#reading a piece of text should not be this hard

[spoonyglitteraunt]

TFW you’re simultaneously utterly failing to concentrate in the slightest despite really truly needing and wanting to, and also somehow convinced you’re obviously overreacting and exaggerating and should just do it already

[iris-nonsense]

Koby has haki powers!!!

[yandere-daydreams]

tw - dub/con, afab!reader, cockwarming, medical malpractice, nonconsensual drug use, manipulation, unbalanced power dynamics, and obsessive behavior.

[commissioned piece. donate to palestinians in gaza here.]

“It really is a shame to lose such a lovely patient.

His hand drifted from your thigh to your hip, rocking you back as you tried to squirm away from him. He was too deep, too big, and you’d been sitting on his cock for too long. Whenever you tried to shift your weight, though, the arm wrapped around your waist would tighten its hold and drag you back into place, leaving your ass slotted against his hips and your cunt struggling to clench around his base. You didn’t know how long he’d kept you like this, but it must’ve been longer than an hour, if not two, three, four. Despite your foggy senses, you could feel slick dripping down your thighs, an empty void in the pit of your stomach where pleasure should’ve been. You could remember hearing that Harper was a good doctor, but that couldn’t be right. Doctors weren’t supposed to make you feel so bad.

“I mean, I know it should be a doctor’s goal to see their patients off as happy and as healthy as can be, but—” He paused, sighed, and you could picture him rolling his eyes, feigning wistfulness as he let out an airy chuckle. “Good, obedient patients can be so rare, especially in a town like this. I’m allowed to mourn the loss of my best charge yet, aren’t I?”

You felt him twitch inside of you, and in search of a distraction, your gaze fell to the collection of papers fanned out over the desk in front of you. You knew you were supposed to be reading them, but the text seemed so impossibly small, and your last round of medication was still clouding your senses, making it hard to focus on much of anything beyond the throbbing in your core, the feeling of his cock stretching you open despite your body’s best attempts to force him out. You could recognize the phrases, signal out words like ‘unfit’ and ‘dependent’ mixed in with the rest of the benign text, but when you tried to put it all together, none of it made sense. It was all you could do to check the boxes Harper pointed to, sign your name on any dotted lines that hadn’t already been filled by his. You could only hope that, when you finished, he’d let you stand up, get off of him, go back to your cozy room with its nice, soft padded walls. You couldn’t imagine having to sleep in his office, again.

“And you’ve been so cooperative, too,” he went on, his chin coming to rest on your shoulder. You felt his lips against the shell of your ear, then your cheek. “Always taking your medication, always following your treatment plans, always coming to our little sessions with an open-mind – the pinnacle of an ideal patient. Honestly, sometimes I think I could tell you to stick your hand in a vat of boiling water, and you’d do it with a smile on your face. All for the sake of your recovery, of course.”

It was him moving, this time – shifting forward until your stomach was pressed against the blunt edge of his desk and he was all-but draped over you, his body pressed flush against yours. You let out a pitchy whine by way of protest, but Harper didn’t seem to notice, only humming as his hand found yours. “Almost done, little mouse. Just one more page.” He was practically cooing as he took you by the wrist, guiding your hand to the bottom of the final page. Two thick, cutting lines occupied most of the available space, his neat signature taking up the first. He brought you to the second, almost daunting in its vacancy, his index finger tapping against the back of your hand. “You remember your name, right? Can you write it for me?”

It was so hard to think, to stay awake, to try and remember a time where he hadn’t been planted so deeply inside of you. “If…” you started, only to trail off. You blinked once, then twice, and did your best to force your tongue to move. “If I do, can I go home?”

Usually, Harper hated it when you talked about the orphanage, about school, about home. You hadn’t meant to, you just wanted to go back to your room, and you moved to correct yourself, to promise that you didn’t want to be anywhere but this hospital, his hospital before he frowned and prescribed you another electrotherapy session, another dose of the small, white pills that left your thoughts blurred and your body hot. But, anything you might’ve been able to spit out died with a breathy laugh, a peck to the corner of your jaw. “Of course,” he purred, rocking his hips gently against yours. “Sign, and I’ll take you home tonight.”

For the first time in weeks, you felt yourself start to smile. Hastily, smudging the ink more than once, you scrawled your name across the brutal line, dropping the pen and going slack against Harper as soon as you were finished. There was another open-mouthed kiss to your throat, then the dip of your shoulder, and he dragged you back onto his lap with a playful squeeze to your thigh, a grin pressed into the crook of your neck. You squirmed unabashedly, now, your hands  graspingly weakly at the arms of his chair in hopes of pulling yourself to your feet, but Harper held you tight. “Where do you think you’re going, little mouse?”

“I need to— You said I could go—”

“Just give me another minute, darling.”

His cock pulsed against the walls of your cunt, and you felt something break open inside of you.

“I want to appreciate this moment before we get you to proper, brand-new home.”

[starryeyedjanai]

Steve and Eddie meet through their local buy-nothing-sell-nothing group when Steve’s getting ready to move in with Robin and he realizes he can't keep everything he owns while trying to merge households with her.

The first time they meet, Steve hadn't even been meaning to actually meet the person picking up the free toaster oven he’s giving away.

He’s setting his toaster oven outside his house on the porch when Eddie hops out of his van to pick it up and it would be rude to duck back inside without saying anything since he obviously sees him coming up, so they make small talk for a minute and Steve has to keep his eyeballs in check because they keep wanting to rake all the way down this guy’s body.

He’s covered in tattoos and so extremely Steve's type, but he knows better than to hit on someone who lives in his neighborhood and is not here for that reason.

He laments to Robin about it the next day, about the hot guy who’s probably using Steve's toaster oven as they speak, who he’ll probably never see again.

Robin rolls her eyes fondly at him and tells him that maybe if he puts more stuff up for grabs on the facebook group, he might see him again, but Steve suspects she just wants him to get rid of more of his stuff so it doesn't overcrowd their new apartment.

The set of items he puts up in the group next is an old blender and a butcher block that has three of the knives missing—seriously where did those knives go? He has yet to find them.

He tries to pretend he isn't secretly hoping Eddie will comment under his post that he wants the items, but he isn't fooling himself when his heart literally skips a beat when the first comment is from Eddie. He messages him and tells him to stop by later that day.

When Eddie shows up, they talk for longer than last time, Eddie asking why Steve needs to get rid of so much stuff and Steve asking why Eddie needs all this stuff—especially considering Steve snooped through the group and saw that Eddie joined over a year ago and hadn't once commented before now (he doesn't mention that thought, but he is thinking it real hard).

Eddie laughs and says he was in the market for a toaster oven when Steve posted one and wouldn't you know it? He also needs a blender—the knife set is just a bonus, he says.

Steve tries not to read too much into it, but his brain is spinning the interaction around in his head for the next week.

He puts up a space heater in the group and within minutes, Eddie has claimed it.

“I should just get your number and text you directly when I find something I want to get rid of next time,” Steve says flippantly when Eddie comes by to grab it that night. “Instead of clogging up the facebook group.”

Eddie smirks at him and steps a little closer. He says, “Maybe you should.”

His neighbor’s car alarm decides to go off right at that moment, ruining the flirty atmosphere with its incessant shrill. They can barely hear each other over the drone of it, so Eddie leaves without giving Steve his number and Steve is left feeling like he keeps having these missed connection moments with Eddie.

In a fit of desperation to see Eddie again, Steve puts up a bunch of random stuff in the group the next day—a shoe rack that’s missing a piece, a step stool, a cheap side table he got from Ikea—and Eddie is still the first person to comment like he’s been refreshing the page, just waiting for Steve to post.

“I left without giving you my number last time and I didn't want to be creepy and message you unprompted,” Eddie says as they load the side table into his van. “I think I was overthinking things and then got kind of spooked.”

“It doesn't look like anything could spook you,” Steve says.

When they get the side table inside the back of the van, Eddie turns to him and admits, “A very pretty boy could.”

Steve can feel his face getting hot. “You think I’m pretty?” he asks.

Eddie nods. “Why do you think I keep coming here? There's no way a person who’s lived here for as long as I have would need all this stuff.”

“Did you need any of it?” Steve asks in a teasing voice. “Or were you just so blown away by how cute my profile picture is that you just had to meet me?”

“Oh, I needed the toaster oven, but everything after that was just to see you again,” Eddie says before biting his lip.

There’s an entire swarm of butterflies in his stomach when Eddie's hand brushes his, when Steve takes Eddie's hand in his and leads him inside his box-filled house.

Later, when they’re making out on Steve's couch—when Steve really should still be packing since he has to move in less than a week—he pulls back to ask, “Wait, so are you gonna put the rest of the stuff you don't need back up for grabs in the group? I feel like that would start so much neighborhood gossip.”

Eddie grins wide and Steve wants to kiss him again, wants to feel his smile against his mouth.

“Oh, we’ll be the talk of the town, baby,” Eddie says, pulling him back in.

[usereddie]

hello i humbly offer another installment of my "this was supposed to be a text post but it spiraled into a short coda oneshot" series.

hen and eddie talk about buck's coming out. also today's wordle is not lover i wouldn't spoil it and lover has already been used as a wordle. it was for the themes.

“Did you know? About Buck, I mean? Did you suspect at all?”

Hen looks up at him and puts her phone down, he gets a wordle spoiler when he looks at her screen. Lover. Got it. 

“Him being queer?”

“I think he identifies as bisexual.”

“Okay,” Hen says, and Eddie watches her face flit through a complicated series of emotions before landing on something fond and knowing that makes heat crawl up his spine. “You wanna sit down?”

“This doesn’t feel like a sit down conversation, it’s not a big deal, I’m just asking if you knew—”

“Eddie,” she cuts him off. Her smile is kind and gentle and Eddie gets the quick building feeling he should’ve stayed in the bunk room. “Sit down.”

He sits. 

Hen pushes her glasses up the bridge of her nose and tilts her head a little as she smiles at him. The head tilt reminds him of Buck because he finds little pieces of Buck everywhere. He’s in the song on the radio in Eddie’s truck on the way to work and he’s in Christopher’s English homework because the stories Buck used to tell him when he was little enough to ask for them influenced his creative writing. He’s in Eddie’s kitchen even when he isn’t because Buck got him a set of rainbow silicon spatulas because they were a buy one get one free deal. 

A copy of Buck’s loft keys on Eddie’s keychain, his name in the calendar that he wrote himself take out w/ buck ! no skipping in his messy, nearly illegible scrawl. 

But Eddie can read it because he doesn’t think there’s a universe out there where he doesn’t understand Buck down to the chicken scratch. 

“I didn’t know, not for sure. It wasn’t ever something I thought about at length, either. I’ve mentioned it to Karen once or twice and there have been times where she’d shoot me a smirk from across Bobby and Athena’s backyard at something Buck said, but it’s not something I’ve ever discussed. That doesn’t feel right.” 

“But you knew?” 

“I wasn’t surprised.”

He fidgets with a rubber band someone left on the table. He wants to ask more. Needs to know what made her realize it in Buck. If she sees the same in him. 

Eddie’s never really thought about it. Or, that’s not quite true. He knows, in a way. That something’s never been quite right. That he’s never felt for women what he’s been told he’s supposed to feel. 

Dating isn’t supposed to feel like a performance, he doesn’t think. Nobody else seems to think it is. 

He likes the sex for the most part. Figured that was enough to carry it. Sex feels good but then again he’s pretty sure sex always feels good when both people want it. It’s not like it’s some sort of burden to eat his girlfriends out but there’s something missing. He likes making them feel good but he doesn’t like how high pitched their moans are of the soft sighs that spill out of their mouths. There are soft tits where hard chests should be and it doesn’t. 

It doesn’t feel right. The sex is good, it's fine, he'll take it, but—

Love shouldn’t be just about sex. Eddie doesn’t want it to be. 

“Did you ever assume something about—” he cuts himself off but Hen sees right through him anyway. Maybe lesbians have some sort of psychic third eye that lets them see beyond the performative exterior he puts on. He tries not to squirm as she looks at him. 

“About you?” she asks, and the world doesn’t stop spinning or start spinning backwards or tilt on its axis. Eddie thinks it should. It’s the least the earth could do, honestly. 

He swallows. 

“Yeah.”

Hen hums and Eddie can tell she’s trying to gather her thoughts and form them into sentences that won’t send him running for the hills. Being—this doesn’t feel like something to run from, though. Not so much anymore. Maybe a few years ago, maybe when he first got to LA and his parents' words and their bitterness were still stuck to his skin. When he still felt like he wasn’t good enough. Not for his son, not for Shannon, not for himself. 

He feels good enough now. And he thinks he’d like to fall for someone the way Buck seems to be falling for Tommy. Except he’s really fucking scared the person he’s falling for is—

Well. 

Buck. 

It shouldn’t come as a surprise, and it doesn’t, not really, it’s the kind of thought that sits quietly in the back of your mind and waits for you to uncover it. 

Buck came out and it uncovered itself. 

Buck is bi. Buck dates men. 

Buck could date him. And he isn’t.

That’s the crux of it all. Eddie was drunk and Buck’s arm was around his shoulder and he felt lightheaded, couldn't stop smiling so hard his cheeks hurt the next day. Bubblier than the champagne. Floaty. It wasn’t even a new feeling, not with Buck. 

He makes him so fucking happy. 

Even through hell, Buck makes him happy. That’s love, probably. Definitely. Eddie tries not to think about it too hard otherwise he might have to go see Dr. Salazar again, and he really doesn’t feel like explaining this to the woman who diagnosed him with repression. 

Getting an I told you so from his sisters would be one thing. 

“Do you want me to be honest?”

“Yes,” he says, far too quick and clipped and awkward. He smiles tightly. 

“Yeah. I thought you were, actually. When you got to the station, you wouldn’t talk about Christopher’s other parent. Even in the beginning, you barely talking about him. I figured an army guy from Texas probably wasn’t used to being out. And then you weren’t gay, so I assumed you were just being a scorpio and not letting anyone in. But you let Buck in.”

“Yeah.”

“I didn’t—there’s no bet about it. About the two of you. I don't think anyone would be surprised, but no one talks about it. That’s not the kind of thing you gossip about. But, yeah. People were surprised when the mysterious partner you wouldn’t talk about was your wife, and not a husband.”

“Do you think I’m in love with Buck?”

“That’s not my place to tell you.”

“Hen. You’re my friend, and the only other queer person I know and trust enough to ask this to. I can’t exactly go ask him that question, and I don’t know who else to talk to. Do you think I’m in love with Buck?”

“Yes.”

Eddie’s exhale is shaky. 

“Yeah. Me, too.” 

[addledmongoose]

Best of 2023 Good Omens Fanfiction

This is my list of the 20 best Good Omens fanfiction works I've read in 2023.

A few notes:

These are all complete works; there are no WIPs in the list.

Please feel free to let me know if a link stops working

It's not an ordered list. That would be far too difficult.

You'll probably recognize some of the most popular ones. They're popular for a reason, after all, but I hope you find something you haven't yet read.

The majority are full-length works, but there are definitely some shorter pieces.

These are certainly not the only good works I've read, but they are the ones I'm most likely to read more than once

Click the Keep Reading to see the list

If you're the author of one of these, first off, thank you! But second, if you want me to add your tumblr name to your story, let me know, and I'll edit.

This first section, all the stories are canon-compliant or canon-adjacent. In other words, it's at least somewhat set in the Good Omens universe.

a lighthouse (burning) (108K; Rated M)

This one is canon-adjacent and set in the 19th century. Aziraphale goes to a lighthouse to figure out where all the lighthouse keepers disappeared to, and Crowley follows along. This one is a bit of a spooky mystery along with the romance, and the writing style is simply beautiful. You really get a sense of being trapped in this lighthouse in the middle of nowhere.

***

The Grindr Logo Doesn't Even Have a 'G' In It (79K; Rated E)

It's honestly hard to remember that this one isn't human AU, but they're still just as angelic/demonic as ever. Aziraphale joins Grindr and starts texting (and then sexting) with a charming young man. It's no secret to the reader who this new hookup is. This story is genuinely funny at times. I like the funny ones.

***

The Whole Damned World Seemed Upside Down (103K; Rated M)

This is one of the best reverse omens stories I've read that isn't technically a reverse omens. Crowley wishes things were different after leaving the bookshop, and the universe gives him his wish. He finds himself in a world where Aziraphale hates him, Death has trouble taking lives, and basically everything you knew about the world of Good Omens is upside down. It's very funny. It uses inline footnotes (which is good, because it has a LOT of footnotes), and Death is hilarious.

***

it's a new craze (5K; Rated T)

Another one that seems like it should be human AU but isn't. Crowley and Aziraphale start up a podcast after the Notpocalypse and gain a loyal fanbase who can't figure out if they're a couple or not. They often forget who their audience is and often reference events in their shared history that make no sense to the humans listening.

***

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a demon in possession of a mobile phone, must be in want of attention (6K; Rated G)

And yes, that is the entire title. Another funny short story where a couple of podcast hosts receive a call from a certain angel whose demon trapped himself in his phone and won't leave.

***

In Mixed Company, or the Corporate Retreat of Heaven and Hell (52K; Rated M)

I've read this one at least three times, and it's probably my favorite of all. Every 300 years, Heaven and Hell share a company retreat on Earth during which angels and demons surrender their celestial powers and hold retreats. It has a great new angel friend of Aziraphale's; Hellish Powerpoint presentations; Gabriel being annoyingly chipper; and Aziraphale and Crowley sneaking around like teenagers trying to find some alone time.

***

How To Woo A Demon (24K; Rated T)

Aziraphale researches demonic courtship rituals and starts implementing them in order to convince Crowley he wants to take their relationship to the next level. Crowley is very confused by Aziraphale's actions. Another cute, funny one.

***

Factory Settings (107K; Rated T)

This one is famous for coming out practically as S2 dropped, making people think whoever wrote it (the author is anonymous) had something to do with the production of the show.

This is the only one I'm going to say anything negative about. There are a lot of spelling errors and typos in it. It needs a hard editing pass. Despite that complaint, I devoured this story as fast as I could scroll. It's that good, and even knowing all the errors are there, I'll probably still re-read it. I'm usually pretty picky about errors like that, so for me to overlook it and even recommend it, means I really liked it.

Crowley gets reinstated as the angel, Raphael, with no memory of his time as Crowley, and Aziraphale struggles to return him to his demonic self. It's heart-breaking and wonderful and I absolutely loved it.

***

One Night In Bangor (And the World's Your Oyster) (17K: Rated E)

Much like In Mixed Company, Heaven and Hell come together for a corporate retreat on Earth. In this one, some totally random demon who's name definitely doesn't rhyme with Bowley created a wager in Hell to see which demon could bed an angel first.

Another funny one. This time, a lot of the humor comes from the demons doing their best to pick up the angels with really bad pickup lines.

***

We Only Said Goodbye with Words, I Died A Hundred Times (9K; Rated E)

If I could learn to write even half as good as this, I'd be ecstatic. The emotions the author packs into this story are mind-blowing.

Crowley receives a cursed amulet that creates an ever-increasing need for the person he wants the most and goes to see Aziraphale.

***

To reveal my heart in ink (29K; Rated E)

Aziraphale starts writing letters to Crowley by mail. The letters they exchange slowly get more and more explicit.

***

Pray For Us, Icarus (66K; Rated G/T)

The author wrote this one as a series, so each one varies in chapter count and rating, but they tell a single, contiguous story.

This was the first long-form GO fanfiction I read, and it was way too close to the ending of S2. I really should've waited a while, because holy cow, is this one heartbreaking.

For three hundred years, Crowley has been reincarnated over and over as a human with no memory of his past. Aziraphale has spent those three hundred years trying to restore him to his true self.

The author, Atalan, is probably one of the best writers on the site. This story is stunning in the quality of its writing, in the pacing of the story, and in the emotions evoked. I normally don't like being sad (like I said, I like the funny ones), but I've saved this story off to make sure I always have it.

***

Pretend For Me (53K; Rated E)

In a panic, Aziraphale tells the archangels that he survived hellfire due to his soul mixing with Crowley's because they're in a romantic and sexual relationship, but now they want them to prove it.

I'm a sucker for fake relationship stories, and there aren't a whole lot of them where the characters are still angel/demon, but this one is. It's another fun one, though a bit more angsty than some of those I listed above.

***

The following are all human AU. Good chance you'll recognize all or most of these.

Married At First Sight (147K; Rated T)

One of the most recently completed stories in the list, this is a fake relationship story where Aziraphale and Crowley join a reality show that marries complete strangers off to each other. Their new marriage starts off on a less than idyllic foot and they decide to fake it for the show. The author is a master of making you want to scream "for fuck's sake, just talk to each other, you walnuts!"

Probably one of my favorite fake relationship stories.

***

Postcards From Paris (12K; Rated G)

The author, ghostrat (@mrghostrat), is a fantastic writer of human AU, and it's worth going through his entire backlist (and read his current WIPs, too).

Crowley moves into his Mayfair flat and starts receiving postcards addressed to the previous tenant from one A.Z.F., who is in Europe hunting for bizarre bibles and rating wine. Sweet and fluffy and the perfect antidote if you've just been on an angst binge.

***

Or Be Nice (151K; Rated E)

I stayed up until 6:30 in the morning reading this one, crashed for three hours, then read until I finished it. Then that night, I started it again.

This is, without hesitation, my all-time favorite human AU. It's funny. I love the author's version of the characters, and I will probably end up reading it again in just a few months. I probably already would have if it wasn't for the length of my Mark For Later and Subscription lists.

Crowley and Aziraphale are neighbors who get into a noise war. They both have their reasons for their actions, though to be honest, Crowley is a bit of an ass at first. Once they really start talking, though, they are absolutely wonderful together.

Even if you've never read a human AU, I recommend at least giving this one a try.

***

What We Make Of It (Shotgun Wedding) (213K; Rated E)

This is the third charlottemadison work on this list. 15% of this list is just this one author. That's how good they are.

Aziraphale works as an English teacher. Crowley is the guardian for his nephew, Adam, and works for a school testing company. Crowley can't risk his job dating his nephew's gorgeous and charming teacher. Unless...

Crowley comes up with a crazy plan. Now he just has to convince Aziraphale to go along with it.

Again, another very popular human AU. One thing I love about this story is how there's a lot less angst between the two characters, and how they both really care for Adam.

***

Slow Show (95K; Rated E)

The very first human AU I read. Didn't even think I'd like that specific genre until I read it. Now, as you can see, it's about half of my reading list.

This is an actor AU. Aziraphale (named Avery here) and Crowley are actors working together on a new show. Avery is an award-winning, straight-laced, well-respected actor; Crowley is a mess who immediately falls head-over-heels for him and somehow has to get through the show without letting his (apparently straight) costar realize that.

***

South Downs (76K; Rated E)

Another actor AU. This time, Aziraphale is an openly-gay actor, well-respected for his period drama work. Crowley is a once-blackballed actor who jumps at the chance to star in a gay Regency romance with Aziraphale in the hopes it can restart his career. The trouble is, Crowley is struggling to play the romantic lead opposite a man.

I love the growing friendship between these two as much as the romance. I love how comfortable and confident Aziraphale is here; and how caring he is toward Crowley's growing awareness of his sexuality.

***

This one doesn't really fit either category, so I'm putting it here.

The Rose and the Serpent (56K; Rated M)

By the same author as Pray For Us, Icarus comes a GO retelling of Beauty and the Beast. Aziraphale is sent off by his older brother, Gabriel, into the forest to be held hostage by a giant snake in a cursed castle. Turns out, neither the snake nor the castle are what he was expecting.

Light-hearted and with very memorable characters, the relationship between Crowley and Aziraphale is simply stunning. I love how Newt and Anathema are used here. The quality of this one is as good as Icarus, and I loved this one so much I could easily have read 300K more words.

***

And bonus: mine!

The Beginning of the End (Again) (79K; Rated M)

The first fanfiction I've ever written and the first book I've written in a decade. I had the first two chapters in mind after finishing S2, and the story grew from there. I actually have a sequel in mind after I finish another, separate fake relationship story.

Crowley spends months drowning his sorrows after Aziraphale accepts the Supreme Archangel position, until a group of demons shows up one day and tells him the Second Coming is nearly upon them, and they want him to stop it. Turns out being a demon isn't much fun if there are no humans left to tempt.

Aziraphale has spent these last months in Heaven looking for ways to stop the Second Coming while mourning the way he and Crowley left things. After discovering that Hell's minions have been tasked by the Metatron to escort the son of God on a tour of Earth in preparation for his Second Coming, he hurries down to see what's going on, fearing the worst.

Instead he discovers Crowley escorting the Messiah around Earth. Is his demon taking the son of God on dates?

[forteafy]

A House, A Home | CL16 & CS55

Summary: A loveless marriage usually comes after years, not before. You've always loved him, his best friend has always loved you.

Word Count: 10.1k

Warnings: Hard Angst, Cheating, Mentions of Sex, Death.

Note: This piece has two heavy inspirations. The first is @lxclerc's amazing pieces 'Moth to a Flame' and 'Call out my Name.' They are both incredible pieces and I highly suggest you give them a read. The second is from a TikTok Account called 'ForPercival,' they are currently doing a social media AU which I cannot recommend enough.

PART 1: A House, A Home | PART 2: Where Do We Go? | PART 3: 'You Think, You Know'

Charles Leclerc is a husband. 

At least, he was your husband on paper. One year ago, a hidden agreement had been put in place between Scuderia Ferrari and the Leclerc Household; their son, the ‘Il Predestinato,’ of the team, (albeit one whom had had the most terrible season,) could continue to drive for the team, so long as he married the daughter of one of their longest-running investors.

That so happened to be you. 

You had been against the entire idea since the first day. After being introduced to Ferrari’s driver, you had instantly felt the divide between the two of you. You’d reluctantly shaken his hand and since then, had been thrown through a mixture of fake dates, a fake engagement and the fakest wedding that could possibly be imagined. The ceremony hadn’t even ended with a kiss, per tradition. 

It didn’t take long for your walls to crack; living with Charles, seeing him at his highest and lowest points, his most vulnerable behind the four walls of your home had caused your heart to soften. Forget being forced into this marriage, you’d grown to care, to adore the man who’d once burdened you with his presence. You dreamed of the day he would return your affection; how long would it take for you to realise you lived in denial? In your late-night fantasies, lying alone in one of the guest rooms you’d sought refuge in on moving into this ­house, you’d dreamt of lying in his arms, lazy morning breakfast, slow kisses when he would come back to you. To your home.

A home, however, is where you feel safe, warm, protected. You lived in a house with Charles. The man who would barely glance your way and after three months of your marriage, started coming home, smelling of rich perfume and lipstick marks littering his jawline.

The first anniversary of your marriage should have been special, even if he despised you in every known form to man. You’d woken up in your room, slipped on the silk robe which had been lying on the empty bedside and slipped out of the bedroom. In your heart of hearts, you knew there would be no significance of today; no flowers, no card, not even a simple text from your husband to signify the date in question. The only text you had received that morning, was a stern reminder from your father, that you were due to attend the Monza Grand Prix in less than one week. 

A soft sigh emitted itself from your lips; it was a routine you knew all too well. Every few races, the more significant ones; Monaco, Silverstone, Spa-Francorchamps, Monza, you’d play the doting wife; cheering for your husband whilst dressed in soft summer dresses, a forged grin if he managed to battle his way into the points. On those rare days when he would obtain a podium position, he’d greet you on the barriers with a soft kiss. It was all fake; a routine which had been performed so many times. Yet, each time his lips met yours, you could dream he meant something behind the affection. 

The train of thought had played through your mind for so long that you were unaware of the tears pooling on your lower lash line. So, what if Charles wasn’t at home for your anniversary? It was your thought for feeling any kind of emotion towards him in the first place. It was a business deal, after all. Did your husband enjoytreating you like this? His disappearance on that morning was a cold reminder that he felt nothing towards you. No sentiment, no adoration. 

Despite the tears which had bade your eyes that morning, until the mid-afternoon, you had a productive day. Of course, leaving the house was out of the question; what would the media say if devoted wife of Ferrari’s driver was seen without him, on their wedding anniversary of all days? 

Instead, you’d played soft music whilst re-organising your wardrobe, something you’d put off for a while now. Cooking a meal whilst lazily treading around the kitchen, experimenting with the spices that Yuki had gifted to you on your previous visit to a Grand Prix. The meal itself was too big to eat alone. Instead, you boxed up the remainders of what was left in the tray, carefully placing it in the fridge, knowing Charles wouldn’t actually eat it. 

Your evening had been…less productive. You’d found solace in a glass of red wine, lounging on the sofa of the main living area; usually, you kept as far away from that zone as possible. Charles would spend his evenings in the couch, eyes flickering between the television and his phone, no doubt sending longing messages to his mistress whilst his wife was in the home. 

The ­third glass had just about been drained. You were adamant upon gaining a fourth, no longer caring of any commitments you had the next day. Instead, you sat up abruptly from the sofa, hearing the gentle click from the front door. 

He had come back to the house. 

His green eyes barely took a second to meet yours, slipping off his shoes and placing them into the rack situated by the front door. A rustle of his jacket signified his option to stay. You saw him carry the garment over his arm as he trudged into the living area, set to lie in front of the television for some personal relaxation. 

With his entry to the room, you suddenly remembered your position. You’d hastily stood up from the couch, collecting the half-finished bottle from the low table, holding the glass to your chest to draw the attention away from your beverage. 

Charles said nothing; he’d unlatched the top two buttons from his dress shirt; faint purple marks nestled on the lower joint of his neck; a clear mark that his mistress had previously made, a sinful reminder of his adultery. 

“I left you some dinner in the fridge.” You mumbled, voice barely picking up over the sound of the television. “There’s some clean loungewear on the end of your bed, too.” You finish your sentence. Your husband doesn’t even attempt to tell you he’s acknowledged your words, eyes transfixed on whatever news was currently playing on the television. 

“Happy Anniversary.” You mumble, feet leading you back to the kitchen, the bottle of wine against your chest now seemingly the only attention you’d ever get. 

Charles Leclerc is an actor. 

The entire drive to the track had been bade in complete silence; not even the radio had been switched on to drown out the undeniable tension in the car. You had originally tried to make light conversation with the man; he couldn’t even be bothered to make a sound in response to any of your questions. 

You couldn’t handle the harsh tone he had snapped at you with the previous time you had been in the car; instead, you watched the rolling hills and glistening sun of Monza. It was always one of the highlights of the year. If not for the racing, you would have come here in your own time, to bask in the sun and to enjoy the secluded section of Italy as an individual. 

The incredible views soon began to fade out, instead replaced by expensive cars and adoring fans, leaning over the barriers in an attempt to see their favourite drivers; there was an uproar as your husband drove past the crowds; he was clearly the home favourite, as any member of the Ferrari crew would be in this location. Silently, you slipped on the sunglasses which had been resting in the pouch of your bag, knowing the paparazzi would be blistering your eyesight sooner rather than later. 

Charles effortlessly parked his car in the allocated spot. Silently, he switches off the engine, removing the keys and shoving them into his jean pocket. The man doesn’t so much as register your presence as he opens his door, leaving you to venture out of the car yourself. You’d carefully adjusted the flowing fabric of your dress; the patterned fabric flowing gently around your calves. 

You looked beautiful. You just wished your husband would care enough to tell you.  

Instead, his priority is the cameras leaning over the barriers. He doesn’t even look in your direction, instead firmly grasping your hand in his own; an act the two of you had performed for the crowd oh-so-many times. He waves towards the crowds; neither of you miss the adoring sounds, the coos for many of the fan’s favourite ‘couple.’ To so many, his affection seemed to clear to you, and yours did to him. 

Charles didn’t hold your hand with any adoration. His grasp was harsh, palms roughly mashed together, no intent to keep your grip safe against his own. You were certain that if you were to let go, he wouldn’t think to remedy the situation. Your theory is proven when you gently let go, instead keeping in step, just behind his figure; Charles’ hand seems as if it’s gone into idle mode. His eyes, however, stayed alert, vigilant. Silently, the two of you pass through the paddock security, pausing every few moments for Charles to sign a cap, take a photograph with a fan. 

It isn’t until you reach the outskirts of the Ferrari Building that you see her. Soft hair around her shoulders, clothing exquisite, her eyes flickering to your husband, offering him a sympathising smile. 

He may have been a devoted husband towards the press, to Ferrari, even to the majority of his team. However, the moment that the cameras were turned off, microphones pushed away, he was sneaking to his mistress, one he had shamelessly invited to so many Grand Prix’s over the past nine months. She was what he wanted; a fun and fancy-free lady, rather than the wife whom stood by his side. There’s a glance between the two of them, as if a whole conversation is had in that moment. 

You stay silent as you follow Charles into the Ferrari Building. Instantly, you’re overwhelmed by the welcomes that your husband obtains; so many of them pass onto you. Upon the questions of how married life is treating him, he smiles, fakes a laugh as he pulls you into his side, one hand firmly resting upon your waist. 

“Married life is perfect.” He insists, pressing a kiss to the side of your head, one which you falsely giggle about, ignoring the butterflies which were nestling in the pit of your stomach. “It’s even better when she’s standing right here, beside me.” 

The entirety of the room buys the staged scene, all except for two people. The first, obviously, is your father. He’s always there, watching that the driver is performing well. He knows of his affair, but in his mind, as long as the affair is kept out of the light, and his marriage was still official, their deal continued. Besides, he would speak to you both sooner rather than later upon extending the family; that would seal both of your fates towards one another. Nobody liked a husband whom left a wife and child. 

The second was Carlos Sainz; the second driver for Scuderia Ferrari. 

The Spaniard was all too aware of the affair between Charles and his mistress; after qualifying from Baku, Carlos had found his teammate behind the garage, his hands with a firm grip on her waist, their kisses entirely formed of tounge and teeth. The man had furiously ripped Charles from the woman, bellowing in his face about the wife he had, whilst this woman warmed his bed. A deep blush had formed over both of their cheeks, Charles explaining that you were aware of his actions. 

Carlos didn’t want to believe it; he’d frantically messaged you that evening, to which you had answered his question, confirming you knew of the affair. That evening, you had revealed everything to him, watching his eyes get glossier as the cruel details were flickered in front of his eyes. It pained him; he’d cared for you since the moment you’d first stepped foot into the paddock alongside your father. His heart shattered upon finding out that you had been betroved to Charles, that he had missed his chance, all that time ago. 

He waits; waits until later in the day to approach you. By this point, you had made yourself comfortable in Charles’ driver room. Of course, your husband isn’t actually there. After a brief encounter with most of the members on his team, he’d excused himself. Carlos knew that he had snuck away from the crowds adorned in red to see his mistress, likely stealing kisses and rough fumbles between one another. Whilst that was happening, you, were sat in his drivers’ room, skirts spread across the soft lounger, eyes engrossed in a book which had been enclosed in your bag alongside your sunglasses.

 You were the epitome of beauty in Carlos’ eyes. He could have stood at the ajar door to the room, watching you as you engrossed yourself in the story. Instead, he offers a light cough, drawing your attention from the book in your lap. He’s engrossed by your eyes, how the light reflected off them, the glow they offered. Your smile, how you presented your real smile to him so naturally, not the one you forged next to your husband on every single encounter. 

“Good morning, Carlos!” You greet him with a bright tone, standing up from your position on the couch. You offer him a hug, feeling his warm arms wrap around your waist, his breath against your face when he kisses your cheek gently. ‘In another life,’ you always tell yourself. One where you were happy, free to marry a man who would return your affection. 

“Good morning, Mariposa.” The nickname rolls of his tongue; one he had presented ever since you had once showed up in the paddock, the most beautiful butterfly-imprinted dress flowing in the soft breeze of that Monaco weekend. “You’re hiding out in here today, yes?” He teases. You offer him a small shrug, eyes not able to meet those sweet brown ones of the man stood in front of you. 

“Charles is…busy.” You finish the sentence abruptly. Carlos knows not to question further; the two of you have a mutual understanding as to where he would be at this point during the day; wrapped up in the arms of another woman. “He’s probably on his track walk…maybe. I’m just…keeping occupied.” You motion towards the window, looking onto the first straight of the track. “Plus…it looks windy out there.” 

“Well…” Carlos invites himself into the room now, looking down at your attire, seeing that your feet were enclosed with the brilliant white trainers you’d left home in that morning. The man shrugs off his own windbreaker, holding it in his arm. “If I give you my jacket, would you like to come on my track walk?” He offers, holding out the garment to you. 

You knew you would probably live to regret that moment. However, if you stayed resting in Charles’ driver room much longer, reading the same line of your book whilst your thoughts trailed away to how he would be with his mistress, you would go crazy.

“I’d love to.” You finally respond, slipping your arms through the large sleeves of Carlos’ jacket. Offering you a pat on the shoulder, he motions towards the exit of the driver’s room, determined to keep you on his side whilst walking across the track loved by fans far and wide. He hopes that everybody misses the longing gazes and soft smile on his face every time you make a comment, or your hands brush a little too closely. 

Charles Leclerc is a neck kisser. 

It’s not as if you would know this. The only kisses you ever had were those for show. Cold, meaningless interactions between somebody who attempted to show unconditional love and one who could dream of being anywhere else in that moment. 

You’d carefully unlatched the front door of the house, your wireless earbuds resting comfortably in your ears, unable to hear any other sound apart from the music playing. Slipping off your shoes, hanging up your jacket; your only intention for the afternoon was to go through some of the notes you had made regarding education courses in the area; sitting at home day after day was truly aggravating. You couldn’t pick up yet another hobby. Maybe some form of learning would interest you. 

But first, you needed a drink to cool yourself off from the sun. You’d remembered the smoothie packs you made earlier in the week; one of those and going through your notes seemed a perfect plan for the current moment. 

The second you rounded the corner into the open-plan kitchen, you wished that you could have taken the scenic route home. 

His mistress was sat up on the kitchen island, back straight, legs wrapped around the waist of your husband, her hands grasping at the soft curls atop of his head. Charles’ hands slid across her back, soft grunts coming from his lips, his mouth leaving open-mouthed kisses along her slender neck. She was loving it, at least, that’s what you could judge from the noises leaving her mouth. 

Before either of them could clock your arrival, both too wrapped-up in their embrace, you’d stepped out of the kitchen, hand over your mouth to silence the sobs which were threatening to escape. In a moment, you’re out of the hallway, letting your feet carry you up the carpeted stairs. 

The only intention now embedded in your mind was to drink so much you would forget the scene unfolding in front of your eyes. 

Charles Leclerc is a slow replier. 

The smell of tequila and sweat is strong in the cramped hallway of the club. It was insane to believe that less than three hours ago, you had been cocooned in your king-size duvet, lips slightly parted as you strung a meaningless thread of text messages to one another; you didn’t truly care how one of your friends felt in that moment, the heartbreak shattering in your chest was stronger than any other emotion you could begin to comprehend. 

No, your sole reason for texting was to leave this god-forsaken house. You kept telling yourself not to care. Charles’ eyes were all you could think about as you picked out your shortest, slinkiest dress; one which enhanced every curve and dip in the most elegant way. Charles’ dimples were all you could think about when your attention was drawn to outlining your lips with a deep red gloss. Charles’ lips were all you could think about, your foot sliding into the black heeled shoe, your feet finding no solace in being propped up within six inches of their life. 

Your friend had messaged you the location of the designated club. How anybody could enjoy one of those places sober was beyond your comprehension. Instead, you had taken the route of every other supposed being in that club; one shot of a suspicious-looking liquid had turned into sixteen – his number, you couldn’t help remembering. That was the reason you had found yourself stood motionlessly in the hallway, trying to navigate yourself back to the bar. At least seventeen wouldn’t have been tied to any other emotion. 

The plan, however, was short-lived when you hear a familiar voice call your name. Turning too quickly in your ridiculous heels, you’re met with the figures of Kelly Piquet and Max Verstappen, hands linked together, clearly nowhere near as intoxicated as you were in that moment. 

Kelly moves first; you had always enjoyed her presence, spending time with her around the Paddock when you were bade to attend. Penelope was one of the sweetest three-year-olds you had ever come across, always greeting you with a toothy grin and a story of her and ‘Maxie’s’ escapades. When her mother encloses you in a hug, you can feel the tears fall, your drunken façade falling immediately. The woman simply cups your hand in her face, delicately wiping the tears from your lash line, making sure to remove any heavy clumps of mascara. She asks you where Charles is, where your husband is. You can’t make any sound which you believe is cohesive, something about him being back at the house.

Max by now, has his own arm resting around your shoulder. You were Charles’ wife, after all. He knew Charles would do the same for Kelly if she was ever to be found in this state. Something strange stabs at his chest; maybe he was too protective, but he would have never of let Kelly get into this state, at least, not on her own. The driver carefully fumbles in his back pocket, unlocking his own device and filing through his contacts to phone Charles. 

The phone goes straight to voicemail, not even a dialling tone. Max tries a second time, a third time. Instead, he leaves messages. How on gods earth did Charles feel relaxed, knowing his wife would be out, probably on some form of alcohol, and not think to check that she would be safe returning home? If only he knew. 

The duo moves to a second plan. You needed some fresh air before they could attempt to get you into a car and take you home; standing in the corridor of a nightclub was not an ideal situation, instead moving you to the exit. Your eyes widen, looking up to Max and Kelly as if you had shrunk right down to Penelope’s age, as if they would be the saviours to get you home. By the way Max was holding you by his side and Kelly stroking your hair behind your ears, you may as well been their daughter. 

Conversations are had; neither of them is sober enough to drive you home, nor do they think it’s wise to try and sneak you into their hotel room when they had already issues when checking in a little too late. Their prayers are answered when a group of men wander past, one of them stopping to smack Max, his fellow driver on the back. His dark eyes, ones you know so well, widen when he sees your figure, looking so fragile in the light of the early hours in the city. 

“Mariposa.” He murmurs, running a hand across your cheek, wanting nothing more than to hold your frame against his chest. Your soft eyes meet his own dark ones, glossed in concern for how on earth you could do this to yourself. The man murmurs something to Max and Kelly, ensuring them that he’d been the sober friend out of his group; promising he would get you home himself. The duo has no reason to not trust him, both of them leaving a gentle kiss on your cheek before retiring to their own hotel. 

As the couple walk away from the club, you can only feel the warmth of Carlos’ hand, still resting on your face. When he at last turns his attention back to you, he simply wraps a strong arm around your waist, supporting you to stand in those awful, heeled shoes. At the pace you’re walking back towards his car, you would get there just after the sunrise. Instead, he scroops you into his grasp. 

The affection, the physical contact is all too much for you. It had been so, so long since anybody had held you, cared for you like this. Your clouded mind, now overwhelmed by warmth and alcohol allowed you to lean your head into Carlos’ sturdy chest. If you were sober, you’d be able to feel the way his heart raced when feeling you rest against him. 

“Why do you do this to yourself, Mariposa?” He murmurs, settling you into the passenger seat of his car. He can’t help but remove his own jacket, wrapping the soft fabric around your arms, letting you nuzzle into the scent of his fabric softener and aftershave. Once settling himself into the driving seat, he begins the route back to the house, one hand gently resting atop of your leg, some form of comfort for the world in your mind which seemed to be caving in. 

“I’d never do this to you.” He whispers, turning into the driveway that he had become accustomed to since the marriage. 

Across the city, Max Verstappen is sound asleep. His phone, plugged in on the dressing table across the room buzzes once, notifying a text from his racing rival. 

03:21: Charles Leclerc

Hey, sorry, was busy with something. Is everything good?

Charles Leclerc is a traveller.

You hadn’t expected anything to awaken you after the way your body had reacted to the previous night. A natural awakening, however, would have been a lot nicer than hearing the clicking sound of wheels against flooring. Whatever, whoever was outside of your room most certainly had a death wish to awaken you that morning. 

It felt as if pins had been pressed into every square inch of your head, the task of even sitting up and forcing yourself towards the door of your bedroom, still dressed in your slinky garment and…somebody’s jacket? The night for you had truly ended as soon as you had that ninth shot of tequila; you thought you could remember Max and Kelly in the same location at some point, maybe that was your mind playing tricks on you, longing for people who enjoyed your company. 

You were pulled back to the present when the figure of your husband appears at your doorway. He’s dressed already; loose hoodie and tracksuit bottoms cover his frame; his hand is clasping tightly onto a suitcase. There wasn’t a Grand Prix this weekend, you were certain. He would have left days ago for that. There was-

“I’m going to stay with…” He pauses, clearly trying to think of the correct way to word the fact he would be staying with his Mistress until further notice. Even in your state, you understand, simply raising your hand to stop him from speaking. You didn’t want to hear her name, you didn’t want to know that he would be spending the next nights wrapped in her arms, because for once…you didn’t care. 

They say alcohol causes dangerous mistakes, but in this moment, your hangover seemed to be your best friend. Every single time, you would think later, Charles would come back from seeing her, would leave to spend an evening by her side or sneak away during your paddock appearances…and you would be focused, your sole attention being on when he would return. Now? Your sole focus was on throwing up the remains of alcohol in your stomach, placing on a facemask and ordering some kind of comfort food to your home. 

You didn’t care about him, not right now. Your actions relay this, simply offering him a nod before speaking, your voice surprisingly clear for how much your throat was weeping for a drink.

“Okay.” You pause. There’s nothing left to say after that. What does he want you to do? Wish him a happy time? Charles looks equally taken aback, usually expecting some kind of warm drabble on how he needed to stay safe. In that moment, he can’t help but…want it.

“I’ll be back on Wednesday to pack for Singapore.” He pauses this time, taking in your appearance, your face so…gentle, soothing. “You’re coming, yes?” He remembers a conversation had many a time; his wife should be there to support him as much as possible, even if he wasn’t a fan of the sly ways he would have to leave her in front of his team members.

He isn’t expecting a shrug of the shoulders, bringing a hand up to rest on the door, clearly ready to close it at any given moment. 

“I’m not sure.” You offer him, sighing as you begin to close the door yourself. “My father said that race isn’t a priority.” That was the last sentence you offered him before closing the door. You obviously do not see it, but on the other side of the wall, Charles stands in confusion for a full twenty seconds before snapping back to his reality, his clutch on the suitcase a little tighter as he begins his decent down the stairs, wondering where on earth he had seen that jacket you were wearing before?

Your own priorities that morning was in full swing; you had placed your phone on charge, messages beginning to thread through as you stepped into the shower, the cool water savouring your skin. A fluffy robe is tied around your waist, brushing your hair around your back whilst your attention focused on rehydrating your skin, brushing your teeth and cleaning the dirt from underneath your eyes. 

The silence is strong when you walk back into your bedroom. In that moment, you opt for some music whilst changing into some comfortable loungewear, easy to roam around the house in and let your hair dry naturally. Sitting at the end of the bed, you’re able to check notifications, seeing Kelly had sent you a photo of Penelope that morning, smiling for her favourite aunt. You see your most recent text had come through from none other than Charles’ teammate, following one which had been sent early that morning. 

03:45: Carlos Sainz

Sweet dreams, Mariposa. Let me know if you need anything please. 

11:51: Carlos Sainz

Just seen on Twitter Charles is at the airport, he’s not off to see her, is he?

His message brings so many emotions to you, and also answers the question of who’s jacket you had been wearing that morning. Your heart can’t help but soften, knowing already that Charles is on his way to see...her. You think back to your mindset from earlier, how it was the last thing you wanted to care about. Why on earth would you care about them, when you could be focusing on ordering your favourite food and calling your nail technician to come to the house? That would make you feel better, better than he ever had.

You first drop a message to Carlos in response, wanting to let him know you had woken up from potential alcohol poisoning. 

12:25: You

Yeah, he is. Didn’t seem so happy that I couldn’t care less. Thank you for the jacket last night, I hope you had a good evening. 

12:28: Carlos Sainz

All the better for seeing you. Hoping the hangover isn’t too bad today. 

The messages spring backwards and forwards between the two of you for the afternoon; you’re smiling whilst you go through your favourite meal, the taste of it filling your mouth in the best way possible. There’s still a smile on your face when your nail technician arrives, painting some delicate designs into your fingers and toes, subtly asking who on earth has you smiling that much.

It isn’t until that evening; you’re sat in front of the television, a series you had watched one-too many times playing, your eyes glued to the storyline as if it would change again. The notification on your phone instantly drew your attention away from the screen, looking down to see a text on your screen.

21:03: Carlos Sainz

Why don’t you come and stay in Madrid for a few days? I’m sure we could both do with the company.

Charles Leclerc is a stalker. 

Well, maybe stalker was too strong of a word. However, his intentions were identical, having watched your latest Instagram story three- no, four times. Since leaving the home several days earlier, his mind could not stop thinking about the fact you truly could not care less about where he was going. This wasn’t you, was it? 

He’d arrived at her house, being temporarily distracted by luring himself into her bedroom, an afternoon of escapades and touches until she had rolled onto her side, telling him she was going to shower, and he would be more than welcome to join her. Instead, he pulled out his phone, seeing if you had done your usual; texting him to check that he had arrived safely, asking when he could be coming back to the house. 

There’s no messages, no notifications. Huffing to himself, Charles instead pulls up your Instagram, seeing that you had posted a new story that evening, a suitcase in hand, an emoji of an aircraft and a Spanish flag. You were off somewhere, and hadn’t told him? No, no. You always told him where you were going, you always-

“Are you not joining me, then?” Charles’ mistress’ voice suddenly draws him out of his trance, a towel wrapped around her body, hair around her shoulders. It was nowhere near as soft and as gentle as yours was, he realised in that moment. He eventually nods, pulling himself from his phone and following her into the en-suite. 

He’s so…distant for the remainder of his visit. When the two of them go to a secluded spot for lunch, when they go for a drive in a car they had hired for the afternoon. When she’s lazily pressing kisses along his neck, trying to grind into his crotch, desperate for his attention. When she finally falls asleep, Charles pulls out his phone, looking through any of the photos you had posted from that day. The soft sands of the beach, a hugestrawberry ice-cream cone, a mirrored selfie of yourself in the most beautiful sundress, hair curled and clearly ready for an evening in the Spanish sun. 

The routine continues, he sees your adventures, day after day. You’re touring small markets, trying local delicacies. One day, you’re simply lounging by a pool for the afternoon, a fat paperback resting on your stomach, clearly engrossed by the story which was resting on your stomach. Each time he sees a post, he can’t help but be drawn to how he wants to know how you’re doing. Maybe that’s why he drops you a text message, trying to gain some sort of traction from how you were doing. 

23:54: Charles Leclerc

Are you home? I’ve got a flight tomorrow afternoon.

You don’t respond; now, your phone is at the bottom of your bag, resting on the inside cabin of Carlos’ boat. For your final day in Madrid, he had insisted on taking you for a boat ride. You’d shyly mentioned earlier in that week that Charles had never taken you on his own boat, despite the fact that you were indeed married. 

The sun began to set over the rolling waves of the ocean; the boat is gently rocking, the sounds of water lapping over one another was music to your ears. You were sat at the edge of the now stilled boat, contemplating dipping your toes into the water. Your attention is so drawn to the scenery that you don’t hear him step away from the wheel, crouching next to you. 

“You could just go in.” He teases, “rather than staring at the water. You know how to swim.” The taunt causes you to roll your eyes, simply looking to the Spaniard on your right-hand side. 

“What? And have you speed off without me?” You retaliate, using your shoulder to nudge his body. Carlos clicks his lips together, mumbling something incoherent, before he’s suddenly scooped you up into your arms; despite your sounds of protests, he simply holds you against his chest tighter. His dark eyes flicker between yours and the ocean water below the two of you. Before you can say anything, his feet have made their own choice, jumping off the edge of the boat, both of you tumbling into the sea. Your briefly submerged entirely, before your head pops out of the waves, blindly reaching around until two strong arms encircle your waist. 

Both you and Carlos laugh for a moment, in pure awe that you just did that. He moves first, one of his hands releasing from your waist, tucking a strand of wet hair behind your ear. There’s a silence between the two of you, where the only sound emitting from your surroundings is the gentle waves of the sea. In that moment, Carlos Sainz wants nothing more than to lean forward, pressing his lips to your own. They look so…soft. He craves to give them the attention they had been longing for so long. But…you’re married. And even if your marriage is loveless, to a point where your husband is openly in an affair, he would never do that to you. Instead, he settles for resting one hand on your cheek, gently kissing the top of your forehead, murmuring some Spanish wording you would never remember. 

If you did understand it, however, you would have known that he said there and then that he would always be devoted to you. 

Charles Leclerc is a loud shouter. 

His voice seemed to travel for miles, you were almost certain the entirety of the secluded neighbourhood could hear him at this current moment. The man had returned home from his secluded stay with his mistress to an empty house; at that point, you were still in the depths of Madrid, packing up your own suitcase, wishing Carlos luck on the Singapore Grand Prix. You had intended to return to the house after Charles had left himself; the heartbreak of seeing him littered in love-bites, his eyes transfixed to his phone from her messages was too much for you.

However, if you had been at the house when he had arrived home, you would have seen his neck clear, phone shoved into his back pocket as he called out your name, wondering if you had returned home yourself. Charles notices your trainers haven’t been left on the shoe rack; there’s no music to signify your afternoon relaxation. A light knock to the door of your room signifies there’s nobody home. The house feels empty. 

Maybe, Charles Leclerc was beginning to understand how you felt. 

His first instinct is to message you. Surely, you would have seen his text from his previous message by now; what would it hurt to check in once more. The man feels against his rough jean pocket for the device, swiping away from the multiple notifications from his mistress, instead scrolling to your contact’s name, seeing you hadn’t been active in almost twelve hours. You hadn’t even opened his message. 

His thumb hovers above the keyboard, not entirely sure what to say in this situation. Instead, he opts to call your number instead; you had always picked up to him; whenever he needed you to stay away from the house, or to remind you to be ready to leave at a certain time. The phone rings once. Twice. Three times. On the fourth ring, your voicemail comes through the speaker, signifying him that you were too busy to pick up the telephone. 

Charles didn’t grow concerned during the evening; he grew angry. You were his wife. You were supposed to be at the house to greet him, to welcome him with open arms, ask about his day. Even if…even if he had chosen to ignore your welcoming’s and kind heart for over a year. The man found a distraction in going through the information that Scuderia Ferrari had sent him for his journey tomorrow, making sure his passport was in the correct place. He hadn’t needed to pack; you had made sure to do that for him before your own departure, making sure his comfortable clothes were packed and sunglasses safely secured in the pouches of the case. 

It was late, late for you when the door finally opened, signalling the arrival of a second being. Charles immediately sits up from his slouched position on the couch, stepping up from the sofa, almost ready to give you a piece of his mind. Upon reaching the hallway, he sees you, slipping off your trainers, leaving the suitcase next to the front door. Even underneath your jumper, he can see your skin is glowing from the Mediterranean sun, yet your eyes are watering, tears leaking from your lower lash line. 

“Where on earth have you been?” He snaps, not actually wanting to hear an answer. You open your mouth to respond, but the man cuts you off before you can speak. “I am your husband. You’re supposed to wait for me!” His temper is getting the better of him, green eyes flickering with anger. 

At this point, you’re exhausted, overwhelmed from the news you had received on your drive home, and for this man to question your loyalties to your marriage? You can’t help the scoff which falls from your lips, the emotions building a little too much.

“You’re my husband?” You mock in confusion. “Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t realise my husband was around at long last, not wrapped in the arms of another woman!” Your temper flares, pushing your hair behind your shoulders, grasping the suitcase to take upstairs and repack. 

“You didn’t pick up your phone once.” Charles retaliates. Oh, the cheek of-

“Like when you pick up your phone when I call?” The tears are beginning to flow freely now, wanting nothing more than to get upstairs and completely ignore what has been happening. “You don’t Charles. You’ve done nothing to show that you’re my husband in the past twelve months!” You can’t help yourself now. Instead of seeking the new suitcase, you simply turn around on the step of the front door, slipping your trainers back onto your feet. 

“Where are you going?” His voice is now laced in concern; you couldn’t leave yet, surely? You’d only just returned; you wouldn’t be safe to drive in this condition. Why on earth did he care now? His question is answered, but not in the way he desired. 

“Like you would care.” It’s the last thing you say before the door to the house is slammed shut. 

Charles Leclerc is an investigator. 

When arriving in the Ferrari Garage of Singapore, there’s already an eerie feeling through the air; there are no smiles, sympathising looks thrown towards the back end of the garage. The driver isn’t stupid, he knows something must be wrong. He’s unsure of who to ask; who would know what is going on? 

His original plan was to ask Xavi, maybe during their morning briefing, until he is told that his flight has been delayed and wouldn’t be there until the late afternoon. Eventually, he spots his racing partner, nestled in the corner of the garage, his eyes flickering across his own phone screen, rapidly typing a message to somebody he would rather not admit to. 

“Hey.” He speaks softly, not wanting to startle the man. Silently, Carlos looks up from his device, offering his teammate a small nod, not wanting to prolapse the eye contact for too long. Charles can sense he knows what has happened, eyes narrowing in confusion. “Why is everybody so…quiet?” 

The look on Carlos’ face signifies he’s said something wrong. His eyes darken, shaking his head in disappointment rather than fury. It correlates to the kind of look his father would give him during a long talk, when he had broken something and not admitted to it. The Spaniard isn’t sure he should even tell his teammate what had happened. Instead, he changes his phone application to the Emails App, handing the device over to Charles. His eyes flicker across the screen, taking in the information. 

Ferrari’s biggest benefactor, your father, would not be attending the race weekend after the untimely death of his wife. Your mother. It suddenly correlates; how the night before, you had seemed inconsolable, despite the fact you had obviously had an incredible vacation. You’d tried to simply walk away, to let yourself grieve without bothering him. Instead, you had found comfort in Carlos as he had driven you to the airport, whispering sweet words of comfort, promising that everything was going to be okay. 

Charles feels his blood run cold, he feels sick. The look on the man stood in front of him tells him enough; he had made the biggest mistake of his life. Murmuring an excuse, he leaves the garage, stepping to the secluded back area, the realisation that he is everything his mother never wanted him to be, hitting hard. He still had the ability to run to her, to ask for her advice. You didn’t have that anymore. You didn’t have anybody, least of all your husband. 

The first thing he does in that moment, is pull out his phone, scrolling to the contact of his mistress.

10:09: Charles Leclerc

We need to talk. 

Charles Leclerc is a phone call away.

The past day had been filled of tears, clinging to your father, to your younger siblings, to your elder cousins. How on earth your mother had left this world early was beyond you. It wasn’t fair. Nothing was fair. Your mother was the one whom had been your rock for the past miserable year of your marriage. If not for her, you were almost certain that you would have thrown your silvery key to the house down a drain so long ago.

Without her guidance, without her tutoring, you felt like bird trying to fly individually for the first time; surrounded by fears and almost certain you’d fall into compromising position. 

You hadn’t rested. Not since you had arrived at the bleak family home. As customed, every curtain was drawn close, doors to each room sealed, no natural light emitting to the large house, making every shadow and crook of the building seem more terrifying. Eventually, your father had retired to his own bedroom, your younger siblings tucked into their beds, butterfly kisses pressed against their foreheads, a silent promise you were only down the hall if they so desired you. 

The bedroom you had grown up in remained almost identical to the one you had painted in your mind; pale pink wallpaper, a luxury bed lined with a rosebud-patterned quilt set. The vanity you had last used to get ready on your wedding day remained pristine, the perfumes and scents which had been your favourite still sitting atop of your shelf. And the photographs. A polaroid of your two closest friends from your childhood; one of your sisters on her christening day, the entire family dressed so elegantly; Charles is in that photograph, off to the side alongside his brothers; you had no idea there and then that boy with the ocean eyes would become your estranged husband. 

You could have continued going down memory lane, if not from the buzzing which was coming from your bed. The phone you had carelessly thrown atop of the blankets when first entering the room had finally got some service, a thread of text messages and missed phone calls beginning to filter through. Silently, you take a seat on the edge of your bed, eyes flickering across each message. Some are from members of the Ferrari team, others from family members you hadn’t heard from in what felt like centuries. 

There’s one. One from the man whom you had spent the previous week with. The one who had consoled you whilst travelling to the family home. Your husband’s teammate. 

23:05: Carlos Sainz

Mariposa, please let me know how you are doing. I’m so worried about you. Let me know if you need anything at all. 

23:31: You

Thank you, C. I should be heading home tomorrow, with a bit of luck I’ll be able to swing by and say hello. 

You hadn’t expected anything else that evening. You were settled, ready to focus on yourself for the remainder of the evening; in your eyes, there was a high likelihood that your siblings would be burrowing into your blankets later. Once dressed in nightwear, the makeup that had stained your cheeks removed, you noticed the soft glow of your phone screen. Another message had just been received, and in your wildest dreams, you could not have imagined whom it was from.

00:24: Charles Leclerc

I heard about your mother this afternoon; I am truly so, so sorry for your loss. Please let me know if there is anything I can do. I mean it. 

Your eyes had barely had time to view the message which had just been received, before your phone screen changes, taking the message away from your sight. The message thread is replaced by a photograph of your husband, his name lighting up on you phone screen. You don’t even think; instead, your thumb swipes across the screen, pressing the green button and holding the device to your ear. 

“Charles.” You speak one word, hearing your husband visibly relax on the other end of the line. You realise it’s the first time you’ve said anything coherent in hours; the tone of your voices echoes around the room. Did you always sound that sad when you spoke to him?

“Hey.” He isn’t too sure what he wants to say; the lack of conversation between the two of you means he isn’t aware if there are any boundaries, anything you wouldn’t discuss with him. No, he just wanted to speak to you, to check in. In reality, he had realised how lonely the house was as an individual. His mistress was gone from his contacts, not inviting her around to fill the void had made him realise how you had felt for oh-so-long. 

“How…” He pauses, not sure on how to finish his question. He doesn’t need to, because despite the lack of understanding of one another, you know he’s trying, trying to make you feel better.

“I’m…yeah.” You can’t find the correct words to say; ‘sad’ is an understatement, ‘fine’ is a rude response. Neither of you can find the words, but in that moment, you crave somebody who isn’t mourning the loss of your mother as heavily as you are. 

“We have some new neighbours.” He’s trying to find anything to create some conversation. It’s almost as if he knows the quiet of the room is making you feel uncomfortable. “They left us an invitation to join them for a tennis session- not that I’m any good.” He laughs to himself, remembering the previous time he’d attended a tennis game alongside his fellow drivers; he’d had to step out after a few minutes, completely terrified he would end up breaking his hand. 

He doesn’t hear anything from the other side of the line but continues to talk. “Are you…” He catches himself for a moment. “Are you coming back soon?” His voice turns into barely a whisper, as if saying the wrong thing will cause you to hang up immediately. He doesn’t hear anything for a moment, taking a gentle sigh and awaiting your response. 

“Yeah.” You pause. Are you doing this? Are you having a conversation with your husband? “I’m going to fly home tomorrow afternoon. I think my father wants space.” Your sentence closes, looking around your room. The silence is deathly; in that moment, you don’t care about everything that’s happened. All you want is for somebody to hold you in their arms and tell you it would be okay. 

“I’ll come and get you.” Charles has spoken before his mouth has had time to catch his brain. Your eyebrows quirk in confusion. The only time your estranged husband ever drove you himself was on your endless journeys to races; you would sit silently, curled away from his figure, eyes transfixed as the world passed by around you. The man not only offering but wanting to pick you up from the airport was a new-found curiosity. 

“It’s okay.” You don’t let him continue. If previous standings have taught you anything, it’s that behind those mesmerising eyes cannot be trusted. You knew the secrets that lied beyond the ocean settled in his eye. “I wouldn’t want to interrupt you.” Part of your heart is craving to bring up his mistress; how she would probably be warming his bed in the current moment, walking around the house which you ached to find comfort in. 

“You wouldn’t.” Charles is quick to respond; in his heart of heart, he knows getting you to trust him again would be a monumental task. He’d do anything to prove he would be the husband who would look after you. Who would love you unconditionally; the husband you deserved.

“I’ll let you know when I’ve landed, okay?” It’s your final compromise. The woman whom you had been twelve months ago would love nothing more than to run into Charles’ arms; whether he cared for you the way you did; you would always desire his attention and affection. You’d had to learn through the months that some of life’s biggest temptations had to remain untouched.  

Charles Leclerc is your husband.

Landing back in the country was almost eerie; despite being away for only a miniscule amount of time, you felt changed; changed by the loss of your closest companion, changed by the fact your husband had been the one to call you, and not to throw some crazy request down the telephone line. 

Arrivals, as always, were completely smothered; couples reuniting, children screaming at the sudden change of scenery. After obtaining your own bag, your eyes flicker through the never-ending crowds, desperate to find some recognition. 

Standing apart from the crowd, looking effortlessly rugged in his athletic shorts and hoodie, hair pushed underneath a snapback. His eyes are trained on you, as if he had sensed your presence into the room in less than a moment. The breath catches in the back of your dried throat, a pair of eyes that you trusted undoubtedly. Stumbling, your feet carry you over to the arms of your favourite Spaniard, your head instantly finding solace in the joint between his shoulder and neck, the cologne you were used to from his attendances around the paddock creating a cloud of comfort. 

Carlos’ hands effortlessly lock around your torso, pulling you tighter into his chest, one palm rubbing up and down your back. It was the first time, the first time in a long time that anybody had offered you this sort of affection. Mindlessly, the soft tears begin to pool at the bottom of your lash line. Soft snuffles emitting from your lips cause the man to hush you gently, pulling your face away from his body, cradling your head between his larger hands. 

He mumbles something quietly, something about taking you back to the house. If it was him, the man would bundle you into his car and drive to his own home. He’d nestle you under his bedroom blankets, dress you in one of his hoodies. Instead, his rough palm finds your soft fingers, intertwining your hands together. Carlos takes your suitcase in his free hand, guiding you to his car parked outside of the airport. 

Not much is said during the shortening journey back to the house; the tears glossing your eyes reflect the streetlights, transfixed on the roads which you had left for a few short days. The tears will continue to fall; her loss had taken a part of you that you would you never thought would return. The man to your right, eyes focused on the road can sense your heartbreak. He doesn’t wait to push you; he had spoken to you shortly after the news had originally broken, in that conversation, you had barely been able to say ten words before your voice cracked. Instead, Carlos rests a warm hand on your leg, a silent promise that he will be there no matter what. 

The journey feels too short; eventually the driveway to the house rolls into sight, Carlos slowing down the car. When it comes to a halt, he steps out immediately, obtaining your suitcase from the rear of the car, placing it down on the wheels. By this point, you’d wiggled from the seat, ready to wheel your case into the house. However, before you can move, his arms engulf you once more, clinging so tightly, your feet began to lift from the floor. You had clung back just as tight, pressing a kiss to his stubbled cheek; a silent ‘Thank you,’ for everything. 

The embrace ended, Carlos awaiting until the door had unlocked, nodding when he saw you safely enter the house. The building is practically silent; no television sounds, no gentle music, not even the whirr of Charles’ simulator in his downstairs office. Ears pricked, you could hear the jets of a shower from upstairs, the assumption that he must have been in the shower. Paranoia threads your mind, she wouldn’t be showering alongside, would she?

You don’t let your mind wander; instead, you focus on lugging the suitcase along the staircase, silently glad you had gotten further with it since your trip to Madrid. Beelining towards your room, the suitcase rolls behind you, resting it in the corner of the room, a silent promise you’d wash everything tomorrow. However, a delicate bouquet of soft, pink and fresh flowers decorated the vanity of the room; you knew you hadn’t bought flowers since Madrid, and these…They looked as if they’d been placed mere minutes ago. 

Overthinking had always been dangerous; instead, you keep yourself busy, wiggling your skincare bag from the suitcase, padding into your bathroom with that and a fresh set of long pyjamas; the late-night breeze had begun to tickle your skin since removing yourself from Carlos’ warm arms. The relish indulges your body, shampoo trickling through your hair, body wash bubbles tickling your body. You’d stepped out a few moments later, changing into the soft clothing, sitting in front of the mirror, brushing your hair out as carefully as you could have. 

Silently, your feet carry you from the en-suite towards the main bedroom. Standing at the head of the doorway, is none other than your husband, hair own hair damp from his shower, dressed in soft tracksuit bottoms and a tight tee-shirt. He’d seen your suitcase nestling in the corner of your bedroom, your phone had rumpled the blankets of your bed. Charles had been the one to hear the shower this time, deciding to wait, just to see your soft eyes.

They’re bloodshot; you look so…frail. The years of heartbreak littered across your face. Charles’ heart practically breaks; before you can say a word, he’s across the room, arms pulling around your torso, pulling your head under his chest. Your instinct tells you to fight it, why on earth would you accept some form of affection from a husband who had openly destined you for so long? 

And yet, you subcome to his affection, hesitantly holding your own arms to his chest. His scent, his warmth.You felt as if you were dreaming, eyes wet from the overwhelming care, feeling gentle kisses press to the top of your head. 

You don’t remember when Charles scooped you to his chest, tucking you into your fresh blankets before nestling in behind you himself. You remind yourself; this is a one-off. You’re almost certain that by tomorrow, he’ll be back in the arms of his mistress, your moment tonight will be an absent moment to your husband. You’ll take it; if it’s one night in his arms, feeling his breath against the back of your neck, tip of his nose pressing into your back, one hand pressed against your stomach in comfort, you’ll take it. 

Some point during the night, your phone buzzes, the sound barely audible on the blankets of your bed. You groan slightly, the bubble of yourself and Charles giving you a true form of sanctuary, a true form of home. Curiosity in the night takes the better of you, lifting the dying device to your eyes, slightly blinded by the glow of the screen. 

Despite being wrapped in the arms of your husband; you can feel your blood turn cold when you read the one sentence which had been left for you to find. 

01:46: Carlos Sainz

I’m in love with you. 

[todomochi-uwu]

Who (1/?) -J.Y & S.M

Pairing: Poly! Jeong Yunho x reader x Song Mingi

Genre: Angst, Smut

Warnings: This content is for a mature audience

Synopsis: You can't remember when was the last time you spent time with them, the last "I love you", the last time any of them kissed you.

Other chapters: Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5

If you enjoy my work, please consider buying me a coffee ☕

"Mingi, please. I think we should talk; I don't feel good and…" He was quick to cut you off.

"Y/n not right now, I'm tired."

You are always tired these days…

"Yunho, love do you want to go out and check out that new cafeteria? I heard they have…" He was quick to cut you off.

"Y/n not right now, I'm busy."

You are always busy these days...

Things haven't been the same in a while, always in a rush, always in a mood. You can't remember when was the last time you spent time with them, the last "I love you", the last time any of them kissed you. It was a type of routine you had grown accustomed to, and even if it was killing you inside, the idea of being without them was way worse than the pain of their neglect. Cold, endless nights laying in a bed that was way too big for you; tasteless dinner plates that would end up in the trashcan or at the back of the fridge rotting. A home that was crumbling from its foundations, one that you had so desperately tried to patch up and fix by yourself. But in the end, you just had to face the cruel reality, that they don't care. You were not a priority; your relationship was at the bottom of their list.

That's how you ended up at Chan's apartment, in the middle of the night, with so much as your phone in your pocket and your heart in your hand.  He had been your main support the last weeks, anything you wanted, anything you needed, no questions asked. Whenever you woke up crying, whenever you broke down in the middle of the day, Chan was always there to comfort you. And so, you laid there, in his chest, the aftermath of a movie night in which you had only cried twice, an important milestone.

The constant buzzing in the pocket of your pyjamas was making it quite hard for you to continue sleeping. You knew exactly who dared bother you so late at night, it had been the same callers every single night for the past month.

"Don't answer it." Chan's groggy voice filled your ears. He was right. You declined the call and turned off your phone.

But said-call had already done its job, you couldn't stop thinking about the phone, well the people behind it. Your phone was full of texts and missed calls, eight people behind them, because their friends were loyal like that.

They are so sorry.

Please talk to them.

Yunho is drowning himself in work.

Mingi doesn't even talk to us.

Funny it is. A few weeks ago, it seemed they could live perfectly fine without you; they could go on with their day without even glancing your way. You gave them every single piece of your being just to get crumbles in return. But at the same time, your heart is weak, it can’t help but break every time you read one of their texts, wondering if they miss you that much, if they are sorry, if maybe, just maybe, you should go back.

“Y/n… you are overthinking again.” Bang Chan said, pulling you out of your thoughts.

“I know, I just feel bad, Chan. Maybe I overreacted, maybe if I tried a bit harder to talk to them…” There you were again, trying to justify their actions. Chan gave you the same stern look he had been giving you for weeks, every time you blamed yourself.

He got up, not mentioning the subject anymore. Tired of going on about the same subject, “Hey, are you hungry? I can make you something or we can order in.”

It would be a lie to say you were not enjoying Chan’s presence. Having someone to talk to, someone to have a meal with, even someone who sits next to you without being on their phone or computer, you miss not feeling alone. And even though you were heartbroken, you felt warm on the inside.

-------------------------------------------------------

While you might be doing somewhat okay, the other parts of your relationship were not. The house was in complete silence, no matter the hour, no matter the day, no one would dare say a word, their mouths too busy sobbing every single time they remembered their sins, taking you for granted, neglecting you, breaking you.

Yunho would keep himself busy at the hospital, the idea of going back to a broken home simply made him nauseous, and even if the lack of food and the stress were killing him, he much rather endure that than face the harsh truth. Mingi wasn’t any better, endless nights spent in the office, acting as if he was reviewing cases, but the reality was that he just wanted a place to cry without anyone noticing him. Even the love between them was running cold. Fight after fight, they spat cruel words and thoughts trying to get all the hurt and anger out of their chests, blaming themselves, blaming each other. How did they not notice things were so wrong? How could they let things get so wrong?

“Oh, don’t act as if I'm the only one who wasn’t here, you slept at the office almost every day. I came home late, but you didn’t even come at all.” Yunho said, venom in his voice and a glass of whiskey in his hand.

Mingi scratched his forehead in frustration, he could feel the bile going up his throat. “Forgive me for trying to pay the bills, someone has to pay for the house, the student loans, the fucking food that’s on the table.”

“Fuck off, don’t you dare say I’m not bringing any money. Besides, you know that this is temporary while I finish my residency…”

And there the cycle began once again, a screaming match of arguments that never went anywhere, masking the true cause of their pain. Tears ran down their faces, their voices broke down more and more with each word they let out, Yunho's body trembled so much it hurt, while Mingi’s chest felt as if it was about to explode.

“I’m not okay, Yunho.” It was the first time any of them said it out loud, his voice was much raspier and heavier than the usual one.

“I'm not either, Mingi.” He whispered, fearing he would break down even more if he admitted it much louder.

“She left three weeks ago.”

Yunho could only nod.

“She’s not coming back, is she?”

“I don’t know, Mingi.”

[roseykat]

TITLE: Play Right

SUMMARY: The aftermath of the events that occurred at Hyunjin's apartment begins to unravel and sprout into things that are unsuspecting of Hyunjin and Jisung. While Jisung is under the disturbance of a text message he sent to Chan from your phone, he decides to turn to his friends to spill the beans.

TAGS: porn with plot, solo male masturbation, ruined orgasm, swearing, handjobs, soft moments, depictions of sexual intercourse, kissing, cum eating, orgasms, mainly m x m themes, alcohol is consumed (but nobody is drunk)

WARNING: minors DNI with this post or my blog. I create NSWF SKZ related content and I know I won’t be able to regulate/monitor every single potential interaction with those posts so please do not engage with my work or page whatsoever.

PART 1 + PART 2 - MASTERLIST

🏷️LIST: @chillichillicrabcrab23 @broken-glowsticks @ihatemen55 @boi-bi-ahaha @galamxy @weareapackofstrays @anglerfishiey @elizalabs3 @fr34k4c1dr41n @stayconnecteed @imnotjjini0325 @twinklix @meilix @livsposts @dawn-iscozy @princejisung @groovygroovyhyunjin @valibals @oiikaro @/itsthatbri @leftkittenface @/20minsat180degrees (if you want to be removed from the taglist going forward with this series, lmk!)

A/N: listened to Cigarettes out the window by TV Girl when I wrote most of this.

DISCLAIMER: before you read, this is a series so things are building up. There is a plot, so whilst this isn’t reader x member heavy based as the rest of the parts so far, that doesn’t mean to say that it won’t be in the future. Reader and Chan will get their time, don't worry, just want things to develop. This piece is more Jisung and Hyunjin focused iykwim x 

-

“The weather forecast for the upcoming week is predicted to be hotter than usual-“

“Ngh- fuck, right there...”

“-with temperatures expected to rise above thirty degrees. Weather Watch is also alerting citizens-“

“S-So good, baby…Y/N…”

“-in the city to prepare for the possibility of yet another monsoon-“

“Gonna…cum, gonna cum so hard for you…just like that…”

“-other regions of the outer city should also expect showers and hot temperatures-“ 

“Fuck’s sake!” 

With an angry groan and grumble, Hyunjin’s right hand stills over his slick, hard cock. His other hand yanks a pillow from his side and pelts it straight at his door to slam it right shut. Pathetic white strings of cum shot from his dark pink tip and land on his abdomen, some as far as his shirt that he had pulled up to his chest to avoid staining it. 

It’s been impossible for him to jerk off while the six o’clock weather is playing in the background from his lounge. The talk of monsoons and hot weather threatens the disappearance of the mental images he has of you in his brain, used as vital motivation to get himself off - a recurring activity that has been happening for the past two weeks. 

Summer doesn’t make it any better either. His body is sticky, sweat beading over his forehead from the disgusting, muggy heat that rivals the air con blowing throughout his apartment. Then the rain that lashes harshly at his windows is enough to drown out his own moans. It was a useless feat, just as useless as his own ruined orgasm that now put him in a bad mood. He had to satisfy his needs somehow. 

Instead of turning to porn, Hyunjin had something even better; you. The vivid images of his cock plunging fluidly into your wet pussy. The erotic sounds he extracted out of you with each thrust, that is when you weren’t choking on Jisung’s dick. He just wishes he could’ve seen your face when he made you cum.

Hyunjin sighs and presses his head back into the pillow. Before he gets to think about jumping in the shower, his phone rings from the nightstand. He picks up the device to see a very flattering drunk photo of Changbin appear on his screen. 

Hyunjin answers, “hey.” 

“Hyunjin, what are you doing right now?” Changbin asks.

“Watching the news,” he sniffs, he might as well have been watching the news.

“Boring. Did you not see the group chat messages?” 

“No, not yet. Why is something wrong?” 

“No, nothings wrong. Minho booked a table for hot pot and barbecue tonight. Figured you weren’t doing anything important so we’re all meeting up in half an hour,” Changbin explains. 

Barbecue and hot pot sounded nice. Surely it’ll be a method to dry out Hyunjin’s damp mood a little bit. That and a cold shower to freshen up. 

“Okay, yeah sounds good. Can you text me the details then?” 

As Hyunjin hung up and decided to start getting ready, it dawned on him that he hadn’t seen his friends in a couple of weeks, with a strong reference to you and Jisung. You had both been active in the group chat so he didn’t necessarily feel awkward about seeing the guy he had a threesome with. As for you, he really doesn’t know. 

You’re sweeter and easy to be around. Something about that just turns the entire situation on its head. Not that Jisung isn’t sweet or easy to be around in Hyunjin’s opinion, with you it’s different. Although, as he’s been mulling over the past couple of weeks, he’s discovered a few things about himself and Jisung. 

Dressing according to the weather, Hyunjin takes his umbrella with him on his way out in the hopes the rain won’t continue when he leaves the restaurant later on. After receiving the address from Changbin, thankfully just one subway stop away, Hyunjin heads off into the downfall and arrives fifteen minutes later. 

He was wrong to assume that he wasn’t going to feel awkward around Jisung, and now as he spots him at the table, engaging in a riveting conversation with Jeongin, all he feels is awkwardness. He waves out to him from down the way, ushering him to come over, lulling Hyunjin out of his own mind for a minute. 

“Hyunjin!” Jeongin called out cheerily, patting a spot beside him to come and sit. 

“Already started drinking Innie?” Hyunjin slings his arm around his younger friend's shoulder. 

“I couldn’t wait, sorry,” he responds and pours Hyunjin a shot of his soju. “Long day.” 

“Did you eat before?” 

“Not since lunch,” he replies. 

Hyunjin shakes his head and warns, “Innie, you know it’s bad to drink on an empty stomach, right?” 

Jeongin shrugs, “like I said, long day.” 

Hyunjin picks up his shot glass, downing it in one go before setting the glass back down on the surface again. As he does, his eyes meet Jisung’s who stares intently at him from across the table. He shoots a cheeky wink at Hyunjin, forcing a deep red blush to emerge through his cheeks.

Hyunjin knew what that meant. 

Suddenly his mind races back to that night at his apartment; making out with Jisung, remembering suddenly the thought of what sort of tricks that mouth of his possesses, watching you suck him dry. He wasn’t going to be forgetting it any time soon, not when it fuels his jack off sessions at home. 

After the few lingering moments where the pair were still locking eyes, more of their friends started to show up. Seungmin was accompanied by his new girlfriend, glued to his hip who greeted everyone shyly. Hyunjin hadn’t actually properly met her, let alone talked to her yet, but she seemed nice. Once they had taken a seat on their cushions, Changbin rolled in with Felix and Minho in tow who was stuffing his keys into the pocket of his pants. 

“You guys are here early,” he says with surprise. 

“You were the one who organised it,” Jisung pointed out. 

“That I did,” Minho nods, sitting down with everyone else. 

Felix groans as he flops next to Changbin, “I’m hungry, it's not even funny.”

As everyone settled down, trays of fresh veggies, assortments of meat, and other items were brought to their table for them to cook. Minho decided to get started on grilling while Seungmin opted to bring the hot pot on the table to a boil. The smell of the food made Hyunjin almost forget why he was slightly nervous about going out in the first place.

He got back to talking with Jeongin, asking him how work has been treating him, what he’s been up to since they last saw each other, and even planned a time to hang out in the future. 

“What about you, Jisung?” Jeongin asks with a mouthful of bossam. “Haven’t seen you in ages. Been up to anything interesting these days?” 

Jisung finishes slurping up some of the rice noodles Felix had cooked for him from the hot pot, “here and there. Mainly just working now.”

“Ah,” Jeongin nods in understanding. “You always work so much. No wonder why it’s hard for you to hang out with us sometimes.” 

That’s when it hits Jisung, causing him to pause and realise that something isn’t right. He can’t believe it’s taken him this long to realise it when it’s right there in plain sight.

“Where is Y/N and Chan?” He questions.

“Mm! Gonna…gonna cum all over your cock, wanna cum for you so bad,” you strain out. “Makes me feel so fucking good.”

Chan looks up at you, a deranged and desperate expression paints his face as you ride his dick, “don’t stop riding me then. Need to see that pretty pussy cum all over me.” 

Minho flips over pieces of meat on the grill, “Chan is out of the city with his family at the moment. They flew in a few days ago.” 

“You’re creaming so much around me baby,” Chan growls, nails digging painfully into the skin over your hips. “This pussy is all mine.” 

“And Y/N’s still at work,” Minho continues, plating some of the veggies he had been charring on the side too.

Moans erupt from your chest, projecting out into Chan’s lounge, “C-Channie, so good, make me cum, please-“

Jisung nods. It’s not suspicious at all to him that neither of you are here. The two people to an unwanted jigsaw puzzle that he had been piecing together just so happened to be ‘missing.’ Of course, none of the other guys truly knew why. At least he doesn’t think. 

Maybe you two really are in separate locations - not that he believes it. The one thing he knows for absolute sure to be the cold, hard truth, is that you and Chan are most definitely seeing each other casually - fucking behind everyone’s backs. Then again, so did he and Hyunjin in some sense.

Nonetheless, for the past couple of weeks, Jisung was storing that message he received on your phone from Chan in the back of his mind. It affirms a glimmer of a suspicion that Jisung held about Chan previously; that he was seeing someone. 

“Well, that just confirms everything then,” Jisung mutters under his breath, concluding his answer there and then in his mind. 

“Confirms what?” Minho questions, his hawk grade hearing picking up on his undertone. 

“Nothing, just a theory that I have,” he says smartly. “I was just thinking about it and...” 

“And what?” Minho presses.

“And whether I should be sharing it or not,” he replies, unsure of his own answer. 

“Well you have to now since you brought it up,” Felix exclaims. 

“It’s nothing,” Jisung brushes it off, making everyone at the table wonder what the hell he’s on about. 

“Nah, it has to be something,” Seungmin shakes his head and begins wondering what it is. “If it wasn’t important, he’d just say it. But he’s not.”

Is it even Jisung’s place to tell everyone? No. Should he still do it? No. But that’s what friends do. They talk and speculate about who they think are the perfect matches in the group or who out of everyone would marry if they had no other option. Topics as such.

In this case, it’s whether you and Chan are sleeping together or not, which Jisung already has the answer to. Whether he decides to tell the truth would just be speculation to the others since they never saw what Jisung did. They can decide to believe it or not.

However, does he trust his friends with the truth and to not say anything? Without a shadow of a doubt. So with that sliver of comfort in his mind that makes him think he’s not doing the wrong thing, Jisung chooses to divulge. 

“Y/N and Chan are fucking.”

Everyone’s heads at the table fixes onto Jisung. Not a single mouth moved out of surprise as the silence threads its way around. It makes him feel terribly awkward.

This is news to everyone, particularly to the person sitting opposite him; Hyunjin. Someone who, upon hearing what just came out of Jisung’s mouth, didn’t believe it for a second - did not want to believe it.

“You’re lying,” Seungmin accuses immediately from the other end of the table. 

“That’s your theory?” Changbin questions. “That Chan and Y/N are together?”

“Not together, together,” Jisung makes haste to correct him. “I just have reason to believe that they’re seeing each other casually is all.”

“I don’t believe you,” Seungmin responds, letting his strong opinion be known. “What is that reason anyway?”

“I swear on everyone I know, I saw a text message proving it on her phone,” Jisung mentions before his blood starts running cold. He almost gave away more than he should’ve.

Without context of the night in question, none of them know. Not even Hyunjin, who was a third party to it all, didn’t exactly know. He can only guess if what Jisung is referring to is the dirty text message that was sent off of your phone to Chan during the game of truth or dad. Then again, it’s not a thought that he even remotely considers when his mind has been stuck on the fact that you and Chan are potentially hooking up. 

“What the hell are you going through her phone for?” Felix asks defensively. 

“Yeah, that’s not okay,” Jeongin adds. 

“N-No! I wasn’t going through her phone, I just…saw them, by accident,” he responds out of desperation. 

He doesn’t want to disclose that night to his friends. Sure they’re all mates and share everything with each other, but that’s just Jisung. Hyunjin keeps aspects of his life relatively private and Jisung is sure that you wouldn’t appreciate him going around telling everyone what happened. But at that thought, he starts second guessing himself and what he just did. If he thinks you wouldn’t be okay with him sharing information about that night, how is it any different from him saying the same thing about you and Chan? 

It doesn’t take long for Jisung to feel regret and guilt for ever bringing it up. 

“Even if they are, who cares? Good for them, and if they start going out - even better. Y/N’s a massive upgrade from that chick he was seeing before,” Minho explains. 

“That’s probably why they’re messing around,” Felix theorises. 

“I still don’t reckon they are,” Seungmin puts in his opinion again. 

“Why?” Felix asks. 

“I just don’t see it,” he shrugs. “Chan seems like the type of person who wouldn’t sleep around because he only wants to be with someone that he really, really likes.” 

Those words do not sit well with Hyunjin. 

“And Chan told you that himself, did he?” Minho snickers. “If that’s your reasoning, then it sounds like they’re already going out.” 

Hyunjin and Jisung’s eyes immediately lock onto each other in horror. 

“I don’t know if you heard the word ‘seems’ in my sentence, implying that I’m only guessing but okay,” Seungmin bites back, earning him a finger flick to his arm by Jeongin for talking back like that to their older friend. 

“Ten bucks that they are,” Minho says on a different topic. “Ten bucks that they aren’t,” Seungmin counters. 

“A-Are you saying that none of you believe me?” Jisung whines. 

“We’re saying that we don’t have enough evidence – any of us, not just you since you bought up the topic,” Minho replies. 

“What about tonight? Neither of them are here, where do you think they might be?” Jisung attempts to raise a good point, but Changbin spots the obvious loopholes. 

“We already told you. Chan isn’t even in the city since he’s spending time with his family, and Y/N’s still at work,” he answers. “And we know that because Chan messaged the group chat to tell us that he wasn’t going to be coming to dinner and we know Y/N doesn’t finish until six thirty.”

“They could be lying,” Jeongin conspires. 

“That’s only for tonight though. I know he’s been acting shady lately so I reckon he is,” Felix announces. 

“Hyunjin?” Changbin pokes him in the arm, trying to prod an answer out of him. 

He responds quietly but honestly, “I-I don’t think they are.” 

“That settles it then,” Minho begins instigating once more. “Two of you bet that they aren’t and the rest of us bet that they are.”

“We are not betting on our friends right now,” Jisung tries to calm the masses. 

“Mm! How about losers have to pay for a day of food when we go to Jeju?” Jeongin suggests. 

The majority of the table begins to erupt in agreement, making it impossible for Jisung to rewrite something he just initiated. Everyone immediately starts talking details about what food they would request if they won the bet, then would eventually return to the topic of you and Chan. 

Hyunjin didn’t really want to hear another word of it. Instead, he pours himself another shot of Jeongin’s soju in the hopes his thoughts about the situation start to melt. Until he gets to that stage, it’s easy for him to wallow in his feelings. A selfish part of him wants whatever connection there is between you and Chan to falter to the point of no return. Then the other half scolds his mind for wishing such a misfortune on his friend.

But nobody knew. Nobody knew that Hyunjin had feelings for you nor did he want anyone to know. He’d rather die than tell someone he likes them for fear that they won’t like him the way he does. It’s almost like he’s saving himself from the pain and hopes that it’ll pass. However, there was also ‘instigator number two’ sitting across from him who had been making regular appearances in his brain since that night. Hyunjin doesn’t know what it means, if it even means anything for that matter.

So by the end of the dinner, everyone had their bets placed. 

The whole lot of them lingered outside the restaurant after some filling meals as some of the others waited for their rides back home. All aside from Felix and Jeongin who decided to go bar hopping for more drinks. Changbin and Seungmin were laughing away at something they were discussing while Minho was chatting to his friend's new girlfriend. Hyunjin on the other hand stood away from them, up against the wall of the building as he scrolls aimlessly on his phone. 

“Hey,” says Jisung, emerging from the restaurant. 

Hyunjin turns to his friend, realising it’s the first time they’ve directly spoken to each other in a while, “hi.” 

“You know it feels like I haven’t seen you since-“

“That’s because you haven’t, Jisung,” he cuts him off sharply, having already foreseen what Jisung was about to say after the word ‘since.’ 

He smiles sheepishly, “right. So, what are your plans now?”

Hyunjin doesn’t think and shrugs, “gonna go home, paint, watch TV or something.”

“Cool. I’m coming with you.” 

Hyunjin didn’t have any say in the matter. Jisung was going to follow him home like his own shadow whether he liked it or not. It dismissed Hyunjin from grovelling in his feelings and mind after hearing the situation between you and Chan. One half of his heart yearned to cry while the other wanted to punch Chan in the ribs. He doesn’t know. He’s conflicted. But they are aspects that remain undetected to Jisung as they sat next to each other quietly on the subway back to his home. 

The pair walked under Hyunjin’s umbrella for a few hundred metres until they were under the shelter of the apartment complex. He doesn’t mind accommodating people at his place since he spends the majority of his time in voluntary solitude. It allows him to fully recuperate from social settings in order to go out again. This time, with less company, it’s still equally welcoming. So after Hyunjin unlocks his front door for both of them enter, take off their shoes, and store them neatly. 

“Ah~” Jisung sighs with relief, stretching out his arms and stands right underneath a device mounted to the top of the wall. “Air con!” 

“Don’t you have one? I thought you did,” Hyunjin mistakenly thought. 

“It broke,” he mumbles, revelling in the cold artificial breeze. “Been waiting three weeks for it to be fixed.” 

Hyunjin doesn’t say anything after that. He lets Jisung do whatever he wants while he heads into his room to change from his clothes to a black tank top and a pair of shorts. In his spare room that he’s been slowly transitioning to an art space, he goes in and collects some of his unfinished art, paints, and brushes. After, he returns to the lounge, he sets everything down on the coffee table and pulls up some floor cushions for him and Jisung to sit on. 

“Oh, tangerines,” he suddenly remembers as his eyes clock onto the silver fruit bowl on his kitchen counter while Jisung takes his jacket off and hangs it up. 

“Tangerines? In summer?” Jisung asks as he goes to sit down. 

Hyunjin places the bowl of the fruit between him and his friend as he lowers down too, “why not? I got them fresh from the market the other day.”

“I can only eat them in the winter.”

“Alright then,” Hyunjin shrugs and starts peeling one for himself as Jisung reaches for the remote and turns on the TV. 

For a while, they sit together. Hyunjin switches between picking up his paintbrush and pieces of fruit whereas Jisung’s eyes are glued to some hot drama playing across the screen. It’s nice to just be in the same room with someone and to not have a full on conversation that ends up being draining on their social batteries. Both of them are the perfect introverts for thriving in those types of environments. A peaceful comfort.

Time seems to pass in their space as Jisung nears the end of the episode and Hyunjin is rounding off one area of his painting. By that time, Hyunjin had eaten five tangerines then opted to bring some more. He offered to Jisung if he wanted something else to eat or drink, but the man was so hooked on this drama that he didn't even hear Hyunjin ask.

He found it…slightly…endearing. Just a bit. But then he went back to his work and all was forgotten until Jisung finally started speaking again.

“Hyunjin,” he starts in a low voice, still staring at the screen. 

“Hmm?” 

“Are we gonna talk about the other night?” Jisung mentions.

His hand freezes over his canvas, a small dollop of paint drips from the end of his brush and onto his work. Hyunjin wasn’t exactly expecting to hear that question, yet at the same time, he should’ve seen it coming. 

“W-What about it?” He responds awkwardly. 

Jisung leans back, both of his hands propping him up from behind as he looks up to the ceiling, “the fact that we kissed, well… made out mainly.” 

“Yeah, that’s right,” he said, unsure of what to actually ask him here. “Do you…regret it?”

“No! No way!” Jisung exclaims rather quickly before he calms down. “No, I don’t. In fact…it was…actually really good.” 

In the back of Hyunjin’s mind, he can almost predict what’s about to happen. Jisung wouldn’t have brought up the subject unless it was really affecting him - unless he was dying to get it off his chest. Otherwise he would’ve let it simmer down, but taking into account that it had been two weeks and he wants to unpack everything, there was clearly something irking him in a way that only Hyunjin seems to understand. 

“You looked…good that night,” he adds then corrects himself. “You do look good.” 

Hyunjin peers up from his work. What’s he supposed to say to that? Is he supposed to divulge the fact that he thinks the same of Jisung? He doesn’t even know entirely what he feels, having just accepted that he slept with his two friends and sort of went on with life.

“What did you follow me back to my apartment for?” Hyunjin gets straight to the point. 

His friend sits back up and looks him dead in the eye, “let’s just say I didn’t follow you back to eat some fruit and watch TV.”

“Then what?” Hyunjin urges impatiently even though his and Jisung’s faces slowly draw towards each other.

Jisung’s eyes drop down to Hyunjin’s lips, and says in a quiet voice, “because I wanted to kiss you again.” 

Hyunjin doesn’t know when, but it happened. One second he had his gaze set on Jisung’s soft expression and the next his eyes were closed, allowing his brain to focus on what’s physically happening. Their lips meet for the second time since the first, this time a little slower and tender.

As the TV plays in the background, all the two of them can hear is the sound of their mouths moving - breaking apart for a couple of moments even though their noses still touch, tilting their heads in different directions to see what’s the better angle. 

The sweet, citrine aftertaste of tangerine lingers in Hyunjin’s mouth, a pleasure to savour when Jisung is able to explore it with his tongue. In Hyunjin’s left hand, the paintbrush slips from his grip, its tip smearing more paint onto his work. But there is a great distance between him and being bothered about it. He worries more about the reaction, that after minutes of kissing, stirs in his pants when Jisung’s hand finds its way onto his lap, barely caressing his thigh. His cock has started filling out. 

He doesn’t notice it until slowly yet surely, Jisung’s hand inches closer to the ever growing, obvious bulge in his friend's shorts. The second he makes contact with Hyunjin’s clothed dick, a moan shoots through from his mouth and into Jisung’s. He pulls away for a second, staring at his lips.  

“You really are a good kisser,” Jisung breathes. 

“Jisung…” Hyunjin struggles, his forehead comes to rest against Jisung’s as he stares down at his hand. It palms slowly, agonisingly slow. 

“You’re so hard for-“

He cups Jisung’s mouth before he can complete the rest of his sentence, “shut up, I know,” he cuts him off bitterly. 

A chuckle reverberates through his hand as Jisung takes it away but decides to continue holding it, “let me help you then.” 

It’s not difficult for him to read the room. He knows what Hyunjin wants and how obvious it is that he needs it. His cock silently screams for touch, to be relieved. So at the perfect moment, Jisung reaches into Hyunjin’s shorts and past his boxes.

A quiet hiss issues from his mouth when the entire length of his dick is free from restriction. His cock is beautiful. Jisung never managed to get a good look at it since it was either in your mouth or drilling your pussy from behind.

Jisung licks his way into Hyunjin’s mouth, his tongue dancing across his plush bottom lip before he breaks away for a moment. Excitement surges through him now that he finally gets to feel what he’s been wanting to since that night two weeks ago. He stares down at Hyunjin’s cock, pre-cum beads at the tip, some had already leaked down his length.

For Jisung to have him so aroused, so desperate for touch, proves the effect his friend has on him that he suspected was present. Hyunjin had an inkling of it when you all slept together, but nothing other than that. A pang of realisation maybe, that his friend was attractive and alluring in a sense, and it was obvious that Jisung felt the same. 

He takes a soft hold of the top of Hyunjin’s cock, the pad of his index finger swiping over his tip and pulling away. He watches the thick string of glimmering pre-cum connect him and Hyunjin, forcing a wave of embarrassment to come crushing over him. It wasn’t embarrassing to Jisung. It was hot. So fucking hot.

Seeing the impact of his own actions on Hyunjin’s body gave him a sense of power so to speak. It made him want to see more as he started tugging gently at his dick. He trusted that Hyunjin’s pre-cum would act almost as a lube, and sure enough with more strokes, his cock was sticky with it. Nothing but slick sounds and tiny, barely there whimpers from Hyunjin’s mouth fill his lounge, drowning out the next episode of the drama that was still playing. 

“Mm…it…mmm.” 

“Don’t be shy Hyunjinnie,” Jisung prompts him to become more vocal, to express what he’s feeling however he wants. “We’re friends, since when have you ever been quiet around me?” 

Hyunjin replies breathlessly, “friends…d-don’t get each other off.”

“Hey, you haven’t gotten me off yet,” Jisung reminds him. 

Yet. 

In his mind that starts to slip through his fingers like sand, Hyunjin was no longer able to tell if that was an empty possibility or a very real chance of it happening. For the time being, he chooses to focus on pleasure. The satisfaction of having something wrapped around his cock to relieve him, and the divine pressure that begins to store at the base of his cock from Jisung’s long strokes. 

“Feel good?” He asks. 

The question alone is enough to make Hyunjin lower his head and close his eyes, too shy to meet Jisung’s ardent gaze. Instead, he gives an affirming nod. 

“Good,” Jisung mumbles quietly, then finds Hyunjin’s lips once more with his own to kiss him.

God he can’t stop kissing him. 

The way they melt into each other is almost like they’ve done this a hundred times prior. Jisung tugs and strokes Hyunjin’s length so attentively, greedily drawing out every single reaction he can possibly get. The hushed moans that transmit from his mouth as Jisung’s tongue moves lazily to explore. Very abruptly however, Hyunjin breaks away from the kiss. 

“G-Gonna make me cum,” he swallows hard. 

Jisung’s eyes nearly roll into the back of his head just hearing that. To him, those words are not only a specific type of praise or reward, but it’s coupled with the way that Hyunjin sounds right in his ear. His tense, high pitched whimpers become more frequent and stressed as Jisung has been building him up to the height of his orgasm.

“Cum for me then,” Jisung whispers to him.

Suddenly, the air snags inside Hyunjin’s throat. His head drops and all the attention gravitates towards his cock, shivering as he starts to orgasm.

“Ngh - ‘sung…cumming,” he strains out, breathing deeply but staggered. 

Jisung catches his seed in the cupped palm of his hand as he manages to stroke the tip of his length at the same time. He looked so beautiful when his mind and body writhe under his touch. Hyunjin’s moans complete the satisfaction Jisung feels to have unravelled his best friend like that. To see ribbons of his white warm cum in hand makes him struggle against the unhinged part of his brain that needs to taste it for himself. He can’t help it when the base of his palm reaches his mouth-

But it doesn’t stop Hyunjin’s face from twisting and screwing into an expression of revolt. 

“Jisung,” he says with a tone of warning. 

He hastily tucks himself back into his clothes, springs up from the coffee table and heads to the kitchen to grab a paper towel. After soaking it a little bit in some warm water from under the tap, he returns to Jisung and cleans his hand. Hyunjin didn’t want to make a note of the fact that most of Jisung’s palm was covered in cum and when he returned, it was almost like it was never there. Still, he did him the decency of helping clean him up. 

“Maybe wash your hand too,” he suggests with a concerned look still clouding his face. 

“Don’t look so offended, Hyunjin,” Jisung chuckles airly. “You taste good.” 

“Shut up, please,” is all he can come back with, then looks up to not only see that cocky, arrogant grin of Jisung’s but to also notice that there’s still a trace of his cum smeared a little bit on his bottom lip. Hyunjin reaches towards his friend’s face, thumbing the excess away.  

“Don’t waste anything,” Jisung scolds him.  

“Alright,” he rolls his eyes, done with the mortifying humiliation and stands up again to return to the kitchen with the dirty paper towel to chuck it away. 

“Wait, come back! Kiss me one more time and I swear I’ll stop embarrassing you!” he calls out to him.

Hyunjin stops listening to Jisung and all the whiny complaints he propels from the coffee table. Instead, something else suddenly occupies his attention. The one thing that threatens to unbalance his mood once more. 

“Jisung,” Hyunjin says. “Is it true? About Y/N and Chan?”

“Huh?” He answers, “Oh, yeah. It is.” 

Hyunjin’s gaze falls to the floor. That answers that then. 

Jisung then continues, “I didn’t want to mention how I saw the message though. If I did, it might’ve put you and Y/N in the spotlight about that night we had when you probably didn’t want to. Plus, they’re like jackals. They would’ve torn you to shreds just to get an answer.” 

Hyunjin nods, appreciative of his friend's move, “thanks. But should you have told them about Y/N and Chan anyway?”

Jisung did realise at one stage that he told their friends about you and Chan, but didn’t apply that same energy towards bringing up himself, you, and Hyunjin. There wasn’t that much of a difference when he looks at it now since he’s also messed around with you both, similar to the way Chan is currently messing around with you.

But Jisung knows for a fact that he didn’t bring it up because he wanted to save his own skin or divert any suspicion or attention away from himself. It was just so scandalous to find out that the two least suspecting people on his radar of who in the group would be fucking, is you and Chan. 

“They said they weren’t going to say anything,” Jisung responds. “I trust them that much, not that I should be making a big deal about it, but I want to go see Chan. I know that they’re not, but I want to make sure that they aren’t actually dating, otherwise-“

“We’d have to tell him,” says Hyunjin.

“Exactly,” Jisung agrees. “Again, I don’t think that’s the case. Chan said so himself that he’s done with dating and relationships, and I trust that wholeheartedly too.”

Hyunjin gives a nod and decides to hold out onto hope. Hope that you’re not seeing him and that it’s just something that turns out to be a stupid rumour. In the meantime, he needs to figure out his feelings. 

Too tired to make the commute back to his own place, Jisung ended up staying the night at Hyunjin’s. He could’ve well and truly slept on the couch but for what it was worth, he was invited to sleep in Hyunjin’s bed. It’s not like they’ve never slept next to each other. But for some reason, it means something a bit more. Something hazy that exists in a twilight zone that Hyunjin only hopes clears up so he can decipher what he feels towards Jisung. 

The thought floats around in his mind before he drifts off, sleeping comfortably, only to wake up the next morning tangled in each other’s arms.

Neither of them were bothered about it. 

[cinnbar-bun]

first off— I LOVE UR WORK!! i think i just went thru and read everything you have for one piece LOL. second!!! i saw hc / drabble request open !! i have a silly idea that i feel like you can make come into reality.

recently i’ve been watching isekai’s so…imagine. reader getting isekai-d into the one piece world!!! (more specifically, interactions with the cross guild!!!)

A/n: Thank you very much nonnie!! I really appreciate you taking the time to read my stuff. Please enjoy this <3

Getting Isekai'd Into Cross Guild!

Rating: SFW

Relationship: Cross Guild x Reader

Notes: GN!Reader, a bit crack, short and sweet. No relationship is defined so you can assume it to be platonic or romantic <3.

The wonderful Truck-kun granted your wish of getting isekai’d by sending you straight to the One Piece world! How wonderful! 

Except, you quite literally fell on top of Buggy just as he was trying to argue his case to Crocodile and Mihawk. 

Now, they have no clue what the hell just happened but Mihawk already agrees with whatever that just was. 

Buggy is about to scream over the fact you just fell on top of him and Crocodile is wondering how you managed to get here. 

Crocodile assumes a Devil Fruit, Mihawk assumes you snuck in, and Buggy assumes you’re the devil. 

It takes a moment for things to settle down as they demand you tell them what you’re doing here. You explain that well… uh… you’re not really from here. 

Crocodile almost plans to kill you right away because he doesn’t have time for stupidity like that, but you show whatever you have on hand to prove otherwise. 

They’re all immediately entranced by your phone, but they have something they’re also interested in too. 

Crocodile: Your credit cards and money. When you explain how a credit/debit card functions he’s amazed. Tempted to start a bank and overhaul the current financial system. Also loves the excel spreadsheets. The fact this “machine” will calculate all of this for you and put it in a neat list… well… mark him down as interested. 

Buggy: The shiny games on your phone that are colorful and fun. The fact he can “Google” anything and look up new material. 

Mihawk: EReaders and, this will sound hilarious, but text messaging. He doesn’t care to talk, but he thinks that sending texts would be so much more effective and efficient than having to haul himself around the sea or, god forbid, answer a phone call. 

Okay so you did manage to prove you’re not from this world (or that perhaps you were an alien freak but that’s okay) and Crocodile and Mihawk are pretty much entertained. That’s it. You can go. Bother someone else. 

Buggy however, holds you close and pouts. “Can we keep them? Can we keep them pleeeeeeeease???” He begs as if you’re a little puppy. 

Crocodile is against this but Mihawk shrugs and agrees. Whatever. This could be interesting. 

Buggy still doesn’t understand you’re not some circus animal and rambles about what he should have you wear and perform for his show while Crocodile cuts him off. 

Frankly, if you’re telling the truth and have nowhere else to go, you gotta earn your keep. Crocodile just makes a new position for you that shouldn’t be too hard after you said you have 0 combat skills or training. 

You’re basically just their assistant and do menial work that no one else really wants to do. For now at least. 

Buggy is actually… kinda happy you’re so nice to him? He’s used to either worship from his crewmates or abuse from Mihawk and Crocodile, so you quickly become his new favorite person. He’s pretty shocked you’re as nice as you are considering how crappy this situation is, but he’s grateful. Softens up to you right away and loves having your attention. 

Buggy likes to do silly tricks to make you laugh whenever he can, mostly as a way to be the “flashiest” guy in your eyes. He really doesn’t like when others try to take you or away or interrupt his time with you, since he’s a brat and finds you entertaining. 

Crocodile and Mihawk are tougher nuts to crack. Neither of them trust people, but they find you interesting, even though you are incredibly weak compared to others. 

Crocodile always tries to see what you may/may not know about him since you made a few offhand comments that were a bit too… knowledgeable… so he often tries to get you to slip up more or confess to something. He hopes to see if you know something useful that can be used (but also deep down is afraid you know too much). 

Mihawk on the other hand finds you amusing. Plenty of things are similar to your world, but it’s quite clear you’re not used to many aspects of this one. He forms a habit of just watching you or actively messing with you to see your reaction. It’s a bit funny to him, admittedly. 

Of the two, Mihawk is the first to somewhat let his guard down and be a bit protective of you. He figures even if you were hypothetically “dangerous”, he could easily kill you so what does he care? You do your job, you’re entertaining, and you don’t give him a headache. 

Crocodile only lets up when you “prove” time and time again that you are reliable and not trying to go after them or sabotage them. He does think it’s a bit weird you’re eager to help them, considering what they do and what you know, but hey, who is he to complain? 

To sum it up: Crocodile cares the most about you being isekai’d, Buggy cares the least (except when it comes to his perception. He wonders if he’s also got a following there).

Buggy likes showing off his new tricks or discussing silly hypotheticals with you. 

Crocodile likes when your eyes grow wide whenever he drops an expensive item on your desk as a token of his appreciation to you. 

Mihawk likes when you talk him to normally and share deep discussions with him. 

It is a bit strange that there’s some “normal” person with these three villains, but you’ve become important to them. You’re unique and special, practically one of a kind in this zany world. They show their feelings towards you in different ways, but the way they’ve grown attached to you and try to protect you show that you’re valued in their life.

[sanakimohara]

“Stalker” B.C.

{ MDNI }

+++++

Chan as a stalker would be painfully toxic. The constant messages you’d receive from him, vague, but highly personal. He wouldn’t threaten you at all…at first.

It starts off with little random reminders or sending a few innocent pictures of you doing random tasks throughout the day.

“You look so cute when you’re cleaning, baby…”

“You should really eat something today, sweetheart…”

“Don’t stay up too late like last time little one…need you well rested okay?…”

Then he progresses to intricate gestures. It’s not hard to get to you since you’re a trainee under JYPE and coincidentally share the same dorm building as Stray Kids. Chan has easy access to the areas you occupy most often.

Even your dorm, specifically your bedroom.

Of course you don’t know this so when random pieces of your clothing start to disappear and reappear at odd times you just chalk it up to your forgetfulness. In reality Chan slips into your room when no one’s around, admiring how neat or messy you keep it, and committing to memory all the little trinkets/games/decor that you personalized it with. He likes the fact that your room reflects who you are, it brings out your purity in his opinion, and if he could lock you in it he would.

Deep down he liked the idea of locking you in his room much better. Then you’d be even safer under his constant watch. For now he settled with invading your private spaces, slipping your panties into his pocket as he wanders around, picking up the little messes around your room. When he’s all done and satisfied with the amount of possessions he’s taken from you he writes a note to you before leaving and continuing on with his day like nothing happened.

“Keep your room clean, sweetheart.”

You’re shaking with fear and anxiety reading his note but seeing as you don’t have a clue who wrote it you keep the information to yourself. It bothers you all week but weirdly you’re loving the anonymous attention. Blushing at random times of the day just from the thought of who might’ve written that note for you. It’s still terrifying but you admire their devotion…

Chan observes you from an afar after that, continuing to sneak in your room when he has the chance, and leaving less than innocent notes on your desk more often.

“You did well practicing. I was impressed, really,”

“I left you a little gift for working hard, baby. Open it when you’re ready..”

You spot his gift at the foot of your bed, all the random clothes (mostly underwear) he’s taken from you are neatly washed and folded too. It disgusts you to see your intimates causally laid out -and probably used for other purposes- like a present. At the same time your mind is reeling with the image of your ‘admirer’ getting off to the simple scent of you or the thought of you wearing them.

You’ve never felt so beautifully violated in your life and you hate how wet it gets you.

Something has to be wrong with you…

Paranoid. You become extremely paranoid and Chan uses that against you. You’re such a young trainee, being tortured by some skillful stalker, and he’s the first person you open up to about it. How can he not help you cope?

Everytime you come running to him about the last occurrence with your supposed stalker Chan is ready to console you with a warm smile and loving embrace. Sure, he’s extremely turned on by the fear in your wide eyes, and his cock twitches every time you curl into him for a comforting hug. He’s just there to help you through this mess, right?

“Why would anyone want to treat you this way?..”

“I’ll protect you I promise… “

“You can always come to me when you don’t feel safe..”

Every word he says is a backhanded lie and you fall for it every time. You spend less time in your dorm and more time with him. The other trainees and his members notice but don’t say a word since Chan never makes it a big deal. That isn’t to say he doesn’t purposefully act unnerved by the notion of a stalker with in the company.

His habit of texting you escalates into sending obscure photos of you in the shower, alone in the practice rooms, or simply getting changed. He’s gotten comfortable with his obsession now, actively seeking out chances for vulnerability, and that raises your fears and fantasies higher.

“Want to see you do this in person…”

“I can’t help but to watch you , baby… I’m just making sure you’re safe…”

Safe….and unknowingly reliant on him.

A perfect combination of control and fear.

“I know everything about you, little one. You can never hide from me…”

+++++

[satoruhour]

IDK IF U WILL SEE THIS OR ANYTHING BUT! is it ok if i request smth small and it starts off with gojo and the reader having a lil bit of banter by text, and the reader then says “satoru ur so pretty u should start a kissing booth for easy money” (as a joke ofc) and he was like “good idea” and went offline, making the reader freak out for the rest of the day until they came back to their apartment….. and found satoru set up a whole kissing booth in their living room

a/n: this is so cute!!! ty for the request anon <3 in this megumi is under satoru’s and reader’s care, tsumiki never went into a coma, and you’re married too / 1.3k

you loved satoru’s compliance. when you tell him that he should never cook again as a joke, he listens with a wide grin and a face that’s burnt on one side, sweeping the hard charcoal pieces of pancake into a pan. when you tell him you have two left feet, he simply laughs and just plops you onto his own, making you look like a fool waddling around.

a lovesick fool.

you’re left smiling into open space until a notification cuts you out of your daze, smile twisting into a questionable expression as your husband sends a picture of him posing in front of some boba tea shop, a promotional banner stating get spanked by one of our staff and get a free cup of boba tea!

[9:17am, the strongest and handsomest and coolest husband 🩵]: bet i’ll do it

[9:18am, delivered]: satoru. now. youll do it even if i dont bet you???!!?!!?!! 

[9:18am, the strongest and handsomest and coolest husband 🩵]: hmm… compelling argument, i’m afraid you’re correct

a few minutes pass and you are confident it’s him asking for a spank with a blinding smile on his face, probably pointing to one of the male staff because i have a wife at home, y’know? she’s so pretty and hot-headed and hot and—

[9:20am, the strongest and handsomest and coolest husband 🩵]: photo attached

boba acquired 😈😈😈😈

[9:21am, the strongest and handsomest and coolest husband 🩵]: oh yeah, one of the staff called me pretty. was a guy btw. had to flash him one of my peace signs and i just know he swooned

the raise of your eyebrows returned, though you stifle a chuckle.

[9:21am, delivered]: he did not swoon i promise you

and another picture comes in, his face all up in the camera with a comical pout on his face and your laughter comes out more freely this time, basically hearing the looks you’re getting from the commuters in the subway, though your eyes are only focused on satoru, on the curvature of his lips and the peek of his baby blues behind the sunglasses you bought for him.

[9:22am, delivered]: joking. you’re so pretty, you know that right

years ago you would’ve told yourself that it’ll only fuel his ego, but that was long before gojo satoru had decided you were everything and more; where he values everything you say, where you’re all he worships. one compliment from you could shut him up forever.

[9:23am, delivered]: you should totally start a kissing booth for like …. $4 a kiss or something

it’ll be easy money ngl and then we can share the gains 

[9:23am, the strongest and handsomest and coolest husband 🩵]: woah… good idea baby. alright then!

and gojo satoru goes offline immediately, leaving you left out in the cold, confused and perplexed when the satoru??? where the hell did you go??? texts fail to be read. it’s not often he does it, usually sending you a plethora of hearts or some stupid ugly sticker before the conversation ends. on the way to the school, you’re continually texting him, too, looking way more distracted than you would like to be in front of the students.

“sensei? any reason why you keep checking your phone?” yuji asks after lunch in the classroom, both arms tucked under his head.

“hm?” you answer but your eyes are still glued to the screen, the taunting ‘last seen at 9:23am’ taunting you endlessly and megumi looks like he has half a mind to just blurt it out, but he thinks it’s worth seeing your reaction later as he takes one more look at his adoptive father’s updates, sending picture after picture of his progress and he keeps the device tucked under to avoid any suspicion.

[14:09pm, my terrible father figure i guess]: do NOT !!!! SEND THIS TO MY BEAUTIFUL WIFE . i wll literally humiliate you in training later if you do

megumi sighs.

[14:10pm delivered]: don’t you already? also stop texting me loser she’ll find out 

the raven-haired boy later is left to comfort you later when you’re holding onto the phone a little too tightly, and by then you’ve already gone through every possible thought. satoru dying, satoru meeting a curse that’s higher than a special grade, satoru on a rampage to kill the higher-ups, satoru—

“you’re going to die worrying about gojo-sensei like that.” and you roll your eyes, hand fishing around in your bag for the keys to your shared home while your eyes never leave megumi. it’s been like this for as long as you can remember: you being the voice of reason, megumi taking your rambles like he always has, gojo usually just laughs.

“yeah? well? how could i not?” you fumble with your keys and pick out the right one, putting it in the keyhole easily from the many times you’ve done it and you swing open the door, “not when he’s the strongest who has to take care of so many things without any rest! what if he got distracted and took down infinity? what if he—”

and sometimes you hated gojo’s compliance (you’re lying to yourself).

upon opening the door, the living room was full of cardboard boxes and cut out shapes, paint over the floor and on his jujutsu uniform, an all-knowing, but still stunning grin that you wanted to slap off of him. the chaos of the cardboard led to one thing: a small counter completed with a tip jar, his free cup of boba tea and a large sign that said kissing booth: $4 for a smooch!

and a smaller sentence is parenthesis, ‘free for my baby.’ the statement almost, almost gets you but you manage to ask him in a monotonous voice, “what are you doing, gojo satoru?”

“hi…?” megumi smiles secretly to himself before closing the door for you, putting the keys in your outstretched hand and it’s sort of the routine the three of you fall into everyday now. alas, with tsumiki staying in her university’s dorms, it was a little lonely for megumi, but the two of you were enough entertainment for him.

“well i was just listening to you!” gojo gestured to the whole place, which will probably be a pain to clean up, “who can blame my silly little brain for wanting to do a project to make my wife happy?”

you cross your arms in retaliation, but in all honestly, you wanted nothing but to greet the sorcerer with an embrace, something you’ve been meaning to do since your worrisome attitude from the morning. reluctantly, you frown while you make your way to the makeshift counter, immediately leaning forward before satoru puts a finger on your lips with a teasing smile.

“ah! four dollars please!”

bonus

“i was really worried, y’know,” the words are muffled from the way you’re buried in his neck that night, inhaling the scent that you missed all day. it’s summer in japan at the moment, but you find yourself craving his skin more than ever, a hand going up to brush through his stark white hair.

“’m sorry, baby,” satoru pulls away from you, as with you, sending you a small smile before pecking your forehead, “i promise to tell you what i’m up to from now on.”

you lean forward to close the gap, and all the kisses you exchanged earlier were definitely not enough. softly, your arms wrap around his shoulders while a leg goes over his body, gojo sounding out a little surprised hum at your eagerness. smiling into the kiss, satoru only plants more kisses to your nose, your lids, to your eyebrows and your chin, and another gentle one to your lips.

“even if it’s arts and crafts or maybe attempting to make you some strawberry tarts.”

you slap his chest lightly, a faux shocked expression filling your features, “i thought we agreed no more strongest sorcerer in the kitchen?”

“of course, sweet girl,” satoru lands one last deep kiss to show you truly the extent of his love. but even then, he knew it wasn’t enough, so he hoped, at least his words were, “i only ever listen to your voice —  none else matters.”

i love him

[navybrat817]

When you want to tease Bucky, you send him pics involving a peek of your underwear.

When he retaliates, he sends you a video of him devouring a peach 😂

UGH. Yes, please. I may have changed the fruit though.

Starving, Darling

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader Summary: You tease Bucky and he retaliates in the best way. Word Count: Over 800 Warnings: Teasing, plum eating (bahaha), s/exy times implied, Bucky Barnes (he's a warning, okay?). A/N: Happy FriYAY, lovelies! Not beta read and written on my phone, so any and all mistakes are my own. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!

It was rare for you to finish up work early on a Friday, but you had worked over the previous four days and your boss didn’t like you going over your normal hours. You weren’t going to complain when it meant you had the afternoon off. You were, however, not thrilled that Bucky didn’t play hooky with you this afternoon. Like you, he was a hard worker and you knew he had a few things to finish up before he could join you at home.

It didn’t mean you couldn’t play.

What else were you going to do to get through the afternoon?

“Sure you can’t get off early?”

The text was innocent enough. The photo beneath it of you was not. Sprawled out in the middle of the bed with your hand down your panties, you wondered if his super soldier eyes picked up just how wet you were through the fabric.

“Or should I get off by myself? Lick my fingers clean and tell you how good my pussy tastes?”

A heartbeat later, a message from Bucky popped up. God, how fast was he typing? “Don’t you fucking dare. Only one getting you off is me.”

You smirked, wondering how far you could push before there were consequences. “Don’t know, old man. Might need to break out my blue friend. This pussy isn’t going to fuck itself.”

Bucky left the message on read.

A few minutes passed and he still hadn’t responded. You frowned as you checked to see if he was typing anything. You almost apologized for the “old man” remark. He knew you didn’t mean that, right?

The ding of a new message was one of the happiest sounds you heard all day. Would he tell you off for your sass? Tease you back? Your heart raced a bit when you realized he sent you a video. Maybe whatever he had to say was too much to type out.

You recognized the break room when you clicked on the video, gasping when Bucky’s face came into view. Even though he couldn’t see you through the screen, it was like his blue eyes stared into your soul. You could make out the gray hairs on his short beard from how close he was to the device. You wished you could bite his chin.

All in good time.

“You know what a good fruit for old men is? Plums,” he said, a bit of hair falling in his face as he looked down.

…what?

“Good for bone health and improving your memory,” he went on, the rumble of his voice mesmerizing you as he looked back at the screen. “Not to mention they’re delicious. So fucking sweet.”

As Bucky brought a plum to his mouth, he kept his eyes on the device and ran his tongue along the piece of fruit. His hand dwarfed it, a subtle reminder of how big your man was. Your clit throbbed when he bumped his nose against it and gently inhaled. It was the only warning you got before he sank his teeth in to devour it.

“Oh, fuck,” you whimpered as you watched him have his fill. Juice spilled from the corner of his mouth as he growled, reminding you of how eager he got whenever he ate you out. He was relentless when it came to your taste, demanding you give him more. And you’d give it all to him. “Fuck.”

“And still doesn’t taste as sweet as you,” he said, digging his thumb into the plum as deep as it could go. “Bet your pussy’s clenching right now, wishing I was there to fill it up. Maybe I’ll make you ride my tongue before you ride my cock. Show me how good I know you are.”

“Yes, please,” you moaned, your hips shifting on the bed and wishing he was there to relieve the friction. The first time you sat on his face, you hesitated. You’d never forget how he grabbed your hips and helped guide you up and down, moaning as you coated his tongue with your release.

Champion pussy eater and best cock I’ve ever had.

He sucked the digit clean as he narrowed his eyes. “So be good ‘til I get home, keep your legs open so I can dive right in, and don’t you dare touch my cunt again before I get my mouth on it,” he ordered, his voice deep and knowing before he took one more bite. “And I expect an apology for getting me hard during a meeting when you weren’t under the table to suck me off.”

You licked your lips, wishing he was there to slide the heavy weight of his cock to the back of your throat.

“Love you, doll,” he added, licking the last drop from his lip before the video ended.

Well played, old man.

You smiled as you typed back, “Love you, too, and I'll have your dessert waiting.”

“Good because I’m starving.”

This man. Love and thanks for reading! 💙

Masterlist ⚓ Bucky Barnes Masterlist ⚓ Ko-Fi

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

Can we have bestfriend headcanons for rollo please???? i need to be friends with this guy so bad you don't understand

***Warning: Glorious Masquerade spoilers in the final few headcanons!***

Curiouser and Curiouser...

The best way to sum up this relationship is that Rollo is the mom friend, and you are his child. (If you were to ask Rollo, he would say you're an idiot, but you're his idiot.)

From an outsider's perspective, it's hard to tell that you're friends at all. He always has that hard-to-read face on him, plus those grimaces he gets whenever the slightest annoyance or inconvenience makes itself known.

You've gotten used to his quirks though, so you can read his emotions a lot better than most. When the corners of his mouth twitch, that's him trying to smile! When he taps a finger against his arm? He's thinking hard about something.

He dislikes it when you call him "bestie" (so, of course, you make sure to do it often). Rollo corrects you with his name each and every time.

He finds physical affection just as repulsive. Rollo's constantly shying away from your touch, insisting that it's unhygienic and immodest to even so much as brush shoulders by accident.

There was an incident when you hugged him once and he got oddly quiet, then asked "... What is this?" to which you had casually responded, "Affection."

"Disgusting," Rollo had declared, handkerchief to his nose. "... Do it again."

He's one of those old-fashioned people who insists on keeping in contact via letters and cards instead of text messages, email, and/or social media. Rollo claims that stuff "rots your brain cells" and "promotes a vain, degenerate lifestyle".

You thought it silly and inefficient at first, but over time you've come to appreciate the time and thought that comes with each letter. Receiving a note from Rollo is the best part of your day--you love catching up with him and sending him back updates of your very own.

He's a busy guy and follows a strict schedule, so more often than not you're the one that's following him around as he does his various tasks. You lend him a hand too, though Rollo takes care to not burden you too much. These are his responsibilities, so he should take charge of them.

You occasionally climb up the bell tower with him (the view up there is amazing!) and all the gargoyles clamor to greet you. Rollo has to remind them not to overwhelm the guest.

When there is time, you sit down at a cafe and share a meal. Rollo introduces you to his favorite places and makes recommendations (though he usually gets the exact same thing). You try to push him to vary up his diet a bit more, tearing off pieces of your own lunch or offering him bites of whatever it is you're having (even though he insists he'll have none of that).

One day, you caught Rollo parading through the streets on horseback. He introduced his steed to you, instructing you on how to safely pat it and feed it an apple from your hand. The horse seemed to like you, so Rollo hoisted you up and let you ride it around the city for the rest of the day.

He's still not very good at expressing himself. When you sense that he's feeling down in the dumps, it takes quite a bit of coaxing to get him to talk about it with you (if at all). In his mind, he shouldn't be troubling others with his own matters.

Sometimes you're not successful at convincing him to open up, so you settle for giving a gentle reminder that you'll be there for him no matter what. You wouldn't want to push him to talk when he's not ready to!

... On the other hand, when Rollo wants to talk, he'll rant and rave for what seems like forever. You patiently nod your head and listen to everything he spews out, from his express hatred of a certain lizard to how the local goats almost ate his stationary set.

There are rare times, though, when Rollo shares his passions and ambitions with you. The relaxing gardening he has been doing as of late, how beautiful the Bell of Salvation is today, his plans for the future... It's in these moments that you can truly appreciate how solemn and thoughtful he can be.

Rollo often nags you for little things: there's a crease in your shirt, your room is slightly messy, there's a hair out of place, etc. But hey, it's fine. You know he does it lovingly, even if the comments come with a slight frown.

He also tends to lecture you about your own safety, often warning you to keep away from "suspicious individuals" (and, of course, mages). Rollo lets you know that if anyone gives you trouble, you should inform him right away and he'll come storming over to give them hell. Yes, he's the overprotective friend that will throw himself into the crossfires to defend your honor--

This man comes to hangouts with everything you could possibly need in case of an emergency. Got a scrape? Boom, first aid kit. (He even patches you up personally.) Hands dirty? Hand sanitizer and wet wipes for the rescue. You start calling him “dad” as a joke every time he produces exactly what you need.

Rollo has the tendency to (sternly) speak up for you, especially in cases when you're too meek to speak up for yourself. It has big "EXCUSE ME! They asked for no pickles" energy.

Once a year, you join Rollo for a very special trip. You always stop by the same florist's shop, always watch him select the same bouquet of white lilies, always walk quietly alongside him down to the local cemetery. You don't follow him to the grave, but you let him know he can take as long as he needs with the visit, that you'll wait for him at the gates.

You watch the clouds slowly pass by and the sky change colors from cornflower blue to the shades of sunset. Night has started to trickle in when you hear his approaching footsteps. The flower bouquet is gone, deposited as an offering to a boy that has become one with the stars.

Rollo emerges, and you pretend to not notice the wetness to his eyes, the silvery shine upon his cheeks. You know if you point it out, he'll only become defensive and deny it.

"Ready to go?" you ask every year.

"... Yes," he replies, just the same as always. (Rollo will then try to subtly wipe away at his tears.) "Thank you for accompanying me. I do apologize for imposing on your time."

"Don't," you tell him. "I've always got your back, just like you've always got mine. That's what friends are for, right?"

[bangtaninborderland]

JJK-SEVEN

Summary: you know it isn't healthy, you know you should leave, but you can’t and neither can he.

Genre: hurt/comfort, angst.

A/N: self indulge from my own experiences

BTS MASTERLIST.

JK POV

You get home a little past 6 pm, Jungkook isn’t there, he is always busy though so that’s normal. You set your bags down, slip your shoes off and head straight to change into some comfy clothes. You loved the confidence you felt ready for the day, the way you felt a little braver as you applied a hint of concealer under your eyes, masking the lack of sleep you’d had but your favourite time of the day was the moment you could come home and remove it all.

It doesn’t take you long to dress down and situate yourself on the couch. You eye your phone a few times, debating whether or not to call Jungkook ultimately deciding against it. He would probably be upset if you called in the middle of a schedule especially if he was in a meeting or something. You settled for a simple text:

You: I’m home, will you be here for dinner?

J🩶: No, working late, don’t wait up.

You: Okay, Love you.

Message Read 6:48PM

The message is left unread but that’s okay, Jungkook is a busy person with things to do. You don’t take what you have for granted so instead of mourning the time you don’t have you focus on the time you do have. Which albeit isn’t much, even when he isn’t working he finds better things to do.

You’d never stop him though, he worked hard, and he deserved that time for himself. You couldn’t be a burden.

You settle on ordering takeout for dinner, it was pointless cooking a meal that would never get finished. The leftovers from three days ago are still in the refrigerator, untouched, despite the note you’d left telling your boyfriend that they were there.

The food arrived an hour later, you turned on the TV and tucked in, letting yourself be drawn into the world of another sappy drama but not even that could keep your mind from wandering, from thinking about how everything got so messed up.

You’d started out years ago, two young kids just wanting some affection and care. Jungkook had just left another relationship, being three years older than you it was safe to say you’d had significantly less experience in the dating department but you fell hard and fast. You’d call all the time, things were busy then but never as busy as now, he would often wait up until late at night when everyone else was asleep to call you from the shared Bangtan dorm room, even if it meant he was a little more tired the next day. He would write you sweet messages whenever he had time, a few words that you would cherish and reread anytime you missed him.

Sure there were rough patches, fights, disagreements, the distance was hard whenever he was on tour and even though it hurt you, really hurt you, there was something always holding you in place so you never left, you couldn’t even imagine it, the few times Jungkook had proposed a break-up or a break you’d denied, argued against it, plead your case as though you were on trial because you couldn’t lose him. He was all you had.

You had friends sure but none that you were actually close to, family wasn’t something you found comfort in, and the arguments that came with being around them were something you’d rather not experience so you stayed away, stayed alone. Maybe that’s why it was so easy to adapt to everything Jungkook was, there hadn’t been a single thing you’d done without him in mind.

You’d been his place to let out everything he felt, most of his emotions bottling up until it came out as a wave of evil anger, words that lacked truth still tearing you apart piece by piece. Still, his apologies were sweet, warm, and soft, they gave you comfort. So you smiled and said it was okay, smiled and tried to ignore the list of names and backhanded comments you’d heard.

Besides, the next day everything was okay, everything would always be okay eventually.

You’re still sitting on the couch when Jungkook gets home, he walks straight into the bedroom, ignoring your presence as though you don’t exist but you remind yourself it’s dark, you didn’t have the lights on so he probably didn’t see you.

“Marco?” He called out and you couldn’t help but smile at the silly American game he had taught you a few years ago.

“Polo.” You called back, unable to hide your grin.

As he came closer you smelt the soju on his breath. “I thought you were working late?”

He groaned, slumping against you on the couch. “Yeah, well we finished around 7 so Mingyu asked if I wanted to get drinks.” He shrugged. “Don’t get all mad.”

“I’m not mad Kook.” You were thankful no lights had been turned off, although you could cover up the shake in your voice the sadness in your eyes was significantly harder to rid yourself of. “I just missed you.”

“Fuck I know okay, I know but I don’t need you putting pressure on me too I’m already working hard twenty-four seven, you want me to come home and be the perfect boyfriend to you but where is my time? Where is the time for me? It’s selfish of you to always put your wants first.”

“No I just meant that I missed you I didn’t-“ you sighed, the argument dying on your tongue. “I’m sorry.”

“You always say that. You just ruined a good day…god” he huffed, a hand running through his hair. “I’m going to shower and then I’ll sleep.” With that he was gone, his footsteps retreating.

A coldness settled over you, an unspeakable pain simmering in your chest. He had misunderstood, the words you’d said with honest intentions had been taken out of context and twisted to portray you as a selfish person.

As much as you loved Jungkook he had one flaw, he failed to see what wasn’t directly In front of him. He wouldn’t ever be able to realise or understand the extent to which you’d given up everything of yourself to be with him. The friends you couldn’t have because you felt awful having such an important secret that you couldn’t share with them, the fact Jungkook was…Jungkook meant the relationship you had couldn’t exactly be paraded around, your own paranoia preventing you from having friends in case they found out and shared it with the media. You’d hidden your own dark days whenever something was troubling him, you chose your words carefully to prevent him from worrying too much. You’d always hold off discussing things that had been awkward or uncomfortable until it was suitable for him and by then those feelings and situations were too far gone to bring back up.

It all piled up and then what was once a small ball of insecurity, sadness and longing had grown into a boulder, one that you carried around on your shoulders every day, the weight crushing you slowly.

Still, you didn’t pick a fight, you let it be. Tomorrow would be better, you wouldn’t talk about it, not seriously, you never did.

You waited until you heard the shower switch off, giving him time to fall asleep before joining him in bed.

Maybe it was just habit, something that you’d both done for so long it happened involuntarily but Jungkook reached out for you, tucking your body under his as he whispered a soft “I love you” with a kiss to your head.

The next day things were better, Surprisingly you found him at the stove, singing along to some slow song, probably something Taehyung had sent to him. “Good morning baby.”

You smiled at the term of endearment. “Good morning.”

“Come here.” He called out to you, turning the stove down before opening his arms for you. “I’m sorry about last night.”

Your heart ached at the reminder of his anger the night before, his misunderstanding of your words, his lack of understanding of how you felt. “It’s okay.”

He pushes you back a little, observing your face. “Is it really? Do you forgive me?”

“Always, I’ll always forgive you.” You smiled back and it wasn’t a lie. You would always forgive him, regardless of what he did, or how he hurt you, you would always forgive him because you simply could t live without him.

You both knew it wasn’t healthy, knew it wasn’t okay to act this way, to brush over the misunderstandings you dealt with daily but you couldn’t help it. Facing just how bad things were between you, facing just how poor your communication and trust was meant facing the reality that there was no way to fix it.

The only fix would be to separate and you knew, you knew without a doubt you wouldn’t take that step and neither would he.

So you both held on, ignoring the boulder because you couldn’t let go, even if it was just attachment, you’d let yourself be safe here in the familiarity of everything you shared together for a little longer, even if the boulder was killing you.

You held onto the false reality you’ve created between yourselves, you were sure you always would even if it was insincere because the pain of being the person who took every negative emotion out on was nothing compared to the pain and emptiness you’d feel if he wasn’t there with you, if you no longer had him to hold you and brush your tears away.

“I’m in love with you.” He leaned down to kiss you, tilting your head upwards for easier access.

“I’ll love you for the rest of my life.”

[alwaysmicado]

Don't ruin the sofa

6.5k | 18+ MDNI | fwb!Joel Miller x f!reader | pt. 3

Warnings: no outbreak au, implied age gap, mild hurt/comfort, mention of blood, phone sex, talk of anal play, one (1) face slap, rough sex, pain kink, unprotected piv, creampie, breeding kink, degradation/praise, fluffy aftercare, pet names, dom!Joel Summary: After a phone call brings up repressed emotions, you decide to buy a new sofa. Joel assembles it for you, then fucks you on it.  A/N: You're trying to reach reader? Sorry, she's moved on. (+ is fucking the hottest guy around). Read the previous parts here: pt. 1 | pt. 2 | masterlist | AO3 (each part can be read alone). Thank you all for your love on this series. Your kind words mean the world to me. 🤍

“How is this my fucking life,” you whisper to yourself and let your phone fall onto the wooden coffee table with a thud. You get up with a groan and drag yourself to the fridge where you know an opened bottle of white wine is waiting for you, then pour yourself a healthy amount, eye the glass, pour some more and shuffle back to the sofa. 

As soon as you plop back down, your phone lights up and vibrates for the third time since you came home from work. The loud and resonant buzz, amplified and carried by the hard surface of the table, is aggravating to say the least. You take a big sip of your wine and let out an exasperated sigh when the caller won’t let up. That’s it, you’ve had enough. In a split second you swipe up to take the call and put the phone to your ear. 

You don’t say anything. He’s the one who’s been texting and calling you every night for the past week, so you’re certainly not going to say something first. Instead, you wait and swirl your wine.

“Finally,” you hear him breathe with relief. “I thought you’d never pick up.” 

Then why do you keep calling, you stupid idiot. You roll your eyes in annoyance and put your naked feet on the coffee table. The wine is successfully taking the edge off, but you're still this close to telling him off for good. Perhaps you should; he deserves it. 

“I’ve been thinking about you a lot, babe,” he purrs into your ear, his sickeningly sweet voice sending a shiver down your spine. “About you, about us; about everything, really. About what could’ve been if things didn’t end like they di-”

“What do you want, Simon?” You interrupt him, your patience for his theatrics already wearing thin. 

“Oh, babe,” he breathes, “It’s so good to hear your vo-”

“What do you want?” You ask again, emphasizing every word.

“I want to apologize,” he answers with a deep sigh, then clears his throat. “I- I’m sorry about what happened and how we ended things, I really am.”

You snort and pluck a stray piece of lint from your tank top. Is he for real right now?

“Cool story, Simon,” you deadpan as you get up to go grab the wine bottle from the fridge. “That it?” 

“I was hoping we could talk about things, maybe meet up? I’d love to see you.” 

You slam the fridge door shut and take the bottle back to the sofa. “There’s nothing to talk about,” you mutter and pour yourself another glass. 

“Of course there is,” Simon protests, the agitated tone of his voice betraying the calm and collected facade he tried to put up. “I really think we should talk about what happened. I can’t just forget about it, you know.” Oh yeah, this is the real Simon. Always trying to manipulate the people around him. Sucks for him that you’ve figured it out. 

“Sounds like a you problem,” you mumble and bring the cold rim of the glass back to your lips. 

“Oh, come on now. Why are you acting like this?” He groans, his annoyance palpable. When he realizes you’re not going to answer him and that he maybe should be more diplomatic, he relents. “I just think we should talk about it, that’s all.”

“You wanna talk about it, huh?” You laugh dryly. “About how you were fucking Laura while I was bleeding. Or how you were fucking her when I was in surgery. Or how you were fucking her when I desperately tried to reach you. You wanna talk about all of that.” 

“Hey, that’s not fair,” Simon counters. “We weren’t together at that point and-,” he trails off and sighs deeply. “I was scared, okay?”

You sigh and pinch the bridge of your nose. “We’ve had this exact conversation three years ago, Simon. There’s nothing left to say. I’m over it.”

“How can you say that?” he asks incredulously.

“You never once called me after I moved out to ask how I was. Not once,” you sigh, this conversation slowly tugging at the stitches of wounds you thought were long closed.

“You told me you didn’t wanna hear from me,” Simon huffs. “And I was- fuck. I’m just sorry, okay? I know i fucked up.”

You both don’t say anything for a few seconds, his breathing in your ear the only thing you can hear. 

“Can we meet, babe? Please? I think it would be good for both of us.” 

You chug the remaining wine and take a deep breath.

“Leave me the fuck alone, Simon. I got nothing to say to you.” 

And with that you hang up and throw your phone across the sofa. You take a deep breath, put your feet on the ground and your palms on your thighs. You close your eyes and say out loud, “calm, safe, breathe.” You repeat the mantra before adding, “It’s over, I’m here, I’m safe. Nothing can hurt me, nothing can hurt me.” 

When you open your eyes again and observe the familiar surroundings of your apartment, a soothing feeling of  comfort washes over you. There’s the purple vase you bought at a flea market in the first week after moving in, there are your beloved succulents that look as healthy as ever, there’s the painting you got from your talented colleague for your last birthday. And there’s the polaroid Tommy took of you and Joel at the party where he introduced you two.

You quickly wipe away your tears and turn on your TV. Another glass of wine, your favorite show and you’ll be able to sleep in no time, you tell yourself. You get up to get a new bottle from the fridge and decide to take the leftover banana bread you made with you as well. It’s time for all the comfort you can get. 

With your hands full, you shuffle back to the sofa and, due to the dim light and the fact that you just downed an almost full bottle of wine on an empty stomach, you completely miss the fact that you’re directly walking into one of the coffee table legs. You stub your toes hard, trip and fall to the floor. You can only watch in slow motion as the plate flies through the air and shatters on your hardwood floor, the banana bread just rolling away sadly. The wine glass is even more spectacular, as its contents spill all over your sofa and the glass explodes into a thousand shards. 

“Fuck my life,” you groan and get on your knees to pick up the big pieces with your hands before sweeping up the smaller ones with a dustpan and brush later. 

“Shit,” you hiss and clutch your wrist. 

Of course you cut yourself on one of the shards, blood immediately trickling down onto the carpet. The cut on your palm is not deep, but it stings. And the blood is already seeping into the fabric - great. You let out an exasperated sigh and get up. 

You can’t be bothered to take care of all this right now, so you slap a too small bandaid over the cut, brush your teeth, take your melatonin with a glass of water and go to bed. 

— 

What sociopath calls this early? And on your day off no less. You groan at the sharp and grating sound emitted by your phone on the nightstand, but pick up when you see who it is. 

“Yeah?” Your voice is little more than a hoarse whisper, laced with a sleepy rasp. 

“Aww, did I wake the princess?” Joel asks in mock concern. You can hear the smirk on his stupid handsome face through the phone. 

“No, no,” you murmur and rub your bleary eyes. “I’ve already run ten miles, deep-cleaned my whole apartment and rescued a cat from a tree. What have you done, hm?” 

“Touché. Very impressive, darlin’,” he chuckles, your wit never failing to amuse him. “And no, I haven’t rescued any cats so far today. I’m just at work. Besides,” he continues before his voice takes on a sultry tone, “the only pussy I’m interested in is yours anyway.”

You involuntarily suck in a breath and feel yourself clench around nothing. You’re still half asleep and have no clue what planet you’re on, but Joel’s still managed to get you all hot and bothered within ten seconds of your conversation; and with a shitty pun at that.

You might have a mild problem. 

“Hmm, you like that, don’t you?” He groans softly as the rhythmic fapping sound reaches your ear.

“Are you jerking off right now?” You ask, less shocked and definitely more turned on than you should be. 

“Yeah,” he purrs. “You wanna help me, baby?” 

“Hang on,” you say, trying to process the situation. “You’re at work and you just what, decided to call me at - you look at the time on your display - 7:13 in the morning, so I could get you off?”

“Pretty much, yeah,” Joel murmurs into your ear.  

You can’t help but chuckle at his audacity and complete lack of shame. You love it. 

“Alright,” you coo, “but first you gotta tell me what’s got you all riled up.” You put him on speaker and slide your hand between your legs. 

“My secretary’s wearing a tight dress today,” he murmurs, then spits into his hand to wet his shaft.  

“Oh yeah?” You whisper, “She turn you down and now poor you has to make do with me?” You run your fingers through your folds and bite your lip as you spread the slick from your core to your clit. 

“You know me better than that, darlin’,” Joel says softly. “I was scrolling through the photos I took of the construction site yesterday and then the pic you sent me caught my eye. Couldn’t concentrate on anything else afterwards.” 

A triumphant smile spreads across your face as you think of Joel losing his composure because of you. It is a hot photo to be fair. After your phone call with Simon on Sunday night, you ordered a new sofa, carpet and some fun items of the adult variety to feel better. While trying out one of them, you felt compelled to let Joel have a piece of your fun and sent him a pic of you with your best assets on display. 

“You like that one, huh,” you tease, your fingers slowly circling your sensitive bundle of nerves. “I was thinking about you when I took it, you know.”

“Fuck yeah,” Joel murmurs, his breathing heavy. “Look fucking gorgeous with your ass stuffed and your tits out.” 

“Mmm, it’s a new ribbed dildo I got. Felt amazing in my tight little hole,” you purr and hear Joel groan softly at the image. “I used a vibrator on my clit while I fucked my ass, but my pussy felt far too empty. It was dripping so much I had to change the sheets after.”

“That’s my dirty girl. You want two cocks to stuff your greedy holes, baby?” He moans, clearly aroused by the idea of seeing you fall apart while being filled to the brim. You dip your fingers into your wet cunt and use your slick to rub your clit harder.

“Yes, Sir,” you breathe, causing Joel’s painfully hard cock to twitch, “want you to tie me to the bed so my pussy’s wide open for you. I want you to choose a toy that’s too big and push it inside my dripping hole to stretch it until it’s a ruined mess. When you’re satisfied and take the toy out of my ruined hole, I’d beg you to finally fuck my cunt with your cock, but you’d fuck my ass instead and just leave my used pussy clench around nothing.”

You moan breathlessly as you can feel the muscles in your abdomen tighten and pleasure building rapidly. Hearing Joel lose his mind on the other end of the line is setting all of your nerves on fire and you desperately wish he was here to fuck you like you deserve. 

“Fuck, you’re such a perfect little whore,” Joel groans, fisting his cock faster. “I’d film the whole thing, so I could show you how pathetic you look begging for my cock and dripping with my cum. I’d fill you up over and over again until you’re a crying mess begging me to stop.” His moans are getting louder and you can’t help but wonder how thick the walls of his office must be.  

You can’t wait for him to get his hands on you and do with you as he pleases. “I’ll take whatever you decide to give me, Sir.”

“Gonna take my cum in all your holes, angel?”

“Yes, Sir. Please, I need it so bad. I just wanna be your cum slut for you to fill up.” 

When Joel just groans at that, you know you’ve hit on something. “That’s what I am, right? Your cum slut to fill up?” You’re incredibly close to coming already, but you want to wait for Joel. 

“That’s what you are, angel. And you’re just perfect like that. Three holes for me to use. Always so,” he pants breathlessly as he’s tip-toeing on the edge of his release, “always so fucking good for me. Gonna- gonna ruin you, baby. Gonna make you come on my cock until you cry.”

“Can I please come, Sir? I- I don’t think I can wait anymore,” you whine desperately, Joel’s filthy mouth putting you over the edge.��

“Oh yeah, baby,” he pants breathlessly as he increases the pace of his strokes. You can hear the obscene sound of him fucking his fist. “You gonna come with me?”

You moan his name as you reach your peak, your whole body trembling and finding its release. Joel is right behind you, erupting into his hand and onto his belly with a strangled groan. Your orgasm is so intense that you can ride it out for a few ecstatic seconds filled with your breathless moans. When you come down from your climax, you only hear your blood rushing in your ears and the pulsating sound of your heart.  

You try to catch your breath for a few seconds and open your eyes before asking, “Joel, you alive?”

When the only thing you hear is heavy breathing, you giggle. You know exactly how he looks right now, all disheveled with his wet cock out and a big satisfied smile on his lips. You wish so badly you could lick up every last drop of his cum. 

“Mmm, you’re such a good girl,” Joel murmurs after some time, still coming down from his high and opening a drawer to retrieve some tissues. “I’ll clear my schedule, so we can do this every morning, alright?” 

You chuckle and turn on your side, “You’d get bored with me pretty quickly if we did this every day.” 

“That’s the dumbest thing I’ve heard today,” Joel scoffs and wipes his softening cock with the tissues. “And I had to explain to Tommy that he can’t influence the gender of his future baby by fucking his wife a certain way. So, yeah.” 

You laugh at the image of Tommy vividly explaining how he and Maria have sex and Joel just standing there, dumbfounded, asking himself if he might have damaged his little brother’s brain when they were wrestling as kids.

“Alright, babe,” Joel says softly, “since my cock’s not hogging all of my blood anymore, I should try and get some work done.” 

“Good idea,” you chuckle. “Say hi to Tommy from me, okay?”

“Will do, darlin’. And you let me know when you got time to show me that new toy of yours in person, alright?” 

Your eyes lock on the big IKEA packages in your living room and you bite your lip. 

“You wanna come over later?”

---

You’re actually excited for your new sofa. You’ve had the old one removed by a company yesterday and already spread out the new carpet. It’s gray with white shapes on it. And it’s fluffy, so you’ve spent quite some time walking on it with bare feet.

You assembled your old sofa yourself when you moved in three years ago. It was dark blue and you loved it. But you also spilled a lot of stuff on there over time, bodily fluids included. So it’s nice to get a new, clean one. 

Especially when it’s the reason why Joel Miller is currently kneeling on your floor, his broad back and arms stretching the fabric of his white T-shirt, his perfect butt accentuated by his jeans, wrestling with the IKEA manual he insists is “misleading” and “must’ve been written by some idiot who’s never built anything in his goddamn life”.

Needless to say, you’re loving the free entertainment. 

He shoots you an annoyed look and lets out an exasperated sigh when you point out for the third time that he’s reading the instructions wrong. You can’t not tease him, he makes it too easy. 

“As much as I appreciate your very generous help, darlin’, I really wish you’d get the fuck outta here before I strangle you. Lovingly.” 

You giggle and scratch the back of his head softly. “It’s not like you to get so frustrated, baby,” you purr into his ear as you lean down, giving him a perfect view of your naked tits under your oversized shirt. “You sure you don’t need my help? I wouldn’t want you to strain your poor knees and back too much, you know.” 

You wish you could take pictures with your retinas because the glare Joel is giving you right now is priceless.

“You think that’s funny, huh?” He scoffs and tilts his head as his dark eyes bore into you. Uh-oh, now you did it. “If you’re not out of this room in ten seconds, I’m gonna tie you to your bed and edge you with a vibrator on full volume until you’re crying from pain. And believe me when I tell you that I will not let you come.” 

A smug smile tugs at the corners of his plush lips as he observes how your pupils have dilated and how you're pressing your thighs together at his threat. He raises an eyebrow when you don’t move and tuts, “Poor baby, already cockdumb even though I haven’t even touched her yet, hm?” You frown at him, but he just laughs at you. “Time’s ticking you little brat, better get out while you still can.” You bite the inside of your cheek and sigh dramatically before heading for your bedroom. 

When you hear Joel chuckle behind you, you hesitate for a second, but he’s already read your mind. “Don’t even think about it,” he growls. “And close the door.”

You do just that, jump on your bed and watch Netflix on your laptop. It only takes Joel another 40 minutes to finish assembling the sofa, so you’re pleasantly surprised when he calls your name so soon. 

You close your laptop and quickly smell your armpits. You’ve showered in the morning, but it’s still incredibly hot even with the AC blasting. When you’ve assessed that you smell good, you open the door to the living room. 

“How do you like it?” Joel asks as he’s standing next to the cream-colored piece of furniture. He’s already put away all of the packaging material and made sure the cushions are clean. It looks absolutely stunning and nicely complements all the other furniture in the room.

You trace the back of the sofa with your hand, appreciating the soft material and come to a halt when you’re flush with Joel’s body. You look up into his eyes and coo, “Thank you so much, Joel. I love it.” He smiles back at you and studies your face for a second before grabbing you by the nape of your neck and your ass cheek. 

“You listen to me very carefully now ‘cause I’m not gonna repeat myself,” he growls, intensifying the grip on your neck. “You do as you’re told. You answer me. You don’t come unless I tell you to and I’m not gonna stop unless you say your safeword. Understood?”

You’re so stunned that you can only nod, your words completely failing you. 

You gasp in surprise as Joel’s palm cracks against your left cheek, leaving a stinging imprint. You instinctively move your left hand to soothe the pain, but Joel is faster than you and catches your wrist. “Tell me your safeword, baby,” he purrs and caresses your sensitive cheek. 

You stammer the specific word you both know to be your safeword before he tangles his hand in your hair and captures your lips in a hungry kiss. Your heart rate picks up immediately as you part your lips slightly, allowing his tongue to slip in. The sensation of Joel’s soft lips and his broad body pressing against yours has you rub against the bulge in his jeans. 

He grabs your thigh and lifts it up, so he can grind against your aching core directly. You moan into his mouth, your hands wrapped around his neck, pulling him into you as you move your hips in sync with his thrusts. You’re so sensitive since your orgasm this morning that you could come like this if he let you.

“Such a needy little thing, aren’t you,” he pants as he breaks the kiss and studies your face. Your pupils are blown, your chest is heaving and your mind is spinning. You want him so badly it hurts. “Take off your clothes and bend over the armrest, baby,” Joel orders and you obey immediately. You let your shirt and pj pants fall down to your feet, causing Joel to suck in a sharp breath when he sees that you’re not wearing any panties. 

He looks at you hungrily as you bend over the sofa, your arms resting on the cushion and your ass in the air with your legs spread. 

“You’re the prettiest little whore I’ve ever seen, you know that?” He asks as he’s tracing your back with his fingertips. When you don’t answer him, he smacks your ass hard. You yelp in surprise at the impact and instinctively close your legs. Joel presses his clothed bulge against your wet pussy and kicks your feet apart with his. He caresses the red cheek with one hand and tangles the other in your hair to yank your head back. “Answer me or I’ll spank you until you can’t anymore,” he growls into your ear, the dangerous tone of his voice sending a shiver down your spine. 

“I’m the prettiest little whore you’ve ever seen,” you blurt out, then moan at the feeling of Joel running his fingers through your folds. “Mmm, you’re such a good girl,” he praises. “Always so wet for me.”

You hear him unbutton and unzip his jeans, hear his belt buckle hit the floor and his heavy breathing behind you as he coats his hard cock in your slick and gives it a few pumps. “I need you to be strong now, angel,” he says softly as he rubs your clit with his index and middle finger. You’re so desperate for him to touch you that his words don’t register. 

A needy moan escapes your lips as he’s finally relieving some of the tension that’s been building in your core all day long. You push your hips back as far as you can to chase the friction, but Joel withdraws his fingers all too quickly. You whine desperately at the loss and immediately feel tears well up in your eyes. You hear the dull thud of his T-shirt hitting the floor.

“Shh, be good for me, baby,” Joel purrs before you feel his hands grabbing your hips and the head of his cock nudging your entrance. Your eyes widen in realization as your brain has now processed what he’s planning on doing.   

Before you can protest though, he’s already ramming his cock inside you in one smooth thrust, splitting you open with a force you’ve never felt before. 

“Fuuuck, that’s it, baby,” Joel groans loudly, stumbling forward because of the shiver that’s running down his spine, causing him to go even deeper. 

The sudden impact of his cock spreading you open without any preparation besides your wetness has knocked the air out of your lungs. Only when he moves and nudges your cervix does your body finally allow you to cry out in pain.  

“Shh, it’s okay baby, it’s okay, I’m here,” Joel purrs as he gives you no time to adjust to his size or the pain at all, but starts to set a slow rhythm, thrusting his cock in and out of your tight pussy. You sob into the cushion and try to rub your clit on the armrest, but Joel pulls you back on his cock hard when he notices. 

“Nuh-uh, baby,” he tuts as he picks up the pace and uses his grip on your sides to bounce you on his cock. “What do you think you’re doing, huh?” 

He slaps the same spot on your ass as before when you don’t answer him. Your chest heaves as you choke on your sobs, unable to get an answer out. “I know it hurts, baby. I’m so sorry about that,” he coos as he continually rocks into you at an unrelenting pace. “But I really need you to answer me, angel.”

“I-I want to c-come, Sir,” you sob pathetically, tears streaming from your eyes. 

“I get that, baby, I really do. But I don’t think you understand what this is,” Joel groans. “You really think I’m gonna let you come, you brat?”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” you whine as Joel’s cock expertly massages your G-spot with every powerful thrust of his hips. The mix of pain and pleasure has your body and mind on fire. There are no thoughts in your brain, no ex-boyfriends, no past, no blood, no sadness - just Joel and you, melting into one. 

When he feels you tighten your muscles around him, hears your breathing get ragged and the pitch of your moans get higher, he pulls out of you. You scream and sob into the cushion as your legs shake uncontrollably. You were so close. 

“Fuck, I love the sounds you make,” Joel breathes, then starts stroking your back and ass gently before watching his cock disappear into your body once again. “I don’t care how good it feels,” he pants. “You'd better not come until I tell you to.” 

When you feel your orgasm approach quickly again, your body so utterly desperate for release, you resort to begging. There is no pride left, only carnal desire. 

“Please Joel, please, let me come, please,” you whimper weakly between sobs. “You can come wherever you w-want, my ass, my pussy, my m-mouth, all over me - just please let me come. I can’t take it anymore.” 

“That’s a good girl, begging so pretty,” Joel coos and slowly pulls out of you. He holds you steady as he feels you tremble. “Lie down, darlin,” he says softly and guides you on your back.

He kneels between your legs and puts one of them over his shoulders. He lines himself up with your entrance and pushes in. “Look at me, baby,” Joel breathes. “Look at me when you come.” You moan softly as he brings you to the edge of your release in the matter of a few thrusts. “That’s it, angel,” Joel encourages you, his face hovering above yours. “Don’t hold back, I got you,” he nods. You arch your back as you reach your peak, a choked groan escaping your lips as wave after wave of ecstasy washes over you. 

“Fuck, you’re so perfect, baby. Wanna come all over you,” Joel groans, your walls contracting around him as he’s slamming his hips against your core with abandon.

“Don’t ruin the sofa,” you mumble between breathless moans. Joel chuckles into your ear and nibbles on your earlobe. “I guess I’ll just have to fill you up then,” he rasps, picking up the pace and sinking his teeth into the delicate skin of your neck.

He comes with a low, rough grunt as he spills himself deep inside you. His hips stutter and his whole body suddenly goes limp as he comes down from his high on top of you. You draw shapes onto his back with your fingertips and he hums into the crook of your neck. When he tries to pull out after a few seconds, you grab his ass to stop him. 

“No, no, no,” you protest weakly, “it’ll drip on the sofa.” 

“Alright, baby, no worries. Just hold on to me, can you do that?” Joel asks gently. “Hm,” you answer and wrap your hands around his neck. He maneuvers you from your back into a sitting position with you on top, then moves to stand with you wrapped around him. He carries you to the bathroom like this, making sure his cock stays inside you the whole way. 

He lets you down right in front of the toilet and you immediately sit down, so his cum doesn’t drip on the floor. “Join me, when you’re done, okay?” Joel murmurs as he kisses your forehead before stepping into the shower. You pee and wait a bit for more of his cum to trickle out of you, then step into the shower as well. 

You squeeze past Joel to stand under the water, wet your whole body and hair and squirt some of the peach scented body wash onto your loofah to scrub your body. “Let me do your back,” Joel says softly, then massages you from your neck down to your feet with the sponge as you apply your shampoo.

When you’re both done, you dry off with two of your fluffiest towels and go to put on your clothes. You get yourself a new pair of pajama pants and another oversized shirt and Joel puts the clothes he came in back on. 

“What do you want from Domino’s?” You shout from the bedroom. Time for pizza and Netflix.

---

“What the fuck,” you hiss as you see the new notification on your phone. “I fucking told you to leave me alone, what is so fucking hard to understand? Asshole.” You lean over the counter and stare at Simon’s messages. Wanna give you space, babe. But I can’t live without you. You put the leftover pizza in your fridge and slam the door.

“You alright, darlin’?” Joel asks as he’s suddenly standing behind you in the kitchen.

“Yeah, sorry, all good,” you murmur, turning around to face him and putting on the most convincing smile you’re capable of right now. You’re not fooling Joel for a second and you know it. When he gives you a sympathetic look, you can’t muster the strength to pull up the corners of your lips anymore. Instead, you look at the fuzzy slippers on your feet and sigh deeply. “It’s my ex,” you say quietly. “He started calling and texting me a week ago after no contact for three years and it’s really stressing me out.” 

Your eyes find Joel’s and you immediately feel sorry for bringing it up. “Fuck, I-I’m sorry,” you stammer and shake your head. “It’s not your problem. Forget what I said.” He closes the distance between you two and wraps his strong arms around you in a warm embrace. You put your arms around him and stroke his back. You can feel his heartbeat. 

“Why don’t I make us some coffee and we sit back down on your new, not-ruined sofa, hm?” He murmurs into your hair with a smile.

“Joel, I don’t-”

“We don’t need to talk about it if you don’t want to. We can just sit, drink coffee and not talk as much as you want.” His warm hands softly rubbing your back make you feel so safe. 

“Okay, thank you,” you mumble into his shoulder before letting go of him. You open a drawer and pull out a bag of cookies. “I got these for you if you want them.” You hold up the bag and Joel takes it with a furrowed brow and a curious smile. 

“How in the world did you know?”

“You honestly don’t remember?” You giggle. “You ranted about how much you love these for an hour when we got high a few weeks ago. They don’t sell them anywhere nearby so I ordered them in a specialty store online.”

Joel shakes his head and looks at you with his big puppy eyes. “You’re the best, darlin’. Thank you.” He kisses your forehead gently, then tells you to make yourself comfortable on the sofa.

You sit down and look around. Being here feels different. Your apartment looks the same as it did a few hours ago. Sure, the sofa and carpet are new, but there’s something else. You realize that it doesn’t bother you to have someone else in your home, in your safe space. It’s actually kind of nice to know someone’s here. 

“There you go,” Joel says as he hands you your cup. He sits down beside you and puts a bowl filled with cookies on the coffee table. 

You pull your feet up onto the cushion and say, “Thank you.” Joel puts his arm over the backrest and caresses the nape of your neck with his fingers. 

“You remember what I told you when you asked me to stay over on our first night together?” You ask quietly.

“I do,” Joel says softly. “You said you couldn’t and when I asked what you meant by that you said you didn’t wanna get attached.” 

“Sounds kinda mean now that I’m thinking about it,” you murmur. “You know it has nothing to do with you, right?”

“I know, darlin’,” Joel reassures you. “And I’ve told you from the beginning that I’m not gonna pressure you into anything you’re not ready for. We got a good thing going and as long as you’re happy, I’m happy.”

“I haven’t always been this way, you know,” you sigh and play with the hem of your shirt. “And I fucking hate that it was one guy that ruined everything,” you say dryly and stare into your black coffee. “It wasn’t a good relationship to begin with and we both made some bad decisions. I know that. So when I packed up a handful of my things and walked out of our apartment forever, I didn’t think I’d ever hear from him again. Until now.” You take a sip of your coffee and continue, “He apologized for the shit he did and asked me to meet him.”

“How do you feel about that? Him apologizing?” Joel asks, his calm tone of voice soothing your nerves. 

You sigh deeply and let your head fall back onto the sofa. “I feel like it’s a goddamn joke,” you scoff and throw your arm over your eyes. “I don’t believe a single word he says and he didn’t even really apologize, you know? He still doesn’t understand what he did. Or maybe he does and just doesn’t care.”

You lift your arm and turn your head to look at Joel. “I dunno which is worse.”

“It sucks that he’s not giving you the apology you deserve after hurting you. I’m sorry, darlin’.”

“I just don’t understand why it bothers me so much, you know? I haven’t seen him in three years, I’m over it, so why does it still hurt so fucking bad?”

“Did you love him?” Joel asks and tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

You look into his big, sincere eyes and nod. “Yeah,” you murmur. “At least I thought I did.” 

“Well, there’s your answer, sweetheart.” 

You hide your face behind your hands. “I’m such a fucking idiot,” you groan, embarrassed of your pathetic feelings and the way you’re behaving in front of Joel. Being this emotionally vulnerable is causing you physical pain. 

“Hey, stop that nonsense,” he objects immediately, scooting closer to you and pulling you against his chest. “You have a big heart, you have feelings. You’re allowed to feel hurt and you’re allowed to feel sad.” He kisses the crown of your head and murmurs, “You don’t have to be strong all the time.”

“Have you ever cut someone out of your life completely?” You mumble into his chest. 

“I have.”

“Do you ever think about them?”

“Sure I do,” Joel nods. “Not often, but yeah. It’s normal. Especially if they meant a lot to you.” 

“Hmm, I guess.”

You look up and give him a genuine smile before sighing and reaching for the remote. “Enough heavy stuff for today,” you say. “Let’s watch something. I can feed you cookies and scratch your back…”

---

“You wanna know what I like about you?”

“My old man fetish.”

He looks at you incredulously for a second, then starts tickling the soles of your feet in retaliation. “You’re such an ass,” he laughs as you try to wriggle away. You squeal and try to kick him off, but he’s got both of your ankles in a firm grasp. “You’re lucky you’re cute,” he murmurs, then pulls you closer. “C’mere.” 

You sit up and straddle him, your hands resting on his broad shoulders. Joel puts his arms around you, his hands splayed on your back, instantly grounding you and providing a sense of security. 

He looks into your eyes and murmurs, “What I was going to say is that I like your honesty; with yourself and others. It’s a quality you should never give up on, even if it’s hard.”

“I’ll try.”

“Good girl,” he murmurs, then looks at his watch. “I should go, darlin’. It’s been a long day.” 

You nod and let him get up to put on his shoes. 

“Joel?” 

He turns around and looks at you with raised eyebrows.

You want to tell him that he doesn’t need to go, that he can stay this time, but the words just won’t leave your lips. Instead you say, “Thank you for today, seriously.” You walk up to him and press a soft kiss to his lips. “You really helped me and made me feel so much better.” 

Joel doesn’t answer immediately as he tilts his head and studies your face. “I’m glad I could cheer you up, darlin’,” he coos and caresses your left cheek. “Call me if you need anything, okay?”

“Will do, Joel. Thank you.” 

---

You open Simon’s messages and type in your reply before blocking him. 

Simon: But I can’t live without you You: Then die

---

Thank you for reading! 🤍 part 2 || part 4 || series masterlist