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norristrii · 26 days ago

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NO I’M NOT IN LOVE.

“Every friend of mine, I told them the same, no I’m not in love.” — You and Lando insisted it was just friendship, nothing more. But your friends saw the truth. Then came the vacation, and suddenly, denying it wasn’t so easy anymore. Maybe they had been right all along.

pairing. Lando Norris x fem! reader.

warnings. fluff, teasing, 8k+ words, dual pov (once), friends to lovers, mutual pining, max f. and ria being menaces, idiots in love, partying, drinking, part of 800 event, based on this request, thank you!!

music. No I’m not in love by Tate Mcrae // Better Off (Alone, Pt. lll) by Alan Walker.

800 event. // event masterlist.

BEING PART OF LANDO’S INNER CIRCLE wasn’t something you had planned, wasn’t something you had expected, but somehow, it had become one of the best parts of your life. Ria had dragged you into it, nudging you into their world with effortless ease, like she had always known you would fit. And maybe she had been right.

At first, it felt foreign, intimidating even, like stepping into a world already so tightly woven that you weren’t sure there was space for you. But then, the late-night talks, the inside jokes, the endless teasing—it all became natural. Slowly but surely, you weren’t just with them; you were one of them.

You attended races together, voices blending into the roar of the crowd, your energy infectious, your excitement untamed. Every podium, every heartbreak, every chaotic moment was felt together—as a unit, as a family. You weren’t just cheering for Lando, you were part of his support, a fixture in the world that had built itself around him.

Quadrant became part of it, too—ridiculous challenges, late-night streams, moments that turned into memories before you even had time to realize it. You had found something rare in them, something that made you feel seen in a way you hadn’t before.

And the fans? They loved you.

Your group—Lando’s group—became something bigger, something people admired, something people wanted to be a part of. You were favorites, the kind of people who lit up a space simply by being in it.

At first, you had convinced yourself that you didn’t have a type—that attraction wasn’t something you could define or categorize, that it wasn’t bound by a checklist of qualities or features. You had always believed that connections happened naturally, without logic, without reason, simply falling into place without needing to be explained. But then there was Lando.

Lando, who was rich—twice. It wasn’t just about the money, though people always seemed to mention it, but rather the way he carried himself, the way he navigated life with a confidence that was both effortless and earned. There was something magnetic about the way he stepped into a room, how he spoke, how he laughed, how he had the ability to turn the most mundane moments into something that felt special, memorable.

Lando, who was funny in a way that made people want to be around him. It wasn’t forced, wasn’t rehearsed—it was natural. It came in the teasing comments, the clever remarks, the way he knew exactly how to lift the mood when things felt tense. He knew how to make you laugh when you needed it the most, and somehow, no matter how chaotic he was, you had never grown tired of it.

And Lando, who had always been there. Lingering in the corner of your life, threading himself into moments that should’ve been insignificant but somehow never were. The way his presence was a constant, never overwhelming, never demanding, but always present. You never questioned it, never considered that maybe, just maybe, it meant something more.

There had always been something between you—subtle, undeniable, existing just beneath the surface, refusing to be named outright. Sometimes it was the way his eyes lingered a little too long when he looked at you, or the way his body naturally leaned closer whenever you were talking. Other times, it was in the quiet moments, when neither of you said anything, but the silence held an understanding you couldn’t quite put into words.

And yet, no matter how many moments hinted at something more, no matter how many lingering glances or stolen seconds stretched between you, you had always agreed—always insisted—that you were just friends.

Even if sometimes, it didn’t feel like that at all.

So the invitation came casually, like it was the most natural thing in the world, like it was something you were meant to say yes to. Lando had leaned against the wall, arms crossed, that easy, knowing smile tugging at his lips. “Ibiza. Summer break. You in?”

And honestly, how could you say no?

The thought of sun-drenched beaches, late-night laughter, music pulsing through warm summer air—it was impossible to resist. But more than that, it was him. It was the group. It was the feeling of belonging, of being part of something bigger than just yourself.

So you didn’t hesitate. Didn’t even try to rationalize it.

You smiled, shaking your head slightly at how effortlessly he made it sound. “Yeah. I’m in.”

Lando grinned, satisfied, because maybe—just maybe—he already knew you’d say yes.

───

The sun was high in the sky, casting golden streaks over the beach, the sound of waves crashing in the distance blending perfectly with the hum of laughter and music. It was the definition of a perfect summer—warm air, cold drinks, good company. You, Ria, Lando, and Max sprawled across the massive deckchair under the shade of the umbrella, bodies relaxed, conversations lazy, time slowing down in the best way.

Lando lay beside you, stretched out, limbs taking up far too much space, his knee brushing against yours every so often—a quiet, unspoken kind of closeness that neither of you seemed to mind.

“This is so boring,” he groaned, turning his head toward you, his eyes squinting slightly against the sunlight.

You rolled your eyes, not even surprised. “I need to tan,” you argued, shifting slightly as if to prove your point. Of course he would complain. He couldn’t sit still for more than five minutes without looking for something to do, something chaotic to jump into.

Lando scoffed, stretching out his legs, letting his head fall back against the cushion. “Do you know you can get cancer from tanning?”

Your eyebrows raised slightly. Wow. He was actually pulling out facts? You weren’t sure whether to be impressed or annoyed by his sudden concern.

“Not when you use SPF, idiot,” you laughed, nudging his leg slightly with your own.

Max had been the first to stand, stretching lazily, his movements slow and deliberate, like he was only leaving because he had run out of patience rather than genuine excitement.

“I’m going to the water,” he muttered, shaking off the last remnants of comfort before heading toward the shore.

Ria didn’t hesitate to follow, already tugging her sunglasses off as she moved. And of course, Lando was right behind them. The three of them couldn’t sit still for long, always itching to do something, always needing movement, excitement, a reason to cause trouble.

But you? You were perfectly fine where you were—legs stretched, cold drink beside you, the breeze just strong enough to keep the heat from overwhelming.

“I’ll stay here,” you told them with a soft smile, adjusting your sunglasses, letting yourself settle deeper into the cushion.

Max and Ria barely acknowledged your response, too caught up in the pull of the waves, but Lando hesitated, his shadow stretching over you, blocking the sun like an intentional challenge. He stood there, arms crossed, amusement tugging at the corner of his lips, his presence suddenly too noticeable.

You sighed, rolling your eyes. “Move, asshole,” you groaned, reaching up to take off your sunglasses so you could properly glare at him.

But the second your eyes met his, your thoughts stalled.

God.

The sunlight caught in his damp curls, highlighting the golden streaks woven naturally into the brown, making them look even messier than usual. His skin was sunkissed, toned, muscles flexing ever so slightly as he shifted his stance. And the way he was looking at you? Like he had already decided something, like you had no real choice in whatever was about to happen next.

“Nuh uh,” he murmured, his voice low, teasing, just a little rough from the heat.

And then, without warning, his arms were around you.

Your breath hitched as you were suddenly off the ground, lifted effortlessly into his arms like you weighed nothing, like gravity didn’t apply to you in his hands.

Your stomach flipped, pulse hammering against your ribs, as your fingers instinctively gripped at his shoulders, wide-eyed, half-shocked, half-infuriated at the audacity.

Wow. That was attractive.

“What are you doing?” you demanded, though your voice lacked any real bite, because you knew. You already knew.

Lando’s grin widened, smug, his grip firm, steady, strong enough to make your pulse skip yet again.

“What does it look like I’m doing?” he teased, taking one slow, deliberate step towards the water.

Lando’s steps grew quicker, his grip firm, his laughter mixing with yours as the inevitability of your fate became very clear. The water loomed closer, waves lapping against the shore, sparkling under the bright summer sun. The scent of salt clung to the air, carried by the gentle breeze, cooling your skin even as your pulse quickened. He was determined—too determined—eyes glinting with mischief, a playful kind of chaos wrapped around his every movement.

“Oh my God, Lando, no—” you shouted, your voice laced with amusement despite the urgency, laughter bubbling past your words as you struggled in his hold. You weren’t really trying to break free—part of you knew it was useless—but the anticipation, the excitement, made every second feel stretched, every heartbeat louder, every breath caught somewhere between thrill and frustration.

“Oh my God, Lando, yes,” he mocked, voice dripping with teasing, his grin wide, triumphant, fully enjoying your impending downfall. His feet met the cool waves, sending small ripples through the water, the sand shifting beneath him as he moved forward. He was completely unaffected, entirely confident, enjoying the moment far too much for your comfort.

“Put me down!” you demanded, the words escaping between breathless laughs, your fingers curling around his shoulders, gripping tighter, as if holding onto him would somehow change the outcome.

But before you could plead further—before you could even brace yourself—he threw you in.

The water consumed you instantly, cold and refreshing, wrapping around you in a shocking contrast to the warmth of the sun. The waves pulled at your limbs, weightless for a second before you resurfaced, gasping, blinking rapidly as droplets clung to your lashes, your hair slicked back, your body drenched from head to toe.

Lando stood just a few feet away, hands on his hips, looking absurdly pleased with himself.

“That was unnecessary,” you huffed, pushing wet strands from your face, sending a small splash his way for good measure.

He merely shrugged, green eyes shining, laughter still lingering on his lips. “Nah, that was perfect.”

Ria and Max were laughing behind him, enjoying the spectacle as much as he did, and despite yourself—despite the entire situation—you couldn’t help but laugh, too.

Lando barely flinched at the first splash, his smirk growing as he dodged your attempts to soak him further. But you weren’t done—you wanted revenge, and you weren’t going to let him get away unscathed.

Laughing, you moved closer, water sloshing against your legs as you sent another wave of splashes towards him, determined to push him deeper into the ocean. He yelped slightly when you caught him off guard, wiping droplets from his face, his curls dripping, his grin stretching even wider.

“Oh, so that’s how we’re playing it?” he challenged, stepping back as you lunged forwards, pushing at his chest, trying to force him into deeper waters.

“Yes,” you declared, hands pressing against him as you fought the resistance.

But Lando was quick—too quick.

Before you could celebrate your tiny victory, he grabbed your wrists, spinning you effortlessly, switching the advantage so you were the one struggling to stay upright.

“Not so fast,” he teased, pulling you forward, letting the waves crash around you both, his laughter tangled in the salty breeze.

And just like that, the playful battle turned into something else—something softer, something closer.

Lando’s grip on your wrists tightened just enough to steady you, to stop your playful attack before it could escalate further. His green eyes gleamed with amusement, his smile lazy, smug, entirely too satisfied with how easily he had flipped the situation in his favor.

“I swear to God, Lando,” you laughed, trying to twist out of his hold, your feet stumbling against the shifting sand beneath the waves.

He hummed, pretending to think, the water rising higher around both of you now, cool and refreshing, lapping at your waist. “Swearing won’t help you now.”

You narrowed your eyes, determined, using the element of surprise as you shifted your weight, pushing into his chest with a sudden burst of force.

Lando wasn’t expecting it.

His balance tipped backward, his arms loosening just enough for you to break free. And before he could recover, before he could retaliate, you placed both hands flat against his chest and pushed.

The sound of his startled laugh echoed around you as he crashed into the water, disappearing beneath the surface with an exaggerated splash.

Triumph surged through you as you took a step back, grinning, waiting for him to come up for air.

And when he did, when he surfaced, soaked through, blinking against the droplets clinging to his lashes, you knew—you were in trouble.

Lando pushed his wet curls back, blinking rapidly, water dripping down his face as he wiped his eyes. The smug grin remained, but now it carried something else—determination.

“Oh, you think you’ve won?” he asked, voice low, teasing, the kind of challenge that sent a thrill of anticipation through you.

You took a cautious step back, pretending innocence, but your own laughter betrayed you. “I mean, I did push you in, so—”

You didn’t get the chance to finish your sentence.

Lando surged forward without warning, cutting through the water with ridiculous ease, hands reaching for you before you could fully react.

Your breath hitched, laughter turning into a surprised gasp as his fingers wrapped around your waist, pulling you against him just as the waves crashed around you both. His body was warm despite the chilled water, his grip firm yet playful, locking you in place before you could try to escape.

“Payback,” he murmured, voice closer now, breath brushing against your ear as his hold tightened just enough to make you gasp again.

“Oh, no—,”

“Oh, yes,” he grinned, and then—you were falling. Straight into the waves.

The cold swallowed you, a rush of adrenaline sparking through your veins as the water curled around you, pulling you deeper before you fought your way back to the surface. You came up gasping, hair soaked, eyes narrowed as you wiped water from your face.

Lando was already laughing, hands on his hips, victorious.

“Okay, fine,” you huffed, swimming closer, splashing at him without hesitation. “Now we’re even.”

Lando only chuckled, stepping back slightly, the playful gleam in his eyes still dangerously present. “Are we?” he asked, voice dropping slightly, teasing, challenging.

Max shook his head, amusement laced in his expression as he watched the chaos unfold. The water still rippled from where you and Lando had been fighting your playful battle, waves catching the sunlight as they curled gently toward the shore. “You two are like little kids,” he teased, his voice dripping with exasperation, though there was no real annoyance behind his words—just the familiar fondness of someone who had grown entirely used to your antics.

Ria, however, wasn’t focused on Max’s commentary. Her sharp gaze flicked between you and Lando, the playful energy, the laughter, the effortless way you were drawn to each other without even realizing it. And then, when her eyes settled on you, she knew. The way her lips curled slightly, the subtle raise of her eyebrow—it was the universal sign that she had figured something out.

You sighed, already knowing what was coming before she even spoke.

“Come on,” she muttered under her breath, grabbing your wrist with a firm grip, not bothering to wait for your agreement before tugging you toward the shore. The water dripped from your skin as you stumbled forward, the warmth of the sand shocking against your damp feet as you stepped out of the waves, leaving Lando and Max behind.

The summer sun kissed your skin, drying you quickly, though the remnants of saltwater clung to you, lingering like a reminder of what had just happened. The breeze swept in gently, carrying the distant laughter of beachgoers, the scent of sunscreen, and the quiet hum of the ocean stretching beyond the horizon. But none of that mattered—not when Ria turned to you fully, hands on her hips, eyes gleaming with knowing amusement.

“Tell me you don’t like him,” she challenged, her voice both lighthearted and firm, daring you to deny what she already knew was true. “And I swear if you say it, it’ll be obvious you’re lying.”

You scoffed, shaking your head, fingers twisting into the hem of your soaked shirt as if grounding yourself in the motion would help.

“I don’t,” you insisted, voice steady, too steady, because you were forcing it to be.

But the way Ria’s smirk grew—slow, confident, victorious—told you everything you needed to know.

She didn’t believe you.

Ria didn’t move, didn’t let you avoid the conversation, didn’t let you brush off the weight of the moment. Instead, she just stared, arms crossed, her head tilting slightly as she studied your expression, waiting—knowing.

You huffed, shifting uncomfortably, kicking at the sand beneath your feet, suddenly hyper-aware of the way your heart was beating just a little too fast.

She wasn’t going to let this go.

“You don’t like him?” she repeated, voice thick with skepticism, eyes narrowing slightly.

“I don’t,” you reinforced, but it wasn’t as sharp this time. It wasn’t convincing—not to her, not to yourself.

Ria rolled her eyes, scoffing as she reached for the towel she had tossed onto the chair earlier, shaking out the fabric before tossing it toward you. “Okay, sure. Tell yourself that.”

You caught the towel, gripping it tighter than necessary as you wiped the excess water from your arms. “It’s not like that,” you muttered, avoiding her gaze, keeping your voice neutral, like saying it plainly enough would make it true.

But Ria wasn’t buying it.

She leaned in slightly, her voice lower now, softer, but still teasing, still knowing.

You’re blind if you don’t see the way he looks at you.”

Your throat tightened. “Ria—”

“No, seriously,” she continued, crossing her arms again, watching your reaction carefully. “The way he looks at you? The way you look at him?” She scoffed, shaking her head. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you two were already dating.”

You laughed—actually laughed—because that was ridiculous.

“You’re reading into it way too much,” you said, shaking your head, draping the towel over your shoulders. “Lando’s like that with everyone”

Ria gave you a look, the kind that made your stomach twist.

“Oh, babe,” she murmured, smirking now, too confident, too sure. “He’s not like that with everyone.”

Max let out a laugh, shaking his head as he floated in the water, watching Lando with the kind of knowing amusement that only a best friend could have. The waves rolled gently around them, pulling them in and out with the steady rhythm of the ocean, the sun reflecting brightly against the surface. Lando’s face was mostly unreadable—at least, to someone who didn’t know him well. But Max? Max could see it, clear as day, written in every glance, in every slight hesitation, in the way his gaze always found its way back to you.

“You are making it so obvious, man,” Max muttered, voice carrying just enough teasing to make sure Lando felt it, to make sure he couldn’t brush it off like some fleeting thought.

Lando frowned, his brows furrowing just slightly. “What?” He sounded genuinely confused, but Max knew better—knew he wasn’t oblivious, just in denial.

Max raised an eyebrow, letting the words come easily, stating them like they were the most obvious thing in the world. “That you like her.”

The reaction was instant—too instant. “What?! I mean, I don’t,” Lando blurted, but even as he said it, his head turned slightly, his eyes flickering toward the shore, towards you.

You were laughing, your fingers wringing the water from your hair, the sunlight catching in the damp strands, reflecting golden against your skin. There was something effortless about the way you carried yourself, the way you fit so seamlessly into this moment, into his life. And maybe Lando wasn’t ready to admit it—to say it out loud—but the way his chest tightened at the sight of you, the way his breath caught just slightly, was proof enough that he felt it.

Max watched him carefully, waiting for the inevitable, waiting for him to realize what was so blatantly obvious to everyone else.

And then—Lando sighed, rubbing the back of his neck, dropping the fight just slightly. “Okay, maybe a bit,” he admitted, voice quieter now, not defensive, just hesitant. His fingers fidgeted against the surface of the water, his gaze shifting between you and Max, uncertainty laced into his expression. “But she’s not interested in me.”

Max scoffed, shaking his head, kicking at the water with his foot, sending small splashes toward Lando in frustration. “Bro, are you blind?”

Lando scoffed, shaking his head as if trying to dismiss Max’s words, but the doubt—the possibility—lingered beneath it, stubborn, refusing to leave. His fingers skimmed the surface of the water, fidgeting slightly, his mind turning over the idea even though he wanted to ignore it.

Max sighed, rolling his eyes as he drifted closer, arms lazily cutting through the waves. “Mate, seriously. Do you really think she’d mess around with you like that if she didn’t care?”

Lando huffed, shifting slightly, the hesitation obvious now, even if he was trying to play it cool. “She messes around with all of us.”

Max scoffed again, shaking his head. “Not like that.”

───

It was the perfect time for drinks on the beach, for lazy mornings stretched under the sky, for the simple indulgence of summer.

Max and Ria had sent you and Lando on a mission—drinks for them. And of course, it was just the two of you.

Lando had excused himself to the bathroom as you made your way to the bar alone, the wooden counter smooth and cool beneath your fingertips. The bartender greeted you with a quick glance, his eyes lingering for just a beat too long before his lips stretched into a polite smile.

“Hey,” you greeted, returning the expression, casual, effortless. “Can I get two piña coladas and two mojitos?”

The bartender nodded, grabbing the bottles, beginning the careful process of crafting the drinks, his movements precise, practiced. “Of course,” he said, breaking the quiet pause between you. Then, as he worked, he tilted his head slightly, curiosity lining his words. “How do you enjoy it here?”

You smiled, glancing briefly at the expanse of beach behind you, the waves curling toward the shore, the distant laughter of other vacationers filling the air. “Yeah, it’s beautiful,” you said simply, the sentiment genuine, but not particularly deep.

The bartender’s attention lingered, his fingers tapping against the counter rhythmically, his expression shifting just slightly, leaning into something more… bold. “I work ‘til seven,” he started, the words slow, deliberate. “Maybe, don’t you want—”

He didn’t get to finish his sentence.

Before you could react, before you could fully process where this was going, a presence appeared behind you—familiar. The scent—clean, warm, Lando. The voice—smooth, casual, just a little too nonchalant.

“Hey, babe, what’s up?”

His arm slid around your shoulders easily, comfortably, like it had always been there, like it belonged.

The bartender’s expression shifted—hesitated—eyes flickering between you and Lando, the realization settling quickly, the unfinished sentence evaporating before it could ever be spoken.

Lando glanced at the drinks being prepared, acting as if he hadn’t just interrupted something, as if this was the most natural thing in the world. “What’s taking so long?” he mused, voice light, casual, but there was something underneath it—something sharp, something intentional.

You blinked, adjusting to the shift in energy, to the way Lando had stepped in so seamlessly, the way his grip on your shoulder didn’t falter, didn’t shift.

“Oh, just waiting,” you murmured, watching as the bartender refocused, speeding up his movements, no longer lingering, no longer making conversation.

Lando hummed, fingers pressing lightly against your skin, his hold easy, effortless, territorial.

The walk back to the others felt different—like the air had shifted somehow, like something had settled between you and Lando in a way neither of you had fully acknowledged yet. The drinks rattled slightly on the tray he carried, the condensation dripping onto his fingers, but he didn’t seem to mind. He carried it effortlessly, like it had always been his job, like you weren’t even allowed the chance to take it from him.

You glanced at him, side-eyeing, testing the waters.

“You really didn’t need to do that,” you pointed out, voice light, teasing.

Lando smirked, adjusting his grip on the tray, his fingers flexing ever so slightly around the edges. “I wanted to,” he said simply, like that was answer enough.

You scoffed, shaking your head, brushing off the teasing, but the way he had stepped in earlier, the way he had slid into that moment at the bar so seamlessly—it was still sitting somewhere deep in your thoughts, lingering.

And then—

“You know he was gonna ask you out, right?”

You faltered slightly in your step, turning toward him, eyebrows knitting together. “What?”

Lando kept walking, kept looking ahead, but there was something too casual about the way he spoke, too measured. “The bartender,” he clarified, tone easy, natural, like this conversation wasn’t something, like it was just another harmless observation. “He was working up to it.”

You frowned, replaying the moment in your head, the way the bartender had leaned in slightly, the slow, deliberate way he had spoken, how the unfinished sentence had died the moment Lando arrived.

And the way Lando had arrived.

“Okay,” you said slowly, watching him now, studying the way his posture remained relaxed, like he wasn’t fully paying attention, like he was trying too hard to seem unaffected. “So?”

Lando shrugged, fingers tapping idly against the side of the tray. “So I wasn’t gonna let that happen.”

Your stomach twisted, heartbeat skipping slightly.

You tilted your head, crossing your arms as you walked. “That’s a bold move, Norris.”

He smirked, but he still didn’t look at you. “Didn’t feel bold. Felt necessary.”

Your pulse stuttered, but you refused to let the weight of his words settle in a way that made them mean something.

You rolled your eyes, pushing forward. “You don’t own me, you know.”

Finally, finally, Lando looked at you. And there was something charged in his gaze, something teasing, something knowing.

“Yeah,” he murmured, his lips curling slightly. “I know,”

But the way he said it—the way his voice dipped just slightly, the way his smirk didn’t quite reach his eyes—made you wonder if maybe, he wanted to.

But yeah, you definitely did not like him. Not at all.

───

The night was alive, stretching out ahead of you like something infinite, something meant to be reckless, unforgettable. It was exactly what young people did on vacation after sunset—drink too much, dance too hard, let loose in a way that would be laughed about in the morning.

The plan was simple: get wasted. Totally. Immorally.

And somehow, that plan had led you here—to a club humming with bass so deep it vibrated through your chest, neon lights flickering in shades of electric blue, ruby red, pulsing violet. The air was thick, heavy with heat, sweat, the scent of alcohol mixing with the excitement of too many people packed together, bodies swinging, moving, losing themselves to the rhythm of the music.

And, once again, it was just you and Lando.

Ria and Max had disappeared, slipping away into the chaos without so much as a word, vanishing into the crowd like ghosts. It wasn’t the first time they’d done this—always conveniently lost, always conveniently absent just when it was only the two of you left behind. Suspicious. Too suspicious.

You narrowed your eyes slightly, scanning the room, half expecting to catch a glimpse of them watching from a shadowed corner, hiding like they planned this, like they wanted this.

Lando leaned in, close enough that his breath brushed against your ear, his voice low but teasing over the music. “They do it on purpose, you know.”

You tilted your head just slightly toward him, raising an eyebrow. “Obviously.”

He grinned, stepping closer, the space between you shrinking, the flashing lights catching in his damp curls, highlighting the sharp lines of his jaw. The energy between you shifted—something playful, something charged, something neither of you had acknowledged outright.

“So,” he mused, his tone light but suggestive, “since we’ve lost them… what do we do now?”

Your stomach twisted, pulse picking up speed, matching the pounding beat of the music.

The thought of searching for Ria and Max had been weighing on you—not enough to take action yet, but enough to sit somewhere in the back of your mind, whispering that finding at least one responsible person would be the smart move. Because while getting wasted was absolutely part of the plan, drunk Lando was a different story altogether. He was chaos personified, a walking hazard when he got too far into his drinks, and if past experiences were anything to go by, you knew there was no controlling him once he hit a certain level.

You needed someone to be the voice of reason—the grounding force among the recklessness. And right now? That someone wasn’t you.

But then—the music changed.

The opening chords of Tate’s No, I'm Not in Love pulsed through the speakers, threading through the air, wrapping itself around the flashing neon lights, settling into the atmosphere like it belonged there. You froze, breath catching for just a second, because Jesus Christ, no song could possibly describe your situation better than this one. It was too on point, too fitting, like the universe itself was nudging you towards a realization you weren’t sure you wanted to fully embrace.

You glanced over at Lando, watching as he swayed lightly to the beat, blissfully unaware of the ridiculous irony of the moment. He was too caught up in the rhythm, too lost in the intoxicated haze of the night, but you? You weren’t lost at all. You saw it clearly. And suddenly—the idea of searching for Max and Ria seemed a lot less important.

A slow smirk curled onto your lips, mischief flickering in your eyes. “Maybe we should enjoy it on our own,” you mused, letting go of whatever impulse had been telling you to find the others. Let them watch. Let them plot.

The moment overtook you—the alcohol, the music, the sheer audacity of knowing Ria and Max were watching like hawks from whatever hidden corner they had claimed. So, fine. If they were going to meddle, if they were going to set the stage for whatever game they thought they were playing, you might as well put on a show.

You threw your head back, letting the music pulse through you, and without hesitation, the words left your lips—loud, exaggerated, off-key but undeniably committed.

“Every friend of mine, I told them the same!"

Lando hesitated at first, brows furrowing slightly, the drunken haze clouding his comprehension. But then—then something clicked. Recognition. Understanding. And slowly—dangerously—a smirk crept onto his face, matching the energy you had thrown out so unapologetically.

He laughed, shaking his head, letting the moment settle before joining in, leaning closer, voice rough, teasing.

“No, I'm not in love!"

You threw your arms out dramatically, gesturing like you were making some grand proclamation to the entire club, like this was a performance meant to be witnessed, meant to be talked about.

“I’m not thinking about you,” you sang, voice tangled with laughter, exaggerated and bold, thrown out into the air like they meant nothing, but they did, and it was an obvious lie, one that Lando saw straight through.

Because the way he laughed, the way his fingers curled around your wrist for a fleeting second before letting go told you he knew, he knew you were lying, he knew this wasn’t just a drunken joke anymore, he knew that whatever was happening between you—the teasing, the tension, the game neither of you had fully acknowledged yet—was already spiraling into something dangerous, something inevitable, something neither of you were stopping.

His gaze lingered, sweeping over you with an ease that was too deliberate, too knowing, and he tilted his head slightly, watching the way you swayed, the way the neon lights painted streaks of red against your skin, the way your breath hitched when he stepped just a little closer, and still, the lyrics kept coming, tumbling past your lips effortlessly, sinking into the charged air between you.

“And I don’t hate every girl your eyes go to!”

Lando’s smirk deepened, slow, deliberate, dangerous, and then, just for a moment, for one fleeting second, his eyes dragged over you, measured, intentional, like he was answering a question neither of you had spoken aloud yet, like he was proving something, like he was silently calling your bluff.

“No I’m not in—“

The words barely had time to leave your lips before Lando’s hands were on you, pulling you in, crashing his mouth against yours with the kind of recklessness that came from too many drinks, too much tension, too much waiting. There was nothing gentle about it, nothing hesitant—just a collision of heat and energy, the culmination of a night filled with teasing and unspoken words. The weight of the moment drowned out everything else.

The music thumped in the background, a steady pulse, a heartbeat for the night, but it was distant now, muted beneath the rush of blood in your ears. The flashing neon lights bathed everything in shifting hues, casting streaks of electric blues and reds against his skin, painting the moment in something surreal, something that didn’t feel entirely real but was. The crowd moved around you, bodies swaying, voices blending together in laughter and shouting, but none of it mattered.

All that existed in that breathless, intoxicated second was him.

Lando tasted of tequila and recklessness, of something unspoken, something that had been lingering between you for far too long. His grip was firm, fingers curling against your waist, holding you close, grounding you in a way that sent a shiver down your spine. There was a desperation in it—like maybe he’d wanted this longer than either of you would admit, like maybe this wasn’t just about the alcohol or the tension but something deeper, something inevitable.

When he finally pulled back—just enough to see your face, just enough to look at you the way he always did but never quite let on—his smirk was lazy, teasing, dangerous. His thumb brushed against your jaw, gaze flickering over your expression, searching, waiting, as if he expected you to say something, as if he knew there were words stuck in your throat that you weren’t quite ready to speak.

The energy between you was charged thick with the weight of something inevitable, something unspoken, something that had lingered far too long between teasing smiles and fleeting touches. The music swelled, pressing into the moment, drowning out logic, hesitation, reason.

You hadn’t thought—you had just moved hands gripping his shirt, pulling him back into you, kissing him without restraint, without second-guessing, without giving yourself the chance to stop.

This time, Lando wasn’t caught off guard.

This time, he expected it.

His hands tightened on your waist, pulling you closer, his lips pressing against yours like he wasn’t just matching your recklessness, like he was meeting something that had always been there.

The world blurred, neon colors flashing against his skin, drowning you both in electric hues, but none of it mattered—none of it registered—not when the only thing grounding you was him.

He pulled back slightly, just enough to look at you, breathless, gaze flickering between your lips and your eyes, searching for something unspoken, something real, something that neither of you had fully admitted yet.

“Still not in love?” he murmured, voice low, teasing, but there was something else beneath it, something daring, something that asked for more than just a playful answer.

Your chest rose and fell, breath uneven, heartbeat thrumming in rhythm with the bass.

You swallowed hard, shaking your head slightly, though it wasn’t convincing, though the smirk playing at the edges of his lips told you he knew the truth.

“I’m very drunk,” you countered, not answering his question, deflecting, but the way your fingers still curled into his shirt, the way you hadn’t let go—it was telling.

Lando hummed, lips twitching at the corners, his thumb tracing absent patterns along your waist. “So am I,” he admitted, voice barely above the music. “But I still meant it.”

Your stomach twisted, breath hitching.

The words hung in the air between you, heavier than the pounding bass, louder than the drunken chatter of the club around you. You barely processed the flashing neon lights anymore, barely registered the movement of the crowd—because suddenly, the only thing that mattered was him.

Lando’s grip on your waist hadn’t loosened, his fingers still curled against your skin like he wasn’t ready to let go, like he wasn’t even thinking about letting go. His expression had shifted—something softer beneath the smirk, something hesitant but certain at the same time.

“I like you, Y/n,” he said, voice lower now, quieter, like it wasn’t just another teasing remark, like it actually meant something. “A lot.”

Ria and Max stood near the exit, casually leaning against the wall, watching the scene unfold before them with smirks that said they knew this was coming all along. The neon lights flashed overhead, casting an electric glow across the club, but neither of them were paying attention to anything other than you and Lando, tangled together, oblivious to their spectators.

Ria took a slow sip of her drink, eyes gleaming with amusement as she tilted her head toward Max. “Right, because she’s definitely not in love,” she remarked, voice dripping with sarcasm, barely masking her satisfaction at seeing her prediction come true.

Max chuckled, crossing his arms as he watched Lando pull you closer like he had to, like it was beyond his control now. “Oh yeah, totally platonic,” he mused, amusement flickering in his tone. “You know, just friends, casually making out in the middle of a crowded club.”

Ria scoffed, shaking her head. “Honestly, they should start paying me. I don’t even charge for matchmaking, but I really should.”

Max nudged her lightly, raising an eyebrow. “Don’t get ahead of yourself. We didn’t do anything this time. This was inevitable. We just sat back and let it happen.”

───

Nobody talked about that night—not even Ria and Max, which was strange considering how much they loved meddling, loved pushing things just for the sake of watching them unfold. They had bet on it, plotted it, orchestrated it in their own way, but afterward? Nothing. No smirks thrown your way, no sly remarks, no comments about how they knew this would happen, no subtle nudges toward whatever this was supposed to mean.

It was like they had collectively decided to let it sit untouched, unmentioned, as if acknowledging it would make it real.

Maybe that should have made it easier.

Maybe the silence should have let you push it aside, should have allowed it to fade into the same blur of bad decisions and drunken recklessness as the rest of that night.

But then there was Lando.

And Lando? He hadn’t let it go at all.

If anything, his teasing had gotten worse—relentlessly worse—so subtle yet so constant that it was impossible to ignore. It wasn’t just the casual smirks anymore, wasn’t just the playful nudges or the remarks that made you roll your eyes and shove him away. It was everything. The way his eyes lingered just a second longer when you spoke, the way his fingers found yours absently when you walked side by side, the way he leaned in just a little too close whenever he whispered something meant only for you.

And Ria?

She noticed everything.

She never said anything outright, never pushed you into admitting anything, but the way she looked at you sometimes—head tilted, lips curled into an amused smile, eyes flickering with knowing—said she had already figured it out. And every time, every single time, you gave her the same answer.

“I’m not in love," you’d mutter, rolling your eyes, shaking your head, pretending like your pulse didn’t quicken, pretending like you didn’t think about it far too often, pretending like Lando wasn’t making sure you fell for him anyway.

The silence of the room pressed in around you, thick and suffocating. The rhythmic rise and fall of Ria’s breath was steady, unbothered by the weight that kept your own eyelids stubbornly open. It had been two nights since sleep last found you, and tonight was shaping up to be no different.

Then, suddenly—light.

The glow of your phone cut through the darkness, harsh against tired eyes. For a moment, you didn’t move, staring at the screen as if expecting it to vanish. But the light remained, unwavering.

A message.

Your stomach tightened. Not just any message.

Lando.

lando u sleepin? cuz i can’t max’s snoring so damn hard

yn can’t sleep either lol

lando u wanna go for walk on the beach??

The absurdity of it barely even registered. A walk at 2 AM? When the rest of the world was either asleep or tangled in the chaos of the lingering night—but, somehow, it made perfect sense. You were so in.

yn yea let’s go

You barely breathed as you stepped through the doorway, moving with careful precision, as if the slightest misstep might shatter the quiet and wake Ria or Max. The apartment was still, save for the faint hum of the city beyond its walls, the distant murmurs of late-night traffic weaving into the silence. You pressed your fingers against the doorframe, guiding it closed with measured patience, and when the soft click finally sounded, you exhaled in relief.

Lando stood beside you, hands tucked into the pockets of his hoodie, his head tilted slightly in amusement as he glanced your way. His smirk—lazy, teasing—played at the edges of his lips, barely visible beneath the dim glow of the hallway light filtering out from inside.

"Think we made it?" he whispered, voice just loud enough for you to hear but quiet enough to keep the stillness intact.

You lifted a hand instinctively, holding it up like you were listening for a signal—some shift, some noise, some indication that you had failed. But everything remained silent, uninterrupted, untouched by your presence. You waited for the inevitable creak of bedsprings, for Max's sleepy complaints, for Ria's sharp curiosity, but nothing came.

Only silence.

Finally, you lowered your hand, a slow grin pulling at the corners of your mouth as you shook your head.

Lando let out a short chuckle, shifting slightly as he rocked on his heels, as if adjusting to the crisp air outside. "We could have just left normally, you know," he mused, tone easy, effortless.

You shot him a flat look, crossing your arms as you stepped further from the door. "Yeah? And risk Ria analyzing our entire existence before we even make it down the street?"

Lando laughed at that, tilting his head in acceptance. "Fair point."

The street stretched ahead of you, quieter now than it had been hours before, when the city had still been alive with movement, with music, with crowds lost in the indulgence of the night. There was something surreal about it—something almost too peaceful, too still—like the world had reset itself while you weren’t looking. The cool breeze brushed against your skin, a sharp contrast to the lingering warmth of the alcohol still settling in your veins.

Lando fell into step beside you, his hands still stuffed into his pockets, his movements relaxed, unconcerned, but the energy between you was different now—charged in a way that made your stomach twist.

"So," Lando mused, kicking a loose pebble across the pavement, watching it skip and tumble down the road. "Are we just walking? Or are we pretending this isn’t weird?"

You scoffed, shoving your hands into your jacket pockets. "It’s not weird. It’s just... spontaneous."

Lando snorted, glancing at you with a raised brow. "Right. ‘Spontaneous.’ That’s what we’re calling it?"

You nudged him with your elbow, rolling your eyes. "Shut up."

The waves rolled in with a quiet rhythm, a soft pulse against the shore, stretching out beneath the moonlight in endless streaks of silver. The night was still, peaceful in a way that felt surreal, as if time had slowed just for the two of you, as if the world had paused long enough for you to finally let yourself feel everything you had been avoiding.

You walked in silence for a while, the cool ocean breeze wrapping around you, carrying the scent of salt and something nostalgic—something that reminded you of summer nights spent chasing moments you never wanted to end. Lando kept pace beside you, hands tucked into his pockets, steps steady and deliberate, like he was waiting for you to speak first, like he knew that this conversation wasn’t one he could force.

But you didn’t say anything. You weren’t ready—not yet.

The sand shifted under your feet, soft and weightless, grounding you in ways you didn’t expect. Lando let out a breath beside you, not impatient, not pushing—just waiting.

And then, finally, he broke the silence.

“Are we gonna talk about it?”

His voice was calm, easy, but something else lay beneath it—something careful, something that wasn’t just teasing, something real.

You inhaled slowly, pretending not to understand, pretending this was just a normal conversation between two friends, the kind that didn’t linger, the kind that didn’t change anything. “About what?” you asked, tilting your head slightly, feigning innocence, though you knew he wouldn’t buy it.

Lando scoffed lightly, shaking his head, amusement flickering in his eyes despite the weight of his words. “Stop, you know.”

You were quiet.

Watching the waves pull back, watching them crash forward again—predictable, inevitable, like this.

He sighed, running a hand through his curls, exhaling a short laugh—something small, something he barely let out. “You should admit it.” His tone was lighter now, still teasing, but there was something else beneath it, something steady, something that made your chest tighten.

You frowned slightly, finally turning to meet his gaze. “Admit what?”

His smirk deepened, slow, deliberate, steps measured as if he was guiding you toward an answer you weren’t ready to say out loud.

“That you’re falling for me.”

You scoffed, rolling your eyes, trying—desperately trying—to keep your pulse steady, to keep your breath even, to keep your face neutral, but none of it worked.

Lando let out a short laugh, shaking his head like he didn’t believe you for a second.“I don’t have to wish, Y/n,” he murmured, voice easy, confident, frustratingly sure of himself. “You’re already there.”

The silence stretched between you, thick and charged, filled with something that had been lingering in the air for far too long. The ocean’s rhythmic pulse filled the quiet, waves rolling in and out with steady precision, as if mimicking the careful balance you had both been maintaining. The moon hung high above the water, casting silver reflections across its surface, making everything feel softer, making everything feel realer.

You shifted on your feet, forcing a casual shrug, though the weight in your chest told you it wasn’t casual at all. “I could say the same,” you murmured, your voice measured, controlled, desperately trying to maintain the effortless front. “That you need to admit it.”

Lando exhaled a short laugh, shaking his head slightly, eyes glinting with something unreadable beneath the dim light. His smirk—lazy, teasing—was still there, but it had softened at the edges, something else slipping through, something honest, something serious.

“I don’t need to admit it,” he said, voice quieter now, steadier, as if choosing his words carefully. “I’ve already fallen for you.”

He had already said it—put it all out there without hesitation, without fear, without holding anything back. Now, it was your turn. You could see it in the way he looked at you, the quiet patience, the soft expectation, the way he was just waiting for you to say it, waiting for you to give in. And the worst part? You wanted to.

You inhaled sharply, pressing your lips together, willing your pulse to slow, willing your thoughts to steady, but none of it worked. Because the truth was already clawing its way out of you, raw and unfiltered, slipping past your defenses faster than you could stop it.

“Okay—I like you so much,” you admitted, the words tumbling out, rushed and desperate, thick with the weight of everything you had been holding back. Your breath hitched, your fingers curled at your sides, like your body was still trying to fight something your heart had already accepted. “All those jokes, Lando... God, they weren’t just jokes.”

Lando’s expression shifted the moment the words left your lips. His eyes locked onto yours, the quiet patience still there, but now there was something else—something warmer, something realer, something that felt like relief and victory all at once.

“You finally said it,” he murmured, his lips curving into a small, knowing smile.

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, shaking your head slightly, frustration and disbelief mixing into something unsteady. “Yeah,” you muttered. “Guess I did.”

Lando chuckled softly, stepping a little closer, his fingers brushing against your wrist before curling lightly around it. “And?” he asked, tilting his head slightly, his tone teasing but careful, like he wasn’t pushing too hard—just enough to hold onto this moment, just enough to make sure you didn’t run from it.

“And…” you exhaled, searching his face, searching the warmth in his gaze, searching for the courage to just say it properly. “And I’m done pretending.”

Lando smiled then—really smiled. The kind that made your chest tighten, the kind that made it impossible to regret admitting any of this, the kind that told you that, whatever this was, it wasn’t going anywhere.

His hand slid fully into yours, fingers intertwining like they’d been waiting to do so for a long time. “Good,” he murmured. “Because neither am I.”

He was still holding your hand, fingers laced with yours like it was the most natural thing in the world, like he had been doing it forever, like he had no intention of letting go anytime soon. The waves continued their steady rhythm in the distance, rolling in and pulling away, but right now, the only thing grounding you was him.

“How do we tell Max and Ria?” he asked, amusement lacing his voice as he tilted his head slightly, studying you like he already knew you were dreading the thought of it.

You groaned, rolling your eyes, even as a small laugh escaped. “God, I don’t even want to think about it,” you admitted, shaking your head. The very idea of telling them sent a wave of anticipation—and, honestly, chaos—crashing into your mind. “Ria is going to freak out, I just know it.”

Lando grinned, shaking his head. “Please, she’s known for months.”

You narrowed your eyes at him, lips pressing together as you considered that for a moment. “Max, maybe,” you conceded. “But Ria? If she knew, she would have said something. She would’ve been obnoxious about it.”

Lando’s laugh was louder now, more certain, like he had already imagined Ria’s reaction in full detail. “You don’t give her enough credit. She was waiting for us to get together.”

You sighed dramatically, tilting your head toward the sky like you were searching for divine intervention. “We could just… never tell them,” you suggested. “Keep it a secret forever. Take it to the grave.”

Lando snorted. “Yeah, sure. Because that worked so well for us before.” His voice dripped with amusement, and before you could argue, he tugged on your hand lightly, pulling you just a little closer, shaking his head at you like you were being ridiculous. “You’re scared of telling them more than you were scared of admitting it to me, aren’t you?”

You huffed, but the way he was looking at you—so effortlessly amused, so endlessly fond—made it impossible to argue. “I’m not scared,” you muttered, crossing your arms. “It’s just… Ugh, it’s going to be a thing, you know?”

Lando smirked, squeezing your hand lightly. “Oh, absolutely. Max is going to make fun of us for at least a week.”

“And Ria will be unbearable for a month,” you groaned.

Lando chuckled, his thumb brushing absentmindedly over the back of your hand. “So, are you gonna do the honors, or should I?”

You groaned again, shaking your head. “Absolutely not. You tell them.”

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sushiyuzu · 8 months ago

Text

emotional support

warning: fluff + tension — your boobs become soft!sylus’ emotional support 🙈 [ x fem!reader ]

- second acc: @blushpawss

you were relaxing on the bed after a long day, scrolling through your phone absentmindedly, when you heard the door creak open. without looking, you knew it was sylus. you could tell by the way he moved, the quiet confidence in his steps, the aura he carried everywhere he went.

“hey,” you greeted softly, glancing up at him with a small smile. “everything okay?”

he didn’t respond right away. instead, he just stood at the edge of the bed, his usual stoic expression fixed on his face. crimson eyes locked on you, but there was something softer in them, something vulnerable he rarely showed.

before you could ask again, he moved. in one swift motion, he climbed onto the bed, gently pushing you back until you were lying down. his movements were deliberate, yet there was no urgency—just a quiet need.

“sylus?” you asked, your voice holding a hint of confusion as he positioned himself on top of you, his head resting squarely between your boobs.

“don’t,” he murmured against your chest, his voice slightly muffled by your shirt. “just... let me.”

you blinked, caught off guard by how soft his voice sounded. usually, sylus was the picture of control, always so serious and composed. but right now, he was melting into you, his strong arms wrapping around your waist, holding you tight as if you were his lifeline.

“okay,” you whispered, feeling your heart swell with affection. you wrapped your arms around him, pulling him closer. “you wanna talk about it?”

he shook his head, his face completely buried in your chest now. “no. just need this,” he said, his breath warm against your skin. “need you.”

you couldn’t help but smile at how adorable he was being. despite his tough exterior, sylus always had this soft, clingy side when it came to you. it was a side he didn’t show to anyone else, a side he only let out when he felt safe in your presence.

“rough day?” you asked, your fingers automatically threading through his silver hair, stroking it gently.

“you have no idea,” he muttered, his voice muffled by your chest. “the meetings, the arguments, the constant surveillance... it’s exhausting.”

you chuckled softly. “and i’m your emotional support pillow now?”

“more like emotional support boobs,” he mumbled, pressing his face even deeper between your breasts, his voice filled with that rare, teasing warmth he only used with you. “they’re soft... and they’re mine.”

“oh, they’re yours, huh?” you teased, a playful smile tugging at your lips.

“absolutely, kitten,” he murmured, his lips brushing lightly against your skin as he spoke. “this is the only thing keeping me sane right now.”

you felt a warm flutter in your chest at his words, your hands continuing their gentle path through his hair. “well, if it helps, you can stay like this as long as you need.”

he didn’t reply right away, but the way his arms tightened around you spoke volumes. sylus was never the type to openly ask for affection, but you could always tell when he needed it. and when he did, he clung to you like this, as if you were his anchor in a world that constantly demanded his strength.

“i don’t deserve you,” he whispered after a long moment, his voice low, almost vulnerable.

you frowned, lightly tugging at his hair to get his attention. “hey, don’t say that.”

he finally lifted his head slightly, just enough to look at you with those intense crimson eyes. there was a flicker of something raw in them, something he rarely let anyone see. “i’m serious,” he said quietly. “you’re too good to me. i don’t know how you put up with me.”

you rolled your eyes, though your heart ached a little at how sincere he sounded. “because i love you, you idiot,” you said, smiling softly as you cupped his cheek. “and you’re not half as bad as you think.”

his gaze softened, and for a moment, he just stared at you, like he was memorizing your face. then, without warning, he dropped his head back down, once again burying his face between your boobs.

“whatever,” he muttered, his voice muffled again. “i’m staying here forever.”

you laughed, your chest shaking as you tried to wiggle beneath him. “sylus, you’re heavy!”

“deal with it,” he grumbled, nuzzling further into you. “this is my safe space now.”

“oh my god,” you groaned, though you were smiling the whole time. “you’re ridiculous.”

he didn’t say anything, but you could feel his lips curve into a small smile against your skin. for a man who always had to be serious and strong in front of others, sylus was the clingiest, neediest person when he was with you. and honestly, you wouldn’t have it any other way.

“you know,” you said after a moment, “if anyone else saw you like this, they’d never believe it. mr. serious, always-in-control sylus, reduced to a cuddle bug.”

he made a low sound of protest, tightening his hold on you. “don’t care what anyone else thinks,” he mumbled. “this is just for you.”

your heart melted at that. despite all his tough talk, sylus had such a soft spot for you. you were the one person who could break through his walls, the one he trusted with his vulnerable side.

“i’m glad it’s just for me,” you whispered, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of his head. “i love this side of you.”

he didn’t say anything, but you felt his fingers gently trace the curve of your waist, his touch light and reverent. for a while, you both just lay there in comfortable silence, his body completely relaxed on top of yours, his face still nestled securely in your chest.

“don’t ever let me go,” he whispered after a long while, his voice soft, almost sleepy.

“never,” you promised, your hands still stroking his hair.

he sighed in contentment, his breathing slowing as he settled more comfortably against you. “good,” he muttered, his voice drowsy now. “i’ll always need you.”

you smiled, feeling a warm glow of happiness spread through you. “and i’ll always be here.”

he nuzzled you one last time before drifting off, completely relaxed and at peace in your arms. and as you held him close, you realized just how much you loved this man—the serious, strong protector everyone else saw, and the soft, affectionate, clingy sylus that only you knew.

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heeluvv · 2 months ago

Text

˗ˏˋ03. PAID SESSION

pairingᝰ.ᐟ park jongseong x fem reader ft. lee heeseung

warningsᝰ.ᐟ unprotected sex, oral (f), fingering, overstimulation, etc.

natty's notesᝰ.ᐟ 3/9 completed!

──

the sky outside jay’s apartment is dull and overcast, the kind of cloudy that makes the air feel thick and unsaid things feel heavier. heeseung doesn’t knock twice—just once, knuckles dragging off the wood like he’s already exhausted by the weight of walking through the door. jay looks up from the couch when it opens, expecting the usual lazy smirk and offhand banter, but heeseung’s face doesn’t match the energy. he looks… off—not angry, not annoyed, just quiet in a way that stretches under his skin, like something inside him didn’t settle right. “you look like hell,” jay mutters, pausing his music with a flick of the remote. “didn’t think she was the type to drain you like that.” heeseung doesn’t answer. just kicks off his shoes with one foot and sinks into the couch like gravity has doubled in strength, elbows resting on his knees, head down. silence hangs in the space between them, long and stiff.

jay waits a few beats, like maybe heeseung just needs a minute. maybe he’s tired. maybe it’s nothing. but heeseung exhales—long and hollow—and when he finally speaks, it’s without looking up. “she left.” the two words come out flat, but something behind them wavers, the kind of break you can only hear if you’re really paying attention. jay’s brow twitches, arms crossing loosely over his chest. “left?” he repeats, and heeseung nods, still not lifting his head. “as soon as it ended. pulled on her hoodie and walked out like it didn’t mean anything.” jay blinks slowly. “and… did it?”

heeseung’s jaw tightens, muscles shifting beneath his skin as he finally lifts his head and leans back into the couch cushions, eyes staring at a point above jay’s shoulder like he can’t look him straight in the face. “i didn’t even talk to her before we filmed,” he says, voice quiet but full. “not really. just… hello, a few lines about consent and angles, and then—” he stops, swallowing hard. “and then we started, and everything changed.” jay studies him now, frown deepening, the smug tease he’d usually fire off noticeably absent. “what changed?” heeseung licks his lips, slow and nervous. “i didn’t wanna stop. not even when the camera shut off. i didn’t wanna let her go.” the words hang there, heavier than anything he’s said.

jay leans forward slowly, resting his elbows on his knees as he studies heeseung with a calmness that feels a little too practiced. his voice is lighter than before, careful almost, as if he knows whatever thread he’s tugging on has the potential to unravel more than either of them wants to admit. “so,” he starts, tone smooth but softened now, “who is she?” he doesn’t say it like he’s prying. not yet. it’s quieter, more curious than anything—like he’s tiptoeing into something fragile, not wanting to break it before he understands what it is. heeseung doesn’t respond immediately. his eyes stay fixed on the floor, unfocused, and his fingers twitch once against the hem of his jeans, then again, like maybe the answer is buried there in the fabric if he presses hard enough.

jay watches him, head tilting slightly. “you said she posted recently, right?” he prompts, still gentle, still casual on the surface. “just drop the name. i won’t stalk.” it’s a light joke, but it lands with a dull thud in the silence that follows. heeseung doesn’t laugh. doesn’t smile. he doesn’t even look up. he just shakes his head—small, deliberate, a tiny movement that’s almost easy to miss if you’re not looking closely. jay is looking, though. he sees it. sees how stiff heeseung’s shoulders are, how still his hands go after that single shake of the head. the shift in the air is subtle, but unmistakable.

jay leans back a little, eyebrows pulling in. “what—you don’t wanna share?” he asks, the edge of something creeping into his voice now. it’s not judgment. not annoyance. just… confusion. curiosity. maybe even a hint of something else. but again, there’s no reply. heeseung’s jaw is tense now, his gaze still fixed somewhere across the room, anywhere but on jay. his silence feels thick. weighted. like there’s something he’s protecting and doesn’t want to admit to—not to jay, not to himself.

they sit like that for a moment, the quiet stretching long between them.

and jay doesn’t need him to say it.

because they’ve all had their moments. they’ve all talked about their collabs, laughed about awkward edits, swapped notes on lighting and pacing and what works. but they’ve never dropped usernames. it’s always been an unspoken rule—don’t ask, don’t check, don’t pry. the anonymity protects everyone, keeps it from getting personal. and if it’s not personal, it can stay simple. professional. clean.

but this? this silence?

this is not simple.

and jay knows—whatever happened between heeseung and that girl?

it’s not just content.

the realization creeps in slow. jay’s brows lift, lips parting as he exhales through his nose and lets the tension stretch between them. “wait…” he says, the edge of a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “no fucking way.” heeseung doesn’t budge. “dude.” silence. “you’re not giving me the name because you’re into her?” still nothing. jay leans back in disbelief, blinking at him like he’s seeing him for the first time. “bro.” heeseung’s jaw flexes. “you caught feelings?”

and that’s it. no witty comeback. no scoff. no smirk. just stillness.

heeseung goes completely still.

jay lets out a low whistle, leaning back into the cushions with his arms spread across the top of the couch like he’s trying to fill the space with anything but the silence. “that’s crazy,” he laughs, shaking his head like he’s heard something ridiculous, even though the grin on his face doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “mr. freakshow himself, down bad for a girl he doesn’t even know much of?” he tries to keep it light, playful, the kind of jab he usually throws without thought, but this one lands weird. heeseung doesn’t flinch. doesn’t argue. doesn’t roll his eyes or laugh with him. he just sits there, unmoving, like the weight of the truth is too heavy to shift around anymore. jay glances at him again, this time longer, the humor starting to fade from his mouth. “you serious right now?” he asks, quieter now, the air settling. “like… actually serious?”

heeseung doesn’t answer. doesn’t need to. his silence says everything, thick and loud and final, and jay leans forward again, elbows on his knees, the playfulness draining from his posture. “you’re really not gonna tell me who she is?” he presses, and this time there’s something different in his voice—something caught between curiosity and disbelief. heeseung shifts slightly, finally dragging a hand over his face, and mutters, “no.” jay tilts his head, trying to get a read, but it’s hard to see through it—the silence, the distance, the weird swell of something he can’t name growing in the pit of his stomach. “you think she’s the only one who made you feel something?” he jokes half-heartedly, but there’s a bitter edge beneath it now. “there’s, like, dozens of new creators every week.” heeseung glances up at him then, and the look in his eyes is so bare, so unguarded, that jay has to look away.

he shrugs like it’s nothing, standing to stretch and move toward the kitchen, even though there’s nothing waiting for him there. “you’ll move on,” he calls over his shoulder, like it’s fact. “you always do.” the words echo a little, float into the stillness like he needed to hear them aloud to believe them. heeseung doesn’t reply, and jay opens the fridge, stares inside like he’s suddenly deeply interested in the half-empty energy drink shelf. the longer the silence lasts, the heavier it feels—off, unfamiliar, like the ground has shifted just a few inches under both of them. jay grabs a can, pops the tab, and leans against the counter without turning around. “she must’ve been really good,” he says after a moment, voice quieter again, like the thought is sticking more than he expected it to. “or maybe you were just overdue.”

jay’s apartment feels too still once the door clicks shut behind heeseung, the weight of his silence lingering long after he’s gone. the couch feels cold, the echo of that final look he gave still playing in jay’s head, and for some reason, jay can’t stop pacing. he walks into the kitchen. opens the fridge. closes it again. stands by the window like the answers might be written in the clouds outside. but they’re not—so he does what he always does when something gets under his skin. he sits down, boots up his account, and scrolls through the new creators tab with idle swipes of his thumb, trying to let the algorithm distract him. names flash by, previews blur together, but one stops him cold. @babydollxo.

the profile is nothing flashy—no thirst traps, no bio full of emojis or promises—just a clean layout, a single post, and a display name that’s more suggestion than scream. it’s the thumbnail that makes him click—low lighting, soft curves, a still shot of thighs parted just enough to tease but not enough to show. he doesn’t recognize her. not even close. but something about it feels… personal. the video opens quietly, and what hits him first isn’t the visuals—it’s the sound. her breathing. her pace. the soft, near-whispered moan like she’s trying not to be heard. “fuck,” jay mutters, leaning closer, one hand braced on his jaw as the video loops back to the beginning. “who are you?”

he taps through her page, skimming the stats—no verification, barely a few thousand followers, but the engagement is insane. comments already pouring in, tips stacking, new subscribers flashing in real time. jay scrolls again, watching the preview once more before his fingers move on instinct—hitting follow, and typing out a message without even hesitating.

you’ve got good rhythm. ever thought about collabing?

it’s casual, confident, and quick—sent before he even second-guesses it. he settles back in his chair, lets the video loop again, and lingers longer this time, eyes trailing down the curves of her body. he doesn’t know her. doesn’t need to. he just knows she moves like she’s got something worth chasing.

he lets the video loop again, slower this time, volume just a bit louder, thumb hovering over the play bar like he wants to rewind and memorize every second of the way her hand moves. there’s something about her pacing—unrushed, unbothered, like she’s not performing for anyone but herself—that makes it worse. hotter. more real. she doesn’t show her face, but the shape of her mouth is visible in the soft outline of the mirror behind her, parted, pink, whispering something too faint to hear. jay’s hand slips beneath his waistband before he even realizes it, fingertips brushing over his cock already half-hard from nothing but her rhythm and the sound of her moans. “shit,” he mutters under his breath, teeth sinking into his bottom lip as he starts to stroke himself slow, eyes locked on the way her fingers dip between her thighs. he watches the tension in her body, the way her hips roll, the way her knees twitch just before the clip cuts. it’s barely 40 seconds long, and it has him already grinding into his palm like it’s been hours.

he strokes himself slow, thumb dragging over the head, using nothing but the weight of her movements to guide his pace, lazy and deliberate. he imagines her beneath him, same lighting, same breathless moans, but this time his hands are the ones between her thighs—his name the one falling off her tongue. his hips lift slightly off the chair, chasing friction, fucking into his fist in slow, tight rolls that match the rhythm she set on screen. his breath starts to fog the screen, but he doesn’t care. he leans in anyway, watching the arch of her back, the twitch of her thighs, every small tremble that gives her away. “who the fuck are you,” he whispers again, voice strained now, knuckles tightening with each stroke, precum leaking warm across his hand. he’s close, but not rushing—just breathing, just fucking into his hand like she’s watching him right back. and then it happens—just as his eyes start to flutter shut, just as his cock twitches against his grip—

buzz.

his phone lights up in the corner of the screen, and he blinks, chest still rising fast, fingers stilled mid-stroke as the name flashes clear.

────୨ৎ────

the car ride home is quiet, the soft hum of the engine the only thing keeping your mind from spinning completely out of control. you stare out the window the whole time, watching buildings blur into neighborhoods, storefronts into trees, your reflection ghosting back at you every time the light hits the glass just right. your body feels heavy in a way that isn’t just physical—like you left part of yourself back in that bed, wrapped in sheets and tangled in someone else’s breath. your thighs are still sticky, your hair still smells like his detergent, and your phone hasn’t stopped buzzing since he posted the video. you don’t check it. not yet. you know what’s waiting for you there. attention. validation. noise. and none of it feels like enough to quiet the ache still blooming beneath your ribs. you just want to be home. you just want your bed. you just want this night to stop echoing.

you thank the driver and climb out quietly, your fingers trembling as they grip the strap of your bag. the air hits different now—colder, clearer, like it’s trying to sober you up from whatever high your body’s still crashing down from. the building looms in front of you, too familiar, too grounding, and your feet feel too loud on the stairs as you climb. you don’t expect nari to still be awake. you don’t expect her to be sitting on the couch in her hoodie and shorts, blanket over her lap, hair tied up and a mug of tea forgotten on the table. her head lifts when she sees you, eyes widening, expression soft and sleepy but instantly alert. “hey,” she says gently, not like she’s prying—just like she knows. you blink once. twice. and then the tears start rising up too fast to swallow.

“i did it,” you say, voice cracking before you can catch it, dropping your bag to the floor like it’s the only thing keeping you upright. “i filmed with someone. like… all of it. everything.” your eyes sting as you move to sit beside her, pulling your legs up on the couch, hugging your knees to your chest like you’re trying to hold yourself together with your own arms. “it wasn’t supposed to feel like this,” you whisper, breath hitching as her hand comes down gently to rub your back, slow and reassuring. “it was supposed to just be money. content. like… a transaction. but then—he was…” you trail off, shaking your head. “he made me feel things i didn’t expect. he made me forget it was even being recorded.” nari doesn’t say anything yet. just keeps rubbing your back, waiting.

“he was sweet,” you continue, voice barely above a whisper now, “and careful. and so good—like, not just at the physical part, but… the way he looked at me. like he actually cared.” you laugh then, bitter and soft and full of disbelief. “and then i got dressed. and i left.” you press your palms to your face, shoulders trembling with the weight of everything crashing back down. “i told myself it was business. that’s what i kept saying in the car. it’s just business. but it didn’t feel like that. not for one second.” nari doesn’t rush you, doesn’t try to talk over your spiraling. she just pulls you in, arms wrapping around your shoulders as she rests her chin against the top of your head. “i didn’t want to admit it,” you breathe out, “but i think… i liked it too much.”

nari pulls back just enough to look at you, her brows drawn, voice soft and steady. “do you regret it?” she asks, and the question doesn’t come with judgment—just care. you pause, really thinking about it, your heart still aching, your body still buzzing from everything he touched, everything he said. you shake your head slowly, fingers tightening into the sleeves of your sweatshirt. “no,” you say. “i don’t regret it. i just don’t know what to do now.” the truth settles between you like steam—warm, fragile, lingering in the quiet space nari always creates for you. she nods once, like she understands. like she already knew. “then we figure it out,” she says. “together.”

you stay tucked into nari’s side for a while after that, the quiet between you comforting in a way that nothing else has been all night. her arm stays around your shoulders, warm and steady, thumb tracing small shapes against your arm like she’s grounding you with each pass. your breathing evens out eventually, and the ache in your chest settles—not gone, not even dulled, but wrapped in something that makes it easier to hold. the light from your phone catches your attention when it buzzes against the cushion beside you, and you glance down without thinking. the notification flashes once—

@jayafterhours replied to your message.

your stomach flips. not from nerves, not from guilt, but something sharp and new and electric. you hesitate for half a second, then pick it up and unlock the screen.

the app opens instantly, and the message lights up clean beneath your own.

@jayafterhours: depends. how good are you at following directions?

it sits there like a dare. no emojis. no filler. just those words, sharp and smooth, wrapped in heat. you read it once. then again. and then a third time, your teeth sinking into your bottom lip as something unfamiliar sparks low in your stomach. jay’s message isn’t careful or warm or soft. it’s cocky. bold. full of the kind of energy that doesn’t ask—it challenges. and it should be easy to ignore, should be nothing more than another opportunity—but after the way tonight left you exposed, this message feels like armor. like escape. like exactly what you need right now.

you’re still staring at jay’s message when your phone buzzes again—this time softer, quieter, like it knows it’s interrupting something private. nari’s still next to you, her hand resting gently on your arm, both of you folded into the silence after your confession. you don’t realize how tense your body has gotten until her thumb strokes over your sleeve, grounding you like she always does. “everything okay?” she asks softly, and you nod—too fast, too automatic. you glance down, thumb dragging over the edge of your screen, and your breath stalls when you see the name.

@heefreakshow: i’m outside

no punctuation. no lead-in. no warning. your stomach tightens. your chest tightens, breath catching hard as you blink at the message once, then twice, like it might go away if you look long enough. but it doesn’t. it just sits there—steady, waiting, pressing heavy against your ribs. “nari,” you say suddenly, voice softer now, “can you grab me that tea from earlier? i think it’s still on the counter.”

she nods easily, no questions, just kindness, slipping up from the couch and padding toward the kitchen in her socks. the second she’s out of sight, you grab your phone, the grip of it cold against your palm as you move toward the door on autopilot. your heart thuds unevenly as you reach for the handle, and for a moment, you hesitate—what are you even doing?—but your hand moves anyway. you open the door slowly, half-expecting to see no one there—to tell yourself you imagined it, that maybe the message wasn’t meant for you. but he’s there. standing just a few feet away in the hallway, hands in his jacket pockets, hood drawn halfway up like he’s trying to shrink into the shadows. his eyes meet yours instantly, and the world seems to stop moving. it’s the same face. the same mouth that kissed your shoulder, the same voice that whispered your name until you came undone. but it’s different now, too. softer. sadder. there’s something unreadable in his expression, something that pulls at you, something that says i’m not here just to see you—i’m here because i can’t stay away.

you step back without a word, letting him in with a tilt of your chin, your fingers tightening around the doorknob before you close it softly behind him. he’s still watching you—same mouth, same eyes, but something about him feels different now. more exposed. less in control. like the walls he held up on camera don’t follow him into your apartment. “i wasn’t gonna come,” he says after a second, voice quiet, husky at the edges, “but i couldn’t stop thinking about it. about you.” you freeze. not because of what he said—but how he said it. no teasing. no performative confidence. just the raw, stripped-down truth of a man standing in front of someone he wasn’t ready to lose.

“i don’t want to make this complicated,” he adds, eyes dipping away from yours for a heartbeat, “i know you’ve got your reasons. i know what this was supposed to be.” he reaches into his pocket and pulls out the envelope—thick, sealed, heavy with every cent the video made. “this is yours,” he says. “all of it.” your fingers curl instinctively, but you don’t reach for it. “i just…” he trails off, shaking his head like he hates himself for even being here. “i haven’t been able to stop thinking about how you sounded. how you felt. how you looked at me when the camera turned off.” his voice drops even lower, and when his eyes meet yours again, they’re raw. “you keep showing up in my head—and i don’t know how to turn it off.”

heeseung exhales like something inside him’s cracking open—like the silence you’re holding is slowly tearing through his chest. his fingers twitch at his side, still gripping the envelope he hasn’t let you take, like it’s the only anchor he has left. “i used to think people who said love at first sight were full of shit,” he says suddenly, voice low, almost ashamed of the words as they fall out. “like it was just something people told themselves when they were lonely. or desperate. or drunk.” his throat works around the lump sitting in it as his eyes flick back to yours, soft and vulnerable and scared. “but then i looked at you. and everything i thought i knew stopped making sense.” the envelope lowers. his hand opens. and now it’s not money between you—it’s him.

he steps forward slowly, carefully, like he’s afraid if he moves too fast you’ll vanish. you don’t breathe. don’t speak. your entire body’s frozen under the weight of what’s unfolding in front of you. his hand lifts, fingers brushing gently beneath your chin before tracing upward, knuckles grazing the line of your jaw. “you’re the most beautiful woman i’ve ever seen,” he murmurs, thumb pressing against your cheek like he’s trying to memorize the softness of your skin. “not just because of how you look. but the way you breathe. the way you speak. the way you left me speechless without even trying.” his forehead nearly touches yours now, his breath warm and unsteady between you. “i don’t want this to be about the fucking camera anymore.”

“let me in,” he whispers, and it’s so quiet, so desperate, that it barely holds itself together. “let me know you. i’m not asking for everything. i just want… something. something real.” your lips part, but no sound comes out—your chest rising hard, your pulse loud in your ears, your mind too full to form words. his eyes flick down to your mouth, then back up, searching you, waiting for permission you don’t know how to give. you could push him away. you could lie. you could tell him this is too much, too fast. but before you can speak—he leans in.

his mouth presses to yours with a softness that stuns you—nothing rushed, nothing demanding. just him. trembling, open, real. his hand cups the side of your face like he’s afraid you’ll break beneath him, his lips moving slowly against yours like he’s trying to tell you everything he doesn’t have the words for. your breath hitches. your lashes flutter. and for one suspended moment, there is no camera. no contract. no inbox. just him. and the way his mouth is kissing you like you’re the first thing that’s ever made sense

his lips move against yours with an aching kind of care, like he doesn’t want to rush it—like he wants to memorize every part of your mouth before the moment slips away. his hand tilts your chin just slightly, thumb brushing along the edge of your jaw as his other hand hovers at your waist, not pulling, not forcing—just holding, like you’re something he’s scared to lose. you lean into him before you can stop yourself, your fingers brushing lightly against his chest, catching in the fabric of his hoodie like it’s the only thing keeping you grounded. the kiss deepens naturally, your mouths molding together with more weight, more heat, until his breath is tangled with yours. he exhales shakily into the kiss, lips parting just enough to let his tongue flick against yours, soft and slow and searching. you gasp quietly, your body pressing just a little closer, like the gravity between you both is impossible to resist. his thumb traces beneath your cheekbone, slow and reverent, like he still can’t believe you’re letting him do this. everything inside you is warm and light and crumbling.

the taste of him lingers sweet on your lips, heat blooming through your body in waves as the kiss stretches out longer than you mean it to—longer than it should. his tongue slides against yours again, a little deeper this time, a little more sure, like he’s just starting to believe this is real. your fingers clutch at the edge of his hoodie, pulling him closer without thinking, your chest pressing flush to his, your breath stuttering against his lips. you hear the softest, tiniest sound from him—almost a whimper, half-swallowed, too quiet to be on purpose. and it makes your stomach twist. makes your knees feel weak. his mouth moves lower, dragging to the corner of your lips, then kissing softly along the edge of your jaw like he can’t help himself. and it’s all too much. too good. too full of feeling you’ve been trying to deny since the second you walked out of his bed.

your hand lifts to his chest to ground yourself, fingers splayed over the beat of his heart that’s racing just as hard as yours. heeseung’s breath hitches, and he pulls back just enough to look at you—his mouth swollen, eyes dark, lips still parted. “i mean it,” he says again, voice rough and wrecked and so soft. “i want to know you.” your heart stutters. your mouth opens—but before either of you can speak again—

“y/n?”

the voice comes like a slap. bright. clear. and cutting straight through the warmth like a blade.

you freeze.

your body jerks back like a switch flipped under your skin, like your name being said aloud burned straight through the fantasy. you stumble out of his grip, lips still parted, breathing hard, your fingers releasing his hoodie so fast it feels like you just realized what you were holding. your eyes go wide as your mind scrambles to catch up, to remember where you are, who you are, who is in your apartment right now. “shit,” you whisper under your breath, heart hammering like it’s trying to punch through your ribs, like your pulse forgot how to settle. heeseung straightens a little, blinking, his expression shifting fast—from warmth to confusion to that same guarded tension you saw at the door. you turn quickly toward the hallway, barely able to process what you’re supposed to do next. “just a second!” you call back to nari, your voice thin and breathless, like you’re trying not to sound like you were just kissed like someone’s favorite memory.

she doesn’t answer right away, but her footsteps pad closer from the kitchen—slow, unaware, still far enough that you can breathe but not for long. you whip around to face him, panic laced in every inch of your movement. “you have to go,” you say, too fast, too tight, the words leaving your mouth before you can soften them. heeseung’s brows pull together, the smallest flicker of hurt in his eyes before he catches himself. “y/n,” he says gently, his hand half-lifted like he wants to reach for you again, but he doesn’t. “please. don’t shut me out again.” your throat tightens, your fingers clenching at your sides. you can’t do this right now. not with your roommate three steps away. not when your lips still taste like his name.

“this was a mistake,” you say, though your voice wavers at the end of it, and you hate how easily it betrays you. heeseung flinches—not dramatically, not with words, just the subtle shift of someone trying not to react to a wound they didn’t expect. “it didn’t feel like one,” he says, barely above a whisper, but there’s weight in it, something heavy that sticks in your chest. you open your mouth, but no words come out—just air, just panic, just silence. the warmth from his touch is still clinging to your skin, but it doesn’t feel soft anymore. it feels like a question you don’t have an answer to. you step back once, then again. and he takes the hint.

“i’ll go,” he says, voice dull now, and you hate it—you hate the way he sounds when he says it, like you’re undoing something that hadn’t even started yet. he moves toward the door without another word, his shoulders square, steps quiet like he doesn’t want to make it harder than it already is. your breath catches as he opens it, just wide enough to slip out, and for a second you almost call his name. almost. but then he’s gone.

and when the door clicks shut, it’s like your whole body deflates.

you don’t move at first—not even after the door clicks shut, not even after your heartbeat starts to slow. you’re frozen there, staring at the space he left behind, like the warmth of his presence is still lingering in the air, clinging to your skin. your lips are still parted. your hands are still shaking. and your thoughts feel like they’re spinning too fast to hold onto anything solid. you press your fingers to your mouth, just once, like you’re trying to erase the kiss from your skin—but all it does is make you remember how it felt. how soft he was. how much he meant it. and how badly you wanted to believe it.

“hey,” nari’s voice calls gently from behind, her steps slow and light like she’s trying not to startle you. “who was that?” her question isn’t sharp, not suspicious—just curious, just concerned. you inhale too fast, turning toward her with a smile you have to force into place, swallowing down the lump in your throat. “no one,” you say, and the words sound brittle even to your own ears. nari tilts her head slightly, stopping just a few feet away, her gaze soft but a little puzzled. “it sounded like someone was here. you okay?” she asks, her eyes searching your face like she already knows the answer isn’t yes.

you nod too quickly. lie too easily. “yeah,” you say, waving it off like it’s nothing, like your hands aren’t trembling from the ghost of a kiss that’s still burning through you. “just… someone dropping something off.” nari hums, unconvinced but not pushing, and moves past you toward the living room again. your shoulders fall the second she turns her back, the pressure of pretending scraping down your spine like sandpaper. you follow her slowly, your feet heavy, your mind louder than it’s ever been. part of you wants to tell her everything—to let it spill out in messy pieces like you did before—but the rest of you can’t. not yet. not when it’s still sitting in your chest like it means something more than it should.

you sink back onto the couch, your hands folding in your lap, trying not to feel the way your heart’s still pulling in opposite directions. “you want me to warm your tea again?” nari asks from the kitchen, casual, kind, unaware of how badly you need something—anything—to anchor you right now. “yeah,” you manage, your voice hoarse. “please.” she hums again, and the clinking of the mug hitting the counter fills the silence while you reach for your phone like a reflex, screen lighting up again with the last message you received.

@jayafterhours: depends. how good are you at following directions?

your thumb hovers over it for a second. just long enough to wonder what would happen if you said yes.

────୨ৎ────

jay could hear your footsteps before the knock even came—soft, steady, unhurried as you walked up the steps to his door. he didn’t move right away. just stood there, watching the blur of your shadow shift beneath the crack, listening to the quiet rhythm of your shoes against the concrete. when your knuckles finally tapped against the wood—quick, confident, not too firm—it echoed straight through his chest. and for some reason, his breath caught. he hadn’t even seen you yet, but something in the way you approached already had him standing a little straighter.

he opened the door slowly, not expecting much—just a girl, a creator, someone behind a screen turned in front of a lens. but then you were there. standing in front of him like you’d always belonged in his doorway. and for a second, jay couldn’t fucking breathe. it wasn’t just the way you looked, though that was enough to throw him off—lips bare, lashes soft, skin kissed with the kind of natural glow that didn't need lighting. it was the way you carried it. cool, calm, but not cocky. like you knew he’d be staring—and you didn’t mind one bit.

he had no idea what to say at first, and that wasn’t like him. so instead, he stepped back. made room. let you walk into his space while he held the door and tried not to think about the way your hoodie rode up just enough when you passed. “glad you came,” he said finally, voice lower than intended, the heat behind it already showing. and still, you didn’t say much—just nodded, eyes flicking over his apartment like you were already deciding if you liked being here.

and jay? yeah, he was already fucked.

he invites you to sit, his tone smooth and unbothered, like this is all routine. your eyes drift over the table—neat dishes laid out already, plates warm, silverware set clean and deliberate, like he’d done this more than once in his head before you actually showed up. the chairs are tucked in, a folded napkin on each side, and it’s not fancy, not showy—just thoughtful. the kind of quiet preparation that says he was expecting you. he gestures toward the one closest to the corner, letting you choose your seat, and only after you lower yourself does he finally move to the opposite side. the room smells like something savory—spiced, warm, familiar—but you’re too focused on the way he looks across the table. like he’s already unwrapping you with his eyes and hasn’t even touched you yet.

“i wasn’t sure what you’d like,” he says, sliding one of the plates toward you, “so i made something safe.” he says it with a shrug, casual, but the corners of his mouth twitch like he knows it still matters. you glance down at the dish—pasta, something seasoned and steaming lightly, nothing too heavy but just enough to show he gave a shit. the table feels too quiet for a second, but jay fills it easily, leaning forward with one forearm against the wood like he’s settling into something easy. “before we get into the rest,” he says, tone steady, “i just wanna know a few things about you.” you blink, not expecting that—not after the texts, not after the message that brought you here.

“what should i call you?” he asks, voice low but not demanding, like he wants to give you space to answer how you want. “real name, nickname, something else?” he waits. doesn’t press. just watches you with those sharp, dark eyes like he’s already cataloging every answer for later. you tell him your name—and he nods once, storing it somewhere behind the calm set of his mouth. then he asks another. “what’s your favorite ice cream?” and when you raise a brow, he shrugs again. “everybody’s got one. mine’s pistachio. but i don’t expect you to take me seriously after saying that out loud.”

the edge of a smile touches your mouth before you can stop it, and you hate the way it catches his attention immediately—like he notices everything, even the small shifts. he asks more. not deep things. just enough to make you talk. favorite time of day. worst habit. music you only listen to when you’re alone. it’s disarming. gentle. like he’s peeling you open slowly without ever putting his hands on you. and it throws you off balance, because none of it feels like an act. he’s not trying to seduce you. he’s just trying to see you. and somehow, that’s worse.

he doesn’t look at your chest. doesn’t stare at your legs. his eyes stay on your face like he wants to memorize it before the lighting and the angles and the camera strip it down. “i like knowing things,” he says after your third answer, voice quieter now, like it’s a secret he’s only saying once. “makes what happens later feel less like performance. more like chemistry.” your breath catches slightly, the implication not subtle but not crude. and he knows it. his mouth curves slowly around his next word. “boundaries,” he says, leaning back finally, like he’s shifting gears. “let’s talk about them.”

you sit a little straighter at the word—boundaries—as if the reminder helps you find your footing again. it feels like the only thing you can control in a space where everything else is already moving faster than you expected. jay watches you with that same measured gaze, not pushing, not crowding, just waiting. and somehow, that’s what makes it harder to speak. you inhale slowly, letting the words settle in your mouth before you release them. “i’m okay with most things,” you say carefully, voice quiet but steady. “just… not my face. i don’t want it shown.” your fingers curl slightly around the edge of your seat as the words leave you, like saying them out loud solidifies them in a way that’s permanent.

jay doesn’t blink. doesn’t shift. doesn’t even flinch. he just nods once, slow and certain. “easy,” he says simply. “i’ve worked around that before.” you blink, a little surprised at how quickly he agreed. “you can stay cropped, blurred, or angled out. whatever you’re comfortable with.” his tone doesn’t falter—there’s no question in it, no teasing, no hint of disbelief. just clean acceptance. and that, somehow, makes your chest tighten. “i don’t do spit,” you add suddenly, a little sharper now, like you need to draw one more line just to see if he’ll cross it. “noted,” he replies, just as calm.

“what about contact?” he asks after a beat, fingers tapping lightly against the table, not impatient—just thoughtful. “hands? mouths? toys? giving, receiving?” it’s the first time the words sound even remotely intimate, and it sends a ripple down your spine, but you don’t let it show. you answer carefully, listing what you’re okay with, what you’d rather avoid, and he takes it all in without interrupting. not once does he smirk. not once does he turn it into something dirtier than it needs to be. he just listens. and somehow that makes your pulse pick up more than anything he could’ve said.

“do you have a safeword?” he asks next, voice low but clear, no edge to it—just importance. you hesitate for a second, your teeth pressing gently into your bottom lip as your mind flips through words that feel right. something simple. something soft. something you’ll remember even when your thoughts are a mess. “peach,” you say finally, your voice barely above a breath. “if i say peach, we stop.” you don’t expect the way his eyes soften at that, like he wasn’t just listening—he heard you. he nods once, firm and sure. “peach it is,” he replies, voice quiet but absolute. “say it once, and everything ends. no questions asked.”

he leans back, letting the quiet settle. “anything else?” he asks, tone a little lighter now, like he’s giving you space to say no. your fingers twitch against the edge of your thigh. your heart’s still racing, your head still loud. but you shake your head slowly. “not right now,” you murmur. jay gives you a long look. not unreadable—but quiet. measured. like he’s still trying to piece you together without rushing it. and when he speaks again, his voice is lower, gentler. “i don’t want you to just feel safe,” he says. “i want you to feel seen.”

jay stands from the table slowly, pushing his chair in with one hand and tilting his head toward the hallway. “come with me,” he says simply, his tone softer now—less like a command, more like an invitation. you follow without speaking, your footsteps quieter this time as you trail behind him, your body still warm from the way he looked at you. the deeper you move into his apartment, the more the quiet hum of something personal settles in. the space is open but not cold—walls painted a cool gray, dark wood floors that soften each step, and framed black-and-white prints spaced carefully along the hall. everything feels… intentional. not staged, not overly curated—just clean, calm, and lived-in, like he only keeps what matters.

there’s a faint scent lingering in the air, something earthy and expensive—maybe sandalwood, maybe cedar, something low and smooth that fits him perfectly. the hallway passes a spare room, its door cracked open just enough for you to see a neat workspace with a monitor, ring light, and perfectly wound cords—no mess, no clutter. he’s the kind of guy who wipes surfaces even if they’re already clean. who arranges things by size without realizing it. and now that you’re walking through it, it makes sense. he feels like someone who controls the chaos before it ever starts. someone who doesn’t just direct scenes, but knows how to curate them down to the last breath.

when he opens the door to his room, he doesn’t say anything—just steps inside and waits for you to follow. and you do. slow, careful, your eyes scanning the space as you enter. the room is warm in tone, dimly lit by a lamp in the corner with amber-tinted light that makes the shadows look softer. the bedding is dark navy, sheets smooth and taut, a throw blanket folded at the edge with precision. there’s a small table near the wall with a speaker, a single coaster, and a lighter next to an unused candle. everything is exactly where it should be—but not in a clinical way. more like someone who lives in silence and pays attention to what it tells him.

the tripod is already set up across the room, angled down slightly toward the bed, lens cap off but nothing recording yet. it doesn’t feel threatening. just… real. you were expecting something more dramatic. lights. backdrops. fake velvet. but this is something else. this feels personal. honest. quiet. and maybe that’s what makes your pulse start to rise in your throat again. jay walks past you slowly, crossing the room to the dresser, and opens the top drawer without saying a word. you watch him carefully, still trying to piece together what kind of man sets a camera like that and still remembers to cook you lunch.

when he turns around, he’s holding something small and black, the shimmer of silk catching the light as he walks back toward you. the bag in his hand is delicate—drawstring ribbon, gold threading, and you already know what it is before he offers it out. “for you,” he says, holding it between you like it’s something important. “to wear.” you blink up at him, but his gaze doesn’t waver, doesn’t falter. “i saw it in a shop the day after i found your profile,” he adds quietly. “wasn’t looking for anything. just… saw it. and thought it would suit you.”

you give him a slight smile before you speak, “give me a minute?” you say, voice quiet but sure. jay’s eyes meet yours again, and this time he smiles without speaking. just a small tilt of his head, an unspoken take your time. you close the bathroom door quietly behind you, the soft click echoing louder than it should in your ears. the small silk bag is still clutched in your hand, your palm warm and damp against the fabric like you’re holding something much more dangerous. the light in here is brighter—clean, warm-toned, flattering—but it only makes your nerves feel sharper. the mirror reflects back a version of yourself that looks steady, calm, composed… but your chest is tight. your skin buzzes beneath your clothes. and as you lay the bag down on the counter, you realize this moment feels familiar. too familiar.

your breath slows as your fingers reach for the hem of your hoodie, pulling it up and over your head with a slow drag, your tank top following right after. you fold them both neatly beside the sink, more out of nervous habit than care. and for a second, you’re standing there in just your underwear, heart thrumming low in your stomach, staring at your reflection like it’s someone else’s body. you’ve been here before. not in this room, not with these lights—but in the feeling. the anticipation. the tight pull in your gut. the sting of wanting to impress someone who shouldn’t mean anything.

you think of heeseung. how it felt when you changed for him. how you stood in your room, under dim lighting, slipping on something you picked while he waited for you just down the hall. how it wasn’t supposed to feel like it did. how you thought it would just be performance. and it wasn’t. it was heat. it was vulnerability. it was dangerous. and now here you are again—different place, different man, but the same twisting ache curling around your spine. why does it feel the same? why does your body keep falling into this rhythm like it wants to be seen?

you open the silk bag slowly, the lingerie soft and light in your hands as you lift it out. black lace, just like he said. a deep plunge neckline, sheer mesh sides, satin ribbon at the center. the fabric is cool against your fingertips, delicate enough to feel like it might tear if you don’t handle it carefully. it’s beautiful. subtle. nothing flashy—but undeniably seductive. you step into it slowly, one leg at a time, pulling the straps over your shoulders, adjusting the fit around your waist. and as it settles against your skin, molding to your body like it was meant for you, you feel something crack open behind your ribs.

you shouldn’t like this. not the way you do. not the way your thighs press together, not the way your breath comes shallower, not the way you want to step out there and watch jay’s face when he sees you in this. you shouldn’t want to impress him—not after how confused you still feel about the last time. about heeseung. about what it meant, and what it didn’t. but your skin burns all the same. your hands tremble slightly as you fix your hair, as you smooth the hem, as you give yourself one last look in the mirror. “just business,” you whisper to your reflection. and even you don’t believe it.

you open the door slowly, just enough to slip through, your hands brushing down your sides one last time as you step back into the low light of his bedroom. the air feels thicker out here—warmer, heavier, like it’s been waiting for you. the door clicks gently behind you, and your bare feet make the softest sound against the floor as you move forward, your breath caught somewhere between your throat and your chest. you don’t look at him right away. not yet. you don’t want to see his face until you’re standing still, until your heart isn’t racing so fast it might show on your skin. but you feel it the moment his eyes land on you.

jay goes completely still—like the sight of you knocks the air out of him. he was sitting at the edge of the bed, adjusting the tripod when the door opened, but now he’s frozen, hands resting loosely on his thighs, lips parted just slightly as his gaze drags up your body. he doesn’t speak. doesn’t smile. he just looks—like you’re something he’s only seen in his head before this. something better in person. his eyes move slowly, taking in every line of lace, every sheer inch of skin, every soft curve the lingerie hugs like it was tailored just for you. and when your gaze finally lifts to meet his, he looks like he’s trying not to say something reckless.

“fuck,” he murmurs under his breath, the word falling out like it escaped before he could hold it back. he shifts forward just slightly, elbows resting on his knees now, fingers loosely laced like he needs to stay grounded. “you really wore it.” there’s something in his voice—something tight, restrained, too controlled to be casual. his eyes keep flicking between your mouth and your hips like he can’t pick which part of you he wants to touch first. “looks better than i imagined,” he adds, and it doesn’t sound like a compliment—it sounds like a confession. low, almost reverent.

you try to stay still under the weight of his stare, but your skin feels too hot, too bare, too sensitive. his gaze alone feels like it’s dragging fingers down your sides, smoothing over the lace, sinking into places he hasn’t even touched yet. he straightens a little, breath deeper now, like he’s forcing himself to remember why you’re both here. “can i fix the straps?” he asks suddenly, voice softer now, eyes flicking toward your shoulder where the delicate black lace has slipped just slightly out of place. “just the straps.” his tone is calm, careful—asking not assuming.

you nod once, and he rises without another word, his steps slow and deliberate as he closes the space between you. he moves behind you, close enough that you can feel the heat of his body at your back but not close enough to touch—not yet. his fingers reach up gently, grazing your skin as he slides the strap higher, smoothing it back into place with practiced ease. then the other. slow. patient. like he’s putting something sacred back where it belongs. “perfect,” he murmurs once, voice brushing warm against your neck, and then he steps back, keeping his hands to himself.

you can still feel him, even after he’s gone.

“lie down for me,” he says again, a little softer this time, like he’s coaxing the words past your skin. you move slowly, climbing up onto the bed with steady breaths, the lace hugging your body shifting with every motion. the sheets are smooth and cool beneath your palms, your body sinking slightly into the mattress as you stretch out along the center. jay watches from the edge of the room, his movements calm, practiced, but not rushed. nothing about this is rushed. he moves like he has all the time in the world to break you open piece by piece.

he disappears for a second, and you hear the soft click of a switch. the lighting shifts immediately—warmer, dimmer, all shadows and low gold. intimate. like candlelight caught in motion. and then, music. something slow, rich, vibrating low through the walls. it starts with a soft hum, something sensual and aching underneath, followed by a voice thick with emotion, sliding across the beat like a secret. the melody winds around your body before he even touches you. it’s moody, seductive, dangerous. like desire in the form of a song. like something you shouldn’t be listening to unless you’re ready to fall apart.

you don’t realize you’re holding your breath until the mattress dips beside you. jay’s back now, his body lowering beside yours, his hand brushing along your forearm with quiet intention. in his hand—black leather cuffs, soft-lined and already adjusted to your size. he doesn’t speak, doesn’t explain. he just takes your wrist, gently, lifting it with the kind of care that makes your breath catch, and buckles the first strap around you. the second follows. secure. firm. not uncomfortable—just enough to remind you that your hands aren’t yours anymore.

“you good?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper. you nod again. “say it,” he murmurs, pausing just before the fabric meets your eyes. “i’m good,” you breathe. then the blindfold. satin, black, impossibly soft. he holds it above your eyes for a moment, his voice barely above the hum of the song when he speaks. “say it again,” he murmurs. “i’m good,” you whisper, lips parted, chest rising. and with that, the world goes dark. the music swells. your body buzzes.

you feel everything more sharply now—the way the sheet slides against your thighs, the soft brush of air across your stomach, the subtle shift of the mattress as he stands and steps away. the music pulses like a heartbeat, slow and full of heat, the vocals dragging out in a way that makes your lungs feel tight. and then, the faint sound of glass. a bottle being unstoppered. something being warmed. your body tenses, even as your breath grows slower, heavier. you're not afraid. but you are open. waiting.

the first drop lands just below your collarbone. warm. sharp. a sting that spreads and melts as fast as it came. your mouth parts in a silent gasp, your back arching as the sensation ripples across your chest. it’s followed by another—slower this time, deeper. your body jerks slightly against the cuffs, your breath catching as heat coils low in your stomach. and then, his voice—quiet, close, wrecked in the best way. “too much?” he asks, his breath ghosting over your shoulder. you shake your head, pulse thudding wildly beneath your skin. “good girl,” he murmurs, and the next drop comes before you’re ready.

his fingers hover just above your ribs, tracing the fresh trail of wax he’s left behind, not touching—not quite—just following the shape of the cooling heat like he’s painting with his breath. your back arches slightly, hips pressing deeper into the mattress as your bound wrists tug gently against the cuffs. the blindfold robs you of sight, but it sharpens everything else—the sound of the song still melting through the speakers, the rhythm low and slow, the singer’s voice drawn out in pure seduction. the room smells like warmth, like candle wax and skin, like want. your skin tingles in every direction, but he hasn’t even touched you where it aches the most. not once.

“you’re so sensitive,” jay says quietly, voice curved with something dark, something proud. he lets one fingertip finally graze over a spot where the wax has cooled—a slow, deliberate line that drags across your sternum, up the swell of your chest. your stomach clenches, a whimper caught in your throat as he drags it downward again, pausing just above your navel. “you feel everything, don’t you?” he murmurs, like he’s marveling, like he’s falling in love with the way your body moves beneath his. “but i haven’t even touched you.” his voice is warm honey over ice, and it makes your thighs twitch.

another pour. hotter this time. it hits just beside your hip, then crawls inward, a path of liquid fire that fades into a cruel, pulsing throb. your toes curl, breath catching hard in your throat as your back arches again, body fully open and helpless to the rhythm he’s set. “please—” you breathe, voice thin and unsure, but you don’t know what you’re asking for yet. “please what?” jay’s mouth is near your ear now, close enough that you can feel his smile. “you don’t even know what you want, baby.” he laughs, soft and low, and you swear the sound is almost worse than the heat.

his hands return—not between your legs, not to your breasts—just to your waist, where he spreads his fingers slowly along your sides like he’s claiming you inch by inch. the pads of his thumbs rub light circles into the bone beneath your skin, grounding you, teasing you, keeping you right where he wants you. “you take pain so well,” he murmurs, and then another line of wax pours across the top of your thigh—too close. too close, but not close enough. your whole body trembles, wrists straining against the cuffs as you gasp out his name. not loud. not sharp. just needy.

you feel it before you realize what it is—his breath on your inner thigh, his hands pressing your legs gently open farther, farther, like he’s worshipping the space between them. but still, he doesn’t touch. “i could make you come with just my voice,” he says, not cocky—confident. capable. and you believe him. because your body is already falling apart, already pulsing around nothing, already begging him without the words. “but i want you to ask me.” his lips brush the inside of your leg, not a kiss—just air. “i want you to beg me.”

your pride tries to hold on. it claws at your throat, tries to press your mouth shut. but your body betrays you. your hips lift without permission, your moan slipping free like it’s been waiting for this moment. “jay—please,” you gasp, voice raw now. “please, fuck, please touch me.” it’s broken. breathless. real. and it’s everything he was waiting for.

he doesn’t give you a warning. doesn’t make a show of it. he just moves—fluid and silent, settling between your thighs like he’s done it before in a dream he’s finally gotten to touch. your skin is slick with heat, glowing with wax and want, and he breathes you in like your scent alone is enough to wreck him. his hands slide beneath your thighs, palms warm, strong, tilting your hips upward just slightly so you’re perfectly open, perfectly framed, perfectly his. the first brush of his mouth is featherlight, almost nothing—just lips grazing over your inner thigh, barely touching your cunt, just enough to make you sob through gritted teeth. “so fucking pretty,” he murmurs against your skin.

his hands return to your waist without a sound, no command or question leaving his lips—just touch, warm and steady as his fingers slide over the edge of the lace that still clings to your body. you twitch slightly beneath him, the blindfold making every brush of his fingertips feel sharper, more exposed, and when his thumbs dip beneath the fabric, you realize what he’s doing—but you don’t stop him. he moves slowly, deliberately, not yanking or rushing, but peeling the lingerie off your skin like it’s something delicate, something earned. the lace folds away from your hips, dragged down inch by inch, baring more of your skin to the air, and your chest rises involuntarily when he shifts the straps off your shoulders. he eases the piece down your body, taking the time to trace every inch that’s revealed—his knuckles grazing your ribs, the curve of your waist, the crease of your thighs. when it finally slips free from your ankles, you feel more naked than you’ve ever been.

his hands return just as slowly, palms spreading up the backs of your thighs before gliding to your hips, like he’s reacquainting himself with skin he’d already claimed. he doesn’t speak. he doesn’t rush. he just takes in the sight of you—bare, breathless, bound beneath him, blind to everything but the beat of your own heart and the sound of his breathing. the song continues behind him, velvet-rich and dangerous, the lyrics curling through the shadows of the room like temptation: “bring your body, baby…” your lips part, your legs twitch, but he doesn’t move to fill the space between them—not yet. he just touches. lets the pads of his fingers skim the edges of your thighs, your stomach, the sides of your breasts, without truly settling anywhere. just to feel you.

the air is thick now, heavy with unspoken tension, and your body is buzzing, aching, completely at his mercy. you don’t know what’s coming next—his mouth, his fingers, another pour of wax—but you know that whatever it is, he’ll give it to you slowly. your skin still remembers the sting of the heat from earlier, the way your body pulsed with every drop, and now—now—without anything between you, it feels like every inch of your body is begging to be touched. your wrists flex against the cuffs, more reflex than restraint, and your breath comes out in a shaky exhale you hadn’t meant to release. his hands settle on your thighs again, fingers curling gently as he pushes them wider.

he licks a long, slow stripe through your folds that has your back arching off the bed. it’s not just the contact—it’s the way he does it, the reverence in his pace, the softness in his grip, like he’s worshipping something he thought he’d never be allowed to touch.

he doesn’t rush. he doesn’t groan. he doesn’t perform for the camera. he just devours. his tongue works in long, controlled strokes, collecting slick like it’s the only thing he needs to breathe, licking deep and purposeful like he’s trying to memorize how you taste. your head spins beneath the blindfold, your hands tugging uselessly against the cuffs as your body trembles beneath the weight of everything. you can’t see him, but you can feel the way he watches every twitch, every gasp, every time your thighs clench in his hands. he hums against you, not loud, not obnoxious—just pleased, like he’s satisfied with how quickly you’re unraveling under him. and when his lips wrap around your clit, sucking slow and tight, you cry out so loud it barely sounds like your voice.

you’re so close so fast, too fast, and he knows it. knows because he slows down again—easing the pressure, dragging his tongue in lazy circles that make your hips jerk in frustration. “not yet,” he breathes into your skin, and it doesn’t even sound like a tease. it sounds like a rule. like a command you’re meant to obey without argument. the music is still playing behind him—“just let me motherfucking love you…”—but it’s all a blur now, a background heartbeat to the way he laps you back up like he missed you between each breath. his fingers trail up your thigh slowly, slick with the wax he laid earlier, and it’s not until one dips between your folds that your breath stutters in your chest.

he slides in with ease, your body more than ready, and his tongue doesn’t stop. his mouth stays on your clit, soft and sucking, drawing it between his lips while he curls his finger just right, just enough to make your vision flash white behind the blindfold. “fuck—jay—” you gasp, thighs shaking now, unable to stay still under the rhythm of his mouth and hand. “please, I’m gonna—I need to—” your words dissolve into moans, into nonsense, because he doesn’t let up. he keeps going, steady and cruel, another finger joining the first with a wet slide that makes you whimper like a fucking prayer. he groans low when he feels you clench, not for show, but from hunger—he likes how tightly your body reacts to him. he lives for it.

you’re falling apart now. your hips are bucking, your legs twitching, your fingers digging into empty air as you gasp through another moan that cracks at the edges. “please let me—please let me cum,” you beg, your voice wrecked and wet and half-sobbing. and only then—only then—does jay lift his head. his fingers stay inside you, slow and curling, keeping you trembling just at the edge while his mouth ghosts over your thigh. “you want to cum?” he asks, voice low, ragged, almost teasing—but not cruel. “then beg louder, babydoll. i want the camera to hear how fucking desperate you are.”

his mouth returns without a word, settling between your thighs like he belongs there, like there’s nowhere else in the world he wants to be. you feel the soft exhale of his breath fan across your soaked folds, the warmth of it a cruel tease before the first drag of his tongue lands—slow, deliberate, curling through you like he’s savoring the very first taste. your entire body jolts against the cuffs, your mouth falling open in a choked moan as he licks again—longer this time, deeper. he just devours, each stroke of his tongue more intentional than the last, like he’s studying you. like he wants to memorize what makes your thighs twitch, what makes your breath skip, what makes you gasp his name with that tiny shake in your voice.

your legs are trembling already, wide open and held there by his firm grip, and when his lips wrap around your clit—sucking slow, tight, deep—you feel your whole body lurch off the bed. the blindfold only makes it worse—makes it better—because you can’t see it coming, can’t predict how fast or how gentle he’ll be, can’t do anything but feel everything all at once. “fuck—jay—” you cry, and he only hums in response, the vibration shooting straight through your core. his tongue works circles around your clit, soft and teasing, then firmer, faster, until your hips are grinding helplessly into his mouth, searching for more friction, more pressure, more anything. he pulls back just enough to slide a finger into you—then two—slow and curling, the stretch perfect, unbearable, perfect.

you’re right there. right fucking there. your walls pulsing around his fingers, your moans growing louder, messier, no longer soft or shy but wrecked, raw, real. your hips rock into him without grace, your body flushed and burning, but just as your orgasm starts to crest—he pulls away. completely. his mouth, his fingers, his heat—all gone. and you sob. a real, desperate sob that breaks out of your throat without warning, your back arching as your hands pull helplessly against the cuffs. “no—please—please,” you gasp, voice shaking. “i was so close—don’t stop—please don’t stop—”

he gives you no mercy. not yet. he returns to you slowly, his mouth brushing your clit with a soft kiss before his tongue drags over it again—firm this time, relentless. his fingers reenter you with no hesitation, curling with perfect rhythm, and now he doesn’t let up. he fucks you with his mouth like it’s what he was made to do, devouring every sound you make, every clench, every broken cry that escapes you. “you gonna cum for me now, babydoll?” he breathes against your skin. “gonna give it to me this time?” your only answer is a gasp—then a moan—then your whole body snaps, orgasm crashing over you so hard you cry out his name, thighs shaking violently, breath punching out of your lungs like it’s been ripped from your core.

he doesn’t stop. not when you cum. not when you beg. not when your voice breaks. he slows only slightly, mouth and fingers still working you through it—drawing it out, dragging wave after wave from your twitching body until it becomes too much, too sharp, too deep. tears are slipping from beneath the blindfold now, your voice hoarse as you sob through your second orgasm, overstimulated, unable to breathe without moaning. your cunt clenches around his fingers again, your cries turning into pleas as your thighs try to close, but he doesn’t let you. he holds you open. makes you take it. makes you fall apart again and again and again.

when he finally lets up, his fingers slip from you with a wet drag, and you collapse into the sheets—limp, slick, ruined. your chest rises in shaky pulls of air, your skin still twitching in places you didn’t know could feel, your wrists tugging instinctively against the cuffs even though you’re not trying to move. he doesn’t speak, not right away. you feel the bed shift beneath you as he moves, crawling up your body with a slowness that makes you ache in a different way. he’s not touching you—not yet—but his presence hovers, warm and close and overwhelming. then, you feel it. his breath against your mouth. the faintest graze of lips against yours. not a kiss. not quite.

your breath catches like a sob. you lean up the smallest amount, chasing the touch you can’t see, but his mouth barely brushes yours again and then pulls away. it’s cruel. gentle, but cruel. “please,” you whisper, voice so hoarse it barely comes out. your lips part again, desperate, trembling. “kiss me… please…” and finally, finally, he gives you what you ask for.

his lips press into yours, slow and full, his hand cradling the side of your face like you’re something breakable, like he wants to hold you still while he kisses the breath right out of you. there’s nothing rushed in it—no heat, no show. just intimacy. just need. he kisses you like he’s been thinking about it since the moment he opened the door. your legs fall open again, welcoming the weight of him, your body leaning into every inch of contact like you’ve been starving for it. his kiss deepens, tongue slipping slow and warm into your mouth, and you whimper under the blindfold, too fucked-out to hide how much you want it.

when he pulls away, you feel cold for only a second before you hear it—the low rustle of clothing, the quiet unbuckle of a belt, the unmistakable slide of denim down long, toned legs. your body tenses with anticipation, still aching in the best way, still sensitive and exposed and so ready for whatever comes next. you don’t need to see to know he’s watching you—all of you—the flush of your skin, the tremble in your thighs, the slick between your legs that’s already waiting for him. you hear the shift of fabric, then silence. and then, the weight of him between your legs again.

thick, warm, heavy against your thigh.

the mattress dips beneath his knees as he moves in closer, and your breath catches when you feel it—him, thick and heavy, dragging slowly along your inner thigh. he doesn’t push forward, doesn’t press in. just lets the head of his cock rest there, warm and slick against your oversensitive skin. the moment it brushes your folds—barely catching—you cry out, hips jolting up in instinct. but he doesn’t move. just stays right there, not giving you anything more.

he watches the way you strain beneath him, every inch of you open and ready, your wrists twitching against the cuffs like you’d reach for him if you could. your blindfold is soaked now, a tear trail drying on your cheek, your mouth parted in silent desperation. he slides the tip down slowly, catching just slightly at your entrance, then pulls back—barely there, not enough, and yet you whimper like it’s breaking you. he repeats the motion again, slower this time, teasing over your clit and down, dragging himself through your slick folds with lazy precision. and all the while? he says nothing. doesn’t praise you. doesn’t mock you. just lets you feel every aching inch without giving in.

your body bucks, hips rolling, trying to take more than he’s giving, but his hands move to your waist—firm, steady, holding you still. “please,” you gasp, voice cracked and wrecked. “please, jay, just—” but he hushes you with a kiss to your collarbone, soft and featherlight, and keeps grinding the thick head of his cock right where you want it most. never pushing in. just letting you suffer with the knowledge that he could—he just won’t.

he brings the tip back to your entrance again and pauses. and you feel it so clearly now—the pressure, the fullness that isn’t there yet but could be, the stretch you’re aching for. you try to speak, but your words come out as a sob, a moan, a broken little sound that barely qualifies as language. and then he does it again—rolls his hips just right so the head of his cock nudges your hole, teasing a shallow push that makes your breath stop entirely. your back arches, your thighs clamp instinctively around his waist, and your voice breaks. “fuck— please let me feel you. please… i want it, i want you inside—i need it so bad, jay—please.”

he hums, low and deep in his throat, like that’s the sound he’s been waiting for.

he doesn’t say anything—not when you beg, not when your hips buck up again in desperation—but his hands shift on your waist, grip tightening slightly like he’s finally giving in. you feel it in your gut first—the silence, the way the moment holds its breath, and then… the pressure. a slow, steady push, the thick head of his cock stretching your entrance open, and your breath leaves you in a single, shattered moan. he eases in with unbearable control, the kind that feels like his entire body is tense with restraint, letting you feel every inch as he sinks deeper, deeper, until your walls pulse and flutter helplessly around him. your mouth falls open. your thighs shake. your fingers flex in the cuffs above your head like you need something to hold onto—but all you have is him.

he moves slowly—so slowly it feels like time is breaking apart—his cock dragging along your inner walls in a stretch that’s equal parts bliss and pain, every inch carved into your body like it belongs there. “fuck,” he finally breathes, voice wrecked now, low and strained as he bottoms out completely, hips pressing flush against yours. “you feel—fuck—you feel unreal.” but you can’t respond. can’t speak. all you can do is feel, the thick weight of him buried inside you making it impossible to think, impossible to breathe. your body clenches tight, and he groans again, low and broken, like he’s losing himself just trying to stay still.

you’re soaked—beyond soaked, your slick coating his cock, dripping down your thighs, the sounds between you filthy and wet every time he moves. and still, he doesn’t fuck you. not yet. he holds there, deep and unmoving, letting you adjust, letting you fall apart around the stretch, like he knows this moment means something more than just release. and you feel it—god, you feel it everywhere. your chest is heaving, your toes curled, your head tossed back against the pillow even though you can’t see anything. you’re pinned, cuffed, blindfolded, full—and for the first time tonight, you feel the beginning of surrender settle into your bones.

“you still with me?” he murmurs, lips brushing your jaw, his voice a tether to reality. you nod quickly, but that’s not enough. “words,” he whispers again, kissing the corner of your mouth. “i’m with you,” you breathe, voice hoarse. “i’m so with you. please don’t stop.”

he kisses you one more time—slow, tender, like a thank-you—and then he starts to move.

he moves inside you like he’s savoring it—like you’re the first person he’s ever touched, and he doesn’t want to miss a single second of what your body feels like wrapped around him. his hips roll slow, deliberate, dragging his cock out until only the head remains before sliding back in with a pressure that makes your eyes roll beneath the blindfold. it’s not hard. it’s not fast. but it’s devastating. every thrust lands deep, slow and punishing in the best way, the kind of rhythm that makes your chest ache and your breath shake in your lungs. your wrists strain above your head, but there’s no fight in it—only the overwhelming need to hold onto something as he pushes in again, and again, and again. he doesn’t say a word. doesn’t rush. just groans softly under his breath, like you’re pulling the sounds out of him without trying. like he’s been quiet for so long he forgot what it’s like to feel this way.

his hands hold your hips like he’s afraid to let go, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh above your thighs as he thrusts into you with the kind of care that feels dangerous. his cock fills you perfectly, stretching you out slow and deep, the drag of him along your inner walls making you feel every inch, every pulse, every tremble that ripples through your core. your body sings with it—raw and sensitive, already pushed past its limit, but craving more now that he’s giving it to you like this. like you matter. like you’re not just a girl cuffed to his bed, but something more—something precious. the air between you is thick with heat and the soft sound of your moans, your slick, the soft catch of breath each time he presses deeper. the music hums in the background, nearly forgotten—but the weight of the moment sits heavy in the rhythm of his body against yours.

he leans over you as he moves, chest brushing yours, his breath warm on your cheek, and it makes you feel consumed. like he’s not just inside you, but around you. wrapped into the cuffs. buried in the heat. woven between the gasps you can’t hold in. he presses a kiss to your jaw, then your temple, his pace never faltering as he sinks in deeper, grinding at the bottom like he wants to stay inside you forever. and the worst part—the best part—is how your body welcomes it. how you open more. cling more. beg silently for all of him. you whisper his name like it’s the only word left in your mouth, like you need him to know that you’re here—ruined, wrecked, and still desperate for more.

“you’re doing so good,” he finally says, voice so low it barely registers past the haze of pleasure blooming behind your ribs. “so good for me.” and that alone almost breaks you. it’s not praise for the camera. not some performative moan. it’s real, soft and meant only for you, and it hits something raw and deep beneath your skin. you whimper, body trembling beneath him, and his hand slides up your ribs, smoothing over the side of your breast before cupping your jaw with a tenderness that feels like it could kill you. he kisses your cheek and pushes in deep—slow, grinding, perfect—and you cry out again, your orgasm building back like you never even came the first time.

you don’t know how much more you can take—but his body never stops. his hips roll in that same rhythm, slow and deliberate, dragging his cock deep with every thrust like he’s trying to press into the parts of you untouched by anything before him. you’re trembling everywhere, your thighs slick and sticky, your wrists limp in the cuffs above you. and somehow, with his chest against yours, his mouth pressed to your temple, and his cock pulsing deep inside you—you feel safe. he kisses you again. not your lips this time, but your jaw. your cheek. your neck. each one softer than the last, like he’s pouring warmth into your skin. “you’re doing so good,” he whispers again, and you feel your chest tighten with it.

he adjusts his angle slightly, and the next thrust hits something sharp, something soft—something that makes your back arch and a moan claw its way from your throat. he feels it too. you feel his groan against your neck as he holds you tighter, keeps his pace just the same, grinding deeper instead of faster. and it ruins you. your whole body clenches around him, walls fluttering with every drag of his cock, and you whimper his name again, voice barely there. “you can let go,” he murmurs, breath heavy against your ear. “come for me, baby. just like that. let me feel it.” and you do. your body gives up everything.

your orgasm rolls through you like it’s weeping—a slow, full-bodied release that shakes your legs, curls your toes, makes your chest rise in stuttering waves as heat floods your veins. you cry out, not loud, but broken—soft and wet and trembling as your cunt clenches tight around him, milking every inch with desperate pulses you can’t stop. you feel like you’re floating, your body no longer your own, every nerve lit and raw and alive. tears slip from under the blindfold again, but it’s not pain. it’s everything—the stretch, the tenderness, the way his hand slides up to cradle the back of your head as he kisses your forehead through it.

“that’s it,” he whispers, still deep inside you, his thrusts slowing but not stopping. “just like that. you’re so good for me.” and god, it shatters you. your hips twitch helplessly, aftershocks trembling through your core, and you can’t even speak anymore—you just whimper, letting him keep you full, letting him rock into you with every ounce of patience he has left. his hand strokes over your jaw, your cheek, his lips brushing over the sweat-slicked skin above your blindfold like he wants to kiss every single place he can’t see.

he pulls out slow, one last deep roll of his hips before his cock slips from your body with a slick sound that makes your whole body twitch. you whine at the sudden emptiness, at the cool air brushing over your soaked thighs, at the way your cunt clenches around nothing now. but he’s already shifting, already rising onto his knees beside you. you can’t see him—but you can feel the heat rolling off his skin, hear the way his breath shudders in his chest, how his hand wraps tight around the base of his cock with a slick grip that makes your mouth fall open on instinct. he strokes himself slow at first, his breath thick with restraint, and you can tell—he’s been holding back for so long. for you.

he leans over you slightly, one hand braced beside your shoulder while the other works himself in long, steady strokes, each movement dragging a low groan from deep in his chest. “fuck,” he hisses, voice rough now, shaking, “you’re so fucking perfect.” your cheeks are flushed, blindfold still in place, mouth parted and waiting like it’s instinct—and when he sees you like that, spread and ruined and still needing, something cracks in him. “open your mouth, baby,” he breathes. “wanna see it. wanna come all over that pretty face.” and your lips part wider, a soft whimper slipping out as you tilt your chin up in obedience, wrists still tied above you, body too wrecked to move but so ready to take more.

his rhythm speeds up—rougher now, needier, the slick sound of him pumping into his own hand echoing through the room as he kneels beside your face. his breath breaks. his hips stutter. and then—he spills. hot, thick ropes across your cheek, your jaw, your lips, groaning your name like a confession as he fucks into his fist with one last desperate pull. “fuckfuckfuck—look at you,” he gasps, watching the way your skin glows under it, the way your mouth stays open, waiting. he leans closer as the last of it drips from his tip onto your bottom lip, and his thumb catches your chin, tilts it gently. “don’t close it yet,” he murmurs, breathing heavy. “just stay like that. fuck—just like that.”

he strokes the last bit out slowly, watching his cum drip down your face, catching in the curve of your mouth, the heat of your skin, and he breathes like he’s never seen anything more beautiful. his free hand brushes down your jaw, catching some of the mess with his thumb before swiping it gently over your bottom lip. “so fucking good for me,” he whispers again, and then he leans in, presses a kiss to your forehead without hesitation, soft and reverent.

he stays above you for a moment, chest still rising fast, eyes lingering on your face with something that doesn’t quite feel like control anymore. his hand brushes your cheek, knuckles grazing your jaw, and for the first time since it started, he looks like he doesn’t know what to say. not because he’s unsure—but because he’s overwhelmed. he reaches out slowly, hitting the button on the camera without looking, the soft click of it powering down echoing through the quiet like the world’s finally breathing again. then he moves for your blindfold, untying it with careful fingers, his breath brushing your skin as he leans in close. the light hits your eyes again, warm and low, and when you blink up at him—he’s already watching. not with lust. not with pride. just something softer. something that feels like wonder.

he doesn’t speak as he undoes the cuffs, just slides your arms down gently and brings your wrists to his lips one at a time, pressing soft kisses to the reddened skin there like he’s saying thank you without the words. your hands are too weak to hold him, but you lean into the contact anyway, body limp, breath shallow, held together by the warmth of his hands alone. and when he finally speaks, his voice is quiet—almost hoarse. “you okay?” he asks, barely more than a breath. and you nod, a soft sound leaving your lips. it’s not enough. he leans in and kisses your forehead like a reflex. then your temple. then the space just beneath your eye, where your skin is still damp from tears. “i got you,” he says softly. “you did perfect.”

he doesn’t make you move. he doesn’t ask. he just gathers you—an arm beneath your knees, the other cradling your back—and lifts you like it’s the most natural thing in the world. the walk to the bathroom is silent, but not cold. just full. the steam from the shower has already started to cloud the mirrors, warm air kissing your skin as he sets you gently on the edge of the tub and turns the water on, testing it with his wrist before letting it run. he moves slow—every step deliberate, every glance careful, like he’s still in that headspace where everything is about you. when the water’s warm, he comes back to you and crouches down. he doesn’t ask. he just touches your thigh, kisses your knee, and lifts you into the shower with him.

he stands behind you, arms wrapping around your waist, your body resting against his chest as the water rushes down your skin. his breath is steady now, slower, his lips brushing your shoulder as his hands begin to move. not sexually. not even intimately. just gently. like he’s piecing you back together with soap and fingers and quiet worship. he lets the water rinse between your legs, across your stomach, down your spine, holding you still like you might float away. when you shiver, he holds you tighter. when you sigh, he presses his mouth to the side of your neck and breathes you in like he needs the scent of you to stay grounded. “thank you,” he whispers once, and it’s so soft, you almost think you imagined it.

he helps you wash. helps you rinse. helps you breathe again. and when it’s over, he wraps a towel around your body, dries your hair with gentle pats, and leads you back to the bedroom with nothing but quiet touches. the room is darker now. still warm. still full of the echoes from earlier. he brings you to the bed, lifts the sheets, and tucks you in slowly—like it means something. and then he slides in beside you, shirtless, still a little damp, his arm wrapping around your waist like he was made to fit against you. no pressure. no words. just the soft, steady rhythm of him being there, his hand rubbing slow circles into your back while your head presses into his chest.

your body melts into his without resistance, legs tangled beneath the sheets, your face pressed into the dip of his chest like that’s where it was always meant to be. he smells like clean skin and leftover warmth—something earthy and faintly sweet, something him. his arm curls tighter around your waist, his fingers dragging soft, lazy circles across your back, and it makes your whole body settle. like gravity’s gentler now. like the world outside doesn’t exist. his breaths are deep and even beneath your ear, steady like a heartbeat you didn’t realize you’d been syncing to all along. and every now and then, his lips graze your hairline, quiet and constant, like he can’t stop kissing you without saying anything out loud.

you don’t try to speak. you don’t need to. your limbs are too heavy, your throat too sore, and the silence between you feels so much better than any sound. he shifts just a little, resting his chin on top of your head, and you feel his fingers still. not because he’s stopped. but because he’s watching. you can’t see it, but you know—he’s looking at you like you’re still glowing. like the room didn’t get dark. like his eyes are only made to find you.

and then—soft. breathless. almost too quiet to catch.

“you didn’t just do something to my body.”

he says it like a secret. like a confession. like something he wasn’t supposed to let slip.

“you did something to me.”

but you’re already falling. your lashes flutter. your body goes limp. and the last thing you feel is the warmth of his chest, the press of his palm on your spine, and the faint, dizzy ache of your lips curling into a smile you don’t even remember making.

────୨ৎ────

you lie there for a second too long. eyes wide open, pulse ticking in your throat like a warning, the weight of his arm draped over your waist like a secret you’re not supposed to keep. the sun’s fully risen now, the light clearer, sharper. the room doesn’t feel like it did last night. it’s too quiet. too still. and your heart? too loud. the memory of his hands, his mouth, the way he whispered against your skin—it all presses into you at once, suffocating in its gentleness. this wasn’t supposed to happen. it was supposed to be work. a collab. content. but everything about the way he held you said otherwise.

you shift gently, slow enough not to wake him, slipping his arm off your waist and sitting up with a breath you don’t remember holding. your legs feel shaky. your body still aches in places he touched like you were something worth worshipping. and that’s the problem. you weren’t ready for that. not the way he looked at you. not the way he made it feel like more than just a shoot. your phone buzzes again on the nightstand and it’s like ice through your spine—because this is what you wanted, right? the money. the exposure. the success. not the way he kissed your forehead in the shower. not the way he whispered thank you like you gave him something he didn’t deserve.

you climb out of the bed, quiet and careful, your feet cold on the floor. his shirt is still draped over the chair. your lingerie—wrinkled and damp—folded on the dresser like he couldn’t bear to toss it aside. you ignore the lump rising in your throat as you pull your clothes on, smoothing them over your skin like armor. everything feels wrong. tight. too small. your hands are shaking when you reach for your bag. you don’t look back at him—not even once—because if you do, you’ll change your mind. and this? this was just business.

you slip out of the room like a shadow, easing the door shut behind you as if you were never there. the hallway is silent. the apartment too still. and every step you take toward the door feels heavier than the last. your phone buzzes again, and you swipe it up with trembling fingers, ignoring the unread message glowing at the top of your inbox. you don’t even let yourself breathe until you’re outside, the morning air hitting your face like clarity. like guilt. you blink up at the sky, trying to will the sting in your eyes away, whispering to yourself the only line that feels safe right now—“it’s just content. nothing more.”

and you hope that if you say it enough… you’ll believe it.

the ride home is silent. too silent. your driver doesn’t say a word, and neither do you—just sit back with your bag clutched tight to your chest, your body aching in a way that doesn’t feel physical. your thighs are still sore. your lips still tingling. your wrists marked faintly from the cuffs. but it’s not the pain that lingers—it’s the warmth. the look in jay’s eyes when he washed your face. the way he held you after. the way his heartbeat steadied yours. your fingers tighten around the strap of your bag. you don’t want to remember that. you don’t want to feel this way. so you focus on the window, on the blur of early morning light cutting through city streets. and you keep your breathing even. one scene doesn’t mean anything. not if you don’t let it.

you don’t even say thank you when the car stops. you just slip out onto the curb, into your apartment building, through your front door, and straight into your room like muscle memory. your roommate isn’t home. thank god. the silence hits you harder now. you toss your phone on the bed and fall right after it, face down in the sheets, letting the last twelve hours replay in flickers behind your eyes. his voice. his hands. his weight pressed so carefully against yours. your mouth trembles, but no sound comes out. your chest rises, then falls. and you stay like that for what feels like forever—until your phone dings again. and again. and again.

you flip it over, eyes bleary. new notifications flood your screen—tips, subscribers, messages—and they keep coming. you stare at them blankly, your thumb flicking through without reading until one catches your eye:

@jakeoncam liked your video. @jakeoncam has followed you.

your heart stutters. your gaze sharpens. and then the messages from followers come into focus.

@yourbabygirl: you should collab with @jakeoncam 👀

@whoreforjake: pls do something with @jakeoncam!

@ruinmeeee: @jakeoncam x @babydollxo WHEN??

you don’t even think. your thumb taps over to his profile automatically.

and there he is.

verified. 5.5M subscribers.

that same preview still pinned at the top.

you remember him now. you remember the way he moaned, the way his hips rolled in tight, fluid motions. how he whined, “i'm gonna cum....fuck, baby...” and you remember what it did to you.

your thumb hovers over the message button. your reflection stares back at you in the dark screen. and you type without thinking:

@babydollxo: hey. wanna collab?

natty's notesᝰ.ᐟ hoped you all enjoyed!!

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sunshinesfreckless · 3 months ago

Text

His Spoiled Princess

───୨ৎ────────୨ৎ───────୨ৎ───

Pairing: Felix x Fem!Reader

Summary: Just a boyfriend who loves to provide for his girlfriend. All she has to do is sit there, smile at him, and he’ll give her everything.

Warnings: Sex! Sexy, gift-giving boyfriend Felix! MDNI

A/N: I came up with this after realizing how generous Felix is when it comes to buying things for his friends and family… not to mention the gifts he gets for Hyunjin. So, I figured he’d definitely be the type of boyfriend who loves to spoil his partner with gifts all the time.

୨ৎ Bangchan ୨ৎ Hyunjin ୨ৎ Seungmin ୨ৎ Jeongin ୨ৎ Changbin ୨ৎ Han ୨ৎ Leeknow

───୨ৎ────────୨ৎ───────୨ৎ───

It started with a kiss—soft, slow, and dripping with the kind of devotion that made her toes curl. It had been months since they made it official, but Felix still treated her like it was the first day, still looked at her like she was the only girl in the world.

And she was.

Felix didn’t just love her; he worshiped her. In the kind of way that had his black credit card practically burning a hole in his pocket, ready to be swiped at the faintest hint of her desire. New nails? Paid for. Hair, shoes, custom designer clothes? Done before she could even ask. The finest handbags, diamond-studded jewelry, Louis Vuitton robes embroidered with her name in gold thread—because why the fuck would his princess wear anything that wasn’t made just for her?

She wasn’t just spoiled—she was his.

And he made sure she knew it.

When they were out, he never let her speak for herself.

“You’re too pretty to talk to them, baby,” he’d murmur, guiding her behind him with a protective hand at the small of her back, a slight smirk playing at his lips whenever her lashes fluttered up at him in quiet obedience.

Waiters? Male workers? He handled it.

All she had to do was look pretty, smile sweetly, and wait for her Felix to take care of everything.

And she loved it.

The way his voice dropped just for her, low and commanding, the way he made decisions like it was second nature, the way she never had to lift a finger—unless it was to touch him.

She leaned into him, letting her fingers curl into the soft fabric of his sleeve —because she knew the moment they got home, he’d remind her just how much he adored spoiling his princess.

She’s his baby, his favorite thing in the world.

She was draped in luxury. A custom Louis Vuitton robe, soft blush satin embroidered with her name, the gold thread catching the dim bedroom light. It slid like liquid over her skin, barely covering the delicate lace underneath—the set Felix had picked out for her because, as he put it, “My girl deserves the finest.”

Felix sat back against the pillows, watching her with dark, heavy-lidded eyes, the kind that made her thighs press together involuntarily. He was relaxed, shirtless, the sharp cut of his collarbones leading down to the smooth plane of his stomach. His legs spread slightly, an invitation disguised as laziness.

“C’mere, baby,” he murmured, voice thick with warmth. “Let me see you.”

She stepped closer, letting the robe slip just enough to tease. Felix’s tongue darted out to wet his lips, his fingers tapping lazily against his knee as he looked her over like she was something rare, something precious. And she was.

“You know why I got this made for you?” His voice was soft, coaxing, as he reached forward, tracing his fingers over the golden embroidery.

“Because I’m your princess?” she teased, her lips curling as she straddled his lap.

Felix hummed, his hands settling against her waist, warm and steady.

“Mmm. Because you’re my everything.”

Her breath hitched, and before she could respond, his lips were on her throat, trailing slow, open-mouthed kisses down to her collarbone. His grip tightened, pulling her closer until there was no space between them, just the heat of his body and the silk melting between them.

“I don’t just spoil you, baby,” he murmured against her skin, his voice dipping lower. “I worship you.”

And with that, he flipped her beneath him, the silk pooling around them as his mouth claimed hers, slow and thorough, the kind of kiss that left no room for doubt—she was his, and he was about to show her just how much that meant.

The box sat prettily on the dining table, a blush pink bow tied perfectly around the packaging. She hadn’t even asked for it—just mentioned it once, and now, here it was.

Felix leaned back in his chair, one arm resting casually on the backrest, watching her expectantly.

“You got me the pink one?” she asked, already knowing the answer but wanting to hear him say it anyway.

“Of course, I did,” he said smoothly. “My princess gets whatever she wants.”

She smiled, stepping between his legs, placing her hands on his broad shoulders as she leaned down, pressing a slow kiss to his lips.

“You spoil me too much, Lixie,” she whispered against his mouth.

Felix chuckled, his hands gripping her waist, pulling her effortlessly into his lap.

“Never too much,” he corrected, his voice low and warm. “Just enough.”

His hands trailed down her hips, fingers pressing into the soft fabric of her dress, gathering it higher. The air shifted, the energy between them thickening. Her pulse quickened as his lips grazed her jaw, his voice a gentle murmur against her skin.

“Wanna thank me properly, baby?”

She knew exactly what he wanted. And she wanted it too.

Minutes later, the iPhone was forgotten, still perfectly wrapped on the table. She, on the other hand, was not so put together. Her dress was bunched up around her waist, her cheek pressed against the cool marble, Felix’s hands gripping her hips as he moved inside her, slow, deep, thorough. Every thrust sent heat coiling tighter in her stomach, her nails scrambling for purchase against the table as Felix pressed a soothing kiss between her shoulder blades.

“That’s my girl,” he murmured, voice like velvet. “Take it, baby. Just like that.”

And when she finally came, Felix held her through it, murmuring soft praises against her skin, kissing her shoulders as he coaxed her down from the high.

“So good for me,” he whispered, turning her head so he could press a slow, lingering kiss to her lips. “That’s my perfect girl.”

She loved the bag. Not just because it was designer, not just because it was stunning—but because Felix had gotten her a prettier one than Chan’s girlfriend. Just because he could.

Felix smirked as she admired it, his hand resting lazily on her thigh as the car drove through the city streets.

“Like it, baby?”

“Mmhmm,” she hummed, batting her lashes at him. “You really do take care of me, don’t you?”

Felix chuckled, fingers teasing up the hem of her dress.

“You’re mine,” he said simply. “Of course, I do.”

She smirked, then—deliberately, teasingly—reached under her dress and slipped her panties off, tucking them neatly into the new handbag. Felix’s breath hitched, his grip on her thigh tightening.

“You little—” His voice cut off as she swung a leg over his lap, straddling him right there in the backseat. The driver was long forgotten, the only thing that mattered was the heat between them, the way she grinded against him, slow and teasing.

“Wanna show me just how much you love spoiling me, Lixie?” she purred, rolling her hips.

Felix groaned, his hands gripping her waist as he pulled her down onto him, his lips grazing her ear as he whispered:

“Baby, you have no idea.”

Her nails were perfect—long, glossy, diamond-studded tips that caught the dim bedroom light with every flutter of her fingers. Felix had made sure of it. He had paid for the finest salon, made sure she had the most delicate, intricate designs, all because his princess deserved nothing but the best.

And now?

Now those nails were scratching down his back, leaving marks that burned in the best way possible.

Felix groaned, the sound low and wrecked, vibrating against her throat as he pinned her down harder into the mattress. His hands were firm on her hips, holding her exactly where he wanted, controlling the way she took every slow, deep thrust.

Her legs trembled around his waist, heels still strapped to her feet, the sharp points pressing into his lower back as she clung to him. The pleasure was overwhelming, melting her brain into something useless and syrupy sweet.

“F-Felix—” she gasped, nails digging in harder as he rolled his hips, pushing deeper, stretching her open inch by inch with that torturous, controlled pace.

Felix chuckled against her skin, his lips curling into a knowing smirk as he dragged his teeth along her jaw, biting down just enough to make her whimper.

“You like showing off those nails, huh?” His voice was dark, teasing. “Go on, scratch me up, baby. Let me feel how much my princess loves her gifts.”

Her body responded before her mind could—her nails raked down his back, her walls fluttering around him as her legs tightened, drawing him impossibly closer.

Felix hissed through his teeth, a shudder rolling through his body. “Fuck—just like that, baby.” His fingers tangled in her hair, pulling her head back so he could press his forehead to hers, his breath hot against her lips.

“You wanna make a mess on my cock, don’t you?” he murmured, his voice pure sin, pure indulgence.

Her head nodded weakly, too dumb, too wrecked to form words.

Felix grinned, kissed her hard, then gave her exactly what she needed.

The slow, teasing rhythm was gone— now, he was fucking her deep, thorough, overwhelming, just like she deserved.

She sobbed his name, nails scraping, legs trembling as she arched into him, completely undone.

“That’s it, princess,” Felix groaned, burying himself deep as she shattered beneath him. His hands smoothed over her shaking body, grounding her as he fucked her through the aftershocks, pressing kisses along her jaw, whispering soft praises against her lips.

“So fucking good for me. My perfect girl.”

And when she finally came down from the high, Felix just smiled, as she was tracing over the red streaks on his back with lazy fingers, his voice soft and full of pride.

“Mmm. Gonna have to take you back to the salon, baby.” He pressed a slow kiss to her temple. “I think we need to get those nails sharpened.”

Felix knew she didn’t love him for his money. It wasn’t about the designer bags, the diamond-studded nails, or the silk sheets he wrapped her in. She never asked for any of it—she deserved it, and that was why he gave it to her.

But what made his chest ache in the sweetest way was the way she loved him back.

It was in the small things—the way she tried to repay him in her own way. The nights she surprised him with a home-cooked meal, even when she giggled and said, “It’s not fancy, but I wanted to try it for you.” The way she curled up in his gaming chair, controller in hand, playing with him until her head drooped against his shoulder, her soft, sleepy voice murmuring, “Just one more round, Lixie.”

And God, the way she waited for him.

She never complained when he was stuck in the practice room late into the night. Instead, she sat there, bundled up in one of his hoodies, watching him dance, cheering for him, waiting until he was finally done so she could wrap her arms around him, press her face into his chest, and whisper, “You worked so hard, baby. I’m proud of you.”

That was what mattered.

Felix could buy her the world, and she would take it with a smile, but she would love him just the same even if he had nothing.

And that was why he had to spoil her.

Because she was his everything. And she deserved to be treated like it.

#felix #felix stray kids #felix x reader #felix yongbok #lee felix #skz felix #lee felix smut #stray kids #skz smut #stray kids smut

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taetebebe · 5 days ago

Text

BELOW THE SKIN

Pairing: Jungwon x afab!reader

Synopsis: They say moles are where your lover kissed you in a past life. If that’s true, Jungwon’s been searching for your skin for centuries. WARNING: SUGGESTIVE + INTIMATE (no smut)

Word count: 2.2k +

Author's Note: I've always thought about this myth - lmk what you guys think.

Enhypen Bookshelf [[]

You’ve had the same constellation of moles your whole life.

They dotted your skin like stories someone wrote in a language you never learned to read. There was one nestled at your collarbone that people mistook for a fleck of chocolate. One right at your wrist that friends would sometimes trace absently. Your hands were speckled with tiny dark spots, enough that you sometimes hid them under sleeves during childhood photos.

Your neck had another. Your shoulder blade, too. A large, almost heart-shaped one sat at the curve of your waist—barely visible unless your shirt lifted just right. And then there were the others.

The ones you didn’t notice at first. On the inside of your thigh. Below your navel. At the bend of your knee. Beneath the slope of your breast.

None of them symmetrical. None of them in places people talk about in beauty blogs or skin-care reels. But your grandmother used to say they were marks left behind by the lips of someone who loved you in a past life.

“That boy must’ve adored you,” she’d said once, tracing one just below your collarbone. “He kissed you like he was afraid to forget.”

You had laughed at the time. You were twelve. You thought it sounded romantic—but silly.

You grew up and left the idea behind.

Until him.

Jungwon isn’t the kind of boy who flirts. He doesn’t toss compliments like confetti or brush fingers against yours just to make you flinch. He watches people quietly. Speaks with purpose. Carries a kind of stillness that makes noise feel like an interruption.

You meet him in a class you almost didn’t take. He sits beside you on the first day and doesn’t say much—just a small, polite smile. But every time you turn your head, he’s already looking at you.

You’d be unnerved if it didn’t feel… familiar.

Weeks pass. Assignments are shared. Inside jokes exchanged. One rainy afternoon, he pulls a loose thread from your sweater sleeve and tucks it into his pocket.

And then one night, you fall asleep on his couch after watching a late film, and you wake up with your hand in his.

Palm up. Fingers slack.

His thumb moves softly over a tiny mole near the base of your thumb. Like he’s memorising it.

You pretend to still be asleep.

“I have too many,” you joke one day, holding out your arm to show him. “Moles, I mean. My friends used to count them like stars.”

He doesn't laugh. He takes your hand in both of his.

Jungwon notices them like they mean everything.

He’s quiet. Gentle. The kind of person who doesn’t just look—he sees. You meet him through a class project, but he talks to you like he already knows your laugh, your hesitations, your tells.

And your moles.

The first time he holds your hand, he brushes his thumb over the tiny one near your thumb joint and murmurs, “Still here.”

You frown. “Still where?”

He doesn’t explain. Just smiles.

“This one,” he murmurs, brushing your wrist. “This one was always my favorite.”

You blink.

“You’ve never seen it before.”

You stare at him.

He doesn't elaborate.

Later, your roommate says Jungwon’s the type of boy who probably remembers his dreams in colour.

You think he remembers more than that.

You dream of him before you ever fall asleep in his arms.

In those dreams, he’s not always him. Sometimes, he wears different clothes. His hair is longer, his voice deeper. You wear gowns. Sometimes armor. Sometimes you wear nothing at all—just silk sheets and a name you barely remember.

But the moles are always there.

The one behind your knee. The one on your neck. The one beneath your breast, especially.

And always—always—he kisses them like they’re precious.

Like he’s afraid they’ll fade if he doesn’t.

One night, as his mouth moves against your collarbone, you feel his hand slide gently over your waist. It pauses over the large mole there, fingers spreading as if to cover it. He kisses just beside it, breath warm.

“I found this one in every lifetime,” he whispers.

You shiver.

Tangled in sheets and silence, you ask him directly:

“Do you believe in past lives?”

He nods, eyes open and honest. “Yes.”

“Do you think we were… something? Before?”

He smiles. “I don’t think.”

He pauses.

“I remember.”

It spills out slowly, like water leaking through cracks in the wall. In the quiet hours, in the pauses between kisses, he starts to tell you pieces.

“In one life,” he says, “I was a scholar, and you were the daughter of a nobleman. We passed each other once at a temple, and I only caught your eyes. But I knew.”

He kisses your collarbone then.

“In another, you were a musician. I waited every week just to hear your voice.”

His mouth finds your shoulder blade.

“Once, I found you after a war. You had forgotten your name, but you smiled at me, and I didn’t need to know anything else.”

You shiver.

“Were we always together?”

He shakes his head.

“Sometimes I was too late. Sometimes you loved someone else. Sometimes… you died before we found each other.”

You lean back against the pillows, letting the silence settle. Then you ask the question that’s been burning in your throat:

“And this time?”

He looks at you.

And he says it like a promise.

“This time, I’m going to love you long enough to make it count.”

After that, you start noticing the pattern. The way he kisses every mark. Not just the visible ones. Not just the convenient ones.

Once, when you’re lying beside him after a long day, half-naked and exhausted.

Then, without warning, he presses his mouth lower—beneath your breast—to that mark you’ve always avoided. The one you forgot to be embarrassed about.

You flinch.

He pauses. Looks up.

“No one’s touched that before,” you admit.

“I know,” he says. His hand spreads across your ribs, steadying you. “You never lived long enough.”

Your breath stops.

You stiffen.

But he doesn’t look up.

He just breathes against your skin like he’s thanking it.

And then he says, almost too quiet to hear: “I lost you holding you like this.”

Your eyes sting.

And something inside you remembers—a flash, a fever, your chest aching, his voice calling you back when your body already knew how to let go.

Your first time together is slow.

You’re half-nervous, half aching, and he treats you like porcelain wrapped in something ancient.

It’s the first time someone sees all of them—really sees you, laid bare, constellation and all. His touch isn’t just careful; it’s reverent.

His lips ghost over your shoulder blade, where a dark spot lives like punctuation.

“This one was on your back when you ran through a river,” he murmurs. “You wore white. I remember seeing it through the fabric.”

You bite your lip. “You're making things up.”

He smiles softly. “I’m not. You had the same laugh then.”

His lips brush the skin again—slower this time, with more meaning than you know how to hold.

You start counting them again after that.

One on your neck. One on your collarbone. Too many on your hands to name. One on your wrist, right where he always kisses you when you’re nervous. One on your shoulder blade that he traces when you’re curled against him. One just below your belly button that he smiles at before pressing his mouth there. The large one on your waist he rests his hand over like it’s a place he belongs. The one behind your knee that makes you giggle when his fingers find it. And the one—the first one, the final one, the one that feels like a return—beneath your breast, where his kisses always linger the longest.

After that, you start to really see yourself too.

In the mirror. In his gaze. In your dreams.

The one mole at the curve of your inner thigh. The one behind your knee. The one low on your back that tickles when his fingertips trace over it.

Sometimes, when he’s between your legs, his lips will pause over each spot like checkpoints—like he’s returning to every place he missed you.

Once, he kisses the one just below your navel and whispers something you don’t catch.

You ask him what he said.

“That’s where I felt your- our first child kick.”

Your eyes widen.

He adds, “In the third life. Y-you died the same year.”

You start noticing his moles too.

There’s a small one on his jawline you always glance at when he’s speaking.

“I like this one,” you murmur, brushing your lips against it during a lazy morning.

“It’s new,” he says, smiling. “I didn’t have it in our first lives. But you kissed me here once, and it showed up in the next.”

You stare at him, awed. “What, like I… created it?”

“Maybe.” His eyes soften. “Love leaves marks.”

You find more.

One near his hip that you kiss when he’s half-asleep. One behind his shoulder you trace with your fingertip when he’s lying face-down on the bed. One under his ribs that only shows when he stretches, which he lets you explore when you press your lips to his skin in quiet wonder.

You whisper once, “Why don’t I remember you?”

He kisses the back of your knee, where a mole hides in the bend.

“You always forget,” he murmurs. “You’re not supposed to carry the pain.”

“But you do.”

He nods. “I’d rather remember and find you again than forget and lose you forever.”

Your roommate asks if you’re obsessed with each other.

You don’t answer. Because it’s more than that.

It’s recognition.

It’s waking up with your head on his chest and realising your fingers always drift to his jawline mole without thinking.

It’s him pulling your hand to his mouth and kissing each tiny mark like he’s saying hello in a language only you understand.

It’s one night—late, breathless—when he has you pinned beneath him, and he leans down to kiss the mole just below your breast, again and again, slower each time.

“I lost you like this,” he whispers, voice cracking.

You wrap your arms around him. “You found me again.”

It’s scary how much you believe him now.

Scary how much sense it makes.

Like your body remembered before your mind did.

Like the ache in your chest wasn’t yours—it was his.

Eventually, you tell him the truth.

“I hated my moles,” you admit. “I felt like they made me look messy.”

He laughs gently, tilting your chin up. “You’re not messy. You’re written. You’re a love letter someone, I, finished in another lifetime and mailed to this one.”

One summer night, you lie in a patch of moonlight, completely bare, nothing between you but breath.

He kisses each mole slowly, thoroughly, until you’re trembling—not just from arousal, but from the intimacy of being seen like this.

When he reaches your inner thigh, he lingers.

“I never got to touch you here,” he whispers. “Not until now.”

You arch into his mouth, and he takes his time, his hands steadying you, anchoring you to this life, this love, this version of being together.

Afterward, you hold him just as gently.

You trace the mole at his jawline with your lips, whispering, “You’re mine too, you know.”

“I always was,” he says.

Some nights, when you’re half-asleep and tangled in sheets, you ask him about your past selves.

“Which one was your favourite?”

“This one,” he answers instantly.

“No,” you murmur. “I mean… before.”

He hesitates.

“You once danced barefoot in a garden. I watched you through a screen door and thought—if I could just hold you once, that would be enough.”

He kisses the mole on your shoulder blade, where you’re curled against him.

“Was it?”

“Never,” he says.

You tell your grandmother once, just before she passes:

“You were right, you know. About the moles.”

She smiles, eyes twinkling.

“I only told you what my mother told me.”

“Did she ever find her lover again?”

“She did,” she whispers, already fading.

And then: “Just once. But it was enough.”

You count them all once, together.

You name them.

He remembers their echoes.

He kisses the one below your navel and calls it “home.” The one on your inner thigh becomes “devotion.” Your wrist, “first sight.” Your shoulder blade, “loss.” Your waist, “belonging.” The one beneath your breast—“the promise.”

And his?

You call his jawline “anchor.” His rib “yearning.” His hip “gravity.” His shoulder “return.”

Years pass.

He still traces them.

When you fight, he kisses your hands.

When you cry, he finds the one on your collarbone and presses his forehead there.

When he asks you to move in, he kisses your wrist.

When you say yes, he finds the one at your waist.

And when he holds you that night—like he’s holding every version of you that ever lived—his mouth finds the one beneath your breast again.

Slow.

Tender.

Certain.

And you finally ask, breathless, “Why there?”

He doesn’t hesitate.

“That’s where I kissed you last.”

That night you fall asleep with his lips pressed just above your heart.

And you think, If we live again…

But you don’t finish the sentence.

Because now—now—is enough.

Now, your body remembers.

And his hands answer every question your skin ever carried.

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cursedyuri · 1 year ago

Text

smut! 18+ below, minors dni.

thinking about ellie accidentally sending you a video of her fingering herself.

the video preview is completely dark, so you have no clue what to expect when you click the play button. you assume it’s another one of her rants - lately she’s taken to sending you clips of herself complaining about her family, work, politics. she’s sent a few videos of her trying new foods while completely obliterated on an edible, too, which you’re kind of hoping for. her eyes look so pretty all droopy and red, and she has the cutest laugh when she’s high.

but oh, no. this is… nothing like that.

you’re lounging in bed, head propped up against a pillow, when you get the notification from ellie and click to your text thread. you hit play on the video, watching with a furrowed brow as the camera moves from darkness - the forest green fabric of ellie’s duvet, you realize - to reveal her room. and it’s a familiar sight; you’ve been there a hundred times. but that’s where the familiarity ends.

because this new camera angle shows ellie naked from the waist down.

she’s flushed, her cheeks tinged the faintest shade of pink. her chest rises and falls in a quick rhythm; the light catches on a smear of wetness on her inner thigh, and you realize with a flutter in your belly that she’d been going at it for a while before she’d pulled out the camera.

“okay, fuck,” ellie pants, her voice a bit tinny through the speakers of your cell phone. she lifts one muscled thigh to her bed, which she’s standing before - right in front of the camera. your mouth goes dry as your eyes flicker over her body: heather grey tank riding up her toned hips, the faintest sheen of sweat on her chest, her thigh flexing as she spreads herself in front of the camera.

“i got close beforehand so i wouldn’t… didn’t wanna be nervous,” she says, avoiding eye contact with her phone. “but i’m - wait. why the fuck am i talking? you’re not supposed to talk in these, are you?”

blood rushes into your cheeks, warming your face until you feel like your skin is about to burn off. you should probably stop watching, shouldn’t you? you should click out of the video, pretend you never opened it in the first place. this is clearly not for you to see.

but you can’t look away.

ellie reaches her hand between her legs, and your stomach warms with arousal. there’s a flutter between your legs that leaves you squeezing your thighs together, seeking pressure.

“oh god,” ellie mutters as her fingers play in her own pussy, the lewd, wet sounds echoing. she slips a finger inside of herself, then two, her eyes fluttering shut as a string of curses leaves her lips.

she starts to pump her fingers, the heel of her hand pressed to her clit, and your breath catches in your throat when she looks up at the camera. you know she’s not really looking at you this way, but you tense up regardless. the look in her eyes is sultry, lustful, hungry.

there’s a growing damp spot on your underwear.

ellie’s getting close; her brows are pinched together in concentration, and each of her moans is more ragged and high-pitched than the last. beneath the thin fabric of her tank, you see her abs tense with her impending orgasm. you bite your lip until you’re sure you taste blood.

she comes with a shuddering cry, bicep flexing as her hand stalls between her legs. strands of auburn hair, darkened with sweat, cling to her freckled forehead. she lowers her leg from the bed and stands upright again, still panting. she reaches for the camera and the video ends.

you’re still staring wide-eyed at your phone when a series of texts come through from ellie.

oh my god

please tell me you didn’t see that

holy fuck i’m an idiot

i’m so sorry

i did not mean to send that to you. holy shit i’m sorry

your chest tightens with sympathy - you can imagine how panicked ellie is on the other line, how utterly ruined her post-orgasm bliss must be.

you type out a quick response: it’s okay. give me a second to reply, alright?

finding a convenient place to prop up your phone, you hook your thumbs over your underwear and tug them off, leaning forward to press record on your phone.

read part two here!

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kancelolol · 9 days ago

Text

Serendipitous Treasure Sae Itoshi x GN!reader

After dating Sae Itoshi for a few months—and knowing him for even longer—you always thought that you'd be the first one to say 'I love you'.

wc: 1.5k || Gender-neutral reader || Fluff || Oneshot

"Lower your hat more," you chuckle softly, speaking at a low volume as you usher your boyfriend to follow your orders.

Sae grunts but wordlessly complies, pulling his cap further down this forehead to shield his face. As gorgeous as he was, the last thing you wanted was to be interrupted by paparazzi on his day off.

You tug him along with you, hand in hand down the city's streets while the clear sky and buzzing sun observes from above. He remained close to your side, but whether it was out of concern of his identity being revealed or simply a desire to be near you was a mystery, thanks to his usual impassive demeanor.

Or maybe it wasn't. You think you could make a pretty accurate guess based on how he held onto your hand like an otter holding onto kelp so that it doesn't float away from its home.

As you two strolled closer towards your designation, the number of strangers dwindled until you reached a tiny store. It stuck out like a sore thumb next to the other adjacent buildings, decorated with bright posters and colorful handmade windchimes that dangled from the wooden awning. You push the front glass door open, and a bell rings, prompting a short, elderly woman to look up from behind the counter.

She smiles—her eyes wrinkled and nearly closed—as she greets you, "Welcome. If you need any help, feel free to ask."

You lift your cap a bit to return her friendliness, "We will, thank you!"

You hum a tune that had been engraved in your mind for the past few days, as you saunter through the aisles with Sae in tow. Scanning the shelves full of yarns and threads, you try to find what you came for.

"Would this work?" Sae picks up a plastic packaging containing a bland, metal bracelet base with clasps.

"Ooh! Good eye!" You eagerly bump your shoulder against his, snatching the item from his hand to get a better look.

He intently watches you examine the product, gently smoothing the back of your hand with his thumb. He relishes in moments like these, where it feels like only the two of you exist in the world.

He's used to the buzz of the media. Used to the adrenaline coursing through every player on the field.

And the chase.

The chase for something greater than his present self.

But he likes this type of present. Maybe even loves it.

He loves the way you subconsciously swing your intertwined hands, and the way your lips curled up when you're satisfied with the item.

"Glad we already found something on our list this quickly." You comment as you grab two of the same brand, feeling pleased.

"Well, with how small this place is, I doubt it'd take long to find anything." He remarks, unintentionally insulting the space and disregarding the fact that the store owner was a mere ten feet away.

You let out a silent gasp, "Sae!"

He blinks and raises an eyebrow at your hushed scolding. Simultaneously, a raspy and airy laugh echoes throughout the empty shop.

"It might be small, but sometimes, it's the little things that have greatest treasures!" The old woman grins light-heartedly, fortunately taking no offense to Sae's words.

You quickly apologized before immediately dragging Sae to the furthest corner of the building—which wasn't very far if you asked Sae.

You continued to lecture him about his manners, half serious—half amused. Because after all, you suppose he would lack his usual charm if he didn't actively show off his crown for being the most unfiltered person to walk the earth.

Thankfully for Sae, you get distracted mid-ridicule by a basket sitting at the bottom of a shelf. You let go of his hand—much to Sae's disappointment (he wonders if this is your revenge for his previous behavior)—in favor of crouching down to get a closer look inside.

"Sae! C'mere!" Your eyes sparkle as you look up at him from the ground, holding a few packs of beads and charms. Sae lowers himself to your level, scooting right next to you. You animatedly dig through the basket and debate which ones to get for your matching bracelets, while Sae leans in to peer inside the basket, and then at you.

"Hey! Look! Don't these beads kind of match your eyes?" You light up at the find, picking up the pack before lifting it to his face. When you see how Sae's eyes and the beads glimmer a similar shade of teal, your lips can't fight back the cheek splitting smile.

"I think I'll get this one," you retract your hand, admiring the beads confined in the plastic baggie.

One corner of his mouth slightly curves up as he crosses his arms over his knees, "What? Just because it matches my eyes?"

"Yeah? Got a problem?" You snicker, resting your head against his shoulder.

Both corners now twitch upwards before they fall straight again, "Hmm...no. I guess not."

He runs his hand through the pile of beads, carefully inspecting each one. His movements only stops when his eyes catches a familiar color.

He raises it and mimics your earlier actions, glancing between your eyes and the beads.

"I'll get this one." He states with finality, like no other beads could dream to compare. You look at his selected color and grin like crazy.

"Copycat."

He scoffs, "Well they're supposed to be matching, no?"

"Fair enough," A huff of laughter escapes your mouth as you hold your choice of beads next to his, watching them gleam under the ceiling lights.

"Now we'll always have a reminder of each other." You softly whisper.

You're not doing anything grand. Just squating on the floor of a random crafts store during the afternoon.

But Sae loves it. He loves the pressure of your head on his shoulder. He loves the weight of your body leaning into his, alongside the distinct smell of your fragrance. He loves everything about you, even when your bothersome habits causes headaches from time to time.

Somewhere along the line, somehow, the things he once just liked about you—once despised about you—turned into things that he loves. That he cherishes.

"I'm in love with you."

You don't initially react. But when his words finally register, your head whips around at him while your body shifts backwards. You stare at him with wide eyes, your mouth hung slightly open before it breaks into a huge smile.

"Wow. Is Sae Itoshi actually saying 'I love you' first?!"

He scowls at you, resting his chin in the palm of his hand, "What? Didn't think I could?"

"Sort of?" He narrows his eyes at your response.

You laugh breathlessly as your arm loops around his, "I'm messing with you. Couldn't have you been a little more romantic with it though?"

"What did you expect?" He raises a brow, entertaining your question.

You hold up a finger to your lips, pretending to think, "Flowers. A romantic dinner. You know, the least you could do for your partner."

You only said that as a joke, but he gazes into your eyes with unwavering seriousness.

"Let's do that then."

Your mouth falls open, "What?"

"I'll take you on a date later. I'll find a restaurant. And buy you flowers." He declares. Not like it was a promise, but rather, a factual statement. Like he was going to guarantee that it happened.

You bite your lip to suppress your growing smile, dramatically leaning back with a hand over your heart, "You're making me swoon so hard right now."

He rolls his eyes and lightly smacks the small packet of beads against your forehead. On the outside, you're whining about his cruelty, while you internally replay Sae's words in your head on repeat—trying to push back the giddiness in your chest that's threatening to be displayed on your expression.

"So, am I getting an 'I love you' back or?" He peers at you from the corner of his eyes, head tilted to the side as he looks at you expectantly.

You pause for a few seconds before your lips form a mischievous smirk.

"You technically didn't say it~" You point out in a sing-song voice.

"I love you."

His reply doesn't skip a beat, but your heart sure does.

"...You're such a loser." You maintain your smirk, but you feel your face slowly warming up.

He notices. He always does. But he deadpans anyway and turns his head away from you.

"Nevermind. Just say you hate me."

You burst into a fit of laughter, which you're certain the old woman can hear, but your heart feels too full to care.

Content with your teasing, you lean in and place a soft kiss on his cheek. Your breath tickled his ear as you murmur into it with a fond smile, "I love you too, Sae."

His face relaxes, and his lips quirk up into a faint smile as he admires the beauty of you in your casual attire—while you stare at him like he was your whole world.

Yeah, Sae really did love little moments like these.

Perhaps the old lady was right. This truly was the greatest treasure.

Author's Note

Having major Sae brainrot when I'm not even a stan 💔 His character is just so interesting to write I fear...

#sae itoshi x reader #sae x reader #bllk x reader #sae itoshi x you #sae itoshi fluff #sae x you #blue lock x you #blue lock x reader #bllk x you #bllk x y/n #bllk fluff

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whatsupsonnyboy · 1 month ago

Text

morning | Joseph Quinn

PAIRING: Joseph Quinn x fem!Reader

SUMMARY: just kind of sex without plot!! you and Joseph like morning sex... who doesn't, right?

wc: 2.1K

warning: smut, mdni!! p in v sex, oral (female receiving) unprotected sex, stablished couple, hungry Joe

a/n: couldn't get this out of my head so, there you go! Hope y'all like it! This is just another os from all of the ones i said i've been writing. It's not an actual series so you can read them without reeding the rest. It's just that they'll belong to the same universe. Anyway, you can find them all here.

requests are open | masterlist

You opened your eyes slowly, feeling the stiffness in your body begin to fade. You tried to stretch, but you couldn’t—Joe was wrapped around you, holding you close with no intention of letting go. A lazy smile tugged at your lips. You loved waking up like this.

One of his legs was draped over you, as if even in sleep he needed to keep you near. His arm rested heavy around your waist, his body warm and solid against yours. Soft curls tickled the crook of your neck, the scent of his shampoo lingering in the air. You could just barely make out the shape of his lips, slightly parted, his breath slow and steady against your skin. His heartbeat matched yours, a quiet rhythm in the early morning stillness. This—this was the best part of having him home.

You hadn’t wanted to wake him, but resisting the urge to touch him had never been your strong suit. Your fingers threaded through his curls, relishing the way they tangled slightly before springing back into place. He hummed softly, shifting just a little but making no move to release you. Instead, he held you tighter, his face burying even deeper into the curve of your neck, as if clinging to the last remnants of sleep.

Your hand drifted lower, tracing idle patterns along the expanse of his back, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath your fingertips. His muscles tensed slightly, stretching as he stirred awake.

“Morning,” he murmured, his voice rough with sleep. His eyes remained closed, though he lifted his head just enough for his lips to graze your collarbone.

“It’s still early,” you whispered. “You can sleep a little longer.”

Joe didn’t respond—not with words, anyway. Instead, he shifted, nuzzling against you until his head rested fully on your chest, sighing in contentment.

“Mm, it’d be nice if you let me get up, though,” you laughed softly. Not because you minded being his personal mattress, but because your body was beginning to protest being in the same position for too long.

“What if I don’t want to?” His voice carried a teasing edge now, a hint of something else curling at the edges of his words. His grip around your waist tightened. “You’re mine,” he murmured, lips brushing against your skin, sending a slow shiver down your spine. “And I’m not letting you go anywhere.”

You let out a breathy laugh, already knowing exactly where this was going. And you could feel it—quite literally—against your hip.

Joe had always been the morning type, all warmth and slow, sleepy kisses, his lips pressing lazy, open-mouthed affection across your skin. He liked to mark you in places only the two of you would know, teasing bites that made your breath hitch, his touch lingering, possessive.

And if there was one thing you had learned about Joe, it was that he never started something he didn’t intend to finish.

His hand slipped under your top, finding the soft curve of your breast with practiced ease. His fingers traced slow, deliberate circles around your nipple until it hardened beneath his touch. You couldn’t suppress the quiet moan that escaped your lips, especially when his other hand pressed against the small of your back, urging you closer—letting you feel just how hard he already was, as if you hadn’t noticed.

“I want you,” he rasped against your neck, his breath hot, lips leaving a trail of wet kisses that sent shivers down your spine.

“I can tell,” you teased, your voice breathy as he stole small, teasing kisses from your lips.

Joe chuckled against your mouth before pulling back just enough to look at you. His eyes were darker now, pupils blown wide with need.

You kissed him then, deeper, greedier, as if you were trying to commit the taste of him to memory—as if even a few days apart could make you forget. He groaned into your mouth, the sound vibrating against your lips, and you pressed your body against his, chasing the heat between you.

But patience had never been his strong suit. He tugged your top over your head in one swift motion, tossing it aside without a second thought. His mouth was on you instantly, his tongue flicking over your hardened nipples, teasing, tasting, leaving you squirming beneath him. His right hand trailed lower, fingers slipping beneath the delicate waistband of your thong.

“Fuck, Joe,” you whined, the sensation of his mouth, his hands—his everything—turning you into a trembling mess beneath him.

He pulled back just enough to smirk at you, lips swollen, breath heavy.

“I love how you sound,” he murmured, his voice thick with hunger.

And then, without another word, he shifted between your legs, settling himself lower. Your chest heaved in anticipation, your body already burning with need.

He didn’t bother taking your underwear off. Instead, he simply pushed the damp lace aside and buried himself in your heat, his mouth hot and desperate against you.

A gasp tore from your throat at the sensation—his tongue, his breath, the way he devoured you like he had been starving for you. Your fingers tangled in his curls, tugging as his pace quickened, each flick of his tongue sending you spiraling.

“But fuck,” he groaned against you, his words vibrating through your skin, making your whole body tremble, “I love how you taste even more.”

You spread your legs wider, giving him all the space he needed, surrendering to the intoxicating pleasure of his mouth on you. Every nerve in your body lit up, shivers coursing through you as he devoured you like he had all the time in the world. No matter how many times he had done this before, he always found a way to make it feel even better—like this time would ruin you more than the last.

Your moans filled the room, mixing with the wet sounds of his tongue working over your clit. He knew exactly what you needed, exactly how to push you closer to the edge.

“Joe—” His name came out in a broken gasp, more of a warning than anything else. You were close, really fucking close.

You felt the curve of his stupid grin against your thigh before his fingers joined his tongue, sliding inside you with a slow, deliberate stretch. Two fingers, moving in perfect sync, curling just right.

Words failed you, lost in the overwhelming sensation, and the only thing that left your lips was a desperate, wrecked moan that sent a shudder through Joe’s body.

“That’s it, baby,” he murmured against your skin. “Just let go.”

And you did. Within seconds, you shattered beneath his touch, falling apart on his tongue, his fingers. He groaned as he felt you come undone, as if he could get drunk on the way you trembled for him.

When his eyes finally met yours, you were still shaking, your breath ragged and uneven. He smirked, entirely too pleased with himself, but that look—the one that told you he knew exactly what he had just done to you—only made you crave more.

You grabbed the back of his neck, pulling him into a kiss, tasting yourself on his lips. The moment your tongue slid against his, his cock twitched against your thigh, still painfully hard.

“You’re hungry for more, huh?” he murmured between kisses, his voice thick with amusement and lust.

“Always,” you admitted, nipping at his bottom lip. “I’m fucking starving when it comes to you.”

Without hesitation, you flipped him onto his back, straddling him, your hips rolling against his still-clothed erection. You started trailing kisses down his neck, slow and teasing, leaving a path down to his shoulders.

Joe groaned, a curse slipping from his lips, his hands gripping your hips tight enough to leave bruises—bruises you knew would still be there tomorrow. But fuck, you loved it. You loved how he handled you like he needed you just as much as you needed him.

You stripped him of his boxers, just as you had done with your abandoned thong, tossing them carelessly onto the floor. You were desperate to feel him—completely, exactly as he was. And yet, you didn’t let him slip inside you right away.

Instead, you dragged your dripping center against him, letting the hard length of his shaft slide over your swollen clit. The friction sent electric pulses through your body. He could feel how wet you were, feel your slick coating him as you rocked against him, teasing, tormenting.

“I need to be inside you,” he groaned. It should have been a command, but it came out as a plea—low, rough, edged with hunger.

You wanted to tease him longer, to make him beg for it, but you were just as desperate. Maybe more.

Lifting your hips, you positioned yourself over him, feeling the thick tip of his cock press against your entrance. Slowly, Joe pushed inside, stretching you inch by inch, making you take him. Your moans tangled together, shameless and raw, filling the space between you.

No matter how many times he had been inside you, he always made you feel completely, devastatingly full.

Your hips moved instinctively, finding a slow, deep rhythm, pulling soft, breathy moans from him that matched your pace—controlled at first, almost painfully so. But it didn’t last.

Soon, you picked up the rhythm, rolling your body against him, and his hands gripped your ass tightly, guiding your movements, pressing you down onto him. You kept your eyes locked on him because you loved to watch him like this—lips parted, swollen, his pupils blown wide as he stared at you. He couldn’t take his eyes off your body, the way your breasts bounced with every movement, the way you took him so well.

You wanted to burn this image of him into your mind forever.

The groans spilling from his lips spurred you on, making you rock against him faster, harder, taking him deeper. The friction was dizzying, overwhelming, and the way he met your thrusts—his hips snapping up to meet yours, filling you over and over again—made your vision blur.

“Fuck, Joe…” you whimpered, and he cursed under his breath, gripping you tighter as he thrust into you, deeper, harder.

He answered by meeting your hips with his own, thrusting up into you so deep it knocked the air from your lungs. Your head tilted back, your breath turning ragged, the sound of skin slapping against skin growing louder, filthier.

“Babe,” he choked out, voice strained, his control slipping. You could tell he was close.

So you didn’t stop, chasing the pleasure flooding through you, knowing you were right there with him.

Joe caught on, grabbing your hips, shifting the rhythm so you were grinding against him instead of bouncing, the new angle making his cock press against that perfect, devastating spot inside you. Your mouth fell open, a strangled moan leaving your lips as your entire body tensed. The pressure coiled tight in your belly, spreading like wildfire, consuming you whole.

He felt it.

Felt the way your walls clenched around him, squeezing him, dragging him over the edge right along with you. He groaned your name as he came, spilling into you just as you shattered around him, your legs shaking, your body trembling violently against his.

The room was filled with the sounds of it—heavy breathing, skin against skin, the sharp thud of the headboard hitting the wall as both of you came undone.

And for a moment, nothing else existed but this.

The air in the room was thick, heavy with heat and the scent of sweat and sex. Your body still trembled slightly, your muscles aching in the best possible way as you collapsed against him, your forehead resting on his damp shoulder.

Joe's arms wrapped around you lazily, fingers tracing soft, absentminded circles on your back. His heartbeat was still erratic beneath your cheek, his breath uneven as he let out a satisfied, breathy chuckle.

“Fuck,” he muttered, voice hoarse. “You’re gonna kill me one of these days.”

You smirked, pressing a slow, open-mouthed kiss against his neck. “Then at least you’ll die happy.”

His chest shook with laughter, and he tightened his hold on you, as if he wasn’t ready to let go just yet. Neither were you.

For a while, neither of you spoke. There was no need. Just the warmth of his skin against yours, the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath you.

Then Joe hummed lazily, tilting his head to press a kiss to your temple.

“You up for round two?”

You bit your lip, trying—and failing—not to laugh. “You’re insatiable.”

He smirked, flipping you onto your back in one smooth motion, his body settling comfortably over yours.

“And you love it.”

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bestskinspecialist1 · 4 months ago

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How Doctors Personalize the Thread Lift Procedure for Different Skin Types

As we age, the skin loses its natural elasticity and firmness. This often leads to sagging or fine lines on the skin. A thread lift is an excellent, non-surgical technique that tightens and lifts the skin via special threads. Before taking Thread Lift in Noida, one must understand how dermatologists customize the treatment for individual skin types. Every type of skin is different, and a personalized technique ensures the maximum outcome.

The Basics of a Thread Lift Procedure

A thread lift procedure involves inserting threads under the skin to lift and tighten areas that have begun to sag. These threads stimulate collagen production, improving skin texture and overall appearance. The procedure can be done on various facial areas, including the face, neck, and jawline. The best part is that the results are immediate and have minimal downtime.

How Different Skin Types Affect the Thread Lift Procedure

Skin types vary in terms of different characteristics, such as texture, elasticity, oil level, and sensitivity. The dermatologists consider these variables to tailor the thread lift procedure according to the patients. Let's see how the type of skin can affect the treatment.

1. Oily Skin

Oily skin is thicker with larger pores and may require stronger threads for a lift that lasts long. The level of sebum production in such skin can reduce the holding effect of the threads. Doctors will likely opt for certain special types of well-secured thread without sliding.

2. Dry Skin

Dry skin can be even more delicate and irritated. For a person with dry skin, a dermatologist will almost always suggest softer threads that do not incur a probability of scarring or discomfort. In some cases, the thread lift might be used in additional hydration treatments before or after carrying out the procedure to keep the skin moist and healthy-looking.

3. Sensitive Skin

People with sensitive skin require a more cautious approach when it comes to a thread lift. The doctor will use gentler threads and may apply numbing creams or local anaesthesia to ensure minimal discomfort.

4. Mature Skin

Skin loses its elasticity as people age, making it more prone to sagging. In these cases, the dermatologists will use stronger threads to provide more significant lifting effects. The thread insertion may be deeper to address the loss of firmness.

5. Young Skin

A less invasive approach may be used for younger individuals who may just be experiencing early signs of ageing. Thinner, more flexible threads are typically sufficient for creating a subtle lift.

Customized Thread Selection for Better Results

Each type of skin requires different kinds of threads to ensure the best results. There are various options available, including:

PDO (Polydioxanone) Threads: These are commonly used for all skin types and have the advantage of dissolving over time, leaving behind collagen stimulation.

PLA (Poly-L-Lactic Acid) Threads: These are more durable and are suitable for patients looking for longer-lasting results, especially in older skin.

PCL (Polycaprolactone) Threads: PCL threads are stronger and typically used to lift more mature skin or areas requiring more substantial support.

A skilled dermatologist will choose the right procedure based on individual skin needs, ensuring a natural-looking lift.

The Importance of Consultation and Evaluation

Before undergoing a thread lift procedure, it’s essential to consult with a professional dermatologist. They will assess your skin type, texture, and age to determine which treatment plan is best suited for you. This thorough evaluation ensures that the procedure enhances your appearance and complements your skin's natural characteristics.

Aftercare and Follow-Up

After the procedure, dermatologists often provide specific aftercare instructions to maximize the effectiveness of the thread lift. This can include avoiding intense facial expressions, taking prescribed medications, or using specific skincare products to enhance healing. Regular follow-up appointments ensure that any adjustments or additional treatments can be made if necessary.

Conclusion

A personalized approach to thread lift ensures that the treatment is tailored to each individual’s skin type, leading to more effective and lasting results. Whether you have oily, dry, sensitive, or mature skin, dermatologists make adjustments to the procedure to meet your specific needs. For anyone seeking professional guidance, Skinlogics Clinic offers expert consultation and personalized care. Their team of experienced professionals, including a trusted dermatologist in Noida, is committed to providing you with the best possible results.

Original Source:- https://677b8b0fc036f.site123.me/blog/how-doctors-personalize-the-thread-lift-procedure-for-different-skin-types

#Thread Lift in Noida #dermatologist in Noida #Thread Lift Procedure #Skin Types Affect the Thread Lift Procedure #Thread Selection for Better Result #Skinlogics Clinic

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sh4nksslvt · 2 months ago

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Smoke Break

A collection of fiery, smoky encounters where passion burns as hot as the cigars and blunts exchanged between you and some of the world’s most dangerous daddies i mean men — every kiss laced with smoke, heat, and unspoken desire.

Benn beckman x reader x sanji x smoker x crocodile | ONE SHOT

Tags: fluff, flirty, smok!ng, w3ed mentions, blvnt smok!ng, cigarette smok!n, mouth-to-mouth sm0ke sharing, minor spit description, light nsfw tension

a/n: this js me trying to write ffs, this is experimental and for fun only so expect this ff cringe and oc

word count: 3.3k

MINORS DNI!!

masterlist | ko-fi

: 𓏲🐋 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✩࿐࿔ 🌊

Is it hot in here or is it just me?

I'm so high in here, been smokin' on this weed

Only drug a bitch is on is the tree

But I lasted ten rounds like a freak

Like a G

Benn Beckman

The deck still stank of gunpowder and sea salt by the time you slumped onto the steps leading up to the helm, boots heavy with exhaustion. Your knuckles throbbed from the earlier brawl with some no-name pirate crew dumb enough to pick a fight with the Red Hair Pirates. You won, obviously—but victory didn’t erase the tight coil of stress still buzzing under your skin.

You dragged your hood up over your head, shielding your face from the low sun. Hands steady, you pulled out a battered little tin from your pocket, the familiar ritual already soothing your frayed nerves. You broke down the nug slowly, fingers working with careful, practiced motions. You barely even registered the distant sound of boots approaching.

Benn Beckman stopped a few feet away, cigarette halfway to his lips, brows lifting slightly at the sight of you hunched over the tray.

He leaned against the rail, arms crossed.

"Rough day?" he drawled.

You didn’t look up right away, just finished rolling your blunt with a lazy flick of your thumb. When you finally glanced his way, your gaze was cool, detached—like you were sizing him up and decided he wasn’t worth worrying about.

"Nothing a smoke can't fix," you muttered, voice low and even.

Benn whistled low under his breath, impressed.

"Didn't think you were the type to roll your own medicine."

You snorted, lighting the blunt with a snap of your lighter.

"Cigs are for rookies," you said, plucking the cigarette from his fingers without asking. You tucked the blunt between his lips instead, your touch casual, intimate.

Benn played along, inhaling deep. His eyes hooded slightly as the taste hit him—stronger, sweeter than he expected.

"Holy shit," he coughed out, laughing.

You took the blunt back from him with two fingers, tapping it lightly against the railing.

"Too much for you, old man?" you teased, the faintest smirk curling at the edges of your mouth.

He chuckled, a low, rich sound that vibrated in his chest.

"Old enough to know better. Dumb enough not to care."

You offered the blunt again—not by hand this time, but by leaning in, smoke trailing from your lips in a lazy, tantalizing swirl. Benn caught on quick, closing the small distance between you. His mouth brushed yours just enough to catch the exhale directly, smoke passing from your tongue to his.

The heat flared instantly.

Before you could pull back, he tilted his head slightly, deepening it into a kiss—slow, languid, tasting of smoke and adrenaline. His hand found your jaw, rough thumb grazing your cheekbone with a kind of reverence that didn’t match how fucking cocky he was about it.

When you finally parted, a thin, silver thread of spit clung stubbornly between your tongues until it snapped, leaving a hot smear of want in its wake.

You sat back, lazily dragging the blunt between your lips again. Your expression barely shifted—still that same unreadable cool—but your hooded eyes glittered with something dangerous, something alive.

Benn wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, grinning like he just won the biggest prize in the world.

"You always this generous after a fight?" he asked, voice low and rough.

You exhaled slow, letting the smoke roll between you both like a secret.

"Depends who's asking."

Benn’s grin widened, cigarette long forgotten at his side.

"Good," he said, leaning in close enough that you could smell the faint whiskey on his breath.

"'Cause I’m not planning on being just a one-time habit."

Sanji

The galley was quiet at night, all the chaos of the day gone still. It was your favorite time—when the ship seemed to breathe slow and easy, and nobody was around to bother you.

You sat perched on the counter, blunt half-rolled between your fingers, working fast but precise. You glanced around — no way in hell you could borrow a lighter from anyone without exposing your little habit.

Of course you didn’t bring yours. Of course.

You sighed through your nose and hopped down from the counter, moving toward the stovetop. You twisted the burner’s dial, letting a tall flame lick up from the gas, the soft click click whoosh breaking the silence.

You leaned into the flame, lighting the tip of your blunt directly against it, shielding it with one hand like an old habit.

That’s when you heard a low whistle behind you.

"You know," Sanji’s voice drawled from the doorway, lazy and amused, "most people come to the kitchen for food. Not... that."

You turned slightly, the blunt between your lips, glowing softly as you took your first pull. You held his gaze through the smoke, your expression unreadable, unbothered.

"Guess I’m not most people," you said coolly, exhaling a slow, thick ribbon of smoke into the low light.

Sanji didn’t flinch. Didn't fawn.

Instead, he grinned, a slow, dangerous curve of his mouth as he stepped into the kitchen, cigarette tucked behind his ear, hands sliding easily into his pockets.

"You could've just asked for a light," he teased, voice like silk and heat. "I would've given it to you. Anything you want."

You shrugged one shoulder, casual.

"Not exactly advertising my hobbies."

Sanji stopped a few feet away, head tilting just slightly, studying you. You could feel the weight of his gaze — not heavy, not invasive — just... there, like a hand trailing just over your skin without touching.

"You're full of surprises," he murmured, voice dipping lower.

You took another hit, slow and deliberate, letting the thick taste settle on your tongue. As you exhaled, Sanji moved closer, crossing into your space so naturally it felt like gravity.

"Mind if I...?" he asked, eyes dropping to the blunt between your fingers.

You raised an eyebrow but didn’t answer with words. Instead, you leaned forward slightly, parting your lips just enough to offer the smoke right to him.

Sanji caught the game instantly.

He plucked the cigarette from behind his ear and set it on the counter. Then he leaned in, mouth brushing dangerously close to yours—not kissing, not yet—and drew the smoke straight from your mouth with a slow, deep inhale.

His hand came up to cradle the back of your neck, thumb brushing the warm skin behind your ear.

When he exhaled, it was right against your lips, warm and intoxicating.

The space between you crackled.

You barely had time to process before he closed the gap completely, his mouth pressing to yours in a kiss that was all slow burn, all slow claiming. His grip tightened just a little, guiding you against the counter behind you without force—just the kind of confident pressure that made your stomach flip.

You kissed him back, matching his heat with your own, the taste of smoke and fire mixing between your tongues. When you finally parted, a thin, sticky thread of spit clung between you, snapping when you tilted your head back, breathless but still wearing that same cool smirk.

Sanji stayed close, his forehead brushing against yours, his fingers still tangled loosely in your hair.

"You," he said, voice low and warm, "are way too dangerous to be left alone in my kitchen."

You chuckled, flicking ash into the sink.

"Then don’t leave," you said, voice lazy, teasing.

Sanji smiled against your cheek, teeth just grazing your skin as he whispered,

"Wasn't planning to."

And from the way his hand slid down to your hip, you knew he meant it.

Smoker

The port was busy, noisy, and reeking of salt and sweat.

Perfect place to disappear for a while.

You slipped between two battered brick buildings, finding a patch of shade away from the main street. No patrols, no Marines. Just the low hum of the sea and the sharp scratch of your lighter as you tried, once, twice — and cursed under your breath.

Dead. Perfect.

You rolled the unlit blunt between your fingers, considering your options. Borrowing a lighter wasn’t on the table — too many judging eyes. Especially for someone like you, already treading too close to the Navy's leash.

"Problem?"

The deep, rough voice made you freeze. A shadow stretched into the alley. You didn’t even have to look up to know who it was.

Vice-Admiral Smoker stepped into view, coat draped over his broad shoulders, two cigars clamped between his teeth, smoke curling around his head like a storm cloud.

You gave him a flat look, the blunt dangling lazily from your lips.

"No lighter," you said simply.

Smoker snorted, amused in that dry, almost imperceptible way of his. He pulled one cigar free and tucked it into his coat, flicking his silver lighter open with a smooth motion.

He lit his remaining cigar, took a deep drag — and then, without saying a word, held the lighter out to you.

You raised an eyebrow but leaned forward, cupping a hand around the flame as you lit the blunt, your face close enough to his chest that you could smell the faint scent of smoke, leather, and something warmer underneath.

You inhaled slow, savoring the first pull, then leaned back against the rough brick wall with a sigh.

"Didn't peg you for the sharing type," you said, smoke curling from your mouth.

Smoker grunted, replacing the cigar between his lips.

"Don't make me regret it," he said, but there was no real bite in his voice.

For a moment, you just stood there, passing slow, lazy pulls between you. The world outside the alley blurred into meaningless noise.

Then, bold from the buzz creeping in your veins, you leaned forward again—holding the blunt between your fingers—and offered the smoke directly to him, a silent challenge.

Smoker’s gaze sharpened slightly, amused. He plucked the cigar from his mouth and stepped into your space, his broad chest almost brushing yours.

Without hesitation, he caught the smoke straight from your lips, leaning in so close you could feel the heat of him — and then, instead of pulling back, he kissed you.

It was rough at first, full of the same heat and tension that always seemed to spark between you. His hand came up to cradle your jaw, fingers pressing firmly as he tilted your head back just slightly.

You opened for him without thinking, the kiss deepening into something slower, hotter — tongues brushing, breath hitching between you. His mouth tasted of smoke and salt and something that was just him.

The world outside the alley dissolved entirely.

When he finally pulled back, it wasn’t messy — just breathless, lingering. His forehead rested against yours, both of you catching your breath in the haze of smoke curling between you.

"You," he muttered, voice low and thick, "are nothing but bad news."

You smirked against his lips, your hands still fisted loosely in the fabric of his coat.

"Good thing you’re terrible at saying no," you murmured.

Smoker let out a rough, half-laugh, half-growl, and kissed you again—deeper, slower, like he had no plans to stop this time.

And honestly, neither did you.

You barely had time to settle into the heat of Smoker’s mouth again, the slow grind of his body pressing yours back against the brick wall, when—

"S-smoker-san?!"

The sharp voice cracked through the alley like a gunshot.

Both of you froze.

Smoker broke the kiss with a low, almost feral growl under his breath, his hand still curled possessively around your waist.

You cracked one eye open lazily, barely lifting your head from Smoker’s shoulder to glance toward the entrance of the alley.

Tashigi stood there, sword awkwardly bumping against her hip, her entire face rapidly turning the color of a boiled lobster.

"I— I— I was looking for you to discuss patrol routes— but I can—! I can come back later!" she sputtered, already halfway turning on her heel, practically tripping over herself to get away.

Smoker let out a long, slow exhale through his nose, the kind of breath that usually meant someone was about to get absolutely wrecked—but he didn’t move away from you. His hand stayed right where it was, fingers still flexing slightly against your hip.

"You’d better," he said, loud enough for Tashigi to hear as she fled back into the chaos of the port.

You couldn't help it—you laughed. A low, smoky sound that vibrated against his chest.

"Think we traumatized her," you said, voice rough with amusement.

Smoker shot you a sideways glare, but there was no real fire behind it. If anything, he looked... pleased. Dangerous. Like a man who didn’t give a damn who saw what he wanted.

"Serves her right for barging in without knocking," he muttered, gruff.

You arched a brow, grinning lazily up at him.

"Maybe you should install a door in your alleys."

Smoker huffed a laugh — a real one, low and brief — and bent to kiss you again, less careful this time. Hotter, a little messier. His free hand finally dropped the half-burned cigar, grinding it under his boot as he pressed you back into the wall, fully claiming your mouth again like he had all the time in the world.

And honestly, for once, you hoped he did.

Crocodile

The lounge was dim, soaked in the kind of golden light that made everything seem a little more expensive than it probably was.

Low jazz music played from hidden speakers, and the soft clink of chips and whiskey glasses filled the background.

You slouched lazily in a velvet armchair near the back, rolling the blunt between your fingers, cool and unbothered. No one really noticed you here — not with the heavyweights and high-rollers stealing the spotlight.

But, of course, he noticed.

You felt it before you saw him — a shift in the room’s atmosphere, a change in the way conversations dropped to murmurs.

Crocodile’s presence was like a thundercloud creeping over sunny skies.

You kept your expression blank, indifferent, even as you realized your lighter was nowhere to be found.

Perfect.

Exactly what you needed.

You sighed, the blunt sitting unlit between your lips, considering your next move.

A shadow fell across your table. You didn’t bother looking up.

"Need something?" Crocodile’s voice rumbled, amused.

You tilted your head slightly, fixing him with a bored stare, the blunt still balanced at the corner of your mouth.

"Seems I’m short a flame," you said, voice dry.

Crocodile’s lips curled around his cigar, eyes gleaming with something sharp and entertained.

He didn’t say a word.

Instead, he bent slightly at the waist — slow, deliberate — bringing the burning tip of his cigar close to the end of your blunt.

Too close.

He stopped just shy, forcing you to lean in to meet him.

You exhaled through your nose, slow and steady, and leaned forward, lips brushing barely near his cigar, lighting your own off the glowing ember. The flame caught with a faint crackle, a tiny hiss.

The whole time, Crocodile didn’t move an inch.

The smell of smoke, expensive leather, and something faintly spiced wrapped around you like a second skin.

You leaned back into your chair, taking a long, slow pull from the newly lit blunt. The first hit bloomed warm in your lungs. You exhaled lazily toward the ceiling, your eyes half-lidded.

"You're welcome," Crocodile said, voice dripping with dry amusement, straightening to his full height.

You tapped ash into a crystal ashtray nearby without even glancing at him.

"Didn’t say thank you," you replied coolly.

He chuckled — a low, dangerous sound that vibrated in the base of his chest.

"Didn't expect you to."

For a moment, neither of you said anything. The tension crackled softly between you, thick and slow, like molasses dripping from a knife.

Crocodile shifted, the gold of his rings catching the low light as he pulled a chair up to yours — close enough that his knee brushed yours under the table.

Deliberate.

Territorial.

"You planning to cause trouble tonight?" he asked, cigar smoke curling lazily around his words.

You blew out another cloud of smoke, just as lazy, just as unbothered.

"Depends," you murmured, voice low. "You planning to stop me?"

Crocodile smirked around his cigar, eyes gleaming with something dark and hungry.

"Not tonight."

He sat back, perfectly relaxed, the image of a king amused by the antics of his favorite piece.

You could feel his eyes on you as you smoked, weighing every slow drag, every lazy exhale.

Watching.

Waiting.

The house always won in places like this.

And tonight, it was clear you weren’t going anywhere.

The minutes slipped by in a slow, heavy haze.

The blunt burned low between your fingers, each drag slower than the last. Across the small table, Crocodile watched you like a predator sizing up easy prey — not rushing, not moving, just waiting for the exact right moment.

You met his gaze through the rising smoke, your face blank, but your heart starting to thrum a little harder behind your ribs.

He shifted finally, leaning forward slightly, elbows braced on his knees. The gold of his rings caught the light again, flashing like a warning.

"Come here," he said lowly, almost conversational, like you were a thing he fully expected to obey.

You didn't move immediately. You took another lazy pull from your blunt instead, blowing the smoke off to the side with a small smirk. Testing him. Pushing.

Crocodile huffed a small laugh under his breath, all amusement gone razor sharp.

Without warning, he reached across the table, hand catching you by the wrist — not rough, but firm, dragging you forward until you were pulled out of your chair and into his space.

The blunt dangled forgotten from your fingers as he leaned in — close enough that you could see the faint scar cutting across his face, the glint of amusement and warning in his heavy-lidded eyes.

He reached up with two fingers, plucking the blunt casually from your grip and setting it in the ashtray with a careless flick.

"You’re slow," he murmured, voice like warm gravel. "Let me show you how it's done."

You barely had time to process it before Crocodile’s lips crashed into yours.

It was rough — like he was making a point. His mouth devoured yours with an intensity that was unexpected, yet exactly what you needed. His cigar still burned between his fingers, and before you even had the chance to think about it, he tilted the cigar toward your lips, offering the smoke as you kissed.

The warm, glowing tip of the cigar hovered near your mouth, and you instinctively opened up, taking in the deep, spicy taste as you inhaled. The heat of it filled your lungs, mixing with the taste of Crocodile’s kiss — rich, dangerous, intoxicating.

You pulled back just a bit, lips brushing against his, then exhaled slowly, the smoke curling out from your mouth and into his.

Without breaking eye contact, Crocodile inhaled the smoke you gave him, his gaze darkening as he held it in for a beat, then exhaled it slowly, sending it back toward you.

The air was thick now, saturated with smoke and the lingering taste of him. Every breath felt like it stretched the moment, making it last forever, and yet, you knew it was only a brief exchange.

When he pulled away, his lips were curved into that same smug, dangerous smirk.

"Better," he muttered, voice rough with satisfaction. "Now you’re getting it."

You smirked back, though your chest felt a little tighter than it had before.

"You’re insufferable," you said, the words coming out softer than you intended, but your heart was still racing in your chest.

Crocodile chuckled low, the sound like a dangerous promise.

"Only when it suits me," he said, leaning back in his chair and taking another slow drag from his cigar. He didn’t look at you directly but you could feel the weight of his gaze on your lips. "You’ll learn, eventually. That’s how the game is played."

You stayed there, breathless and still, as the tension simmered between you.

The house always won.

And tonight, you were playing Crocodile's game

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