#this is the third time posting this too sigh

[himasgod]

Would it be to soon to ask for a "where you suddenly stop giving them attention" part with the third years?

THIRD YEARS X READER

Where you suddenly stop giving them attention

Cater was living for your affection.

Seriously, you were his favorite notification. You always knew how to brighten his day, a kiss on the cheek before class, selfies together, random “thinking of you~” texts that made his heart skip. He acted all chill about it, but inside?

He was twirling his hair, giggling and kicking his feet like a teen in love.

So when you stopped? When your texts slowed down to dry busy rn, when you walked past him without that sparkle, when you skipped Magicam photos for days? Cater noticed. At first, he played it off with humor.

"Whoa, my number one fan vanished! Was I canceled and no one told me~?"

He scrolls back through your message thread at night, wondering if he said something wrong. Tries to post a cute story hoping you’ll react. Even sneaks by your class to “casually” spot you.

And when he sees you — head down on the desk, dark circles under your eyes, shoulders trembling, it hits him. You didn’t stop caring. You just stopped having the energy.

He walks right in, pulls you up from your chair, and takes your hand. You barely react, exhausted, letting him lead you. He brings you to the empty pop music club room, shuts the door, and wraps you in his arms.

"You don’t have to smile for me, kay? You don’t have to be “on.” Just be real with me, babe. I’m not going anywhere."

You finally let go and cry a little, muttering “I’m sorry” into his hoodie. He hugs you tighter.

"Nah, none of that. You gave me real love, and I’m keeping it. So if you need a break, I’ll be your filter. I gotchu."

Leona had long since decided that affection wasn’t something he needed. Or wanted. Or deserved.

But then you came along. With your sleepy kisses. Your hands in his hair. Your little “I missed you, lazybones” messages. Your way of plopping down beside him like you belonged there. It made him soft. He hated it. He loved it.

So when it disappears, when you stop curling up next to him during naps, when you barely say “hi” in the hallways, when the only messages you send are “Sorry, can’t today. Too tired”, Leona’s first instinct is annoyance. He’s gruff. Snappy. Sulking like a big cat who’s been denied his favorite sunspot.

"So that’s it? Done spoiling your prince, herbivore?"

But he doesn’t press it. Not yet. Not until he finds you passed out in the botanical garden, curled under a tree with your bag still slung on one shoulder. You don’t wake up when he calls your name.

He kneels beside you, frowning, brushing your hair out of your face. Your skin is warm. Your body limp with exhaustion. And suddenly he sees it, the sleepless nights in your eyes, the way you’ve been dragging your feet through the week. This wasn’t you ignoring him. This was you falling apart.

When you finally blink awake he doesn’t let you speak. He just pulls you against his chest, sighing into your shoulder.

"You idiot. You think I need all your attention if it costs you this much?"

You try to explain, apologize, but Leona tightens his hold and cuts you off.

"You gave me something warm for the first time in a long damn time. You think I’m gonna throw that away because you forgot to say “good morning” a few days?"

"Next time, just tell me you’re burning out. I’ll carry you if I have to. I’ll drag your overworked ass into bed myself."

And he does. He carries you to his room like it’s nothing, tucks you under his thickest blanket, and curls around you.

"You spoiled me rotten, herbivore. Let me spoil you back."

Vil took note the second it started.

The first time you didn’t compliment him. The first time you didn’t send your good morning text. The first time you passed him in the hallway, eyes on your phone, and didn’t so much as glance up. He noticed. He always noticed. But he didn’t act on it immediately. He gave you space, told himself you were probably dealing with something. That it was just a phase. He wasn’t going to be the clingy insecure type. And yet…

"Why haven’t they noticed my new look? They always say something…"

"They haven’t visited the dorm in over a week. Why?"

The questions start to pile up in his mind, and with them, a tightness in his chest he hates admitting is worry. When he finally seeks you out, you’re in the library, fast asleep over books, dark circles under your eyes, your lunch untouched beside you. And everything clicks. It wasn’t about him. It was about you. Pushing yourself too hard again. Giving too much and leaving nothing for yourself.

Vil lets out a sigh and gently wakes you. You blink at him, confused, guilty, already trying to explain. But he stops you with a finger pressed to your lips.

"Enough. You don’t owe me affection when your body is falling apart."

He takes your hands, helps you stand, and brushes the hair out of your face.

"You’ve been overworking yourself again. Look at your complexion. Look at your posture. Have you even slept properly this week?"

You shake your head, ready to apologize again, but Vil frowns and holds your face with both hands.

"You showered me in love when I needed it. Now let me return the favor."

That evening, he takes you to Pomefiore. Runs you a bath with herbs for your fatigue. Makes you a skin treatment himself. Feeds you something warm, nothing fancy, just what you need. And when you lie down, eyes drooping, he sits beside you with a book and reads aloud until you drift off.

The next morning, when you wake up and whisper, “Sorry for worrying you,” he only scoffs.

"You’re lucky I love you… Because darling, letting yourself fall apart is never a good look. So next time, tell me. You don’t have to be perfect — just let me in."

You were his safe place. That’s it.

Idia had never, ever been good with people, but somehow, you slipped through him like a virus. You installed yourself into every part of his daily life: calling him nicknames, hugging him out of nowhere, holding his hand even when he flinched like a malfunctioning Chatgpt.

So when you stop showing up to his room after class, when your daily “I love you, you nerd” texts vanish into silence, Idia panics. But he doesn’t know how to confront you. Not directly. So he goes through his mental folders.

"Did I say something cringe? Did I scare them off? Oh no. Oh fuck—what if they’re ghosting me?!"

He pings you in-game. No reply. He messages you on Magicam. Nothing. Eventually, he decides to do something terrifying: he leaves his room. He finds you half-asleep in a corner booth, head down on your arms, a tray of snacks beside you. You look pale. Tired. Your phone buzzes with unread messages, mostly from group projects. And his. He shuffles over, hoodie up, hands in sleeves.

"Hey… hey… you okay?"

You lift your head, dazed. When you realize it’s him, you try to smile, but it comes out cracked. “I’m sorry, I just… forgot to reply. I’m so tired.”

Idia sits beside you. He just pulls his sleeve over your hand and gives it a squeeze. "You’re running out of stamina, huh? You chuckle weakly. “That’s one way to put it.”

"You don’t have to be good all the time just for me. But next time, let me know, okay? I can carry the team for a while."

Then he gently drapes his oversized jacket over your shoulders.

Lilia always used to tease you a little about how much you pampered him.

"Another treat? You’re going to spoil me rotten, little one. I might start expecting this every day~"

He would laugh, flutter his lashes, feign dramatic swoons every time you brought fixed his hair without warning, or clung to his arm calling him “old man.” But the truth? He loved it. Every second of it.

So when all that stops? When you start pulling away with tired excuses and absent eyes, when your touch disappears, your laughter fades, and your texts become “sorry, I’m busy” Lilia notices. Of course he does. He notices everything. At first, he jokes about it, as usual.

"Ara~ have I lost my most devoted fan? Say it isn’t so"

But you just smile weakly, wave him off, and walk past him. And Lilia stays behind, lips still curved, but eyes narrowed. Concerned.

He doesn’t chase after you, he waits. Watches. He sees how you stumble over your steps in class, how you barely eat. And suddenly, everything makes sense. You weren’t ignoring him. You were burning out.

The next time he sees you, you're dozing off, a stack of notes on your lap and your pen still in hand. He crouches beside you, brushes a strand of hair from your face, and whispers. "Silly human… You give and give until there’s nothing left. And now you’re forgetting to take care of yourself."

He doesn’t wake you. Instead, he scoops you up in his arms and takes you to his room. He sets you on the bed, tucks you in, and sits beside you. Humming something low. And when you finally stir awake, blinking at him with confusion, he just smiles.

"You stopped spoiling me… so I’ll spoil you now. Rest, darling. I’ll watch over you."

Malleus had never known what it was like to be loved in the small ways.

Not just respected or fond like Lilia, Silver or Sebek, But openly loved, with warm hands brushing his hair, with nicknames whispered, with kisses on the cheek followed by playful grins and “did you miss me prince?”

That’s why, when it suddenly stops, he doesn’t know how to process it. You no longer greet him with your usual bright voice. You stop reaching for his hand. You avoid going to Diasomnia. He doesn’t get angry. He doesn’t even speak of it at first. He just watches.

"Have I displeased you?" He asks himself this more times than he’d ever admit.

At first, he assumes it's distance — that perhaps your heart had grown bored of him. But then he begins to see the truth, your slowed pace, the way you rub your eyes and mumble apologies without reason. You weren’t pushing him away, you were exhausted. So one night, he appears outside Ramshackle, as he used to do in the beginning when your bond was still new. You hear the gentle knock, and when you open the door, there he is.

"May I come in, child of man?"

You nod tiredly, and let him sit beside you on the edge of the bed. You try to explain. Try to apologize. But Malleus just shakes his head, placing a hand over yours.

"You gifted me a kind of love I never imagined I’d have. You do not need to apologize for needing to rest. But I ask you this. Do not shut me out. Let me carry some of your burdens, if only a little. Let me stay beside you, even in silence.·

You feel tears sting your eyes, but Malleus simply leans forward, pressing his lips to your shoulder.

"Even if you have no strength left to call me “my prince,” I will still be yours."

Trey never asked for much.

He wasn’t the kind of guy to expect grand displays or dramatic affection. But ever since you started spoiling him, slipping love notes into his apron pocket, kissing his temple while he baked, calling him “sweetheart” when you thought no one was listening, he’d gotten used to it. Too used to it.

So when you suddenly go quiet, when your touches vanish and your little “I brought this just for you” moments dry up, Trey pretends not to mind. At first.

"Everything alright? You’ve been… quiet lately. Busy?"

You nod. Tell him not to worry. That you’re just tired, that homwork's overwhelming you a bit. He doesn’t push. But it nags at him. He watches how your shoulders slump, how you chew your lower lip while working through assignments, how your phone lights up with unread messages you don’t even glance at.

And one afternoon, when he sees you curled up, asleep with a half-eaten snack and your notebook clutched to your chest, something in him clicks. He sighs softly, kneels beside you, and gently takes the notebook from your arms. He sits down pulling out a small container from his bag. Inside is your favorite treat. One you once made together. He leaves a note beside it:

“For when you wake up. You don’t have to do everything alone. I’m here too.”

When you wake up hours later, groggy, you find Trey still sitting across from you, reading calmly, as if nothing ever happened. But when your eyes meet, he smiles, the kind of smile that says “You don’t owe me anything, but I’m not going anywhere.”

And later, as he walks you back to your dorm, he gently bumps your shoulder.

"Next time you feel like the world’s too heavy, tell me. You’ve always been sweet to me… Let me return the favor, yeah?"

Rook noticed the change before anyone else in all the 3 parts.

He always noticed you. The way your eyes lit up when you saw him. The rhythm of your voice when you called him, the tender way you touched his arm when you thought no one was looking. Your affection was art. And he had memorized every stroke of it.

So when your energy faded, when your “good mornings” dulled to distracted nods, when your hands stopped reaching for his, Rook didn’t need an explanation. He read your body like poetry. At first, he gave you space. Like a hunter watching from a distance. But Rook isn’t passive. He’s passion incarnate. And watching the light fade from you? It ached.

So one afternoon, when you sat alone in the library, head heavy in your arms, unmoving, he couldn’t stay silent. He approached quietly.

"Mon cherie… what burden weighs your wings so deeply?"

You flinch and try to sit up, but he kneels beside your chair, taking your hand gently. You open your mouth to speak, but all that comes out is a tired whisper. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to ignore you.” Rook kisses your knuckles.

"Ah, no. Do not apologize for enduring. You have not ignored me. You have simply... forgotten to care for yourself."

You shake your head, tears building, shame rising, but he hushes you with a finger to your lips.

"You who gave me such beauty, such devotion, how could I abandon you now, in this moment? Let me cherish you now, ma lumière. Let me carry you."

He lifts you as if you’re made of petals and takes you somewhere quiet. He wraps you in blankets, brings you tea, brushes your hair.

"Rest, my treasure. You gave your light to so many — now let me be the one to shine for you."

[citrustan]

Hey, Citrus!! I miss seeing your stories and posts on the tl! Do you have a "love-daze" update for us? 🤤

hi!!! thank youuu wee i thought you'd never ask wink wink. this is a follow up to love-daze (myg) so please read that first!!

love-daze (myg) #2

title: only when no one's looking

pairing: yoongi x reader

genre: unrequited love (but is it....?) n friends to lovers but yoongi's a tad uneasy because well yk

warnings: you and yoongi run into a little problem. a little heavier on the angst this time! non linear storytelling, lmk if you find it confusing because this was written in a haste.

"I have a problem," you say, mostly to yourself.

Nini just happens to be in the room. She looks at you intently, waiting for an explanation.

You debate whether or not this problem is even worth discussing. On one hand, you already have the solution but won't exercise it, but on the other, whining about it will certainly make you feel a lot better. But do you deserve that relief?

“It’s kind of complicated,” you murmur, more to buy time than anything.

You're now dating dating Yoongi. Technically. Emotionally. Exclusively. But only in private. Because Yoongi refuses to be open about it as to lessen his ex's pain. (But, in turn, he's risking yours.)

It's not like you're dying to be out and about, paraded around as his girlfriend, but when he goes out of his way to protect his ex's feelings, it stings.

"Yoongi won't date me openly," you blurt, "-because his ex is in the same friend circle, and I'm kind of over it." It comes out more blunt than you intended.

You don't know how she'll handle this. You could have worded that better though.

She sinks into the couch, next to you, giving you her undivided attention. She squints for second, trying to remember where she saw Yoongi.

Jennie (or Nini) moved in only two weeks ago, so she has limited knowledge of your life.

Yeah, yeah, point and laugh. You're a grown woman with a roommate. It's a tough economy. Teaching doesn't pay your bills anymore. You had to find a side gig, and this is it. Renting.

Pride took a back seat somewhere around your third bounced paycheck.

"Yoongi's your boyfriend?" She looked surprised, finally connecting the name to the face.

"I mean, kind of. We've never really discussed it in that many words." You pause. "We're only dating each other right now, isn't that all that counts?"

"Yeah, more or less, yes." Nini nods along before adding, "But I still don't see the issue. If you're secure, why does it matter whether or not you're openly secure? I mean, if I were in your shoes, I'd be lowkey too."

TLDR: I'd keep my head down if I were you.

That irritates you more than you'd like to admit.

"No, but you don't know..." You trail off, sighing. You hope this doesn't turn into an argument. "I know it sounds bad right now, but this has been a long time coming." You sounded like you were convincing yourself.

"Yoongi and I were friends first. I've always liked him. She knew it too. Everyone did."

Nini's eyes widen, "Oh! Sure, that makes sense. I mean making the moves on your friend's ex is a little..." She smiles awkwardly, "I mean, I'm not judging."

You felt the need to defend your choices, "I didn't make moves on him. Yoongi came to me. And Sera isn't really a friend, she never was. We were friendly but that's it. We've never been anything more than convenient company to each other."

You feel crazy trying to explain yourself to an almost-stranger.

Jennie shook her head in reassurance, "I get it! I'm not attacking you, I'm just... You know, sharing my perspective."

You throw a beady-eyed glance at her, trying to figure out if she hates you yet. Because that was the reaction you had gotten from most of your friends. Her friends.

They couldn't stop talking about it when they saw you kissing Yoongi at some deli.

Once, someone spotted you at a dinner date and actually went as far as to take pictures of you.

Obviously, they circulated back to the two of you.

Yoongi wasn't pleased.

Another time, you and Yoongi ran into Sera and her best friend at a Claire's.

That was the last place you expected Sera to be at.

You had only wanted to find a cheap belly button ring.

How was that the first time you came into contact after the break-up? At a Claire's?

You should've accepted Yoongi's offer to buy you a custom made ring. But he wanted to take you to Swarovski. And you thought they were a scam. You could get the same quality of stuff for way lesser at other places.

You tried to pretend to not have seen them but then she greeted you while her friend glared at you.

Which obviously made you look insanely rude.

But hello? Wasn't it an unwritten rule for the ex to not acknowledge the new girl? Or were you just childish?

You awkwardly force a smile.

The four of you just stood there. In the middle of a Claire's. All staring at each other waiting for someone to make a move.

Was Sera actually that nice and unbothered? You don't know. But, her sidekick sure wasn't.

And exactly at that moment, Sera decided it was too difficult for her to deal coming face-to-face with her ex and his new flame and excuses herself, dramatically (intentionally or not, it was dramatic) turning away and storming off.

But the cherry on top was Yoongi's reaction.

Instead of calming you down, he went after Sera! And she didn't even look half as frazzled as you did!

Yoongi's legs automatically moved to chase after her.

And, you get it. Fair enough.

Because love doesn't just go poof and disappear. And with Yoongi and Sera--- whatever anyone thinks about them now--- had once been in love. For a long while at that.

It must've been insanely difficult and hellish for them to have to move on from something like this.

So, you really don't blame him for running after her.

Connections don't always break cleanly.

It's just... You wish you didn't feel like collateral damage here.

Like do you think you'd do the same if she was your ex? Yes, probably.

Was it embarrassing for you? Also, yes.

Still, you wished Yoongi had asked your permission or at least glanced at you, just once, to make sure YOU were okay.

But you were left alone with Sera's friend.

She shot you the nastiest stink-eye the entire time Yoongi and Sera chatted on the side.

It was nearly barbaric. It was as if she was trying to overpower you in some way.

Shivers.

That look made you want to hide behind your hands or something. It sucked.

Everyone gave you the look. The 'oh, she swooped in like a vulture' look, that 'there goes the homewrecker' look.

You awkward shifted your weight from one foot to another.

These heels were killing your soles. Yoongi told you to wear walking shoes but you were confident you wouldn't need them.

You looked everywhere but at her. And you still felt her eyes burning holes into your head. Like she was trying to decipher your thoughts.

When Yoongi and Sera rejoined you, they were closer in proximity.

You don't think too much of it. You're just glad your boyfriend's back.

Yoongi instantly wraps his large hand around yours, gently stroking it with his thumb. You look up at him with a small smile.

"Um... _____, I'll see you around more I hope?" Sera's voice broke your little moment.

What the hell had they talked about?

Pleasantly surprised, you just nod slightly. You'd like that actually.

"That would be... Good." You agree. A bit more genuinely this time.

Sera's friend also toned it down after getting a little elbow from Sera.

The two women then bid goodbye, leaving you and Yoongi alone again.

You look at Yoongi who's already gazing down at you, "Still wanna look through the Claire's catalogue?"

No, you think. You're actually done with Claire's now.

As if he read your mind, he pulled you in closer and you let him guide you whenever. Preferably to the nearest Swarovski.

Whatever the hell happened there with Sera, you're grateful for.

He took really good care of you later that evening.

But from that day onwards, you noticed he had pulled back from you significantly, all under the guise of being overworked.

You're a teacher. You get it. Overworking, that too without pay, is, like, part of your job description. Yet, you make time for Yoongi.

But all he ever wanted lately was to hang out at his place. He'd come over only when Jennie wasn't home.

He made you feel like you had to hide your relationship. As if you were doing something shameful.

Nini shifts next to you on the couch. She's still quiet, probably turning it all over in her head.

You pick at a loose thread on your sleeve.

"Do you still want to be with him?" She finally asks, soft but cautiously.

The question catches you off guard. It’s not an accusation. It’s not even advice. It’s just… a question.

Wasn't it already apparent that you did?

Of course, you want to be with Yoongi. It's all you've wanted for months. Nothing has changed about that.

With a voice barely above a whisper, you frown, "I really do."

Jennie doesn’t say anything at first. She just nods like she's trying to convince herself.

"You don’t have to figure it all out right now," she says, "But you shouldn’t have to shrink to be with someone."

You raise your chin a little. Hm. True.

Feeling satisfied by your reaction, Jennie grins and pats your head, "I'm gonna go now. Won't be back until tomorrow... After breakfast?" She looks to you for an answer.

"Um... No, yeah ok." You don't know if Yoongi would stay over after the conversation you were gonna have with him. "Actually, whenever is fine. I dunno."

Jennie raises an eyebrow at your waffling, but doesn’t press. She just stands, stretches, and gathers her things into her canvas tote. You hadn't even noticed her stuff around.

"Okay then. I’ll assume brunch. Or post-brunch," she says with a wink, already halfway to the door. "Text me if you need anything. Or if you want me to fake an emergency call and drag you out mid-convo."

You nod with a little smirk.

She lingers a second longer at the threshold, like she’s debating whether to say more.

"Just… don’t let him confuse you into thinking this is what love’s supposed to look like, okay?"

She looks at you pointedly, waiting for a response.

"I won’t."

She smiles. Then she’s gone.

You check your phone. Five unread messages from Yoongi, all within the last thirty minutes.

[5] unread messages.

yoonie bby: Thinking about you. Can't focus.

yoonie bby: Wanna be inside you already. Miss your mouth.

yoonie bby: Also your pretty laugh.

yoonie bby: Should I cook or bring food?

yoonie bby: Your favourite cheesecake secured BTW. Can't wait to hold my sweet girl tonight.

You stare at the screen for a moment. Your stomach flips, as always. He’s so filthy and considerate in the same breath. He's so Yoongi.

You lock your phone and let your head fall back against the couch cushion, reminding yourself that you were still upset at this situation.

note: okayyy sooo i decided to drop this as an apology for my lack of posting in the recent months soooo do tell me what you think of this :) thanks for reading!

[saintormentor]

dirty voicemails c. s

in which . . . chris sends you voicemails of him fucking other girls after the breakup, but why did he call out your name?

content warnings . . . voicemail-style formatting, sexual content involving third parties, emotionally manipulative behavior, degradation / humiliation, possessiveness / jealousy, toxic relationship themes, crying during sex ( implied emotional breakdowns ), references to alcohol and intoxication, masturbation / audio voyeurism, implied dubcon ( in tone, not literal non-consent) , heartbreak / emotional distress, gaslighting / obsessive ex behavior, self-destructive language, graphic language, suggestive audio description breakup aftermath / longing

voicemail #1 . . . 1:24am

“mhm… fuck, yeah, just like that—shit, baby.” panting. soft moans in the background.

he laughs. smug, loose. definitely drunk.

“you hear her? she sounds better than you ever did beggin’ for it.”

a wet slap. another moan. his voice dips—low, cruel.

“i’d tell you to block me, but we both know you won’t.” click.

voicemail #2 . . . 11:09pm

music in the back. maybe a party. girls giggling.

“she’s got a tongue ring. you ever think about getting one?” he’s chewing gum.

a girl moans again. muffled.

“she’s gagging all over me. you’d probably cry.”

another voice, asking who he’s talking to.

“don’t worry ‘bout it, baby. just an old friend.” click.

voicemail #3 . . . 3:32am

quiet. rain pattering outside. just his voice this time.

“y’know, i woke up and reached for you. stupid, right?”

he sniffles. sighs.

“i miss the way you’d hum when you brushed your teeth.”

a pause. his breath hitches.

“whatever. fuck you. i’m fine.” click.

voicemail #4 . . . 9:14pm

“she doesn’t talk back. you’d hate her.”

a sharp breath. skin hitting skin again. he groans, dragging it out.

“she lets me do whatever i want. that’s what i wanted. someone more… obedient.”

silence.

“but she doesn’t make me feel shit.” click.

voicemail #5 . . . 1:47am

laughter. his. and a girl’s. slurred, obnoxious.

“nah, don’t worry, baby—she can’t hear this. but you can, can’t you?”

wet, squelching sounds. breathy moans.

he gets close to the mic. you can hear the bass in his chest.

“miss the way you used to sob for it. fuck. that was art.” click.

voicemail #6 . . . 4:56pm

“saw your new post.”

he sounds annoyed. possessive.

“you wore that top on our second date. what, tryin’ to send a message?”

“you looked good. like… too good.”

“i bet you’re fucking someone. he fuck you like i l do?” click.

voicemail #7 . . . 2:11am

there’s crying. not his.

“she’s crying. i told her i couldn’t stop thinking about someone else.”

a door shuts. a silence. then he breathes out.

“you fucking ruined me.”

long pause.

“you win.” click.

voicemail #8 . . . 5:03am

he sounds wrecked. raspy. low and drunk and unraveling.

“baby… fuck… fuck, you always took me so good—shit—i keep fucking them like they’re you.”

he moans. clearly jerking off.

“miss you. miss your thighs. your throat. your smart ass mouth. tight fucking cunt.”

a growl. a desperate groan.

“god, [your name]—fuck, i—”

click.

a / n . . . credits to whoever first came up with this! couldn’t find out who, but this is not my original idea! also, this series depicts an unhealthy, obsessive dynamic. not a romantic portrayal — read with caution and take care of yourself.

[littlepinkbirdie]

Off-Season Heart

Pairing: Joe Burrow x Fem!Reader (can be changed!) Genre: Fluff | Domestic Romance | Established Relationship Setting: Joe’s house in Ohio during the off-season

You were sitting on Joe’s kitchen counter in one of his old LSU hoodies — sleeves too long, hem brushing your thighs — sipping from a mug that said “QB1” in obnoxious gold lettering. You’d made it for him as a joke last Christmas. Somehow, it had become your favorite mug.

From the living room, Joe’s voice floated in, deep and sleepy.

“Where’d you go?”

You smirked. “Kitchen. Your dog woke me up.”

Joe’s head peeked around the corner — hair messy, eyes still heavy from sleep, and wearing the gray sweatpants you claimed every time he wasn’t looking. “Unbelievable. Traitor.”

“I gave him a treat,” you said, shrugging. “He loves me more now.”

“He’s dead to me.”

You laughed just as he walked over, slotting himself between your knees and pressing a soft, slow kiss to your cheek. “Morning,” he said, voice low.

“Morning, Burrow.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Using my last name like we’re strangers?”

You grinned. “Trying to stay humble. You are a big deal, apparently.”

He rolled his eyes with a smile, resting his forehead against yours. “I’m just a guy who likes throwing a football and kissing you in the morning.”

“Poetic.”

“You bring it out of me.”

You wrapped your arms around his neck, your coffee forgotten on the counter.

“Wanna do something today?” you asked. “Or are we pretending the world doesn’t exist again?”

Joe sighed dramatically. “I was hoping we’d pretend the world doesn’t exist. Maybe build a blanket fort. Watch movies. Make bad snacks. Cuddle until you get annoyed and say I’m too heavy.”

You tilted your head. “That does sound romantic.”

“It’s my specialty.”

“Do I get to wear your jersey again?”

He smirked. “Babe, you can wear whatever you want… as long as you don’t post a pic and let the entire internet know I’m the little spoon.”

You snorted. “Oh, especially now I’m posting it.”

“I’m revoking your hoodie privileges.”

“Too late,” you said, tugging at the sleeves. “I’m already living in them.”

He leaned in close, brushing his lips against yours. “Good. You look better in them anyway.”

Later That Day…

You did build the blanket fort. After the cats pulled it down multiple times but we don't talk about that. You did eat mini corn dogs and popcorn for lunch. You did end up curled up in Joe’s arms — his head buried in your shoulder, mumbling about how “off-season Joe” was superior.

And somewhere between your third episode of The Office and your fifth shared snack, Joe looked at you — messy hair, cozy socks, your hand resting lightly on his chest — and said quietly, like it was the most obvious thing in the world:

“You’re my favorite part of the off-season.”

Author note: Ik joe said hes more of a cat person BUT- I also feel like joe and his partner would have cats AND A SMALL DOG. like a Bichon Friese or a Toy Poodle. sue me

[slattlicker]

╭﹐✦˚₊· 𖤐 * F O R G I V E   M E   N O T ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ ╮ a jschlatt x reader exes-to-lovers fic · chapter T W O ✦ if it makes you smile ✦ ↳ 3.4k words · slow build · college/uni au ╰﹒♡₊˚๑ *✧﹒✦ ࣪ ˖ ┊

✦ written with a female!reader in mind ✦ (but everyone’s welcome to suffer—i mean enjoy ♡)

you didn’t ask for this. but you didn’t stop it, either. now he’s giving you gifts like it’s a normal thing. and yeah. he brought two forks.

✧ ⊹ · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · ⊹ ✧

╭˚₊‧͙⁺˚₊‧͙✧　❛ 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓   𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 ❜　✧‧͙˚₊⁺‧͙˚₊╮ ✧ mentions of past emotional neglect ✧ anxiety around reconnection ✧ implied depressive behavior ✧ college setting / casual profanity ✧ unresolved relationship dynamics ╰˚₊‧͙⁺˚₊‧͙✧　❛ 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃   𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇   𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐄 ❜　✧‧͙˚₊⁺‧͙˚₊╯

✧ ⊹ · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · ⊹ ✧

✦ Y/N’S POV ✦

you wake up feeling weird.

not tired, not rested—just… off. like your brain’s still buffering from the night before.

you reach for your phone out of habit.

and there it is.

SCHLATT: morning. don’t forget to eat something. you got class at 10, right?

you just stare at it for a second. blank screen, black text. no “good girl.” no “sweetheart.” no voice memo at 2 a.m. slurring his regrets. just a quiet little check-in.

you didn’t block him. thought about it, a few times. even hovered over the button once.

but you didn’t.

you don’t text back.

not because you're mad. just because you don't know what to do with a text from your ex after months of not hearing anything from him.

✧

the sky is gray by the time you head out. that wet, chilly kind of morning where your hoodie sleeves feel damp no matter what. the quad’s half-empty. you take the path behind the music building to avoid the frat guys setting up some kind of table out front.

your first class is in a big lecture hall—intro to psych. easy credit, annoying professor, always freezing cold. you sit on the left side, third row from the front, second seat in. you always sit there.

which is why you freeze when you spot something already sitting on your desk.

a drink.

your drink.

exact flavors and toppings. still cold, no condensation yet. it was just dropped off.

your name is scrawled on the lid in sharpie in familiar handwriitng—but not just that. tucked underneath the drink, just barely peeking out, is a crumpled post-it note.

you glance around, like maybe you’re being watched. then slide into your seat and peel it out. it says:

figured this was better than showing up to give it to you. - j

your stomach turns a little. not in a bad way. just… a way. you’re still staring at the note when maya slides in beside you.

she takes one look at the drink, the post-it, your face—and gasps.

“oh my god. that’s from your ex, isn’t it.”

you don’t answer. but the color on your face certainly does. she grabs the cup and spins it in her hands like it might have a secret message written on the bottom.

“okay. no, actually, what the hell is this? when did you guys even start talking again? did he venmo you? is this, like, some kind of ‘drink truce’?”

you sigh, snatch the cup back, and take a sip.

it’s perfect. you hate that it’s perfect. you hate that he remembered.

you sort of wish your taste had changed, just so that you could have thrown or given this cup away. but it's been a miserable morning, and this class isn't going to make it any better...so you bring the cup to your lips again, and try not to think too much about where it came from.

✦ SCHLATT’S POV ✦

she didn’t text back.

which—fine. he wasn’t expecting her to, not really.

but that doesn’t stop him from checking his phone every five minutes like an idiot on a leash.

he even rereads the text once, just to make sure it didn’t sound too eager.

morning. don’t forget to eat something. you got class at 10, right?

yeah. no hearts. no weird overcompensating jokes. just enough. hopefully.

he adjusts the strap of his backpack and crosses the quad, head down. it’s cold, but not unbearable. cloudy. the kind of morning where campus smells like mud and energy drinks.

the drink in his hand is starting to sweat, so he wipes it on his sleeve. writes her name on the lid with the sharpie he borrowed from charlie. then he grabs a post-it from his notebook—crumpled from being in his pocket all morning—and writes:

figured this was better than showing up. - j

he doesn’t linger. just drops it off on the desk he knows she always sits in and ghosts out before anyone sees him.

by the time he gets to his own class, he’s wound tight.

he keeps his phone face-down. doesn’t want to see the nothing that’s still waiting there.

✦ Y/N’S POV ✦

by the time you get to the dining hall, your group already has the usual table: long bench, chipped edges, always kind of sticky. you see maya before anyone else—waving you over like she’s on a game show.

you’re halfway there when you notice something different. there’s a tupperware container sitting on your tray spot. not one of the sad, sweat-covered plastic trays from the line. a real, packed meal.

you pause.

maya grins like she’s about to explode.

“ohhhhhh,” she says, “you’re gonna love this.”

you sit slowly. look down at the container. it’s packed tight: rice, perfectly sliced chicken, sauce you actually like, and a cookie that looks bakery-grade.

everything’s still hot. nothing’s touching. wow.

you look at her. “what is this?”

she’s already pulling out her phone. “your boy dropped it off like five minutes ago. walked right up to us like he wasn’t about to commit an act of emotional terrorism.”

jordan leans in. “he said, and i quote, ‘figured she wouldn’t want to eat whatever crap they're serving today.’ and then disappeared. like. he didn’t even break stride. whoosh, whoosh...a true man on a mission.”

“he sprinted, ” courtney says. “his giant ass shoes squeaking. poor guy was so fucking nervous that we were gonna attack him or some shit.”

you blink at the tupperware like it might explode. you haven’t even opened it yet and you’re already spiraling.

and then you do. and yeah—it’s real. and it smells amazing.

“okay,” maya says, nudging your elbow. “say what you want, but if he ever wants to drop me a lunch like this, i’m available.”

you roll your eyes, but your face is warm and red again.

you take a bite.

it’s perfect. first a perfect drink, then...a perfectly hot, dorm-cooked meal?

you can't help but smile at the taste of the hot rice and fluster at the thought of: what could be next?

✦ SCHLATT’S POV ✦

the classroom is dim. one of the ceiling lights is flickering. the projector screen is stuck on a slide about supply chain logistics—week 4, apparently—and the professor sounds like he’s trying to set a world record for how many times someone can say “optimization” in a sentence.

schlatt is not listening.

he’s sitting near the back, hood up, thumb hovering over his phone. there’s a notebook open in front of him, but he hasn’t written anything down in the last twenty minutes except a small, increasingly dark patch of scribbles in the corner.

he told himself he wouldn’t check again until the class ended.

he’s checked four times in the last six minutes. still nothing.

maybe she hated it. maybe maya made a joke and she got embarrassed and dumped the whole thing in the trash. maybe the cookie got soggy. did he pack it weird? should he have separated the sauce?

the container felt warm when he handed it off. that was a good sign, right?

god, he should’ve left a note. no—wait. no more notes. that's probably why she didn't respond after the drink delivery this morning. he's probably acting too clingy. right?

he’s spiraling. he knows he’s spiraling. but the damage is already done.

he flips his phone over again, just to check the time—

and her name lights up the screen.

Y/N ♥︎ you can’t bribe me into being your girlfriend again.

he reads it once. then again. and a third time, just to make sure it’s not a hallucination brought on by cafeteria fumes and emotional instability.

his lips twitch—almost a smile, but not quite. he sits up straighter, like that’ll stop his heart from doing the thing it’s doing.

he types back immediately.

✦ Y/N’S POV ✦

you’re halfway through lunch when your phone buzzes.

SCHLATT: i know wasn’t trying to just wanted to start off your week strong and maybe make you smile then, immediately after: schlatt: not like make you just like if it happened that’d be cool not saying you owe me a smile

a beat later:

SCHLATT: god i’m making this worse huh

you stare at the texts, thumb hovering, brain blank.

across the table, maya sees the look on your face and goes, “oh no. what did he say now.”

you ignore her. she'll make a huge deal about you even entertaining him after all that word vomit. you type slowly.

Y/N: you’re definitely overthinking this

SCHLATT: yeah i do that sometimes this is me being normal btw this is my normal mode

Y/N: terrifying

there’s a pause. then:

SCHLATT: you smiled tho right

you bite your lip. don’t answer right away.

Y/N: yeah whatever …thanks j

✦ SCHLATT’S POV ✦

class ends with zero fanfare. the lights flicker once, the professor mumbles something about next week’s reading, and people start packing up like rats off a sinking ship.

schlatt barely heard any of it.

he’s been on autopilot since her text.

yeah whatever…thanks j

four words. that’s it. and yet somehow it’s enough to knock him on his ass. he can hear her voice, her little chuckle as she said it...

she could’ve left him on read. could’ve said nothing. but she didn’t. she responded. she joked. she used his initial.

he’s been replaying it all afternoon like a dumbass with a crush.

which—okay, yeah. that’s exactly what he is.

a crush on his ex-girlfriend that he's trying his damnedest to win back.

but still.

the second he’s out of class, he heads to the library. he actually wants to get shit done. maybe burn off some of the jittery energy in his chest. maybe just feel like a person with a functioning attention span again.

he takes the stairs up to the third floor, where it’s quiet and nobody breathes too loud. picks a table by the windows. pulls out his laptop and opens his notes.

he’s halfway through rewatching a lecture when he feels someone’s eyes on him.

looks up.

and there she is.

✦ Y/N’S POV ✦

he looks up before you’re ready.

not in a startled way. just… like he knew you’d be there. like part of him was waiting for you here...even if he knows that you almost never come up to the third floor.

but when he sees you, he smiles. it’s not a big smile. barely noticeable, really. but it’s real. no teasing behind it. no smugness. just soft.

safe.

you freeze for half a second. consider walking right past him, pretending you didn’t see.

but you don’t.

your feet move before your brain can stop them, and the next thing you know, you’re standing at the edge of his table. you don’t say anything. he doesn’t either.

you hesitate.

not because you don’t know where to sit—there’s a chair directly across from him. and it’s a big table. too big, honestly.

you hesitate because he looks up and smiles and now your brain is suddenly way too loud with old memories full of mutual laughter.

you clear your throat, shift your weight, point at the chair across from him in the universal student body language of: “is this seat taken?”

he tilts his head, a little confused.

and then your hand kind of flutters. awkward. dumb. you gesture again, smaller this time, like you know what, never mind.

why are you even asking? this is the guy who disappeared on you for months. the guy who left when things got serious. who took your feelings, shoved them in a drawer, and slammed it shut because he didn’t know how to deal.

and now you’re asking for permission to sit with him? seriously?

you almost pivot away—almost leave it there.

but then he shifts in his seat, leans back a little, legs spread wide, and gestures toward the chair with a quiet:

“yeah. of course.”

no hesitation. no edge.

like it never even crossed his mind that he’d say no.

your stomach twists as you sit down.

✦ SCHLATT’S POV ✦

you sit across from him, and for the first time in weeks, he actually gets through a full page of notes.

not because you’re talking to him. you’re not.

you’re doing the opposite—quiet, efficient, head down, just the gentle sound of typing and paper rustling from your side of the table. and somehow, that helps.

your focus is contagious. he picks up on the rhythm of it—syncs to the pace of your writing, the way you pause to re-read something, the exact second you reach for your water bottle.

it’s grounding. but also?

it’s killing him.

because he keeps catching himself watching you.

not for long—just little flickers. a glance at your hands. the corner of your mouth when you frown at your screen. the way you still bounce your foot when you’re stuck on something.

things he didn’t even know he remembered.

it’s like his brain is taking inventory, stockpiling little reminders of what it was like to have you in his orbit.

and it’s messing him up.

he gets halfway through typing a sentence—then backspaces the whole thing.

focus. he’s supposed to be focusing.

but every few minutes, that thought slips in: she’s here. she’s here. she’s actually here. she asked to sit with me.

and god, he’s trying not to mess it up.

so after a solid block of quiet, after he’s made it through two pages of notes and only spaced out once or twice—he pushes his laptop closed.

just softly. intentionally.

then he tilts his head toward the hallway. raises a brow.

“break?” no words.

just the offer.

and when you nod—he thinks maybe this is the first time all day he’s let himself exhale.

✦ Y/N’S POV ✦

the walk to the café is short. it always is. but somehow, with schlatt next to you—not touching, not even close enough to brush shoulders—it feels longer. or slower. or maybe that’s just your brain buffering. the two of you step inside. it’s quieter than usual. the late afternoon lull.

he holds the door. you say nothing.

you both drift to the bakery case. you stare at the drink menu. he tilts his head, studying the pastries like they’ve personally wronged him.

“get whatever,” he says, eyes still on the glass. “it’s on me.”

you roll your eyes. “didn’t you already pay a bit of your debt with that five-star michelin lunch?”

he smirks. “that was just an appetizer.”

you almost smile. you order something caffeinated. he orders something that sounds 100% artificially flavored. and then he points at one of the desserts behind the glass and says, “that too.”

the girl at the counter raises a brow. “want a fork?”

he doesn’t hesitate. “make it two.”

you blink. say nothing.

you end up at a small table near the window. sunlight spills across the surface in those weird golden strips that make everything feel older than it is.

he sets everything down. drinks. napkins. the sad little dessert. and quietly, without looking at you, he places one fork in front of your side. that’s it. no grand gesture. no comment.

like it’s just… assumed.

and somehow, that’s worse.

you sit. pick up the fork.

he digs in. keeps his eyes on the window. “it’s mid,” he says around a bite. “we chose wrong.”

you roll your eyes and stab a corner.

“we? you ordered it,” you say after a bite, dry. “don’t act like it betrayed you.”

schlatt snorts. “looked better in the glass. that’s not my fault.”

“you pointed at it with conviction. then forced me to be in on it too.”

he shrugs. “i have a history of bad decisions.”

you arch an eyebrow.

he catches it. sighs. “yeah, yeah. walked into that one.”

the silence that follows isn’t stiff. it’s tired, but not tense. comfortable, somehow.

✦ SCHLATT’S POV ✦

you keep eating.

he watches the people passing by the café window. pretends not to check your expression when you’re looking down. tells himself not to read into the little things—how you haven’t moved your seat farther away, how you haven’t called this a mistake.

then you speak.

quiet. barely over the hum of the coffee machines.

“thanks. for today.”

he glances over.

you don’t meet his eyes, but your fork pauses halfway to your mouth. like you're not sure if you should’ve said it. like maybe he’ll make it weird.

“yeah,” he says. “anytime.”

he means it.

he didn’t know how today was going to go. hell, he didn’t even know if you’d respond to the first text. he thought he knew you better than anyone, before things blew up. but when it ended, when he left, it was like someone flipped a switch and made him a stranger in his own memories.

that’s what scared him the most. and now?

you’re here. sitting across from him. splitting a dumb little pastry and still catching him off guard with the tiniest thank you.

it’s not everything. but it’s something.

and for once, he’s not spiraling about what this means next. not planning the whole rest of your relationship in his head. not worrying (too much) about your parents hating him or whether he makes enough money or if he’s the guy who can actually give you what you deserve.

he’ll still worry about all that. later. but right now?

one day at a time feels pretty damn good.

✧

they leave the café without saying much.

it’s not awkward.

just… full.

like the air between them is carrying everything they haven’t figured out how to say yet.

he keeps pace with her down the sidewalk, hands stuffed into his hoodie pocket, shoulder just a little too close to hers.

every so often, their arms bump. then, when their hands brush, she doesn’t pull away.

and when he shifts his fingers—just barely—she threads hers through his like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

he doesn’t breathe for a second. just holds on.

the walk is slow. campus fades into a blur of yellow lamps and sleepy foot traffic. everything’s quieter now. softer. the kind of evening that makes you think maybe life doesn’t have to be so loud all the time.

he doesn’t say anything. doesn’t want to break whatever this is. whatever they’ve found today.

you squeeze his hand once.

and for a moment, it’s everything.

✦ Y/N’S POV ✦

his hand is warm in yours.

you let him hold it.

because you don’t know the next time you’ll get to.

because today was… good.

and that’s what hurts the most.

it started with a text—simple, easy, like he hadn’t left months of silence between the two of you. then the drink, waiting at your desk like it was never a question. the packed lunch. the smiley texts. and then there was the library. him focused. steady. glancing up at you like he couldn’t believe you were really there. like he didn’t deserve it. like he wanted to deserve it.

and when he tilted his head—silent invite to take a break with him? you went.

the café. the dessert. the two forks.

the way he didn’t push, didn’t demand anything, just… showed up. of course, you can't be won over by materialistic things, but...there was a thoughtfulness behind today that you couldn't shake.

and now here you are, walking back to your dorm, hand in his, in the same rhythm you used to move in before everything went sideways.

it feels like deja vu.

it feels like something you wished for months ago.

it feels like too little, too late.

he used to freeze up at the thought of doing anything like this. used to shut down when you asked for more. and now? now he’s doing it without being asked.

you’d spent months wishing for this version of him.

and now that he’s here…you want to believe this could work. you do.

but you also remember what it felt like to sit in silence, waiting for him to care again. you remember trying to hold things together by yourself, telling your friends everything was fine while checking your phone more times than you’ll admit. you remember how easy it was for him to disappear.

and now?

now he’s here. fully. or at least, showing that he can be.

but you can’t unlive the part where he wasn’t.

so you hold his hand.

a little tighter.

one last time.

and you try to memorize what it feels like.

✧ ⊹ · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · ⊹ ✧

╭﹐✦˚₊· 𖤐 * E N D   O F   C H A P T E R   T W O ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ ╮ remember how he disappeared for months? yeah. well. hahahahaha ╰﹒♡₊˚๑ *✧﹒✦ ࣪ ˖ ┊

📌 taglist - @f4sh10n-m4v3n

[wrappedinpinklace]

Mismatched, Chapter One.

(Author’s note!! Hiii everyone, this is the first official chapter of Mismatched!!! My brand new Damian Wayne x Fem reader fic, i hope yall enjoy, xoxo angel <3 I got it wrote the other day and just got done editing it, so I thought I’d go ahead and post it!!)

If you asked anyone, they’d say Potions was a delicate art. A precise one. Meant for people with steady hands and logical minds.

So naturally, you were terrible at it.

“I think… it was the blue one?” you said, squinting at the table of identical vials with a lopsided smile.

Your lab partner looked at you like you’d just suggested licking a Hippogriff.

“That’s not the blue one, that’s the bubbling one!” they hissed, but it was too late. You’d already tipped it into the cauldron with a cheerful hum.

The concoction hissed ominously, bloated like it had swallowed a dragon, then—

BOOM!

A small explosion of glittery purple smoke engulfed your table, like a volcano project gone wrong or in this case right? The classroom went silent for half a heartbeat before someone snorted in the back. A few students clutched their notes protectively as a fine layer of soot settled across the room.

From the front of the class, Professor Nygma’s eyes narrowed behind his emerald-green spectacles. “Miss L/N, are you attempting to invent chaos, or is it simply your natural state?”

You gave him your best sheepish grin. “I’m aiming for improvement, sir. Just… the scenic route.”

He didn’t look impressed.

After ten minutes of Nygma’s theatrical scolding (involving several riddles, naturally), you were left to gather your things. Books half-charred, quill snapped in half, ink bottle mysteriously gone missing…Again.

As you scrambled to stuff it all into your bag, you pivoted too fast, tripped over your own feet, and smacked directly into a solid chest.

Everything, books, parchment, dignity, went flying.

“Ohmygosh! I’m so so sorry!” you squeaked, immediately dropping to the floor to collect your scattered belongings.

Above you, someone exhaled sharply.

“You should watch where you’re going next time,” came a voice like cold steel. Crisp, controlled.

You glanced up.

Green eyes. Sharp jaw. Slytherin robes crisp and perfect.

Damian Wayne.

You’d bumped into him once before—in the corridor outside the Owlery—where he barely acknowledged your existence beyond a glance that probably registered your entire personality as a waste of his time.

Now, he looked down at you with the air of someone thoroughly unimpressed.

You blinked up at him. “Sorry. Again. I have a… condition. It’s called perpetually clumsy with a tendency to cause minor disasters.”

He blinked once, slowly.

His instinct was to walk away—he didn’t do chaos. Or sunshine. Or sparkles. But his father raised him with manners, unfortunately.

So instead of turning on his heel, he bent down and began handing you a book.

Silently.

You gaped. “Wow. Didn’t think Slytherins helped Hufflepuffs. Isn’t that against House rules or something?”

“Don’t mistake obligation for kindness,” Damian replied flatly, shoving the last of your papers into your hands.

You beamed up at him anyway. “Too late.”

He sighed.

And that was the first time Damian Wayne hated someone a little bit less than usual.

_________

The afternoon sun poured like honey over the Hogwarts courtyard, warm and golden. You walked alongside your friends, half-listening as they gossiped about some dramatic third-year duel in the Astronomy Tower. Your mind, however, drifted like it always did—half-curious, half-distracted—until something (or rather, someone) caught your eye across the courtyard.

Sitting alone on a bench beneath the archway, sketchbook in hand and scowl firmly in place, was none other than Damian Wayne.

Oh. Oh, yes. That was your cue.

“Be right back!” you chirped, already veering off before your friends could stop you.

One of them called out, “Seriously? Again?” But you barely heard it over your own excitement.

You trotted across the courtyard, practically bouncing on your feet, and plopped down beside him like you’d been invited—which, obviously, you hadn’t.

“Hi!” you said brightly, ignoring the way his shoulders visibly tensed. “Whatcha doing? Oh wait, sketching, duh. Do you always sketch outside? I think better outside too! Although I’m more of a daydreamer than a drawer. But still. It’s the vibe, y’know?”

Damian slowly looked up from his sketchpad, the corner of his mouth twitching—whether from annoyance or disbelief, you weren’t sure. “Do you always talk like you’ve had five sugar quills and a lightning charm to the head?”

You grinned. “Nope! This is me on a normal day.”

“I can’t decide if that’s impressive or concerning,” he muttered.

You leaned a bit closer, peeking at his sketchbook (which he tilted ever so slightly away from you, as if by reflex). “Is that a Thestral?” you asked, genuinely intrigued.

He narrowed his eyes. “You can see Thestrals?”

You blinked. “Yeah. I mean… I saw someone die once. It was… a long time ago.”

The moment shifted—just briefly. The air between you quieted. Damian glanced at you, really looked, as if reassessing everything he’d previously assumed.

But then you brightened again, flashing a smile like the sun breaking through clouds.

“Anyway, that’s a really good drawing! You’re super talented. Like, weirdly talented. Is that a Wayne thing? Or a Slytherin thing? Or maybe it’s just a you thing.”

He stared.

You stared back, completely unbothered by the silence.

“You’re not going to leave, are you?” he asked dryly.

“Not unless you really want me to,” you said with a sweet shrug. “I can be quiet! …Ish.”

He groaned softly, muttering something in what might’ve been Arabic.

And yet… he didn’t move.

He could’ve walked away. Could’ve told you off. Could’ve done any number of things to reclaim his solitude.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he turned a page in his sketchbook and resumed drawing, saying nothing.

You swung your legs beneath the bench and tilted your head toward the sky. “You know,” you said, as if it were just occurring to you, “we might not be friends yet, but I think we’re on our way.”

Damian’s pencil paused for half a second.

Then continued moving.

_____________

You were not the type to live by a schedule.

Your mornings were dictated by which socks you found first, your classes a whirlwind of enthusiastic effort and mild disasters, and your evenings an unpredictable mix of last-minute study sessions, baking experiments gone wrong, and rooftop stargazing with your closest friends.

In short: you were a Hufflepuff through and through—spontaneous, heartfelt, and full of way too many emotions to keep track of.

Your dorm room in the Hufflepuff basement was cozy chaos. A jumble of colorful blankets, half-written letters to pen pals you forgot to finish, and a windowsill full of plants you talked to like friends. Somehow, everything had a place… even if no one else could figure out what that place was.

You had two constants in your life, though.

Duke Thomas: clever, grounded, effortlessly cool. The kind of Hufflepuff who had his life together and still made time to help first-years find their missing frogs. He kept you mostly out of trouble.

And Jon Kent: sunshine personified. A Hufflepuff by heart if not by sheer gravitational pull. He was loyal, kind, a little clumsy in the best way, and just chaotic enough to understand your rhythm.

Both boys were lounging with you on the grassy slope just outside the greenhouses during your free period, the three of you soaking up the spring sun and passing a packet of chocolate frogs around.

“I think this one blinked at me,” Duke said, eyeing his frog suspiciously.

“It probably knows you’ve got trust issues,” you teased.

Duke raised an eyebrow. “And you don’t?”

“Please,” you said with a dramatic wave of your hand. “I trust everyone until they give me a reason not to. Life is too short to assume everyone’s out to hex your eyebrows off.”

Jon chuckled, flopping onto his back and squinting at the sky. “So. Who is it this week?”

You blinked innocently. “Who is what?”

Duke gave you a knowing look. “The crush. You always have a new one. Last week it was that Gryffindor seeker—”

“Because he winked at me during lunch!”

“He had something in his eye,” Jon added, smiling.

You stuck your tongue out at them both. “Well, this week’s different. This one’s serious.”

“Oh no,” Duke muttered.

You leaned in, as if sharing a top-secret confession. “It’s Damian Wayne.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then Jon and Duke exchanged a look. The look. The universal “we are about to witness something unhinged” look.

“Seriously?” Jon asked, sitting up. “Damian?”

“He’s…” you paused, heart skipping. “Mysterious. And kind of grumpy. But he has these really pretty eyes and he helped me pick up my books and he draws Thestrals in his free time.”

“Did he talk to you?” Duke asked carefully.

“Technically, yes. He told me I talk like I’ve had five sugar quills and that I shouldn’t mistake obligation for kindness.”

Duke winced. “Oof. Romantic.”

You flopped backward into the grass with a dreamy sigh. “He’s just misunderstood.”

“Or he might actually hate people,” Jon said gently. “Like. Genuinely. You’ve seen him in the Great Hall, right? He eats like everyone’s beneath him.”

“I think it’s just his face,” you defended. “He probably doesn’t mean to look that mean. Maybe he was cursed at birth. Or maybe it’s a defense mechanism. Or maybe—”

“He’s going to bite your head off if you keep showing up next to him like you’re best friends,” Duke said bluntly.

You shrugged, utterly unbothered. “Then I’ll knit him a scarf as an apology.”

Jon sighed, though he was smiling. “You’re going to get your heart broken.”

“Maybe,” you admitted, “but at least it’ll be interesting.”

_________________

You weren’t looking for Damian.

At least, that’s what you told yourself as you strolled past the courtyard archway for the third time in ten minutes, pretending to look deeply interested in the pattern of the ivy climbing the stone walls.

It was just coincidence, really. That he was there again. Sitting on the edge of the fountain this time, sketchbook closed beside him, surrounded by a small circle of Slytherins.

You slowed.

Maybe it wasn’t a good idea to bother him today. He looked different when he was with them—sharper, less human. His posture was relaxed, but his eyes weren’t. They flicked over everyone like they were targets instead of people.

Still… the sight of him tugged at your chest.

Your feet betrayed you.

“Hi!” you called, waving as you approached, too bright for the cold circle you were walking into. “Fancy seeing you again, Damian!”

He didn’t respond right away. Just glanced at you—an unreadable expression flickering across his face.

One of the Slytherins turned toward you, a girl with sleek black hair and a smirk that could cut glass. “Do we know you?”

You blinked. “Oh! Not officially. I’m [Y/N]. Hufflepuff. I sit two tables down in Potions? The one who accidentally made her cauldron explode with glitter?”

“Ah,” she said, her eyes narrowing. “So you’re the reason I had to scrub purple goo off my robes.”

You winced. “Yeah… sorry about that.”

“Don’t be,” another Slytherin boy said lazily. “At least it gave us something to laugh about. You were practically singing apologies while covered in soot.”

The group laughed. Not kindly.

You laughed too, awkwardly. “Yeah, I guess I do tend to… make an entrance.”

Damian didn’t laugh.

He didn’t say anything.

His silence felt like ice water down your back.

You tried again, shoving your hands in your pockets. “Anyway, I just wanted to say hi. Not to interrupt or anything.”

“You’ve done that already,” the black-haired girl said, smiling like a blade.

The others snickered.

You faltered.

And for a split second, you considered turning around. Just smiling and walking away like none of it ever happened. Maybe Duke and Jon were right. Maybe this was too much.

Then Damian moved.

He stood.

Slowly. Deliberately.

And he fixed his friends with a gaze so sharp the laughter stopped.

“She’s not talking to you,” he said flatly.

The silence was immediate.

Your breath caught.

He looked at you then, his eyes unreadable but not unkind. “You’re interrupting,” he said—quiet, almost impassive. But then, after a beat: “…but only a little.”

You smiled. Soft. A little shaken, but grateful. “Well, I can work with that.”

One of the boys muttered under his breath, “You’ve got to be kidding—”

Damian cut him off with a glance.

“I’ll see you around,” you said gently, catching the hint. “Wouldn’t want to break up the Slytherin bonding session.”

You gave them all a polite nod, turned on your heel, and walked away—your heart hammering somewhere in your throat.

Behind you, one of the girls whispered, “What is with her?”

And if you’d looked back, you would’ve seen Damian still watching you. Quiet. Thoughtful. Jaw tight.

But of course… you didn’t look back.

Not this time.

__________________

Damian didn’t usually allow people to waste his time.

Time was precious. To be spent training, studying, perfecting—not enduring the simpering voices of classmates who spoke in circles and smiled too wide when they said his name.

He’d learned early on that here, at Hogwarts, his father’s name carried just as much weight as it did in Gotham. It came with expectations, assumptions, fake friends with sharper teeth than most monsters in the Forbidden Forest.

So he kept his circle small. Selective. Tolerable.

Which made her existence… perplexing.

He had noticed her long before she ever noticed him. You were impossible not to notice—like a spell gone slightly wrong but still full of charm. Loud. Bright. Always laughing at something. Your robes perpetually wrinkled. Your notes a disaster. Your magic unpredictable.

You were chaotic.

And yet… authentic.

You didn’t watch him the way others did. Didn’t seek proximity like it was a privilege or whisper behind your hand about Bruce Wayne’s son like you expected secrets to fall into your lap.

You approached him like he was just there.

It was either idiocy or audacity.

He still hadn’t decided which.

He stood now in the courtyard, arms loosely folded as his friends lingered around the fountain. He didn’t trust most of them—he barely liked them—but they served a purpose. Smart. Dangerous enough. Predictable.

Unlike you.

“Was she serious?” Sasha asked, still smirking from your interruption. “Hufflepuffs don’t usually wander into snake dens unless they’ve lost something.”

“I think she just likes the sound of her own voice,” Rhys chimed in. “She talks like someone set her on fire and didn’t put her out properly.”

A few chuckled.

Damian didn’t.

“She’s not hurting anyone,” he said evenly.

That drew attention.

Sasha’s brow lifted. “Are you defending her?”

“I’m saying your commentary is unnecessary.” He didn’t raise his voice—he didn’t have to. The sharp edge in his tone was enough. “If she wanted your opinion, she would’ve asked.”

The silence was swift. Heavy.

He stared out over the courtyard, jaw tight.

He didn’t know why he said it.

He didn’t care about you.

You were a nuisance. An interruption. A walking, talking storm of messy good intentions and clumsy charm. You didn’t even know the proper name for half the plants you carried around in your satchel like stray kittens.

But you were… genuine.

And for someone who lived among liars and legacies, that made you dangerous in an entirely different way.

He wasn’t intrigued because he liked you. He didn’t.

He was intrigued because you were unaffected. Because when you looked at him, you didn’t see legacy. Or expectation. Or threat.

You just saw him.

And that, perhaps, was the most disarming thing of all.

He glanced down at his sketchbook later that evening, safely tucked away in the corner of the Slytherin common room where no one dared bother him. He’d flipped to a fresh page without thinking.

Then sketched.

Not a Thestral. Not a battlefield scene.

But a figure with messy robes and leaves tangled in her hair.

Laughing.

Like she’d cast Lumos directly into his skull and left him blinking.

He stared at it for a long moment before closing the book and locking it with a muttered spell.

This meant nothing.

He didn’t like her.

He barely knew her.

And he intended to keep it that way.

…Probably.

[lovelywooz]

Knife’s Edge

Heyy :D I've been writing this for over a year so I hope it's good! People always find my shameful posts right away in the jungwoo tag. I don’t think he knows how to use tumblr though so I’m safe! ;) Sorry that it’s a multi-part btw, but I wanted to get some of it out already, nearly done with the rest!

Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 (Coming Soon)

Word Count: 7,305

Warnings: Smut, kissing, biting, fingering, kitty eater jungwoo agenda that I’m pushing, knife mentioned but it’s in the title too, themes of violence

Mr. Kim Jungwoo, your best friend, is anything but killer. His bright smile, eccentric personality, and playful touchiness certainly make you swoon but... a psychopath? Lesson learned: Beware the man under the mask.

“CUT!”

Camera directors and makeup artists alike sigh with relief at the end of another long filming day. Your co-star gleefully makes his way toward you in a way that could only be described as ‘bouncing’. He takes the, very dull, prop knife he’s been holding and playfully pokes your side with it. Playing along, you wail exaggeratedly in pain and slowly sink to the floor. The laugh that worms it way out of your dear friend is your reward.

Over the years your careers have grown together. You were two zombie extras in the background, then two office workers with one line each, then you played two siblings at a snack stand, and so on. While your career took off after landing a role as the ‘supportive but delusional best friend’ in a weekly sitcom, Jungwoo simultaneously grew to stardom off a Netflix series where he plays a ‘naive soccer player’… who gets murdered in the third episode. He was a hit nonetheless, no doubt due to his pretty face and personality. Despite colorful careers, the current project “Demon in Disguise�� is the first time you’ve both been awarded lead roles. 

But, let’s start at the beginning.

You can recall the night casting was finalized. You were so nervous and excited at the prospect of a lead role that you didn’t tell anyone, except your agent Minju of course, that you had auditioned.

The two of you held hands and put the casting director on speaker phone when he called.

“Hello, this is Kim Mingyu of Seventeen Entertainment. I understand you’ve been waiting to hear from us regarding your audition?”

“Yes that’s correct”! Your palms have begun to sweat.

“Excellence. I’m pleased to inform you our esteemed director is a fan of your work and wants to offer you the part”.

Minju muted the phone to squeal and run around the room in glee.

“Um. Hello?” Mingyu chirps from the other end of the line.

Hushing Minju, you unclick the mute button. “Apologies my service must have cut out for a second. Yes, I would be happy to take the role! If I may ask, have you decided any other cast members yet?”. 

“Fantastic. I’ll inform the director, he’ll be thrilled” he shuffles with some papers in the background, “Yes we’ve actually picked the Psychopath you’ll be working with. Called him earlier this morning. We know that you’ve worked with him on screen before; Kim Jungwoo?” 

A mix of confusion and happiness washed over you in that moment. “Y-yes! I’m very comfortable with him so that’s great”. 

“Perfect. I’ll give your agent a call with the filming schedule in due time”. 

You hand the phone back to your agent so she can wrap up the conversation. You should be excited about this. On the big screen with your closest friend? That’s once in a lifetime. The realization sets in as soon as Minju hangs up the phone. 

“So… romance drama with your ‘best friend’ huh?” She slinks back over to the chair next to you with a smug look on her face. 

“The sample script said Crime. Thriller. How could I have known it would develop into something like that?” You bury your face in your hands, “and my other concern is that, well…”

“You think Jungwoo isn’t exactly ‘killer’ material?” Minju always reads your mind. “I know the boy is a bit of a space cadet, but he is an actor for a reason. Maybe he’ll surprise you”. She winks and leaves to fill out some paperwork on her laptop. 

After the initial shock rolls over, you send a text to your dear friend. 

Me - (9:52 PM) Did you, by chance, get casted today hmm? 

ZEUS :) - (9:57 PM) … how did you know that (,,>_<,,) 

Me - (9:57 PM) Guess who’s playing the detective 

You’re answered not by a text but by a video call invitation, which you accept. 

“Are you for real?!” Jungwoo’s entire face is taking up the screen so you can only see his raised eyebrows and sparkling eyes. 

“I’m being so serious. Minju and I just got off the phone with the director!”

Jungwoo makes some excited sounds and puts the phone to his chest to tell whomever he’s with that, “She got the other part. I was just talking about that! That’s so crazy”.

In the background you can hear Hyungwon’s distinctive snickering laugh, but you can’t make out what he’s saying over your friend’s loud and aggressive shushing. He lifts the phone once more and you can see he’s at the gym based on his signature beanie, white T-shirt, and you’re assuming he’s wearing his lucky grey sweatpants.

The lack of TV makeup gives him this perfectly-imperfect glow that can’t be replicated by any foundation or BB cream. Almost like he’s lit from within. He copies your skincare routine yet somehow he’s never had so much as a zit.

“Hyungwon is here by the way. I can’t believe our first leads are in the same drama, how touching”he fake cries for a second, which makes you chuckle and roll your eyes. “Anyways I’ll talk to you later, gotta start beefing up if I’m gonna look scary. Bye bye~”.

“See ya!” Beep. 

As soon as the script finished printing Minju dropped you off at your luxury apartment. Your nightly routine went by quickly due to your excitement. All those years of hard work are finally paying off for you and your best friend. In the entertainment world chances like this are few and far between. Which means you have to be absolutely captivating if you want to keep your spot amongst the superstars.

You recall your college acting coach’s advice while you wash up, “nobody wants to watch two strangers fish kiss on screen, real chemistry is critical when it comes to romance”. Your cheeks heat up underneath the foamy soap, “if you’re having trouble ‘warming up’ to your co-star: picture them on top of you. Or you on top of them if you prefer! Damn if that doesn’t spark something or other”. You can hear his hearty laugh clear as day still taunting you.

Flopping down on your bed you toss and turn under the covers, attempting to get comfortable. What a ridiculous piece of advice. You don’t dare close your eyes. If you have to see Jungwoo… like that…

“God this is so embarrassing!” Huffing, you flip into your side and stare holes into the pillow beside you. “This is stupid. This is your job for crying out loud”. Surely it’s harmless right? Just an exercise of your imagination? Not as if you’ve never hugged him or touched him before- he’s your best friend for Pete’s sake. The overthinking drains you enough to close your eyes and drift into a peaceful sleep, a welcome respite from your thoughts. 

_

The warmth of lips on your neck wakes you. When you open your eyes your view is blocked by a cloud of familiar brown hair. Not that you could make out much in the darkness of your bedroom anyways.

“Woo? Mmm, what are you doing?” The scrape of his teeth across your neck gives you goosebumps as he hums lowly in response. Any pain is quickly soothed by his plush lips again.

While you are certainly confused, the situation is not unpleasant. His mouth is leaving abstract shapes all over the exposed skin above your chest. Your legs are tangled together and his warm body makes it seem as if the whole room is filled with him. His gourmand perfume with the subtle tinge of sandalwood bewitches your senses. You detect a bit of salty musk, likely from the gym earlier. Not that you minded.

Post-workout man smell is practically a pheromone.

A warm hand sliding slowly up your shirt catches your attention, his thumb gently caressing your stomach. Your breath hitches. Your lover raises his head to look into your eyes and you whimper at the lust within them. It’s as if all his attention is focused on nothing else but your pleasure. Your foreheads connect as he presses his thigh up against your throbbing heat. You barely stifle your gasp, “Jungwoo… please-“.

His lips touch your temple sweetly as he whispers “When I took the job as your agent, I didn’t sign up to be your mother too.”

… What did he say? This time the man sits up completely before chastising you, “Get up already!”

_

Your lids fly open and register Minju’s stern glare. “I thought you said you were going to set an alarm? This is why I arrive early to pick you up.” She makes her way to the bedroom door with a huff, car keys gripped in her hand. “You’ve got 20 minutes to get ready for the script reading today. Get. Up!”.

Scrambling out of bed you rush to the sink to brush your teeth, wash your face, and make the best of your bed-head. Thank goodness you showered last night and just need a little zhuzhing. Stepping into your sweatpants you root around for a t-shirt to wear. “You have 30 seconds!” Minju yells down the hallway.

“Alright! Okay- hang on a sec!” Finally you find a random oversized black tee to throw on. Grabbing your bag and slipping into your shoes you race out the door, turning and locking it behind you. 

The drive to the entertainment building was quite uneventful. It’s Minju’s turn to set the playlist and you hummed and sang along to her tunes. What a relief to have an agent you get along so well with. You could ask Minju for just about anything and she’d be there for you. She coolly flashes her badge to security and parks the car.

On the way up to the reading room, you stop to use the restroom. Passing by the large mirror into a stall, you finally have a moment to process your dream before work begins. “What the hell was that?”, you shake your head and rub your face. Moreover, how are you supposed to look him in the eye today?

You’d never deny that your dear friend was attractive. He’s got a face Aphrodite would be jealous of; this entrancing aura surrounding him. He’s had no shortage of women and men alike vying for his attention, unbeknownst to him ironically.

So why now? Why before the single most important roles of your careers? Why before you have a dozen cameras filming every moment in multiple angles? Why did your heart pick now to start… feeling things.

Finishing up your business, you exit the privacy of your stall and wash your hands at the sink by the large mirror. You check your appearance and freeze. Oh my god. The automatic faucet shuts off leaving you in tense silence. I’m wearing his shirt.

Sure enough, the black shirt you mindlessly swiped from your dresser in haste indeed belongs to Jungwoo. Not only that, but your nose picks up on a faint but familiar scent. Vanilla and sandalwood… in your mind’s eye you recall his piercing gaze-

“Stop.” Smacking your flushed cheeks seems to bring you back to reality. Quickly, you exit the restroom leaving your depraved visions behind in favor of the task at hand. 

You take your seat next to Minju and scan the room. There are at least a dozen writers and five other actors and actresses, some of whom you recognize and some you’ve never seen before. No major stars though. This is to be expected, it’s your first lead role after all. Clearly this production is confident enough in their story to give some underrated performers a chance. 

“Wow. I thought I was supposed to be the criminal” even with a bucket hat and a face mask, his tall proportions betray his identity. Jungwoo stands behind your chair and tugs at your clothes, “you stole my shirt”.

You brush away his hand as nonchalantly as you can muster, “Finders keepers. Next time you drunkenly Uber to my apartment: sleep with your shirt on.” You poke his arm back as he giggles.

“Okay fine! You can have it I’ve got a million t-shirts anyways” his touch lingers on your shoulders for a moment, and he laughs before heading over to his seat next to his manager Mr. Suh. No matter how many times he asks you to just call him ‘Johnny’ his stern resting expression lends itself better to formality. Jungwoo of course has no problem messing around with him whatsoever.

The production meeting ends and the script packets are distributed for each actor to study. Arriving back at your apartment in the late afternoon, you decide to take the rest of the evening to knock out reading the script. Typically you liked to get ahead of it.

Flipping page after page, you pause multiple times during your reading to take a deep breath.

This drama was almost certainly based on some dirty fan fiction the writers worked up. No wonder there’s no blockbuster names involved. While not totally explicit- this is South Korea after all- it’s not difficult to read between the lines.

The story involves a young detective desperately searching for answers as to why her ex-boyfriend went missing. She’s worked countless cases, but this one was personal. She’ll do anything and face any danger to bring the perpetrator to justice.

Meanwhile her plucky assistant has been ‘keeping the bed warm’. What she doesn’t realize is he’s merely trying to throw her off his trail. For you see, the assistant was the killer all along. He’s responsible for a string of unsolved murders, all of whom he became involved with before they were found dead. But this time is different. He seeks not merely to kill the detective, but to own her very being. The rest of those women were nothing but toys to him, but her? She’s special. He wants her to follow him, willingly. And if he can’t have her? Well. Then nobody can. 

It’s a classic trope but to be honest, you can’t tell how it’s going to end. Will she find out the assistant is the killer before it’s too late? If she does, will he kill her before he gets locked up? The writers put their hearts, souls, and dirty fantasies into this one.

You flop the slab of papers onto your nightstand, turning the bedside lamp off and plunging into darkness. Your thoughts roll back to Jungwoo just before your mind shuts off for the day. You can’t believe filming starts tomorrow already. 

_

A call interrupts your research. You recognize the extension and debate whether to force him to leave a message. You’re so close to a breakthrough in this case; you can feel it. You can’t afford any distractions, even the fun ones. But you just can’t help yourself. Maybe he really does need an account code or something this time.

Snatching the receiver off the hook, you tuck it between your shoulder and your ear “this had better be good.”

“Chief, I heard you need my help… down there?” The implication behind the question makes you blush. That’s always his code for when there’s more than a ‘work favor’ on the table. Obviously he can’t spell out what he’s suggesting over a monitored phone line.

To everybody else, it sounds like your overachieving personal assistant is being summoned to make copies or something in the lower floor of the investigative department. You’re already a little hot under the collar, the stress of the investigation begging to be snuffed out if only for a little while.

But, you must stay focused. “I’m kinda in the middle of something.”

“Chief, don’t work so hard” his tone dips into something sugary sweet and sultry, “I’ll be down there quickly. I promise”. 

“Cut. Great work you two” your director turns to talk to the lighting crew leaving you to your thoughts. Director Jihoon may be small, but he commands a set like no other. For such a little guy, he sure has a confident stride.

You’d read this scene last night so you know what’s coming next. Already your face feels like it’s melting off. And it must be because the makeup team flocks over to you in a whirlwind of powder, lip tints, and blushes. 

Once the makeup fairys are satisfied with your look, they swarm Jungwoo as he makes his way towards you. He clears his throat while they clean his fake glasses and roll up the sleeves of his crisp white button down shirt. “You ready?” You nod mutely and giggle a bit at the way he is scolded for moving during his lip makeup. He’s blushing a bit too, nothing a little powder won’t fix. 

You’re glad that if you’re doing this, it’s with him. You’ve known each other all this time, yet you’ve never so much as gossiped about any sexual escapades. Neither of you have ever done anything this… racey in front of each other. Much less in front of a camera. Still, it’s nice to be paired with someone you know and trust, rather than a total stranger or some veteran actor who’s secretly a creep. 

“Clear the set please. Places!”

You gulp down the lump in your throat as you step back into the desk behind you. Jungwoo shuffles over and invades your personal space. It’s so painfully awkward but neither of you are brave enough to admit it. You rest your hands on his arms in the proper placement for the scene. Of course you notice how firm his biceps are. The gym is really paying off… okay not helping.

“Hold! Lighting problem. Sit tight love birds.” The director shimmies off his chair and walks to some unknown location. Honestly you’re grateful for the extra time to compose yourself. 

“Hey, don’t worry” you peek your head up at your partner, “Just play pretend and have fun with it. I won’t judge you.” Jungwoo mutters to you.

“You’re not nervous?” You whisper back. The production team is preoccupied with the light fixtures and you doubt they would be able to hear your conversation, but keeping the volume low seems fitting. It feels suitably… intimate considering your situation.

“Me?” He huffs a laugh, “Of course I am. But if it looks real, we only have to do this once”. Some additional lights flicker on as the director shouts once again for places. Jungwoo quickly adds, “Sorry if I hurt you by accident okay?” You only have time to nod in response. 

“Action!” 

Your body is slammed onto your desk. Photos and documents flying in the air. The force of the tall boy knocks the wind and the courage out of you.

It’s tempting to break character but you steel yourself and look up at him with as desperate a look as you can muster. Not in the script but he’s right, I gotta make it look real. You meet his gaze through half lidded eyes and by God you wish you hadn’t. 

Jungwoo loosens his tie with an expression you’re sure will end up in your dreams tonight. A veil of playful lust thinly concealing the twisted desires beneath. His glasses are nearly falling off his face, his hair is properly tousled thanks to the costume department, and his muscles are straining through the button down that’s one size too small. The smug look on his face nothing short of patronizingly sexy.

You don’t even notice the camera coming closer when he flattens his chest against yours.

“Chief, you’re still looking at that old case? Didn’t you hear it’s a dead end?” His long and nimble fingers trace their way to the top button of your shirt and pop it open.

“Y-you know what? I don’t recall asking for your input.” You reach down and tug at his belt buckle, attempting to knock it loose.

You make a show of throwing your head back a bit to try and hide some of your expression from Jungwoo. You’re barely even acting when you shudder at the fingers he cards through your hair.

“Don’t misunderstand Chief, I only want to help you. You’re so on edge lately” His tone is sinfully lovely. He cups your cheek, bringing you down to meet his eyes. “Let me help you relax. Okay?”. 

“Cut! I think we got it. Great work guys. Just some dialog left and we’ll call it a day.” 

Jungwoo scrambles off of you as if he’d touched a hot burner. You’d hit him for insulting you if not for the delirium you’re experiencing right now. You brush yourself off and straighten your clothes, attempting to recenter yourself. Your partner clears his throat.

“See,” he says “Only one take”. He winks and you gag exaggeratedly. His laugh makes you smile and eases the tension. Now that that scene is over your relief is immense. Your dialogue goes smoothly and you start to mingle with more of your costars. The filming day goes by in a breeze.

You lay down in bed freshly showered and excited to get back to the studio tomorrow. In due time, you drift off reflecting on your day. 

_

“You’re so pretty baby” Jungwoo mumbles into your thighs, dragging his tongue painstakingly slowly down towards your throbbing core. Occasionally dropping a kiss along the way. You try not to make any more embarrassing sounds. His crawling pace is torturous, he knows it too judging by that devilish smirk on his face.

“So pretty but such a tease. Wearing my clothes. Showing everyone you wanna be mine huh?” Shaking your head vehemently, you try to sit up but you’re quickly thwarted by a strong arm forcing your chest back down. “No? You weren’t? Don’t deny it sweetie. I actually like it”. He kisses your clit with each word, “I really,” Kiss. “Really.” Kiss. “Like it”. Finally, blessedly, his tongue swipes through your folds.

The moan that escapes you is nothing short of pornograpic. It fuels him more. His tongue draws circles around your clit before latching his lips around it. “Woo, oh my god please”. You’re not sure what you’re even pleading him for but he reassures you with a patronizing coo, “I’ll take care of you, just wanna make you feel good. My pretty girl, all mine.” His words would be so sweet if not for the subtle twist of possessiveness lacing them.

It’s so wrong. But it makes you squirm even harder under him. Practically grinding against his face, making his perfectly angled nose bump your sensitive spot. He pulls his mouth away and a string of spit connects him to your core. Fuck that’s… so hot. He looks drunk as he leans up to rest his head against yours, panting onto your face. You close your eyes, unable to take being so close to him in right now. His long gentle fingers circle your entrance, slowly but methodically working you up again. “Look at me sweetie.” You can’t. You really can’t this time. “I wanna see your eyes. Pretty please?” You know he can feel your core twitch. Why does he have to sound like that when he begs you?

“Come on honey no use being shy now, you’re already soaking me. Let me see you” You open your eyes timidly and stare into his chocolate colored ones. So many emotions swirl inside his irises: pleasure, devotion, pride. They’re staring into the depths of your mind and exposing desires you didn’t know existed. “There you go. Not so hard huh?” His digits sink their way into your heat. Your corrupted soul almost leaves your body.

Your eyes roll back and squeeze shut once again. His laugh would sound so innocent if not for the deeply depraved context. His mouth falls next to your ear again as his hand pumps faster and faster. “You gonna cum?” Breathlessly you nod. His knuckles brush against your insides with each thrust. Squelching noises could likely be heard in the next room over. “Orrr… Should I stop?” He giggles.

You death grip onto his arm, “No! Don’t, please just don’t stop” the noises you’re making could get a sex worker to blush.

“I’m only teasing honey don’t worry. I don’t intend to stop, you’ve been so good an all.” Darkness creeps into his voice. “Then again… I do like hearing you beg” He rubs your clit in circles with the pad of his thumb and you’re so so close. Can practically see the light.

“Woo please! Need it” you whine and thrash uncontrollably searching for some kind of extra contact. Anything to get you over that hill. 

Your alarm shocks your system. You feel like a bomb about to explode when you realize it’s time to get up. What the fuck. You were so close. Groaning in frustration, you reach over and turn off the evil device. You take your robe with you to the bathroom. Time to shock your system with an ice cold shower. 

_

Day two went by fast as well. You’ve established your character’s friendships and filmed a few action sequences. At the end of day, the writing team comes shuffling in like a pack of vultures. Mid-conversation with the second female lead you watch them hand over a freshly printed stack of papers to the director. The team of youngsters keenly watch as he reads the pages. Once he’s flipped the packet one last time, he nods in approval. Much to the visible satisfaction of the team. The director wobbles off his chair and slowly makes his way over to you and the other actors. He never looks up from his watch and nearly runs down several costume artists. When he does lift his head, he glances back and forth between you and Jungwoo several times. Eventually he settles on Jungwoo, walking over to where he’s seated across the set on some couch prop. You can’t hear what they’re saying from over here but you watch their interaction curiously. The director hands Jungwoo his mysterious packet of papers while he talks his ear off. Jungwoo’s back stiffens a bit and he clears his throat as the director explains what must be in that leaflet.

With each enthusiastic word from Jihoon his eyebrows raise higher. Eventually Jungwoo scratches the back of his neck sheepishly and, to your surprise, meets your eyes. You avert your gaze immediately but you still try to use your peripheral vision. All you catch is a nod from Jungwoo and a shoulder pat from the director. 

Now the short man is stalking towards you with determination. He starts speaking before he’s even entered your personal space, “Would you be open to an additional scene? We can spare the extra time but you’d have to do it in only a few takes”. He flits the stack of papers outward, “The writing team approached me” You take the papers from his outstretched hand and begin flipping through them. Nothing appears to have changed in the script except for one hand written paragraph scribbled in hastily:

Assistant and detective lie in bed, getting up to intimate activity *at discretion of cast* killer narrowly reveals themselves but plays it off. 

It’s hard to keep your cool with your face heating up like crazy. “At discretion of cast… so they want us to come up with something?” You shoot a deer in headlights look at your director.

“Listen it doesn’t have to be crazy explicit- this drama will air on national television after all.” He pushes up his glasses, “Your friend gave me his consent only on the condition that you’re alright with it.” This time it’s your turn to catch Jungwoo staring. When you glance his way he’s suddenly very, very intrigued by his shoes. “So how about it? Like I said I won’t force you”. Jihoon scratches his head. “But if I can be frank: adding this scene will make the chemistry between your characters make a lot more sense. Just comin’ from experience.” 

Maybe it’s the promise of making the drama a hit. Maybe it’s the chance of getting close to Jungwoo again. Somehow he gets you to agree. Before you know it, you’re squished next to each other on a tiny bed, storyboarding a sex scene, surrounded by cameras. It feels as absurd as it sounds.

Jihoon takes the reins, “We just need a raunchy, passionate shot to help fill in the blank for the audience.” He says this like it’s no big deal. The man scratches his chin lost in thought, then gestures to both of you. “How would you feel about kissing?” 

Coughing and choking erupts from the man next to you. His face was bright red. You hand him his water bottle from the table next to you without making eye contact.

Frankly you’re just as flustered at the suggestion as he is. Jihoon continues, “Okay maybe not a kiss yet then. Here’s a better idea: you lay on top of her, we’ll throw a blanket on you, get real friendly and that’s a wrap” Beeping from his trusty watch ends the conversation. “We don’t have much time” The director is already barking orders into his headset as he’s walks away. 

Jungwoo sighs next to you. Then he starts unbuttoning his shirt. What is he doing??

“Jungwoo! What on earth are you doing?” You cover your eyes in a scandalized manner. Not that you’d never seen his body at the beach or after a night of drinking. But it feels different- even looks different, now. His lean but muscular build seems more defined than before. And the way he unbuttons with one hand makes your thighs clench. He slides his sleeves off and drapes the crisp white shirt over a prop chair in the ‘bedroom’. Always so neat and tidy. 

“You saying you leave all your clothes on during the act?” Clearly he’s been working on his confidence as well as his body, seeing as he’s half naked in front of a dozen cameras and staff.

Unfortunately he does have a point. What kind of sex scene would everyone’s clothes be on? “Fine.” You sigh and grasp the hem of your shirt. You lift it just to your belly button before Jungwoo grabs your arm to stop you. 

“Wait- I was just kidding you don’t have to… do that” his forehead is creased with concern for you. His hand then covers yours unconsciously, “I can show enough skin for the both of us. Don’t do anything you’re uncomfortable with”. Jungwoo has always been a little protective of you. He pays for meals when you go out together, fixes your electronics with his technical knowledge, he even helps you put furniture together although you insist you can do it by yourself.

Nevertheless, you shrug off his concern this time. “I don’t mind, it’s just like being in a swimsuit right?” Before he can protest (or you lose your nerve) you’ve lifted your shirt over your head and flung it into the chair haphazardly. The set is a little cold and you can feel goosebumps start to rise on your exposed skin. “I’m not taking my bra off though. Not unless they pay me a pornstar salary!” you giggle sheepishly at your own joke.

Your bra in question is rather adorable today, you mentally thank yourself for wearing it to get that extra boost of confidence. It’s pale pink with red heart-shaped polkadots. Red lace wraps around the cups to hug the swell of your breasts flatteringly. Gotta love post-Valentine’s Day clearance sales. 

It’s funny. You’ve gone to the beach with Jungwoo before, many times actually, so he’s definitely seen you topless. But something about the atmosphere feels… different this time. It could be the fact that you’re sitting so close that your thighs are touching. Or that you both know loosely what you’re about to do. Either way the tension is palpable. A small familiar spark ignites in your lower body and you’re reminded of your titillating scene from yesterday. 

Against your better judgment, you try to cut the mood by tussling his hair some, leaning closer and quietly remarking that ‘it’s a little too perfect for supposedly being in the fit of passion’. His eyes don’t meet your face, he’s staring much lower. For some reason you feel a little swell of pride. 

Director Jihoon’s voice is heard over the loudspeaker, “Okay kids you’re up. Get under the covers and let’s get this done quick so we can all go home”. The tall man beside you shuffles towards the pillows and folds back the comforter on the bed. He gestures silently for you to get in under the covers and you nod a ‘thank you’ back.

Once your back hits the smooth and soft sheets he slips in next to you, then tosses the heavy blanket back over you both. It feels slightly domestic for a moment, crawling into bed together. Feeling the warmth of skin on skin when your bodies brush. He positions himself on top of you. Any and all bravado evaporates and you oblige your first instinct to close your eyes.

There’s no way you can look at him without giving away exactly what’s on your mind in this position. The dreams and thoughts you’ve been having. It’d be all too obvious. He hasn’t uttered a word since your shirt came off. Your curiosity at his silence makes you peek one eye open and once again you wish you hadn’t.

Jungwoo is a much better actor than you give him credit for. That confusing mix of love and evil from earlier has returned to his eyes. The cameras aren’t even rolling yet. Finally, he speaks. “I have an idea, but you’re going to have to trust me”.

You nod, “I do. Trust you, I mean”. You could’ve sworn his gaze fell on your lips for a split second. Not like you’re not stealing glances at his too. The position you find yourselves in is reminding you far too much of your dream last night. You’re certain if he brushed over your heat he could feel how wet you are at the thought. 

But. He’s your best friend. Right? This is all just an act. You’re just too immersed in your roles. It’s filtering into your dreams. That must be it. 

The director must’ve called action while you’re lost in thought. Long fingers lace in yours and your hands are pinned above you. Warm lips are pressed down your neck to your exposed collarbone. Your breath has picked up but you’re a little stiff from the shock.

Jungwoo kisses a path back up to whisper in your ear, “is this okay?”. You know his question is just for you, not the cameras, not the audience. His words turn the heat in your gut up to ten. He has no idea how much more than ‘okay’ this is.

All you have the courage to do is nod. He hums lowly and your toes curl up. “Tell me and I’ll stop alright?” He doesn’t wait for an answer this time and sinks his teeth gently into the base of your neck.

Forgetting time and place and person, you moan in pleasure. Suddenly it feels like you aren’t acting anymore.

His left arm slips under the small of your back to hold you as close as possible while his right hand traces down the side of your torso. With your wrists now free, you wrap your arms around his back and scratch gently at his shoulders. It appears to only egg him on harder and his hums turn to lust-laden groans. You’re not sure how you’ll ever go back to listening to his voice normally after you’ve heard what he supposedly sounds like going hard in bed.

Speaking of hard, you’re for sure feeling something poking your stomach. He has to know how crazy he’s making you. The dreams you’ve been having, and now this little stunt? His lips and tongue dragging along the exposed parts of your chest intensify this need. You need to kiss him so badly.

Your lustful mind starts imagining his mouth elsewhere and you squirm a bit at this thought, accidentally pushing your thigh up against his hard-on. His breath hitches.

Just brushing against your best friend’s boner he got from marking you up, perfectly platonic behavior. 

“Kihyun never made you feel this way did he?”

It took you a moment to remember what in the fuck he’s talking about. He’s breathing so hard you could hardly understand his line; playing it up for the camera. Very cute. And kinda hot. You stiffen up to deliver your next line, as the script dictates. 

“Never say his name. Ever.” You spit at him, enraged, and sit back on your elbows.

“Sorry, Chief. It was just- spur of the moment… I wasn’t thinking” there’s a suspicious lack of sincerity to his apology. He smiles at you, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. 

Something isn’t adding up.

“Come on. I said I was sorry. I’ll make it up to you?” His hand cups your face in an attempt to change the subject and reel you back in. He leaves a warm, pleading kiss on your cheek.

Your assistant joined the team after Kihyun left the force and consequently, left you. It was sudden. Detective Yoo vanished without a trace. He left a note saying he was sorry but that he “had to go in order to keep you safe”. Whatever that meant. He walked out the door leaving you wondering what could’ve been all those years ago. And now your assistant seems to know him? 

“How do you know his name?” Silence. His once gentle hand twitches and lowers from your cheek. 

“The pictures on your desk of course. Also you and detective Yoo had a lot of joint paperwork in your file.” His voice is smooth, calm, rehearsed; but his fists clench tightly in the sheets. “I made an assumption that’s all”. 

You suppose that could make sense. The intimate life between you and Kihyun was technically a secret at the time, but you never could bring yourself to put the photos away after the breakup. And especially not now that he’s gone. It’s possible he could’ve put two and two together. 

“You’re shaking Chief. Let me take care of you” he wraps his arms around you in a hug. His hands tracing shapes up and down your back smoothly. His lips dragging kisses down the side of your neck. “Don’t think about those bad people any more. Just think about me, okay?”. Using the full weight of his body he pins you back down into the mattress to continue his onslaught. Another nip to your tender flesh pulls a pleasured sigh from your lungs. Your assistant has got you right where he wants you yet again. 

You’re enjoying yourself but deep down you can’t shake the nagging thought that Jungwoo is merely acting right now. That to him this could be inconsequential. A performance and nothing more. Then again: is it really possible to fake how rock solid he is against your lower body? 

“Cut! That’s a wrap for today” 

Back to reality. Right. 

This time, rather than recoil from you immediately, he takes his time detaching himself from you. Jungwoo sighs and lingers with his body wrapped around yours, if only for a moment. Then releases you from his embrace and rolls off of you, but he doesn’t come out from the covers just yet. 

Oh right, he can’t. Lest his little (big) Jungwoo be visible to the entire staff.

A smirk pulls at your lips before you can hide it. The taller man reaches over to the chair where your clothes had been thrown moments before and tosses your T-shirt in your general direction. 

Usually you’re the first person he finds after a long day of filming. You’ll talk about your lunch that day, your favorite scene, anything. But for the first time since you met, you fall into silence. It’s not uncomfortable necessarily. Rather, it feels as if both of you realize your paradigms have shifted. And how could they not? You always thought showbiz intimacy would be so awkward and forced, absolutely dreaded it your whole career. Something felt strangely natural about being chest to chest with your best friend… you’re not sure how to feel about that. 

Mr. Suh comes onto the set holding an oversized hoodie. He swipes the men’s button down off the chair and hands it to a costume designer, then throws the hoodie at Jungwoo’s face. “Let’s go, your mother is in town this week and I told her we’d be home by nine”. 

Jungwoo scoffs at his agent, “you’re talking to my mom without me?” He pulls the hoodie on over his head. Finally he gets out of bed, the hem of the garment being oversized enough to cover anything embarrassing. Mr. Suh is a real one.

“Well: She’s a very nice woman”.

“Yes she is my mother is an angel. But we both know you and your wife just want your grubby little paws on her cookie recipe”. Jungwoo points accusingly at the tall man’s bulky chest.

Mr. Suh shrugs in response. Then, waves kindly to you, “Have a good evening”. He throws Jungwoo his own bag to carry and leaves to go start the car. 

Your friend offers you a hand getting out of bed, which you accept. He’s back in usual form. With his signature heartwarming smile gracing his lips. “I’ve gotta go, my mom doesn’t like it when I come home late and her food gets cold”. He gives your hand a quick squeeze before letting it fall to your side. “I’ll see you next week”! 

“Bye! Text me” you smile back at your friend and watch his lanky form rush out the door.

There’s a week long break between filming periods to make final script edits. His mom doesn’t come to town often and when she does he likes to treat her to family trips. It seems he’s going to be busy the whole break long.

Your heart aches in a different place than usual but when Minju arrives to pick you up you manage to shake it off. 

[courtofcrescent]

There's a big festival at the market, and you are trapped in the garden of your house.

• Court of Crescent: Short Stories •

Little M!MC x Galeas

(You can read F!MC x Lunera version in the previous post)

.

You sulk.

Of course you sulk. How could you not? There's a big festival at the market—you can even hear the sound of their singing from here—and you are trapped in the garden of your house. It's right at midday, even!

You sulk inelegany—or is it inelegancy? No, inelegantly? No, no. You think that's not right. What did your tutors say about it? Ineleganily? Inelegranily? Inelegranary? Granary?

You sulk thinking about that hard word. Now it's even make you want to eat granary bread at the market...

You sulk that you can't eat your bread.

But the girl in front of you seems happy.

"Let's play in the maze!"

You sulk hearing her plan. This is her third, no, fourth, no, five plan? You just arrive at the garden—you don't even sit yet! And now she want to go to the maze in the other side of the garden?

Does she not tired running around your house from the morning? Doesn't she's like... 10? 11? She's as old as your third older brother—you think your Papa said so? But not like him, she can keep moving with a lot of energy like your eldest brother!

You sulk thinking about your sore feet. But you can't say no.

Papa said that you must a-kom-pa-ni her today while he talked with her papa. Papa said she wanted to play with you today. You don't know why she doesn't want to play with your older brothers or your older sister and choose to be with you.

That's weird. Third brother's her age; a lot of noble like second brother; children love eldest brother; and don't girls likes to play with girls too? Sister is a good choice than you. You are the bad choice!

Thinking about it make you sulk. You were supposed to be at the festival with your second brother now! He promised to take you to his super secret fun places. Place where you can play big adult games and drink sweet but sour drinks and maybe even sneaking into the dancing tent in the far back corner? Oh you waited a whole month for this! A full whole one. But now it's ruined.

All because of her.

You sulk. You don't like her. Don't like how she grabs your face like you're a dog. Or how she keeps calling your hair funny—there's nothing funny to it! All servants always say that you're beautiful!

You sulk for countless time. Un-for-tu-ne-te-li, you can't say no to her.

"Come on! Come on!" She grabs your hand with surprising strength.

You sigh so hard it makes your cheeks puff out like a puff fish. Your face a bit hurts after a lot sulking, so you just look sadly at where the sound of the festival comes. Looks like you won't be going. You have probably missed the puppet show already—

You feel a strong pull in your hand.

Your eyes widen as you see the soil begin to close—

And you fall with a thud.

Your palms and knees hit the ground. Hard.

You hear a gasp. Your playmate's unfamiliar high voice, "Oh no!"

And another familiar low one, "That's not how you impress a gentleman, my lady."

You immediately close your eyes as you hear the footsteps. Slow and steady and so familiar footsteps.

"I leave you alone for a few hours," says a voice above you, "and here you are, already kissing the ground, hmm?"

No. No, no, no! You don't want to open your eyes now. No, you want to bury yourself in the ground now. You don't want to look at second brother's face right now!

"Well, that's one way to win over a lady, I suppose," you hear your second brother says with his playing tone, teasing you think is the word. "Fall at her feet, mud and everything. Bold move, brother."

Your face burns hotter. And it's not because of the sun. You close your eyes more, squeeze it more tighter.

"I didn't mean to!" You hear your playmate says. "We were playing and he tripped. We were having fun, my great lord."

You don't hear any more response from your favourite big brother. Huh? There's no answer from your brother? It's strange that he doesn't say anything. He always has something to say, after all....

It make you crack one eye open. And look up.

And that's a mistake.

"Brother..." Your eyes meet your brother's. Your second brother standing right in front of you, his back completely turns from your playmate. His long sleeves rolled and his smile half-wicked—that's what he told you. His boots stop just beside your fallen sandal—wait, when did that fall?

"Finally regards me with your beautiful eyes, hmm?" your second brother says as he crouches down and flicks dirt off your shoulder. "Are you hurt, baby lord?"

Yes, it's hurt. But not anymore, you feel. So you shake your head.

Your second brother tilts his head. He looks at you for much longer than you think he should. "Good," he finally says, "I'd hate to return you bruised. Papa dearest would think I'm a bad influence! Also my ears still ring from Lunera's shrieking." He flicks your forehead.

"Brother!"

"No wobbly teeth too. Good, good. You'll still be able to eat sweets!"

You blink when he brings his face closer. Huh? You don't know what wo-bli means, but you do know what sweets are. You want to eat sweets.

Before you can ask about it, your second brother suddenly rises. He turns around. Now, his back is on you, but he's not completely hiding your playmate with his tall body. You still can see your playmate when you tilttt your body a little to the left. So you do that.

"Ah, forgive me," he says with his sing voice, "for ignoring such a charming young lady like you. But, as you can see, I can't ignore my little brother in such a... disastrous predicament, no?"

"I didn't mean to make him fall," your playmate says quickly. Her voice is higher than this morning, but it's still sound sweet. Her hands clasp neatly at her front as she smiles at your peeking head. "It was only a game, right? Aren't we playing?"

You are... were playing with her, yes. Papa said so. But your feet are sore, and your arm feels weird, and your knees are muddy. You also really want to go to the festival right now with your second brother.

But before you can answer her, your brother speaks first.

"A game," your brother repeats your playmate's word more slowly, like a slow song. "Ah, of course! The traditional game of Yank the Boy by His Arm Until He Kiss the Ground. Very popular this season, yes?"

Huh?

You didn't know there's even a game like that. You know you're playing with her, but you don't know the pulling is part of those. But maybe that's right, your second brother always knows interesting games like that, you think. Maybe that's why your playmate kept pulling your hands all morning?

You decide you don't like this game.

"I didn't pull that hard," says your playmate. She still smiles as she look down at you. But her smile seems weird now. Not like how she smiles this whole morning. Weird... smile. "We're just having fun, yes?"

"Hmm hmmm," hum your brother as he glances back at you. There's a smile on his face—of course there is! Your second brother always smiling. But... you feel strange. It's a strange... smile. It's seems different than his usual smiles. It's not a fun smile, or a happy smile, or make-sister-angry smile. Huh. Another weird.

"And did our baby lord ask for that kind of fun?"

"He's—"

"Also," Your second brother gestures to your muddy knees with a flourish like how a performer sometimes bow, "the ground tells a different story, don't you think so, sweetling?"

Your playmate's smile disappears. Well, you think that's a good reaction since your brother just cut her sentence. You remember your tutors say that's not a polite thing to do. Interrupting someone is rude. And your second brother always does that a lot to sister... but she's a family! Your playmate's not. And now he's doing it to her. To Papa's guest!

Is that okay?

Your playmate blink. She's smiling again. She steps forward to you. "I was just very excited," she says, voice all gentle. "I didn't know he'd fall so easily." She crouches down and gently pat your knee. "I would never hurt you on purpose, you know that right?"

Your brother raises a brow as he look down on your playmate. "Oh, I have no doubt, dearest. Malice requires intention, yes? Neglect, however… that's practically effortless, no?"

You don't know what ma-lis means, but that word make your playmate's mouth tightens into a straight line. Or maybe because the ne-glek one. Well you don't know which word, but you do know one thing.

You've seen other people make that face when they sometimes look at your second brother in the market. Bad people, he told you.

Is your playmate one of the bad people too?

But when your playmate blink again, that look is gone. She tilts her head toward your knee. "I didn't mean to upset you, little one," she says, gently patting your knee again. She still speaks to you, ignoring brother. This time her voice is much softer. "Maybe the maze's too far for today, and the sun's too hot. Let's play again next time, yes?"

She steps back before you can nod or shake your head. She bows her head just a little, not too low, not like when other people usually greet you. She performs a noble bow. The kind nobles give each other. And then your playmate walks away.

Wait.

She doesn't say goodbye... right? Or giving you goodbye kisses. Is... that polite? You wonder if she's mad at you. Your tutors said forgetting a goodbye can mean someone's feelings are hurt. Did you hurt her feelings?

You feel a little strange. Like maybe you did something wrong. Or maybe you didn't. Or something went wrong and maybe you helped it go wrong. You don't know.

But you do know when your second brother kneels in front of you again. And taps your nose. Hey!

"Ready to go?" he asks.

You blink. Ready? Go?

Your brother grins. "Or would you rather sit here until the candy stall runs out, hmm?"

Huh? Huhhh??

"Are we going now now?" you gasp. Your eyes wide.

Your second brother wraps an arm around your shoulder and pull you up. Your legs already feel much better now, you think. Your hands too.

He helps you wear your sandal.

"Now-now," he says with his song voice. Or sing voice? Doesn't matter. What matter is what his next words, "Dancing. Delicious things. My super secret fun places. And I heard a rumour about a fire-eater who also juggles hot knifes!"

You blink again.

That's sound amazing! You don't even care if your knees are still dirty, you just want to run to the festival. Now.

For-tu-na-te-li, your brother seems to share your plan.

"Shall we go, little brother?"

You grin so big it almost hurts. "Yes, brother!"

You grab his hand.

And you finally stop sulking.

.

.

.

[dogwaterpoopyboy]

u know ur daddys home

[saturnaous]

I think. Alphonse has a lot of dealings with disassociation and being in a body without nerves.

[cubedmango]

Hello, I hope this tumblr ask finds you well. I wanted to inform you that the download link for your Cherry Magic movie sub file no longer works, and to beseech thee to rehost it so that myself and others might enjoy it. Thank you for your time.

THE LINK DIED AGAIN????? oh god im so sorry idk why it keeps doing that 😭 try this mega link it should work !! if it doesnt tho pls lmk

[teddybeartoji]

atsumu is such a fucking LOSERRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR

[maaarine]

Why are British teenage girls so unhappy? Here’s the answer (Caitlin Moran, The Times, Sep 13 2024)

"The report, by the Children’s Society, found that British 15-year-old girls are the most unhappy in Europe.

British girls aged 10-15 are “significantly less happy” with their life, appearance, family and school than the average boy — and their happiness is still declining.

Boys’ life satisfaction, meanwhile, remains broadly stable. (…)

But I still didn’t have an “aha!” moment about why this so disproportionately affects girls until… I talked to some teenage girls.

It was at a party, and I went to vape with them on the patio. Because I take my nicotine like children do.

“Duh — it’s the boys,” one said when I brought it up, as all the others agreed.

“The boys?” I asked.

My last book, What About Men?, had been all about how much boys struggle these days: their loneliness; their suicide rates. I’d spent the past year feeling very sympathetic towards boys.

“Yeah, well, who do you think they’re taking out their unhappiness on? It’s us,” another girl said.

“One boy at school used to draw a picture every day of how ugly I was,” a third girl said. “Every day for two years.”

“They’ve all got ‘Rate The Girls’ polls on their WhatsApps,” the first said. “They mark you down for weight gain, haircuts, what you say.”

“But then, if you’re hot, it’s just as bad, in a different way, because they’ll be talking about how they want to f*** you.”

The girls discussed coping techniques. Bad news: none of them worked.

“The only way you can stop them is if you become ‘one of the boys’ and hang out with them. But then,” the second girl said with a sigh, “all the other girls call you a slut. Because you’ve gone over to the boys’ side.”

“Surely it’s not all the boys?” I said. “There must be some nice boys?”

“Oh, yeah,” one girl said. “But they keep their heads down. Because… well, look.”

She showed me the Instagram account of her friend. Under every picture she posted of herself — smiling in a new dress; with her dog — dozens of anonymous accounts had replied with the most rank abuse.

“Fat.” “Slut.” “You gonna try and kill yourself again, for attention?”

“They’re all boys from her school,” she said. “And look, this one boy tried to defend her.”

I saw a series of messages from a brave teenage boy, posting things like, “You’re all big men, leaving these replies under anonymous accounts.”

As I could see, this boy immediately became a target too. Mainly accusations that he was “white knighting” this girl: “You wanna f*** her, bro?”

“So,” I asked, “you don’t think it’s social media pressure to be beautiful, or the economy, that’s making girls so sad?”

“Well, yeah, them too,” the first girl said. “But, Monday-Friday, 9-3, I’m not on social media. I’m not… in the economy. I’m just with these boys. And no one talks about how horrible they are.”

I thought about another recent report, showing a 30 per cent ideological gap between Gen Z men, who are increasingly conservative, and Gen Z women, who are increasingly progressive.

I thought about Andrew Tate, who has nine million mostly young male followers — and faces human trafficking charges, which he denies.

And I thought: maybe these girls are on to something. Maybe more people need to vape with teenage girls and ask them for the school gossip."

[foxstens]

ender magnolia is out and i still don't like it

[pearlessance]

Cupid's Chokehold — part one!

FEEL SO CLOSE

[next chapter]

summary: Tommy meets Joel's new girlfriend and takes a twisted liking to her live-in daughter.

pairing: step uncle!Tommy Miller x f!Reader

warnings: explicit sexual content MDNI. step-cest, age gap (unspecified, but reader is 19/20, Tommy in his early-mid 30s), unprotected piv, oral sex (both f! and m! receiving), attempted seduction (from reader), pussy pronouns, praise, dirty talk, creampie, begging, dacryphilia, alcohol consumption, no outbreak AU, Tommy POV

note: genuinely this is the filthiest most diabolic thing I've ever written and I'm absolutely terrified to post it!!! if it's not your cup of tea pls keep scrolling, and if you do read it, let me know what you think!! also, I wrote the nightclub scene with the song Feel So Close by Calvin Harris in mind (iykyk), but feel free to imagine whatever you like!

wc: 12.1k

[series masterlist]

[main masterlist] [AO3]

You’ve always been close.

Since that first night you’d met in Joel’s kitchen, Tommy has always felt drawn to you. Like you were one and the same. Two peas in a fucking pod, despite how…indecent it sometimes felt.

It was late summer. Hot. Your mother and Joel had arranged a dinner. They’d wanted everyone to ‘get to know each other.’ Grilled burgers and made pasta salad and poured glasses of cheap champagne. The whole nine yards. 

Joel had warned Tommy about you ahead of time. Talked about his new girlfriend’s daughter, about how you were a bit…wild. Impulsive. Too pretty and too smart for your own good.

You’re a couple of years older than Sarah, freshly out of high school with a devil-may-care attitude. The two of you get along well—Sarah thinks the whispered comments you pour in her ear all night are just hilarious. The two of you spend most of the afternoon on the side of the pool chattering while Tommy…well, Tommy certainly feels a bit like a third wheel. 

He knows it’s not intentional. Joel isn’t like that, he’s just…excited. He loves your mom and is eager to start this new chapter of his life, to expand his family the way he’s always wanted to. And your mom is nice enough. Sweet and easy going, a good match for his brother. But she’s a mom. And Joel’s Joel. 

It’s Saturday night, and Tommy Miller is bored half to death sipping champagne and watching two teenage girls giggle over something on their cell phones. 

And it’s not like he can leave right away. At least, not until after his desert has settled. But he knows where Joel keeps the good liquor, and dismisses himself in search of it.

He’s pouring two shots of whiskey into a glass tumbler when he hears the back door open. Tommy expects it to be Joel, coming to offer a penny for his thoughts. He opens his mouth to soothe his brother's nerves, to reassure him that his other half does fit him as perfectly as it seems. To tell him that he’s crazy for letting another little girl live under his roof, to warn him it’ll be double the hormones and double the attitude, but if it makes him happy…

“Hey.”

It’s not Joel who speaks at all. It’s your voice, soft but sultry. Tommy smiles at you over his shoulder. “Hey, kiddo.”

You saddle up to his side, so close your elbow brushes his as you lean on the counter, eyes focused on his hands as he pours. “This is the most boring party I’ve ever been to,” you say with a dispirited sigh.

It makes Tommy laugh. He sets the bottle down and lifts the tumbler to his mouth, grinning all the while. “Can’t say this little soirée is particularly, uh…exhilarating,” he says, sipping from his glass.

He can feel your attention on him, hotter even than the burn of the whiskey. Your eyes slide down the column of his throat, over his chest, stopping at his waist. You turn your head the smallest bit, not dissimilar to that of a curious little puppy. Crude and shameless in your examination. You look back up to find him staring at you, unable and unwilling to fight his knowing smirk. “Can I have some of that?”

“You old enough?” Tommy doesn’t even know why he asks, because he already knows the answer.

With a shrug of your shoulders and a sweet little smile, you say, “No. But it’s not like it would be my first time. No cherry to pop here.”

Filthy mouth for a girl your age. Funny, though. It’s kind of endearing. He was an awful lot younger than you are now when he started drinking. The first time he’d blacked out had been his sophomore year of high school—barely sixteen, woke up in the middle of a field two hours away from home. He’d had to use a pay phone to get ahold of Joel to come pick him up. 

And it’s better this way, isn’t it? To do it at home, surrounded by people who care about you. Who will keep you safe. It’s not like one drink’s going to put you on your ass, anyway.

He nods slowly. “Alright,” he says, opening the cupboard to find another tumbler. 

You stop him, delicate hand around his wrist. “Are you crazy? That’s evidence.”

Tommy furrows his brows. “What, the cup? I’ll wash it when you’re done. S’alright.”

“Waste of time.” You take the whiskey and twist off the cap, pushing the smooth glass bottle into his hands. “You know how to waterfall without drowning me?”

He likes you, Tommy thinks. Probably more than he should. He gets that familiar tug in his lower abdomen, the one that urges him to move closer, to speak slower. 

It’s a little fucked up, he knows. You’re so young, and odds are your mom will marry into the family, and then you’d be…well, you’d be his niece. Kind of. 

His heart races a little faster at the thought. 

“Well?”

“Yeah,” Tommy promises. “Yeah, I got you. Tilt your head back.”

You step further in front of him, spine pressed against the edge of the countertop. He can feel the heat of your skin against his, and it makes Tommy feel dizzy. You tilt your head back, just as he said, but it’s not quite enough. 

He reaches up, cradling your jaw in his hand, thumb pressed against the underside of your chin. He knows he could just tell you, could just use the words ‘a little more’ and you’d do as he asks. But the heated look in your eyes as he touches you so gently…it’s worth it. “Like this,” he tells you, pushing your chin back. “There you go. Now open your mouth.”

It sounds so vulgar in his ears. And Tommy doesn’t mean it that way, but you smile up at him and say, “You’re supposed to take me out on a date first, I think.”

“You think?” He scoffs. “You ever let another man in your mouth and he doesn’t wine an’ dine you first, you let me know so I can take care of him.” Tommy’s only sort of kidding. If you ever asked, he’d do it in a heartbeat. 

“Alright,” you say. “No other man, then. Just you.”

He has to look away, unable to contain his amusement. “Christ, girl.” Tommy shakes his head, delighting in the sound of your giggling. He can feel the vibration of it in his hand, still pressed against the side of your neck. “Ridiculous.”

Joel’s voice cuts through the kitchen, calling Tommy’s name. 

He tries to take a step back, get some distance, but you hook your leg around his to keep him close, bare and exposed to him from the hem of your denim shorts down. Tommy grips your thigh tightly but doesn’t quite push you away. “Yeah, Joel?”

You tilt your head back, perfect this time, just like he showed you.

Tommy shakes his head again, surprised by your brazenness, but he just can’t seem to stop smiling. He lifts the glass bottle and pours the whiskey slowly, holding in his laughter all the while.

“Bring out another slice of that pie,” Joel says from the back door. “The key lime one. Sarah wants some more.”

“Yeah, sure. One slice of key lime,” Tommy calls back, watching with rapt attention as the amber liquid pools in your pretty mouth. And then, more to you than to Joel, he says, “You got it.”

He stops just before your mouth is too full and sets the bottle back on the counter as the back door closes. You tilt your head back down, grimacing as you swallow. You have to do it twice, and Tommy knows that shit burns.

He’d feel bad if it weren’t for the drop of liquid that spills from the corner of your pursed lips, leaving a trail of whiskey as it drips down your chin. It’s such a sight to behold that his mouth waters. It takes every last ounce of his common sense to keep from leaning forward and licking it up.

Instead, he runs his thumb across the seam of your lips, collecting every last drop, and proceeds to suck it clean. “No man left behind,” he says playfully, painfully aware of the slight lift of your hips and the almost unnoticeable arch of your back.

“Right, no. Of course,” you say, words just a little breathless. “It would be, like, alcohol abuse.”

Tommy chuckles as he finally steps away, surprised by the complete lack of guilt he feels. He pulls a plate from the cupboard and finds the remainder of the key lime pie in the fridge.

Your steps echo in the kitchen when you leave, the screen door creaking as you push it open. He catches the words as you speak them under your breath just before disappearing from view. “Certainly not boring anymore.”

Tommy returns to the backyard with Sarah’s key lime pie in one hand and his refilled glass tumbler in the other, a newfound spring in his step.

It doesn’t take long for family dinners to become a tradition. They’re moved to Sunday nights, though, which works a hell of a lot better for Tommy. He usually shows up hungover, sporting a headache and a bad mood.

You’re real good at pulling him out of it, though. Always making those dirty jokes, uncaring of who hears, often earning a scolding from your mother when your humor graces the dinner table. 

Eventually, it takes nothing but a shared glance before you slink off to the kitchen, one at a time, to steal more of Joel’s whiskey. Like a secret, shared language that only the two of you understand. As if the moment the thought crosses his mind, it crosses yours, too. Almost like you’re connected, somehow. 

Sometimes Sunday dinners will be paired with a movie. Often, it’s a film Joel rented for the weekend that he claims has ‘good reviews,’ but never has a satisfying ending.

Tommy doesn’t stay for the popcorn or the candy, though. He doesn’t even stay for the movie, in truth. 

He stays because you always sit beside him on the loveseat.

It always starts innocently enough. You pull the scratchy, old blanket from the back of the couch, draping it over you both. And then you’re poking his thigh while murmuring comments in his ear.

You’ll say, “God, that guy has the worst fake crying face I’ve ever seen. Looks like he’s constipated.”

And Tommy will laugh, and Sarah will scowl and shush him, and your hand will linger on his knee. 

Halfway through, you’ll shift in your seat, trying to get comfortable. You’ll lean back against the armrest and lay your legs across his lap. And Tommy, impulsive man that he is, will slide his hands between your thighs and rub circles into your soft skin, careful not to move too fast, to be too obvious. 

Once you reach this point of the night, Tommy doesn’t pay attention to the movie at all. He focuses on you instead, on the way your breath catches in your throat when he squeezes hard, on the way your knees slowly drift further and further apart, on the flush that crawls up your cheeks each time he catches your eye.

It never feels quite so innocent when the movie ends and Tommy has to sit on the couch with that blanket over his lap just a little longer than everyone else.

In September, Joel tells him you and your mom are moving in permanently. No more weekend sleepovers. You’re taking the spare room across the hall from Sarah, the one Tommy knows like the back of his hand after crashing in it countless times.

He’s not sure why, but there’s something satisfying about knowing you’ll be there, sleeping in the bed he’s slept in hundreds of times.

Joel asks him to help move some of the furniture, and Tommy doesn’t hesitate to agree. They move the larger things, while you and Sarah excitedly unpack cardboard boxes and talk about sharing clothes and shoes.

Tommy remembers the times Sarah would beg Joel for a sibling when she was younger, and it warms his heart to see she’s finally gotten the sister she’s always wanted.

He sees you a whole lot more often after that. Tommy picks Joel and Sarah up every morning and drops Joel off after work every day.

Most of the time, you’re still sleeping when he shows up at seven. But the evidence of you is littered all over the house; your shoes by the front door, your jacket slung over the dining room chair, your denim shorts on the floor beside the laundry basket in the bathroom. 

And after work, he always comes inside to visit you. Just to see how you’re doing, to see if you’ve had a good day, often making some silly joke just so he gets to hear your sweet laughter. Sometimes he finds you watching one of those teen dramas in the living room, and he loves to poke fun at you for it. “These weird ass vampires again? What, now there’s werewolves, too? How original.”

“Shut up,” you’ll say, tossing a throw pillow at his head. 

“I’m just fuckin’ with you, darlin.’ I know how you love that freaky shit.” The embarrassment will show on your face, and Tommy will laugh but his shoulders will drop as all the stress from the day melts away.

Some nights, he’ll find you in the backyard by the pool with that tiny lime colored bikini on, lying on your belly, soaking up the sun. He’ll try to scare you, try to get close with soundless movements. 

But you always catch him. Can always sense he’s there. “Now, what if I suddenly decided I didn’t want tan lines and took off my top while you tried sneaking up on me? Tits out. Then what?”

Tommy stops just a few paces away from the spot in the grass where you’ve thrown out your beach towel. He towers over you, casting shadows across your spine. “Wouldn’t be nothin’ I haven’t seen before,” he says.

“You peeping on me, Tommy? Is that where you got your name?”

He snorts, but the idea isn’t half bad. “You fuckin’ wish.”

“Yeah, maybe I do.” The comment gives him pause, but he doesn’t have time to think too hard about it because you’re turning on your back and reaching for the string tied loosely around your neck.

You stare up at him, eyes all glittering and mischievous, hair splayed out in a perfect halo around your head. Tommy knows that he should stop you. Should laugh it off and walk away.

He doesn’t, though. His feet stay firmly planted, pressure building in his lower abdomen, cock pulsing behind the chrome zipper of his jeans.

You tug at the strings until the fabric falls slack. Still covering your chest, but only just barely. 

Tommy thinks green might be his new favorite color.

You hook your thumb around the thin string across your ribcage, the only resistance left between this moment and the next, a lone scrap of polyester that stands between Tommy being the fun uncle and the weird one.

He doesn’t say it out loud, doesn’t say anything at all. But he admits to himself only that he does want it. That he wants you. To see you, to touch you, to feel you. It’s wrong and perverted and maybe even a little gross, but you’re just so fucking pretty. 

Slowly, those loose-fitting triangles drift lower and lower, almost there. His breath comes fast and labored. The seconds tick by, feeling much longer than they truly are. 

 And then—

“Dinner!” Your mom’s voice carries through the backyard, kind and airy. “Are you staying, Tommy? We’re having pasta tonight.”

Tommy clears his throat and looks over his shoulder at your mom, who stands on the back deck completely oblivious. “Uh, no,” he says. “Not tonight. Thanks, though.”

“Suit yourself,” she says before disappearing back into the kitchen.

You extend your hand to him, the other held tightly over the fabric of your top to keep it in place. “Help me up,” you say, and he does. 

He watches as you turn your back to him, straining to memorize every last second of this moment because he never, ever wants to forget it. The smoothness of your skin, the shallow slope at the small of your back, the delicious curve of your ass—if this is all he ever gets to see, Tommy wants it stuck in his brain like glue. Permanent.

You move the arm that’s held to your chest, and the green fabric finally drops, exposing you completely. With your back still to him, all Tommy can see is the subtle curves of the sides of your breasts, but it’s enough to make his heart race. You gather your hair at the nape of your neck and ask, “Can you tie it for me?”

Tommy knows you’re doing this on purpose. Trying to get a rise out of him, and it’s working. “Course,” he says, stepping forward, placing his rough, calloused hands on your delicate shoulders. He reaches down your body and gathers the nylon strands between his fingers, careful not to touch you more than what’s necessary.

He wants to, though. Christ, does he. His lungs stutter at the thought alone. It takes everything in him to resist lowering himself to his knees and giving you the tender, loving care you deserve. He’d worship you, Tommy decides. He’d demonstrate how a girl like you is supposed to be treated. Touched slowly, gently—until you beg him for more, until you whimper and cry and remember no words but his fucking name. 

Until his touch is so deeply embedded in your skin that you’d never be able to root him out. 

But he doesn’t give you so much as a clue to what he’s thinking. Instead, he exhales a shaky breath, fanning across the back of your neck, and ties the lime colored strands into a perfect bow. He presses a chaste kiss to the crown of your head and says, “Be good, now. Alright?”

You turn to face him, that familiar, provocative smirk on your sweet mouth. “Never,” you promise, and he knows you mean it.

Tommy doesn’t even notice he’s speeding the entire way back to his shitty apartment. What’s worse is that he doesn’t even make it inside. He sits behind the wheel of his truck, right in the open, empty parking lot, squeezing his aching cock in his hand, head filled with thoughts of you.

The next time he stays for dinner, your mom makes fajitas. You sit beside him on the steps of the back porch and pick red peppers off his plate.

You and Sarah belly-laugh about some YouTube video you watched together late last night, mimicking impressions of an animatronic voice. And it’s at this very moment that Tommy realizes he might be in real trouble.

Because he wants to fuck you. Thinks about it almost every goddamn night. Can’t even get off with the women he meets at the bars anymore without closing his eyes and recalling that lime bikini or the arch of your back or the way your thighs fit so perfectly in his big hands. It’s a carnal desire. Uncontrollable.

But this? Feeling a sense of elation provoked only by knowing you're here beside him, safe, happy, and fed? It’s something else. Something heavy. Something he can’t quite put a name to because he doesn’t have any experience with it, despite his age.

All Tommy Miller knows is that he smiles just at the sound of your name.

The thought crosses his mind that he should try to keep his distance, and he tells himself he will. He lies in bed thinking about it, conducting a plan in his head while staring at the ceiling at two in the morning. He can’t not see you. But maybe he doesn’t have to be so inviting. Maybe he doesn’t have to seek you out every afternoon, doesn’t have to check in and make sure you’ve had a good day. 

Maybe he sits on the opposite end of the table during Sunday dinner. Maybe when you give him that look and head to the kitchen in search of whiskey, Tommy keeps his ass on the couch.

But then the next morning rolls around, and he’s picking Sarah and Joel up with dark circles under his eyes and a cigarette hanging from the corner of his lips. He sits on the front steps and glances over his shoulder when the door creaks open and is only a little surprised when you step outside with bare feet, wearing nothing but a thin tank top and a pair of sleep shorts.

Your hair’s messy, and there’s an imprint from your pillow on your cheek. Still half asleep, you let out the cutest whimper he’s ever heard and crawl right into his lap like it’s where you belong. 

Tommy spreads his knees apart to make room for you, stubbing his cigarette out on the concrete and tossing it in the grass. He brackets his arms around your waist and interlocks his fingers at your hip while you curl up against him, stealing his warmth. 

It feels so easy, so natural that he doesn’t fight it for a second. Doesn’t even realize he should. All those big plans he made six hours ago to right this wrong dissolve as easily as sugar in water. He kisses your forehead and holds you close and says, “Hey, sweetheart. You alright? Somethin’ wrong?”

You nuzzle your nose against the crook of his neck and murmur sleepily, “Missed you.”

Just two words, but that’s all it takes. He decides that the heavy feeling inside his chest is his to cope with. He won’t make you suffer for it. Can’t imagine ever pushing you away or sitting across from you instead of at your side.

There’s only one word for this, he knows. Only one explanation for why he continuously fights for your laughter, your comfort. Only one reason he’s memorized the pattern of your breathing and would know the touch of your hands with his eyes closed.

It’s not right. 

It’s not, and Tommy knows it, but he doesn’t have the strength to fight it. So, he cradles this feeling in his hands. Holds it gently. Sees it for what it is. 

And then he tucks it away. Locks it up tight and promises never to speak of it. 

Joel takes your mom to Galveston for the weekend on their anniversary. He asks Tommy to keep an eye on you and Sarah, to keep his phone on in case the two of you need anything.

He brings takeout over after work on Friday night, but leaves the two of you to your own devices after that. Tommy remembers being your age and doesn’t want to hover, doesn’t want anyone involved to consider him a fucking babysitter. So he gives you the space he wanted when he was young. Figures if you need him, you’ll call him, and he’ll come running.

The phone doesn’t ring until late Sunday afternoon. 

Joel and your mom are due home in the next few hours, and your voice is panicky on the other end of the line. “Hey. Can you—can you come over? We sort of broke something, and I tried to fix it but I think I only made it worse.”

Tommy’s in his truck before the call even ends. He asks a hundred questions, tries to get some sort of clarification on the way over. But you don’t give much in the way of answers, and his confusion only increases when he pulls into Joel’s driveway and sees you standing on the porch with a trash bag in hand. “Okay, before you come inside, you have to swear to secrecy,” you say.

Tommy’s brows furrow.  “Christ, kid. What the hell’d you do? There a fuckin’ dead body in there?”

You roll your eyes. “Just promise you won’t tell Joel or my mom.”

“Can’t promise nothin’ if I don’t know—”

“Just promise me, Tommy,” you say, frustration building. He’s never seen you this serious, he realizes.

Even if there was a dead body behind the front door, Tommy knows he’d do nothing but protect you from the fallout. And he hates how nervous you look, so the decision comes easily. “Hey.” He reaches out and takes your hand in his, running his thumb across your knuckles. “I promise, alright?”

You let out a sigh of relief. “Good. Cause Sarah’s in there freaking the fuck out cause I called you.”

Tommy follows you inside, mouth open with the intent to ask more questions. But they’re all answered rather quickly when he sees the state of Joel’s living room.

There are half-empty beer cans and red solo cups littered all over every viable surface. Pink and green and orange streamers hang from the ceiling fan and over the stair bannister. Confetti covers the floor and there’s a shattered glass bottle in the kitchen sink, but the most obvious stressor is the six-inch hole in the wall beside the fridge.

Sarah’s footsteps rush down the hall, finger pointed at Tommy. Her eyes are wide, and there’s genuine tension on her face. “Did you swear?”

Tommy raises both hands in surrender. “Cross my heart,” he says, and means it. “Let me take care of the wall first. I’ll get the broken glass after. Don’t wanna see either one of you near it. The last thing we need right now is a trip to the emergency room for stitches.”

Between the three of you, it doesn’t take long. Tommy finds a mesh patch, spackle, and a half-empty gallon of paint in Joel’s garage that matches the kitchen walls. He fills the cavity as quickly as he can, using the box fan from Joel’s bedroom window to speed up the drying process.

You make quick progress, and yet still, he feels his heart sink to his feet at the sound of tires in the driveway.

Both you and Sarah freeze in place, staring at each other with expressions that are somehow both horrified and amused. “We’re so fucked, dude,” you whisper.

But when it comes to hiding things like this, Tommy Miller might just consider himself an expert. “Not just yet,” he swears. “Throw it all out back. I’ll keep them outside for a minute, and then when I leave, I’ll take care of it, alright? Be quick.”

He tries not to laugh as you and Sarah launch into action, running around the room and filling your hands with what remains.

Tommy meets Joel at his truck and asks him how their vacation was, making comments and drawing the discussion out as your mom talks about the aquarium and the restaurants on the pier and how the hotel staff folded your towels into the shape of little swans. 

Joel asks how you and Sarah behaved, asks if there had been any trouble. Tommy shakes his head, leaning against the side of the truck. “Nah,” he lies easily. “They were perfect angels as usual.”

When he can no longer make viable conversation points, he very nosily helps them bring their luggage and souvenirs inside. He finds you and Sarah cuddled up on the couch, both reading books that Tommy knows you’ve never cracked open a day in your life.

You both look so out of place that it almost gives you away. He tries not to laugh, but it doesn’t quite work. Joel stares at him in confusion while you and Sarah glare at him from across the room, and so Tommy dismisses himself quickly. “Gonna head home,” he says. “Have to, uh…check on the neighbor's cat. Watching it for the weekend, too.”

He leaves through the front door, but sneaks around through the gate and quietly grabs the trash from the backyard just as he promised. It takes two trips to get it all, and he throws everything into the back of his truck on the off chance that Joel checks the bin before trash day.

Tommy’s tossing the last one when he sees you come sprinting off the front porch. He thinks maybe he’s forgotten something, or maybe Joel and your mom had seen right through the lie and all that acting was for nothing.

But then you’re throwing your arms around his neck and wrapping your legs around his waist, face buried in his shoulder. 

Holding you is as easy as breathing. He keeps you upright, keeps you close, with his big hands spread wide over your back.

You say, “Thank you, Uncle Tommy,” and the air is punched from his fucking lungs. 

It’s the first time you've said it. The very first time, and he feels giddy and nervous, and his stomach gets all tied in knots like he’s some teenage boy. He squeezes you tighter, and his laughter slips out unrestrained this time. 

It’s filthy and dirty and disgusting, but he loves it. “I’ve always got you, darlin',” he says. “You know that.”

You lift your head to look at him, and your pretty mouth is suddenly so close to his that you share the same breath. “Yeah,” you giggle. “I know you do.”

It warms him from the inside out to hear it. He loves being this for you. A holder of secrets, a shoulder to lean on, a solver of problems. He loves that you make him feel needed—wanted in a way he’s never been before.

He loves being your Uncle Tommy. 

You press your forehead to his, and desire creeps up his spine, hot and thick and asphyxiating. His limbs feel heavy, and his breath gets caught in his lungs. It’s painful how badly he wants you. Like a peak he can’t quite reach, an itch he can’t quite scratch. You thread your hands in the hair at the nape of his neck, pulling gently, and his eyelids flutter closed. 

Nothing has ever felt as good as it feels to be touched by you, Tommy realizes. And he knows nothing will ever compare. 

“Fuck,” he hisses. “Fuck, sweetheart, I…”

There are no words to say. They get all jumbled in his head, and the only thing he can make out in the chaos is his yearning.

“I know,” you say. Because of course you do. You’ve always known him, have always understood him in a way no one else has. Have always been able to see the look on his face and read the thoughts in his head. “I know.”

Slowly, carefully, you untangle your legs from around his waist. You slide down his body and he knows you can feel it. Knows there’s no way in hell the throbbing of his cock could ever be mistaken as just his belt buckle. 

But you say nothing. Just smile up at him with those hungry eyes and press a sweet, soft kiss to his cheek.

He drives home in silence.

No music, no news station. Even the windows he leaves up. Tommy can’t think beyond the taste of your oxygen, can’t see past the absolute fucking shit show he’s gotten himself into. He sits in his truck outside his apartment for twenty minutes before he moves again, scratching the stubble along his jaw.

And then, as if he hadn’t almost kissed you in broad daylight, the world keeps turning.

He cleans out the bed of his truck, showers the smell of paint and cheap beer from his skin, and then he goes to work the next morning. He teases Joel about the swan-shaped towels, but there’s no salt to it. Truly, he’s happy for his brother. 

Joel’s been so selfless his whole life. Has given the first half of it up to raise Tommy and the second half to raise Sarah and never complained, not even once.

If anyone in the world deserves that gooey, cliche kind of love that’s just good and uncomplicated and easy, it’s Joel. They really are perfect for each other, he and your mother.

Tommy tries not to think about how his happiness for his brother is paired with a simmering jealousy underneath. Decides to take that green-eyed confession to his grave.

Friday afternoon, one of the electricians Joel hired a few months ago invites Tommy out to a nightclub. “The whole team’s going tomorrow,” he says. “Booze, girls, drugs if you’re into that kinda thing. One of those pop-up ones. It’s in that old warehouse on the other side of town.”

Sounds tempting, he’ll admit. Right up his alley. But Tommy knows himself, and knows that in a place like that he’s likely to go a little overboard. Spend too much money, have too many drinks, wake up the next morning with a girl in his bed he doesn’t remember talking to. And if he does that, he likely won’t make it to Sunday dinner at Joel’s. 

Which means no time with you. 

No stolen, longing glances across the room. No heat of your thigh pressed against his. No thieving fingers on his plate.

Tommy shakes his head. “Thanks, Mike. But, uh…I’m—I’m good.”

He thinks that’s the end of it. But then Joel asks, real gently, “You got a girl or somethin’ I don’t know about?”

“What? Nah, man. No. Definitely not.” Tommy knows his answer comes too quickly, too dismissive for it to be even remotely believable. But it’s true, isn’t it? You’re not his girl. You just…well, you’re his niece. Sort of.

Joel eyes him suspiciously. All he says is, “Never would’ve imagined you’d skip out on that.” But it’s enough to convince Tommy that his brother doesn’t believe him for even a second.

He lay awake that night, head filled with thoughts of you. Because Tommy knows Joel’s right. Before you’d waltzed into his life and altered its course, he would’ve been all over that. Would’ve jumped at the opportunity for an exclusive warehouse party, even knowing what would likely happen. He’d take the migraine and the dehydration and the overdrafted checking account at just the plausible idea of a good time.

And he’d declined so quickly. That’s the part that gets him. The thing that gives him perspective. He hadn’t even debated it for a single second because the things that once brought him joy pale in comparison to simply being at your side. 

Saturday morning, Tommy makes a phone call. Says he changed his mind and gets the address of the warehouse.

He spends his afternoon running errands, doing everything he knows he won’t have the energy for tomorrow. And then he showers and puts gel in his hair and picks out a nice outfit. Starched blue jeans that fit him nicely and an expensive leather belt and a white t-shirt. He puts on a simple gold chain and sprays his favorite cologne (trying not to think about the fact that it’s only his favorite because one afternoon you’d said he smelled so good he was ‘edible’). 

On the drive over, he has to hype himself up. Has to try and convince himself that this is a good thing. It’s what he needs. To get out there again, to find someone who makes him feel the way you do. Someone nice and age-appropriate and not loosely familial. Someone who doesn’t know Joel or your mother or Sarah or you in any fucking capactiy whatsoever. 

Tommy doesn’t think it’s likely that he’ll find that person here, of course. But there’s a possibility, right? To meet someone who could be the love of his life. A slim chance, but a chance nonetheless.

There are more people than he expects. The warehouse looks almost dark on the outside. Quiet and empty. But once the bouncer checks his ID and lets him through the double doors, the inside is a different world entirely. 

There are three different bars. One on the left wall, one on the right, and one in the very center of the room in the shape of an oval. There’s a big stage with a live DJ and house music playing loud over the speakers. The dance floor is lively and drenched in neon lights and the air is thick with humidity and the smell of liquor.

Excitement trickles into his bloodstream. It’s been a long while since he’s been in a place like this, but Tommy thinks it might just cure him.

All it takes is a quick text before he finds Mike and the rest of the guys from the work site that decided to show up. There’s only a handful of them, but they all split the bill for a round of shots, and Tommy orders a whiskey and coke. 

They’re here for one reason, of course—and Tommy’s no different. They chat for a while, but eventually the guys all peel off from the group one by one after buying a girl a drink and then proceeding to disappear into the crowd of dancing bodies. 

Mike has a wife, but even he finds someone to dance with, and eventually Tommy sits at the bar alone. 

He pulls out his phone. Opens your thread of messages and smiles to himself as he scrolls through them. It’s filled with silly photos and dirty jokes and the occasional text from you that reads, ‘miss you today<3’ and his perpetual response, ‘I always miss you more. Be good, sweetheart.’ 

Tommy’s so deeply focused on his phone that he nearly jumps out of his skin when his drink is pulled right out of his hands.

He looks up with a scowl on his face, not anticipating a fight but preparing for one, and then—

“Can I have some of that?” You don’t wait for his answer before sipping from his glass, leaving lip gloss stains in the same place his mouth was moments ago.

“What in the fuck?” A crease forms between his brows as he takes in your familiar face, backlit by green and yellow lights. “They’re checking IDs at the door,” he says. “How did you even get in here?”

You roll your eyes. “Oh, come on, Uncle Tommy. You’re telling me you never had a fake when you were my age?”

Tommy knows he probably should say something…responsible right now. Should probably warn you of the dangers in a place like this, especially for a girl like you. Should be taught about covetous men with wandering hands and powders dropped in drinks and cigarettes laced with God knows what.

But he did have a fake ID at your age and could be found at places a whole lot like this one. Two peas in a fucking pod, he thinks. 

So, instead, he asks, “Did you, uh…come here with someone? Friends or…I don’t know. A boyfriend, maybe?”

He steels himself in preparation for your answer. You’ve never mentioned a boyfriend before, but you’re at that age. Probably experimenting a little, sifting through the options to find which one suits you best.

But you’re standing at a bar, all alone, buying your own drink. Shitty fucking option, Tommy thinks.

“Why? You jealous or something?” There’s a teasing lilt to your voice, and Tommy knows you’re just trying to get a rise out of him. But the sad part is that you’re not too far off, and that’s what has him turning to the bartender and ordering another.

“Got no reason to be jealous,” Tommy answers with a shrug. “Ain’t exactly like I’ve got a spot on the roster, darlin’.”

Your smile falls. Just barely, almost undetectable. But Tommy notices. Would notice it even if you were across the room. “Is that what you think?”

“It’s what I know.”

“Well, then you’re a fucking idiot, Tommy Miller.” You laugh, but there’s no humor in it. The words are sharp, icy. You take a long drink from his stolen glass. “What stops you?”

His brows furrow. “Stops me…?”

“From doing what you want to me.” It gives him pause, laying it out so boldly like that. The truth he’s never spoken aloud falls so easily from your tongue. “We get so close,” you elaborate. “Just one moment, one choice away…but you never do it. You always hesitate, and then the moment’s gone. So what stops you?”

His morals, your age, your vibrance. You’re so good, so lively and carefree and happy. How does he explain that he doesn’t want to ruin this? Ruin you? How does he explain that taking that next step with you would tarnish both of you forever? Red to blue, green to yellow. It would never be the same. 

He’s supposed to protect you. Supposed to give you a shoulder to cry on and a soft landing in your time of need and spot you a twenty when you’re short on cash. Supposed to be a guiding hand as an uncle should. He’s not supposed to be…whatever this is.

Tommy’s relieved when the bartender hands him his drink. “You know what stops me,” he says as if it’s obvious, throwing back half the glass in one long drink. The whiskey burns.

“Would it be different if you didn’t know me?”

“Very,” he answers honestly, his mind filling so easily with those obscene possibilities. “But I do know you, so it doesn’t matter.”

That familiar, troublesome smirk finds its way to your glossy lips. You toss back what remains in your glass, set it on the bar, and say, “I’m going to walk away. Okay? And you’re going to have one of those cases of temporary amnesia.”

Tommy laughs and shakes his head. “You’re crazy,” he says.

But you don’t pay him any mind. “You’re going to forget everything you know about me. Every last detail. I’m just some girl at a club, and you’re just some guy at the bar.” You put your hands on his shoulders, shaking lightly, staring up at him with starry eyes. Tommy’s heart races behind his sternum, but he can’t stop grinning. “I’m not me, and you’re not you. And tomorrow, you’ll be cured. Everything will go back to normal, just like it was. Okay?”

“S’a real bad idea, darlin’,” he warns.

“So don’t make me do it alone.”

Tommy swallows hard. He’s never said no to you in all his life, and it’s just…it’s just one night, right? Maybe it’s what he needs. A slow release of pressure, a controlled indulgence to prevent an explosion.

You see the decision as he makes it. Know what he’s thinking without him speaking a single word. Tommy covers his mouth to stifle his rugged amusement as he watches you take five steps away from him, turn in a complete circle, and then make your way back to the bar.

In a dramatic show of film-esque seduction, you lean against the bar and say, “Well, aren’t you a tall glass of water?”

“Oh, Jesus Christ,” Tommy mutters to himself, smiling so hard the apples of his cheeks hurt.

You playfully slap his bicep with the back of your hand. “Aren’t you going to ask if you can buy me a drink? Wine and dine me?”

He recalls your very first conversation, that one in Joel’s kitchen when you’d promised not to let any man inside your mouth without properly romancing you first. “Alright, then,” he resigns. “What’re you havin,’ sweetheart?”

“Whiskey,” you say, and he’s not the least bit surprised.

Tommy buys your drink and says, “You look…really beautiful.” You’re wearing a silvery satin dress, sinfully short, tight in all the right places. The straps are thin against your otherwise bare shoulders, and he reaches out and gently runs his knuckles down the curve of your collarbone. He thinks it might be the very first time he’s ever touched you here, and it’s not inherently a sexual caress, but it feels so… intimate. Heavy.

You glance down at yourself, at the strappy black heels on your feet. “Thank you,” you say. “But I think it’d look even better on your bedroom floor.”

“Fuck yeah it would,” he agrees, chuckling.

“Do you wanna dance?”

Tommy’s never abandoned a drink so fast in his life. He takes your hand in his and says, “I thought you’d never ask.”

He leads you through the crowd while the DJ plays some bass-heavy pop song he’s heard on the radio a hundred times. He finds a reasonable space and raises your hand above your head, turning you so he can properly appreciate the sight of that dress.

“You’re fucking perfect,” he says. “Do you know that?”

You roll your eyes like it’s a joke, but Tommy’s being dead serious. You say, “Shut up.” But he sees the way your cheeks heat, even beneath the flashing lights.

You sway your hips in time to the beat, body moving in sync with the music. There’s nothing shy or timid about it; that allure of yours comes so easily, glowing from the inside out.

Tommy’s never been a good dancer, and he knows it, but it doesn’t feel that way at all. You seem to find such amusement in his nonsensical movements, not a drop of apprehension trickles into his psyche. 

When you grab his hands and place them on your hips, he lets his instinct take over. Pulls you in close, chests pressed together, his thigh between your legs. You sing the lyrics as if every song is your favorite with a face-splitting grin and those sweet giggles falling from your lips. He pushes you away and spins you around, only to pull you right back. Right into his waiting embrace, right where you belong. Your breath comes fast, but you don’t slow down, and neither does he.

He’s not sure he’s ever felt like this in his entire life. This open, this full. A strange sort of nostalgia passes through him, a homesickness, missing the moment before it’s even passed, knowing he’ll eventually look back on this night as the best he’s ever had.

The air is hot and stiff, but he breathes in your oxygen, and it gives him life. You move together so seamlessly, and Tommy thinks about how he’d come here seeking the possible love of his life and wonders if it’s fate that you were here.

Fate that you had a fake ID, that you somehow knew about the same exclusive pop-up party he’d declined and then came to anyway. Fate that you’d be here alone, that you’d choose one bar out of three others, and that he just happened to be standing there at the very same time. In a warehouse filled with a thousand strangers, you’d somehow found him.

The songs flow and fade, bleeding from one to the next. You dance and dance, and Tommy watches you—enthralled, obsessed, in love.

He loses track of the time, thinks hours could have passed without his notice, and he wouldn’t have even cared. But when he sees a bead of sweat trickle down your neck, he asks, “Wanna step out for a minute?”

You nod once, and Tommy grabs your hand again and pulls you out of the crowd. He gives the bouncer a tight-lipped smile as you slip out of the wide doors. There’s a designated smoking area near the entrance, and that’s where Tommy leads you. 

The music can still be heard outside, muffled and low. He pulls the pack of Marlboros out of his back pocket, lights one, and inhales deeply. When he looks up, he finds you watching him, leaning back against the concrete wall of the warehouse, the blue light of the moon reflected in your eyes. 

You outstretch your hand and take the cigarette from between his fingers, taking a slow drag. “Do you bring girls you don’t know home often?”

Tommy can see right through you. Sees that unease beneath your smile, sees the way you feel the need to ask but don’t want the answer, and relates to it. It makes his stomach turn, though. Because he doesn’t ever want you to think of yourself that way, doesn’t want you to think for a single second that this is anything like that.

Because you’re not a girl he doesn’t know. Not just a means to an end. You’re you.

You’re everything.

“I don’t like this,” he admits quietly. “The pretending.”

You pass the cigarette back to him, and when he puts it to his mouth, he can taste the cherry flavor of your lip gloss on the orange filter. “Would you have as much fun, though? With all that added weight.”

Tommy doesn’t know. Has never had a fucking clue about anything in all his life, really. Never knew what he wanted to do or who he wanted to be.

The only thing that has ever been clear to him is you.

“If we stopped pretending,” you say. “What would you do?”

He hesitates.

And then decides not to let this moment pass him.

He places both hands on either side of your face and kisses you hard, hungry. Tasting you feels like a breath of fresh air, like relief. Your bottom lip slots between his so perfectly that he thinks you must have been made for him, that there could never be anyone else. When you let out the most delicious whimper he’s ever heard, Tommy slides his tongue into your mouth and moans.

It feels like time wasted, like this is what he’s been meant to do his whole life, and now he has to make up for the opportunity lost.

When he pulls away, it’s reluctant, still cradling your pretty face in his hands. Your eyes are wide, and your breath is labored. 

“That’s what I would do,” he says.

A minute passes, and you just stare at him, searching his eyes for something. Doubt, maybe. But you won’t find any, because Tommy Miller has never been more sure of anything in his entire life.

And then, finally—

“Uncle Tommy?”

No more pretending. “Yeah, sweetheart?”

“I want you to take me home. Right now,” you say.

“Now?”

“Yes. Right the fuck now. Please.”

He smiles widely. “C’mon, baby.”

Tommy takes you to his truck and buckles you in. The ride back to his apartment feels like a blur. He’s barely had two drinks, but you make him feel drunk.

You can’t keep your hands off him. It only takes three seconds once he pulls onto the road before you’re unbuckling your seatbelt and sliding across the cab. You press wet, open-mouthed kisses to the side of his neck and run your hands over his strong thighs, giggling all the while.

He has to reel you in a little after almost running a red light. “Careful, now,” he says, taking your hand in his free one and pressing a kiss to the back of it. “If I die before I get to eat your pussy I’ll come back and haunt the fuck out of you.”

You throw your head back and laugh, but Tommy means it.

It’s a relief when he pulls in the parking lot in one piece, but before he even cuts the ignition, you’re crawling into his lap.

His pretty, desperate girl. 

You kiss him deep, tongue sliding against his, hips tilting over the already hard cock in his jeans. He could cum just like this, Tommy knows, with you on top of him and your hands tangled in the curls at the nape of his neck. You smell sweet and seductive, and he can think of nothing beyond this singular moment.

“Let’s just do it right here,” you say, panting, hands sliding beneath his t-shirt. “I want you so bad. I’ve wanted it for so long, please.”

There are no words to describe how much it satisfies him to hear it, to hear you beg for him. But you deserve better than this. Deserve so much more than a back seat fuck. He wants to give you everything, wants to give you all of him. “I know, sweetheart, I know,” he says. Because he does. “Wanna see you in my bed, though.”

You wrap your arms around his neck, and Tommy uses it to his advantage, holding you close as he quickly gets out of the truck and locks it behind him. You’re a giggling mess, pressing kisses to his face as he makes his way inside and up the stairs to his apartment. “You’re so handsome,” you say. “Have I ever told you that?” 

“A hundred times,” he says, kicking the door closed behind him. “But one more won’t hurt.”

His apartment is a mess. There are dishes in the sink and clothes on the floor and an empty plate on the coffee table, but just seeing you here makes his heart swell in his chest. 

He begins to wonder if this is where you’re meant to be; taking up room in his space, kicking off your shoes at the front door.

Tommy’s cock pulses in the confines of his jeans.

“Kiss me again,” you say. “Kiss me like you mean it.”

He does. His mouth clashes against yours, tongue licking into your sweet mouth, savoring the taste of what remains of your shimmery lip gloss.

Tommy’s hands drift lower, squeezing at the round globes of your ass, pulling you impossibly closer. One of his hands dips between your thighs, feeling the soft lace you wear beneath that sinful dress. “Fuck,” he hisses. “Fuck, I need to taste you. Been dreamin’ about it.”

“You dream about me?”

He wraps his big arms around your waist and lifts you. “Every fuckin’ night,” he admits, turning towards his bedroom. 

Doesn’t make it very far, though. Because when you wrap your legs around his waist and rut against him, Tommy lets out a low sound from somewhere deep inside his chest before laying you back against the kitchen island. 

“Fuck it,” he murmurs to himself. Close enough, he thinks.

You look so fucking pretty like this. All sprawled out for him, flushed with your swollen lips parted and your pupils blown wide. He’d always known it would be a sight to behold, but this…it’s something else entirely. 

Cataclysmic. Divine sacrilege.

He leans over you and kisses your chest softly. “Tell me you want this,” he says. “That you want me.”

Your answer comes fast. “I want you, Uncle Tommy.” 

And he feels a deep-seated desire swirl low in his abdomen. Because it’s fucked up. He knows it is. Is completely, lucidly aware that this is all wrong. Filthy and twisted.

Yet he wants it anyway. Maybe not despite it, but because of it. Pleasure heightened with this sick perversion.

He slides his hands under your dress and hooks his fingers around the lace, pulling it down your legs. You’re so wet for him he can see it stick, webs of slick snapping as he groans at the sight. “Goddamn, sweetheart,” he whispers. “Didn’t tell me it was like this.”

“I need you so bad it hurts,” you tell him. “Get so wet just thinking about it.” Your voice is low and desperate, almost a cry. 

“Don’t worry, baby,” he says. “Uncle Tommy’s going to take care of you, okay? Gonna make that ache go away.”

He kisses you slowly. Starts at your ankle and slowly works his way up. He kisses and bites the insides of your thighs, savoring the moment not for you but for him, leaving indentations of his teeth in your flesh. A memory, he thinks. A promise that you’ll think of this tomorrow and the next day. That you’ll remember the way he made you feel.

Then he’s rolling your dress up your hips, delighting in the way you get all shy and squirmy as he takes you in, unashamed in his study. “Such a pretty little pussy,” he says. “Gonna make her feel real good, sweetheart. Don’t you worry.”

He surges forward, licking through your folds. memorizing the way your slit feels beneath his tongue because he never wants to forget this. Never wants to forget the way you gasp beneath him or the way your hands pull at his hair. “Oh my god.”

“Shhh,” he murmurs. “I’ve got you, pretty girl.” he kisses your clit. Once, twice, before sucking it between his lips. He spreads your legs wide and presses his mouth to you, nose crinkling against your pubic bone. 

He could die here a happy man. You taste divine, better than anything his mind could have ever conjured up. He licks and sucks until you’re writhing, and when he presses two fingers gently into your opening, your back arches off the counter top. 

Tommy hooks two fingers inside you, hitting that sweet spot, your perfect moans echoing through his kitchen. He wraps an arm around your thigh and pulls you roughly to the edge of the counter. His tongue is warm and wet as he uses it to circle your clit, groaning against you, sending vibrations through your body.

His name falls from your mouth between gasping breaths. You grind yourself against him, making a delicious mess of his face and pulling at the roots of his hair.

He can feel you clenching around his fingers, chasing that high, chasing release. Tommy decides to give you a little encouragement. “Go on, now,” he mutters against your spit-soaked clit. “Take it, baby. You deserve it. Been so fuckin’ good for so long. Deserve a reward.”

Your breath halts, just for a second. And then you let out a long, salacious moan and your legs tremble around his head. Tommy feels your walls pulse around his two fingers, squeezing them hard. “Fuck, fuck—”

“That’s it,” he praises, flicking his soft tongue gently over your clit, fingers working you through it, pressing in deep. “There you go, shhh. Just like that.”

He looks up at you, branding this image in his brain. The arch of your back, the strain in your throat as you desperately take in oxygen, the way the shimmery, silver sequins on your dress cast little rainbows across his apartment. He’ll never forget it for as long as he lives.

“You look so beautiful, darlin’,” he says. “So pretty when you cum for your Uncle Tommy.”

Only when your writhing stops and your breath evens out does he slow the rhythm of his fingers, caressing your insides slowly, gently, making sure he coaxes it all out of you and delighting in the little whimpers you make in response. And then he carefully slides them out of you, digits slick and glossy with your release. Your eyes are glued to his as he brings them to his mouth and licks them clean, not wasting a single drop. That smirk of yours forms as you say, breathless, “Kiss me.”

Tommy grips the back of your neck and pulls you forward, grinning as he gives you what you need. He kisses you eagerly, tongue finding yours, licking into your mouth.

“Can taste it,” you mutter, giggling against his lips. “I made a real mess of you.”

In more ways than one, Tommy thinks. “Tastes fuckin’ good, though,” he says. “Just gettin’ started, anyway.”

He lifts you off the counter, laughing as you squeal in surprise when he tosses you over his shoulder so easily. You fist your hands in the bottom of his wrinkled t-shirt, seeking stability. “I bet you have blue sheets,” you say.

Tommy snorts. “You’ve thought about the color of my sheets?” Such a simple thing, an irrelevant part of his life that has never mattered to him in any capacity.

“Duh,” you say as if it’s obvious, and Tommy’s suddenly overwhelmed with warmth. He likes that you think about it—his sheets, his bedroom, him. Likes knowing he’s not been alone in his mania. “Always knew I’d end up in them.”

He laughs darkly as he pushes open the door and shoulders you onto his bed, right in the center of his navy blue sheets.

You smile up at him, beaming with pride, and he shakes his head as you say, “Told ya.”

It doesn’t surprise him that you’d guessed correctly because you know him. Better than anyone else ever has. Because you and Tommy are one and the same, two sides to the same twisted coin. “Yeah, yeah, alright,” he teases, crawling over you, knees braced on either side of your thighs. “S’enough outta you, know it all.”

You open your mouth, probably to make some filthy joke, but whatever it is never sees the light of day because Tommy hooks his fingers around the thin straps of your dress and pulls them down your shoulders. He tugs at the fabric until your breasts are bared to him, pretty and soft and perfect.

He cups them tenderly in his hands, thumbs grazing the hardened peaks of your nipples. He watches goosebumps rise across your chest, and it brings a sick smile to his face. “S’that feel good, sweetheart?”

“Yes,” you breathe, eyes heavy. “Touch me more. Wanna feel you.”

Tommy’s never heard a more tempting request in his life. He leans over and presses his mouth to your chest, hands roaming over your skin. He takes your nipple in his mouth and flicks his tongue over the sensitive flesh, sighing against you at the sound of your moan.

He pushes your dress down to your hips and lets you shimmy the rest of the way out of it, kicking the shiny fabric onto the floor. You lift your hips to meet his, and his cock is so hard and needy that the smallest bit of friction nearly knocks him on his ass. “Shit,” he hisses, trailing kisses across your chest, spreading his worship. He plans to take his time, wants to see just how close he can get you with just his mouth on your tits.

But then your voice breaks through your breathy whimpers. “Uncle Tommy,” you say. “Wait. Wait, I—”

He stops, pulling back, giving you room to breathe. The coldness of fear begins to trickle in as he anticipates your next words. Has he gone too far? Said too much, moved too fast?

“I want you in my mouth,” you say with those pretty eyes, and he convinces himself he’s dreaming. “Please.”

Because this can’t be real. There’s no way in hell he’s looking at you, naked in his bed, begging to suck his cock. His pretty, perfect girl. Tommy runs his hands down his face, and a sound of utter disbelief escapes him. But then he’s nodding, just as eager. “Yeah, baby,” he says. “Course you can.”

Your responding smile sends a shiver down his spine. Carefully, you move from beneath him, hands tugging at the buckle of his leather belt. He can do nothing but watch with reverence as you unbutton his jeans and pull at his zipper, tongue wetting your lips. 

The air gets stuck in his lungs as you reach into his boxers and pull him out with gentle fingers. It’s hypnotic, the way you touch him. You press a sweet, chaste kiss to his tip and with that one touch alone he’s already fighting for his fucking life.

But he lets you do what you want to him. Lets you move at your own pace. Tommy’s grateful you’re slow in your pursuit, though. Tasting him, tongue gliding down the underside of his shaft, savoring.

When you finally take him fully in your mouth, his head falls back and he sighs deeply. It’s almost too much to feel you and look at you, but Tommy doesn’t want to miss it. He strokes your hair as you hollow out your cheeks and greedily swallow him down. “Fuck,” he groans. “Look so good with my dick in your mouth. Yeah, there you go. Just like that.”

You suck harder, take him in deeper. His vision blurs, and pleasure builds and builds and builds, rushing to the surface of his skin. 

“Easy,” he warns. You look at him through your lashes, lips parted around his heavy cock. It’s the most pornographic image he’s ever fucking seen and it’s going to have him cumming down your throat. “Easy, easy, easy—” Tommy takes a handful of your hair and pulls you back, dick pulsing as he watches strands of your spit stick to him. “Jesus Christ, sweetheart.”

Pure, sprightly giggles bubble from your glossy lips. So beautiful it hurts him. “Can I tell you what I want?”

“Always,” he promises, and means it.

You move across his bed, crawling back towards the headboard. Your voice is low, a seductive whisper as you tell him, “I want you to take off your clothes.”

He does. Starts by pulling his t-shirt over his head and tossing it to the floor. Then he takes off his boots and shoves his jeans and boxers down, discarding them beside your pretty little dress.

“I want you to come over here and kiss me,” you say. Tommy moves on instinct, crawling towards you. He’s nearly there when you speak again, mouth hovering over yours. “And then I want you inside me, Uncle Tommy.”

He shivers as you spread your legs slowly, putting on a sweet little show. All for him. “Yeah?”

“Mmhm,” you murmur. You slide your hands down your body, that troublesome look on your face, teasing. As you glide your fingers through your pussy, slick and glossy, you continue. “Wanna watch it go in. Wanna see it here,” you say, pressing hard against your lower abdomen.

Tommy’s always given you everything you’ve ever wanted. Has never had any problem satisfying all your needs. And that doesn’t change now, either.

He kisses you slowly. Meaningfully. There’s intent behind it. Love. Adoration. He hopes you can feel it. Hope you can sense it.

With his forehead against yours, he lines himself up at your entrance. He cradles your face with his hand. Says, “Tell me if it hurts.”

And then he’s pushing inside you, and his hands shake. You watch it, just as you wanted. Watch his cock split you open, watch your pretty pussy make room for him. And Tommy watches you, delighting in the way your eyes go wide and watery, in the way your lips part in a gasp.

He sinks into you all the way, hips pressed tight against yours. And when he pulls back out his cock is covered in your slick. “How’s it feel, baby?”

You nod frantically, chest heaving. “S’good,” you answer. “So fucking…God. You’re so big.”

Tommy tilts his hips, quickly finding a cadence that makes you cry out his name. You feel like heaven. Warm and wet, soaked. The sounds echo in his bedroom, obscene and filthy. He kisses your forehead, your nose, your temple. Every part of you he can reach. “This what you wanted? Hm?”

“Yes, yes, please—”

“Shh, s’alright, darlin’. Ain’t gotta beg me. Uncle Tommy’s got you.” Your silky walls grip his cock tighter as he says it, and he knows then and there that you’re the same in this, too. Knows that you like the perversion, the corruption, the filth. 

He thrusts harder, deeper. Your back arches, and your hand reaches for his. Tommy laces his fingers through yours and has never felt closer to anyone in his life. You say, “I needed you,” and he agrees.

“I know, baby. Me too. I’m here now. Gonna make you cum for me.” He uses his free hand and presses it to your lips. “Open your mouth.”

You do. His perfect girl. He presses his fingers past your lips, into your mouth. Your tongue swirls around them, coating them in your spit. And then he snakes his arm between you and circles your clit, tortorously gentle. “Oh my fucking God,” you cry, squeezing your eyes shut.

But Tommy won’t have it. “Nuh-uh. Look at me, baby,” he says. “C’mon. Wanna see the way you look cumming on Uncle Tommy’s cock, huh?” You do as he says, and a tear rolls down your cheek. “There you go. Just like that. Good job.”

“Tommy,” you whimper, pussy fluttering around him. He’s not going to last long, not like this. Not when you cry for him so beautifully. 

He circles your clit faster, fighting off the bliss that creeps up his spine. “Right here,” he says, kissing your tears away, salt clinging to his lips. “Stay right here with me, sweet girl. Takin’ it so fuckin’ well for me.”

Your fingernails dig into the back of his hand and he knows you’re there, can feel your pussy sucking him in deeper. “Cum with me,” you say, breath ragged. “Cum with me, please.”

“Fuck, fuck…baby, I don’t know if—”

“It’s okay, I promise,” you tell him, voice pleading. “I’m on birth control, I swear. Just…I want to feel it, Uncle Tommy. Want you to fill me up.”

This will damn him, he knows.

“Please, please, please. I’m gonna—I’m gonna cum, oh my God—”

He’d do anything for you.

“Always gonna give you what you want,” he says. “My favorite girl.”

Your eyes are starry as you crest that high, somehow even more exquisite than the first time. Sweet moans fill the room, and your thighs shake as your release rocks through you, spine bending off his blue sheets. You cry out his name, and that’s what sets him over the edge.

His cock pulses inside of you, painting your insides with thick, sticky ropes of cum. It’s the most intense orgasm he’s ever had, and he knows he’ll chase this high for the rest of his fucking life. “That’s it,” he whispers, his breath hot against the shell of your ear. “Such a filthy little thing, beggin’ for your Uncle Tommy to fill you up with his cum. You’re so perfect for me.”

He gives you every last drop, thrusting in deep until his cock is so overstimulated it almost hurts. But he circles your clit with his spit-soaked fingers until you come down, walls spasming uncontrollably around him.

When he finally pulls out of you, he does it gently. And then he collapses on the bed beside you, panting to try and slow the racing of his heart. He turns his head to look at you and catches your eye, and he’s not quite sure why, but you both grin and just laugh.

There’s no dirty joke or any sort of amusement. Nothing’s funny, but Tommy supposes he’s just…well, he’s happy. Seeing you on the right side of his mattress, all naked and fucked out and satisfied, it just feels so right.

And he knows it’s not. Knows it’s so far removed from the idea of right that it’s absurd, but you’re stifling your laughter behind your hands and turning away from him to try and find some sort of composure, and Tommy thinks maybe he just doesn’t fucking care.

Doesn’t care about right or wrong, doesn’t care about what anyone would think or say. Because how could he when you’re at his side? How could anything else on God’s green earth ever matter to him as much as you?

It can’t happen again. He knows that.

But this is enough, Tommy thinks. This one night. A stolen moment in time that will forever belong only to the two of you, where nothing and no one matters beyond his apartment. The life here, the love between you, encased so perfectly in these four walls…it’s a gift. One he doesn’t deserve. Sweet as maple syrup and warm as the hot summer sun.

And yet it’s been given to him anyway, and Tommy Miller’s going to cherish it for the rest of his life.

When you finally turn back to him, you lie on your side with a face-splitting grin. “We’re so fucked,” you say.

Tommy laughs. “Oh, absolutely,” he agrees, pulling you close. He wraps his arms around your waist and treasures the weight of your head on his chest. “Totally, completely fucked.”

“Well, at least we’re together.”

He smiles. Presses a soft kiss to the top of your head. “Yeah,” he whispers. “At least there’s that.”

Two peas in a fucking pod.

(ermmmm ik i said i wanted to write more single part fics this year but if literally just one person asks for a part two I'll cave)

[divider by @bernardsbendystraws]

[ohgodthevoices]

What if you called your boyfriend “husband” ?

tags : ts! kenma, kuroo, bokuto, akaashi x reader (separately), fluff ,established rs

kenma : kenma’s fingers move effortlessly across his controller, eyes locked on the screen as he plays. you’re next to him, sitting on the other end of the ouch, on the phone, casually chatting with your friend. he’s only half-listening until you let out a soft laugh and say, “i’m sorryy i don’t think i can come tomorrow , i have plans with my husband.”

kenma’s brain short-circuited ,his character stands completely still. did he hear that right? his first instinct is to ask—wait, husband?—but you’re still talking, so he just sits there, staring at your with his mouth slightly open, overthinking every possible reason why you just called him that.

his ears turn red, and suddenly, his hoodie feels way too warm. his mind keeps replaying your words. his foot taps lightly against the floor. he shifts slightly, hoping you’ll look at him so he can gauge your expression. nothing. after a few minutes, he finally breaks. “…what did you just call me?” his voice is quiet, unsure , but you catch the way he clears his throat after. you blink up at him “huh ?” kenma looks away, pretending to focus on his game. “never mind...”

kuroo : you’re both lounging around when you casually go, “husband, can you hand me my phone?” kuroo freezes, then turns to you with the slowest, most smug smirk you’ve ever seen. “oh? we’re married now? how was the wedding? did I look good?” you roll your eyes. “just give me my damn phone.”

“nah, nah, nah, we gotta talk about this.” he leans in, chin resting on his palm. “you trying to hint at something? you planning our future?” you snatch your phone from his hand, trying to ignore the way your face heats up. “say it again,” he teases, wiggling his brows.

“i take it back.” he gasps, clutching his chest dramatically. “you can’t take it back! you’ve already spoken it into existence! we just got married and you’re already divorcing me…” from that day on, he’ll randomly bring it up, calling you “wifey/hubby” in the most casual situations just to make you flustered.

bokuto : bokuto is sitting next to you on the couch, scrolling through his phone while you’re on a call with the pizza place. he’s barely paying attention until you turn to him. “what do you want?” you ask, covering the speaker with your hand. “uh—pepperoni!” he says, sitting up a little.

you nod, going back to the call. “yeah, and my husband would like a large pepperoni—“ bokuto chokes on absolutely nothing. his phone slips from his hands and lands on his lap with a thud. his eyes go huge, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. did you—did you just— “W-WHAT?!” he practically yells, hands slamming onto the couch.

uou side-eye him, shushing him as you continue the order. but he’s too far gone, shaking your arm dramatically. did they hear that?! did you mean it?! HUSBAND?! by the time you hang up, he’s vibrating with excitement. “babe—BABE—say it again.” you smirk, pretending to think. “hmm… nah.”

bokuto gasps, grabbing your hands. “PLEASE. I NEED TO HEAR IT AGAIN.” his eyes are practically sparkling, and honestly, he looks like he might actually cry. you sigh dramatically, giving in. “my husband.” bokuto lets out the most victorious cheer you’ve ever heard, immediately picking you up in a tight hug. “BEST. DAY. EVER.” He spends the entire night talking about himself at the third person calling himself husband he even texted his friends “BRO, I JUST LEVELED UP IN LIFE”. (he’ll get upset if you call his boyfriend now)

akaashi : akaashi knows you love filming anything and everything, you love to take pictures and film vlogs no one else will see except you and maybe him. even if he’d usually ask to not be in the pictures you post, he doesn’t mind being in your lil vlogs.

you propped your phone on your table filming you and akaashi in the background sitting on the edge of the bed putting his mismatched socks on “okay so today my husband is taking me on a lil aquarium date” akaashi froze mid-pull on his shoe , did you really just call him your husband? did you mean it ? it was probably a slip up, right ? or maybe you’re trying to give him a hint- he never thought where to propose, maybe he should start saving up for the wedding- akaashi was pulled out his thoughts when you called out to him , you noticed he just stopped moving, mumbling god knows what to himself , his face turning redder by the second. the rest of the day your boyfriend was awfully quiet- focused the same face he pulled when he was on the court, he might be more on the quieter more calm sad but he looked like he was making life or death decisions. “keiji is everything okay ? you seem very-” he grabbed your wrist stopping both of you “can you take a week off next week, let’s go to [your dream destination].”