#{ that you’re happy that this storm is swiping out }

[rose24207]

Mafia lando smut where reader was mad at him from an argument the other day, so she spends heaps of money on his bank account. He doesn’t find out till the bank calls to make sure it wasn’t fraud. And he punishes her

Stress Shopping

Summary: After a heated argument, you storm off on a stress-shopping spree with Lando's card, prompting a call from his bank, but the fight ends in heartfelt apologies and a reminder of his love for you.

Genre: Mafia!Lando, angst, fluff

TW: arguing, spending way too much money

A/N: loved the idea but I changed it a little! Hope you don’t mind! English is not my first language. I hope you enjoy it though! Requests are open and welcome!

Masterlist

The sound of the door slamming reverberates through the mansion, shaking the antique fixtures on the walls. You stomp into the grand foyer, your heels clicking sharply against the marble floors, your anger palpable in the air. Lando's sharp voice follows you, his British accent more clipped than usual.

"Don't you dare walk away from me, love!" he barks, his footsteps quick behind yours.

You spin on your heel to face him, eyes blazing with fury. "What do you want me to do, Lando? Stand there and listen while you talk to me like I’m one of your employees? Like I’m beneath you?"

His jaw tightens, the muscles working as he clenches his teeth. He’s wearing that infuriatingly expensive suit you helped him pick out, and right now, you’d love nothing more than to rip it off him—not in the fun way. "I don’t treat you like my employees," he growls. "But I am in charge, and you seem to forget that sometimes."

You laugh bitterly, crossing your arms. "Oh, how could I forget? You love reminding me every chance you get."

Lando rakes a hand through his perfectly styled hair, messing it up slightly. Normally, the sight would make your heart soften, but right now, it only fuels your fire. "You’re being unreasonable," he snaps. "We had an agreement—"

"No, you had an agreement!" you interrupt, your voice rising. "I never agreed to this ridiculous, controlling nonsense, Lando."

His amber eyes flash dangerously. "Watch it," he warns, his voice low now, like a storm about to break. "You’re pushing me, and you know I don’t like being pushed."

But you’re too far gone to care. "And I don’t like being treated like some trophy wife who needs to follow orders. I’m done with this conversation."

Without waiting for his response, you grab your purse from the console table and march toward the front door. His voice chases after you. "Where are you going?"

"Out," you snap. "Don’t wait up."

Before he can stop you, you’re out the door, the evening air cool against your flushed skin.

The mall is your sanctuary. Under the glow of bright lights and the hum of happy chatter, you lose yourself in racks of designer clothing, rows of shoes, and glass cases of sparkling jewelry. Lando's black card burns a comforting weight in your purse, and tonight, you intend to make full use of it.

You start at Chanel, swiping the card for a pair of heels and a matching bag without so much as glancing at the price tag. Next is Cartier, where a sleek watch catches your eye. After that, you make your way to Dior, where a silk gown feels like the perfect antidote to your frustration.

Each purchase soothes the ache in your chest, replacing anger with satisfaction. By the time you leave the mall, your arms are laden with bags, and the backseat of your car is filled to the brim with boxes and tissue paper.

But your phone buzzes just as you’re pulling out of the parking lot. You glance at the screen and see Lando’s name flashing. You don’t answer.

Back at the mansion, Lando is pacing his study, his phone pressed to his ear. The man on the other end clears his throat nervously before speaking. "Mr. Norris, this is Daniel from Barclays. We’ve noticed some unusual activity on your account and wanted to confirm if your card has been compromised."

Lando pinches the bridge of his nose, exhaling sharply. "What kind of activity?" he asks, though he already knows the answer.

"A series of high-value transactions," Daniel replies. "Chanel, Cartier, Dior... altogether totaling a little over seventy thousand pounds. Should we freeze the card?"

Lando smirks despite himself, shaking his head. "No, Daniel," he says, his tone resigned. "It’s just my wife... throwing a tantrum."

There’s a brief silence on the other end. "Ah," Daniel says finally, clearly unsure how to respond. "Very well, sir. Shall we flag the transactions as authorized?"

"Yes," Lando says. "And don’t call again unless it’s life or death."

You return home hours later, your anger dulled by exhaustion and the satisfying sight of your new purchases. You push open the door to the mansion, your arms laden with bags, only to find Lando waiting for you in the foyer. He leans against the staircase, his arms crossed over his chest, his sharp features unreadable.

"Have fun?" he asks, his voice deceptively calm.

You ignore him, stepping past him with your head held high. But before you can make it far, he grabs your wrist, stopping you in your tracks. His grip is firm but not painful, his thumb brushing against your skin.

"Don’t ignore me," he says softly, dangerously.

You whirl around to face him, the fire in your eyes reigniting. "What do you want, Lando? To scold me for spending your money? Go ahead—I’m sure you’ve got plenty of lectures lined up."

He doesn’t rise to the bait, his gaze steady on yours. "It’s not about the money," he says. "You know that."

"Then what is it about?" you demand. "Because I’m tired of fighting with you over every little thing."

His jaw tightens, and for a moment, he says nothing. Then, finally, he speaks. "It’s about us," he says. "About you running off every time we argue instead of dealing with it. You think throwing my money around is going to make things better?"

"It made me feel better," you snap, yanking your wrist out of his grip.

"Fine," he says, his voice cold now. "If that’s what you want—things, clothes, jewelry—then take it all. But don’t pretend it’s going to fix what’s wrong between us."

His words hit harder than you’d like to admit. You stare at him, your chest heaving with the effort of holding back tears. "Maybe if you treated me like your wife instead of your possession, we wouldn’t have these problems," you say quietly.

Something flickers in his eyes—guilt, maybe. But he doesn’t respond, and you don’t wait for him to. You turn on your heel and head upstairs, leaving him standing alone in the foyer.

Hours later, you’re sitting in the walk-in closet, surrounded by your purchases. The excitement you felt earlier has faded, leaving behind a hollow ache. You sigh, running your fingers over the soft fabric of the Dior gown, wondering if you went too far.

A knock at the door startles you, and before you can respond, Lando steps inside. He looks tired, his tie loosened and his hair disheveled. In his hands, he’s holding a small box tied with a black ribbon.

"I brought you something," he says, his voice soft.

You raise an eyebrow. "More things? Haven’t I spent enough of your money today?"

He ignores your sarcasm, setting the box down on the bench beside you. "Open it," he says.

Curious despite yourself, you untie the ribbon and lift the lid. Inside is a delicate necklace, a simple gold chain with a tiny heart-shaped pendant. It’s nothing like the flashy pieces you bought earlier, but somehow, it feels more special.

"It’s not to bribe you," he says quickly, as if reading your mind. "I just... I wanted to remind you that I don’t care about the money or the fights. I care about you.“

You look up at him, your heart softening. "You have a funny way of showing it," you say, though your tone lacks its earlier bite.

He kneels in front of you, his hands resting on your knees. "I know," he admits. "I’m not perfect, and I don’t always know how to handle you when you’re upset. But I’m trying, love. I promise I’m trying."

For a long moment, you say nothing, letting his words sink in. Then, finally, you reach out and cup his cheek, your thumb brushing against his stubble. "I’m sorry too," you say. "I shouldn’t have stormed off like that. It wasn’t fair to either of us."

He leans into your touch, closing his eyes briefly. "So... we’re okay?" he asks, his voice tentative.

You smile softly. "We’re okay."

The next morning, you wake up to find Lando already dressed, his tie perfectly knotted and his usual confidence back in place. He leans over to kiss your forehead, his lips lingering against your skin.

"Breakfast is ready downstairs," he says. "And I told the bank not to call me again if you go on another shopping spree."

You laugh, pulling the covers over your head. "Good. Because I might need a few more things."

He chuckles, his hand brushing against your hair. "Just try not to spend the GDP of a small country next time, yeah?"

You peek out from under the covers, grinning. "No promises."

And for the first time in days, everything feels right again.

Thank you for reading!

[silntfangs]

People say the most… wildest thing, and say it so proudly.

[readwritealldayallnight]

You haven’t noticed him yet.

Lost in the words printed on the pages, you haven’t glanced up from your book since Simon stepped out of the shower, peeking at your figure through the window panes.

You’re out on the small, cramped balcony of your shared London flat, curled into yourself to squeeze all your limbs as comfortably as you can onto the wicker chair.

The half empty cup of tea sitting on the small side table next to you is no longer as warm as it was when you first brought it out. Without a second thought, Simon goes to warm up the kettle again, not wanting you to get cold.

He frowns as your fingers quickly catch the edge of your book before the wind can flip your current page away, your hair being blown away from your face. He spots the tiny shiver that goes through you and decides he’ll bring out a throw blanket for you as well. Maybe one of his hoodies.

You’d teased him about something like this the other day, after he’d finished tucking your chair in at a local cafe. Saying that his love language was sooo obviously acts of service.

He’d playfully rolled his eyes, joking about how yours must be to never stop talking, chuckling at the half hearted kick he received underneath the table, before you explained that that wasn’t what love languages are.

Simon wasn’t so sure about that whole idea. All he knew was that he liked taking care of you, just as you took care of him. Simple as that.

He knows he always feels lighter after you send him a thankful smile any time he carries your bag for you or opens your door.

He knows you can’t stop smiling for at least a minute any time you swipe an eyelash off his cheek, carefully holding it in front of his lips so he can blow it away and ‘make a wish’.

He knows his chest always swells with pride any time you compliment his cooking, whether he attempted a dish on his own or simply added a seasoning to something you were already making.

He knows all the tension disappears from your shoulders when you’re sat in his lap, gently wiping away his black face paint from around his eyes, taking extra care around his delicate skin, humming a soft little melody for the both of you to hear.

He knows there isn’t anything in this entire god forsaken earth that makes him happier, than making you happy.

That’s why he’s been secretly looking into a new place for the two of you. This tiny shoebox of a flat had been fine when it was just him crashing here a handful of times a year between missions. When you got together and began spending more time sleeping here than at your own place, it only made sense to move in once your lease was up.

But now your books are piled in stacks along the baseboards, the closet can barely contain your clothes mixed in together, and the sight of you sitting out on that cramped balcony just doesn’t sit right with him.

He wants to give you a proper place, a home. He wants to be able to give you an actual yard with room to sprawl out and grow a garden if you want, or just lay out a picnic blanket and read until the sun sets.

He wants to hear you nag him about mowing the lawn, or raking the leaves, or shovelling the driveway. He wants to run out into a sudden summer storm with you to quickly pull off the laundry that had been drying on the clothes line, laughing the entire time.

As though sensing his gaze on you, you slowly lift your head, a chuckle slipping past his lips as your eyes immediately light up with excitement, a sweet smile gracing your lips as you send him a wave.

He lifts his hand, waggling his fingers back at you, the same corny grin on his face, knowing that there isn’t a thing in the world he wouldn’t do for you.

[pucksandpower]

Worlds Apart

Max Verstappen x Sargeant!Reader

Summary: everyone seems to have something to say about your relationship with Max, but at the end of the day all that matters is the two of you

Warnings: Jos Verstappen

Based on a request by @butterflyexe

The sorority house is pulsing with noise — music, laughter, the clink of plastic cups. You weave through the crowd, feeling very much out of place amongst the scantily clad co-eds. Your sundress and sandals seem prudish in comparison.

“Y/N! There you are!” Chelsea, your big sister in Kappa Alpha Theta, comes barreling over with a few of her friends in tow. “We were just talking about you.”

You eye them warily. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah, like how you’re totally wasting your college experience pining over some old race car driver instead of playing the field.” Chelsea’s friend, Brittany, smirks as she takes a sip of her drink.

You bristle at that. “Max is not old! He’s only 26.”

“Exactly,” Chelsea says, putting an arm around your shoulders. “You’re a sophomore dating a whole ass man who’s nearly 30. It’s weird.”

“No it’s not!” You protest, shrugging off her arm. “We’ve been together over a year. I really like him.”

“Like him?” Brittany scoffs. “Wake up, Y/N. He’s an international celebrity dating a little college student. You’re just his side piece.”

The words hit like a slap to the face. “That’s not true!”

“Then why does he never post about you on social media?” Chelsea counters. “I follow him and you’re never on his accounts.”

“We just value our privacy,” you mumble, but her words have sown seeds of doubt.

Chelsea gives you a pitying look. “Honey, I’m just trying to watch out for you. There are so many great guys here on campus that would treat you right.”

Your eyes narrow at the dig. “You mean like those meathead frat bros that never shut up about their high school glory days? No thanks.”

The girls all gasp in mock offense. Brittany steps closer, using her height advantage to loom over you. “You’ve got a lot of nerve, talking about our men like that.”

“Yeah?” You stand your ground, hands on your hips. “Well maybe if they acted like men instead of immature little boys, I wouldn’t have to.”

A hush falls over the nearby crowd, all eyes on your confrontation. Brittany looks murderous until one of her sidekicks tugs her sleeve, murmuring “Let’s go, it’s not worth it.” She sneers at you one last time before stalking off, leaving you and Chelsea alone.

Your big sister sighs, rubbing her temples. “Why are you so hell-bent on making this hard on yourself, Y/N? Max is a world away, both physically and in terms of life experience. You could have any guy at this school eating out of the palm of your hand. Why not take advantage of that?”

Her words are salt in the wound. You blink back tears, fighting to keep your voice steady. “Because I love Max. He makes me incredibly happy. And yeah, the distance is hard and he’s older and more established in his career. But he’s kind and smart and we just … connect, you know? I’ve never felt this way about anyone else.”

Chelsea shakes her head pityingly. “I’m just trying to watch out for you. I’d hate to see you get your heart broken over some long-distance fling.”

“It’s not a fling!” You’re sick of trying to convince everyone. Pushing past her, you storm out of the suffocating house and into the cool night air. Gulping it down, you sink down onto the steps, chest heaving with anger and hurt and frustration.

Alone at last, you let the tears come. You know the doubts eating at you are unfair — Max has been nothing but devoted and caring throughout your relationship, even with his insanely busy schedule. But the fears voiced by Chelsea and her crew have burrowed under your skin. Maybe you are just a naive little plaything for him. Maybe he’ll eventually get bored and move on to someone more sophisticated and on his level.

Your phone buzzes in your pocket — a FaceTime call from the man in question himself. You fumble to answer it, swiping hastily at your damp cheeks. “H-Hey you.”

“There’s my gorgeous girl!” His bright smile fills the screen, momentarily banishing your worries. “I only have a few minutes before FP1, but I couldn’t wait to see that pretty face.”

You can’t help but return his warm grin, though it doesn’t quite meet your eyes. “I miss you so much, Max.”

His brow furrows at your tone. “What’s wrong, liefje? You sound upset.”

You want to brush it off, but maybe this is your chance to finally get those nagging fears off your chest. “It’s just … things have been rough lately with the girls. They keep saying I’m wasting my time with you, that you’re going to leave me for someone else, that I’m just a naive little girl you’re using for fun.”

He’s silent for a long moment, then curses under his breath. “I’m so sorry, Y/N. That must be really hard to deal with, on top of the distance.”

“It is,” you admit, blinking back fresh tears. “And as much as I try to ignore them and have faith in us, their words have started to get to me. I mean … why don’t you ever post about me on social media? Do you not want the world to know about me?”

A shadow crosses his features. Clearly he’s heard this criticism before. “My reasons for keeping my relationships private have nothing to do with you, okay? I keep that part of my life off social media to avoid a media frenzy and protect the people I care about.” His expression softens. “But you better believe everyone important in my life knows about you — my family, my closest mates. Hell, the whole Red Bull garage is sick of hearing me go on and on about how amazing my girl is.”

You can’t help but laugh through your tears, some of the weight lifting off your chest. “Really?”

“Of course!” He chuckles. “I’ve never felt this way about anyone before, Y/N. No matter how far apart we are or what anyone else says, you’re the only one I want.”

Your cheeks flush at his heart-melting words. In that moment, you don’t care about your snotty sorority sisters or the distance or anything else — just being completely in love with this amazing man. “I wish you were here,” you murmur, drinking in every detail of his face. “I miss holding you so damn much.”

Max’s eyes crinkle at the corners. “Maybe you can show me how much later tonight, when we’re all alone to video call properly?”

You giggle and smack your hand over the camera, feeling suddenly shy. “Max Verstappen, you incorrigible flirt!”

“You love it.” His voice takes on a deeper, huskier tone that sends tingles down your spine. “And you’re going to love what I have planned for your next visit even more ...”

You spend the next few giddy minutes shamelessly flirting back and forth, soaking up precious moments of intimacy through the phone line to sustain you until you can be together again. When his race engineer appears in the background, beckoning him to the track, you’re both full of regretful sighs.

“Duty calls,” Max says wistfully. “But I’ll call you later, okay? We can pick up where we left off ...” He waggles his eyebrows mischievously.

You can’t stop your face-splitting grin. “I’ll be counting the minutes.”

“Bye schatje. Love you to the moon and back.”

“Love you too!” You clutch the phone to your chest after he disconnects, completely lovestruck. All your insecurities have melted away under the heat of Max’s devoted words and that heart-stopping smile.

It’s going to be okay.

He chose you — Y/N Sargeant, sophomore student, for all your flaws and relative immaturity. And you’ve never felt luckier.

Spirits lifted, you bound back into the house and upstairs to your bedroom. You’ll ignore Chelsea and her nasty friends for the rest of the night, instead losing yourself in daydreams of the next time you’ll be wrapped in Max’s strong arms.

Your relationship may be a long-distance whirlwind, but you’re all in and you’ve never been happier. Let the other sorority girls whisper — you’ve snagged yourself a keeper.

***

Max drains the last of his water bottle as he exits the Red Bull garage, sweat still beading on his brow from the qualifying session. He stretches his arms over his head with a satisfied groan — even after all these years in Formula 1, there’s no better feeling than pushing a car to its limits on the track.

“Max! A word, if you please.”

He cringes at the familiar bark, turning to find his father bearing down on him like a storm cloud. So much for basking in the post-qualifying glow. “Yeah, what’s up?”

Jos’ mouth presses into a grim line, eyes smoldering behind the lenses of his sunglasses. “Well, for one, I saw that interview of yours from yesterday making the rounds online.”

Max fights the urge to roll his eyes. Of course his old man would find something to criticize. “And? I thought it was pretty standard, nothing controversial.”

“Oh, I’m sure you didn’t mean it to be controversial.” Jos sneers the word like a curse. “But dodging questions about your girlfriend and claiming you prefer to keep your private life private? It’s only going to stoke more media speculation and rumors.”

“Is that so bad?” Max counters. “I like to keep things out of the spotlight as much as I can. You know how ravenous the press is.”

“Don’t play dumb with me, son.” Jos steps closer, his voice lowering to a dangerous hiss. “I know exactly who this girl of yours is.”

Max feels his hackles rising at his dad’s dismissive tone when speaking about you. He opens his mouth to retort, but Jos barrels on.

“First it was that damn Kelly Piquet and her baggage, and now you’ve upgraded to jailbait? What is it with you and dating either old hags or naive teenagers, Max?”

“That’s enough!” Max snarls, feeling his face flush with anger. “How dare you talk about them like that, especially Y/N. She’s an incredible woman, and our age gap means nothing.”

Jos scoffs loudly. “Come off it, boy! She’s just a child, a nobody playing at being a WAG. You were born for greatness, bred to be a champion. Why on earth would you hitch your wagon to some college bimbo barely out of nappies?”

It’s like a red mist descends over Max’s vision at his father’s vile words about you. Before he can stop himself, his fist lashes out and connects squarely with Jos’ jawbone, sending the older man stumbling back.

“Don’t you ever speak about her that way again,” Max seethes, cradling his throbbing hand. “Y/N is ten times the person you’ll ever be. Smart, mature, driven as hell —she’s going to accomplish incredible things someday, whether you respect her or not.”

Jos regains his footing, clutching the blooming bruise on his cheek and glaring daggers at his son. “How dare you strike me, you ungrateful little shit! I gave you everything — the training, the opportunities, the sacrifices to get you to this level. And this is how you repay me?”

Max refuses to be baited, meeting his father’s glare with stony resolution. “Maybe if you didn’t insist on being such a hateful, miserable bastard all the time, I wouldn’t have to. All I want is for you to be civil and show some respect. Is that too much to ask?”

He huffs out a bitter chuckle, shaking his head. “But that’s not your way, is it? You’d rather condemn me for daring to find happiness with someone, just because she’s younger or doesn’t fit into your narrow ideas of what my life should look like. Well, I’ve got a newsflash for you. It’s my fucking life and I’ll live it however I damn well please.”

Jos opens his mouth, undoubtedly to fire off more vitriol, but Max cuts him off with a raised hand. He’s said his piece, expending the last of his energy and patience dealing with his father’s bullheadedness — at least for today. Right now, all he wants is to retreat somewhere quiet and let his thoughts drift across the ocean to you.

“Save it. I’m done arguing.” He turns on his heel and stalks away, Jos shouting insults at his retreating back.

Don’t react, don’t react. His jaw clenches almost painfully as he navigates the familiar path back to his driver’s room, typing out a quick message.

You free to chat soon, gorgeous? Need to hear your voice.

The reply comes almost instantly. For you, always. Give me 20 mins? ❤️

He can’t stop the surge of warmth at your words, the tension slowly draining from his shoulders. That’s his girl — always knowing exactly what he needs, even from thousands of miles away. And isn’t that what matters most of all?

After showering and changing into casual sweats and a t-shirt, Max sinks onto the small couch placed against the wall, pillows arranged just so to prop up his aching back and shoulders. He picks up his phone and dials your number, heart rate kicking up a notch in eager anticipation.

After what feels like an eternity but is surely only a few rings, your face fills the screen. You must have just gotten back from class — your hair is tousled and loose, your makeup-free skin flushed and glowing in the South Florida sun.

“Well hey there, handsome.” Your teasing smirk dissipates as you get a better look at him. “Max? Are you okay? You look exhausted.”

“I am now,” he manages, relief already washing over him at the simple sight of you. He drinks in every last detail like a man parched. “Just had a bit of a run-in with my dad and needed an escape.”

Concern flashes in your warm eyes. “Oh no, what happened?”

So he tells you — the interview rumors, his dad ambushing him and lobbing insults, the explosive fight that caused him to lose his cool and strike the first blow. You listen with sympathy, every encouraging nod and murmured reassurance calming his frazzled nerves until the story is spent, leaving him strangely at peace.

“Thank you for sharing all that with me, babe,” you say once he’s finished. Your voice is gentle but firm. “I’m sorry Jos was so out of line, but you were totally right to stand up to him. Nobody gets to dismiss our relationship or talk about you like that.”

Max blows out a long breath, raking a hand through his shower-damp hair. “I know, I just … I hate letting him get under my skin like that, you know? No matter how much I try to rise above it, he always finds a way to trigger something deep down. It’s exhausting constantly needing to defend myself and the people I care about.”

“But that’s not your burden to bear alone, Max.” You shake your head adamantly, jaw set in that stubborn way he loves. “Let me help shoulder that weight, even if I can’t actually be there physically yet. I’m on your team, remember? We’re partners. I’ve got your back.”

Your words loosen a knot of tension he didn’t realize he was carrying. Of course you get it, you always do. He knows in that moment how lucky he is to have found his teammate, his shelter in the storm that rages on no matter how successful he becomes.

“Have I told you lately how amazing you are?” His voice comes out low, thick with emotion. “How did I ever get so lucky?”

Your radiant smile could power entire cities. “By being you, silly. And for the record, your dad is way off base. There’s nothing wrong with you wanting a mature, driven, accomplished partner — even if she happens to be younger.”

“Age shaming goes both ways, apparently.”

“Apparently,” you agree wryly. “I had my own fun today ...”

As you launch into explaining the shenanigans that occurred during your morning lecture, Max feels himself relaxing further and further into the couch, a dopey grin spreading across his face. On and on the two of you go, playfully trading stories until his father and the endless pressures of his career have fully melted away, replaced by this perfect bubble the two of you inhabit.

When you hit a lull, stifling a yawn behind your hand, Max reluctantly decides to let you go for the night. “Do you have some time before your next class? You should get some rest.”

“Aw, I’m fine!” You protest through another jaw-cracking yawn. “I’m not done talking to my favorite driver yet.”

Max chuckles fondly. This stubborn streak of yours will be the death of him someday. “We both know that’s a lie. I can practically hear your bed calling your name for a nap from here.”

“Hmph, fine.” You stick out your full bottom lip in an exaggerated pout that makes his heart skip. “I guess if you insist on being all reasonable and stuff.”

“That’s me, a real fun-sucker.” He matches your playful tone, though his eyes are serious. “But before you go … can you just say it? For me?”

You immediately soften, gazing at him through the camera with so much tenderness, it almost winds him. “I love you, Max. More than anything.”

He exhales heavily, as if your words have physically lifted a weight from his shoulders. “I love you too, Y/N. And your love, your belief in me … it’s everything. Never doubt that, okay?”

“I won’t if you don’t,” you promise with a wink. “Good luck, babe. I’ll be dreaming of you.”

“Sweet dreams, liefje.”

Even after disconnecting the call, Max sits there for several long moments, staring at the now-dark screen with a besotted grin. His chest is pleasantly warm, full to bursting with the soul-deep reassurance that only you can provide.

Screw whatever toxic nonsense his dad tries to peddle about your age gap or his career. You’re the beating heart that sustains him, the sun around which his entire universe orbits. No disapproving authority figure or rumor mill gossip could ever change that fundamental truth.

So let his father rage and splutter all he wants about how “inappropriate” your relationship is. Max has tasted the extraordinary, found his home and partner in the most vibrant woman he’s ever met. All those lonely, empty years without that missing piece suddenly feel like a hazy, long-forgotten dream.

As Max sips his energy drink and prepares for another demanding few hours at the track, he can’t keep the dopey smile off his face. You’re worth enduring a thousand more shouting matches with his dad, worth traversing any distance just to hear your laugh again.

Max is the luckiest bastard alive to have earned your heart, and he’ll never take that gift for granted.

***

You shoulder your backpack and push through the double doors of the lecture hall, finally free from classes for the summer. The late afternoon sun bakes the quad in a warm glow as you pause for a moment, breathing in the sweet semi-tropical air.

For two years, this campus has been your entire world. Endless cycles of classes, parties, study sessions, and chaos with your sisters from Kappa Alpha Theta. But now, as you glance around at the laughing students basking in the first days of freedom, you feel a strange sense of restlessness settle over you.

Like there’s some place — somewhere — else you’re meant to be.

Shaking it off, you start heading for the student parking lot to meet up with Chelsea. You only make it a few steps before unusually loud cheers and shouts draw your attention to a small crowd forming near the front entrance.

Rows of parked cars block your view, but the distinctive growl of a high-performance engine cuts through the commotion. Your pulse instantly kicks up a notch as your mind puts it together.

That’s no ordinary car.

That’s a multimillion dollar, 800 horsepower British rocket. Sleek, powerful, luxuriously elegant.

Just like-

“No way ...” you breathe out, books slipping from your slackened grip as the glossy green bodywork of an Aston Martin DBS Superleggera slides into view. Because draped over the driver’s side door in that achingly familiar display of casual arrogance ...

“Max!” You shout his name in disbelieving joy even as your feet are carrying you toward him at a full sprint.

His head snaps up at the sound and your heart nearly stops at the way his whole face ignites with radiant delight. That brilliant smile you’ve ached to see in person for so long now stretching those full lips in the most heart-stoppingly beautiful way.

He pushes off from the car, hands outstretched, and in the space of a single frantic heartbeat you’ve flung yourself into his arms with a breathless laugh.

“What are you doing here?” You demand giddily as Max’s strong arms engulf you, swinging your frame around in a tight circle. You’re vaguely aware of the other students going nuts, people shouting and whistles piercing the air, but you only have eyes and ears for this incredible man holding you tightly.

Max just chuckles warmly, murmuring your name with raw affection before crashing his lips to yours in a scorching kiss that leaves you dizzy. You melt into the fierce embrace, parting your lips eagerly to taste the slight sweetness of Red Bull and dark chocolate that is so distinctly Max.

“Surprise, schatje,” he rumbles against your smiling mouth between heated, openmouthed kisses. “Thought I would swing by and pick up my favorite student myself.”

“Oh my god!” You laugh delightedly, cupping his chiseled jaw to drink in every perfectly imperfect inch of his beloved face. The strong jawline, the dimpled chin, those piercing blue eyes crinkling at the corners as he beams at you.

“When did you … how did you …” You’re at a loss for words, overcome with giddy euphoria at having Max here, warm and solid and real in your arms again after so many endless months.

A fresh wave of cheers and hollers suddenly cuts through your joyful bubble as half the crowd seems to recognize the celebrity in their midst. Dozens of camera phones whip out to capture the unexpectedly intimate reunion between you and Max.

“Who is that guy?”

“No way, that’s Max freaking Verstappen!”

“Y/N, how do you know Max Verstappen?”

The shouts and questions reach a fever pitch, finally breaking through your amorous fugue. Blushing furiously, you pull back just enough to murmur against Max’s chest.

“Well, much as I’d love to keep making out with my insanely hot boyfriend in the middle of campus, maybe we should take this somewhere a bit more private?”

Max gives a deep, rich laugh at that, the sound vibrating pleasantly against you.

“You are a wise woman, liefje,” he praises in that deliciously accented baritone. He presses one last, searing kiss to your smiling lips before reluctantly disentangling himself. “Though I would have thought you might like to give all your classmates one more delightful bit of inspiration to remember you by before you depart for the summer?”

He leers at you playfully as a chorus of whoops and whistles greets his flirtatious suggestion. You can’t help but bark out a laugh, shoving his chest lightly in mock admonishment even as heat rushes to your cheeks.

“You’re impossible!”

“No, just hopelessly in love with you,” he counters easily, reaching out to tuck an errant strand of hair behind your ear. The tenderness in his voice and touch instantly gentles your teasing mood into something infinitely fonder.

This remarkable man, so genuine and caring beneath the roguish exterior cultivated for the cameras. You’re struck by a sudden lance of melancholy at the thought of how little the world really knows of the real Max Verstappen.

But then his eyes crinkle in that way that speaks of unabashed adoration just for you and the feeling passes. Because you know him better than anyone. And he sees you just the same. Two souls intertwined by a rare, precious understanding.

Max’s hand slides around to cup the back of your neck, his thumb brushing lightly over your thundering pulse point. The tender motion instantly sets your nerves alight with renewed longing.

“So,” his voice drops to an impossibly deep bedroom octave meant only for your ears. “Shall we give the good people at the University of Miami one last show before I whisk you away for a few months of long overdue privacy?”

There’s the barest hint of a filthy promise underlying the words. You swallow thickly, unconsciously pressing closer as Max’s velvet tones wash over you like a physical caress.

“And just where will you be taking me?” You manage to tease back, forcing a bravado your hammering heart doesn’t feel.

“Well ...” He leans in until his lips brush the delicate shell of your ear. You shiver helplessly at the heated puff of air ghosting your sensitive skin.

“First,” he begins in a heated murmur, “we’re going to swing by your sorority house to gather your belongings.”

“Okay ...” You nod faintly, hyper-aware of Max’s intoxicating proximity.

“Then I’ll be driving us straight to your parents’ place in Fort Lauderdale,” he continues lowly. “Per the strict instructions of one Logan Sargeant, of course.”

You can’t help the surprised laugh that bursts forth. Trust your brother to strong-arm his way into Max’s surprise plans.

“He didn’t give you too hard a time, did he?” You ask through your giggles. “I can only imagine the threats he must have ...”

You trail off at the feeling of Max’s talented mouth blazing a trail of kisses along the slender column of your throat. Every exploratory brush of his lips and insistent swipe of tongue steals the breath from your lungs.

“Max ...” You whine out his name without conscious thought, going pliant against the solid wall of his body.

“Shhh,” he rumbles against your overwrought senses. “Let me finish first.”

There’s a maddening pause where the only sounds are the rushing waves of cheers and chaos from the delighted crowd watching your every move, hungered gazes drinking in every scorching caress Max bestows upon you. Under any other circumstances, the thought of being so shamelessly devoured by hundreds of strangers’ eyes would have you recoiling in embarrassment.

But Max’s presence, his heated touch and low, sinful voice have you spellbound, uncaring of your audience.

“After we’ve satisfied your family’s demands to see us with their own eyes,” he purrs. “We’ll be boarding my jet bright and early for someplace much more ... pleasurable.”

Your skin prickles with delicious tension as Max continues in that low, rough whisper.

“We’ll spend a few lazy days lounging on a private beach in Aruba, just the two of us.” His large hand roves provocatively down the curve of your spine to boldly grip your backside, pulling your hips flush against the insistent bulge in his designer jeans. “Catching up on all the things I’ve been dreaming about for months, schatje.”

A tremulous whimper escapes your parted lips at the blatant promise underlying Max’s words. You flatten your palms against the firm planes of his chest, feeling his powerful heartbeat thundering in time with your own.

“A-And after that?” You somehow manage in a breathy rasp, scarcely daring to hope.

Max’s only response is a low, thrumming chuckle that you feel vibrate across your heated skin. His chin dips, molten blue eyes searing into yours with naked hunger.

“After that?” He husks, stealing the breath from your lungs with a devastating grin. “Well, then I’ll finally get to introduce the world to my favorite girl.”

And neither of you can wait.

[macfrog]

psyche and cupid | one shot

happy valentine's, beautiful people. i love you with all of my heart. xx shoutout to @familyvideostevie for putting joel's slutty little thigh holster into my head and, well. yeah. pairing: jackson!joel miller x fem!reader summary: valentine's day with joel doesn't go to plan. warnings: part two never happened!!!!! abby who!!!, established relationship, cursing, half joel pov, unspecified age gap, hints to reader having a sliver of ptsd, jesse is alive and well because he is my prince and i said so, reader has dark pubic hair, masturbation, somnophilia (not discussed in this fic but she is a-ok with it) and therefore dubcon, sprinkle of praise kink, oral (f!receiving), someone comes in his underwear, these two goofballs are big in love word count: 5.5k

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It’s not in his nightstand.

Not hung over the newel post, either.

He said he left it on the kitchen counter yesterday, right after he got home; said he woke up this morning and it was gone. And then he muttered something of an accusation that someone had tidied it away and forgotten where, and that started a whole new argument.

You know what, Joel? You’re following his tall figure as it sways down the hallway, his strides longer and considerably smoother than your flurrying shadow in his wake. Maybe if you weren’t going out today, we wouldn’t be having this problem.

His chin tilts upward, salt and pepper scruff angled to the ceiling with a ha slung from his throat. Yeah, he tosses a glance over his shoulder, we’d just be havin’ it tomorrow, instead.

You scoff in response, stepping where his boots lift off from, following the heavy thud thud thud like a cat at his heels until he’s rounding the corner towards your bedroom.

You pass over the messy trail of your jeans and Joel’s pajama bottoms, your underwear and his leading in a trail to the unmade bed – sheets like a rippled wave painted golden by the dawn.

The two of you split off – Joel lifts the cotton and watches it float back down over the flat of your mattress. Nothing.

You take the closet – the squeal of metal on metal harsh in your sleepy ears as you shove the hanging clothes aside, swiping around at the floor. Also, unsurprisingly, nothing.

Deflated, you straighten, stars peppering your vision and a tatty sleepshirt pinched in your fingers. Led Zeppelin – some band Joel was into before everything went to shit. You’ve listened to him out on the porch before, plucking strings in time with the record wobbling on the turntable inside.

The collar torn, sleeves pecked with holes, print lost to the years and the dryer – but each time you drape it over your shoulders, he smiles and hums some song from a world you’ll never know.

It’s sweet, when you’re in the mood to be wooed.

Which, incidentally, is not right fucking now.

His eyes flit down to the peeling, grayscale image – and that same smile attempts to bloom on his lips. That’s cute, but it ain’t my holster, pretty bird.

His smirk dampens quickly when he looks back up, snuffed by your stony expression.

You whip the tee down to the foot of the bed. You are a piece of fuckin’ work sometimes, do you know that? you growl, storming by him for the en suite.

Joel’s rough hand slips around your wrist, tugging gently but letting you drag him through to the bathroom.

Just go, Joel, you groan, the chill of the room prickling goosebumps on your naked legs. Give  me some peace and quiet. ‘s not like I’m gonna be seein’ much of you today, anyways.

Is that what this is about? His voice echoes in the morning blue, round in your ears as you hang your head over the sink. Pickin’ a fight ‘cause you’re pissed I’m goin’ out?

I didn’t start the fight, you protest. You’re the one who lost his holster.

Didn’t lose it… he mumbles, lips closing around the sentence when he catches your glare in the mirror. He crosses one ankle over the other, toe of his dusty boot on the cracked tile, and sighs. What do you want me to do, baby? I gotta do my job.

On Valentine’s Day? When I worked extra to get it off, and you can’t even get your brother to swap one shift?

Joel’s expression seems to stiffen, tense with a realization that you know, and now he knows, too – he should’ve had days ago. A weighty breath falls from his nostrils, admitting some kind of defeat, and then he’s wandering carefully over to you, two hands curved over your shoulders.

He lowers his forehead onto the nape of your neck, a slow breath which flutters the loose collar of the flannel you’re wearing and sweeps down your spine. I’m sorry, pretty bird. I didn’t know it meant that much to ya.

It doesn’t, you admit, adding, usually. I just thought we could have a day to ourselves, for once.

He’s nodding, sweep of his fringe tickling the slope of your skin. It’d be a lot more romantic than spendin’ it with Jesse, that’s for sure.

Your bodies fall together with a shared laugh, a bright and charming thing in the dull bathroom light. Joel kisses the soft cushion of your shoulder and hooks his chin over, beard grazing your skin.

I’ll be back before you know it. ‘n then we can do whatever the hell you got planned for us, hm?

He’s steady behind you when you lean back, turning to place a damp kiss to the hinge of his jaw. A reply, a plea – a promise.

In the echoing dripdripdrip from the faucet, Joel pulls apart from you, two fingers pinching the hem of your shirt to pull you back into the bedroom.

You wanna walk me to the gate? he asks, pulling the zipper on his jacket.

What about your holster?

He smiles. I’m sure I’ll survive without it. C’mon. Put some pants on.

February is bitter even by Jackson’s standards – a bite of ice in the air which numbs the tip of your nose and stings the helix of your ears. The chill slips a long, sharp finger down the collar of your – Joel’s jacket, and you wrap the baggy canvas tighter around yourself.

Told you to wear som’ thicker. Joel sighs, grip light around the strap of his shotgun. His elbow nudges into yours, a wide arm wraps around your shoulder and draws you flush against his side. Head on back if you’re cold, he says, rubbing until the friction warms your upper arm.

I’m fine, you lie, eyeing the line of horses up ahead. The eager crunch of their hooves in the frozen ground, the pinkish light on their backs from the sky flooded crimson overhead – a warning from the horizon, you think.

It seems to agitate the animals as much as it does you, their heavy heads tossing nervously, ears flicking and inky eyes blinking.

Jesse meets you by the paddock, slipping Joel the reins of his horse with a curt nod, before hoisting himself atop his own.

It bleats from your lips before you can hold it back. Be careful.

Your frozen fingers claw around the zipper of his coat, tugging it upwards until it brushes against his bottom lip. The weather gets bad, you turn back. Okay?

He’s nodding, paying half his attention to your words, the other half to the little crease between your brows. Sure could use my holster against the cold, baby, he mutters, smirk lifting his cheeks and folding similar creases at the corners of his eyes.

Your eyes narrow, palms landing flat against his strong chest. Home soon?

He hums a little laugh, lips ghosting across your temple as he shifts by. Home soon, he mutters, breath steaming against your cold skin, and he leads the mare off towards the gate.

There’s a lot about Joel you admire.

Each part of him like a pebble stolen on a hike; some more jagged, a little more weathered than others, some well-rounded and smooth to the touch. Each one turned and turned and turned between your fingers until you’re fluent in every pore and vein, then dropped into your pocket alongside the others you’ve collected.

Clacking against one another until you arrive home, coat heavier with the happy burden of how much you love him. The same weight you feel behind your ribcage when you think too much about it.

He takes good care of you – has done since you first happened across one another. As if hanging his hunting jacket over your frail body was a wing over your shoulders; as if, from then on, you would never make a single move again without your grizzly bear of a man making it first.

Quiet about it, sure. Subtle. Opens the crook of his elbow for you to hook your wrist around as you wander through town together, and waits until you’re under the cover of nightfall or behind the close of your front door to do much else.

Asks with little more than a fleeting glance if you’re okay; a squeeze of your knee under the table in the dining hall. A conversation shared between closed lips and the meeting of his honey-flecked gaze, and yours. A language which lives and dies with the pair of you.

He’s guarded – and for all that he’s been through, you figure you can allow him that. Allow him his private peace. For all that he says without saying, all he does without making some big song and dance of it – there hasn’t been a second since you arrived here on the back of his horse, that you haven’t known he loves you.

It’s in him like it’s in you. A fever which broke at the first touch of his hand and yours, the first meeting of his warmth and your chill. Two opposites – cooling the painful sear in his heart, warming the barren frost in yours. Something sewn deep into your flesh, carved right through to the hollow of your bones.

And Jesus, if it doesn’t drive you fucking insane.

The front yard needs tidied up after winter, you notice, as you scuff your way up the path towards the porch. Once the last of the snow dries up, you two can get to repairing the damage done by the blizzards and the gales: fitting new shutters, planting new bulbs.

A cycle you’re still getting used to: the upkeep of a place called home. The strange feeling of having someone you call the same thing.

Your extra shifts at the stables and Joel’s long mornings out on the trails mean your home has gone neglected for a few days. Dishes and cutlery left in the sink, a pile of laundry slowly sprouting to new heights like a wild plant each time you cast a wary glance at it.

It’s not like you’ve much else to do, given Joel won’t be home for at least another couple hours. So you shuck off your jeans, letting the tail of his shirt dangle from your behind, and pick your way around each room – wiping counters and dusting corners, humming along to the crooning old records as they spin in the background.

Playing house at the end of the world. Pretending to listen for the tired exhale of a yellow school bus, mimicking the electrified babble of radio presenters between each track.

The bedroom is arguably the worst offender. Bedsheets used a few days too long, clothes strung across the floor – the relics of a late one at the Tipsy Bison. It’s no wonder you’re so fucking tired.

Echoes of stumbling footsteps and hushed, drunken giggles loop your ears, the groaning bedsprings and blunt thud of the headboard. You pluck the underwear and socks one by one, your body wincing around a satisfied ache still lingering, and shuffle over to the laundry hamper, lifting the lid to –

The dopey smile on your lips dissolves instantly. You gotta be fucking…

The buckle glints in the light, silver blinking up at you from its bed of dirty laundry. The tan strap coiled and neatly slung through its fastener; the pouch empty. Awkward and ashamed, lying there in front of you. Apologetic, almost.

Your eyes roll closed; a short, hot breath seeping past your lips. A silent promise embedding beneath your tongue to take him by the sleeve as soon as he crosses the threshold, force him to lift the lid himself. An I told you so already brewing in the pit of your stomach.

The holster’s actually pretty heavy when you lift it up in the light. Leather a little worn, stitching frayed where it should clip around his belt.

It’s the size and width of him: a thick, toned thigh slotted inside the loop of leather, fixed by fingers long void of feeling when he’s been riding to the outpost, chasing infected, plunging his knife deep into their necks.

Patrol was never your thing. Joel took you out just once – but there are cracks in your past which threaten to split you in two, it seems, the longer you spend outside the settlement walls. Phantoms which follow close behind in the form of snapping twigs, of the wind rustling in the trees overhead. Shadows living in your periphery with curled sneers and spits of filth.

You lasted twenty minutes, that first and only day, before Joel had your horses tied together and your body shelled in his own, taking you straight back home.

But the thought of this around his thigh, the thought of him adjusting it to the waistband of his jeans; his hand floating down to settle gently atop it when he’s listening for danger approaching, two fingers slipping into the trigger guard.

It…stirs something.

You pad over to the bathroom, hopping as you step into the strap. He wears it on his right leg, right? You pull it past your ankle, ball of your foot slamming clumsily back down on the tile.

Adjusting it to fit your thigh, you bunch the hem of his shirt in one fist and stare back at your reflection. Her nervous stance, hips swaying left to right as she peruses the figure opposite.

Who is she, this mirage – naked thigh decorated with her man’s leather, fingernails tracing the messy stitching and imagining the weight of his gun, keen in the pouch?

A strange aura of possession about it, like a part of him locked firm around a part of you, from however many miles away. You swear you can feel the ghost of his warmth on the inside of the strap, wrapped around your sensitive skin.

Yeah.

Stirs something, alright.

Joel’s been gone little over an hour. He’s probably at the outpost by now, logging All clear and pretending to let Jesse take the lead. Wide shoulders swaying as he wanders from room to room, a careful scope of the valley from each window, tongue tracing the bottom of his teeth.

Ridges of his knuckles white around the grip of his shotgun, squinting down the barrel. Lines drawn between his brows and at the corners of his eyes like scores on parchment, focus and concentration tight on his face.

You sink back into the cradle of your bed, that divot where his body and yours meet each night. Each part of you intertwining with a part of him: the place where you become one. His smell and your touch, your giggle and his teeth.

A sudden, powerful thing which hammers through your veins and jumps your body for a few seconds – you pull the first orgasm from between your legs within a matter of minutes. The sight of his shirt disturbed over your stomach, the feeling of blood squeezing past taut leather enough to throw you under by itself, never mind the fast snap of your fingers deep inside your body.

Another – slower, lazier, still vibrating from the first – then almost a third, but the crinkle of sheets at your ears, the pillow-soft landscape beneath your heavy body, begins to sweep you off somewhere.

And in as little time as it took to entice you into the water in the first place, you slip beneath the waves.

The house is quiet when he finally makes it home.

Jesus, Joel thinks, what a shift.

Not one infected the entire run, he can’t quite believe – but Jesse caught his palm on some warped sheet of chain link fence, then almost passed out when he looked down and saw the scarlet seeping from his shredded skin.

The pair sat for half an hour, unsheltered in the unforgiving wind, waiting for the kid’s head to stop spinning and the cold to rob the feeling from his hand.

All Joel wanted was to get home to you. You, and your hips swaying as you stand by the stove, and his hands kneading into the velvet plush of your waist, and the smell of burnt sausages and spatter of angry oil from the pan.

He’s so late. He said he’d be as quick as he could, said you’d barely know he was gone, and he’s so fucking late.

But he’s here now, at least.

He’s home.

As he kicks off his boots, snow sprinkling from the soles onto the doormat, he notices the absence of your arms around his waist. The missing weight at the back of him, no ear flat against his spine and hands interlocked above his belt. No relieved, I missed you, no nuzzle of your head under his arm.

The house is still and dim. The turntable spins in the corner, a dead crackle playing nothing for no one. Joel sniffs, eyeing the room and its new, orderly form: the books slotted neatly on their shelves, the rings of coffee wiped clean from the table.

Lifting the needle from the record, Joel calls out, Baby?

Maybe you’re in town somewhere. Maybe you’ve gone to spend the morning with the horses. But then, you would’ve been watching for his arrival. Would’ve skipped out from the stables and swung around his body, a gleeful smile and an outstretched hand. Take me home, cowboy.

And you wouldn’t have left the lights still burning, the player still turning. Your coat is still on its hook, smaller and brighter and where it belongs on the right of Joel’s. The cushions on the couch are fluffed and smooth, perched contentedly in place; the curtains draped in their tie backs.

You’re home. You’ve been home all morning.

So where the fuck are you?

Joel crosses over to the bottom of the stairs, blinking up at the painted cowboys and horses staring down from the landing. Calls your name, a faint singsong as he slowly ascends the stairs. You up there?

Down the wintery dull hallway to the bedroom door, figuring he knows the answer. And he’s right, isn’t he, when he nudges the door open and peers inside, spots the tiny lump of you in your double bed. Sunk deep into the mattress – covers you’d come in here to change, swallowing you whole.

A crooked, exhausted smile pulls across his lips; his thumb hooks around a belt loop, knee cocking.

You’re so…perfect. So heavenly, so still like this – stretched out on your front, breathing in the scent of his pillow and breathing out little puffs of air.

Joel leans over you, a heavy hand pushing into the mattress above your shoulder, and runs a featherlight knuckle over your cheek.

Pretty bird? he whispers, lighter than the long breaths from your sleep-swollen lips.

You don’t stir. No movement, save for the rise and fall of your shoulders wrapped up in his flannel.

Joel feels a pang of guilt, numbed only by the chill still through his body: he woke you this morning, before even the sun had lifted her head. Had you hunting all over the house with him, for some dumb holster that he wound up not even n–

His eyes trail down the shape of your body, draped in the sheets like white marble carved into the round shape of something beautiful, hands following the curve of your thigh. His wrist freezes when it meets the odd bulge of something, an awkward bump beneath the cotton.

He peels the sheet back, lifting it from your shoulders, your waist, your hips – until your angled thigh lies on full display for his feasting eyes.

His fucking holster…wrapped tight around your fucking thigh.

A disbelieving laugh at first – a She told me so, before he notices the indents in your skin, the stretched leather snug around your leg, riding higher than it should at the doing of your slumber.

Christ, baby, he breathes, stare glued to the folds of plaid hooked around the belt loop. Following the tatty hem down past your hip, along the underside of your ass – riding up some, right where your legs part.

And between them, all sheer and thin, twisted around itself and slipping between: your underwear. The threading of pubic hair peeking over the frilled hem of it; the sight filling Joel’s mouth with saliva.

A heavy heat forms in his jeans, an irritable weight which aches when he moves; which hardens when he pictures the image of you in his bed, his shirt, his holster wrapped around your thigh – playing with yourself while he’s been gone.

Fuck. Fuckin’…shit.

He lowers, running lips he knows are freezing cold along the burning surface of your skin, tongue slipping past his teeth to drag a wet trail along your thigh.

Your leg shifts under his touch, the startle of his chilled fingertips behind your knee, nuzzling of his nose where the holster sits smugly on your thigh. Smelling like leather and salt, the sticky sheen of sweat still glowing on your skin.

Joel takes your waist in two hands – he can’t fucking help himself, can he? – and turns you, patiently, watching as you roll onto your back so he can drag you further down the bed. Tongue flicking at the corners of his lips, thirsty for something he only wants you to feed him.

Slow, slowly. Every effort put into not waking you, to keeping you in this peachy haze between asleep and awake; your movements long and staggered, held firm against the mattress by the weight of your doze.

With a sigh, your jaw turns to one side. Joel pulls you in, kneeling at the edge of the bed with your socked feet resting on his shoulders. His shirt gathers around your waist; your hips and the thin twine of your underwear spotlighted by stripes of weakened sunlight spilling in through the blinds.

Oh, pretty bird, he groans, slipping his open palms under your ass, rough and squeezing the pillows of flesh in his hands. This all for me?

A moan wrapped in a hefty breath twists from your lips. Your knees fall limp; legs open almost eagerly, like your body inviting him in. And he accepts, takes it with eyes blown black and hungry lips parted – leans in and nestles his nose against the thrumming heartbeat pounding through your clit.

Such a good girl, he whispers, closing his lips in a kiss over your clothed mound, and your hips jolt.

You’re so fucking warm. So wet; sticky and so ready for him. He kisses your folds, suckling gently and letting his tongue dart along the inseam of your lips in flicking movements – collecting the taste of salt and feeling his cock throb against rough denim.

Off? he asks – you and the room and himself – fingers hooking around the underwear rolled on your hips.

When your back arches, body feeling the loss of his tender kiss, rolling like a wave seeking to crash against the steady rock form of his – he smirks to himself.

Joel nods. Off.

He takes his time peeling them from your body, watching as more and more of his paradise is revealed. The waves of your folds, the sheer glisten of arousal along them; the dark hair peppering either side as damp and slick as the skin beneath it.

Your panties drop from a hooked finger without a sound and he turns back, hovering over your waiting cunt with wide eyes and a slack jaw. Out front, voices call back and forth to one another – some neighborly greeting and affable conversation – but Joel doesn’t hear. Deafened to anything but the sound of your sighs and his own blood hammering through his ears.

It’s a little rushed, a tad rough, the way he presses his lips back to yours. The way his beard grazes against your most sensitive spot, and the gasp he swears he hears lift from your tongue.

But fuck, he’s missed this, the way he always does – without knowing, without actively thinking about it, without knowing it was even at home waiting for him. If his mind weren’t on an entirely different planet right now, he’d curse that goddamn chain link for holding him up, for keeping him away longer than thirty seconds from the sweet little angel resting in his bed, and the sweet little pussy between her legs.

He parts your thighs wider, tongue dipping lower and deeper as he laps at your core, almost fucking panting against it.

You squirm lazily beneath him, shoulders tensing and untensing, a half-limp wrist lifting to pet his hair and an attempt at his name between your lips. Joel, you whimper, thick with sleep and something more dangerous.

I know, baby, he’s telling you, I know, and his tongue slips inside again. His hips grind into the mattress, cock an agonizing stiff against the sturdy edge. He can feel the wet in his boxers, the precome sticking to the inside of the cotton.

Fuck, he wants to be inside you so badly, so desperately.

Another gasp sputters across your lips, cut short in your throat when his teeth bump against your clit.

Too hungry, too brash, he thinks. You’re too soft, too open for him to let it go to waste. Not like this.

He pulls back, a filthy thread of arousal and saliva between his open lips and yours, and places a sodden kiss to the inside of your thigh.

But you whine, you poor little thing – your head twisting to the other side, a second hand now blindly surfing across his shoulder, past the brush of his beard and sifting through his still-chilly hair. The loss of attention to your pussy aching between your legs; your hips lifting weakly to meet the scratch of his chin again.

And that same sound – that same Jo-oel – a sound like song, like saccharine dripping over his shoulders.

So, he lifts a hand – two middle fingers coming together to push open your cunt, instantly sliding in knuckle-deep. Sucked in by the wet mess left behind by his lips, stretching you out with slow, round movements.

You’re slowly stirring, blossoming from your sleep and turning slowly back into this world. The cold edges seeping in, the warm flush of pleasure sharpening at their meeting. He’d do anything, he thinks, to keep you here; keep you teetering on the edge, tangled up between your world and his.

J– oh, fu-uck, you whine, and he can tell you’re still blinkered by sleep. But you grind on him again – a long, languid movement which seems to spatter out at its end when the coarse hair of his beard catches against your clit.

The breath stops in your throat, punching out in a shuddered moan. Joel could come just from the sound of it.

You gonna give me one, baby girl? he pleads, forearms clamping down on the underside of your thighs. Desperate – desperate to feel you, hear you, taste you as you come undone. Just one.

You’re writhing around beneath him, as needy as he is. A winding which matches his, coiling at the bottom of your stomach; a feeling which pulls at the corners of your lips and shocks them into a smutty, half-conscious smile. Your eyes roll back, fluttering open and then snapping shut when the light floods in.

There, you say, clearest so far, movements the strongest he’s felt. Your fingers root in his hair, rough over his scalp. Keep – keep doin’ that.

Joel smiles against your mound; a cocky thing, emboldened by the sound of that little Texan twang, the curl of an accent which doesn’t belong to you. Rather, a result of your years spent with him, watching the way his mouth shapes the words, learning the low swing and swirling melody of his tongue.

As if he’s as alive within you as he is within himself; every little thing Joel knows is him, injected into your bloodstream – his dry wit, his blunt honesty, his thick fingers and his insatiable tongue.

He slips in a third, flicking them perfectly inside of you. Beckoning your release; tongue sitting in wait, a resting point for you to grind your clit against.

And he wants it as much as you do: wants to feel the clamping of your body around him, wants to taste the flood of your orgasm as it shocks through every bone in your body.

Wants to pull three soaked, pruned fingers from your pussy and slip them over your tongue, letting you clasp your fingers around his wrist; watching the half-dozing flutter of your eyelashes as you suckle on them and make those pretty little sounds for him.

Your hand knots tighter in his hair, pelvis circling steady against his suckling lips. He can smell it on you: smell the need seeping from your pores. The sleep spilling from the corners of your mouth, the happy whimpers and quiet cries for more, more, Joel, more.

And – Shit, he breathes against you, feeling a sudden rush of electricity he knows all too well between his hips. Not now, not now not before he’s been inside – Shit, baby, gotta let me go.

You whine in refusal – a petulant sound, all stubborn and greedy. ‘m so close, I –

Pretty bird, he groans, lifting his jaw. He places a messy kiss to the crease between your core and your thigh, wrist stammering with his sudden movements. You gotta – you gotta let go, you’re gonna make me come –

You’re echoing him, mumbling the words gonna, gonna come – fuck, Joel, ‘m gonna –

Shit.

Not – Fuck – not right n– Christ, baby girl, you’re gonna – you’re –

Your walls spasm, clamping and relaxing, squeezing around his huge fingers. But it’s not that – it’s not the gush of warm fluid which seeps from between your legs, coating his knuckles and dripping into his palm.

It’s not the arch of your back, the way your breasts lift to the ceiling and his shirt slips below one nipple. Not the way your head rolls back against the mattress, a broken moan tearing in shards from your throat.

No.

It’s the way your hands leave his hair in an instant, and grip around the leather on your thigh. Skin stretching thin over your knuckles, thumbs between the strap and your sticky skin; hips still riding out your high as you ground yourself, holding onto his holster.

And it makes Joel come. Hard.

Harder than he knew possible, grinding against a mattress and the inside of his fucking jeans.

He falls forward, breathing a guttural moan into the soft swell of your stomach below your navel, fingers hooking into the baggy shirt around your arms.

Shitshitshit, he pants, feeling the warm ejaculate spurt from his cock and all over the inside of his boxers. Oh, fuck, baby. Fuck me.

His hips shudder a few more times, pressing hard into the edge of the mattress before he’s coming down, slowing to a stop – still a leaden weight on your stomach. His cock almost painful, overstimulated and oversensitive.

But then – something gently tittering. A bird singing, cooing above his head. The ground beneath his temple shakes, tremors with laughter. The dust twinkles in the sunlight, now brighter, golden, streaming through the window.

You’re awake.

Joel drags his gaze upwards, bleary and glazed with sex, and catches your eye.

Feel good? you ask, sifting hair away from his damp forehead. When was the last time that happened? Fourteen?

I don’t wanna talk about it, he mumbles into your belly.

Your chest jumps, a laugh which echoes into Joel’s ear. Tastes that good, huh?

It takes a mighty effort for him to push up on his palms, slowly crawling up the length of your body until his elbows plant firm into the mattress either side of your head. He groans as he lowers his lips, parting them to let you slip your tongue inside.

The kiss is slow, tender. Your bodies melding together, teeth clacking and jaws moving in sync. A sharp taste, sweet with a singe of bitterness to it. Perfect, you think, smirking against Joel’s cool lips.

He pulls away, lips tickling the tip of your nose deliberately.

With a giggle, you push on his chest. You should shower. You smell like patrol.

Joel cocks an eyebrow. You comin’ in with me?

Nope. I got even more laundry to do now, old man.

He entertains the quip with a subtle smile, a thing which softens the creases on his face and lights a twinkle in his eyes. Quietly, genuinely, in a way which makes your heart ache a little, he whispers, Sorry I was workin’, pretty bird.

You shrug. ‘s okay. You made up for it. And – I found your holster. You lift your knee, letting the buckle shine in the sunlight.

You did that, Joel agrees, nodding and glancing down at the thing. He hooks a finger around the strap, giving it a little shake. Maybe I oughta lose it more often.

Hm, you shrug, or I can just keep it safe for ya. Looks good, don’t it?

He feigns a disappointed smile, a resigned sigh before he looks back up.

Better ‘n when I wear it, he admits, and his lips crash down to yours again.

[0mg-bird]

A Tornado Warning~ T. Owens x Fem! Reader

Summary: Domestic life with you isn’t something Tyler could ever get tired of when you’re practically his twin flame.

Warnings: Language, storms, smut 18+

A/n: Inspired by the Turnpike song above. Read as a part 2 to Sunrise.

Laid back in two cheap lawn chairs, both you and Lilly sit in bikinis and jean cut offs, tanning under the Arkansas sun. Sunglasses on, beers in hand, a small radio on the ground next to your feet, the afternoon was coming on just fine.

Inside, Dani is tinkering with something that makes her cuss every ten minutes. You tried to drag her out for some good ol’ sunny D but she fought you on it.

Bringing a cold Coors to your lips, you finish the last few drinks of it and crush the can, tossing it back into the little red cooler before turning the music up.

When the idea was originally brought up that the sum of you should just buy a house and make it the permanent wrangler camp, it was a big uncertainty. Then you came across the charming farm house and all of you were sold.

The barn was the designated research and tinker area, the camper trailer parked in the driveway was where Dexter stayed when he wasn’t home with his family. Other than that, Dani and Lilly shared the large downstairs room, Boone- who would sleep anywhere- finally has his own room upstairs. Tyler and you slept in the upstairs master room at the end of the hall, and to say the least, you were happy it wasn’t a crappy motel.

You still chased, but it wasn’t life on the road anymore. It was a real career now, not just a hobby job. Your crew was a main source of information to local tech businesses that develop advanced warning signals and bunkers. You raise money for cities hit, get hands on when you can.

The viewers love the vlogs.

You settled into the life well.

The rumble of an all too familiar truck doesn’t even make you open your eyes, not until your sunlight is blocked by the form of your boyfriend.

“What are y’all doin’?” Tyler asks with humor in his voice.

You and Lilly pull your sunglasses down to look at both him and Boone who had just gotten back from town.

“Trying to tan before your big head blocked our UV rays.” You answer smartly.

“Why are y’all oily?” Boone asks, swiping his finger down Lilly’s arm, making her smack him.

“It’s tanning oil.” She scoffs.

Boone wipes the grease on his shirt that says ‘Science Is Fun’. “You sit out here and fry like bacon for fun?” He asks.

“Boone, baby, anyone ever tell yuh it’s a good thing you’re pretty?” You ask, confusing him slightly.

“Whatever.” He shrugs and snags the last beer from the cooler.

That leaves Ty.

He wears a stupid smile at the bikini tied around you. It was apart of the new merch line, which meant it had his face printed all over it.

“Take a picture, it’ll last longer.” You laugh, leaning your head back, missing the way Tyler pulls his phone out and does just that.

“What’s for supper?” He asks as you wipe sweat from your forehead.

“I don’t know, what’re you cookin’, good lookin’?” You ask, taking your glasses off and checking the time. You’ve been at it for about two and a half hours, it might be time to call it a day.

Tyler hums. “Cowboy chili?”

You frown.

“Burgers?”

You grin. “Great idea.”

He laughs and shakes his head. “Go wash up and I’ll get it started.”

You stand, kissing him gently quickly. “You’re perfect. Keep acting like this and I might just marry you.” You tease with a wink.

He leans closer, briefly sniffing you. “You smell like coconuts and Coors Banquets.” He states with a smirk.

“I smell like your dream girl.” You state back, poking his chest before you collapse your chair and grab the speaker while Lilly grabs the cooler.

In the shower, washing oils from your skin and lathering your hair, you have a slight tingle in your gut. When you shut the water off and wrap a towel around you, you go to the window and open it up.

Out in the distance, big thunder heads are forming. You grin like a kid on Christmas and smell the air. It’s damp and tangy, rain should be falling in the next hour or so.

Walking into the connected bedroom, you dress in some shorts and one of Tyler’s college tees. It’s when you comb your hair that you look at the framed photos on the wall of the two of you. Rocky, the dog that is still alive and well, pushes open the cracked door and comes to hop on the bed.

“Did Ty kick you outa the kitchen, buddy?” You pout and scratch his head.

He too pouts and rolls over for you to rub his belly.

“Don’t worry kid, a storms coming, ain’t you excited?” You ask, obviously getting no response.

Trotting down the stairs, your phone buzzes in your hand with the first sever thunderstorm warning.

The weather report is on the living room tv where Boone and Dani sit. You sit on the arm of the chair where Boone is.

“Whatcha’ think about it, Tex?” Dani asks you.

You look at the patterns on the screen. “I’m thinkin’ we’ll get some high winds, maybe a barely registered EF1 at most, but the way the wind is shifting, I think it’ll hit back county roads and dissipate within ten minutes.”

Boone agrees with you. “I say we sit back and enjoy this one.”

“I’m with you there, buddy.” You smile, ruffling his hair before getting up.

You head into the kitchen where Tyler is seasoning the burger patties at the island counter. Your hand runs over his back as you pass behind him to assemble the rest of the things needed for a meal.

“Storm’s rollin’ in.” You say with a smile.

“That explains your good mood.” He chuckles, tossing a towel onto his shoulder.

You lay out burger buns and condiments. “I couldn’t ask for better weather, you know that.” You lightly giggle, opening up the pickle jar and eating one.

Tyler watches you with a look of affection, then kisses the top of your head. “Some might say you’re insane, darlin’.”

You finish up your original task. “Only partially.” You say, going to meet him at the grill on the covered deck outside.

He begins to cook up the burgers while you lean against the banister and look out at the cloud covered sky. A light rain is falling now, getting caught in your hair as it blows in.

Most would be inside to keep dry.

Not Tyler’s girl. No, he knows you’d stand in the flat plains and wait for the lighting to come down.

As he flips the patties, you come lean against his back, your cheek against the fabric of his button down as you take in the scent of him.

“You happy?” You ask, making him reach down and hold one of your hands.

“Like this? Yeah…” He says with a smirk. “But what would make me even happier…”

He guides your hand down past his buckle, and you scoff and pull away, slapping his shoulder as he laughs.

“You pig.” You shake your head. “I meant are you happy with life and how you’re living it.”

Tyler stacks the perfectly grilled burgers back onto the tray. “Of course I’m happy. I’m doing what I love, I have a place of my own and a bed that doesn’t creek. Then, I lay next to you at night and always end up between your legs. Life is great.”

You blush and take the tray from him. “Glad there isn’t anything you’d like to change.” You say, turning for the back door that goes into the kitchen.

“Well, I’d change the fact that the crew sleeps under our roof, but life isn’t fair.” He states, following after you.

“It’s their roof too, you can’t just kick ‘em out. What would Boone do without you tucking him into bed?” You snicker.

“Baby, I’d tell Boone to get lost in a heartbeat if it meant it’d just be you and me, doing it in every single room.” He whispers into your ear, causing you to laugh loudly and shove him back.

“Y’all come eat!” You call out loudly to the cree, then turn back to Tyler. “You behave yourself.”

He pulls the finger you point at him, and tucks you under his arm for a moment.

It’s common for relationships to get slow and boring after being together for a long while. Couples don’t try as hard, the spark isn’t the same.

Tyler can’t imagine that, not when you’re the kerosene to feed the flame. He’s so in love with you, he doesn’t even know a version of life where he doesn’t have the dynamic he has.

Gathered around the wood table, all of you chatter about various things. Lilly frowns as she drips barbecue sauce onto the shirt with your cartoon face on it.

Yet another merch item you designed.

It has the words ‘Tex Knows Her Tornados’ printed on it.

You give Rocky part of your burger and Tyler scolds you, saying you spoil him too much. You just glare and say that Rocky deserves some good food too.

Tyler thinks you’re ridiculous.

Country music is playing in the background as all of you move to the front porch, waiting for the sky to come falling down and watching data streams come in. The house is lit up orange with all the lights on, contrasting against the sky. The rain hits harder now, it’s cold as it blows in, making you curl into Tyler’s side.

“You ain’t gonna go dancing in it?” Boone asks you, camera pointed at your shaking frame.

“Hell naw, I’ll freeze my ass off.” You laugh. “How about you drag your pretty self out there? I’ll record you.”

As you reach for the camera, Boone pulls away and retreats.

Thunder shakes, the pang of the thick rain drops hitting the tin roof is almost its own song.

“Come on, Tex, before you get washed away.” Tyler pulls you back inside with the others.

The crew has a grand time with the music playing loudly and the way you have to yell over the storm. The shadow of you and Tyler two-stepping in the kitchen, moves around the walls like a painting.

You let yourself imagine life further as you follow Tyler’s lead. You’ve been with the crew for so long, would you stay with them forever? Would nights continue to look like this if you and Tyler were married? If you had a kid?

That’s a scary thought.

Marriage and babies.

He looks down at you know when he noticed you stopped giggling. “You tired?” He asks.

You simply nod along, not wanting to yell your thoughts out.

He pulls back, announcing that the two of you were going up to bed. They all shout goodnight and go back to what they were doing before, turning the music down a few notches out of curtesy.

You pass your passed out pup in his bed at the top of the stairs where he likes to guard things. He’s fat and happy, you don’t bother him.

All downstairs sounds are muffled as the bedroom door shuts. Tyler kicks off his boots and watches you pull the covers back on the bed. Shimmying out of your shorts, you fully intend on going to bed.

Tyler doesn’t like that idea.

“Do I dare ask what’s on your pretty mind?” He asks, unbuttoning his shirt and unbuckling his belt.

You sigh. “Just thinking about the next five years.”

He shakes his head in confusion. “Why?” He questions.

You just shrug and slide onto the soft mattress. “Why not?”

Once he’s in his boxers, he joins you. “Don’t think of the next five years when we don’t even know what we’re eating for breakfast come morning.” He smiles. Immediately, his hands are pulling you close, his lips are kissing yours smoothly. He pushes your hair out of your face before moving down to your jaw line and neck.

“What has gotten into you?” You laugh as he rolls you onto your back.

“What? Blame the weather.” He grins as he cages you in.

As he kisses you again, hands pushing your t shirt up, you smirk at the need he’s progressing with.

“The crew is still awake.” You remind.

“The storm’s so loud they won’t even know.” Tyler states, moving to kiss your stomach.

Your hands play with his hair, you lay back and listen to the storm crash over the house as he pulls your underwear off and dives between your thighs.

The subtle anxiety of what life can turn in to is gone now as the warm pleasure washes over you from his mouth perfectly against your core. Your head digs into the pillow, you’re biting your lip at the amount of stimulation coursing through you. You pant out, deciding that you weren’t going to be patient all night.

You drag him back up to you, becoming the needy one now. Your shirt is tossed onto the floor, soon accompanied by his boxers. Anywhere you can touch him, that’s where you do. Fingers gripping into his biceps as he pushes into you, you let out a gasp of relief, matching the one he gives.

“Fuck, this feels good.” You praise, hitching your knees up to lock his hips in, pushing him further into you.

As he completely bottoms out, Tyler lets his head drop onto your chest for a moment while he gathers himself. No matter how many time you two do this, it’s still a crazy good feeling.

He slowly kisses your chest, sucking over the curves of your breasts as he pulls almost all the way out, then sinks back into you swiftly.

Thunder cracks loudly, making you yelp in surprise, then laugh. He looks down at you in humor as he adjusts his pace, making it slow and sweet at first, then moving onto more demanding thrusts that make you moan out loudly. He’s trying to hit as deep as possible, but the way you’re holding him close to you is making it hard to focus.

The way your skin rubs against his makes him feel like he’s on fire.

One hand intertwines with yours and he lays it on the pillow, breathing hard as he thrusts against the walls clenching around him.

You squeeze his hand. “God, I love this.” You say with an open mouth.

He proudly smirks. “Yeah? You love when I fuck you so sweetly?”

You groan out. “I just love when you’re fucking me. Doesn’t matter how…or where.”

“Fuck.” He curses, his dick twitching inside of you. He’s stealing your breath for his own now, you think he might just inhale you if he could, given the way he devours your mouth.

His hips rut against you, the tip of him presses against a sensitive spot inside of you that makes your voice break.

“More.” You beg, letting go of his hand and sitting up.

In an instant, Tyler has you flipped onto your stomach, his hands pulling your ass to him. You look back at him as he slides back into your aching walls, softly whimpering as he hits differently.

He pulls your hair to one shoulder, then leans to kiss the bare skin as he drives into you.

You look to the window, the way rain pours down it.

He’s pulling you back to meet his deep thrusts, his head falls back as he gets lost in the feeling.

“You like it like this?” He asks, making you nod feverishly, voice getting raw from the way he’s drawing moans from you.

“Ty.” You call out, gripping the sheets with a smile as you feel your orgasm building

“Good girl, say my name.” He pants, grip tightening on your hips.

“Tyler.” You breathe, thighs beginning to shake.

He knows your body as well as he knows his own, he knows the way your lower lip quivers and the way you get pulses through you that you’re getting close.

He lets out a whine, a childish grunt when he determines he wants to see your face when you cum.

“What’s wrong, baby?” You ask, barely coherent.

He doesn’t answer with words, just pulls out of you and flips you back over so fast, your head spins. Within a second, he’s already back inside of you where he should be, grasping your thigh as he coaxes you further and further to your finish.

“I need to see you when you cum for me, sweetheart. I need it.” He pants, sucking at your neck, hitting all the spots he knows makes your throat go dry.

“Fuck, you’re so hot.” You heave, breathing hard into his hair.

Your toes curl, your hands getting a death grip on his skin. Tyler pulls back to gaze down at you, eyes lit up wide, knowing your orgasm is going to wreck you.

“Come on, cum for me, beautiful. I got you.” He soothes.

One hand on his bicep, the other on his jaw line, you try to ground yourself but the way you’re swept away is out of your control.

“Fuck, I’m so close.” He pants, voice gravely and raw.

Your eyes squeeze shut, the knot in your stomach tight as you finally fall over the edge.

“Ty!” You cry out, the waves of hot arousal finally washing over you.

He strokes your hair out of your face, so close to his own release but guiding you through your own.

You’re coming down with a sob, your bottom lip quivering and your chest heaving as he buries his face into the crook of your neck and fucks you through his own release.

Your head pounds at the overstimulation for a moment, but you’re coherent enough to whisper to him as he comes down from the high.

“I love you so much.” You remind, shaky hands smoothing his crazed hair.

Your swollen lips kiss the side of his head before he turns to meet with his.

“Shit.” He pants into your skin, slowly adjusting his weight on top of you.

Tyler wears the same smile you do, trying to get his muscles to stop buzzing before he slowly lifts off of you.

He looks down, watching as he slowly pulls out of you and sees the mess between your legs. He’s dripping down your thighs, and you’re whimpering that he’s not inside of you anymore.

Pressing a kiss to your knee, he promises to be back in just a second. He cleans himself up, then comes back from the bathroom with a warm washcloth.

Your arm lays over your wide eyes as he cleans the mess gently, the storm isn’t so violent now, it’s settled on a steady rain and softer thunder.

Ty helps you to the bathroom and back, then pulls the covers over the two of you back in bed.

Arm around his middle, head on his chest, you fall into a comfortable silence. His thumb rubs your shoulder, eyes about to shut from the way your warm hand moves to slide up and down his stomach. Then, your loss for words passes you and you’re back to being your normal self.

“You ever scared that you’ll get me pregnant?” You ask, making Tyler’s eyes snap back open.

“What?” He clears his throat.

“You ever scared that you’ll get me pregnant?” You repeat your words.

He tries to find an answer that won’t piss you off, but he isn’t sure what will and what won’t. You know his silence well, so you add onto the question.

“There’s no right or wrong answer, cowboy.”

Ty wraps his arm around a little tighter around your shoulders. “Yeah, sometimes. When we were on the road, I was terrified of it, actually.”

“Really?” You hum. “And what about now?”

He takes in a breath. “Now, I don’t really think about it…I mean, we aren’t doing a lot of things to prevent it.”

You laugh. “The pill thing isn’t important when you have life saving research to do.”

Tyler shakes his head at you. “It made you kind of moody anyway.”

You smack his chest, making him claim he was kidding.

“I guess I could ask you the same question.” He says. “You scared I’ll get you pregnant?”

You move your hand back to its original place on his stomach. “I really don’t know. I mean, we aren’t kids anymore so I guess it wouldn’t be horrible if it happened but…we’re just so busy.”

He agrees. “And we aren’t really married.”

You strain your neck to look at him. “Does that matter to you?”

He looks down at you. “Does it matter to you?”

You hold his gaze, then look away. “I don’t know that either…”

Silence between you, rain above you.

Tyler sighs, letting his thumbs motion on your skin continue despite your goosebumps. “I’m not scared of commitment if that’s what you’re wondering. You want me to marry you? We’ll go to the courthouse tomorrow. You want babies, I’ll give them to you. Anything you want, I promise I’ll give it to you.” He says in such a serious tone, you feel your throat start to swell and your eyes burn.

You smile then kiss his chest. “You’re sweet on me like a bear to a beehive.”

Tyler grins. “I still have no clue what’s coming out of your mouth.”

“That’s okay, cowboy, as long as you can understand me saying I love you, we’re fine.” You say softly.

And you two fall asleep like that, tangled up together. Any movement you make throughout the night, you don’t get too far before Tyler’s gripping you warmly and dragging you back to his skin.

Come morning, birds are singing praise and the wind is gentle. You wake on your side, facing him, legs tangled together. He looks like a puppy when he’s asleep, all calm and soft. The broken morning light paints him a warm golden color, you reach out and push his hair away gently. He stirs slightly, his eyes drag open to see you against a backdrop of a simple shade of blue.

The sky outside the window is clear, you’re looking at him with affection, he wouldn’t want anything else.

“Mornin’.” You smile.

“Good morning.” He says with sleep still in his voice.

[tasteracha]

the storm.

a/n: happy (early) birthday to my shining star xian @forlix i love you so much i ache with it. i love this universe you've created and i love your characters and your beautiful, beautiful mc that i'm so happy you've let me play with.

warnings: unprotected sex, fingering, teasing, pretty tame for me tbh! many big emotions. wc 2.7k. hurt/comfort sex between two people who love each other.

pairing: hwang hyunjin x afab!reader, she/her!reader, based off of xian's lovely crying lightning (you can read this as a stand alone but why would you? xian's fic is phenomenal. please read it.)

as beautiful and wonderful and kind and patient hyunjin is, it’s hard to forget sometimes that his general presence is still exceptionally infuriating sometimes. the days of your loneliness, before the two of you had finally come together into one woven cord instead of two strings dancing alongside one another, were all but a distant memory. overriding that was the smell of his skin in the morning, the glint in his eye when he catches yours across the cameras and fans, the warm weight of his hand steady on the small of your back, protective and possessive. all you knew now was the cracking of lightning across a stormy sky, raindrops hitting your face in a welcome intrusion to your mundane day to day. 

the all expanse of the storm did its job well of making you forget that sometimes the raindrops were irritating, too. 

they came in the form of him opening one eye slowly as you tried to swipe shadow across his lid, upsetting your plan and making you double back once you’ve scolded him; the air moving around you as he walks away from you after teasing you one too many times; the sound of his laugh when he’s behind the camera of someone, making eyes at the lens that should have been reserved for you only. each one was a piercing cold drop of water to your face, piercing as they fall and sliding down to form a puddle at your feet. 

it didn’t escape your notice that you weren’t upset at him, really; it wasn’t his fault that you were spiteful. even thinking the word makes you shiver in disgust - this isn’t you. you had never been one to let your feelings affect your actions, you selfishly prided yourself in your ability to compartmentalize, but he had this hold on you that made you experience things you never thought were possible. 

he, of course, finds the entire show encompassingly amusing. you could see the mirth in his eyes from across the room when he meets yours, recognize your own expression in them like a mirror and it made your scowl deepen in it’s permanence. you almost wish for the time when he didn’t know of your affection for him; the surety in his step when he makes you frown is maddening, overshadowed by the smugness he holds in knowing he could make you smile with greater ease. let it be known that you didn’t lack in confidence - your spine is stood high, head held with authority and feet planted firmly on the floor. envy wasn’t something that ever crawled up your legs like ivy over an ancient grecian statue. jealousy, even, seemed too harsh a sentence for your current charge. to put it simply, you were annoyed. 

he knows this, of course. he knows you, inside and out, and on your best days it’s a rare gift that you treasure, hidden away in the deepest corners of the closet that is your heart. on your worst days it’s utterly terrifying, the feeling of being laid out to shrivel in the sun with no chance of respite. and wasn’t it ironic that the one thing that made you feel this way was the one that cured you too?

it’s with an embarrassing amount of pleasure that you remind yourself that you are the one he goes home with, at the end of the day. you’re cleaning up your station and you hear his laugh in the background, not directed at you but ringing like sweet bells nonetheless. every brush that returns home into your kit, every lip product that gets swiped into a bag, every charcoal pencil is the ticking of time that needs to pass before he is yours again. simply yours, not belonging to the cameras or the managers or the staff whose stare linger on him for longer than they should be allowed to. 

you knew where your talents were - in your art, your ability to read people, your creativity and your drive for perfection. these uncharted waters were not in your skillset, but as hyunjin stalks across the room to reunite with you after what seemed like hours, you took a moment to be grateful that it seemed to be in his. putting yourself in someone else’s hands, feeling the level of trust that you had for him, sent a tingle up your spine, but if anyone was going to take care of you it was him; the thought soothes you like a balm, not enough to be permanent but enough to get you by for now.

“missed me that much?” he crowds into your space to press a light kiss to your hairline, expertly moving his body so that no one could see. “i’ve only been shooting for an hour.”

“keep talking and you’ll get shot,” you mutter, ignoring the heat that rises up to your cheeks as you turn from him to gather your things, aching to be home and in his arms and away from prying stares. his heat is still pressed up against your back, standing as close as he could while still letting you move freely. as much as you want to drag him into some secluded hallway and refamiliarise yourself with the taste of his skin, you had to pull out your endless supply of restraint. getting caught with your hand down his pants in a building that you frequented often was not an outcome that you wished to experience, at least not today. 

his hand is warm on the small of your back as he walks you out a series of doors and stairs to the parking garage, the sound of your shoes bouncing off of the walls a bit jarring. 

“you looked nice today,” you tell him, honest, as he slides into the passenger seat of your car. the worn seats smell like his cologne and his old bracelet hangs from the rearview mirror - god, even your car was reminding you of how much of your life he encompassed - not that you were complaining about that. 

“that was all you,” pride drips from his voice and you catch his soft gaze when you turn to look behind you so you could back out of your parking spot. 

“i may have helped, but it’s still your face,” you counter, hand busy on the gear shift, as eager as your heart was to finally get home. 

“if i didn’t know you, i would have thought you were obsessed with me,” he says, the biting tease dripping off his tongue like citrus. “with the way you were staring at me, back there.”

“i’ll make you walk home,” you tighten your grip on the steering wheel despite the threat being empty. he knows which threads to tug on without unraveling you, playing you with his words like it was muscle memory. 

“you’d make me walk?” he gasps theatrically, pressing his palm to his chest and fluttering his eyes at you. “what if i get kidnapped, or mugged? how would you live with yourself?”

“you’re an idiot,” you deadpan, cursing the betraying fondness that rises up in you. 

“your idiot,” he grins stupidly, settling his hand on your thigh as he watches the streetlights shine across your face as you drive. his touch is scalding, long fingers pressing into your very nerves and leaving them flayed out. 

“yeah, remember that,” you retort, and you hope he thinks you mean the idiot part. 

the remainder of the short drive home was spent in comfortable silence, hyunjin tapping away on his phone with his free hand as you speeded down the freeway. when you park you let out a sigh and your keys jangle in melancholy along with you when you take them out of the ignition. hyunjin presses his fingers into your thigh in a final squeeze before he exits the car, long legs carrying him over to your door before you could blink to open it for you. 

walking up the stairs to your third story apartment never felt more relaxing, the breath they stole from you a necessary tax to pay to enter the comfort of your own walls. 

you pull him to the bedroom as soon as you walk through the front door, dropping your things in the foyer with as much care as you could muster. 

it takes you a couple of seconds to push him to sit up against the headboard, a couple more for him to complain about it, and less than that for you to climb into his lap and press a searing kiss to his lips. 

he opens himself to you, open mouth curved into a smile as you lick into it. you taste the coffee you had made for him this morning, the croissant he had eaten during a break, the gloss that you had carefully dabbed across his plush lips. 

you want him, no one else could have him. how could you feel this much possessiveness over someone you already hold as yours?

his hands circle your waist and his thumbs press into your skin, holding you against him even as you pull away from him. his lips are left glistening red and he looks up at you with a kind of reverence that you don’t think you’ll ever get used to. 

“slow, angel,” he moves his thumbs in slow circles. “i’m not going anywhere.” 

“hyune,” you gasp, going lax against him. you’re far too drained to pretend that your entire body didn’t ache for him. “need you.”

“i know,” he shushes you, trailing his fingers up and down your spine. he loves to tease but he’d never do so at your expense; he must sense that your emotional turmoil is bubbling into the direction of a vortex. “you have me. take what you need, baby.”

the reminder that he was yours, though wholly unneeded, sounds so sweet to your ears. your fingers slide up his chest, twisting into the button at his collar and popping it open with practiced ease. you peel the panels of material off of him to expose his sun-kissed skin, abdominal muscles tensing with how he’s holding back from jerking up into your lap. 

“what does my baby want, hmm?” he says, voice catching when your hands slide over his chest and brush over his nipples. he groans when you roll one between your fingers and the sound of it makes your heart soar.

“i want you to shut up and take your pants off,” you back off of him to rid yourself of your own clothes, folding them into a neat little pile at the foot of the bed. he shows no such care for his own, kicking off his pants and boxers throwing them along with his shirt across the room. his hungry eyes stay on you the whole time, shining with excitement as if it was the first time he was witnessing you undress.

you climb back over him as fast as humanly possible, the feeling of his bare skin against yours like an eternal gift. you grind down against him, his rapidly hardening cock sliding between your folds and his head catching against your clit. you’re wet, of course you are; you have been since his hand was on your thigh on the car ride home you moan and duck your head, a little embarrassed by how affected you are by such a simple motion.

he braces himself on his elbow as other hand moves to your hairline, brushing a few strands back behind your ear on it’s path towards cupping the back of your neck. he moves closer, lips so close to yours that you can almost taste them again, but before they meet you’re feeling the earth’s weight shift and your own balance break. 

“i want to take care of you,” he explains when you look up at him in a daze, dizzy from how quickly he had flipped you underneath him. “let me?”

“i thought i told you to shut up,” you were breathless but the permission still rang true under your words. you’d let him do whatever he wanted, how could you deny such a sweet request?

he grins something wicked as one of his hands slides down your chest towards your lower belly. his fingers part your folds easily and you feel so exposed even though he wasn’t looking. he decidedly keeps his mouth shut even as whines begin to spill from your lips, your eyes fluttering closed as a familiar burning sensation starts to take over your body. 

he alternates between rubbing gentle circles into your clit and teasing his fingers at your entrance, so close to dipping inside but not quite. he ducks his head to mouth at your neck, sucking a constellation of marks into your skin until you’re panting into his hair and shaking apart in your orgasm. 

he gives you a moment to recover, waiting patiently until you open your eyes to see his fond smile aimed at you. 

“what’s that look for?” the snark is completely absent in your voice post-orgasm, and it almost comes out dreamy. 

“i can’t even look at you now?” he breaks his unspoken vow of silence to ask. “i can’t help myself. i have the most gorgeous person walking this earth underneath me, looking at you is the tamest thing i can do to you.”

the blood returns to your cheeks as you take in his words. you don’t respond because you didn’t know how; what could you even say to that? he doesn’t seem to mind as he moves impossibly closer to you, leaning a bit of his weight against you. it’s not too much, just enough that you could feel his chest moving with his breaths. he lines his cock up to your entrance, his hips flush against yours as he slowly pushes in. 

you let out a breath you didn’t realize you had been holding when he enters you fully, every inch settling your frustration as it flows out of you along with the air in your lungs. this feeling was worth all of it, the early mornings and the onlookers and the sharing of him when all you wanted to do was lock him away for you and you alone.

he loves you. he was so in love with you that it poured out of his very being, in his gentle touch and the slide of his lips against yours and the slide of his cock against your walls. each drag of his hips sends burning pleasure up your spine, licking flames against your vertebrae until you can’t move. 

you’re so drunk on him that you lose track of time, all of your senses falling away until hyunjin is the only thing you can feel, see, touch. you lose your words, unintelligible syllables trying to shape his name falling from your lips, pressed against the skin of his neck and floating to his ears in a sweet symphony. 

it isn’t long before you’re falling apart underneath him, electricity crackling between you as fucks you through your orgasm. he gathers you in his arms as he tumbles over the edge after you, folding himself over you so he can kiss you, and you don’t realize that you were crying until his cheeks come back glistening with salty water. 

“god, i love you,” and to this day it still feels like a heavy declaration, the words never diminishing their weight despite the number of times they’ve fallen off of his tongue. “you are everything to me.”

“hyunjin,” is all you can say, but you know he reads between the curved letters of his name. i love you too, you mean the world to me, what would i be without you. 

he cares for you like the cracked piece of porcelain that you are, light fingertips tracing along the tear tracks on your cheeks that move to turn you on your side so you could smush yourself into his chest. your hand rests right above his heart, and if you looked close enough you could see the static sparks of electricity that connect the two of you together. 

[estellan0vella]

To Han Jisung’s Sheer, Unbridled Stupidity: H.JS Han Jisung x fem!reader (College AU)

WC: 13.1K

CW: Simp Jisung (he's down bad), Horny Jisung, Minho being a menace (standard), mentions of sex, No Nut November, reader making Jisung go through it, teasing, Minho and reader shenanigans General Masterlist SKZ Masterlist Part I

Rain hammers the windows, an unrelenting torrent that turns the world outside into a blur of grey streaks and rattles against the thin glass of Jisung’s room in the Alpha Phi house. The storm is angry, howling wind shaking the old frame of the window, thunder rolling like the earth is tearing itself apart. Inside, though, the room is a sanctuary, warm and alive, lit by the soft glow of Jisung’s desk lamp and the dim blue of the LED strips running haphazardly along the ceiling.

Million Dollar Baby pulses low from the Bluetooth speaker perched on a stack of textbooks Jisung will never read. The beat vibrates faintly through the cluttered room, mixing with the rhythm of the rain and the occasional sharp crack of thunder. 

You’re curled at his desk, the mirror in front of you streaked with fingerprints and old, faded smudges of eyeliner, slowly wiping your face clean of makeup. Each swipe of the cotton pad feels deliberate, calming. Your skin is bare now, the freckles you’ve always tried to ignore standing out starkly under the warm light.

Behind you, Jisung sprawls lazily on his unmade bed, his boxers riding low on his hips, the waistband crooked where he’s been shifting around. His messy silver hair sticks up in wild directions, and he looks as comfortable as someone with a hyperactive Staffordshire bull terrier puppy in their lap can be. Zak wriggles and squirms, tail going like a jackhammer as he attacks Jisung’s hands with relentless enthusiasm.

“Zak, you little shit, can you chill for, like, two fucking seconds?” Jisung groans, half-laughing as he tries to fend off the puppy’s relentless tongue. “I swear to God, he’s got no sense of boundaries.”

You glance at them through the mirror, a faint smile curling your lips. “He’s a puppy, Ji. What do you expect? He’s like a toddler on crack.”

“No, he’s a demon on fucking crack,” Jisung shoots back, wrestling Zak’s head away from his face. “Look at this little shit. He thinks he’s in charge.”

Zak, completely unbothered by the insult, barks sharply and lunges for Jisung’s shoulder. Jisung lets out an exaggerated yelp, flopping dramatically onto his back and letting the puppy clamber triumphantly onto his chest. “See? He’s already won. I’m fucking dead.”

You snort, turning back to the mirror to dab toner onto a fresh cotton pad. “You’re such a drama queen. Zak’s, like, a tenth your size.”

Jisung props himself up on one elbow, glaring at you through the chaos of his hair. “A tenth of my size but a hundred fucking times more chaotic. Don’t let his cute little face fool you. He’s a fucking menace.”

You glance back over your shoulder, watching as Zak starts gnawing on the hem of Jisung’s boxers. “Yeah, he’s a menace because you let him walk all over you. He’s got you wrapped around his little paw, and you fucking know it.”

“Bullshit,” Jisung says, but there’s no heat in his voice. His hand comes up to scratch behind Zak’s ears, and the puppy melts, flopping onto his side with a happy grunt. Jisung grins smugly, meeting your eyes in the mirror. “See? Total fucking alpha over here.”

You roll your eyes so hard you swear they might get stuck. “You’re impossible,” you mutter, turning back to your reflection. Your fingers work the toner into your skin and for a moment, the only sound is the music and the storm outside.

Jisung breaks the silence with a sudden, almost-too-loud, “Hey, you missed a spot.”

You whip around, narrowing your eyes at him. “Where?”

He points vaguely at your cheek, an innocent expression on his face. “Right there. No, wait, there. Actually, fuck, you should probably just start over.”

“Fuck you,” you say with no real venom, throwing the used cotton pad at his head. It lands on Zak instead, who sniffs at it curiously before deciding it’s not worth the effort.

“Rude,” Jisung says, grinning as he picks the pad off Zak’s back and tosses it onto the floor. “I’m trying to help here.”

“Your version of help is being a fucking asshole,” you retort, grabbing your serum. The glass bottle feels cool and solid in your hand, grounding you as you pat the liquid onto your cheeks.

Jisung watches you, his head tilted to one side like he’s trying to figure something out. “You know,” he says slowly, “I don’t get why you bother covering up all your freckles. They’re hot as fuck.”

You freeze mid-pat, blinking at him. “What?”

“Your freckles,” he repeats, propping himself up higher on the bed. Zak takes the opportunity to try and lick his face again, but Jisung dodges him expertly. “They’re like, I don’t know, constellations or some shit. Fucking unreal.”

A flush creeps up your neck, but you force yourself to keep working the serum into your skin. “You’re so fucking corny,” you mutter, refusing to meet his gaze.

“Corny but right,” he shoots back, leaning down to kiss Zak’s head. The puppy wriggles happily, thumping his tail against Jisung’s thigh. “You’re like a walking fucking galaxy. It’s nuts.”

You groan, finally turning to face him. “Can you go one fucking minute without saying something completely ridiculous?”

“Nope,” he says easily, grinning at you. “It’s part of my charm.”

Zak barks, cutting through the moment like a knife, and you glance at him with a soft laugh. “Poor baby’s scared of the storm.”

“Scared?” Jisung scoffs, pulling Zak closer. “Nah, he’s just dramatic as fuck. Like me.”

“God help us,” you say under your breath as Jisung manages to get Zak to sit still in his lap for longer than two seconds.

“Victory,” Jisung says smugly, pressing a triumphant kiss to your temple. “Told you I’m the alpha.”

Jisung tilts his head back against the wall, his silver hair sticking up in wild, unkempt tufts. His eyes are half-lidded, following your every move as if it’s the most interesting thing in the world. Zak has finally settled on the bed beside him, chewing on one of Jisung’s socks with the kind of ferocity only a puppy can muster.

“We could pawn Zak off on Chan,” Jisung says suddenly, his voice cutting through the storm’s din. The teasing edge in his tone is unmistakable. “Or better yet, Minho. That fucker loves this little gremlin.”

You glance at him through the streaked mirror, your eyebrow arching. “Yeah, and why the fuck would we send my dog to Minho, of all people?”

“So we could Netflix and chill,” Jisung replies, his smirk spreading wide as he wiggles his eyebrows suggestively. “I mean, as long as I don’t nut, it’s still fair game.”

You let out a laugh, shaking your head as you reach for your moisturizer. “Because that worked out so fucking well last time, right? Minho was banging on the wall the whole fucking time.”

Jisung groans, dragging his hand down his face. “That cunt needs to get over himself. Like he doesn’t fuck loudly. I heard him and some Kappa Tau girl last week, and I’m still traumatized.”

You snort, trying not to laugh too hard as you dab cream onto your cheeks. “You know Minho would bury you alive for saying that.”

“Yeah, well, he can suck my dick until- Wait, no, he can’t.” Jisung pauses, the realization hitting mid-sentence. “Fuck. No Nut November is ruining my comebacks.”

You roll your eyes, biting back another laugh. “Tragic.”

Jisung grins, clearly refusing to let the moment go. “Fine, if Netflix is too risky, what about Disney Plus and eating puss?”

The words hit like a record scratch, and you freeze mid-pat, staring at him. “You’re such a fucking idiot.”

“I’m an innovator,” he counters smugly. “Amazon Prime and sexy time? HBO Max and relax? Babe, I can do this all night.”

“You’re going to make me lose brain cells,” you mutter, turning back to the mirror and smearing moisturizer across your face with more force than necessary.

“Please, you love it,” Jisung says, practically purring. “You love how fucking clever I am.”

“Clever, my ass,” you retort. “You’re a walking shitpost with a good jawline.”

“And you’re the love of my life,” he shoots back smoothly. “Funny how that works.”

Before you can answer, a muffled voice echoes through the wall. “I swear to God, if you fuckers start again, I’m torching this house.”

You blink, startled, and Jisung immediately shouts back. “Shut up, Minho! No one asked for your fucking input!”

“Oh, I’m giving it anyway!” Minho yells. “Every time you so much as think about touching her, I hear it. The moaning, the spanking. Do you have any idea how thin these walls are?”

Jisung looks genuinely scandalized. “Spanking? You’re imagining shit now, man.”

“Oh, I’m imagining?!” Minho fires back. “You’re the one who kept me up until two in the fucking morning last week with your unholy fucking racket!”

“You’re just jealous I’m getting laid and you’re stuck cuddling your cats!” Jisung shouts, his voice dripping with smugness.

“Jealous? Of you? You couldn’t make me jealous if you paid me!” The venom in Minho’s tone is undercut by the sound of Zak barking, his tail thumping wildly against the bed.

Jisung turns to Zak, gesturing wildly. “See? Even the dog agrees you’re full of shit!”

Zak barks again, clearly thinking this is all one big game, and Jisung grins triumphantly. “That’s two against one, Minho!”

There’s silence for a beat, and then Minho’s door slams open. A moment later, he’s standing in Jisung’s doorway, his hair a mess, his face twisted into a mix of annoyance and exhaustion. Zak immediately perks up, tail wagging so hard it’s practically a weapon.

“Fucking hell, I should’ve known better than to try reasoning with you,” Minho says, stalking into the room. “You’re like a fucking feral raccoon in human form.”

“Nice to see you too, asshole,” Jisung says brightly, clearly unfazed. “What’s up?”

“What’s up? I’m about to beat the shit out of you, that’s what’s up,” Minho snaps, lunging for the bed. Zak jumps out of the way just in time as Minho tackles Jisung, both of them hitting the floor in a chaotic mess of limbs and curses.

“Minho, you fucking dick!” Jisung yells, laughing despite himself as Minho gets him in a loose headlock. “You’re gonna fucking kill me!”

“Good!” Minho barks, tightening his grip. “I’ll finally get some fucking sleep!”

Zak bounces around them, barking excitedly, his tail a blur of motion. You sit back in your chair, watching the chaos unfold with a look of mild amusement. “You know, sometimes I think you two are secretly dating,” you comment, winding another strand of hair into a roller.

Minho pauses mid-shove, looking up at you with wide eyes. “Wow, she knows. Guess we’re out now.”

“Busted,” Jisung wheezes from under him. “Sorry you had to find out this way, babe.”

You hum, leaning forward to inspect your reflection. “Makes sense. The sexual tension’s been unbearable for months.”

“Fuck off,” Minho grumbles, finally releasing Jisung and flopping onto his back. Zak takes the opportunity to pounce on him, licking his face like his life depends on it.

Jisung sits up, rubbing his neck with a wince. “Minho, since you’re already here, wanna take Zak for the night?”

“Fuck no,” Minho says immediately as he scratches behind Zak's ears. “But thanks for asking.”

“Coward,” Jisung mutters, collapsing back onto the bed beside you. He looks up at you with that familiar mischievous grin, his eyes sparkling with trouble. “So… Disney Plus and eating puss?”

You throw a hair roller at his head.

The dim kitchen glows faintly under the yellow overhead light, the kind of low, uneven light that makes everything feel softer, less real. The storm outside has eased into a gentle drizzle, the sound of rain on the windows rhythmic and soothing.

You’re leaning against the counter, cradling a mug of tea that’s still too hot to drink, your fingers playing idly with the spoon inside it. The hum of the electric kettle lingers in the background, filling the quiet with something steady.

Jisung’s hoodie swallows you, the oversized fabric brushing your thighs, the sleeves pooled around your wrists. The faint smell of him lingers in the material, making you feel cocooned despite the chill of the kitchen tiles against your fuzzy-socked feet.

It’s stupidly late, probably close to three in the morning, but the house is finally quiet, and you needed this. The calm, the tea, the moment to yourself.

The creak of the old floorboards makes you glance over your shoulder. Minho materializes in the doorway, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his hand, looking half-asleep but still somehow put together in that effortless way that pisses you off.

His red hair sticks up in chaotic tufts, like he’s been wrestling with a pillow all night, and his sweatpants hang low on his hips, barely clinging there. He squints at you, his lips tugging into a crooked smirk.

“Holy shit,” he says, voice scratchy with sleep. “A fucking cryptid in her natural habitat.”

You roll your eyes, turning back to your tea. “Fuck off, Minho.”

“No, really,” he continues, stepping fully into the kitchen, his bare feet soundless on the tile. “I didn’t think anyone else was dumb enough to be awake at this hour, but here you fucking are. What’re you doing? Summoning demons? Making moon water?”

“Drinking tea,” you reply dryly, taking a careful sip. The liquid is still scalding, but you let the heat settle on your tongue, the warmth a small comfort.

“Tea,” Minho echoes, leaning against the counter next to you, his arms crossing loosely over his chest. “At three in the fucking morning. What are you, eighty?”

You give him a flat look. “You’re awake, too, asshole.”

“Yeah, because I’m plotting my victory,” he says, his smirk sharpening into something cocky. “Speaking of, you’re just the person I need.”

“Lucky me,” you deadpan, setting your mug down with a soft clink. “What’s it this time? Another fucking prank? Did you break something and need me to lie for you?”

Minho scoffs, waving a hand. “Please, I don’t need you to cover for me. I’ve never been caught in my life.”

You snort. “Right. I’m sure all those broken lamps were ‘ghosts.’”

“Exactly,” he says without missing a beat. Then his tone shifts, conspiratorial, as he leans closer. “But this? This is bigger. I need your help to make sure Jisung loses No Nut November.”

You blink at him, caught off guard. “That’s what this is about?”

“Duh,” Minho replies, grinning. “You’ve got insider access. You’re practically a double agent. Think of the chaos we could cause.”

You arch a brow at him, unimpressed. “And why the fuck would I help you?”

“Because,” he says smoothly, his grin widening, “I’ll split the winnings with you. Four hundred bucks for each of us. Think about it. Easy money.”

“Easy money?” you echo, narrowing your eyes. “This feels like a setup.”

Minho presses a hand to his chest, looking mock-offended. “You wound me, Y/N. I don’t need to scam you. I’m just here for the bragging rights.”

“Sure you are,” you say, picking up your tea again. “And what if Jisung finds out I’m helping you? You know he’s never gonna shut up about it.”

Minho shrugs, unbothered. “Let him whine. He’s already lost. You just have to speed up the inevitable.”

You take a long sip, letting the warmth of the tea settle in your chest. Minho watches you carefully, his red hair catching the dim light in uneven strands, his eyes gleaming with mischief. He’s serious, dead serious, but there’s that usual layer of smugness that makes you want to slap him and laugh at the same time.

“Fine,” you say finally, lowering your mug. “But if this backfires, you’re fucking dead.”

“Deal,” Minho says immediately, sticking out his hand. When you don’t take it, he drops it with a shrug. “You won’t regret this. Four hundred bucks and bragging rights. It’s a win-win.”

“You’re a pain in the ass,” you mutter, shaking your head.

“And yet,” Minho counters, grinning like the cat that caught the fucking canary, “you always come through for me. Don’t act like you don’t love it.”

You groan, turning away from him to grab a tea bag from the box. “I’m starting to regret this already.”

“No, you’re not,” he says confidently, grabbing an apple from the fruit bowl. He crunches into it loudly, leaning casually against the counter as if he owns the place. “This is why you’re my favourite.”

“Fuck off, Minho,” you say again, but this time you’re smiling.

He winks at you, already backing out of the kitchen. “Remember, Y/N. Four hundred bucks. Don’t let me down.”

“Go to bed, you shithead,” you call after him, laughing softly as he disappears into the dark hallway.

The sound of his retreating footsteps fades, and you’re left alone in the quiet kitchen. The tea in your mug is cooling now, the faint hum of the kettle gone, replaced by the soft patter of rain on the windows. You shake your head to yourself, a small laugh escaping your lips.

You take another sip of tea, savouring the warmth, and let yourself imagine the absolute fucking disaster the next few weeks are bound to be.

Jisung slams his car door with more force than necessary, muttering a string of curses as his bag slides off his shoulder and hits the damp ground. “Fucking perfect,” he huffs, yanking it back up and trudging toward the Alpha Phi house.

The air is crisp, the remnants of last night’s storm lingering in the wet asphalt and the occasional dripping from the gutters. He doesn’t care. His head is pounding, his brain fried from a brutal day of back-to-back lectures, and the reminder email about his project deadline still burns in his inbox, taunting him.

Punching in the house code feels like an Olympic event, and the beep of the lock barely registers as he shoves the door open. Inside, chaos greets him like an old friend. Voices echo from the living room. Loud, competitive, definitely a FIFA match. Someone yells, “Fucking cheater!” and a loud thud follows. Jisung sighs, shaking his head as he drags himself toward the stairs.

“Home sweet fucking home,” he mutters under his breath, gripping the banister as he hauls himself up. His legs feel like lead, and all he wants is to collapse in his bed and sleep until finals are over or until the world ends, whichever comes first.

He reaches his room, pushing the door open, already yanking his sweatshirt over his head. The fabric catches on his silver hair, making it stick up even worse than usual, but he doesn’t care. He tosses it somewhere near his desk and looks up and freezes like a deer in headlights.

You’re on his bed, lying on your side, fast asleep. Your red lace-trimmed nightgown clings to your body like a second skin, the soft material pooling around your thighs. The thin straps barely sit on your shoulders, one having slipped down to reveal more skin than Jisung can handle looking at right now.

The dim light from his bedside lamp bathes you in a warm glow, catching on the curve of your collarbone, the dip of your waist, the soft rise and fall of your chest as you breathe.

“Fuck me,” he whispers, his voice barely audible over the sound of his heartbeat hammering in his ears.

Zak snores softly from his dog bed in the corner, blissfully unaware of Jisung’s internal crisis. The puppy’s legs twitch in his sleep, chasing whatever dream dogs have, and for a moment, Jisung envies the little shit. At least Zak doesn’t have to deal with the torture of you existing like this, looking like every wet dream Jisung’s ever had.

He closes the door as quietly as he can, leaning against it for support as his knees threaten to give out. “Jesus fucking Christ,” he mutters, running a hand through his already-messy hair. “Okay, okay, get it together. You’re a grown-ass man. You’ve seen her in this before. It’s not a big fucking deal.”

But it is a big fucking deal, because it’s day eight of No Nut November, and his brain is turning to soup at the sight of you. He swallows hard, dragging his eyes away from you and staring at the ceiling instead.

“Feet,” he says to himself, trying to drown out the heat crawling up his neck. “Dirty, gross feet. Toenail fungus. Yeah. That’s disgusting. Uh… Chan’s sweaty gym towel. That’s nasty, right?”

The corner of his eye betrays him. He glances back at you, and it’s a fucking mistake. You shift slightly, your leg stretching out just enough for the lace trim of your nightgown to ride higher on your thigh. His mouth goes dry, and he bites his lip, hard enough to hurt.

“Why the fuck are you doing this to me, jagiya?” he whispers, dragging a hand down his face. “This is cruelty. Actual fucking cruelty.”

He starts pacing, his socked feet barely making a sound on the worn carpet. “Minho’s fucking smug face. Yeah, that’s gross. Him winning and rubbing it in my face forever. Fuck that guy. He’s not winning. I’m not losing to him. No fucking way.”

Zak shifts in his sleep, snorting softly, and Jisung glares at him like the puppy is in on the conspiracy. “Oh, sure, you get to sleep through this shit,” he mutters. “Meanwhile, I’m fighting for my goddamn life.”

His eyes flick back to you, again, because apparently, he’s a fucking masochist, and his pacing halts. The soft, steady rise and fall of your chest, the way your hair spills over his pillow like a halo, the gentle pout of your lips as you sleep. It’s too much. His heart pounds in his chest like a drum, and his jeans are officially too fucking tight.

“Fuck, no, no,” he mutters, resuming his pacing. “Chan’s unwashed jockstrap. Disgusting. So gross. Sweaty gym socks. That’s worse. Uh… Minho farting in his sleep. Fucking nightmare fuel.”

But nothing works. His mind keeps circling back to you, to the way you look so effortlessly perfect, so completely at ease in his bed. It’s infuriating. It’s torture. It’s everything he wants but can’t have, not for another twenty-two fucking days.

He collapses into his desk chair, spinning it away from the bed as if not looking at you will somehow solve his problem. Grabbing a pen, he starts scribbling nonsense on a blank page of his notebook, anything to keep his hands busy. “I’m an idiot. A horny fucking idiot.”

The sound of your soft breathing drifts to his ears again, and he freezes. Slowly, he turns his head, just in time to see you stretch slightly, the hem of your nightgown riding even higher. His grip on the pen tightens, his knuckles turning white.

“I’m fucked,” he whispers, burying his face in his hands. “I’m so fucking fucked.”

And it’s only day eight.

It’s day eleven, and Jisung is hanging on by a fucking thread.

He’s at his desk, headphones on, his laptop open to a blank Google Doc labeled Final Project. The blinking cursor taunts him, mocking his inability to focus, but it’s not the assignment that’s frying his brain.

It’s you. Lying there on his bed like some goddess of temptation, draped in black lace and blissful fucking ignorance, or, more likely, deliberate fucking malice. Jisung isn’t sure which one he prefers.

You’re sprawled on your stomach, completely absorbed in a paperback, the cover bent at the spine from the way you’re gripping it. Your legs kick lazily behind you, bare feet flexing as you shift every so often, and the lace hot pants you’re wearing are clinging to your ass in a way that should be criminal. The matching bralette doesn’t help either, thin straps digging into your shoulders, highlighting the line of your collarbone, the delicate curves of your body.

Jisung steals another glance, his eleventh in two minutes, and swears under his breath, dragging his eyes back to his screen. He adjusts his chair, angling it slightly away from the bed in a vain attempt to save himself. But you’re still in his peripheral vision, all soft curves and casual perfection, and it’s like trying to ignore the sun.

Focus. Journalism. Deadlines. Anything but her fucking legs.

“So,” he says finally, clearing his throat in a desperate bid to distract himself. His voice comes out embarrassingly hoarse. “What’s the book about?”

Without looking up, you flip a page and reply nonchalantly, “This girl who goes to a BDSM club and meets a Dom. He’s training her to be a submissive. Felix said I’d like it.”

Jisung chokes on absolutely nothing, coughing as his brain short-circuits. He rubs the back of his neck, heat creeping up the collar of his hoodie. “Cool. Cool, cool, cool. Sounds, uh, educational.”

“It is,” you say, completely fucking unfazed as you turn another page. “Right now, they’re practising shibari.”

Jisung presses his palm against his crotch on instinct, trying to will his dick into submission. The word conjures up all the wrong memories, your wrists tied to the headboard with his belt, the soft ropes he’d run down your thighs one night while you begged him to do more. The image is so vivid it feels like he’s there, the sounds of your breathy moans echoing in his head.

“Great!” he blurts out, his voice cracking like a teenager’s. “Love that for them. Very… artistic. Super… cultural.”

You hum in agreement, your tone casual, but there’s something in the faint tilt of your lips, like you know exactly what you’re doing to him. Jisung’s grip tightens on his desk, his knuckles whitening as he fights the urge to look at you again.

“You okay over there?” you ask suddenly, your voice cutting through the silence like a fucking knife. When he looks up, you’re watching him, your gaze sharp and amused, the barest hint of a smirk curling your lips.

“Me?” he squeaks. He clears his throat, forcing a weak laugh as he spins his chair to hide his crotch from view. “Totally fine. Just, uh, thinking about deadlines. Journalism stuff. You know, very serious, not at all horny things.”

“Uh-huh,” you say, clearly not buying a word of it. You shake your head slightly, returning to your book with that same faint smirk that’s driving him out of his goddamn mind.

Jisung stares at his screen, forcing his eyes to stay there, but it’s a losing battle. Every movement you make, the way your legs shift just enough to reveal more of your thighs, the way your back arches slightly when you adjust your position, it’s fucking torture. He can feel the sweat on his palms, the heat prickling at the back of his neck, and he swears if he doesn’t leave now, he’s going to lose the bet, the pot, and his fucking dignity.

“I, uh, need water,” he says abruptly, standing so quickly his chair scrapes loudly against the floor. He bolts for the door, practically slamming it behind him, leaning back against it once he’s in the hallway.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he mutters, dragging a hand down his face. His heartbeat thunders in his ears, his body still on fire from the last ten minutes of torture.

“Jisung?” Your voice drifts faintly through the door, muffled but still teasing. “You sure you’re okay?”

“Totally fine!” he calls back, voice cracking again as he presses his hands to his overheated cheeks. “Just dehydrated! Gonna go hydrate!”

Your soft laugh floats through the wood, and he groans, pushing himself off the door to head for the kitchen. He needs water. Ice-cold water. And maybe an exorcism.

“Just nineteen fucking days,” he mutters to himself as he stalks down the hall. “You’ve got this. Don’t let her win. Don’t let her fucking win.”

But even as he reaches the sink, splashing cold water onto his face, the image of you sprawled across his bed, all lace and legs, refuses to leave his mind.

Nineteen days has never felt so fucking impossible.

The Alpha Phi house is eerily quiet as you pad downstairs, the faint creak of the stairs barely audible under the soft padding of your Winnie the Pooh slippers. The chill of the hardwood seeps through even their plush cushioning, but you ignore it, tugging the hem of your midnight blue nightgown down slightly. Not that it does much, the lace clings to your body like a second skin, the thigh-high slits swaying with every step. The cold doesn’t matter; the promise of tea and a few stolen moments of peace is worth it.

When you push open the kitchen door, the faint yellow light from the stove reveals a figure already waiting there. Minho leans casually against the counter, arms crossed, his red hair sticking up like he lost a fight with his pillow and didn’t bother fixing it.

He’s wearing grey sweatpants slung low on his hips and a black hoodie, but the smirk plastered across his face gives him an aura of smug authority like he’s a villain in some low-budget spy film.

“Took you long enough,” he drawls, his voice soft but laced with amusement. “Thought you’d chickened out.”

You arch an eyebrow, stepping past him to the counter where the kettle waits. “What the fuck are you talking about? You’ve been lurking in the dark like some kind of horror movie villain.”

“Not lurking,” Minho corrects, pushing off the counter to sit on one of the stools at the island. “Strategizing. This is serious business.”

You fill the kettle with water, side-eyeing him. “Serious business? Are you starting a Ponzi scheme?”

“No,” he says, grinning. “Something better. Day eleven, Y/N. Four down, three more to go.”

You pause mid-pour, glancing over your shoulder. “Four? Already?”

“Changbin folded on day six. Hyunjin broke yesterday. Seungmin cracked this morning, and Jeongin, poor kid, lasted, like, ten seconds after that. Felix is next. I’ve been fucking with his algorithm so all he gets is porn ads. MILFs. Stepsisters. The works.” His grin widens, downright evil. “It’s only a matter of time.”

You laugh, flicking the kettle on and leaning against the counter. “You’re a menace. He’s gonna kill you.”

“Worth it,” Minho says smugly. “And Chan? He’s going down tonight.”

That catches your attention. Your eyebrows shoot up, and you cross your arms. “Chan? No fucking way. He’s supposed to be untouchable.”

Minho shrugs, looking far too pleased with himself. “What can I say? I called in a favour. His girlfriend’s helping me out. Dude’s toast.”

The kettle starts to hum, and you grab a mug, already smirking. “You’re like a goddamn Bond villain. What’s next? A cat and a monologue?”

Minho grins, resting his chin in his hand. “I’m saving the monologue for Jisung. He’s gonna break soon, thanks to you.”

You snort, grabbing a tea bag and dropping it into your mug. “He’s tougher than you think. I’ve been subtle, but he’s holding up.”

Minho’s smirk deepens. “Subtle, huh? That what you call lying in his bed reading BDSM erotica?”

Your lips twitch as you pour the boiling water into your mug. “Research,” you say, deadpan. “I’m helping him broaden his horizons.”

“Sure you are,” Minho drawls, drumming his fingers on the counter. “What’s the next phase of your master plan? Flashing him in Morse code?”

You sip your tea, the warmth soothing against the chill of the room, and pull your phone out of your pocket. “Red lace lingerie,” you say casually, scrolling to the photo of the set you ordered. You slide the phone across the counter to him.

Minho picks it up, and his eyes widen. “Holy fuck.” He slaps the counter, grinning like a maniac. “Crotchless panties? You’re a fucking genius.”

“And lollipops,” you add, sipping your tea. “The good ones, cherry and strawberry"

Minho barks out a laugh, standing abruptly and pulling you into a tight hug. “Y/N, you magnificent, evil, sexy mastermind. I love you.”

You laugh against his shoulder, half-heartedly patting his back. “Okay, calm the fuck down. You’re gonna dislocate something.”

“I can’t help it,” he says, pulling back and holding your shoulders dramatically. “You’re the best. I don’t deserve you.”

“You definitely don’t,” you agree, smirking. “But don’t celebrate yet. He’s stubborn.”

Minho’s grin sharpens, his eyes glinting with mischief. “He’s a man. And all men fall eventually.”

“You sound like a poster for villainy,” you mutter, grabbing your mug and heading for the door.

“Thank you,” Minho calls after you, following close behind. “It’s my life’s work.”

As you both step into the darkened hallway, the quiet hum of the house around you, there’s a shared gleam of determination in your eyes. Jisung’s resolve is strong, sure. But between you and Minho? That resolve is doomed.

Day fifteen of No Nut November feels like a cruel joke, and Jisung is living it. He trudges into the Alpha Phi house, his bag slung haphazardly over one shoulder, the faint drone of an investigative journalism podcast still playing in one ear.

He tugs out the earbuds as the warmth of the house envelopes him, the smell of takeout lingering faintly in the air. His stomach growls loudly, and he follows the sound of voices toward the kitchen, praying there’s something left in the fridge.

As he steps into the kitchen, he freezes.

You’re leaning against the counter, legs crossed casually, wearing one of his hoodies that swallows you whole and a pair of shorts so tiny they might as well not exist. But it’s not the shorts that make his breath catch, it’s the goddamn lollipop in your hand.

Cherry red, glossy as fuck, it glistens under the dim light of the kitchen as you bring it to your lips. Your cheeks hollow as you suck on it, and the slow pull as you let it slide free makes his brain short-circuit. The wet sound it makes when it leaves your mouth feels louder than it should, and Jisung can feel his pulse pounding in his ears.

Across from you, Minho leans against the kitchen island, gesturing wildly as he speaks. His voice is animated, the sharp contrast to your calm, deliberate movements only adding to Jisung’s torment.

“I’m telling you, Anthony’s arc in season two is what every rom-com wishes it could be,” Minho says, slicing through the air with one hand for emphasis. “The tension. The angst. The man is a fucking masterpiece of repressed emotions.”

You nod, twirling the lollipop between your fingers like it’s a goddamn performance art piece. “True, but Kate? She’s everything. The way she completely dismantles him? Perfect.”

Minho claps his hands together, pointing at you. “Exactly! She’s not just a love interest, she’s a fucking force of nature.”

“And Bridgerton’s not even my thing,” you add, rolling the lollipop over your tongue like you’re savouring every second. “But that season? Art.”

Jisung swallows hard, his throat dry as sandpaper. He forces himself to move, heading toward the fridge like it’s his only lifeline, but every movement you make draws his eyes back to you. The way your lips purse, the subtle pop as the candy leaves your mouth, the faint glint of red on your tongue. It’s a sensory fucking overload.

“Jagiya,” he says, his voice rough, barely masking the tension simmering under the surface. “What’s going on in here?”

You glance up, all wide eyes and faux innocence, like you’re not killing him one suck at a time. “Just talking Bridgerton. Minho finally convinced me to binge it with him.”

“Changed her life,” Minho adds with an exaggerated nod. “Changed mine, too, honestly. You’ve gotta watch it, man.”

Jisung barely registers the words as he yanks open the fridge, desperate for a distraction. “Uh-huh,” he mutters, rummaging aimlessly. “I’ll… check it out.”

Before he can decide between the last sad slice of pizza and some questionable-looking noodles, chaos erupts from the living room.

“Zak’s got my fucking shoe!” Jeongin’s panicked voice echoes down the hall, followed by the unmistakable sound of paws skidding on hardwood and a low, playful growl.

“Shit,” Jisung curses, slamming the fridge shut and dropping his bag. “Not again.” He turns on his heel, bolting out of the kitchen. “Zak! No! Drop it, you little shit!”

As his shouts fade into the distance, you and Minho exchange a look, your lips twitching as you try to hold back your laughter. The moment the front door slams shut, Minho breaks first, his grin splitting wide.

“This is too fucking good,” he says, holding out a hand. You slap your palm against his in a victorious high-five.

“Too easy,” you agree, popping the lollipop back into your mouth with a slow swirl. “Fifteen days in, and the guy’s fucking unravelling.”

“Crotchless panties, lollipops, and Bridgerton,” Minho muses, shaking his head in admiration. “You’re a fucking evil genius.”

“Flattery will get you everywhere,” you say, smirking as you lean back against the counter.

Minho leans closer, his voice dropping conspiratorially. “You really think he’s gonna make it another fifteen days?”

“Not a fucking chance,” you reply with a laugh. “He’s hanging on by a thread.”

From down the hall, Jisung’s voice booms. “Zak! Get back here, you little asshole! Jeongin, fucking grab him!”

You and Minho dissolve into laughter, the sound filling the kitchen as you both lean against the counter, barely able to breathe. Zak’s playful barks and Jeongin’s exasperated shouts add to the cacophony, and you shake your head, already plotting the next step in the slow, delicious dismantling of Han Jisung’s self-control.

Minho grins, lifting an imaginary glass. “To the fall of Han Jisung. May it be dramatic and horny as fuck.”

You clink your lollipop against his raised hand like it’s a toast, laughing as the chaos continues in the background.

Day eighteen, and Jisung feels like he’s at war. With himself, with his body, with you. Especially you.

He sits at his desk, staring at the screen of his laptop, the cursor blinking accusingly at him from an unfinished article. The words on the page blur together, his focus long since obliterated by weeks of tension, frustration, and sheer stubborn determination to see this thing through. His head rests in his hands, fingers tugging at his silver hair as he groans softly.

The sound of running water from the bathroom shuts off, and a few seconds later, your voice carries through the partially open door. Soft, teasing, fucking lethal. “Jisung? Can you come here for a sec?”

His stomach tightens at the sound of your voice. He lifts his head slowly, blinking blearily at the bathroom door like it might bite him. “Yeah, jagiya,” he calls back, his voice hoarse from lack of sleep and too much fantasizing. “What’s up?”

There’s a brief pause before you respond, your tone light but with that playful edge that makes his nerves fray. “Do I look okay in this?”

His chest tightens as alarm bells go off in his head. “What the fuck does she mean by this?” He swivels in his chair just as the bathroom door swings open, and his breath hitches violently in his throat.

You step into the room like a goddamn vision, leaning lazily against the doorframe, the silk of your red robe gleaming in the soft light. It’s barely tied, just loose enough to offer a maddening glimpse of what lies beneath. Red lace lingerie. The sheer fabric clings to you, teasing every curve, and it leaves almost nothing to the imagination. Almost.

But it’s not just the outfit. It’s the way you look at him, head tilted slightly, a small, knowing smile curling your lips. Like you’re perfectly aware of the chaos you’re causing. Like you’re daring him to do something about it.

“Fuck,” Jisung mutters under his breath, the word barely audible. His throat is so dry it feels like sandpaper, and his eyes flicker helplessly between your face and the barely-there lace. “Are those… Are those panties crotchless?”

You tilt your head, your smile widening, and his stomach clenches painfully. “Yep,” you say simply, popping the p like it’s a punchline.

He drags a hand down his face, groaning. “Jesus fucking Christ, jagiya.” His voice is strained, low, his usual wit nowhere to be found. “You’re fucking killing me.”

“Am I?” you reply, feigning innocence as your fingers brush the tie of the robe. You loosen it slightly, the silk parting just enough to make his dick throb painfully against the confines of his jeans. “You look a little tense.”

“Tense?” Jisung barks out a sharp laugh, but it sounds more like a gasp. “I’m fucking dying over here.”

You take a step closer, your bare feet making no sound on the floor. His chair creaks slightly as he leans back, as if putting more distance between you will save him. It doesn’t. “Remember,” you murmur, trailing a hand down the edge of your robe, “there are only twenty-nine days in November.”

He stares at you, his eyes wide, his jaw tight. “Eleven days,” he whispers, the words shaky. He nods, more to himself than to you, as if it’s a mantra. “Just eleven days left.”

“Only eleven,” you say sweetly, stepping close enough that he can smell the faint, intoxicating trace of your perfume.

You reach out, your fingers brushing his cheek lightly before you step past him like it’s nothing. He watches, completely frozen, as you walk to his bed, the silk of your robe swaying with each step, offering him maddening glimpses of lace and bare skin.

You climb onto the bed, tugging the blankets up around you like the fucking angel of temptation, and settle in with a soft sigh. Adjusting your eye mask, you mumble, “Goodnight, Ji,” like you didn’t just turn his entire world inside out.

Zak pads over from the corner, circling in his dog bed before flopping down with a contented snuffle. The room falls quiet again, save for the faint hum of the heater and the sound of your breathing, steady and soft.

Jisung doesn’t move. He stays rooted to the spot, staring at you as if you might disappear if he looks away. His chest heaves, his palms sweaty against the armrests of his chair. His jeans are too fucking tight, and his head feels like it’s filled with static.

“Twenty-nine days,” he mutters to himself, still staring at the bed. “I just have to make it eleven more days”

The words hang in the air, unchallenged, as he finally drags himself out of the chair and collapses face-first onto the bed next to you. His brain is too fried to catch the glaring error in his thoughts. November has thirty days.

It’s midnight on day twenty-one, and the Alpha Phi house is cloaked in stillness. The creaks and groans of the old floorboards echo faintly through the empty halls, a reminder of just how old and lived-in the building is. Upstairs, Jisung lies face down on his bed, the thin black eye mask he’s taken to wearing crooked over his face. His breaths are deep, steady, the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest the only movement in the room.

But even in sleep, his body is tense, his hands clutching the edge of his blanket like a lifeline. His subconscious knows, just as his waking mind does, that you are his undoing. One slip, one more calculated move on your part, and he’s fucked. Literally and figuratively.

Meanwhile, in the kitchen, the atmosphere couldn’t be more different. The quiet hum of the heater mingles with the soft clink of mugs and the occasional burst of muffled laughter. You and Minho are stationed near the counter, shoulders nearly brushing as you conspire under the faint yellow light of the stove. You’re wearing one of Jisung’s hoodies, the oversized fabric hanging off one shoulder, and a pair of fuzzy socks. Casual, innocent. Except the glint in your eye betrays you.

Minho leans against the counter, his red hair dishevelled in a way that’s more chaotic than usual, his expression half-amused, half-exasperated. He stares into his mug like it holds the answer to life’s greatest mysteries. “Why the fuck isn’t he out yet?” he mutters, his voice pitched low but tinged with frustration. “It’s day twenty-one, for fuck’s sake. I’ve seen weaker men fold over less.”

You smirk, swirling the tea in your mug before taking a slow, deliberate sip. “Because,” you say with a calmness that only fuels Minho’s disbelief, “I made him think there are only twenty-nine days in November.”

Minho’s head jerks up, his brows furrowed as the words register. He stares at you like you’ve grown another head. “Wait, what?”

You tilt your head, your grin widening. “He thinks November has twenty-nine days. He’s counting down to the thirtieth like it’s December first.”

For a beat, Minho says nothing, his lips parting slightly as the full weight of your scheming hits him. Then, he lets out a low, incredulous laugh, doubling over and clutching the edge of the counter. “You’re a fucking psychopath,” he says, shaking his head. “A diabolical, evil little bitch. I love it.”

“Diabolical, sure. Evil? Maybe.” You shrug one shoulder, looking smug as you lean back against the counter. “But effective.”

Minho slaps his palm against the counter, laughter bubbling up again. “You’re telling me this poor bastard is going to count down to the thirtieth thinking he’s free, and instead he’s gonna…” He trails off, gesturing vaguely with his mug.

“Rail me into next week,” you finish for him, deadpan, the corners of your lips twitching. “Yep.”

Minho’s laughter explodes into the stillness, and he has to cover his mouth with his hand to stifle the sound. His shoulders shake as he struggles to catch his breath. “Holy fucking shit,” he wheezes, wiping at his mouth. “You’re a monster.”

“A monster who gets results,” you counter, raising your mug in a mock toast. “Jisung’s gonna lose. We're getting our money. You're getting bragging rights. I’m getting railed. Everyone wins.”

“Except Jisung,” Minho points out, grinning wickedly.

You wave a hand dismissively. “He’ll get over it. And by get over it, I mean he’ll be too busy thanking me for the best night of his life to care.”

Minho leans back against the counter, clutching his mug like it’s the only thing keeping him upright. “You’re fucking unreal,” he says, shaking his head. “We should get married. You, me, unstoppable force. Absolute chaos.”

You arch a brow, smirking. “The world would implode.”

“Worth it,” he shoots back without missing a beat. “We’d conquer everything. Political coups? Easy. Social manipulation? Please.”

“World domination?” you offer, tilting your mug toward him.

“To chaos,” Minho declares, his grin stretching wide.

“To schemes,” you reply, your voice laced with laughter.

The sound of your quiet chuckles mingles with the distant hum of the heater. Upstairs, Jisung shifts in his sleep, as if some part of him knows the forces conspiring against him. But for now, the house settles back into quiet. Only the faint glint of mischief in both your eyes hints at the storm still to come.

Jisung’s room is dark, save for the faint orange glow of the streetlight sneaking through the blinds, casting long, uneven shadows across the walls. The heater hums softly, and the faint tick-tock of the clock on the wall keeps a steady rhythm, mocking him with every passing second.

Jisung lies flat on his back, his body rigid, tension coiled tight as a spring. The black eye mask he usually relies on is shoved up onto his forehead, forgotten in his hyper-focused state. He stares at the glowing digits of his bedside clock, willing them to change, his chest heaving as he fights to keep himself still.

11:59 PM.

He mutters under his breath, his fists clenching the blanket like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded. “Come on, come on,” he whispers, his voice rough.

His eyes flick to you. You’re lying beside him, curled on your side, your face soft and peaceful in sleep. One of his oversized T-shirts swallows your body, but the hem has ridden up just enough to reveal the curve of your thighs, and the sight makes his throat dry. He has to look away, his fingers twitching against the blanket.

12:00 AM.

Jisung’s entire body tenses. He feels it like a shift in the air like he’s been released from some invisible chain, and all he can think about is you. The past twenty-nine days flash in his mind like a slideshow: the lingerie, the teasing and the lollipops.

12:01 AM.

The dam breaks.

He moves faster than he’s thought about it, the blanket thrown off in one swift motion as he straddles you, pinning you beneath him with an almost feral energy. You let out a startled gasp, your eyes fluttering open as his hands wrap around your wrists, pressing them firmly above your head.

“Hands up,” he says, his voice rough, almost unrecognizable. His silver hair is messy, sticking up at odd angles, his chest heaving as he stares down at you. His eyes are dark, his pupils blown wide with desire, and his lips curl into a wicked smirk. “You’ve had your fun, jagiya. Now it’s my fucking turn.”

You blink up at him, your voice breathless and tinged with confusion. “Jisung? What—?”

“No talking,” he cuts you off, his voice a low rasp as he leans in, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. “It’s December. You’ve been fucking torturing me for four weeks, and I’ve waited long enough.”

Before you can say another word, his mouth finds your neck, hot and insistent, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin. He bites down, harder than usual, making you gasp as heat floods your body. His tongue flicks out to soothe the sting, but he doesn’t stop. He trails down to your collarbone, nipping and sucking until your skin blooms with colour.

“Fuck, I missed this,” he murmurs against your skin, his hands sliding down to grip your hips. His fingers dig in, holding you in place as you instinctively arch beneath him. “Do you know how many nights I lay here, staring at you, trying not to lose my fucking mind?”

“Jisung-” you start, but the words dissolve into a sharp gasp as his teeth sink into the curve of your shoulder. His lips are relentless, leaving a trail of open-mouthed kisses and marks down your chest.

“You’re not allowed to talk. Not tonight, jagiya. Tonight, you’re mine.”

His hands roam beneath your shirt, sliding over your waist, his touch searing against your skin. The tension in his movements is almost frantic, a desperate edge to the way his fingers curl into your flesh. He lifts the hem of your shirt, his eyes flickering down to take in the soft curve of your stomach, the bare expanse of skin he’s been craving.

“You drove me fucking insane,” he mutters, his lips tracing along your jaw. “The lace. The lollipops.”

“Did I?”

Jisung freezes for a split second, his eyes narrowing as he pulls back to look at you. “Oh, you little fucking brat,” he says, his grip tightening on your wrists. “You’re lucky I love you. Otherwise, you’d be begging right now.”

“Big words,” you murmur, your voice laced with amusement. “You sure you’ve got the stamina after four weeks?”

His jaw tightens, and he smirks down at you, his expression dark and dangerous. “Oh, I’ve got plenty of stamina, jagiya. I’m just deciding how long I want to make you wait.”

His words send a thrill down your spine, but you manage to keep your composure, tilting your head to meet his gaze. “You better make it worth the wait, then.”

Jisung’s response is a low, guttural growl as he leans down, his lips capturing yours in a kiss so demanding it steals the air from your lungs. His hands release your wrists to tangle in your hair, pulling you closer, deeper, until the world around you fades into nothing.

Across the room, Zak lets out a soft snore, blissfully unaware of the chaos unfolding just feet away.

And as Jisung pulls back to nip at your bottom lip, his voice rough with satisfaction, he mutters, “Twenty-nine days without sex. Never fucking again.”

You bite back a grin, your heart racing as he presses his forehead against yours, fumbling with the waistband of his sweats. He still doesn’t realize.

There’s one more day left.

The clock strikes three, the Alpha Phi house cloaked in a heavy silence, broken only by the faint hum of the refrigerator and the occasional creak of the old wooden beams. The world outside is pitch-black, the kind of stillness that feels like a held breath.

Upstairs, in the aftermath of chaos, Jisung is dead to the world, sprawled across the bed like a man utterly wrecked. His silver hair sticks to his forehead, his skin glistening faintly in the dim light from the bedside lamp. The sheets are tangled around his legs, his chest rising and falling in a rhythm so steady it almost feels mocking.

You, however, are not wrecked. Not completely, anyway. No, you’re moving, albeit gingerly, your limbs protesting with every step.

The oversized T-shirt you’ve thrown on hangs loosely over your frame, brushing against the constellation of hickies blooming across your neck and collarbones. His boxers sit low on your hips, the waistband twisted from how carelessly you pulled them on. You wince as you descend the stairs, your thighs trembling just enough to remind you of what the past three hours have cost you.

The kitchen light is already on when you step inside, a soft, golden glow casting long shadows across the room. Minho is leaning against the counter, a mug in hand, his red hair an absolute disaster. He looks up when you enter, his expression shifting instantly into a wicked grin.

“You’re alive,” he greets, his voice low and gleeful. “Barely, but alive.”

“Fuck off,” you mutter, collapsing into a chair at the island. You let out a low groan, adjusting yourself with exaggerated care. The movement pulls another sharp wince from you, and Minho’s grin only widens.

“Oh, my God,” he says, his voice laced with mock horror as he gestures toward you with his mug. “You’re walking like a goddamn baby deer. Did he break you?”

You flip him off without looking, grabbing the steaming mug he slides toward you. “If I didn’t need this tea so badly, I’d throw it in your fucking face.”

Minho laughs, the sound sharp and unapologetic as he leans forward, inspecting you like a scientist examining a particularly amusing specimen. “You got absolutely mauled, didn’t you?” He gestures vaguely to your neck, his smirk bordering on obscene. “Holy shit. He really went for it.”

You sip your tea, the warmth soothing your raw throat as you scowl. “He thinks it’s December first. He acted like he just got out of a fucking chastity belt.”

“Well,” Minho says, straightening up with a shrug. “Technically, he did. Self-imposed, but still.” He pauses, tilting his head as his eyes scan the array of purpling marks dotting your skin. “You look like you got in a fight with a vampire and lost.”

You sigh dramatically, rolling your head back to stare at the ceiling. “He was…enthusiastic.”

Minho’s eyebrows shoot up. “Enthusiastic? You’re walking funny, for Christ’s sake. What’d he do? Hit you with a jackhammer?”

You snort into your tea, shaking your head. “Three hours. Three. Hours. I should’ve negotiated hazard pay.”

Minho lets out a bark of laughter, clapping his hand over his mouth to keep it down. His eyes sparkle with unrestrained delight as he leans across the counter. “And you let him go the whole time, knowing there’s still one more day left. You’re a fucking menace.”

You shrug, smirking into your mug. “It’s not like I didn’t enjoy myself.”

Minho groans, slumping against the counter like he’s personally offended. “You’re the worst person I know, and I love you for it.”

“You’re just jealous you didn’t think of it,” you shoot back, sticking your tongue out.

“True,” Minho admits, his grin sharp as ever. He raises his mug in a mock toast. “To chaos. And to you, the evil genius who turned No Nut November into a fucking art form.”

“To my poor vagina,” you mutter, clinking your mug against his.

“To your poor vagina,” he echoes solemnly, before breaking into laughter again. “But hey, at least we’re both four hundred dollars richer.”

“And he’s clueless,” you add, sipping your tea with a smirk. “He’s upstairs, probably dreaming about how he ‘won’ the month. Meanwhile, I’ve got a twenty-four-hour ticking time bomb.”

Minho shakes his head, his grin softening into something almost admiring. “You’re a fucking trooper. A lunatic, but a trooper.”

You groan as you adjust in your chair again, the ache in your thighs flaring up. “If I never move again, it’ll be too soon.”

“Hey, if he comes looking for round two, just scream for help,” Minho says, his tone half-serious. “I’ll grab a fire extinguisher.”

You laugh despite yourself, shaking your head. “If he comes looking for round two, I’m throwing you at him. You can fend him off.”

“Deal,” Minho says. “But only after I tell him he lost.”

The two of you share a conspiratorial grin, the quiet kitchen filled with the warmth of shared victory. Upstairs, Jisung snores softly, blissfully unaware of the truth lurking in the shadows. Down here, you and Minho toast to his downfall, savoring every second of the calm before the final storm.

Morning light spills through the Alpha Phi kitchen window, painting everything in soft, golden hues. The house is quiet, save for the faint ticking of the wall clock and the muffled hum of the refrigerator.

Jisung shuffles in, his T-shirt rumpled from sleep, his silver hair sticking out at odd angles like he’s been wrestling his pillow all night. Zak trots at his heels, his tail wagging lazily as he sniffs around before padding to the back door.

Jisung yawns loudly, scratching the back of his head as he unlatches the door and lets Zak out into the garden. “Go on, buddy,” he mutters, his voice heavy with sleep. “Do your thing.”

The puppy bounds into the yard, and Jisung shuts the door with a soft click, turning toward the coffee machine like it’s his lifeline. He grabs a mug from the cabinet, barely registering Minho leaning against the counter, his red hair dishevelled and his grin obnoxiously wide.

“Morning, champ,” Minho greets, his tone thick with smug amusement.

Jisung blinks at him, his expression blank as his sleep-fogged brain processes the sound. “Morning,” he mumbles back, spooning coffee grounds into the machine. He leans heavily against the counter, waiting for the drip to start, his eyes half-lidded as he stares at nothing in particular.

Minho sips from his mug, watching him with a glint of pure mischief in his eyes. “Rough night?” he asks innocently, swirling the tea in his cup like he’s plotting something.

Jisung snorts, a faint flush creeping up his neck. “You could say that. She’s still out cold.”

Minho lets out a low whistle, setting his mug down with exaggerated care. “Oh, I bet she is,” he says, his voice practically dripping with innuendo. “You two were loud as fuck last night. Thought the walls were gonna cave in.”

Jisung’s face reddens further, and he glares weakly at Minho. “Could you not? It’s too early for your bullshit.”

Minho grins wider, pulling out his phone. “Oh, don’t worry. This is gonna wake you up real quick.” He taps the screen a few times before holding it up, his smirk downright wicked. “Check it out.”

Jisung squints at the screen, his brow furrowing. The bold numbers on the display are unmistakable. 30th of November. He stares, his mind moving sluggishly as he tries to make sense of it.

“Wait,” he says, his voice slow, thick with confusion. “That can’t be right. There’s… twenty-nine days in November, right? Leap year or something?”

Minho freezes, his grin widening into something feral before he bursts out laughing. The sound is sharp and sudden, echoing through the quiet kitchen as he doubles over, clutching his stomach. “Oh my fucking god,” he wheezes, sliding halfway down the counter. “You’re serious? Holy shit- When she said- I thought-”

Jisung frowns, his confusion giving way to irritation. “Why the fuck are you laughing?” he demands, his voice tinged with suspicion. “What’s so funny?”

Minho wipes tears from his eyes, taking a steadying breath before straightening up. He sets his phone down, shaking his head in disbelief. “You, dumbass,” he says, his voice still shaking with laughter. “You got played so fucking hard.”

Jisung crosses his arms, his frown deepening. “Played?” His voice rises with incredulity. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

Minho leans closer, his grin pure chaos. “Your girlfriend,” he says, drawing out the words like he’s savouring them. “She fucking got you. All those little outfits, all the teasing, all the bullshit about November having twenty-nine days? That was all her plan.”

Jisung stares at him, his jaw slack as the pieces slowly fall into place. “No way,” he mutters, shaking his head. “She wouldn’t-”

“Oh, she would,” Minho interrupts gleefully. “And she did. And the best part? It wasn’t even my idea, all I wanted was for her to make you lose. She came up with the whole thing herself. I just sat back and watched her turn you into a horny fucking wreck.”

Jisung’s jaw tightens, his face cycling through disbelief, frustration, and begrudging admiration. “So you’re telling me,” he says slowly, “that all those nights you two spent drinking tea in the kitchen were-”

“Exactly what you thought they were,” Minho says smugly. “Strategizing. She played you like a fucking fiddle.”

Jisung groans, dragging a hand down his face. “You two are the absolute worst.”

“Don’t lie,” Minho counters, smirking as he picks up his mug again. “You love it. Besides, you’re not even mad, are you? Not after last night.”

Jisung glares at him, though his ears burn red. “I should be pissed.”

“But you’re not,” Minho says, leaning back against the counter with a satisfied sigh. “Because you had a fucking night. Admit it—she wrecked you just as much as you wrecked her.”

Jisung shakes his head, a reluctant laugh escaping him. “I can’t believe she did all that for you.”

“For us,” Minho corrects, his grin softening slightly. “She got what she wanted, I got what I wanted, and you got the ride of your fucking life. Everyone’s happy.”

Jisung pours his coffee, stirring in sugar and cream, and takes a long sip before sighing. “You’re right. I’m not mad. I’m impressed.” He glances at Minho, his eyes narrowing. “But you’re still a smug little shit.”

Minho raises his mug in a toast, his grin sharper than ever. “To evil geniuses. And to Y/N, the queen of playing the long game.”

Jisung shakes his head, chuckling as he clinks his mug against Minho’s.

The Alpha Phi house is buzzing with noise and energy, the lazy chaos of a Saturday afternoon after a night of absolute madness. The living room is packed with bodies, sprawled across couches, beanbags, and the carpet, half-eaten takeout containers scattered across the coffee table alongside cans of beer and soda. Someone’s playlist hums softly in the background, but the real noise comes from the laughter and shit-talking ricocheting around the room.

Jisung sits slumped in a beanbag chair, arms crossed, his silver hair still sticking out at wild angles from sleep. He’s been subjected to nonstop teasing for the past few hours, and his pout grows deeper with every passing second. Zak is curled up at his feet, snoozing contentedly, oblivious to the chaos Jisung is enduring.

The sound of shuffling steps draws everyone’s attention to the staircase. You appear, dressed in one of Jisung’s oversized shirts that barely grazes your thighs, a pair of his boxers peeking out underneath. Your eye mask sits pushed up into your messy hair, and your trusty Winnie the Pooh slippers complete the look. Hickies bloom across your neck and collarbones, vivid and unapologetic, like badges of honour.

As soon as you step into the living room, the house explodes.

Whistles, applause, and cheers erupt from every corner of the room. Changbin pounds his fists against the couch arm like he’s at a sports game, while Felix claps loudly, grinning like he just saw the winning goal. Minho practically howls, throwing his head back with laughter, and Jeongin is doubled over, clutching his stomach.

“There she is!” Minho shouts, his grin devilish as he gestures toward you. “The queen of fucking chaos! The woman who broke Han Jisung and made him think there were twenty-nine days in November!”

Jisung groans loudly, burying his face in his hands. “You’re all the fucking worst,” he mutters, his voice muffled.

You yawn, rubbing at your eyes as you shuffle into the centre of the room. “Thank you, thank you,” you say. “I’d like to thank Jisung for not knowing how to use Google.”

Seungmin points at you, snickering. “Genius wasted on him,” he says, shaking his head. “Poor girl.”

“Hey!” Jisung protests, sitting up straighter in his beanbag chair. “You’re all supposed to be on my side.”

“No one’s on your side, dumbass,” Chan says. “You fucked up.”

You laugh softly, shuffling toward the kitchen, only for Chan to intercept you with a steaming mug of coffee. He hands it to you with a wink. “For our resident mastermind.”

“Bless you,” you murmur, taking the mug and sinking into the couch with a sigh. The warmth of the coffee soothes your raw throat, and you lean back into the cushions, your body finally beginning to relax.

Felix sprawls on the floor, his head propped up on a throw pillow. “Honestly? Totally worth it,” he says, grinning. “The three hours of sex noises were a lot, but watching Jisung implode this morning made up for it.”

Jisung points an accusing finger at him, his cheeks red. “You lost to porn ads! You don’t get to talk!”

Felix raises a brow, unbothered. “At least I know how many days are in November, dumbass.”

Minho cackles, leaning forward to slap his knee. “Felix, I’m the one who fucked with your algorithm. Those ‘hot MILFs in your area’ ads? All me.”

Felix’s jaw drops. “You’re a fucking menace.”

“You’re welcome,” Minho replies smugly. He turns his attention to Chan, smirking. “And you? Don’t act all superior. Your girlfriend took you out.”

Chan shrugs, completely unbothered. “She was wearing black lace. I'm just a man”

Minho dissolves into laughter, pulling a wad of cash from his pocket. He counts out four crisp hundred-dollar bills and tosses them into your lap. “Your cut, mastermind.”

You grin, holding up the money like a trophy. “I’d like to thank Jisung’s inability to resist crotchless panties for this award and his inability to read a calendar,” you announce, earning another round of cheers and whistles.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Jisung mutters, sinking deeper into his beanbag chair. “You’re all fucking traitors.”

Changbin leans forward, squinting at the marks on your neck. “What the fuck did you do to her, man? She looks like she got in a fight with a vacuum cleaner.”

Jeongin reaches over, poking a particularly dark hickey on your collarbone. “Does it hurt?”

You swat his hand away, laughing. “Not as much as my legs.”

Jisung smirks, leaning back with a hint of smugness returning to his face. “What can I say? I’m thorough.”

Felix groans dramatically, snatching a cold compress from the coffee table and pressing it to your neck. “Jisung, she looks like she got mauled by a fucking tiger.”

“Nah,” Minho says, his grin sharp. “Just a man who thought he’d escaped No Nut November.”

Jisung glares at him but can’t stop the faint smile tugging at his lips. “I hate you all,” he says, though his tone is lighter than it should be.

“And we love you,” Minho shoots back, raising his mug in a toast. “To Han Jisung’s sheer, unbridled stupidity.”

You clink your mug against his, laughing as the room erupts once more into cheers.

Jisung remains slouched in the beanbag chair, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. His silver hair is still a mess, and his pout deepens with every new “evil genius” compliment directed at you. The teasing isn’t letting up, and Minho, grinning like he’s won the lottery, is the ringleader.

“I’m telling you,” Hyunjin says. “If Y/N ever decides to quit her major, she should go into professional scheming. She’s fucking wasted on Jisung.”

“Hey!” Jisung sits up in his beanbag, pointing an accusing finger at Hyunjin. His pout deepens, and his glare is somewhere between half-hearted and genuinely offended. “You’re supposed to be my friends, you assholes!”

Jeongin, sprawled out on the floor with a throw pillow under his head, snickers loudly, stretching his legs out. “We are your friends. That’s why we’re making fun of you.”

“You walked into this, man,” Felix says, his tone almost pitying. “You let your girlfriend outsmart you for four weeks straight. How the fuck are we not supposed to make fun of you?”

“Because I didn’t let her outsmart me!” Jisung fires back, his voice climbing an octave in his frustration. “I didn’t know—” He cuts himself off, realizing mid-sentence how dumb he sounds, and slumps back into the beanbag with a loud groan. “Oh, fuck you guys.”

Hyunjin snickers, flicking a stray lock of hair out of his face. “It’s okay, Ji,” he says mockingly, his tone dripping with faux sympathy. “We’re just impressed that Y/N did it so flawlessly. She’s like the fucking Ocean’s Eleven of frat house fuckery. She's wasted on you"

“She’s wasted on me?” Jisung retorts, sitting up straighter again. “You’re just jealous you don’t have a girlfriend to even try something like that with.”

“Oh, burn,” Felix mutters, grinning as Hyunjin raises an eyebrow, his smirk sharpening.

“Not jealous,” Hyunjin counters smoothly, his tone calm and cutting. “I’m just saying, if Y/N ever wants to stage a hostile takeover of, like, the world? I’d be her first investor.”

Chan nods, barely hiding his grin. “Honestly, Ji? I think we’re all a little scared of her now.”

“You should be,” Minho chimes in, lounging on the opposite couch with his legs stretched out. He tilts his head toward you, his smirk full of pride. “She’s terrifying. And brilliant. A dangerous combo.”

You take a slow sip of your coffee, glancing around the room with a small, satisfied smile. “Flattery will get you everywhere.”

Jisung groans loudly, burying his face in his hands. “Oh, my fucking god, stop inflating her ego!”

“Too late,” Jeongin says, laughing as he sits up. “It’s already huge. And honestly? Deserved.”

“Fucking traitors,” Jisung mutters, crossing his arms tightly over his chest like a sulking child. His silver hair sticks up in chaotic tufts, and his pout deepens as the laughter around him refuses to die down. Zak nudges Jisung’s leg with a cold, wet nose, his tail wagging furiously.

Jisung glances down, his expression softening slightly. “What? You need to go out?” he asks, his tone still tinged with exasperation.

Zak doesn’t bark, but his answer comes in the form of a wide, excited circle, his little body vibrating with uncontainable energy. Unfortunately, that energy is paired with something far less charming. As Zak zips around the room, a trail of golden piss sprays in his wake.

“Zak!” Jisung yells, sitting bolt upright as the puppy makes another lap, oblivious to the chaos he’s leaving behind. “No! No, no, no, stop!”

The room erupts into absolute pandemonium. Seungmin doubles over, clutching his stomach as tears stream down his face. Hyunjin falls off the arm of the couch. Felix has to grip the side of the couch for support as he gasps for air, his face red from laughing so hard.

“Oh my fucking god,” Seungmin chokes out, his voice high-pitched and wheezing. “Look at him go!”

“It’s like Fast and Furious: Puppy Piss Drift,” Changbin howls, barely managing to get the words out before another fit of laughter overtakes him.

You bury your face in your hands, your body shaking with uncontrollable laughter. Tears prick at the corners of your eyes as you try to catch your breath. “Jisung,” you manage between gasps, “this is your problem.”

Jisung groans, his head falling back in defeat. “This is your dog!” he exclaims, pointing an accusing finger at you. “You clean this shit up!”

Felix, still leaning against the couch arm, grins like the Cheshire Cat. “The poor girl can barely walk because you railed her for three hours last night, Jisung. You break the vagina? You clean the dog piss.”

“Facts,” Minho chimes in, his grin wicked as he sprawls across the opposite couch. “Do your fucking job, loser. Clean it up, piss boy.”

Jisung glares at Minho, muttering curses under his breath as he drags himself out of the beanbag chair. “You’re all assholes,” he grumbles, stomping toward the kitchen. He yanks a roll of paper towels and a bottle of antibacterial spray from the counter before stomping back into the living room, his expression pure misery.

Meanwhile, Chan scoops Zak up, cradling the wriggling puppy against his chest. “Come on, little guy,” he says soothingly, heading toward the back door. “Let’s go outside where peeing doesn’t make everyone hate you.”

Zak licks Chan’s chin in response, his tail wagging like he’s just won a prize.

Jisung crouches down, surveying the damage with a look of sheer horror. “Oh my god,” he says, his voice high-pitched with disbelief. “It’s everywhere. It’s in the fucking floorboards!”

This sets everyone off again. Minho nearly slides off his seat entirely, clutching at the armrest as he howls with laughter. “Scrub faster, piss boy!” he shouts, pointing at Jisung like a ringleader at a circus.

“Don’t forget the corners!” Jeongin adds, his grin so wide it looks painful. “You missed a spot near the couch.”

Hyunjin wipes tears from his eyes, his face flushed as he sits up from where he collapsed on the floor. “Just use the mop on your head,” he says, smirking. “That shit you call hair has to be good for something.”

Jisung pauses mid-scrub to glare at Hyunjin, his cheeks flushed with embarrassment and fury. “I hate all of you,” he mutters darkly, though the corners of his mouth twitch upward despite himself.

“You’re not even scrubbing hard enough,” Felix teases, leaning forward with a grin. “Put some fucking elbow grease into it. Come on, show us that stamina from last night.”

“Fuck you, Felix,” Jisung snaps, though his voice cracks slightly as laughter bubbles up unbidden. He shakes his head, muttering as he sprays more cleaner onto the floor. “You’re all dead to me. Every last one of you.”

“Aw, poor Jisung,” Chan says as he walks back into the room, Zak now happily sniffing a chew toy. “Don’t worry, we’ll give you a proper memorial after you die of shame.”

“You guys are lucky I’m still in this frat,” Jisung grumbles. “Otherwise, I’d burn this whole place down.”

Minho cackles, throwing an arm over Jeongin’s shoulder as he leans back. “You’d probably set yourself on fire in the process, piss boy.”

“You’re all dead to me,” Jisung mutters, spraying the floor with enough antibacterial cleaner to kill any and all germs within a ten-mile radius. He furiously scrubs at the puddle Zak left behind with a handful of paper towels, his movements sharp and exaggerated. “This is the worst fucking day of my life. My girlfriend, my girlfriend, deceived me, made me believe there were twenty-nine days in November, I lost No Nut November to Minho of all people, and now I’m on my hands and knees cleaning up my girlfriend’s dog’s piss. On my hands and knees, scrubbing up puppy piss. What the actual fuck.”

The room erupts into fresh laughter, Minho practically rolling off the couch as he gasps for air. Hyunjin leans back against the armrest, clutching his stomach as tears stream down his face. Jisung groans dramatically, spraying more cleaner onto the floor.

“Fuck all of you. I don’t deserve this. I should be in bed. But no, here I am, cleaning up Zak’s liquid fucking shame while you assholes laugh at my misery.”

Despite the grumbling, his eyes keep drifting toward you. You’re curled up on the couch, your legs tucked beneath you, wearing his oversized T-shirt like it’s made just for you. Your head is thrown back in laughter, your cheeks flushed, and your eyes crinkle at the corners every time Minho cracks another joke. The sound of your laugh fills the room, soft but bright, and something warm curls in Jisung’s chest, cutting through his annoyance.

He catches himself smiling, and it pisses him off even more, but not enough to stop. Each time he glances at you, his lips twitch upward, betraying the fondness he’s trying to keep under wraps. By the time he’s scrubbing at the last of the mess, his grumbles have turned into soft chuckles, and his scowl has softened into something undeniably warm.

“Jagiya,” he calls out, his voice carrying a teasing edge now, his earlier frustration melting away. “You’re lucky I fucking love you.”

You glance over, your smile widening as your eyes meet his. Mischief sparkles in your gaze, and you tilt your head. “Oh, I know,” you reply smoothly, your tone as smug as it is sweet.

Jisung shakes his head, chuckling under his breath as he scrubs at the final streak. “Fucking worth it,” he mutters to himself, his grin lingering as he watches you laugh again. You’re glowing, surrounded by the teasing chaos, and the sight makes his chest ache in the best way.

“I say we just blame Jisung,” Seungmin pipes up from the armchair, his face blank but his voice dripping with sarcasm. “If the house ends up smelling like piss forever, we just say Jisung lost his shit. Like, literally. Pissed everywhere in a fit of frustration.”

Hyunjin bursts out laughing, slapping the couch cushion beside him. “Yeah, like Jisung got so sexually frustrated during No Nut November that he just snapped. Whipped out his dick and started pissing on the floor.”

The room descends into chaos again, the laughter deafening as Minho gasps, “Marking his territory! Alpha Phi’s new mascot, Piss Boy!”

Felix doubles over, choking on his laughter. “Someone get him a leash! He and Zak can take turns on the fire hydrant.”

Jisung glares at them, his ears burning red. “You’re all fucking insane,” he says, throwing a crumpled paper towel at Felix, who barely dodges it.

“No, no, they’re right,” Changbin says, his grin wicked. “We just tell people Jisung got overwhelmed by the smell of sex in the house and decided to add his own.”

“Marking his territory,” Hyunjin repeats, wheezing. “God, I can’t breathe.”

Jisung huffs, sitting back on his heels and tossing the last paper towel into the trash bag. “You guys are seriously deranged.”

Minho smirks, crossing his arms. “Says the guy who just spent twenty minutes on his hands and knees cleaning piss. You’re our leader now, Piss Boy.”

The laughter continues, but Jisung’s attention drifts back to you. You’re doubled over, laughing so hard you can’t even form words, tears shining in your eyes. Despite the relentless teasing and the sheer absurdity of the situation, Jisung feels that same warmth bloom in his chest.

He sighs, pushing himself to his feet and tossing the cleaner back onto the counter and to wash his hands in the kitchen. “You’re all still assholes,” he mutters, walking over to plop down on the couch next to you. His arm loops lazily around your shoulders, pulling you close.

You lean into him, still giggling as you look up at him. “But you love us.”

He smirks, pressing a quick kiss to your temple. “Some more than others.”

This was supposed to come out at the end of November but got delayed so here it is now <3

General Taglist: @nightmarenyxx

[ellethespaceunicorn]

Sweet Redemption

Title: Sweet Redemption

Rating: Explicit, 18+, Minors - DNI

Pairing: Dennis Baker x Female!Reader

Word Count: 5.5K

Summary: You move into the neighborhood and meet Dennis Baker, a man in the middle of a divorce. Trying to keep yourself honest, you keep him at a distance. But you're drawn together after a mishap online. Will it end sweetly or on a sour note?

Warnings: ending of a marriage due to infidelity, nosy neighbors, slight social media stalking, alcohol consumption, premature ejaculation, oral sex (f receiving), unprotected p-in-v sex, creampie, hyperspermia, mention of bodily fluids

Beta: @peyton-warren

A/N: This all started as a dream, and no it wasn’t like a Stephanie Meyer situation. More like, I dreamt of Dennis cumming in his pants from getting too excited and then 5,000+ words fell out of my fingers. So, enjoy!!

Dividers by me

Support/Reblog banner by me

Cover Art by me

My Masterlist

It’s been the talk of the neighborhood. Mrs. Baker was moving out of the house she shared with Mr. Baker, and it was quite a messy ordeal. It was the stuff of trashy romance novels, but here it was in real life. The worst part was trying to sympathize with Mr. Baker losing his marriage. Of course, this was a sad thing, and you understood that he was distraught. But, ever since last summer at the neighborhood block party, you had been falling for Mr. ‘Please, call me Dennis’ Baker. 

You had just moved in and were excited to get out and meet your new neighbors. You met most of the cul-de-sac the day you moved in. But the Bakers seemed to keep to themselves, for the most part. 

At the block party, you made baked goods for everyone to enjoy. The first person to come and try your lemon bars was Mr. Baker. He stormed out of his house a few moments prior, and you tried to keep your eyes to yourself, but you couldn’t help but watch as he charged to a cooler holding beer and pulled out a fresh bottle. 

Using his shirt to cover the cap before he twisted it, you got a sneak peek of his washboard abs and happy trail. Tossing the bottle cap back into the cooler, he took a long pull of the hoppy liquid, swiping the bottle across his forehead to cool himself down. He took off his glasses to wipe off the sweat on his brow and put them back on, surveying the cul-de-sac.

As soon as he saw you, he seemed to be transfixed. He walked over to your lawn, where you had set up a little table with your lemon bars and some fresh, ice-cold lemonade. He reached over the table, offering his large hand for a handshake, and you loved having your hand in his, even if only for a moment. His grip was firm, and his smile was wide.

“You just moved in, yeah? I’m Dennis Baker. Welcome to the neighborhood,” he bantered, his gemstone-blue eyes sparkling in the sunlight.

“Thank you, Mr. Baker,” you mumbled, adding your name at the end.

“Nice to meet you. And please, call me Dennis,” he encouraged, looking down at the treats between you. “Lemon bars are my favorite.”

You lift the tray so he can take one. “Try one before Mrs. Johnson brings her grandkids over and there are none left,” you insisted, nodding to where the older woman was wrangling the kids.

He laughed, the sound tickling your eardrums. “I think you’re right, they look ravenous,” he joked, picking up one of the bars between his fingers and biting into the sweet yet tart delight. 

His eyes closed, a sinful moan escaping his lips as he finished. He sucked on his thumb and forefinger to get every last morsel of the delicacy, but a crumb stayed behind on his plump, pink lips.

You grabbed a napkin, and before you knew what you were doing, you dabbed at his lip to wipe away the offensive piece of shortbread crust. You froze, your hand gripping the napkin so close to his succulent mouth, ready to apologize for treating him like a messy child. But he saves you from your embarrassment.

“I swear, I am such a mess. My wife will tell you the same damn thing, I'm sure," he lamented, a nervous chuckle on his lips as he took the napkin from your hand and wiped his mouth.

“Dennis!” His wife stands outside their front door with her hands on her hips. Her ash blonde waves reflected the sunlight, but the fire in her eyes made you want to be swallowed up into the earth. 

“Speak of the devil, and she shall appear,” he mumbles lowly, just loud enough for you to catch what he said. “Um, thanks for the, uh, lemon bar. I’ll see you around, I guess.” He smiles at you, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes, and you immediately feel the urge to wrap your arms around him and tell him that everything will be ok.

Instead, you smile back politely and give a little wave. You watch him until he turns around to walk back to his house, busying yourself with pouring a cup of lemonade. You gulped the drink in one go, trying to soothe your suddenly dry mouth, when Mrs. Johnson walked over.

“Alright, kids. Take one lemon bar and go sit down in the shade, ok?” One by one, the three youngsters take a napkin and a lemon bar, and you pour each a glass of lemonade. Once they have their snacks, they walk back to sit under the shade of a tree. You almost forgot Mrs. Johnson was still there until she cleared her throat. “So, I see you met Mr. Baker. Easy with that one, honey.”

“I’m sorry?” you asked, knowing damn well what she meant.

“He’s married, child. Unhappily, but still very much married,” she began, shaking her head as she watched Dennis’ retreating form enter his front door. When she turned back around, she looked you right in the eyes and started to whisper. “Now, you didn’t hear this from me. But word on the street is they’re in the middle of a divorce because of infidelity. That hussy went and got mixed up with the pool boy, and poor Dennis was the last to know, of course. And I don’t mean to lecture you on who you should be drooling over, but I can’t help wanting to make sure you know what you are getting into, baby.”

“I’m not—I wasn’t drooling. We barely even spoke,” you stuttered, shaking your head.

“Mhm, okay. Just try your best to wait for the ink to dry on that divorce decree, alright?” She patted your hand that lay on the table, then walked back to her grandchildren.

‘Well, that was fun,’ you thought to yourself. You poured yourself another lemonade, took a sip, and peeked over the top of the cup to see the blinds closing quickly in the front window of the Baker house. Your heart fluttered in your chest, and you packed up your small table to take everything back inside. 

Over the last year, you heeded Mrs. Johnson’s warning and managed to keep Dennis at arm’s length. You greeted each other when you happened to check the mailbox at the same time, exchanged recipes when you bumped into one another at the grocery store, and even commented on the other’s social media posts. 

Speaking of social media, you noticed when Dennis cropped his wife out of a few photos. You hated to admit it, but you stalked his page more than once. It became a habit of yours to scroll through his posts now and then. He usually reposted articles about creative writing workshops and local beer tastings. You watched the evolution of his life from a man divorcing his wife to a man who looked forward to the future.

One night, while enjoying a glass of wine, you open your laptop and begin scrolling through your feed. You find yourself clicking on an article about online dating and pushing past the fear of putting yourself out there. As you reach the end of the piece, you click the thumbs-up button and are shown other names of friends who also liked it. And that’s when you see it.

‘Dennis Baker also liked this.’ 

So, it looked like Dennis was ready to move on. You chew your lip, thinking a million things all at once. You click out of the article and resume scrolling for the night. 

After about a half hour, you get up to refresh your chardonnay. As you pour a healthy glass, you hear a ‘ding’ come from your laptop. Returning to the couch, you set down your glass and pick up the computer. 

You search the screen for what could have made that sound, and you spot a notification in the corner. Clicking it reveals a pop-up that says, ‘Dennis Baker liked your photo.’. Clicking it again, you are shown the photo in question. It’s a selfie you took about three weeks ago when you and a few friends went to the beach. You smile at the camera lens and show off your skimpy two-piece bathing suit as you lay on a lounger.

This man liked your thirst trap from three weeks ago, at 10:36 pm on a Thursday. It could be a fluke, but it could be that this man stalks your page as well. You don’t have the chance to ponder it in-depth because you are startled by another ‘ding’.

This time, there is an alert from the Messenger app. 

‘You have a new message from Dennis Baker.’

You waste no time clicking the notification and are brought to the web-based messenger. 

Hey, what are the chances that my liking your photo just now isn’t creepy??

Not creepy at all 😉

Just unexpected

Then again, it is a thirst trap, guess it worked lol

Oh, it definitely worked 😁

And by that, I mean you take great selfies

You looked beautiful, I mean

I am shit at this, I’m sorry

You wish you could reach through the computer screen and cradle his face in your hands and tell him that everything is fine. But instead, you gush over him calling you beautiful, and try to lighten the mood.

No apologies necessary

And thank you for the compliment 😉

What are you up to tonight?

Besides flattering me ☺️

I was just taking a break from writing

Have a deadline coming up and my mind is a mess

Saw you were online, so I figured ‘why not’

Still getting used to a quiet house

I’m sorry

You have nothing to be sorry about, sweetheart

That responsibility belongs to my ex-wife

But enough about her, what are you doing up so late?

Just enjoying some wine 😉

And I also don’t like the quiet all the time

Sometimes you just want a body next to you

The chardonnay gave you some liquid courage, allowing you to say what you think.

I doubt that was an invitation

But

If you wanted, I wouldn’t mind the company

You could relax and have some wine

And I could get some writing done

Totally up to you

I would love the company as well

I’m sure Mrs. Johnson and the other old bitties would talk about us though

Let them talk, doesn’t bother me one bit

Mrs. Johnson doesn’t scare me

And either way, it’s our business

Not hers

Not that we have business

I’m shutting up now

‘A man this wonderful should never have to feel like he isn’t allowed to express himself,’ you thought to yourself. Plus, you know you wouldn’t exactly mind it if you and he did have some ‘business’.

I know what you mean

You don’t have to shut up lol

But I think I might go to bed in a bit

Yeah it is getting late

Do you want to exchange numbers?

No pressure, of course

Just figured it would be easier than this

Yeah that sounds great

You exchange numbers and smile at your phone before saving his contact and returning to your online chat.

Well, good luck writing

And don’t stay up too late 😉

I’ll try my best

Good night, sweetheart 😁

Good night, Dennis

You close your laptop and gulp down the rest of your wine. Well, so much for keeping him at arm’s length.

Throughout the next week, you and Dennis send texts back and forth from morning to midnight. You find out you have similar interests in movies and humor, but you differ in music and food tastes. Both of you love horror films and John Mulaney stand-up. You enjoy any music you could dance to and trying interesting new foods, while he likes easy listening and “nothing too spicy”.

Good morning and good night texts sandwich your other messages that range from fascinating to mundane. If you were honest with yourself, there were moments where you wish the texts would get a bit spicier. You didn’t want to force him into a conversation he wasn’t ready to have. Also, you didn’t want to assume he would ever want to have a conversation like that.

You invited Dennis over on Friday night; neither of you had plans, and you were feeling a bit on the lonely side since your friends all had significant others to hang out with. You get home from work, take a shower, and change into some comfy loungewear. 

Just as you are finishing your dinner dishes, you get a text from Dennis asking if he can head over. After sending a quick text to the affirmative, you set your phone on the counter. You’re drying your wine glass from dinner when your doorbell rings. You hang up your dish towel and go to answer the door.

You check your appearance in the mirror in the foyer and are pleased with yourself. Opening the door, you are greeted by a smiling Dennis who holds his laptop case in one hand and a bottle of your favorite red blend in the other. More wine!You step aside to let him into your house and note that he looks relaxed for once.

“I picked this up for you. I remember you saying that you liked it,” he says, giving you the bottle once he is in your living room. The self-satisfied smile on his face does nothing to quell the fire between your legs.

“Thank you, Dennis,” you beam, taking the bottle in one hand while the other squeezes his bicep. You’re surprised when he flexes under your grip, biting your lip and rushing to the kitchen to open the bottle.

“No problem, sweetheart. Mind if I get set up here on the couch?” He inquires, already sitting down and taking out his laptop.

“Yeah, that’s perfect. There’s an outlet for your charger on the wall next to the—”

“I got it!” He interjects, cutting you off and plugging in his charger. He sits again and starts to boot up his laptop, looking over at you and noticing you are having trouble opening the wine. 

He walks over to you, taking the bottle and corkscrew from your hands after wordlessly offering help. Effortlessly, he pops the cork on the bottle and pours you a healthy glass. You accept the wine, take a sip, and thank him for his help.

“Next time, just say that you need help. I’m not gonna think any less of you, sweetheart,” he reassures, smiling and rubbing a hand down your arm. 

You stand there looking up at him, wishing you weren’t intimidated by this normally unassuming man. Clearing your throat, you find your voice. 

“Come on, you told me you were gonna read me some of what you’re writing,” you probe, nodding to the couch.

“That’s right, I did say that,” he snorts, running a hand through his hair and walking back to the living room. “But, remember, I’m no Shakespeare. So, don’t expect this to be—”

“Dennis?” You cut him off, your hand going to his solid shoulder.

“Yeah?” His soft, aquamarine orbs move to you.

“Shut up and show me your work,” you insist, dropping your hand from his arm so you don’t accidentally ruffle his hair. He’s so cute when he’s pathetic and down on himself, but you would never tell him that. 

That nervous laugh of his is your absolute favorite; it never disappoints. 

“Alright, um, this one I’m working on is about the new brewery that opened up on Main Street a few months ago. It’s owned by this guy who used to own another brewery with friends, but one day he just decided to open this place. Anyway, uh, I’ll start here,” he begins, adjusting his glasses on his face.

Dennis launches into a tale about a brewmaster who decides to follow his dream of being the sole owner of a brewery, leaving behind his skeptical friends and doubtful family. Against all odds, he was able to find a building that was available for purchase in his budget. Along with help from a friend who was an interior designer, he created an inviting space where people could not only come to have a drink but also learn about the brewing process.

The way he wrote about the owner’s friends and family not believing in him sounded like he knew what it was like to be doubted, to be second-guessed. You sip from your glass while Dennis reads aloud, and you study him. 

He fidgets while he speaks, fingers smoothing over the keys until he uses the trackpad to scroll down to the next paragraph. While he scrolls, his tongue pokes out of his mouth to moisten his bottom lip. Now and then, he pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. 

He ends the story with some flowery words about overcoming odds, trusting your gut, and being your own biggest motivator. Had those words come from anyone else, you wouldn’t have believed them. But because you know what Dennis has gone through and have seen with your own eyes how he has persevered, you are drawn in by the words like a moth to a flame.

“So, come on. What is your honest opinion? I promise I won’t be offended,” he sighs, expecting the worst.

You’re unsure if you are drunk from the good wine or moved by his words. But instead of trying to figure it out, you drain your glass and set it on the coffee table. You then turn to Dennis and move his laptop to the coffee table as well; all the while he furrows his brow and waits to see what you’re up to.

You get up on your knees, move Dennis' clammy hands away from nervously rubbing his thighs, and climb onto his lap. His eyes widen, and you can tell he doesn’t know what to do as you invade his space. When you settle in straddling his legs, your hands go to his chest. You’re not surprised when firm pecs greet your palms or when a bulge twitches under your ass.

“Dennis, you are an amazing writer. I was hooked from the first sentence. I can tell how passionate you are about writing. Makes me wonder if you’re passionate like that in other areas,” you confess, licking your wine-stained lips and sliding your hands from his chest to rest on his shoulders.

His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows deeply before speaking. “Th—thank you, sweetheart. I mean, it’s just a puff piece I was working on. You should see what Nathan comes up with; he’s already a junior editor, and—”

“Dennis?” You cut him off, covering his mouth with your forefinger in a ‘shhh’ gesture. “With all due respect, I don’t care what Nathan does. I’m complimenting you, and you will accept it. When I move my finger from your lips, you will say, ‘Thank you’ and we will move on, ok?”

He nods quickly, his glasses sliding down his nose a bit. You remove your finger from his lips and adjust his glasses for him. 

“Thank you,” he murmurs, his hands at his sides and aching to touch you.

“Good boy,” you tease, biting your lip in a devilish grin. You notice his breathing quicken. And was that a whimper? A pink hue dusts his cheeks and the tips of his ears, and you realize he’s very much turned on. You are so mesmerized by how hot he looks that you are rendered speechless, allowing Dennis to take it the wrong way.

“I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean—”

This time, you cut off his words with a kiss. As soon as your mouths touch, you feel a slight flutter in your chest. It’s just a brush of lips, a fleeting second where you throw caution to the wind. But you’re convinced this is just the beginning.

Leaning back, you look into Dennis’ eyes. Searching for what, you don’t know. He lets out a breath, saying nothing while his hands remain at his sides. The moment stretches long enough that you begin to think that you fucked up.

You tremble, afraid that you may have crossed a line. “Fuck, I’m so sor—”

Now, it’s your turn to get cut off. His large hand raises to touch your cheek, his thumb on your lips. “Sweetheart, you have nothing to be sorry for. I’ve wanted to kiss you for so long, since that day at the block party. I can’t believe that you want me, too.”

Instead of responding, your hand grips his wrist, and you open your mouth to take the tip of his thumb between your lips. You suck on his thumb sinfully, watching as his pupils dilate. Swirling your tongue around his digit, you close your eyes and savor the little noises he makes.

As you let his thumb slip from your lips, you adjust yourself in his lap. The hardening length in his pants brushes against your ass. He hisses, a mixture of pleasure and pain on his face. You gyrate your hips slowly, setting a rhythm of teasing him before you lean in to nip and kiss his neck. 

His hands go to your waist, guiding you as you grind into him. “Is this ok, sweetheart?” 

“Mhm,” you murmur between the kisses you leave on his neck. 

His grip on you tightens momentarily, and he lets out a breathy groan. You feel his arms wrap around you, and he pulls you close, effectively stopping you from moving your hips any longer. Your arms encircle him, your hand tangling in his dishwater-blonde hair. 

You sit there, enveloped in each other until you realize Dennis just came in his pants. Lifting yourself, you spot the wet spot on his jeans. In place of feeling grossed out by the offensive patch of cum, you are even more aroused than you were while you rode his lap. You just made this man cum in his pants; you couldn’t be prouder.

“Good going, Dennis. You just came in your pants like a horny teenager. Maybe you do have a bad penis,” he says to himself, just loud enough for you to hear.

You ignore his negative self-talk and remove yourself from his grip, standing up before him. He looks so small as he sits there, and all you want to do is cuddle him like a hurt puppy. But rather than cuddle, you determine it’s your turn to cum with his help.

“Dennis, get up and follow me,” you order, already walking away. You hear his soft footfalls behind you, doing as he’s told.

Once you get to your bedroom, you sit at the edge of the bed and move yourself to lie back on your pillows. You instruct him to take off his jeans and lay next to you. He takes off all of his clothing, leaving his boxer briefs on to cover his softening cock.

When he is on the bed, he silently asks for permission to undress you by tucking his fingers in your bottoms. You nod, lying on your back, and he gets to work. Pulling down your leggings, he peppers your legs with kisses. With your pants off, he can see the small damp patch in your underwear and lets out a whimper. 

“Dennis, do you want to eat my pussy?” you hint, widening your legs.

“Yes, please, can I?” he pleads, smoothing a hand up your thigh.

“Finish undressing me and then lay down so I can ride that pretty face of yours,” you direct, smiling up at him as he hovers above you.

“Yes, sweetheart,” he replies, carefully helping you undress fully. He lays down, his head supported by one of your pillows. You face away from him, throwing one leg over his torso, scooting up until your vagina is just above his lips. “Take everything you need. Use me, sweetheart.”

Lowering yourself, you are met with his hot, wet mouth. He licks a stripe between your folds, splitting you down the middle. Once he gets to your soaked entrance, he laps up what nectar has accumulated there, moaning all the while. Your hands go to his abdomen to hold yourself up, marveling at how sculpted he is.

His hands grip your ass, opening you up so he can dive in further. The sloppy sounds of him slurping up your juices only serve to make you whimper and call out his name. He eats you out like it’s his dream come true, and you feel like the luckiest girl in the world.

His tongue swirls around your clit then flicks up and down on the sensitive bead until you’re a moaning mess. Your eyes lose focus for a second, and when you regain sight, you notice his hardening length. You watch his cock bob as you let out a particularly breathy whine.

When he changes tactics and sucks on your clit, you keen like a cat in heat. You can feel yourself reaching the point of no return quicker than you thought possible. He moans into your sex when you lean forward and palm him through his boxer briefs. Your hand can barely fit around it, and the sight alone has you pressing yourself further into Dennis’ mouth.

He begins to pump into your hand as you rub your soaked pussy up and down his face, taking what you need just like he said you could. With the way his mouth slides across your snatch, you’re getting beard burn, and you couldn’t give two shits. You fuck yourself on his tongue, your clit stimulated by his bottom lip. 

Within a handful of minutes, you’re gushing into his mouth, and he is drinking you down until you have nothing left to give. He lazily presses kisses to your outer labia as you catch your breath. When you can’t take anymore, he helps you lie down next to him.

He wraps his arms around you, soothing a hand down your arm as you come down from your high. You come back to yourself once you feel his hard dick slightly pressing into your hip. You say nothing at first until you realize he’s canting his hips and humping into you like a horny puppy.

You reach for his erection, slipping your hand into his underwear and stroking him. The tighter your grip, the louder he groans. You turn slightly to face him and help him remove his last article of clothing. His uncut cock is heavy as it hangs between you. It looks pretty, and you bet it tastes good, too. Licking your lips, you dip your head and lick the bead of precum that leaks from his shiny red tip.

The whimper that leaves his mouth is too precious. You can tell that if you use your mouth on him, he is bound to blow sooner rather than later. You take pity on him and lay on your back again, throwing your leg over his hip. 

“Need you to fuck me, Dennis. Need you so bad,” you beg, teasing his tip while it sits just under your heat.

“Are you sure, sweetheart? I don’t want you to feel pressured just because we’re naked in bed together,” he counters, courteous to a fault.

“I’m sure, Dennis. I want you. I need you,” you stress, pressing your hips into him.

“It’s okay. I’m right here, sweetheart,” he consoles, turning your head to capture your lips in a kiss. While you kiss, he pushes his tip between your folds, teasing your hole. He slips into your tight entrance, ramming forward until you take him in completely.

Letting you get used to the intrusion, he stills for a beat until you break the kiss. You nod, mutely imploring him to move. He gets the hint, pulling out until only his thick mushroom head is inside you before pushing back in. His grip around your waist tenses as he begins to fuck you in earnest.

Dragging moan after groan from you, he revels in the different noises you make. He whispers sweet nothings in your ear as his dick is squeezed by your cunt with every thrust. He pecks your cheek and neck, littering your warm skin with kisses.

As he continues to cuddlefuck you, you’ve never felt safer in a lover’s arms. He periodically asks if you’re okay as if he’s afraid that any false move will have you running for the hills. You hum in approval every time, unsure if your voice can articulate how amazing he makes you feel.

“So good for me, sweetheart. You were made for me. Hmm, I can’t get enough of you. You’re perfect. Every fucking inch of you, sweetheart. Even the parts of you that I don’t know about. I needed this. Needed you, sweetheart. Do you know how beautiful you are?” He babbles as he gets lost pumping inside you.

“Oh, Dennis. Dennis, I’m gonna cum. That’s it, right there,” you ramble, feeling your walls clamp down around his shaft. Your back arches, allowing him to go impossibly deeper. You realize no one has ever made you cum like this, and you bask in the afterglow for as long as you can as he fucks you through your orgasm.

“That’s my girl,” he praises, his hips stuttering as he chases his release. “Right behind you, sweetheart. Ugh, I’m gonna cum. Where-”

“Don’t you dare fucking pull out! Wanna feel you,” you insist, your hand going to his ass to stop him from withdrawing.

“Fuck! Fuck, here it comes,” he howls, stilling his hips as his dick twitches and releases rope after rope of cum inside you. He cums so much that it starts to leak out past his thick meat. “Shit, I can’t believe I’m still cumming, sweetheart. Just keeps going. Oh, God.” You can still feel him spurting cum inside you, and you’re sure that if you weren’t on birth control, he would be impregnating you right now.

As his cock finally softens, it slips free from you along with some of his thick load. Both of you are so tired from your coupling that instead of cleaning up, you remove the comforter from the bed and climb under the sheets. Dennis is the big spoon, attaching himself to you once you press your ass into him.

You sleep soundly that night, lulled by his heartbeat against your back.

After a few months, you make it official. Dennis is yours, and you are his. Neither of you can get enough of each other, and keeping this secret has had its struggles. But together, you could get through anything. Dennis was moving up in his career as a writer, and you were proud to say you made leaps and bounds in your job.

Attending the neighborhood’s Halloween party together, you are dressed as Gomez and Morticia Adams. The way Dennis dotes on you, kissing you every chance he can get, it is the perfect costume. Plus, he looked adorable in that pin-striped suit with his hair slicked back. You were no slouch in your floor-length black long-sleeved fitted dress.

You get some looks and a few smiles as well. But when Dennis makes a bathroom run, you are approached by Mrs. Johnson. She hugs you and chuckles to herself before stepping back and patting your growing tummy. Your eyes widen, and you wonder how she could tell when Dennis didn’t even know.

“So, when can we expect the pitter-patter of little feet?” She inquires, a soft smile on her face.

“I go to the doctor on Tuesday to find out. How the hell did you know?” You challenge, crossing your arms to cover your belly.

“You thought you two were slick, sneaking back and forth to each other’s houses since the summer. Me and the girls have been watching the way you two interact. That’s the look of people in love. Plus, your tits are so big right now they look like you’re smuggling two Christmas hams in that bra,” she laughs again, rubbing your arm when you frown slightly. “Don’t worry, child. That man loves you more than he ever loved that hussy he was married to. Keep doing what you’re doing, and we’ll soon be calling you ‘Mrs. Baker’.”

Dennis appears next to you, whisking you away to the dance floor. He twirls you around and makes you laugh with his terrible dance moves and goofy faces. Nothing makes him happier than making you happy, and vice versa. You two were truly made for each other, and nothing could separate you. 

But the best part? When you are about six months pregnant, you go grocery shopping, running into Dennis's ex-wife in the bread aisle. It's priceless to see the look of shock on her face when she realizes he's the father and your new husband. Life doesn’t get much better than that. 

Dear Life,

Thanks for the lemons!

Sincerely,

The Bakers

A/N: First time writing for Dennis, and I don’t think this will be that last. Please let me know what you think!! I hope you all enjoyed this nutty little story. Sorry for the lemon puns!

**Tag List**

@cevansbaby-dove @startcarvingdarling @iwudbutnah @thezombieprostitute @thabiddie23

@whiskeytangofoxtrot555

[luvtak]

be my valentine, hhj x reader

✧ genre/tw brain melting fluff, just a little moment of being in love with hyunjin and accidently getting covered in paint, kissing, petnames, unedited.

✧ w/c 1156

✧ a/n ginger write something other than fluff challenged: failed. i wrote this inspired by the song valentine by inhaler and the way it makes me feel as well as the fact that hyunie deserves to have a very sweet love story <3 i hope you like it!!

Looking at him was as painful as the song’s he chose: he was so bright and incandescent that even in small domestic moments like this one,  filled your life with an almost harmful glow. Like a star, he was burning fast and bright and sometimes it felt like he would burn right through you. 

He was gorgeous and funny, and he was all yours. 

It’s an interesting thought, the fact that this independent and lone star would see you and pick you out of a million souls. An unforgettable moment, the way his eyes glanced down at you when he asked to dance–sultry and cool, and unbelievably sweet. 

He looks a bit like that now; paint covering his lifted hands, sweeping over the plains of his cheek to swipe the dark hair out of his eyes. Glancing at you over his painting, a work in progress you were not allowed to see–a valentines present, he said. The look gleaming off him pressed an ache right into your tummy.

 Gazing at him always felt like a gut punch; A tornado of butterflies reaching from his outstretched hands right into your middle. 

The music playing from his phone is melancholy, a slight betrayal to the smile eclipsing his lovely face. As it plays, he sings along, following the woeful melody with that out of place grin. 

“Hyunie, why are you always listening to such sad songs?” it’s a question you’ve asked a hundred times, and always received a different answer, but this time he only shrugs. You know it's hard for him to respond when he’s painting–focused only on the glide of his brush and the mixing of colors. Reds, blues, greens, etc. shades ranging everywhere from chartreuse to periwinkle, mixing and matching with a wave of his hand. 

“Sad songs are only sad if you are,” he answers late. “Like this one, only the melody is sad, the rest is happy.” 

You try to listen closer, see the music from his eyes, but ultimately the ballad still feels melancholy. Lilting notes piling on top of each other and easing the words, it reminds you of him… the graceful way it speeds up and slows down ; passionate and intimate, beautiful and sad. 

Being unable to admit this to him, you smile, the kind of smile that turns Hyunjin’s knees to jelly and stomach to storms. Secretly, he loves you the most this way: cozy and undone. He has sketches piled up of these moments, you with a book/you cloud watching/laughing with your friends. He adores you, even if he can tell that you don’t like his songs, that you think they’re too sad and wilty. You’re a crescendo of a person, loud and certain, and the music you like follows that. But he can’t help but love you more for listening to him, cuddled up on that tiny chair (surely uncomfortable) just so he can have a bit of company. 

“You look so pretty over there, sweetheart.” Shocked by the shift in his tone you release a nervous giggle and you can feel yourself beginning to warm up. Not like this is unusual behavior for your boyfriend–he’s romantic and glaringly in love with you always, but something about the environment… this tiny room, this beautiful boy (hair pushed back, smile blazing) sends shivers down your spine. 

Laughing, he sets his paintbrush down and wipes his paint-stricken hands off before moving closer. Only taking four steps before he’s in front of you, hands going to your face, hovering gently over the skin of your cheekbones. He never presses down, afraid to dirty your skin with the still green paint on his palms, but the way he’s looking at you gives the illusion that he’s touching you. Raking over your features like a starving man in a desert, lifting from your lips back up to your wide eyes. 

He’s consuming you and yet he’s done nothing. 

You can feel the heat of him, warm palms heating your face almost as much as your nerves. You’ve been together so long now, spent days and months and years becoming intimately aware of his body heat, yet you still feel that familiar shyness creeping up–leading to you biting the side of cheek in hopes of lessening the nerves. 

It’s only when he sees this, you so flustered in front of him, that his hands settle over the side of your jaw. Protective and gentle in his hold, and his crescent shaped eyes smiling at you. Calloused fingers rubbing down your neck, slowly to ease your butterflies. 

“I have them too.” he whispers, and your hands come to his chest, sitting where you know his heart is; beating quicker than you thought possible. How is it that you’re both so nervous? You’ve loved and lost together, know each other more intimately than anyone before, and yet just the sight of him conjures up the nastiest case of jitters. “Gimme a kiss, my love.” He giggled. 

You kiss him once, twice, then three times–kisses that are barely there, mostly just smiles pressed together, lips slightly entwined before releasing–until his hands snake around your waist and pull you closer. Your bodies held against each other like magnets, so close and yet never close enough. He kisses you slowly this time, taking control and easing you into it, lips lingering on yours before moving. Like all things, his kiss is sweet, and he tastes like the dessert you shared earlier: sugary and tart. 

When you move away, foreheads pressed together and lungs heaving, his eyes are still closed. And for one moment you can truly see what you do to him–leaving him breathless and rosy. When his eyes open, hazy and lovestruck, you can’t help but to tell him: 

“Hyunjin, you’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.” your voice is hoarse, heart racing inside your chest and you love him. You love him so much you can’t be mad about that paint on your skin, or the uncomfortable itch of his hair scratching your cheeks. 

In response he takes your hand from his shoulder and kisses your palm, right over your love line. High and close to your pinky, you read once that meant you’d have an intense and passionate relationship… maybe it was silly, but you can’t help thinking it must be true, and what a wonderful thought that is. That from the minute you were born you were destined for him; meant to grow up and meet him, to love and be loved in the truest fashion. 

You hope it’s true. 

He kisses you again before going back to his painting, shyly laughing at the sight of you disheveled and covered in paint. He locks in again, focused on colors and shapes, and looks at you one more time, cuddled up and still reeling from the affection, and smiles brighter than any star as he tells you, 

“You’re the most beautiful too.” 

© LUVTAK

[lovebugism]

OK the fall prompt "rainy walks" got me thinking like... what if reader got upset about something and went for a walk and got caught in the rain, and ended up running into Steve who is just out walking and loving the fall gloomy vibe

ty for requesting! — steve runs into his ex while trying to escape a bunch of freaks and finds out you're running from something of your own (exes to lovers, hurt/comfort, tw mentions of toxic relationships, 1.9k)

fictober (㇏(•̀ᵥᵥ•́)ノ)

Steve doesn’t usually smoke. He dropped that habit when he graduated high school and realized he only needed a cigarette when his group of asshole friends were around. He smoked because it felt cool mostly, but also because it felt good to be distracted from his lingering feelings of non-belonging.

Now he’s got people around him who make him feel like he belongs. 

It’s too bad they’re all a bunch of freaks.

After being cooped up in the Munson trailer all day, he thinks he’s developed something short of cabin fever. Desperate to get away, he swiped one of Eddie’s cigs and a forgotten zippo before heading out to smoke on the back porch.

He exhales grey smoke from his pink lips. It leaves in invisible wisps beneath heavy storm clouds. He thinks he hears a voice over the muffled sound of Dustin Henderson’s yelling. “Fucking asshole— who do you think you are?” the voice speaks, familiar in a way that makes his stomach ache. “Like, fuck you, dude. You don’t get to talk to me like that. No fucking way.”

He peeks around the corner, and there he finds you — an old ex from a lifetime ago that he hasn’t quite gotten over yet. His chest starts to tighten. He can’t tell if he’s happy to see you or utterly horrified.

You’re still dressed in your pajamas despite it being early afternoon — if an oversized t-shirt that certainly doesn’t belong to you can be counted as pajamas, anyway. It’s a white and red Metallica tee that falls to your knees, slightly frayed at the hem. 

It probably belonged to Billy before it belonged to you. If Steve had to guess, you probably stole it like you did all his shirts. He still isn’t sure what came of his favorite Hawkins Tigers sweatshirt.

You come down the road from the Hargrove-Mayfield trailer, looking like you left in a rush. You’re barely dressed and shivering in the cold, walking fast like you’re angry and desperate to get away.

You and Steve broke up a long time ago, but his heart still swells with the familiar urge to protect you.

“Are you okay?” Steve calls to you as he rounds the corner of the Munson trailer.

The crunchinggravel beneath your feet goes quiet when you still. Your head whips toward the sound of the familiar voice, eyes widening when you find Steve there. Your heart starts to race — not because you’ve just run into your ex, but because you’ve run into your ex who you kinda sorta ditched several months ago.

“Huh?”

“I asked if you were okay,” he repeats with a quiet, lopsided grin. He flicks the end of his cigarette with his thumb and tries to meet your gaze. “Sounded like you were giving someone a hell of a talking to.”

Your face flares with embarrassment. You shift your weight on your feet and cross your arms over your chest — partly to shield from the crisp cold but mostly to comfort yourself. “Yeah. I’m just— I was just talking to myself,” you stammer, flashing a wavering smile that doesn’t meet your eyes. “I’m good.”

Steve nods, then squints like he doesn’t believe you. “Okay… Are you sure?”

A laugh tumbles from your mouth. It’s cynical and bitter and utterly forced.

“Yes, Steve. I’m fine,” you assure with a bite to your tone, colder than the grey autumn around you. You smile through it anyway, like you’re trying to convince yourself just as much as him. “You don’t have to worry about me anymore. You’re not my boyfriend.”

Steve knows this. He hasn’t been your boyfriend for a while, but something about the way you say it makes his chest ache. He isn’t sure why.

“No, I know,” he nods quickly, shrugging with his brows pinched. “But I’m never gonna, like, not worry about you, you know?”

The empty feeling in your chest starts to warm. Your nails dig crescent shapes into your arms.

“Why?” you murmur.

“I don’t know. Because you were really important to me, I guess— you are really important to me. And that doesn’t just, like… go away,” Steve rambles, shier than you’ve ever seen him. He swipes an anxious hand through his cinnamon locks. The rouge strands hanging over his forehead fall back into place a second later.

Even though your boyfriend forced you not to talk to any of your friends, he wants to say. Even though you’re not mine anymore.

It’s been so long since someone’s been this soft with you. You’re not used to it anymore. You’d much rather him be mean because at least then you’d have a place to put all your anger.

“That’s… That’s nice,” you mutter under your breath like an idiot because you don’t know what else to say.

Steve takes one last puff of his cigarette, if only to distract himself from the awkward silence. He takes a deep breath in and tosses the stick to the gravel, exhaling the smoke as he snuffs out the ash with his sneaker.

“Where were you, uh— Where were you headed?”

“Nowhere. I was just… on my way back home.”

His brows furrow. He doesn’t bother to hide his concern. “Do you have a car?”

“Nope,” you answer with a sigh. “Still don’t have my license, so…”

“Still?”

You nod, scrunching your nose all sheepish. “I know…”

“We used to practice all the time!”

Steve’s golden laugh makes you smile despite yourself. “Honestly, I’m still a little scarred from when I almost hit that deer.”

He nods at the memory, quietly nostalgic and warm with it. 

That was on the way to Deep Green Cove, where the two of you were headed to meet his parents at their over-the-top lake house. He let you drive because he knew you’d been wanting to and thought the vacant countryside road would be easiest for you to practice on.

It hadn’t been.

And you did it all for nothing because his parents didn’t even show.

It was a good weekend, though. He can’t believe he forgot about it until now.

“Yeah, that’s fair, I guess,” Steve shrugs with his head tilted to his shoulder. “It took me three days to get you in the car again.”

“I’m pretty sure I cried, like, all night after that.”

“Yeah, my t-shirt still has tear stains on it, actually,” he teases with a boyish chuckle.

Your own giggle sputters from your mouth. You hide it with your palm — like you feel guilty about it. It feels good to laugh, though. To remember that you used to cry over stupid stuff like that and not shit that actually breaks your heart.

A fat raindrop plops cold on your shoulder. You wince. “Oh, fuck— I gotta go.”

“Let me take you,” Steve offers without thinking twice.

You stumble back when he steps towards you, shaking your head to dismiss him. “No. It’s okay.”

“C’mon. Just let me drive you home—”

“I’m fine.”

“I’m not letting you walk in the rain.”

“It’ll be okay—”

“You’ll freeze.”

You scoff a bitter laugh. “It’ll be better than what Billy does to me if he finds out I was alone with Steve The Hair Harrington.”

You say it like it’s a joke, and it isn’t, really, but Steve isn’t laughing anyway. His chiseled features twist in concern, like your words have somehow pained him. “What do you mean?”

“Nothing,” you answer, perhaps too quickly, laughing as you shake your head. “It was just— It was a stupid joke. I’m just being dramatic.”

“Are you saying he’ll hit you?” he wonders in a quiet murmur, far too somber than you’d like.

“No— what? No!” you stammer quickly, face as screwed up as his scruffy one. You start to ramble before you realize it. “Billy isn’t like that, okay? He’s just— He’s a fucking baby, and he’s dramatic, and I’d love to go one day without being fucking gaslit. That’s all. I’d rather just freeze on my ten-minute walk back home than have him berate me about hanging out with my ex.”

A few more raindrops fall. Spots of ashy gravel turn to a darker shade of grey. 

Steve grows quiet, letting the gentle cadence of water on tin roofs fill the silence. His chest aches all over again. He can’t decide if he’s sad for you or angry at Billy or grieving that he ever let you go in the first place. Maybe a mix of all three.

His hands tremble with the intensity of the swirling emotions, but it’s still in his nature to be soft with you.

“Do you wanna come inside?” he wonders, nodding back towards the trailer.

“To Eddie’s?”

“Yeah.”

“…No,” you answer with the shake of your head, face twisted like the offer offends you. It does, but only because you’re almost sure Eddie hates you now. You wouldn’t blame him if he did. If your best friend chose some asshole over you, you’d hate them too.

“No?”

“I haven’t talked to him in forever— I haven’t talked to any of you in forever.”

“It’s okay,” Steve nods, so gentle it makes you writhe.

“No, it’s not, Steve. I ditched all of you. I was awful to you.”

You don’t want his gentleness. You want him to hate you. You don’t deserve his warmth or the one inside Eddie’s trailer, practically aglow with the laughter of all the friends you left behind. You deserve the isolation. You deserve to stand in the rain and freeze.

“It’s okay,” he repeats, a newfound insistence in his tone like he wants you to really hear him. His bushy brows raise and his honey eyes sparkle, golden even in the grey. “We know why. We know it’s not your fault.”

You falter, swallowing through a closing throat. “You do?”

“Yeah. And we don’t— we don’t blame you for it, okay? For any of it. We miss you, actually.”

The crooked pink grin he flashes should comfort you, but it only makes you shrink inside yourself. “You’re just saying that,” you murmur, disbelieving and dripping with self-loathe.

“Ask Robin if you don’t believe me,” Steve tells you, smiling wider now. “Actually, she was just talking about how making fun of me isn’t as fun without you.”

You don’t want to believe him, but you glow with the faint hope that he’s telling the truth, anyway. 

“Really?”

“Really,” the boy nods, then grimaces when the light rain grows suddenly heavier. His brows scrunch as he holds out an arm towards you. “Screw your boyfriend, okay? Just come inside. We can take care of everything else after.”

You want so desperately to take the hand he holds out for you. Your fingers twitch at your side with the longing to hold him, but you don’t let yourself — even though it goes against all your human instincts not to. 

You’re made slightly braver than he had said we. “We can take care of that later,” he’d promised, a subtle assurance that you aren’t as alone in all this as you feel. But you often feel like you’re a black hole at times — you don’t want to suck anyone else into the mess you’re in.

“I don’t know…” you waver, teeth threatening to chatter when a breeze makes the rain colder.

“C’mon, before both of us get soaked—” Steve laughs when it starts to rain harder. All the clouds begin to pour at once. You rush to him before you can think twice about it. His palm is warm at the small of your back when he ushers you towards the trailer.

Beneath the high-pitched squeaking of the screen door, you hear Steve mumble behind you. “Dustin’s gonna fucking flip when he sees you.”

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

the girl next door 27

Warnings: this fic will include elements, some dark, such as age gap, manipulation, chronic illness, noncon/dubcon, coercion, and other untagged triggers. Please take this into account before proceeding. It is up to curate your online consumption safely.

Summary: A new neighbour moves in and upends your already disarrayed life.

Author’s Note: Please feel free to leave some feedback, reblog, and jump into my asks. I’m always happy to discuss with you and riff on idea. As always, you are cherished and adored! Stay safe, be kind, and treat yourself.

This lewk but silverfox

“Holly,” Steve approaches your mother, “hey, did you use your inhaler?” 

Your mom drones and tries to shoo him away weakly, “sleeping.” 

“Honey,” he sickens the sweetness in his voice, “we need to make sure you’re keeping up on your meds.” 

“I told ya, leave me alone,” she swings her arm out, her eyes closed as she reclines against the cushy sectional. 

Steve catches her wrist and squeezes. Your mom winces and cries out, her eyes snapping open, “that’s not how you talk to your husband. Now, honey,” he bends down to look her in the face, “is this how you want to start our marriage or do you want to get up and take your medicine like a big girl?” 

His tone has chills coursing through you. He’s angry and you suspect not only at your mom. He has to understand, her illness makes her irritable. 

“Ow, ooh, I will,” your mom sits up, “I’m sorry, I...” her eyes search around frantically, “she was supposed to get them for me.” 

“Mm,” he lets her go, almost shoving her arm away from him as he stands straight. As he turns to face you, you cower. “I’ll get it," he snarls. 

He marches toward you and for a moment, you think he might grab you too. You barely get out of his way as he storms past you. You turn and hug yourself as he goes out the door and you watch after him as he charges out the gate. 

You raise your shoulders almost to your ears as you face your mom, “I’m sorry--” 

“Just go away,” she falls back and sniffles, “you’re ruining everything.” She sighs tragically, “he isn’t like this when you’re not around. You just--” she growls and shakes her head, hiding under her hand, “you get in everyone’s way.” 

Your lip trembles and your eyes tinge. You don’t know what you did. You’ve ruined everyone’s day without even trying. 

She groans and sits forward, shaking her head as she strains to reach the coffee you left for her. You rush over to help her and put it in her reaching hands. She sneers over the brim and tastes it. 

“It’s cold,” she snarls. 

“You were sleeping--” 

“So?” She spits and sloshes it towards you, then puffs in exasperation as it spills down her fingers, “why are you always making such a mess?” She starts to shake intensely, “god, take it, take it!” You take the cup as she cries shrilly, “look at what you did!” 

“Mom, I’m sorry.” 

“Get away from me right now,” she snaps and falls back again, crossing her arms over her head. She begins to weep as her body convulses, “you don’t know what it’s like to be so sick. You just... do nothing and stare at me.” 

You back up as the front door opens as Steve returns. You look over at him with the dripping coffee cup. He looks slightly confused as he nears your mom on the couch. 

“Honey, what’s going on?” 

“Oh, Steve,” she moans, “I feel so bad.” 

“Well, of course you do,” his tenor remains rigid, “you didn’t take your meds. You gotta start keeping track.” He sets down her inhaler and a bottle of pills. He hooks his arms around her and makes her sit up. “So, you’re going to take your medicine and stop whining.” 

“It’s not my fault,” she whimpers. 

“Just take it,” he huffs as he swipes up her inhaler and holds it before her. 

She shakily reaches for it and you back away, suffocating in the thick air. You turn and go to the kitchen. You dump the coffee down the sink and wash the mug and your hands. You put it back where you found it and close the cupboard. 

“Hey, sweetie,” Steve startles you as much with his sudden appearance as with his change in tone. “Mom’s all taken care of. We’ll give her a little to let it kick in then we can have a nice pool day. Together.” 

You look at him with wide eyes. What? 

“Oh, you know, I left everything in the car, wanna help me with it?” 

“The car?” You wonder aloud as you glance back and forth. 

“Yeah, grabbed a few things on my way back,” he says, “so, you think you can do the heavy lifting for me?” You blink and he chuckles, “kidding, just a few shopping bags.” 

“Ah,” you exhale and nod. “Sure.” 

You slowly cross the tile and he gestures for you to go ahead of him. He follows and as you pass the living room, your mother slouches down, head hanging forward as she grumbles. You go out into the sunshine and trod along the straight path to the gate. You go around to Steve’s car as he pops the trunk with the button on his keys. 

“I needed a few things for the house, you know? Make it more homey for all of us,” he explains as he grabs two bags, “and I may have made some impulse purchases.” 

“Oh,” you grab the other two bags and lift them out. 

“Well, aren’t you curious? Maybe I got you a surprise,” he suggests. 

“You did?” 

“You’ll just have to wait and see, huh? Wouldn’t be a surprise if I just told you.” 

“Yeah, I guess,” you agree. 

Again, he waits for you to lead. You go back to the house and peek over as you pass the living room. Your mom’s eyes are closed again. You slow as you near the kitchen. 

“Um...” you stop and look around as Steve barely keeps from colliding with you. 

“In the dining room, we’ll sort it at the table.” 

“Oh, okay.” 

You veer through the archway and set the bags on the polished wood. He does the same, standing close as he opens the top of a paper bag. He reaches inside as he smiles. You’re confused. A few minutes ago he was so angry and now, it’s like nothing even happened. 

“You like this?” He takes out a light switch cover with daisies on it, “figured we could doll up your room a bit. It reminded me of you.” 

“Oh sure,” you shrug. 

“And I got some more bedding, just so you have some extra. I know the bed here is bigger than yours but just thought we could toss the old one,” he takes out a package with pink polka dot sheets. “Hope you like them.” 

“Pretty,” you comment. 

“And this was pretty neat,” he takes out something bigger. It’s a little lamp shaped like a tulip, “you like flowers.” 

“Yeah, I... do.” You look at the bags and peer inside one. “Is there anything for mom?” 

“Of course,” he scoffs, “but sweetie, we can show her later. There is one big surprise...” he looks at each bag, “that one.” 

He points and you look at the bag near the edge of the table. You pull it closer and open the top warily. You peer into it and frown. 

“It’s pink!” He gives a hint. 

You see pink and white checkers to the bottom of the bag. You reach and grasp the fabric and lift it out. You let it hang from your fingers and bring your other hand up to examine it. It’s a bikini top, a halter cut with knots behind the neck and around the front of the chest. You just stare at it. 

“You said you didn’t have a suit so I got you one,” he announces proudly and reaches into the bag as he steps closer, “so you can have a swim.” 

He pulls out the other piece. The bottoms don’t offer much more coverage, the sides tied in a similar fashion at the top. You teethe your lip. 

“Um, I don’t know if it’ll fit.” 

“It should,” he looks at the fabric, “I did my best to estimate but... well, only one way to find out.”You glance up at him and bat your lashes, “gotta try it on,” he beams. 

You gulp and he holds out the bottoms. You reluctantly accept them and press them in your hands with the top. You lower your chin and back up. 

“Ummm,” you murmur. You don’t want to seem ungrateful. Your mother’s chides ring behind your ears as your mouth goes gritty and dry like sand, “thank you.” 

“Why don’t you get it on and I’ll get mom out on the deck. I think the sunshine will do her well.” 

“Okay,” you babble. 

You retreat with numb steps, staring at the bikini. You only ever wore one pieces but you hadn’t had a bathing suit since middle school. You walk down the hall to the half-bath and lock yourself in. You can lie and say it doesn’t fit. No, you’re not good at fibbing and he did go to all that trouble. 

It takes a few minutes to make yourself undress and even longer to get into the suit. You notice the top is a larger than the bottoms. The latter are easy enough but the top is weird and you have to retie the top knot behind your neck several times until you feel relatively secure. You refuse a look in the mirror as you adjust the fabric around your chest. Ugh! Stupid things. 

“Sweetie,” a gentle tap sounds at the door. “You okay? Need some help?” 

“No,” you call back, “I’m... okay.” 

“Does it fit?” 

“I think,” you reply. 

“Well, can I see? Best to get a second opinion right?” He says. 

“I... uh,” you stammer. The idea of anyone, not just him, seeing you, has you on fire. Maybe if he sees how bad it looks, he’ll let you just go in your room and never come out. “Alright.” 

Your fingers are clumsy as you unlock the door handle. You pull it open slowly and peek out through the narrow slit. Steve stands against the wall, waiting. He smiles. 

“It’s all good, sweetie, just me,” he puts his hands up. 

“Um, alright, I don’t... I don’t think it’s right.” 

You step out, one leg, then half your body, now the full view. You stand in front of the door, still slightly inside the bathroom. You look up at the ceiling as you hear the breath flow from him. 

“Oh wow,” he utters. 

“I know, it’s too small.” 

“Sweetie,” he says, “it looks great on you.” He shifts on his feet, “I just gotta get my trunks on, how about I meet you out there?” 

You keep your eyes past him, too embarrassed to make eye contact. You nod and turn back to grab your clothes, hugging them against you as you come back out. You tiptoe down the hall away from him. 

“Don’t forget sunscreen, sweetie, I left some out there. Let me know if you need me to get your back.” 

“Kay,” you toss over your shoulder as you hurry away. If you stay in the water, you’ll be fine. 

[moremaybank]

SOMETHING STUPID — s.h

pairing steve harrington x fem!reader

summary steve's overwhelmed by the love he feels for you and blurts out a question he can't take back. he's sure you'll think he's crazy, but do you?

warnings language, but it's basically just a whole lotta fluff and steve being the cute cutie he is

author's note did i pull inspo from haley’s dad’s speech in oth?? hell yes. also, i'm really happy with how this turned out, not gonna lie. please read if you have the chance, it'll make my day ♡︎

steve masterlist

When Steve steps through the door after work with an exhausted sigh, he’s pleasantly surprised. He’s spent his entire life coming home to an empty house, always filled with a blaring silence that acted as a daunting reminder of how lonely he felt deep down inside. There was never anyone around to ask him how his day was. What was going on in his life, or if he was happy — and not the phoney kind. 

He’s so used to weathering the storm on his own, day in and day out, that he’s completely forgotten someone will be there for him this time. The previously empty home is now occupied by you and your bright, loving energy. The quiet was replaced with your music bouncing off the walls. You’re active in the mostly untouched kitchen, baking to your heart’s content and constantly stuffing your Stevie’s face full of sweets. 

Steve finally feels as if he truly has a home, and not just a place where he stores his belongings and rests his head at night. 

He makes his way through the halls, finally reaching the entryway to the kitchen and leaning against the doorframe. The dimmed lights glow throughout the room, and the artfully scattered candles burn brightly in the darkened space. Further adding to the already homey atmosphere, the sweet aroma of fresh baked goods fills the air, thanks to the chocolate chip cookies you have baking in the oven. Even with all of this going on, though, Steve can only seem to focus on one thing. 

You. 

Your frilled socks glide against the kitchen floor as you jump and twirl around on the tiles. The sound of Say You Love Me by Fleetwood Mac quells the silence, your record player turned up the highest it can go (because, in your professional opinion, there was no other way to listen to music). You pull out your signature dance moves, screwing your eyes shut and kicking your legs in the air so many times that Steve fears you’re in an imaginary fight with someone — and losing. Terribly. He also takes notice of the spatula in your hand, acting as a stand-in microphone while you lip-sync along to the lyrics. 

You’re a goofball, through and through. Still, though, Steve is utterly smitten.

“Sweet moves, baby,” he says, loud enough to be heard over the music. 

Your eyes go wide as your body stills, completely mortified that Steve has caught you in your own little world. You turn the music down, swiping the stray hairs away from your slightly sticky forehead and clearing your throat. 

“Steve! H-hey. I was just, uh…cleaning the floors. You know, makin’ them all nice and shiny for you,” you laugh uneasily. It’s complete crap and you both know it, but you’re desperate. Frankly, you’ll say anything if it means distracting Steve from this whole performing your own world tour in the middle of the kitchen thing. 

Steve cocks a brow, tongue poking his cheek as he tries to hide the grin that threatens to come into view. “Hm,” he hums, “cleaning the floors, huh?”

“Yup.”

“…With your socks?”

“Yeah,” you breathe, still slightly breathless, “It’s a…great way to incorporate exercise into daily household chores.”

Steve tries to stop it, but he can’t help but let a laugh escape from his lips. He walks over to you, arms wide open and ready to encircle around you. “C’mere, you goof. Gimme some sugar.”

You break out into a grin, happily stepping into your boyfriend’s embrace and giving him a tight hug. You feel his hands smooth down your back before wrapping around your waist and holding you tighter to him. After a moment, you pull away, and your hands come up to his face so you can press your lips to his. He hums into the kiss contently, melting into the touch he’s been longing all day for. 

“Missed you so much,” Steve pouts, his bottom lip jutting out adorably. 

“I missed you too,” you reply, granting him another kiss. “How was your day?”

Before Steve can answer, Say You Love Me comes to a stop, and the soft sounds of Landslide begin to bleed into the silence. Choosing to let you enjoy your favourite song, Steve shrugs it off, “We can talk about that later, wanna dance with you.”

Steve extends his hand toward you, silently asking for you to join your hand in his. You smile, sliding your palm into his and letting him pull you to his chest. He keeps his other hand on the small of your back, and your free arm curls around his shoulder as the two of you begin to sway together in time with the music. Steve feels you nuzzle your face into the crook of his neck and relax further into his hold, and he lets the voice of Stevie Nicks wrap around you both like a warm blanket as he holds you. 

The two of you sway back and forth, taking a peaceful moment to feel your hearts beat against one another. Steve never wants to let go. This is the closest and most intimate he’s ever felt with anyone, and that should scare him, he thinks. But it doesn’t, because being with you feels like heaven on earth. He can’t believe that he’s found someone who makes his heart soar the way you do. Who makes him smile so hard his cheeks hurt, and gives him a love so deep and true that it’s become a vital part of him. Just thinking of you makes his knees weak.

He’s completely enamoured by you.

“What are you thinking about?” You ask, breaking him free from his thoughts as you pull away from his grasp slightly. 

Steve looks down at you, remaining silent, and his gaze flashes over your features. The kind eyes he feels he’s always known. The tiny scar near your temple from where you’d gotten stitches as a child. The curve of your lips and how he swears he can feel them gliding over his own every single time he thinks about them. He then moved onto the oversized t-shirt your body is clad in — one you’d obviously stolen out of his closet, and the pair of boxers hanging from your hips (also swiped from his wardrobe). Your aforementioned frilly socks pulled your signature at-home look together, one that brought an incredible amount of comfort to Steve. It shows him that you consider his home to be your home too. That you’ve found a home in him, just as he has with you.

He can see himself doing this whole life thing with you forever, and he can’t explain it, but he suddenly feels compelled to speak up, and the words tumble from his lips before he can stop them. 

“Do you wanna get married?” 

Your head shoots up, and you peer up at him with a look of shock. “I’m sorry, w-what?”

Steve’s eyes threaten to bulge out of their sockets, and his heart rate skyrockets as the panic waves through him. “Oh god, I- I said that out loud,” he says, slowly letting go of you and running a hand through his long chestnut locks. “Wow. Uh— Okay.”

“Did— Did you just ask me to marry you?” You stammer, quiet as a mouse. You don’t move. Steve doesn’t think you can. 

It’s obvious that you think he’s gone certifiably insane. His hands raise in defence, and he manages to start blurting out everything he can in an attempt to rectify the situation. “Listen, baby, we can totally act like that never happened—”

“Steve—”

“—In fact, it didn’t. I have no idea what you’re talking about, babe. No freakin’ idea—”

Finally, your hand cups over his mouth to stop him from rambling any further. His last few words sound muffled before they eventually come to a stop once he realizes what’s happening. His fingers curl around your wrist, moving your hand from his lips before giving you a small, sheepish smile. His cheeks flush profusely, “Sorry.” 

Oh, the things Steve would do if it meant he could take back the last few minutes of his life and go back to before he opened his big mouth and ruined everything. It’s not that he doesn’t want to marry you. That’s definitely not the case. But the regret he’s currently feeling after watching your horrified reaction play out…it’s enough to make him want to jump into his pool and never come back up for air. 

But then…when your eyes seem to light up and a small smile curves your lips upward, he thinks there just might be some hope left for him. 

“You wanna marry me?” You questioned, your hands finding solace on his lower arms. “Why?”

His brows pull together in confusion? Why? He can see the doubt eating away at you by how small you’ve become in the past few seconds. Are you truly doubting how much you mean to him? How much you’ve spun his world on its axis and changed him forever? 

“I— What?” 

“Why would you want me to marry you?”

“Yeah, I got that, I just…are you serious?” You nod, giving him the slightest shrug. Your shyness is peaking through far too much for you to offer him any more of a reaction. 

A soft and gentle laugh slips past his lips and his body relaxes. His warm palm smoothes up your arm and finds its resting place at the base of your jaw. His thumb swipes over your skin, and his warmth bleeds through your flesh. All the love he holds in his heart for you floats up to his eyes, and his chocolate orbs soften. He’s never felt so tender and full of affection as he does now. 

“You have no idea how special you are to me, do you?” 

He says it with such conviction that you know the words are true to his heart. Still, the way they hit you is all too much, and you can’t help but deflect them with a tiny joke. Your eyes fall away from his. “I mean, I figured you liked me a little.” 

“Stop,” he chides, albeit gently. He guides your gaze back onto his. “I’m serious.” 

It’s your turn to apologize as your cheeks heat up. “I’m sorry.” 

“Don’t be sorry. Just, hear me out.” 

“Okay,” you murmur. 

His left hand mirrors the hold his right one has on your face. The ring you gifted him for your first anniversary is cold against your skin. His tongue darts out to wet his lips, and he takes a breath before speaking. “You— You’re staggering, honey. You’ve given my heart a home. You’ve had it since the moment I met you, and you’ve kept it safe. Cherished it and nurtured it. You’ve given me everything I’ve ever wanted. I— I look into your eyes and it's like I can see the rest of my life inside ‘em.” 

Your heart melts, and you feel the tears start to pool in the brims of your eyes. “Steve,” you whisper. 

“I have no idea what’s going to happen in the future. Not a freakin’ clue, especially with all the supernatural shit that goes on in this town. But I do know that you’re supposed to be in it. You are my future, baby. I might not know a lot, but I do know this. You are the girl I’m going to spend my life loving. And I’m gonna give you everything if you’ll let me.”

His heartfelt words are almost enough to make you forget about your doubts. You want them to. But you can’t seem to quiet the worries circling inside your head. 

“Steve, I love you. You know I do. But, aren’t we too young? I don’t want to risk losing you. I don’t think I could take it if I did.” 

His hands slide down your neck and land on your shoulders. His warmth spreads through you again, and already, you feel better. It’s almost as if all he has to do is exist to wash your fears away. 

“I know. I know we’re young. But, so what if we are? To me, that just means I get to be with you even longer.” One hand abandons your shoulder, and he hooks his index finger under your chin. The pad of his thumb strokes over the tip of your chin. Eyes boring into your soul, he holds them captive. “You can drive at sixteen, drink at twenty-one, retire in your sixties. How old do you have to be to know that your love will last? ‘Cause I know my answer, down to the second.” 

You can’t seem to hide the smile that forces its way onto your lips. The sincerity in his gaze, the vulnerability he’s shown you since day one, it’s all too much. You can’t imagine ever walking away from him, can’t imagine what your life would be like if he wasn’t in it. Mornings you shared where he’d pout as soon as you mentioned getting out of bed. Picnics on warm summer days. Hearing him sing along to the radio in the car. You want those memories and every single one that would come to you in the future — your future with him. 

“Ask me again.” 

“Yeah?” He smiled. 

“Yeah,” you confirmed. But just as he’s about to do as you asked, half of the words leaving his mouth, you can’t contain the excitement. Your lips slam onto his as you pull him closer. You murmur a few yesses against his lips and feel them spread into a grin. Soon, his arms are wrapped around your waist and he’s lifting you up and into the air, spinning you around with joy. The kitchen is soon filled with giggles, and Steve is exclaiming your news loudly, even though you’re both alone.

“We’re getting married, sweetheart!”

STEVE TAG LIST (JOIN HERE): @oncasette @taintedxkisses @findapenny @bmo-bri @hemogloban @slytherhoes @shawnspoems @vigilanteshitposting @poppet05 @earth2starkey @aerangi @cantstoptherecs @sarah5462 @slut4drudy @cilliansangel @darleneslane @sya-skies @gillybear17 @lovelyxtom @rcbuttercup @redhead1180 @runningfrom2am @thejuleshypothesis @scarlettocean @subconsciouscollapse @violetmacher @iluvteyqmm @buckyisveryhot

[dimplyowl]

Ed having a hard day at work and being ready to come home and just relax and rest and bitch to Stede about it, but he gets home and Stede is in the kitchen and there’s smoke billowing out of the oven and the fire alarm blaring and Stede’s trying to waft all the smoke out the window with a kitchen towel and there’s a baking sheet on the counter with stuff burnt to a crisp and Stede is swearing up a storm and Ed’s just like, “Babe. What the fuck is happening in here.”

And Stede whips around and sees Ed and wells up and throws the towel down in frustration and bursts out, “I just wanted to make my husband cookies because he had a horrible day and I thought maybe that would cheer him up and all I’ve done is gone and made it all worse because now you have to deal with me and all this mess and I…” He stops to sniffle. “I’m so sorry, Ed.”

And Ed just stands and looks at him as tears spill over Stede’s eyes and he swipes at his nose, and then Ed’s expression crumples and he squeaks out, “You made cookies for me?”

Stede looks around the kitchen, points at the charred lumps on the cookie sheet. “Clearly not, darling.”

“You tried to make cookies for me,” Ed says, his bottom lip quivering, and then he rushes Stede, pulling him in for a tight hug, crushing him to his chest, and he’s crying into Stede’s neck and Stede’s rubbing his back. “That’s so sweet, fuck, Stede, I love you so much, thank you.”

“But…I burned them. And nearly burnt the house down too!”

“Don’t care,” Ed says. “You wanted to make me feel better. And no one’s ever done that for me except you, and I’m so happy.”

Stede pulls back, eyes rimmed red. He ignores the tear tracks on his own cheeks and reaches for Ed’s instead, wiping below his eyes with his thumbs. “Well I’m happy that you’re happy. I’m sorry you had a shit day.”

Ed wrinkles his nose. “Eh, that’s just work. It’s not so bad, when I know I get to come home to you.” He kisses Stede softly, hand cradling Stede’s cheek. He pulls back and they share a moment of tenderness, a simple smile.

He winces after a moment. “Maybe we should turn that fire alarm off though?”

[anashins]

hii, can I request a jealous jaehyun when his gf agrees to catching up w her guy friend who swiped up on her story & did not tell Jaehyun, causing him to find out when she posts something? Hehe :)

Pairing: Jaehyun x You

Genre: fluff, romance, a bit suggestive in the end

Word Count: 1.4k

Summary: Jaehyun tries to record a new song in the studio. But how is he supposed to sing a passionate love ballad while thinking about the girl he loves, when she is currently out there, enjoying herself with another guy?

A/N: Thank you for requesting! Are we all living the same life at the moment? This is real conversation I had just yesterday!

“That was shit.”

Jaehyun rolled his eyes as he heard Taeyong’s voice over the headphones. His leader was standing next to their voice coach at the other side of the studio’s glass front, observing him recording his part for a song on their new album. 

“It’s been going on for an hour already,” Taeyong commented sharply and wanted to lock eyes with Jaehyun, but the latter looked away, partially in anger, partially in shame. “You were so close to where we wanted to have you in the beginning, but ever since the break, you’re getting worse. Why can’t you concentrate?”

Perhaps because his girlfriend hadn’t replied to him since last night and then perhaps because during the break, he had found out through an instagram story of hers that she was meeting up with some guy he had never heard about before.

Jaehyun was fuming inwardly since his messages on their texting app still showed the little “1” next to them, indicating that his girlfriend hadn’t even read anything he had written yet. Instead, she was having a great time with a tall guy she hadn’t even linked in the story, so Jaehyun wasn’t able to stalk his profile. 

From what she had posted though, standing close to him at a popular street in their city, he had his hand on her shoulder and his hat pulled deep into his face. Without even knowing his looks, Jaehyun could sense that he was very good looking. Though, at this point, he couldn’t pinpoint the exact fact that made him so mad.

Was it because his girlfriend seemingly ignored him? The fact that she met up with a random guy without telling him beforehand? Because they seemed so close?

“I can’t’, I’m sorry.”

How could he sing a passionate love ballad when there was a storm going on inside of him? 

Jaehyun took off the headphones and stormed out of the recording room. By the time he had reached the outside, he could finally tell what was bothering him so much: 

He always told her what he was doing, where he was going, and asked her about her day despite having little to no time sometimes. And she couldn’t even clear ten seconds off her time schedule to do the same? On the commute? During a walk?

With shaky hands, Jaehyun pulled his phone out of his pocket and wanted to try something one last time. 

He called her.

After twenty seconds, his call declined and his stomach dropped simultaneously.

-

Jaehyun thought hard about whether he should pick up the phone when his girlfriend called later that evening. But he was only hurt, not an ass and wanted to hurt his girl back.

She had already answered to his texts, something along the lines of “Hey, sorry, I was busy, I randomly met my friend” and was quick to call an hour later when she saw that he hadn’t opened the messages yet, inviting herself over since she was close and he had finished recording earlier. 

“Hey,” he said when he let her in.

“Hey, how is it going? How was your day?”

She sounded so happy as she followed him into his room, and he gulped, a bit of regret over his feelings already starting to seep in. “My day was fine. And yours?”

Jaehyun was trying really hard to sound casual as usual, but his voice never betrayed him. His girlfriend already sensed that something was entirely wrong, she knew him so very well. “Are you okay?” 

“No,” he admitted. 

“Why? What’s wrong?”

There was no reason to conceal or downplay the truth. “You didn’t write to me the entire day and instead were out with some guy I never saw before. It didn’t sit right with me.”

She furrowed, but quickly understood. “Jaehyun, are you jealous? You know there is nothing to be jealous about. It was an old friend from my hometown who spent a few days here, and he hit me up randomly on Instagram when he realized that I live here too from a posting earlier. I wanted to tell you tonight, there was just not much time before. He asked if I can show him a good place to buy souvenirs today. It was very spontaneous as I saw his messages directly after waking up and he’s leaving again this evening, so I hurried. I’m sorry I wasn’t able to contact you earlier.”

“Jealous…? That’s not it.”

Jaehyun, too, had thought that he was jealous. But he, in fact, wasn’t. He had actually never been. It wasn’t about whether he was scared if she was cheating. He trusted her fully and didn’t have a bad feeling, not even once for the entire time they had been together. The unsettling feeling still lingered though.

So what was it that truly bothered him?

With a nod, he signed that she should seat herself on his bed, and he eventually did the same. 

“Sometimes, it feels like we’re living two different lives.”

His girlfriend tilted her head in confusion when he paused. “Can you elaborate that?”

“When we’re working, meeting with friends or doing other stuff, separately from each other, I always try to include you, send you pictures, tell you where I go and with whom. Not because I’m afraid you could be jealous or demand it from me, but because I want you to be there with me, even though you’re physically not.”

She nodded. “I understand that.”

“And most of the time, for you, I see what you’re up to only when you upload a story or someone else I also follow. I understand that you’re rather a person living in the moment and not focussing on the phone while with others. That’s a great quality. But at times like these… I always feel like I’m not included in your life. I don’t want to complain, I just want to convey my feelings. We already have so little time together due to my occupation, so that makes me feel even more… excluded, I think.“

Jaehyun could almost physically feel how a huge burden got lifted off his shoulders. It dawned on him how long he had been carrying this feeling around that his heart felt so much lighter after telling his girlfriend. 

“Do you think I’m not feeling the same?” she asked and took his hand into hers. “Because I do! Whenever we have a time like this in which we can see each other only seldomly, I try meeting friends often, because I feel lonely and sad without you. And trust me when I say that whatever I do and whomever I do it with, I always think it would be much more fun with you by my side. I try to only concentrate on that moment and activity to not feel as sad. I’m sorry.”

Jaehyun blinked in disbelief. “I… didn’t know. Don’t be sorry about that!”

“Did you think I don’t care? That you’re not on my mind all the time?” She arose and placed her palms on each side of his face. “Because you are. The amount of times I text and call you cannot compare to the times I think of you. Even though I might not be able to convey this feeling whenever you feel abandoned, trust me in that. I carry them all in my heart. Please believe me.”

Jaehyun’s features softened along with his heart. “I believe you.”

If it was like this, then it was fine for him. 

If the anxiety got the better of him again though, he would directly call her, and she promised to call him back immediately when she could. She couldn’t fully promise to always inform him about her plans beforehand, because sometimes, there was such a mess and so much hectic going on in her head. But she promised to do whenever she thought about it and asked him to please not take it to his heart too much. 

In addition, they promised to never miss leaving the other some loving words by the end of each day.

Jaehyun wrapped his arms around his girlfriend’s waist when she climbed into his lab. With a smirk, he asked, “How can you fully convince me how much you always miss and love me? I think I still have doubts…”

“How much time do you have?” she chuckled before letting herself fall on top of him and they both landed on the mattress.

“The entire night.”

“That’s enough, hopefully.”

[givethemsmut]

Cody Rhodes x Reader

Made of Gold | Chapter Four

Trigger Warning

- Mention of abortion (not how you think, prob why I hate to give trigger warnings)

C O D Y ‘ S P O V

I was riding the high of being the first man between her legs, still wearing her orgasm on my cock when I yanked the door open enough to see who was standing there.

A middle aged man stood there, dark wild eyes, when his shrill voice hit my eardrums. “Where is my daughter? I know she’s here.”

Barging past the door I gripped the blanket hanging low on my waist, securing it from exposing myself. I was in a state of shock and the urge to fight ignited from the bottom of me like a brush fire. “Excuse me?”

Stepping toe-to-toe with me, whiskey on his breath, “Don’t play dumb. I know she’s been hiding out here. I’ll find her myself.”

He went to move past me but I side stepped, blocking him from the stairs altogether. “I was trying to be nice but I guess you’re picking the hard way. I wouldn’t step another foot inside my house, you might see something you don’t wanna see like your daughter in bed.”

“She’s under age,” his finger dug into my chest and my hand closed into a tight fist. I wanted to lash out but he had a point.

“And ruin the most important night of her life so far? I’m not naked for the fun of it, pal. You are the last person she wants to see after losing her virginity.” My words were sharp, heavy, assaulting the way I meant them to be.

Her father looked up at me as I took another step, towering over him now, “I want her home before I press charges for kidnapping.”

“Family dinner sounds great. How about Friday at your place?” I smirked knowing I won and her father did in fact hate me the way she wanted. I was a family’s dream unless you’re a few months shy of eighteen and a virgin than I’m considered a nightmare.

Heading upstairs I took two at a time and without even making it past the threshold I heard the light sound of her snoring. Wrapped in a blanket that covered only her boobs and pussy she was curled up on her side fast asleep. Exhaling I could sleep easy know she didn’t hear a single part of that chat.

Now I had to convince her to go dinner with people she had been avoiding. People who didn’t make her feel safe or happy.

Hell, I even hated them and I didn’t know them.

I wanted to protect her, keep her from every ounce of harm and I didn’t care how fucking wrong it is that I’m older than her. Age was bullshit concept when we fit together like we did twenty minuets ago before her dad stormed my house like a maniac.

The next morning we fell into our routine of me working out before she woke up and her joining me in the shower. She was washing the shampoo out of her long hair while I scrapped soap around my muscles. “I want to meet your parents…”

She turned out with a hostile look on her face, “Why?”

“You know so much about my family, my dad, my brother and sister. Hell, last time I FaceTimed my mom she wanted to talk to you but I don’t know much about your family.”

We swapped spots under the water and I could feel her resentment on the topic. “They aren’t like your family. There’s not enough good to even tell you about. Let’s just drop it.”

Exhaling I let the water beat on my face, swiping it off, I pushed. “Please. Just call them. Let’s do dinner on Friday.”

“Cody. Why are pushing this? Do you regret what we did and this is your way of pushing me away?”

Fuck.

I had pushed and now she created some monster of an idea why.

Turning around I dragged her close, holding her against me, her perfect ass wedged against me. “I’m sorry, okay? I don’t regret anything. Your dad showed up last night… he’s gonna press charges unless we go to dinner Friday.”

Pushing me away in anger, she shout, “Are you fucking serious?”

Before I could even answer, she had exited the shower, grabbed a towel and slammed the bathroom door. It was our first fight.

Giving her space, I showered like normal and wrapped a towel around my waist all too similarly to last night when her dad showed up. Leaning against the door frame of the bathroom I watched her franticly get her makeup on.

“Babe. I didn’t wanna have to tell you he showed up.”

“You want to meet them so badly then let’s go to dinner tonight. I’m not doing anything on his terms, why, so he can be in control? I don’t think so. Get eady for all your demons to served up with dinner.” Texting furiously, her fingers clicked against every button, before dropping it in her lap.

Moving closer, standing behind her, I softened my face even more. “Just talk to me. I wasn’t going to let him storm our fucking room and harass you ten seconds after losing your virginity. This was settling, a family dinner.”

“You don’t know him. That’s not settling, it’s what he wants and probably to ruin us.” She was still running hot when I gave her space, letting her decompress while I occupied another part of the house. If dinner was all we had to do to make them leave us alone I was willing to do it. I was willing to do a whole hell of a lot more actually.

R E A D E R S P O V

Did I want to be drunk for family dinner? Absolutely. I knew exactly the kind of tactics that would be weaponized for not coming home then to be found with Cody, someone older and not of my father's choosing.

It made our love story seem like a tragedy, the forbidden, albeit taboo relationship when Cody was so much more than that.

He felt safe, something I haven't truly felt since I got old enough to talk back.

My father didn't have expecatations - he had demands and when those demands weren't met, well, than he had retalation. It wasn't a dynamic I wanted Cody to witness and think of our age difference even more.

Doning a simple black maxi dress with an open back and a pair of comfortable heels I finished smearing my lipstick in while Cody changed his tie for the millionth time. He was nervous and I didn't want to make it worse for him.

Taking my hand, wordlessly, I stood up and took the lead down the stairs. "We should do a shot before we go. We both need it," I suggested it but knew my tumblr was already coated in whiskey I had been drinking.

"Maybe you had enough babe."

Disregarding him entirely I poured two healthy shots of Wheatley Vodka and pushed the shotglass towards him. "I don't want you to get in trouble when I pushed you to take my virginity... that's the only reason I am doing this."

Not yet shooting his back he came closer, hands hoovering and his face full of concern. "Just tell me what I need to know before we go over there. Why are you scared of your father? That’s not normal.”

My eyes started to well up rapidly and I kept looking up, avoiding eye contact and the unavoidable tears ruining my makeup. It was too much to explain, too much to live through again as I explained it and the way I knew he could judge me felt like a deathwish on us.

"Let's just go,” I mumbled before downing another shot.

Cody opened every door until I was safely tucked inside his car, foot pressed down on the gas in his truck that felt more like a tank. Sitting back with one hand on the wheel I could feel his eyes glance over at me. His vest tight to his frame and the white button up with the subtle tie only made him look more like a dirty secret. His features were haunting and his toned body only made the threat to devour you seem so much more real. Everything about him scream predator yet all of him was nice enough to care.

“It sounds silly saying it out loud… Every boyfriend I had he would blackmail into dumping me, every friendship ruined, every chance he had to isolate me he did. Controlling, overbearing, abusive. I remember he drugged me just to keep me home after I vanished for a week. I was at Layla’s but it didn’t matter, no permission, no warning was all it took to earn his wrath. I’ve been at your house for much longer, wonder what kind of punishment it will be this time.”

His hand shook my leg like he wanted to wake me up, “I wouldn’t let anything happen to you. Do you know how hard it was to not hurt him when he showed up? Hurt him for just wanting to drag you away from me.”

Forcing myself to relax, I tried to melt into his touch, keeping my mouth closed and wishing I was more drunk.

By the time we got past the gate that protected their castle I felt my heart pick up speed. I wanted to burn the whole place to the ground and hope the memories went with it.

Taking his hand, I followed his lead, knocking at the door like a gentleman. The door flew open and my mother presented her best rendition of perfect housewife. “Come in, you must be her friend, Cody, right?”

“Yes, ma’am, Cody Runnels.”

She nudged me out, leading him inside and leaving me by the door like discarded trash.

Not bothering to pick up the pace to catch up I strutted behind them, watching her try to dazzle him the way I expected. “Tell me about yourself. Come have a seat.”

“I’m a legacy wrestler, I wrestle for WWE now, I grew up here, my father passed away last year, and I’m falling in love with your daughter.” He sounded so sure and I felt hit by his confession like a ton of bricks.

He falling for me? Did I even want that?

I wanted him to take my virginity so badly I had thought of what I wanted next.

I whispered a warning cry, “Cody…”

His 1000 watt smile flashed in my direction as his hand came up my leg. “We can talk about it later.”

Feeling the air sucked out of the room my father’s signature glass of ice and scotch pierced my ears. “Falling for my daughter? Does she know all the skeletons in your closet, son? No woman should fall for just the good version. They have to love the bad too.”

My mom placed the last dish down on the table and sat down with us when my eyes tried to beg her to hold him off but it was no use. She was brainwashed by the good life and ruining that was never going to happen.

“Everyone had demons, sir.” Cody wasn’t afraid and the puddle in my panties now was distracting. “Like tracking your daughter to my house after losing her virginity? Storming my stairs trying to ruin that moment? Like those kind of demons.”

“Watch your mouth, son. I did some digging on you. Don’t forget you’ve lived a lot of life that my daughter hasn’t at seventeen.” He paused dramatically and Cody goated him to continue. “There’s been a long string of woman, hasn’t there? A few virgins, a few abortions, a dropped compliant after a bar fight with a female. Sounds like you can’t treat woman well so you imagine my surprise when you say you plan to love her.”

Cody shifted in his seat but still not scared of my father the way I was taught. “I can’t warrant any response to that. I’ve been with virgins when I was younger, of course. Are you implying I can tell by glancing at them? Absurd.”

Sipping his scotch until the end, my mom bounced up to get him a refill. “No, son, I’m saying you have a habit of liking young woman who are guaranteed virgins.”

Cody shot up from his seat, “We’re leaving. Come on.”

Dragging me behind him to the door my father matched his energy. Standing with a new glass, shouting after us, “She’s still seventeen, son. That’s still against the law.”

Stopping at the door, he swiftly turned around, taking the steps to stand toe-to-toe with my father. “I already took her virginity, cats out of the bag, she’s eighteen soon and you can’t do anything about it.”

“Son, she’ll get bored of the thrill of you like she always does. This is just a long string of bad behavior to piss me off.”

“Trust me, sir, no one was thinking of you while she was screaming my name.” Cody stood there proudly of those details and I could feel my cheeks flare up red.

“Least wear a condom son, she doesn’t need to be one of those girls you paid to have an abortion,” my dad shouted after us as Cody yanked the door open and the cool night air felt like new oxygen to our lungs.

Neither of us had talked about skeletons, neither of us shared the uncomfortable traits we carried, not yet.

Climbing into the truck Cody nearly did a burn out in the driveway before leaving, scaring their perfect castle. “I didn’t pay anyone to get an abortion. Let’s make that clear. I helped pay for a mutual solution.”

Every part of him was tense, even the muscles around his perfectly chiseled jaw. “Okay, how many?”

“Two.”

Keeping my voice just above a whisper I watched his hands grip the steering wheel hard, “I didn’t expect to be the only virgin, Cody. No one is questioning you. Everyone has a past.”

“He’s trying to imply I seek out fucking virgins. You’ve seen my dick, do you think I need virgins to get off? I didn’t even want to hurt you last night.”

“Cody,” I said sternly trying to keep last night out of my mind because every time I thought of it I got goosebumps and the space between my legs would ache for more.

Glancing over at me he caught me lightly rubbing my legs together and biting my lip. “Oh, shit, babe. You’re still riding that high.”

I felt like I could come just thinking about his cock, about being inside me, feeling those memories wash over me like I was there again. My legs started shaking a little and I tried to compose myself in the passenger seat.

Requested Tags:

@alyyaanna