the bed. "But also, I'm very cuddly."

I stared at the ceiling. "If you touch me, I will suffocate you."

"Looking forward to our future together."

In the dark, it was quiet. Strangely quiet.

"You know we have to tell him eventually," I said.

"Who?"

"Dennis. The landlord. About us not actually dating."

"Eventually," he mumbled.

"...Eventually when?"

"When the rent discount stops working."

I turned my head. He was lying there like he’d done this a hundred times — just moved in with some girl and fake dated her for free heating. I was not going to survive this. What the hell had I just agreed to?

The next morning, I woke up tangled in a human radiator.

Kai was sprawled diagonally across the bed like he’d fought a war in his dreams and won. One arm was flung over my waist, his leg thrown casually over mine like we’d been married for ten years and he paid my taxes. His face, of course, was peaceful. Slightly pouty. Eyelashes doing the most.

I stared at the ceiling, rigid with the knowledge that if I moved, I’d probably disturb the most offensively cozy cuddle position I’d ever been subjected to. Fake boyfriend or not — that was a dangerous arm. I carefully extricated myself like I was disarming a bomb. His fingers twitched when I pulled away. I held my breath. He didn’t wake.

I padded to the kitchen, trying not to overthink the fact that I could still feel the warmth of his leg pressed against mine. It meant nothing. He was just a heavy sleeper. And a blanket hog. And weirdly good at cuddling for someone who claimed to be doing it by accident.

The kitchen was, blessedly, empty. I made coffee, stared blankly at the microwave clock, and tried to remember what normal roommates did. Did they cook together? Talk about chores? Casually touch each other in their sleep?

Kai shuffled in five minutes later, hoodie falling off one shoulder, hair sticking out in seventeen directions. He looked like a Studio Ghibli character had just rolled out of bed to ruin my life.

“Good morning, love of my life,” he said, like it was the most natural sentence in the world.

I turned slowly. “Don’t.”

He blinked at me, half-awake. “Don’t what?”

“That.”

“What, coffee?”

I narrowed my eyes. He smiled like a menace and reached for a mug. I hated how charming he was. I hated it more that he knew it. And I hated it most that I was starting to memorize the exact pitch of his morning voice — lazy, soft, a little raspy around the edges.

“I’m not your—whatever,” I said, turning away.

He sat on the counter. “Partner? Soulmate? Roommate with romantic benefits?”

I opened the fridge just to avoid looking at him. “We don’t have romantic benefits.”

“Not with that attitude.”

I closed the fridge louder than necessary.

We fell into a rhythm over the next week, if you could call it that. Kai liked noise — music in the mornings, humming while brushing his teeth, narrating everything he did like we were in a cooking show no one asked for. He danced while frying eggs. He wore mismatched socks. He talked to the plants we didn’t own. And I… adjusted.

Mostly.

He made it weirdly easy to get used to. The fake relationship thing stayed quiet — no word from the landlord, no awkward check-ins. We didn’t tell anyone, didn’t play it up outside the building. It just was. Occasionally I’d catch myself wondering if we were still pretending.

Like when he handed me the last slice of toast without asking. Or when I caught him folding my laundry because “your clothes were blocking my socks.” Or the time he stopped me at the front door with a casual, “Wait—your shoelace,” and crouched to tie it without blinking.

“Stop being weird,” I said, more flustered than annoyed.

He looked up. “This is basic fake boyfriend maintenance.”

“You’re acting like we’re in a drama.”

Kai grinned. “Do I get a slow-mo scene?”

“Absolutely not.”

Our building had a hallway that acted like a communal stage. It was too narrow. The walls echoed. If one neighbour sneezed, you’d hear it three doors down. Which is how I met Linda from 203.

She caught us walking in one evening — Kai carrying groceries, me trailing behind him half-laughing because he insisted on balancing the milk on his head.

“Oh! You two must be the couple from 208,” she said, clasping her hands together.

Kai beamed. “That’s us.”

I opened my mouth to correct her. He elbowed me gently. “We’re new to the building,” he added, throwing in the most annoying little you’re so cute glance in my direction. “Still settling in.”

Linda smiled like she was watching a live romcom. “Well, it’s lovely to meet you both. You make such a charming pair.”

Kai squeezed my hand. We were holding hands. I didn’t even know when it had happened. Linda waved goodbye, and we walked inside in silence. My palm still tingled.

“You’re enjoying this way too much,” I said once the door closed.

He tilted his head. “You didn’t let go.”

I stared at him. His eyes twinkled, all soft and bright like he knew exactly what he was doing.

I turned away. “You’re exhausting.”

“I’m delightful.”

The thing about sharing a bed with someone — even platonically, even in the name of discounted rent — is that you start learning them in ways you don’t mean to.

Kai was warm. Always. He slept curled toward the centre, made soft breathing noises, and sometimes said things in his sleep that I couldn’t decipher but still remembered. And I hated how much I liked the weight of someone next to me at night.

I’d been alone for a long time before this. Too long, maybe. And now there was someone whose shoulder accidentally brushed mine when we both reached for the toothpaste. Someone who bought me the chocolate I liked on grocery runs without being asked. Someone who sang off-key while loading the dishwasher and made it weirdly charming.

We were faking it. Obviously. But the line was starting to blur. Just a little. Enough to make me wonder — not all the time. Not out loud. Just sometimes. In the soft moments. When he handed me a cup of coffee with a sleepy smile and said, “Morning, babe,” like he didn’t even have to think about it.

Like he meant it.

I never thought I’d have a boyfriend who liked holding hands in hallways to keep up an elaborate lie about rent. Then again, I also never thought I’d be faking a relationship with a man who owned seven hoodies, all from different obscure anime.

Life comes at you fast. Apparently, so does Kai.

“Quick,” he whispered, ducking behind me in the elevator lobby. “Kiss me.”

I dropped my keys.

“Excuse me?” I hissed, turning to him.

His eyes flicked toward the end of the hall where Linda from 203 stood watering her cactus — which, I’d learned over the last few days, she didn’t even like. She just used it as an excuse to eavesdrop.

“She’s watching,” Kai said. “We need to sell it.”

“We’re literally just leaving the building.”

“Exactly. And couples kiss goodbye.”

I stared at him. “We don’t kiss.”

He leaned in slightly. “Yet.”

“Kai.”

“I’m just saying, we’re already sharing a bed. We might as well kiss in public.”

“You can’t just scale intimacy like a checklist.”

He grinned. “Watch me.”

I turned my back, trying not to let the words we’re already sharing a bed scramble my brain. It meant nothing. We were sleeping. Separately. Technically. Mostly. Kai walked beside me as we passed Linda, then — without warning — slung an arm over my shoulder and pulled me closer.

“Have a great day, love,” he said sweetly.

I almost choked. Linda beamed. I didn’t even look back. I just grabbed his hand and dragged him to the elevator like I was performing CPR on my dignity.

“You’re going to get me killed,” I muttered as the doors closed behind us.

“I’m just trying to support your character arc.”

That night, I found a handwritten list taped to the fridge.

PDA Rules

Hand-holding must be convincing. No limp fingers.

Forehead kisses are permitted with warning.

No tongue. We’re not monsters.

Public fights to spice things up (optional).

Anniversary lies must be coordinated 48 hours in advance.

I stared at it for a long time before adding one more rule.

You’re insane.

Living with Kai was like living inside a very low-stakes sitcom. He was absurdly good at the performance. He called me pet names like it was a reflex. He left voice notes in the shared grocery list app. He texted me things like do you like olives or are you morally correct? while standing in the same room.

It was too easy. Too comfortable. Which made it all the more infuriating when he dragged me into his antics without warning. Like the time we ran into our downstairs neighbour, Brandon, who immediately asked how long we’d been together.

“Two years,” I said instinctively.

Kai nodded along, casually slipping his hand into mine. “Three, if you count our situationship phase.”

I blinked. “What?”

He grinned. “You had commitment issues.”

“You ate dry cereal for two weeks straight.”

“I was grieving our label, babe.”

Brandon looked between us like he’d stepped into a reality show. “Wow. You two are—something.”

Kai winked. “We try.”

As soon as we were out of sight, I slapped his arm. “Two years?”

He laughed. “You started it!”

“You said ‘situationship’ in public!”

He turned to me with the smug, self-satisfied calm of a man who had clearly been dropped as a child. “You’re welcome.”

The bed-sharing situation had somehow become permanent. He never said it. I never questioned it. But it kept happening. At first it was the heater, then a thunderstorm, then something about the power flickering. Then it was just… routine.

He’d knock twice, poke his head in, and say something like “Is this seat taken?” before flopping down beside me like gravity had pulled him there. We never talked about it. We just existed — tangled and comfortable, always on the edge of too much.

And I hated how I’d started waiting for the knock. Hated that I’d memorized the weight of him shifting behind me in the dark. The way he sometimes sighed when he thought I was asleep. The occasional brush of his hand against mine.

I wasn’t catching feelings. I was just... very well-adjusted to the bit. Perfectly normal. No spiralling here. The drama escalated on a Thursday.

Linda caught us returning from a grocery run. I was holding the bag with the milk. Kai was holding nothing but smugness.

“Trouble in paradise?” she asked lightly.

I blinked. “What?”

She nodded toward the space between us. “No hand-holding today.”

I laughed it off. “Tired arms.”

Kai raised an eyebrow. “Actually, we’re fighting.”

My head snapped around. “What?”

“We’re fighting,” he repeated, turning to Linda with a wounded expression. “She said I chew too loud.”

Linda gasped like we were a Netflix original. “I said it was unhinged, not loud,” I muttered.

Kai put a hand to his chest. “It’s my natural bite pattern.”

“You sound like a lawnmower.”

Linda was eating this up.

“Couples therapy works wonders,” she offered.

Kai gave her a solemn nod. “We’re working through it.”

I stared at him.

Later, after we’d shut the door, I flung a tea towel at his face.

“You’re so annoying.”

He caught it. “You love me.”

I froze. He froze. Silence.

Then he cleared his throat and tossed the towel back. “In the fake way, obviously.”

“Obviously.”

I busied myself with putting away the milk.

Behind me, he whispered dramatically, “She used to say it back.”

“Get out.”

He cackled all the way to the bedroom.

That night, I lay awake longer than usual. The apartment was quiet. Kai’s breathing was slow and even beside me. We weren’t touching — not really — but I could feel the warmth of him, familiar and close.

I didn’t move. I didn’t know what would happen if I did. This wasn’t supposed to matter. But somehow, it was starting to.

I never knew how loud an apartment could be until it got quiet at night. Our place wasn’t big. The walls were thin, the floors creaked, the fridge hummed like it had dreams. But after ten p.m., when the lights dimmed and the chaos faded, the silence pressed in.

Kai’s room stayed empty. His heater still wasn’t fixed. He didn’t bother asking anymore. He just came in. It had started with two knocks. Then one. Then none.

Now, he just walked in with the same energy someone might bring to a weekend trip they’d forgotten to pack for — hoodie askew, eyes half-lidded, and blanket already in his arms like he knew I wouldn’t say no.

I didn’t. Not once.

It was easy to let him stay. Easier than trying to fall asleep without the quiet rhythm of his breathing behind me. I’d gotten used to him. To everything he was — loud, strange, funny, warm.

So when he slid into bed that night and didn’t say anything — just laid there, still and close — I didn’t ask what was wrong. I just let it be.

The next morning, he made me toast.

Which would’ve been fine, except I hadn’t mentioned I liked toast. I hadn’t even eaten breakfast around him before. But there it was, golden-brown and a little uneven, with a very specific kind of butter-to-corner ratio that made me pause.

“How’d you know?” I asked.

He blinked up at me from the floor, where he was untangling headphone cords like it was a religion. “Know what?”

“That I like it this way.”

He smiled. “Lucky guess.”

My heart didn’t stutter. It didn’t. I just bit into the toast and pretended I didn’t feel his gaze linger.

We decided to do a proper grocery run that day — not just snacks and milk, but an actual list. Real adult things. Spices. Detergent. Frozen dumplings. A shared toothbrush because “it’s the roommate equivalent of matching tattoos,” according to Kai. (We did not buy it.)

We argued over cereal in the middle of aisle four.

“You can’t get the rainbow marshmallow one,” I said. “You’re twenty-one.”

“And full of whimsy,” he replied, placing it in the trolley with the confidence of a man who paid no taxes.

“You eat that and die of sugar poisoning, I’m not doing the funeral speech.”

“I’ll haunt you.”

“I’ll move.”

“Babe, we’re on a lease.”

He said babe again. So casually. So confidently. I didn’t flinch. I didn’t let myself.

But when he leaned over me five minutes later to grab something from the top shelf — hand brushing my waist like it was no big deal — I stopped breathing for a full second.

“Got it,” he said, holding up a jar of pasta sauce. “You’re welcome.”

“Great. Incredible. Thank you for doing the bare minimum of reaching.”

“Your love is so loud.”

I shoved the cart at him. He pushed it backwards, laughing. Linda from 203 was not there, but he still reached for my hand as we walked toward the checkout. And I still didn’t pull away.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. Kai had passed out almost instantly — one arm slung over his eyes, hair messy, mouth slightly open like he was dreaming about arguing with me in another timeline. He looked soft. Uncomplicated. Too good at this.

It was a problem, how easy it had become. Fake dating shouldn’t feel this close. This warm. This natural. I lay there for too long, staring at the ceiling, wondering when exactly this stopped being a favour and started feeling like something else.

And then he spoke. Murmured, really. Barely above a breath.

“Don’t go.”

I froze. He didn’t move. Didn’t open his eyes. Just shifted slightly, pulling the blanket higher like he’d been cold. He was asleep. He was dreaming.

“Don’t go,” he said again, quieter now. Not desperate. Just soft. Like it was a truth he hadn’t meant to share.

I turned toward him. My heart did a stupid, fluttery thing I chose to ignore. I didn’t respond. I just laid there, wide awake, and listened to him breathe. The next morning, I didn’t bring it up.

He didn’t seem to remember — just greeted me with his usual grin and a mumbled, “Morning, angel,” like that was just normal now. I stared at him. He looked like he hadn’t slept a second. Hoodie half-on. One sock missing. Hair standing up at the back. He poured cereal into a mug.

“You okay?” I asked.

He blinked. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

I didn’t answer.

He left for the studio around noon — something about a friend’s project. I spent the day cleaning, trying not to spiral. I told myself we were just playing a part. That he said weird things in his sleep all the time.

But I kept hearing it. Don’t go. Like it mattered. Like I did. That night, he came home late.

He looked tired — not in the physical way, but in the kind of way people do when they’ve been thinking too much.

He didn’t knock before coming into my room. Just flopped onto the bed with a sigh and pulled the covers up over both of us like he hadn’t been gone for eight hours.

“You okay?” I asked.

“Yeah.”

“Studio stuff?”

He nodded into the pillow. “Loud. Too many people. Too much light.”

I paused. “And you came back here.”

He opened his eyes, barely.

“Always.”

And for some reason — some stupid, unfixable reason — I reached over and touched his hand. Not for the bit. Not for Linda. Just because I wanted to. He didn’t let go.

It started with the orange juice.

Not the most romantic of beverages, but it might as well have been a love letter. I hadn’t even noticed we were out. But when I stumbled into the kitchen that morning — sleep-heavy, hoodie half-zipped, brain still rebooting — it was already there on the counter, cold and full and perfectly pulpy. Exactly how I liked it.

I blinked at it. Then at Kai, who was standing by the stove, flipping something in a pan like he was auditioning for a cooking show that only aired in our apartment.

“You like pulp, right?” he said casually, without turning around.

I nodded before I could stop myself. “Yeah. But… I never told you that.”

He shrugged. “You make a face when it’s the smooth kind.”

I stared at him.

“You memorized my juice preferences?”

He flipped the egg. “I memorize everything about you.”

My brain short-circuited.

He turned around, face calm and unreadable for once. “Fake boyfriend duties,” he added, like he hadn’t just said something that made my stomach flip like a gymnast.

I sat down at the table before my knees did something dramatic. Breakfast was too quiet.

He made us both eggs. Toast. Orange juice. Everything normal. Except it wasn’t. Because now I was thinking about what else he’d noticed. What else he’d memorized. What other tiny, throwaway things I’d said that he’d tucked away somewhere just because.

I couldn’t look at him. Not for long. Which was ridiculous. We’d lived together for over a month now. We’d shared a bed for the last twenty nights in a row. I’d seen him sleep with his mouth open. He’d seen me cry during a shampoo commercial.

This shouldn’t have felt like a shift. But it did. Something small. Something slow. Something dangerous.

Around midday, I fell asleep on the couch. I hadn’t meant to. The sun had been warm, Kai was somewhere down the hall humming something tuneless, and the world had just… tilted sideways.

I woke up to him draping a blanket over me. It was so gentle I almost didn’t feel it. But I opened my eyes just enough to catch the soft curve of his face. The way his mouth tilted at the corner like he was fighting a smile. His fingers lingered on the edge of the blanket.

And then — without a word — he leaned in. Kissed my forehead. I froze. He pulled back instantly. Too quickly. I squeezed my eyes shut, heart hammering. He thought I was asleep. He didn’t mean for me to know. And somehow, that made it worse.

We didn’t talk about it.

Not the orange juice. Not the forehead kiss. Not the fact that every time he looked at me now, I felt like I was standing at the edge of something I didn’t have a name for.

He still did everything the same. Still knocked once and then entered anyway. Still called me babe like it meant nothing. Or maybe everything. Still sat too close on the couch and didn’t notice how I stopped breathing when his knee brushed mine. Still reached for my hand in the hallway even when no one was looking.

I wanted to ask him if he remembered what he said in his sleep. If he knew I hadn’t stopped thinking about it since. But I didn’t. Because I was scared of what he’d say. And more scared of what he wouldn’t.

The thing about falling for someone you’re not supposed to — someone who’s technically just a roommate, legally just a fake boyfriend — is that it doesn’t happen all at once.

It’s slow. It’s a grocery list, remembered. A blanket, draped. A kiss, meant for a dream. A hundred moments that start to stitch themselves into something you can’t pull out of.

That night, we were in bed. The usual silence. Familiar warmth. The soft shuffle of his hoodie sleeve brushing mine. And then, just as I was slipping under, his voice cut through the dark.

“You awake?”

I paused. “Yeah.”

“…You ever think we’re making this more complicated than it has to be?”

I turned toward him, heart in my throat. “What do you mean?”

He didn’t answer for a second.

Then: “Nothing. Just—forget it.”

I waited. But he didn’t say anything else.

Eventually, I rolled over, staring at the ceiling while my chest ached in a way I didn’t know how to fix. The line between fake and real was gone. And I had no idea where we stood.

At some point, I stopped noticing when he called me “babe.”

Which was a problem. Because I used to notice. I used to flinch. Used to roll my eyes and shove his shoulder like we weren’t faking a relationship for free rent and nosy neighbours.

But now? Now it just slipped past me, as casual as coffee. Like—

“Want the last dumpling, babe?”

Like that.

“Go for it,” I said without thinking, too busy scrolling through the takeaway menu to register what I’d just responded to.

A full five seconds passed.

Then I blinked. “Wait. Did you just—”

“Call you babe?” Kai grinned over his chopsticks. “I’ve said it five times tonight.”

I stared at him.

“I counted,” he added helpfully.

I reached for a napkin and threw it directly at his smug, infuriating, unfairly symmetrical face. It was getting out of hand.

He’d always been dramatic. The pet names started as a joke — the bit, as he called it — but somewhere between “babe,” “love,” “sweetheart,” and the disturbingly sincere “darling” he dropped while handing me a mug of tea, I lost the thread.

He used them everywhere. In the hall. In front of the neighbours. At home. At breakfast. While brushing his teeth. Half-asleep in my bed, voice soft and sleep-warm. It was second nature now.

And I was starting to hate how natural it felt.

The rest of the building loved it.

Linda from 203 started smiling at us differently. Brandon from 2B made a joke about couple’s game night being “right up our alley.” The mailman asked if we were planning to adopt a pet together.

“We give off pet energy now?” I whispered to Kai as we walked back to the apartment.

“You give golden retriever girlfriend,” he replied instantly. “I’m just supporting the bit.”

“Stop calling it a bit.”

“What else would it be?”

That shut me up.

The routines were the worst part.

Because they weren’t fake. They weren’t for show. No one was watching us when he pulled my chair out at dinner. Or poured my juice without asking how I liked it. Or handed me the remote because he knew I hated scrolling. Or asked how work was and actually listened.

He learned the way I liked my toast. He bought snacks I’d mentioned once three weeks ago. He started wearing the hoodie I liked when I was having a bad day.

I didn’t ask him to. I never asked him to. And he never made it weird.

He just… did those things. Naturally. Quietly. Like he cared. And maybe he didn’t. Maybe he was just good at this. But sometimes it felt real in a way I couldn’t explain.

That night, he was already in my room before I even got there. Blanket on. Phone in hand. Hoodie half-zipped like the chaos goblin he was.

“Can you pass me my charger, babe?” he asked, barely glancing up.

I tossed it at him wordlessly.

“Thanks, love,” he added, grinning when I made a face.

I climbed in beside him, leaving the same amount of space I always did. But it felt smaller now. Like the room had shrunk around us. Or maybe the distance between fake and real had.

“You’re quiet,” he said after a while, voice muffled into the pillow.

“I’m tired.”

He shifted slightly, closer. “From what?”

“From pretending.”

He stilled. I hated how fast my heart was beating.

“I mean, like… the whole bit,” I added quickly. “All of it. It’s getting hard to keep straight.”

Kai didn’t move. Didn’t say anything.

Then, softer: “You’re really good at it.”

“What?”

“Pretending.” His voice was low. “You make it easy to believe.”

I stared at the ceiling, something sharp catching in my throat.

“Yeah,” I whispered. “You too.”

We didn’t say goodnight. Just turned off the lamp. And lay there in the dark, pretending we were both okay with how real it was starting to feel.

The invitation came in the form of a group chat I didn’t know I was in.

[2B Brandon] 🏆🏡 GAME NIGHT THIS FRIDAY – COMMON ROOM – BRING SNACKS, BRING SKILL, BRING YOUR PARTNER 😏

[203 Linda] Finally, we get to see if the “cutest couple on the third floor” lives up to the hype 😌

[Kai 🐧] sounds like a challenge 😈

[Me] we’re not a real couple???

[Kai 🐧] sure babe 😘

“I’m not emotionally prepared for this,” I muttered, standing in front of the hallway mirror and adjusting my hoodie like it mattered.

Kai appeared behind me, holding two bags of chips and a tray of brownies.

“You say that like we’re going to war and not playing Pictionary with Linda from 203.”

“She’s scary.”

“She’s seventy.”

“She’s strategic.”

“She also thinks I’m ‘the softest thing since marshmallows,’” Kai said proudly. “We’re bringing her the corner brownie. That’s social currency.”

We got to the common room five minutes late and still somehow managed to be the last ones there. Eight neighbours. One coffee table. Too many cushions. And us — dropped into the only space left on the two-seater couch like a puzzle piece no one could ignore.

Linda smiled at us from across the room. “Oh, good. You two can sit together.”

I felt Kai’s hand graze mine as we sat. Not holding it. Not on purpose. Just… there. Close. Warm.

He leaned in. “Ready to dominate?”

“Is that what we’re calling it now?”

His grin was lethal.

The games started simple. Charades. Then trivia. Then some homemade monstrosity Brandon called “Relationship Roulette,” which involved drawing cards and answering uncomfortable couple questions “for points.”

I could see where this was going. Halfway through round one, it happened.

Brandon: “Okay, your turn. Kai and—uh—sorry, I don’t actually know your name. I just call you Kai’s girlfriend in my head.”

“Cool,” I said, blinking.

Kai, casually eating chips: “She answers to babe.”

I kicked his shin under the table. Linda giggled.

Brandon: “Alright then. Relationship Roulette says: tell us your partner’s biggest pet peeve.”

I opened my mouth.

Kai beat me to it. “When people chew with their mouth open. Or when there’s hair in the drain. Or when I leave the sponge in the sink.”

Everyone stared.

He shrugged. “What? I pay attention.”

I blinked at him. Because… yeah. That was all correct. Down to the sponge thing, which I’d only complained about once, three weeks ago, while half-asleep.

It was such a stupid little detail. But it made something in my chest twist. The next round was worse.

Linda: “Tell us about your first kiss.”

Brandon: “Or do a forfeit. But it’s Linda’s homemade wasabi chocolate.”

Kai and I locked eyes.

He was trying not to smile. “You remember our first kiss, right?”

I cleared my throat. “Of course.”

There was no first kiss. There were almost kisses. Stupidly close moments. A forehead touch that lingered too long. A time he’d said my name like it hurt to. But no kiss.

Still, I leaned forward, elbows on knees, and said: “It was raining. You forgot your umbrella. I shared mine.”

Kai nodded. “You were holding coffee. It was cold. You kissed me before I could start shivering.”

I blinked. He said it so easily. Like he’d imagined it before. Maybe he had.

Linda clapped. “That’s adorable.”

I didn’t trust myself to speak.

The game wrapped around ten. People filtered out. Some lingered. Linda cornered us by the snack table, handing Kai her extra cookies “for being such a good boyfriend.”

“I’m not actually—” I started.

She raised a brow. “Sweetheart, he looks at you like he’d walk into traffic if you asked.”

I laughed awkwardly. But inside, something fluttered.

Back in the apartment, it was quiet.

I dropped my keys. Kicked off my shoes. Tried not to think about the game. The kiss-that-never-was. The way he’d said it like it meant something. Kai came up behind me in the kitchen.

“You okay?”

“Fine.”

He leaned on the counter. “They all bought it.”

“Scary how good you are at lying.”

He raised a brow. “Was I lying?”

I looked at him. He looked serious. He didn’t push.

Just grabbed a glass of water, muttered “g’night, babe,” and disappeared down the hall.

We didn’t sleep in the same bed that night. Not because we weren’t supposed to. But because I wasn’t sure what I’d say if I woke up and he looked at me like that again.

Movie night started like it always did.

Blanket. Couch. Popcorn. Kai sitting way too close. Some chaotic action flick neither of us were really paying attention to. It was routine. Safe. Familiar.

He picked the movie. I picked the snacks. He picked the spot right next to me, like the whole couch didn’t exist. Like the world narrowed to the space between our knees.I didn’t flinch anymore when he got that close. That was the problem.

Halfway through the movie, he reached over and tugged the blanket higher around me without saying anything. I didn’t say thank you. He didn’t need me to.

It was normal now — this quiet, easy kind of care. The kind that didn’t ask questions. The kind that made everything feel fine, even when it wasn’t. And then he leaned in.

Not a lot. Just enough for his shoulder to brush mine. Just enough for his laugh to catch against my cheek during a stupid scene. Just enough to make my brain forget what pretending meant.

He was warm. Too warm. He smelled like laundry and popcorn and the hoodie I secretly stole when he wasn’t looking.

I glanced at him. He didn’t move. He was watching the screen, but not really. His fingers were fidgeting with the blanket edge between us.

And then — without looking at me, without warning — he leaned over and pressed a soft kiss to my forehead. It wasn’t a joke. I could tell.

No dramatic sound effect. No finger guns. No obnoxious, “There. Nailed it. Boyfriend of the year.”

Just the brush of his lips against my skin. Quick. Gentle. Intentional. He froze. I did too. Neither of us moved.

He pulled back a second later — too slow to pretend it hadn’t happened. Too fast to pretend it meant nothing. I stared at him. He didn’t meet my eyes.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, voice barely audible. “It felt… right.”

Right. Right? My heart was doing that thing where it tried to claw its way up my throat. He still wouldn’t look at me.

He stood. “I’m gonna—” His hand rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m just gonna go crash.”

“Okay,” I said.

He didn’t say goodnight. I sat there long after the movie ended.

The popcorn was cold. The blanket still smelled like him. And my forehead burned like he’d written something there I couldn’t read. I told myself it didn’t mean anything.

I told myself it was just an accident. A mistake. A weird moment in a long list of weird moments. But he kissed me like he wanted to. And left like he regretted it.

It happened at 3:14 a.m.

I only knew the exact time because I’d been staring at the ceiling for the last hour, sleep nowhere in sight, heart still reeling from the forehead kiss that wasn’t supposed to happen.

Kai had climbed into bed next to me like nothing had changed. He mumbled a goodnight. Rolled over. Fell asleep like his heart hadn’t exploded mine twenty-four hours earlier. I, on the other hand, was a mess.

My thoughts were tangled, looping, lapping over each other like waves. What did it mean? Why did he do it? And why—when he kissed me—did it feel so terrifyingly real?

I turned to face the wall. And that’s when I heard it. Barely above a whisper. The softest sound. A voice too thick with sleep to censor itself. But clear. Clear enough to split me open.

“I’d stay, if you asked.”

I froze. I didn’t breathe. I didn’t blink. He was asleep. Fully, deeply asleep. One hand curled under the pillow, hair sticking to his forehead, breath slow and even.

“I’d stay…”

His voice faded off, too quiet to catch the rest. I stayed still for what felt like hours. Eyes wide open, chest aching, every nerve in my body screaming at the quiet.

Stay? Stay where? With me? In this? In us?

It was probably a dream. Just a sleep-mumbled nothing. Something stupid his brain said out of context. But it didn’t sound like nothing. It sounded like truth.

The next morning, I didn’t bring it up. How could I? How do you look someone in the eye after they confess something in their sleep?

He came into the kitchen humming something tuneless, hair still a mess, hoodie falling off one shoulder like it had somewhere better to be.

“Morning, love,” he said, sliding me a plate of toast.

My hands trembled slightly as I took it.

“Sleep okay?” I asked carefully.

“Like a rock,” he said with a grin. “You?”

“Sure.”

He didn’t remember. I don’t know if that made it better or worse. The rest of the day felt wrong. He was the same. All charm and chaos and unnecessary physical contact.

He offered me the last dumpling. Called me babe in front of the mailman. Sat so close on the couch that our knees touched for twenty full minutes before I finally moved. But I wasn’t the same. Not anymore. Not after hearing something I was never supposed to hear.

Later that night, he flopped onto my bed like he owned the place.

“You watching another comfort show tonight?”

“Trying to,” I muttered, clutching my laptop like it could protect me from him.

He stretched, one arm behind his head. “Want company?”

“You’re already here.”

“Good. Then I don’t have to ask.”

We lay there in silence. The screen flickered. The room felt heavy. Eventually, he spoke.

“You okay?”

I hesitated. “Yeah. Just tired.”

He looked at me for a long time.

“You’ve been quiet.”

“So have you.”

He nodded, eyes still on me. “I’m just… thinking.”

“About what?”

He opened his mouth. Then closed it again.

“…Nothing important.”

Liar.

That night, I lay awake again. But not because I couldn’t sleep. Because I didn’t want to miss anything. I wanted to hear it again. Whatever it was. Whatever part of him slipped out when he wasn’t pretending. But he didn’t say anything. Just breathed softly beside me.

Asleep. Gone. Safe.

The envelope came on a Tuesday. It was cream-coloured. Hand-delivered. Tucked beneath our front door like it had snuck in all polite and innocent.

To Our Favourite Tenants You are warmly invited to Mr. and Mrs. Park’s 40th Anniversary Dinner Formal attire required. Plus ones strongly encouraged. Love, Management 🥂

I stared at it. Then I stared at Kai. He was on the floor, half under the coffee table, eating grapes off a plate like he’d never seen a chair in his life.

“This is it,” I said, voice hollow.

He looked up. “Did we get evicted?”

“Worse. We got invited to their wedding vow renewal dinner.”

His eyes widened. “Oh, no.”

“Oh, yes.”

“We’re not couple-y enough for that.”

“I KNOW.”

The stress hit instantly. Because this wasn’t just any dinner. This was the Park dinner. As in, the Parks who owned the building. The Parks who gave us that “generous rent adjustment” in exchange for “building harmony” and “domestic presentation.”

They were the reason we pretended in the first place. Now we had to go sit at a table, drink sparkling water out of real glassware, and tell them stories about our fake little life like it was the truth. It felt like a test.

And Kai? Kai treated it like the Olympics.

“We need a backstory,” he said, already scribbling on a notepad.

“You want to rehearse?”

“We’ve been winging it this whole time. This is high stakes. We can’t risk plot holes.”

“You’re serious?”

He looked at me.

“I’m gonna have to tell a table full of retirees how we fell in love. Yes, I’m serious.”

I sighed and sat beside him. “Fine. Hit me.”

We spent two hours building a fake relationship from the ground up.

How we met: “Bookstore. We reached for the same book. Your hand was warm.”

Our first date: “You made me try mint choc chip even though I swore I hated it.”

Inside jokes: “You always say ‘hey, don’t die’ instead of goodbye. Like it’s a rule.”

Nicknames: “I call you babe. You call me chaos.”

I paused. “That part’s not fake.”

He smiled. “Nope.”

Somewhere around hour three, he brought out the photo album.

“Don’t ask,” he said, flipping it open.

“You MADE a scrapbook?!”

“No,” he said casually. “I edited one.”

Inside: pictures of us. Us at the food court. Us on the couch. Us mid-laugh, mid-snack, mid-nap. Somehow every photo made it look like we were a couple already. Like I leaned on him for comfort and he looked at me like I was made of gold.

Because I did. And he did. I touched one of the photos softly. We weren’t even looking at the camera. But it looked like love.

“…They’re going to believe this,” I whispered.

Kai looked at me.

Then: “Would that be so bad?”

We got quiet after that. Too quiet. He leaned back against the wall. I mirrored him. Our knees almost touched. Our hands didn’t. But they could have.

“Kai,” I said softly.

“Yeah?”

“What are we doing?”

His brow creased. “Right now?”

“No. I mean… all of this.”

He stared at the photo album.

“I don’t know,” he said honestly. “But sometimes I forget it’s fake. And I think that counts for something.”

The dinner was in three days. We practiced everything. Rehearsed lines. Inside jokes. Practiced saying “I love you” without flinching.

I wasn’t sure what scared me more — saying it like I meant it… or the fact that I already did.

I didn’t expect him to look like that. Not in a suit. Not standing in my doorway with a tie loose around his neck and his hands shoved awkwardly in his pockets like he didn’t know he’d just ended my life.

“Ready?” he asked casually, like I hadn’t just mentally blacked out.

“Uh—yeah. Sure. You… clean up nice.”

He grinned, a little crooked. “You sound surprised.”

I was. But I wasn’t going to tell him that. The Park’s anniversary dinner was held at some upscale restaurant downtown — all soft lighting and white tablecloths and sparkling drinks I couldn’t pronounce.

We arrived exactly on time. Kai held the door open for me. Hand at the small of my back. Leaned in to whisper something stupid that made me laugh before we even stepped inside.

He was dangerous like this. Charming. Present. Attentive. Like a real boyfriend.

“Look at you two!” Mrs. Park beamed the moment we approached the table. “Even cuter in person. Sit, sit!”

We slid into our seats, hands brushing. Kai rested his elbow on the back of my chair like it was second nature.

“Oh,” she added, turning to the others at the table, “these are the third-floor lovebirds I’ve been telling you about.”

I smiled, swallowing nerves. Kai? Kai turned to me, eyes soft, and said: “Can’t believe we made the cut, babe.”

I wanted to melt. Dinner was a minefield. Every conversation twisted toward us.

“How did you two meet?”

“Any plans to move in somewhere bigger?”

“Is there a wedding in the future?”

Kai answered everything smoothly.

“Bookstore,” he said, smiling at me. “She thought I was stealing the last copy of a poetry book she liked. We argued in front of the register.”

Mrs. Park laughed. “You don’t seem like a poetry type.”

“I’m not,” he said. “But I bought it anyway. Just to have an excuse to see her again.”

My stomach twisted. Because that wasn’t in the script. That wasn’t in the backstory we made. I looked at him. He didn’t break character. Just reached for my hand under the table, like the most natural thing in the world.

The room spun quietly around us. People talked. Toasts clinked. Someone teared up over a slide show of the Parks’ wedding day. But all I could feel was the warmth of Kai’s thumb brushing slow circles against my knuckles. Absentminded. Familiar.

I should’ve pulled away. I didn’t. After dinner, we wandered onto the rooftop terrace. String lights glowed. The city blinked below. It was quiet. Too quiet.

“You okay?” he asked, standing close.

“I don’t know.”

He nodded, like he got it.

“You were… good in there,” I said.

“You too.”

There was a beat. Then—

“You didn’t tell me you were going to say that.”

“What?”

“The poetry thing.”

He looked at me. And for once, he didn’t smile.

“I didn’t mean to.”

“But you said it anyway.”

“Yeah.”

My heart was in my throat. He stepped closer.

“I keep forgetting what’s fake,” he said quietly. “Even when I’m trying not to.”

I couldn’t breathe.

“Kai—”

He reached up. Brushed my hair behind my ear. Soft. Gentle. Like it mattered.

“I’d kiss you right now,” he said, voice low, “if it wouldn’t ruin everything.”

He didn’t kiss me. He just looked at me for one more second — like he wanted to remember something — and walked back inside. I stood there alone, hands cold, heart louder than it should’ve been.

And I thought: It’s already ruined.

It started with a fight. A soft one. Not a yelling match. Just the quiet kind of argument that happens when you both care too much and don’t know what to do with it.

Kai had been weird since the dinner. More distant. Or maybe just quieter. Still calling me babe. Still stealing my fries. But his smile didn’t reach his eyes anymore. Not when I looked too long.

We were folding laundry when I said, “We should cool it.”

He raised a brow. “Cool what?”

“This whole… thing.”

He didn’t answer.

I folded a towel. “I just think we’re starting to get too comfortable.”

“Isn’t that the point of a relationship?”

I looked up. “It’s not a real relationship.”

He nodded. Said nothing.

Then, suddenly: “Fine. Let’s both go on dates.”

I blinked. “What?”

“We’re fake. Let’s prove it.”

“You’re serious?”

“As a fake boyfriend,” he said flatly.

We made rules. No jealousy. No weird questions. No drama. Just one date each. Casual. Light. To prove this wasn’t getting out of hand. To prove we were still fine. We were not fine.

My date was named Jason. Jason was… nice. He was polite. He complimented my shoes. He talked about hiking and photography and “how rare it is to meet someone who reads.”

I smiled. Nodded. Made polite noises. But every time he laughed, I missed Kai’s laugh more. And when Jason leaned in and touched my hand, I didn’t feel anything except the ache of wrong.

Because Kai’s hand was always warm. Always steady. Always just… right there. Jason wasn’t Kai. And I hated how obvious that was.

I came home before ten. The lights were off. But Kai was awake, sitting on the couch, hoodie pulled over his knees like he hadn’t moved in hours.

“Hey,” I said, shutting the door softly behind me.

He looked up. His eyes were unreadable. “Hey.”

We stared at each other in the dim light.

“How was it?” he asked after a pause.

“Fine.”

“Did you like him?”

I hesitated. “Did you?”

He didn’t flinch. “I left after twenty minutes.”

“What?”

“She asked if I believed in soulmates. I panicked and pretended I had a dentist appointment.”

I bit back a laugh.

“Kai.”

He shrugged, voice low. “It didn’t feel right.”

We stood in silence again.

Then he looked at me — really looked at me — and said: “You looked good when you left.”

I blinked. “Why didn’t you say that earlier?”

“Didn’t want to make it harder.”

My chest ached. I crossed the room and sat beside him. Our knees touched. Neither of us moved away.

“Did it work?” I asked, voice barely above a whisper.

“What?”

“The dates. Did they fix it?”

He didn’t answer. Because we both knew the answer. That night, we didn’t sleep in the same bed. But it wasn’t about boundaries anymore.

It was about space. About aching. About the fear of what would happen if we let ourselves touch. Because if I touched him now, I wasn’t sure I could let go. And he knew that, too.

It happened on a Thursday. I wasn’t looking for him. I was walking home, headphones in, brain somewhere else — and then I saw it.

Kai. On the sidewalk. Across the street. With someone I didn’t know. She was laughing. Touching his arm. And then she leaned in. And he didn’t move. And she kissed him.

Quick. Casual. Just a kiss. He didn’t kiss her back. But he didn’t stop it either.

I froze on the corner, heart in my throat, the world around me blurring into static. And I thought: So that’s what it looks like when it’s real. I didn’t say anything when I got home.

He wasn’t back yet. His sneakers were gone. His room dark. I sat on the couch in my hoodie, knees pulled to my chest, trying to remember how to breathe. It didn’t mean anything. He wasn’t mine. We were just pretending.

I kept saying it like a prayer. A mantra. A warning. But I couldn’t stop picturing it. The way his body didn’t flinch. The way he let her lean in. The way he just stood there like it didn’t break him. It broke me. And he didn’t even know.

When he came home an hour later, I was still curled on the couch.

“Hey,” he said, dropping his bag by the door. “Did you eat?”

I nodded.

“Liar,” he murmured, disappearing into the kitchen.

I heard cabinets. Plates. The microwave. Normal things. Safe things. He came back with a bowl of rice and handed it to me wordlessly. I didn’t look at him.

“Thanks,” I said.

He sat down beside me. We watched an episode of something forgettable. I couldn’t focus. The air between us was different. He noticed.

“Are we okay?” he asked softly.

I forced a smile. “Yeah.”

“You sure?”

“Just tired.”

He nodded, but I could tell he didn’t believe me. That night, I went to bed early. I couldn’t sleep. My pillow still smelled like him. My hoodie was still warm from his body heat. Every inch of the apartment felt like him.

But not like mine. Just like a version of him I was borrowing. Temporarily. Until the act ended. And I couldn’t shake the image of her lips on his. How he didn’t move. How maybe — just maybe — that’s what he actually wanted.

In the morning, he made pancakes. I sat at the table in silence. He looked tired. Not hungover. Just… dimmed. Like something inside him was pulling shut.

“You’re quiet,” he said.

“So are you.”

“I thought that’s what you wanted.”

I flinched. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He didn’t answer.

Instead, he pushed the plate toward me. “Eat. You’ll feel better.”

I looked at him. Really looked. And said the one thing I shouldn’t have said.

“I saw you yesterday.”

His face didn’t change. But his fingers twitched.

“With that girl,” I added. “On the sidewalk.”

He closed his eyes.

“She kissed me,” he said. Quiet. Measured.

“And you didn’t stop her.”

He opened his eyes. “It didn’t mean anything.”

“It didn’t look like nothing.”

We stared at each other. He looked wrecked. But so was I.

“I’m not mad,” I whispered. “I just… I thought maybe…”

“What?”

“I thought maybe this wasn’t fake anymore.”

His face broke.

“Kai,” I started, but the words died.

Because what was there left to say? He stood up. Took a breath.

“I didn’t kiss her back,” he said. “I wanted to tell you. But I didn’t know how.”

“Why?”

“Because if I said it, I’d have to admit that none of this is pretend for me anymore.”

My heart stopped. But he was already walking away. He slept in his room that night. No goodnight. No soft jokes. No movie reruns or shared blankets. Just silence. And a growing distance that neither of us knew how to cross.

It didn’t fall apart all at once. It wasn’t a blowout or a storm or some dramatic screaming match in the middle of the kitchen. It was slower than that. Quieter. Worse.

The silence settled in like fog. Soft at first. Then dense. Then permanent. We stopped talking. Not completely — just enough for it to hurt. It started with the skipped goodnights.

Then the missed breakfast plates. Then the closed doors. Then the mornings where we passed each other like strangers in our own home. The apartment used to feel warm. Lived in. Shared. Now it just felt like space. Like space I didn’t deserve to take up.

He left earlier in the mornings. I stayed in bed longer. He ate lunch out. I made mine silently, headphones in, back turned to the hall. Dinner became a negotiation of silence — one of us would cook, the other would vanish.

Sometimes I caught him looking at me. Not angry. Not cold. Just sad. But he didn’t speak. Neither did I. I didn’t tell anyone what was happening. Because what would I even say? That my fake boyfriend stopped kissing my forehead? That I missed his stupid nicknames and the way he used to steal my hoodies and collapse onto my lap like he was entitled to it?

That I missed him?

It would’ve sounded ridiculous. Because none of it was real. Right?

The rain came a week later. One of those slow, endless rains that starts in the morning and never really stops. Everything smelled like wet concrete and regret. I stayed home. Curled on the couch in the dark, watching the city blur behind the glass.

The TV was off. The apartment too quiet. Kai’s door was closed. The longer the rain poured, the louder everything else got — my heartbeat, my thoughts, the echo of everything I should’ve said.

I missed him. I missed us. I missed being able to say that I missed him. By late afternoon, I broke.

I stood outside his door for ten minutes, hand raised, too scared to knock. When I finally did, it was soft. Just once. No answer. I knocked again. Still nothing. I almost left. But then—

The door cracked open.

He stood there, hoodie loose, eyes tired, like he hadn’t slept in days. We stared at each other. No words. Just silence. And then I said it. “I miss you.”

His face didn’t change. Not at first. Then his eyes dropped, and he exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for a week.

“You’re not the only one,” he said, voice barely there.

My throat tightened.

“I don’t know how to do this,” I whispered.

“I don’t either.”

“I saw you kiss her—”

“She kissed me.”

“I know. I still saw it.”

“I know.”

We stood in it. In the ache. In the guilt and the confusion and the weight of everything we hadn’t said. And then, because I couldn’t take the quiet anymore:

“I can’t keep pretending I’m fine.”

He looked up at me. “You don’t have to.”

I thought that would be it. I thought that was the moment we’d figure it out — step into each other like gravity and finally let ourselves have what we’d been dancing around since the day we moved in.

But instead, he stepped back.

“I need to think,” he said softly.

“I don’t want space,” I said.

“I do,” he replied. “Not from you. From all the pretending.”

My chest cracked.

“I don’t know what’s real anymore,” he added. “And I need to.”

He didn’t shut the door. But he didn’t come back either. I spent the rest of the evening curled on the couch, wrapped in a blanket that still smelled like him.

The rain kept falling. And for the first time since he moved in, I felt truly alone.

Days passed. Not fast. Not slow. Just one after another, like water dripping through a cracked ceiling. He stayed quiet. Not distant, exactly. Just careful.

He cooked sometimes. I did the dishes. We moved through the apartment like ghosts with soft footprints, careful not to rattle the air between us. No pet names. No forehead kisses. No movie nights.

But every once in a while, he looked at me like he used to. And that was almost worse.

One night, I found his hoodie folded on the end of the couch. Mine. The one he always wore. The one I’d yelled at him for stretching out. He’d washed it. Folded it neatly. Left it there without a note. A peace offering, maybe.

I stared at it for a long time. Didn’t touch it. But I didn’t move it either.

It rained again two days later. Softly this time. Gentle taps on the windows. No storm, just stillness. I was curled on the armchair, knees tucked to my chest, blanket up to my chin, watching a documentary I wasn’t actually absorbing.

Kai walked in halfway through. Paused. Then sat on the far end of the couch. Not next to me. But closer than he’d been in days. Neither of us spoke. Ten minutes in, he shifted.

“Is it weird,” he said suddenly, “that I keep hearing your voice in my head?”

My heart stuttered.

I glanced at him. “What?”

He kept his eyes on the screen. “I mean… I walk past your room and think I hear you laughing. Or I open the fridge and expect you to yell at me for finishing the oat milk again.”

I blinked. “You did finish the oat milk.”

“I know,” he whispered. “I replaced it.”

We fell quiet again. Half an hour passed. I could feel him watching me. Like he was trying not to. Like it hurt to look.

“I’m sorry,” he said eventually. Voice thick. “For hurting you. For being stupid. For not stopping that kiss. For—”

“Don’t,” I said.

He fell silent. I looked at him. Really looked. His hair was messy. Eyes tired. Shoulders curled like he was bracing for impact.

“I’m not mad at you,” I said gently. “I was just… scared.”

“Of what?”

“That I care more than I’m supposed to.”

He swallowed. “Same.”

The silence stretched again. Then, carefully, I moved to the couch. Slowly. Cautiously. I didn’t sit beside him — not quite. Just close enough for my knee to brush his.

He didn’t move away. Our shoulders touched. Briefly. Lightly. And then— His pinky brushed mine. The tiniest contact. And still, it made my chest twist.

I didn’t pull back. He didn’t push forward. We just sat there. Half in. Half out. Almost something.

Later that night, we stood in the kitchen at the same time. He was making tea. I was reaching for a glass. He handed me the mug without asking. I took it.

Our fingers touched. And neither of us moved. I looked up. He looked back. The moment hung there. Fragile. Whole. Real. I thought maybe he would kiss me. But instead, he said:

“Goodnight.”

And walked away.

We weren’t supposed to go together. Originally, we were both invited separately. Mutual friend. Separate RSVP cards. No expectation, no pressure.

But then Sooah texted: “I’m putting you two together on the guest list, obviously. Let me know your food prefs. Can’t wait to see you. Also—HOTEL ROOM BOOKED. You’re welcome.”

I read the message three times before turning to Kai, who was halfway through a cereal bowl on the kitchen floor.

“We’re sharing a room,” I said flatly.

He blinked. “At the wedding?”

I held up the message. He stared.

“...Cool,” he said. “No pressure.”

So casual. So composed. So clearly panicking.

The hotel was nice. Too nice. Crisp white sheets, golden lighting, one very large bed that looked like a promise. We walked in and neither of us said anything for five straight minutes.

“I can take the floor,” Kai offered eventually.

“You’ll break your spine.”

“I have youth.”

“You have fragile man-hips.”

He cracked a smile. It was the first real one in weeks. I looked away too fast.

The wedding was a blur of soft music and candles and happy people spinning in silk. Kai looked like a problem in his suit. Tie loosened just enough. Sleeves rolled to the elbow like he knew.

“Stop fidgeting,” he muttered, reaching out to adjust the strap on my dress. “You look perfect.”

My chest ached.

“You don’t have to say that.”

“I don’t say things I don’t mean.”

I didn’t answer. He didn’t push.

We sat together at the reception table, too close, too far. When the photographer passed, Kai leaned in and slipped his hand around my waist automatically. The shutter clicked. We didn’t move.

Later, someone raised a toast to soulmates.

Someone else pointed at us and said, “You two are next.”

Kai laughed politely. I blinked. The ache in my chest didn’t go away. We went back to the room in silence. I changed first. He turned around, pretending not to look. I did the same for him.

When we both finally climbed into the bed, we lay back-to-back. Two feet of empty space between us, one shared blanket, and a galaxy of unsaid things.

The room was dark. The air was loud. He exhaled, slow and quiet.

“You okay?” he asked.

“No,” I said truthfully.

He turned over. “Me neither.”

We didn’t face each other. But we didn’t fall asleep, either. Minutes passed. Hours maybe.

Then he whispered, “I miss you.”

It broke me. I turned, slowly, and found him already facing me. Eyes open. Barely lit by the moon.

“I miss you too,” I said, barely above a breath.

He reached out. His hand found mine under the blanket. No hesitation this time.

“I don’t know what we are anymore,” he said. “But I want this.”

“Even if it’s messy?”

“Especially if it’s messy.”

Silence again. Then— He leaned in. Close. Closer. And I let him.

His forehead touched mine. His breath warm against my lips. But he didn’t kiss me. Not yet. Just whispered:

“I want to kiss you.”

“Then do it,” I whispered back.

He didn’t. Not then. He closed his eyes. Pulled me into his chest. Held me like he was trying to keep something from falling apart. And I let him.

We slept like that. Tangled. Close. Almost something.

We didn’t kiss. We just fell asleep tangled in each other like it was inevitable. I woke up first.

His arm was around my waist. My face pressed into the space between his neck and shoulder. His hoodie wrapped around both of us like a safety net.

I didn’t move. I didn’t want to move. But I did. Because that was easier than pretending I wasn’t thinking about it. He woke up not long after.

We got ready in silence. No jokes. No teasing. No mention of the fact that I’d practically fallen asleep in his arms. He offered me the toothpaste wordlessly. I handed him the hairdryer. It felt like choreography. Like something we’d done a thousand times. But everything was different.

The air between us buzzed with what we hadn’t done. What we almost did. What we’d admitted in the dark but couldn’t seem to say with the lights on. We checked out just after noon.

The car ride was quiet. I watched the highway blur past the window and tried to remember when it all started to hurt this much. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. We were supposed to be fake. Casual. Temporary.

Instead, he’d held me all night like I was something he couldn’t bear to let go of. And now he wouldn’t even look at me.

“Did I do something?” I asked eventually, the words tearing out before I could stop them.

Kai blinked. Glanced over. “What?”

“You’re being weird.”

“I’m not—”

“You are.”

He exhaled, long and tired.

“I just…” He trailed off. “It’s a lot.”

“Yeah,” I said softly. “It is.”

“I didn’t mean to make it worse.”

“You didn’t.”

Silence.

“But you’re hurting,” he said, so quietly I almost missed it.

I looked at him. “So are you.”

We didn’t talk again until we got home. The apartment looked the same. The couch was still messy. My blanket was still half-draped over the armrest like it was waiting for me.

I dropped my bag by the door and stood in the hallway, staring at nothing. Kai hovered behind me. And then:

“Maybe we should stop.”

I turned, stunned. “What?”

“This whole fake relationship thing.”

I stared.

“It’s not working anymore,” he said.

“You mean it’s too real.”

He didn’t answer.

“Are you saying you don’t want to do this anymore?”

He ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t know what I’m saying.”

“Then say something,” I snapped.

His eyes flashed. “Fine. I can’t keep pretending I’m just your roommate. I don’t know how to do this without wanting more.”

The breath punched out of me.

“I want to kiss you,” he said. “I want to wake up with you. I want to mean it. But I’m terrified it’s only me.”

I stepped closer. “It’s not.”

“Then why do you keep pulling away?”

“Because you kissed someone else.”

He flinched.

“Because you said it didn’t matter, but you didn’t tell me until I forced it out of you.”

His jaw tensed. “I didn’t know how.”

“Well, I don’t know how to be the one who cares more.”

We stood there. Broken. And I knew — if I reached for him now, he’d still come closer. But I didn’t. And neither did he. He walked to his room. Closed the door. The lock didn’t click. But the silence after felt like it did.

We agreed to fake the breakup over text. Which says everything, really. It started with a new lease form in the mailbox — a reminder from Mrs. Park that our lease was due to renew soon, and that “couples get first priority, of course 💞.”

I stared at the envelope for too long. I didn’t want to open it. Kai did. He read it once. Then again.

Then said, “We should probably… tell them.”

I didn’t ask what he meant. I knew. That we were breaking up. Publicly. Officially. To end the act. To make it easier. To protect whatever broken pieces we had left.

We rehearsed it once over coffee. No eye contact. Just quiet lines traded like a script neither of us wanted to say.

“They’ll probably ask what happened,” I said.

He nodded. “We can say we grew apart.”

“That’s depressing.”

“We’re fake. It doesn’t have to be realistic.”

I laughed. Bitter. “Yeah, wouldn’t want to make it too believable.”

He flinched. I looked away. We told the Parks on a Saturday morning. I stood beside Kai in the hallway, hands clenched in my sleeves like a kid in trouble.

“We just… realised it wasn’t working,” I said. “No hard feelings.”

Mrs. Park gasped like we’d just divorced after 20 years of marriage.

“Oh no! But you two were so sweet!”

Kai smiled, thin. “We’re still friends.”

That was a lie. We weren’t anything anymore. Word got around the building in 48 hours. The neighbours started giving us the look — the soft, pitying kind you give someone who’s just lost something.

Someone left a tub of cookie dough at our door with a note: “Breakups suck. Sugar helps.”

I laughed so hard I cried. Inside the apartment, everything changed. He stopped lingering in the kitchen. I stopped sitting on the couch. He avoided my gaze. I stopped trying to catch it.

It was like living with a ghost. One that used to laugh at my jokes and steal my laundry and curl up beside me just to be close. Now he barely looked at me. And when he did — it hurt.

One night, I caught him in the kitchen past midnight. He didn’t hear me come in. He was standing at the sink, drinking from a glass, shirt wrinkled, hair a mess — and he looked tired. So tired. I leaned on the doorframe. He turned. Paused. Then offered a soft, almost-smile.

“Couldn’t sleep?” I asked.

He shook his head. “You?”

I shrugged. We stood there in the half-dark.

And then I whispered, “Do you miss it?”

He looked up. Eyes guarded. “Miss what?”

“This,” I said. “Us.”

His jaw tensed. Then he said, so quietly it almost didn’t reach me:

“I never stopped.”

I didn’t answer. I walked back to my room. Closed the door. Cried like it was the end of something. Because maybe it was. Or maybe I just didn’t know how to start again.

I called my best friend the next day. Told her the whole thing. Every lie, every kiss, every time I pretended not to notice how fast my heart beat when he walked into the room. When I finished, she was quiet for a moment.

Then: “Do you love him?”

I didn’t hesitate. “Yeah.”

“You told him?”

I shook my head, though she couldn’t see it. “He doesn’t want to know.”

“You don’t know that.”

I wiped my eyes. “He left. Isn’t that enough?”

She sighed. “You’re scared. But if you don’t tell him, he’ll never come back.”

I didn’t reply. But her words stayed.

That night, I found the lease renewal form still sitting on the table. Unsigned. Untouched. Waiting. I stared at it for a long time.

And then I picked up a pen. Not to sign it. To write something else. Just two words in the corner of the envelope.

“I’m sorry.”

I didn’t know what else to say.

The envelope sat on the kitchen table like a loaded gun. It had been there for a week. Unopened. Unmoved.

Every day I walked past it. Made tea beside it. Ate cereal in front of it. Pretended I couldn’t see my own name printed in careful block letters across the front.

Lease Renewal – Unit 8B. Due by Friday.

Friday came. I still hadn’t touched it. Kai had stopped mentioning it. Stopped mentioning a lot of things. We existed like echoes in the same space — brushing past each other with small nods, small sounds, never real words.

He was still kind. Still washed his dishes. Still left the light on for me when he got home late. But he didn’t look at me the way he used to. And I was starting to think he never would again.

On Thursday night, it rained. The same kind of rain that had brought us together the first time — soft, steady, constant. I sat by the window, staring out into the glowing wet blur of the city, knees tucked up to my chest. Hoodie three sizes too big. Kai’s. I hadn’t returned it.

I could hear him moving around in the kitchen. Not speaking. Not coming closer. I think we both thought: If I speak first, I’ll break.

Around midnight, I got up. Walked into the kitchen. He was leaning on the counter, scrolling through his phone. He looked exhausted. I opened the fridge. Reached for water. Closed it again. And then I turned around.

“Kai.”

He looked up. Eyes dull. “Yeah?”

I held up the envelope.

He stiffened. “Right.”

“I didn’t sign it.”

He nodded, but didn’t say anything.

“I didn’t want to sign it without you,” I said.

Still no reply. So I added, carefully: “I don’t want to live here if you’re not here too.”

He stared at me for a long moment. Then pushed away from the counter and walked across the room — slow, deliberate — and stood in front of me like he was bracing himself.

“Why?” he asked.

The question hurt.

“What do you mean, why?”

“Why would you still want this?”

“Because it wasn’t fake for me,” I said.

His breath caught.

“It never was,” I added. “Even when it was supposed to be. Even when we were pretending. I meant every word. Every ‘babe.’ Every goodnight. Every stupid movie night where we fell asleep on opposite ends of the couch and woke up tangled.”

He looked like he was trying not to fall apart.

“And I didn’t run after you,” I said quietly, “because I didn’t think you wanted to be caught.”

Silence. Rain against the windows. And then—

He said, “You left a note.”

I blinked. “What?”

“On the envelope.”

Oh. I’m sorry.

“You read it?”

He nodded.

“You didn’t say anything.”

“I didn’t know what to say.”

My throat tightened. “Do you know now?”

He stepped closer.

“I want to stay,” he said. “I want to renew the lease. I want to keep watching terrible movies with you and cooking instant ramen and waking up with your face in my neck and not knowing where I end and you begin.”

I stopped breathing.

“I love you,” he said. “I’ve loved you. Quietly. For months. Maybe longer.”

I broke. Right there in the kitchen. Soft sob. Shaking hands. Tears I couldn’t explain. He moved without hesitation. Wrapped his arms around me. Held me like it was the first time and the last time and the only thing keeping him upright.

“I thought I lost you,” I whispered.

“You never did.”

“I almost let you go.”

“But you didn’t,” he said. “You stayed.”

We didn’t kiss then. Not yet. We just stood there — in the quiet apartment, in the middle of the storm, holding each other like the lease didn’t matter. Like nothing did except this.

The next morning, we signed the form. Together. His name beside mine. Messy. Real. When I handed it back to the landlord, Mrs. Park looked over the paper and beamed.

“I knew you two would work it out,” she said. “Love like that doesn’t fake easy.”

I blinked. “What?”

“Oh, honey,” she said, laughing. “I’ve lived in this building thirty years. I know the difference between pretend and I’d die for you.”

Kai turned pink. I laughed. And for the first time in weeks — maybe months — it felt like we were really okay.

Epilogue

We spent the morning after the lease was signed acting like two people who hadn’t just confessed their feelings in the middle of the kitchen.

We were both weirdly quiet. Not cold — just… new. New to the softness. New to the way Kai brushed my hand and didn’t pull away. New to the way I caught him staring and didn’t look down.

Everything felt tentative. Careful. Like we were afraid the wrong word might shatter whatever fragile truth we’d finally stepped into.

At some point that day, he started calling me “roommate” again. But softer this time. Teasing.

I was pouring cereal and he leaned over my shoulder and whispered, “Hey, roommate. Pass the milk?”

I turned. Narrowed my eyes. “You’re really going with that?”

He shrugged. “I could go back to babe.”

My ears got hot. He smirked. We didn't kiss that day. Or the next. We didn’t even talk about what we were now — probably because neither of us knew how to label it without breaking the spell.

But I knew something had changed when he came home late from a shift and dropped his bag and flopped onto the couch beside me, half-asleep, mumbling:

“Missed you.”

Then knocked his head against my shoulder and stayed there until he started snoring.

Three days later, he kissed me. But it didn’t go how either of us probably imagined it.

We were walking home from the store. It had been a weirdly perfect day — sunny, warm, blue sky. He made me laugh so hard I dropped my reusable bag on the sidewalk.

Then, like the universe was determined to turn our lives into a romcom, the clouds rolled in. And it started raining. Hard.

Kai gasped. “YOU SAID NO RAIN TODAY.”

“You checked the weather?”

He blinked. “No.”

“Why would you lie to me like this.”

“Let’s run!” he shouted, already sprinting down the sidewalk like an idiot with the grocery bag smacking his leg.

I followed him, soaked to the bone, hair stuck to my face, laughing so hard I couldn’t breathe. He stopped halfway up the block. Turned around.

And just looked at me.

Rain in his lashes. Shirt sticking to his chest. Hands shaking with leftover adrenaline.

“Do you want me to kiss you now?” he asked.

I froze.

“You can say no,” he added. “I just—I want to. And I thought maybe—”

“Shut up,” I said.

And kissed him.

Right there on the sidewalk. In the rain. With grocery bags on the ground and water in our shoes and the sky coming down around us.

It was messy. And perfect. And real.

When we finally pulled apart, he whispered, “So… we’re not faking anymore?”

“Babe,” I said. “We haven’t been faking since, like, week two.”

He groaned. “I knew it.”

Six months later:

We’re still in the apartment. The lease is renewed. So is the love. Mrs. Park still thinks we’re disgustingly in love. She’s not wrong.

We have a whiteboard on the fridge that says “Days Since Last Fake Breakup: 184.”

Sometimes we reset it on purpose just to be annoying.

We still argue over who finishes the oat milk. He still steals my hoodies. I still trip over his sneakers.

But now he kisses me after. Now he calls me babe and means it. Now he sleeps in my bed and stays there. Now, when it rains, we don’t run.

We stay.

[scribbledghost]

cool but angsty idea that’s been rotating around in my brain courtesy of that near-death ask and the lore you’ve established already

so the vessels can’t die — therefore conversion to becoming a vessel makes you functionally immortal

so I bring you: deathbed conversion. something happens and the reader is on the brink of death. they know — and maybe the vessels know deep down too — this isn’t something a human can survive. so one of them ventures the idea of conversion. they aren’t sure if reader can even live through the process in such a critical state, but it’s their last hope.

not sure if this is something up your alley, and there’s no pressure whatsoever to write this, but it’s been in my brain for weeks and I need to yap about it to someone and I’m not a writer and have only vibes and a vague sense of a story so uh… here you go :]

Yknow, this is actually something I've thought about quite a bit. I can see this as happening in two scenarios: one if you've been grievously injured and it's implicitly known that you won't survive, and another if you know your death is coming (i.e. you've been diagnosed with a terminal illness).

You are correct that conversion makes you functionally immortal. Of course, the vessels can die, but only on Sleep's schedule. If Sleep wishes them to survive, they will. It has much more control over their physiology and it is able to manipulate any healing they need to a much greater degree than it can with a standard human that is not bound to it. It does have certain abilities that can enhance your wellness - for example, it can extend its influence to you in order to extend your lifespan, but not by nearly as much as the vessels'.

So, as far as a deathbed conversion goes, let's break down the two scenarios:

The first: It's unexpected. You've been injured badly, or have contracted a very fast-moving and lethal illness. I think by the time this option crosses the vessels' minds, you're very close to death. You're still conscious and mostly coherent, but there's simply too much damage to your physical body. It may even be Sleep itself that informs Vessel that there's nothing more it can do to help. That, coupled with the fact that all of them can sense that you are fading fast, means there's very little time to make a decision here. Vessel in particular wrestles with the idea of making you the offer of functional immortality. In the end, it's likely III that blurts out the question: can you convert? Will that help? Do you even want to?

The world stops on a dime when the questions leave his mouth. The decision is yours, though it's clear to see that your passing would shatter all of them in its aftermath. If you consent, the conversion ritual is quick and messy - a stark difference from the other conversion rituals the vessels went through. But due to the sheer amount of damage to your body, it's not a guaranteed fix. It may simply be too late. You may convert to a vessel only to pass shortly after. But if you're willing, then they have to try.

The second scenario: Your death is expected. You'd been sick for some time, conventional medicine having done all it can to help you and falling tragically short. Sleep has even done its best to heal you from the inside out, but unfortunately the culprit is simply too aggressive and Sleep's connection with you is not quite deep enough. I think in this scenario, Vessel may actually be the one to bring up conversion as a last-ditch effort to save you. Likely when it is near the end, when you're bedridden, in pain, and slowly fading. He has complicated feelings about asking you to convert in such a scenario, unsure if he's adequately imparted the seriousness of such an extended life upon you. Sure, you could likely survive and be healed. But is that worth the cost? Is the risk worth the reward? He can't make that decision for you, and he refuses to even try to.

If you agree, then a very solemn ritual will take place. It's unlike the others as well - there's a slight sense of urgency to it, but overall it is akin to having your funeral while you're still alive. There's still a chance that it won't work here, that Sleep won't quite be able to cure what ails you, but your odds are better here than if your impending death is unexpected. The ritual itself is less formal and grandiose than the vessels' conversions were. It's gentle, less drawn-out. Almost as if Vessel is offering you to Sleep itself in a desperate plea for it to fix you.

In both cases, once the conversion ritual is complete, you will still be in critical condition in the immediate aftermath (even if it does work and Sleep is able to heal you). You will be cared for around the clock while you recover, and once you are, there will have to be much discussion about what your new life entails. For all intents and purposes, you did die on that altar. You were simply reborn on it as well.

[aziraphales-library]

Lost Fic #319

1. Hi mods, Thanks for running this! I'm looking for a cross-over fic from GO/Discworld (think the Witches abroad setting). I know quite a lot of details, but can't find it anymore. Hope it wasn't pulled off. What I know: –A&C were transported to Discworld through L-Space in A's bookshop –They had to do/finish something to be able to go back –The witches were in the story also –They were at some point in the Lancre castle, where they were locked or hiding in a room (and there they finally confessed) –It was very funny, a couple of chapters long if I remember correctly –It was published before we even knew there would be a second season. Thanks for all your great work! - @j-bel

2. Hi! I can't remember this fic, but it's about Crowley and Aziraphale before the fall. They know each other and end up starting a relationship with one another. The fic jumps between their time and heaven and after the fall. Aziraphale knows that it's Crowley when they first meet in Eden. I remember Aziraphale thinking that Crowley looked like his past angel self while they're having sex on a beach. Crowley ends up asking Aziraphale who he was as an angel at some point. Then at the end it's revealed that Crowley was Raphael. The text when they're in heaven is also blurred out so that you don't know it's Raphael until the the very end. I'm sorry that doesn't make a lot of sense, but if you could find it that'd be great! Thank you!!! - anon

3. Trying to find fic where Crowly dies on a ferry after deciding to come live with Aziraphale and Aziraphale meets his ghost on a cliff. - anon

4. hi there! i hope all of you are doing well. this is a bit of an off-topic question, but i was wondering if any of you read fics on quotev? i’m looking for something i read a while back (probably about a year ago now), i don’t remember much aside from a few scenes (i wanted to see if anyone had been on quotev before explaining it, just to save the hassle and sifting through my memories for another day when i’m not tired and dazed lol), but i thought this would be worth a shot just in case. thank you either way, i hope you have a great week! p.s. thank you for running this blog 🫶 you’ve been making finding good fics so much easier and keeping me very entertained when i’m too burnt out to do anything but read, so i really appreciate you all <3 - @crowdrinkingcoffee

5. Hi!! Thank you so much for all you all do, this blog has helped me find so many good fics! I’ve searched absolutely everywhere for this fic and cannot find it. I’ve gone through all the tags I can think of. It was a human au where Crowley and Aziraphale were in catholic school I think. And Crowley was trying to tempt Aziraphale. I think Crowley was a bad boy and maybe a little dark. I think there were definitely a lot of religious themes. I recently read Just Like Heaven (which was absolutely excellent, btw) thinking it might be it, but it was not. Does anyone have any idea what I am looking for? - anon

If you know any of these fics please include the number in your reply! Thank you :)

- Mod D

[cricky-butspicy]

What are Werewolves and vampires abilities

For example How aware is atlas on full moons and can he transform regardless of the moon phase?Is Soleil more like modern vampires or the original way they were with abilities? What kind of things can witches do?

I’m a sucker for lore and world building lol

If lore and world building is what you ask for, lore and world building is what you shall get! I love creating worlds and and making up all the lore to feed the story!!!

I'll start with Werewolves first!

In a comment on this post, I put this little blurb:

"Atlas cannot change at will! It happens when it wants to happen, usually under the full moon but other factors can play into it, which really sucks, but he does get warning signs like getting incredibly sweaty and itchy so he knows when it’s time to book it out of places and get somewhere secluded. Sometimes he does get stuck mid change though, and that can suck because he either has to try to will it one way or the other or he stays in the uncomfortable limbo of two legged werewolf. (Mid change is actually when he’s most dangerous!) That’s about as much control as he has. (He appreciates a change that is like ripping off a bandaid so he can just be a full wolf or be a full human. He hates the in betweens.)"

The signs of an upcoming transformation! Hot/cold flashes (lots of switching back and forth.) Sweating. Itchiness. High grade fevers (a werewolf’s temp already runs higher than a human’s, around 100.00 degrees F (or about 37.8 C), but some of Atlas’s temps have run well over 107 degrees F and leave him confused and delirious.) The need to be outside in nature. The need to get undressed (dear god put your pants on Atlas.)) Bone pain. Tender muscles and skin. Impulsive wants and instincts appearing. Passing out. Unquenchable thirst. A need for a chosen person to be around and to protect them. Paranoia. General pain. Sensitivity to smells. Sensitivity to noise. And more! Those are the most common.

His in between is what most normal depictions of werewolves look like, on his back hind legs, both human and wolf traits, scary and dangerous, etc. etc. Otherwise it's full human or full giant wolf. Atlas isn't the most aware in his full wolf form. He kind of gets dog brain, and he is less dangerous as a full wolf than in the in between. He kind of becomes a big puppy most of the time unless he is in the mode to hunt for himself or others or something else is effecting his brain. Like he is one with the nature and one with a pack despite being alone. He does things he doesn't mean to in wolf form and often regrets it after if he wakes up and remembers or wakes up by the scene. (Atlas has woken up naked in fields before with his kills before. It's very embarrassing for him. He feels bad for the local farmers near enough to his home that he can reach them in the night. He has taken too many sheep. He doesn't know why he takes the sheep, they make him sick every time.)

When he changes into an in between, Soleil tries to keep him locked up in the home. They've even built a system in Atlas's home to keep him chained in a room until he turns one way or the other. He's too dangerous and there are too many variables that could happen with him like this. He has attacked townspeople in that form, and Soleil tries to keep that from happening again. Soleil struggles with Atlas like this only because he is a malnourished, young vampire. If he ate properly, he'd easily be able to put Atlas in his place, but he isn't. If he was a little older and knew a little more about being a vampire, he'd be able to easily get Atlas in his place as well, but also he is not, so he's out of luck and just has to struggle against a giant werewolf. It's easier to please Atlas into cooperating in an in between than fight him, and Soleil learned that trick early on. Sometimes you just have to kiss your werewolf boyfriend about it and he calms down. The familiarity brings his brain back to a place of sense and calms the irrational raging thoughts that can come with a change.

Atlas, does not change back into someone with clothes. He is buck naked. He has to remember to strip before transforming. He has lost too many good pairs of clothes before from changing and ripping his clothes off during it. Some moon phases besides the full moon will cause him to change, or when his body is hungry for "special" meals, or during certain types of ruts, and special full moons are something he has to be cautious of because they can make him lose a little more of his humanity. There has been a few times Atlas in his wolf form hasn't recognized Soleil and has tried to attack him and Soleil had to try to convince this wolf that he is dating that it is just him. Sometimes convincing Atlas of that alone during those special Moons is enough to knock him back into changing back into human, and he is extremely confused and wonders why Soleil looks so nervous under him. Why was he even on Soleil in the first place?

Werewolves are still weak to silver. You can only kill a werewolf with silver weapons. Crosses don't work on Atlas. He isn't Christian and their faith doesn't effect him, but it does to other werewolves who have a belief. Holy water does nothing to him, it just makes him wet. Werewolves live pretty long lives as long as they aren't hunted down, about 150 years on average, and you are normally not born a werewolf; you are turned a werewolf. Atlas came from a family were most of the family was turned over time. Atlas was one of the last to be turned in this family and freaked out so hard about it that he ended up running away on his first night transformed in look for help. He did not find it. He only got lost, confused, blacked out, and woke up naked in the woods somewhere far away. He got help from the town he's in now. They said he could take the house in the woods if he truly wanted, but no one wanted that house. There were terrifying things in those woods and something old and starving waiting their for someone to move in (not wrong but not exactly correct.) Atlas said he'd take his chances and has lived there ever since. He visits town often, they think he's intimidating but a "nice young man." Atlas doesn't correct them.

Werewolves are much hairier than regular people. Atlas is quite hairy in this AU. He's got his sharp canines, sharp nails, and is buffer in this AU (kind of like in the Royal AU. Royal AU Atlas has MUSCLE.) He sometimes gets some canine-like mannerisms even when in his human form like growling, snarling, and sniffing. Licking is a smaller one, and it's mostly just something he does to annoy Soleil and eventually reader unless in wolf form, then the licking is just because he's an excited guy.

Being turned is a type of intentional marking usually done on the back where a werewolf will swipe deep scratches into the back of the prey and mark them on a full moon. The effects don’t show until the next full moon. It’s usually just a painful burning wound at first that doesn’t want to heal. It heals after the first transformation, but leaves a deep scar in its place.

Werewolves can procreate! And it’s not destined for their children to be guaranteed werewolves either! They might just have regular kids or were-kids or even a mixture of both! Werewolves do go into ruts and heats, just not very often.

I don't know if I put it anywhere, but Atlas was marked when he was around 22. He's around 29 now. Even though it's been 7 years, Atlas only feels like it's been a couple in his mind. He knows better, but time has been fucked up for him with turning. He really can't turn to Soleil for help on that either. Soleil has already lost his sense of time, and he isn't that old for a vampire.

On to Vampires!

I don't know if you'd consider Soleil an old time vampire or a modern vampire, but I can explain and you can make that decision.

Soleil cannot go out into the direct sun. He will burn incredibly fast, and if left out in the sun long enough, will turn to ash. It will kill him. He finds ways around this, like very large floppy hats and big dark sunglasses with every part of him covered and an additional parasol. Soleil DOES NOT go out often during the day, nor does he visit town often. He leaves that to Atlas. Sometimes all of those people and all the different heartbeats and scents can get to him and make him woozy.

Wooden stakes through the heart are a classic that will also still kill him. Silver crosses in particular effect Soleil. They will burn him and make him dizzy and sick. Holy water burns him as well and is like acid. He can gets scars from it. Soleil cannot step into holy places, and he must always be invited into buildings in order to enter. If you do not invite him in, he is stuck outside of it. This sucks when he wants to go places like the grocery store without Atlas because someone needs to invite him in, and he doesn't have his usual greeter. Some vampires can control minds. Not only is Soleil not strong enough, he was never taught how. Soleil CAN read minds though. He can still get the connection through gazes if he can get you to look at him long enough. He tries not to, he hates digging into other's business, but if it's for his or Atlas's safety, he doesn't mind digging a little further than he should.

But the reason Soleil was never taught how is because he killed the vampire who turned him in a fit of rage for turning him despite not wanting to be turned very quickly after getting turned. Soleil only had his "Mentor" for about a year and a half. Mostly all his mentor did was keep him locked away and made him eat things that horrified Soleil that he never wanted to touch while talking about a new chances on the horizon if they worked together. There are many things Soleil didn't learn because there was not a chance to learn it. He was so furious for being turned into a monster that he couldn’t handle it and did the only thing he thought could make up for doing something so cruel to him. Soleil really had a hard time after that and went through some not so great feelings after. Soleil was turned when he was 24, he's now somewhere around 110. He's very young for a vampire, some of which are thousands of years old (but most are in their mid to upper hundreds. Young vampires are a rarity in this day and age. Really, vampires in a whole are.)

(The way Soleil killed his "Mentor" was great. He locked him out of his own home (the home that Soleil now calls his own deep in the forest near Atlas's home) and watched him burn in the Sun while he clawed at the door and begged for mercy. Soleil creeked the door open at the last moment while letting him hear "You showed me no mercy, so I will not give you the kindness.") Now Soleil has inherited all of his stuff and lives pretty ok there (but he often goes and stays in Atlas's little cottage type home with him. It's comfier to him, and Atlas made him a set up under his own bed to keep all the light out that is filled with blankets and pillows so he can rest during the day and Atlas cleans it all the time for him, like cleaning a small animal cage, but instead it's your boyfriend's hidey hole.)

(If you are curious, no, Mama Maria and Papa Theo are no longer around. They passed as humans do, and Soleil was there for them as they did. They didn’t know where Soleil went for that year and a half and why he looked so different coming back. They were very worried. He always looked sickly. They questioned why he no longer ate with them and how he always seemed to never age a day. Soleil could never explain it to them, and he never thought once of turning them to stay with him even though he was so scared for them to leave him. He would never make them share his fate.)

Being turned is extremely painful. It's simple though! You bite your prey, bite your own tongue, push your blood into the wound to get it flowing through the body and Boom the process begins! But its horrible to go through. Your body pretty much has to all slowly die and become overtaken by this blood that eats away at you and causes horrible side effects that I can explain in another post if you'd wish, but it's nasty. Nothing pleasant about it.

You cannot see Soleil in certain mirrors. It's the mirrors with silver made for the reflections, but modern mirrors you can see him in! You can see his clothes and accessories, but not him in the old mirrors. While Atlas as a werewolf can eat regular food to hold him over in between his truly filling foods, Soleil cannot. He can only drink blood and that is his only source of food. He went four years without drinking any (And that's how he ended up passed out under that bridge for Atlas to find. He literally was starving to death at that point, but he could have starved longer. It's hard to starve a vampire to full death.)

Vampires heal quite easily, especially after a good meal! That's why Soleil's skin came back to life and such once he started eating again. Soleil gains strength when he is properly fed, and could easily fend off and throw Atlas around if he kept up regular feedings and actually drank his fill, but Soleil is cautious. Instead of eating three times a week about a pint of blood or more (Soleil currently would need more because he would need to catch up on being starved,) he eats once a week, and only takes about half a pint at most before trying to push away what he's drinking and stopping himself from drinking anymore. He can sometimes do this if he's thinking hard enough in the back of his mind, but mostly it gets too hard to do that (because he's a picky eater who only eats what he likes) and he loses himself. That's when Atlas needs to step in and stop him. Soleil is kind of in a bad space with blood and eating. He craves it so much and gets so lost in it that it doesn't feel like a food source to him. It just feels like something he can't stop himself with. It feels like a curse.

Vampires cannot procreate! Nothing in their body is truly alive and their eggs or sperm would die with how cold they are (humans on average run about 98.6°F (37°C), but Soleil runs about 60°F when starving, but can get himself up to about 80°F when he has eaten some and has worked the blood back into his system. So, one AU where Soleil would not get his children :( He’d need to turn someone in order to become their mentor, but again, he’d never share that fate with someone. BUT in this universe, vampires only look "alive" because of the blood they consume acts as their blood for a bit along with being their source of energy. That's why Soleil's face flushes so much when he first starts drinking blood! It's his body introducing the blood to his system and for some reason with him, it goes straight to his face and specifically his cheeks.

Vampires come in all races and all skin tones, but they all get pale and greyish when they are too hungry or starving. Their skin colors and undertones come back to their regular tone when they have eaten or are satisfied. Meaning, quite often, Soleil looks a little too intensely pale since he is often quite hungry, even if he won't admit it. Soleil never admits when he is hungry, it's mostly Atlas calling out that he's hungry because he sees the signs. Other signs that show when a vampire is hungry is first yellow coloring filling their eyes before red following, general weakness and clumsiness, dizziness, brain fog, jumbled thoughts, irrational impulses, biting (not even because they are meaning to bite, just a general snapping of the jaws at whatever comes near them as a response of their body trying to feed them for it or an act of irritation,) thirst (Soleil tries drinking a lot of water when he is very hungry. It does nothing for him, but he hopes it can settle his body some,) and light sensitivity, noise sensitivity and scent sensitivity. Soleil might also say you smell too strong if you come too close and he's too hungry. It comes off as rude, especially when you don't know and think he is saying you smell bad, but it's really just him trying to say your blood smells too strong and it's making him want to lash out. He's trying to warn you.

Soleil is good at hiding most of the signs, but he can't hide how his skin looks or how his freckles start to look like tiny black marks all over his body instead of the lighter brown fleeting freckles that they actually are. He also cannot hide the intensity of how much his eyes change from that clear blue to the intense yellows and reds that seep in and take over. So, Atlas can easily call his bullshit when he asks "Do you want to eat?" and Soleil goes "Oh, no. I-I'm really fine. I can go a little longer." and the question then becomes, "Sorry, I forgot you don't actually have a choice in this. I meant where am I feeding you, brat."

Vampires usually have a favorite blood types to drink and a certain type of person they like to feed from based on what vitamins, minerals, and properties their bloods hold. They also usually don't mind drinking from animals. Soleil is a special case in the fact that he doesn't have a specific bloody types that he likes in the way of it being A or O or anything like that. Soleil is special in the way that he likes special blood types, like werewolves, and other monsters, and witches. They have a different property to their blood that is not only more filling and more satisfying, it's like rare foods that melt in your mouth. The types of foods that you can never get enough of and that you could eat every day for the rest of your life. Soleil has an advantage of drinking werewolf blood all the time. He gains some enhancements to his senses in his hearing and sense of smell (for the better or worse.) Sure, vampires already have enhancement in those areas, but Soleil's enhancement is a bit higher because often time the blood running through him is werewolf blood. He doesn't know this, he just knows Atlas's blood makes him feel really good because of the extra hormones in it as well. Those rut hormones can drive Soleil mad.

Werewolves and Vampires getting along is extremely rare. There were wars and feuds against them for decades before they came to an agreement and went their separate ways and saved themselves from the difficulties of having open enemies. Even still, they stay out of each other's territories and business. They never interact. Soleil and Atlas are truly two strange beings, but they weren't raised the same as other werewolves and vampires. They don't have as much of that disgust with each other. But that doesn't mean they didn't have to deal with any disgust for each other when they first met and were trying to get to know each other, but that wasn't as hard as the cruel intensity of Soleil's own disgust for himself. Soleil finds all monster disgusting, but found that he hated vampires most. They were clearly the cruelest. Atlas sort of had to get over his own disgust for Soleil pretty quickly because the guy was pathetic and a ticking time bomb for blowing up at himself.

Atlas convinced Soleil that if anything, at least they weren't cruel and they weren't disgusting. They were products of their environment. Soleil really clutched onto Atlas after that conversation.

Finally a tittle touch on Witches that I'll come back to in an new post because this one is so long now!

Witch abilities completely depend on what type of witch you are. Really, the most common type of witch is a witch species that most don't even know they are witches for! They are kitchen witches. They makes some of the best foods you have ever tasted. They excel in cuisine and can make something spectacular out of basically nothing. But most witches do not know they are witches unless they are told from a long bloodline of witches that have survived somewhat out in the open instead of hiding and forgetting their heritage.

I will tell you as a teaser for a later post that Witch Reader, is a nature and medicine witch. They excel with plants, herbs, knowing how to fix ailments and creating medicines and things that will help people heal and survive. We'll see more of Witch Reader soon!

[stxrsval]

ALL THIS TIME I DIDN’T KNOW - Draco x Reader

᪤ SUMMARY . . After months of silence, a familiar face appears in the middle of the night ~ Draco Malfoy, older, sharper, and just as difficult to forget. You haven’t spoken since the messy end of a relationship that burned too hot too fast, and now he’s here, claiming he never stopped loving you. ᪤ WORD COUNT . . 5.9k words (crazy for a first story) !! ᪤ WARNINGS . . emotional angst, past cheating (not between main characters), messy breakup, vulnerable reunion, explicit smut, heavy emotions, post-Hogwarts setting, soft!Draco, regret & yearning, crying during kissing, reader has backbone, library scenes, emotional comfort, hotel reunion, slow burn then fast burn. ᪤ A/N . . spent the whole night writing this instead of sleeping 😭 this is my first fic so i’m kinda scared to share it but also like?? i cried writing this?? Draco’s so hot it’s insane. best believe he was gonna get his girl back. Divider Credits - @enchanthings-a 🫶🏽

Another night.

That’s what you told yourself—you’ll get over it.

It’s been a year and a half now, and somehow, you’re still not.

Everywhere you go, you see his face. His smile. His hair—the same hair you used to run your fingers through.

The memories come back in waves, relentless and sharp.

It’s over. It’s fine, you whisper.

You’re happier now. So is he.

He and his girlfriend are thriving in London, while you rot in Sweden.

Love was the most beautiful thing you ever experienced.

Heartbreak? Not so much.

The sun sinks just below the horizon, and the moon rises quietly behind the clouds. You shouldn’t be upset—not really. You don’t even have the right to cry.

You ended it.

So why does it still hurt like this? Why does it feel like you’re unraveling?

Your phone buzzes, pulling you from your thoughts.

Draco.

You freeze.

It stops.

Then rings again.

He wouldn’t call twice unless it was serious… right?

What if he’s hurt? What if it’s worse?

Your thumb hovers before you finally swipe to answer.

“…Hello?”

Silence. Then—

“Hey. Was starting to think I had the wrong number…Sorry for calling so late and out of nowhere. I just… didn’t know who else to call.”

His voice.

You hate how much you missed it—soft, careful, like he’s trying not to break you again.

You shift on the bed. “What’s wrong?”

“Can you let me in first?”

You blink. “What are you talking about?”

“Well, I’d hope I’m not at the wrong address.”

Your heart skips.

You get up slowly, legs stiff from sitting too long in your own misery.

Peeking through the peephole, you nearly drop your phone.

He’s outside.

Here.

Draco Malfoy is standing at your front door.

Your hands are shaking when you unlock it.

And when you open the door, your breath catches.

You open the door to see your ex, your best friend, your everything, standing right there in front of you.

His usual polished look is gone. His blond hair, once so perfectly styled, is a ruffled mess. His eyes look tired—maybe red around the edges. Maybe he was crying. Or maybe not. Draco doesn’t cry.

But everything about him feels unraveled. Like he came apart somewhere between London and here.

“Hi,” you say, barely above a whisper.

“Hi,” he says back with a small smile, hands stuffed in his pockets. “Aren’t you gonna let me in?”

You blink, like that might help you make sense of this. “I’m not sure why I should. Why are you even here? It’s the middle of the night. You’re supposed to be in London.”

He sighs, slow and deep. “You always asked too many questions. That’s what I loved about you.”

Your heart skips.

You cross your arms, trying not to let the words sink in. “What do you want, Malfoy?”

He leans against the doorframe, eyes drifting away for a second before meeting yours again.

“Me and Vanessa broke up.”

You stare.

He lets out a short laugh, dry and tired. “She cheated on me. Can you believe that? The woman who drained my vault on handbags and dinners couldn’t even do me the courtesy of breaking up first.”

You can only blink. What.

“She said I was ‘distant.’” He lifts his hands like he’s done trying to make sense of it. “Maybe I was.” He shrugs.

You narrow your eyes, confused. “When did this happen?”

He pauses. “Four hours ago.”

Your heart stutters.

“I took the first flight here,” he says, voice softening. “Theo’s in Sweden, thought maybe I’d crash at his, but he and his boyfriend are out on some romantic dinner. So I sat in that hotel room, alone, just… thinking. And suddenly, I thought of you.”

Your breath catches.

“What could the girl who broke my heart be up to?” he says with a quiet, bitter laugh. “I really tried not to come here, love.” The nickname makes something in you hitch. “I swear I did. But next thing I know, I’m out the door, phone in my hand, driving way over the speed limit. And now I’m here. Outside your house. Telling you me and my ex broke up. What a night, huh? Feels like a dream. Or a sick joke.”

He looks at you then—really looks.

“And here I am, to ask the one question I never got an answer to.” His voice is lower now, like it’s trying not to break. “Why did you break up with me, hm?”

The question slams into you like a wave.

Everything you’ve worked to rebuild, the peace, the routine, the silence—it all begins to crack. Slowly, painfully.

You don’t speak right away.

The question lingers between you both, heavy and dangerous.

“Why did you break up with me?” he repeats, quieter now.

Your fingers tighten around the doorknob. Your throat burns. You try to form the words, but nothing sounds right. So you look away.

“This house,” you say. “I should’ve sold it. I tried, I really tried. But everything happened here.”

He blinks, confused. You step back into the doorway like the memories are starting to breathe again.

“Your toothbrush is still in the drawer,” you whisper. “There’s still flour on the ceiling from that time you thought you could bake. And every damn time I walk past that couch—” your voice breaks, “I still feel your hands in my hair.”

He doesn’t move.

You look at him, finally.

“You kissed me for the first time in this house, remember? That stupid truth or dare game, after the war, when we were all pretending to be friends and healing and moving on like we didn’t nearly kill each other.” You exhale shakily. “You kissed me and I hated you for it. Then hated myself for not hating it enough.”

A long pause.

You let the silence swallow your next thought before it forces itself out anyway.

“You were everything I didn’t want to love. You were selfish and proud and messy and—”

“And you loved me,” he finishes for you, eyes glassy.

“Exactly,” you whisper. “And that’s why I left.”

He blinks, stunned. “What—?”

“I loved you so much I forgot how to breathe without you. I stopped going out with friends. Stopped painting. Stopped living my own life. I was drowning in you. In us. And you didn’t even notice.” You laugh, but it’s hollow.

“And maybe I didn’t want to admit it,” you continue, “but you weren’t over her, either. Not really. Not Hermione, not Pansy, not any of them. You were trying so hard to be someone else, someone I could build a future with, but I think… I think you were still just trying to survive.”

He doesn’t deny it.

He just looks at you, like you’re the only thing keeping him on earth.

“You broke my heart,” you say, softer now. “But I broke yours first, didn’t I?”

He steps closer.

“What?” His voice is low.

“I couldn’t love myself,” you breathe. “I couldn’t find myself without thinking of you. And yeah, maybe it sounds poetic—‘oh, she lived and breathed for him’—but it wasn’t romantic, Draco. It was suffocating. I stopped being me. I only knew you.”

His jaw tenses, but you don’t stop.

“I did what was healthy. I had to leave. I told myself it was the right thing, and I held onto that until my fingers bled.”

You swallow hard, eyes glassy now.

“And even then, I wasn’t sure. For weeks, I wasn’t sure. I thought maybe I was stupid, maybe I’d made the worst mistake of my life. So I went to your place. I wanted to talk. I wanted to try—”

You laugh.

“But there you were. Tongue-fucking Vanessa on that stupid couch.”

His eyes widen. “You saw—?”

“It broke me a little,” you say, voice trembling. “But it really shouldn’t have, right? We were done. You didn’t cheat on me. You were free to do whatever you wanted.”

“But still—”

“Still!” you snap. “Still, I stood there in your hallway, holding your favorite chocolate like some idiot. And you were already over me. Already inside someone else like I never even existed. So yeah, I left. Quietly..”

Draco swallows hard.

“It’s completely valid,” you go on, voice tight. “You moved on. You were allowed to. But it made me wonder—that fast? Was I that easy to forget? That replaceable?”

He opens his mouth. Closes it.

You wipe your cheek roughly with your sleeve. “And now you’re here. Months later. Telling me she cheated and you thought of me. Like.. like I’m your backup plan.”

“That’s not fair,” he says voice a bit louder. “Don’t you dare reduce what we had to that.”

“Then what is this?” you shout, chest heaving. “You didn’t fight for me, Draco! You let me go. You didn’t show up. You didn’t write. You didn’t even ask why. You just ran into her arms like I never fucking mattered! And yeah, I did break up with you, BUT I needed to find myself. I WAS losing myself.”

“I didn’t know what to do!” he shouts, voice cracking. “I was so tired! I couldn’t fix you, I couldn’t fix me, I was drowning too, and all I saw was the look on your face when you said goodbye.”

You let out a sigh.

“It killed me,” he says, softer now. “That day ruined me. You walked out with no warning, no explanation, and I—I didn’t have the strength to chase you.”

He takes another step, like he’s not sure if he’s allowed closer.

“I thought Vanessa would distract me. I thought I could forget. But every time I kissed her, it tasted like ashes. Every time I touched her, I imagined you flinching away. And I hated myself for it.”

Tears well in your eyes again, but you stand firm.

“Then why are you here?” you whisper. “Why now?”

He swallows. Hard.

“Because even after all the mess, even after the silence and the pain—you’re still the only one who ever made me feel real.”

You can’t breathe.

He looks like he’s about to say more—but you step back.

“I can’t do this, Draco. I can’t be your second chance when I was never your first priority.”

Silence.

And then—slam.

You close the door.

You’re sitting in a tiny café tucked away in a quiet corner of Stockholm, a place you used to visit when homesickness crept in. The smell of cinnamon and cardamom fills the air, but you can’t taste anything. Your tea is barely touched.

Hermione eyes you from across the table, lips pursed over her cup like she’s bracing herself.

“So… he showed up?” she finally says.

You nod, stirring your tea, watching the swirl of milk.

“And?”

You exhale, leaning back in your chair. “He said Vanessa cheated. Called me right after. Showed up to my house. I thought I imagined it.”

Hermione stays quiet, letting you talk.

“He looked awful. Like he hadn’t slept. Hair all over the place. That stupid half-smile he does when he’s trying to act fine.”

“And you let him in?” she asks, softly.

You nod again. “We fought. I cried. I told him the truth… why I ended things. That I couldn’t find myself. That I only knew how to breathe if he told me how.”

Hermione’s eyes drop, like she remembers exactly what that feels like.

She sighs. “When I dated him… it wasn’t pretty. Constantly. He’d show up for me in one moment and push me away the next. I thought maybe he didn’t know how to be soft with anyone.”

You glance up, heart heavy.

“But with you,” she continues, her voice quieter, “I saw something different. You softened him. Not in a weak way—just… more himself. He laughed more. He wasn’t afraid to look stupid in front of you. And he let himself be cared for.”

That ache in your chest twists.

“I think… I think you were the first person he trusted with all of him. Even the ugly parts.” Hermione pauses. “And that terrified him.”

You blink, tears stinging again, but you won’t cry.

“Truth is,” Hermione says, setting her cup down, “he might’ve been happier with you than he’s ever been.”

You whisper, “I was the only one drowning.”

Her smile is sad. “Maybe you both were. Just in different oceans.”

Mm.

After Hermione left, you wandered the cobbled streets for a while, letting the morning breeze clear your head. There’s a strange comfort in Stockholm’s quiet corners—where magic feels distant, like a dream you once had and can’t quite remember.

You open up the library earlier than usual.

No one’s there yet, just the scent of old pages and wood polish. You inhale deeply. This place is your sanctuary. Before anything else, you brew yourself a small pot of coffee—your favorite beans, the ones you hide in the staff cabinet behind the herbal teas.

You take your mug to the back stacks, where no one will bother you, and begin your morning ritual: organizing the returned books, restocking shelves, checking the inventory system, placing a small order for a shipment of new titles you’ve been dying to get your hands on.

Finally, you curl into your reading nook, worn armchair under the skylight, the city just a whisper outside. A new romance novel rests in your lap. It’s cheesy and dramatic and absolutely what you need.

You’re so absorbed you don’t even hear the door until a deep voice says, casually:

“Don’t stop on my account.”

You jump. Hard.

“What the hell?” you say, half scared, half defensive, clutching the book to your chest. “Why are you here?”

Draco Malfoy, fully reclining against the archway like he owns the place—shrugs, completely unbothered. “Scarlett let me in.”

You glance across the room. Sure enough, Mrs. Scarlett, the sweet old Muggle lady who runs community book club nights, is humming softly to herself while sweeping. She doesn’t even look your way.

You squint. “You sure you didn’t… do something to her?”

He raises his hands. “I don’t do that anymore, love.”

Your heart stutters at the nickname again, and you groan. “Stop calling me that.”

He ignores you. “I told her I needed a book badly. Which is true.”

You exhale through your nose. “What book?”

He smirks, steps forward, and plucks your book from your lap without asking. “Apparently… this one.”

You grab for it. “You’re ridiculous.”

He flips a few pages dramatically, skimming. “Oh wow. They’re kissing already? This author doesn’t believe in pacing, do they?”

You lean forward, snatching the book back. “Shut up. This is the good part.”

He sits beside you, knees bumping yours as if that’s normal now. “You really work here?” he asks after a beat.

You nod. “Been here nearly a year. It’s quiet. Smells like paper. That’s hard to come by.”

He lets that settle, watching you for a second. “You always loved books.”

You shrug. “They don’t leave.”

That hangs in the air like a pin dropped in water.

He tries again, lighter. “So, librarian by day. What about at night? Still writing poetry and baking cakes no one gets to eat?”

You glance at him sideways. “I still write. The cakes… not so much.”

“Shame,” he says, nudging you gently. “Your lemon ones could’ve ended wars.”

You let out a reluctant laugh. “You remember that?”

“I remember everything,” he says, voice quieter now.

You look away first. He always made it hard to hold eye contact when he meant something.

There’s a long silence between you, but not uncomfortable. Just… full.

Finally, he mutters, “You gonna kick me out, librarian?”

You roll your eyes and sip your coffee. “If you try anything to my pages, I’ll hex you.”

He grins like it’s the first real smile he’s worn in days.

“Noted.”

He shifts beside you, fidgeting with a paperclip from the desk. You glance over, catching the subtle twitch in his jaw—he’s growing bored, or maybe just restless.

You sigh, pushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “You still never told me why you’re here.”

He looks up.

Not just at you. Through you.

His eyes trace your lips for a second too long before finding yours again. “Missed you,” he says simply. “Couldn’t sleep after last night. I don’t think I slept at all, really.”

Your heart thuds, soft and slow. You smile—just a tiny one. It barely stretches your mouth, but it’s real.

“Mm,” you hum, trying to keep your composure. You close your book, slip it under your arm, and head to the front desk to check it out for yourself. Your hands move by habit—scan, stamp, slide.

Behind you, Draco’s watching.

“I learned something recently,” you say, still facing the desk. “I can show you, if you’re not in a rush to ruin someone else’s peace today.”

He smirks and follows without hesitation. “Lead the way, love.”

You guide him down a quiet hallway behind the staff area. It smells like cedar and printer ink, and the air is cooler here. At the end of the hall is a locked door that leads to a secret room only staff have access to—meant for archiving older, rarer books.

You unlock it with your key, flip on the warm amber lights overhead, and step inside.

Rows of shelves tower around you, dust dancing in sunbeams that slice through the stained-glass skylight. But in the center of the room sits a magic circle—chalked faintly into the wood beneath a glass dome, drawn with careful lines and symbols.

“I learned to enchant the air in here,” you say, stepping into the middle of the circle. “Just a little charm. Makes sound… feel like a hug. Hard to explain.”

He follows you, his eyes moving over the circle, then to you. “You always were strange.”

You grin, stepping close enough to touch his arm. “Takes one to know one.”

You reach out and murmur a soft incantation—something you picked up in a buried old spellbook from the reserve section. Instantly, the space around you changes. Not in temperature or light, but in feeling.

Warmth settles over your shoulders. Like someone draping a blanket across your back.

Draco shivers. “Bloody hell,” he whispers. “That’s…”

“Comforting,” you finish.

He nods, swallowing. His voice is quiet again. “You made this?”

“Yes.”

He stares at you. Not like he’s studying you—but like he remembers you. All at once. All of it.

You don’t look away this time. You’re too wrapped in the moment. The quietness. The proximity.

It just… happens.

His hand brushes yours.

You turn to say something, and your noses almost touch. Your breath hitches.

Then he leans in.

His lips meet yours—soft, slow, like a secret being passed between hearts. The kiss doesn’t ask permission. It just is.

And it aches.

Because it feels like home.

And you miss him.

But you also remember why you left.

You pull away first—gasping lightly, like you forgot how to breathe.

He blinks, stunned. “You okay—?”

“No,” you say quickly, shaking your head. “No. No, I can’t—”

You step back, one hand to your lips, the other to your chest.

“I shouldn’t have done that,” you whisper, turning toward the door, your voice cracking. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

Your hands tremble at your sides. “We can’t do this. We’re not dating. It hasn’t even been 24 hours since you and her broke up—Draco, I will not be the one to experience that pain again. Not after everything I went through just watching you be with someone else.”

His brow furrows, eyes darkening. “This isn’t the same.”

You scoff bitterly, wiping under your eye. “No, of course not. This time I’m the other woman—not even the one you chose.”

He steps forward. “That’s not fair.”

“It’s true,” you snap. “And you know it. We did love, Draco. And we loved too fast, too hard, and somewhere in all that chaos we forgot to be people. We forgot to breathe. We didn’t even experience ourselves—we just tried to fix each other.”

“You make it sound like that’s a bad thing.”

You shake your head, heart pounding in your ears. “It is when it burns everything else to the ground.”

You turn to leave. You have to.

But he grabs your hand.

Not roughly. Not like a demand. Like he’s begging without words.

You try to pull away, your voice rising. “Why is it so hard for you to understand that I don’t want to do this again?”

“Why is it so hard for you to understand,” he snaps, eyes flashing, “that I love you?”

The silence hits like a punch.

Your eyes burn, and your throat tightens. “Because you don’t do love, Draco.”

“Yes, I do,” he says through clenched teeth.

“No,” you shake your head, stepping back—but he doesn’t let go. “Last time you tried, it broke both of us. You shut down, you drank too much, you let everything fester. You didn’t talk to me. You didn’t even look at me, not really, not unless it was in the dark, when no one could see.”

He flinches.

You take a shaky breath. “Why are you even here? Why can’t you just—just leave me alone?”

He’s quiet for a moment. Then…

“I am,” he says, so quietly you almost miss it. “Tomorrow.”

You blink. “What?”

“I can’t stay away from London too long,” he mutters.

You freeze, only now realizing his fingers were still wrapped around yours. His hand drops.

“What…” Your voice trembles. “What do you mean?”

He looks away, jaw clenching.

“I lied.”

Your heart skips.

You look at him, confused. “What?”

“I lied,” he says again, eyes finally meeting yours. “Me and Vanessa broke up months ago.”

You stare.

“I’ve been coming to Sweden for weeks now. Months, really. Looking for you. Places you used to go. Scarlett knew. That’s why she let me in without asking. I know what coffee you drink now—after you stopped using that awful vanilla syrup you always had with me. I know your schedule. Not because I’m a stalker, but because I still see you.”

He pauses, breath shaking. “Yes, Vanessa cheated. Yes, it hurt. But nothing hurts like missing you. I tried everything. Drinking, smoking, working nonstop, none of it worked. I kept trying to replace you, but it just made the hole bigger.”

You stare at him, unable to move.

“I miss you,” he says, almost whispering now. “I need you. I’m not asking for anything—I know I hurt you. I know we burned it all down. But what else do I do? Pretend I never knew you? Pretend the best thing that ever happened to me wasn’t you?”

Your hands start to shake again.

“I came here because I needed to say goodbye,” he finishes, backing toward the door. “I think it’s time I end my chapter. My obsession. I love you so much that it makes me sick sometimes. And I can’t bear to keep watching us exist like this—knowing nothing is ever going to change.”

He opens the staff room door.

And walks out.

Leaving you standing in a dim, quiet archive, your chest heaving, heart bleeding through the cracks you thought you’d sealed shut.

You finally leave the room, head spinning, heart gutted, and sink into one of the bean bags. It swallows you whole. A moment passes before Scarlett comes up behind you, startling you again.

“He left you something,” she says, handing you a piece of paper. “That boy really loves you,” she adds softly, then walks away.

“That’s what everyone keeps saying,” you mutter, fingers threading through your hair as you sigh.

You stare at the note. Then you unfold it.

I’m not sure if we’ll talk about everything today, but I really needed to see you and explain before I go back to London. I want to start with how much I love you. Your smile, your eyes, everything from head to toe- makes me smile and feel warm every time I see you. I miss you. So much. And I regret every day I didn’t chase you, didn’t beg harder. Because I’ve realized… I can’t live without you. If we haven’t talked again before you read this, my flight leaves at 10 p.m. I’m staying at a hotel 20 minutes from your house. It’s okay if you don’t come. But if you do… a chapter will close, and a new one will open.

Tears fall before you even realize they’ve escaped.

You glance at the clock. 6 p.m.

If his flight leaves at 10, he could already be back at the hotel. The library isn’t far from your house… right?

You hesitate.

Then you grab your bag, wave goodbye to Scarlett, and pull out your phone. You search for hotels within twenty minutes of your house, about ten minutes from the library.

There were two hotels, twenty minutes from your house, and the first one you found—the nicer one—had glowing yellow lights beaming through the front lobby. You practically fell through the doors, out of breath.

The lady at the front desk blinked at you. “Do you need a room, miss?”

“No, I—” you held up your phone with a shaking hand, pulling up your notes. “I’m looking for someone. Draco Malfoy. He’s staying here, I think.”

Her brow furrowed. “I’m sorry, we don’t give out guest information.”

“Please,” you whispered. “Please, just tell me if he checked in.”

A pause. Her face softened. “Room 306. Left elevator.”

You didn’t even thank her properly. You bolted to the elevator, smacking the “up” button again and again like it would hurry the universe along. When the doors finally opened, your reflection was a wreck.

You made it to the third floor and stood in front of the door.

Room 306.

You raised your hand to knock, but it shook. Then lowered it. Raised it again.

Before you could even touch the door, it opened. Of course he’d heard your steps, your breathing. He always knew when it was you.

Draco stood there in a black shirt and sweats, barefoot, hair messy from running his hand through it too many times. His eyes locked onto yours like he had been waiting..knowing.

“I—” you started, but nothing came out.

He tilted his head slightly. “You came.”

“I didn’t know which hotel it was,” you said, breathless. “I just guessed.”

“And you guessed right.” He stepped aside. “Come in?”

You nodded.

The room smelled like old cologne and tea. You saw a single suitcase by the desk, half-packed. His wand rested beside it, untouched. The window was cracked open, the rain whispering against the glass.

“I almost didn’t come,” you admitted, standing stiffly by the door. “I wanted to. But I didn’t want to be wrong.”

“You weren’t,” he said, sitting on the edge of the couch. “You never are when it comes to me.”

You let out a bitter laugh. “That’s a lie. I’ve been wrong about us before.”

He looked at you like he didn’t believe a single thing you were saying. “What does this mean then? You coming here?”

You stepped closer, the rain still dripping off the hem of your coat. “I don’t know yet. I just—” you swallowed hard. “I needed to see if you meant it. What you wrote.”

He stood now, close. Too close. “Every word.”

Your eyes welled up again. “Then why didn’t you fight for me before?”

“I didn’t know how,” he confessed. “I’ve spent so long being taught how to protect what I have, but never how to chase what I need.”

“And now?”

“Now I know,” he said. “But if it’s too late, say it. I’ll get on that plane and go. I won’t ask again.”

The silence stretched.

You took one breath. Two. Then whispered, “I don’t want you to leave.”

His face cracked open just a little—like he’d been holding himself together too tightly for too long. “Say it again.”

“I don’t want you to leave.”

And then you were in his arms. It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t slow. It was needy, messy, and real. His lips met yours halfway through your sob, and it wasn’t perfect, but it was everything.”

Your fingers clutched at his shirt, wrinkling the fabric as he backed you into the hotel room wall, lips crashing and breaking apart between gasps. His hands cupped your jaw, thumbs brushing your cheeks, but trembling as if trying to memorize every inch he once knew.

“You don’t get to do this to me again,” you murmured against his mouth, even as your hands fisted into his hair, dragging him closer.”

“I know,” he breathed, voice hoarse and low, eyes glazed with something between guilt and desperation. “I’m sorry.”

His mouth found your neck—slow, reverent, like a prayer he forgot how to say, then rougher, sucking just beneath your ear, biting down harder when you let out a quiet moan.

“You missed me?” you whispered, breathless as his hands slipped beneath your shirt.

He pulled back, dark eyes searching. “I’ve been fucking starving.”

He pushed the shirt over your head and tossed it aside, eyes flicking over your bare skin like he was trying to convince himself you were real. His hands were warm, worshipful, but there was something frenzied building underneath, like a dam cracking.

“You’re still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” he said lowly, like it hurt to say it. “I used to dream about you like this. Begging me. Falling apart on my cock. Think I went mad once or twice.”

You whimpered, thighs clenching, heat pooling fast between your legs. “Stop talking and touch me.” you whispered.

And Merlin—he did.

He lifted you easily, walking you backwards toward the bed as your legs wrapped around his waist. Your mouths didn’t separate, not for air, not for reason.

You were tugging at his shirt, impatient. He then tugged your jeans down, rough now, desperate. You helped, shimmying out of them with frantic hands.

You reach up to start unbuttoning his pants, but he pushes your hands away gently.

“Missed you so much today, I miss you everyday…” he says pressing sloppy wet kisses onto your inner thighs, sending you small sparks that ignited in your core. His fingers continued to roam on your legs as he continued to lazily separate them off to the side. 

Parted enough for his height, his hand cups under your knee to lock you in place. His finger prodding at your panties which now had a damp spot, causing you to quietly gasp under your breath.

His darken eyes meet with yours asking for your permission, to which you allow his advances. You quickly slip from his grasp to slide down your undergarments and throw them off towards the edge of the bed.

His fingers dipped between your thighs, finding you soaked and aching, and he groaned into your neck.

“Fuck, you’re dripping. All for me?” he muttered, dragging two fingers through your folds and then slipping one inside. “Missed this pussy. Missed how sweet you sound when I ruin you.”

“Draco—” you gasped, hips bucking, one hand gripping the sheets and the other digging into his shoulder.

Swirling around your sensitive cunt with his fingers you can’t help but moan. His eyes fixated on you with each stroke he makes on your slippery clit. Flicking it up and down, then circling around it before he moved further down towards your entrance.

The usual sensation entering your slick hole while the grasp you held onto the sheets loosens to move onto the back of your his head. Your grip on Draco’s head increased as you pushed him further onto you. 

His tongue’s attacking you aggressively while watching you squirm right in front of him, growing more engorged with each whine and whimper that escapes from your mouth.

He added a second finger, curling just right, his thumb brushing your clit as he kissed down your chest. “I’ll take my time with you later. Tonight, I need to feel you,” he growled, voice darker now, his restraint snapping thread by thread.

You were panting, teetering on the edge when he pulled his fingers out and spread your legs wider.

The hands wrapped behind your knees increased in strength when he folded them further, pushing you onto your back as he continued to rip out an orgasm out of you. You’re at a breathless mindless state when he does, painting a vision of white as you cum on his digits. His face, red with a smug look and slightly wet from your release.

Planting a kiss on your lips, you pull back to gaze at him for a moment while his breath tickles the surface of your cheek. His erection, painfully hard, slightly rubbing onto your radiating core. Sharing an intimate kiss once more before he unbuckles his restraining belt that laid on his waist, letting comfort ease over him when he unclasps the button on his pants.

Once you were both stripped, he paused—chest rising and falling, eyes devouring you.

“I need to hear it,” he whispered, leaning in, lips ghosting yours. “Say you want this.”

“I want you,” you breathed. “I never stopped.”

That was it.

He kissed you again—messy, bruising, like he needed to consume every breath you’d ever taken.

“You ready?” he asked, voice like gravel, forehead pressed to yours.

“Please.”

He slid into you in one slow, deep thrust that knocked the breath from your lungs.

He let you adjust to his size for a moment before he further started to rock his hips into you. You're absorbing the feeling of him while he started off at a slow consistent pace, watching his eyes flutter with pleasure.

You gasped, eyes fluttering closed, head falling back into the pillows. “Fuck, you feel so good.”

His hips started slow, grinding deep, kissing your cervix with each stroke, but that softness cracked as you moaned his name like a prayer. His pace quickened—harder, rougher, until the headboard banged softly against the wall.

“I missed this,” he grunted. “Missed the way you grip me so fucking tight.”

Your pussy’s stretching from all the gradually building up pleasure to his length, squeezing down when you felt his dick twitch inside you. His cock is plunging back in and out covered in your glistening fluids, making it easier to continue thrusting.

His eyes his longing for you fill with overwhelming rapture, heightening his experience. 

Heat building up at the bottom of your stomach once more, breathlessly panting throughout moans that resonated in his ears. All the blood is rushing to his tip, feeling all hot and heavy inside you as Draco’s body continues to surge into yours at full speed.

You arched under him, moaning louder now, nails dragging down his back. “Draco—fuck—I’m close.”

“Let go for me, love,” he whispered hot against your ear. “Show me it’s still mine.”

His thumb reaches down to play with your swollen clit to help finish you off. You’re curling your toes while accepting all of the stimulation he’s giving you while you shiver.

And you did.

You shattered beneath him, clenching hard around his cock as your orgasm crashed over you like a wave. He followed moments later with a strangled groan, hips stuttering, collapsing on top of you as your heartbeats thundered together.

For a while, there was only silence and sweat and tangled limbs.

Then, softly—

“I love you,” he whispered, barely audible.

You didn’t say anything.

But you didn’t let go either.

“I love you too.”