#voids in their sentences for the other to fill and stare and stare and stare and wait for something to come about it all

[twojamie-o-clock]

I know I never shut up but this is the world’s most important pause okay. okay.

[coweye]

The Worst Logan

Logan Howlett x Reader!Loganverse| smut | 5.8k words

Summary: You are the deceased-anchor-being-Logan's lover, having found yourself with Laura in the void, you navigate meeting the variant of the love of your life. Sweet dick kicking angst with gratuitous smut, cause we all know Logan eats pussy like a CHAMP. 😤

This is self indulgence at its finest, but it had be to done. 7-years ago, the movie Logan broke something within me that has finally been fixed! 🤠💕

Warning: Explicit - smut. canon death, depression, angst, spoilers for Logan / Wolverine and deadpool, cunnilingus, unprotected p in v, creampie, all the good stuff. 18+

The first time you see him again, the new him, the other him you mean. It’s in the cave accompanied by a man who talks far too much.

You recognise his voice in an instant when the mouth finally allows him to get a word in edgeways. His voice. 

You’ve heard it nearly every night for the past seven years. It's a few octaves deeper than you remember and filled to the brim with vitriol but it's definitely his. The realisation that your memory has been warped by time is a blow to the gut but you continue towards the sound all the same.

When finally you round the corner Logan stands before you in all his glory. For a moment you are rendered utterly unable to form a single sentence as he leans against the wall, a bottle of bourbon in his palm and adorned in yellow and blue.

Your mind can't reconcile this figure as the man you buried. He has the same sneer, the same broad shoulders, he even has the same stance - but Logan, your Logan, would rather die than wear that garish yellow suit and admit to being the hero he always was. 

His nose flares in what you believe to be recognition as he smells your presence, you allow your powers to retreat and reveal yourself. As your invisibility ebbs away Logan snarls in surprise as the talkative man in red gasps theatrically and begins jumping on the spot. 

Your fears are proven well founded when your eyes connect with his across the room, instead of the love and recognition, you find only open hostility and rage.

Your heart had bulldozed all logic, you were in the fucking void, of course it was a variant.

This Logan looks younger; his hair not so grey, his face unscarred and his eyes not so tired. 

This not-quite-Logan stares right back at you seemingly ill at ease with the stranger who is currently taking an inventory of his face. 

“Logan, that's them. It’s X-23 and Y/N, the one’s I told you about.” You graze your palm along your daughter's back in support as you come to stand beside her. 

“Her name is Laura.” It’s a knee jerk reaction; your correction. Your girl wasn’t the sum total of an experiment, she was her own person with her own thoughts and feelings, not a weapon to be utilised. 

The Wolverine’s gaze darts between the two of you, it’d be comical if you didn’t feel like you were about to regurgitate your lunch. They land on Laura, and linger there for a few moments, before they return to you, it's as if he’s trying to find you in her features. 

You barely hear the man you will later come to know fondly as Wade Wilson, question how you all ended up in the void.

“There was a knock at the door TVA sent me here, saying my world was dying … and I never even got the chance to fight for it.” Blade explains remorsefully. 

“They sent us here because they knew we’d put up a fight.” You utter distractedly, finally breaking your staring contest with Logan as he takes a swig from the bottle he’s currently white knuckling. 

“People like us don’t go quietly, TVA knows that so they took us out.” Elektra attests.

“The answer is yes, I’m in.” Wade declares.

“In what?” Blade questions bemused by the man in red. 

“A team up, you me, me you, all of us together, lets get the fuck outta’ here.”

“Don’t listen to him, he’s a fucking liar!” Logan growls, furious at the other man. 

“It was an educated wish!”

“HA!” The loathing behind it makes you pause, he was so angry. 

The heat in his voice, the resentment, it burns you. You supposed even your Logan had his fair share of rage.  

When he arrived at the mansion all those years ago, fresh faced and wild, you had adored him even then, though Logan was far too preoccupied with Jean to notice the torch you carried for him back then.

It was ironic that It had taken the utter annihilation of the X-Men to bring you together. Charles’ accident had left the two of you as sole survivors. Over the years in hiding your ability to mould force fields managed to keep the worst of the effects of Charles’ seizures at bay, but Charles Xavier was one of the most powerful telepaths to grace the earth and your powers had limits. 

Those years were some of the darkest and yet the best of your life, you found yourself growing to love the man the world called The Wolverine.

You realise you’ve entirely tuned out Wade’s rousing speech and have spent the time analysing the man wearing your love’s face currently gargling bourbon though your name pulls you out of your reverie. 

“Laura, Y/N? What’s it gonna’ be girlies?” 

“Lets fucking go.” Laura agrees heartily, you simply nod still dazed. 

“YES! LET’S FUCKING GO!” Wade shouts back fist pumping. 

“You’re all fucking dead.”

Much later in the evening when the sun has finally set you seek him out. When you come across the father and daughter duo before the campfire you hold back, your skin slowly begins reflecting light, fading from vision as you call upon your powers to hide in the treeline. 

They both needed this and it wasn’t something you were about to get in the way of. They talk for a little while, before they part ways, both a little teary. Laura nods your way despite being unable to see you as she heads back to the cave, her nose just as keen as her fathers. 

So it shouldn’t surprise you a few moments later when you hear Logan's voice call across the clearing.

“You gonna’ stand there all night, Bub?” The man sounds utterly exhausted. 

You say nothing in response, only dismissing your powers and revealing yourself as you advance. You take Laura’s seat at the fire, not quite having the courage to look at him just yet. 

“You hear all that? Should mind your own damn business.” You remembered this Logan well, the one aching for a fight, desperate to shed his vulnerability and bloody his fists. 

“I didn’t hear a thing, Logan.” Your voice is barely above a whisper, you haven’t had to gentle parent The Wolverine in a while but it’s like riding a bike. “I wanted to let the two of you talk, she needed it and I think maybe you did too.”

“What do you fuckin’ know.” He growls dismissively, swigging from his bottle of what now appears to be scotch. “You can skip the speech and go back up, I’m not looking for company.” 

“I’m not here to tell you what to do, Logan.” Finally, you look away from the fire and find his eyes fixed on you, you swallow the lump in your throat before you speak. “I just wanted to see you.”

“See me?” He questions incredulously. “Well, keep the change, bub. Good night.”

Despite your smile at his words, you can’t help the tears that begin to cloud your eyes. Your mind and your heart have been locked in a constant battle since setting eyes on him. This man by all rights is Logan. The man you have mourned relentlessly and yet in every way that matters he isn’t.

“It’s like seeing a ghost.” Is the only explanation you can give him, his response is a stoic cheers with his bottle before he takes a deep gulp. 

Finally either his curiosity or the alcohol gets the better of him as he questions. “You her Mother?” 

“Yes and no.” His stare doesn’t leave your face as he waits for you to elaborate. “Her biological mother was a woman from Mexico City that the fuckers in the lab exploited, all we know is that she disappeared after giving birth. After … you … after everything that happened in North Dakota…” You trail off.

Your voice is suddenly thick and your words get stuck in your throat as you try to make them form. It's utterly embarrassing as you feel the traitor tears begin to form. 

A bottle of Johnny Walker enters your field of vision from where you sit staring at your clasped hands in your lap. Startled, you glance up to find the Wolverine standing before you, casting an impossibly large shadow as he holds out the bottle.

You accept the offering from his gloved hand, your fingers grazing his in the transaction as you take a swig or two (or three) before passing it back. He looks thoughtful when he places his lips on the place where your own had just lingered, as he retakes his seat. With amber courage coursing your veins, you continue. 

“She was all I had - if not for her, I-.” You wipe your nose, staring back into the fire. If it was a struggle to meet his eyes before, it was impossible for you now.  “I just couldn’t see the point in being alive anymore if everything just slowly gets stripped away; the X-Men, then Charles and then Lo-” 

You don’t know it, but you’re preaching to the fucking choir with your words. It was rare to find a soul, going through the exact same torture as yourself. Logan found himself softening to you, it was as involuntary as it was unwelcome, but he couldn’t help it as you described a battle so close to the one he fought daily. 

“-she reminded me what I had to live for. Laura she is fierce and so fucking kind; she is everything I loved about him.” You cut your trauma dumping to a swift end as you remember yourself. “So no, to answer your question. I’m not her biological mother, but she’s my daughter in every way that counts.”

Silence reigns for a moment as neither one of you knows what to say to the other. 

“You loved him?” Logan’s voice is deeper than before when he speaks the sentence. You raise your eyes from the fire to find his for the first time since you began monologuing. They’re filled with something you can’t quite name.

“I did.”

Logan seems to contemplate this, mulling it over as he continues drinking. Finally, he seems to reach some sort of conclusion.  “You should get some sleep, big day for you tomorrow.”

“Can I stay here … with you for tonight?” The words slip out before you really even mean them to. Tomorrow you might be going to your death and the ghost of the love of your life is here alive and real, what do you really have to lose?

Logan does a double take, not quite expecting those to be the words that leave your lips. “I’m not him, Darlin’.”

“No, I suppose you’re not.” You sigh, “but could you please just hold me whilst I sleep, James?”

A huge part of you expects him to tell you to fuck off back to the cave and leave him to his booze fueled pity party. However, against all odds, he doesn’t do that. 

Logan simply lifts the half full bottle of scotch to his lips and downs every last drop. He’s a little unsteady on his feet when finally he stands up to his full height and turns towards the blankets he’s laid out on the ground. 

“Fuck it.” He growls and drops himself like a sack of potatoes onto the pile with little regard for his own body. You’ve certainly had nicer invitations into his bed but when he waves you over with a lazy gesture, you can’t help but hurry before he changes his mind. 

Before you know it you’re tucked into Logan’s side. His gloved hand doesn’t quite seem to know where to go, more accustomed to brutality than tenderness these days as it hesitates for a moment suspended in the air. After some careful consideration he delicately places it on the dip in your waist securing you to him. 

Logan’s breath is uneven, though he’s doing his best to seem unaffected by your closeness. It has been years since someone has touched him with such easy affection and the way your body curls around his own as if it was created to do just that is driving him crazy. 

You are completely at ease with him, you trust him so entirely it almost breaks his fucking heart. Logan's stomach is heavy with something he can’t name, you fucking terrify him. Yet, he doesn’t move because you feel so fucking good as he holds you. 

It's scary, you realise, how easy it would be to pretend this was your Logan as you melt into his embrace. He smells exactly the same as you bury your face in his neck, the roughness of his beard feels the same pressed against your forehead. 

This Wolverine’s arms are a little fuller and his chest a little firmer, but he still holds you the same. You make a decision to not focus on such difficult philosophical concepts as variants and the morality of switching out your Wolverine. You decide to live in the moment, to just enjoy the furnace of his body keeping you warm and his arm encircling your waist protecting you from the world, it’s so easy to pretend that this was your Logan, so you do. 

And you fall asleep quicker than you have in years.

It is still night when you awaken, it's not quite dawn but the fire has burned out to a low smoulder. You’re not sure what has awoken you from the best sleep you’ve had in a long while, that is until you feel the arms wrapped around you and the sleeping Wolverine holding you in a death grip against his chest, his half hard appendage digging into your hip. 

Everything is still hazy; you’re floating in that sweet spot between waking and dreaming, you forget about North Dakota and, god forgive me, Laura. 

You’re back in your bed at home and Logan is holding you.

There's no my logan, new logan, old logan. 

He’s just Logan. 

You bury yourself deeper in his neck. 

It’s only for a moment though before it all comes flooding back and the agony overwhelms you like a blade to the gut. 

Instantly tears flood your cheeks as you shake from your silent sobs. 

“...Y/N?” Logan's voice is thick with confusion and sleep, his grip has loosened somewhat to allow you to breathe but he doesn’t release his hold on you. “What’s wrong darlin’?” 

That affectionate name is the last nail in the coffin it fucking ends you. 

All teary, and regrettably maybe a teensy bit snotty, you lean forward and kiss him. Kiss isn’t the right word but it’s your intention. Your lips touch one anothers before he’s pulling away and holding you back. 

“Y/n… Darlin’ you don’t want this… I’m not-”

“But you are Logan. You’re him just as much as he’s you.” Your hands rise to his jaw, running your finger along its familiar sharp edge. “You’re Logan.”

“Y/N… I’d be taking advantage…” His voice is firm yet gruff as he tries to inject reason into the conversation. As usual being the good guy he’s constantly telling everyone he’s not. 

“I am so goddamn sick and tired of being sad, please Logan.” This time when you capture his lips, he doesn’t rear back. You’re not sure what’s going through his mind, but his self control seems to snap within him as he begins returning the kiss in earnest.

Logan’s tongue swipes along your bottom lip begging entry, entry you swiftly allow. You’re breathing heavily through your nose as he plunders the depths of your mouth, exploring your mouth with his quick tongue. 

Deciding to make the next move you push yourself up, throwing a leg over him to straddle his lower stomach. He’s lifted the top half of his body to ensure he doesn’t lose your mouth, your teeth clash slightly with the movement and you can’t help a bubble of nervous laughter.  He pays it little mind though as he swallows the noise, his hands coming to rest on your hips. 

Instantly, you grind your hips downward on the growing bulge that lurks below. Logan lets out a deep groan at the friction and his hands on your hips raise to the bottom of your tee in response, his thick hands tugging at it requesting your permission.

Nodding, you pull back causing him to groan at the loss of your hot mouth on his. Though it's only for a moment as the second the tee is over your head, he’s back on you, only it's your bare neck he’s lashing with affection now.

Logan breathes in deep your scent mixing with the heady aroma of your arousal. He’s nipping and licking along the smooth skin, soothing his bites as quickly he makes them. It's the animal instinct within him, telling him to devour you entirely; make you his. 

“Logan…” You gasp, your eyes are clenched shut in pleasure as he bucks his hips upwards into your jean covered centre.  

Logan pulls back to take you in, writhing above him in the moonlight, you’re fucking beautiful, though the flash of familiar metal between your breasts catches his eye, unable to stop himself, he catches it in his fist. 

Dog tags; his old dog tags.

‘LOGAN’ is etched into the aged metal and they’re warm to the touch from living beneath your shirt over your heart. 

The realisation hits him like a freight train, not only was he loved by you, but for his other self to have given you these, he fucking loved you. 

He’s not sure why it didn’t occur to him before, that the other him was as devoted to you as you were to him. He’s not entirely sure how to feel about it, but he twists his hands, careful not to snap the metal string, but using it to pull you close. 

For the other dead Logan, the hero he’s heard so goddamn much about, he decides he’ll give you the treatment you deserve. 

As if you weigh nothing at all he flips you onto your back, his hands dropping the dog tags and falling to the waistband of your jeans. His dexterous hands undo the button so quickly, that your trousers are peeled from your legs before you know it, leaving you in an unimpressive unmatching set of underwear beneath his roaming eyes. Though Logan couldn’t give a fuck as he groans at the sight of your body exposed to him. 

Logan begins by kissing down your stomach before his hands linger on your black panties, he can't help but grin at the tiny barely there bow in the middle of them; you’re like a gift all wrapped up for him. 

His eyes lift to meet your own as he begins sucking at the fabric that's keeping your pussy from him, it's already damp with your arousal and by the time he finishes, absolutely sodden with his saliva.

“Logan, please…” you whisper desperately as your hands find his ‘tufts’ for a lack of a better word. They were new, but you liked them, plus they now seemed pretty functional. 

He takes only a moment to remove his gloves, before they return eagerly to your body. Those thick hands traverse the planes of your thighs, they’re quick in their passing as they make their way up to the waistband of your panties, he hooks them over his thumb and reveals your soaking core to his hungry eyes and he’s right back to wanting to fucking devour you, and boy, fucking does he. 

Enthusiastic, would be the word, earth-shattering would be another - the word to describe how Logan eats pussy.

Logan without much preamble dives into your centre, his tongue slips into your hot wet heat, lingering for a moment on your clit, circling it reverently before he dips that talented tongue inside of you. His nose knocks against your clit several times, each more delicious than the last as he utterly devours your pussy. He moans, grinding his hips into the dirt and readjusts pulling you closer, his thick muscled arms locking under your thighs as you buck against his mouth. 

You're a complete goner the second he slips a single long thick finger inside of you. 

“Fuck, Lo, I’m gonna-” 

“Come, baby... I got’ya.” He mumbles into your pussy. And fuck me, he does. He carries on lapping at you all the way through your orgasm, drawing it out of you like the pied fucking piper of pussy. It feels like you’ve been falling for hours by the time you finally come down, only Logan doesn’t allow you any reprieve before he’s back to lashing your clit with his quick tongue. Your hands find those faux ear tufts once more and he groans as you pull on them a little more sharply than you intend in your shock, in answer Two fingers bury themselves deep inside of you.

“One more.” He’s negotiating orgasms, but you have no qualms as he rubs his nose side to side with affection against your sensitive bud. His tongue and nose moving in pace with his fingers, currently fucking in and out of you. 

It's when he scissors those thick long fingers inside of you, hitting that spongy spot within you that makes your back arch. 

Your top half has left the ground, he grunts in annoyance, suspending your hips back to his mouth at the angle he likes. Those deep hazel eyes meet yours from between your thighs, crazed and animalistic, driven wild with arousal as he eats your pussy with gusto.

It's that image that thrusts you over the edge once more, your back hitting the ground as your body seizes, thrusting your hips against his mouth. 

Without any preamble a third finger joins stretching you deliciously. The hand not currently fucking you, leaves your hip to caress your stomach stroking the flesh there, not quite able to reach your breast. 

“Lo… fuck… yes… right… right fucking there.” You cry as he draws your second orgasm of the night out, only when you tug at his tuft due to overstimulation does he acquiesce and pull back, only of course, after cleaning up your gaping desperate hole. 

He sucks his fingers clean as he sits back on his knees, his cock thick and tenting against the yellow bottoms of his suit. Your arousal has soaked through his beard making his chin slick, he wipes it with a single swipe with the back of hand though, it does very little for his sodden chin. 

Tired of not touching him, you sit forward grabbing at his belt. It's a difficult contraption that confounds you, though Logan is far too wound up to find any humour from it. 

 He replaces your hands unbuckling the thing before finding the hem of his shirt and pulling it over his head. 

There, finally in all his glory, he is exposed to you and you’ve never been a religious woman, but Mary mother of fucking christ, he is gorgeous. Logan’s chest is fucking… transcendant to behold, it's like he’s been sculpted by god herself, the light isn’t the best out of here, but you hope to god you don’t die tomorrow simply for wanting to take your time and lick each and every single one of those muscles on his stomach. 

Its your turn to leap forward onto your knees and join his mouth with yours, he tastes distinctly of you and his chin is still sodden, but you couldn’t give less of a fuck, you love the fact your desire is still marking his skin. 

Your hands trace the firm abs at your disposal, before dipping into his now open trousers and underwear to find him rock hard. 

If his physique impressed you, you had a big storm coming, because his cock was a fucking resplendant beauty and it was plain to see from the swelling Logan really liked eating pussy. 

Your fingers barely touched as you pumped him, once twice, spreading the copious amounts of precum along his shaft.

“Fuck.” He grunts into your mouth. You lean down, positioning yourself to take him in your mouth, though he stops you in your tracks grabbing your shoulder. “No sweetheart, I want your pussy.” You clench around nothing at his filthy words, this man will be the fucking death of you. 

You reach behind you and free your tits from their confines, another moan leaves his throat as he pushes you backwards. On his hands and knees he’s deliberate with every move as kicks the bottoms of his suit off as he prowls towards you.

Finally, he’s in between your legs naked as the day he was born. His hands are on your breasts, exploring the new plains exposed to him, playing with your nipples alternating between sucking and twirling them between his fingers. 

So lost in his skilled hands, you barely notice when one disappears to line himself up, it's a shock, the sudden intrusion, but not an unwelcome one as he thrusts himself forward and as deep as he can go. 

You moan his name into his ear, doing your best to keep your volume down.

He has prepared you well, you’re so worked up that he slides home through your tight slit. The sheer size of him means it's a stretch that borders on uncomfortable, but the second his hand finds your clit you’re clenching around him and grinding forward, desperate for more. Unable to control himself, his claws extend, he grunts pulling you close and thrusting them down into the ground. 

“Fuck, you’re tight.” He grunts into your neck, where he's busy lavishing the flesh once again with bites. Your neck is going to be black and blue tomorrow, but you can’t find it in you to give a single fuck.

The two of you are so fucking close his bare skin so deliciously hot against your own, but you want more, you need more.

Logan pulls his hips backwards, pulling out of you until only the tip remains before slamming home and spearing you wide open his cock. Your moans blend together as you lose yourself in each other's bodies.

Logan is worked up from eating your cunt, so it doesn’t take long for the sensation to hit him.

“Fuck, where do you want it?” He grunts into your neck, as his hand descends to rub quick circles on your clit. He pulls your ass up, making sure to hit the spot inside of you that makes your toes curl.

You know he’s teetering on the edge, desperate to make you cum before he does. 

“Inside - come inside me, baby.” You whimper into his neck as he pounds into you reaching your deepest recesses with his thick cock, his hammering, it’s unforgiving with his enhanced strength but it pushes him deeper into spots you couldn’t have imagined. He groans at your words, sounding every bit the wounded animal he is. Your shared groans and the sound of his balls slapping against your ass as he takes you again, and again is all that can be heard in the clearing. 

Finally as he joins your lips in a kiss, you come hard on his cock. Clenching around him as your body writhes uncontrollably. 

Logan adjusts his hold on your thighs, now he uses your body, drawing out your pleasure but ultimately chasing his own. The pace is fast as he grunts and groans erotically into your neck, he fucking growls as his hips stutter against your own, and you know you should be more careful, but the thought of him cumming inside you has you gripping his cock like a vice once more. You give him a tight sheath to come in, and he pumps you fucking full of his cum and its a big fucking load. Logan thrusts a few more times, pushing his seed deep inside of you as he claims your mouth once more.

You run your hands through his hair as he lets his body fall against yours, he’s supporting his own weight, thank god, you don’t think you could handle his muscle, let alone the adamantium skeleton. He’s still sheathed inside you as the two of you revel in the closeness.

The silence stretches on for an amount of time you can’t quite quantify. The two of you take in your surroundings, listening to the quiet of the forest, until your breathing has finally calmed down. 

Logan lifts himself up on one arm, and pushes your hair back from your face. You stare at him in the moonlight for a long moment, unable to help yourself as you trace his familiar features. His strong nose and the curve of his brow, your finger dances along his flesh. 

Logan’s eyes close, so touch starved he basks in your affection. 

“I-” Logan goes to speak, before you drop your finger on his lips.

“It’s okay. Whatever happens tomorrow, happens. I’m okay with it.” You smile at him, there's a chill to the air but you’ve got your Wolverine warming you up. “I just wanted one night to be about something other than death.”

He takes your hand from his lips and kisses along the back of it and up your wrist, though It's a slippery slope as he hardens inside of you again. 

Logan manages to pull two more orgasms out of you before dawn.

When your time has run out, the two of you finally dress, not wanting to be found in a compromising position. Logan curls his body around yours and buries his face in your hair as he spoons you from behind. 

Just when you’re just on the cusp of sleep, he finally speaks into the night. Logan opens up about his world tearfully, instantly you reach your hand down, finding his own thicker one resting on your belly and you intertwine your fingers with his. He tells you of the mutant hunting as you draw comforting circles on the back of his hand, it's not much, but it's more than he’s ever had whilst reliving his worst day. When he has finally bared his soul, the two of you fall back into silence. 

After what has been an emotionally, not to mention physically taxing night the two of you finally fall asleep if only for a few more hours, two incredibly damaged souls offering one another comfort.

It’s later in the morning when you finally awake. The sun has risen that much is clear but you're slow to awaken from your comfortable position in Logan's arms, his warm strong body coiled against your back fighting off the worst of the early morning chill, his face still buried in your hair as he snores peacefully.

There’s a sensation niggling at you, you think it's what woke you up in the first place; you can’t shake the sensation of being watched. 

Lazily you open your eyes, only for your heart to drop to your asshole when you find Wade Wilson about 10-inches from your face lying on his side, his head supported by his hand.

“Mornin’ sleepy head, have a good night?” You can hear the smile in his voice. 

“AGH!”  Unable to stop both your cry of fear and your fight or flight response in progress, you throw yourself backwards, your powers activating of their own accord, and slamming your body into Logan’s chest. He startles awake, with the telltale ‘snikt’ of his claws extending as he orientates himself, his arm coming out to block you from the threat, despite not being able to see you. 

After your brain catches up, you call your power back, but Logan doesn’t do the same, keeping his claws out seemingly ready to slice up his not-so-best friend. 

“Get the fuck outta’ here, Wade.” Logan growls harshly at the other man, his voice is filled to the brim with hatred.

“Hmph - this is what I get for acting altruistically. I thought a good stress relieving bone in the woods with your cherie amour would really sort out that bee in your bonnet, but you sir are just a very unpleasant man and I’m worried that-”

“WADE.” This time Logan’s voice is a threat as he shouts at the man. You place a hand on his muscled arm to steady him. Though he may have stopped your heart with his antics, Wade isn’t doing anything particularly outrageous.  Logan shakes your hand from his arm and allows his claws to retract as he stands. 

“Thanks for jumping to my defence there, Y/N. Great to meetcha bt-dubs, huge fan.” You’re disoriented from the wakeup call but you shake the hand he offers you.  Honestly, you’re still trying to process the head-fuckery of the past day, so you don’t have a quick response for him, though the mouth doesn’t seem to mind as he continues. “That mean lil’ lady is asking for ya’. Thought I’d come and check you and big yellow weren’t still bumpin’ uglies. Didn’t want her to see you and Papa going to town on each other's fun parts.”

“Uh - Thanks… Wade?” 

“That’s me.” He theatrically begins bestowing multiple kisses on the back of your hand he still had in his grasp, which you retract gently. “Oh, and we’re done.”

Pushing yourself up, you go to stand though Logan offers you his newly gloved palm. You lock your fingers around his and the two of you stand together, inches apart and your fingers still intertwined, neither quite sure what to say to the other. Wade’s ‘awh’ over your shoulder shatters the moment and he drops your hand instantaneously. 

After a beat or two Logan leans forward, placing a single solitary kiss on your forehead. “See ya’ around, bub.”

“Where’s my smooch, Logie-bear?”

“Go fuck yourself, Wade.” He calls as he walks around, Logan doesn’t look back as he heads off into the forest. 

You still had faith he’d turn up for the fight, Logan always turned up when it counted and you knew this time would be no different. 

“Hate to see him leave, but love to watch him go.” Wade sighs linking his arm with yours. 

“Mmh, You can say that again.” You agree with the clown watching Logan’s ass as he walks away, you swear you see his step falter thanks to his impeccable hearing, but he doesn’t turn back. 

The two of you turn and you begin walking back to the cave arm in arm with the strange man to prepare for the assault on Cassandra’s lair when Wade finally asks the question you know he’s been dying to ask since meeting you “So, Y/N just between us girls… how big is it?”

LOGAN TENDER HAIR TUCK SUPREMACY RISE. I'll use it in every fic, don't think I won't.

Thanks for reading xxx

Graphics by my pal - @saradika-graphics 💕

[ds-angel1]

TEACHERS LITTLE PET

cw: SMUT(18+), teacher x student relationship, hitting it from the back(in the classroom), big age gap(ages aren´t specified), reader is a senior, i´m not american and have no idea how the school system works so please just smile and nod

wc: ~ 5.1k

a/n: tell me what you think of this dynamic and if you want more cause i have some ideas!! also this is the longest fic i´ve ever written, not my best work but atleast i managed to write something?? keep in mind i had a fever when i wrote this

Rafe had no idea how he ended up here.

Well, if he was being honest, he did. He just hated admitting it.

He hated kids. Teenagers weren’t much better. If they weren’t whining about something trivial, they were loud, obnoxious, and bursting with opinions they thought were groundbreaking. And high schoolers? They were the worst of the lot, caught in that unbearable limbo between childhood and adulthood, convinced they knew everything and that the world had been tailor-made to inconvenience them.

He hated his job, too. But after his father had all but shoved him into college, and he had somehow managed to scrape together an art history degree through a chaotic jumble of barely thought-out course selections, he needed a paycheck. He needed something, anything, to make use of the four years he had spent drowning in essays about the Renaissance and lectures on the symbolism of Baroque architecture.

And there it was, a high school history teacher.

He was fairly certain the school had been desperate. Desperate enough to hire the first applicant who could string a coherent sentence together about the American Revolution. And lucky him, that applicant had been Rafe.

The school itself was unremarkable. Small, under 400 students, just two squat brick buildings separated by a weather-beaten schoolyard that reeked of stale cigarette smoke and teenage apathy. Five hours from the Outer Banks, he could visit home whenever he wanted. Not that he did. There was nothing left for him there, nothing worth the drive, and frankly, there was nothing for him here either.

His days were a loop, a monotonous, uninspired cycle of standing in front of rows of disinterested, hormonal teenagers, rattling off lessons about long-dead historical figures far more interesting than any of his students would ever bother to realize. He graded half-assed essays, endured halfhearted excuses about missing assignments, and spent more time than he cared to admit staring at the clock, willing the hours to pass. Then, when the final bell rang, he trudged back to his apartment, a bare, impersonal space that he never bothered to decorate. No photos, no art, and no signs that anyone lived there. Just a bed, a couch, and a kitchen table that mostly went unused.

And then there were the truly miserable days, the ones where he was roped into subbing for freshman P.E., a biweekly exercise in self-inflicted torture. Half the girls refused to break a sweat, acting as if running a single lap would somehow lead to their untimely demise. The other half of the class consisted of cocky, over-competitive boys who treated dodgeball like a blood sport. He spent most of those periods standing on the sidelines, arms crossed, blowing the whistle when things got too heated, and watching the clock even more desperately than usual.

It was a dull, uninspired existence; monotonous, predictable, and entirely void of passion. He lived his life the way his students listened to the outdated documentaries he played in class: half-awake, uninterested, just going through the motions because it had to be done.

Until you walked into his class.

The first day of school after summer break always carried a certain energy; electric, restless, filled with voices overlapping in an unfiltered rush of stories from the last few weeks. As Rafe pushed open the door to his classroom, that familiar wave of chatter hit him like a sudden gust of wind. Laughter, exclamations, the scrape of chairs against the floor—it was all as chaotic as he had expected.

With a quiet sigh, he made his way to his desk, setting his thermos down on the bleached oak surface before picking it up again almost instinctively, taking a slow sip before returning it to its place. His fingers moved on autopilot, retrieving his school-issued laptop from his bag, pressing the power button, and waiting for the screen to glow to life. His gaze lifted, sweeping across the students, his students. The same faces he’d taught last year, now a little older, a little different, officially juniors.

But one face wasn’t familiar.

You.

Rafe spotted you almost immediately, sitting in the third row, right by the window where the morning sky stretched in endless hues of soft blue. You were listening—well, nodding, at least—to Amanda, whose mouth moved a mile a minute. He didn’t have to hear her know she was spewing an endless stream of conversation; Amanda was known for filling any silence, anytime, anywhere. But his attention wasn’t on her. It was on you.

A dark navy skirt draped over your thighs, the fabric shifting in gentle waves with every slight movement. Your top, a delicate white spaghetti strap with tiny baby blue flowers, hugged your frame, lace tracing the neckline, a small bow nestled right at its center. A beige cardigan hung loosely over your shoulders, two buttons left undone as if they had never been intended for use in the first place. Your hair was pulled back into a ponytail, not rigid, not loose, just… effortless. A few strands framed your face, soft wisps that moved when you turned your head, catching the light in a way that made them seem almost ethereal.

And sure, you looked beautiful, undeniably so. But it wasn’t just that.

It was the way your eyes flickered around the room, quietly observing, absorbing. The way your lips parted slightly every so often, murmuring the occasional “Uh-huh” or “Yeah” in response to Amanda’s nonstop chatter, even as your mind seemed elsewhere. There was something in your expression, an almost hesitant curiosity, a quiet awareness, that made Rafe’s fingers pause over the laptop’s keyboard.

He had seen many faces in this classroom. Some familiar, some forgettable.

But yours?

Yours was impossible to ignore.

"Uh— okay, let’s get started. Settle down," Rafe called out to the students, his voice steady despite the chaos. The room buzzed with post-summer chatter, desks scraping against the floor as students found their seats. He rolled his shoulders, forcing himself to exhale. The first day back was always like this, full of energy, distractions, and the struggle to rein everyone in. But today, there was another battle brewing beneath the surface, one he wasn’t prepared for.

He hoped that once the lesson began, he could shift his focus, and force himself to look anywhere but at you. He clung to that hope like a lifeline, but the moment he commanded their attention, he had yours.

And when your eyes locked onto him, he was trapped. Hypnotized. His breath hitched, pulse stuttering in a way it had no right to. For what felt like an eternity, he couldn’t tear his gaze away, couldn’t shake the invisible thread tightening between you. His fingers curled into his palm, nails pressing against his skin.

Shit.

Swallowing hard, he forced himself to snap out of it, dragging his attention back to the board. He took a measured breath, gripping the chalk like it might anchor him. "Alright, I know you’re all still in vacation mode, but we need to get talking about history."

The usual grumbling came, but it was muted, fading as students settled into their seats. Good. The routine was safe. The routine was predictable. The routine wouldn’t let his mind wander to places it shouldn’t.

"Before we dive in, we have a new student joining us this year from the senior class," he announced, keeping his tone even, impersonal. His gaze flickered back to you, just for a second, just long enough to acknowledge you without giving himself away. "Would you introduce yourself?"

A brief silence. You hesitated, shifting under the weight of so many eyes before murmuring your name.

"Great," Rafe said, far too quickly. He cleared his throat, turning back to the board. "So, what do we know about American history from the Industrial Revolution to the modern age?"

The next forty-five minutes passed in a blur of discussion, textbook readings, and writing exercises. Normally, this was when he’d catch up on grading or chip away at whatever administrative work he had. But today? No. Today, his focus splintered, frayed at the edges every time he felt your presence in the room.

His eyes kept drifting.

To you.

It was reckless. Stupid. He knew it was wrong, knew exactly how it would look if anyone noticed. He wasn’t blind, he’d found students attractive before, but it had always been a fleeting thing, a passing thought dismissed before it could take root. A moment, nothing more.

But this?

This was different.

This wasn’t just acknowledging that you were pretty, though you were. Incredibly so. This wasn’t just an absent-minded recognition of beauty. No, this was something deeper. Something that twisted in his gut and settled in his bones, something that made his breath catch when he wasn’t prepared for it.

Something dangerous.

His fingers raked through his hair as he stared down at his keyboard, typing nothing. He could tell himself it was just a dry spell, that he’d been avoiding distractions for too long, that it was simply physical. But that would be a lie.

Because it wasn’t just about desire.

It was about you.

And that was a problem.

The shrill chime of the bell split the air, and the classroom erupted into motion. Notebooks snapped shut, chairs scraped against the tile, and a low hum of voices swelled as students shoved books into backpacks, eager to escape into the chaotic freedom of lunch. You swung your bag over your shoulder, weaving through the shifting maze of desks, your focus locked on the door. The cafeteria was called, an oasis of noise and anonymity where you could blend in, and where no one was analyzing your every move.

But just as you stepped forward, a voice cut through the chatter behind you.

"Hey."

It wasn’t loud, but it had weight, like an anchor dropping into the sea of departing students. Something in the tone made your stomach twist. You turned, pulse hitching slightly, to find Mr. Cameron watching you from behind his desk. His expression was unreadable, calm but not necessarily kind.

"Yes, Mr. Cameron?" you asked, hesitating.

"Can I speak to you for a moment?"

It was phrased like a question, but you both knew it wasn’t. He gave a small nod toward the door as the last few stragglers trickled out, a silent instruction.

With a quiet sigh, you nudged the door shut behind them, the click of the latch sealing you in. The classroom, so full of life just seconds ago, now felt cavernous, the quiet pressing in around you. You hesitated before making your way back to his desk, each step feeling heavier than the last.

Mr. Cameron leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on the surface of his desk, fingers steepled together. "So… I wanted to talk to you about last year." His voice was measured, and neutral, but something about it put you on edge. "You were in Ms. Wallace’s class, right?" His eyes flicked to a sheet of paper in front of him, though you were certain he already knew the answer.

You shifted uncomfortably. "Mhm." A simple answer for something far more complicated. Your history with Ms. Wallace wasn’t just a class; it was a long, exhausting battle, a relentless tug-of-war between frustration, unmet expectations, and a sinking feeling of inevitability.

Mr. Cameron studied you for a moment before speaking again. "Can you tell me what didn’t work? Was it her? The material? Her teaching style? Or was it something on your end?" His head tilted slightly, voice smooth, probing.

You hesitated, suddenly hyper-aware of the way your fingers clenched the strap of your bag. "I guess I was just… kind of unfocused last year," you admitted, your voice barely above a murmur.

"Mm." He hummed, eyebrows lifting just slightly. "Just last year?"

Your stomach tightened.

"Because judging by today’s lesson, it seems like you're still a little… distracted. More interested in doodles than in history, huh?"

Heat crept up your neck, shame pooling in your chest. Your gaze dropped to the floor as if looking anywhere else might soften the weight of his words.

"You’d think," he continued, his tone carrying the faintest edge, "that after the school let you pass the year and only required you to retake this class, you'd put in a little more effort."

His words landed like a slap, sharp, deliberate. He knew exactly how unfair that was. Knew how it would make you feel. And yet, for whatever reason, he didn’t stop himself.

The silence that followed was suffocating.

“You want to pass, yes?”

His voice was low, almost teasing, each word curling around you like smoke. He leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on his desk, dark eyes locked onto yours with something unreadable, something that made your stomach twist.

You swallowed hard, your throat suddenly dry, and gave a quick, eager nod.

Rafe watched you for a lingering second, dragging it out just long enough to make you shift where you stood. Then, with an exhale that was almost too casual, he pushed himself up from his chair. He didn’t simply stand, he moved. Slow. Deliberate. A quiet display of control as he braced one hand against the edge of his desk, his weight settling into a lean. The aged wood creaked under him, but he didn’t seem to notice, or maybe he just didn’t care.

His focus remained entirely on you.

“And what do you think I could do to help you achieve that?”

Smooth. Measured. But there was something else beneath his tone, something just sharp enough to catch. Playfulness, maybe. Amusement. Or something more dangerous.

His gaze flickered, sweeping over you in a way that felt too quick at first, like a reflex he hadn’t meant to act on. But then, you saw it. The hesitation. The way his throat bobbed, how his fingers flexed at his sides before he rubbed the back of his neck as if trying to shake off whatever had just slipped through the cracks. But it was too late.

You had seen.

And by the way, his jaw clenched a second later, the way his lips pressed together, you knew he realized it too.

Your heart hammered. You didn’t answer him. Couldn’t. Instead, your fingers fidgeted with each other, twisting and untwisting, your bottom lip caught between your teeth. The silence between you stretched, thick and electric, heavy with something unspoken, something neither of you dared name but both of you felt.

Rafe inhaled deeply, the sound filling the quiet space between you. The air itself seemed different now, charged, like something unseen was pressing in, urging one of you to break.

He let the breath out slowly, his chest rising and falling in a rhythm that somehow felt… controlled. Intentional. And then, his eyes moved again.

This time, there was no rush. No flicker of hesitation.

Now, he studied you.

It was slow, almost methodical, th

6e kind of look that made heat crawl up the back of your neck, the kind that lingered just long enough in places that made you second-guess every inch of yourself. When his gaze reached your thighs, a nervous jolt ran through you. Almost instinctively, you gripped the hem of your skirt, twisting the fabric in your fists, your knuckles turning white.

A nervous habit.

One he noticed.

One that made his eyes darken, not dramatically, not in some exaggerated, obvious way, but just enough. Just enough for you to catch the shift, to see the amusement flicker across his face like the hint of a smirk he didn’t fully let through.

“Hm?” The questioning hum he let out brought you back to reality, back to his question, and back to the answer that you had yet to give.

“Um… I- I don’t know…” you stammered out.

His eyes flick down again, taking in your upper body, eyes practically circling in on your chest. As if your body has a mind of its own, you straighten your back, puffing out your chest.

Rafe’s eyes flickered up to yours, and for a second, he didn’t move. Didn’t blink.

The air between you had thickened, dense with something unspoken, something dangerous. His tongue flicked out to wet his lips, slow, almost pensive as if he were considering something he shouldn’t be. He exhaled sharply through his nose, a breath that almost sounded like a laugh but carried no humor, just tension.

“Yeah?” His voice was softer now, quieter like he was testing the waters, like he was trying to figure out how far this would go before one of you came to your senses.

Your lips parted, but no words came. Your throat felt tight, your skin burning where his gaze traced. You felt like you were standing on the edge of something vast, something that couldn’t be undone.

His fingers tapped once, twice against the desk, a steady rhythm that contradicted the barely concealed restraint in his posture. His body language told two different stories, one of hesitation, and another of inevitability. He was too close, and yet he wasn’t moving away.

Your breath hitched as he shifted, his body angling just slightly towards yours. It was a minuscule movement, one that could’ve been mistaken for a simple change in weight, but you knew better. It was deliberate. Calculated.

“You want to pass this class?”

The question was a mere whisper, his voice dipped in something that made your stomach twist. Your throat bobbed as you swallowed, nodding, too fast, too eager.

His lips twitched, almost smirking like he knew exactly what he was doing to you. He leaned in just enough that you caught the faint scent of his cologne, something dark and musky, something entirely him.

“Then you’re gonna have to focus.”

The way he said it—low, deliberate—sent a shiver down your spine. His words weren’t inappropriate, but the way he looked at you, the way his voice wrapped around each syllable, made them feel like something else entirely.

Your knees felt weak, your heart pounding against your ribcage as your grip tightened around the strap of your bag. The classroom, once suffocating in its quiet, now felt electric, charged with a current that neither of you dared acknowledge aloud.

Rafe exhaled again, this time slower, measured. His hand moved, not towards you, not touching, but close enough that you felt the shift in air between you.

“You’re nervous.”

It wasn’t a question.

Your breath shuddered. “I—”

His head tilted slightly, watching, waiting. His pupils were blown wide, his expression unreadable but entirely focused on you.

His jaw ticked, his fingers twitching at his side like he was fighting something. A beat of silence stretched between you.

And then, Rafe moved.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t forceful. It was a slow descent, a moment stretched into eternity. His lips hovered just above yours, close enough that you felt the ghost of his breath against your skin, close enough that your lips parted in anticipation before your mind could catch up.

He paused—just for a fraction of a second, just enough to give you the chance to pull away. Just enough to make it clear that if this happened, it was your choice, too.

But you didn’t move away.

Neither did he.

And before you could let a single other breath out, his lips met yours.

Soft at first. Testing. A barely-there brush that sent a sharp current through your veins, igniting something dangerous and uncontainable in your chest.

He exhaled against your mouth, and in that moment it seemed like something in him snapped.

His hand found your waist, fingers splaying against the fabric of your cardigan as he pulled you just slightly closer. His other hand lifted, skimming along your jaw before his fingers tangled in your hair, tilting your head just so.

The kiss deepened, slow but demanding, every movement deliberate, every touch igniting another spark beneath your skin. He wasn’t rushing—no, he was savoring, taking his time like he wanted to memorize the exact way you fit against him. He knew this was a mistake but couldn’t bring himself to care.

Your hands found his chest, pressing lightly against the fabric of his dress shirt, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breath beneath your palms. His fingers tightened slightly in your hair at the contact, his grip on your waist firm but careful, as if he was anchoring himself as much as he was anchoring you.

The sharp sound of footsteps in the hallway shattered the fragile haze that had settled between you two, yanking you both back into reality.

Rafe was the first to react, pulling away, but only just. His forehead remained pressed against yours, his breath still ragged, chest rising and falling in sync with yours. His fingers, warm and possessive, lingered at your waist a second too long before he finally, finally, let go, stepping back just enough to put a sliver of space between you. But not enough to erase what had just happened.

His eyes searched yours, dark blue depths swirling with something unreadable, something dangerous. His exhale was sharp, tension coiling through his jaw as he dragged a hand through his hair, his fingers gripping at the strands like he was trying to ground himself.

“Shit,” he muttered under his breath, voice rough and uneven. Then, with more force, “Fuck. Fuck.”

His eyes shut tight, his head shaking in frustration as if the motion itself could erase the last few minutes. When they opened again, they were filled with something even more intense. In two strides, he was in front of you again, his hands gripping your upper arms, fingertips pressing just a little too hard, just enough to make you feel trapped between the heat of his body and the reality of the situation.

“This didn’t happen, okay?” His voice was firm, but there was a slight tremor to it like he wasn’t sure if he believed the words himself. His grip tightened before loosening again, as if he was at war with himself as if he didn’t trust his restraint.

You didn’t answer. You just stared at him, your pulse thrumming wildly, your breath uneven. His eyes flickered down to your parted lips, then back to your eyes, and something in him cracked. His hands slid down your arms in a slow, deliberate motion, his touch leaving a trail of heat in its wake. When his fingertips finally settled at your hipbones, pressing in lightly, his resolve wavered even more.

“This…” he exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “I don’t know.”

His voice was different now, lower, more raw. His fingers traced absent patterns along the fabric of your skirt as his mind spiraled, thoughts tumbling into a chaotic storm. Why was he doing this? This wasn’t like him. He had met you, his student, his goddamn student, less than an hour ago, and he had already crossed every possible line. And yet, even knowing that he wasn’t pulling away. He was moving closer.

His hands ghosted up your sides, the touch sending shivers across your skin. His lips brushed against your ear as he whispered, “Don’t tell anyone. Can you do that for me?”

If someone had asked you that morning how you thought your first day of senior year would go, never in a million years would you have said this? Sure, you’d heard the whispers in the halls, and seen the way every girl’s eyes lingered when he walked past. Mr. Cameron was the forbidden fantasy, the subject of countless rumors and stolen glances. But he was also your teacher. And he had just kissed you.

You knew it was wrong. You should run, tell someone, do the right thing. And yet, as your mind battled between logic and desire, only one thought rose above the rest: he had kissed you.

Mr. Cameron, the man every girl in school lusted after, had kissed you. Had he done this before? Had he chosen others before you? Or was this different?

Even as doubt twisted itself into a tight knot in your stomach, you found yourself nodding, unable to speak, afraid your voice would betray you with the high-pitched, breathy sound of a girl who had just been touched by fire and didn’t want to step away.

“Good.”

His voice was barely a whisper, almost more breath than sound. The tension in the room grew, thick and suffocating, but you didn’t want to breathe anything else in. His fingers glided upward again, teasing over your waist, grazing over your ribs, leaving a trail of heat that made your entire body burn with anticipation.

Then, gently, with a tenderness that contradicted the fevered hunger in his eyes, he cupped your face. For one impossible moment, you thought he was going to kiss you again, that he was going to throw every bit of logic and control out the window and claim your lips as he had minutes ago. But instead, he tilted your head slightly, his breath warm against your throat.

Then his lips were on your neck, barely touching, soft and slow.

A sound, something between a gasp and a whimper, escaped you, and his hands tightened ever so slightly, grounding you, making you feel small under his grasp. His mouth moved lower, pressing another kiss, and then another, each one more deliberate, more intoxicating than the last.

You barely registered the moment he turned you around, your back now facing him. Your hands trembled as they found purchase against the smooth surface of his desk, the dark wood cool beneath your fingertips.

Then, with the kind of confidence that sent a shiver racing down your spine, he placed his hands on your thighs, massaging them slowly, possessively.

His voice, low and dripping with something dark and dangerous, ghosted over your ear.

“Stay quiet for me.”

You sucked in a deep, long breath, letting your head fall and your eyes close.

The feel of the Rafe´s fingers slid under the skirt and the pads of his fingers started tracing along your panties, each tiny motion making your body stutter and tremble.

“You´re… you´re real special, you know that?” He spoke from behind you but you couldn’t respond, still holding your breath as if letting out the air would make the situation you found yourself in truly real.

When he had had enough of feeling the warm, twisted feeling in his stomach as he let his fingers glide over your clothed cunt, he pushed your underwear aside with his thumb, letting the tip of his index finger dip into your already quivering hole. The action intensified the feeling and buried it even deeper in his gut.

As if a shock of lightning had hit you, you bolted away from his hand a few inches, clenching your thighs tightly as you finally relieved your lungs of the air they were keeping trapped.

“M- Mr. Cameron…” You started to sputter out but stopped when you felt long, gruff fingers curl around the sides of your panties before pulling the black lace material down tantalizingly slow.

A cold rush of air hit your most intimate body part, making you gasp and pant. When you heard rustling and what you could only assume was the clink of your teacher´s belt, you shut your mouth and froze as you waited for the man´s next move.

“Listen,” he whispered your name like it was a sin he committed and you were a pastor, “You understand that this stays between us, yes?” His large hands massaged your ass and thighs, cursing under his breath when he saw how soaked you were.

“Mhm,” you hummed in agreement. You weren´t sure why. He was your teacher and by the looks of it and the feel of his hands on you, apparently a pedophile. But god did you want this; you wanted it, him, so bad.

Before you could so much as even let another thought pass through your head, he thrust forward, burying his cock inside you as deep as he could with multiple rapid movements of his hips. You moaned and practically screamed, the sounds of pleasure from you making Rafe reach around and cover practically half of your entire face.

“Fuck, you´re so tight,” he muttered sharply next to your ear as he started moving inside of you again, dragging his hips back only to snap them back forward less than a moment later.

“You like that, huh? Like being fucked by your teacher. Little teachers pet.”

He knew this was wrong, you were his student, and you probably didn´t even actually want this but for some fucked up reason that made it even better for Rafe, and as the thought crossed his mind it only made him thrust into you faster. At that point, you were damn near choking and sobbing into his hand, his palm making it hard for you to get a deep breath of fresh air in.

With a sense of panic taking over you, you tried to move your hands off of the desk to claw him off of your face but your attempts proved futile when Rafe pushed you flat onto the desk, forcing you to take his cock even deeper.

His free hand which wasn´t taking away your ability to breathe, found its way between your legs, his index, and middle fingers drawing squiggly circles on your clit. At the shock of pleasure that ran through you as he teased your extremely sensitive bundle of nerves, you clenched around his pipe and arched your back. You felt that familiar coil spring up in the depths of your stomach, your body rocking slightly backward against Rafe´s to help you relive the press soon.

Rafe pushed into you harder than he had any of the other time before then, hitting your sweet spot with a force that would have made you cry out, had you had your mouth free. His fingers applied pressure to the shapes they were making on your clit. The mix of heightened attention and force made your pussy squeeze around him and pushed you over the edge, coming with tears in your eyes.

After a few more brutal thrusts into your soppy cunt, he came as well, unloading into you, his thoughts barely registering anything at that point except for you and your body bent over his desk, his cum dripping out of your used up hole and onto your thighs.

Slowly he took away his hand from your face, a trail of spit following. As soon as you got a few much-needed breaths, you collapsed onto the desk, your body falling limp. Rafe pulled out of you, not wasting any time before he pulled his pants back on and redid his leather belt around his hips. He leaned over you, his body covering all of your sweaty skin as he dressed you in your underwear again.

“You did so good, darling. So, so good."

[ilovemilestellersmoustache]

Letters I Couldn’t Send

Bob Reynolds x Thunderbolts!reader

Summary: Bob's been feeling lonely in between missions especially when Y/n isn’t there to occupy his mind, so he decides to try therapy. There it's suggested he writes his feelings out. But what happens when the letters get out to her?

WC:4.3K

A/N: Well his definitely couldn’t of had a much more satisfying ending but in outta ideas guys please send me suggestions

⸻

It started with the silence.

Not the battlefield kind, Bob could handle that. That noise had a rhythm, a reason. The thunder of explosions, the sharp crack of gunfire, the barking of orders over comms, it all had a place. It meant something. Chaos with a cause.

But the silence in between missions?

That was different. That was the kind that lingered like smoke, curling around his ribs, felt like a question he didn’t know how to answer.

The team had shipped out again. Another international crisis. Another mess the Thunderbolts had been sent to clean up. This time it was Seoul, some subterranean weapons lab under the city that had to be neutralized before things got out of control. A high-risk, high-stakes mission.

Bob hadn’t been cleared to go.

He never fought the orders. Not anymore. There were a few missions within the year he was able to go, but not after what happened the last time he’d pushed it. He knew better. When the possibility of unleashing the Void even whispered into the room, the protocols snapped into place like a cage around him.

Stand by.

Stay ready.

Do not deploy unless sanctioned.

Those words, cold and clinical, had carved themselves into the soft tissue of his brain. And so he stayed behind. As always.

And now… now it was just him, alone in the tower. The rest of the team was who knows where, halfway across the world, running through smoke and fire. Maybe Ava was phasing through walls. Maybe Yelena was laughing in that sharp, unbothered way as she cracked someone’s ribs. Maybe Bucky was gritting his teeth through another close call. He could almost see it all. Feel it.

Meanwhile, he sat in a worn-out hoodie on the rec room couch, staring at the flickering screen of a movie he didn’t remember choosing. The credits had rolled five minutes ago, but he hadn’t moved. Didn’t blink. Just sat there in that electric stillness, his coffee long gone cold in his hand, the cup sweating against his palm.

That silence was the worst kind. The absence. The hollowness.

On good days, Y/N was there to fill it. Her laugh, her voice, her presence, it was like light through a cracked door. Just enough to remind him that the darkness wasn’t total. That he wasn’t always a ticking time bomb. That sometimes, someone saw him as more than the Void’s vessel. That someone could love him anyway.

But she was on the Seoul mission, too.

And without her…

It was like something had been scooped out of him and never put back. The walls felt closer. The silence had teeth now, and it bit every time he looked.

He didn’t blame the team. Of course he didn’t. It wasn’t their fault he couldn’t be trusted, not really. The risk was real. He knew it. They followed orders. They didn’t write them. Still, knowing that didn’t stop the isolation from curling around him like smoke, quiet, creeping, inescapable.

He tried to distract himself. He worked out until his muscles screamed, then showered in water too hot to be comfortable. He tried reading but couldn’t focus past the same three sentences. The TV offered its flashing noise, but none of it landed. Everything felt… detached. Like he was watching the world through glass.

Three days.

Seventy two hours of radio silence, punctuated by brief check-ins from mission control.

No voices he wanted to hear.

No knock on his door.

No trace of her.

On the third night, long after the bunker had gone still and the movie had long since ended, Bob sat there with the remote loosely clutched in his fingers and the cold coffee in his other hand, staring at the black screen that reflected only a faint, distorted version of himself.

He looked haunted.

He felt haunted.

And not by ghosts, exactly. Not even by the Void, though that shadow was always somewhere at the edge of his vision. No, this was something worse. Something smaller, but deeper.

The ache of being forgotten.

The ache of still being here, when the world kept turning without him.

His throat worked around a dry swallow. He hated how dramatic he sounded, even inside his own head. He was alive. Safe. Fed. Sheltered.

But he was also invisible.

And for the first time in a long time, Bob Reynolds thought, not about the darkness, not about the power sleeping beneath his skin but about something gentler. Something simpler.

Maybe I should talk to someone.

Not about the Void. That would come with too many complications.

Not even about the past stories or the weight of being left behind.

Just… about being alone.

About what it did to him.

About feeling like a ghost in his own skin.

And maybe, just maybe, if he said it out loud…

It wouldn’t feel so permanent.

⸻

The therapist’s name was Dr. Madani.

Mid-forties, calm eyes, no nonsense. She wore neutral colors and practical shoes, and her voice had the kind of steadiness that made you believe she wouldn’t flinch even if the walls started to bleed. That first session, Bob had waited for the telltale sign, disbelief, discomfort, judgment when he told her exactly why he was there.

That he was part of the New Avengers?That he had powers that could level cities if he lost focus? That sometimes, he wasn’t allowed to leave the country, not because he’d done something wrong, but because if he got too emotional, reality itself might tear open like wet paper.

She didn’t blink. Didn’t ask him to repeat it. Just nodded once and scribbled something calmly into her notebook.

That was a good sign.

Better than good. It was rare.

So he kept coming back.

Once a week. Tuesday mornings. Early, before the rest of the compound stirred too much. He liked it that way, quiet halls, empty coffee pots, sunlight just beginning to filter through reinforced windows. He sat on the same couch every time, hands braced on his knees, sometimes talking, sometimes not. Dr. Madani never pushed. She asked questions like she was handing him a flashlight, not leading him anywhere he didn’t want to go.

And slowly, very slowly, the words started to come. About the silence. About the guilt of being spared from missions he wanted to join. About feeling like his existence was always something to be managed, measured, mitigated. Not lived.

He didn’t tell anyone at first.

Not because it was a secret.

It just felt… personal. Sacred, even. Like something he needed to protect. A small part of himself that hadn’t yet been cracked open by the Void.

But eventually, people noticed.

It started in little ways. He was a bit more grounded. A bit less like he might disintegrate if someone looked at him too long. A bit more… here.

Yelena was the first to say anything.

She poked him in the arm one afternoon after training and gave him a once over, lips pursed. “Therapy?” she asked, like it was a codeword.

Bob blinked. “Uh… yeah.”

“Good.” she said with a sharp nod. “Maybe now you won’t look like you’ve seen a ghost every morning.”

Then she grinned, wide and wolfish, and wandered off before he could respond.

John, never one for subtlety, clapped him on the back so hard Bob nearly dropped his water bottle. “You’re seeing someone?” he asked, then immediately corrected himself. “Like a therapist someone?”

“Yeah.”

“Figured, couldn’t be a woman.”

Bucky in the background expression shifted into something more sober. “Good man. Wish I’d started sooner. Might’ve saved myself a couple bad years.”

Bob wasn’t sure how to respond, so he just nodded. They didn’t have to say it all out loud. Not every wound needed to be unpacked in public.

Alexei found out next. Over breakfast. The Russian looked up from a plate piled with bacon and muttered, “Ah, Westerners. Always with the talking.” in that deep, sardonic tone of his.

But it came with a rare approving nod. One of those subtle things Alexei did when he didn’t want to make a big deal out of being proud of someone.

Ava didn’t say much. She never did.

But one evening in the corridor, she passed him on the way to her room, paused, and met his eyes. No smile. Just a shared, quiet understanding. A nod of solidarity from one ghost to another.

And then there was you.

You found out by accident, really caught the tail end of a conversation between Bob and Dr. Madani over the phone as he tried to reschedule a session after dinner ran long. You didn’t press. Didn’t joke, didn’t pry.

Just waited until the next time the two of you were alone, in the stillness of his quarters where the air always smelled faintly like cedar and coffee, and said, gently.

“I heard… you’ve been talking to someone.”

Bob stiffened, a little embarrassed. He opened his mouth to downplay it, but you stepped in before he could.

“I’m proud of you.” you said.

Simple. Quiet. Honest.

And that-

That undid something in him.

Like a thread pulled loose from a tightly woven net, a quiet unraveling that wasn’t painful, just… necessary. The tension in his chest gave way to something warmer. Softer. Real.

He looked at you, really looked, and saw the sincerity in your eyes. No pity. No worry.

Just love. Just you.

His voice caught in his throat, but he didn’t need to speak.

You knew.

You always knew.

And in that moment, for the first time in months, Bob Reynolds felt less like a walking disaster waiting to happen… and more like a man becoming whole.

⸻

Session 9

Topic: You.

He hadn’t walked in planning to talk about you.

That morning had been like the others, gray sky, stale coffee, muscles sore from a workout he barely remembered doing.

Bob had come in wanting to talk about anything else.

But somewhere between describing the chaos in his life and feeling alone and how he’d locked himself in the tower for twenty hours afterward just to feel again, you slipped in.

You always did. Eventually.

“She’s different.” he said quietly, almost without thinking. “Y/N, I mean.”

Dr. Madani didn’t flinch. She never did. Just tilted her head the way she always did when something important passed between the lines.

“How so?”

Bob stared at the ceiling for a long moment, fingers laced together in his lap. “She doesn’t look at me like I’m going to break.”

“Who does?”

“Everyone.” he said. And it wasn’t bitter. It wasn’t even angry. It was just true.

Dr. Madani nodded slowly, absorbing that.

“But she doesn’t.” he continued. “She doesn’t tiptoe around me. Doesn’t treat me like glass. When she talks to me, it’s like…” He paused, struggling for the right shape of the thought. “It’s like I’m me. Not Sen- Not a broken man. Not whatever nightmare people think I could become.”

“You trust her.”

That landed like a stone dropped into still water.

He nodded. “Completely.”

Dr. Madani leaned forward, just slightly. Her tone softened, but there was steel beneath it. “Do you have feelings for her?”

He hesitated.

Not out of denial, but out of reverence. As if the truth might shatter something sacred.

Then he breathed out and said, “Yeah. I think I love her.”

The words changed the air in the room. Denser. Heavier. Not oppressive, but real. Like the truth had settled onto the couch next to him, folding its hands neatly in its lap.

He didn’t look at her when he said it. He looked at the floor, where his boots had tracked a bit of mud in from the rain. It felt safer, somehow, than meeting anyone’s eyes while admitting that.

Dr. Madani’s voice cut gently through the silence. “So why haven’t you told her?”

Bob stared, long and slow.

“I don’t know how to explain it.” he said. “She sees the real me. The part I don’t show anyone. And I think if I try to have more… if I try to touch that kind of happiness…” He swallowed hard. “I’ll ruin it. I’ll ruin her.”

“You’re afraid.”

He didn’t argue. Just stared at his hands, watching how they trembled ever so slightly.

“Yeah.”

For a long moment, there was only the soft ticking of the office clock.

Then Dr. Madani leaned forward slightly, resting her elbows on her knees. “Try this.” she said. “Write it down. Letters. Say what you want to say to her but don’t give them to her. Not yet. Keep them for yourself. Get the words out of your head.”

He looked up, brow furrowed.

“Even if you never show her?” he asked.

“Even then.” she replied. “Letting love exist on the page is still better than letting fear keep it caged.”

He didn’t say anything, but the thought rooted in his chest, somewhere between his heartbeat and the Void.

That night, when the tower was quiet again and everyone was asleep, he sat at his desk under the soft buzz of the overhead lamp, a pen between his fingers and an untouched notebook in front of him.

For a while, he just stared.

Then, finally, he wrote:

Y/N,

You don’t know this but when I hear your voice, the noise in my head quiets. The shadows settle. The Void gets smaller. I think that means something.

I think you saved me before I even knew I needed saving.

He stopped there.

Closed the notebook.

And for the first time in a long time, Bob went to bed feeling like something in him had been released.

⸻

Letter One

Not Sent.

Y/N,

You asked me once casually, like it was nothing, what the Void feels like.

I gave you the easy answer. Told you it was a black hole. And that’s true. It is. It’s gravity and hunger and noise. It’s this constant ache just under my skin, like I’m being pulled in two directions toward destruction, and away from myself.

But I didn’t tell you the rest. Not really.

The Void isn’t just darkness. It’s absence. Of peace. Of quiet. Of being seen. It’s like standing in the middle of a screaming crowd where every voice is my own, shouting all the worst things I’ve ever believed about myself.

And then there’s you.

When you talk to me even just in passing, about dumb things like who drank the last cup of coffee or how Ava pretends not to like that dumb soap opera you got her into the noise changes. It doesn’t vanish, not completely. But it dulls. It backs off, like it knows it doesn’t belong in the room when you’re in it.

You make the world quieter, Y/N.

You make me quieter.

And I think that’s what love is.

Not fireworks. Not grand declarations. Just… a quieting. A calming. Someone who makes all the chaos feel like it has somewhere to go.

You do that for me.

And maybe I’ll never say this out loud, not the way I should but I need somewhere to put the truth.

So here it is.

I think I’m in love with you.

⸻

He wrote after therapy.

After the sessions where he’d dig through the wreckage of his mind and come back with shards too sharp to hold. After days when Dr. Madani asked gentle, pointed questions that left him raw and humming with things he didn’t know how to say out loud.

He wrote after bad dreams, when the Void swallowed cities behind his eyelids, when he woke up choking on screams that never left his throat. He wrote because it was the only way to drain the darkness out before it rooted deeper.

And sometimes, he wrote after the softest moments. The ones that shouldn’t have meant anything.

Like watching you twirl a pen between your fingers during a mission briefing, utterly focused and unaware.

Like the way your brow furrowed when you were reading intel too fast.

Like the time your laugh, real, unguarded, echoed off the walls of the living room at 1 a.m. because Yelena told a joke so bad it looped back to being good.

Those moments lodged themselves in him like stars against an obsidian sky. They glowed when everything else went dark.

He wrote because he couldn’t tell you.

He wrote because he wanted to.

Because his hands could say what his mouth never would.

The letters piled up.

Neatly folded, tucked into the back of a weather-worn notebook no one ever touched.

No signature. No dates. Just page after page of aching clarity.

He didn’t need to claim them. They were all his.

All you.

Sometimes they were two sentences.

Sometimes five pages.

Sometimes just a line that repeated over and over again until the ink smudged:

Please don’t ever leave.

They weren’t meant for the light.

Weren’t meant to be found.

They were a quiet kind of survival. A confession without consequence.

But even as they sat hidden in the dark, they were something real.

Like the way he looked at you when he thought you weren’t watching.

Like the way he never said goodbye, only “Be safe.”

Like the silence that always followed after you left a room.

⸻

Then they were gone.

It only took one careless moment.

Late one night after training, the team had drifted into the bunker kitchen like ghosts, sweaty, half-laughing, bruised from sparring but wired from adrenaline. Yelena, still in her tank top and boots, ducked into the storage lockers for her secret stash of Russian chocolate.

Bob’s locker was just below hers. She nudged it with her foot, just to balance herself, and something shifted.

A low thud. Then a soft, papery sound like wings.

A field manual slipped out and landed on the concrete floor, its spine cracked from age and use.

“Oops.” she muttered, bending to grab it.

But when she reached down, her fingers brushed not one, but several loose pages, creased and tucked between the manual’s back cover and its binding. They scattered like leaves. Maybe a dozen. Maybe more.

She picked one up without thinking. Eyes skimmed.

Then stopped.

The words weren’t tactical notes. Not mission logs.

They were intimate.

You asked me once what the Void feels like…

Her stomach dropped.

Another page.

When you laugh or look at me like I’m just Bob, it’s like the noise goes quiet…

Her breath caught. She looked over her shoulder, eyes wide, then back at the paper in her hand like it had burned her.

This wasn’t a journal.

These were letters.

To Y/N.

Without waiting, she grabbed a few more pages, reading faster now, pieces of the same heartbreak pulled out of hiding:

Sometimes I don’t know if I want you to know how deep this goes. If you knew… you’d leave. Or worse, you’d stay, and it would break you.

I would never forgive myself for making you carry this weight, too.

I think you make me want to be something more than just a weapon.

Yelena stood frozen, heart pounding.

Footsteps padded in from the hallway. John, towel slung over his shoulder, drinking water from a bottle. “You find your chocolate or what?”

She didn’t answer. Just looked at him, eyes dark and unreadable.

Then she held up the pages like evidence.

“Guys…” she said, voice steady but soft. “You need to see this.”

Within minutes, the small living room was quiet. Too quiet.

John sat with one knee bouncing anxiously, flipping a page with careful fingers.

Ava stood against the wall, arms crossed, reading one of the shorter ones three times over and saying nothing.

Alexei muttered something under his breath in Russian that no one asked him to translate.

But it was Y/N’s arrival that shifted the air.

You walked in fresh from a shower, towel around your shoulders, hair still damp, laughing at something on your phone.

Then you stopped.

They were all looking at you.

And on the table in front of them, you saw the unmistakable handwriting you’d seen on Bob’s grocery lists, his mission notes, the corner of your birthday card this year.

And your name.

Over.

And over.

And over again.

The letters weren’t signed.

They didn’t need to be.

⸻

The team sat around the table. Quiet.

The kind of quiet that wasn’t natural for them. No joking, no casual bickering. Just the kind that settled in like fog before something heavy fell.

Yelena had spread the letters out like puzzle pieces, some wrinkled, some barely touched. All fragile in their own way.

“This is about Y/N.” she said, voice low but certain. “All of it.”

Ava, slow and careful, picked one up. Her eyes scanned it with that clinical precision she used when reading threat assessments. Only this time, her features softened.

“It’s him.” she said. “It’s Bob.”

John leaned back, frowning. He tapped a page with the back of his knuckle. “No shit sherlock.”

The second your eyes fell on the handwriting, tight, slightly slanted, every ‘t’ crossed with a deliberate flick you knew.

Because you’d seen it scribbled across mission logs, smudged onto napkins from midnight meals. Because once, during a stakeout in Argentina, you’d fallen asleep beside him and woke to find your name written in the corner of his notebook over and over like he was trying to memorize it.

Because only Bob would write something like:

You make the monsters quiet.

And suddenly it felt like the ground beneath you shifted. Not in a way that knocked you over. But in that slow, undeniable way earthquakes start, quiet and deep and unstoppable.

You stepped forward, hand hovering over the letters like they were sacred. Your eyes flitted across half-finished thoughts, tear-stained lines, pages where he’d scratched something out only to rewrite it again a few lines down.

I watch you brush your hair behind your ear, and it’s like watching sunlight bend.

If I were braver, I’d tell you. But I think if I did, something inside me might unravel for good.

You are the only silence I’ve ever trusted.

The breath caught in your throat.

You didn’t cry. Not yet.

But your fingers curled slightly, like you were gripping onto air to stay steady.

Yelena watched you carefully, saying nothing for once.

No one spoke. No one moved.

The room belonged to you now. You, and the weight of what he’d kept hidden.

All those nights Bob had stayed behind while the rest of you flew into chaos. All the long silences. The soft, watchful way he looked at you when he thought you wouldn’t notice. The way his voice always softened when he said your name.

It was never nothing.

And now, it was everything.

⸻

You found him on the roof.

Of course you did.

It was the only place he ever went when the bunker walls started closing in, when the weight of what he was, what he carried, got too heavy to breathe through. Up there, the night sky was endless and forgiving, and no one asked him to be a hero or a ghost. Just a man.

The wind tugged at your sleeves as you stepped beside him, silent at first.

He was sitting near the ledge, knees pulled up, hands clasped tightly between them like a boy waiting for punishment or a prayer to be answered.

You stood there for a long moment before you spoke.

“I found the letters.” you said softly.

His head jerked slightly. “What? I mean- what letters, I-“

But the panic in his voice was already giving him away.

He flinched, shoulders curling inward. “They weren’t supposed to get out, you weren’t supposed to see that-“

“I know.”

Silence again. The wind whistled low between the buildings below, a distant car horn echoing like it belonged in another life. He still didn’t look at you. His jaw tightened, and you could see the twitch in the muscle near his temple, an old tic from when he was trying not to fall apart.

“I was scared.” he said eventually, voice raw. “Not of you. Of what I’d do to something good.”

He swallowed hard. “You’re good.”

You sat next to him. Not touching, yet. Just close enough that the heat from your shoulder brushed his.

“So are you.” you said.

He let out a broken laugh. Shaky. Bitter.

“That’s not true.”

“It is to me.”

And that’s when he looked at you. Really looked.

Not the sidelong glances in mission briefings. Not the half-second stares when he thought you were asleep on the couch. This was different.

This was Bob, stripped bare.

And what you saw was everything, the fear he’d never quite shaken, the hope he’d buried under layers of self-control, and the longing so sharp it cleaved straight through the air between you.

“I’m not perfect.” he whispered. Like it was a confession. A warning. A truth he thought might send you running.

“Neither am I.” you replied gently. “But I still choose you.”

He blinked, and his whole body seemed to tilt toward you, like he didn’t quite believe the weight of what you’d just said. Like he didn’t dare.

“But the Void-”

“Isn’t all of you,” you cut in.

“But it could be-”

“And if it ever is.” you said, voice steady now, “I’ll be there. I’m not afraid of the dark, Bob. I just don’t want you to live in it alone.”

The breath he let out was half a sob.

He turned away, just slightly, as if giving himself a second to pull the world back into place but he didn’t move far. And when you reached out and slid your fingers over his, he let you.

Just like that.

A quiet surrender.

A beginning.

You sat there together until the sky turned navy and the stars blinked on, one by one. No grand declaration. Just being. And a passionate overdue kiss that’s been waiting to happen

Because love, real love isn’t always loud.

Sometimes, it’s just two people on a rooftop, holding hands in the dark.

⸻

Letter Twenty-One. Sent.

Y/N,

You told me once that I wasn’t alone. I didn’t believe you then. But I do now. Because you saw me when I didn’t want to be seen, and you stayed.

I love you. In every version of me. Even the ones I haven’t met yet.

Always,

Bob

⸻

[barnacles34]

Momentous Entropy (Yujin x Male Reader)

Yujin x Male Reader

Warning: Smut, 7k+ words

The door accelerated open, showing a peek of a small dorm. Yujin’s head popped out from the door’s side, her face entirely shaped by a beautiful smile— eyes morphed into two crescent moons facing downwards. 

Despite her giggling shyness, she stopped hiding behind the door. She welcomed me in, still with a brilliant smile, “Welcome Professor Eunwoo! Welcome to my dorm.” 

“I know it’s small compared to your penthouse or whatever you were talking about with your coworkers, but it’s great for deep, focused work.” She snuck in the stalker-level information in between two welcoming remarks.

“Thanks for welcoming me here.. Wait.. What?” I only caught the intrusion mid-sentence.

She knew I heard her—word for word. It was mutualistic to not ruin the moment with heedless questions in the specifics, we’d forgotten whatever we talked about a moment ago; rather, focusing on each other's faces.

Of course, I would never let her know. It’s an apprenticeship after all, I’d be brought down with all the academic reputation I have if I even considered anything remotely intimate.

As I entered her dorm, I noticed something unusual. She wore a formal skirt with a white shirt and even her hair seemed to have been carefully molded for a grueling amount of time. Why did she dress up so vibrantly even though all she wore outside were casual clothes? Of course, I would never look her up and down, that would be a grave mistake, my peripheral vision was enough, my imagination did the rest.

I looked away immediately when my imagination went onto a wholly inappropriate tangent, instead I appreciated the clean place, clean of a single speck, the wallpaper matted with a freshness that couldn’t be faked with a single day of cleaning; the nice smell loomed over the place, something flowery, something inherently feminine, I was beginning to feel out of place. 

There’s something poetic about a beautiful person being a beautiful human being as well, though I used two synonyms to describe something inherently different, I’m sure you get what I’m saying. She was good-looking, diligent, smart, clean, the list goes on and on. Sometimes attractive people have some of the most vapid, vanitous, vain lives; sometimes, it’s refreshing to see someone just so contrary to that common belief.

I was walking slowly while she went to her room to set up, I paced my steps to not seem awkward by standing too still or pacing around her entire dorm. 

She came out of the door, her eyes were not morphed by a smile, rather two large pupils akin to a labrador stared straight at me.

Some people’s stares immediately make you uncomfortable, angry even, their voided personality that can only be filled with continued staring. Yujin was rather supplemented by the stare, her intense rich inner-life always apparent, her natural charisma exuding throughout.

The thought was broken when Yujin said, “Mr. Eunwoo, before we get started, I know you forget some of the essential parts of life, like breakfast.” She swiftly went to the countertop, opening some cupboard and pulling out an already-prepared breakfast.

“Why do you have a full meal in the cupboard?” I was completely stumped, there is never anything consistent with Yujin.

“I don’t know, just in case, you know, if you tried to stop me from serving you breakfast.”

“Why do you want to serve me breakfast in the first place? This is inappropriate. Wholly.”

“Please!~ Just try it!” Her eyes glistened, displaying how determined she was to get me to taste it.”

I obliged her for once. The breakfast was great, it was just too foreign, everything was opposite of what I’ve lived on; familiarity lied in the dusty libraries, the cramped, yet cozy study rooms, the decrepit dorms. Yet, I’ve gotten too successful, my quality as an academic has deteriorated too quickly, the distracting throes of fame, money, power however unattractive were always pushed onto me by those I used to hold close. I’ve resented success for however long I’ve held it, never has it ever contributed to my learning.

Yet, could this be an aspect of success? An attractive young lady, serving breakfast, serving a jet black coffee with enough caffeine to sedate rather than stimulate. Hold on, how does she-

“How do you know my coffee preference?” I asked, again, alarmed.

“That’s–um, I don’t know, based on my deduction, you know, like your disheveled appearance, I just assumed you lived off of caffeine.” A smile formed again, this time, a smile of victory over me, a rare enough event for a celebration.

“You’d be right.” Slightly, I scoffed at her remark, gladly sipping the bitter coffee.

Just like that, she already made me feel welcome, warmed up to the most foreign of places.

How could she do that? Is it on purpose? I can’t just ignore the influence she has over me, even if she is a student and I, a professor. I’ve always fought, fought and fought for everything, everything; the simplest of things failed at least a dozen times. Do you understand the disparity of it all? From failing at least a hundred times to now, an empathetic kindness, a warm smile greeting me regularly. I’m aware the description is akin to describing a drug, an addiction, I’m completely aware of it, and I’m desperate. Desperate for this continued exchange, and that’s why I willingly, so perpendicularly of my nature, succumb.

When I snap back to reality, the calm environment filled my sensory world. The white walls are furnished with small plants attached to the wall. I looked back at the kitchen, to check if Yujin was still there—she had planted her elbows on the countertop that I was sitting at, on the other side, her chin held up by her two fists, her cheeks were slightly squished and she was staring directly into my eyes.

“What’re you doing?” I ask.

“Nothing. You were so focused on that wall, I just thought it’d be interesting to stare at you.” That’s right, she’s also adept at mocking.

“Alright. Alright you brat, let’s get on with it. Where did we leave off last time?”

“Something about an assessment for me to continue being your apprentice.”

“Right. Right, I remember.”

“You don’t even carry around notes? For your ‘apprentice’?”

“Don’t need to”

“Ok, well, follow me, you’re gonna have to sit cross-legged on the floor.”

“Fine by me, lead the way.”

“Tired or sitting on gold-plated chairs, Mr. Eunwoooo?” Though her teasing was getting a little obnoxious, maybe the first-time visit to her dorm has her more anxious.

I scoffed at the reply, and followed to sit next to her on the coffee table, with enough distance as to make our apprenticeship obvious.

As do all our sessions, it starts cold, detached, at least compared to the end. Near the end, it becomes a warm haze, a studious discourse turns into something enjoyable, something that genuinely complements your life beneficially.

That’s also a reason why I continue to speak to Yujin. These unforeseen, unconsidered degrees of freedom had gone out of control, and inevitably, the attachment I had to being an academic was on its last string, its last stitch.

Only a fixation, a continued mutualistic companionship with Yujin has seemed to crutch my skill. And, I’m willing to go against all my morals to continue it.

It can be easily inferred that I’d let Yujin pass with flying colors to be my apprentice. Hiding it, though, is an entirely different story that I’d have to consider deeply through the assessment.

Of course, there’s always an optimism to expect in the radius of Yujin, the soft carpet, the flimsy coffee table. 

Despite this, the assessment was rough, she was missing questions on purpose, and I couldn’t call her out for it because I was purposely trying to modify it in a way that she was always somewhat correct; in academia, this was enough, more than enough, even ground-breaking. But, this wasn’t even close to enough for Yujin, she was already suspicious of my bullshittery and in the 5th question, a free-response that I’d modified. She frowned deeply, her eyes glistened in a sort of sadness.

She spoke with disappointment, mostly with herself, “Why are you trying to make me pass? It’s obvious that the answers that I have are completely wrong, I can tell in the glint of your eyes.”

In order to trick Yujin, I’d have to have a near perfect system—a small gear falling out was all it took for Yujin to catch it. 

“Before you freak out, these are questions for my PHD students, you’re a freshman, of course I’d have to modify it.”

“But why are you teaching me, an undergrad, instead of your usual PHD students?”

“Huh?” I was stumped, she was as intelligent as a fox.

Her eyes were melancholic, dark with a sort of sadness, disappointment.

“Why do you teach me?” She added on, then continued, “all your students did nearly the same thing as I did to gain some sort of favor, perhaps I tried slightly harder. I guess I argued with you a little more, challenged your authority, but anyone that did that was swiftly punished by you. I guess I was more insistent to be taught but you shoved off anyone that did that, except me. Why me? You’re not doing it for the money, you have plenty of it and I don’t have any. This doesn’t progress your career as well, you’re teaching a freshman about something that’s so ingrained that you don’t need notes for it.” Slowly her deduction processed what she was saying, and she was getting dangerously close to the answer.

I’d have to go on a tangent to another reason.

“I don’t know, maybe that you’re particularly bright, and I mean it, I know you feel like an idiot sometimes; it’ll never be as bad as how I felt it, god, if I was half as smart as you are when I was a freshman, I might’ve found the philosopher’s stone by now.”

“You’re so bad at giving compliments.” She laughed into her forearms that went to wipe her not-yet flowing tears. 

“I mean it.” I replied quickly.

“No you don’t”

“If I tried to do an apprenticeship with my freshman self I’d be on death row the second day.”

It seemed to brighten the mood, she laughed harder, and.... and cried harder into her knees.

Confused by the contradiction of her actions, I just looked away, trying to offer some measure of comfort by just being present.

“I’m sorry, when I sta-start crying I just can’t stop.”

Even when she’s crying, a torrent of emotions pouring out, I don't feel uncomfortable.

“I’m here, Yujin, I’ll wait.”

“Thank you, Mr. Eunwoo-hick-it’s not your fault, I just feel extra emotional these days…”

Everytime she tried to continue with the assessment, her tears seemed to continue flowing, albeit a little slower.

“Hold my hand Mr. Eunwoo.”

“What?”

She sniffled, “Just hold it, it’ll help me stop crying.”

“Alright, alright.” I said as calmly as possible, not saying anymore, grasping her hand tightly.

She was sniffling—not crying—beside me, the distance that we had had closed a little. To say this was a foreign experience was an understatement, a relevant example would be to compare it to would be: a cat in zero gravity, I’d recommend watching some videos of it.

Yet I didn’t feel any reflexive reaction to this novel experience, I only held harder and felt ever-present in the experience

Suddenly, she whimpered, her hand reflexively moved.

“Ow, sorry, I’m not yet used to the tight grip.” She softly said.

“I’m so sorry.”

“No, no, I like it, continue.” Her head finally seemed to release from her damp forearms, her eyes were slightly red. 

As I grasped her hand to a firm level, she put her head on the couch seat, her hair slightly splaying out, her eyes looking at the ceiling.

She whispered, “I know you like me.”

“I-” A flourish of heat went straight to my face, everything seemed to be burning down today.

“I like you too.” She continued.

“Please, think about what you’re saying.” I sputtered out, trying to adjust her projected advance.

“I can’t hide it anymore, I just can’t. I’m delicate, I have my heart on my sleeve… but I’ve never been so sure of it—nothing else has ever made me feel this way: no friend, no family member, no passion. You can continue saying that I’m naive, that it’s my first time, that it’ll pass…” Her words start becoming a jumble, as if all that she wanted to get out in a short manner wasn’t enough, as if all that crying was because of what she had to say.

She continued, “I know you’re a professional, that no matter what I say, you’ll decline, even if you liked me. I had to cry because of it, not because I was getting things wrong, I could care less about that… It was the fact that I can no longer handle admiring you from afar, I had to vocalize my appreciation, even if it was all for naught.”

After a brief silence, she continued, “I just had to get this off my chest, even if you despise me now, even if you run away now.” 

She looked away, expecting me to walk away while giving her a stare of pure hatred.

She was still looking at the ceiling, trying to prevent more tears from flowing down. I leaned my head back on the couch seat and looked at the ceiling.

“I love you.” I finally said, shaky with a risky determination.

“What?” 

“I love you.”

Her hand gripped tightly, her hands were noticeably shaking.

“What now?” She stuttered out.

“I don’t fucking know.” I sighed—sighing deeper than I’ve ever sighed—I also felt an immense pressure release from something grabbing me from within.

“Why don’t we go ahead with the assessment?” 

“After all that?”

“Yeah, I mean I feel like a huge burden has been lifted, I just wanna see if I perform better.”

“Alright, if that’s what you want.” I pulled my head from the couch seat, and sat—facing her. 

After a lengthy discourse, one that stretched for more than an hour judging by how we both had to correct our posture at least a dozen times. And, within that discourse, Yujin was infallible, every question was answered with lengthy consideration with the nuance, the specificity, the word choice. 

Near the end, it went something like this: “Foucault’s theory states that the evolving system of penal systems aligns, or in parallel, with everything around us. Before, in medieval ages, violent spectacles of blood and gore were prioritized as punishment, no additional consideration for the esotericism within. Whereas, now, the spectacle of violence is wholly shunned and penal systems focus on shaping the soul, rehabilitating the mind. However, the application of this idea has been rather controversial, and it could be explained with the idea of the panopticon: with the growing concern of shaping the mind, which is almost like a black box, penal systems have a growing habit of surveilling more and more.”

Yujin stared at me for some sort of confirmation.

“And?” I waited expectantly.

“And, this panopticon can be applied to anything, schools, hospitals, even changing cultural norms.”

“Wow, I have to say, how much did you prepare prior to this?”

“Prior to this? A lot, a lot of work.” Her voice was confident, a far cry from her whimpering only a moment ago.

“How do you not sleep in my lectures considering the fact that this material is so much more advanced than the class you take?”

“I can just stare at you.” Her head was getting closer—I didn’t care. In the beginning of the assessment, we were separated by plenty of space—enough to clearly show it was a professional exchange. By the end, we were shoulder-to-shoulder, side-by-side, speaking cordially, even despite our physical contact.

“Awfully bold for someone who cried in front of her professor for like half an hour straight.”

“Ugh! Don’t remind me.” Her face cringed.

I bit my lip, looking down—the mood was serene, it’s just that I keep getting reminded that I’m willingly participating in a mutual seduction between professor and student.

Fuck all of it.

I pulled my hand out of her hand—before she could demand that I return my hand—I wrapped my arm around her upper back, with my hand wrapping at the end of her shoulder.

Her posture straightened during the process, of course the forbidden path was still on her mind, still latent and not yet brought to fruition. But she quickly adapted, she looked to her side, at me, smiling warmly.

“It’s so amazing. How many hints have I had to give out?”

“Don’t act like you manipulated me to do this.”

“How else would the great Eunwoo betray his values? Just a wisp in the wind?”

“You brat, don’t forget my honorifics.”

“What? I couldn’t hear you… Eunwoo.”

I quickly pull her in, with my hand shielding the back of her head before I pushed her onto the floor, a soft tuft sound. I was on top of her, between the couch and coffee table, with her legs locked between mine.

Her doe eyes were on full display, her large pupils were somehow dwarfed by her eyelids which opened wider, the whites of her eyes under and above the pupil visible. She was shocked, taboo aside, it’s likely she’s never even experienced something like this.

“Can I kiss you?” Four words. These four words were all that I could think of, fantasize about for these past months. She’d accept of course, they all did—in the past. Still, there’s an immeasurable tension, an uncertainty without even weighing in the consensual agreement. 

Perhaps some part of the tension was the taboo, that a professor was about to ruin the makeup of a freshman; smudge her lipstick, suck her lips until they were swollen; the condensation of love-making staining, blending in the carefully sculpted makeup with her natural beauty.

I didn’t hear the agreement, in part due to the fact that Yujin herself brought her head up to kiss me. Unfortunately, some care was forgotten, the way I had to grab Yujin's head led to a soft collapse onto the carpet, her head making a soft thump, our teeth clicking from the force. A collaborative soft chuckle escaped through the smallest of air leaks between our lips—a testament to our dedication to continue kissing, then it was airtight again, her soft lips glided over mine, her taste so feminine, so ephemeral.

It was obvious she was chaste, perhaps even ‘unclaimed’, her virginal lips were erratic, confused, yet so fucking shamelessly hot. Her low moans vibrated more in my mouth, goading me further, to enter deeper into her soft, welcoming mouth.

Slowly, steadily, our tongues entwined, the kiss was less air tight to allow for a more dynamic, sensual french kiss. Her mouth was begging, I was obliging, there was never a fairer exchange, as if her mouth was made for mine, and hers for mine. 

Suddenly, she managed to push me over, until I was face-up, staring into Yujin’s eyes. This was the first time our eyes met during the makeout session, there wasn’t a single word that could explain what we needed to do; besides, our glazed eyes, slick with lust, spoke more than a one-dimensional tool like language. A small chuckle escaped our lips when our lips met in the middle, her head positioning lower, my head higher in the air, until my goading hands, entwined in her angelic soft hair pulled her head down. Our lips slotted in like perpendicular lines, no matter how awkward it felt, it just felt right, as if it were the most lustful way of expressing our unbridled affectations.

My hands explored her clothed body, exploring the beauty on me—who is restlessly, yet in a fierce, virginal way exploring every inch of my mouth—her beautiful curves were soft, pliant, firm, any press had an opposing force—an illegally soft opposing force. She was an angel—an angel on top of me, unaware of how much I wanted to ruin her.

“You’re going to regret it.” I say, in between wet kisses on Yujin’s lips. “This is the only thing I’ve been sure of.” Yujin replied, her voice husky with a sort of mindlessness that only the kiss could’ve caused. I reply, scaldingly, “I’m going to fucking ruin you.” Still trying to warn her, of course, there was a mind and body separation. I was completely, utterly, under the seduction of Yujin, no matter how much I warned her. We both knew, that I wouldn’t hesitate to fuck her all over the dorm—not even for a millisecond. “Please, huff, that's all I’ve ever wanted, all I could think ever about… to be by your side through it all.” She pressed another kiss, a brief one, “The messy way you keep your desk, and how happy I am to organize it, how obliging I am. You’ve seduced me without knowing, before you ever even thought about me I’ve imagined millions of scenarios with you by my side.” Another kiss, a light peck, “Imagine the pride I felt when I found you left your suitcase by the chair in the library, to serve you measurably. It was just ordinary for you, but, but… it was the seventh heaven for me…”

Yujin was systematically removing every screw, with a perfectly fit screwdriver. Whether Yujin was conscious of it or not; she was kryptonite, the way her soft thighs brush against the sides of your abdomen, the soft feeling of her breasts, dipping onto my chest.

I needed to do more, with our mouths still connected, I sat up. Her ass was on my lap, the changing sensory world didn’t matter to her, all she wanted to do was oblige in the kisses. It didn’t even phase her once when I picked her up, standing, only, her legs locked herself in place to continue our mouth-to-mouth connection. I began my march to her bedroom, optimized to the utmost degree, every small peek I had of her bedroom perfectly aiding in this desperate situation—where I have to fuck Yujin for the remaining day, then the next, perhaps even forever; if only time would allow it so.

Her body clung to mine as I pressed her against the bed. This time, I had to pull off the heat of my loins unbearably tight, wanting—of new sensations. I could only imagine how ridiculous I looked, given how swollen Yujin’s lips were, I could only imagine how bad it must be—of course, the imagery was supplemented with Yujin's soft giggle, her eyes staring at my mouth.

I finally got to rid Yujin of her treacherous t-shirt—one that blocked the view of her perfect breasts, her perfect abdomen. Her lithe, firm body was running every gear in my head, on how to perfectly ravish—to perfectly mark with my actions. Yujin could only stare, wide-eyed, she doesn’t know what happens after, a little virgin, there needn't be a single statement clarifying this—I’ve already explored her enough to conclude so. I press into her, my mouth near her ears, “Don’t worry Yujin, you’ll just be under the greatest pleasure of your life, helplessly moaning—squealing on your professor’s face.” All she could reply with was a deep, sensual moan that would seem like someone pressed into her lungs, that’s how deep it was. Slowly, but surely, I shift down, letting my fingers grip onto her godly skin, leaving vertical white trails on her skin until her pelvis; when I hook her skirt, off. 

I could immediately feel the goosebumps on her thighs, where the warmth, the security of the skirt—or the lack thereof—provided some protection of her core, her wet little core. I stare into her eyes again. My stature of a well-respected professional is gone—only an animalistic drive to nail the hottest woman in the world through the bed. The dynamic of professor and student, no matter how fucked up, no matter how morally corrupt—or nefarious; began to turn me on instead of inhibit, it seems so to for Yujin as well, the stain of her arousal clear. 

Her arms seemed to retract to her chest, her forearms squeezed her breasts together; though, I’m sure that wasn’t intended, rather, it was likely to protect her little throbbing heart from the sensations, that heart she had on her sleeve. Despite my raging erection, my raging lust, I was inclined to treat her like porcelain, at least that part of me wasn’t totally exhausted. Except when Yujin said, “I’m not so fragile, daddy, break me.” Uncontrollably, greedily I pressed my mouth against her wetness, kissing around the soft skin. The wetness radiated, even under a layer of cloth, albeit a very flimsy, sexy, cloth. 

Small whimpers rung out, vibrating the surface of her glossy skin around her heat after every small peck I placed on her inner thighs. Her legs were between my head, her thighs rested above my shoulder. As Yujin stared with a dogged innocence, a beautiful hesitance—-I hooked the side of her panty. I pulled—softly, making sure the wet cloth makes as much contact, frictional force with her pink core. The gift wrapping revealed something divine, the lightest pink you can imagine, glossy with something that only be arousal. Slowly, I dipped my tongue into her core—it was unimaginably comfortable, the way her pussy felt on my tongue, a sort of hot soft-serve that got molded by your tongue. But it didn’t taste like anything, that’s when a realization hit: she spent an inordinate amount of time preparing, making sure that every part of her was ripe for a nice fuck, and slowly guided me into her siren-like seduction. I patted the side of her ass, giving a grin—as nasty as I could make it, a sign of things I was about to do, a sort of payback for her masterful manipulation. She stared back, her open mouth, the visible teeth morphed into a half-smile, still focused on how pleasurable my tongue was on her pussy. Immediately, I placed my finger on her clit, pressing softly against it, then circling it before I dipped my tongue deeper into her unimaginably tight hole. Her breathing went faster, her lower-half rubbed softly—even resisting when the pleasure was far too much. Of course, that’s not what she signed up for—she signed up for a grueling fucking, a rough marking by her beloved professor. 

10 seconds, only 10 seconds after the eye-contact, she came all over the bed. Her juices flowed freely, painting her inner thighs in some beautiful glossy coating. Her abdomen tensed in a rough hyperventilation, her cries grew higher and loud before she released into a deep moan. I tried to get as much of her juices on my fingers as possible, before letting her take it in the mouth—making her taste the fruits of her efforts, then spreading the saliva on my fingers over her chin.

“You taste amazing by the way.” I stated, waiting for some explanation.

“This is how I taste, always.” She panted, justifying it all.

“It wasn’t just a carefully constructed ruse to bed me?”

She scoffed, “What kind of evil bitch do you think I am? I’m beginning to worry about what type of woman you bedded before me to make you think pussy tastes bad.” Scoffing, her chest heaving, all glistened up.

“I’m a virgin too, I wouldn’t know.” I replied, jokingly.

This time, she whimpered, “That’s… Ugh” I felt a resistance, then a strong push, she was suddenly saddened at the prospect of being just another lady bedded, another number. While she focused on the sentiment, my eyes, my lustful gaze only landed on her body. Of course, there’s always an opportunity after every resistance—an opposing force against the applied force. Her head was positioned away, stubbornly opposing, but she left her bare neck—her smooth, thin neck—too openly. 

Thus, my lips ended up on her smooth neck---squeezing out her pitiful moans. "Ungh~stop~! I'm still sensitive." She squeaked, her little throat muscles striated in trying to get her meek statement out. Fuel to the fire, it was only fuel to the fire, like a flame retardant---such as water---only strengthening the flame.

I marked her neck full of light bruises, ones that'll be dark tomorrow---dark in how badly I've wanted to possess her. Truly, I've gone insane. My mouth traced a path, from her soft, bruised neck down her bosom. Her nipples were framed with perky breasts, soft with a delicate femininity that she curated so diligently, so meticulously. Her little squeaks, pleads, exited her cute mouth faster, almost as much as when I ate her pussy. It was due to the multi-task that I engaged in, devouring her breast, whilst my hand massaged the other---less fortunate---breast.

Slowly, I released myself from her delicious breasts, still insatiable, pressed down on her breasts, my index fingers gliding, gripping against her nubs as if it were joysticks---literal joy sticks. Her breasts were painted in a beautiful pink hue, from how I used her, how I marked her---initially whitened from the pressure, then pink, then likely to be red for the rest of the day.

"Eunwoo..." she was splayed out on the bed, utterly satisfied---still with an enthusiastic gaze. "I want to suck your cock." She stated, matter of fact. "I want you to paint my mouth in your seed." she continued. "Let your seed fill my belly, the remains coating my chin..." her movements after each statement, in the silence, moved to push me on my back as she got up from her back. "Because, Professor, Eternal Love? Was that the title? And who was the love interest? If I didn't forget, it was... Khujin? As brilliant as you are, your naming conventions leaves a lot to be desired, I mean come on, it sounds oddly familiar." She completely pushed me over; I was slightly paralyzed with the discovery that she read what I was writing---it wasn't remotely family friendly, and perhaps, aimed towards her. Her eyes stared at me with knowing eyes, what exactly I desired from her at that moment; her lithe, perky body was positioned between my legs, kneeling, preparing to dip her mouth into eternal lust.

"From then on... Khujin took the face-fucking, dutifully, sexually, despite the size with which she was confronted with, took it. Her mouth ached, was pained, though, not in a conventional way; it ached in the desire to take him deeper." She just... requoted the entire sequence perfectly word-for-word from the paper.

Fuck!

There's nothing left to protect, nothing left to resist, we were unclothed, our secrets revealed, there was nothing left except our mutual wish to ravage each other until dawn. Our enlarged pupils---almost alien---met each other, glazed in some atypical determination. Finally, her head lowered and lowered before her tongue placed a meek lick on my cock. Then kisses, then a mix of licks while her hands clenched my wrists---signaling some sign that I shouldn't interfere, that I should enjoy this requited vindication.

Her mouth---even if virginal---provided some of the greatest relief. Her soft lips, erratic, still provided relief from my swollen tip. Her rookie mistakes, the slight graze of teeth, the meddling tongue only seemed to heighten the experience.

"You're a naughty fucking professor." She said, slightly biting down on the head, getting the intended reaction out of me---a great spasm. "Writing porn of a character that exactly resembles me. Mmmm naughty... so fucking naughty.."

"You're a horny, good-for-nothing student, Yujin."

We were fighting while she shallowly sucked in between her sentences, listening thoughtfully with a cock between her lips.

"I remember when you left that jacket at the library, I stole it. Then, I smelt it everyday, the cologne, the detergent, the natural smell. When you slept around I could smell it, the faint flowery smell alien to your scent."

She released her grip on my wrists, instead grabbing my dick, to better stimulate---to better punish. Her mouth hollowed out, the suction tremendously pleasing, the way she tongued at the underside of my shaft showing her real-time improvement. Then she popped my shaft out of her mouth again.

Somehow, she was angry again.

"Do you have nothing to say?" Yujin asked---irritatingly.

"I'm here now, Yujin."

"Idiot."

Her mouth went back, into the irresistible motions that she quickly figured out. Her head bobbed faster, I felt immensely relieved, yet I also felt an unbelievable greed, a sort of ripple between two identities in parallel, fighting for ultimate control.

I quickly and harshly gripped her hair, led her mouth down to the hilt---her low choke lubricated the hilt. Her fingers lightly tapped the sides of my thighs, with her perfect nails, the smooth skin, such a brave contrast to what was happening to her mouth. Her mouth suctioned again, not a word needed for preparedness, only the motions of our sexual organs were enough. Slowly, my grip on her hair went down to her scalp, a firmer place to grasp, to debase her identity further.

Her lips dragged long and hard, the suction felt stronger---the feeling of pulling out from her mouth harder than going in at this point. Her lips occasionally touched the base on my cock, only edging me closer. Until, I peaked, I growled as the first rope of cum landed deep into her throat. Even in this constricted, breathless stance where her dick was so deep in her throat that her throat reddened, her glazed puppy eyes stared back, almost a sign of some sort of sick victory over me. Then a second splash, the pressure so strong you'd think the flow was laminar---though I wouldn't know, her sexy throat hid it all. My head flew back, the relief of it all so strong, ropes turned into strings, strings turned into nothing---only the sensation of a suckling swallow could be felt on my sensitive tip.

There was no brief awkward silence, her mouth released in a godly erotic fashion. Her spittle still gathered on my cock, the spit strands coating her chin, her tongue clear and empty of the load I covered the insides of her mouth with.

She smiled so brightly - so happily. Her hands patted me on the thighs, trying to help me reconcile the fact that I throat-fucked a college freshman, the age gap already taboo, the fact that we were professor and student - only worsened it.

Her eyes were slightly red, the hint of tear trails on her face apparent. So badly did I want to hold her dear to my body, let the warmth of my chest keep her snug, let her rest. Yet, her reddened tits, her confused doe-like puppy eyes, her confused face, the slight glistening of her inner thighs goaded me endlessly. From that point on, I hadn't even realized I was hovering over her body. We were really gonna do it, I was gonna fuck her on her own bed, this beautiful, smart student.

"You really are an idiot" I say.

"Why? Because I like you? Because you're some respected higher up that I shouldn't entertain having a relationship with?"

It was that word: relationship. What are we gonna become-

"Eunwoo... master... professor... I don't just offer up my virginity to anyone... if you think I'm that easy to offer myself up to anyone - you're fucking crazy."

"You're a seduction master." I chuckle, letting her know the weakness of my self-control.

"If I'm a seduction master, then you're - I don't know - like Alain Delon." her hands hooked the nape of my neck, she was positioned so delicately, ready for whatever I wanted to do to her.

"I want this because I love you, Eunwoo."

"Who would've thought our little freshman is such a romantic, huh?" As I nuzzled my face into the side of her neck, give soft licks to her soft neck - her soft face a contrast to my stubbled jaw.

"Regardless of whether you insert your shaft inside me or not. I'll still follow you, to the ends of the earth, until you file a restraining order- Ah~!"

a single finger entered her, "Shh Yujin, An Yujin - all that pining to give up after a restraining order? I'll have to get you drunk on my dick, so that even the splitting of the earth won't deter you."

She squeaked, she definitely came, she definitely fucking came - hah. I let the finger exit slow, slowly trailing the wet finger up her abdomen - a sort of trail forming.

Finally, I palmed my dick, staring, realizing that I didn't have a condom. "Oh fuck - I don't have a condom" saying my thought out loud, she butts in, "Doesn't matter, please, anything - please." Her desperation clear in her tone - her fingers gripping dearly onto me.

"Who said anyone's leaving?" This time, her eyes were even wider. It was time, she knew it, I knew it, each step an acceleration to a barrier that we kept raising - was there even a barrier anymore? The depravity... the soulful acknowledgement of this cording relationship rose the hairs on my entire body; the blood in my chest frantically seemed to disperse, trying to control itself, to also control my entire body.

Though, if Yujin is under me, begging to be fucked - so hellbent, her glazed and aroused eyes pleading for some sinful contract. If only she knew - how much I'd do - there needn't be a single contract. I couldn't ever control myself anyway, what's there to deny?

Slowly - slowly - entered her, her sopping wetness gladly parted with some paradoxical resistance. The more I entered, the more her pussy resisted, the more her pussy pulled me in. The most sinful sounds, even more so than those of a minute ago, the squelch of a virgin hole being stretched - fuck, holy fuck.

"Ngghhh~ holy shit, please, more!" She desperately tried to close her mouth, aware of the lack of noise canceling. The way her mewls and moans exited between the tightest clasp of her mouth, the way her twinkled, the exasperation of a different type of pain stretching, beautifying her already goddess-like face. "I love it! Eunwoo~", that earned her a full stroke to the hilt. I grabbed the hand off her mouth - the way her face morphed into fear was beautiful, she was close to her neighbors - those neighbors who were about to hear Yujin's highest shrieks, highest orgasms. Another stroke, then another, I couldn't even describe how sinful her sounds were, shrieks, moans, deep to high - the sheer entropy of her mannerisms clearly showing her arousal. The next door neighbors would know, even the vertical neighbors would know. If they saw me entering her home, then I'm fucked - yet, I can't stop fucking her, the way her hips rotate and drift off my cock, the way her pussy lips wrap so tightly, so snug around my length.

I began pounding away, her thin waist acclimating to my tight grip, the way her breasts bounced when her ass slapped against my loins; who said missionary was boring? The way I kneeled, the way her body angled at a point - true rookie mistake - I kept pounding away at her g-spot. How many times she came - I wouldn't know - but the amount of liquid dispersed all over us, a mix of sweat and whatever else was definitely a clue. The way my length explored her insides so thoroughly, the way I'm pretty sure I bottomed her out, bound to bruise her cervix; the way her moans grew more unhinged, her eyes slowing going back inside her head, her arms almost unresponsive.

Until.

Until, Yujin grabbed onto me, it wasn't an ordinary grip, a nuanced grip that lovers of decades could understand - I'm sure there's some hidden meaning in that. The way her soft fingers grabbed my forearm while she laid down - panting with sweat, the glow of sex, possibly covered in her squirt. I made sure to stop at exactly when the base of my length met with her pussy - immersing myself in her beautiful warmth, sheathed in her velvety walls.

"Eunwoo - please slow down, I'm not going anywhere, by the next half-hour we'll be walking skeletons..."

This time, still plugged with my length I pulled her up, face-to-face where she sat on the slope of my kneel - adjusting myself accordingly to not destroy my knees.

"How could I Yujin? Light of my life, fire of my loin-"

She playfully slapped my shoulder

"Why are you referencing Lolita!?" in a giggling manner, understanding all at once.

"Careful where you slap your hands around, Yujin."

"Hm? What're you gonna do-mm!" A closed reaction to receiving a deep kiss. Slowly, my arms slithered around her back, to make sure that she doesn't fall - but, mostly to ensure that I could fuck her, utterly, fully under my control.

The way her eyes shined, with a deep desire - some atypical lust - yet still somehow looking so innocent, as if brilliant gems were in place of her pupils. Every time I get to stare at her, especially now that our eyes were separated by the width of a nose, I feel glad that someone - just someone like that exists, even better with the fact that we cohabit this area, and even better that our lips slip against each other. The act of exchanging saliva - a deeply disturbing thought - hadn't registered in us at all, only desire and love.

Slowly, her moans left her pretty mouth with emphasis - clearly enjoying the slower pace in which I gave these decrepit kisses to her cervix. Her velvety folds seemed to contract even more spastically - the movement easier, yet tighter, yet harder, parenthetically a paradox.

If only such paradoxes were this pleasurable.

"I'm gonna cum, Yujin." The sounds were absolutely vicious, viscous with the repeated slapping of our loins, the cold strands of her juices landing on my thighs whenever her pink core left the base of my length. "Eunwoo, give it to me, inside, everything." I tried to object; "Eunwoo, shhh, don't try to talk sense with me - it's too late for that, if you don't spill your biggest seed inside me, I'll chase you around the world."

"A restraining order?" I replied, curious for a response.

"And that'll stop me? After getting drunk on your dick, as you said? " She replied back, serious.

"You're right baby." I pumped into her deeper, slanting a little to get topological synchronicity: my chest fully in contact with her chest, the warmth compared to the biting cold of the environment only goading us on further. The way her soft, perky breasts pooled on my chest made my pumps only deeper - kisses more passionate.

"What if I do? What if I cum inside you?" Our eyes were level, engaging in a seriously serious topic. All care should've been granted to the topic - of course, we both knew the pending event.

"Then, presumably, understandably, I'll be by your side - with your favorite tea, massaging your soreness. And maybe, just maybe, nursing a little Eunwoo." Fuck! I hugged her tight - too tight. The small of her back caved in with my tight hug as I mashed my dick inside her swollen pussy. The way she moaned was less noticeable, she was so focused on receiving the load - breathing into the side of my neck, playing with my hair, exacting some stimuli to wring me out dry.

Her body perfectly molded into my force. Her ass molded against my tough thighs, her hard nipples poked my chest expectedly. When, just when, the hypothetical situation with Yujin - of a filial future - flashed in my mind, the first release of semen launched inside her. Ribbons of her deepest desire filled her - indulging her. We kissed - the natural course as expected when I released inside her.

Ropes of semen turned into strings, then finally - nothing. We embraced each other, I still hugged her just as tight, she hugged back with the delicacy of an angel.

"Yujin..."

"Holy shit." She replied.

Holy shit was right.

"-Like holy fucking shit." I emphatically replied.

Her gem-like pupils looked at me, her entire face turned into a smile.

"You'll have to call me wife from now on."

"Hm?" Fully not processing her request.

"Call me wife behind closed doors."

"Why?"

"Because.. why not?"

After a swift thought - one that didn't really have any substance at all - "Wife... wife... rolls off the tongue nicely."

She gave a peck on my lips, "make sure that it rolls off the tongue as easy as it does now... I'll want to hear it everyday."

"Wifey... who's cleaning the bed?" I jokingly inquired - of course, the truth was that the bed wouldn't dry in a day, and the way we are right now: the overflowing semen was still plugged inside her - with my cock.

Though, that would be a worry that could be taken care of later. Right now, the half-life of our post-sex fatigue finished - the other half to be finished when our lips met again.

Fin.

[rezwrites]

Hi!

I am happy you are writing again and your requests are open.

May I request Dark prison director! Agatha Harkness x inmate! reader? Maybe reader ends up in jail unjustly and plans to go unnoticed until her release date, but reader catches Agatha's attention. Reader is intimidated by the other prisoners (by Agatha's order but reader doesn’t know it) so that Agatha becomes Reader's savior :)

holy crap, I’m so sorry for sitting on this request and all the others in my inbox!! I will be working on them!

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, violence, major power imbalance, manipulation

Six months

That’s how long you were sentenced prison for a crime you weren’t involved in.

Had you known beforehand that your friend was planning to rob a bank you’d never would’ve gotten in the car with her.

Fear rushed through you as she sped down the busy road, weaving between vehicles trying to escape the cop. Begging her to stop, to turn herself in, but your every plea was ignored.

Cold was all you felt the last forty-eight hours.

Frigid handcuffs shackling around your wrists to the chilled air of the interrogation room of the police precinct. Shakily, you told them you were innocent, that you had nothing to do with the robbery, but they nailed you with the charges of being an accomplice, and fleeing from police, anyway.

The hushed whispers of the courtroom filled your ears as the judge casted your verdict upon you, emotionlessly. Despite being sentenced to a medium security prison, that did nothing to quell the anxiety that was building up. The bus ride was silent, your stomach twisting in knots the whole way. All the horror stories from prison you’ve ever heard replayed in your mind, adding to your nervousness.

The journey through intake you were a void, lifeless; your senses dulled throughout the whole ordeal, body moving on autopilot. Emptily following the bellowing orders from the guards. You spent thirty seconds under the freezing water of the showers only to feel dirtier than before you stepped into the danky bathrooms.

In your small cell you stared at the ceiling above you, shifting beneath the thin blanket provided to you. The rough cotton of the jumpsuit you wore rubbing the skin around your joints raw whenever you moved. The weight of everything crashed down on you. Your chest squeezed in terror thinking about how you were going to make it in here— if you even could. There was nothing you could to stop the stream of tears from sliding down your face, but you still tried to stifle any noise you made.

The next morning you were ushered into the crowded cafeteria. Frightening, and loud. Hesitantly shuffling into the food line against the wall, making sure to keep small distance from the intimidating towering woman in front of you, to prevent ruffling anything feathers.

The cafeteria suddenly erupted in a commotion. Before you could turn around to see what was happening a heavy hand landed on your shoulder, pushing you against the stone wall. A hard, solid punch landed in your abdomen, causing you to keel over on the floor, the wind knocked out of your lungs. Before you could take in a breath you were being lifted off the floor by the fabric of your top. No words were said as you were shoved, your lower back colliding with the blunt, rounded corner of a table. Sharp pain surged up your spine, unable to scream when another hand clasped around your throat.

Your hands flew to your neck trying to pry away the thin fingers that were digging into your skin, crushing your airways. Struggling to focus, blurred silhouettes was all you could see. Trying to kick at your attacker, your heart slammed against your ribcage. All you could hear were the other inmates cheering for the fight to escalate over the guards hollering for order.

“Enough!” A booming voice hushed the whole room. Once the hand of your assailant left your throat you collapsed on the floor in a heaving mess. Multiple footsteps headed towards you, two hands pulling you up off the ground. Vision finally clearing you saw a woman clad in a black business suit standing in the center of everyone. A sense of command radiated from her, everyone stared waiting for her to speak.

“Send them back to their cells,” her authoritative tone cut through the thick silence. Her hard steel blue eyes narrowed at the two women that attacked you, both of them sharing a glance. Her eyes then cut to you before flickering up to the officer grasping on to you. “Bring her to my office.” She turned on her heels, leaving no room for any arguments.

Most women made jeers at you while you were escorted out of the cafeteria. Multiple guards gave you side eyes as you trailed behind the enigmatic woman. The further you walked the less the prison looked like a prison and more like an office space. Short hallways lined with several oak doors with plates on them. Seeing this side of the facility felt wrong, forbidden.

After taking a sharp left into an office the officer pushed you down in a flat faux leather chair. The officer told her your number before being told to wait outside, closing the door behind him. As she dug into a drawer in her side of the mahogany desk you took the opportunity to glance over the room. The plaque of on the desk read Warden Agatha Harkness. The stereotypical motivational frames decorated her gray colored walls. The cool breeze from the open window gave you a sliver of normalcy, freedom. She finally pulled a file out of a drawer on her side of the mahogany desk, looking over it.

“All this trouble on your first week? Hell, your first day.” She asked, lightly tossing your file back on the desk in front of her. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

“I was trying to be invisible. I wasn’t trying to attract any attention. I don’t know why they chose to attack me, I-“ you tried explaining yourself but she put her hand up to stop you. Standing up she rounded her desk to lean against the front, her arms crossed against her chest.

“Your file is clean. The cleanest I’ve seen at least. Some women here, they try to show that they have guts, to show dominance. They can do that all they want but it will only lead them to once place: solitary,” She released a sigh letting her head roll on her shoulders, “While this is a correctional facility, we can only do so much on our part to help everyone here. Individually, you have to want to help yourself.”

Your best attempt at listening was foiled by the unbearable irritated skin on your arms, grimacing at the slight pain as you scratched. Noticing your demeanor Agatha kneeled down taking your arm in her smooth hands, lifting your sleeve. She muttered about how she needed to be sure you weren’t using, only to see the rash the climbed your upper forearm. A frown casted over her features when her eyes settled on your inflamed, red skin.

“Don’t scratch.” She ordered sternly, she turned around grabbing a tube of off her desk, applying it on your rash, “I’ll have a short-sleeved suit given to you.

As she rubbed the ointment into your skin her voice softened, eyeing you, “Do you have anything to look forward to when you get out?”

You shook your head, avoiding her gaze. Your parents were so upset with you, even though it wasn’t your fault. They said they’d keep up with your commissary, but other than that they didn’t want anything to do with you.

“Well, you don’t have long in here,” she stood back up, looming over you, “l can see you’re a sweet thing. A good girl. It’d be a shame if you got lost in here. Perhaps we can get together once a week to go over programs, so you will have strong plan once you get out.”

“I think that will help a lot.”

“It will help keep you focused and on track. We can start our meeting tomorrow. I’ll call on you around lunch time.” You nodded as she called the guard to escort you out.

After the door closed Agatha just chuckled to herself.

Invisible

You could’ve been, if Agatha hadn’t set her sights on you at intake. Poor thing, she thought, as she looked upon your meek form moving through the metal detectors. A cute thing.

A part of her feels bad for sending those women to hurt you, not fully expecting them to choke you out, but ultimately it had to be done. All apart of her plan to have you as putty in her hands. Perfectly moldable to her every whim.

She’d love to turn you into her little housewife before you’re released. Lost with no where to go, she’d could scoop you up and place you in her home. All night she fantasized about you tucked against her in bed, to wake up to you cooking breakfast before she leaves for work. To come home and use your body to release her stress.

She has all the time in the world to have you.

—

You had been able to go about your business for the past few weeks, slowly acclimating to your new environment. Sure enough you had gotten a new suit, your skin condition improving by the day. Agatha had cleared a few hours every Thursday to see you. Eagerly, you both looked over several educational programs that piqued your interest, each career path providing ample opportunities for you to grow once you’re released.

You even made a few acquaintances during recreational hours, finding solace in your newfound company. Some of them helping you study in the library when they can. Agatha seemed happy when you would tell her about your progress in your meetings with her.

Agatha has small smile splayed on her face listening you softly mumble over your books and the notes you’d taken. Looking over to you she found you hunch over in your chair, deeply entranced by your work. Agatha reminded you to fix your posture, insisting it isn’t good for your health. You winced at the light crack in your lower back, shoulder muscles pulled tight when you straightened up.

She’s happy to see you grow of course, but you’re getting too independent for her liking. Last week you had talked to her about how another inmate you had bonded with was asking you to help open up a support group, but that would mean you would have to stop coming to your meetings. It looked like you were close to considering it.

She needs to nip this in the bud. Now. Too many ideas are being put in that pretty head of yours, conflicting with her plans.

—

The clang of your door opening roused you from your sleep, not fast enough as the guards yelled at you to get up. A strong hand wrapped around your upper arm yanking you up, your wrists being handcuffed behind your back. When you asked what was happening the guard said nothing, his face set forward as he dragged you out of your cell. Being pulled down many halls and two flights of stairs, fear built up. The officer’s holster of the bounced against your hip with every step. Each officer you passed remained as still as a statue.

Finally stopping in front of a heavy door the officer hastily unlocked it, holding it open with his foot before unlocking your cuffs, shoving you inside. Catching yourself on the wall the door slammed shut, leaving you alone. The room was smaller than your cell with just a metal toilet and twin-sized mattress on the ground. The walls were nothing but wide, beige painted bricks.

Deafening silence surrounded you, save for the faint hum of the electricity in the single fluorescent lightbulb that illuminated the room. No clock or window to tell time.

Staring at the rust beginning to chip at the paint your mind spiraled, many questions arising, and you couldn’t stop it. You have no idea how long it’d been until the door opened, the hinges squeaking with its weight. Agatha stepped through, closing it behind her.

You stood up facing her, “Why am I in here?”

“For your protection.” Agatha curtly answered.

“My ass.” You scoffed, rolling your eyes.

“Do not take that tone with me.” Agatha sternly corrected you, “COs got wind of another attack being planned on you. This time worse.”

“So instead of those women being sent here, I get punished,” You crossed your arms over your chest.

“No.” She looked like she was debating her words, before shaking her head, “Don’t think of this as a punishment because it isn’t.”

“Sure as hell feels like it,” you huffed, increasingly getting agitated by the second.

She took a deep breath calming herself, “Drop the attitude. I will not tell you again.”

“It’s just easier this—”

“I can tell you right now that it isn’t.” You gritted out, cutting her off. You won’t tone yourself down; you’re pissed and you’re going to let her know it. “How will I continue my program in here? I was just finding a community here and you pull me out to trap me in this… cage!” You threw your hands up in frustration, “For the sake of ‘ease’. I call total bullshit.”

You were met with a strong slap, your head knocking to the side as pain blossomed on your cheek. Your left hand reached up to cradle your stinging cheek. Agatha’s nostrils were flared, a simmering rage in her eyes.

“I warned you, little girl.” Her voice had a hint of danger in it. A chill ran up your spine at the sudden change in her attitude. Yes, she had warned you, but she switched so quickly. Not a minute tell to show what she was going to do.

Oh, how she wanted to put you in your place right now. To throw you across her lap and beat that defiance out of you. Not yet she told herself.

“We will still manage our weekly meetings and I’ll bring your books and paperwork with me. I’ll even throw in some special things here and there. To keep you motivated.” With that she turned on her heel quickly exiting.

You stood there in shock saying nothing as she left.

—

Your only contact with others was when your food is slid under the flap at the bottom of the door, although no words were spoken.

When you were awake you did your best to focus on your work, trying your hardest to remember everything you’ve learned. It can only do so much, until you look at your books and notes again.

Outside of that all you did was sleep, unknowing what is happening on the other side of your door. The lightbulb overhead automatically turns off and on at set times, though you aren’t sure what time that happens. Having a lack of time perception disoriented you greatly.

The lightbulb bathed the room in a sudden bright light, the sound of your door opening startling you. You sat up, brows pulling together watching Agatha walk in with a stack of books in her hands.

She had a look of indifference on her face, “It’s Thursday night. Did you forget?”

Thursday. You were thrown in here Monday. Three long days felt like it stretched into an eternity.

“I can’t keep time in here.” You tiredly replied, pulling your knees up to your chest.

Agatha sat next to you on your mattress, setting your books next to you. Kicking off her black stilettos, she released a satisfied smile dragging herself back against the wall, crossing her legs.

Grabbing for books you turned away from her, still upset that she locked you in here. Lying on your stomach you cracked open your book, a surge of motivation flowing through you after days of idling, purely existing.

“Can’t study without writing.” Agatha chimed. A soft plink! drew your attention to an erasable pen that landed beside you. You looked back squinting your eyes, regarding her. She had her arms and legs crossed, eyes closed.

“How long do I have to study?” you inquired, remembering that she mentioned it was nightfall, not wanting to keep her too late.

“However long you want. I can put on some of that study music on, if you think that will help.” She suggested. Agreeing you turned back around. Pulling up YouTube Agatha put on a four hour long compilation of study music. Soft melodies filled the room, your nose back in your books.

Admiring your perseverance and hardwork Agatha closed her eyes, thinking about your release date. Which she had pulled at the ears of a few of her friends in court to set your release date two months early with no parole. She won’t tell you, wanting you to be surprised but also so she can offer you a place at her home, just according to her plan.

Turning around you found Agatha had lied down, her head level with your torso. You didn’t even hear her move, nor that the music had stopped playing. With a deep yawn from you Agatha stirred before opening her eyes.

As much as she wants to stay here and lie next to you she knows she can’t, wouldn’t look good. Reluctantly sitting up she checked her phone 1:17 blaring from the screen. Agatha exhaled a deep breath slipping her shoes back on.

You stacked your books handing them to her. The light wispy sound of pages turning had your head craning up to see Agatha looking through your notes.

“You got a lot done, good job.” She praised, handing your notebook back to you. Your lips slightly fell open taking your notebook back.

“I’ll be sure you’re the first to shower in the morning and receive a good breakfast.” Opening the door she threw you a wink over her shoulder, “Keep on being a good girl for me.”

[bytemee]

chapter six. | WHERE DO YOU SLEEP? — yu jimin.

𝘀𝗵𝗼𝗿𝘁𝗲𝗻𝗲𝗱 𝘀𝘆𝗻𝗼𝗽𝘀𝗶𝘀 — y/n, a rising music producer, has built her dream career while keeping her personal life under wraps. karina, aespa’s leader, is preparing for a huge comeback with a mini album produced and written by the one and only y/n.

karina knows this is the opportunity of a lifetime, and she has to nail it. the only problem is, she may be a bit distracted by her producer.

something about their connection feels different—like maybe it's worth the risk of prying eyes. but how much will they give up to chase after what they want?

𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀 — longing/kinda have a tad bit of angst but not really, smut (gulp), g!p reader, and let me know if there's more.

𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗱𝘀 — 5.9k

𝗮𝘂𝘁𝗵𝗼𝗿𝘀 𝗻𝗼𝘁𝗲— wow man i said 6k and it ended up being 5.9k am i a liar...manager name reveal wooooooo

taglist (open) — @sunshinez4 @gtfoiydlyj @yuyuy90 @liaponderstings @rinapomu @bimkayd

series masterlist. main masterlist. prev. next.

it was 2 am while jimin laid in bed, her face illuminated by the soft glow of her phone. her schedule started early tomorrow, but she couldn't bring herself to care.

not when you were on the other end of the line.

your voice had grown quieter over the last hour, words slurring slightly as sleep began to pull you under. jimin had teased you about it at first, laughing softly when you denied how tired you were, but now the only sound was the soft rhythm of your breathing.

you had fallen asleep mid-sentence, and she couldn't bring herself to hang up.

instead, she stayed there, her thumb gently tapping the screen, staring at your contact photo—a smile she knew well, the one she loved seeing in person. it made her heart flutter even now, even at this late hour, even with the miles between you.

she didn't want the call to end.

but she knew it had to.

"goodnight," jimin whispered, her voice barely a whisper, "i'll see you soon."

she reached for the stuffed animal you gave her, the one she kept close, its scent still lingering faintly despite the weeks that had passed.

it was she and mr. flopsy against the world.

she wanted to be closer to you; she wanted to hold your hand; she wanted to be the one that you went to when the nights were cold, the one who you could call whenever you were having a bad day. she wanted to be the one that made you laugh, the one that made your eyes light up. she wanted to be the reason behind your smile.

and she wanted you to want that, too.

she bit her lip, replying to all of the messages you had sent her yesterday that she never got around to answering. one by one, she typed out her responses, smiling at your silly jokes and teasing you back. but after a while, the conversation lulled, and she was left staring at her screen, trying to find the right words to say.

"good morning <3!"

"i hope today is better for you."

"fighting!"

she sent the message, her thumb hovering over the screen, wondering if she should add something else. but nothing seemed good enough. she sent the message, her thumb hovering over the screen, wondering if she should add something else. but nothing seemed good enough.

not the heart at the end, not the silly selfie she'd attached, not the encouragements. nothing could properly convey the emotions swirling inside her, the thoughts she couldn't seem to keep contained.

she couldn't stop thinking about you. couldn't stop wanting more.

was she being selfish? was she asking for too much?

she wasn't sure. all she knew was that it felt like a part of her was missing when you weren't there. like a piece of her had been stolen and taken halfway across the world, and the only thing that could fill the void was seeing you again.

she just hoped that wasn't too much to ask.

"hey, you gotta get up…like now."

the sleeping figure didn't move.

with a sigh, they gently shook the figure's shoulder, trying to get them to wake up. but the person just let out a sleepy groan, shifting slightly in their bed. "come on, we have a busy day ahead," they urged, hoping the person would finally stir.

after a few more attempts, the figure finally opened their eyes, squinting against the morning light. "get the fuck out, jamie." you grumble at your manager, pulling the covers over your head.

"no, i'm serious, y/n. you missed your session that was booked for this morning." you let out a groan, burying your head deeper into the pillow. you didn't care about the session. all you cared about was how good your bed felt and how you desperately wanted to stay there all day.

"i don't care." you mutter.

jamie sighs, shaking his head. "y/n, you have stuff to do. we have a photo shoot in a couple of hours, and if we don't leave soon, we'll be late. please just get up."

"can't you reschedule the photoshoot?" you try, even though you already know the answer.

"no, i can't," jamie says firmly, crossing his arms.

"but i don't feel good," you whine, and you can almost feel the eye roll.

he's silent for a moment before speaking again.

"whoa, three messages from jimin." you lift your head slightly, the mention of the idol catching your attention. you quickly reach for your phone, unlocking it to see the notifications from jimin.

"whipped bastard," jamie mumbles under his breath.

"shut up." you fire back, not denying his statement as you read through the messages. you were whipped, and you didn't even try to hide it.

"just get ready, please. i'm gonna order you some coffee." he finally relents, and you smile, giving a lazy thumbs-up before he walks out of your bedroom, leaving you alone.

jimin's eyes widen. she tries, she really does, to fight the smile on her face, but she can't. it's useless. the grin grows bigger, her dimples deepening. the universe finally seemed to be on her side as her manager revealed the news.

"we're heading to la next week to film the 'whiplash' music video," she said casually, but jimin didn't hear much after "la."

all three of her member's heads turned towards her, the smiles and smirks on their faces impossible to ignore. her members glance at each other, trying not to laugh at her expression. but ningning fails, a squeak leaving her mouth, and she immediately covers her face with her hands, trying to hide her giggles.

jimin narrows her eyes at ningning, already feeling the heat creeping up her neck. she's buzzing with excitement at the thought of seeing you again, but her members' reactions make her want to shrink into her chair.

"what? nothing to say?" winter teases, her tone playful, as she leans into jimin's personal space. jimin uses her personal defensive mechanism and swats her friend away, trying to act unbothered, but she is so far from unbothered.

"nothing to say about what?" she shoots back, trying her best to sound indifferent. her voice wavers just enough to give her away.

giselle hums knowingly, raising an eyebrow. "uh-huh. sure, unbothered queen. we believe you."

jimin groans, burying her face in her hands for a moment before straightening up, her usual composure returning. "focus," she mutters, pulling out the group leader card.

the teasing dies down eventually, and as soon as the members are distracted, jimin pulls out her phone. she doesn't even hesitate.

guess who's coming to la next week?

across the globe, you're just finishing up a long photoshoot. the last camera clicks finally signal the end, and you stretch your arms, shaking off the fatigue.

"that's a wrap!" the photographer announces happily. the crew erupts into chatter as they start packing up their equipment, and you stretch your arms above your head, feeling relieved. you're ready to go home and sleep for a hundred years.

"great job, y/n," the stylist says warmly, stepping forward to smooth down the soft button-up shirt you're wearing.

you glance down at the shirt, fingers brushing over the fabric. it was so soft, like butter. you couldn't remember the last time you wore something this comfortable. you hesitate for a moment before looking up at her with a sheepish grin. "hey, uh… is it okay if i keep this?"

the stylist pauses, then bursts into laughter, her knowing look making you blush. "go ahead. it looks like you're already in love with it."

"oh my god, i love you," you gush, clutching your hands together. "thank you!"

she waves you off, chuckling as she steps away to finish organizing her kit. you quickly slip the shirt off, folding it neatly to keep it clean while you change back into your own clothes.

as you step away from the set, jamie, your manager, catches up to you, a coffee in his hand. he gives you a once-over, taking in your appearance. "how was the shoot?"

"it was fine."

"you hungry?"

"always."

"great, let's grab a bite."

you raise a brow at him. "isn't there another thing i'm supposed to do after this?"

"not today." he answers, taking a sip from his coffee. "or for the rest of the week."

your eyes widen. "really?"

he nods, a knowing look on his face. you narrow your eyes. "wait, is this a pity thing?"

"what?" jamie shakes his head, scoffing. "no. it's just a little break. you've been working hard, so you deserve it."

you blink at jamie, skepticism etched into your expression. "you're giving me a break? just like that? no strings attached?"

jamie rolls his eyes. "yes, y/n, believe it or not, i'm capable of basic human decency. now, let's go grab food before you pass out."

still, you study him for a moment longer, looking for any signs of a trap. finally, you shrug, accepting his answer. "fine. but if you spring a last-minute meeting on me tomorrow, i'm holding this over your head forever."

"duly noted," jamie says dryly as he ushers you toward the exit.

as the two of you step into the crisp evening air, you fish your phone out of your pocket, curious if jimin has replied. sure enough, her name lights up your notifications, and you feel your heart do an embarrassing little flip.

you bite your lip, rereading the message as a small, giddy smile tugs at your mouth. you quickly type back.

you hesitate for a second, then add a smiley face before sending it off. as you slide your phone back into your pocket, jamie catches your expression and snorts.

"you're absolutely unbearable when you talk to her," he teases.

you roll your eyes. "and you're unbearable all the time, so what's your point?"

he laughs, shrugging.

"keep talking, and i'm cancelling dinner," you add, just to be a brat.

four entire days passed.

the anticipation was eating you alive.

you tried to stay busy, but remember. you were given a full seven days off, so that meant nothing to do. the days dragged on, each one feeling longer than the last. you couldn't wait to see her again.

every time you thought about it, your stomach twisted in that nervous, fluttery way you hated admitting you liked.

when jimin finally told you her flight details, it took every ounce of self-control not to drop everything and drive to the airport to meet her. instead, you played it cool—or at least tried to.

the day she landed, you kept your phone close, checking the time obsessively and jumping at every notification, thinking it might be her. you knew she'd have a packed schedule as soon as she arrived, and she'd probably be exhausted because of the long flight, but you couldn't help hoping she'd reach out sooner rather than later.

she texted you briefly after landing, letting you know she'd made it safely and promising to see you soon. you replied with something casual, though your heart was racing the entire time.

the next day, friday, dragged on endlessly. jimin was out with her group, spending time with them, as it would be the only full day they got to themselves before filming the music video the following day. by the time nighttime rolled around, you were pacing your living room like a caged animal.

and then your phone buzzed.

are you free tonight? i can come by now.

your heart skipped a beat as you read the message. you quickly sent her your address, typing it so fast that you had to backtrack and fix a typo.

i'm free. come over whenever you're ready.

i'm so excited.

me too.

i can't wait to kiss you again.

i miss your lips.

…

you're making it very difficult to not just run over there.

not being very fair right now >:(

sorry, not sorry.

just get over here.

when your doorbell finally rang out, you sprang from the couch, moving so fast that your socks betrayed you on the hardwood floor. you nearly toppled over but managed to catch yourself on the wall, your heart pounding for reasons that had nothing to do with your near fall.

with a quick breath to steady yourself, you turned the doorknob, and there she was.

jimin stood on your doorstep, dressed casually in a hoodie, sweats, and a cap, her hair pulled back into a low ponytail. she seemed worlds away from the polished idol everyone else saw, yet this version of her left you utterly speechless.

for a moment, you could only stare, drinking her in. she smiled, a dimple popping out, and that was all it took for you to regain control. you opened the door wider, stepping aside to let her in, and she hurried past you, the whiff of her perfume lingering in her wake.

"long day?" you asked, even though you already knew the answer, closing the door behind her as she set her bag near the entryway and pulled off her cap. your cap, actually, but you did say she could have it.

you watched her like a hawk as she nodded and ran a hand through her hair. "yeah, but i had fun."

you swallowed hard, unsure how to respond. jimin, however, seemed perfectly at ease, slipping off her sneakers and padding further into your home.

"it's nice here," she commented, looking around.

"it's cleaner than usual," you admitted with a sheepish laugh, rubbing the back of your neck.

she laughed, her smile deepening. "you didn't have to clean for me, you know."

"i didn't," you said quickly, but her raised brow had you cracking a grin. "okay, maybe i did. a little."

"do you want something to drink? or eat? i've finally been free to get groceries—"

"y/n," she interrupted, her hand catching yours mid-ramble.

you froze, looking down at where her fingers brushed against your own before meeting her gaze again.

"i'm here for you," she said softly. "not food. not anything else. just… you." your breath caught at her words. did she know the effect she had on you? to make your heart pound so hard it almost hurt, your stomach twists in knots, and your mouth dry out like you had been dehydrated for weeks?

if the knowing smirk on her face was any indication, yes. she did.

you swallowed hard, your throat suddenly thick. "well, okay then."

the two of you moved slowly, cautiously, like two animals circling each other for the first time. her eyes flickered down to your lips, and a shiver ran through you. she bit her lip, hesitating for just a second before reaching out, her hand cupping the side of your face. her thumb grazed your bottom lip, her touch feather-light.

you leaned into the touch, closing your eyes.

the tenderness of her touch made your chest tighten.

your eyelids fluttered open.

she was watching you, her gaze soft and affectionate.

it was as if the weight of the past few weeks had suddenly disappeared.

as if it didn't matter. nothing else mattered except the way she looked at you. her hands moved to cup your cheeks, and then she leaned in. her lips met yours in a gentle and loving kiss, and you sighed, melting into her touch.

you can't believe it's been almost three months since her touch.

three months.

"hi," she whispered, her voice thick.

you let out a small chuckle, the sound more breathless than you intended. "hey."

her lips curved into a smile.

that's nothing compared to how long you'll have her, but it feels like a lifetime. your head spins, your pulse racing as you try to comprehend the fact that she's here, right now. with you.

she pulls back for a moment, her eyes searching yours, her gaze never wavering. you stare back, transfixed by her beauty.

her thumbs gently caress your cheeks, and then she kisses you again, deeper this time, more urgent. your hands move to her waist, tugging you closer, pulling her into you with a desperation that mirrored her own. she responded eagerly, her fingers balling your shirt in her hands as she deepened the kiss even further.

heat flooded your body, and your skin tingled.

god, it had been too long.

"i missed this," she whispered against your lips, her voice breathless.

"me too," you murmured back, tilting your head and capturing her mouth in another searing kiss. she moaned softly into your mouth, and the sound sent a rush of pleasure through you, the heat pooling low in your belly. when the two of you finally broke apart, both panting and flushed, her lips were swollen, and her eyes were bright.

"i don't ever want to go that long without seeing you again," she admitted.

"me neither."

you gave her waist a little squeeze before reaching for her hand, leading her toward your bedroom. "come on," you said, grinning. "you've never seen my place, right? let me show you around."

jimin grinned. "lead the way."

the tour started in the living room, which was sparsely decorated. you hadn't bothered with much beyond the bare essentials. you didn't spend much time at home anyway, and you didn't care to decorate.

"this is the couch where i crash when i'm too lazy to move to my bed," you said, patting the back of it. there were a few pillows tossed around and a blanket draped over one side, clearly well-used. "also known as the nap kingdom."

jimin nodded seriously, pretending to take notes. "nap kingdom. got it."

you walked to the little bookshelf by the window. "and here's where i pretend to be cultured." a mix of books, old magazines, and random knickknack's filled the shelves. one corner had a plant that was either thriving or barely holding on—it was hard to tell.

you gestured to the far wall. "i keep the tv over there. mostly for background noise and when i feel like binging something. and then over here," you pointed at the kitchen area, "is the land of the fridge."

jimin chuckled.

"it's my second favorite place in the house," you explained. "the first being…" you paused for dramatic effect, pointing at the ceiling above. "my room!"

she laughed again.

you led her down a hallway that stretched far longer than most would expect, the space lined with artwork—some pieces you'd picked up while touring in europe, others gifted by fellow artists. jimin's gaze lingered on a few, a small smile on her lips.

your bedroom was at the end of the hall. the doors were tall, dark wood with brass handles. you pushed them open with a small flourish. "ta-da."

the room was massive, just like the rest of the house. the king-sized bed took up a good portion of the space, the covers rumpled and pillows scattered. a plush rug covered the hardwood floors, and more windows lined the far wall. the view from here was even better than the living room's, and you could see the sun setting over the city below.

there was a seating area near the window with two armchairs and a small coffee table. you had an open walk-in closet to one side, with floor-to-ceiling shelves and rows of shoes. and in the corner, next to your nightstand, sat an acoustic guitar you hadn't put away yet.

"i didn't get to make my bed, but… welcome." you turned back to her with a sheepish smile.

jimin chuckled, her eyes soft as she took in the space. "i think the messy bed's part of the charm."

you grinned and flopped onto the bed without a second thought, sinking into the plush mattress.

"best part of the tour," you joked, spreading your arms out dramatically like you were making a snow angel.

jimin laughed and followed your lead, collapsing next to you with a bounce. she landed close enough that your shoulders brushed, her hair splaying out across the pillows. she sighed happily.

you turned your head to look at her. her eyes were closed, a content expression on her face. it felt like everything had fallen into place, like this was where she belonged. like the past three months had been a dream, and now you were finally waking up.

her eyelids fluttered open, her gaze meeting yours. she smiled softly. "hi."

you couldn't help smiling back. "hey."

she let out a long, deep breath before turning her head towards you fully. your bodies faced each other, heads resting on pillows. she reached out, her fingers trailing along your jawline. the touch made your heart skip a beat, your skin tingling.

jimin tilted her head just slightly, closing the distance. her lips met yours gently, hesitantly, and you melted into her touch. she pulled away after a moment, only to kiss you again, deeper this time.

you sighed against her mouth, savoring the warmth of her lips, the taste of her tongue. she tasted like mint and coffee, sweet and earthy all at once.

you kissed her back eagerly, your hands cupping her face as she pulled you even closer. her fingers wrapped around the back of your neck, pulling you in tight, and you could feel her body pressed against yours, like she didn't want any space between you. she made a noise of approval when your arms wrapped around her waist, pulling her closer until you were tangled together.

she gasped as you shifted your weight, rolling so that she lay beneath you, her back flat against the mattress. your lips never left hers. you trailed kisses down her jawline, along her neck, and she arched her back with a breathy moan, her nails digging into your shoulder blades.

her scent filled your senses—floral and sweet, mixed with something spicy—and it made your head spin. your hands roamed her body, exploring every curve, every line, every inch of skin you could reach. she squirmed beneath you, panting as she tugged at your clothes, urging you to remove them. you complied, discarding the fabric on the floor.

when you pulled away from her, she whimpered at the loss, her eyes heavy-lidded and dark. you sat back on your heels, kneeling between her legs, admiring the sight of her laid out beneath you. her hair was tousled and mussed, her cheeks flushed, and her lips swollen. she looked beautiful.

"y/n," she muttered, suddenly embarrassed by your lingering gaze. she tried to cover her face with her hands, but you grabbed her wrists, pressing kisses to the inside of each one.

"what is it, love?" you asked, the nickname slipping off your tongue without thinking.

she stared up at you, her eyes searching yours for a moment before she pulled you back down into another heated kiss, her hands tangling in your hair, her tongue sliding against yours.

"please," she murmured against your mouth, her breath hot.

"you have no idea how much i've thought about this," you said, your hand rising higher, resting just underneath the band of her bra.

"you don't know how much i've thought about you," she whispered.

you pulled away slightly, just enough to look at her. "yeah?"

she nodded, a playful glint in her eyes.

"tell me," you whispered, pushing her hoodie upward to expose more of her skin, pressing a solid kiss in the middle of her torso. "how often did you think of me?"

she swallowed, her chest rising and falling as her breaths came in short bursts. "too often.

you hummed, your hands falling to either side of her hoodie, tugging it upwards. she helped you, raising her arms so you could slip it off her. "and what did you think about?" you continued; your lips found her skin again, pressing a line of kisses up her abdomen.

her eyes fluttered shut, her head falling back against the pillow as a shiver ran through her. "everything," she breathed, her fingers curling in the sheets.

"everything?"

"i thought about the way you looked at me when we first met, how your eyes crinkled when you smiled, the way you always smelled, the way you laughed." her voice dropped to a whisper. "i thought about the way you kissed me."

"i thought about you too," you murmur, your hands roamed her body, caressing every curve. you tugged her bra off, exposing her breasts. "all the time," you added, taking in the sight of her breasts pouring out of her bra.

your thumbs rubbed her nipples, her eyes closed. she let out a sigh, her back arching, pushing her breasts into your touch. "please," she whimpered, and the sound made your entire body tense, the pressure between your legs becoming almost unbearable.

but that didn't matter. you wanted to please her, to make her feel good, to let her know how much she meant to you. how you also think about her every single passing second of every day; that you were basically like a dog who waits eagerly for its owner's attention and affection.

her hands gripped your biceps as her hips bucked against yours once more. you dipped your head, taking one nipple into your mouth, swirling your tongue around her areola before moving to the other, sucking lightly and then harder.

"fuck," she gasped, her nails digging into your skin as her body writhed beneath you. you continued your ministrations, alternating between sucking and teasing her nipples with your teeth, eliciting delicious sounds from her lips. when you released her breasts, she groaned at the loss of contact.

"y/n," she pleaded, her voice pleading.

"shh," you murmured, kissing her stomach again. "let me take care of you." you sat back on your heels, tugging at her sweats until she lifted her hips, allowing you to slide them off along with her underwear.

"is this okay?" you asked, kissing her hip, your eyes locked on hers. she nodded, and you smiled, your arms wrapping around her thighs, your fingers gripping into the flesh of them. you lifted her legs over your shoulders, bringing her closer to you, and her hips bucked, her hands gripping the sheets.

"yes." she breathed.

the next thing she knew, your tongue was sliding up her wet slit, teasing her clit. she cried out, her hands immediately finding your head, gripping a handful of your hair, tugging it hard enough to make you groan. you didn't care, though, because she was wet and slick and sweet, and god, it felt amazing to finally taste her after all this time.

you lapped at her folds, tasting her juices, savoring every drop. she moaned, her hips bucking against your face.

the taste of her on your tongue was intoxicating; the pressure of her hands in your hair was intoxicating; to have her here, in your home, with her body responding to yours was more than you ever could've hoped for.

"fu-fuck." she moaned, her thighs squeezing around your head as your tongue worked her, a long whine following suit. "oh god, fuck."

her eyes closed, her head rolling back, the tendons in her neck standing out, her skin covered in a light sheen of sweat. "that's it," you encouraged, the sound of your voice making her shiver.

"y/n." she moaned, her grip tightening even further.

"more," she pleaded.

you gave her what she asked for, pushing two fingers into her, the sound of her cry filling the room, but that was nothing compared to the warmth of her around your fingers, the way her muscles squeezed and pulled, wanting you deeper inside her.

you could've lost yourself in that feeling, the heat, the tightness, the raw desire emanating from her. you wanted nothing more than to feel her come undone beneath you, the knowledge that it was your name on her lips, your hands on her body, the image of her coming apart for you burned into your brain.

"y/n."

her voice was raspy, low, and full of want, and it shot through you like lightning. your movements became faster and deeper, her breathing heavier as she struggled to speak.

"please. don't stop."

"i won't." you vowed.

"make me come, please."

you had never seen anything more beautiful. the way she arched her back, the way her eyes clamped shut in ecstasy, it was a sight to behold. "yes, yes, yes." she cried out.

her body was writhing underneath yours, her muscles tightening, her mouth forming words, but none of them coherent. it was like her entire world was collapsing, and she was grasping onto the only thing that mattered to her anymore, you.

"i'm gonna…"

and then, finally, she reached her peak, her hands leaving your hair to clutch the sheets as she rode out her orgasm, your name spilling from her lips over and over again. you didn't want her to stop. you didn't want this moment to end.

"oh god, oh god, y/n."

it was so fucking hot.

her chest heaved as she came down, her body trembling, her eyes still closed. she stayed there for a moment, basking in the afterglow. to be completely fair, these weren't her intentions on coming over. jimin would've been fine waiting. it was all up to you. but this? this was so, so much better.

"are you alright?" you ask, placing a gentle kiss on her forehead, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear.

"perfect." she sighs, opening her eyes.

"good."

her gaze is soft, full of tenderness and adoration, and she's looking at you like you're the only person who matters in the entire universe. you're sure the look on your face mirrors hers, because how could it not? how could you not be utterly and hopelessly in love with her?

you're soon tangled up again, your bodies pressed together, limbs intertwined as you try to get as close to each other as possible. there's nothing else you'd rather be doing. both bodies bare with your eyes locked, hearts beating as one.

your hand rests on the side of jimin's waist, your mouth agape as you kneel between her legs, the feeling of your cock pressing against her folds making you shiver. "is this okay?"

"yes," she whispered, her voice shaking. "i want this."

the two of you are connected by an invisible thread; every time you pull away, it tugs at you, drawing you back into her orbit, and you can't help yourself. the air between you crackles, electric. your eyes never leave hers as you slowly push into her, watching for any sign of discomfort.

her breath catches when you fill her completely, and you pause, giving her time to adjust. she takes a deep breath before nodding. "keep going," she says softly.

"i'll go slow."

you press another kiss to her forehead, and she sighs, closing her eyes. you start moving inside her, gently at first, trying to find a rhythm. her hands immediately reach out to find yours, lacing your fingers together and holding onto you tightly.

"fuck," she moans, squeezing your hand.

"feels good?"

"so good," she breathes, trying her hardest to keep you in her sights because you were a sight to behold. a selfish thought of being the only person to see you this way popped up in her head and she wanted nothing more than to hold that title forever. your hair messy, your lips parted and swollen from kissing, and sweat beading down your body. you were beautiful, and you were all hers.

"how are you so perfect?" she whispers, a hand leaving yours and reaching up and cupping your cheek.

"i'm far from perfect," you laugh softly.

"you are to me." oh.

her words send a shiver down your spine.

her words send a shiver down your spine. you're not sure how to respond to that, but luckily you don't have to, because she pulls you down for another kiss. it's slower this time, less urgent. her tongue slides over yours as her legs wrap around your waist, pulling you deeper into her, and you groan into her mouth. she swallows the sound eagerly, biting your bottom lip and tugging on it lightly before letting go.

your head ducks into the crook of her neck, her scent overwhelming you. "jimin." you murmur against her skin. she responds by running a hand through your hair, her nails scratching your scalp, taking the opportunity to pepper kisses on the side of your face and neck.

the rhythm of your thrusts grows faster and deeper, the tension building, coiling in the pit of your stomach, and you're struggling to maintain control, not wanting to end everything too soon. her body is flush against yours, her hips rising to meet yours as you rock into her, her breath hot against your ear.

"you're doing so good, baby," she murmurs, her voice low and husky. "so good for me."

those words alone nearly undo you, and you moan, burying your face deeper into her neck, her praise washing over you like warm water. she knows what it does to you, and she uses it against you, whispering encouragements, telling you how beautiful you are, how much she loves feeling you inside her.

your hand slides down her body, reaching between the two of you to find her clit. she gasps as your fingers brush over the sensitive nub, her grip tightening in yours, her legs squeezing tighter, her toes curling.

you continue to work her clit as your thrusts grow erratic, and you can feel her tightening around you, her muscles beginning to contract. her body writhes beneath yours, her back arching, her moans getting louder and louder until she lets out a broken cry, her walls clamping down on your cock, and you can't hold back any longer, a white-hot burst of pleasure shooting through you as your climax crashes into her.

her name falls from your lips as she comes undone beneath you, the two of you reaching a high that's impossible to describe, the pleasure overwhelming and intense, sending waves of euphoria throughout your body, leaving you breathless and panting. you ride out your orgasm together, holding onto each other tightly, never wanting to let go.

after a while, the two of you eventually separate, the need to catch your breath becoming too much. she lies beside you, her head resting on your chest, her hair splayed out across the pillow. your heart pounds beneath her ear, and you're sure she can feel it, too, but neither of you mentions it.

instead, you wrap your arm around her, pulling her closer and pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

"y/n," she finally mumbles, her eyes still closed, her body relaxing into yours.

"yeah?"

"i don't want this to end."

you pause, your fingers freezing mid-trail on her back. you don't want this to end, either. not now, not ever. the thought of it twists something deep in your chest. you want her in your life, in whatever way you can have her, even if that means settling for stolen moments here and there.

"i don't either," you admit softly.

jimin lifts her head slightly, her lips press into a thin line, and for a moment, she looks like she might cry. instead, she lets out a shaky breath, leaning in and pressing her forehead against yours, her nose brushing against yours.

suddenly, her head lifts again. "then let's not," she says quickly, her words tumbling out in a rush. "i know it's not that simple, but we can… i don't know. we can make it work, right?"

the desperation in her tone, the way her eyes search yours, the way her breath hitches, it all hits you in a wave. how much this means to her, how much you mean to her. she doesn't want this to end any more than you do, and that's enough.

you brush a strand of hair away from her face, offering her a small smile. "i want to. more than anything. but it's going to take effort—real effort."

"i know," she says, nodding a little too quickly.

"but we're good at effort, right? like, we both put our all into everything we do. why can't we do that here, too?" she pauses, searching your eyes as if looking for reassurance. "i just—i don't want us to lose this because of, like… logistics or schedules or whatever. that's so stupid. we're better than that."

you chuckle, and she glares at you, a fist jokingly threatening to punch your arm. you raise your hands defensively, trying not to laugh, which only makes her pout more. it's hard to take her seriously when she looks so cute.

"we can. i'll do anything it takes."

her face softens, and a smile spreads across her lips. "me too."

series masterlist. main masterlist. prev. next.

[umikawa]

a/n: unneccessarily long but i kept wanting to add flashbacks... this was requested here!

byakuya ishigami x gn!reader (barely if i'm honest) & platonic! senku ishigami x reader 2.5k wc | warnings: brief depictions of restlessness and wanting to give in (letting your mind slip during petrification) just a little sad, nothing major. Italics are flashbacks, I love dialogue !

♫ star / colde (listen to the organic version for more of a punch !)

You need to get out. 

Wake up. Break out. Anything. 

“I’ll keep him safe,” You’d said over the phone, smiling at Byakuya, who laughed loudly. “Though, it’ll probably end up being the other way around.” 

Another laugh comes from him, moving to rest his chin in his palm, staring behind you at the boy who’d just peeked his head through the door. “How about you keep each other safe, yeah? I won’t be there to watch over you two.”

“Even when you were here, Y/n was doing all the protecting, old man.” You look at the voice, watching Senku roll the extra chair from the corner beside you. “We’re ten billion percent safer without you here.” 

Your fingers poke into his side, earning a quick shout of protest and a light slap against your arm. “You know, Byakuya, the first night you left Senku–” Two tiny hands clasp over your mouth, your hand flying to the chair’s armrest to keep him from rolling away when he leaned too far. 

“Don’t you dare say a word!”

Byakuya smiled at your interaction, chest filling with warmth while his mind ignored the idea of both of you getting older without him.“Huh? What happened? Tell me!”

I’ll keep him safe. 

A scoff rings out into the seemingly endless void you were trapped in. So much for that. The thought of Senku already being free crossed your mind multiple times, and all you could think about was whether he was okay, if he wasn’t, and if he was safe.  

Then, your mind drifts to Byakuya. He’d been in space when humanity had turned to stone, so what were the possibilities that he’d also been turned to stone? If whatever had caused it was targeting life, would it have reached the astronauts? 

Or was the earth the only thing that got swallowed whole, and they were just drifting? Or maybe they crashed and landed back on Earth.

“Is it like– instant death when you crash land?” 

Byakuya whips his head towards you, setting the knife down so he doesn't accidentally cut himself. “What– who asks that?” 

“A very concerned spouse, that’s who!” You scoff, turning back to the curry simmering in the pot. “I’m an idiot when it comes to things like that, remember?” 

“Come on,” he sighs, knocking his fist against the counter lightly when he pushes away from it to stand behind you. “We all have our strong suits. There’s nothing wrong with that.” 

“You didn’t answer my question.” 

A frown comes to his lips at the persistence, but he sighs again and rests his head on your shoulder. “It’s not instant death. You just get tossed around a bit.” 

“You come back in one piece, or I’ll kill you myself.”

He chuckles, nodding his head– you can feel the scruff of his beard through your shirt. “I will.”

If Senku were there for that conversation, you’re sure he’d lecture you about the probabilities of that happening and tell you the statistics behind it all. Maybe he’d even go on a tangent about how much rocket debris still floats around in space and the ocean. 

Yeah, that sounds like something he would’ve done. 

Always analytical, always sound; every sentence that came out of that kid's mouth was sure to be written in a book, whether it was one he’d read or one he’d maybe write himself. 

You wonder what he’s thinking about now. You doubt he’d just bite the bullet and accept his fate; that wasn’t like him at all. 

He’s probably going through every variable, expanding on ones that make sense and adding to ones that don’t—leaving no stone unturned. No pun intended. 

“Y/n?” 

You lift your head from the pillow, squinting at the door to make out the figure standing at it. “It’s two in the morning, Senku. What’re you doing awake?” 

He stays silent for a moment, shuffling on his feet in an uncharacteristically timid way (even for a ten-year-old.) “You were shuffling around,” he huffs, making his way to the unoccupied side of the bed. “It’s unbearably annoying when I’m trying to sleep.” 

“Is that so?” You weren’t even moving an inch. “My sincerest apologies then.” 

He climbs in, nestling under the covers, and places his Doraemon stuffy between you. “I’ll let it slide this time, you know,” he shrugs, glancing at you briefly. “Since you’re feeling lonely.” 

You smile when he tucks his head under the blanket, reaching blindly under the covers to pat your shoulder. “How considerate of you, Senku.” 

You needed to get out. 

Restlessness overtakes your mind. How could it not? Stuck in a suspended state of mind for– god, you didn't even know how long it’s been. Constantly replaying the same memories repeatedly, wishing you could make new ones instead of reliving old ones. 

Maybe you should just give in. 

“Don’t fall asleep!” 

You jolt at the booming voice, staring at Taiju in shock. Despite his loud command, there’s a guilty, almost bashful, expression on his face. Like he enjoyed waking you up but still had a bit of regret. 

“Sorry, Y/n, but Senku told me to keep you awake.” He sits beside you on the grassy hill behind the apartment, fingers shifting at the slight dew left from the morning's rain. “Plus, it isn’t safe to fall asleep here at night with only two kids to protect you.” 

“Of course, I don’t know what I was thinking.” You laughed, sitting up straighter. “I’ll be a hundred percent awake from now on.”

“Are you tired, Y/n?” 

You hum. You wonder if this was just the unfiltered talk of a kid or genuine concern. Taiju always confused you. “It’s past midnight, Taiju. Are you not?”

“I meant–” he looks away, trying to find the right words. “Taking care of Senku– and me too, sometimes– do you ever… get tired?” He looks down, twiddling his thumbs in his lap while he brings his knees to his chest. “Before my parents–” he pauses, shakes his head, then continues. “They always looked exhausted. They worked so much just for me, and I– you’re doing it all by yourself right now, and I’m…” he stops himself when your hand brushes over his cheek. He hadn’t realized he had started crying until your thumb had wiped under his eyes. 

He looks up at you. Even with blurred vision, he can see your expression clearly– it’s the same way his parents looked whenever they thought he wasn’t looking. “I’m tired,” you say, smiling softly at him when his lip trembles. “But you two, despite the real pain in the butt Senku can be when he blows up my kitchen-” Taiju lets out a laugh, giving you a wobbly smile. “-are absolutely worth it.”

Desperation claws at your skin. Itching for an escape, praying, wishing, hoping for this to end. It’s futile. Each scream for release just echoes back to you, resounding in your head like a metronome. 

Just wake up. 

Suddenly, somehow, everything felt still. A piercing ring filled your ears before a notable crack was heard from above. You blink, and instead of feeling nothing, you see light. 

Senku. 

He’s standing in front of you, a pained smile on his face, and he looks older. While a wobbly smile creeps onto your face at the sight of him, happy to see him, there’s a part of you that’s sad that you’d clearly missed out on a few years of his life. 

“You grew up.” 

He laughs, soft, almost breathless. “I'm 23 now,” he says, shoulders dropping as an imaginary weight falls onto them. “But technically speaking, I’m well over 5,000 years old now. You are too, and a lot more people.” 

You blink slowly, furrowing your brows in confusion before your mouth opens in realization. Senku wants to say something to reassure you. He wants to tell you that everything was fine, and society had already been rebuilt– and would continue to grow till it returned to before.

But then you go and say something, words Senku assumed you’d say, ones he was prepared for, ones he wasn’t ready to hear.

“So he’s gone then, isn’t he?” 

“Are you emotionally unbalanced because Byakuya’s gone?” 

You turn your head, though you aren’t met with Senku’s curious (nosy) face. Instead, Doraemon stares back at you with a smile. “Are you worried about me, Senku?” 

A brief pause– “No.” he shifted under the blanket, unceremoniously popping his head out. “Just wanted to know if I should be scared for my well-being. Statistically speaking, if your norepinephrine levels are imbalanced, it can contribute to–” Senku stops his speech when you roll over on your other side, an agitated frown coming onto his face.

He lifts himself from the bed, sitting on his knees as he looks at you, and calculates his next move. 

 Then, he flops on top of you, grinning maniacally at the loud groan that falls past your lips when his body goes limp. “What’re you doing, you crazy kid!” Senku doesn’t reply. Instead, he nuzzles his head against your shoulder, pressing harder when you begin to laugh. 

“Preventing chemical imbalance. I’m ten billion percent certain your serotonin levels just shot through the roof.” He states, finally getting off you. “Parents love it when their kids show sudden affection; did you know that?” 

“I did.” You nod, pulling the blanket up to his shoulders. “Your experiment was a success.” 

 “He is.” Senku’s voice is barely above a whisper, hands reaching for the glass disk on the table beside him. “Has been for a long time.” 

You hum. Your lack of response– at least, the one Senku thought you’d have– sends chills down his spine. “I’m glad you’re still here.” A bitter chuckle, filled with despair, leaves your lips– and Senku finally sees the tears start to fall. “I thought about you two this whole time, waiting for the day I’d just wake up, and now–” you sigh, resting your head in your hands. “I don’t even know.” 

He doesn’t say anything for a moment. He isn’t sure what to say either. It felt like his lips were sewn shut at the exact second he’d needed to deliver a comforting line– because that wasn’t his strong suit; it was Byakuya’s.

He thinks back to when he was a kid, the night before Byakuya would leave for America. What did the old man do to comfort you? To assure you that everything would work out? 

Senku narrowed his eyes in annoyance at the sudden blare of music coming from the living room, quiet laughter and hushed apologies blending into the unintelligible lyrics he couldn’t understand. It’s an English song, somber and quiet, a typical love song. 

His curiosity gets the better of him. 

He hugs the wall while he sneaks through the hallway, shuffling when he gets closer to the living room. The music is louder now that he’s closer; he wonders how he’d even managed to hear your laughter. Then he sees it. 

Bodies pressed against each other as you swayed to the music, entwined hands resting on his shoulder, and your cheeks looked like they were smushed together. Byakuya’s lips were moving, and even though Senku couldn’t hear him, he knew he was just singing along. Terribly, he assumes, judging by your laugh. 

He stands there watching for a few more seconds before turning on his heel and retreating to his room. But he comes back again, camera in hand, and sneakily takes a few pictures before leaving the two of you alone. 

It was the last time you’d see him for a while anyway. He wasn’t going to intrude on that.  

Wordlessly, Senku takes your hand away from your face, holds it near his shoulder, and awkwardly places his other hand on your bicep. 

Then he starts humming. 

That same song from all those years ago. 

He started to sway hesitantly. Even if it was a simple motion, initiating it after you were seconds away from falling apart was a little odd. 

“I never thought I’d get you to dance,” you murmur, voice light from how hard you were trying not to cry. “I figured it’d be on your wedding day, but I honestly couldn’t even imagine you getting married, as bad as that sounds.” 

He shrugs, looking at the floor. “I don’t find marriage necessary. It’s all just social expectations– I don’t need a certificate to tell me I love someone.”

“That’s… sweet.” 

“I would’ve said it to you and Byakuya before you two got married. Tell you it was all unnecessary money spent for a ritual that virtually changed nothing other than your social status.” You hum, Senku figures you wouldn’t have cared regardless. “But I was what– four when you did?” 

“Mhm, back when you were just a cute little kid who was only curious about when Doraemon would be playing on the TV.” 

“Hey, if I never got interested in science, who knows where we’d be right now.” 

He choked down the laugh that wanted to come out after his words when he felt your grip on his hand tighten slightly. 

Right. If he’d been a normal kid, maybe Byakuya would still be here. 

You shake your head suddenly, tearing Senku away from the thoughts that crept into his head. “I’m glad you did; life would’ve been much more boring if you hadn’t.” 

“But Byakuya–”

“Would agree with me,” you said before he could finish his sentence. “You know he would. He sold his car just to get you equipment because he saw that spark in you, Senku. He coughed up his credit card whenever you asked cause he knew you weren’t wasting it on stupid things. I wasn’t as giving when it came to money, but I still supported you, right?” 

He nods. Was he getting lectured right now? “You never liked it when I experimented.” 

“I didn’t like it because I was afraid you’d get hurt.” With a lighthearted scoff, you say, “Remember what happened after the explosion at the river bank? I grounded you for a week.”

Senku shudders at the memory. You made him eat natto by the pound, and he hated it. But he was glad you weren’t the type of parent to take away his interest. Heaven knows if you prevented him from doing science, he’d rat you out to Byakuya. 

“I loved hearing you chat my ear off about your latest discovery when I was making dinner or kept me up past midnight because you wanted to watch a meteor shower, telling me I was only there for parental supervision when I knew that wasn’t the case.” 

“It might’ve not been normal to you, but it was to me.” 

Senku nods. If he said anything more, it would just end in another lengthy lecture about how he was wrong. So he stays quiet, continues to sway around with you in the empty room, pushing the lingering thoughts to the back of his mind, and savors this moment. 

“I’ll keep bugging you then,” he mutters, shutting his eyes when your hand rubs circles on his back. “Just like back then. So you can have an ounce of normalcy.” 

a/n: does the song fit as much as I thought it did. chat. chat what do we think.

[elliespassagerprincess]

i would really like to see rockstar ellie dating actress reader 🙏🙏🙏

Headcannons: rockstar!ellie x actress!reader

masterlist

☆ Ellie Williams is the storm before the show starts. Inked arms, low-slung guitar, whiskey breath, and lyrics laced with venom. Her vibe is gritty and raw — she doesn’t do commercial spots, doesn’t care for endorsements. But when she sees you — a radiant, pristine actress on a talk show — something in her stops.

☆ You first meet at a fashion week afterparty. You’re in couture and diamonds, and Ellie’s in a ripped vintage tee and worn boots. She smells like leather and tobacco, eyes roaming like she’s memorizing you.

☆ The chemistry is instant, but Ellie’s overwhelmed. She pretends she doesn’t care, gives you a cold “cool dress,” but then goes home and writes six songs in one night. They all sound like longing.

☆ Your lifestyle is soft-spoken interviews and carefully planned PR moves. Hers is being dragged out of hotel rooms by managers and getting banned from venues for lighting joints on stage. But when you speak, Ellie listens like a disciple.

☆ You become a quiet obsession. She watches every film you’re in, boots up old B-roll footage, memorizes the rhythm of your voice in interviews. She starts talking like you. Dressing cleaner. Subtly shifting for you.

☆ When you finally text her first, she stares at the message for ten minutes before replying, fingers trembling. She drafts seventeen replies and erases each one. She wants to seem effortless, but her heart is pounding.

☆ Ellie doesn’t fall in love — she plummets. The second she kisses you, it’s like a wire snaps inside her. From then on, her music becomes more desperate. More romantic. Rawer. Critics start calling her new sound “haunted.”

☆ She becomes territorial fast. It’s subtle — a hand gripping your waist tighter at parties, lingering glances at anyone who looks at you too long. You’re polite. Ellie’s ready to fight.

☆ Ellie is never comfortable with fame, but she thrives in chaos. She only ever smiles in public when you’re next to her, and her fans catch on quickly — noticing how her entire face softens around you.

☆ Her tattoos become more personal. You never ask for it, but one night she comes home with your initials inked just below her ribs. “Didn’t hurt,” she lies, even though it bled.

☆ You once called her your “wild poet” in an interview. She kept the magazine and folded the page under her pillow. No one’s ever described her so intimately. It fuels her next EP.

☆ You bring calm into her world. She brings fire into yours. You teach her how to walk red carpets with confidence. She teaches you how to scream into the void and laugh after.

☆ Ellie refuses to let her team auto-tune her anymore. “She likes my voice cracked,” she says. And it’s true. You told her once your favorite part of her music is when she breaks mid-line.

☆ She gets jealous when you’re on set with male actors. She won’t say anything outright, but you come home to her music blasting and ashtrays full. Her lyrics that night drip with possession.

☆ You two rarely post each other publicly. But when you do, it’s cryptic: a photo of her guitar beside your high heels. A blurry picture of your hand in her back pocket. The internet unravels.

☆ You become Ellie’s muse in every way. Her lyrics shift from angst to aching love, to obsession, to reverence. She once wrote a chorus that just repeated your name over and over like a prayer.

☆ Her notebooks are filled with half-finished lines about your smile. She never shows them to anyone. You’re her secret weapon, her sacred chaos, the reason she still believes in beauty.

☆ She hides a tiny recorder in her jacket pocket when you talk. The cadence of your voice, your casual sentences—they end up in songs. Her producers find audio clips of you whispering her name in demo tracks.

☆ You don’t realize she’s writing about you until you hear her perform live. One lyric is word-for-word something you once said while crying into her chest. You look at her in shock. She just smirks.

☆ Ellie hates being away from you. She becomes unbearable on tour — grumpy, distracted, lashing out. Her manager starts scheduling shows closer to your filming locations just to get her to function.

☆ She writes you letters she never sends. When she’s on the road, her notebooks are full of “I miss you, I can’t breathe without you, I hate these hotel sheets, they don’t smell like you.”

☆ Every gift she gives you is handmade or vintage. Never brand-name. She’ll find a first-edition poetry book, a rusted lighter engraved with your initials, a guitar pick she carved herself.

☆ Ellie’s obsession is sacred, not sinister. She doesn’t want to control you. She wants to belong to you. She once said, “I’d shred my voice if it meant you’d feel loved.”

☆ When she sees you on screen crying, she cries too. Even if it’s acting. She once stormed out of a premiere because a character hurt you in the film. She couldn’t stand to see it.

☆ She calls you her “religion” in private. Says she prays at the altar of your neck. Says your laugh resurrected parts of her she didn’t know still lived.

☆ You’ve walked in on her writing a song, crying. Not because of pain, but because she says she loves you so much it physically hurts sometimes. You hold her till the strings stop trembling.

☆ Ellie starts performing barefoot. She said it makes her feel closer to you. She used to hate vulnerability — now she bleeds it on stage, for you, always.

☆ She doesn't believe she deserves you. So she works harder. Becomes cleaner. Still messy, still Ellie, but she fights to be good enough to stay in your light.

☆ Her fans know about you. They chant your name at concerts, hold up signs that say “YOU ARE HER MUSE.” She reads them from the stage with that crooked, private smile.

☆ You once walked out during an argument. Ellie wrote a seven-minute track called “Runaway Star” that night, dropped it without promo. It charted #1. You came home crying.

☆ Ellie always touches you on stage when you’re watching. Whether it’s adjusting her necklace with your ring on it, glancing at you before a verse, or mouthing “mine” when she sees you smile.

☆ When you wear her band tee on set, the entire internet erupts. Ellie screenshotted it and set it as her phone background, then wrote a song called “Hollywood in My Shirt.”

☆ She’s obsessed with your hands. She watches you gesture during interviews, kiss the backs of them when you’re stressed, holds them tightly when no one’s looking.

☆ You anchor her. When she spirals—bad reviews, stage anxiety, old trauma—you bring her back. You don’t calm the storm. You hold her through it, and she loves you more for that.

☆ Ellie once punched a guy at a party for making a crude joke about you. You scolded her, but she didn’t regret it. “I’d lose every gig if it meant they shut their mouths.”

☆ She writes you lyrics she never shares with the world. A private archive of confessions, promises, dreams. One night, she plays them all for you under candlelight.

☆ You teach her to love herself. Slowly. Carefully. You remind her that she’s more than noise and notoriety. That she’s soft and good and worthy. She writes a love song about it called “Unlearn.”

☆ She hates photo shoots but does them for you. When the magazine asks why she agreed, she replies: “She looks at these. That’s reason enough.”

☆ Ellie can’t sleep without your side of the bed warm. On tour, she wraps herself in your sweater and listens to voicemails from you until she crashes.

☆ She wants to marry you but is terrified you’ll say no. Not because you don’t love her — but because she still thinks you belong in a world she can’t touch.

☆ Ellie thinks you’re her greatest song. And not just the inspiration — the rhythm of your walk, the tone of your voice, the way you sigh. She hums you.

☆ Her favorite place on earth is wherever you’re filming next. She follows you like a loyal shadow, always finding new melodies in the way you exist.

☆ You once acted in one of her music videos. It wasn’t just a video—it was a story she wrote just to watch you move through it. She directed every shot.

☆ She hates sharing you with the world. When you walk carpets or kiss someone on screen, she watches with clenched fists and says, “They don’t get to keep you. I do.”

☆ Ellie keeps every note you’ve written. Even the silly ones. She carries one in her wallet that just says “don’t forget to eat” in your handwriting.

☆ She studies your interviews. Even years later, she replays your answers and mouths along. It’s a form of worship.

☆ You found a shrine once. Not literally—but her studio was filled with drawings of your silhouette, lipstick-stained napkins, press clippings, and your smiling face.

☆ She told her fans once, “I write because of her.” They screamed. You cried.

☆ Ellie thinks you’re her beginning and her end. And she’s okay with that. She once whispered, “If this all burns down, I want you holding the match.”

☆ You caught her crying after a show once, saying, “I don’t deserve this. I don’t deserve you.” You held her face and replied, “You created all of this. You deserve everything.”

☆ Your career starts soaring. You land an award-winning drama, then a major franchise. Suddenly your face is everywhere — billboards, perfume campaigns, movie posters. Ellie pretends to be cool about it, but deep down, it terrifies her. The world is starting to realize what she’s always known: you’re unforgettable.

☆ Ellie sits front row at your film premiere. She’s in all black, sunglasses at night, and refuses press. But the second you appear, she smiles like someone just handed her the universe in a wine glass.

☆ Your fans adore her. They call her “your grumpy groupie.” You once posted a photo of her backstage with a badge that says “property of THE actress,” and it trended for days.

☆ You win a major award. On stage, you thank your team, your family... and then you pause, eyes welling up, and say, “To the girl who taught me how to be loud, how to be soft, how to love—Ellie, this is ours.” Ellie leaves the theatre to cry alone.

☆ Paparazzi love catching your contrasts. You, glowing in designer silk. Ellie, beside you in ripped denim, tattoos out, holding your purse while glaring at cameras. It becomes an internet meme. She doesn’t care. She likes holding your things.

☆ You once had a sex scene with another actress, and Ellie watched it frame by frame, chewing her cheek raw. When you got home, she couldn’t meet your eyes. You had to pull her onto your lap and say, “There’s only one girl who ruins me. She’s sitting right here.”

☆ She writes a whole album about the idea of marrying you but never tells you. It’s angry, pleading, hopeful. The tracklist spells out your initials in acrostic.

☆ You catch her staring at engagement rings once. She tries to hide it. You don’t mention it. But that night she kisses your hand and whispers, “If I ever lose you, I’ll burn everything down.”

☆ You love her exactly as she is. The rough edges, the obsession, the tangled jealousy. You’ve never wanted to fix her. Just stay close enough to catch her when she spirals.

☆ Ellie starts introducing herself as “your wife” by accident. Sometimes it’s on purpose. At a party, someone flirts with you and she says, “She’s married. To me. Just not legally. Yet.”

☆ You keep Ellie grounded. She gets overwhelmed by fame, by noise, by how much she wants you. But you’re steady. You remind her to breathe. To eat. To make music because it matters, not because it sells.

☆ She paints your face on a guitar. It’s subtle — your eyes, hidden behind swirling ink. She plays that one only on her worst days.

☆ You start writing too. Quiet poems in the margins of scripts, love letters you hide in her suitcase. Ellie finds them and weeps like she’s found a lost part of herself.

☆ When she tours, she always reserves two hotel rooms. Not for space. For the fantasy. One for her, one for her “wife.” She keeps a nightgown in the second bed. Pretends you’re there.

☆ She proposes in the least expected moment. No cameras. No stage. Just the two of you in a shitty diner at 2 a.m., her eyes red from crying, whispering, “If I don’t make you mine forever, I’ll never be whole.”

☆ The world explodes when the engagement leaks. Headlines scream, “Hollywood’s Darling to Marry Rockstar Anomaly.” You both lock yourselves in a cabin for a week and forget the world exists.

☆ Your wedding is rumored to be unhinged. No guest list, just a private ceremony in a wild field with Ellie in a black suit and you barefoot in silk. She sings her vows through tears.

☆ Ellie can’t stop touching your ring. In interviews. In bed. When she holds your hand, her thumb circles it over and over like she’s grounding herself in proof. You’re hers. She’s yours.

☆ You’re offered a role as a queer icon in a prestige drama. You almost say no — afraid of Ellie’s reaction — but she reads the script and goes, “Play her. And I’ll write her a soundtrack.” That album becomes the most critically acclaimed of her life.

☆ The idea of babies makes Ellie lose her mind. She wants to hear your voice in a tiny human. She wants to see your softness pass down. You’re not ready yet, but she’s already written a lullaby. It’s called “Mama’s Muse.”

[mihii-i]

sanctuary.

Pairings: vi x fem!reader

CW: sfw, female reader, self destructive habits mentioned, alcoholism, vi’s trauma, reader is vi’s best friend (again, GO READ PART 1.), friends to lovers, girls kissing this isn’t even a silly warning anymore cause whys there a rise in homophobes, emo vi yes she’s hot but I was lowkey scared at first, mmm angst very yummy, ouuu this is turning out good okay, violence, idk what other warnings to put, caitvi not working out in this fic’s course of events, gay gay homosexual gay, not proofread.

A/N: now playing: head over heels by gunboikaz—here’s the lil surprise I was edging yall for ong- collab fic with @kadriss-loves-gifflars please go read part 1 on her page, yes it is mandatory cause this fic is a part 2 to that. Anyway I guess this was my little way of jumping out of saying that I’m writing for arcane now so yippee 🕯️

“Don’t thank me, it’s what I want to do for you.”

Those words rolled off of your tongue in a timeless, slow sentiment, accompanying your ardent embrace you enveloped Vi in as if you never wanted to detach yourself from the woman hemmed between your arms. Breath fanning against her soaked shoulder, you took the initiative to briefly thumb along the drenched fabric stuck to her skin in comforting, circular motions. Easing Vi into your touch as you attempted to outline her masked tattoos through the fabric as best as you could remember.

Each shaky breath quivering against her lower lip only allowed her to pathetically wallow in the small sliver of solace in your warmth, clinging onto the simple sentence of consolation you had provided her like a lifeline while fighting back the sting of her tears threatening to circle back and spill.

She weakly attempted to push back the fleeting moments of adoration that remained burned into her skull, every time that wave of dizziness latched onto her temples and seeped across every little crevice of her head whenever she reminisced on Caitlyn’s features, staring her down ever since that awful day where she groveled at her feet in tears.

It truly was too much for her. Torn down on countless occasions with nothing but the awful stab of guilt and regret, eating away at her alongside the twist of every set of knuckles burying into her gut, drives of pain endured from her beatings in Stillwater gradually ripping away her sanity along with it over the years. Vi’s motivation had tensed and wavered along a thin string of stability she had dug into the thick earth of her breaking soul, being dragged away from both her younger sister and her best friend, left to wonder what became of them as they were alone…seperated.

Punches upon punches cracked along the rugged stone splayed along the cell walls filling the numbing void within her that swallowed her whole. The two people she had loved wholeheartedly either lingering within the sharp outcome of death, or something possibly worse. Although Vi had always hoped that the former wouldn’t become of you both, praying to herself that she wouldn’t have to stumble upon either yours or Powder’s corpse whenever she was able to bust out of prison—it was undeniable that death would’ve been the more merciful option for the two of you in said circumstances.

Strangely enough, Caitlyn’s presence remedied the sickening ailment that split her in half, being able to slowly piece back together the person Vi once was. The one that she had been stripped of in the hellfire of her waning sanity in the Stillwater Hold. It was ironic, really. The seeds of her pain and suffering where rooted in the causes of enforcers, who reduced her feeling of any security drowned into heaping piles of gravel making up the post rubble of battle.

However the woman who had healed that ache, touched her heart in a way was none other than an enforcer herself, supposed to be draped clad in her armor from head to toe like the rest, yet her soft features as a mural of her humanity were able to pull Vi in, like the calm to a storm, soothing the hurt swirling within her chest.

Perhaps that irony could now be shot down, considering the current situation at hand. Or rather, in your arms. The very source of this newfound pain Vi was drowning herself in, was indeed that same enforcer. Digging herself into the pits of her self destructive habits slowly chipped away at her identity, leaving her to question who she truly was in the midst of the thudding maelstrom her emotions conjured up.

“Vi? You feeling okay now?” You inquired in a soft murmur, the showers of rain continuously pattering against the ground outside both heightening and easing Vi’s anxiety in a mind breaking juxtaposition. Your voice however, no doubt was a remedy to her pain, the tip of her nose brushing against your neck once more as her eyes glued shut. Her hold on you remained firm as she tried to calm herself in the moral quandary of what she had became, attempting to suppress those rising feelings of abhorrence that consumed her whole.

Vi simply shook her head in response to your question, choking back the light sniffles that threatened to gag out themselves. The freezing steel of her nose ring continued to collide flush against your already frigid throat, thin drops of water dribbling down your chin as you somber expression remained fixed on your best friend’s ruined form.

Dull streaks of black paint smudged along the dusted skin of your arm, taking in the vile tar smudged along her face to mask the tattoo of her own name engraved deep onto her cheek. It was quite hard to tell from the way she remained silent in your arms, had she truly lost herself altogether? You could only do nothing but ponder if the Vi you had once knew had dissipated into a mere memory lingering in the back of your head.

Every hit. Every scream, each downed bottle of alcohol was disturbingly clear in your head. Tracing back on the times you in fact watch Vi lose herself right before your eyes, unfolding into a self destructive flurry that circled back on and on in a seemingly unending routine. Clatters of coins pebbling to the ground at your feet as she continued throwing hook after hook at her opponent, along with steel alcohol cups colliding against each other with erupted cheers among the crowd was nothing short of sickening for you.

God, why couldn’t you see earlier how bad this really was?

You were a shitty friend for being unable to stop her.

Frequently, you’d have an arm slung over her wasted form, the reeking scent of alcohol emanating from her soiled lips in shallow breaths. Often times even having to treat her bloodied self as you spent several minutes cleaning and patching up her wounds.

“Why are you still here?”

She finally croaked out, her voice hoarse and shaky. You replied with a shrug, retracting your head before giving her exposed shoulders a gentle squeeze.

“Probably cause the woman I was best friends with was nowhere to be seen for seven years? I knew that once I saw you again, I wouldn’t let go again. Not for a second.”

“You’re oddly stubborn aren’t you?”

Her brief laugh was mixed in with a hint of a scoff, disbelieving of the fact that you’d go to such lengths for someone like her.

“Maybe I am. What about it? I care about you, Vi. I thought that much was obvious.”

You paused, a hint of a tiny smile crossing your lips in an attempt to lighten the mood.

“Also, you’re getting that paint all over me.”

Before she could back away as a subtle apology, you swiftly grasped her calloused fingertips between yours, gently tracing your thumb against the crimson lumps of her knuckles through the wrapping of the bandaging. Expression residing in a woeful sting, you carefully observed the battered injuries protruding through the dirty white lining, a grim reminder of the turmoil she had suffered at the disheartening experiences of both her sister and—now ex-girlfriend is what you supposed you could call her.

“You’re strong, Vi. You’ve got a good heart, and I’m proud of you for being able to endure this.”

A brief flicker of that fluffy tenderness returned for a split second to mist over her eyes, both your scent and touch occupying every sense in her body to block out the dizzying whiff of alcohol, alongside the trashy odor of the crappy room she found herself laying in to cope with her grief.

You. Her best friend. You were able to keep yourself anchored to her like an angel looking out for her best needs, keeping an arm around her even when she batted it away. She was truly greatful to you.

But was she supposed to be feeling this for her best friend? Especially after she had gotten all mopey over Cait to the point where she was in every sight of hers. Fuck, was this how Jinx felt every waking moment of the day?

Despite the presence of Caitlyn in her life, Vi couldn’t help but feel the pressure of her affection toward you clenching her heart like the cut of a thin string, the twinge of guilt quickly being replaced with the manner in which you entranced her with a magnetic attraction. She wasn’t supposed to, but perhaps she imagined what life would be like with you if Caitlyn didn’t steal her heart first, picturing the impossibly perfect life of residing on peace with your head nuzzled to her shoulder.

Vi felt safe whenever you were so much as seated beside her, basking in the comfort of your enchanting presence even if you were doing nothing but staring off into space in exhaustion. The comfort of her best friend was her sanctuary where she could escape the struggles of this battle ridden life, balanced on an imbalance of chewing off scraps and living in luxury among the duality of both Zaun and Piltover.

That feeling only amplified upon feeling your palm caress her tar stained cheek, tilting her head to face you directly as her eyes fixated on your piercing glare of fondness. Eyes boring into yours, Vi really couldn’t tell what came over her as she strung her fingers into the back of your thin locks, digging them to massage along your scalp as her lips gnawed at yours hopelessly in desperation.

She was about to withdraw herself from you in regret, fearing that she had broken the only relationship she had left intact. But she wouldn’t have to worry about that. Not from how you were grasping at either side of her face with a heightened need roused in your own kisses dragging along her chapped lips to drown in the metallic aftertaste of old blood seeping along your tongue. Pressed chest to chest with her as you could practically feel both of your hearts hammering against each other’s chest in rhythm.

Heavy breaths fostered the atmosphere of the murky room upon pulling away from each other, a tired smile adorning Vi’s lips form the aftermath of your gentle kiss as she collapsed back onto your chest in exhaustion. You could only muster up a giggle as your heavy breaths subsided, stroking your fingers along the remaining fades of pink peeking through the blackened stains of her locks before whispering while you hugged her from behind, leg draped over her waist.

“I missed you, you know.”

A/N: BOOM SHAKALAKAAAAA YES GAWDDDDD SURPISE HOS I WRITE FOR ARCANE NOW please request more of this show now I’m back in my arcane prison phase pls PLEASE REQUEST THIS ALONG BES YUMYUMYUM

Anyway @kadriss-loves-gifflars tysm queen I had so much fun with this collab and this turned out very yummy I love this

[gingerteafairy]

𝐒𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐘 𝐇𝐄 𝐌𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐒

billy loomis x fem!reader

summary: he's always caring for you.

tags n warnings: SMUT/MDNI, dubcon, blood, dead dove do not eat (nothing new to scream fans tho), gore, knife play, choking, rope, mirror sex. word count: 3.6k

"Did you like the gift I gave you?" The voice asked from the other end of the line, laced with an amused, almost melodic tone.

A small smile crossed your lips as you looked at the heart-shaped box resting on the table. Your fingers slid over the delicate wrapping, feeling the texture of the paper, while your eyes captured the note taped to the lid.

"Was it from you?" you asked, tilting your head slightly, your eyes dancing over the newspaper-cut letters forming a meticulously arranged sentence. "This is getting a little too romantic for my taste."

Your fingers glided over the note before picking it up, turning it between your hands. The weight of those cut-out words carried a strange familiarity.

It had been a while since the calls from an unknown number went from an annoyance to a nightly ritual. What once seemed like the plot of a horror movie now strangely filled a void you barely knew how to name. The voice on the other end, as smooth as a spell, was like a mist wrapping around your thoughts.

"Be mine forever?" you read aloud, raising an eyebrow. "How cliché."

"I can be a little cliché for you." He chuckled on the other end, his laugh slow and enticing, as if he could feel every shift in your expression. "Open the box. Don't be scared, I put a little bit of my heart in there."

Your lips parted, hesitation and curiosity dancing across your face. With a soft sigh, you pushed the note aside and carefully slid the lid off the box.

Your eyes met a white rose, its petals painted red with a viscous ink that glistened under the bedroom light. A subtle shiver ran down your spine. You lifted the flower, twirling it between your fingers, feeling the slightly sticky texture of the ink.

"Well, I have to admit this is genuine material." Your voice came out in a playful tone, but your gaze remained fixed on the crimson details dripping down the petals. "It really looks like blood."

"Have you ever read Alice in Wonderland?" he whispered, his voice sounding far too close, as if he were right beside you.

You closed your eyes for a brief moment, absorbing the hypnotic melody in his tone.

"Yes, I have."

"Do you remember the part where the Queen of Hearts painted the roses with the blood of foolish subjects?”

You parted your lips slightly, still twirling the flower between your fingers. The bottom of the box was red, stained unevenly, as if the ink were still fresh.

"Are you telling me you did this, Mister Mysterious?" you teased, resting your elbow on the table and placing the rose back into the box with a smirk, your eyes never leaving the small gift.

The silence on the other end of the line stretched a second longer than it should have. Your heart gave a small leap.

Then, he laughed.

Low. Sinister. Dangerous.

And for some reason, it made your skin tingle.

“Say goodbye to your abusers, my love.” He hummed. Your hands shook as you opened the false bottom of the box. A tuft of torn hair and eyes you knew so well. The scalp of your ex and the eye of his affair, your best friend.

The world seemed to slow down. Your breath caught in your throat as you stared at the body lying in front of you, red spilling across the floor in a cruel contrast against the white tiles.

"Oh my God." Your voice came out weak, a whisper broken by disbelief.

"Well deserved. She was such a backstabbing bitch." He laughed on the other end, casual, as if he were commenting on the weather.

You took a step back, horror spreading through your body like an electric current. Your hands trembled as they tried to wipe the red stain from your nightgown, but the blood wouldn’t come off, clinging to your skin like a filthy memory.

"I… I… why…" Your voice failed, your eyes wide as your mind refused to process.

"Oh, sweetheart. Are you shaking from excitement? It’s common. Don’t worry."

A shiver ran down your spine, your muscles tightening with pure instinct to run. Your gaze darted across the room, searching for any escape, any sign that this was just a twisted nightmare.

"How do you know I’m shaking?" you choked out, your voice a thin thread of desperation. Your chest rose and fell in quick, shallow breaths, struggling to contain the panic threatening to consume you.

"I’m always watching you. The fact that you’re so unaware of it makes you even more irresistible."

Your stomach twisted. The room around you seemed to shrink, the walls closing in on you. Every shadow became a threat, every crack a window for eyes you couldn’t see.

Your body moved before your mind could. You spun on your heels, stumbling toward the kitchen. Your desperate fingers yanked open the nearest drawer, rummaging through utensils until they found something solid—something sharp. Your hand gripped the biggest knife it could find.

"A knife?" He smiled on the other end of the line, his voice laced with something perversely amused. "Now this is getting exciting."

The way he spoke… as if he were savoring your reaction, every tremor, every restrained breath.

Your chest tightened. In a sharp motion, you hung up the phone, as if that could sever him from your reality. Your legs moved before you could think, rushing out of the kitchen, away from the feeling of being exposed. You squeezed yourself into a small, windowless room.

Your hands trembled so much that you almost dropped your phone while trying to dial. The numbers came out jumbled, your vision blurred by unshed tears.

But you did it.

"Hello? Please, I’m being stalked. There’s a stranger watching me."

"Ma’am, please. Calm down. What is your emergency?"

"I just told you!" Your voice cracked, your breathing erratic. You ran a hand over your face, trying to keep the tears at bay. "There’s someone watching me! He killed two people, and I think he’s coming to kill me!"

"Yes, I understand. Can you identify the suspect?"

"Identify?! How? I’m not stepping outside to get a good look at him!"

Your patience snapped, fear spilling into your voice. You hung up and shoved the phone into your pocket, your chest rising and falling in uneven gasps.

Curling yourself into the corner of the closet, you wrapped your arms around your legs, rocking back and forth instinctively, searching for some kind of comfort in the repetitive motion. Your lips moved in whispered prayers, anything to push away the creeping terror coiling around your mind.

Then, a sound.

A creak.

The front door.

You froze. Your heart pounded in your chest, fast, erratic, so loud you could swear he would hear it.

A hand instinctively flew to your mouth, muffling your ragged breaths.

Footsteps.

Slow.

Deliberate.

Like boots clicking against the floor. Like drops from a faucet dripping into the suffocating silence.

"You can't hide forever, sweetheart." The voice was close. And then came the whistle. Slow. Amused.

"Here, kitty, kitty. Where are you, little cat? My Cheshire kitten."

With every passing second, the footsteps grew louder. He was close. Too close.

Your blood froze the instant a sharp glint flashed in the corner of your eye. Before you could react, the closet door creaked open, long and menacing.

He found you.

A tall man, draped in a black cloak, his face hidden behind a Halloween mask. The cruel gleam of his knife caught the dim light of the room, dancing in an almost hypnotic rhythm.

"What’s wrong, my love? You look like you’ve seen a ghost."

Your chest heaved in a violent gasp before a scream tore from your throat. High. Sharp. Desperate.

No escape.

He lunged fast, strong hands yanking you from your hiding spot. But in the reflex of terror, your arm shot up—the cold blade of the knife you held meeting the flesh of his arm.

He let out a snarl, a mix of surprise and pain, releasing you instantly. His hand flew to the wound, dark blood staining the sleeve of his coat.

This was your chance.

Your body moved before your mind could. You bolted through the house, feet stumbling in your rush, eyes darting frantically for another place to hide. But there was nowhere to run.

Panic swelled in your chest, squeezing your lungs. You tried to dash toward the kitchen—maybe grab another weapon, another chance at defense.

No, that wasn’t going to happen.

You ran for your bedroom. If you could just lock the door—there, you’d be safe—

But then you felt his arms wrap around you.

A firm, immobilizing grip. A knife at your throat—the same one you had used to pierce his flesh.

"You’re more like the White Rabbit, sweetheart. Always in a rush. ‘I’m late, I’m late.’ That annoys me so much..." he taunted, his voice dripping with perverse amusement.

He pulled you even closer, his warmth starkly contrasting the suffocating cold of the mask that brushed against your skin.

"I still haven’t heard a thank you for the gift I gave you."

Your stomach churned.

"You’re sick." You spat the words, struggling against him, but he only laughed, utterly unfazed by your resistance. "Let me go."

"Sick?" The amusement in his voice was almost worse than the threat. "You’re the one who wanted them both dead. Caught them in your house, remember? I just did what you wanted."

Your eyes widened, your mind struggling to process the weight of his words.

"I just want a thank you in return," he whispered against your ear, the icy metal of his knife gliding slowly along your cheek. "What do you say? It’s the least I deserve."

Your heart pounded against your ribs. You needed to get out of there. Taking a shaky breath, you swallowed the bitter taste of fear.

"Thank you." The words came out barely above a whisper.

He didn’t loosen his grip.

"Didn’t hear you, bunny."

Your throat tightened.

"Thank you," you repeated, louder this time, your breath coming in sharp gasps.

The hold around you, however, only tightened. Before you could react, he grabbed your wrists and, with a swift, practiced motion, secured your hands behind your back with a zip tie.

You gasped, tugging against the restraint.

"Why? I already thanked you!"

He tilted his head, his cold mask pressing against your skin once more.

"I’m sorry, my love," his voice dropped to a venomous whisper. "But you need to learn that people have different ways of accepting gratitude."

With a firm yank, he turned you to face him.

Your body was frozen. Your mind, a whirlwind of pure terror.

"And I’ve been waiting a long time for this."

The horror within you escalated to a whole new level as he lifted his hands to the mask, pulling it off slowly—like he wanted to savor your reaction.

Your stomach turned. The air caught in your lungs.

When his face was finally revealed, your mind refused to accept it.

"Billy?" Your voice came out shaky, barely audible.

Shock paralyzed every muscle in your body.

Your classmate. The guy you passed in the hallways. The boy who laughed at his friends’ jokes and glanced at you when he thought no one was looking.

He grinned, his expression alight with sick pleasure. His eyes gleamed with delight as he took in your reaction, absorbing every nuance of your fear.

"Now you won’t be late to talk to me, bunny." He sang, his voice dripping with dark amusement.

Before you could react, Billy threw you against the furniture in one sudden movement. Your body slammed into the bed, the impact echoing through the room. You gasped, pain throbbing in your back and your bound arms.

Without thinking, your instincts reacted by kicking, your legs flailing in the air in frantic attempts to free yourself from him. But Billy was faster. His firm hands grabbed your ankles mid-movement, holding them tightly.

He laughed again, cruel amusement oozing from every word.

“Don’t make me tie you up, bunny.” His voice dropped to a slurred whisper. “I know you want this. I saw your history and all your fetishes.”

Your chest rose and fell in panic, your breathing ragged.

“Billy, for God’s sake.” You gasped, pulling uselessly against his grip. “Please, let me go.”

He didn’t let go. Billy’s gaze plunged into yours, dark, intense, dominating. And in that instant, you knew he had no intention of stopping.

“Billy—” You protested, only to receive your mouth covered with the palm of his hand.

“You drive me crazy.” He gasped, lowering his face to inhale the scent on your neck. “You don’t know how angry it made me to see you kiss that fucking idiot when I was right here, wrapped around your finger.”

Billy took a deep breath, as if he wanted to record even the smallest notes of sweat and scent on your skin, planting a strong kiss on your neck. He pulled away, looking at the small mark he left.

“It was torture seeing your neck marked by him. The same marks he left on that little bitch. She wanted to be you so much that she stole your boyfriend.” He spoke softly, looking at your eyes filled with thick tears. “But don’t be sad, my love. She’ll never steal me from you, no one will. I'll kill anyone who tries it.”

All of your screams were muffled by Billy’s hand on your mouth and his firm grip on your ankles. You could see his pants, revealing that he had been throbbing painfully in there for God knows how long. The light-wash pants were darker in one spot, the white shirt clinging to his body. As if the devil was trying to give you to that shameful moment of helpless victimhood creeping into your mind, a lethal poison that made you heat up.

“God, you’re so perfect.” He murmured, watching the way your body molded to that thin nightgown, raised to your belly.

The darker stain on the fabric between your legs revealed your depravity, unlike your body still trying to fight. He released your mouth to slide his palm to your breasts, rigid nipples from the air that entered through the crack in the window mixed to the heat from his hand.

“Billy, please. Don’t do something you’ll regret.” You begged, swallowing hard when he lowered his hands to your belly.

“Regret seeing your belly stuffed with my cock touching your stomach?” He smirked, caressing the skin as if he was already inside. “There’s no fucking way I’ll regret that and apparently you won’t either.”

He was right and you hated yourself for it. You’d always had a crush on Billy Loomis, it was like a virus that never really left your system. Somehow, you felt so attracted to that voice on the phone and a part of you wished it was Billy. The voice that had such an effect on you seemed even stronger close to your face.

“You can’t even hide it.” He chuckled, releasing your ankles and letting them fall open on either side of the bed. Billy stood up and pulled you to the edge of the bed abruptly, causing pain in your arms and your nightgown to rise even higher. “You love being treated this way.”

“No…” you mumbled, feeling him peel off the fabric of your panties down your legs, exposing you to his intense gaze.

“No?” He laughed, driving his hand down your face, guiding his thumb to your mouth, where he pressed it past your lips to the middle of your tongue. You gasped and without thinking, sucked on his finger, soaking. “I know you, bunny. Much more than you know yourself.”

He removed his finger and directed it to your clit, where he massaged the spot with your own saliva, watching you squirm to his touch. Billy laughed in disdain, pressing the circles, brushing the fingers of his other hand against your entrance, bringing them up to the height of your face to make you see your state. Deplorable.

“Stand up.” He commanded and your body took a while to obey and stand on its own feet.

Billy guided you to the vanity where he pushed your torso against the furniture, your breasts being pressed hard against the stable surface. Your nightgown was rolled up and you could feel something thick forcing into your entrance.

“Billy—”

“Shut up.” He interrupted, pushing his entire length in at once until it disappeared completely inside your walls, coercing a high-pitched moan from your throat.

“Billy… that hurt.” You whimpered, receiving only another thrust, rougher than the last in response. “It hurts so much. Don't do it.”

“This is what you deserve for not thanking me.” He growled, pressing his hand into your hair to pull your head up, where you could look at your reflection. “You’re gonna stare at the slut you are. If you let your asshole boyfriend fuck you, you’re gonna let me do the same to you.”

Billy pulled his cock out of you slowly, making you feel every inch of it stretching your walls and coming back in harder, your body moving forward as your tools shook with you. He pulled out once more and it felt like torture, your mouth opened without a sound coming out with the bewitching pleasure of feeling him inside you.

“You’re so quiet now. Am I so good that you can’t think of anything?” He mocked, forcing himself forward once more, faster. You moved your legs, your own excitement dripping. “You’re welcoming me so fucking well. It’s almost like you were expecting this to happen.”

His free hand went to your ass, where he gave it a loud slap. You bit your lower lip, hard enough to draw blood. The burning sensation smoothed soon after a caress that was placed on your red mark before he started going faster.

“Billy, Billy… stop, please.” You sobbed, rolling your eyes at the pressure on your sensitive spot, your moans becoming uncontrollable at this point. “Fuck, Billy. No. No. No. Good, good. Okay, on my— Billy.”

“You’re moaning like a slut.” He mocked, forcing your face down, but still at an angle where you could see yourself drooling on the wooden table, his gaze on your reflection. “You’re no good. You’re crazy about my cock. Tell me, is this what you wanted all along. Is this what you thought when that asshole fucked you— Fuck, so delicious. This pussy was made for me.”

He paused, lowering himself, pressing his panting chest against your bare back, his breath hot in your ear. He felt deeper in this position, the sound of skin on skin slapping like a sinful symphony in that room.

“Look at you… so beautiful welcoming me, rolling those eyes the way you did when I played with you.” He chuckled, kissing your sweaty cheek, sliding his tongue into your mouth to collect your blood. “I doubt that cocksucker made you cum. Did he? Tell me the truth, baby.”

“I—I don’t… I don’t know…” you mumbled, sticking your ass up to receive more of him, who crawled his hand up your thigh to lift it and go even deeper. “Fuck, fuck. Fuck, Billy. God, that. Not like that.”

“I’m gonna make you cum, I really am— I’m gonna make you squirt all over me so much that I’ll feel you squeezing me until I leave, with your pathetic—fuck—scent spread all over my cock so I can smell you for days.” He grunted, moving his mouth to your ear, nipping your earlobe. The emchanting metallic taste of the small earring mixed with your blood. “I want to destroy you, just like you’ve done to me all this time. Leave you with nothing, only thinking about me. Only. About. Me.”

“Billy, I’m feeling…” you cried out, your body shaking like a shockwave passing through your veins. He quickly pulled out of you and turned you around, placing you on top of the vanity.

“I’m not done yet.” He hummed, wrapping his fingers around his hard cock and sliding easily into your soaking pussy, holding your hips with both hands to resume his impetuous rhythm. “Do you really think I’d let you cum without me telling you everything?”

“No, no— I didn’t. No.” You moaned, pulling him closer with your legs wrapped around his hips, his abdomen punishing your clit with his movements.

“Wrong answer, darling.” He sneered, leaning into your face. “I’d let you cum on my cock whenever you wanted,bunny. You’d make me your fucktoy and I’d fuck you whenever you wanted. Now… tell me, do you want to cum?”

“I want it, I want it. I want it so bad. Please, Billy. Let me cum.” You begged, the knot in your stomach becoming unbearable to hold back as your spots were stimulated.

He licked his lips, approaching yours for a chaste kiss, looking deep into your eyes. “Cum.”

Your entire body tightened, your head went back and you came undone with a sharp moan, your legs trembling around him. Your head became an immense void, uncontrollable, your walls squeezing him with pleasure with each accelerated pulse.

Billy pulled your head back by your hair and closed the space between your mouths with a kiss, grunting against your lips. He pulled your hips back. You felt a warm liquid spilling onto your thighs, as Billy pulled you closer without breaking the kiss. When Billy stopped pulsing, he broke the kiss, looking at your destroyed face, with every shade of red on your cheeks, neck, lips and body, pressed and marked by him. Perfect.

“You are a hopeless slut,” he murmured, stroking her jaw with his thumb. “That’s exactly why you belong to me.”

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

1968 [Chapter 12: Aphrodite, Goddess Of Love] [Series Finale]

A/N: Surprise!!! A new chapter from Maggie?? On a Thursday?? I was just too excited to wait! Please enjoy the final installment of 1968 🥰💜

Series Summary: Aemond is embroiled in a fierce battle to secure the Democratic Party nomination and defeat his archnemesis, Richard Nixon, in the presidential election. You are his wife of two years and wholeheartedly indoctrinated into the Targaryen political dynasty. But you have an archnemesis of your own: Aemond’s chronically delinquent brother Aegon.

Series Warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), violence, bodily injury, character deaths, New Jersey, age-gap relationships, drinking, smoking, drugs, pregnancy and childbirth, kids with weird Greek names, historical topics including war and discrimination, math.

Word Count: 6k

💜 All of my writing can be found HERE! 💜

The sun is rising, and all the guests have dissipated like morning stars. You and Aegon are sitting across from each other at the table in the kitchenette of your suite, cool grey morning light slanting into the silence, confetti on the floor, broken glass, crumbs from the catered appetizers—gyros, hummus, pita, mini spanakopitas, baklava—stomped into the carpet, spots that are soggy with spilled champagne. The Plaza might have to replace it. Outside, rain falls in a mist. Your makeup is smudged; your hair is falling out of its clips and pins. Aemond is waiting, standing with his back to the wall and his arms crossed over his chest, blonde hair slicked back, blue suit, prosthetic eye filling the void in his skull. You know what happens next, but you can’t bring yourself to rise, to speak, to set it into motion. You stare down at the lines in the palm of your uninjured hand and think of the ropes of a sailboat, the invisible strings of gravity that enchain the universe.

Aegon swipes at his eyes: bloodshot, vacant, continuously streaming tears. “I’m gonna go back to Yuma.” 

You look up at him, startled. “Right now?”

“Right now,” Aemond agrees from the wall.

Aegon begs you in a hoarse whisper, eyes dark and glistening like the Atlantic at night: “Come with me.”

Your hands shaking, your voice splintering. “I can’t, Aegon. I can’t.”

He drums his knuckles on the table, gets up from his chair, rushes to you before Aemond can stop him. He’s holding you, his lips to your forehead, the salt of his tears on your cheeks and your lips, like the ocean is bleeding out of him, like he’ll drown you. “I’m sorry,” he says, breath catching in his throat, his pores hemorrhaging smoke, horror, rum, ruin. 

Once you pushed Aegon away, hated him, stained him with your husband’s blood. Now your fingernails hook like claws into his army jacket and cling there, frantic and childlike. “Not yet, please, Aegon, don’t go, please don’t go.”

“I have to, I’m sorry.”

“Aegon, no–”

“I’m so fucking sorry.” He’s sobbing, he’s trembling, he’s gone. The doorway is empty like an unfinished sentence, like a myth no one remembers. The silence floods back into the rain-grey November air. The room is cold like a mausoleum. You touch your own face: tears Aegon left there, muscles and nerves dead beneath your skin, disbelief you sink through like the sea, waiting to hit the floor deep with the silt of rocks and wreckage and bones.

He’s gone? He’s really gone?

Aemond stalks over to the table, smirking, radiant, his hands in the pockets of his suit; he takes his time, he savors it. He’s never been higher. He was right all along. He can’t be killed, he is destined to be the president. It is God’s will. “Get ready,” Aemond says. “I have a victory speech to make.”

~~~~~~~~~~

He heads west on Route 70, billboards and drive-thrus, toll booths and reflective green mile markers, the kids fighting over who gets to pick the radio station from the back of the Dodge A-100 that Otto had hastily procured, handing over the keys as Aegon rolled his suitcase out of the Plaza Hotel. That first night they stop in Wheeling, Ohio, and the kids have startlingly little resistance to this upheaval. They can’t find much to complain about. A road trip with Dad and only Dad, no journalists badgering them for photos or quotes, no orders barked from Otto or Aemond, no exacting campaign itinerary, no scripted propriety, Mountain Dew spills on the carpet, Pizza Hut boxes on cheap springy motel mattresses.

“What do you think about all this?” Aegon asks Orion when the younger ones have dozed off: Cosmo and Thaddeus on one bed, Violeta in another, Spiro lounging across the threadbare sofa with a copy of The Fellowship of the Ring resting open on his chest.

Orion shrugs, that adolescent aversion to vulnerability, like the whole world is out to shake you down for evidence of the defections you’re so convinced define you. “It’s cool, I guess. It’s like an adventure. And we’ll get to see you a lot more.”

“Yeah you will,” Aegon promises. He feels sick: no booze, no pills, the grease of pepperoni churning in his belly. “And I’m never gonna be the way I was before.”

The bathroom is tiny and spartan, white porcelain, black specks of mildew. When he’s done showering, Aegon wipes the fog off the mirror with his fist. In Ancient Greece, a shaved head was the mark of a slave; it was meant to strip the man of his past, to make him brand new. He remembers Aemond saying this one afternoon as they were all out sailing at Asteria, Aegon sprawled on his back and drinking rum from the bottle as beams of sunlight refracted through the glass, Aemond leafing through one of his history books, Helaena throwing bits of pita to the seagulls, Daeron peering through his telescope for glimpses of dolphins, sharks, bobbing treasure from shipwrecks, imagined enemy vessels. Aegon thinks as he studies his reflection under the harsh fluorescent lights—crinkles by his eyes, skin ravaged by years of careless sunburn—that he wouldn’t mind not having a past. He opens his shaving kit and takes out the straight razor he never uses, shears off his tangled, windswept locks of blonde hair, smiles when the kids laugh and call him Yul Brynner the next morning over breakfast at the diner beside the motel, blueberry pancakes and toast wet with egg yolks. He’s not brand new; it’s impossible to be. But he’s getting closer.

The Fort Yuma Indian Reservation has grown during the Kennedy and Johnson years. The tribe now enjoys a steady income from numerous projects, including the leasing of farmland, a convenience store, a casino and resort, and an RV park. The school has been rebuilt—bigger, more modern, air conditioning, hallelujah—since Aegon was first exiled here twenty years ago, but several of the employees have familiar faces, and the current principal was once an English teacher assigned to be his mentor, a different lifetime, an ancient myth.

“You look good,” Artie says as he descends the concrete front steps on an afternoon in mid-November, 75 degrees, bright cerulean sky, no clouds. He takes Aegon’s outstretched hand and shakes it. “Kind of fat, but good. You still play guitar?”

“I do, yeah. I have one in the back of my van right now.”

Artie glances at the giggling, waving children behind the glass windows. “Jesus Pleasus, how many kids you got?”

Aegon chuckles. “Five, I think.”

“Five! Well, they’re welcome to attend here, if you want them to be where you are.”

“That’s a very generous offer. They’ve never gone to a real school before. They had private tutors in New Jersey.”

“What a great way to raise jackasses, if you ask me.” Artie gives him a stern look over, wrinkled brow, narrowed brown eyes. “You sober?”

“No pills, no drinking, occasional weed.”

“Goddamn, that’s a lot better than I expected.”

“Hey Artie?”

“Uh huh.”

“Would you happen to need a math teacher?”

Artie studies him thoughtfully. “I mean, we’re always looking for qualified math and science people. They leave the quickest, those aerospace and electronics companies over in California pay too much. Why? You know someone?”

“I used to,” Aegon says, then motions for his kids to get out of the van. Artie lets them eat ice cream in the cafeteria while Aegon signs his contract.

He’s in Yuma for three weeks before he meets a girl. Her name is Rachel, and she’s a dream that walked out of the Summer Of Love: hair down to her waist, boots to her knees, handknit vests, chipped nail polish and teasing smiles, a taste for sun and smoking. At night they sit under the stars behind Aegon’s bungalow out in the desert, roasting marshmallows and hotdogs with the kids, Aegon strumming his guitar, Rachel playing her harmonica, a few homely adopted mutts loping around instead of purebred Alopekis. She likes him, this boyish sunbeam of a man who always seems just a little lost, a little sad. She might even love him.

And yet there are ghosts, beasts, threads the fates have not yet severed. One night in January after the kids have gone to sleep, Aegon is flipping through television channels as Rachel returns to the couch with a bowl full of Jiffy Pop, plops down onto the cushions, curls up against him. Aegon stumbles upon CBS Evening News, a clip from the inauguration, and his words vanish mid-sentence, his eyes—an opaque, stormy, melancholic sort of blue—growing wide. He doesn’t change the channel. He doesn’t move at all.

“What?” Rachel asks. On the screen is a clip of President Targaryen being sworn in, his wife at his side and cradling the Bible in her hands. She’s wearing Oscar de la Renta—a powder blue wool coat that matches her husband’s tie—and a stately new hairstyle that is very distinctly inspired by Jackie Kennedy. Her smile is serene and dignified, if perhaps a bit remote. She could be a marble statue in a garden or a museum. It must be a lot of pressure for her, Rachel thinks. To live up to being the partner of a man that remarkable. “Aegon? Baby, are you okay?”

After a long time Aegon says, very softly, like it’s only to himself: “He made her cut her hair.”

Rachel stares mystified at the television and then turns back to Aegon. “What happened with her?” Something must have. He looks staggered, he looks haunted, he looks like someone Medusa turned to stone. Rachel knows about who Aegon is, of course, everyone does; but he never wants to talk about it. When people mention his family, Aegon smiles politely and then changes the subject. When they ask about his sister-in-law, he says he needs a cigarette and walks out of the room. She sent him a beautiful, shimmering gold acoustic Gibson guitar for Christmas; the first lady’s name was on the return address. To Rachel’s knowledge, Aegon never thanked her.

Aegon shakes his head, and Rachel can’t tell if that means the story is too long or too short, unrealized potential, loose kaleidoscopic strands of stardust, infinitesimal moments that wouldn’t have meaning to anyone else. “Nothing.” Then he resumes switching channels: I Dream of Jeannie, Bewitched, the Newlywed Game.

~~~~~~~~~~

Your parents fly north for the inauguration, so proud, so effusive, interviewed by every major news network. Business is booming at the Spongeorama Sponge Factory back in Tarpon Springs. They are seated between Alicent and Ludwika’s mother Elzbieta, newly arrived from Poland. LBJ and Lady Bird are cordial but uncharacteristically understated, retreating back to their home state of Texas like kicked dogs. All the defeated adversaries of the campaign trail attend to show their support, to wordlessly plead for a long-awaited national reconciliation. George Wallace won’t meet your eyes. Richard Nixon whispers through your hair as he clasps your scarred hand: “Aemond could never have done this without you.”

Jackie Kennedy’s chosen cause as first lady was the restoration of the White House, Lady Bird’s was environmental protection. You want to visit schools and help teach math to little kids, but Aemond decides it would be more politically expedient for you to be seen tending to wounded veterans of Vietnam; so you spend many of your days in hospitals, inhaling charred flesh and Lysol and dying flowers and blood. The Japanese ambassador bows lower to you than he does to Aemond. The prime minister of France tries (unsuccessfully) to flirt with you. Athenagoras I of Constantinople, the Archbishop of the Greek Orthodox Church, brings you a komboskini he has blessed. Reprieves come in slivers like a disappearing moon: lunches with Fosco–carpaccio, caprese, bolognese, polenta–and drinks with Ludwika, always something with rum, something that tastes like Aegon. You dream of incubators and arterial spray, stitches and scars and crimson bandages, the flash of blades, the thunder of bullets; but the would-be assassins go to prison and no one else ever tries. You are Persephone in the Underworld. You are Io in the wilderness.

You are just beginning to panic about what you’ll do when your tiny pink birth control pills run out when Fosco shows up to one of your lunches with a paper bag full of familiar circular packets. “I have been informed that I am to be your dealer,” he says, grinning. “I will be back with more in six months. I told the doctor they were for my mistress. I don’t even have a mistress! Isn’t this exciting? I am like a secret agent. I am the Italian James Bond. The name’s Viviani, Fosco Viviani.”

“Aegon asked you to do this?”

“Well, he did not ask, exactly. I do not think I was allowed to say no.”

You hide the paper bag in the Louis Vuitton purse Ludwika bought you, so thankful you don’t have words for it, missing Aegon like Orpheus missed Eurydice, searching through the shade-haunted grey haze of the Underworld for her.

“It was odd,” Fosco says quietly, delicately. “He did not want to know anything about you. He asked if you needed anything else that I was aware of, I said no, and then he hung up when I started to tell him about Christmas dinner.”

You remember Aegon’s words, ghosts from where Long Beach Island meets the Atlantic Ocean: Mimi wasn’t as strong as you. Maybe what Aegon didn’t say is that he isn’t either. You imagine the fates snipping threads, the memoryless oblivion offered by the River Lethe, moons becoming greater and lesser. He has to try to forget you. You have to let him.

On Valentine’s Day weekend, Daeron comes home. He and John McCain are the last two men freed from the prisoner of war camp known as the Hanoi Hilton. When he steps off the plane, Daeron is carrying with him, of all things, a single white rat in a wire cage. The first question he asks, after being engulfed in embraces from Alicent, Criston, and Fosco, is: “Where’s Aegon?” And he knows from the stilted, piecemeal explanations he receives that something has happened. You take Daeron to breakfast the next morning, and you don’t tell him everything, but you tell him enough. He spends a month recuperating at Asteria, then follows Zephyr, the god of the west wind, across the country to Arizona.

Aegon didn’t send you anything for Christmas, and he didn’t respond to the guitar you gifted him with Ludwika’s assistance. But on July 13th, a green envelope arrives in your mail basket with no return address. You open it to find a greeting card with an exuberant cow on the front. Inside, the original message—You’re mooooooving on up in the world! Happy retirement!—has been crossed out with black ink. You laugh, your first real laugh in weeks, and then read what Aegon has written in his chaotic, scribbling penmanship:

I thought this was blank :)

Hope you’re doing okay. You look great on tv.

Then there is an expanse of open white space, like a weighty hesitation. There’s no signature, but there is one final note like a postscript.

Thank you for the guitar, but please don’t send anything else. It fucks me up, you know?

Yes, you do know. Aegon never calls you, but Cosmo does. Once or twice a week he dials your private line at the White House–Aegon must have asked Fosco for it–and tells you all about his new life in Yuma, his school, his friends, the dogs, the desert. Aegon’s met someone named Rachel; Cosmo mentions her intermittently yet with unmistakable fondness: “Rachel makes the best s’mores,” “Rachel told me about seeing Jimi Hendrix at Woodstock,” “Rachel took us to pick pumpkins for Halloween.” You’re glad Cosmo calls, and you’re glad he’s happy; but afterwards you always feel so indescribably, irredeemably sad.

You sneak your pills and avoid Aemond as much as you can, something that becomes easier as he spends long hours reviewing briefs in the Oval Office, preparing speeches, meeting foreign dignitaries, strategizing with his cabinet, and scheming against his conservative foes across the nation, a faction soon led by California governor Ronald Reagan. You stand perfectly still as designers alter Chanel and Yves Saint Laurent and Givenchy to fit you like woolen armor. You strike up a chaste, harmless flirtation with a Secret Service agent from Atlanta named Nathaniel, not because he reminds you of Aegon—Nate is 6’4, 250 pounds, and a former Navy SEAL—but because he listens, because he is kind. He gives you riveting summaries of films and books that are considered too scandalous for you to be seen enjoying. He makes fun of your matronly skirt suits. He takes you to get lemon-lime Mr. Mistys at Dairy Queen. He massages your scarred hand with rose oil.

In May of 1969, Aemond voices support for university students across the nation protesting in favor of increased Black faculty and Africana Studies courses. In July, the Apollo 11 mission lands the first men on the moon, effectively ending the Space Race with an American victory. In September, Lieutenant William Calley receives a sentence of life in prison for his role in the My Lai Massacre the previous year. In November, the Rolling Stones release a new album entitled Let It Bleed. Ludwika gives you the record for Christmas along with an array of perfumes and lipsticks, all extravagantly packaged in a pink Gucci gift box. Your favorite song is Gimme Shelter. You listen to it at dusk in the Jacqueline Kennedy Garden, your chair facing west, taking slow drags off Lucky Strike cigarettes that Nate buys for you, embers glowing as the sun disappears.

“What’s out there?” Nate asks you one night with a slinky half-grin, and then when you don’t immediately answer: “You’re always looking that way. What are you looking for?”

You don’t know what to tell him. Nothing. Everything. Something that almost happened. And slowly, under a lavender twilight peppered with the remote glimmers of constellations—stars that cannot be changed, disasters predestined since before you were born—Nate’s smile dies, and he never asks again.

~~~~~~~~~~

Three time zones away, Aegon’s hair grows out and he gets his ears re-pierced, tiny gold hoops that make him think of wedding rings. Rachel pretends she doesn’t want to get married. Aegon doesn’t offer. Once in a while after the kids have gone to bed, he climbs into the hammock in the backyard and smokes a joint, staring absently into the east as the new Rolling Stones album spins on the record player. Aegon’s favorite song is You Can’t Always Get What You Want. Rachel stands at the telescope they set up for the kids—Cosmo’s idea—and stargazes, making her way down a checklist of visible celestial objects.

One night Aegon asks as she’s squinting through the eyepiece: “Where’s Jupiter?”

Rachel glances over at him, then points up at the indigo sky. “It’s that one, the really bright spot near Perseus. Why?”

Aegon shrugs, exhaling smoke. “No reason,” he says; but he’s still looking at Jupiter, wounded, stoned wonder floating on the surface of his watery eyes.

Daeron settles down in Yuma and buys a ranch. He does some work at the VA Hospital a few hours away in Tucson, some white water rafting on the Colorado River, some hiking in the Kofa National Wildlife Refuge, a whole lot of roughhousing with his niece and nephews. John McCain, now a war hero and national celebrity, is always calling to see if Daeron has decided to run for office yet. A few times a year, they receive visitors from the East Coast: Alicent, Criston, Ludwika, Helaena, Fosco, and their three children. The president and first lady are not mentioned unless by accident. The kids adore their grandmother, and she loves them back, although Alicent never learns to appreciate Tessarion the rat and refuses to hold her. In 1970, Helaena and Fosco have one last baby, a daughter they name Marina after Mimi. Life goes on, but the ghosts remain.

On a chilly evening in January of 1972, Aegon is flipping through television channels when he lands on an NBC segment about First Lady Targaryen touring the Walter Reed National Military Medical Center in Bethesda, Maryland. “That’s so fucked up,” Aegon murmurs as she calmly soothes the suffering of mutilated men, and his voice is dark with scorching, clandestine fury. He gestures to the screen with the remote control. “She hates hospitals. He makes her do things that hurt her. He does it just to prove he can.”

Rachel says as she stands in the threshold between the living room and the kitchen, a question she has finally worked up the courage to ask: “No one is ever going to be able to compare to her, right?”

Aegon opens his mouth to protest, and then closes it again. And something washes over him like waves of the ocean, sun on sand, poison in the blood and the lungs, myths that carve themselves into your bones so deep you can see the red of the marrow underneath. He replies truthfully, his eyes still on the screen: “Right.”

Rachel packs her bags. Aegon gets up to help her. He feels it’s the least he can do.

~~~~~~~~~~

When you and Aemond return to Asteria for summer vacations, the seaside Targaryen compound is full of ghosts. You catch glimpses of Mimi stumbling up staircases, Cosmo trotting after you as you turn corners, Aegon smoking a joint under the statue of Zeus in Helaena’s garden. You open cabinets and bottles of his pills fall out. You see Sunfyre bobbing abandoned in the boathouse. The basement is just as Aegon left it. Sometimes you go down there and stand on the green shag carpet in the hushed, cool, damp emptiness, not knowing what you’re waiting for, staring at the wall until someone comes to look for you.

“What’s in these?” Nate asks one afternoon, snatching a notebook off the shelf. “Oh wow, look!” He shows you messy sketches in black ink, cartoon versions of the stories of Greek gods and goddesses, myths reimagined. “Who do you think drew them?”

“Maybe Daeron,” you reply, but it wasn’t him. You’d know Aegon’s handwriting anywhere. Nate leafs through a bunch of the notebooks, booming laughter—he especially enjoys that Poseidon has been characterized as a sexually insatiable dolphin—and reading his favorite parts out loud to you. One notebook is only half-full; the last few pages are covered with drawings of tiny cows, telephones with long spiral cords, the moon in all its phases. You tear these out to keep.

On each July 13th, there is a card with no return address waiting in your mail basket at the White House, always featuring a jovial cow, always making you smile. You entrust Nate with the task of hiding the notebook pages and greeting cards away somewhere safe, an arrangement he honors like an oath.

Every so often, when you feel lethal bitterness kindling, you are struck by the inspiration to find Aemond’s Ouija board. It must be here in the White House someplace, but you can’t figure out where. You search the bedrooms, rummage through closets, climb into the oak cabinets beneath bathroom sinks; you scrabble around like a rodent under the cover of darkness while Aemond is away on state visits and campaign rallies for fellow Democrats. Maybe he makes secret stops in Tacoma or Seattle. If he does, you don’t care. You’d rather Aemond be there than here.

In the spring of 1972, you find the Ouija board in a drawer of the Resolute desk, where Aemond conducts official business in the Oval Office. “Oh, that is insane,” you say to yourself as you slide it out. You mean to burn it in your bedroom fireplace, then think again. On the back of the board, the inscription has faded, as if traced by Aemond’s fingertips again and again.

If I destroy this, what will he do to Aegon and his children? What will he do to me?

You place the Ouija board back where you found it, slide the drawer shut, and crawl into bed, besieged by dreams of smoke and rum and the rumbling bass of Season Of The Witch.

Aemond’s national approval rating hovers between 55-70%—far about the historical average, although he never stops pining for an heir and proper first family to maximize his allure—until May of 1972, when the tide begins to turn. The treaty formally ending U.S. involvement in the war was signed back in early 1969, but the hasty troop withdrawal left capitalist South Vietnam vulnerable, and now it is being invaded by the communists backed by China and Russia. The Fall of Saigon is immortalized in the evening news, printed on the covers of newspapers; people who once collaborated with the Americans are shot dead in the streets. Refugees flee west to Laos and Cambodia and Thailand, east on makeshift rafts into the ocean. The few that Aemond manages to hurriedly admit into the U.S. inspire racism and xenophobia from suburbanites. Many of the hippies have grown up, had children, gotten jobs, settled down with credit cards and mortgages. Protestors march with signs out on Pennsylvania Avenue: America abandons her allies! Our global reputation is in peril! Will the communists invade here next? What did my son die for?

“They wanted me to end it,” Aemond marvels as he gazes out the White House windows. “They begged for me to end it, and now look at them. Ungrateful imbecile bastards.”

And you give him a rare piece of advice that he listens to: “You should call LBJ.”

On his ranch fifty miles outside of Austin, Texas, Lyndon Baines Johnson is dying of heart failure. Still, he smokes more or less constantly, and refuses to adhere to the diet Lady Bird fretfully lectures their chefs about. He has grown his grey hair long and sits for as many interviews as he can, desperate to salvage his legacy and remind people of the things he did right: civil rights legislation, the War On Poverty, rising from a poor farming family to the Oval Office. He knows exactly what it feels like to be hated for having no good options. He says gruffly through the phone: “The Vietnam War needed to end, Aemond. It had to happen. But someone has to pay for it, too. That’s your job now. Take the fall, and the country survives. Plenty of people still love you. And I’m proud of you, son. I know it ain’t easy, believe me. But I’m real proud.”

Still, Aemond fights. He can’t help it. It’s all he’s ever known.

He campaigns at a murderous pace, and you have to follow him across the nation. Perhaps intentionally, there are no campaign stops in Arizona. Aemond does very well, but Ronald Reagan does better; he’s quick and he’s cutting, but he’s also funny, and grandfatherly, and warm, and God knows the American people could use some of that after the past decade. He characterizes Aemond’s policy regarding Vietnam as “peace without honor.” He calls Aemond short-sighted about a dozen times, a jab his supporters guffaw at. He says the United States has surrendered its rightful place as the leader of the free world. His wife Nancy—his second wife—is vehemently opposed to recreational drugs and other supposed moral crimes including abortion and premarital sex. You hate her, and she hates you right back, though in a perfectly pleasant, ever-smiling, mid-century housewife sort of way. Reagan’s disciples call you a whore. Aemond gets the newspapers still loyal to him to publish scathing denials. You aren’t exactly sure why he does this; no comment at all would almost certainly be wiser politically, as Otto advises. But Aemond does it anyway, with deep trenches of violent determination knit into his scarred brow.

The 1972 presidential election is held on Tuesday, November 7th. It is not until the early hours of the morning on Wednesday the 8th that Aemond learns he has narrowly lost. It couldn’t possibly be construed as your fault; he wins Florida by a greater margin than he had in 1968. As the sun rises in a bright, cloudless sky, Aemond’s entourage clears out of the Lincoln Sitting Room, leaving the two of you alone with the droning television. Aemond is sipping an Old Fashioned on one end of the couch. You light yourself a Lucky Strike cigarette on the other. For once, Aemond doesn’t seem to mind.

“You know,” Aemond muses after a while. “Ronald Reagan is divorced.”

Your heart is racing; you aren’t sure what he’s offering. You’re petrified to say the wrong thing and change his mind. “Yeah, he is.”

Aemond nods, twirling his Old Fashioned so the ice cubes clink against the misty glass, not looking at you. “I think I’ll marry Alys and adopt the boy.”

And that’s how you learn that what Aegon said in the doorway of a hospital room four and half years ago was true, no impassioned declarations, no gratitude, only grudges that have grown quiet and cold and dormant. At last, Aemond is done with you.

~~~~~~~~~~

Otto, glowering spitefully, getaway car procurement extraordinaire, hands you the keys to a green Chevy Nova. On the front steps of the White House, you say goodbye to a palpably heartbroken Nate. He gives you the notebook pages and greetings cards. You give him a kiss on the cheek, a parting stain of red lipstick. But instead of blood, the color makes you think of cherry-flavored Mr. Mistys, the Lucky Strike logo, roses, sunburn, firelight, the rust-hued earth of the desert. You duck into the Nova and start driving.

The East Coast unfolds into the Midwest and then turns jagged as you hit the Rocky Mountains. At a gas station in Albuquerque, New Mexico, you toss your remaining birth control pills—still squirreled away in a box of hollowed-out tampons—into a trash bin. At a McDonald’s in Asher, Arizona, just forty minutes outside of Yuma, you stop to get a large Coca-Cola and touch up your makeup in the bathroom mirror: black eyeliner, gold shadow, both as heavy as you want them to be. You stroll back to your Nova under a radiant November sky that feels like summer, smiling to yourself. The hem of your roomy, floral skirt billows around your brown leather boots in the desert wind. Your earrings are small, glinting gold hoops. Your white tank top is simple and hand-crocheted, found at a yard sale in Amarillo, Texas; but your sunglasses are Bugatti, a gift from Ludwika.

You park outside the only school on the Fort Yuma Indian Reservation and go inside to the front office. The secretary says distractedly: “Can I help you, ma’am?” Then she does a double take. “Oh, I’m sorry, dear, do I…do I know you from somewhere…?”

“You might,” you say, pushing your sunglasses up into your hair. It’s only shoulder-length now, but growing, and wild from the wind. “I was hoping to find Mr. Targaryen, does he still work here?”

“He sure does, but he doesn’t like anyone calling him that.”

Of course he wouldn’t. “Just Aegon then. Which classroom is…?”

But before you can finish your question, and before she can answer, you hear echoing through the labyrinthian hallways the start of Creedence Clearwater Revival’s Bad Moon Rising, not just an acoustic guitar but bass and drums too.

“I see the bad moon a-risin’

I see trouble on the way

I see earthquakes and lightnin’

I see bad times today

Don’t go around tonight

Well it’s bound to take your life

There’s a bad moon on the rise.”

The secretary laughs, keeping rhythm with taps of her pencil on her desk. “I guess you can find him on your own, can’t ya?”

Yes, you can. You follow the music through long empty corridors, wondering where all the students are. You drag your fingertips—black polish, chipped around the edges—along grooves in the cinder block walls that have been painted over with vibrant murals. The song is getting louder, and now you hear other noises too, an ocean of energetic voices and squealing chairs.

“I hear hurricanes a-blowin’

I know the end is comin’ soon

I fear rivers over flowin’

I hear the voice of rage and ruin

Don’t go around tonight

Well it’s bound to take your life

There’s a bad moon on the rise, alright!”

You step into the cafeteria, raucous with students swapping pudding cups and bags of chips. Many of them are watching the stage, clapping along, playing their own imaginary guitars. Aegon is there strumming the sparkling gold guitar you sent him for Christmas back in 1968. He hasn’t seen you yet; he’s grinning at the kids up on the stage with him—his fellow bandmates, his fledgling rockstars—and leaning back from the mic to give them pointers. But Cosmo has. He flies out of his seat and crashes into you, now nearly ten years old, long blonde hair, a Rolling Stones t-shirt.

“You’re back!” he bellows over the music as you hug him. Teachers chatting amongst themselves by the wall give you curious glances.

“Yeah, kiddo. I am.”

“For a visit?”

“Maybe for a little longer than that.”

“Yay!” he shouts, jumping up and down.

You look back to Aegon, and now his eyes catch on yours: instantaneous recognition, disbelief, amazement. He’s just like you remember him; he’s just like he is in your dreams. You raise an eyebrow and wave tentatively. His own words surface in your skull like swimming up through cool, sunlit water: What are we gonna do about it? And Aegon smiles, the god of light, music, healing, truth.

Now his tiny bandmates are yelling at him, irate. He’s still plucking at his guitar on autopilot, but he’s missed his cue to sing the last verse. He shakes off his astonishment and continues, beaming, watching you.

“Hope you got your things together

Hope you are quite prepared to die

Looks like we’re in for nasty weather

One eye is taken for an eye

Well don’t go around tonight

Well it’s bound to take your life

There’s a bad moon on the rise.”

Cosmo sprints back to his lunch to stop a friend from seizing his unguarded Ding Dongs.

“Don’t come around tonight

Well it’s bound to take your life

There’s a bad moon on the rise.”

Aegon gives his guitar a final few strums as the cafeteria erupts into cheers and applause. His bandmates bow to their audience as Aegon takes off his guitar, leaps down from the stage, runs to you as children twist in their seats to stare. He’s wearing khaki shorts, tan moccasins, a half-unbuttoned white shirt that actually fits him, dog tags with Daeron’s name on them. He’s so afraid to ask the question; he’s terrified you won’t say the right answer. “Io…what the hell are you doing here?”

You shrug, casual, teasing. “Didn’t like where I was. Thought I’d try someplace new.”

He touches your face to make sure you’re real, marveling at you, his voice going hushed. “We’ve lost so much time.”

“Don’t worry. Your life’s only half over.”

Aegon laughs, eyes shining. “I’m really, really looking forward to the rest of it.”

You can feel the smile on his lips as he kisses you; you can hear a quiet, kind melody that fills the universe, the sound of all the chains of gravity breaking and moons drifting free from their planets.

[ducktoo]

Yako

Yabuki Nako x Reader

Note: The anon who graciously donated their story ideas, pls reveal yourself so i can properly credit you TT

also damn you (the reader) is so mean in this one lol

Nako was the kind of person you couldn’t help but notice, even if you weren’t trying to.

She wasn’t loud or attention-seeking—in fact, the opposite. She was polite to the point of frustration, always ready with a bright “Good morning!” that somehow felt genuine, even before you’d had your coffee. She had this… air about her, like she was constantly living in a world that operated just slightly differently from everyone else’s.

At first, you chalked it up to her being a little quirky. She wasn’t the type to gossip by the water cooler or complain about management like the rest of you. Instead, she spent breaks humming to herself, sketching in the corners of her notepad, or scrolling through something on her phone with a half-hidden grin that made her seem like she had a secret no one else could access.

Her petite frame and doll-like features didn’t help; she was practically tailor-made to make people underestimate her. You’d learned the hard way that behind her soft-spoken demeanour was a sharp wit and an uncanny ability to weasel out of assignments with the sweetest smile you’d ever seen.

But now, as you stared at her, all of those little quirks seemed less like personality traits and more like puzzle pieces. A series of breadcrumbs leading to the possibility that Yabuki Nako, your pleasant, slightly strange coworker…might be living a double life as a VTuber.

It was a hunch, but it didn't feel like a coincidence.

You first noticed it during one of those too-quiet afternoons at the office. The kind where the hum of the air conditioning and the sporadic clicking of keyboards were the loudest sounds in the room. Everyone else seemed to be deep in thought—or pretending to be.

You, on the other hand, had drifted into the void of YouTube, browsing the usual algorithm rabbit hole. Employee of the year, people.

It wasn’t long before you stumbled upon a clip from a VTuber. Her avatar was a tiny, overly-cute anime girl with pink hair, big sparkling eyes, and a voice so saccharine you could feel cavities forming. You didn’t think much of it—VTubers were everywhere these days, especially in Japan—but something about this one stopped you from scrolling away.

The voice.

It was familiar. Not just vaguely familiar. It was exactly familiar.

Your eyes darted across the office, scanning for the source of that nagging sense of recognition. The answer came to you when your gaze landed on Nako.

Today, she was wearing one of her usual oversized sweaters, the sleeves swallowing her hands as she typed away at her computer. Her expression was neutral, her eyes focused on the screen like she was deeply engrossed in work. But now that you were paying attention, you noticed her glancing at her phone every few minutes, her fingers tapping at it with a practiced swiftness.

And that grin. It wasn’t the polite, work-friendly smile she usually wore. It was something smaller, almost mischievous, like she was laughing at a joke only she understood.

You scrunched your nose, watching her for a beat longer than was polite.

Couldn’t be.

Just to be sure, you replayed the clip. The voice filled your ears and minds again, bright and bubbly, complete with giggles and high-pitched squeals that had "Nako" written all over them.

You shook your head. This was ridiculous. There were millions of VTubers out there—what were the odds? But as you kept thinking, the resemblance became impossible to ignore. The intonation, the slight lilt at the end of her sentences, even the way she laughed—it was uncanny.

“Uh, hey….”

You jumped, nearly dropping your phone as Nako appeared next to your desk. Her big brown eyes blinked up at you innocently. “Did you need something? You’ve been staring at me.”

Her voice was calm, level, nothing like the hyperactive VTuber’s voice… but now you couldn’t unhear it.

“Oh, uh, no. Just spacing out.” You forced a laugh and stuffed your phone into your pocket.

Nako tilted her head, unconvinced. “Spacing out? While looking right at me?”

“I was, uh, thinking.”

“About?”

Her tone was casual, but there was something sharp in her gaze, like she was trying to read your mind. And maybe she was—Nako wasn’t as innocent as she looked. You’d seen her casually manipulate her way out of covering shifts more than once.

“Stuff,” you said, shrugging.

“Uh-huh.” Nako squinted, then smiled brightly. “Okay! Well, don’t let me stop you from… thinking.”

She walked back to her desk, but not before throwing one last suspicious glance over her shoulder.

You released a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. Your heart was pounding like you’d been caught sneaking into the office fridge. It was just a coincidence, right? There was no way Nako—your soft-spoken, slightly quirky coworker—was living a double life as a virtual anime girl.

Right?

But the more you thought about it, the less ridiculous it seemed. Nako was always rushing off after work, claiming she had "personal projects" to take care of. She wasn’t particularly active on social media, and when she was, it was all vague posts about being "super busy."

And now, that voice.

You glanced at her again. She was typing away at her computer, completely unaware that you were mentally unravelling her secret life. Or maybe she wasn’t.

Either way, you needed to be sure. That Nako is…that Vtuber Yako.

-

"Nako-ya," you start casually, leaning against the edge of her desk. Your posture is deliberately relaxed, the perfect contrast to the laser-sharp focus you’re secretly aiming at her. The office hums with activity around you, the clatter of keyboards and faint chatter forming a pleasant backdrop.

Nako doesn’t look up, her face slightly illuminated by the soft glow of her monitor. Her fingers move briskly across the keyboard, her brow furrowed in concentration. "Hmm? What is it?" she mumbles, barely sparing you a glance.

"Just curious," you say, tilting your head as if in thought. "Do you stream? Or, I don’t know, have some kind of secret hobby?"

She freezes. Not long—just for a split second—but enough for you to notice. Her hands hesitate above the keys, her lips parting in surprise before quickly pressing together. "Secret hobby? Me? No, not really," she replies, a little too casually. Her voice is steady, but the quick swipe of her bangs behind her ear betrays her nerves.

You shrug, keeping your tone light. "Oh, no reason. Just thought I heard someone with a voice like yours on YouTube the other day."

Her gaze finally snaps to yours. Wide eyes. A flicker of panic. Then she schools her expression, sitting up straighter in her chair. "Lots of people have similar voices," she says lightly, her lips curling into a small, tight smile.

"Yeah, totally." You nod, standing upright. But inside, your curiosity is only growing.

She’s hiding something. I can feel it.

-

A few days later, you approach her desk again, armed with a coffee cup as a peace offering. "Morning, Nako," you chirp, pulling up a chair to sit beside her.

She glances at the cup, then at you, suspicion flickering in her eyes. "What do you want?" she asks, her tone wary but playful.

"Nothing! Just enjoying some coffee and a chat with my favourite coworker," you say innocently. Then, lowering your voice, you lean slightly closer. "By the way, have you ever heard of someone called 'Yako'?"

Her reaction is instantaneous. Her fingers fumble on the keyboard, and she nearly knocks over her water bottle trying to grab it. "Wh-what? No! Why would you ask that?"

You lean back, studying her with an amused grin. Her cheeks are flushed, her eyes darting everywhere but at you. She shifts in her chair, crossing her arms tightly over her chest as though shielding herself from further interrogation.

"Just curious," you say with a shrug, sipping your coffee. "Her voice sounds a lot like yours. And the way she talks? Weirdly similar."

Her laugh is high-pitched and nervous, her fingers fidgeting with the hem of her sleeve. "That’s ridiculous," she says quickly, waving you off. "It’s not me. I don’t even watch VTubers."

"Ah, fair enough," you reply smoothly, standing up. But you catch the way her shoulders tense as you walk away, her back stiff like she’s bracing for more.

Gotcha.

-

It becomes your new favourite pastime—seeing how far you can push her without outright accusing her. During lunch one day, you sit across from her in the break room, your tray clattering against the table as you settle in.

"Catchy tune, huh?" you say, humming the opening theme from Yako’s latest stream.

Nako’s chopsticks pause midway to her mouth. Her head snaps up, her eyes narrowing slightly as she tries to gauge your intentions. "What’s that?"

"Oh, just a song stuck in my head," you reply nonchalantly, taking a bite of your food. "It’s from this VTuber I’ve been watching. You wouldn’t believe how many people think her voice is addictive."

Her laugh is strained, and she resumes eating, though her movements are mechanical. She doesn’t meet your eyes, her focus glued to the bowl in front of her. "Must be a coincidence," she mutters, stirring her rice with more force than necessary.

You nod, pretending to let it go, but you’re watching her closely. The way her grip tightens around the chopsticks. The way her jaw clenches slightly, as if she’s holding back a response.

"Funny thing," you add after a beat, "her gestures are so specific. Like that thing she does with her hands when she’s excited." You mimic the exact motion, your grin widening as her shoulders visibly stiffen.

"I don’t know what you’re talking about," she snaps, her cheeks bright red now. She shoves a piece of kimchi into her mouth, chewing like it’s her only way to escape the conversation.

"Sure, sure," you say, leaning back with a smirk.

-

The office meeting is the next perfect setup. After the boss asks for creative ideas, Nako surprises everyone with a well-thought-out pitch about animated characters for a marketing campaign.

"That was… really specific," you say later, catching her in the hallway. She’s holding a stack of papers, hugging them tightly to her chest.

"What do you mean?" she asks, her tone cautious.

"You clearly know a lot about animation," you say, walking beside her. "For someone who supposedly doesn’t watch VTubers, it’s kind of impressive of how creative your solutions are."

Her eyes widen slightly, and she stumbles over her words. "I—I just… read about it somewhere!" she blurts, her voice an octave higher than usual.

You smile, your gaze lingering on her as she fumbles with the doorknob to the break room. Her movements are jerky, her lips pressed into a thin line as she avoids your gaze. "Of course. Just something you read," you say, holding the door open for her.

She hurries past you, muttering a quick "Thanks," and you can’t help but chuckle.

You’re almost there, Nako. Almost.

-

That evening, you sit at your desk at home, your laptop glowing faintly in the dim room. You have the stream open, the lively chat scrolling endlessly beside the avatar of Yako. Her signature pink hair bounces every time she moves, and the soft tone of her voice—yes, her voice—is as distinct as ever.

You recline in your chair, sipping your drink, a knowing grin already spreading across your face. Tonight’s stream is titled “CGR - Chill, Gaming, and Rant” It’s only been ten minutes since the stream started, and she’s already flustered, her voice rising slightly as she rants.

"I’m telling you, chat, there’s this coworker of mine, and they’ve been so annoying lately!" she huffs, her virtual avatar mirroring the pout you’re sure she’s making behind the screen.

The chat explodes with reactions: "LOL who is it??" "Drama at the office?? Spicy!" "Is it someone cute??"

You can’t help but laugh, stifling the sound behind your hand. There’s no mistaking the frustration in her tone, and the knowledge that you’re the source of her irritation makes it even better.

She sighs dramatically, the avatar’s shoulders slumping. "They keep asking me the weirdest questions! Like, 'Do you stream?' or 'Have you heard of VTubers?' Like, seriously? What kind of question is that?"

Leaning closer to the screen, you rest your chin on your hand, utterly amused.

Poor Nako. If only you knew I’m watching right now.

"I mean, sure, maybe my voice sounds a little like a VTuber they watch, but come on! Do I look like someone who has time for that?" she says, her tone dripping with faux indignation. The chat eats it up, spamming laughing emojis and teasing comments.

"Nako-chan sus" "Sounds like they’re onto something " "Give them a break! Maybe they’re just a fan?"

Her avatar mimics her throwing her hands up in exasperation. "A fan? Ha! If they were a fan, they’d leave me alone! But noooo, they have to keep pestering me every day."

"Come on, Nako-chan," you mutter under your breath, smirking. "It's fun trying to figure you out ."

As if on cue, she leans closer to the virtual screen, her voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper. "And the worst part? They’re so smug about it! Every time I say it’s not me, they just smile like they know something. It’s driving me crazy!"

You laugh out loud this time, unable to help yourself. The timing, the delivery—it’s comedy gold.

The stream continues, and Nako eventually moves on to gameplay, but the occasional quip about her “annoying coworker” keeps slipping in.

"Chat, imagine this: you’re trying to work, minding your own business, and someone just waltzes over to your desk like, ‘Hey, are you this another person?’" she says, mimicking your voice in an exaggerated tone. "Who does that?! Who has that much audacity? Who even bothered?!"

Your sides hurt from laughing now, and you type into the chat with your anonymous username: "Maybe they just want to get to know you better, Nako-chan! "

She reads it aloud, her avatar squinting. "‘Maybe they just want to get to know you better’—psh, yeah, right. More like they want to ruin my life! YOU MOTHER*****!!! "

The chat erupts again, and you lean back in your chair, cackling your ass off and satisfied. It’s almost too much fun watching her complain about you without realizing you’re listening.

As the stream wraps up, she sighs dramatically one last time. "Anyway, thanks for listening to me rant, everyone. I needed that. And if my coworker somehow sees this—" She leans closer, her avatar's face filling the screen. "Stop. Pestering. Me!"

You grin, saluting the screen. "No promises, Nako-ya. No promises."

-

It’s just another ordinary day at the office—except it’s not. You’ve been inching closer to the truth for weeks now, and every interaction with Nako has only added more fuel to your suspicions. Today, though, feels different. There’s a tension in the air, something you can’t quite put your finger on.

Nako is sitting at her desk, her head bent over a stack of papers. She’s unusually quiet, not even giving you her usual half-hearted glare when you casually stroll past her cubicle. Her fingers fidget with the edge of her sleeve, her knee bouncing under the desk—a sure sign she’s on edge.

You seize the moment.

"Hey, Nako-yaaa," you say, leaning over the partition with an innocent grin.

She doesn’t even look up. "Ugh. What now?" she mumbles, her voice clipped.

"Oh, nothing much," you reply casually, pretending to examine a report in your hands. "Just thought I’d ask if you caught that new Yako stream last night. It was hilarious."

Her hand freezes mid-motion, the pen slipping from her fingers and clattering onto the desk. Slowly, she looks up, her eyes wide with a mixture of panic and resignation. "I—I don’t watch VTubers," she stammers, her voice a pitch higher than usual.

You raise an eyebrow, feigning surprise. "Really? That’s a shame. She was continuing her ranting about this super annoying coworker who keeps pestering her. Sounded oddly familiar."

Nako’s cheeks flush a deep pink, and she immediately averts her gaze, pretending to rummage through her desk drawer. "That’s… a coincidence," she mutters.

"Sure, sure," you say, watching her closely. She’s avoiding eye contact like her life depends on it, her shoulders hunched as though she’s trying to disappear into her chair.

You decide to press your advantage. "You know," you say, your tone turning teasing, "I know I talked a lot about this but I’ve been thinking. If you were a VTuber—and I’m not saying you are—it’d be pretty smart to complain about your coworkers on stream. Get it all off your chest, you know?"

Her head snaps up, and for a moment, she looks like a deer caught in headlights. "I—what—why would you even think that?" she sputters, her voice cracking slightly.

You lean closer, resting your arms on the edge of her desk. "Oh, I don’t know," you say, smirking. "The voice, the mannerisms, the very specific hand gestures you do when you’re excited. It’s all a bit too familiar, don’t you think?"

Nako’s face is now as red as a tomato. She opens her mouth to respond, but no sound comes out. Instead, she drops her gaze to her lap, her hands twisting nervously in her lap.

"I—I don’t know what you’re talking about," she says weakly, but the tremble in her voice gives her away.

You chuckle, leaning back. "Relax, Nako. I’m just messing with you."

But she doesn’t relax. In fact, she looks even more panicked now, her fingers clenching the edge of her desk so tightly her knuckles turn white.

That’s when it happens.

Her phone buzzes on the desk, and in her haste to grab it, she accidentally swipes the screen. For a split second, you catch a glimpse of her notifications—one of which is a message from someone named Mod-Kazuya: “Great stream last night, Yako-chan!”

The world goes still.

You glance up at her, your eyebrows raised. She freezes, her hand hovering over the phone, her eyes darting between you and the screen.

"So…" you say, breaking the silence, "…you don’t watch VTubers, huh?"

Her shoulders slump, and she lets out a long, defeated sigh. "Fine," she mutters, dropping her head into her hands. "You win."

The victory feels sweeter than you imagined. You can’t stop the grin that spreads across your face as you watch her squirm in her seat.

"I knew it!" you exclaim, pointing a finger at her. "You’re Yako!"

"Keep your voice down!" she hisses, glancing around the office in a panic.

You chuckle, dropping into the chair beside her desk. "So, how long were you going to keep this from me?"

"As long as I could," she mutters, burying her face in her hands.

Her vulnerability softens your teasing just a bit, and you lean in slightly, lowering your voice. "Relax, Nako. Your secret’s safe with me… for now."

She peeks at you through her fingers, her expression a mix of relief and suspicion. "What do you mean, ‘for now’?"

You smirk, folding your arms. "Well, let’s just say you owe me a favour or two. You know, for keeping quiet."

Her groan is muffled by her hands. "I hate you."

"No, you don’t," you say cheerfully, standing up. "Come on, Nako-chan V. Let’s grab some coffee. My treat."

Her glare follows you all the way to the break room, but the faint smile tugging at the corner of her lips doesn’t escape your notice.

-

It began innocently enough—or so you’d like to think.

You weren’t a tyrant, just opportunistic. After all, you held a golden ticket: the knowledge of Yabuki Nako’s secret life as a VTuber. And to her credit, she had taken your harmless requests in stride—at first. And the first test of her patience starts with coffee.

“Nako-chan, could you grab me an extra cup from the breakroom?” you ask, flashing a polite smile. “I’m drowning in emails here.”

Her head snaps up from her monitor, her brows furrowed in disbelief. “You were just in there five minutes ago. You had a fresh cup in your hand.”

You tilt your head, feigning a moment of thought. “True. But I drank it all. And you’re, well…” You let your voice trail off, shrugging as if the answer is obvious.

She narrows her eyes. “I’m what?”

“…good at grabbing coffee?” you offer sheepishly, your grin betraying your faux innocence.

Her lips press into a firm line, her eyes narrowing into suspicious slits. You see the flicker of a battle waging behind her gaze—outright refusal versus the undeniable fear of your leverage. With a huff that’s more air than sound, she rises from her chair, muttering in Japanese under her breath. You don’t catch the full meaning, but the sharpness of her tone makes the message clear:

You’re a piece of sh*t.

When she returns, her lips twitch into a strained, professional smile as she sets the cup down a little harder than necessary. “Your coffee. Enjoy.”

“Thanks, Nako! You’re the best!” you reply, suppressing the grin tugging at your lips.

Her forced smile tightens, and she pivots back to her desk, muttering something again. This time, you swear it’s about wishing coffee burns weren’t fatal.

The second favour comes during the weekly rush to print reports.

“Hey, Nako,” you whisper conspiratorially, leaning over the divider between your desks. “Could you grab the printouts for me?”

She doesn’t bother to look up. “The printer’s ten steps away.”

“…I know,” you say, resting your elbow on the divider and propping your chin on your palm. “But you’re already standing. It’ll save me some precious seconds to finish this email.”

Her shoulders rise and fall in a slow, exasperated sigh. This time, she turns her whole body toward you, lips twitching downward in irritation. “You’re sitting. You’re literally doing nothing.”

“I’m multitasking,” you counter smoothly, pointing at your screen where your email draft has precisely one line. “See? Hard at work.”

Her gaze lingers on you for a moment, her expression unreadable. Then, without a word, she stands and stomps toward the printer. Her ponytail bounces aggressively with each step, a physical manifestation of her frustration.

When she returns, she drops the papers onto your desk with a loud slap and leans over, her face close to yours. Her lips are pursed, her cheeks puffed out slightly in barely contained fury, and her eyes bore into yours like twin daggers.

“Next time,” she says in a low, dangerous tone, “I’m shredding them.”

You blink innocently. “Thanks, Nako. Truly. I couldn’t do this without you.”

Her jaw tightens, and she storms back to her desk, muttering again. You’re starting to think her muttering is a stress response you’ve singlehandedly cultivated.

It’s after the third week of subtle pestering that her patience begins to fray in earnest. By now, she’s learned to recognize the telltale grin on your face and the overly polite tone you reserve just for her.

“Nako,” you start sweetly, leaning over her desk during your Friday team meeting. “Could you take notes for me?”

Her eyes widen imperceptibly, and she stiffens in her chair. “Why?”

“I forgot my notebook,” you whisper. “And you’re so much better at taking notes than I am.”

Her lips press into a tight line, and her cheeks flush faintly. “Unbelievable,” she mutters under her breath, shaking her head. Still, she takes the papers from your outstretched hand, her fingers gripping them a little too firmly.

Halfway through the meeting, she glances sideways at you, her brows knit tightly together. “You owe me,” she hisses, her voice barely audible.

You glance at her, trying not to laugh at the mixture of irritation and resignation written across her face. Her brows are furrowed, her nose scrunched slightly in annoyance, and her lips are pulled into a sharp pout. It’s almost endearing—if she weren’t so obviously plotting your demise.

“Of course,” you whisper back. “Anything for my favourite coworker.”

Her expression shifts ever so slightly, her glare softening just a fraction. But then, as if remembering she’s supposed to be angry, she elbows you in the side, her pout deepening.

“Quiet,” she mutters, her cheeks now faintly pink.

-

The breaking point comes one chaotic Monday morning.

“Nako, can you—”

Her chair screeches as she bolts upright, her face flushed with a mixture of anger and embarrassment. “No! Absolutely not!”

The office falls silent, every head turning in your direction. Her fists are clenched at her sides, and her eyes glisten with unshed frustration. Her normally calm expression is replaced with one of raw exasperation, her lips trembling as she speaks.

“You’ve made me your personal assistant for weeks! Coffee, notes, files—I’m not your errand girl!” she snaps, her voice rising slightly before cracking. She takes a deep breath, her gaze lowering to the floor. “And if you tell anyone about...you know...I’ll—” Her voice falters, and she slumps back into her chair, her frustration giving way to quiet defeat.

The silence is deafening until you finally break it with a quiet, “Okay.”

Her head snaps up, her wide eyes meeting yours. “What?”

“I’m sorry,” you say sincerely, rubbing the back of your neck. “I thought we were just messing around. I didn’t mean to stress you out.”

Her lips part slightly, but no words come out. She stares at you, her eyes searching your face for any sign of deceit.

“I mean it,” you say softly. “No more favours. No more pestering. I’ll keep your secret because I respect you, not because I can use it.”

Her expression softens, and the tension in her shoulders eases. “You’re serious?”

“Absolutely,” you say with a nod. Then, a small grin sneaks onto your face. “But I do feel bad, so...how about lunch on me?”

Her lips twitch into the faintest of smiles. “Lunch and dessert.”

“Deal,” you say, standing and grabbing your wallet. “Come on, my favourite coworker.”

She huffs but follows you, her cheeks faintly pink. “You’re still insufferable, you know.”

“Oh wow, never knew that.” you reply, holding the door open for her. “Just your good old insufferable coworker.”

For the first time that day, she laughs…followed by assuring the onlookers after the meal.

[neouture]

Admiring You

Pairing — Jaemin x Reader

Words — 3,530 words

Genre — 18+, smut, fluff

Warnings — Fem!reader, established relationship. Use of petnames (Jaemin is whipped about being called “baby”), dirty talk, cursing, oral sex (f. receiving), grinding/humping against each other, mild nipple/breast play, lots of praises, mild spanking, jaemin is enthusiastic about reader's ass for this one lmao, unprotected sex (don't do it !), creampie.

“What?”

The corners of your lips rise in a small smile when the mirror's reflection shows Jaemin in awe. He is sitting at the edge of the bed right behind you, but even in such a position where your back is facing him, he manages to find your reflection on the full-length mirror in front of you.

“You,” Jaemin sighs, licking his bottom lip while his eyes do a quick scan of you —from head to toe, he hopes his gaze doesn’t miss a single inch of the flesh in front of him. “God, you’re so-”.

He doesn’t even finish the sentence, yet he has you shying away from his words and eyes.

“Yeah, right,” you crack a small, timid laugh, “stop staring at me, I mean it!”

He's unlucky you're standing right next to the chair of your desk that, strategically, has a big, soft cushion on it. Because the minute you spot it, you throw it at him playfully. However, you're unlucky he is great at everything that involves physical activity, so the playful teasing does nothing to him because before you can tell, he has already caught the cushion with his hands. No impact, and no desired effect either.

Disappointed, you return to your previous task, and Jaemin seemingly does the same —you’re fixing your wet hair, and he’s back staring at you in awe.

“I was thinking we could order takeout,” you tell him, trying to fill the void of silence with anything.

Jaemin hums in response.

“I really don’t feel like going out right now, I just took a shower. Plus there’s this show I’ve been wanting to watch with you-” another hum from your boyfriend as a response, so your furrowed eyebrows find his reflection in the mirror, slightly annoyed. “Jae?”

It isn't uncommon for Jaemin to get lost in his trail of thoughts. “Mhm?”

When you turn around to confront him, you realize he isn’t lost in his trail of thoughts like he usually is. He is right there with you, his gaze is all over your figure, and his mind is there —he’s just planning something out.

“Jae-”

“Take off the bathrobe,” he asks, without thinking twice —he might as well do so, because the bathrobe isn’t doing anything to hide your precious body from him. “Please”.

It looks good on you, he admits. But you look way better without it.

“Do you want to order take out yes or no?”

The sudden plea makes your skin feel hot, but you try to pretend it didn’t affect you at all for any reason. It’s a silly game you often play with yourself, where you try to drag out Jaemin’s desire until he is too close to the edge to bear it.

“I’m not hungry,” he tells you with half a smile, tilting his head. “I mean I am, but not for food”.

The way he is staring at you from head to toe tells you everything you need to know about his innuendo, but isn't it more fun to act clueless? To pretend you don't understand him until he's too desperate for you to keep on dragging this little game on?

“So?”

“So take off your bathrobe,” Jaemin insists again, this time pulling you closer to him, trapping you between his legs while he sits at the edge of the bed. “Please?”

You stare at him, placing both your hands on his shoulders.

“Should I?” you tease your boyfriend with a cheeky smile peeking through the corners of your lips.

“I know you want to,” he sighs, sneaking both his hands to the back of your legs and hooking them around your inner thighs. He caresses them oh so sensually, dragging them up and then a bit down, making you wish for more. “Don’t you?”

You pretend you think about it, but his intimate touch makes it hard for you not to give in.

“You want it,” Jaemin drags the tip of his digits a bit too far up. Too close to your core that’s aching for him, too close to offering any kind of stimulation that it’s going to make you lose your mind. “Don’t think I didn’t notice how you kept staring at me the whole time. Your eyes were all over my ass”.

He feels his cock twitching when the words come out of your mouth, because you’re definitely not that far from the truth. He was, indeed, staring —how couldn’t he? The silk fabric hugged your body tightly and left nothing to the imagination; it sticks to your flesh like another set of skin, and it also lets Jaemin know you’re wearing absolutely nothing underneath it.

“Don’t think I didn’t notice how you kept bending over just for me to watch,” your boyfriend counter attacks, and suddenly you feel shy. You were teasing him, yes, but it's kind of embarrassing he brings it up.

“I wasn’t,” you say, shaking your head slowly. “I was just brushing my hair”.

“Hm,” Jaemin hums, finally dragging his fingers all the way to your naked core, rubbing the tip of two against your slit.

Dripping.

“Are you sure?” he asks, defiantly. With his penetrative and intimidating gaze all over you, like it's some sort of trial.

Like he has to prove something to you.

“Yes, baby,” you murmur, moving the palms of your hands from his shoulders to his neck. Your boyfriend tilts his head, just at the same time his hands move forward to the naked flesh of your ass. When you feel him squeezing it a bit too harsh, you know you’ve hit the spot.

“Baby?” he repeats with a hoarse voice, like he’s trying to remain collected.

“What?” a smile brightens your face, “you don’t like it when I call you that?”

You know the answer, but you still want to hear it from him. In exchange, though, all you get is silence and a challenging gaze, one that tells you you’re pushing him closer to the edge faster than expected.

“Hm, baby?” you ask again, tilting your head at him. “Cat got your tongue?”

With a sudden movement, Jaemin pulls you towards his lap —you’re no longer standing between his spread legs, but sitting on top of his throbbing bulge that feels tightly pressed against your wet pussy.

This time around, he doesn’t ask you to take off the silk robe. His hands do so delicately, untangling the barely-made ribbon at the front to reveal your naked body to him like you're some sort of gift he has to unwrap.

“Fuck,” he sighs when the fabric is discarded to the floor, leaving you completely exposed for him.

His gaze flies directly to your breasts, the sight of their perfect curvature and hardened nipples makes his cock twitch painfully under you, demanding your attention.

“You look beautiful,” Jaemin whispers underneath his breath, too quiet to be heard from a distance but you pick it fairly well. He places his hands on your hips and pulls you even closer to him, until his tongue latches and swirls around one of your hardened buds.

“God,” his soft lips and wet tongue feel heavenly on your breasts. Your skin gets covered in goosebumps quickly, and you soon feel your body trembling against him. “Don’t- fuck Jaemin, don’t stop”.

He smiles against your skin, but loses no time to provide you with even more stimulation. He drags his hands from your hips to your arse, and he grips it tightly while pressing his body against yours.

“So good,” Jaemin murmurs, caressing and squeezing your ass while guiding your hips over his lap. Your body reacts instinctively, and the more he touches you, the more you grind against his bulge.

“Yeah?” you ask with a deep sigh, wrapping your hands and arms around his neck. “I’m good?”

“Perfect,” he smiles, landing a soft and gentle slap on one of your ass cheeks. It isn’t painful, but the sharp feeling it’s enough to have you whimpering against his lips. “You’re perfect”.

You wish to stay forever like this, hugging him tightly with your pussy pressed against his cock. You want to feel his hands all over you, at all times —on your breasts, on your hips and on your ass. But you’re getting desperate.

Jaemin can tell, by the way you move your hips deeper and faster, trying to get more friction and stimulation. He can even feel how wet you are through the fabric of his shorts.

“I want to taste you,” he sighs, pressing a kiss on your chest, then on your neck and one on your lips. “Let me eat your pussy out”.

There’s something enticing about how dirty Jaemin can get with his words. You love how raw they sound, how the more turned on he gets, the more he stops thinking about everything too much.

So you stand up from his lap, and just when you’re about to get in the usual position —lying down with your back against the mattress and your legs spread— Jaemin motions you to get on your knees.

The position is rather new for this specific practice, but you don’t seem to hate it —your knees are pressed against the mattress, your back is arched and your ass is completely exposed for him. The only thing you dislike it’s the fact that you can’t see him or his face, but you completely become mindless once his tongue laps at your slit.

“Fuck,” Jaemin groans. Guttural, even animalistic.

The louder he gets, the more you melt.

He buries his face between your legs, and loses no opportunity to have his hands all over your ass. He often fantasies with you sitting on top of his face, grinding your wet pussy against his lips while you get off with him. Tonight, though, he wants to be fully in control of your pleasure, so he pushes that fantasy aside for a little while.

“Taste so good,” he murmurs, collecting all your wetness with his own tongue and smearing it along your slit. He’s messy with it, and neither of you seem to care. “Your body it’s- just fucking perfect”.

You moan at his words, and arch your back even harder at his ministrations.

“Shit, baby,” you whine, gripping the bed sheets with your hands in an attempt to hold on to something. Normally you’d do so latching your fingers along his long hair, but since the position doesn’t allow you too, the bed sheets will have to do for now.

“You have no idea how much I love it when you call me that,” your boyfriend hisses, offering you yet another soft spank to your ass cheeks. “I swear you have me wrapped around your finger, pretty”.

The more he praises you, the closer you get to your orgasm. Not only that, but his wet tongue feels heavenly in you —he knows your body like the back of his hands, and knows exactly what and where to touch.

“I’m all yours,” he coos, sucking on your throbbing clit and making your body jolt forward. “Are you all mine?”

“Yes!” you gasp without thinking it twice, feeling your orgasm approaching. “I’m all yours, Jae”.

Jaemin smiles against your pussy. He knows you’re close, judged by how you’re curling your toes and your body is becoming stiff. He can faintly taste your orgasm, and he isn’t going to stop until you’re coming all over his face, letting him know how good he is making you feel.

At the same time, he’s desperate to come too. You’re so made for each other, that he could just get off to the taste and sound of you —many times he has reached his orgasm untouched, just by pleasuring you. He fears tonight might be one of those days, but he’s trying hard to control himself.

“You’re about to come,” he tells you. It’s not a question, nor an assumption. Jaemin knows you’re seconds away from your high, he can feel it just as if your bodies are one. “Come for me”.

He has you weak. Everything about him makes you feel weak, and you can’t help yourself but do exactly as he tells you. He holds that much power over your body, and you’ve known it for a while now.

“Baby!” you gasp one more time, burying your head against the mattress while you try your best to remain in your position. The pleasure is too overwhelming to complete such a task, but Jaemin’s tight grip around your thighs and ass makes it easier for you.

“I know,” he murmurs, his silky voice feeling like a breath of fresh air in the midst of the overstimulating sensations. “It feels good, hm?”

You nod frantically, tears spilling from the corners of your eyes. It feels too good.

“Come, baby,” Jaemin encourages you, keeping you in place by hooking his arms around you. “Let me taste you”.

The way he grips and massages your ass, paired with the feeling of his lips against your core and the filthy words that are falling carelessly from his mouth, you finally reach your anticipated orgasm.

Your boyfriend tastes every single drop of it, and the lewd noises he makes against your throbbing pussy do nothing but increase your own arousal. You’ve always loved how messy and passionate Jaemin can get, and tonight it’s no exception.

“Shit- baby!” He gives you no time to overcome your orgasm, and continues eating you out until your body becomes limp. You have no strength on your arms or knees whatsoever, but you still manage to stay in place helped by Jaemin's grip on you. The pleasure it’s becoming too much, but you don’t want him to stop.

Not at all.

“That’s it,” Jaemin coos, smiling in victory when he’s done licking you clean.

He can’t spend another minute without being inside of you, and you’re weakly swaying your hips letting you know that you want him just as much as he wants you, so he loses no time before discarding his clothes to the floor.

“Baby,” you murmur, shifting your position on the mattress slightly. However, he’s quick to stop you.

“Wait,” Jaemin holds your hips firmly, making you stay still in the position you’re in —knees and palms against the mattress, on all fours with your back arched and your ass up for him. “Let me fuck you like this,” he tells you, and you can pick up the neediness of his voice. He’s desperate to come too, and he wants to do so with you. “Let me see how you swallow me full”.

You love watching him fuck you, but you can’t refuse —you know how much he loves this position and the best part is that he is very vocal about it. So you do as you’re told, and fix your body on the mattress.

It takes him barely a couple of seconds before you feel his hands guiding your hips all the way to his erected cock, the tip of it rubbing against your slit while coating himself with your wetness. You’re more than ready to take him, and he slides right in so easily that it makes him grunt.

“You’re so- tight, and warm” he hisses as he bottoms out, feeling his pubis hitting against your ass.

“Yeah?” you ask, doing your best to bear the painful stretch. He prepared you well, but the very first seconds are always uncomfortable until your walls get used to his girth.

“And you look- so good from this angle,” Jaemin praises you, and you smile. “God you’re so- I love how your ass looks while you’re taking me in your pussy”.

You sway your hips just a little, and that single motion makes him lose his mind for a while. He loves how good your ass looks, how it feels when he grips it with both his hands. He also loves to fuck you from behind and see how it bounces against his cock.

It’s such a pleasant view.

“Fuck me,” you plea, fucking yourself on his cock just slightly.

Any other day, Jaemin would love for you to take control and fuck yourself on him. But right now, he’s too desperate to feel you.

He places both of his hands on your hips and starts pounding himself inside you. He does so slowly at first, but the needier he got, the faster he starts to fuck you.

“Can you feel me?” Jaemin asks with hitched words, biting his lower lip to prevent being too loud. “Can you feel how hard you fucking make me?”

You cry both at his words and the feeling of his cock ramming inside of you. He’s going so deep, and particularly fast, that it gives you no time to respond.

“I can’t control myself when I’m around you,” he confesses through gritted teeth, leaning down to pepper a couple of kisses on your naked back. “You’re so- hot, can’t keep my hands off of you”.

There’s something enticing about how Jaemin looks at you, about how you always catch him staring at your body at any given situation. You love how he always checks you out, how he sneakily spanks your ass while you pass by him in a public place. You love how much he likes your body, and how good he makes you feel about it.

No one has adored your body as much as he does.

“I’m all yours,” you tell him, feeling the tension starting to unravel in your lower tummy. You guide one of your hands to your throbbing clit and start rubbing it almost at the same pace as his thrusts.

Jaemin can feel how hard you’re clenching around him, how your walls are squeezing him tight, begging for his release. He knows you’re close too, again, by how wet you’re getting.

So why wait? The whole night is ahead of you, and he still has the needed stamina to fuck you in every single position he knows, so he doesn’t want to waste any more time before coming with you.

“I’m close,” he sighs, closing his eyes and kicking his head back. You feel heavenly around you, but he wants to come with you.

At the same time if possible.

“I’m too-” you cry, feeling drool spilling from your mouth and staining the bed sheets.

“Come with me,” his voice and breath are shaky, his thrusts are getting sloppier and the lewd noises coming out of his mouth get louder with each second that passes by. You know he is also close, so you decide to give in.

“Won’t hold it-” you warn him, gripping the bed sheets while you do your best to stay still. “Fuck, baby- I’m-”.

You don’t have to tell him you’re coming because he is feeling it. He can feel your walls spasming, he can see your whole body trembling and he can hear how you chant his name over and over again.

It takes him one last look to your body fucking itself into his cock to come undone, all for you. The sight of your arse pressing against him, and his hand groping the flesh of it it’s what pushes him to the highest point of his arousal.

He loves to touch you and grope you like your body belongs to him, knowing that no one else gets to feel your body like this. He loves how perfect you are, how each part of your body drives him insane.

He loves everything about you, and the adoration he holds for you is equal to the lust and desire he feels towards you.

Jaemin comes inside you, whispering sweet nothings into your ear from behind. He fills your pussy up to the brim, until it is leaking.

“Fuck,” he sighs as he manages to overcome his high. He’s breathing loudly and heavily, his throat feels dry and his head dizzy. Jaemin is still feeling the ravages of his orgasm, from the tip of his toes to his crotch.

It’s an overwhelming feeling he adores, and one he can only achieve when he is with you.

“Thank you,” you finally tell him when he plops down onto the bed. You lay right beside him, not caring that his arousal is leaking out of you. For a reason, it feels too intimate.

“For what?” Jaemin asks with a weak smile, turning to face you.

“For all your words,” you return the smile. “You always make me feel attractive, beautiful”.

Jaemin pulls your body close to him, until your head rests at the top of his naked chest. Then, he places a kiss on top of your forehead.

“You are attractive, and beautiful,” he sighs, hugging you tightly. “Perfect, even”.

Author's note: I hope you enjoy this one! I apologize if I fucked up the grammar or spelling, english is not my first language and I haven't proofread this so I hope it's okay! This is my first drabble/story here, and I'm very happy to share it with you. Please, if you enjoy it, leave a comment or a reblog. It would mean the fucking world to me istg. Love you all!

[satellite-evans]

closure

Pairing: Carlos Sainz x ex!reader

Summary: you don't need Carlos' closure.

Word count: 2k+

Warnings: angst, based on the Taylor Swift song

A/N:

This my third fic for the folkmore series, and it is with none other than Carlos Sainz! This is my first time writing for him so I was quite nervous, please tell me what you think!

English is not my first language, so I apologize if I made any (grammar) mistakes. Feedback, requests, talks, vents, recommendations or just simple questions are always welcome.

Happy reading xxx

I do NOT give permission for my work to be translated or reposted on here or any other site.

It arrives in your inbox at 2:17 AM, the timestamp almost mocking the stillness of the night. The world outside is quiet, the kind of silence that fills your room with its weight, pressing against your ribs as if the very air knows what’s coming.

The email subject line is simple.

Just wanted you to know.

For a moment, you just stare at it. The words are innocuous, almost casual, but your heart knows better. You’ve seen that phrase before—at least in the way it echoed in your mind, in the way you tried to convince yourself you’d be fine without any more explanations.

And for some reason, you already know what it’s about. You don’t need to open it to feel the heavy, familiar knot tightening in your stomach. The ache in your chest that had dulled over time, the one you had worked so hard to ignore, throbs with renewed intensity, as if it’s alive and remembering the shape of old wounds. It’s as though your body recognizes him before your mind even does, and it reacts accordingly—a reflex you can’t outrun.

Your hands tremble slightly, the familiar sensation of fear and longing mixing in your veins, but you can't bring yourself to look away. The old ache becomes a weight in your throat, too, and for a moment, you're almost paralyzed by the gravity of it. You know this isn’t just a message. This is a door opening, an invitation to face something you buried deep. But you click on it anyway, drawn in by something you can’t explain, a part of you still hoping that maybe—just maybe—this will be the thing that makes it all make sense.

I just wanted you to know I hope you're doing well. I know things ended messy between us, and I hate that. I really do. I never wanted to hurt you, and I know that I did.

I’m sorry for how I left. For not saying enough. For saying too much. For everything in between.

I hope you’re happy. I really do.

- Carlos.

The words stare back at you, flat on the screen, sterile and detached. They sit there like a sentence of finality, as if they’re not even meant for you, but for someone who doesn’t carry the weight of your history with him. It’s just an email—another digital scrap of text sent into the void of the night. But after everything, after all that’s passed, this is what he gives you? Does he think that you’re just a situation that needs to be handled? A string of hollow words with no breath behind them, no warmth, nothing that even remotely resembles the person you once knew. No, not even that. The person you thought you knew.

It was almost ironic how the shape of his name still spelled out pain. Every letter, every syllable, carried a weight that dug deep, as if each time you thought of him, the wound reopened. It was strange, how someone you once loved could still manage to hurt you, even in their absence. Everything about him—his words, his actions, even his silence—had caused so much damage that it was honestly a little concerning.

You hated him. No, despised him. The anger simmered under your skin like a constant burn, always just beneath the surface, ready to erupt. The audacity he had, the way he thought he could just walk away, leaving destruction in his wake—it was almost unbelievable. He was wrong in so many ways the day he broke up with you. The way it all went down, how he acted like it was the easiest thing in the world, how he twisted every word you’d said into something it wasn’t—it was wrong, all of it. And by the looks of it, he probably knew by now. He had to. The way time had passed, the way people talked, the way you’d changed—he had to know the damage he’d done.

Your mind replays the last time you saw him. You can still picture it so vividly—the way he had stood in the doorway of your apartment, arms crossed over his chest like a shield, his eyes dark with something you couldn’t read. He looked smaller somehow, the exhaustion wearing him down, hanging off of him like a second skin, like he was carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders, yet he couldn't find it in himself to care about you anymore. The lines in his face were deeper, like time had been more unforgiving to him than you ever realized. The way his jaw clenched so tightly when you had begged him to just talk to you, that desperate plea falling from your lips like a prayer, but he wouldn’t listen. His silence had cut deeper than anything he could have said. The way he hadn’t looked back when he walked away. Not once. Not a single glance. Like you didn’t exist. That was when you realized he had put a distance between you two ages ago that you were finally seeing—a sea you were too tired to cross.

The door had clicked shut behind him with a finality that shattered you into pieces you weren’t sure you could ever put back together. That sound—the click of the lock—wasn’t just the end of a visit, but the end of everything. The end of any future you thought you’d have together. You didn’t just lose him in that moment. You lost the life you’d built around him. And you’ve been trying to rebuild ever since.

And now, months later, this. This email. A quiet, late-night message, sterile in its simplicity, like he was trying to offer a neat little bow to wrap up the wreckage he left behind. But there’s no ribbon to tie, no neatness to this. What he gave you wasn’t closure—it was a reminder that, for all his talk of wanting to make amends, he’s still incapable of meeting you where you need him.

You slam your laptop shut, too quickly, too harshly, as if the words might physically reach out and strangle you if you don’t. For a moment, your fingers linger on the lid, shaking, the intensity of your pulse drowning out the quiet hum of the city outside. The night has become suffocating, and you can’t tell if it’s because of the email, or because you’re finally confronting what you’ve been trying to ignore for so long. The pain hasn’t gone anywhere, and neither has the ache. It sits with you like an old friend, one you can’t seem to shake.

It’s almost laughable, really. You can’t help but chuckle bitterly to yourself as you stare at the screen. He thinks he’s giving you closure. That this carefully constructed email, this rehearsed apology, is supposed to fix something, to heal the rift that’s been eating away at you for months. That it will somehow mend the fractures in your heart as if it’s something that can be neatly patched up with a few well-chosen words. But the truth is, it doesn’t even come close. No, this isn’t closure. This isn’t even an attempt at healing—it’s just an afterthought, a last-ditch effort to clear his conscience without ever truly facing the damage he caused. And it’s almost insulting.

Closure isn’t an email at 2 AM, casually dropped into your life as though he’s just checking off a box. It isn’t a collection of words stripped of warmth, void of real feeling, written at a distance, with no regard for the time, or the place, or the person it’s supposed to reach. Closure would have been a conversation. A real one. A face-to-face moment where he would have stayed, where he would have stayed long enough to listen, to hear you, and not just walk away the moment it got hard. That would have been closure. But he didn’t stay. He left you behind with nothing but the echoes of your unanswered questions.

Your breath catches in your throat, and for a moment, you struggle to steady yourself. You take a deep breath, but it shudders on the way in, uneven and sharp. It feels like your lungs are betraying you, like they can’t hold the air in anymore, and you’re left gasping in the void between anger and heartache. Your throat is thick with unshed tears, but you refuse to let them fall. Not again. Not for him. You’ve cried enough tears for him already, enough for a lifetime. You promised yourself you wouldn’t do this anymore, that you wouldn’t let him be the reason you hurt.

You want to reply. You want to scream, to let him know how deeply he’s failed you, how his absence is still an open wound, festering in the corners of your mind. You want to tell him that, even now, you still wake up in the middle of the night, expecting to hear his voice, expecting to feel the weight of his arm around your waist. You still reach for him in the dark, your fingers grasping at air, and you realize too late that he’s not there. You want to tell him that every time you see red—Ferrari red, that damn red, the color of his car, of everything he used to be to you—you feel like you might break all over again, like all the pieces you’ve tried to pick up and put together have shattered into even smaller bits.

But he's not Ferrari red anymore. He's Williams blue now. You’d probably be a new wrinkle in his life, a person who wouldn’t fit. Heck, you didn’t even fit when he was in Ferrari. You could answer him back, tell him you forgave him, that you both could be friends again. Maybe that would iron everything out nicely.

But you won’t. You won’t give him that satisfaction. You won’t give him the power to pull you back into this mess, into this space where you lose yourself every time you think about him. He doesn’t deserve that. You don’t deserve to let him keep doing this to you.

The frustration, the hurt, the unanswered questions—they all feel like they're swirling in a storm that won't quiet. You crawl into bed, pulling the blankets around yourself as if they could offer the protection your mind and heart desperately crave.

You are fine. Everything is fine. You had your beers, your occasional crying sessions, your candles. You were doing so much better without him. You had to.

It cut deep, knowing him, all the way to the bone. The breakup had been necessary. It had to be. You were healing, getting better, moving on. Or at least, that’s what you told yourself.

But the ache in your chest and the rapid, shallow breaths you couldn't control told a different story. It was one you knew the ending to but didn’t want to face. His email was oh so unnecessary, cruel even. He had broken up with you months ago, and yet here he was again, trying to reach back into your life. He shouldn’t have contacted you. He should’ve left you alone.

And you definitely should’ve stayed in bed.

Hatred and regret twisted inside of you, each trying to take the lead, but you were too exhausted to figure out which was winning. Still, you knew you had to respond.

Your gaze lingered on the laptop screen for what felt like hours, your mind scrambling for the right words, something that could strike him, something that would hurt, something that would linger with him forever the way he had lingered in your life. But nothing came.

Instead, what you found was something deeper—something far more painful.

Acceptance.

Acceptance was the true winner in the battle between your emotions. It was the thing you’d been running from, the thing you’d fought so hard to avoid. You had accepted it.

It was over.

So, with a steady hand, you typed the final words you’d ever send him and blocked his email so he could never contact you again.

"I don’t need your closure."

[wooyoungmybelovedhusband]

ɪɴɪQᴜɪᴛᴏᴜꜱ ᴊᴇʀᴋ - ʏᴊʜ

⛧ PAIRING : Gambler! Mobboss! Yoon Jeonghan x F! Reader

⛧ TROPE : Established relationship AU

⛧ GENRE : Smut, Gambling themes

⛧ SYNOPSIS : Having sat next to your boyfriend for whole three hours, got you more more than just bored.

⛧ CONTENT/WARNINGS : Bratty! Reader [I'm back with this y'all], super horny! Reader, HardDom! Jeonghan, degradation, blowjob, hair pulling, cum eating, slight ass groping, slut-shaming, Daddy kink.

⛧ WORD COUNT : 1.4k

⛧ A/N : Jeonghan has me under his chokehold y'all. be scared

⛧ DISCLAIMER : Anyone who hates or doesn't like smuts can kindly block my account. DO NOT REPORT.

Feedbacks and reblogs are greatly appreciated.

⛧ JOIN MY TAGLIST - ♛

You leaned your back on the cushions of the black leather couch. You eyed all the huge bunches of money stacked up in between the table, several different men and women sitting around the huge table as they anxiously anticipated to see the winner. Your fingers held onto the stem of your wine glass, swirling it in pure boredom you had been feeling for the whole time. But boredom wasn't all you felt, you had sat there with your mind wandering to places at the sight of your boyfriend – well almost sugar daddy – who sat with his legs spread, his pants hugging his thighs while his jaw clenched in frustration.

‘Fucking bastard’ You mutter under your breath, in annoyance, but making certain Jeonghan heard you.

His eyebrow cocks up at your curse, but his focus stays on the cards. He clenches his teeth while his hand stays on his cards. A low scoff escapes your lips at the lack of his reaction, you wanted nothing but scream at him. ‘Iniquitous Jerk’ – another curse mindlessly rolls off your tongue while you roll your eyes at the back of his head. Well who could blame you, you had been sitting there for three hours straight with nothing to do about the arousal pooling in between your legs.

You wanted him to bend you over the table and pound into you for trying to distract him in between the biggest game.

You wanted him to let his big cock sink inside your pussy while his hands caressed your ass lovingly before striking against the soft flesh.

You just wanted him and his hands all over your body, telling you to behave.

You sneakily slip your hand down to his thighs, your fingers danced on his leather covered skin. Before you could even have the thought of slipping your hand any further towards his crotch, you feel his fingers wrap around your hand and throw your hand away from his thighs – while a discreet ‘Behave’ was heard by you.

You stare off into void for the next few minutes, in pure arousal and disappointment, before you flinch hearing a loud groan from the other man next to you. And you look around to find your boyfriend smirking while his bodyguards take out three empty suitcases and bag all the money on the table. “Well played Yoon.” The older man next to you says while everyone walks out groaning and grunting.

After finally filling up the suitcases all the bodyguards eye Jeonghan for the next order. “Walk out, lock the door and wait for us. Make sure, no one even tries to enter the lounge, I've got something to take care of.” Jeonghan made sure only you were able to hear the last sentence.

He pats his thighs once he made sure the three built men left the suit, “Come here, princess.” You let out a scoff for the nth time tonight, “And why would I do that?” You taunt him, but seemingly Jeonghan's patience ran thinner than any other day, today. Maybe the man would have tolerated your behaviour for a few minutes longer usually, but today he had had enough of your little bratty blabbers through the whole night and not to forget, your scoffs and whines every few minutes had pushed him to the edge.

“Keep up with that attitude and I'll rip apart this tight little dress and make you walk out naked with my cum dripping down your legs.”

A low whimper flew from your throat before you could even have a thought of controlling it. And Jeonghan shoots you his angelic smile again, “Now, I'm asking you again, Come here, Now.”

You scramble to get yourself on top of his thigh. Jeonghan's smile morphs into a smirk at your obedience, but oh will you face the consequences. His hand comes down to the small of your back, and lowers till he's gripping the flesh of your ass harshly. “Shouldn't you start making up for your behaviour, and get on your knees by now?” Your expression changes to one of confusion. “Unless you want to be edged till we get home, and I still would not let you come.”

For a fact, you know Jeonghan isn't joking when he cocks his eyebrows while his lips part away. You swiftly sink down to your knees, your hands already working on the belt of his pants. Your fingers slip in between his waistband, pulling down his pants along with his boxers to free his cock. Your pupils dilate from excitement, and your fingers barely graze over his length before his hand is slapping yours away.

“Hands to yourself, Bad sluts don't get to touch their daddy’s cocks.”

There was hidden excitement bubbling up in you, gosh you were finally getting what you wanted the whole night. Finally getting treated like you were his slut, nothing but a cum dump for him to relieve his stress.

Your head leans forward excitedly, and Jeonghan doesn't miss the chance to taunt about that fact. “Aren't you a little too excited for a brat who was speaking nasty stuff about her daddy?” You barely try to control the bratty whine that emerges from you as you look up at him with your best puppy eyes. You knew well Jeonghan was weak for those. “Guess I have to give my slut what she wants, don't I?”

And soon, before you could comprehend, his hands intertwine between your hair locks and push you down onto his cock. Your throat constricts around his length while his hands push you down on his cock till your nose is almost touching his skin. Your eyes tear up quicker than you imagined, and your jaw struggles to take him whole. Jeonghan visibly smirks at your pathetic struggling state, feeling so powerful as he sits there leaning his back against the couch.

His hands grip tightens on your hair locks before pulling you back with a jerk. He let out a mocking chuckle at your state, tears were streaming down your cheeks and your lipstick was quite much smudged. He soon expresses a fake frustrated grunt, “Can't even fucking take my cock in her mouth like a good slut. Guess that stupid mouth is of no use is it?”

“You just caught me off guard” You defend yourself while angrily lashing back at him.

“Ah! Now don't you fucking talk back, get to work if that slutty mouth of yours is of any use.” You swiftly lowered your head back down onto his cock, while your hands were behind your back. Just like he wanted. Your plump lips moved up and down his base, while your tongue swirled around him making him throw his head back. Few strands of his hair flew to his forehead and his hands came down to slightly glide you around his cock.

“Fuck fuck fuck! Such a fucking slutty mouth you have baby? Always ready to suck daddy off isn't it?” His voice comes out hoarse followed by a loud moan. His hips try hard not to buckle right up into your mouth while his hands tightened their grip on your hair locks moving your head faster.

Jeonghan's hips finally buckle up, not being able to hold still. While his hands still your head, his hips thrust up making his dick hit the back of your throat for the second time.

Within a few seconds, you were breathing heavily through your nostrils – well trying to – and your hair was a mess under his fingers’ tight grip when you felt his hot load of cum, spill into your tongue – and some painting the roof of your mouth. Jeonghan's eyebrows furrow in delight and he throws his head back in a loud groan.

His hands take a good long lasting minute before slowly releasing you off his length with a ‘pop’. Jeonghan's heavy panting slowly dies down and regains his posture. He grips your arms and pulls you up to your feet, and makes you sit on the desk. He cups your face slowly, before letting his lips enclose yours. He could still taste himself on your tongue before he pulled away.

“Let's get to the car.” His words instantly make you exclaim, “What?!”

“Mhm, don't act greedy. You were such a good girl just now. Stay patient till we get home, and I'll fuck you till you can't walk.”

Jeonghan walks towards the door, and you follow him just two steps behind him. A scowl plastered on your face.

“Iniquitous Jerk.” – You spat under your breath. “Now, say that again, unless you want me to bend you over that table and spank your ass till it's the colour of your lipstick and not let you cum for the whole night.”

© wooyoungmybelovedhusband. Do not repost, steal or translate my work.