#sometimes when i write things i’m like. people Know this already it doesn’t need to be Said

[corovera]

Ohhhhkay, this is going to be a long one.

First of all, define “lives.” If you mean exists, then that’s not an AU, that’s canon as of 5.3. Which…you all probably know already. Sometimes I’ve found it hard to tell who didn’t get the memo, who acknowledges but chooses not to focus on it, and who’s intentionally ignoring it because they’re uncomfortable with it or feel like it’s worse, which…fair enough.

To be fair, it doesn’t get acknowledged much or elaborated upon in-game, which IMO is a bit crazy-making. From a writing standpoint, I get why it’s like that (his arc’s over, it would cheapen things if it happened too often, etc.), but I miss him, dammit! We’re really overdue for him to chime in on something, but I get that there needs to be a good reason. Maybe when they’re able to connect to the First properly? I could see a brief comment on that.

At least find an excuse to namedrop him and give him a codex entry so all this out-of-game stuff from the lore books and the concert last year can be in the game! Is that too much to ask?

…Anyway. I have a ton of headcanons about the details. I don’t think it’s quite what OP means, since it’s not an AU where he’s /alive/-alive, it’s taking what little we’ve been given and running with it, but I’ll share anyway if that’s OK.

For Syrene’s canon, sometimes he’s actively experiencing things through her (always vision and hearing, but other senses if he chooses) and sometimes he’s asleep or only partially aware of what’s up. Partial awareness (he compares it to dreaming about someone else) means he remembers what she was doing once he’s fully awake, so he usually prefers that over sleeping too much when she’s awake. If he wants to, he can retreat to a cozy inner world of sorts that looks by default like a miniature aetherial sea, so he doesn’t have to watch all the time, but he likes to.

They can and frequently do communicate - not usually with words, but there’s enough overlap between them for intent and emotion to come across, and they’ve gotten good enough at reading each other for it to be effective. Sometimes the emotional overlap makes things tricky - if they’re both feeling something strongly, it can create a feedback loop of sorts and make it that much more intense. Took a lot of getting used to. Endwalker was A Time.

It’s not like hearing voices, but she can tell what he wants to say, if that makes any sense. Basically, I’m sticking to the letter of the concert bit that says they can’t usually talk, but not the spirit of it. Because…we did hear him? Before the fight with Eldibus? I’ve wondered some if that statement was meant for us, the players, and not the WoL in universe, because while it’d explain some things, it still doesn’t quite seem right. Also, I will happily take advantage of dream-sharing being on the table as of that same lore.

Anyway, they don’t share all their memories, but they can dig through each other’s if they choose to. They have an unspoken agreement to only do it with permission, or when they’re shared freely.

Going off how he talked to Seto that one time, he can borrow her body with her consent, but rarely does. More frequently, they use a smaller-scale version of this to talk out loud in private if there’s something too complicated for their usual communication to work. This also means he can talk to other people through her, but it takes a long time before he’s comfortable doing that, and only with certain people.

I’m thinking at some point (maybe after Endwalker?) Syrene’s able to figure something out using Azem’s crystal to give him temporary form so that they can either interact face-to-face or have a break from each other.

The Scions and some of her friends and family know about all of this, but the general public does not, and they want to keep it that way.

In general, they’re both happy with the way things turned out, and for me, that’s the most important part.

I don’t ship them, for the record - I see his and Syrene’s relationship as queerplatonic. Just because I’ve had a huge crush on him for a year and a half doesn’t mean she does!

ardbert lives au enjoyers: what is your explanation for it?

[chimerafeathers]

i know we love to rag on Siffrin for feeling so miserably guilty and manipulative for the crime of [checks notes] “doing nice things for their friends so that they’ll be happy and care about him even if it’s not perfectly sincere on his end”

but like. in context i don’t think that thought process is anywhere near as nonsensical as it always sounds written out like that

i’m sure i’m just stating the obvious here but it’s not really about the “crime” of making people happy. it’s about what he’s not doing, which is anything that would allow their friends to have any real knowledge or agency over the situation they’re all in.

it’s about never acting according to his real feelings in the moment and letting them see the messier version of him that exists now, never allowing their relationships to evolve or develop meaningfully beyond the “safest” iteration, the thing that is Known and produces the Correct Results, because anything else has the possibility of leading to negative emotions towards Siffrin.

Siffrin knows he’s not really doing all this for their benefit, not entirely, because the “right” thing to do would give them the full context to choose how they feel and what to do about it. they’re happy, but in a way they don’t get to keep. they’re happy, but in a way that keeps Siffrin safe from anything more complex and real. they’re happy, but only because some Siffrin in the past said the right things once, and this new, bitter, lonely, desperate version wouldn’t know how to get the “correct result” without a script to follow. they’re happy, and it was real once, it meant something once, but not anymore.

they cared about that Siffrin, yes, but would they still care about this one, if they knew? if Siffrin ever allowed them to know? (he won’t, he can’t, he refuses.)

and there’s something that could have been said in favor of Siffrin allowing himself this “selfishness” if it made him happy anyway, if it could be a genuine source of comfort in a difficult situation—but it doesn’t! not really! because that guilt is there, because that fear is there, because of how flimsy it all inevitably feels.

so they’re not doing it for their family’s benefit, because that happiness is predicated on lies and ignorance. he’s barely doing it for his own benefit, because they’re torturing themself by revealing things they no longer want to reveal, concealing things they no longer want to conceal, acting out of fear of rejection rather than genuine desire for connection. who benefits from this hollow “kindness,” really?

that’s why the last loop had to be the ugliest one. Siffrin had to see that the worst could happen and there could still be love and connection on the other side. that even when the party sees the worst of him, when they have the agency he’s been knowingly denying them, they will still choose to love him.

[yukioos]

izuku who is so attractive when he explains things to you

“‘zuku, can you come here for a second?” you called over your boyfriend without looking over, hyper-focused on your homework.

a math problem didn’t make sense, not even momo could understand it, and she was one of the smartest people in your class. eventually, she gave up and decided she would ask the teacher how to solve it tomorrow. but you didn’t give up, and you wanted to understand how to solve the question. maybe it would be helpful in the future.

you sat on a chair at a four-person table, bouncing your leg and leaning your head against your hand. finally, izuku came over and smiled, then sat next to you.

“yeah? what do you need?” he exclaimed, ready to help with whatever he could.

he was always so eager to be useful to you, wanting to do anything to please you. you tried hard to not crumble around him, but the way he always seemed to keep a smile on his face even when you were sad, always brought you up.

you glanced at him, staring into his green eyes and his disheveled, soft hair. you mumbled, “i’m having a hard time with this problem, it just doesn’t make sense to me. if you understand it, do you mind explaining it to me?”

he nodded and stated, “of course! so first,” he began to explain everything, pointing at certain numbers and symbols, and writing steps on a separate sheet of paper.

the green-haired boy began to explain concepts you didn’t understand, trying to keep it as simple as possible. you attempted to pay attention to him and his words, you really did, but of course, failed. how were you supposed to focus on the problem when he looked so attractive?

his freckles peppered all over his face gleamed in the moonlight, making him appear more angelic than he already was. the way his biceps flexed every so often, and his scars were so out in the open, was a silent reminder of how much he’s gone through. sometimes he would voice his insecurities, about how he never liked the scars he gained from fights, but you would reassure him that they’re beautiful. they sure as hell looked great on him.

his hair was extra soft today, which you knew from playing with his hair when you slept together in your room. his shirt was a little loose on his body, and he wore grey sweatpants which he knew drove you crazy. you lay one of your legs on his and scooted your chair closer to his, emitting a soft gasp from his lips. he looked at you with sweet puppy eyes, his bottom lip sticking out a bit more, forming his lips into a pout.

“keep going, baby,” you mumbled words of encouragement, rubbing his back as he stuttered then continued explaining.

but izuku felt your eyes on his the whole time, which made him more nervous. you most likely didn’t notice his stuttering or shivers because you were too focused on his face and arms rather than what he was saying. he couldn’t take it anymore, he was too embarrassed, and became flushed whenever you looked at him for so long. who knew what you were thinking about him?

he turned to you and immediately recognized your eyes on his, sultry and a small grin on your face. he glanced away, feeling himself get warmer by the second. he asked, “why ‘re you looking at me like that?”

you apologized, “‘m sorry baby, you just look too good today. don’t know what happened, but i just wanna eat you up!”

you giggled then grabbed his face with your hands, placing them on his soft cheeks. he gasped and leaned into you, knowing he wanted a kiss as much as you did. god, he was so inexperienced, he never knew where to put his hands, so he just gripped the fabric of his sweatpants.

eventually, you leaned even closer to him, wanting to be as close as possible, until your chests were touching. he whimpered, feeling your soft breasts against his chest. he gently rubbed your back, nervous for one of your classmates to walk in and catch you.

suddenly, a loud, booming voice shouted, “get a room! i don’t want to see you two sucking face at eleven at night!”

your boyfriend yelped and appeared scared, before apologizing and rubbing his neck, still rubbing your hip with one hand, “s-sorry kacchan! we didn’t mean to—“

the blonde quickly interrupted him and pointed a finger, “shut it, nerd! i’m just trying to walk through this room when—“

“dude, come on! we’re trying to sleep, you’re waking everyone up!” another voice stepped in, eijiro, who smiled at the two of you and waved.

katsuki began to argue with the redhead, so you grabbed the papers from the homework and held onto izuku’s hand, who blushed at the touch. once the two of you retreated to your dorm, you worshipped him and his looks to another level.

AHHH first izuku writing i love him so much!! he’s so cute, i hope you guys like this ones!! reqs are open for him btw

[yanderenightmare]

Bakugou Katsuki

♡ TW: boyfriend Katsuki's strange guilty pleasure, harassment, nasty online comments, noncon ideations, online pervs

♡ FEM reader

“I’m borrowing your laptop, Kats!” you call. 

He’s in the bath, so you’re not sure he heard you, but also, you don’t think it’s any big deal. You’ve been a couple for years now, and living together has only brought you closer. Besides, it’s not as if you’re going to snoop or anything—you’re just going to check something real quick while you charge yours.

You rethink it when you have to write in his password. Maybe it would be better to just wait for your own machine to get ready—it’s not as if you’re in a hurry or anything. But then again, at the same time, it doesn’t hurt to give it your best guess.

Right on the first try—your name and birthday. Though you appreciate the gesture, he really should see into getting something stronger than that. The information he is privy to through his work is quite sensitive, after all.

But anyway. Onto the task at hand. You click into the browser. It’s already got some tabs open. 

You don’t mean to let your eyes wander, but it just can’t be helped. Katsuki sits before this thing, sometimes for hours during the day. Of course, most of it is surely work-related, writing incident rapports and profiles and the like. But this page right here… you don’t know… something about it seems strange.

“Some type of forum…” you mutter to no one but yourself. Katsuki had never struck you as the type to neither read nor partake in other people’s banter. Again, you’d promised yourself you weren’t going to pry, but it only takes a few seconds to read the comments—it’s over before you can stop yourself.

I bet she’s a squealer, like a really cute squealer

I wanna tie her up in an abandoned building somewhere no one will hear her scream

Same, but not on the bed though, on the floor and take her like a bitch

I‘m sure dynamight fucks her every day, i know i would! 

Dynamight’s such a lucky guy I hate him

You blink reading through the comments—completely having forgotten what you were doing in the first place. Who are these people? What are these comments about? You keep scrolling, eyebrows knit, and then you see it—your name. 

She looks like the type of girl that lets her man fuck her anywhere he wants whenever he wants

I’d literally kill for an hour of having her alone. And I’d make good use of that hour. Make her dump that blond asshat to be with me.

If she were my girlfriend, I’d keep her leashed to the bed with a collar. Can’t have other guys looking at her when she’s mine.

I’d only feed her cum. Trust me, she wouldn’t go hungry.

You’re eyes are fully wide now. Are all these chats about you? What’s Katsuki doing in a place like this? Reading all these sick comments as if he isn’t your boyfriend.

“Hey!” A shout knocks you out of your trance—and startles you enough that it very nearly even knocked you off balance.

“What’re you doin’ on my computer?” he asks in accusation while taking hurried and thundering steps toward you—still wet from his shower, wearing nothing but a white towel around his lower half.

“Uh,” you struggle to find your voice, heart hammering in your chest, head spinning—feeling both caught red-handed and the exact opposite. “Uhm, nothing—I just—”

He rips the laptop off the desk, angry eyes staring at the screen—then quickly going round.

His face pales. You can practically see the goosebumps as they rise in a rush across his skin. 

He swallows thickly, jaw-locked—doesn’t even dare look at you as he asks the question, “Did you read?”

You almost consider saying no but decide against it. This wasn’t something you could just ignore. No, you needed an explanation. Who knows? It might be completely innocent.

“Some of it…” you confess.

He shudders, and then he places the laptop down again, slowly, soundless. He rests his hands on the table and leans his weight on them, head bowed, voice small.

“I just… I… It’s, well…” He scratches the back of his neck, looking for the words.

You’ve never seen him like this before. Katsuki is nervous. But you suppose it’s for good reason.

“It’s not what you think, okay?” he declares, finally looking at you. 

His face is something unfamiliar—riddled with this guilty anxiety you’ve never pictured before—frazzled. It’s completely odd.

“Okay,” you say calmly. You don’t know if you’re angry or not yet. You know you probably should be, but the look on the man’s face is making you feel sorry for him.

“I don’t agree with any of this,” he insists, gesturing to the laptop. 

“Well, yeah, I sure hope so,” you say, although the question still remains, “But why are you on there then?”

“It…” He’s blushing—profusely—bright vermillion-tipped ears and apple-red cheeks. He looks away again. “I don’t know…”

I don’t know is an excuse you’ve never heard come out of his mouth. In fact, excuse or not, it’s a phrase you didn’t think him capable of. But look at him now, using it the same childish way a kid would after being caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

“You better not lie to me, Katsuki Bakugou—or I know someone who’s sleeping on the couch,” you finally find your strict tone. He’s crazy if he thinks this is something you’ll just forget about.

He sighs and then he falls into his desk chair, back hunched, hiding his face, wrapping his arms around your thighs and pulling you close, nuzzling his head against you, mumbling under his breath, “It’s sick, and it makes me sick…”

You wait, giving him the time to figure it out.

“But it…” he continues. You feel his hands tremble just a bit before he confesses, “It makes me feel good.”

You’re not sure you understand, and so you ask for clarification, “What makes you feel good?”

He sighs again, and this time, his voice comes out dark and lusty, leaving no room for confusion, “To know that I have something everybody else wants.”

♡ BAKUGOU KATSUKI masterlist ♡ BOKU NO HERO ACADEMIA masterlist ♡ FEM x M INSERT masterlist ♡ GN x M INSERT masterlist ♡ ALL masterlists

[girlyassumes]

Manifestation is always instantaneous

I’ve been learning about manifestation and LOA for about 8 months now. It has finally clicked for me what instant manifestation is, after all this time. I don’t feel like a lot of people clearly explain it…and I’m someone who sometimes needs things explained to me like I’m a 5-year-old lol. So, I’m gonna break it down for you as clearly as I can, in case you’ve had a hard time understanding it, too.

The word instant is usually defined as something happening right now; immediately; in this present moment. So, when we’re told “you can manifest [this thing] instantly,” we might expect the thing to happen or appear immediately. I know, for me, this is how I’ve wavered because I’m like, “hey, where’s it at?” when it doesn’t show up quickly or I feel as if I’m waiting. And, I’m sure that you’ve experienced this feeling, too.

But, it’s not the thing that appears or happens instantly, it’s the bridge of events that happens instantly. After you affirm, reality immediately starts moving you towards the thing you want. You’re put onto that bridge instantly. Everything that needs to happen in order to get you to what you’re manifesting is already starting to happen. Sometimes it’ll be one small thing - the tiniest blip - that’ll get you there, sometimes it’ll be multiple things happening and people involved that’ll get you there.

So, this is why you can’t worry about the how and view it as “waiting.” There are so many different ways that your thing can happen. Thinking of how it will or questioning how it’s possible is what can make you feel doubtful. Affirming that you have what you want puts you on that bridge instantly. It’s already happening; you aren’t waiting. It’s already yours - you’re just being lead to it.

The analogy of manifesting being like ordering food at a restaurant can be used to understand how it works instantly. You’re telling the waitress (putting it out there) that you want a certain meal (the thing you’re manifesting). The waitress now knows and she’s in the process of writing it down, then giving the kitchen staff the information, and then the whole restaurant staff does whatever it is they need to do to make your meal and get it to you ASAP. This is how manifesting works and why it’s instant.

Also keep in the title “waitress/waiter” in mind - they’re waiting on you. It’s their job. They aren’t trying to make you wait - in fact, they don’t want to hear you complain lol. They’re waiting on you to tell them what you want and then making sure it gets to you. This is the same as your desired reality (the one where you have what you want) waiting on you to affirm for it, not listening to you say, “hey, why aren’t you here? I don’t believe that you’re mine and that I have what I want.”

Can you imagine going to a restaurant and as the waitress is writing down what you ordered, you go, “hey, where’s it at?” and start looking around the restaurant for your food. Or you say, “I don’t think you’ll give me my food. That’s not possible.” No? Because that’s crazy. People don’t do that. This is why you affirm and don’t ask where it’s at and go searching for it. You trust that it’s already yours and is coming to you because guess what? It’s guaranteed you’ll get it since you asked for it. Your meal (your manifestation) is already in the works; it’s your order that you put through. You don’t have to worry about anything else. Just enjoy life in the present moment as your thing gets to you. The less you focus on the time and more you reassure yourself that it’s yours, instead of worrying, the quicker it’ll show up or show up when you least expect it to.

The only time your manifestation won’t show up is if you change what you’re manifesting. Let’s say you originally ordered chicken fingers but then you pull the waitress aside and tell her you want steak instead. Then you’re simply getting the other thing you asked for instead of what you originally ordered.

The only time your manifestation will be delayed is if you keep focusing on how long it’s taking or don’t trust that you’ll get it. If you’re at a restaurant and keep nervously focusing on the time, it’ll feel like you’re waiting and like it’s taking a long time for your food to arrive. Or, if you keep saying to the waitress that you don’t trust that you’ll get the food, you’ll just stress her and the rest of the kitchen staff out which won’t help speed up the process of the food being prepared (the bridge of events happening to get you to your manifestation), it’ll just slow it down.

[ceruark]

somebody's supposed to fall in love

[yan! alexis ness x gn! reader x yan! michael kaiser]  synopsis: your boyfriend’s best friend is an oddly prominent figure in your relationship. [university au. implied poly.] cw: yandere themes - implied stalking and obsessive behavior. wc: 1.4k a/n: if you ever find me caught between these two, don’t help me… i’m exactly where i need to be

you’re not fond of how… involved michael is in your relationship.

he’s studying abroad the year you and alexis get together, but even so, you’re aware of how important the man is to your boyfriend; it’s hard not to, given that michael draws attention every time he enters a room, and before you entered the picture, alexis followed him around like a second shadow. you know about their close friendship going into the relationship, but it proves to be a problem in a much different way than you expect. 

alexis's friends warn you that he tends to be a pushover where michael is concerned, and that you’ll always be second to the blonde, even if it’s you alexis is actually dating. of course, you don’t pay their words any mind in the beginning, given that michael is on the other side of the world, both out of sight and out of mind while you and alexis get cozy with each other.

when michael returns to campus the following year, both your and alexis’s friends joke that he’ll drop you now that his real lover is back. at first, there’s some truth to what they’re saying; alexis spends so much of his free time catching up with michael, which means he isn’t really seeing you, since you make a point to avoid the blonde like the plague. 

at some point, alexis must realize you’re pulling away from him, texting him less frequently and not bothering to ask if he’ll be at your apartment that night— no, you already know where he’ll be. so roughly a month after michael’s return, alexis rushes back into your arms, apologizing for neglecting your relationship and swearing to make it up to you.

and he does… kind of. he splits his time more evenly between you and michael, and though it aggravates you that the other is as much of a priority to your boyfriend as you are, you give him some grace— it’s his best friend who was away for a year. for a blissful two months, you accept this delicate balance alexis is managing as the new norm, and eventually any irritation you feel over the matter has dissipated altogether by the time your lovely boyfriend decides to knock you off your axis once again.

he wants you to meet michael. after all, who doesn’t want their best friend and significant other, the two people most important to them, to get along?

the thing is, you’ve met michael already— in freshman year, and you think it’s odd that michael hasn’t mentioned this to alexis. you sat next to him during an introductory writing course you both took to fulfill a general graduation requirement, and unfortunately for you, it was a class where the professor forced you to discuss the content with your neighbor on the daily. only half way into week two, you’d snapped at him, fed up with his holier-than-thou attitude and calling him out on how his condescension did little to mask his apparent insecurities with himself.

perhaps you should have known that someone like him would only view your words as a challenge. you’d dug your own grave at that point, and michael only got worse after that, using every class period as an opportunity to get under your skin and discover what makes you tick. he seemed far too gleeful every time you bit back an insult in the name of keeping your cool, and by the time the semester ended, you wanted absolutely nothing to do with him— a sentiment you conceded when you got with his best friend, but the point still stands.

even after that wretched semester, though, you’d still notice michael in the peripheral of your life. sometimes you’d catch him staring at you when you were in one of the dining halls laughing with your friends, or in the library slogging through your mountain of assignments. you always met his blank stare with one of your own, never giving him the satisfaction of a reaction.

your hatred may have simmered down over time, but you still want to keep him as far away from you as possible. you cannot fathom how someone so loathsome could keep the company of someone so sweet, but there were still facets of alexis’s mind that you were working at comprehending.

so you agree to meet michael, and to your surprise and suspicion, it’s fine. you don’t know if he’s just playing nice because you’re with alexis and it’s going on a year now, but you’re not about to look a gift horse in the mouth. you allow this delicate civility to settle between yourself and michael and agree to spend more time in his presence, more for alexis’s sake than for your own.

but by the time your decision to let him in catches up to you, it’s far too late. give him an inch, and he’ll take a mile; it hits you like cold water one random day in the second semester of the year that you and alexis haven’t really had a moment alone together in months. save for the bedroom, every second you’ve spent with your boyfriend has also been spent in michael’s company. you don’t even know how it happened, just that you had somehow gotten so used to him being around that this little fact managed to slip under your radar.

the minor detail nagging at the back of your mind evolves into a loud, blaring siren the weekend after midterms. you got together with alexis and some of his friends for a celebratory drinking session following a slew of exams and essays, and now, you sit slumped over the table in one of alexis’s hoodies, a delightful buzz making you feel lighter, but not bumbling. alexis is making sure a very drunken erik makes it back to his dorm safely, leaving you alone with michael in their shared apartment.

the blonde is reclined in the seat across from you, eyes half-lidded as he fumbles with a deck of cards left out from the night’s events. he’s had more to drink tonight than both you and alexis, and it’s evident in the way his guard seemed to be lower than you’ve ever seen it. he laughed more— openly and warmly, with his friends rather than at them— and he was even, dare you say it, pleasant to be around.

so naturally, your guard is down, too, when he looks at you with a hint of a smirk on his face and asks, "you know you’re wearing my hoodie, right?"

you snort at him. “what are you talking about? i got this out of alexis’s closet.”

“i’m sure,” he agrees. there’s a glint in his eyes, one that reminds of why you wanted to keep your distance from him in the first place.

“alexis and i share everything.”

something about the way he holds your gaze with such intensity has your stomach flipping over. you haven’t felt like this around him in a while— uneasy, uncertain— but maybe the alcohol has him acting bolder, or rather, has him forgetting to put on the carefully crafted mask that he’s had on around you for the past few months.

the suffocating tension snaps when you hear the sound of the front door clicking shut and alexis kicking off his shoes at the entrance. you quickly spring up from your seat, heading into the other room to ask if erik’s alright, and then get ready for bed. you don’t step out of alexis’s room to bid michael good night, the lingering feeling of his gaze still sending icy pinpricks down your spine.

he starts flirting with you after that. he starts flirting with you in front of alexis, who does absolutely nothing about it. alexis, who just laughs at michael’s antics like his best friend isn’t actively hitting on his significant other. alexis, who doesn’t bat an eye when michael’s touch on your shoulder lingers just a little too long. alexis, who starts forcing you into the middle of couch between him and michael when it’s the spot that he usually takes.

alexis, who approached you first. alexis, who seemed to already know everything about you when you first started dating, who always knew exactly what to say or do to make you head over heels for him. alexis, undoubtedly in love with you, but undeniably devoted and loyal to michael. alexis, prancing around in sheep’s clothing and leading you directly into the jaws of the wolf.

it’s far too late to even try to untangle yourself from their web, and that makes the realization all the more awful; from the start, you were never meant to be just alexis’s.

[izzih22]

Do you think you could write a fic where after Azzi and Paige start dating Azzi gets insecure about her body because she is like Strong and Solid but she doesn’t feel very feminine or delicate like some of Paige’s past hookups or whatever

And obviously Paige will comfort and be like wtf you’re literally the most beautiful princess I’ve ever laid eyes on?

Thanks :)))

Beauty and Strength

Note: I kinda ate with this I think also it’s longer than usual so you’re welcome😂😂 But also thank you again for 1,000 followers!!

Warning: Kinda smutty

Paige found her in the bathroom, standing in front of the mirror.

Azzi was wearing one of Paige’s old Team USA shirts the long-sleeved navy one that fit her snug across the shoulders but fell loose and low everywhere else. Her legs were bare, hair still damp from the shower, and she was staring at herself in a way Paige recognized immediately.

It wasn’t just checking her reflection. It was the kind of staring that came with too much thinking. Heavy silence. The quiet unraveling of confidence not all at once, but just enough to make her look smaller.

Which was rare.

Because Azzi wasn’t the kind of girl who shrank.

She was solid. She was strength and calm, soft-spoken and grounded a force, even when she didn’t mean to be. She was the kind of person people trusted without knowing why. She walked into a room and slowed everything down without trying.

But right now, Paige could tell something had settled in her chest.

She stepped forward and wrapped her arms around Azzi’s waist from behind her chin fitting perfectly against Azzi’s damp shoulder.

“What���s going on, baby?”

Azzi hesitated. “Nothing. I’m good.”

Paige kissed her bare shoulder, slow and warm.

“Try again.”

Azzi sighed softly, not moving. “I was just looking at myself.”

Paige didn’t speak. Just stayed still, holding her close, letting Azzi lead.

“I don’t feel… delicate,” Azzi said finally. “I don’t feel like the girls people think of when they say ‘feminine.’ I feel strong. Like I’m made to hold weight. Like I could carry a team on my back. And I know that’s not a bad thing. But sometimes, I look at my body and wonder… is this what you want?”

Paige blinked, her hands tightening slightly on Azzi’s waist. “Wait — are you saying you think I’d rather be with someone more… delicate… than you?”

Azzi didn’t answer.

And that silence said everything.

Paige gently turned her around until they were face-to-face. Azzi’s eyes were still soft big and a little too glossy but she didn’t flinch when Paige stepped in, just rested her hands against Paige’s hoodie, fingers curling in the fabric.

“Az,” Paige said, lowering her voice. “You are the most beautiful girl I’ve ever laid eyes on. You always have been.”

Azzi gave her a small, tired smile. “You’re biased.”

Paige smirked. “Damn right I am. Biased because I’ve been in love with you since we were sixteen. Since that first day at Team USA, when you were the quietest one in the gym, but somehow the loudest person in my head.”

Azzi huffed a laugh, even though her eyes were still glassy.

“I remember just staring at you,” Paige went on, soft and steady. “You were sitting on the bench, pulling your knee sleeve up like it was nothing, and I swear to God I forgot what words were.”

Azzi shook her head, blushing a little.

“I’ve been yours since then,” Paige said. “I just needed you to catch up.”

Azzi finally looked up and met her eyes.

“I don’t need you to be delicate, Azzi. I’ve never needed that. You’re strong but you’re also the softest person I know. You care about everyone. You leave notes in my bag before games. You remember how I take my coffee even when I don’t. You laugh with your whole face.”

Paige reached up, brushing her fingers gently along Azzi’s jaw.

“You don’t have to be anyone else. You’re already the girl. The only one. My person. The reason I sleep better at night. The reason I play better. The reason I actually learned how to take care of someone who matters.”

Azzi leaned in, forehead against Paige’s chest now letting Paige hold her completely.

And Paige did wrapping her arms tight around her girl, a little taller, a little broader, but somehow still the one clinging for dear life.

“You’re not just enough,” Paige whispered. “You’re everything. Strong, sweet, so damn funny when you don’t even mean to be. You’re the girl who makes me want to do everything better.”

Azzi stayed quiet, letting the words wash over her, letting her body melt into Paige’s warmth.

“I don’t want anyone softer,” Paige said, kissing her temple. “I want you. The real you. The strong one. The one who always picks me up when I’m being a baby. The one who could probably squat me if she wanted.”

Azzi smiled against her. “Probably?”

Paige chuckled. “Okay, definitely. But you let me think I’m stronger, and I appreciate that.”

“You are,” Azzi said softly.

Paige pulled back just enough to look at her. “Maybe a little. But you’re the reason I stay grounded. You’re the reason I breathe easier.”

Azzi leaned in and kissed her slow, warm, the kind of kiss that said thank you without needing words.

When they pulled back, Paige pressed her forehead to Azzi’s again and whispered, “You’re my girl. My princess. The most beautiful one in the whole world. And if I have to remind you every single day, I will.”

“You already do,” Azzi whispered.

“Good,” Paige murmured. “Then let me remind you one more time.”

She pulled Azzi back into her arms easily, securely holding her like something cherished. Azzi’s smaller frame tucked perfectly against her, strong arms wrapped around Paige’s waist, and the soft rhythm of her breathing finally starting to slow.

And in Paige’s arms Azzi didn’t have to feel like she was lacking anything.

She was soft. She was solid. She was Paige’s.

Always had been.

⸻

Azzi stirred slowly as sunlight crept through the curtains. She was warm skin against soft sheets, Paige’s body curled protectively behind her, one arm draped across her waist.

She felt kissed, held, and safe.

Then Paige moved slow, purposeful and pressed a gentle kiss to the back of her neck.

Azzi hummed, barely awake. “Paige?”

“Mmhm,” Paige murmured, voice still rough with sleep. “You’re awake?”

“Barely.”

“Perfect.”

Paige shifted, her hand sliding over Azzi’s stomach, holding her closer, and then… her lips began to move again. Not just one kiss. A trail of them. Featherlight and deliberate. Down her neck. Across her shoulder.

“I want you to lie here and just let me love you,” Paige whispered, her voice quiet and steady.

Azzi smiled faintly. “That’s what you’re doing?”

“No,” Paige said softly. “That was sleeping. This is… worship.”

She rolled Azzi gently onto her back, leaning over her with slow reverence, blue eyes locked onto hers.

“I need to show you something,” Paige murmured, brushing Azzi’s curls off her forehead. “I need you to see what I see.”

Azzi blinked, still hazy.

Paige pressed a kiss to her forehead, then her cheek, then the tip of her nose.

“You’re beautiful,” she whispered. “But not just the kind people say because you smile pretty or your hair is perfect — though both are true. You’re beautiful in the kind of way that makes time stop. You’re beautiful in the kind of way that makes me forget who I am unless I’m touching you.”

Her hands pushed up the hem of Azzi’s shirt slow, careful, asking without words.

Azzi let her, let Paige lift the shirt over her head and toss it aside, baring her to the morning light.

Paige’s breath caught.

“You don’t even know,” she whispered, fingers trailing over the line of Azzi’s collarbone, across her chest, down to her stomach. “What this body does to me. What you do to me.”

She kissed Azzi’s shoulder again then lower, to the swell of her chest, murmuring between each kiss.

“This strength,” kiss. “This heart,” kiss. “This skin.”

Azzi trembled under her, already flushed. “Paige…”

But Paige was just getting started.

“You talked about feeling strong but not feminine,” she murmured, mouth now trailing kisses down the center of Azzi’s stomach. “But you have no idea how soft you are to me.”

Her hand slid along Azzi’s side, thumb brushing her ribs. “You make me want to be better. Be gentle. That’s what you do to me. You make me slow down. You make me feel.”

Azzi swallowed hard, her hands resting on Paige’s shoulders, eyes locked onto her like she was trying not to come apart.

“You’re strong, yeah,” Paige whispered, mouth moving lower, her words like prayer. “But strength can be feminine. Strength is feminine. You’re proof of that every time you laugh, every time you love me with those hands that could crush a defender’s chest but hold my face like I’m something precious.”

Azzi’s breath hitched, her legs shifting instinctively as Paige’s lips grazed the inside of her thigh.

“Paige…”

Her voice cracked, shaky, raw.

But Paige only kissed her again, soft and slow and open-mouthed now, until Azzi’s fingers curled in the sheets, her body arching into her touch.

“I love this,” Paige whispered against her skin. “I love you. This body. These legs. These hips. This stomach.”

Her hands moved with the words, mapping her out again like she had all the time in the world.

“You are so feminine, Az. So gentle. So warm. You don’t even have to try.”

Azzi let out a shaky, broken sound a mix between a gasp and a sob and Paige immediately slowed, kissing her inner thigh again, anchoring her.

“I’ve got you,” Paige whispered. “I’m right here.”

Azzi met her eyes, wide and glassy. “You make me feel… so seen.”

Paige crawled back up, kissed her again lips soft, hands steady.

“You are seen. Every inch. Every part. Not just your strength. Not just your play. I see you when you’re sleepy and laughing, when you tuck your feet under me on the couch, when you hold my face after I miss a free throw and tell me I’m still your favorite. That’s softness, Az. That’s you.”

Azzi didn’t respond.

She just pulled Paige into a kiss so deep it stole both their breath.

And when Paige’s hand slid between them, finding skin that was already warm and wanting, Azzi didn’t flinch she opened. Completely. Pulled Paige closer. Let herself fall apart under the hands and mouth and voice of the girl who’d loved her from the very beginning.

Paige took her time. Touched like she was memorizing. Spoke like every word was carved in gold.

And Azzi soft, strong, hers let her.

⸻

Paige could feel it the second Azzi let go.

It wasn’t just the way her body arched or the soft sounds she made though those, God, those would be burned into Paige’s memory forever.

It was something deeper.

It was the way Azzi opened. Slowly. Carefully. Like someone learning how to breathe again. Like someone who’d spent too long holding herself in.

And Paige was there to catch every piece.

She had Azzi laid out beneath her, shirt long gone, skin warm and flushed. Azzi’s curls were sticking to her cheek, her thighs shaking, her breath already uneven.

And she was gorgeous.

Not just hot. Not just strong. Not just impressive.

She was achingly, heart-breakingly, world-shatteringly beautiful.

Paige kissed her stomach slowly, then rested her cheek against it, her hand spreading over Azzi’s hip to anchor her there.

“I wish you could see what I see right now,” Paige whispered.

Azzi blinked down at her, eyes half-lidded, dazed. “I do.”

“No,” Paige said softly, looking up. “You hear me. But you don’t feel it yet. Not the way I do. Not the way I see you.”

She crawled back up, slow, kissing every inch of Azzi’s chest her collarbones, the dip beneath her throat, the side of her neck. Azzi gasped when Paige nipped gently at the sensitive skin there.

“Every part of you,” Paige said, dragging her fingers up Azzi’s ribs, “was built to be loved. And I’m the luckiest person alive that I get to be the one to do it.”

Azzi let out a soft, shaky breath. “Paige…”

Paige cupped her face, leaned in close enough that their noses brushed. “I need you to feel how beautiful you are. Not just believe me. I need it to live in your body. In your bones.”

She kissed her slow, deep the kind of kiss that makes your chest ache, the kind that feels like home and heaven and truth.

And then Paige pulled back just enough to whisper, “Can I show you?”

Azzi nodded wide-eyed, breathless. “Yes.”

That one word was all Paige needed.

She moved lower, settling between Azzi’s thighs, kissing along the soft skin there like she’d waited her whole life for it. Azzi’s legs trembled, and Paige anchored her again with both hands one on her hip, the other stroking gentle circles along her thigh.

“You don’t know what you do to me,” Paige whispered. “You’ve got all this power in you. And then you smile, and I forget how to stand up straight.”

Azzi let out a weak, breathy laugh but it cracked halfway through. Paige looked up, saw the way Azzi’s chest was rising too fast, her lips parted, her hands clutching the blanket beside her.

“You’re already close,” Paige murmured. “You don’t even need much. Just me.”

Azzi nodded again quick, desperate, wrecked already. “Please.”

Paige kissed the inside of her thigh again. “Say it.”

“Please,” Azzi whispered again. “Please, Paige. I need you.”

“You have me,” Paige promised. “You’ve always had me.”

And then she gave it to her. Slow, deep, thorough.

Her mouth moved with intention, not just to make Azzi fall apart — but to build her back up. Paige kissed like she was putting her back together, like every stroke of her tongue, every press of her lips was writing something back into Azzi’s body.

You are beautiful.

You are soft.

You are enough.

Paige could feel the moment it hit when Azzi broke.

It wasn’t just her moan, or the arch of her back, or the sob that tore from her throat.

It was the way she cried.

Tears streamed down her cheeks, her body completely undone, legs trembling, hands searching for something to hold.

Paige was already there, crawling back up, pulling Azzi into her lap, wrapping her arms around her.

“I’ve got you,” Paige whispered. “Let it out, baby. I’ve got you.”

Azzi buried her face in Paige’s neck, still shaking, still crying, still feeling everything.

“You’re so beautiful,” Paige whispered into her hair. “I’m never gonna stop telling you. Not ever. Not until you know it. Not until you feel it everywhere.”

Azzi clung to her, breath hitching, and whispered so softly Paige almost didn’t catch it:

“I believe you.”

Paige froze.

Azzi pulled back, just enough to look her in the eyes. Her cheeks were wet. Her mouth swollen. Her whole body bare and open and glowing.

“I believe you,” she whispered again. “I feel it. All of it.”

Paige cupped her face with both hands, kissed her forehead, her cheeks, her lips. “Good. Because it’s true. It’s always been true.”

Azzi didn’t even answer. She just kissed her back, deep and slow, like gratitude and surrender and love had all wrapped themselves into one unstoppable feeling.

And Paige held her. Let her stay on top, let her body melt against hers, let her sob until the tension turned to laughter, until the tears turned to kisses, until Azzi whispered over and over and over again:

“I love you. I love you. I love you.”

And Paige?

She whispered back:

“I know. I feel it. I’ve always felt it.”

[mee30p]

Broken 🖼️

A/n: sorry this took so long to write i had a massive autistic meltdown two days ago and i have been recovering since then so yeah! (I am okay now i was just overwhelmed)

This fic is inspired by this writing inspo by @dixondisease!

☽ Summary: Even after the break out/apocalypse reader has held onto something very special to her, When Shane finds out about this he scolds her and a few days later he goes on another on of his “survival” tantrums where he breaks readers thing forcing them to watch but Daryl comes to the rescue.

☽ Warnings: swearing, Shane Walsh, physical violence, reader being held down ish?, mention of suicide, mentions of death of a younger child, vomit, pills Daryl punches Shane a few times, swearing.

☽ Word count: 1.4k

“No… i’m okay Shane” You say trying to let him down gently for seemingly the 600th time as Shane tries to get you alone, you sit on your camping chair around the fire with some of the group being Lori, Carl, T-dog, Andrea and Amy, while the others are preoccupied. Shane has been relentlessly trying to get into your pants practically since you first met him even when your boyfriend was still alive. Shane strikes you as a bit of a man-whore as you were under the impression he was interested in Lori then you thought he liked Andrea and now you are a victim of his interest. “Come on girl.. I promise ya aint gon regret it” Shane says lowly as he doesn’t want the others to overhear. You let out a louder sigh and run your hand over your face, it’s taking all your being to stay respectful and calm. “Shane.. I said i’m good i’m not lookin’ for any of that shit right now okay?” 

Your response elicits a loud pissed off scoff from Shane. “Why not? You still strung up on your little boy toy? Well i got news for you sweetheart he’s dead and there ain’t no bringin’ him back or the past back you need to learn to let go” Shane says his voice growing louder and thicker with anger you can tell this is going to lead into one of his “survival rants” again. “What?” You scoff breathlessly as you are taken back by Shane’s words, you thought you’d made it clear you weren’t holding on to the past, sure you get sad and grieve your late boyfriend sometimes but that's because you loved him. 

Shane stands up and before anyone can stop him he storms straight to your tent, ripping open the zipper and somehow like he knew where you hid her he grabs the last precious thing of yours left. The photo frame of your sister before storming back over to the fire in front of you. The whole ten seconds this took for him to grab it you are frozen, stunned and unable to think or move. “See this, this is whats holding you back woman! You need to let go of the past forget everything, it's not real anymore” Shane yells as he holds the frame out of reach. “Shane please don’t do this” You beg, you’ve never begged for anything but right now it’s all you can do to try and save the last relic from your past life.

You know it’s stupid to cling to the past. What's gone is gone, you know that but you’ve had that picture of your sister since she passed away long before the break out. Your sister was only 13 when she committed suicide, it hadn’t been her first attempt God it haden’t even been her 4th but i was her 5th and final attempt that final morning that you found her already cold and grey laying on the bathroom floor surrounded by a broken pill bottle and vomit. You remember screaming bloody murder when you found her, the sobs of your mother and father. 

No one in the group truly knew why you kept that photo, they didn’t know who the young girl not much older than Carl was in the frame. A few people had an idea, Carol had asked but when you shut it down she had already come to a conclusion. It’s not like you showed off the picture you simply had it out one time while moving some stuff around but that was enough to ruffle a few peoples feathers, particularly Daryl, Merle and most of all Shane. Daryl had questioned you plenty of times previously why you kept the photo he never asked who she was he’d just ask curiously under the mask of gruffness and survival why you kept it and why you couldn’t just let go. Every time you’d simply give him a short answer of “It helps me push through seeing her face, Daryl”. 

“NO!” You practically shriek as you watch helplessly as Shane tosses your precious picture into the fire, before you can grab it out he grabs you from behind pinning you to his chest to make you watch. “I ain’t gonna let you be consumed by the past any longer girl” Shane says lowly as he listens to your sobs and pleas. “Shane, why? Please that was all I had.. She was all I had left” Your breathing is becoming fast but laboured as you start to spiral into a panic. The others around the fire are either yelling at Shane or sitting slack jawed.

“The fuck is all this noise bout?” Daryl asks as he turns the corner from behind the RV. He’d been hiding and minding his own business making some squirrel jerky when his precious peacefulness was interrupted but yelling and Shane’s tantrum. That's when Daryl's blood runs cold, you’re being pinned back by Shane in tears and thrashing against him. Sure Daryl’s never liked you alot hell he doesn’t like anyone but you were the first one to treat him like a decent human being so when he sees you in distress being pinned down by a man he isn’t too fond of he sees red. “The fuck did you do to her?” Daryl asks after he’s already pulled you out of the grasp of Shane and swung a powerful and angry fist at him. Shane stumbles backwards but before he can get his bearings Daryl is on him, throwing punches hard and angry. That's the thing about Daryl, he punches first and asks questions later. After everyone ‘lets him’ get a few good hits in, T-dog and Dale mange to pull Daryl and Shane apart and drag Daryl away to prevent him from retaliation again. 

Andrea and Amy were already at your side as soon as you were free from Shane, comforting you and drying your tears. But nothing could fix what's been done, that was the only picture of your sister you had left, it was the only thing you cared about. Her face was the reason you kept going to try to live a life she never got to.

The sun has now set low below the horizon, the only light being the simmering fire and the silvery light of the moon. From where you are sitting the campfire is only a red and orange flicker in the distance as you sit on a rock in the clearing of the forest. You've been hiding since Shanes stunt earlier in the afternoon which left you pissed off, more depressed and embarrassed. Your peace and dwelling is interrupted by a snap of a stick and footsteps to which you whip your torso and head around your pistol following suit to see your killer but instead you are met with a shy looking Daryl. “Easy girl.. Just me” Daryl says softer than you ever imagined he was capable of. You turn your back to him again but he doesn’t go away this time instead he sits down a foot and a half away, resting on his side farthest away from you. Daryl lets the two of you sit in silence for 5 or so minutes before he clears his throat in an almost shy manner as he taps his knee before grabbing the object and handing it to you. “I uhh- I tried to fix it as best I could..” Daryl starts as you look down to see the half charred picture of your sister still mostly intact thanks to the old frame which has been replaced with some wood from god knows where and some wild flowers tucked on the gap. It makes you tear up about how thoughtful it is. “I know it aint gonna be the same but-” You cut Daryl off as you move to your knees and throw yourself at him into a hug, your arms wrapping around his neck and you sniffle into his shoulder before pulling back. “Thank you Daryl.. You don’t understand how much this means to me- this is truly so thoughtful and beautiful” You sniffle as a tear falls down your face. “S’ okay.. Was nothin” Darly mutters shyly as he forces himself to look at you and much to his surprise you lean forward and kiss him on the cheek softly.

“Really thank you”

[lovecla]

EAT YOU LIKE A PREY ; luke hughes.

nhl masterlist, nsfw, @lovecla’s kinktober collection, single chapter:

— pair: luke hughes x fmc (mila)

— synopsis: after finding out that her friend, the shy, cute luke hughes has a crush on her, mila decides that she will do anything to make him confess his feelings for her out loud. but what do people say about biting more than you can chew?

— word count: 4.3k

— chapter warnings: lowkey mean softdom!luke, unprotected sex, creampie, dirty talk, size kink and degradation if you dig deep, p in v, fingering, squirting (not super detailed tho), edging, pet names, drinking (just a shot but,) dacryphilia.

from me to you: happy halloween, my loves 🤍 i have a few things to say today so buckle up. 1st of all, thank u so much for 400 followers and 10k likes! this means so much to me, and it’s not about the numbers but about people liking what i write— something that not even i do sometimes. 2nd, thank u all for all the compliments on my smut writing heheh i’m really trying to improve my skills so whenever u guys compliment me i’m like ૮₍˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶₎ა so thank u again. 3rd and last, this is just a single chapter but TM(HTMHC) chapter 5 is already in the making 🤍 this is a lot different from what i’m used to write but i hope it’s still good? lmk what u think 🐰

𖧷

𖧷

LUKE HUGHES was the sweetest, most adorable guy you have ever met.

Falling for him wasn’t anything out of this world, you were just another person to fall in love with his wholesome personality, and even though you had certain advantages over the other girls— because you knew him personally— you never really did anything.

When Jack told you that Luke had a crush on you— yesterday, literally—, the first thought that came to your mind was: “How?”

He always acted sweet and shy around you, besides treating you with utmost respect and affection. He takes care of you whenever you need, he knows your favorite drinks and your favorite TV shows, knows that when you’re bored you like to watch Disney Channel’s cringe ass shows just to laugh at the actors’ lines.

So him, having a crush on you, wasn’t at all that much of a surprise.

The fact that he hadn’t done anything about it, though? Yeah. That was a big, unexpected surprise.

Now it was Thursday, and while you got ready in your room, and waited for your best friend, Suzy, to pick you up, you thought of ways of making Luke want to confess to you.

You wouldn’t be the one doing it first, no. You had too much pride for that, and with every reason. You were gorgeous, you didn’t need anyone to tell you that. You could say that you’re too much of a princess and you don’t like to run after boys, but in reality, it was just that all of the men you had relations with were just a bunch of assholes.

They wanted you to be the first to make a move, they wanted you to decide where you would have dinner, or what movie you would watch. And that just doesn’t work for you, at least not anymore. You want them to work for getting you, not the other way around.

But with Luke, things were different. You can’t just know that Luke Hughes has a crush on you and not do anything. So you would have to be smart, and make him want to tell you how he feels, without asking him to.

Is this some way of gaslighting?, you ask yourself, applying some more blush to your face, I don’t know. But it has to be done, I guess.

Suzy didn’t take long to get to your house, and you got inside her car, complementing her Snow White costume. Now, you’re even more glad that you spent hours trying to choose the perfect costume for Mercer’s party. Usually, you’d go for something that showed less skin and was more scary than slutty, but something told you that this year you needed a change; and if that change was shortening your skirt and wearing a corset that squeeze your tits and push them up higher, then so be it.

𖧷

“SOMEONE SHOULD’VE told me that Dawson was planning on throwing his Halloween party at a fucking haunted mansion.”

You laugh, getting out of the car and feeling the cold breeze hit your skin, the sight of the tall, dark house in front of you making you shiver.

The party was happening inside a huge mansion that looks like it had been abandoned for years even though you know it’s all just play pretend. The front of it is highly decorated with skeletons, coffins, trash and signs that read:

“YOUR FINAL STOP,” and “WELCOME TO YOUR WORST NIGHTMARE.”

You thought it was all super funny, while Suzy whined beside you, and held your arm like her life depended on it. Entering the house after showing your ID and giving your name to the security guard at the front door, you saw that the interior is just as decorated as the outside, if not more.

“How much do you think Dawson spent on this?” You ask, genuinely curious.

Suzy started rambling about how he probably spent a lot of money and how there were thousands of people inside the mansion and how you were never going to find Jack or Nico or anyone for that matter because everyone were wearing costumes and makeup and—

“It’ll be fine,” you cut her off, shouting over the loud music. “I mean, are there hundreds of people here? Yes. Will we be able to find them? Very unlikely. But it’s fine, right?”

“I guess?” She cocks her head, her curls going everywhere. “Can we grab something to drink, though? You know I need my daily dose of beer…”

“You’re crazy. But yeah, we can.”

Moving through the sea of bodies, you greeted so many people that your head was starting to get tired. You didn’t even know all of them properly, but since Jack, Quinn and Luke knew so many people, and you were always with them, people said “hi” to you anyway.

Finding the drink section had been like finding an oasis in the middle of the desert, and while Suzy grabbed a can of beer, you had a shot of vodka before grabbing a non-alcoholic drink, wanting to be very aware of your actions through the night.

You got back to walking, listening to Suzy’s long complaints about how much time you spent talking with people she didn’t know and how she wanted to dance.

“Fuck, Mila, this is Drake!” She shouts, grabbing your hand and pulling you to the side, where a bunch of people were dancing.

“I was talking to Elliot, you know,” you shout, laughing.

“I don’t care, baby, this fucking song makes me want to go crazy and make out with you!” Suzy throws her arms up, jumping.

“Baby, that’s the alcohol speaking.” You smile, giving up and moving with the beat.

You need to get done, done, done, done at work, come over

We just need to slow the motion

Don't give that away to no one

Long distance, I need you

You danced with Suzy, not letting your mind think of Luke or anything else. Moving your hips was way easier when you didn’t have to worry about anything.

When I see potential I just gotta see it through

If you had a twin, I would still choose you

I don't wanna rush into it, if it's too soon

But I know you need to get done, done, done, done

Suzy’s hands caressed your body, as she goes to the floor, making you smile as she runs her hands through your bare legs, mouthing the lyrics to the song, singing Drake’s verse with a flirty tone. She got up and you turned around, laughing as you grind your ass on her, placing your hands on your knees and moving your hips while she held your waist, playfully.

I spilled all my emotions tonight, I'm sorry

Rollin', rollin', rollin', rollin', rollin'

How many more shots until you're rollin'?

While you danced, and while Suzy sang to you and hugged you tight, you felt a weird sensation in your chest. You were constantly getting goosebumps, and the left side of your neck burned. But no matter how much you looked around, you couldn’t find anything weird.

You knew so many people there, you could see Nico, Cole, Matt; and yeah, some of the guys were watching you and Suzy dance but that’s just normal, expected behavior from men.

Until you saw him.

There, standing in the corner of the room, leaning against the wall and holding a typical American red cup, wearing a full black outfit and.

Was that a ghostface mask?

You couldn’t be sure of who was behind the mask, but for some reason, you couldn’t take your eyes off him— and it looked like neither could he. While you ground on Suzy and danced with her, you made eye contact with the mask, feeling the hair on your arm going up; the hotness that before only covered the left side of your neck, was now running down your body, making you feel warm all over.

Which is weird, so weird.

Suddenly, the lights are off, and now everyone’s screaming with excitement and exhilaration, making you jump slightly, trying to find Suzy’s body. Once you do, you shout at her— or at least at what you hope is her ear.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine!” She yells back, and you can tell that she’s having a lot of fun for someone who was just complaining about how scary the house looked. “This is so fun!”

“It is, yeah,” you reply, as they turn the lights back on, the music somehow louder and the people even more animated.

“We need to dance more and then,” she gets closer, biting her lips. “I’ll find someone to fuck me.”

“Jesus,” you roll your eyes. “You’re insane.”

“Maybe.”

You laughed before moving your body with the next song again, dancing for what felt like hours, but not as thoughtless as you were before, no. Now all you could think of was the man that stood in the corner of the room and that now wasn’t there anymore, vanished as soon as the lights were on again.

Even if you had already looked around the entire room and you were one hundred percent sure that that man wasn’t there anymore, you could feel his presence around you, making your skin crawl with need.

I’m fucked up. Probably.

𖧷

YOU DON’T know where Suzy is.

Sometime between dancing and drinking, she found someone and disappeared like she had never been here in the first place.

You were tired, and you wanted to go back home, but, unfortunately, Suzy was your ride, so you’d have to wait until she’s done to go back to your apartment.

Of course, you could always call a taxi, or even one of the people you knew, or maybe try to call Jack or even Luke—

Luke. You hadn’t thought about him since you arrived at the party, too worried about having fun to even think of doing anything else.

But he’s not here anyway, you find yourself pouting, standing in the middle of the huge, fancy bathroom and staring at yourself in the mirror. At least I don’t think so.

But Jack had told you that he would be there, and Jack could be many things, but a liar wasn’t one of them. So, Luke probably is here, just hiding in a corner, like he usually did, always the shy boy.

Corner. Man. Black outfit. Ghostface.

Right, you take a deep breath. I’ll try to find him. Maybe I’ll manage to kiss him before leaving.

The thought of kissing Luke motivated you to get past the ocean of people, looking for curly hair and thick thighs. It didn’t help that you didn’t know what he was wearing or who he was with, but you were determined.

You walked the entire first floor, feeling your legs burn with how many steps you had already taken, especially after wearing high heels for so many hours. Luke definitely wasn’t there, and you were starting to feel frustrated.

You went up the stairs, regretting almost immediately. Dawson didn’t just decorate the first floor and the outside of the mansion, but the second floor as well. And if you thought the first floor was bad, this was even worse.

It was empty, it looked worse than the fucking Haunted House at Disneyland, and it was creepy as fuck. You started walking down the hallway, looking around while wrapping your arms around your middle, listening to the muffled sounds from downstairs.

Why isn’t anyone up here?

You walk past closed doors, until you stop in front of the only open one. Curious, you get inside the room, finding out that it was some kind of office: a big, dark wooden desk sat in the middle of the room, with an expensive looking chair behind it, and tons of books decorating the bookshelves against the walls.

A couch decorated the corner, and so did a lamp and a coffee table. You were just about to leave and go back to the party when you saw it— there, laying on the couch, the mask from before.

You hold in a gasp, feeling the left side of your neck burning again.

He’s here, he’s here. He’s here and he knows I’m here too.

“Took you long enough, bunny.”

You let out a scream, turning around to face the same man from before, who was now standing right behind you.

“L-Luke,” breathing fast, you mumble his name. “God, you scared me.”

“Sorry. Not my intention.”

He walks inside the room, sitting beside the mask— his mask.

“It… it was you.” You whisper, eyeing his clothes. The exact same outfit the man who watched you dance with Suzy and made you feel hot all over was wearing.

“Me?” He cocks his head, like he doesn’t know what you’re talking about.

“You,” you nod. “Downstairs. When I was dancing with Suzy.”

He stays quiet, not saying anything to confirm nor deny.

“Why didn’t you say anything? I’ve been looking for you for a while now.” You ask, confused.

“You looked like you were having so much fun,” there’s some kind of sarcasm in his tone, but you can’t really tell why. “I didn’t want to ruin your fun, that’s all.”

Usually, you’d just play around and tell him something funny. But you remembered what Jack said, and you also remembered that you had a plan. Make Luke Hughes confess his feelings for you.

Smiling and walking further inside the bedroom, you start your plan.

“You know you could never ruin my fun,” you say. “I missed you.”

He smirks, spreading his thighs on the couch.

“Yeah?” You nod. “I missed you too. You look cute with your little bunny outfit.”

You give him a little twirl, placing your hands on your hips. “D’you like it? I also think it looks great.”

He hums, before getting up, standing in front of you, his 6’2” figure making you feel small, even though you were 5’4” yourself.

“Why were you looking for me, Mila?”

His tone is so different from what you’re used to. He doesn’t sound sweet and adorable anymore, and for some reason, it has you intrigued. His eyes, looking darker with so little lighting in the room, staring down at you.

“I just wanted to see you. ‘Been a while, no?” Sweetening your voice to the max, you blink twice. “Perhaps we could, I don’t know, have some fun?”

His smile only widens at that, and just when you thought you were about to get what you want, his next words make you freeze.

“Do you think I’m dumb?”

You frown at his words, gulping.

“W-what do you mean?” You whisper.

“Bunny, bunny,” he clicks his tongue, stepping closer to you. “You think I don’t know what you’re doing?”

“I’m not doing anything—”

“I know Jack talked to you,” he whispers. “He isn’t exactly subtle. And I’ve seen you with boys before. You use those pretty, sweet eyes to make them fall for you, do whatever you want, beg for just a little bite. Am I wrong?”

You bite your lips, holding the hem of your skirt, looking for some kind of support. Luke’s breathy voice makes all of your tiredness leave your body.

“I asked you a question, cutie.”

“No,” you whisper. “You’re not wrong, Luke.”

The smile he gives you is brighter than the moon shining in the sky.

“I know I’m not, baby,” he gets closer, placing his large hand on your waist, on top of your corset. “So, if you want to have some fun with me,” he continues, using the same words you used not even five minutes ago. “It will have to be the way I want it to be, right?”

You nod with your head, scared that he would find out your underwear is slowly getting wetter and wetter.

He gives you a forehead kiss before stepping back, walking towards the door, letting you wonder if he was just being silly and was in fact leaving the room. Which he doesn’t, just closes the door and walks back at you, eyeing you like a wolf would look at a bunny.

Luke kissed you as if he was hungry, thirsty for something he could only get if he stuck your lips together. His hands, warm and large, encircled your waist and pushed you until your back hit the large bookshelf that decorated the wall of the office.

“Fuck,” Luke moans against your mouth. “I’ve been wanting to do this for so long.”

You wanted to tell him that you had too, but you didn’t even have time; Luke kissed you again, making you stand on your tiptoes, wrapping your arms around the back of his neck, messing up the curls that decorated his head.

His mouth moved against yours, his lips sweet and soft, different from the way he kissed you: bruising and desperate, holding you so close that you feared, for a second, that the two of you would become one.

“I’m gonna fuck you,” he warns, his green eyes, now a darker shade, looking into yours and showing all the impure thoughts he was having. “I’m gonna fuck you hard against that table, Mila, and I swear to God I won’t stop. So, if you don’t want that, tell me now and I’ll take you home.”

“No,” you say, desperately and shamefully wet. “I need you.”

“I know you do,” he says, his voice full of malice. His hands roam your body, touching only the top of your breasts, not lingering on them for more than a minute.

Then, Luke’s hands find the middle of your legs, and you close your eyes, embarrassed that he would now know how turned on you were.

You can hear Luke’s ragged breathing as he pulls the wet fabric of your panties up, making you moan as the fabric touches your clit, splitting your two outer labia.

“You’re so wet, bunny,” He murmurs against your skin, playing with the thin and—now—soaked fabric of your panties. “I bet I don’t even have to prep you before slamming my dick into you with how sloppy you probably are.”

You moan loudly, feeling your cheeks burn with embarrassment.

“Luke—”

Your speech is cut off when he shoves your panties to the side and thrusts two fingers inside you, thrusting them with urgency and need.

“I knew it,” he chuckles. “So. Fucking. Loose.”

You grip his arm, feeling wetter than you had ever felt in your life. Luke had always been sweet and loving, and you loved that face of his. But this? This is so much better.

Two of his fingers were moving in and out quickly, while his thumb was touching your clit quickly, making you see stars. The wet sounds filled the room and made you close your eyes in shame.

The weight of Luke's body on yours was comfortable and overwhelming at the same time, the height difference only making you feel even more like prey that had just been captured.

“Luke, fuck.”

“It’s a shame that a cute bunny like you has such a dirty mouth,” he makes a tsc sound with his tongue, not once stopping moving his fingers. “Did no one teach you manners?”

You shake your head, moaning loudly and forgetting that the door wasn’t locked, and that there was a party going on downstairs, with hundreds of people who at any moment could open the door and see the obscenity happening in front of them.

“I’m gonna come, Luke, please, I will—”

Tears immediately form in your eyes when Luke suddenly removes his fingers from inside you. “What? Why did you stop?” You sob.

“Because I wanted to.” He simply says, kissing your cheek, the sweetness of his act contrasting with the harshness of his words.

He comes closer again, running both hands behind your thighs, picking you up with ease. Then, he walks towards the table in the middle of the room, stopping in front of it and placing you on the floor gently.

He kisses you again, biting your lips right after.

“Turn around, cutie,” he smiles, before unbuttoning his pants and pulling them down along with his underwear, making you sigh.

Luke is big. Like, bigger than any of the guys you’ve been with before, probably thicker too.

“What?” He smirks. “Did the little bunny bite off more than she can chew?”

Gulping, you shake your head. “Y-you’re… big.”

“Mhm,” he shamelessly grabs his cock, stroking the head a few times, spreading the precum all over his length, as you watch with awe, his hand size matching his dick. “Think you can take it?”

Even though your brain screamed for you to run and hide, the unstoppable throbbing between your legs was too hard to ignore.

“Yes, but… even if I can’t,” you tilt your head up, staring at his lustful eyes. “You’ll make me, right?”

“Smart, smart bunny.”

He kisses you again before turning your body around, placing your hands on the table and lifting your skirt. You can feel him removing your panties as he spreads your legs wide with his feet.

He runs his cock over your lips for a few seconds, the wet sounds echoing off the walls of the room, and when he finally enters, it’s like everything you’ve been searching for finally makes sense.

“Holy fuck, Mila,” he groans, resting his torso against your back.

He doesn’t wait for you to adjust before pulling his entire length out of you and putting it back in, thrusting hard and precisely. Your hands grip the wood beneath your fingers tightly, and your eyes meet the back of your head.

You can feel the tears decorating your face, as Luke grips your waist with an incredible force and pushes his cock hard inside you, moaning loudly.

“You’re so fucking wet, baby,” he says, and you bite your lips, holding back a loud moan. “You’re getting my dick so wet.”

“Luke.”

You didn’t care about anything anymore. All you wanted was to cum, and preferably on his fingers.

He seemed to have heard your thoughts, as it didn't take him long to support one of your legs on the table, entering even deeper inside you, hitting places no one had ever hit before. Then, moving his fingers over your engorged clit, he rubbed it mercilessly, your orgasm building faster, since he edged you not even ten minutes ago.

“Luke,” you sob, calling out his name. “I’m gonna come.”

“Are you going to make a mess?”

“I-I don’t know—”

“Then hold it,” he says, as he applies even more pressure on your sensitive nub, slamming his dick deeper onto your g-spot.

“I can’t, I need to—”

“Baby, you’re not the one in charge here,” his voice is soft, gentle and calming— it didn't stop your tears, though. “If you’re not gonna make a mess, then why should I bother letting you come anyway?”

“Please, Luke, please,” you hiccup, feeling some pieces of the wood get under your nails with how hard you were scratching the table.

“Make a mess, Mila. That’s the only way you’re coming tonight.”

You’re dizzy. Your head is empty and you only need to let Luke ruin you, and everything you believe. When you finally reach your peak, you come, wetting his fingers, your thighs and the table, but none of that is enough for the curly haired boy behind you.

He keeps rubbing you, biting your neck, fucking you into pure oblivion, overwhelming you to the max. And when you feel himself pulling away, you shake your head, crying louder and clenching your hole around his dick.

He hisses. “Mila.”

“No,” you cry. “Inside— ah, please.”

“You’ll drive me insane,” he jokes, but there isn't a hint of playfulness in his tone. He keeps slamming inside you, until he finally comes, painting your insides white with his release.

It’s dirty, raw and human. It’s oddly comforting and overwhelming at the same time; it’s maddening.

People have been put in mental institutions for feeling much less than you right now.

“Mila.”

Luke’s voice is far, and as you rest your forehead against the cold wood of the table, you can feel him pulling away from you.

“Bunny?”

You feel his hand on your hair, and you can feel his presence everywhere. Wiping your cheeks, cleaning your thighs with his shirt, putting your underwear back on, pulling your skirt down. You can feel his warm, burning body behind you as he gets you up and rests your back against his toned abs, kissing your neck gently.

“Hey,” he whispers, and you can tell he’s trying so hard not to freak you out. “Mila, baby.”

“‘Gimme a minute,” you whisper, smelling his perfume, a mix of sandalwood and patchouli.

He lets out a quiet laugh, caressing your thigh with the same hands that held you so strongly not even five minutes ago.

“Do you want to sit?”

“I don’t think I can move my legs right now,” You chuckle, and he hums, wrapping his arms around your waist and lifting you up again, walking you to the couch, laying down with you on top of him. “Feels nice.”

“I know,” he hums back. “Listen, I’m so—”

“Don’t you dare say you’re sorry,” you ask, closing your eyes. “I wanted this.”

“I wasn’t going to apologize for fucking you,” he laughs, and you feel his chest moving under you. “I was going to apologize for not telling you sooner.”

“Telling me what?”

“That I like you.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah,” he kisses your temple. “I don’t know why I didn’t do it sooner. I guess I was just scared.”

Now he sounded like the boy you knew.

“Same. I like you too much to screw things up.” You confess, feeling your cheeks burn.

“Well, that’s good to know.”

You snuggle closer to his body, ignoring the wet clothes and the fact that there was a party happening downstairs, and that Suzy was probably looking for you.

But it was fine. You could deal with her tomorrow.

𖧷

[lustlvii]

May I request a San and Mingi x reader fic? Maybe as a Mafia AU where the reader (fem) is from the enemy family and she’s there to discuss business with them. Something ensues, tension builds.

A smutty one if possible lol. Go wild. Love ur fics and would love to be mutuals!

got some nerve. San , Mingi x Female!reader [MAFIA AU]

Including: Choi San and song mingi

Warnings: Mafia AU, threesome, double penetration, oral (m receiving), like one ass slap, name calling (slut, angel), floor sex basically, spit (MINGI DOES IT LIKE ONCE), This is long and dirty so 😍

Authors note: sorry Anon this took awhile to write!! And yes ofc let's be moots 😽😽🤭 guys I think I enjoy this 🫨 but it's also very long :(

The room smelled like burnt cigars and sandalwood cologne, thick with a silence neither of you cared to break.

You sat, legs crossed at the knee, eyes flickering between the two men at the other end of the table. Mingi leaned back, shoulder brushing San’s as he toyed with a toothpick between his lips, expression unreadable behind the dim glow of low light. San, on the other hand, was all sharp lines and smirking eyes, elbows on the table like he owned the space. Like you were already his, in some twisted way.

"You’ve got some nerve showing up alone," San said first, voice smooth but edged like a blade. "Pretty little thing from that family thinking she can waltz into our territory with demands."

You smiled. Not sweetly. Not apologetically.

"Correction," you said, fingers tapping slowly against your glass of untouched whiskey. "I came with an offer. You want to talk nerves, let’s talk about how you two didn't bring backup either."

Mingi chuckled, low and lazy. "Didn’t think we’d need any. Not for you."

"That confidence is going to get someone killed one day," you murmured.

San tilted his head. "Is that a threat?"

"Not yet."

The silence crackled between the three of you like thunder waiting to break.

San leaned forward now, gaze fixed on yours like he was trying to peel layers back with his stare alone. "You think we’re stupid? Coming in here talking truce like it doesn’t reek of setup?"

You met his gaze evenly. "I think you're smart enough to know that sometimes the enemy of your enemy is worth keeping alive."

Mingi’s eyes narrowed, finally discarding the toothpick. "You mean Jang’s crew. You want us to believe you'd rather help us than see your own family win?"

"Let’s just say…" you said, finally picking up the glass and sipping slow, "I believe in personal survival more than loyalty. And your rivals don’t discriminate when they put a bullet between someone's eyes. Family name or not."

They didn’t say anything. Not for a moment.

Then San’s tongue clicked behind his teeth. "I don’t trust you."

"You shouldn’t."

"But I want to hear more."

Mingi nodded. “You’ve got five minutes, angel.”

You set the glass down with a soft clink, the whiskey untouched again.

"Jang’s expanding. Fast. Too fast," you said, voice even, laced with something just beneath the surface — a dare, maybe. "And he’s not doing it clean. Half of his new muscle is ex-military. The other half? Trigger-happy kids with something to prove. You think this territory of yours is safe?"

San leaned back slowly, tongue pressing into the inside of his cheek. "We can handle Jang."

You nodded once. "Maybe. But how many casualties are you willing to stomach first?"

Mingi crossed his arms over his broad chest, eyes still fixed on you, watching every breath, every flicker of expression. "Why do you care? If he takes us out, that just clears the board for your people."

"My people," you scoffed under your breath, lips twisting. "Would gut me the moment it benefits them. I’m not here to make friends. I’m here to survive. That’s the difference between me and them."

San’s eyes didn’t leave yours, but there was a new glint in them now. Curiosity. Maybe even respect. "And what’s your plan, little traitor?"

You raised an eyebrow. "Information. Routes. Names. I give you access to what Jang’s trying to hide. You hit them before they move. In exchange, I walk when this is over. Clean. Untouched. No ghost on my back. No bullet in mine."

Mingi let out a low whistle. "That’s a lot of trust you're asking for. Dangerous thing to gamble in our world."

"And yet," you said, standing slowly, voice lowering just enough to tighten the room’s tension like a noose, "you haven’t told me to leave."

You stepped around the table now — not rushed, not fearful — until you were standing directly across from the two of them. San’s hand twitched once near the pistol at his waist. You smiled, slow and knowing.

"Am I close enough for you to shoot, San?" you asked. "Or is it that you just don’t want me to leave yet?"

His gaze was sharp. But he didn’t answer.

Mingi sat up straighter, jaw ticking. "You’re a pretty girl with blood on your hands. We’ve killed for less than the name you carry. And yet here you are."

"Here I am," you echoed.

For a long beat, no one moved. The city outside the window pulsed like a heartbeat, muffled by the glass and the weight of what hung in the air between you all.

Finally, San stood, slow and deliberate.

"Three days," he said. "If the intel checks out, we talk again. If it doesn’t—"

"I know," you cut in. "I’ll be the one in the body bag."

Mingi chuckled again, but there was no humor in it. "You really do have some nerve."

San’s stare hadn’t moved from you since the word “walk” left your lips.

But when you stepped closer, just within arm’s reach, his fingers curled around your chin without hesitation.

“Untouched, huh?” he murmured, tilting your face up. His thumb swept over your bottom lip like he was checking for a lie. “Bet that mouth’s told more stories than your eyes ever will.”

“Want me to tell you one?” you breathed, lashes low.

San’s smirk was sharp enough to cut. “No,” he said. “I want you to show me.”

Behind you, Mingi stood as well—slower, heavier, the sound of his chair scraping against the concrete floor echoing like a countdown.

Your breath hitched.

Two predators now circled.

San’s grip slid to your throat—not choking, just holding, commanding. “On your knees, angel,” he said, voice so low it barely qualified as sound.

You sank without protest.

“Good girl,” Mingi muttered behind you, dragging his palm across your cheek once, affectionate in a twisted way.

The clink of a belt unbuckling made your stomach flutter. San tugged his jeans down just enough for his cock to spring free—hard, flushed, already leaking. He tapped it twice against your lips.

“Open wide. Don’t make me ask again.”

You did.

He slid in slowly at first—almost gentle—but that mercy vanished the moment your tongue flattened against the underside of him.

San groaned, hand threading into your hair. “Fuck… just like that. Traitor’s mouth was made for this.”

Mingi crouched beside you, watching the way your cheeks hollowed as San thrust forward again, testing your limits.

“Sloppy little thing,” he muttered. “Drool’s already running down your chin.”

San chuckled, low and pleased. “You like being used, don’t you?”

You moaned around his cock, eyes fluttering shut.

“Keep them open,” he ordered, jaw tight. “Wanna see that look when you choke on it.”

He shoved deeper this time—faster—fucking your face like you weren’t someone who’d just bargained your way into a war.

You gagged once. Then twice.

And San only groaned louder. “God, that sound... makes me wanna ruin you right here.”

Mingi’s hand gripped your jaw, turning your head slightly even as San’s cock stayed buried in your throat. “Bet your cunt’s soaking, huh? Squeezing nothing but air.”

You couldn’t speak.

Didn’t need to.

Mingi’s fingers slid down your side, grazing over your ass as he murmured in your ear. “Don’t worry, pretty girl. I’ll fix that real soon.”

San pulled out with a wet pop, strings of spit connecting his tip to your lips. You gasped, swallowing air.

But you weren’t given long.

Mingi had already unzipped, dragging the thick length of his cock along your cheek before slapping it against your tongue.

“Let’s see if you can take both of us, angel,” he growled.

Mingi didn’t ease in the way San had. No warning. No gentle stroke. Just a firm grip on the back of your head and the heavy weight of his cock forcing past your lips, thick and hot and demanding.

“Keep your mouth open, sweetheart,” he muttered, voice gravelly. “Gonna fuck it the way you begged us to.”

San stood behind you now, watching—palms dragging slowly down the curve of your back to the swell of your ass, fingers digging into the flesh like he owned it.

And he did.

They both did.

Your throat protested as Mingi thrust deeper, one hand now fisted in your hair, the other guiding your jaw to take more. Drool spilled freely, strings of it falling to the floor, smearing across your chest as you choked and moaned around him.

“Fuck,” he hissed. “This mouth’s unreal. Wet little hole just begging to be ruined.”

Behind you, San dropped to one knee, his breath hot against your thighs.

“You hear her?” he said, voice thick with lust. “So wet I can smell it.”

Two fingers slid between your legs without warning, dragging through the mess dripping down your inner thighs.

Then—smack.

His palm landed hard on your ass. Once. Then again.

You whimpered, full of Mingi, unable to do anything but take it.

San laughed darkly. “She liked that.”

“Of course she did,” Mingi groaned. “Slut like this was made for it.”

Another slap.

San’s fingers returned, this time slipping between your folds, gathering the slick coating your cunt before bringing it to your puckered hole. He pressed, slow, teasing.

“You ever had both holes filled, angel?” he asked, dragging his tongue across the back of your thigh.

You gagged around Mingi’s cock as your body jerked, overwhelmed.

Mingi pulled out just long enough for you to breathe—and that’s when San struck.

Two fingers plunged into your pussy, curling immediately.

“Say it,” he growled in your ear. “Say you want both of us.”

“I—ah—fuck, yes—please,” you gasped, lips swollen, spit and cum slick on your chin. “Want both—please, San—please, Mingi—want it so bad—”

Mingi chuckled, mean and low. “Look at you. Begging to be split open. Your family's little traitor, getting face-fucked and dripping all over the floor like a whore.”

He slapped your face lightly, just enough to make you blink and gasp.

“Dirty little thing,” he spat. Literally. Onto your tongue. “Swallow it.”

You did.

And when you looked up at him, eyes wide, breath hitching—Mingi’s grin widened.

San was already unbuckling again, stroking his cock slow as he stood behind you, tip brushing the soaked seam of your cunt.

“This is gonna hurt, angel,” he murmured into your shoulder, aligning with no hesitation. “But you’re gonna take it. Because you said you wanted to walk away clean, right?”

He pushed in.

One thick inch after another, until your thighs trembled and your moans turned into desperate little sobs.

“Fuuuck—tight little pussy gripping me like she’s scared,” San hissed.

Your face fell forward against Mingi’s thigh as you tried to breathe, but the stretch, the pressure, the fullness—San was deep. So deep.

Then Mingi tapped your lips again.

“You’re not done, sweetheart,” he said, cock sliding along your cheek. “You’ve still got a mouth to fill.”

And just like that—you were trapped again.

Face full. Pussy full.

Used like they’d been planning it from the moment you walked in with your offer and your little whiskey glass.

San fucked you hard, steady. Deep strokes that made your legs shake.

Mingi held your face still, grunting as he used your throat like a toy.

You took it.

Like the good little traitor you were.

“You’re shaking,” San muttered against your shoulder, breath hot and full of mock sympathy. “Is it too much, baby?”

He didn’t slow down.

Not when his cock was buried to the hilt inside you, forcing needy cries from your mouth every time his hips slammed forward. Not even when Mingi shoved you down farther on his length, grip bruising at the sides of your face as you sputtered around him.

It was too much.

Your body didn’t know what to do—split open, gagging, crying, coming again and again. You were locked between them, wrecked, used, and still begging for more with every broken gasp.

“She’s squeezing me so fuckin’ tight,” San growled, digging his fingers into your hips to slam himself deeper. “Like her cunt doesn’t wanna let me go.”

Your vision blurred. Your knees nearly gave.

Mingi laughed, low and cruel. “She’s crying. Look.”

He tilted your chin up, angling your face toward the mirror on the wall.

And there she was.

You.

Mascara streaked. Mouth red and puffy. Drool and tears all over your face, tits bouncing from the force of San's thrusts behind you.

Mingi pushed back in, down your throat again without mercy.

“She looks pretty like this,” he said, voice a rasp. “Mouth wide. Eyes wet. Body full.”

You moaned helplessly. The pain had long since blended with pleasure. It was fire. Electricity. The kind of fucking you didn’t walk away from the same.

San’s hand came around your throat.

“You asked for this, didn’t you?” he murmured. “Came in with your smart little mouth and your cold eyes—thought you could play with fire. Thought you could handle us.”

He squeezed. Just a little. Enough to make your next moan catch in your throat.

“You can handle us though, can’t you?” Mingi muttered as he pulled out with a slick pop, stroking himself in your tears. “Gonna take both now, baby. We’re not done.”

You barely nodded. Couldn’t even speak. Your body already twitched with another orgasm you hadn’t even realized was coming.

Then you felt it—San's cock sliding out of your soaked cunt, slick and hot against your thigh… and then lower.

“No—no wait—” you gasped.

“Shhh, angel,” he whispered, lining up with your ass. “Just breathe.”

Mingi kissed your temple mockingly. “You wanted both holes, didn’t you? Said it so sweet with my cock down your throat. Time to make good on that little promise.”

The stretch was unreal. Burning.

Your whole body seized as San slowly, relentlessly pushed in—while Mingi slid back inside your raw, used pussy like he belonged there.

Full.

Overwhelmed. Impaled.

You moaned.

The mirror blurred again with fresh tears, your body convulsing with overstimulation and pain and white-hot need.

“Oh my god—fuckfuckfuck—”

“You’re taking it so well, baby,” Mingi groaned, bottoming out and grinding his hips forward. “So fucking deep.”

They moved in tandem now. A rhythm so punishing it left your thoughts in ruin.

Mingi fucking up into you while San split you open from behind.

“Can feel him,” Mingi growled, eyes dark and locked on your face. “Feel him inside through your pussy. You’re stuffed so full it’s crazy.”

You couldn’t hold it.

Your body locked up—spasmed—and then broke.

You came again, harder than ever, your whole form wracked with sobs as you squirted all over Mingi’s cock, soaking both of them, the floor, your thighs.

San groaned, filthy and breathless.

“Fuck— she just gushed all over me,” San groaned, hips stuttering. His voice was wrecked now, your walls clenched around them both. “She’s still fucking pulsing—god, I’m gonna—”

His voice broke off.

You felt it.

Hot. Sudden. Thick.

San’s hands dug into your hips as he buried himself to the hilt and came deep inside your ass with a ragged growl, body locked against yours, breath trembling as he painted your insides with thick heat.

“Fuck—fuck,” he breathed.

Mingi wasn’t far behind. He snarled something sharp in Korean you barely caught—tight little slut—before he was slamming in one last time, grinding his hips as his own release flooded you.

Two loads.

Deep inside.

One in your ass, one filling your pussy to the brim, so much it was already leaking out around their cocks, dripping down your thighs in messy streaks.

Your body gave out. Utterly limp. Muscles twitching in the aftermath.

They stayed there for a moment—San pressing his forehead to your back, Mingi brushing damp strands from your ruined face.

Then San pulled out with a low hiss.

“Goddamn,” he muttered.

Mingi followed, watching the mess leak from your pussy with a look of smug satisfaction.

“Full of us,” he murmured. “Just how we like it.”

You whimpered, still trembling as the overstimulation bled into exhaustion.

San stood and grabbed your chin, forcing your dazed gaze up toward him. “You still with us, sweetheart?”

You nodded weakly.

He chuckled. “Good. Because we’re not done talking.”

He helped you get up, not gently but not cruelly either. Mingi took the seat again, back to lazy posture and half-lidded eyes like he hadn’t just broken you open minutes ago.

San poured himself another drink. Lit a cigarette.

“Now,” he said, voice calm again, collected. “Jang’s main storage hub. You said you know the new route?”

You swallowed thickly, still panting. “Warehouse 39… by the docks. They rotate every five days. Next shift is tomorrow morning. 4 a.m.”

San nodded slowly. Mingi’s eyes sharpened.

“Names?” Mingi asked.

You gave them—three enforcers, one truck driver, a corrupt customs agent.

San blew out smoke toward the ceiling. “How’d you get this?”

“My brother’s burner phone,” you said, voice raw and barely audible. “He left it unlocked. Got sloppy.”

“And you just happened to be looking?”

“I was looking for anything that would keep me alive.”

Mingi smirked. “Smart girl.”

“Dangerous girl,” San corrected, eyes lingering on your wrecked body. “Traitor. Liar. But fuckable.”

You didn’t flinch.

“Still breathing, aren’t I?”

He laughed low. “Yeah. You are.”

Mingi stood and cracked his neck, eyes flicking toward San. “We move before sunrise. Hit the route before Jang even smells a rat.”

San looked back at you. “You’ll be in our custody ‘til it’s over. Insurance. Can’t have you slipping back to your side with a sweet little smile.”

You didn’t argue.

You couldn’t.

Not with your thighs still slick from cum and your body barely holding together.

You just stood there, eyes half-lidded. Waiting. Wanting.

They would use you again. Soon. You knew it.

But for now… business came first.

Writing by @lustlvii please do not translate or publish anywhere

[op1umeyes]

Hi! Firstly, I wanted to say that I adore your imagines! Secondly , I was hoping you’d agree to write an imagine based on s3 e7. Specifically the end of it when he’s sitting on his couch rubbing his fingers the baby touched. Maybe that makes him realize he wants a baby of his own with you? Thanks in advance!!!🩵

what i want ✩ gregory house

🫀- synopsis. Greg knows what he wants, but he needs to know that you want the same thing.

🫀 - warnings. I got a little carried away… SLIGHT impregnation kink. OOC House but i dont care. i hope you enjoyed this, anon!! 🤍

Greg’s mind had been bizarrely silent.

Instead of the regular influx of thoughts that flooded his brain, Greg just heard his heartbeat and his breathing. Well, the T.V. too, but the point is that something was off.

The face of House’s watch read fifteen minutes before eleven o’clock at night, and Greg hadn’t thought if a single thing since the surgery.

The case was an unusual one- as always- consisting of a pregnant photographer who had a stroke. After fainting, House and the team had deducted that the baby (House consistently reffered to it as ‘the fetus’) was killing the mother. Eventually, her organs started to shut down so a surgery was needed to fix the baby to fix Emma.

During the surgery, the unborn child had reached out and clasped it’s tiny hand around Greg’s pointer finger. The baby’s arm wasn’t even the length of Greg’s finger, House noticed. Truly, Greg hadn’t realized how long he had been staring at the baby’s fingers until Cuddy had called his name twice.

Now House thought of that moment in the operating room. He pressed his thumb down lightly to match the amount of pressure Greg felt when the baby held onto him.

Kids were a nuisance. A waste of money, the reason why so many people had heart attacks, and disrespectful. But… they were also cute sometimes and, apparently, wanted nothing more than to make their mommy and daddy proud of them. Well, that’s what Wilson had said when Greg had asked why people wanted kids so badly.

Greg didn’t know if you wanted kids.

You were great with them at any age- infant, toddler, and even those devilish pre-teens. In fact, you seemed to glow whenever someone trusted you to hold their baby. You made sure to look up and find Greg: watching you like he always does. He can’t help but feel a wry smile pull at his lips when he pictures you, your own finger being clutched by your own baby.

Greg was torn; he didn’t know what he wanted.

“I think I’m going to blow up,” you sang as you closed the door behind you. Greg stays still, thumb still pressing on his pointer finger.

You toe off your shoes and start to unbuckle your jeans as you head for your shared room. Greg doesn’t look up when you eventually traipse back out wearing Greg’s sweatpants and and old shirt Greg didn’t know he had. You navigate yourself under his arms and carefully over his leg to lay carefully on him. Greg feels the slow puff of your breath on his neck as you exhale. “Did you eat already, love?”

Greg lets out his own sigh and he let’s his hands rest on your back. “No. Expired lasagna didn’t really sound too appealing to my refined taste,” he replies.

“What’s wrong?” You ask looking up at him.

Greg blinks at you. As he slowly meets your eyes, he starts to feel you hand gently raking his hair back and running your thumb over his prickly facial hair. Just like you always do.

And then it comes to him.

“Do you… want kids?”

Your eyebrows furrow. “I… don’t think so. I don’t- well, you don’t want kids, do you?”

“That’s not what I asked,” Greg chided, squeezing your ass. “Do you want kids?”

It takes you a ling moment to answer. So long, in fact, that Greg thinks you may have fallen asleep with your eyes open. “Probably not. I don’t think you want kids so I haven’t really thought about it. Why?”

Greg keeps going. “Would you want kids? With me?”

You lay your head back down on his chest. “Yeah. If you wanted them too.”

House doesn’t really know how to proceed with the conversation, so he lets you play with his fingers as you watch the baseball game Greg put on. “I want one.”

Your movements stop. Yet again, you peer up at Greg. This time with unhealthily furrowed eyebrows. One of your hands comes up to check your boyfriend’s temperature. “Are you okay? Do I need to call Wilson?”

Greg looks pained as his hands slide up your body to rest at your face. His thumbs rest on your cheekbones. “I want a baby with you, y/n,” he tells you, eyes flickering from your eyes to your lips. “I want- I want your womb to swell with our kid. I want a little extension of you to put up with when you’re working late. I want you to marry me and I want you to be the mother of my child.”

Your mouth dropped open. “That’s- wow.”

“Wow,” Greg repeats with an unsure smile.

“I’m not going to lie,” you say, cracking a smile. “I’m pretty turned on right now. I’m just really surprised that you have baby fever.”

Greg groans. “Tell me what you want, woman! I just rather uncharacteristically spilled my guts and you say ‘wow’!”

You snicker and support Greg’s neck with your hand as you lean up to kiss him. As expected, he wraps his arms tightly around your waist and reciprocates your passion tenfold.

“We could practice the baby-making for the honeymoon,” you whisper after pulling away from his lips.

Greg’s eyes flutter closed and you chuckle. “I would say ‘race you to the bedroom’, but I think you’re going to beat me anyway,” he rasps. You exhale a laugh through your nose as you start to press kisses from his lips hown to his neck. “Let’s go to the bedroom, yeah?” Greg asks, humping you pathetically as you kiss him.

“Fuck yeah,” you respond lowly, a dangerous smile in your face.

[dragoneyelashart]

not alot, just forever

fluff/ angst/ smut ୨ৎ

a/n: kind of inspired by gilmore girls wc: 8.2k words

the town’s small. not in the cute brochure way, but in the way that everyone knows your last name, and your dog’s name, and what kind of coffee you drink when it’s raining. it’s the kind of place where people wave from their cars, where the hardware store still writes receipts by hand, and where gossip moves faster than cell service.

your café sits on the corner of main and pine, right where the sidewalk cracks from the roots of an old tree no one’s had the heart to cut down. it’s got a crooked front window and a hand-painted sign that’s faded just enough to feel lived in. the inside smells like espresso, warm bread, and whatever candle you remembered to light that morning. vanilla and cedar today, something soft.

you open early. before the sun sometimes. before the bakery next door even finishes their first batch. the regulars come in half-awake, rubbing sleep out of their eyes, trading quiet good mornings and weather talk. you keep the music low. nothing that talks too loud.

there’s a slow rhythm here. the mail truck pulls up at nine. the local high school kids try to sneak in before class, thinking you don’t notice their backpacks and fake IDs. the sheriff always comes by at noon, nods like he doesn’t have time to sit, then stays for twenty minutes.

it’s not flashy. not exciting. but it’s yours. your space, your hands on every corner of it, from the mismatched mugs to the chalkboard menu that smudges no matter how carefully you write.

you built this place like a second skin. like something to belong to.

and even on the days when the sky’s gray and your body’s tired and you want the whole town to just shut up for five minutes, you love it. you love it the way you love an old book. the way you love silence after too much noise.

it’s just past 10 when she walks in.

you don’t even have to look at the clock. you know her footsteps by now, slow, heavy, like she’s already tired of the day. the bell above the door rings a half-second before the scent of outside air slips in with her, warm and full of summer dust.

you glance up. she’s wearing jeans that look like they’ve been through something, cuffed sloppily at the ankle, and a black t-shirt that says i have the dick so i make the rules in bold white letters. subtle, as always.

you roll your eyes before she even says anything.

she catches the look and smirks like she’s already won. “good morning to you too, sunshine.”

“barely morning,” you mutter, wiping down the espresso machine even though it doesn’t need it.

she drops her laptop on the counter table like she didn’t just walk in here with that shirt and expect to be normal about it.

“bold outfit,” you say, eyes flicking back to the phrase stretched across her chest.

she shrugs, sliding onto one of the stools. “had a long night. didn’t really look in the mirror.”

you hum, not sure if you believe her.

her hair’s a little messy, in that “i don’t care” way that actually means she probably spent twenty minutes getting it just messy enough. dark circles under her eyes, but still somehow glowing. she pulls the laptop open like she’s here to get work done, but you already know that’s a lie.

“you actually gonna use that thing?” you ask, nodding to the laptop.

“maybe. depends if you’re interesting enough today.”

“so probably not.”

she grins. “don’t sell yourself short, babe. you’re half the reason i’m even vertical right now.”

you snort. “and the other half?”

“caffeine. spite. sexual tension.”

you don’t respond, but you can feel the heat crawl up your neck. you turn away, pretending to rearrange the croissants even though they’re already lined up.

the café’s in its late-morning lull. a few people are tucked into booths, quiet conversation and the soft clink of ceramic mugs. the sunlight through the windows makes the wooden floors glow, and everything feels a little softer than it should, too peaceful, too golden.

and then there’s her. sprawled out at the end of the counter like it’s her personal front-row seat to your daily performance.

she types something on her laptop. you glance over, probably fake typing, she’s been on the same screen for ten minutes.

but her eyes? they’re watching you.

always you.

you move through the motions, restocking lids, sweeping up stray sugar packets, pulling espresso shots, and you can feel her watching.

not in a creepy way. not in a heavy way. just... there. steady. like background music you’ve started to memorize.

“so what was this long night?” you ask, breaking the quiet.

she shrugs, not looking away from her screen. “went out. stayed out. regretted it halfway through.”

“rough crowd?”

“rough thoughts,” she says, and that’s all.

you don’t push. you never do.

but your fingers slow on the lid stack. and for a second, the silence feels a little too loud.

“coffee?” you ask instead, voice softer now.

she looks up.

“you offering, or trying to get me to pay rent?”

“depends on how annoying you plan to be today.”

“guess you’ll find out.”

you roll your eyes and grab a cup anyway. you don’t even ask what she wants, you already know. you always know.

she watches you make it. you can feel her eyes on your hands, your shoulders, your mouth when you frown at the milk frother.

you try not to let it show, but it’s hard to pretend she’s just another customer when she looks at you like that. like you’re a painting in a museum she keeps sneaking glances at when no one’s looking.

you hand her the cup, fingers brushing just barely.

she takes the cup from your hand, but doesn’t drink it right away. just holds it like it might say something. her fingers tap twice against the lid before she finally lifts it to her lips.

“mmm,” she hums, eyes closed for a second. “you spoil me.”

“you overpay me.”

“you don’t charge me.”

“exactly.”

she cracks one eye open, tilts her head. “that a confession?”

“that’s a mistake,” you mutter, moving back behind the bar.

she laughs, short, a little raspy. it sticks to the air like steam.

you turn toward the sink, rinse out a milk pitcher that didn’t really need rinsing, and she’s still there when you turn around again. legs crossed now, one boot toe tapping against the wooden rung of the stool.

“you sleep at all?” you ask.

“enough.”

“that’s not a real answer.”

“neither was your question,” she says, biting the inside of her cheek like she’s trying not to grin. “you checking on me?”

“no.”

“liar.”

you shake your head, but your lips press into something that’s not quite a smile. she catches it anyway.

“you want half my croissant?” she asks, already tearing it unevenly.

“you haven’t ordered one.”

“semantics.”

she digs into the bag she brought with her , paper, stamped from the bakery two doors down. same one she always swings by before landing here. she slides the smaller half across the counter toward you, crumbs trailing behind like breadcrumbs in a storybook.

you glance at it, then at her. “you didn’t wash your hands.”

“i licked them.”

“you’re disgusting.”

“and yet, here you are.”

you stare her down for a second longer, then take the croissant.

she beams. like she’s won something.

the air in the café is thick with that lazy mid-morning warmth, sun on wood, cinnamon-sugar glaze softening under the heat, the buzz of quiet conversation and distant jazz playing low from the speaker above the espresso machine. you wipe down the counter between customers, slow and methodical. not because you need to, but because it gives your hands something to do.

billie keeps typing now, like she’s suddenly in the mood to be productive. her brow furrows. she chews her straw thoughtfully, even though the drink is hot and has no straw.

“hey,” she says, not looking up, “what’s a better word than bittersweet but, like... not as cheesy?”

you think for a second. “melancholy.”

“too soft.”

“poignant.”

“too smart.”

“complicated?”

she lifts her head, grinning. “you calling me complicated?”

“i’m saying you don’t like big words.”

“i like big mouths,” she says, “and you’ve got one, sweetheart.”

you shoot her a look.

she just winks.

someone new comes in, orders an iced chai and a bagel with too many modifications. you nod along, polite, efficient, not really listening. you make the drink, ring it up, hand it off. they thank you and leave.

when you glance back, billie’s watching again. not sneaky about it. just... there.

you arch an eyebrow.

“what?”

“nothing,” she says, smiling behind the rim of her cup. “you’re just cute when you’re fake-nice.”

“i’m not fake.”

“you hate 80% of your customers.”

“wrong. it’s 85.”

she laughs again, louder this time, and it draws the attention of a woman sitting at the window with her book. you pretend not to notice.

“you ever think about doing something else?” she asks, more casually than you expect.

“like what?”

“i don’t know. something where you don’t have to talk to people.”

you glance around the café, wood counters, low-hanging light fixtures, plants someone gave you two years ago still thriving in mismatched pots. “this is that job.”

“fair.”

she sips again, then rests her chin on her palm. “so you like it here?”

you shrug. “it’s mine.”

“good answer,” she says, voice softening a little. “that’s rare.”

you say nothing, and the silence settles again, not uncomfortable, just full.

like the light coming through the windows. like the sound of spoons clinking on ceramic.

around noon, she kicks off one shoe and folds her leg beneath her. then she pushes her cup toward you across the counter.

“top-up?”

“you’ve had enough.”

“it’s decaf,” she lies.

you stare at her. “it’s not.”

“maybe the real caffeine is the friends we made along the way.”

“that doesn’t make sense.”

“it does in my heart.”

you sigh and take the cup anyway.

“you’re enabling me,” she calls after you.

“i regret everything.”

you bring the cup back, hot and full, and set it in front of her.

she takes it with a mockingly sincere “thank you,” then blows across the top before taking a sip.

“perfect, as always,” she murmurs.

you don’t answer. just keep wiping down the same spot on the counter until it shines.

outside, the sidewalk’s warmed up. you can see the shimmer of heat in the distance, over the roof of the corner store across the street. a couple kids on bikes zoom by, laughing too loud. someone’s dog barks at nothing.

inside, it’s quieter. cooler. more deliberate.

billie’s watching you again. or maybe still.

“you ever take a break?” she asks.

you shrug. “sometimes.”

“you should take one now.”

“why.”

“so i can bother you without you having an excuse to run away.”

“who says i’m running?”

she tilts her head, studying you like she’s trying to solve a puzzle with one missing piece.

then she says, very softly, “nobody.”

and just like that, the moment folds in on itself. not dramatic. not sharp. just a quiet, off-center pause in the middle of a slow day.

you go back to the register.

she goes back to her laptop.

she spins slowly on the stool, back and forth, foot dragging lightly on the wooden rung beneath her. like a child.

“you know you’re my favorite person here, right?” she says after a while.

you pause with your hand on the espresso grinder. “i’m the only person who talks to you.”

“yeah well,” she shrugs. “still counts.”

you don’t reply, just flip a switch. the grinder hums. she watches you like she always does, not just with her eyes, but with her whole body, always leaning in, elbows on the counter like she’s waiting for a secret to slip out of your mouth.

you think about saying something sharp. instead, you grab a clean rag and wipe a spot near her elbow.

“you should actually work,” you murmur.

she sighs, the way she does when she’s about to say something half-serious and ruin the moment. but she doesn't.

instead: “you got a favorite flower?”

you blink.

“what?”

“flower. like, if you had to choose.”

“why?”

she shrugs, lazy. “just making conversation.”

“you never ‘just’ do anything.”

“you’re stalling.”

“i like lilies.”

“classic.”

“what, you expected something weirder?”

“nah,” she says, tipping her head back. “i expected something quiet. like you.”

you glance up.

she’s not looking at you now, just at the ceiling.

the moment stretches longer than you meant for it to. so you cut it.

“i think your laptop just fell asleep from neglect.”

she looks at it like she forgot it was even there.

“honestly, same.”

“what do you even do for a living?” you ask, mostly to change the subject.

“writer,” she says, drawing a little air quote in the sky.

you laugh, “you haven’t written a single word today.”

“i’ve been doing character studies,” she says, gesturing vaguely toward you. “you’re very inspiring.”

“you’re very unemployed.”

she gasps. “slander.”

you shrug. “truth.”

it starts with the rain.

fat drops hammering the windows like they’re trying to get in. you hear it before you see it, the hush of wind curling around the side of the building, the soft tap that builds and builds until it sounds like the sky is cracking open. the street outside is dark and empty, wet pavement glowing in flashes beneath the streetlights. your sign flickers once. holds.

the café is closed.

chairs flipped up on tables. floor freshly mopped. everything quiet except for the hum of the fridge and the storm rolling in above town. you move through it like you always do, towel in hand, mind on autopilot, wiping down surfaces that don’t really need it. the lights are dim, just the low amber ones near the counter still on. enough to see, but not enough to feel fully awake.

and then the door opens.

you hear it, that jingle you know like your own name. and for a second, you think maybe you imagined it. no one should be out right now. not in this weather.

but then she’s there.

billie.

drenched.

her hair’s plastered to her forehead, soaked all the way through. her shirt clings to her skin, black fabric darker with water, jeans stuck to her legs like she waded through a flood. she’s breathing hard like she ran here, though you doubt she did. her boots squeak on the floor.

"you’re closed," she says, but she’s already stepping inside.

"you think?"

she huffs a laugh and pushes the door shut behind her, the sound of rain suddenly muffled.

"thought i’d try my luck."

"what are you even doing out in this?"

she shrugs, like it’s nothing. like she didn’t just walk through a downpour with no umbrella, no explanation, and end up at your door.

"couldn’t sleep."

"so you decided to trespass."

she walks past the front tables, slow and dripping. "you always say that, but you never kick me out."

"you’re getting water all over my clean floor."

she spreads her arms, flashing that cocky grin even as water slides down her neck. "guess you’ll just have to mop again."

"unbelievable."

"consistently."

she peels off her jacket, leather, of course, now soaked through, and drapes it over the back of a chair. she’s shivering a little. you notice it and try not to.

"i’m making tea," you mutter, heading toward the counter. "you’re not getting coffee this late."

"yes, mom."

"keep that up and you’re getting nothing."

"you wound me."

you put the kettle on. the café smells like vanilla and lemon cleaner and storm air, sharp and fresh and oddly sweet. you hear her move behind you, the sound of her shoes coming off, probably. a sigh as she drops into a chair.

you don’t look at her.

two mugs. the good kind. not the chipped ones you give to people you don’t like.

"you okay?" you ask, because the silence stretches too long.

she doesn’t answer right away. just breathes.

"yeah," she says finally, quiet. "just... didn’t wanna be home."

you nod like that makes perfect sense. and somehow, it does.

the tea steeps. you hand her a mug and sit across from her at one of the low tables by the window.

she curls her fingers around the cup like it’s a lifeline. steam fogs up the glass. outside, the rain keeps falling, heavier now. you can’t even see the sidewalk anymore.

for a while, neither of you talk.

just the clink of ceramic. the sound of breathing. a storm outside that makes everything inside feel closer, smaller, quieter.

"you’re not gonna ask me what’s wrong?" she says eventually, looking at you over the rim of her mug.

"no."

she nods, like she expected that.

"you always do that."

"do what."

"give me space. even when i don’t ask for it."

"maybe i’m just polite."

"maybe you just get it."

you don’t respond. the air feels too full again. your tea’s gone cold, but you don’t move.

she shifts in her chair, leans back, eyes tracing the ceiling.

"you ever feel like everything’s just... closing in? like the whole town’s a box and someone’s slowly taping it shut?"

you blink. not sure what to say.

"you could’ve gone anywhere," you say.

she looks at you. eyes darker in this light. softer.

"nah," she says. "just here."

you hold her gaze for a second too long.

then you stand. grab her mug.

"more tea?"

"please."

you walk away. her voice follows, low and warm.

"you’re a softie when no one’s looking."

"shut up."

flashback: the first time she walked in

it was fall. early, before the leaves started to turn.

a tuesday, maybe. definitely slow.

you were behind the counter, wiping down the pastry case and half-listening to the radio. a soft indie track humming through the speakers. it was quiet. the kind of quiet you’d grown used to.

and then the door opened.

billie.

new face. confident stride. a little too loud for the space. sunglasses pushed up into her hair, silver chain around her neck, smirk already in place like she’d been practicing it in the mirror.

"hey," she said, walking right up to the counter like she belonged.

"hi."

"what’s good here?"

"everything."

"bold claim."

"accurate one."

she grinned.

"alright, mystery barista. surprise me."

"you allergic to anything?"

"just commitment."

that made you snort. you hated that it made you snort.

you made her a iced spanish latte with oat milk. handed it over in a to-go cup and watched her take a sip.

her eyes lit up.

"damn. okay. this is actually fire."

"told you."

"don’t get cocky."

"don’t come into my café talking big if you can’t handle the menu."

she blinked. smiled wider. leaned her elbows on the counter.

"i like you."

"you don’t know me."

"yet."

she came back the next day.

and the next.

and the next.

always something different, a bad joke, a new excuse, a worse shirt. but always that grin. always that spark. like she was waiting to catch you slipping. like she wanted to.

and somewhere between then and now, she stopped being a stranger.

and started being something else.

whatever that means.

back in the present, the rain is slowing.

the café feels smaller now. dimmer. she’s curled up in one of the big chairs near the window, tea gone, jacket still damp on the back of another chair.

you’re across from her, one leg tucked under you, fingers tracing the rim of your cup.

everything’s quiet.

"thanks for the tea," she says softly, breaking the silence.

"don’t mention it."

she looks at you, long and unreadable.

"no, seriously. thank you."

you nod.

and that’s it.

almost.

there’s a beat, a breath, where something could shift.

but it doesn’t.

not yet.

but then she shifts forward, slow and deliberate, like she’s testing gravity itself. her eyes search yours, not asking, not begging, just waiting. you don’t breathe. don’t move. until you do.

you lean in.

it’s not dramatic. it’s not sudden. it’s the kind of kiss that feels like it’s been building for years, a question finally answered. her lips are cold from the rain but her breath is warm, and the moment your mouths meet, the storm outside might as well disappear. everything narrows to the press of her hand against your knee, the tilt of her head, the impossible closeness.

it’s quiet. slow. reverent.

when you part, she lingers close, noses brushing.

"took you long enough," she whispers.

"you’re dripping on my chair," you whisper back.

she laughs, and it sounds like something breaking open.

like relief.

like home.

it’s been four years.

billie got out.

not just out of the town, out of the box she used to describe so vividly, the one with the walls closing in. she wrote about it, too. turned those suffocating feelings into paper and ink, pain into poetry, long nights into chapters that other people held in their hands. her first novel hit shelves like a thunderclap. then came the interviews. the book tours. the readings in crowded rooms where people clung to every word she said. she got famous. not explosively, but steadily. like the world had been waiting to hear from her and finally could.

you watched it all from the café.

same sign. same flickering bulb. same uneven table in the corner no one ever wanted except billie.

her name was everywhere, a whisper in literary circles that grew louder until it became a shout: billie. the girl who walked into your life like a storm, then left it drenched and broken behind her.

but you? you were left in the silence that came after.

she didn’t say goodbye.

not a word the next day after that kiss. no phone call, no text, no last look. just gone, like she was never really there.

and that absence? 

you opened the café and found the chair where she sat still damp from her jacket. her cup still on the table, empty. like she’d just stepped out to take a call and never came back.

and maybe you waited longer than you should’ve. maybe every time the door opened for weeks after, your chest hitched just a little. but she didn’t come back. not then. not for a long time. you replayed the last night over and over in your mind. the warmth of her lips against yours, the way her hand pressed into your knee like she was holding onto something too fragile to lose. but the warmth turned cold quickly. the next morning, only a void remained.

your life didn’t stop.

it just got quieter.

it didn’t just hurt. it hollowed you out.

the café felt different after that. the regulars kept coming. tourists in the summer, college kids in the fall. you got a new barista to help with mornings. painted the walls. changed the playlist.

but every now and then, someone would leave a copy of her book on a table. and you’d pretend not to see it.

until you did.

until you read it.

and there you were, in the margins. not named, not spelled out, but unmistakably you. in the taste of spanish latte’s, in the silence between dialogue, in the lines about rain that never felt cold when she was inside.

and it hurt.

because she remembered.

every creak of the floorboards, every clink of a cup felt like an echo of what was lost. you’d catch yourself glancing at the door, half-expecting her to walk back in, drenched and smirking like she always did. but the door stayed closed. the rain fell, but it didn’t wash away the ache. inside you, a quiet storm raged, grief tangled with confusion, love tangled with bitterness.

you wonder if she even thinks about you. if the applause that greets her on stage, the flashing cameras, the whispered praise, do they drown out the memory of that night? or does she feel it too? the loss, the sudden absence that still clings like a shadow?

some nights, the loneliness presses so hard against your ribs you can hardly breathe. you trace the spaces where her fingers used to brush yours, remember the way her laugh filled the room, the reckless hope in her eyes.

but mostly, it’s a dull ache. a weight you carry like a secret, tucked deep beneath the everyday, beneath the routine of opening the café, wiping down counters, making tea for strangers who’ll never know the story you carry.

you tried to move on. tried to believe that the girl who left was gone for good, a chapter closed.

but in the quiet moments, when the world slows, and the storm outside mimics the one inside, you still reach for a ghost.

billie is out there, shining bright and unreachable.

and you’re still here, holding onto the shadow of a kiss that should have meant forever.

some nights, billie lies in hotel beds that smell like bleach and borrowed air, staring at ceilings she doesn’t recognize, wondering what the sky looks like back home.

not the town. not the streets. not the peeling paint on her old apartment door.

just the sky outside your café.

she thinks about the rain.

it always felt different when she was with you. softer. quieter. like it wasn't there to ruin things but to wrap everything in a hush only you and she could hear. the storm that night lingers in her mind more than any interview, more than any standing ovation. she remembers the way your lips felt against hers, tentative, trembling, sure, and how she almost said stay. or maybe don’t let me go. but she didn’t. and the next morning, she ran.

getting out was everything she ever dreamed of. the books. the buzz. the freedom. she doesn’t regret it.

but sometimes she wonders if she mistook escape for healing.

she writes about you. never by name. never directly. but your ghost threads through every chapter. you’re in the spaces between lines. in the quiet barista with gentle hands. in the unfinished love stories. in every mention of coffee and silence and windows fogged by storm-breath.

and no one knows. not really. they think they do. they read her words and imagine someone else. someone flashier, someone louder, someone more tragic.

but it was you.

always you.

she scrolls past the photos of her book signings, smiling faces, hands clutching her novels like they mean something. and they do. they really do. but when the clamor dies down, when the hotel door clicks shut behind her and the minibar hums in the dark, she’s alone.

and in that stillness, she thinks about how you never asked her to stay. how she left anyway. how it was easier to vanish than to risk watching your face fall.

she wonders if you kept the mug she used.

she wonders if you still make tea late at night, for two, out of habit.

she wonders if, maybe, just maybe, you’d want to see her again.

but she doesn’t reach out.

not yet.

because for all the chapters she’s written, that one still terrifies her.

the one where she comes back.

and finds you no longer waiting.

a week passes like fog; thick, slow, heavy.

the town is quieter than usual. even the kids on bikes seem subdued, their laughter dimmed beneath gray skies. everyone’s waiting for something. or maybe mourning something already gone.

the morning of the funeral, the air hangs low. not quite raining, but close, moisture clinging to skin, clouding the edges of windows, making every breath feel heavier.

mr. peterson is gone.

a man whose hands were always smudged with grease, whose voice cracked with too much laughter, who gave away more than he ever charged. he was a fixture in this town. not just a mechanic, not just a neighbor, he was memory made flesh. the kind of person who taught you how to change a tire and how to forgive in the same breath.

you stand near the back of the service, coat buttoned high, fingers knotted tight in your sleeves. the area is full, standing room only. a sea of bowed heads. a tide of grief.

you don’t cry.

not at first.

but when they start reading letters, notes written by kids, old friends, former customers, you feel your chest start to give. like something’s splintering. not all at once. just hairline fractures. soft and slow.

you blink down tears, your throat tight, and when you finally lift your gaze —

you see her.

billie.

she’s near the back. tucked into the shadow of the doorframe. black coat clinging to her body, eyes sharp and distant and aching. she doesn’t belong here, and yet, somehow, she does. she’s the same and not. taller, maybe. more tired around the eyes. her hands are folded in front of her like she’s trying not to shake.

you freeze.

your heart doesn’t beat right. skips. crashes.

she doesn’t see you.

or maybe she does, and she just doesn’t move.

and you don't go to her.

after, the crowd spills out into the misty gray. people hugging, crying, sharing stories in quiet tones. you move with them, pulled along by ritual. but your mind is on her. your skin still humming from the way her presence sliced through the air like a knife.

you don’t speak. you don’t look back. but her shadow follows you home.

you think maybe she’s gone again.

but the next day, you see her.

first it’s just a shape, across the street, moving slow. her hands buried deep in her coat, sunglasses on despite the lack of sun. she walks like she’s listening to old music no one else can hear. then another day. closer this time. standing at the crosswalk. waiting. not crossing. not coming in.

you pretend not to notice.

but of course you notice.

how could you not?

every time the bell above the café door rings, you think it’s her. every stranger with wet hair and tired eyes turns your stomach to knots.

she’s haunting you, and she hasn’t even spoken.

and then, friday night.

the café is dark.

you’ve just mopped the floor. the chairs are up. the last tea cup sits drying in the rack. it smells like lemon and lavender, like peace you haven’t quite earned. you’re locking up. reaching for the switch.

the door opens.

the bell.

your whole body goes still.

slowly, like turning in a dream, you look up.

billie stands in the doorway. wet from the rain. hair curling at the ends. eyes wide, searching.

you can’t breathe.

she’s backlit by the streetlamp, pale gold framing her like something not quite real. water beads along her jaw. she doesn’t speak.

you do.

“we’re closed,” you say, the words flat, automatic.

but it’s not anger in your voice.

it’s fear.

hurt.

history.

she steps inside anyway. closes the door behind her. the bell falls silent. the rain hushes to a whisper against the windows.

“i know,” she says.

you stand behind the counter, both hands gripping the edge. you can feel your heartbeat in your fingertips.

“then what are you doing here?”

her eyes flick around the room like she’s memorizing it. like maybe she’s been seeing it in her head for years and forgot how quiet it really is.

“i couldn’t stay away,” she whispers.

you exhale. sharp. wounded.

“you don’t get to say that. not after four years. not after you left without a word.”

she flinches.

“i know.”

“do you?” you take a step forward, words shaking. “you kissed me and left. didn’t call. didn’t write. just vanished like it meant nothing. like i meant nothing.”

her face breaks at that, creases down the middle like glass spidering beneath pressure.

“you meant everything,” she says, voice low, wrecked.

“then why did you leave?”

“because if i stayed, i wouldn’t have had the strength to go,” she says, eyes locked on yours. “and if i asked you to come with me, you would’ve. and i couldn’t ask you to give this up. the café. your life. you belonged here, and i didn’t even know who i was yet.”

you stare at her.

rain pools at her feet. the floor you just cleaned glistens under her boots.

you should be angry. you are.

but mostly, you’re hollow.

“i waited,” you say. the words barely audible. “for months. i woke up hoping. every day. every day i hoped you’d walk through that door. every day i saved your mug. and then i stopped. because i had to. because you didn’t come back.”

her shoulders tremble. her hands shake.

“i wanted to,” she breathes. “god, i wanted to. every book i wrote, every sentence had you in it. but i scared… i was so scared. of seeing you. of not being what you remembered. of finding you happy without me.”

you say nothing.

the air between you buzzes. too many words. too many memories.

she takes a step closer.

you don’t move.

“i came back,” she says. “because i couldn’t carry it anymore. the silence. the wondering. i needed to see you. even if it hurts. even if you hate me.”

you close your eyes.

because she’s here.

and it hurts.

because you missed her.

and it still hurts.

because part of you never stopped waiting.

and it hurts more than anything.

“i don’t hate you, i could never hate you billie” you whisper.

her breath catches.

you open your eyes and look at her, and she looks so lost. so different. and still so devastatingly familiar.

“but i don’t know if that’s enough.”

she nods. eyes glossy. jaw tight.

“can i sit?” she asks.

“you’re already standing in the past,” you say, voice breaking. “might as well.”

and when she sinks into the nearest chair, small, soaked, shaking, it’s not the reunion either of you dreamed of.

the room is still. too still.

the hum of the fridge in the back is the only sound, low and distant, like a heartbeat underwater. the rain keeps falling against the windows, soft now,more of a whisper than a song. time slows.

you stay behind the counter for a long moment, hands braced against the wood, watching her where she sits,soaking, shivering, small in the big armchair she used to call “her throne.”

she doesn’t look at you.

her eyes are on her hands, clenched in her lap, the knuckles white with strain. her coat is dripping onto the floor. her hair sticks to her cheek. there’s a tremor in her shoulders she’s trying to hide.

you step away from the counter.

cross the floor in slow, careful steps, the echo of your footfalls muffled by the hush. you grab the old throw blanket from the back of the couch,the one customers always fought over on colder mornings. it still smells like lavender and lemon cleaner. you drape it over her shoulders without a word.

she flinches at the contact, but doesn’t pull away.

“you’ll catch cold,” you murmur, voice barely more than breath.

“that’d be fair,” she replies, not looking at you. “at least then the outside would match the inside.”

you sit down across from her, slowly, like the weight of the conversation has aged you ten years. the old table between you is scratched and familiar. there are tea rings stained into the surface. ghostly reminders of better days.

you rest your hands on your knees. open. empty.

she finally lifts her head.

and the moment your eyes meet, it all tightens again, that brutal pull in your chest. her face is thinner, somehow. older. the sharpness around her mouth softened with fatigue. but her eyes are still the same.

still her.

you look away first.

“i made a life without you,” you say softly. “it wasn’t the one i thought i’d have. but i made it.”

her voice cracks.

“i know.”

“and i’m not angry,” you add, even though your throat tightens. “i was. for a long time. but then i got tired. and sadness is quieter. easier to carry.”

she closes her eyes. her chest rises and falls, shallow and quick.

“i hated myself for leaving,” she says. “i still do.”

“then why didn’t you come back?”

“because… i thought it would hurt you more if i did. because i thought you deserved someone who wouldn’t run.” she exhales. “but the truth is, i was just a coward. i was scared that i couldn’t be enough. scared that you’d look at me and see someone smaller than the version you loved.”

you swallow hard.

you want to tell her she was enough. you want to scream that you would’ve followed her anywhere if she had just asked. but the silence has lived between you for too long now. and grief has made your truths quieter.

“i missed you every day,” she whispers. “even when people were cheering for me. even when i stood on stage with my name in lights. none of it felt real. not without you.”

you clench your jaw.

“i watched your interviews,” you say, voice shaking. “i read your books. tried to find myself in the pages. i thought… maybe i’d show up as a line. a place. something.”

“you were everything,” she says instantly, eyes wide. “you were in every line. i just didn’t know how to say it.”

you go quiet.

a breath.

two.

the rain softens.

finally, you whisper, “you broke me.”

her face twists. like you’ve struck her.

but you continue, slow and steady and wrecked: “you broke me, billie. and then you got famous. you got out. and i was still here, trying to remember how to breathe without you.”

tears trace silently down her cheeks.

she doesn’t wipe them.

“i didn’t mean to ruin you,” she says.

“you didn’t,” you reply. “but you didn’t stay to help me rebuild, either.”

she presses her palms to her eyes. breathes in deep. when she drops her hands, her voice is hoarse, broken open.

“do you hate me?”

the question hangs in the air like smoke.

you take your time.

you think about the nights alone. the mornings with no texts. the empty seat in your café. the ache that never left.

and then you think of her laugh. the way her eyes used to crinkle when she was trying not to cry. the way she kissed you like it meant forever.

“no,” you say. “i never could.”

she lets out a sound then, half sob, half exhale.

you lean back in the chair. arms crossed tightly. like you’re holding yourself together.

and she looks at you, through all the time and space and years between you, and asks the only question she’s ever truly feared:

“can you ever forgive me?”

and for the first time in years, you don’t know.

you just look at her.

and feel everything. and nothing. all at once.

you don’t speak for a long time.

her question hovers in the space between you like smoke , fragile, curling, waiting to disappear.

can you ever forgive me?

your fingers twitch against your jeans. your mouth opens, then closes. it’s hard to say the words, not because they aren’t true, but because they are.

you nod.

slowly. once. then again.

and when you finally look her in the eyes, you say, “yeah. i think i already have.”

billie crumbles in the quietest way, her shoulders fold in on themselves, her hands press over her mouth like she’s holding back the kind of sob that doesn’t come from the throat, but from the bones. her whole body shakes, and you don’t hesitate.

you move to her.

kneel in front of the chair, take her hands gently in yours.

she grips you like she might fall through the floor otherwise.

and when you whisper, “come upstairs,” it’s not an invitation out of pity. it’s not because you feel sorry for her. it’s because some part of you, maybe the oldest part, still aches to be close. to know she’s real. to touch the space between you and feel it finally closing.

she just nods.

no words.

just eyes full of disbelief. and hope. and something like reverence.

you lead her to the back door behind the counter, past the shelves of forgotten mugs and the coat you always mean to mend. the stairs creak beneath your steps. they always do.

it’s not a long climb. but it feels like one.

you unlock the door to your apartment and step inside first.

it’s warm. small. safe.

a little kitchen. a threadbare couch. a desk with papers stacked in neat towers. your bed, tucked into the corner, soft with mismatched linens and the weight of years lived alone. plants line the windowsill, stubborn things, thriving despite it all.

she stands just inside the doorway, blinking slowly, like she’s afraid to breathe.

“this is yours?” she asks quietly, eyes scanning the space.

“yeah,” you say. “it’s not much. but it’s mine.”

she smiles , a soft, broken thing , and nods. “it’s beautiful.”

you move to the kitchen, hands shaking slightly, filling the kettle without asking. she sits at the edge of your bed, silent, watching you like she can’t believe this is real.

when you finally hand her a mug, your fingers brush hers.

electric.

she holds it close to her chest, like it’s keeping her grounded. her lips press to the rim, but she doesn’t drink.

“i didn’t date anyone,” you say suddenly, voice barely audible. “all these years. i tried, once or twice. but…”

you shake your head.

“they weren’t you.”

she looks up.

and you see it , the guilt, the sorrow, the overwhelming, all-consuming ache of someone who’s been waiting to hear that and dreading it at the same time.

“i didn’t either,” she whispers. “there were people. parties. places. but i couldn’t… not really. my body showed up. my mouth smiled. but the rest of me was stuck here. with you.”

you sit beside her on the bed.

your knees touch.

you take the mug from her hands, set it down on the nightstand.

and when you turn back, her eyes are full of tears.

“i’m still in love with you,” she breathes. “i never stopped.”

you exhale, shaky.

and you say, “i know.”

then, softer: “me too.”

her hands find yours again.

and when she leans in, slowly, like she’s asking permission with every inch, you meet her halfway.

the kiss isn’t soft, at first.

it’s desperate.

years of silence, of pain, of longing , all poured into the press of her lips, the way her hands cradle your jaw, the way you pull her in like you’ll never let go again. it’s messy. tear-streaked. trembling.

but it’s real.

and when it slows, when your foreheads press together and you both breathe in the same shaky, broken breath , it’s like the years collapse.

she pulls you into her lap, hands splayed at your waist, holding you like a prayer. your fingers slip into her hair, still damp from the rain.

there’s no rush. no expectation.

just closeness. warmth. the quiet joy of a second chance.

you curl into each other under the old quilt. fully clothed. fully wrecked. fully home.

and in the dark, as the storm outside softens into silence, you whisper into the hollow of her throat:

“this time… stay.”

and she nods, voice catching on the promise she makes like it’s sacred.

“i will.”

you don’t remember who moves first.

maybe it’s her hand brushing against your cheek, thumb tracing just beneath your eye like she’s memorizing the slope of you. maybe it’s you shifting closer, letting your nose nudge hers, your breath catching when she doesn’t pull away.

either way, it’s slow. deliberate.

when she kisses you again, it’s different than before , no rush, no desperation. just depth. quiet and aching and full of things neither of you know how to say. her lips are soft, and there’s a tremble in the way she moves, like she’s afraid she might do this wrong, might ruin it somehow. but your fingers curl in the hem of her shirt and you guide her closer, chest to chest, breath to breath.

you feel her sigh into your mouth , like relief, like surrender.

she kisses you like she remembers everything. like her body has held this memory tight and she’s only now letting it resurface. your hands move together in sync, clumsy at first, tugging at fabric more for closeness than for want. her shirt lifts, yours follows, and the air between you shifts , warm skin pressed to warm skin.

her fingers drag slowly along the curve of your spine, reverent. she kisses down your neck, over your collarbone, her mouth whisper-soft, as though afraid she might spook you. you tilt your head back, eyes fluttering shut, breath stuttering as her lips find all the places she dreamed of tracing over and over.

the blanket slides down around your hips. the rain has stopped, but the warmth remains. your apartment glows in soft lamplight , golden and still. she pushes your hair back, presses a kiss to your temple, then your jaw, then your shoulder.

"you’re still the most beautiful thing i’ve ever seen," she murmurs, voice breaking like the words are heavy.

your throat tightens. you don’t answer. instead, you let your body say it , the way you wrap your arms around her waist, the way you guide her down until she’s pressed against you fully, your leg slipping between hers, chests rising and falling in sync.

her hands explore like she’s painting you , palms dragging over your ribs, your waist, the dip of your stomach. her fingers shake, but her touch never falters. her lips find your skin again and again, like she’s trying to memorize the shape of your forgiveness.

you gasp when her mouth meets your sternum, when her fingers trace delicate lines along your side. you feel open. raw. like your heart is resting just beneath the surface of your skin, beating in time with hers.

when her hand trails lower , tentative, trembling , you let out a soft sound, half a gasp, half a plea.

"billie," you whisper, the name a prayer on your tongue. your fingers tighten in her hair, guiding her gaze to yours. there’s no shame in your voice, just aching honesty. "please… touch me."

her breath stutters, like hearing you like this cracks something open in her chest. her hand finds your thigh, sliding up with exquisite slowness, until she’s nestled against you , where the heat between your legs pulses with need and something deeper, more fragile. she pauses, eyes searching yours.

"are you sure?" she asks, voice hoarse.

you nod, breathless. "i need you."

and when her fingers finally press at your sensitive clit, your back arches, not just from want, but from the feeling of being seen. known. forgiven.

she moves with care, every touch a silent apology, every stroke a vow. her fingers pushed deep inside you, your eyes tracing her every move. when she slips her thigh between yours, and you move to meet her, your bodies slotting together in an intimate, aching rhythm.

she moves like she knows your body better than memory, every shift of her hips, every graze of skin, sending heat curling low in your stomach. when her thigh presses between yours and you move to meet her, the friction is slow, electric. it sparks something deep inside you, not rushed, not frantic, just full.

you rock together, breath to breath, skin slick and warm, the rhythm natural, instinctive. her body pressed against yours becomes a tether, grounding and consuming all at once. every roll of her hips draws a whimper from your throat, a sound you can’t bite back, not when she’s watching you like that, eyes dark, focused, like you’re the only thing she sees. billie’s head is thrown back, the feeling of finally having you to herself, driving her insane. pleasure blooms in slow waves. not sharp, but heady. liquid. it builds with every drag of your bodies together, your muscles tightening, trembling, aching for more.

your hands clutch at her, her waist, her back, her shoulders, needing something to hold onto, something to keep you from unraveling completely. and still, she moves with you, against you, as if trying to memorize the exact sound you make when it becomes too much.

you whisper her name like a mantra, over and over, voice breaking around it. her mouth finds your jaw, your throat, your collarbone, every kiss stoking the fire she’s already lit beneath your skin. “billie, fuck, feels so good” you whisper out, running your hands up her chest softly. “yeah? feels good, mama? m gonna have you coming over and over for me,”

a slow kind of desperation, hips rocking, skin to skin, tears slipping down your cheeks as you whisper her name over and over.

"i missed you," you choke out between gasps. "i missed you so much, billie“

she presses her forehead to yours, her hand clutching yours tight above your heads, like she’s holding you together. your legs tighten around her, the tension building.

"i’ve got you my love,” she whispers. “m not leaving now“

taglist: @amara-eilish @bilswifee @iamnicoke @jayjaywetforbils @bittersuitekim @bxllxebxtch @bitchesbrokenpromises @ijustlovemaths @ilovealiceosemann @bilssturns @peytonneilish @chrissv4mp @too-sapphic-to-function @thebluediner @aka-persephone @vijaxx | send an ask or comment if you want to be added to my taglist!

[chanelnumbermine]

2024 f2 boys when someone else compliments you | f2 grid picks x gn!reader

since u liked the previous part so much, i decided to write a little more and added franquito! he has a special place in my heart after this season (mentally i’m still in imola sprint). i’m very open to learn about more drivers and add them to the list! have a nice read!

pairing(s): ollie bearman x gn!reader, kimi antonelli x gn!reader, zane maloney x gn!reader, paul aron x gn!reader, pepe marti x gn!reader, luke browning x gn!reader, franco colapinto x gn!reader;

warning(s): itty bitty possessive behaviour, mostly cuteness!!

ollie bearman | prema —> haas f1

squeezes your hand and smiled politely

"thank you. they really do light up every room."

he says dryly and tries to shrug off this weird feeling in his chest

becomes a little stiff and after a while he asks

“do random people compliment you like that often?”

you shrug and smirk, seeing he’s a little jealous

“they were right, you look stunning. i should say that more often”

andrea kimi antonelli | prema —> mercedes amg pertronas

he’s already a little flustered because you came over to see his family

you click with them instantly

"uh, thanks mom. i say it every day."

to him you’re the sweetest prettiest person ever and he sometimes forgets that other people can also see that

it’s just hard to remember about the whole world when he’s in your presence

you’re his and he’s fully yours, and he’ll spend the rest of the day clinging to you

he’s nott that good with words, but very good at making you feel loved

paul aron | hitech —> bwt alpine reserve driver

i bet it was one of your friends who complimented you

and paul? tries to outdo the other person with compliments

"you're not just radiant, darling, you look literally ethereal. you know, your eyes ere like the moon. so big and shiny."

thinks he's smooth

he's not

but he's adorable as hell, grinning like and idiot and spewing nonsense just to make you laugh

you'd have to kiss him to shut him up

“i was supposed to make you blush, not the other way around…”

zane maloney | rodin —> formula e

awkward as hell

could be even a little insecure

why would anyone dare compliment you? do they think they have a chance with you?

he tries not to show it, but is not good at it

"aww, are you pouting?" you teased him

he chuckled and scratched the back of his neck nervously

"what, me? you're seeing things"

please reassure him!! he’s the sweetest bunny

pepe marti | campos, red bull academy

"yeah, of course my baby looks beautiful tonight."

goes full on protective mode

could become sarcastic, maybe even passive-aggressive

"i knew this day would come. i have to fend off other admirers."

you laugh and poke his arm

"must be so hard having a beautiful partner, huh?"

huffs playfully and kisses your forehead

luke browning | hitech —> f2

he was joking around with his friends when one of them made an innocent cute comment about your looks

“i know, right? they make me look better just standing next to me”

tries to divert the attention from you

on the outside he seems quite normal, but inside he’s seething with jealousy

like, why would anyone feel the need to point out the obvious???

sneaks his arm around your waist

peppers your face with kisses when you have a little time alone

franco colapinto | mp —> williams racing

whatever the circumstances, he goes into full yapping mode

franco takes seizes every opportunity to brag about who he managed to pull

"right!! you see, mom, they bake the best cookies. one time, when we were in madrid, we ate those cinnamon buns i like so much and..."

he just wants everyone to know you're the best person he's ever had the privilege to meet

he wants to share all the best memories with his family! and has no filter

"no, sis, we weren’t drunk that much… oh, you’re totally right amor, we were, sorry”

the compliments are flowing from both sides, its very natural and franqui doesn’t get worked up at all

masterlist

[xmissrogersx]

I just know it, darlin’ | Joel Miller

tags: reader is pregnant, ellie and Joel being protective, joel being a daddy’s girl of course.

my writing is entirely my own. Any adaptation and/or copy is forbidden.

i hope you are enjoying my stories! U help me a lot if you give me a ♡! All the love.

priscila’s materlist

Ellie was in her room with Dina. Both were reading old comics.

-Hey, it's great that you're going to have a sister…—the brunette said with emotion.

-Or brother, this people doesn’t wanna know it yet. But yes, it's great and everything... the wait doesn't end anymore —Ellie sighed.

-Why do you say that? María told me that a pregnant woman is sometimes more sensitive, but I don't think Paris is like that, is she?

-Well... -Ellie said under her breath, not wanting to sound too obvious. She loves the blonde very much, who looked like a motherly figure for her in every way possible.

▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔

-Hush little baby don't say a word, papa's going to buy a mockingbird!

Paris entered the kitchen singing with a microphone, that on Maria's recommendation, the baby could hear the voices of her parents.

Joel was having his morning coffee when he heard his wife enter, and then snorted under his breath and brought his right hand to between his brows.

Ellie was having her cereal for breakfast, raising both hands to her ears and resting her head against the table.

-And if the mockingbird won't sing, papa's going to buy a diamond ring.

-Papa is going to buy 10 diamonds just to shut up that fucking bird —the girl whispered to her father, who silenced her, not wanting Paris to listen.

-What do you want for lunch today? —the young woman asked both of them.

-Whatever you want, darlin’ —Joel replied, stroking her hand, which made the girl start tearing her up.

-Oh, not again —Ellie begged. When Paris started with the "hormonal crying" session it was difficult to stop her.

-You're so sweet —between hiccups and small tears that went down her cheeks.

-Okay, I'm going, I’m late to meet Jesse.

Getting up to quickly go to the door, the blonde stopped her so she wouldn't forget her lunch.

-Thank you.

-I put you a chocolate with extra peanut that I bought the week before, you deserve it for your great first patrol, baby.

The girl hugged her as best she could because of the woman's big belly, who was already starting to cry again.

-It's okay, I'm leaving —Ellie ran to the door.

-I have to go with Tommy, beautiful —Joel announced while hugging her from behind. Paris sighed.

-It's okay... I guess you have to go, you have no choice —she walked away to start climbing the stairs slowly.

-He wants to show me the plans for the new houses...

-I know, I understand. Well, then I'll go upstairs, to our room...

While the young woman said those words, she began to unbutton her shirt, and lower her skirt, revealing a set of black lingerie with lace that made Joel not remember how to breathe.

-Do you think I should lie down and take it out? I'm feeling a little hot.

-It would be a mistake if I say no. You're beautiful, baby girl —he exclaimed with a dark look.

The blonde smiled under her breath.

-So, do you have to go with Tommy?

-Fuck Tommy.

Joel take her in his arms to go up to their room.

▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔

Paris sat on the couch next to her husband, who was reading an old construction manual.

-Officially there are only 2 months left to meet him —the blonde exclaimed excitedly to Joel, who approached her to place a kiss on his lips, and then another on his bulging belly.

-Don't you want to the baby hear your voice? Maria said he must listen to the voices of both parents.

-Baby, I think she already listens to me without needing that thing, don't worry, the baby will know our voices.

-¿she? ¿how do you know is a girl? —Paris raise an eyebrow.

-I Just know it, darlin’ — and he relaxed, believing that he had ended the subject.

The woman nodded taking his hand, and then took the microphone again.

-Twinkle twinkle, little lamb! —Joel was startled by his girlfriend's scream.

-Paris, please don't sing anymore -he speak as wisely as I could.

-Why? —she asked surprised.

-Because... you don't sing very well, baby...

-You finally told her —a voice roared behind them.

The blonde opened her mouth in indignation, looking at her partner and daughter, to get ready to answer the accusation.

-Calm down, we don't want the baby to hear us fight. Come, let's go for an ice cream.

-How dare you, you..

-Hey, we said no fights in front of the baby.

-That's ridiculous, I'm always in front of the baby, Joel —she pointed to her big belly.

-Paris just calm down, okay? When all this is over, we will laugh at this —Ellie appeased.

-Your out-of-tune songs, your nocturnal cravings, your incessant cries... we love you, but it's already getting very unbearable —the girl listed.

-You're going through something huge, baby, it's normal. It will be over, soon —Joel finished.

The woman saw them with a grimace on her face, and then smiled falsely.

-You are two tiny little man to me right now — she approached slowly making a gesture of crushing with his fingers.- and you must leave this house to return with more respect, and a pizza!

Father and daughter were stunned, they didn't expect Paris reaction.

-Pizza sounds good —he said, cutting the silence.

-Yes, I'm hungry for pizza —Ellie replied.

Before leaving, they both walked to the blonde to kiss her on each cheek, who was with her arms crossed and with her eyebrow raised.

-With double cheese —the young woman demanded.

-Yes, darlin’ —Joel replied, and then went out the door.

▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔

-Wow —said an amazed Dina to her friend.

-Yep, althought I partly understand her, it must be horrible to carry that heavy —the girl moved her hands to her belly.

A knock on the door made both girls scream their heads, seeing a blonde hair.

-Girls, I don't want to ruin your fun, but it's already past 10; and tomorrow you have training. Go to sleep. Ellie, you already know how your father gets.

-I already want him to be born —Ellie settled inside her sheets, to which the young woman wrapped her.

-Just like me, I can't stand not being able to see my feet anymore —she exclaimed, causing the girl a laugh.-Good night sweetheart.

-Good rest, ma —the girl replied, causing a jump in Paris heart.

Paris went out the bedroom door to see her man lying on the wall, who smiled to see her emotion.

-It's already the third time she tells me "ma" -she sobbed with joy, to which Joel took her face to bring their breaths closer and merge into one.

They moved away for lack of air, but without ceasing to look at each other with the same love they had seen for 3 years.

-You are, baby. You're her mother.

Paris felt blessed. The world would be chaos, but his world was perfect.

Hello baby girls!

I hope you have seen the references of Modern Family! Personally MF is my fav comedy series.

If you help me by sharing my story on your profiles you would help me a lot, I love writing very much, I feel that great things are coming. And with you reading my stories, the more I want to do them.

Thank you for reading!

Priscila🌸

[ducksido]

I've been loving how you've written all of my requests so far. I love your writing in general so that isn't really a surprise. Well, onto my request. Could you do the Housewardens with a s/o who has a stutter? It usually isn't noticeable but sometimes it gets really bad, bad enough that it gets frustrating to communicate. Also the reader(s/o) gets embarrassed over the stutter due to some people making fun of them when they had to present in front of the class before.

-🥀🪻

(of course 🥀🪻)

Housewardens with Yuu who has a stutter

Riddle Rosehearts

At first, Riddle isn’t quite sure how to respond—he's not used to emotional nuance thanks to his strict upbringing.

But he listens. Listens intently. When you get stuck mid-sentence, he doesn’t rush you. He lets the silence stretch without pressure, a quiet signal of: I’m here. Take your time.

After learning about your classroom experience, he gets visibly upset—not at you, but at the people who made fun of you. “You were brave enough to speak. They didn’t deserve to hear you.”

He studies up on speech therapy techniques and gently asks if you’d be okay with a hand signal system—like you squeezing his hand when you’re too frustrated to continue, so he can read the room for you.

If you're ever in a class presentation again, he’ll stand in the crowd, meeting your eyes the whole time, anchoring you with nods of encouragement.

Leona Kingscholar

His first instinct? "Who the hell made fun of you?" Yeah, someone’s getting buried in the sandpit outside Savannaclaw.

He’s laid-back enough to not pressure you when you’re struggling to speak—he’ll just raise an eyebrow, smirk a little, and go: “Tch. I got time. No one says it like you do anyway.”

If you get upset or start shutting down, he won't go all mushy—he knows you hate feeling pitied—but he’ll bump your shoulder, mumble: “You don’t gotta be perfect to make me listen.”

Leona will be your unshakable wall. If anyone dares laugh again, one glare from him and the room goes dead silent.

Azul Ashengrotto

Internally? Panic. Externally? Calm and courteous. He's terrified of saying the wrong thing, especially given his own trauma with bullying.

He understands. Oh, he gets it. You remind him of himself—polished on the surface, but vulnerable in moments of exposure.

When you stutter, he subtly slows his own speech to match your pace, making it feel less awkward. You don’t even notice at first—it’s just suddenly easier to talk to him.

One day, when you’re particularly embarrassed after tripping over your words, he gently reaches over and takes your hand. “I used to dread speaking too. But every word you say is worth hearing—even the ones that need a moment.”

Kalim Al-Asim

Pure sunshine. Doesn’t even notice the stutter at first—he’s too focused on your smile, your ideas, your energy.

But when he sees you frustrated or pulling away from conversations, he gently asks, “Hey, are you okay? Did I talk too fast?”

You explain your stutter, and he immediately hugs you. “That’s okay! That’s just how your words dance a little before they come out!”

You can’t even stay embarrassed around Kalim—he celebrates every time you speak. “Yes!! I love when you tell stories! Even the way you say things is fun!”

If you’re having a bad day, he’ll offer to speak for you if needed—no judgment, just support.

Vil Schoenheit

Vil is hyper-aware of how you carry yourself. The first time he sees you recoil mid-sentence out of embarrassment, he’s already dissecting the entire situation.

“Someone made you feel ashamed. Unacceptable.”

He never interrupts your stutter—not once. His patience is calm, dignified, and never patronizing. If you apologize, he cuts you off with a firm but gentle, “You are not flawed. You are human. And I admire that about you.”

Vil even works with you on breathing techniques—not to fix you, but to help you feel more confident. He adapts some stage projection tricks to your comfort.

If someone mocks you, Vil absolutely eviscerates them with a cold, cutting line that makes them rethink their life.

Idia Shroud

Idia is so anxious around speech in general. He stutters himself, so when he realizes you do too, he’s like: “Wait… you mean… I’m not the only glitching NPC in the cutscene?”

He's instantly more comfortable with you than anyone else. Conversations are awkward, yes, but real. Soft. Shared.

When your stutter gets bad, he doesn’t even blink—just continues typing on his tablet, then flashes it at you: [“No worries. Wanna just chill in silence or type today?”]

If you cry out of frustration, he panics and offers you snacks, games, a blanket, and then just shyly says: “I-I like your voice… It sounds like you’re casting a spell when you talk... like real magic.”

Malleus Draconia

Malleus is unbothered. The idea of mocking someone for their speech is so beneath him he can’t comprehend it.

When you stutter, he tilts his head and patiently waits, giving you space like a quiet glade in the woods.

If you get upset or try to hide it, he places a hand over yours, warm and grounding. “Child of man… Do not be ashamed. Each pause is a breath of your soul. Let it speak.”

He never makes you feel like you have to perform for him. Silence or speech, you’re cherished either way.

If someone mocks you in his presence? Oh, dear. Malleus may not react loudly, but the drop in temperature and faint green flicker of flame in his eyes sends a very clear message.

[orphicmeliora]

Sylus x Mortician!Reader 

There is no morning in N109.

Only gradations of dark.

A dim crimson glow cuts through the grime-caked window like a dying star, blinking in and out of existence behind a flickering neon sign. The synth radio in the corner hums a broken lullaby—static, a voice halfway through a song no one remembers the words to.

The morgue is cold.

Not the kind you can measure in degrees.

It's the kind that crawls inside you, settles behind your ribs, and waits. You feel it in your teeth when you speak. In your spine when you're still. You’ve worn three layers for weeks and haven’t felt warm since before the floods.

You work without needing to think—routine etched into your muscles like a ritual. Sponge in one hand, gloved fingers cradling the jaw of a girl too young to be here. Sixteen, maybe seventeen. Burnt skin. Ruptured lungs. Probably a gas leak in the lower slums, or maybe something worse.  Skin marbled with burns, lips parted like she never got to finish her last sentence. No ID. No visitors. No one who'll come claim her.

Just you.

And your tired hands.

The soap bubbles faintly where the blood once crusted in her scalp. You wipe it clean, careful, precise. Reverent, almost. 

You don’t flinch anymore. The muscle memory keeps you upright. The grief doesn’t ask for permission to linger; it just sits beside you, murmuring reminders.

You talk to the dead sometimes. Not out of comfort—just habit. They’re quieter than the living.

“You know,” you say to her, voice low and cracked from disuse, “there used to be a word for this kind of silence. But I think we buried it years ago.”

Her eyes are shut, but you imagine she’s listening.

Outside, the city breathes in groans and oil spills. Metal screams in the distance—machinery or something worse. The air filtration’s been broken for months. There are places in the zone where the fog eats skin. And people still live here. You still live here. Though ‘living’ is a generous word.

You inhale. Formaldehyde and antiseptic coat your lungs like tar.

You exhale. It doesn’t make you feel any lighter.

The heavy door groans open.

You don't look.

You already know.

Storm-drenched wool. Ozone. Blood.

Always blood.

The scent hits first. Then the weight of him. Like a storm cloud stepped into the room and forgot how to leave.

Sylus.

He moves like a soldier. Or an animal (Dragon, your mind supplies). Every step measured. Like he’s memorized all the ways a room can turn against him. But the way he looks at you—he never calculates that.

His gloves are dark tonight. Not leather—tactical mesh. Stained near the wrists. He says nothing. But his eyes are loud with it.

He never does, not at first. But his silence is a living thing, coiling in the corners, pressing against your spine like a question you don’t want the answer to.

Still, his gaze lingers on the girl you’re washing. Something unreadable flickers across his face, like he’s tallying her into a list he didn’t want to write.

“I could make it so that death would never come near you.”

His voice is velvet soaked in gasoline. Quiet. Dangerous in its gentleness. The kind of promise that ends with someone burning.

You still don’t look up.

Instead, you wring the sponge until your palm aches.

“Sylus,” you say quietly, “you are death.”

You hear his breath catch—just barely. You’ve struck him, and you meant to.

He doesn’t bleed easy. But when he does, it’s always silent.

You lift your gaze.

There’s an ancient kind of sorrow in his eyes. Something that cracked lifetimes ago—it learned how to walk with a limp. A fault line in human shape. You’ve seen that look in mirrors. In morgue drawers.

“You think I’m afraid of dying?”

“No,” he says. “I think you're afraid of surviving.”

And he’s right.

You don’t remember the last time your heart beat with anything other than routine.

You come home to four walls that smell like mildew and rust. You sleep with a knife under your pillow and still dream of doors breaking open. You wake up to silence that doesn’t comfort—it accuses. You survive because you don’t remember how to stop.

Sylus watches you like he wants to fix something but knows he’ll ruin it more. His hands twitch at his sides, as if he might reach for you, might pull you into that shadowy world of his and name it safety.

But you would bleed in there.

You would lose the last of your humanity. You already teeter on the edge.

He’s seen what happens to things he keeps close. He’s still trying to convince himself you’d be different.

“You think you could protect me from death,” you say, “but not from what it leaves behind.”

That lands.

His breath out, sharp and low. Like the thought hadn’t occurred to him. Like he was too focused on shielding you from the blade to realize you’re already bleeding from a hundred older wounds.

Because Sylus doesn’t understand aftermath. 

He’s a strike, a bullet, a war.

You’re what comes after.

You glance down at the girl. Her skin is clean now. Smooth in death in a way it never got to be in life. There’s a strange peace in that. A kind of quiet you haven’t earned.

Sylus steps back. Just a single step, but it shifts the air like a pressure drop.

He doesn’t retreat from anything.

Except you.

Because you’re not a fight he can win.

You don't ask him to stay. He doesn’t ask you to leave.

But in the doorway, he stops. His voice breaks open like a wound.

“You deserve to live somewhere the sun still rises.”

You let the silence stretch.

You don’t tell him that the last time you saw the sun, you were too young to remember whether it was warm. That hope tastes like metal in your mouth now. That you’ve learned how to love the dark, because it never lies.

So he leaves.

No promises. No backward glance.

And you return to your work.

The dead don’t expect kindness. But you give it to them anyway. Your fingers wrinkle in the cold water. The silence settles in again.

And you forget, a little more, how to want.