#‘I’ll get to it later when I feel like doing it’ | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

beargyu313 · 2 days ago

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Desire unleash

⋆˚𝜗 Summary: a weekend getaway turns into a mental game of who can push the limit the furthers – it’s a game with no winners. Very loosely inspired by cruel intentions (1999), but it’s more campy.

⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪Word count: 12k of smut, no pure moment is in this lol

CONTENT WARNINGS (!): erotic manipulation, blurred consent dynamics (but still consensual), power games, control, and knowing you're being bad but not caring.

⋆˚࿔ Tags: smut, foursome, tension so thick you could choke on it, power play / control dynamics, voyeurism, jealousy kink (but consensual), possessive!jake (but lowkey), (un)knowing teasing, dirty talk, overstimulation, eye contact kink, subtle dom/sub, group sex (some boy on boy kissing), finger in the booty, slight exhibitionism, kissing someone else while your boyfriend watches, they think they’re sneaky but your man knows, creampie, some choking and spanking but nothing too crazy, aftercare cuddles but it’s four people in a heap

˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚a/n: thank you so much to the anon for req, writing this was really fun :D<33 on a more somber note I start a new job tomorrow and I don’t know how often I’ll be able to write so I really pushed myself to finish this one and hope I can work on something fun soon !

⋆˚ 𝜗𝜚˚⋆ mdni smut ahead, masterlist ⋆˚ 𝜗𝜚˚⋆

Jake watches you pack. You toss in bikinis without realizing how small they are. You ask if he packed snacks; he packed condoms. “Do you think they’ll come?” you ask. He shrugs, but he already knows they will. Sunghoon said yes first with lightning speed. Niki followed a minute later with a thumbs-up and a smirk. They didn’t ask questions. They didn’t need to.

Jake's seen the way they look at you. You looking back.

It’s not about trust. It’s about curiosity. About pressure. About what happens when people get what they want.

He’s not worried. He knows you’ll come back to him. But he wants to know who’ll touch you first.

Which is why you’re currently spending your weekend in the middle of nowhere. Your boyfriend invited you to a private-pool weekend getaway, to which you of course agreed to go. And it would be romantic – if only his two hot friends weren’t also here.

Why they’re here too was beyond you. But the house held two bedrooms, separated not by a wall, but by huge double doors. It allowed for some privacy but not much, since the doors couldn’t be locked and could be opened from either side. Anytime.

You’re rummaging through your bag, trying to decide which bikini set to wear to the pool. Jake is just watching you, sitting on the bed. He was already in swim trunks, paired with a gray t-shirt and a snapback hat that he was wearing backwards.

After a beat he goes “just wear the peach one.”

You glance at him, surprise showing on your face.

“Are you for real? It’s basically just strings…” you continue unsure.

“Yeah, I know you don’t like big tan lines, it’s fine.”

“That’s true, but I thought– you wouldn’t mind?” you ask, but the set is already in your hands, “cause of the boys, I mean?”

Jake plops down on the bed, relaxed. He blows a raspberry, “Nah, bro code.”

And that’s how you end up spread on the beach chair in thongs and a tiny stringy top. You’re laying down on your stomach. The thong is digging into your hips, and Jake’s hands massage sunscreen into your skin. His hands are warm and slow, thumbs stroking over your ribs, his touch more affectionate than sexual—until it isn’t.

The screen door creaks open.

You don’t lift your head, but the air shifts. The sound of voices—low and easy, almost laughing. Footsteps. The scent of someone’s cologne.

You glance back over your shoulder.

Sunghoon and Niki.

Shirtless. Damp hair. Swim trunks slung low. You take in a breath, hold it.

Sunghoon’s trunks are electric blue, contrasting nicely with his complexion and black fluffy hair. His eyes flicker once over your ass, once over Jake’s hand still on your back, and then settle on your shoulders like a weight.

You feel Niki look too. You don’t look but can feel his eyes on you. Lingering. His hair was curling slightly from the heat, cheeks tinged red. His trunks were black with a white waistband and a text written right over his crotch. You don’t attempt to read it.

Jake hasn’t said a word.

You arch your back slightly, stretching. It’s innocent enough, but you know what it looks like—what it feels like. Your ass lifting up, the thong curving securely around your core. Jake’s thumb dips lower, grazing just under the string of your bottoms.

“Jakey,” you say sweetly, not opening your eyes, “they didn’t slip, right?”

“All good,” he murmurs, smoothing over your ass under the guise of fixing over the fabric.

That’s when Niki walks past. His tone is too casual to be harmless, “Want a second coat? You know... just in case he missed a spot.”

Your laugh escapes you before you can stop it. You don’t even lift your head, just let it roll out of you, cheek pressed to the towel as you smile into the terrycloth.

You hear Sunghoon awkwardly cough and glance toward Jake, expecting him to shut it down, to say something. But he doesn’t. He’s already watching you. A slight smirk playing at the corner of his lips. Knowing.

“You missed a spot?” you ask Jake, a teasing lilt in your voice that you pretend not to notice. “How careless.”

Jake’s hand resumes its path down your thigh, deceptively gentle.

“My bad,” he says. “Guess I was distracted.”

You hum like it means nothing. Like you don’t know exactly what he means.

But to Niki you’re a fucking painting. Laid out. Glowing. Practically melting under Jake’s hands. And he can’t look away.

Niki hadn’t meant to say it out loud, it just came out. But then you laughed. And Jake didn’t bite his head off. Your voice had that easy, girly playfulness he’d never really gotten from you before. The way you tilted your hips slightly, still face-down, like it was just comfortable to do that. Like you didn’t care what they saw.

Or worse maybe you did.

Niki's throat feels dry. He rubs the back of his neck and wanders off to the cooler like that’s what he’d meant to do all along.

You glance after him for just a second, but it’s long enough. Long enough for Jake to notice.

“He’s looking at you,” he says casually, voice low near your ear. “He thinks he’s being slick.”

“Who?” you murmur, letting your eyes fall closed again, feigning innocence.

“Take a wild guess.”

There’s a pause. Your lips twitch. Jake presses another kiss between your shoulder blades, lips hot against sunscreen and skin.

“You’re not worried?” you ask him, soft. A little breathier than intended.

Jake smiles against your back. He doesn’t answer. But he doesn’t stop touching you either. You’re practically purring under his wandering hands. His fingers ghost over your cunt and just as you spread your legs apart he’s gone, running into the pool.

The force of his jump, splashes droplets on you.

The water is warm. And Jake hasn’t stopped smiling all afternoon.

Sunghoon watches him out of the corner of his eye as Niki throws water at him like a kid, laughing. Jake laughs too, swiping water from his face with a slick hand, but there’s something too relaxed about the way he floats through it all.

Sunghoon doesn’t trust it.

He keeps glancing back at the lounge chair. At you. You're still lying there, bare legs stretched out, that peach bikini like a soft warning. This isn’t for you, it says. But watch anyway.

Jake had to have picked it. There’s no way you packed that set on accident. And the way Jake keeps touching you like he wants them to notice…

Sunghoon dips lower into the pool, jaw tight. “She’s gonna burn like that,” he mutters, mostly to himself.

“She won’t,” Jake replies, suddenly next to him. “I was thorough.”

Sunghoon doesn’t answer. Jake just grins.

“Hey,” Jake calls to you, lifting his hand from the water. “You coming in?”

You sit up slowly, stretch your arms overhead, a little catlike yawn escaping. Niki coughs behind him. Jake flicks water at him with a smirk.

But it’s Sunghoon who speaks.

“Here—” He moves toward the edge of the pool and holds out a hand. “I’ll help.”

You smile at him, like it’s a joke, like you don’t need help. But you take his hand anyway. And the second your fingers brush his, he knows he’s in trouble.

“You’re such a gentleman,” you tease, stepping down toward the ledge as you hold his bigger palm. His whole hand swallowing yours.

Sunghoon pretends to look away but doesn’t let go. You laugh, slipping one foot into the water.

But just then your other foot catches, maybe on purpose, maybe not. You squeak, stumble slightly.

Your chest collides softly into his, hands on his shoulders. The water laps up around you both. It should be clumsy. It should be nothing. But before Sunghoon even thinks about what he’s doing his hands are steadying you. Wrapped lowly around your waist. His fingers dangerously close to your ass. His middle digits would slip under the stupidly small string if he moved them just a centimeter lower.

It is not nothing. You’re smiling. He can’t stop looking at your lips.

“Oops,” you murmur, barely above the water.

“You okay?” he asks, voice a little too tight.

“Yeah.” You don’t move away.

Neither does he.

Behind you, Niki cannonballs into the deep end like a distraction, water spraying everywhere.

Sunghoon finally steps back, pulling away as though electrocuted. He laughs, but it’s forced, low. Jake watches it all from across the pool. His head tilted. His mouth unreadable. And when you paddle away, he doesn’t follow.

As the sun hides away behind trees and night falls the four of you gather in the living room. Someone pushed the couch against the wall, coffee table moved to the side.

At the center of the room now lays only a decorative rug. Slightly licked pale from the sunlight. Sitting in circle are you, then to the right of you Niki, to his right and across from you sits your boyfriend, and next to him is Sunghoon. You’re squished between two taller boys.

You’re a bit sad to see them with their shirts back on. But Niki is manspreading next to you. His bigger frame is leaning towards you. His knee is resting over your thigh and you don’t move away from the touch.

Across from you is Jake, his eyes half-lidded, watching everything. He’s got a red cup in one hand and his other arm stretched behind Sunghoon, casual. But you notice how his fingers tap against the rug when Niki leans toward you.

And beside him is Sunghoon, freshly showered, hair falling in soft waves over his eyes, skin still pink from the pool. You can’t tell if he’s tired or tense.

“Truth or dare?” Niki asks suddenly, lips curved up into a smirk. His voice is low, playful. He spins the bottle.

It lands on you.

You smile. Tilt your head.

“Truth.”

“Lame,” Sunghoon mutters. But he’s smiling too.

“Fine,” you say, rolling your eyes. “Dare, then.”

Niki leans in. “Let someone in this room feed you something. Eye contact only.”

Jake hums under his breath, but it’s not disapproving. More amused. Like this was part of the plan.

You arch a brow. “Who’s feeding me, then?”

There’s a beat of silence. No one volunteers.

“I’ll do it,” Niki says eventually, reaching behind for the gummy bears someone left on the counter.

He kneels in front of you, holding out a single red one, his hand slightly shaking. You wrap your hand around his wrist, effectively stilling him. You look up at him through your lashes.

You smirk when you see him gulp. Then you part your lips, leaning in. Keeping your eyes on his you let your tongue ghost over his fingers before sucking the candy out of his grasp.

Niki’s smirk falters for half a second when you suck it off his finger without breaking eye contact.

Across from you, Jake sips his drink slowly.

“Next,” he says, voice low.

The bottle spins again.

It lands on Sunghoon.

“Truth,” he says flatly.

Jake raises a brow. “Where’s the craziest place you’ve thought about… doing it?”

You almost choke on your drink. Niki grins. Sunghoon looks you dead in the eye before answering.

“This rug,” he says.

The air goes still. Jake laughs first — just a low, quiet sound from his chest. And then he speaks, voice velvet-soft.

“Good to know.”

The bottle spins again. It lands on Niki.

Jake leans forward lazily. “Alright, hotshot. Dare.”

Niki smirks. He’s already tipsy, a little flush creeping up his neck. His eyes are half-lidded and he looks so fucked out.

“Whisper something you want to do to someone in this room.”

There’s a pause. A ripple of awareness.

Niki doesn't hesitate. He turns to you, crawls just a bit closer, and leans in like he’s about to kiss your ear. He drunkenly bumps into you, but doesn’t apologize. Instead he grabs your shoulder – almost your neck – to still himself. His lips hover near the shell of your ear. You feel his breath before you hear the words.

“I want to you on all fours, my dick in your ass, while Jake watches.”

Your lips part, breath hitching. But you don’t pull away.

You hear Sunghoon shift beside Jake, and glance up just in time to catch his jaw flex. But he says nothing. Jake… Jake is just watching, that soft smirk still there — approving, like a conductor letting the orchestra warm up before the real crescendo.

The game moves on. The bottle lands on you.

“Dare,” you say, braver now. Or maybe just tipsy enough.

Sunghoon speaks first this time. “Sit in someone’s lap for the next round.”

You cock your head. “Whose?”

“Dealer’s choice,” Niki grins.

You pause for effect, scan the circle, and then on all fours you slowly, while playfully swaying your hips, crawl over to Jake.

His legs part just slightly to let you fit, and he rests a hand on your thigh, grounding. Possessive. You feel the way Sunghoon’s eyes track the movement. Niki doesn’t even pretend not to look.

The next bottle spin lands on Jake.

Niki leans in, mischievous. “Tell us the freakiest thing you’ve done with her.”

Jake’s grip on your thigh tightens. He’s quiet for a second, the kind of quiet that makes your mind wander… balcony, middle of the dance floor once, public bath house...

His answer surprises you.

“Her in the mirror,” he says. “My hand on her throat,” his hand softly grasps your neck as he retells the story, “Her mouth open the whole time but not a single sound. I didn’t let her.”

You freeze slightly in his lap. Niki whistles, low. Sunghoon just swallows.

You move back to your spot between Niki and Sunghoon. The later refusing to meet your gaze.

The bottle spins again.

It lands on Sunghoon this time. You don’t know who suggests it — it could’ve been Niki, drunk and fearless, or you, drunk and reckless — but suddenly,

“Jake. Sunghoon. Kiss.”

The room holds its breath.

Jake raises his brows, amused. “Is that the best you’ve got?”

Sunghoon shrugs, cool as ever. “It’s just a kiss.”

“Then do it,” Niki says, eyes gleaming.

Jake shifts his chest towards Sunghoon, tilting his head in a quiet invitation.

Sunghoon leans in first. Their mouths meet and you feel yourself holding your breath. They’re both stiff at first. Lips tightly pressed against each other.

But then something snaps in both. Your mouth drops as Jake grabs Sunghoon by the nape, pulling him closer in a clear display of dominance. But Sunghoon mirrors his actions. They’re in a violent embrace and you can feel the splotching sound of their tongues meeting and against yourself you slip a hand down to your panties.

You roughly press on your clit a few times before you catch yourself and stop. Sunghoon’s free hand travels to Jake’s throat and just as he squeezes him Jake growls, pulling away.

They break apart like something snapped — breathless, jaws tight. Niki’s eyes are wide. Your pulse is roaring in your ears.

Jake leans back like nothing happened, licking his bottom lip once, slow.

“Now that’s a dare,” he says.

After that the dares and laughter dies down, the warmth of tequila and the warm living room turns cozy, the type that’s heavy, sleepy.

Blankets are laid out. Jake throws one over you, then another across the floor. Niki mutters, “I’m not moving.”

No one does.

You're lying with your back against Jake’s chest. He’s half-sitting, leaning against the couch, his arm is slung around your waist, relaxed. His breath is steady. He doesn’t speak, but his fingers occasionally brush slow circles into your hipbone.

Niki lies on your side, his head on Jake’s thighs, his hair brushing against your side. You feel the heat radiating off of him, hair tickling your skin. At one point, his hand lazily and casually falls across your stomach. It stays there. He doesn’t move it. Jake doesn’t make him.

Sunghoon is last to settle in. Sitting down next to Jake. Jake’s head falls onto his shoulder. Your hand somehow finds his knee. And when Sunghoon doesn’t brush you off you give him a gentle squeeze. Your hand travels up his thigh, but Jake’s hand interlocking with yours, still on Sunghoon’s knee, stop you.

“Let’s just go to sleep,” you mumble moving to get up.

The boys watch you rise and stretch your arms above your head. And then you’re disappearing up the stairs.

The bed is pleasantly cool when you slip in. Jake’s follows you a moment later, sprawling out shirtless on the bed, one arm behind his head, contemplating on whether on not he should say what’s on his mind.

“You’re not the only one who’s been catching looks, you know.”

Your pulse picks up. You shuffle to his side, arms wrapping around his naked torso.

“...You saw that?”

Jake’s smile is soft. Dangerous.

“I see everything.”

You chew your lip.

“And…?”

He caresses your arm comfortingly, “If it happens,” he says, low, intimate, “I wouldn’t mind.”

You blink. The air goes still again.

“I trust you,” he adds.

You swallow hard. “So you want me to… what, play into it?”

Jake cups your jaw gently. His thumb traces your bottom lip. He smiles, but not kindly.

“Let them think they’re getting away with something.”

You exhale a laugh — breathless. “They really think they’re slick,” you murmur.

“So do you,” he replies.

You bite back a grin.

On the other side of the door Niki kicks the door shut behind him and flops face-first onto one of the twin bed.

“That rug is going to haunt my spine for the rest of my life.”

Sunghoon sits on the edge of the second bed, elbows on his knees, hands clasped tight. His shoulders are stiff. His neck tense.

After a beat, Niki peeks over, voice muffled in the pillow. “You good?”

Sunghoon doesn’t answer right away.

“You haven’t said more than like five words since that pool stunt,” Niki adds. “What’s going on in that head?”

“I touched her,” Sunghoon says. Quiet. Flat.

Niki lifts an eyebrow. “Yeah, man. Everyone saw.”

Sunghoon lets out a breath. “I wasn’t trying to. It just… happened.”

Niki flips over, now lying on his back, arms folded under his head. “She didn’t exactly swim away.”

That earns him a look. But Niki holds it.

“You saw how she was with you,” Sunghoon says. “With that stupid gummy worm.”

Niki smirks. “I didn’t shove my fingers in her mouth. She did that.”

“She sucked on them.”

A pause.

Niki exhales. “Yeah.”

Neither of them speak for a moment.

Sunghoon leans back on his hands, staring up at the ceiling. “She’s with Jake.”

“You think Jake cares?” Niki mutters. “You saw the way he was watching us. He wants this.”

Sunghoon shakes his head. “That’s the part I don’t get. He’s either completely confident or completely insane.”

“Maybe both.” Niki stretches, his shirt riding up just slightly. “He’s not the only one playing the long game.”

Sunghoon turns his head, looks at him. “You think this is a game?”

Niki lifts a shoulder. “Feels like one.”

Sunghoon studies him for a moment. “You serious about her?”

Niki’s jaw tenses. “No.”

Sunghoon arches a brow.

“…I don’t know,” Niki admits. “I just know I keep thinking about her mouth.”

Sunghoon looks away, eyes dark. “Yeah.”

Another long silence.

Then, Niki who’s quieter now adds, “You gonna stop?”

Sunghoon doesn’t answer for a long time, then he says “…I don’t think I can.”

Niki, turning onto his side, half-joking but not really, “Wanna rock-paper-scissors for who gets to fuck her first?”

Sunghoon snorts. “She’ll pick.”

Niki smirks. “Yeah. She already did.”

The sheets are soft. Warm from skin and sleep. Jake is beside you, one arm tossed casually over your waist. You don’t move. You just breathe.

Last night wasn’t too cray. No one really touched you. But something shifted. You could feel it in the way Niki looked at you too long. In the way Sunghoon’s fingers hovered near your hip during a game dare but didn’t quite land.

Jake stirs behind you, nose brushing your neck. He makes a soft noise, then speaks, voice low from sleep.

“You awake?”

You hum. He tightens his hold slightly, “Still thinking about last night?”

You don’t answer, but he chuckles anyway, like he knows. His fingers brush the inside of your wrist, slow. Deliberate.

“It’s okay, I know I am too” he adds, eyes glinting.

“Wait,” you say, turning your head just enough to catch his eye. “You were serious?”

Jake’s smile is unreadable, almost mischievous. He shrugs like it’s the most natural thing in the world, “We all want to have our fun. You’re not the only one who wants a piece.”

You arch an eyebrow, testing, “And you want to watch?”

He leans closer, voice dropping even lower, “Watching’s just part of the fun. But you? You get to play.”

You’re quiet for a moment as his words sink in. Lightly shifting in bed, you rub your thighs rub together, Jake’s hands slips to your navel, “You want me to… seduce them?”

You pause, heart pounding a little faster.

Jake kisses the shell of your ear, then kisses your neck, moving lower with his lips. You lean back against him, his hand slips into your panties.

You’re breathing a little louder, small whines escaping as Jake expertly teases over your clit. His lips press against your neck, and he kisses you wetly before sucking on your skin.

When he deems the bruise deep enough, his teeth lightly ghost over the pink skin. You moan, reaching behind you to pull on his hair.

Jake is rocking his hips into you, and you just lay there and take whatever he’s willing to give you.

“Let’s have some fun today,” he says, fondling your ass and then he gets up. He doesn’t hide his erection as he rummages through his bag and heads to the bathroom.

You head downstairs.

The kitchen smells like pancakes and too much body spray. Niki’s leaning against the fridge, pouring himself cereal like he owns the place. You watch the muscles in his back, his tight white shirt clinging onto him.

Sunghoon’s barefoot on the deck outside, hoodie half-zipped with no shirt under, coffee in one hand, scrolling his phone. He glances inside when he sees you — eyes flick down your frame, then back up, blank-faced.

But you knew Sunghoon would be harder to crack. But he will. You know he will. You adjust Jake’s shirt that you slept in, pulling it down when it hikes up your butt.

You say nothing.

Jake walks in last, hair still wet from the shower, eyes landing on you first. He kisses your temple and takes his place behind you like it’s nothing. But you feel the ripple across the room.

They all notice that. They’re all watching each other, too.

Niki has just fixed himself a bowl of cereal and joins Sunghoon out on the deck. He flops into the chair beside him with all the grace of a controlled explosion. Sweatpants sit low on his hips, white tank stretched over his shoulders, sunglasses pushing his hair back.

“So…” Niki starts, leaning back in the deck chair. “What’s the score? I feel like I’m in the lead.”

Sunghoon raises an eyebrow. “You spilled beer on her.”

“She laughed,” Niki says, smug.

Sunghoon shakes his head. “Pity points.”

They’re bickering. But it’s not about drinks or dares anymore, it’s about you. And they’re done pretending to play fair.

“She touched my leg under the table.”

“She touched my leg too.”

“You sure? Pretty sure she was aiming for mine.”

That makes Sunghoon pause. He glances at Niki now — and for a second, they both just hold the eye contact. It’s not angry. It’s not even serious.

But it’s definitely a challenge.

You step onto the deck just in time to see it.

Both boys straighten, just a little. Niki sits up taller in his seat, tossing one ankle over his knee like a flex. Sunghoon casually unzips his hoodie despite the breeze, and your eyes automatically glue to his chest. He notices, smirks as he flexes his muscles, subtly.

Neither of them say a word to you, but suddenly they’re both very aware of where you are.

“Morning,” you offer, biting back a smile.

Sunghoon nods, neutral. “You sleep okay?”

You tilt your head, letting your gaze flick between him and Niki, “Not really. Kept wondering how you two were doing...”

Niki chuckles into his coffee. “You jealous?”

You lift a shoulder. “Just curious. Thought maybe I’d hear something through the walls.”

Sunghoon raises a brow. “Did you?”

You step around to the railing, leaning against it like it’s nothing, “Unfortunately not. Kind of a shame, isn’t it?”

Niki stretches with a little groan, hands above his head, muscles cut in the sunlight. “Dunno. I dreamt about you though.”

You blink. Sunghoon actually snorts into his coffee.

“Subtle,” he mutters more to himself than anyone else.

They’re both doing it now — the lean, the gaze, the lazy-boy confidence. Like this is some performance review and you’re the one grading them.

You raise a brow, leaning on the railing, you feel their eyes like pressure — like they’re waiting for something. You stretch a little where you stand by the railing, pretending not to notice the way both boys track your every move. Your shirt lifts just slightly, and that’s all it takes.

Niki leans forward, elbow on his knee, smirking.

“If you stretch like that again, I’m not responsible for what happens.”

You glance over your shoulder, biting back a smile.

Sunghoon, more composed but no less obvious, lifts his cup to his lips, “Some people work out all week to look like that on a trip.”

“She just wakes up and ruins lives.”

Niki grins. “That’s what I’m saying. Unfair advantage.”

“You boys always this dramatic in the morning?” you laugh at them.

But Niki doesn’t let that deter him, smirking, “Only when there’s something worth losing our minds over.”

Sunghoon’s eyes flick down your legs and back up again, gaze lazy, unhurried.

“And she knows it, too.”

That’s when the sliding door opens behind you.

Jake steps out, damp curls sticking to his forehead, sunglasses on, coffee in hand. He takes them in. Niki is talking too much, Sunghoon looking too long. You playing innocent in the sun.

He doesn’t smile.

“You two flirting or auditioning for something? Because it’s starting to feel like a try-hard campaign out here.”

They go quiet.

Jake sets down his mug, shrugs, eyes still hidden behind his lenses.

“Keep begging, though. She eats that shit up.”

You turn to look at him — and this time, you don’t hide your smile.

Jake lifts his sunglasses, just an inch, and winks. The four of you continue to laze around on the deck, sipping on your coffee.

The peace momentarily gets disturbed when the four of you can’t agree on what to do today. Niki wants to swim, while Jake wants to go on a hike. You and Sunghoon both don’t really care what you do, but Sunghoon’s eyes sparkle when you suggest a game of cards.

The sun keeps burning hotter and hotter, which makes convincing Jake and Niki to just stay inside much easier. You’re gathered around the low coffee table, cards neatly spread. Jake shuffles them. Sunghoon lounges too easily. Niki keeps adjusting his position, either to be close to you or to throw someone off.

Jake smiles like a villain with a secret, “Let’s play something with stakes.”

You play into it, innocently asking (as if you don’t know where this is going), “What kind of stakes?”

Jake’s eyes are sparkling as he looks at you, he cocks his head to the side in mock contemplation, “Clothes? Confessions? A round of truths you can’t lie through?”

That catches Niki’s attention, “Or dares you actually have to do.”

The game starts tame — remove an accessory, share a fantasy — but it ramps up quickly. Niki dares you to whisper in Sunghoon’s ear about what you thought the first time you saw him shirtless.

You gulp as you think back on the memory. It was at a party, and at first he was wearing a t-shirt. But as the night when on you kept seeing him with a different girl. Until he just reappeared again. No shirt and red scratches over his chest.

You shift on your butt, just watching him at first with your lip caught between your teeth. He doesn’t waver, watching you back.

This was your chance. You would make him break.

You move on your knees, Jake’s hand patting on your butt. He lets it rest on your body, slipping down your thigh as you crawl over on all fours, taking your time. You don’t break eye contact until the last second — and when you do, it’s to lean in close to Sunghoon’s ear, lips brushing just enough to count as contact.

You whisper, low and breathless, voice in a slight whine, “I remember thinking… that those scratches on your chest weren’t from just one girl.”

You pause, voice soft but laced with heat...

“And I couldn’t stop wondering how big you had to be for someone to leave marks like that.”

He doesn’t say anything not at first. But you feel it. His sharp inhale, the slight twitch of his fingers where they rest against his thigh.

You were so close to breaking him. You rest your hand on his thigh, right next to his fingers. You squeeze his thigh as you continue, “And I kept thinking…” you tilt your head, whispering slower now, your breath tickling his neck, “What would I sound like… if it was your hands instead?”

You lean back just enough to look him in the eye. Innocent, waiting. But he’s not breathing normally anymore.

Jake, watching this unfold like a scene in a play, laughs softly under his breath. Niki looks impressed. Maybe even turned on.

And Sunghoon?

He swallows. Hard. His voice is tight when he mutters under his breath, almost to himself, “Fuck.”

He glances at you, his eyes dark and intense, “Didn’t know we were doing psychological warfare.”

Then, he turns to Jake, “Tell your girl to stop whispering shit she doesn’t mean.” He pauses for a moment, “Wouldn’t repeat it. But I’m not forgetting it.”

Jake tilts his head slightly, smile curling slow, “Who said she didn’t mean it?”

He pauses, letting the tension further build, then he provokes “Maybe you just don’t know what to do with the truth.”

Sunghoon doesn’t reply but his jaw is locked tight and gaze lowered in recalibration. You fight the smile from appearing on your face, eating up the drama.

Niki cuts in, his voice low, “So that’s how we’re playing now.”

He leans back, tongue running over the inside of his cheek. His leg bounces once, slow and deliberate. Then he glances at you, like he’s reconsidering everything he thought he knew about how to get under your skin.

“I should’ve gone for the whisper dare.”

He’s not upset — he’s hungry now, “Bet I could’ve made her blush harder than that.”

Jake laughs, not cruel but proud.

“Careful,” he says, still lazily reclined, hand now trailing along your spine. “She likes when you talk like that.”

Niki cocks an eyebrow, “Then dare me.”

The deck is reshuffled. The heat in the room is impossible to ignore. Niki draws the next dare and smirks when he reads it, “Jake.”

Jake lifts his brows, half-bored, “Hit me.”

Niki reads it slowly, savoring every word, “Describe, in detail, your favorite way to make her come.”

Silence.

You feel Jake’s fingers still against your back. Then he smiles. Not a grin. Not a smirk. A slow, knowing curve of the mouth that says game on.

His voice is low and steady, like he’s reading something sacred.

“She gets so loud and needy when I take my time.”

“I like to tease her with my fingers first — two, deep and slow. Not for her, at first. For me. Just to watch her lose it. Just to watch her whine and feel her pussy sucking me in, feel how wet she’s getting for me.”

“Then when she starts making a mess, I use my mouth. But I don’t like to rush. She likes getting me messy, so I let her. Just enough to make her beg for more than she thinks she can take.”

He doesn’t look at you once. His eyes are locked on Sunghoon in silent provocation.

“Sometimes I edge her just to hear her say please, oh man, she sounds like such a slut when she does. And her eyes cross, she get’s so stupid when I use my mouth.”

The room is silent as Jake continues, Sunghoon is holding Jake’s gaze. But Niki’s eyes are sweeping over you, noting every curve, every dip. You perk your chest when you notice his stare, but he just smirks. Licking over his lips.

Jake continues, “Sometimes I keep her stuffed full and tell her she’s not allowed to come yet, just to feel her clench around me, her pussy begging me to cum inside of her. She get’s so impatient once she’s stuffed, begging me to let her cum.”

“But she always does. Eventually. And when she does…” Jake leans forward, just slightly — enough to tip the power dynamic even further, “…she grabs my hair and screams like a pornstar.”

Sunghoon’s jaw flexes.

Niki lets out a low breath — half laugh, half curse.

Jake leans back again, smug, “Your turn,” he says to Niki.

The air is thick now. Everyone’s flushed. Breathing a little uneven. Niki draws a card and raises his brows.

“Oh?” He grins, flashing the card to Jake like it’s a challenge, “I’m supposed to give her a taste of how I’d fuck her — with my mouth only.”

Jake just tilts his head, slow, “Better make it count, but no kissing on the lips.”

Niki turns to you, “Come here, princess.”

There’s no hesitation now. You crawl into his lap and he meets you halfway, his hands possessively grabbing onto your hips. He makes you straddle him, hands still grabbing your ass. You moan at his roughness and impatience. You slightly adjust your position on his lap. Now you’re sitting directly on his hard cock, back arched in anticipation.

Niki’s lips brush over yours and you feel completely caged in his arms. He continues, kissing your jaw, your neck, your collarbone. His mouth is hot, teasing but not gentle. Your hands find solace in his hair as he’s letting you feel how hard he is beneath you.

“I wouldn’t be sweet about it,” he murmurs just for you. “You’d cry before I let you come.”

His teeth scrape your shoulder. Your hands grip his shirt like you’ll fall without it. You whimper, grinding down on him.

Jake watches with something unreadable in his eyes — not quite possessiveness, not quite permission. Something worse.

Sunghoon's knuckles are white on the armrest, jaw tight.

Eventually, Niki let’s you go. Your neck is red, his back robably littered in small scratches. It’s Sunghoon’s turn again. He draws a card. A slow blink.

“You okay?” you ask, mock-sweet.

He flips the card to show, “Loser of last round sits between the winner’s legs.”

You watch him. He’s not flustered now and yet also unreadable. He walks over to Jake without a word. Jake spreads his knees, casual as ever. Sunghoon lowers himself between them. Jake’s hands find his hips automatically, anchoring him there.

No one breathes.

Jake leans in, brushing his lips near Sunghoon’s ear, “Comfortable?”

Sunghoon exhales slowly, “This feels rigged.”

Jake smiles against his neck, lips brushing over his ear, “That’s because it is.”

You watch the two of them — your boyfriend and the boy you’ve been trying to break — fall into some secret current between them. It's magnetic. Dangerous.

Niki whistles, dragging his palm up your thigh, “You guys gonna kiss again, or what?”

Jake just smirks.

At some point the cards are forgotten. Left scattered like the tension. Your legs are over Niki’s lap. Sunghoon is still between Jake’s. Everyone’s breathing harder, now.

You, half laugh and ask, “We’re really bad at pretending, huh?”

Niki is grinning, but his voice is deep, hoarse when he says, “Babe, no one here is pretending anymore.”

The game doesn’t really end it just fizzles. You’re all half-drunk on the moment, but no one touches anyone else for a minute. It’s like all the wires short-circuited at once.

Jake stands first, cracking his neck, “I’m starving.”

It breaks the spell. The others slowly follow, like they’ve just returned from some collective dream.

You rummage throught the kitchen, it’s a mess. No one planned dinner. There’s half a bag of chips, leftover takeout, and someone finds brownie mix at the back of the cabinet like it’s buried treasure.

You’re in someone else’s hoodie — you can’t remember whose — and sitting on the counter with your legs swinging as Niki tries to flip something in the pan and fails.

Sunghoon ends up slicing vegetables too perfectly. Jake leans against the fridge, nursing a beer, watching it all with a low hum of amusement.

It feels weirdly domestic. Real.

Jake taps your knee gently, “Help me make that weird ramen you like.”

You do. He lets your hand brush his more than necessary. But that’s it — just skin, just glances, just tension coiled under domestic noise.

As you all sit around with plates in your laps — half-fed, half-touching — the silence is comfortable for once.

Sunghoon speaks first, “We should play something stupid after this. Like charades.”

“Charades with this group is a sex game waiting to happen,” Niki calls him out

But Jake smirks, “Maybe we want that.”

“Maybe you do,” you grin at him, shoulder bumping into his. It lingers in the air. The joke that might not be a joke. Everyone’s smiling. But no one’s laughing.

After dinner, no one moves right away.

Plates are empty, save for a rogue noodle or two. The TV hums low, flickering across everyone’s faces. Niki stretches across the couch with his head tipped back like he’s waiting for a reason not to fall asleep. Sunghoon nurses the end of a beer, watching nothing in particular. His leg is close to yours—closer than it needs to be—but he doesn’t look at you.

Jake, seated next to you, drums his fingers once against his thigh, then stands, “Alright,” he announces casually, like this isn't the start of something, “We should get changed. Let’s hang out properly.”

He tosses that suggestion into the air like it’s nothing. But it lands heavy. Sunghoon raises an eyebrow. Niki looks suddenly more awake.

You stretch your arms above your head, intentionally slow, “Changed into what?” you ask, playful.

Jake’s smirk is lazy as he walks past the couch, gaze flicking down to your bare legs, “Whatever makes things interesting.”

He doesn’t look back as he heads toward the bedroom. But he doesn’t have to. You’re already following.

Behind you, one of the boys lets out a low whistle. No one says it, but everyone knows the night has officially turned.

It’s just you and Jake in your bedroom. Door half-shut. Jake is behind you, watching you pull clothes from your overnight bag. You’re not dressed yet, not fully. The lamplight is soft, golden on your bare skin.

You’re standing half-dressed by the bed, holding up two options. The red one’s safer. Short, but not suggestive. The black one is something else entirely… thin straps, clinging fabric, backless, and the kind of hemline that flirts with trouble.

Jake’s still leaning against the dresser, watching.

He doesn’t hesitate, “Wear the black.”

You raise an eyebrow, “Why am I not surprised.”

He tilts his head, eyes glinting, “Because it’s the one I bought. For this.”

You pause, letting the words settle, “…This?”

He just watches you, still leaning against the dresser, arms crossed, “Yes, it’s for playing, you know how you look in it.”

Your stomach flips.

You pull it on slowly. it has no zipper, just stretch. The dress clings to you like a secret. Your back bare, the hem skimming indecently high. When you straighten and turn, Jake’s gaze is all over you. Controlled. Hot. His jaw ticks once.

For a second, your bravado flickers. You speak before you mean to, “What if I mess it up?”

You stare at your reflection, at the way the dress clings, the slight tremble in your fingers, “I’ve never done anything like this before,” you admit. “Not really. Not with… multiple guys. I don’t want to overstep or…”

You trail off, biting your cheek, “I don’t want to fuck it up.”

Jake doesn’t say anything at first. Just steps in closer until his chest is flush against your back. His arms slide around you, slow and warm — the kind of hold that’s meant to be felt, not just seen.

He presses a kiss behind your ear, gentle, “Hey.”

Another kiss at your jaw, “You’re not fucking anything up.”

One hand trails lightly down your arm. Grounding, “I’ve got you tonight.”

You shiver, the words hitting lower than they should.

“You don’t have to worry about anything,” Jake’s voice lowers further, warm and sure, “I’ll be there the whole time. Making sure everyone behaves.”

A slight smirk in his voice now, “If anyone steps out of line, they’ll answer to me.”

You exhale and something unknots in your chest. His confidence in you is stabilizing. Hot. Reassuring.

He shifts so you can see both of you in the mirror. His hand smooths along your waist, fingers brushing the curve of your hip where the slit of the dress begins.

Then Jake’s lips brush your shoulder again, a little slower this time. His voice dips, teasing but deliberate, “And I know how badly they want you, you know.”

A kiss, “Sunghoon’s barely keeping it together,” another to your shoulder, “Niki’s already lost.”

You make a quiet, startled sound — caught somewhere between a laugh and a breath.

Jake grins against your skin, “And you?”

His arms tighten just slightly, “You want them too.” He doesn’t ask it like a question. It’s a knowing. A truth you’ve both been circling around.

Your heart kicks, heat blooming in your cheeks, your neck.

Jake’s mouth is at your ear now, low and velvet, “So tell me…”

His hand coasts down your stomach, slow, just enough pressure to make you squirm, “Which one do you want to play with first?”

You swallow. He watches you in the mirror, expression unreadable but eyes alight, “Or is there something filthier in that pretty head of yours?” he murmurs, lips ghosting your jawline.

“You want them at the same time?”

You freeze, breath caught, thighs pressing together instinctively.

Jake chuckles softly — pleased, “You don’t have to say it. I can see it all over you.”

And then, gentler now, grounding you again, “No shame, baby. You’re allowed to want it.” He kisses your cheekbone.

“I want it too. I want you to have it.”

Your eyes meet in the mirror and this time, there’s no doubt behind yours. Jake smiles, soft and sure, “So? How far do you want to take it tonight?”

You glance back at him, lips parting, “How far can I take it?”

Jake’s eyes are all fire and moonlight, “As far as you want.”

You blink up at him, “But what if I go too far?”

Jake’s voice is velvet over steel, “Then they’ll be lucky. I want them begging. But they don’t get to keep you.”

He tucks your hair behind your ear, “Push them. Play with them. Make them fall apart if you feel like it.”

His thumb brushes your cheekbone in a quiet warning, “Just remember who you come back to.”

You smile. Slow. Dangerous.

Jake presses one more kiss to your shoulder, breath warm against your skin, “Ready to play?”

You nod, “Let’s.”

You descend down the stairs, the black dress clinging like a promise, every curve catching the light. Jake’s not with you, giving you the space to seduce them on your own — and his absence sharpens something inside you. A boldness that tastes like mischief.

Your gaze flicks to Niki first. You trail a finger slowly along his forearm as you pass, watching his eyes darken, a low smirk pulling at his lips.

Then, almost as an afterthought, your hand brushes Sunghoon’s knee — deliberate, light, electric. His breath catches. His fingers twitch against the couch fabric but don’t pull away.

You watch him closely, the way his jaw tightens, the flicker of loyalty and restraint battling beneath his calm mask. His eyes dart briefly toward the door, then back to you.

“Jake’s not here,” you softly tell him, leaning over him from where he’s sitting on the couch. Your knees on either side of his legs, “right now, it’s just us.”

You pause, kissing just below his ear and feel him shiver, “You don’t have to hold back.”

Sunghoon’s fingers curl around the edge of the couch, knuckles whitening. He looks conflicted, like he wants to lean into the moment but is being pulled back by something invisible but heavy.

You in faux-innocence remark, “You’re awfully quiet tonight.”

“That dress is going to get you in trouble,” he finally, almost reluctantly tells you.

“You gonna do something about it?” you ask, straddling his thigh.

You look over at Niki, next to you two on the couch. You drag your cunt over Sunghoon’s thigh looking directly into his eyes. He’s already watching you, manspreading. One hand unashamedly palming his hard dick through his sweats.

“But what to do?” you mockl-contemplate, “I think I want both of you.”

You reach out too Niki, still rocking your hips over Sunghoon’s thigh and move Niki’s palm right on your tits.

He grabs you hard, squeezing you until you loudly moan.

He pinches your nipple as you continue rubbing yourself, Sunghoon finally wakes up from his daze and starts subtly moving his knee. Pushing it directly over your clit.

Your back is arched and you’re breathless as you tell both, “Come upstairs with me.”

Niki, catching your meaning, stands, cracking his neck, grinning wide like he’s in on a delicious secret.

“Your move, pretty boy,” he tells Sunghoon.

But Sunghoon hesitates, gaze flicking upstairs like he’s imagining Jake watching. Then slowly, reluctantly, he nods. He pushes you by your hips backwards so you stand up. Niki’s hands are on your ass as soon you stand. Smacking it, squeezing it, fondling, playing with it.

You take Sunghoon’s hand firmly, squeezing it once, then reach for Niki’s, “Let’s have some fun.”

You lead them to your and Jake’s room – where you know he’s waiting. Sunghoon is stiff next to you, nervous. But Niki… Niki is almost devouring you as you reach for the door handle. His hands on your ribcage and mouth on your neck. He has to bend down quite a lot to be able to reach you, even though you try to match his height by stepping on your tippy toes.

Before you open the door, Sunghoon stops. You turn to him and he’s quiet. Conflicted, “I… don’t want to disrespect Jake.”

You cup his face gently, thumbs brushing his cheekbones, “Don’t be silly, Jake wants this. Let yourself want it. Let me want you.”

His guard falters. His hand finally slides to your waist, tentative but sure.

You lean in, voice low, promising ,“No regrets. Only play.”

Behind you, Niki watches, amused and hungry. His hands are glued onto you, like he can’t help himself.

And somewhere beneath it all, Jake’s absence hums like a secret current — thrilling, forbidden. The moment you open the door, Sunghoon’s restraint begins to crack. His breaths are shallow, fingers flexing at his sides.

Jake is in all black. Sitting cross legged on the bed like he owns the place, leaning back on his hands. His eyes unreadable.

He smirks theatrically when you three step in, “Well, look at that. My girl’s the main event.”

You flash a lazy smile. Niki leans back. Sunghoon watches Jake carefully. Jake walks forward, slow.

He stops in front of you, one hand sliding up your thigh, other possessively sneaking behind your waist. Kisses you deep, slow, in front of them, showing them who you belong to.

You’re not shy as you kiss him back. Moaning into his mouth and jutting your ass out when Jake fondles it. He’s not being shy either, bunching the stupidly tight fabric in his fingers, putting your bare ass on display for the two boys to look at. When he pulls away, you’re breathless.

Then he turns to Sunghoon, “Still pretending you don’t want this?”

Sunghoon exhales slowly. Tension buzzing. He doesn’t move.

“Oh god. This again,” Niki complains.

But Jake just turns to him now, almost scolding him, “You can watch. Or join. Or back off.”

Jake stands. He’s facing Sunghoon now. It’s quiet.

“What, you want another kiss?” Sunghoon mocks him, but you can see his fingers twitch by his side. As if he wants to reach out towards him.

Jake is cocky when he tells him, “Only if you make it count this time.”

And Sunghoon grabs Jake’s jaw and kisses him again — rougher, harder, but it’s still not romantic. It’s almost as if you’re witnessing a fight. Hands grip Jake’s hair, Jake fists Sunghoon’s shirt. Sunghoon bites his lip. Jake shoves him against the wall.

You and Niki are watching like it’s the best thing you’ve ever seen. You move to him, and Niki’s eyes get that special glint in them. As if he’s finally getting something he wanted for a long time.

“I think we need to show them how it’s done,” you smile widely, hands touching his chest.

Niki’s grinning down at you, his hands on your biceps already pulling your smaller stature into him, “Oh yeah, I’m definitely not backing off.”

He’s urgent, hungry. Not polite. Hands all over. He lifts and wraps your legs around his waist without asking. His legs cage you in. He’s grinning into the kiss like he’s winning something. You’re melting under his aggression, completely relaxed as you let Niki show you just how badly he wants this. Wants you.

Sunghoon’s behind you now too. His fingers trail along your bare back, down your arms, ghosting your thighs. He moves to the side when Jake joins you all.

Jake is beside you, just watching. Like a king watching his kingdom burn.

“Remember what I said?” he tells you.

You break away from Niki’s fierce kiss, but he continues kissing your neck instead. Sunghoon is playing with your ass, his fingers ghosting over your hole.

You’re barely coherent when you turn to Jake, “About…?”

“You’ll come back to me,” he tells you. And there’s something almost obsessive in his gaze. You don’t respond instead pulling him in for a kiss.

Niki untangles your legs from his waist as he kicks off his sweats and shirt. Now only in boxers.

You kiss Jake slowly, like it’s punctuation to what’s about to come. He doesn’t even look away when Sunghoon steps forward.

And Sunghoon does. He walks across the rug, gaze locked on yours, crouches in front of you — a question unspoken.

You reach for him.

The first kiss between you and Sunghoon is careful, almost reverent. But he’s not soft. His fingers go to your jaw, your waist, your hips like he’s mapping out everywhere he’s thought about touching you since yesterday.

Jake watches it. Still behind you. Still present. You hear him shuffling out of his pants, the belt clinking down on the ground.

You don’t hear him and Niki settling down on the bed, but when you glance you see both of them sitting down. Watching you and Sunghoon.

Sunghoon finally relaxed a bit. His hands on your waist, guiding you to lay down on the rug. In perfect view of Jake and Niki. You lay down, still in your dress – but it doesn’t matter. You’re exposed, the thin material bunched at your waist, straps falling down.

Sunghoon watches you for a moment pupils blown, as if he cant believe this is really happening.

“Where are the condoms?” he so quietly asks, turning to Jake. Jake only lens over to his nightstand and throws him two.

Sunghoon’s hand shake slightly as he kneels over you, his cockhead flushed and leaking.

You whine when you see him hesitate, and that snaps him out of it. He tears open the condom packet, rolling the plastic onto his hard length. But his eyes don’t leave yours. His gaze is intense and you’ve never seen him this focused before.

Your eyes are wide, almost doe-like as you tease over your clit with your hand. You move to close your legs together, but Sunghoon is holding onto your inner thighs – spreading you open for Niki and Jake to see.

You’re soaked, that much obvious by Sunghoon slipping his fat dick into you and the squelching sound that follows.

You moan, chest pushing out and Sunghoon burrows his head between the two peaks. He bites one of your tits and you cry out in pain, hand gripping his hair in a silent warning.

But Sunghoon just smirks. He pulls slightly back and watches your face as he stuffs you full with his dick.

You’re breathless under him.

He notices, a boyish smirk covering his face, “thought Jake said you get whiny when you’re stuffed full?” he mocks, eyes moving over to watch Jake’s reaction.

Jake is manspreading on the bed, just watching the two of you. Your hand moves onto your nipples, playfully pinching yourself.

You hear Niki curse. Then a spitting sound. And you can only assume he’s already jacking off.

“She’s already cock-drunk,” Jake spats, “look at her Sunghoon, you could probably fuck her ass and she wouldn’t know any better.”

Your pussy clenches around Sunghoon when you hear that, but you don’t confirm or deny anything.

Sunghoon flops onto you, almost laying on you and then he’s slowly and harshly pistoning his dick into your wanting cunt.

In. Out. In. Out.

Until he’s going so slow you can’t help but whine, the noises escaping you before you can stop them.

And suddenly you can’t stop. the room filled with your gasps and cries.

“That’s a good girl,” Sunghoon murmurs in your ear, “yeah, stay still and take it, pretty.”

You wrap yourself around him when you hear that. Holding onto him so tightly that you momentarily still his movements. His hips are sheathed in you so deeply that the only way he can move them is to just hump into you.

You both come like that, Sunghoon’s head nuzzled between your neck and shoulders, and you – holding onto him as if he’s your lifeline.

He rests on you for a beat, just catching his breath. Jake helps him get up. Then you. All four of you are now sitting on the bed, almost cozily squeezed together.

Excepts Niki has his dick out. And Jake isn’t much better, you can feel his hard dick pressing into you as he sits you down on his lap, smoothing over your hair and kissing your cheek, “you okay?” Jake gently asks you.

You nod your head yes and then your gaze flickers to Niki. Jake sees, smirking.

“Oh, already? Okay,” he pats your thigh excitedly and gently, and you get up, “where do you want to play with our Niki?” he coos at you as if you were a kid about to play with your favorite toy.

You can’t help yourself, as you giddly rock on your heels, “I want him to bend me over the vanity table.”

Jake’s eyebrows lift slightly, but he only nods to Niki, “You heard her.”

And that’s all Niki needs to hear. He pushes himself off the bed, walking toward you with that slow, predatory swagger. It makes you feel tiny under this gaze. Your pussy flutters as you look into his eyes. Thye’re are already darker, pupils blown, tongue pressed behind his teeth.

“Knew you’d pick something filthy,” he murmurs against your lips, his huge hand engulfing your throat under his warm but gentle hold.

He caresses up, reaching your jaw as he kisses you — not hard, just enough to tip your face up, to claim your mouth before you can say another word.

And from there it’s chaos.

You moan, as Niki doesn’t hold back. His mouth crashes onto yours with zero hesitation, like he’s been holding himself back all night and now the leash is off. His lips are firm, hungry. They part yours easily, tongue sliding in with a groan that vibrates against your teeth. He kisses like he wants to ruin your lipstick. Like he wants to taste every sound you haven’t made yet.

His hand moves to your throat again, tilting your face exactly how he wants it, his fingers flexing as he deepens the kiss, forcing your mouth open wider. He bites your bottom lip—not hard, but with enough pressure to make your knees buckle just a little. He feels it, too. Smirks against your mouth.

You try to match him, to push back, to kiss him just as hard. But Niki doesn’t allow it.

He growls low in his throat and pins you back a step, until your spine bumps into the vanity table. His thigh wedges between yours without warning, lifting, parting them. You gasp against his lips, and that’s when he really takes over. Kissing you impossibly deeper, wetter, one hand tangled in your hair now, tugging just enough to make your head fall back.

“You started this,” he mutters, lips brushing yours, hot and breathless. “Now finish it.”

Then he kisses you again. Even rougher. Like he means to make you forget everyone else is in the house.

He roughly manhandles you, turning your body around. You gasp from the whiplash, gripping the table. You don’t notice the warning look Jake shoots him.

But Niki isn’t too bothered by it. His hands are on your ass cheeks, squeezing them together and then apart, playing with your body.

You can feel your pussy move with his movement, the sensation oddly pleasurable.

“Look at this perfect ass,” he says to no one in particular, and then. He bends down and lightly bites you. Just enough to hear your whine.

He’s already lining his dick with your entrance, impatient.

“You’re already this worked up? Haven’t even touched you properly,” he mocks you when you push back against his dick, equally as impatient as he is.

He pulls your arms behind your back, so much bigger than you that he can hold them together with just one hand.

You hear him suck in a breath as he bullies his dick into you.

“Sunghoon stretched you good,” he smirks, “but you’re still struggling to take me.”

You moan, trashing under his hold. The pleasurable stretch too much for your small pussy. He punches his dick into you, not caring enough to let you adjust to his huge dick.

But your balance falters, and you slip an arm under his grasp to steady yourself.

Niki tsks, gripping your hips, “Be a good girl and keep your hands where I put them.”

Is what he tells you, but doesn’t make a move to put them behind your back again. As if he knows you’ll listen.

And you do. That’s when he angles your hips, his dick in you fitting into you so much tighter. You don’t see, but Niki’s gaze is on your asshole as he fucks into you. A finger ghost over you back hole and you moan.

Niki teases your asshole as he continues fucking you, and then he’s slipping a digit into it.

You gasp, legs spreading and you feel Niki spit onto your asshole. Wetting the hole so he can push his finger into it.

You’re overwhelmed with pleasure, both holes stuffed, and you just stay bent over the table, letting Niki fuck you as if he’s being paid to do it.

His strokes are sensual, in an unpredictable rhythm and that’s what makes you burst.

He’s groaning behind you, hand tangled in your hair – pulling you up, into his chest, finger leaving your butt.

And he’s so strong he jerks your whole body up when he thrusts into you.

You hold your breath as your climax crashes into you, putty in Niki’s hands. And Niki’s fucks you through your orgasm, you feel his balls twitching and then he’s pulling out.

He cums on your ass, cum spurting out in short but huge streaks.

No one speaks for a beat.

You’re still bent forward slightly, catching your breath. Your thighs tremble. Niki exhales like he’s been holding it in for too long.

Jake steps forward.

Quiet. Measured.

His hand grazes the small of your back, smoothing up your spine with a feather-light touch. He crouches beside you — the world narrowing to his voice, soft but serious.

“You good, baby?”

You nod. Barely. Still floating.

Jake’s hand cups your jaw, gently turning your face to look at him, “Too much?”

You shake your head no but it’s fragile, unconvincing.

“You could’ve slowed down,” he turns to Niki, a tinge of anger in his voice.

Niki raises his hands, eyes wide, not defensive, just catching his breath too, “She kept asking for it. I mean… she took it.”

Jake’s gaze flickers back to you. He thumbs gently at your lower lip.

“You agree with that?” he lowly, gently asks you.

You finally find your voice — wrecked, but teasing.

“Told you I wanted to play,” you softly reply.

Jake huffs a soft laugh. But his other hand drifts to your thigh, where marks are already blooming. His thumb traces over them carefully.

“You’re lucky I like seeing you ruined.”

He glances up at Sunghoon, who’s still watching. Still quiet. His jaw clenched.

“You thinking what I’m thinking?” Jake turns to Sunghoon.

Sunghoon doesn’t answer at first. Then his gaze drops to your still-shaking legs.

“She’s not done,” Sunghoon easily agrees.

Jake stands. Scoops you up easily, carrying you toward the bed like you weigh nothing.

“My turn to take care of you,” he murmurs into your ear.

He sets you down. Kisses your knee. Then your hip. Then your wrist, “We’re gonna slow it down now. Let you feel everything.”

His hand is on your chest — not possessive, but grounding, “You’re mine right now. You ready for that?”

You nod, exhale. Something in you unclenches.

Behind Jake, you glimpse Niki slipping his sweats back on. Sunghoon watching silently, cock still half-hard, eyes unreadable.

Jake doesn’t rush. Doesn’t even look away from you, “Let them watch, baby. This is you and me.”

One hands traces over your navel, Jake’s easy flick over to Niki and Sunghoon as he kneels in front of you, still on the bed.

“You gave them a show,” he softly starts, kissing up your thigh, “But now you’re mine again. Got it?”

You mewl in agreement, and Jake’s eyes are soft on you as he licks a stripe over your wet cunt.

Your eyes are glassy as you watch him

“You let him cum all over this pretty ass. Let him ruin you,” he murmurs against your lower lips, “but now it’s my turn.”

He spits on your wet cunt — slow, deliberate, filthy but reverent — and uses his fingers to press it into your folds, eyes locked on yours the entire time.

You twitch. Whimpering as he rolls his finger over your clit. You’re shaking under overstimulation, but Jake is taking his time.

He’s loud as he sucks onto your fold, fingers in your pussy and he watches in satisfaction as your thighs shake around his head.

His jaw moves with his fingers and it’s to much. You squeeze your eyes shut, crying out as Jake coaxes out a very weak orgasm out of you.

You lay, opening your eyes and watching Jake entering you.

He’s slow, gentle. His dick thick and reaching deep inside of you. One hand grabs your chin, tilts your face toward his.

“Look at me. Want you to remember who owns this,” he whispers to you, lovingly kissing your check. Then a softer peck against your lips.

He starts fucking you deep, slow, possessive strokes. You’re already writhing—too sensitive, too full—but he holds you in place.

“You feel that, baby? That’s mine now. Gonna keep it messy just for me.”

His breathing’s getting heavier, “Might even put a baby in you tonight. Just so they know who you belong to.”

Niki sits nearby, watching, eyes hungry again. Sunghoon’s at the head of the bed, arms folded—trying not to look, but failing. Jake glances at them over your shoulder.

“She’s quiet now. Wonder who’s fucking her better,” he mocks them.

Niki smirks. Sunghoon licks his lips.

Jake pulls out briefly, fingers you lazily, it’s just enough to keep you twitching.

“You want a taste before she breaks again?” Jake asks Sunghoon.

Sunghoon approaches. Kneels. Kisses you softly—tongue tracing Jake’s taste off your lips. Jake watches you two kiss.

Sunghoon is softer this time, gently pressing his lips to you and letting you take lead. You nibble softly on his lower lip, starting to pull him down to you.

“Not bad,” Jake murmurs to Sunghoon, effectively breaking your kiss.

“But keep your mouth off her neck. That’s mine.”

Jake pulls you back onto him, you straddle his hips. You’re too fucked out to ride him, and Jake knows. He grips your waist, spreading his knees and then he pistoning his hips into you.

He’s faster now, dirtier. And you know he’s close to cumming. You look to your left and see Niki is jacking off again, tugging onto his dick furiously as he watches you and Jake.

Sunghoon isn’t doing much better.

“Who makes you feel better, huh?”

“Answer me,” he gruffs, spanking your ass once. Sharply.

You gasp. Can’t say it. Won’t say it.

“She’s playing dumb,” Niki instigates.

“Then let’s make her tell the truth,” Jake decides.

He keeps fucking you, slow then fast. Gentle, then harsh, he keeps going until you cry out his name.

“There she is,” he growls out possessively. He cums as you cry out his name, but you’re too spent.

Cunt spasming as Jake fills you up, and yet your orgasm is running away from you.

Everyone slows down. You’re exhausted, trembling. Jake gathers you into his lap, wiping you down gently with a warm cloth.

He kisses your temple, hums against your shoulder, he softly speaks, “You did so good for me, baby.”

You nod, tears in your eyes, overwhelmed.

Jake watches the way your breath evens out against his chest. You’re boneless, warm, marked. His hand rests low on your waist — not tight, but firm. Like a tether. Like a promise.

The room still smells like sex and lavender soap. Your voice lingers in his head. Wrecked, sweet, his name falling off your tongue like confession. Jake should feel jealous that he watched two other men fuck you. He doesn’t.

He feels full. You chose him. To lead. To hold. To gather your pieces after they’d all taken their turn. And he did. Jake presses a kiss to your temple. Whispers it more to himself than to you.

Niki’s the first to move after you and Jake settle in the middle of the bed. He crawls in from the side of the bed, draping one arm lazily across your legs and resting his chin there like a puppy who just misbehaved but knows he’s still loved.

“You good, pretty girl?” he asks, lips brushing your thigh, “Wasn’t too much, right?”

There’s mischief still in his voice, but concern peeks through, folded into cocky bravado.

You reach down and run your fingers through his damp hair. “I’m good,” you whisper, “You were good.”

He grins, genuine now. And nuzzles in closer.

Sunghoon hangs back, quiet, watching. He doesn’t say much, but his eyes hold depth—something protective, something reverent. You beckon him closer with your hand, and he hesitates before climbing in. You’re squashed between Sunghoon and Jake. Niki between your legs, sprawled out. Sunghoon’s hand settles on your waist, grounding. Steady. Present.

“She needs rest,” he murmurs to Jake, almost like he’s reminding himself.

Jake hums. “That’s why we’re here.”

They shift with practiced intimacy—Jake cradling your upper body, Sunghoon warming your back, Niki curved against your legs like a living blanket.

Someone pulls the sheets up. Someone turns off the lamp. It’s warm. Safe. Your pulse slows.

Jake’s fingers trace lazy patterns along your arm. “Told you I’d look after you.”

“You did,” you whisper.

Niki mutters something about needing snacks later. Sunghoon shoos him quiet with a soft sigh. Jake smiles against your skin.

Three hearts beat around you. And you let yourself melt into the middle of it—held, adored, claimed.

You close your eyes. They don’t let go.

Sunlight filters through the blinds in soft, golden stripes. It’s late—too late for anyone to pretend they planned to leave early. You’re the first to blink awake, stretched between three very warm bodies, all breathing in sync. For a moment, it’s quiet. Gentle. Weightless.

Then Niki stirs.

“We’re all still alive?” he mumbles, voice gravelly with sleep.

“Barely,” Jake croaks from somewhere near your collarbone.

You giggle and squirm a little, trying to get untangled from the limbs draped over you. Sunghoon lets out the softest groan and tightens his arm around your waist.

“Five more minutes,” he mutters, eyes still shut. “Or forever. I vote forever.”

“Forever smells like your armpit,” Niki grunts, pushing Sunghoon off of him with a half-hearted shove. “Get off me, sauna boy.”

There’s a shuffle of laughter, bare skin brushing against sheets, and Jake eventually rolls to the edge of the bed and groans like a dad with back pain.

“Everyone hydrate. We’re re-entering society soon,” he says, grabbing water bottles off the floor. “And by society, you mean… coffee,” you say, sitting up and stretching.

“And by coffee, I mean something iced and strong,” Jake smirks. “Let’s go.”

It takes a while to get moving. Clothes are half-lost, socks shared, and Jake insists on stealing Niki’s hoodie despite it being four sizes too big. Breakfast is a mix of cold toast, leftover chips, and Jake spooning peanut butter straight from the jar.

The car ride back to the city is chaotic in the best way.

Niki’s in the backseat, legs sprawled across both yours and Sunghoon’s laps like a spoiled cat. Sunghoon’s scrolling through his phone with one hand and holding Niki’s ankle hostage with the other.

“I’m sore,” Niki announces dramatically.

“You’re welcome,” you say sweetly.

Jake laughs from the driver’s seat, shooting you a knowing glance in the mirror.

“Someone’s got a new attitude,” he teases. “Sexually awakened much?”

“You made me wear that dress,” you shoot back. “You lit the fuse.”

“Yeah, and you detonated it all over the vanity,” Niki smirks.

Sunghoon sighs without looking up, “That table was antique.”

“So’s your attitude,” Niki retorts, kicking him lightly.

Jake flicks on the radio, rolling down the windows. The city skyline appears in the distance. You lean back in your seat, eyes closed, letting the wind tangle your hair. Jake reaches over the console and finds your hand, squeezing once.

No one says it aloud, but it hangs there—unspoken and understood.

Something changed. In the way Sunghoon keeps glancing at you when you laugh. In how Niki hums under his breath while his fingers graze your knee. In how Jake watches all of it, calm and collected—but never distant.

The tension’s gone.

But something better took its place.

409 notes · View notes

sereia4skz · 3 days ago

Note

can you please make a skz ot8 reaction to the reader getting caught in the rain thank u sm 🥹

headcanons | rained on headcanons

pairing: ot8!straykids x reader

genre: fluff

warnings: n/a

word count: ~500

masterlist: A-Side (texts) | B-Side (written)

BANGCHAN

When he sees you drenched and shivering, his worry shoots through the roof.

“Baby, you’re gonna get sick like this… Come here.”

He pulls you into his arms despite you being soaked, then wraps you in the warmest hoodie he can find.

He's already heating up milk, getting towels, and fussing like you're made of sugar.

"You should've called me. I would've run to you with an umbrella."

LEEKNOW

He sees your wet clothes and raised shoulders and just sighs dramatically.

“Seriously? Are you allergic to shelter or something?”

But two seconds later he’s gently toweling off your hair and muttering under his breath about how cute your pout is. Telling you, you need a warm shower. He even offers you his warmest pajamas.

Secretly loves how clingy you get when you're cold. Encourages you to cuddle with the cats while he makes soup.

CHANGBIN

“Oh nooo, baby, you’re all wet!? Wait, not like that!! I mean-”

Panics for a second, then immediately runs to get a change of clothes that smells like him and his detergent.

He rubs your hands to warm them up and pouts because you didn’t let him pick you up.

“You better cuddle me until you’re warm. It's the only cure.”

HYUNJIN

He gasps like he’s watching a tragic romance movie.

“You look like a beautiful heartbroken protagonist… How can someone be this pretty soaking wet? Why didn't you invite me to dance?”

Wraps you in a blanket like a burrito, brushes your damp hair back, and insists on sketching you afterward to "capture the moment of sadness."

Will spend quiet time with you while feeding you chocolate and telling you how romantic rainy days are.

HAN

“Oh my god, you’re going to catch pneumonia or the plague or, do you feel feverish??”

Clumsily drags you to the bathroom and tries to make you shower without even leaving the room… Gets embarrassed and almost slips in a puddle on the way out.

Ends up waiting outside the door with snacks and a dumb joke ready to make you laugh.

Ends the night cuddling you like a blanket burrito while he softly hums a melody and fiddling with his guitars

FELIX

“Aw, my little rain fairy,” he coos, smiling warmly as he pulls you into a tight hug regardless of how drenched you are.

Immediately brings you to the kitchen to make hot cocoa with marshmallows and whispers: “Warm up, angel.”

Blow-dries your hair gently and braids it after, making you giggle while he talks about how romantic it would’ve been to play with you in the rain.

SEUNGMIN

“So you chose to bathe in the sky instead of checking the forecast?”

Acts unimpressed but is already holding out a dry towel and putting socks on your feet like a disgruntled old man.

He doesn’t say it directly, but he hovers near you all evening, warming up your hands between his and mumbling,

"Next time, call me. I’ll bring an umbrella. Don't be an idiot."

I.N

He gasps so dramatically you think something broke.

“Who did this to you?? Oh. It was the weather.”

He runs around getting fuzzy socks, a giant hoodie, and one of his blanks for you to cuddle. Sits next to you wrapped in a blanket cocoon, all pouty.

“You’re not allowed outside unless you take me with you. You clearly can't be left alone.”

taglist: @diekleinesuesse @tillaboo @felixsonlyrealwife @geni-627 @skz8riley @lezleeferguson-120 @pixie-felix @headfirstfortoro @alnex05 @baby-stay92 @encoredesires @androgynouscrownorbit @channiesluvrclub @my-neurodivergent-world @chims-dimple @bookswillfindyouaway @stellasays45 @angel-writes-skz-here @m-325 @0sunshinecryptid0 @beal-o @hug4helios @oksullen @rileylovescats @dreamyfelixx @yxna-bliss @turtledove824 @enhacolor @skzz0213 @hannahlue @purplelady85 @velvetmoonlght @inishij @bangchanspineapple @straykids4lifeee @peskybirdysya @gnabsss @zayn-210 @wolfhallows4 @katsukis1wife @sammhisphere @bangchanspineapple @sunfk88 @sillyseob @rougegenshin @yaorzu-blog

#stray kids x reader #skz imagines #stray kids fake texts #skz x reader #stray kids #kim seungmin x reader #han jisung x reader #chan x reader #changbin x reader #bangchan x reader #han x reader #hyunjin x reader #lee minho x reader #lee know x reader #lee felix x reader #seungmin x reader #yang jeongin x reader #jeongin x reader

415 notes · View notes

jacksabbotts · 2 days ago

Text

SPENCER REID x FEM!BSF!READER . ᵒ . ➛ TW explicit sexual content, masturbation, oral sex, penetrative sex, and multiple types of kink. power imbalance themes : consensual power exchange dynamics, including light dom/sub themes, edging and orgasm denial : mutual and solo edging, overstimulation, praise/degradation kink : praise kink throughout; consensual use of light degradation terms in later phases, possessiveness / obsession themes : includes possessive/obsessive language and behaviors, always consensual within the dynamic, cockwarming, public play and risk of discovery, use of sex toys (f!receiving and m!receiving ), tearful orgasms / crying, mentions of cum dripping, being filled, and staying filled, just lots and lots of cum talk lmao, possessive dirty talk : including possessive language and references to claiming, marking, and ownership ( all consensual )

. ᵒ . ➛ AUTHORS NOTES this is only m-z, you can read a-l here. giggling, panting and crying the entire time i was writing lmao. that t section, had me blush frr. sorry it took so long also sorry it feel repetitive. you can read a-l here. unbeta'd :(

. ᵒ . ➛ WORD COUNT ~ 13.3k

masterlist | series masterlist | dividers by @cafekitsune | join the taglist | requested!!!

m is for motivation ⤷ . ᵒ .༄ all phases

you. always you.

spencer’s motivation is, without question, your pleasure—your safety, your comfort, your happiness, your orgasm, your emotional aftercare—the whole nine.

he doesn’t get off on just the act. he gets off on you getting off.

he’s a certified simp scientist™. and when it comes to you, he studies every breath, every whimper, every eye flutter like a living thesis on how best to unravel you.

he loves knowing he can make you come apart. that he gets to be the one to do it. that out of all the people in the world, you trusted him to see you like this, take care of you like this.

and once he starts? he gets addicted. to your sounds. to your reactions. to the way your body molds to his. to how your hands always grip at his curls when you’re close.

he’s insatiable, but not in a greedy way. he just… can’t get enough of you. rvery time he finishes, every time you collapse next to him with kiss-swollen lips and trembling thighs, he wants to do it again. to top the last time. to make you feel even better.

because if you let him? he’ll worship you until his last breath.

even at his most depraved and unhinged ( hi phase four) , his driving force is never just lust. it’s love, reverence, awe. like your body is a riddle and he’s the only one who can solve it.

spencer reid’s ultimate fantasy? your pleasure, your bliss, your complete unraveling—because of him. that’s the motivation. always has been. always will be.

n is for no ⤷ . ᵒ .༄ all phases

spencer’s not shy. not with you. not anymore.

he's willing to try almost anything once—experimenting, roleplaying, toys, edging, overstimulation, light bondage, even light breath play once he trusts the rhythm of your body.

he can dirty talk for days and get downright nasty with how he takes you apart. he’ll whisper filth into your ear and make you beg for more.

but the second you ask him to pretend not to love you? to pretend you've never met and has not memorized your everything ( in and out of the bedroom ).

that's his hard limit.

no pretend scenarios where you're just a fuck.

no roleplay where he's 'just using you.'

no pretending this doesn’t mean something.

because it does. always. being with you means something.

even when he’s got you crying on his cock or wrecking you from behind—he still loves you. still adores you. still cherishes the way your body trusts him.

the idea of being cold to you, even in character, even for 'fun,' makes him nauseous. that’s not who he is. not with you.

'i can be rough,' he’ll whisper, 'but i’ll never be cruel.'

no matter how filthy it gets ( and it gets filthy ), there’s always a thread of care—an undertone of reverence. even when he’s calling you a brat or a cockslut, it’s laced with admiration. even when he's punishing you, he’s watching your every micro expression for discomfort.

consent is king. communication is sacred. but love? love is the whole damn castle.

so no, he won’t roleplay being indifferent. he won’t degrade you for real. he won’t pretend he doesn't want to wake up next to you in the morning and kiss every inch of your body again and again and again.

because you're not just a body to him. you’re it. you’re everything.

o is for oral ⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase one

spencer fantasizing about going down on you.

he hasn’t yet. not even close. but, god, he wants to. he thinks about it constantly. like a sickness. like a loop he can’t get out of.

you're his best friend, and every time you pop a piece of candy into your mouth or lick whipped cream off your finger or bite your lip when you’re deep in thought, he spirals. because his brain goes to one place and one place only.

your legs over his shoulders. his tongue buried between your thighs. your hands in his hair.

he doesn’t just want to make you come. he wants to study you. devour you. learn exactly how to make you tremble. he wants to get drunk on the sound of you moaning his name while his mouth is absolutely drenched in you.

and what really drives him insane?

the thought that you have no idea what he’s thinking when you toss him that sweet little smile.

( spoiler alert : you do. )

he reads about the nerve endings in the clitoris. learns that it has 8,000 and files the number away like it’ll matter the first time he puts his mouth on you.

he doesn’t even touch himself to the thought most nights—he just sits in it. pathetically hard and aching. because he doesn’t feel like he deserves to imagine it… but he does anyway.

you’ve definitely teased him about it.

not overtly, not yet. but your gaze lingers. on his mouth. on his throat when he swallows. on the way he nervously licks his lips when you step closer than you should. he catches you looking—and when he does, he blushes so hard it stains the tips of his ears.

he’s not entirely sure if you want to suck his cock, or if he’s just hoping, praying, and or projecting. but the thought alone makes his stomach tighten and his cock twitch.

he imagines your eyes looking up at him from between his legs, your hands on his thighs, your tongue sliding over the head of his cock like you’ve been waiting for this for years.

you make him feel like he’s a little too big for your mouth on purpose—like you’d moan around him just to make him lose control.

and the guilt he feels when he comes to that image? disgusting and delicious. he’s convinced himself you’d never do it. that he’s not the kind of man who gets that from a woman like you. that is he is pervert for even imagining you in such a position.

but if you ever hinted at it? said something.

'bet you’d lose your mind if i got on my knees right now.'

he would black out. fully. just gone.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase two

spencer hasn’t actually gone down on you yet—but he has dreamt about it. like, full rem cycle, night-sweat-inducing dreams. he wakes up hard and flushed and gasping, thighs clenched and sheets damp. in these dreams, you’re always sitting on his face. always.

and when he wakes up? his mouth is watering.

it’s gotten worse since the moment you straddled his lap during one of your teasing sessions—grinding slowly while whispering in his ear.

'bet that pretty mouth of yours could make me cry.'

you felt him groan beneath you. you felt him twitch. and you knew exactly what you were doing.

now, every time he looks at your thighs in the bullpen, or you lean forward in a skirt, or you yawn and stretch beside him on the jet? his tongue tingles with the ache to taste.

he's overthinking everything—how long he should stay between your legs the first time, whether you’d like soft licks or focused pressure, whether to pin your hips down or let you ride his tongue.

he’s so close to breaking, it’s laughable.

you haven’t done it yet either. but oh, you’ve talked about it.

you’ve whispered things during debriefs and on long car rides. teased him with comments.

'next time you wear that tie, i might just use it to keep your hands off my head.'

and the look he gave you after that? wrecked. glazed. like he was already spilling in his pants. you swear his breath hitched the first time you dragged your fingers over his belt buckle during a fake stretch. and when your hand accidentally brushed his zipper?

he nearly fucking cried.

he’s never had someone want to do that. never had someone look at him like you do—like he’s the kind of man worth getting on your knees for.

he doesn’t even know how to act when you mention it. he just stammers or blinks at you like you just fried his brain with a single sentence. but don’t let that fool you.

he wants it. bad.

and when you finally get your hands on him? you’ll feel it—how he twitches, how his whole body goes rigid, how his knees nearly buckle the first time you lick him like you’ve dreamed of it, too.

he’ll be so shy and undone the first time—trying to cover his moans, biting his knuckles—but you’ll hear it anyway.

and it’ll ruin you both.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase three

it finally happens. maybe not how either of you planned, but oh, it happens.

he’s gentle at first, almost reverent—spreading your thighs with shaky hands, kissing the inside of your knee like it’s sacred. you’re already wrecked from the tension, the build-up, the weeks of innuendo and dirty dreams and restless nights.

and the second he licks you?

gone.

you moan like you’ve never moaned before, and that sound breaks him.

he wraps his arms under your thighs to keep you open, palms spread wide and desperate. his tongue is slow, curious at first—testing what you like, what makes your hips jerk. but once he finds your rhythm?

he commits.

spencer learns fast—and now that he’s finally here, he’s not going anywhere.

he locks in, eyes glassy and wet with need, nose buried in your heat, tongue dragging over your clit like he’s trying to memorize you from the inside out.

se moans into you, sloppy and guttural, because the taste of you is better than he imagined and now he’s addicted. every time you whimper his name? his hips grind into the mattress. every time your thighs squeeze his head? he just grips harder, deeper, groaning like a man possessed.

when you finish, you cry out, legs trembling, fingers yanking his hair, and spencer rides the waves like a man at sea.

and when you try to stop him after?

'spence, oh my god, i can’t—' he whimpers, 'please, i need this, please.'

because he's not done yet.

spencer is much more vocal now. still shy, still a little breathless—but gone is the awkward fumbling. gone is the self-doubt. now, he’s so into it, it’s hotter than hell.

his reactions are so intense it’s almost unfair. the first time you drop to your knees without asking, he says your name like a prayer. the first time you lick the underside of his cock? his hips jump. the first time you take him all the way down?

he gasps—eyes wide, lips parted, gone.

he tries to hold back, tries not to buck into your mouth—but his hands are twitching at his sides, grabbing the sheets, and eventually? he gives in, he had no choice. fingers tangled in your hair, hips lifting just slightly, and a breathless.

'f-fuck, please don’t stop—'

he’s just as desperate for you as you are for him and when you pull off just to tease him? give him a smug little smile and a kiss to the tip?

'oh my god,' he groans, head falling back.

he’s still so sensitive, still gets overwhelmed—but now, he loves it. he craves it. he’ll ask for it in whispers, beg for it in bed, dream about it with his fist wrapped tight around his cock and your name on his tongue.

and when he finishes in your mouth?

he’s gone—blinking down at you like you just changed his religion.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase four

phase four spencer eats you like he’s starving. like he’s been dreaming about it all day. like it’s the only thing keeping him sane.

and honestly, it might be.

he doesn’t just go down on you—he consumes you. he spreads your legs wide like he owns them, growls when you squirm.

'you better stay still,' while dragging your thighs up over his shoulders.

because this isn’t a favor. this is penance.

he starts with soft kisses—slow, open-mouthed, like he’s apologizing for every second he’s not between your legs. then his tongue flicks over your clit once… twice… and then again with purpose. by the time he locks his arms under your thighs and settles in, you’re already whimpering his name, already fisting the sheets.

but he’s not stopping. not when you beg. not when you come. not even when you cry.

'spence—i can’t, i can’t—' 'yes, you can,' he murmurs into your cunt. 'you said i could do whatever i wanted. i want this.'

he moans into you when you come again. grinds against the bed. ruts like a feral thing because he loves the taste of your orgasm more than his own release. he lives for the sound of your thighs shaking, your voice breaking, your legs locked around his head like you’re scared he’ll leave.

he won’t. he’s not going anywhere. you might have to physically drag him off your pussy. because in phase four, spencer reid eats like it’s his last meal.

he tries to let you take control. swears he can handle it. swears he’ll behave.

he’s lying.

because the second your mouth wraps around the head of his cock? he breaks. a low, guttural, soul-snatching moan leaves his throat.

'holy fuck,' he rasps, already panting. 'oh my god, baby—'

he whimpers. fists the sheets. shoves one arm over his eyes like he can’t even look at you or he’ll come on the spot. but he can’t resist for long.

his hands sneak into your hair. his hips twitch. his thighs start to shake—and not even a genius like him can remember words when you’re sucking him like that.

he’ll beg. he’ll curse. he’ll try to warn you.

'wait—please, baby, i’m gonna—i’m gonna come—'

but your hand tightens. your mouth gets wetter. you moan around him and he loses it. and now he's pushing his hips and thrusting down your throat. he finishes so hard it leaves him breathless, blinking at the ceiling like he’s just had a near-death experience.

then he pulls you up. kisses you filthy. tells you he’s going to repay the favor for the rest of the night.

because now you’ve got him worked up again. and phase four spencer doesn't stop at just one orgasm.

p is for pace ⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase three and four only

there’s something dangerously precise about the way spencer reid fucks.

it’s never random. never careless. never forgettable.

every thrust, every roll of his hips, every stutter in his rhythm—is deliberate. studied. memorized. he catalogs your responses in real time, syncing his movements to every gasp and grip and bitten-back moan like he’s running an internal algorithm titled how to absolutely fucking wreck you.

and he does.

in the early stages, he’s hesitant—awkwardly gentle, a little too careful, holding back because he doesn’t want to mess it up. he'll start slow. painfully slow. holding eye contact, whispering if it’s okay, adjusting with every flicker of your expression.

but the second you whimper? the moment you say, 'harder, spence. please.'

it’s like a switch flips.

that genius brain of his registers your request like a command line input—and now he’s pressing you into the mattress, hips snapping in perfect time, one hand locked around your thigh to keep you open for him, the other sliding up your spine with reverent fingers like he’s tracing constellations on skin.

by phase three? he’s confident. and confident spencer reid is terrifying.

he sets a punishing rhythm when he wants you speechless, and a languid, teasing one when he wants to hear every broken syllable of his name fall from your lips like scripture.

sometimes he stops entirely. buries himself deep and holds it, waits until your fingers claw at his back, until you plead. Until he hears that desperate, breathless 'move, please'.

then he starts again, slower this time, crueler somehow, making sure you feel every inch of him.

by phase four?

you don’t stand a chance.

he has your body timed to the second. he knows exactly how many strokes it takes to get you close. he counts them in his head. and he won’t let you finish until he’s decided you’ve earned it.

one hand around your throat, the other fisted in the sheets.

'not yet,' he’ll whisper. 'you’re gonna come when i say so.'

because now his pace isn’t just physical. it’s psychological warfare.

he goes slow when you want it fast. fast when you’re close. holds still when you clench. grinds instead of thrusts. fucks you in circles—until you’re crying from the frustration of it. until you’ve forgotten your name but not his. never his.

and just when you’ve reached your breaking point?

he fucking ruins you.

with one last perfectly timed thrust—he brings you over the edge like he planned it that way all along.

which, of course, he did. because he’s spencer fucking reid.

q is for quickies ⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase one

they don’t technically have sex in phase one. but holy hell, the things you do to him could be classified as psychological warfare with a side of pant-rubbing terrorism.

and the worst part?

it always happens when there’s no time. in the hallway outside a briefing room. in the back seat of an suv after a stakeout. once ( he still has nightmares ) in the goddamn elevator.

you press him into corners like a certified menace, lips near his ear whispering filth like it’s nothing.

'is that a gun in your pants, dr. reid… or you just happy to see me?' 'spence, i can feel you through the your khakis. that’s not very professional.' 'you came in your pants last time i touched you. should we try for round two?'

you rub him over his slacks with just enough pressure to make him desperate. but never enough to tip him over. you always leave him a mess—

chest heaving. skin flushed. dick rock-hard and leaking in his boxers, with no relief in sight. and he lets you. every single time. because even when he’s trembling, clutching the edge of the seat, stuttering out your name like a prayer—

'p-please… d-don’t stop—please, i-i need—'

you always stop.

you leave him twitching and aching and so goddamn close he can barely walk. and worst of all? you smile sweetly, fix your lip gloss, and saunter back into the bau like you didn’t just edge america’s favorite fbi genius into another mental breakdown.

if anyone ever finds his browser history, he’s ruined. if anyone ever sees the way he looks at you when you do this, he’s doubly ruined.

but god help him—

he lives for your quickies. even if they’re fully clothed. even if he never gets to come. even if you leave him harder than he’s ever been in his life with exactly one grind of your hips.

because spencer reid is many things. subtle is not one of them. and he is so fucking in love with you, he’d let you ruin him forever.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase two

this is the phase where things shift. where all that tension from phase one boils over into messy, frantic, barely-legal territory. because while you still haven’t had actual sex yet—

that hasn’t stopped either of you from getting your hands on everything else. spencer’s quickies in phase two are pure desperation.

it’s always fast. always half-dressed. always somewhere you shouldn’t be.

his apartment kitchen counter at 2am, clothes still on from the jet. the bathroom on the jet—his pants halfway down, your skirt hiked up. a locked bau supply closet. ( he came in his socks, that time. you haven’t let him live it down. ) and he tries—he really tries—to slow down.

'w-we should wait—wait until we have time—' 'this isn’t… ah—n-not how i imagined—'

but then your hand slips into his boxers and all that logic goes right out the fucking window.

these aren’t the chaste dry humps of phase one. these are hands-down-your-pants, open-mouthed, soaked-through underwear moments.

you’ll palm his cock under the desk with the team just outside. he’ll slide his fingers inside you while you’re straddling his lap, shaking and moaning into his neck. sometimes you both finish in a blur of panting and praise, his forehead pressed to yours—

'you’re so—so fucking perfect, i-i can’t—god, i’m gonna come—'

and other times, he finishes first and you make him watch—eyes wide and lips parted as your fingers work yourself to orgasm just inches away from his still-twitching cock.

the post-orgasm guilt still lingers. but it’s quieter now. because it’s you. and you touch him like he’s wanted—like he’s allowed to fall apart in your hands.

and spencer, he wants quickies. he needs quickies. because he doesn’t know how to not want you anymore.

even if it’s rushed. even if it’s risky. even if he has to sit in a staff meeting with your cum on his fingers.

he’d do it all over again.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase three

phase three is when it all breaks loose. the teasing? the edging? the weeks of built-up tension?

it erupts into a pattern of reckless, rabid, obsessive sex. but quickies in this phase? oh, baby. these are not soft, tentative experiments. these are 'i need to be inside you right now or i will die' kind of quickies.

spencer is smart. but he is dumb for you now.

gone is the restraint. gone is the guilt. gone is the idea that he shouldn’t. because the second you gave him permission, the moment you let him have you?

he lost all sense of moderation.

'we don’t have time—' 'then don’t waste any,' he whisper, already dragging his zipper down, like the sex hungry fiend he has become, that you turned him into.

where do these quickies happen? against the bau bathroom sink, both of you panting into each other’s mouths as he ruts up into you like a man possessed.

in your apartment entryway, the door barely closed behind you before he's fucking you still half-clothed.

inside his office, door locked, desk cleared in a clatter while you’re bent over it whispering, 'be quiet, baby. be good for me.'

he’s the one moaning now. the one with shaking hands, the one who clings to you after, muttering 'thank yous' and 'i missed you,' even if it’s only been two hours.

these quickies are not tidy.

you’re soaked before he even gets your panties down. he’s already leaking as he pushes into you—no time for foreplay, no need for words.

'fuck—fuck, i’m gonna come already—' 'then do it,' you hiss into his mouth. 'come in me. i want it, spence.'

and he does. hard. fast. usually biting your shoulder or forehead pressed to yours as if you’re his only tether to the planet. and afterward there is no time to clean up. no time to reset.

just flushed cheeks, swollen lips, and the frantic scramble to act normal even though his cum is still making a mess in your panties and dripping down your thighs.

phase three is the feral stage. and quickies are not a backup plan anymore. they’re a necessity.

'i don’t think i can wait until we get home,' he’ll whisper in your ear.

and you’re already pulling him into the nearest closet.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase four

there is no more pretending. no more innocence. no more teasing tension. this is filthy, urgent, dangerous, and completely out of control

he’s so far gone for you, it’s visceral. obsessed, addicted, and owned. quickies aren’t occasional. they’re constant.

'you’re all i think about. all i need. i can’t—fuck—i can’t go an hour without you.'

he has zero shame now. he begs. he whimpers. he gets off on being used by you.

in a conference room at quantico, minutes before a briefing—panties pushed to the side, your skirt bunched in his fist, your hands smacking the glass wall as he fucks you from behind.

inside a dingy bar bathroom while your hanging out with the team, desperate gasps muffled into his shoulder as he slides in and whispers 'take it. just take it, baby.'

against a bookcase in the bau's evidence room, where you both swore you’d 'just be five minutes.' ( he finishes in under two. apologizes. then drops to his knees to make it up to you. )

literally inside the car, parked behind a gas station off the interstate, your leg up on the dash while he grinds into you and moans your name like a prayer.

he gets off on the danger. he wants to get caught. he wants someone to know how good you are to him. and worst of all, e wants to mark you. with his cum. his teeth. his cock. his name.

'you think anyone else could make you come like this?' 'say it—say it’s mine. say this pussy’s fucking mine.'

( you say it. you scream it. every time. )

these quickies are intense. animalistic. sometimes even degrading.

they’re so fast and messy that half the time he doesn’t even get all the way undressed—and neither do you.

it’s just zip—thrust—moan—release.

'god, i’m not done. we’re not done. get back here.'

and after you’re wrecked. he’s ruined. you can’t walk straight. he’s got nail marks down his back. he tucks your panties into his pocket with a smirk and no intention of giving them back.

you return to your desks like nothing happened. except you can’t sit down without gasping. and he can’t stop smiling like the cock-drunk menace you’ve made him.

r is for risk ⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase one

risk is everything for phase one spencer—but not in the obvious, clothes-on-the-floor kind of way.

no—this is the charged, teeth-gritting, pulse-pounding tension of doing almost everything while technically doing nothing at all.

because you haven’t had sex yet. not even close. but god, are you flirting with danger. most of phase one takes place at work—which means the stakes are high.

you’re on the jet, knees barely brushing, breath catching when turbulence bumps your bodies together and neither of you pull away.

you’re thigh to motherfucking thigh at the precinct, totally innocent—until you shift just a little too much and feel him twitch next you.

you’re leaning over his shoulder at the bullpen, your bralette peeking out, whispering something about file formats—but he knows you’re really just toying with him.

every move you make feels calculated. every brush of your hand, every accidental graze, every too-long stare.

and spencer, he’s trying to survive. he’s trying not to show how badly he’s sweating beneath that cardigan. because one wrong move and the whole team might notice.

penelope is watching. hotch is always watching. and god help him if Morgan figures it out. this man is a bundle of nervous energy and catholic-level guilt.

he knows what you’re doing. he knows it’s wrong. and he still can’t stop imagining you pressed up against the nearest filing cabinet with his tie between your teeth.

and even though you haven't crossed that final line, everything about your teasing is.

'...borderline unethical. probably unprofessional. fefinitely inadvisable.'

and still, he lets you. he wants you to. because deep down, he likes the thrill of how close you're getting to the edge.

you palming spencer through his pants in the car ( and pulling away like nothing happened ). you whispering filth into his ear on the jet, then innocently asking if he’s okay when he stammers and flees to the bathroom.

dpencer jacking off next you and again in the hotel shower after you fell asleep grinding on his thigh—and hating himself for not waking you up to make you stop.

reader accidentally brushing her foot up his calf under the table during a team dinner. ( spencer chokes on his water. morgan raises an eyebrow. you just smile .)

phase one risk isn’t about getting caught mid-fuck. it’s about almost getting caught wanting to. it’s the kind of danger that makes spencer’s voice shake.

the kind that makes him curse his eidetic memory—because he’ll be thinking about this forever.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase two

the tension has snapped—you’ve touched. you’ve tasted. you’ve gotten each other off. but still… you haven’t had sex.

which makes everything feel worse. because now, the risk isn’t just theoretical. you’ve crossed a line and now you’re dancing on the knife’s edge, daring the universe to knock you off it.

whats changed is spencer has seen you come. you’ve watched him stroke his cock, red-faced and breathless. he’s let you sit in his lap, rock against him until his pants are soaked with cum, and still whispered, 'we shouldn’t be doing this.'

but you're doing it anyway.

and it’s that exact moral tug-of-war—his brain saying 'stop,' your mouth saying 'please,' his cock saying 'I’ll take the risk'—that defines phase two.

its spencer giving you an orgasm in a public bathroom stall, biting his knuckles to muffle your moans as your fingers claw at his sweater vest.

its you going down on spencer in the back of a parked suv—while on a case—right before going back into the local precinct to debrief a sheriff.

its spencer giving you mutual handjobs on the jet, under one of those scratchy fbi blankets, while the team is asleep in arm’s reach.

its you straddling him during stakeout surveillance, fully clothed, just grinding slow and steady until he whines—and then making him stay hard and focused for the next two hours.

'god, if hotch saw us like this…' 'then you better be quiet, doctor.'

spencer is cracking.

his risk aversion is being actively sabotaged by how good you make him feel. he still hates the idea of getting caught. still overthinks everything. still whispers things.

'we could lose our jobs.' 'this is wrong.' 'what if someone hears?'

and yet, he’ll still let you suck him off in the hotel bathroom with only a paper-thin door between you and morgan.

because you’re like gravity now. you pull him in even when his hands are shaking.

the key difference in this phase his he’s not passively suffering anymore. he’s participating now.

risk isn’t just something happening to him. he’s choosing it. he’s chasing it. he’s following you down this rabbit hole, and telling himself he’ll worry about consequences later.

but he won’t.

because when it’s your hand on his cock, or your voice in his ear, the only thing he can think is—

'i’ll risk it. for you, i’ll risk anything.'

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase three

the brakes are gone.

the line? crossed.

the tension? exploded.

you’re having sex now. regularly. ravenously. riskily.

and spencer reid—rule-abiding, cardigan-wearing, seatbelt-evangelizing dr. spencer reid—has become a walking hr violation with zero fucking shame.

its sex in the back seat of a bureau suv. parked in the quantico lot. middle of the afternoon. he’s whispering

'god, you feel so good, please don’t stop.' while gripping your hips hard enough to bruise.

pulling you into a closet at the field office during a lunch break. he’s rutting into you from behind with your hand over your mouth, while he mutters about how reckless this is—but doesn’t stop. not for a second.

you straddling him on a conference room chair, door locked, blouse undone, skirt hiked up—and spencer literally biting his own hand to keep from moaning.

sex in an elevator. he’s pressed against the wall, hands trembling as he lifts you just enough to thrust into you—and then prays to every deity he can name that no one calls the elevator.

he’s gone.

like, morally and emotionally feral. he's still anxious, still riddled with guilt when he’s alone in his apartment—but in the moment? he’s just desperate.

desperate to feel you. desperate to make you come. desperate to take what he’s been craving for what feels like forever. he no longer whispers 'what if someone sees?'

he whispers 'we’ll be quick' or 'just five minutes' or 'I need you too much to wait.'

the stakes are higher. the risks are bigger. the orgasms are more intense than ever.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase four

by phase four, all bets are off. like, truly—morality? gone.

decorum? dead.

spencer’s internal risk calculator? fucking shattered to bits.

he doesn’t just take risks anymore. he initiates them. with his mouth. his fingers. his goddamn genius brain plotting how to make you come in the most high-stakes places imaginable.

the risk level in phase four is un-fucking-hinged.

sex during an active case?

you’re bent over the edge of a cold autopsy table between interviews. his vest is still on. his gun is on the counter. his fingers are knuckle-deep and his voice is tight in your ear.

'be quiet. you don’t want hotch to come in here, do you?'

spencer going down on you in the bau tech room. ( don't tell pen. ) you’re squirming in a chair, hands twisted in his hair, and he’s whispering.

'be still, baby, i’m almost done.'

fingered in the elevator ( again ). but this time is not parked. moving. he’s holding your leg over his arm, your skirt pushed up, your moans muffled against his neck. the doors open. you’re both breathless. the team is waiting. reid just says : 'sorry. technical difficulties.'

phone sex during a stakeout. he’s in another car. you’re in your motel room. you’re trying to be good. but he’s teasing you over the phone—muted mic, earpiece in, voice like silk and sin.

'touch yourself for me. two fingers. you know how i like it.'

you’ve made a monster out of the once-shy genius. a brilliant, filthy, obsessive monster. and he doesn’t care who knows—except the people who actually can fire him.

his thought process is no longer 'what if we get caught?'

it’s 'can we finish before anyone notices?'

his blood runs with adrenaline and your moans. his every fantasy is a blend of shame, exhibitionism, and unholy pleasure. and when he’s not taking you somewhere dangerous? he’s thinking about the last time he did.

he's willing to risk getting caught by hotch. losing his job. dying with your name on his tongue

he doesn’t just want you—he wants to be inside you while danger creeps closer. while your nails dig into his back and his whole fucking career teeters on the edge of your thighs.

he’s not just a man anymore. he’s yours. tethered to you by lust, obsession, and the undeniable thrill of knowing that if hell is real—

he’ll be going down with your taste still on his lips.

s is for stamina ⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase one

spencer is not experienced. not in real-life scenarios. not with someone like you. he’s all theory, all potential energy—and you’re the spark that finally sets it off.

so no—his stamina isn’t perfect. but oh god, his recovery time is scary fast.

the first few times, let’s be honest, he finishes fast. over his pants. in the bathroom. in your hand. he tries to hold out—but he’s so wired, so overstimulated, so high on your attention that he’s basically a human pressure cooker with zero release valve.

you breathe on his neck the wrong way and he’s clenching his jaw and apologizing with tears in his eyes. but here’s the thing, he bounces back like a champion.

he’s so embarrassed that it happened fast that he immediately wants to go again. and again. and again.

'just give me a second, i can—i want to do it right.'

he learns quick. he adapts quicker. each round is better than the last—not just because of stamina, but because his desperation is addicting. the way he mutters 'fuck, you’re perfect' into your shoulder while trying not to finish too soon again?

unreal.

'i need to last longer. she deserves that.' 'i want her to fall apart for me. not just once—every time.' 'she touched me. she wants me. i can’t fuck this up.'

so yes, he's cums fast. but also hard again in five minutes if you even look at him a certain way. he has stamina—just not all at once.

he’s like a broken vending machine that just keeps giving out free snacks.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase two

spencer is still soft, still reverent, still somehow embarrassed every time he makes you come—but he’s also dangerously in control of himself.

because after phase one he practiced.

alone. in his apartment. in the staff bathroom at work with the door locked. sometimes with his legs shaking and his hand hovering, whispering your name just to feel how fast it spirals.

'don’t finish yet—she’d want you to last.' 'this is what she deserves. don’t give in.'

he still doesn’t last forever—you’re still his ultimate weakness—but his stamina is significantly better because he’s not just relying on instinct anymore.

he’s prepped. conditioned. he’s trained himself to hold back.

he palms himself through his boxers until his stomach tenses, then stops. bites his lip. breathes through it. waits. practices restraint like a man possessed.

so when you're finally on top of him in phase two—your hand or mouth on him, or maybe his on you, skin on skin for the first time—he still feels like he could burst instantly.

but he doesn’t.

he holds on. longer than he thought he could. because it’s not about how long he lasts anymore—it’s about how long he can keep you on the edge.

fast. still ridiculous. he finishes once and still wants more—because by now, he’s addicted to you. your hands. your voice. the look in your eyes when he surprises you with how long he can last.

'can i… do it again? i wanna go again, baby. please.'

in summary, phase two spencer is dangerous because he still has all that boyish desperation, but now it’s caged, controlled, sharpened into stamina that serves your pleasure first.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase three

spencer reid isn’t hoping he’ll last—he knows he will. because you’ve already taught him how and he’s learned everything you’ve shown him.

he’s still the brainiac with the big heart, still reverent, still fully gone for you—

but now, he’s confident. he knows how to draw it out. knows how to push you to the brink again and again without ever letting you fall… until he says so.

'not yet, sweetheart. you can give me one more.' 'use me. however you need.' 'you wanna ride it out or let me ruin you?'

by this point, spencer has the control of a seasoned lover, but still the hunger of a man newly, utterly obsessed. he can go multiple rounds—easily, hold back until you’ve come once, twice, maybe more—then let go. keep going even after he finishes, if you want him to ( he’ll do anything you want. )

he might finish once inside you then kiss you, flip you over, and start again with his fingers or his mouth.

'i’m not done with you yet.'

his recovering time is quick. almost unnervingly so. he’s sensitive, yes, but that doesn’t stop him anymore. he wants the overstimulation. he wants to be a little wrecked if it means giving you everything. he’ll twitch, he’ll whimper, but he’ll keep going if you ask.

'spence, you don’t have to—' 'i want to. please.'

spencer has fully entered his prime. he’s dominant without being cruel. hungry without being greedy. stamina made man.

he lasts as long as you need—because at this point? he’s no longer trying to survive your touch.

he’s weaponizing it.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase four

phase four spencer reid is not normal. he’s feral. he’s possessed. he’s so deep in you ( emotionally, physically, spiritually ) that his only goal is obliteration—yours and his.

gone is the sweet boy begging for permission. gone is the shaky man with his hands in his lap. this version of Spencer?

'you’re gonna let me fuck the brat right out of you.' 'i’m not stopping till you forget your own name.' 'you wanted me like this. you made me like this.'

there is no 'one and done.' no round limit. no end in sight.

he finishes inside you and then pulls out just to finish again on your stomach. then again in your mouth. then again while he’s holding a vibrator to your clit, murmuring filth in your ear like it’s liturgy.

you think he’s satisfied? wrong.

he’s just getting started.

he has unlocked spite stamina.

he’s horny, yes—but more than that, he’s consumed by obsession ( because no one else gets this side of him ), possessiveness ( because he’ll die before he shares ), and proving a point ( because all that teasing you did in phase one? yeah. payback’s a bitch. )

and when you’re crying from overstimulation? he kisses your tears.

'you begged for this, baby. you said you could handle me.'

he can go for hours. he’ll make you beg him to stop, and then keep going until he decides you’ve had enough. you can feel his heartbeat in his cock, but he doesn’t slow down.

he wants the ache. he wants the twitch. he wants to come so hard he forgets his own theories.

even when he finishes, it’s not a finish. he’ll use his hands. his mouth. the toy he bought just for you. or just… watch you fall apart on his cum-slicked cock for the fifth time that night.

spencer is a man on a mission.

his mission is to destroy you—in the most loving, reverent, horrifyingly effective way possible.

and he will not stop until you forget your name, cry from pleasure, and thank him for every second of it.

t is for toys ⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase one

spencer hasn’t had sex in so long he’s practically forgotten what it feels like to come with another person in the room. so, no—he doesn’t own any sex toys. not because he’s against them, but because the only thing in his nightstand drawer is a spare set of glasses, a pen, and a neatly folded microfiber cloth for his glasses.

the truth? spencer doesn’t think of himself as someone worthy of pleasure. or maybe he does, but he’s just never prioritized it. he jerks off quickly, quietly, always alone—half out of necessity, half out of shame. there’s no candlelit ambiance, no curated playlist, no satin lube. it’s all done in secret, like a crime of need.

the idea of you using toys, though? that’s a different story.

he’s haunted by the thought. his brain eats itself alive wondering whether you own any—what kind, what color, how often you use them. do you have a vibrator hidden in your nightstand? one of those rose-shaped ones he saw in an ad once? do you ever lie in bed and moan his name while pressing it to your clit?

the idea fills him with a mix of shame and arousal so intense he doesn’t know whether to jack off or go for a cold shower.

in the rare moments when his imagination runs wild ( usually after one of your more teasing remarks ), he finds himself picturing you : head thrown back, legs spread, something buzzing against your cunt while your other hand twists in the sheets. and always, always—he imagines you whispering :

'spence...'

he has no idea if it's real but it doesn’t matter. because in phase one, spencer might not be using toys—but the fantasy of you using them?

it ruins him.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase two

spencer knows you use toys—because you’ve told him. casually. over takeout. like it was no big deal. you were sipping chai iced tea when you tilted your head and asked.

'ever used a toy on someone before?'

he had almost choked on his pad see ew.

it becomes very clear, very fast, that you’re far more experienced in that arena than he is. not just with toys in general, but with using them with a partner. and that both intimidates and excites the hell out of him.

you tease him mercilessly about it, of course.

'do you even own lube, spencer?' 'not the kind i think you’re asking about,' he mutters.

he’s a little shy the first time you introduce something—just a slim, quiet vibrator, nothing extreme—but he’s fascinated. he watches with wide eyes and parted lips as you press it to yourself, as you gasp and arch and show him how it’s done. and when you finally let him take over?

it awakens something in him.

scientific curiosity collides with your unrelenting heat. he studies your reactions, adjusts angles, notes your sounds like you’re a one-woman research grant.

he starts reading up on types of vibrators, lubricant ph balance, riding crops versus paddles ( not that he has either, yet—but still ). it becomes another thing he wants to master, not just experience.

and as for using toys on him?

he doesn’t even know it’s something he wants until you sit on his thighs one lazy afternoon and ask softly :

'do you trust me?'

he does. god help him—he does.

so yes. by phase two, spencer owns lube. and a bullet vibe. and an app-controlled toy he hasn’t even opened yet.

he’s still not entirely sure how it got from point a to point b—but his nightstand drawer now holds a lot more than spare glasses.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase three

by phase three, spencer is… unhinged. quietly. deliciously and dangerously.

he’s gone from curious and cautious to possessive and precise. toys are no longer a supplement—they’re a method. a tactic. a promise.

and every single one of them is used with the singular goal of ruining you.

he still keeps everything in his drawer, of course. organized. labeled. cleaned thoroughly and regularly with a specialty spray that smells faintly like lavender. but now there’s a lock on the drawer. not because he’s ashamed—because he knows he’d never survive if someone else found them.

( especially not the one he had custom-ordered. the one in your favorite color. the one that vibrates at the exact frequency that makes you sob. and may or may not be his exact size and shape. )

and now spencer lives to watch you sob.

the wand becomes his favorite. not the buzzy little one you started with—oh no. he’s upgraded. corded. heavy-duty. no-frills. he makes you hold it against yourself until your thighs are shaking and your voice is raw. or he’ll use it while he’s inside you—soft at first, then stronger, until your body doesn’t know what to respond to.

and restraints?

you didn't even have to ask.

he bought silk ties first. then cuffs. then under-the-mattress straps that keep your wrists spread wide, trembling for him. he doesn’t use them every time. but when he does? he takes his time. all of it.

because by phase three, spencer has developed the kind of confidence that turns genius into danger.

he makes you come once with his fingers. once with his cock. then adds the toy and starts all over again.

he’ll say, 'you can take it,' in that soft-spoken, lab-coat voice of his—right before cranking the setting just one notch higher.

and when you shatter? when your voice breaks? when your whole body jerks like a pulled string?

that’s when he finally kisses you again.

like you’re his reward.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase four

the toys are no longer just for fun. they're for study. exploration. worship. and—let’s be honest—a little bit of obsession.

spencer has researched you. memorized you. calibrated his collection to your pleasure like it’s a dissertation he plans to defend in front of god. and if phase three was about pushing your limits, phase four is about perfecting them.

he has a toy for every mood. every whimper. every shift in your breath.

a rose-shaped clit sucker he uses on you when you're overstimulated and flushed and already ruined, just to watch your thighs quake one last time.

a steel plug chilled in the freezer for five minutes because you once said the contrast between heat and cold makes you feel everything.

a pair of nipple clamps with delicate gold chains—not because he’s into pain, but because the sight of them tracing down your sternum makes him groan into his own palm.

and then there’s the remote control toy—the one he slips into you before dinner with the team. you blush through appetizers. he pretends to check his phone. but he’s watching you. closely. turning the speed up when he knows your in the middle of a conversation with penelope.

he's not afraid to edge you anymore. or overstimulate you in public. or whisper in your ear that if you're quiet through dessert, he’ll let you come when you get home—on his thigh, under the buzz of your favorite wand, held down by his teeth in your shoulder.

there’s even a cock ring now. a sleek, velvet-textured one that keeps him hard longer than should be legal. you begged for it once—called it your 'stretch study.' he laughed. then gave you the longest orgasm of your life.

you don’t even ask for the toys anymore. you just look at him. and he’s already opening the drawer.

because by phase four, spencer’s not just using toys—he’s composing symphonies with them and every single one ends with you screaming his name.

spencer reid is no longer a man.

he’s a problem.

an absolute danger to your sanity.

and the proud owner of a custom-made vibrator modeled exactly after his own dick.

not a generic toy.

not a close enough match.

no—this thing is the exact length and curve that ruins you. the same width that stretches you to tears. and yes, the same damn vein that pulses under the real thing and makes your legs shake.

'if you’re going to use something inside you when i’m not home, you’ll use me.'

it started with a photo. multiple angles. measurements. a mortifyingly clinical process. and Spencer submitting everything—all of it—to a specialty shop under a fake name.

the toy arrives discreetly. he doesn’t say a word. not until the night he catches you touching yourself when you thought he was asleep.

and then, he pulls it out. so non-fucking-chalantly that it makes your head spin. from the drawer beside the bed. still sealed in its velvet bag. and he says.

'put that away. use this instead.'

you think it’s a joke. some clever flex. because no way in fucking hell did spencer reid just hand you an exact replica ( and yes it was exact, you should know ) of his fucking cock.

but the moment you slide it inside? you know, you scream.

your back arches. your vision whites out. and spencer—watching from between your thighs—just grins.

he doesn’t just let you use it. he supervises. encourages. guides. one hand on your ankle, the other wrapped around the toy’s base, pumping it slowly until you’re gasping his name.

he times the thrusts with a bullet vibe to your clit. he praises you when you take the whole thing. he warns you not to come too soon.

and to make it all the filthier, he is mutter the nastiest, hottest, horniest things you think you have ever heard.

'you’ll come when i say. not before.' 'that’s your toy, sweetheart. you earned it.' 'you think i didn’t notice how obsessed you are with that vein?' 'squeeze down like that again and i’ll take it away.' 'say thank you for your gift while i fuck it into you, baby.' 'no hands. just fuck yourself on it. show me how greedy you are.'

and it is not just for when he’s away.

no, no.

this is not a long-distance replacement.

this is a tool. a punishment. a toy he uses on you. spencer likes watching you fall apart on fake-him before he wrecks you with the real thing.

sometimes he fucks you with both. sometimes he makes you choose. and sometimes—when he’s feeling really possessive—he holds the vibrator in one hand and your throat in the other.

'you’re not coming until the real one’s inside you.'

you’re his favorite science experiment and he's fucking rigged the lab.

you never stood a chance.

u is for unusual ⤷ . ᵒ .༄ not specific to any phase

spencer lives to edge. not you ( well, sometimes you—but mostly himself ).

because he loves the pressure.

the ache.

the slow, painful build until it feels like he’ll cry if you don’t let him finish.

and you?

you’re a menace.

you learn how to straddle his thighs and grind just right. you get off on holding him at the edge. you tease him

'just a few more seconds. i like seeing your cock twitch like that.'

and, god, if you actions weren't already pushing him precariously towards the edge of a cliff, your words were the shove. he’s so sensitive—so desperate for permission—that sometimes, when he finally comes, it’s embarrassingly fast.

a single stroke.

a stuttered breath.

and he’s ruined your stomach, your thighs, the sheets, everything.

he calls it 'data loss.' you call it 'hot.'

secondly, he lives to see you cry.

not in pain. not in sadness. but when you’re overwhelmed but him that you just can't help but let the tears flow.

when the orgasm hits so hard it leaves you shaking. when you’re too full, too overstimulated, too drunk on him to even speak. and tears just spill down your cheeks?

spencer melts.

'there she is . . . my beautiful little fucking mess.' 'that’s my favorite face. keep crying for me.' 'you’re crying on my cock, baby—fuck, that’s so pretty.'

he’ll stroke the tears away. kiss your cheeks. but he won’t stop. not until you’ve cried again.

last but not least, he has all time favorite position ( and it’s not what you think )

no, it’s not missionary ( though he loves eye contact ) and it’s not doggy ( though your ass is basically his kryptonite ). it’s you on your back. feet pressed to his chest. knees by your ears.

it’s scientific.

it’s intimate.

it’s filthy as hell.

and he can get so. fucking. deep.

plus, he gets to watch your tits bounce. your stomach tighten. your eyes roll back. your mouth fall open in disbelief every time he thrusts in that final inch.

'there. that’s the spot, isn’t it?' 'god, i love watching it hit you like that.'

v is for volume ⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase one

it is all tension and restraint—like a taut string holding back a symphony.

he tries so, so hard to be quiet. he bites the inside of his cheek. grinds his teeth. buries his face in his pillow or curls his fist into the sheets when he’s alone. because the sounds he makes when he doesn’t hold back? they scare him. embarrass him. expose him.

but you’ve heard a few of them slip.

a tiny whimper when you teased him on the jet. a strangled breath when your thigh brushed his hard-on in bed. a low, panicked moan when your hand slipped into his lap and stayed.

he’s not loud in this phase, but that’s what makes every cracked gasp feel like a secret.

phase one is all about :

muffled moans into pillows, into his own fist, or under his breath. if he’s alone? you best believe your name is whispered like a damn prayer.

breath catches and the hitch in his throat when you say something filthy and innocent in the same breath.

whimpering—god, he whimpers—not often. but when he does? tt’s shaky and needy and entirely involuntary. the kind of sound he’d deny if you ever brought it up.

shaky begging ( if you push ) and a softly-spoken, nearly cracked, 'please—please don’t stop' or 'oh god… i can’t—please.'

he’s so terrified of being caught wanting. of being too much. so he shoves it down, pushes it back, smothers it.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase two

spencer is still quiet—but he’s cracking. you’ve kissed him now. touched him skin on fucking skin. you’ve made it clear he isn’t just a fantasy. that you want him.

and so, the sounds come easier . . . but they still embarrass him.

he blushes when he realizes how loud he was the night before. buries his face in your neck, hiding the faintest 'fuck' under his breath. you’ll tease him for it—and he’ll shy away—but you’ll feel the way his hips buck when you say 'you sound so pretty when you beg.'

he’s not shy because he doesn’t want to make noise. he’s shy because he wants to make noise for you.

phase two is now breathier moans—still stifled at first, but increasingly involuntary as you touch him. you’ll learn the exact sound he makes when your mouth wraps around him : a choked, needy 'oh my god—' followed by a long, ragged breath.

name-sighing but now to your face. he says your name under his breath like it’s the only thing tethering him to earth. quiet. reverent. sometimes—most times—followed by a shaky 'please.'

he's becoming more talkative.

'do you like that?' 'tell me what you want' 'you feel so good…'

but he says it through panting and gasping, and sometimes he can’t finish the sentence without moaning partway through.

accidental whines are more common. when you edge him. or deny him. he whines. soft, pathetic, and completely involuntary. the kind of sound that makes you immediately want to do it again.

you’re unlocking him slowly.

and with every new sound, you learn exactly how much of him is yours now.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase three

by phase three, spencer’s silence has shattered.

there’s no hope of him holding back now—not when your body’s on his, not when he knows how you look when you come, not when he’s learned just how much you crave the sounds he makes.

you’ve trained him beautifully.

you’ve coaxed every moan, every stammered whimper, every breathless, broken 'please' from his throat. and in this phase—when it’s messy and hungry and you’re climbing each other like animals—he is loud.

not reckless. not unthinking.

just honest.

his volume in phase three has changed dramtically.

full-fucking-bodied moans. the kind that ripple out of his chest when you’re riding him, fast and wet, his head thrown back and hands clutching at your hips like you might disappear. he doesn’t bother hiding it anymore.

muttered filth.

'jesus, you feel so good,' 'i wanna stay inside you forever,' 'you’re gonna make me cum, fuck—'

all in a low, breathless growl. half-moan, half-confession.

pleading, spencer begs in this phase. he begs because you’ve made him need it.

'don’t stop,' 'please, please, just like that,' 'let me come, i’m gonna cum—'

sharp, guttural gasps, especially when you edge him. or when you slide down slow and deep, and his cock hits that spot that makes his whole body jerk. he gasps and chokes out your name like a prayer.

and sometimes? when you lean in close and whisper, 'you’re being loud, spence,' he’ll whimper and try to bite it back.

but he can’t.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase four

he is so far gone for you it’s not even fair. his walls are down, his restraint is wrecked, and when it comes to noise?

he’s a mess—and he doesn’t care who hears it.

he’s not just vocal now. he’s intimate about it. sensual. confessional. desperate in the most beautiful, undone way.

because in phase four, when he’s buried deep inside you and knows you’re his—completely, shamelessly, irrevocably—he wants you to hear how good it feels.

he wants you to know.

his volume in phase four is un-fucking paralleled.

your name, again and again. gasped, groaned, whispered into your shoulder or shouted into the pillow.

'oh my god—baby, please—'

he says it like he’s trying to memorize how it sounds while he falls apart.

raw, unfiltered sounds he can't help but let you hear. spencer moans now without even thinking. high, breathy, guttural—whatever sound his body makes when your nails dig into his back or when your pussy clenches around him as you cum? that’s what he gives you.

filthy praise, that he has mastered. he doesn’t hold it back anymore.

'so wet for me, fuck—so fucking tight,' 'god, i love fucking you,' 'you take me so good, baby.'

his voice is thick with reverence, his words soaked in worship.

whining and whimpering is dialed to a thousands. especially when he’s close. especially when you’re teasing him. you reduce him to whines, half-sobs.

'don’t stop, please,'

and when you tell him to be quiet? that only makes it worse. now he’s moaning through his attempts at silence, trying to be good—but utterly failing.

afterward? still soft, still breathless. he pants your name like it’s a lullaby, whispers little

'you feel so good' and 'i missed you' and 'you wreck me, you know that?' between kisses to your shoulder and neck.

in phase four, spencer's volume isn't just about sex. it's about vulnerability. he's not scared of what he sounds like anymore. not when it's for you.

w is for wild card ⤷ . ᵒ .༄ takes place in phase three

you’re not sure when the room stopped spinning. or if it even has. you’re sprawled across spencer’s chest, utterly boneless, legs still trembling from your third—or was it fourth?—orgasm.

his cock is still inside you, thick and warm, softening only slightly with every minute that passes. and you’re still dripping.

his cum is leaking down the insides of your thighs in lazy rivulets, making a mess of the sheets beneath you. but he hasn’t made any attempts to let you move.

he won’t. his arms are locked around your waist, and when you shift—just the slightest twitch of your hips—he lets out a groan so guttural it punches straight through your core.

'don’t,' he whispers hoarsely. his voice is ruined. low and cracked from everything he’s done to you. 'you’re gonna make me hard again.'

you smile weakly into his chest. 'maybe that’s what i want.'

a shaky laugh spills from him. he kisses your forehead, then your cheek, then the corner of your mouth. 'you’re insatiable,' he murmurs, and there’s so much love in it, you nearly melt.

you lift your head off his sweaty chest, only slightly. but you wanted to see his face. 'you're insatiable, spence.'

he gaped, but he didn't deny it. he couldn't. he flushes red before continuing. 'how can i not be? you feel so good like this. so warm. so fucking perfect.'

you hum, content. exhausted.

his hands drift up your back, one settling over your heart like he’s trying to memorize its rhythm. the other drags down to your hip, where he strokes slow circles over your skin. he’s still inside you. still buried. and even though he’s not moving, you swear you can feel him twitch.

'can I ask you something?' he whispers.

you nod.

'did i hurt you?'

your heart breaks a little. you lift your head again and kiss the worry right off his brow. 'no,' you promise, voice soft. 'never. you were perfect. it was . . . everything.'

spencer exhales, shaky, relieved. then his expression shifts. darkens. then softens. grows impossibly more intense. like the five stages of horniness, where he can't decide if he wants to fuck you again or let you rest.

he settles on whispering the filthiest of sentences into your skin.

'i love seeing you like this,” he murmurs, cupping the back of your neck. 'full of me. dripping all over the place. you’re such a good girl for taking it. for taking me.'

your walls flutter around him and he groans, head thumping back against the pillows. 'jesus, sweetheart,' he grunts. 'we can’t go again. you’ll break.'

you smile sleepily. 'then don’t move. just . . . stay.'

and he does. he stays buried inside you while his cum slides slowly out of you and down your thighs, while your breaths even out, while the world settles.

he doesn’t pull out. he doesn’t clean up. he just wraps you up in the blanket of his body, in the heat and the mess and the intimacy, and holds you like you’re the only thing keeping him grounded.

and maybe you are.

x is for xray

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ all phases

first things first, the man is deceptively built. tall, lean, all sloping shoulders and long limbs that make him look soft at first glance—but then you see him with his sleeves rolled up and realize he’s secretly hiding forearms that could ruin your entire moral compass.

the kind of muscle that comes not from the gym, but from nervous pacing, frantic casework, and the low-grade tension of holding the weight of the world on his own damn back.

he doesn’t carry bulk—he carries purpose.

and then there’s his hips. his stupid, sharp, unfairly sensual hips. the way his belt rides low, the barely-there dip just under his hipbones, the v-line that shouldn’t be that defined for someone who eats like a raccoon in a vending machine.

but he’s spencer fucking reid. the man breaks all logic. including the logic of your thighs staying closed.

and now… the cock report™ ( aka : why you lost your mind after the first time ).

his length is above average. like dangerously so. not comically huge—not porn-star big—but big enough that you have to adjust. big enough to make your stomach flutter with nerves and your jaw go slack when he first pushes in. it’s the kind of size that makes you feel it for hours. days. maybe the rest of your life.

the girth decent. enough to stretch you just right. the kind that fills, not splits. the kind that nudges your sweet spot like he knows exactly what he’s doing—because, spoiler alert, he does because you taught him,

he is veiny. they are visible and prominent. a little too prominent, if you ask your dignity. especially when you’ve got a hand wrapped around him and he’s panting through his teeth because of it.

its got curve to it, a subtle upward tilt. nature’s cruel joke. it means he finds your g-spot every single time—whether you’re on your back, on top, or bent over his desk with your name moaned like a curse.

spencer's cock has a rosy head, flushed shaft. pretty. almost innocent-looking. until it’s leaking on your stomach or twitching against your tongue.

and its sensitive as fuck. he’s so fucking responsive. one touch and he’s already gasping, bucking, stuttering your name. you barely have to try. which, of course, you absolutely exploit.

he also has moles on his chest and shoulders. you count them when you’re sprawled across him, cheek to his ribs. he has a patch near his collarbone that you kiss every time.

a slight dusting of hair below the belly button. fine and soft. fades lower into a happy trail that leads exactly where your hand wants to go.

his thighs. man oh man, you weren’t ready for the thighs. they’re not bulky, but they’re taut. strong. dangerous when they flex as he ruts into you, especially when he holds you open with one while he finishes.

he’s built like a quiet weapon—thin blade, silent cut. you don’t see it until you feel it. and when you do, you’re wrecked. every fucking time.

y is for yearning ⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase one

it’s the not knowing that kills him.

the sudden shift.

the way his eyes catch on your lips when you’re talking.

the way your perfume follows him down hallways, sticking to the fabric of his brain like it’s been chemically engineered to target his nerve endings.

he doesn’t understand why it’s happening.

why now? why you?

why his best friend? the person he shares coffees and crime scene banter with, now makes his heart race like he’s being interrogated by hotch and his cock ache like he’s back in college.

he yearns in silence—horrified silence.

because it starts small.

a hug that lasts a beat too long. the way your tank top slides off your shoulder when you stretch. the time your fingers brush when you both reach for the case file and he forgets how to breathe.

and then it snowballs.

hard.

he starts avoiding you—not because he doesn’t want to be near you, but because he can’t be trusted when he is. you make him stupid. you make him want. you make him horny as fuck. and he doesn't have enough clean pants to be around you everyday of the week.

you laugh too loud. you wear those stupid short skirts when the team’s on downtime. you touch his arm too gently and too often and he'll lay awake at night—cock in hand, guilt in his chest—thinking about your moans, imagining the look on your face if he slid two fingers up the hem of that godforsaken skirt.

he can’t help it.

he yearns with everything in him. quietly, respectfully, miserably. he catalogs the curve of your spine when you bend over and then immediately opens his phone and googles 'am i a terrible person if i think about my best friend while jerking off.'

he avoids your eyes on the jet because every time you fall asleep on his shoulder, he’s one heartbeat away from dragging you onto his lap and begging for forgiveness.

he apologizes to God. he apologizes to you in his head.

he apologizes to the imaginary version of you in the shower who lets him fuck you against the tile while telling him how good he feels inside you.

and he aches.

physically. emotionally. existentially.

because he doesn’t think you know and worse—he’s not entirely sure you’d want to. but still he watches. still he dreams. still he yearns. still fucks his hand almost every night to a picture of you.

in quiet desperation.

in hidden heat.

in the curve of his palm and the soaked-through briefs he tosses in the hamper at two am, cheeks flushed with shame.

he doesn’t know what’s happening to him. but he knows it has your name on it.

and god help him—he doesn’t want it to stop.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase two

he’s tasted you now.

felt your slick on his fingers, watched you come apart—messy, needy, greedy for more—and yet somehow the yearning has only worsened because now he knows.

now he knows what you sound like when you beg.

now he knows how hot you get when he tries whispers poorly worded filth in your ear.

now he knows how many times he can make you come in a single night without even getting fully naked himself.

and yet . . . he hasn’t fucked you yet.

which makes the yearning unbearable. torturous. a constant, throbbing ache in his gut and his cock and his brain.

it’s like every neuron in his brilliant mind has restructured itself into a six-letter prayer.

'please.'

please let me have her. please let her want me again. please let this not be a dream.

he yearns between your thighs, face buried in your heat as if he can make up for the things he’s too scared to say with the flick of his tongue.

he yearns when you palm his cock over his boxers and murmur 'next time, spence…' but then leave him aching in his own hands that night.

he yearns when you arch into him and breathe his name like it’s a secret, and he has to bite his tongue not to tell you how deep it runs.

he wants you so badly he can barely look at you sometimes.

like you’re the sun.

like you might burn him alive if he stares too long.

and the worst part is you know. you know exactly what you’re doing. you’ve seen the flush that climbs his throat. felt the tremble in his hands. heard the crack in his voice when you say 'spencer, please.'

you’re the worst kind of temptation : patient, playful, and intentional. you touch him like you’re coaxing a theory from him. you touch him like you already know the answer.

and he aches for it. he aches for you. for the moment when you finally say 'spence, i need you inside me.'

but until then, he’ll wait.

he’ll yearn.

he’ll grip the sheets in your bed with his cock pressed to your thigh and pray you can’t hear the moan he bites into your pillow when he comes untouched.

because wanting you is a full-time job. and loving you is starting to feel like his new religion.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase three

by phase three, spencer is just starving.

not in the physical sense. not even in the way he used to be in phase one, all self-deprecating guilt and trembling hands and helpless wet dreams.

no.

now, it’s something deeper. something feral. because now that he’s had you—

now that he’s fucked you, felt you clench around him, listened to you whimper his name into the sheets as you shatter.

nothing else compares.

he yearns in the aftermath. when your body is still shaking beneath him and all he can think is, more. when his cock is softening inside you and he still can’t bring himself to pull out—because leaving you, even for a moment, feels unbearable.

you could be wrapped around him, wrists pinned, lips bruised from kisses that turned into bites and spencer is still whispering.

'please… one more, baby, just one more.'

because he needs to watch you fall apart again.

needs to feel the way you shudder and clench and sob when he overstimulates you with his cock and his mouth and his praise, like a man making up for years of wasted time.

he yearns in the space between orgasms.

while you’re trying to catch your breath, he’s already pressing back inside you—aching, needy, desperate to feel that connection again. you’re not just his best friend anymore. you’re his everything.

he’ll fuck you until he’s dizzy.

until he’s hoarse from saying your name.

until he’s pumping you so full you can’t keep him in—and even then, he’s still whispering, 'you can take it, sweetheart. you’re so good for me. please—just a little more, i promise.'

because yearning in phase three isn’t theoretical anymore.

it’s physical.

palpable.

it’s the ache in his chest when you pull away to go shower.

it’s the twitch of his cock when you walk by in one of his t-shirts.

it’s the need to mark you—to keep you messy, keep you claimed, keep you coming until there’s no room left for anyone but him.

he’s had you.

he has you.

and still—he wants. more of your skin. more of your trust. more time. more touches. more nights. he yearns like he’ll never be satisfied.

because even buried balls-deep in the girl of his dreams, spencer reid still feels like it’s not enough.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase four

spencer doesn’t just yearn now.

he hungers.

it’s not a craving, not a slow ache like it once was—it’s feral. it’s obsession under his skin, lust in his marrow, devotion wired into every frantic heartbeat.

spencer doesn’t pine quietly anymore.

he doesn’t suffer in silence.

he takes.

but somehow—somehow—even when he’s in you, on you, all over you, it’s still not enough. because in phase four, he doesn’t just want your body writhing under him.

he wants it engraved with him. he wants your pussy trained to clench on nothing but the memory of his cock.

he wants you dripping with him—hours later, days later, aching in your bones and thanking him for it.

yearning is no longer subtle. it’s no longer soft.

it’s this man snarling when you tease him in public because he can’t bend you over a table right then and there. it’s him ripping his belt open before the front door even clicks shut.

it’s him fucking you so deep you’re crying, and still he’s gasping, 'deeper. i need to be deeper.'

he can’t get close enough. he yearns in every filthy, possessive moan of mine.

he yearns when he comes in you and stays there, panting and trembling, refusing to pull out because he wants to feel you keep him forever.

he yearns when you fall asleep after four orgasms, and he slips his hand between your legs again because god, you’re so wet for him still, and he can’t help it—he just has to taste it.

he wants your soul. not in the sweet, metaphorical way.

no, he wants to fuck you so hard and so deep and so many times you forget your own name and remember only his. he yearns in the feral way he ties your wrists—not to restrain, but because you asked him to.

because you trust him.

because you want to give him everything, and he’s not above getting on his knees for it.

he yearns in every 'can i come inside?' that doesn’t mean the apartment.

he yearns in every 'one more?'

every time he says, 'you’re not tired, are you, sweetheart?' while you’re shaking under him—ruined, wrecked, so full of him it’s leaking out.

spencer reid in phase four is fucking insatiable.

he could fuck you every night for the rest of your life and still whisper, 'i missed you.' because that’s the kind of yearning this is.

the you’re mine, and i need to make sure every inch of you knows it kind. and when he finally lets you rest—finally lets your body go limp under his—he’s right there again the moment your eyes open.

hungry.

needy.

yearning.

like a man who’ll never have enough of the girl he finally gets to call his.

z is for zzz ⤷ . ᵒ .༄ all phases

spencer doesn’t just fall asleep.

he fucking sinks.

once he’s taken care of you—every sweet touch, every whispered word, every ounce of love and reverence poured into aftercare—his body melts against yours like warm wax, pliant, content, wrecked.

he clings.

even in earlier phases, before sex, when things were still uncertain and new, spencer always needed physical closeness to settle his mind. you’d notice it : how he’d press his chest to your back under the covers, or drape an arm over your middle like he had to keep touching you or else he’d float away.

sleep always came easier when you were there—when he could feel your breath against his collarbone, when your fingers idly played in his hair.

by the time phase three and four roll around—when he’s inside you, when it’s raw and messy and real—he’s done. his brain can’t function past the blissed-out daze that settles in once he’s come in you and held you through every shiver afterward.

and he stays in. literally.

spencer doesn’t pull out unless you ask him to. because in phase three and four, he needs to sleep buried inside you.

even if he has to pull away—just to clean you up, just to grab water—he's the one that tugs you back into his chest and you grab his still half hard cock and push it back in to your messy cunt.

and that’s all it takes. he’ll groan something half-delirious like 'still so warm, sweetheart… gonna fall asleep right here, ‘kay?' before collapsing against your back.

you’ve learned to expect it. that sleepy slur of his voice. the foggy kisses he plants on your shoulder. how he holds your hips like he’s anchoring himself to you.

sometimes he’s too out of it to move at all—just leaves his cock softening inside you, cum dripping slowly between your thighs, your bodies pressed so close it’s hard to tell where you end and he begins.

he doesn’t always remember falling asleep. but he always wakes up exactly the same way, wrapped around you, still half-hard, mumbling a groggy 'hi' like you’re a dream he can’t believe is real.

sometimes you’ll catch him watching you before your eyes open, dazed and blinking and smiling, because he still can’t believe how safe he feels like this. how fucking whole.

so yeah. spencer reid doesn’t just crash after sex.

he nests.

he clutches.

he melts.

he sleeps best when you’re stuffed full of him, tucked against his chest, heartbeat steady beneath your ear. because no matter the phase—you’re home.

and nothing puts him to sleep faster than that.

🔖 . @Sammyreidslut @mggskny @theburgundyonmytshirt1989 @nesiamenick @Alastorssimp @oldmanbunnylover @nfwmb-gvf @kmc1989 @sillymuffintrashflap @reidsbabyhoney @qardasngan @cynbx @g3n3zshack @blueliketheseaa @joonbread @abllor @noirecherie @namgification

#spencer reid x bsf!reader #spencer reid smut #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid angst #doctor spencer reid #spencer reid #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x reader

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7-deadly-cats · 10 hours ago

Text

killing me softly | 22

K M S M A S T E R L I S T | <- P R E V I O U S | N E X T ->

✿ G E N R E ✿ she fell first, he fell harder | slice of life | drama

✿ P A I R I N G ✿ s1!rafe cameron x overthinking!reader (f)

✿ C O N T E N T W A R N I N G ✿ swearing, suggestive language & themes, kinda horny!reader lmfao, anxiety and overthinking, long-ass dialogue, kinda angsty, but your patience will be rewarded at the end

✿ S U M M A R Y O F L A S T P A R T ✿ in the morning, you replayed yesterday's events and realized rafe actually liked you (shocking, honestly). on the ride to school, the convo shifted to family and relationships. rafe surprised you positively with his views. art class was canceled, so during the free period, you talked about the ruthie situation. rafe suggested hitting up gracie and asking her to delete the video, but you shut that down. instead, he helped you study for your math test. at lunch, your friend group talked about the gloaming. kelce had already asked molly out, and it was pretty clear they were trying to make rafe jealous or push him to ask you out too. topper even suggested you could go with rob since he was still in town. walking to english with kelce, you found out rafe briefly surfed in sixth grade just to beat topper, and that kelce was his first friend after he’d beat rafe up. during class, rafe tried asking you out to the gloaming via text, but you turned him down, asking for more effort (even though you were freaking out inside). after school, you hung out with cara. she didn’t get why you and rafe weren’t just dating. you said you needed time to adjust. later at home, rafe called and said he’d pick you up and when you pushed him about his convo with his dad, he finally hinted he needed you to act like molly aka all lovestruck.

✿ W O R D C O U N T ✿ 13.6k+ (not me saying this ch would be shorter help)

✿ A / N ✿ ok half of the ch. is the convo about ward and rafe's discussion but this convo was needed for you guys to understand what's going on so there really was no way to skip this. i also know they talked A LOT about A LOT of stuff so hope things make sense still (feel free to ask for clarity if sth's confusing), enjoy and pls lmk your thoughts <3 xx ᓚᘏᗢ

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REMINDER avoid the comment section till you're done reading

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W E E K T W O // M O N D A Y

4 : 0 6 P M

"You still there?"

NO.

“Mhm,” you mumbled, letting out a tense little chuckle. Too overwhelmed to say anything else.

Because what. the. fuck. did he mean by I kinda need you to do the same?! WHAT.

After a short pause, Rafe let out a heavy exhale. “Shit, I told you I should tell you this in person. I can feel your little minions panicking through the phone.”

Your heart was racing so fast you couldn’t even—WHAT DID HE MEAN BY THAT.

Act like Molly? For what? And why? AND HOW DID HE COME TO THAT CONCLUSION? Like, what the actual fuck had him and his dad talked about? This was just—

“Y/n?”

Your heart skipped a beat hearing him say your name. So soft and gentle. That was…OH MY GOD. That was like the first time he’d ever addressed you like that in an actual conversation.

Oh great, ahahahhha, yeah, that only worsened your state of mind. Nerves were buzzing under your skin and your hands felt so clammy you had to fight the urge to rush to the bathroom and wash the panic right off.

Instead, you just sat there in your desk chair, phone held to your ear, staring blankly into the void, trying to drown out the flood of theories threatening to crash over you like a heavy, dark wave.

“Okay, fuck, listen,” he said after you didn’t respond, voice tight with frustration, yet laced with softness. “I’ll be there soon and I’ll explain everything, alright? Don’t spiral over this shit now, okay? It’s really not that deep.”

A second later, he added, “Sound good?”

You only registered about half of what he’d said and nodded absentmindedly. Your voice distant when you finally gave a quiet “Yeah,” mind still spinning around those eight little words he’d said a moment ago.

Another sigh from his end. Then: “Or do you want me to come over right away? It’s just” a light laugh escaped him, “I should really shower first. Just got home from a heavy workout and…it’s just twenty minutes, okay? I’ll be quick.”

Not even the image of Rafe in the shower could pull you out of the mental spiral your brain had sent you on.

“Okay,” you said, a faint smile tugging at your lips—an attempt to soothe yourself.

“Okay,” Rafe echoed, not sounding convinced at all. “Just chill out, alright? I’ll see you in a bit.”

You nodded (momentarily forgetting he couldn’t see you), and as soon as the call ended, you let your phone drop into your lap, gaze still fixed on a random spot ahead.

Chill out?

Yeah. Yeah! You were totally chill. Completely relaxed. Absolutely calm.

AT LEAST YOU HAD BEEN UNTIL RAFE HAD DROPPED THOSE EIGHT LITTLE WORDS THAT HINTED AT GOD KNOWS WHAT.

I kinda need you to do the same.

WHAT.

He mentioned Molly before that—talking about how she was acting like she’d chugged a love potion—and WHAT. So did that mean...?

DID HE WANT YOU TO ACT LIKE THAT TOO? AND WHY? LIKE WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED IN THE LAST FEW HOURS THAT MADE HIM THINK THIS WAS A GOOD IDEA?

That was—no way. No fucking way he meant it like that. Hah. Yeah, no.

Probably just him joking around again or...

OR WHAT EXACTLY. JESUS FUCKING CHRIST.

Your heart was fucking pounding, your adrenaline shot through the roof and your nerves? Felt like a thousand bees humming underneath your skin, all anxious and buzzing around with nowhere to go.

Okay, no. Calm down. Rafe said he’d be here soon and he’d explain. Everything would make sense then, right?

Yeah. Perfect. You just needed to survive twenty whole minutes—alone—with a brain that currently felt like it was trying to murder you.

I can handle this :)

NO THE FUCK I CAN’T HOLY FUCKING SHIT.

You got up from your chair, your phone slipping off your lap as you wiped your clammy hands on your clothes, desperately trying to shake off this panic.

WHY WERE YOU EVEN FREAKING OUT?

It’s Rafe. Whatever plan/idea/suggestion/whatfuckingever he had, he would never force you into something that made you uncomfortable. He always made sure you felt safe and relaxed around him.

Somehow, that thought helped you breathe a little easier.

Okay. Best thing to do now? Distract yourself. Get ready. Change into a new outfit and—

Bzzrt.

Your phone buzzed on the wooden floor and you already knew who it was.

Now would be a great time to actually jump off a cliff.

Why the hell had you accidentally clicked on the wrong fucking pic in the worst fucking moment ever? And why the fuck was Rafe texting you from the goddamn shower? AND WHY WAS HE ALWAYS TALKING ABOUT GETTING OFF—LIKE? OKAY. DO IT. BUT LEAVE ME OUT OF IT OMFG.

You let out a long exhale and placed your phone back on your desk.

Great.

Now the panic from earlier was replaced by very vivid mental images of Rafe in the shower.

Water running down his toned body; from his damp hair falling over his forehead, over his cute lashes and beautiful lips, to his neck and Adam’s apple; down his broad shoulders and collarbones, his chest and stomach—tiny droplets tracing the lines of his abs—and even lower, over HIS V-LINE AND THIGHS AND—

You gulped, feeling how your breath had quickened just a little, eyes wide and your face so flushed it felt like your entire body was on fire just from thinking about Rafe like that.

HIM TEXTING YOU LIKE THIS, THOUGH. MEANING HE HAD BEEN THINKING ABOUT YOU IN THAT MOMENT TOO AND OH MY GOD.

A tingling sensation bloomed in your stomach, a faint little desire stirring down there, and suddenly it was really hard to think about anything else.

SHITSHITSHITSHIT.

HELP I’M NO BETTER THAN HIM.

For a split second, your eyes flicked to your bed. You still had like fifteen minutes and the thoughts were already there, sooo—NO.

OH MY GOD, NO!

JESUS.

GET A GRIP, GIRL. HOLY SHIT.

Although…it could help ease the anxiety and distress you felt just right now.

BUT THE THOUGHT OF FACING RAFE AFTERWARD, KNOWING WHAT YOU'D DONE BEFORE MADE YOU SOBER UP REAL FUCKING FAST.

Embarrassment spread like wildfire through your entire body as you tried to shake the thoughts off. Something about doing that during the day just felt so weird anyway. Better just forget about this entirely HAHAHAHAH.

OKAY!

SO.

Getting ready it is :)

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“Fuck that, move that shit right back inside.” Rafe leaned over from the driver’s seat to look at you standing by the passenger door.

You were holding the box filled with stuff for your project you had taken home today.

“What? No,” you replied, clearly irritated, nerves still shaken, and a little thrown off by how good he looked with that damp hair falling into his forehead. “I thought we were going to the copy shop today.”

You needed to reprint your collage pieces in a larger format, otherwise, you weren't able to keep working on your project. And it had to be finished by Thursday.

Rafe grimaced. “Yeah, well, you thought wrong.” He made a shooing gesture. “We’ll do it tomorrow. We’ve got the whole afternoon for that.”

“What if I’m not free tomorrow?” you asked, raising a brow at him, even though you knew damn well you had nothing planned except maybe hanging out with Cara.

He nodded, brows shooting up in response. “You’re not free, because we’ll be working on the shitty-ass project then.” Another shooing gesture. “Seriously, I don’t have the fucking headspace for school shit right now. And judging by how you reacted earlier, neither do you.”

Okay, he kinda had a point but…

“I’d say we at least throw it in the back,” you said, nodding toward the back of his black Benz. “And if we get a sudden burst of motivation, we can still swing by a copy shop.”

Rafe frowned but nodded. “Aight. Toss it on the back seats, trunk’s full.”

Either a corpse or some dumb boy shit.

“Okay, how about you get out and help me then?” you said, voice a little too sharp-edged.

HELP. The panic was creeping back in.

Rafe scoffed, clearly amused as he unbuckled his seatbelt. “You don’t handle stress well.”

YOU’RE THE REASON I’M STRESSED, you wanted to scream, but instead, you just pressed your lips shut, waiting for him to finally get out and open one of the back doors for you.

“Give me that shit,” he said, grabbing the box from your hands and literally chucking it onto the backseat.

“What?” he asked, catching your deadpan expression. He nodded toward your (hopefully still intact) project. “It’s just paper and crap. It’s not like it’s gonna break.”

Your expression didn’t budge. “You don’t handle stress well either.”

Rafe raised a brow (GOD he smelled insane up close) and motioned toward the car. “Shut up and get in.”

For a moment, you held his gaze, sternly. But THIS FUCKER HAD THE AUDACITY TO LOOK AT YOUR LIPS for half a second before that stupid little smirk formed and he nudged you toward the passenger door. “C’mon.”

This guy had zero restraints.

As soon as you got in, he closed the door behind you with a soft thud. And instantly, your stomach twisted again at the looming conversation ahead.

Whatever he says… however he explains those earlier words… I will not panic.

HAHAHA TOO LATE.

You clutched your purse tightly, palms already sweaty again, and waited for him to settle into his seat.

As soon as the engine started, the silence was replaced by the low hum of the motor and some Future song that kicked in mid-track.

Rafe turned the volume down a little and pulled out of your driveway, driving way slower and more focused than usual. You chalked it up to nerves (drumming fingers usually meant he was agitated, stressed, or anxious—or honestly all three).

“So, had a nice evening with Hall?” he asked, voice a little too casual, eyes straight ahead.

You shot him a blank look.

Nope. You hadn’t waited 35 minutes just to watch him skirt around the topic.

“Yeah,” you said sharply, fingers fiddling with the charm on your bracelet. “So… what did you and your dad actually talk about?”

Rafe chuckled. “Straight to business then.”

“Well, yeah. I’m still waiting for an explanation,” you said, your voice already tenser than intended. “What did you mean by ‘I need to act like Molly’?”

He shook his head with another chuckle. “Not like Molly. I don’t need you to impersonate her or shit like that.”

“Then what?” you asked impatiently, already dreading the answer.

“Like I said, I was only referring to her—”

“Rafe, I swear, if you keep dancing around it,” you cut in, heart pounding in your ears, “I’m gonna lose it.”

AND THIS IDIOT LAUGHED AGAIN. YEAH, REAL FUNNY GETTING ME TO STRESS THE FUCK OUT.

“Okay, okay,” he said, lips twitching into a smirk as he glanced at you for a second. “But you gotta promise me you won’t freak out, alright? At least let me explain first.”

THEN DON'T KEEP ME ON EDGE, YOU ASSHOLE.

wow, girl, maybe ease up a bit, yeah?

You pressed your lips together and gave a reluctant nod. “I’ll try.”

Rafe slowed to a stop at a red light, the sun awkwardly glaring into your eyes.

You pulled down the sun visor and braced yourself for whatever was coming.

It’s fine. Probably nothing too crazy. Yeah, you definitely overreacted earlier. It’s probably—

“I kinda told my dad we’re dating.”

bye.

ciao.

sayonara.

auf wiedersehen.

FUCKING ADIOS.

WHAT?!???

You just blinked at him, completely stunned, because you had no clue how to react or what to say. Your heart sprinting in every direction, blood pressure skyrocketing.

Rafe smiled crookedly at your expression. “You good?”

You instinctively shook your head. “Yeah.”

“You’re not.”

“No, I’m not,” you said, trying very hard to sound calm. You shook your head again, brows furrowed. “What—I mean, why would you say that?”

AND MORE IMPORTANTLY, DID IT MEAN SOMETHING? DID THIS IMPLY ANYTHING?

Rafe’s brows twitched and his smile wavered slightly, like you’d unintentionally insulted him. He shrugged, eyes back on the still-red light. “He started talking some crap about responsibility and how I couldn’t even keep a girl and shit like that.”

His brow furrowed, fingers freezing on the steering wheel. He gestured to his chest, locking eyes with you again. “Look, I panicked, okay? I needed to win that argument and prove him wrong, so I said that shit.” Now his hand motioned toward you. “And you were the first one coming to mind, because… I mean, we get along and stuff, and we’ve been hanging out a lot lately, so I even had proof of our ‘relationship.’”

He let out a tight chuckle, shoulders rising. “I mean, even Sarah and Wheezie think we’ve got something going on, so it was the best thing I could come up with in that moment."

JESUS CHRIST.

This… explained literally nothing. If anything, it just worsened your panic.

The light turned green and the car started moving again, Rafe’s eyes back on the road.

“Trust me, I didn’t say that to drag you into anything. And definitely not to ruin our friendship just after three days,” he said, voice edging toward frustration now. “I just… I knew he was right about what he said and I had no other way to turn it around.” His eyes flicked to yours again. “This was my only shot at gaining some ground.”

You didn’t even want to imagine what Ward had said to corner him that badly. The thought of it alone—the words he must’ve thrown at his son—was enough to shrink your anxiety down a notch.

But those eight little words still lingered between you. Not quite fitting this situation yet.

You shoved them aside, focusing on the bigger issue here: the outcome of that conversation with his dad.

“So… did it work?” you asked. “Getting him to reconsider the deal I mean”

Rafe’s jaw clenched and somehow that was all you needed to know.

Shit.

It had been a lost cause anyway but still, this would’ve been the easiest route to pull him out of this shitshow of a situation.

“He won’t take it,” Rafe said flatly, staring ahead. “But I will.”

You blinked, completely stunned. “What?”

Rafe grimaced and nodded. “I offered to take the deal instead.” He let out a heavy breath. “Told him I finally wanted to follow in his footsteps, get into business and shit like that, show him I could handle responsibility.”

The fact that he even felt like he had to prove anything to his dad of all people—it just fueled this deep disgust and anger toward that man even further.

God, and now Rafe wanted to take the damn deal himself? Why hadn’t he talked to you about this? Why did he think this was a good idea? Selling more of himself to Ruthie’s grasp.

“C’mon, say something.”

You snapped your head away from the blank spot you’d been zoning out on, locking eyes with his.

There it was. He wanted your approval.

But you couldn’t give him that.

“I…” you began, struggling to word it without making him feel attacked. “Why didn’t you bring this up at school today? I thought we were handling this together.”

Shit. Why were you angry now? You shouldn’t be mad.

Rafe nodded with a frown, dragging a hand down his face. “Shit, I know, okay? Of course I would’ve talked it through with you if I didn’t just fucking blurt it out during that stupid conversation.”

Great. So he’d panicked and just dug himself deeper into this mess.

But no need to dwell on that now. He needed solutions, not someone to scold him for being impulsive. Especially since he already seemed to know it had been a stupid idea.

“And your dad?” you asked softly, eyeing his sharp profile. “What did he say?”

Rafe shook his head slightly, his scowl deepening as he shrugged. “He agreed.”

HUH.

You shook your head in disbelief. "What?"

"Yeah, I dunno," he said just as clueless, scratching his chin. "It was a lot of back and forth, but in the end I managed to convince him to think about it."

You frowned. "So he didn’t actually agree?"

"Not yet," Rafe said. "He needs some time to think it through and—"

"Rafe, you do realize we only have until the Gloaming," you cut in, trying to suppress your frustration at yet another hurdle.

Instead of using the time to come up with a different approach, now you were stuck in... whatever this situation was supposed to be.

“Shit, I know that, alright?” Rafe snapped, letting out a sharp exhale. But the moment he met your eyes, his expression softened. “But this is the only real chance I’ve got to get out of this fucked-up situation, okay?”

Only he was forgetting the most important issue here.

"Ruthie wants your dad to take the deal," you reminded him calmly, lightly shaking your head. "Not you."

To your surprise, he only scoffed in amusement, the corners of his mouth turning into a lopsided smile. “Here’s the thing: my dad wants to sign the deal in his name.” His grin widened. “He even offered to take over seventy percent of the investment needed for the project and I take over the rest.”

If you didn’t know any better, you’d think this was a trap. His dad refusing the deal only to sign it for Rafe in his name? That just seemed... off.

“Let’s assume he agrees—where’s the catch?” you asked, already feeling an uneasy knot twist in your stomach.

Rafe furrowed his brows. “There’s no fucking catch.”

“Obviously there’s a freaking catch if he suddenly decides to sign the deal under these circumstances.”

“Yeah, because I suggested it.”

You blinked. “And he just... agreed?”

He nodded, turning the car onto a side road toward some grove. “Told him if he’s so scared of me screwing this up, he should put his name on the deal but let me handle the business side.” One hand tapped his chest, the other stayed on the wheel. “Gives me all the more reason not to fuck it up. And if I prove myself, he can transfer his part of the agreement into my name. That way he gets to lean back while Cameron Development expands into an affiliated company.”

A scowl crossed his face as he made a dismissive gesture. “And I also told him this option lets him pass it on to Sarah if he decides she’s better suited for it.”

That was... actually really well thought out, especially for something he’d apparently freestyled on the spot. And even bringing up Sarah seemed smart, if what he always said was true and she was Ward’s favorite.

“And I told him best make the decision till the Gloaming,” Rafe continued, the car shifting down a gear on the uneven road. “Because that fuckass event is the perfect opportunity to announce something like this. Bring attention back to Cameron Development and make his stance on the whole shitty-ass deal clear before Whitmore does.”

He tapped his chest again, brows raised. “That we’re the investors. Without our money, this entire project wouldn’t even be possible. Whitmore’s just the guy offering the land, nothing more. Doesn’t fucking matter what’s stated on paper.”

Holy fucking shit, and he'd come up with all of that on the spot? Under that kind of pressure and in front of his dad, no less? And even got him to CONSIDER those terms?

Fuck, that was...

So fucking hot.

Like... you didn’t even know WHY. It was just the fact that he could use his brain for something good if he actually wanted to, stand up for himself in front of his dad, and take actual responsibility and—

I’M STARING AT HIS ARMS AGAIN HELP.

You quickly averted your gaze, and thank god he hadn’t caught you drooling over him again.

BACK TO THE TOPIC, GIRL.

“That actually sounds kinda promising,” you finally said, a soft smile tugging at your lips as you saw how Rafe’s features immediately softened.

Big blue eyes gazed at you for a second. “You think so?”

You nodded. “Yeah, I mean, although it’s kinda what Ruthie ultimately wanted, so it’s like letting her win, but right now this might actually be our best shot.”

A big smile spread across Rafe’s lips. “I know. And my dad actually sounded impressed by the idea.”

You hated Ward Cameron so much for the fact that his son was this happy about selling his soul to such a shitty deal just to finally gain his approval.

And your heart clenched at what you were about to say.

“But,” you started carefully, already watching his expression drop, “I’m not sure if you fully understand what you’re getting into if this deal actually happens. I mean, aside from the fact that it’s not just Ruthie’s dad who needs to agree that you—a boy barely finished with high school—are the one making this deal, Ruthie also has to accept these terms.”

You furrowed your brows, noticing how his jaw clenched. “This may be close to what she wanted, but it’s not truly what she demanded. She asked for your dad, not you.” You quickly shook your head as he scowled. “No, I’m not questioning whether you could run a project like this, okay? Actually, I’m pretty sure if given enough time, this could turn into a solid opportunity for you.”

Your gaze softened as the car came to a stop under the shadow of some oak trees. “But you’re still young, Rafe. Please don’t think I’m doubting you, it’s just... this isn’t some side hustle. Running a subsidiary company is not a hobby, it’s... I mean, what about your future? If you ever want to go to college, this could be a massive burden, and,” you raised your brows, voice laced with genuine concern, “what if Whitmore screws you over? If he’s anything like Ruthie, he might do everything he can to push you out of the company the moment the deal's sealed.”

Rafe just stared straight ahead, head resting back against the seat, hands still gripping the lower part of the steering wheel, even though the car was parked.

Your heart twisted painfully at his empty expression.

“I didn’t mean to—” you began, but he shook his head, making a dismissive motion with his hand.

“It’s my only chance,” he said, his voice laced with a gut-wrenching emptiness as he stared at a blank spot ahead. “I don’t have plans for after high school. So this might be my only opportunity to get into business. You know, build something, work alongside my dad, prove myself, and finally do something meaningful for once.”

This sounded way too much like ‘I’m not good enough, so now I have to settle for the next best option otherwise I will stay a disappointment,’ and your heart broke all over again at how exhausted he sounded.

You exhaled quietly through your nose and eyed his sharp profile. “But is that what you really want? You shouldn’t sell yourself short just to prove something. And if you think there’s no other way out of Ruthie’s blackmail—”

“I can’t back out now,” he said, turning to look at you, desperation and sadness glimmering in his eyes. “I already brought this up to my dad. If I puss out now,” he shook his head, face twisting into a bitter grimace, “he’ll write me off for good. This isn’t just my chance to get out of this fucked-up blackmail, it’s also my shot at proving my dad that I’m not just the loser he thinks I am.”

Your heart cracked again, aching for this broken boy whose only real goal seemed to be to finally feel accepted and wanted, like that was the only way he knew how to exist. Chasing approval like he needed someone else to tell him how much he was actually worth.

“You’re not a loser, Rafe,” you said firmly, holding his tired gaze. “And you don’t need your dad—or anyone else—to tell you that. You’re perfectly fine the way you are.”

Rafe shook his head weakly, tapping his chest with one hand. “Look at me? He’s right, I’m fucking fucked-up. Always causing him trouble and I barely even manage high school. How the fuck am I supposed to go to college?”

“You’re not an easy person, there’s no sugarcoating that”, you replied, gently, “but your grades don’t define who you are. There’s so much more about you.” You shook your head, smiling softly. “You’re smart, observant, adaptable, and quick-thinking. You pick up on things faster than anyone else I know. I mean, you always know when I start to spiral and you usually manage to defuse it almost immediately. It took Cara months to learn how to read me. You did it in a week.”

You chuckled softly, heart thumping a little faster at your next words. “And you have this weird skill... like, you know exactly how to brighten my day or make me laugh—even if it’s through your stupid, sexually charged pics—and you always make me feel like I...” you shook your head, smiling sheepishly, “like I’m special. And,” you laughed nervously, cheeks warming, “what I’m trying to say is, never let anyone define your worth. Not your dad, your teachers, your friends or anyone else. What someone thinks about you doesn’t reflect who you actually are.”

Your fingers traced the shape of your heart-shaped charm. “Though I do believe it’s true when I say you’re more than enough. As for me, I’m really grateful to get to call someone like you my friend.” A soft chuckle escaped your lips. “Even if it’s just day three of our friendship.”

Oh, god.

OH MY FUCKING GOD. That basically felt like a confession even though all you did was speak the truth about how much he meant and—

OH NO.

NONONONO.

He looked so shaken now. So deeply gutted and overwhelmed, it felt like last night all over again.

This broken boy in front of you, usually so full of anger and energy, now just looking exhausted and empty. And it felt like the wound in your heart was ripped open all over again, this time even deeper.

His pretty blue eyes stared at you with uncertainty and disbelief, like he couldn’t allow himself to trust your words, like all you were doing was feeding him lies.

And, oh my god, no.

There was a shimmer in his eyes that looked like he was desperately trying to hide from breaking loose.

OKAY NO. IF RAFE STARTED CRYING IN FRONT OF YOU, YOU’D CRY TOO AND JUST—NOPE.

And because you didn’t know what else to say, you just quickly shook your head, brows furrowing. “Did I say something wrong? I didn’t—”

“Nah,” Rafe said, letting out a broken little chuckle as he shifted in his seat, brushing the back of his hand over his teary eyes and rubbed at his nose, masking a sniff. Then he leaned back again, fingers fidgeting with the golden ring on his left hand. “You’re good at saying the right shit at the right time. That’s a skill.”

You didn’t know whether to laugh or breathe out in relief and somehow you did both. “I... yeah, I think I got that from my dad.”

Rafe nodded, a faint smile tugging at his lips as he looked down at his hands. “Yeah, that’s... I appreciate it.”

Your pulse quickened, and when the smile faded from his face, replaced by a stern profile, you found yourself holding your breath for whatever he was about to say.

“And I also appreciate you sticking around even though you could’ve left,” he said, meeting your eyes again, something soft flashing through his gaze making your heart ache. “I mean not just last night. This whole,” he made a vague motion with his hand, shaking his head, “fucked-up situation Ruthie pushed me into. That— I mean, shit, none of that fucking concerns you and you still wanna help me.”

A strained chuckle escaped his lips as he looked at you with genuine confusion, eyes still shiny. “And I can’t even tell if it’s out of pity toward me or out of hatred for Ruthie.”

That alone made your heart crack again, ripping deeper with every second you had to see him in this state.

“Neither.” You smiled softly. “It’s what friends do. Help each other. It’s a mutual thing. You helped me sober up on Saturday, and now I help you get out of this mess.” You shrugged, a cheeky smile on your lips. “Although getting Ruthie to eat shit is also a huge motivator.”

At that, Rafe let out a boyish laugh, averting his gaze for a second. “Shit, yeah, guess that won’t happen, though, if the deal goes through. Then she gets what she wanted.”

“It will,” you said, and his head snapped up again. “Deal or not, she still has the video. You think she’s gonna delete it the second your dad signs the papers?” You shook your head, expression hardening. “Nah, that bitch will just come up with something new, and it’ll keep going like this until one of you loses. And we’re gonna make sure it’s her.”

A heavy sigh escaped Rafe’s lips as he sank deeper into his seat, grimacing as he ran a hand through his hair. “Shit. I didn’t even think of that.”

“That was literally the first thing I mentioned last night when you told me about this whole situation,” you replied, amused. “And we talked about the exact same thing again this morning.”

Rafe scoffed. “Yeah, fuck, I know. I meant—I didn’t think about it during the conversation with my dad.” He closed his eyes, rubbing his palms over them. “Fuck, I should’ve held off on my suggestion until we were out of options. Now I might have to go through with the deal even if we manage to get rid of the video.”

OBVIOUSLY.

“No,” you said anyway, trying to offer a genuine smile. “I mean, yeah, you reacted impulsively, but chances are high we won’t be able to delete the video before the Gloaming. Your offer buys us time to stall Ruthie a little longer.”

Rafe scowled. “Buys us time? You do realize if my dad agrees and I take this deal, there’s no backing out.”

You tilted your head, giving him a crooked smile. “Maybe you can’t back out. But what if Ruthie’s dad did?”

“What?”

You nodded. “Yeah, just imagine what a blow it would be to the Whitmores if the deal gets announced at the Gloaming on big stage in front of everyone, and then shortly after, it falls apart because Mr. Whitmore chickened out.”

“You wanna blackmail him or what?” Rafe asked, letting out a disbelieving laugh. “That bastard cheated on his wife and didn’t even blink. I doubt—”

“No,” you cut him off. “I mean, I don’t know. Ruthie’s family is full of shit like that. There’s gotta be something we could use against them.”

A sweet chuckle slipped from his lips, making your heart skip a beat. “Shit, you wanna blackmail a grown man? You’re fucking insane.”

“I’m just saying, best case scenario,” you started, amused, lifting your brows as you counted off on your fingers, “we destroy Ruthie’s leverage by deleting the video, announce your family’s big role at the Gloaming with this deal and bring some attention on Cameron Development with it, humiliate the Whitmores when Mr. Whitmore pussed out, which means you’re free from whatever the deal actually entails, and”, you frowned, “this shouldn’t even be a bullet point—your dad can’t blame you because someone else crashed the deal.”

He just looked at you for a moment, like he was trying to believe this mess could actually work out in his favor.

Then that blank look morphed into a smug grin. “You forgot the best part of this scenario.”

Oh, you already knew you weren’t gonna like this answer, but you still raised an eyebrow. “And that would be?”

“You falling head over heels for me during our fake dating act and letting me bend you over by the end of the week.”

DUDE.

HOW BLUNT DID YOU WANNA BE? YES.

You had no idea how to respond, feeling called out on your crush, for no reason whatsoever, so you tried to hide your flustered mess of a brain by laughing in disbelief.

“What’s so funny?” he said, grinning, EYES DROPPING TO YOUR LIPS FOR A SECOND, OKAY SIR. “I can be pretty charming if I want to be. And a convincing boyfriend, too.”

KFKSNFKACJ CALM DOWN CALM DOWN CALM DOWN.

You smiled nervously, your heart pounding loudly in your ears. “Uh-huh. I’m sure.”

“What? You don’t believe me?”

BOY, MY WHOLE LIFE I’VE BEEN DREAMING ABOUT YOU BEING MY BOYFRIEND.

Your whole body seemed to heat up in the car and all you could do was chuckle again in response because you were too overwhelmed with this topic.

Rafe studied you for a second with that cocky smile of his, then leaned back, letting out a heavy exhale.

“Okay, but for real,” he said, suddenly switching tones. “I wasn’t joking when I said I needed you to play a little part.” He fidgeted with the ring on his finger, a crease forming between his brows. “Because my dad thinks we’re dating now, he wants to get to know you better. At a dinner on Wednesday, to be exact. And the way he phrased it... it kinda sounded like his decision about the deal depends on how that dinner goes.”

OH MY FUCKING GOD.

So it wasn’t just about acting like his date—you also had to impress his dad?!

I meaaaan, there was no need for you to pull an act BECAUSE HAHAHAHAHAH but still, this was A LOT of events within two weeks. Sure, this would be just pretense but this still felt like you two were moving way too fast.

“Look,” he went on, holding your gaze with a calm seriousness as he gestured to himself, “I’m not asking you to get all PDA-shit with me. No kissing or sitting on my lap or any of that shit, okay? Just…” He let out a tense breath, waving his hand in the air. “Shit, I don’t know. Whatever it is couples do. Smile and hold hands and stuff like that, you know. Molly-Kelce type shit but like lowkey.”

SOMEONE RUSH ME TO THE ER. PLEASE HELP.

“I get that this is probably like a meteor crashing into the minions in your brain,” he added with a chuckle, “but I won’t do anything you’re not comfortable with, alright?” A strained smile appeared on his lips as he gestured toward himself, shaking his head. “I won’t even touch you if you don’t want me to.”

You scoffed, amused. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

OH SHIT.

You chuckled awkwardly, feeling your face heat up at his surprised expression. “I mean, I can handle a little physical contact.”

AT THIS POINT JUST TELL HIM YOU WANT HIS HANDS ALL OVER YOU.

Rafe raised his brows in genuine surprise. “So you’d be down to do that?”

You fidgeted with your bracelet, staring at one of the heart charms. “I just…” A nervous breath escaped your lips. “How long are you planning to keep this up?”

Silence.

Great.

You raised your gaze again, meeting his soft expression. He looked a little thrown off by the question, or maybe by the fact you were actually agreeing to FUCKING FAKE DATE HIM.

Then he blinked, shaking his head lightly. “Uh, I don’t know. I mean, it’d be kinda suspicious if we broke up right after the dinner or the Gloaming, right?”

“I thought we were just dating,” you said with a shaky breath. "You know, a breakup implies an actual relationship."

Rafe’s brows twitched but he nodded quickly. “Oh. Yeah, yeah. Right.” He laughed awkwardly. “Same thing, though.”

IT’S NOT, BUT OKAY.

He motioned toward you casually. “I don’t know, what do you suggest?”

ME???

Heat crawled up your neck because, for no damn reason at all, this felt like whatever you answered would be a confession. WHICH WAS SO STUPID. BUT STILL.

BUT GIRL THIS IS YOUR CHANCE. FAKE DATING RAFE, HELLO???

Okay, if it were up to me, we could keep this going forever hahahahahah.

PLEASE. HE’S LITERALLY WAITING FOR AN ANSWER.

You smiled awkwardly. “Um… I guess that depends on how long we’ve supposedly been dating already, right? Or maybe you tell me first what exactly you told your dad about us in the first place.”

“Uh, yeah.” Rafe nodded. “So I basically said we started dating like a month ago, and I didn’t tell anyone because you wanted to keep it lowkey. And—”

“Me?” You raised your brows, amused.

Rafe chuckled. “Yeah, I mean, it only makes sense that way because I sure as hell wouldn’t be hiding you.”

JESUS CHRIST. WHATEVER THAT MEANT.

“And I didn’t wanna pressure you,” he went on, still smiling. “Because you’re important to me and shit, so obviously I didn’t wanna make you uncomfortable and scare you off.”

OKAY, NOPE. SOMEBODY CALL 911.

You had no time to spiral over that right now, so you just nodded, suddenly feeling like the awkward girl from earlier last week. “Okay… and then?”

“Yeah well, I also mentioned the project,” he said with a chuckle. “You know, to add some truth to the story.”

Oh.

So the part about you being important to him and all that wasn’t true?

“What?”

Shit, your face had given you away.

You shook your head quickly. “Nothing, I just— is that all?”

Rafe furrowed his brows. “No, I mean, yeah, but… what’s bothering you?”

That this will all be pretense and eventually it’s going to end and that is what’ll break me.

“I just…” you exhaled quietly, tracing your finger over the texture of your purse. “If we’re doing this, I need you to be super clear about what’s part of the act and what’s not. I’m already struggling to keep up with your… flirting, and stuff, but I learned to accept it.”

A nervous laugh escaped your lips. “But you know how my brain works by now. I don’t do well with mixed signals. So if something you say or do is just part of the act, I need you to clarify it as such.”

For a moment, he just looked at you with this innocent expression, like a boy soaking up info about a brand-new topic.

Then he nodded. “I will… if you do the same.”

OH!

Rafe needing clarity like that? That—wait.

DID THAT MEAN HE THOUGHT YOU WERE GIVING HIM MIXED SIGNALS TOO?? AND WHAT DID THAT MEAN?

OKAY OKAY OKAY CALM DOWN.

He probably just wanted to keep things clear. That wasn’t weird.

“I will,” you said, a soft smile tugging at your lips. “But what are you gonna tell your dad when the whole fake thing’s over? I mean,” a way too tense laugh escaped your lips, “we’re not like… parting ways or something, right?”

“What?” Rafe shook his head fast, a deep crease between his brows. “Shit, of course not.” He motioned between you two. “We’ll just say it didn’t work out but we stayed friends or shit like that. Easy.”

A huge wave of relief washed over you.

Sure, you hadn’t really thought he’d cut you off afterward, but hearing him say it out loud had probably just saved you from spiraling.

You nodded. “Okay.”

Rafe’s eyes widened slightly, anticipation flickering in his expression. “So you’re okay with this?”

I’M SCREAMING INTERNALLY, WHAT DO YOU THINK?

“I think so,” you replied with a soft smile. “So, this act… it’s basically just for the dinner and the Gloaming and maybe a little bit after to keep things realistic?”

Rafe scratched his chin. “Yeah, I guess. I mean, you should probably tell your parents too, in case they end up talking with my dad or Rose.”

UGHHH. That was going to be the most awkward and uncomfortable conversation of your life, filled with a million questions and a dramatic “WE KNEW IT.”

But you nodded. “Yeah, makes sense. And for the same reason, we should probably let our friends in on it too.” You paused for a second, hesitating. “And Sarah and Wheezie as well.”

And because Rafe’s face immediately twisted into a deep scowl, you quickly added, “I mean, I can take care of Sarah and you can talk to Wheezie, but I assume they’re going to be present at the dinner too, so better tell them beforehand before they accidentally blow our cover.”

Please don’t get mad, please don’t get mad.

Rafe exhaled and ran a hand over his face. “Yeah, shit, I guess you’re right.”

Oh. That was easier than expected.

“Let’s talk about the rest of this crap tomorrow, okay? I’ve had enough of this damn deal and Ruthie for one day,” he said, his expression turning smug. “And I think that was enough food for your little minions today too.”

You laughed. “True that.”

Then you suddenly became aware of where you actually were. Your mind had been so focused on the conversation, you hadn’t even noticed Rafe had driven you to some secluded grove at the far end of Figure 8. (If you didn’t know better, you’d think he was planning to kill you and bury your body here ahahahaha.)

Outside the car, sunlight filtered through the oak trees, casting golden patterns across the grass below. Everything looked still, calm, and just a little unreal in the warm afternoon light. The branches swayed slightly in the breeze, but it was quiet behind the glass.

It felt like the day was finally beginning to slow down.

“Where are we?” you asked in awe, eyes fixed on the scene outside. You didn’t recognize the place at all and hadn’t been paying attention on the way here either.

The sound of Rafe unbuckling his seatbelt made you turn your head.

“You’ll see,” he said with a grin, snatching his keys and phone from the center console, then got out of the car.

A rush of adrenaline shot through your body, and for a moment you just sat there, stunned—nerves buzzing at the fact that Rafe had brought you somewhere this beautiful.

“C’mon,” he said as he opened your door, grinning like an idiot. “Or does the lady need to be carried?”

CARRIED WHERE, THOUGH?

Your cheeks flushed and you quickly shook your head with a baffled little laugh, unbuckling your seatbelt too. With a soft thud, Rafe shut the door behind you.

The grove looked even more magical from outside the car—like you’d just stepped into one of those vivid landscape paintings in a museum. In the distance, you could hear seagulls calling, and above you the whisper of treetops rustling. The breeze carried the scent of the ocean and salt, and the warm air was thick with the smell of pine, oak, and damp earth.

It all felt almost fairylike.

So how the fuck did Rafe even know about this place?

“Where are we?” you asked again, turning to meet his eyes.

“You’ll see,” he repeated, smiling as he walked to the back of his car and opened the trunk. He slung a huge gym bag over his shoulder and you couldn’t help but admire the way his arms flexed as he lifted it.

AND THEN YOU DIED.

When he reached up to close the trunk with his other hand, his polo shirt rode up slightly, giving you a glimpse of his FUCKING V-LINE. BYE.

And of course, his cocky little chuckle told you he’d definitely caught you looking, which made your entire face heat the fuck up.

I’M SERIOUSLY DONE FOR TODAY.

With two quick clicks, he locked the car and gently nudged you forward with a “C’mon,” stepping beside you again.

Your heart pounded like it was training for a marathon, but you fell into step beside him anyway, shoulders brushing lightly as you walked.

A wooden path stretched through the grove, seemingly guiding the way. Birds chirped in the canopy above, and the rustling of leaves filled the silence between the two of you.

“Does this place belong to your family?” you asked, slightly alarmed by the signs of ownership.

“No,” Rafe said a little too casually, and a flicker of unease crept into your chest at the idea that you might be trespassing on someone’s private land. You weren’t exactly planning to get shot today.

You frowned, letting out a nervous laugh. “Okay… so whose is it then?”

“Relax, alright?” he said, casting you a slightly amused look. “We’re allowed to be here.”

AND WHO ALLOWED THAT?

Jesus, this guy was the reason you were going to need a pacemaker someday. The number of mini-heart attacks he’d already given you was concerning.

You just nodded, unconvinced, and tried not to bump into him too often as you continued down the wooden path.

Soon, the scent of freshwater started to mix with the earthy air, and shortly after, you stepped into a clearing.

And the sight was breathtaking.

A small lake stretched out before you, reflecting the brilliant blue sky like a shimmering mirror, framed by a stunning wall of oaks and pines.

And in the center of it all: a white pavilion, accessible by a wooden pier just a few meters ahead.

The warm touch of Rafe’s hand on your lower back snapped you out of your trance.

“Move your ass,” he said with a grin. “Didn’t bring you here just to play fucking tree.”

Still overwhelmed by the view, you managed a quiet laugh and let him guide you toward the pier. His hand never left your back, all the way to the pavilion it rested on the place just inches from your butt—and you didn’t even notice when it dropped, or when he set the bag down, because you were completely floored.

Sand-colored curtains wrapped the pavilion in a golden shimmer, and a beautifully carved wooden railing gave the whole space a feeling of calm and safety. In the center, a round firepit filled with fresh coal and wood. On one side, a wide lounge bed. On the other, a cute little table with two chairs.

But that wasn’t what had you completely speechless.

No, it was the little things in between—the details that made your heart skip in a way it never had before.

The upper beams were strung with dozens of star-shaped fairy lights, wrapped like ivy around the posts. The lounge bed was covered in a fluffy Fluttershy-themed blanket, and tucked between the soft beige cushions were two plushies—one Psyduck and one that looked like a cursed Minion. And on the side table, surrounded by glowing fake candles and perfectly arranged decor, was a massive bouquet of flowers—the scent of sweet peas, forget-me-nots, anemones, peonies, and astrantias already filling the air.

Everything was just...

Perfect.

“Do you like it?” Rafe’s quiet voice pulled you out of another daze.

When you turned to look at him, your heart dropped. Blue eyes stared back at you—uncertain, a little nervous, and maybe even afraid.

“At first, I had been thinking I could just take you out for dinner,” he said, letting out a shaky chuckle, “but I figured that's kinda lame and… someone like you deserves something a little more special, so I wanted to do something else instead.” He pressed his lips together for a moment, rubbing the back of his neck. “I didn’t have much time to set it up, though. You know, because of the convo with my dad and our hangout awaiting, I only had like two hours.”

He exhaled through his nose, brows pulling together. “But I really wanted to do this today before another fucker decides to give it a shot, and I...” Another shaky breath. “I know it’s not much. Not sure what you had in mind when you asked for more effort, and your friend was absolutely no help, so I...” He frowned. “Okay, fuck that — will you be my date for the shitty-ass Gloaming?”

Completely overwhelmed by the setup, by the fact that he’d actually put in this much effort despite being so busy, that he’d even reached out to Cara for help, and then the way he asked—awkward and nervous and just a little passive-aggressive—and the fact he was worried someone else might ask you even though you only wanted to go with him...

The butterflies in your stomach went feral. The little minions in your head were full-on losing their minds, rushing around, screaming, jumping up and down. And your heart? Beating all the right kinds of fast.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, brows drawing tighter, and the anxiety in his voice was impossible to miss. “You look disappointed.”

You quickly shook your head, laughing in disbelief. “What? Oh my god, no! No. Not at all, that’s...” You took in the whole setup again before turning back to him, a wide smile on your face. “It’s perfect, Rafe. I... I don’t even know what to say, I totally wasn’t expecting this.”

“Yeah, well, you could say ‘Yes’ for example,” he muttered impatiently, clearly tensed.

You raised an eyebrow at him, amused.

“What?” he said, nearly panicking. “No way you already said yes to some other fucking loser.”

You laughed softly and smiled, shaking your head. “No.”

Now he raised his brows, anticipation written all over his face.

Alright. You should probably put him out of his misery before he had a full breakdown.

“Yes,” you said with a soft laugh. “I’d love to be your date for the Gloaming.”

And just like that, the biggest grin broke across his face and all that tension left his body. “So the 10k I spent renting this place was worth it.”

“WHAT?!” Your heart dropped straight to the floor.

NO WAY HE’D ACTUALLY SPENT THAT MUCH ON YOU.

That bastard laughed. “Just kidding. Place belongs to Kelce’s grandpa. So I only paid half.”

You blinked at him, completely shocked.

“Alright, calm down, it was free,” he said, giggling as you lightly smacked him with the back of your hand. “Hey, not sure I wanna date an abusive girl.”

Your heart skipped a beat at the word date before you remembered—hahah yeah, right, you were fake dating now. Kind of.

YOU’D NEED AT LEAST A WEEK TO LET THAT FACT SINK IN. HOLY SHIT.

Anyway.

No freaking out now. Not after Rafe went through all this trouble just to make you feel special.

You just shot him an amused side-eye at his comment, then turned away to inspect the flowers on the table.

Their scent so sweet and lovely, and each individual bloom looked so beautiful on its own. The whole arrangement of soft pinks and blues with little green fillers in between—just perfect.

And the fact that these weren’t just random flowers or boring roses, no, the bouquet felt like Rafe’s way of showing you that he’d actually thought this through, that he’d really put effort into it.

Your fingers gently brushed over the petals, a smile tugging at your lips. “They’re beautiful.”

“They’re probably thinking the same about you.”

You hadn’t even noticed him walking up behind you, now standing just slightly behind your shoulder, his warm breath ghosting over the skin of your neck, sending a shiver running down your spine.

You turned around, a baffled laugh slipping out at both his comment and the close proximity. Your heart was already screaming so loudly, you were sure Rafe could hear it.

And then you saw it.

A weirdly shaped present in his hands, about the size of a football. Horribly wrapped—like a 5-year-old had been handed wrapping paper and scissors.

“And that’s also for you,” he said, face slightly sheepish.

You blinked, completely startled. Two gifts in three days, and on top of that, this whole beautifully arranged setup?

More than feeling excited, you felt guilty for not having anything to give in return. Something to show him how much you appreciated all this, and—

“Shit, take the fucking thing,” he said, pressing the gift into your hands. “Didn’t spend an hour on this shit just for you to stare at the shitty-ass wrapping.”

WHAT.

DID THAT MEAN HE MADE SOMETHING HIMSELF?

Okay, bye—you were either going to pass out or cry in the next five minutes.

“Go on,” he said, nudging your shoulder, sounding like an impatient schoolboy, “open that shit already.”

Ignoring the anxious buzzing under your skin, you set the present down on the table and tugged at the ribbon. As you carefully tore open the wrapping paper, you could feel Rafe standing right behind you, leaning in to look over your shoulder like he was the one receiving the gift.

And as soon as the present was revealed—

—you immediately burst out laughing.

You didn’t even get a full look at what it was. The first glimpse alone was so unexpected you had to turn away and giggle like a total idiot. Your stomach hurting, and you even had to wipe away tears from how hard it hit you.

“What?” he asked, voice sounding both amused and offended. “It’s that bad?”

You shook your head, trying to stop laughing, your face flushed from surprise.

“No, it’s...” you began, but almost broke into laughter again as your eyes landed on the gift once more. “I love it, but,” You gestured toward the little miniature scene in front of you, trying to keep your grin under control. “What the fuck is that?”

A chuckle slipped from his lips. “You want me to explain?”

“Yes, please elaborate,” you said, still catching your breath, wiping away the last of your laugh-tears.

“Okay, so right here,” he said with a crooked smile, pointing to a bloody FunkoPop that looked like it had originally been Levi Ackerman from Attack On Titan, two blades in hand, black curtain bangs painted over with a sort of dirty-blonde shade. “That’s me, alright?”

You nodded, lifting a hand to your mouth to stop you from breaking out into a laughing fit again.

“And that fucker,” he continued, brows raised as if this part was important, pointing at a Minion FunkoPop laid out on some cardboard-style ground, bruises and blood drawn on the poor thing, “that’s one of your fuckass minions. I killed him.”

You stifled another laugh. “But his eye is open.”

“Yeah, well,” he said deadpan, gesturing to his chest with both hands, “I forced him to keep it open, okay? So my face is the last thing he sees.”

You nodded slowly, barely holding it together. “Of course.”

“Yeah, and that one is you,” he said, pointing to a smiling female FunkoPop you couldn’t quite connect to a franchise, but she resembled you a lot—though some color adjustments had clearly been made. “Any questions?”

Why was he acting like he was presenting a science project? Help.

“Uh, yeah,” you said, leaning in to inspect your figure more closely. “Why does she have blood on her chest? Did you stab her too?”

Rafe frowned dramatically. “What? No.” He pointed between your figure and the dead Minion. “You see how close you were standing when he was killed? Realistically, some blood would’ve splattered onto you.”

Wow. He really thought this through. Attention to detail.

You chuckled, nodding. “Okay, so you didn’t care that I was standing right next to you swinging those blades? You could’ve hit me too, you know.”

“Maybe I should have,” Rafe muttered, scowling. “If I’d known you were gonna mock my masterpiece like this.”

“I’m not mocking it,” you said, trying to sound serious but failing miserably. “I’m actually really impressed. Like…” You gestured to the entire setup, smile softening. “It’s genuinely impressive and… so much thought behind it too.”

Rafe scoffed. “Yeah, okay, real funny. You know if—”

“I mean it, Rafe,” you interrupted, turning to face him completely, meeting his eyes with real sincerity. “This whole setup—the flowers, the lights, this whole place—everything is just perfect. So… thank you, this means a lot to me.” A crease formed between your brows. “I don’t think anyone’s ever put that much thought and effort into something for me.”

“Into asking you out?” Rafe asked, almost disbelieving.

You shook your head, a somewhat sad smile tugging at your lips as you gazed at the blue patterns in his eyes. “No. I mean ever.”

Rafe’s brows twitched, like he couldn’t quite follow. And then, a jolt went through you as his hand gently reached out for your bracelet, lightly playing with one of the charms.

“Yeah, well, gotta have some proof we’re dating,” he said with a soft chuckle, eyes still fixed on your bracelet.

Your smile faded, and you instinctively pulled your hand away just a little.

Rafe looked up immediately, a frown forming as the bracelet slipped from his fingers. “What’s wrong?” His expression softened instantly when his eyes met yours. “Shit, I was joking. I—I didn’t do all this because of that.” He tapped his chest. “I planned this before even talking to my dad, okay? Spent all of English class thinking about how I could use this second chance.”

He nodded toward the little gift with a crooked grin. “I mean, seriously, you think I’d put in that much effort just for show?” His brows furrowed. “Which, by the way—you are not telling anyone about this fuckass gift, alright. If word gets out, you're switching places with the Minion.”

A chuckle escaped you at that. “Embarrassed about your little masterpiece?”

“Nah,” he said, mouth turning downward. “It’s a limited edition. Don’t need anyone else requesting the same shit.”

Yeah. He was so embarrassed.

You nodded smugly. “Uh-huh, sure.”

“Alright, enough talking now,” he said, narrowing his eyes as he nodded behind you. “Get your ass on the bed.”

UM.

Somehow, instead, your eyes drifted toward the massive gym bag he'd brought, and you couldn’t help but wonder what the actual fuck was in there.

Rafe followed your gaze and turned back around with a nasty little grin. You quickly shook your head, frowning as you pushed him lightly in the chest. “Ew.”

“What?” He chuckled, boyishly. “You’re the one always turning everything sexual.”

You eyed him, deadpan. “Okay, but seriously, what’s in there? Because right now it looks like you’re either getting rid of someone or doing some other sketchy shit.”

“Okay, you know what,” he said, frowning, making a hushing motion with his hand, “how about you move your cheeky ass to the couch and shut the fuck up.”

Always so gentle.

You blinked at him, unimpressed. “And you? You gonna—”

You stopped mid-sentence as he suddenly stepped toward you, determination in his eyes, and you shook your head with a baffled smile just as—

A startled squeak left your lips as he grabbed you by the waist and lifted you up. Instinctively, your hands flew around his neck, holding onto him for dear life, your brain barely keeping up with what was happening.

“What are you doing?” you asked with a breathless laugh, heart hammering wildly, half-expecting him to just throw you into the lake.

Rafe scowled as he walked over to the lounge bed, one hand under your knees, the other supporting your back. "What does it look like?"

WELL THE WAY HIS BICEPS WERE FLEXING DEFINITELY LOOKED A LITTLE TOO DELICIOUS.

OKAY GIRL, THAT'S WHAT YOU’RE FOCUSING ON RIGHT NOW?? RAFE JUST FUCKING CARRIED YOU IN HIS ARMS BRIDAL STYLE???

But before you could even freak out, he had already set you down on the lounge bed—carefully and gently.

And when he straightened back up and looked down at you with that stern expression of his... uh, let's just say it wasn’t just your heart that started screaming.

“Stay there and keep your mouth shut,” he said—soft and firm and OH MY FUCKING GOD, SUDDENLY YOU WISHED YOU'D TAKEN CARE OF THAT PRESSURE EARLIER. “I’ll be back in a sec.”

OKAY SIR.

Trying to ignore HOW CRAZILY FAST YOUR HEART WAS BEATING, you snuggled into the lounge bed, kicked your shoes off, and slipped under the fluffy Fluttershy blanket (WHICH, OH MY FUCKING GOD). You chuckled to yourself as you inspected the Psyduck plush and the cursed Minion plush, arranging them neatly beside you on the right, silently wondering if he had bought them or already owned them.

“Okay,” he said, placing the gym bag on the lounge bed as he came back, his eyes flicking to the two plushies for a second (literal death glare) before unzipping the bag and reaching in. “Hall said these are your favorite snacks.” He tossed four packs of your actual favorite snacks your way.

“You know her name is Cara, right?” you said, amused, gathering the snacks in front of the plushies.

Rafe ignored you and pulled out a hoodie, tossing it onto the empty spot next to the plushies. “Mine,” he said, then threw another one your way. “And yours.”

UM EXCUSE ME WHATTTTTTTTTTT.

You blinked, baffled, staring down at the dark gray hoodie now lying in your lap.

“What?” he said, confused (BOY I AM IN CONFUSION HERE), gesturing toward you. “It gets cold real quick out here, and you didn’t bring a fucking jacket.”

SO HE RANDOMLY PACKED TWO HOODIES???

“Yeah, well, you didn’t tell me we’d be hanging out outside,” you replied, an awkward smile tugging at your lips.

Rafe held your gaze for a second like you were talking gibberish, then turned back to the bag, pulling out a smaller, black, square-shaped case. “Wheezie’s Switch. So take fucking care, alright.”

Okay, first of all, how much fit into this fucking bag? Was he Hermione Granger or something? Second, the way he always looked out for Wheezie was literally the sweetest thing ever. And third—CAN WE NOT JUST BREEZE PAST HIM BRINGING YOU A FUCKING HOODIE???

I’m cool :) I’m fine :)

And lastly, he pulled out two 1-liter water bottles, tossing them onto the couch—one almost crashing into your knee. Then he let the bag drop to the floor and turned quietly to the fireplace.

While he tried to light it, you (still very much overwhelmed) turned toward the stuff he’d brought, gathering the bottles in front of the snacks, folding his hoodie neatly and placing it beside you, and grabbed the Switch case.

A smile tugged at your lips when you saw the Animal Crossing-themed console. You left it in the case for now and started looking through the games. Everything was there—from Zelda to Animal Crossing (duh), a bunch of Mario games, even FIFA.

“No.”

That was the first thing Rafe said when he came back over to the lounge bed.

You looked up from the games, catching him dramatically frowning at the spot right beside you. He gestured to the plushies and snacks. “What the fuck is this? You building a wall between us or some shit?”

A baffled laugh escaped you. “I just figured that way we both have easy access.”

“Fuck that,” he said and climbed onto the bed, grabbing both plushies and tossing them toward your feet, muttering something like, “Fuckers” under his breath. Then he placed the snacks and drinks onto the wooden shelf behind the backrest of the bed, which you hadn’t even noticed before.

Then he kicked off his shoes aggressively, slipped under the blanket, and scooted closer so that his shoulder and legs were brushing against yours (mind you, this lounge bed was bigger than the one at the open-air event).

But you just chuckled, not moving an inch as a warm feeling spread in your chest when he finally exhaled a deep, tired breath (boy acting like he just invented fire).

“Putting these fuckers between us like they were the ones who set all this up,” he muttered, glaring at the plushies by your feet like they’d committed ten felonies.

Okay, getting angry/jealous/possessive (?) over stuffed animals—did that fall into a gray area or what? HAHAHAH

You know what? I don’t even care.

You laughed and leaned forward to grab both the Psyduck and the Minion, setting them in your lap. “Then why’d you bring them?”

“Because I saw these fuckers in the store and they reminded me of us,” he said, not breaking eye contact with the plushies.

“Us?” Another baffled chuckle slipped past your lips, your stomach doing somersaults at the thought of him buying something that made him think of the two of you.

Rafe nodded and gestured to the Minion. “Yeah, that fucker's your loud-ass, annoying asshole minion.” His hand drifted to the Psyduck. “And this guy? He’s the one getting harassed by him. Like me.”

“What?” you laughed, disbelieving.

“Yeah, that’s the Pokémon with the headaches and stuff, right?”

You nodded, trying to hold in another laugh. “Psyduck, yes.”

“Yeah, whatever. And where do you think those headaches come from?”

“Well, it’s tied to his—”

“Yeah, because of that fucker,” Rafe interrupted, pointing right back at the Minion.

You chuckled and raised a brow at him. “So if they represent us, I guess that means I’m giving you headaches too.”

Rafe nodded, blinked, then quickly shook his head and gestured toward his temples with both hands. “Your minions piss me off. Not you.”

This felt like a kindergartener trying to explain his emotions with stuffed animals. Lord help.

“But they are me,” you said, amused.

Rafe grimaced and snatched the Minion from your lap, glaring at the poor guy with pure disdain. “He’s fucking ugly and you’re not, so yeah, nah, definitely not you.”

A weird way of saying you’re pretty BUT I’LL TAKE WHAT I CAN GET.

“Alright,” you said with a chuckle, holding the Psyduck up next to Rafe’s face. “But this one’s pretty accurate though. Same pissed-off face.”

Rafe pushed your hand with the plush aside and placed the Minion somewhere next to him, his expression nearly offended. “I thought you’d like him.”

“I do,” you said, still chuckling at how the Psyduck was holding its head with a pained expression. “He’s cute.”

“See? Him and me have so much in common,” Rafe said, voice back to cocky, and you couldn’t help but giggle at his smug grin.

You set the Psyduck down on your left and leaned against Rafe’s shoulder, looking up at him with a smile. “He’s a little too quiet for my taste, though.”

A soft chuckle escaped Rafe’s lips as he raised a brow. “Yeah?”

You nodded. “I much prefer your annoyed, passive-aggressive yapping.”

“I’m not aggressive,” Rafe said with a frown.

“Passive-aggressive,” you corrected him with a smile.

Rafe nodded, lips curling. “You know what? I’m gonna beat your ass passive-aggressively in Mario Kart.”

That made you sit upright again, raising a brow at him. “Not sure you know who you’re sitting next to.”

You and Cara had been playing Mario Kart since you were kids—on the DS, Wii, Switch, you name it. You’d be dragging Rafe’s ass through the fucking mud.

“Yeah,” he said, a crooked smile forming on his lips. “The soon-to-be loser.”

Excuse me?

“Bold words for someone who’s about to act like a grumpy toddler,” you replied, blinking at him unimpressed.

Rafe scoffed. “Wanna bet?”

“On what?”

For a moment, you nearly lost composure as his eyes dropped to your lips, but he quickly looked back up. “If I win, you’re staying over at my place after the dinner on Wednesday.” A smug grin tugged at his lips as he added, “You know, to support the act.”

HOLY FUCKING SHIT, WHAT.

“And if you win, I get to stay over at yours.” He didn’t even blink when he said it.

WHAT KIND OF TERMS WERE THOSE.

Your face heated up instantly at the thought of sleeping in the same bed as Rafe, but you somehow managed to raise a brow. “How is that fair?”

AND MORE IMPORTANTLY—WHY THOSE CONDITIONS.

Rafe chuckled. “You got a problem with that?”

You nodded, a crease forming between your brows. “Well, yeah. We’ve got school the next day.”

AND I’M ALREADY PANICKING AND THE BET ISN’T EVEN SEALED YET.

“And?” Rafe raised a smug eyebrow. “You think we’ll be busy the whole night or what?”

THIS MOTHERFUCKER. BYEEE.

You chuckled nervously and shook your head, cheeks basically on fire. “I just…”

But you had no clue how to finish that sentence. Your brain had officially short-circuited.

“You think I’d try something?” Rafe asked, suddenly on the defensive again.

“Of course not,” you replied, a little annoyed he kept bringing this up. “Stop assuming that. I know you’re not a creep.”

Rafe didn’t look convinced.

He pulled a face and threw his hands up. “Then what’s the issue? You sleep on your side, I sleep on mine. It’s not that different from what we’re doing right now.” His voice softened a little. “And I genuinely think this could prove my dad that I'm serious about you. I usually never let a girl sleep over with all my family knowing."

Of course, you’d love nothing more than to sleep beside him, like OH MY FUCKING GOD—being wrapped in his blanket, sharing his warmth, breathing in the scent of his room and him and just... AJKDCMSKFEJ.

BUT.

“Rafe, I don’t know if this isn’t moving a little too fast for me,” you said quietly. “I mean… I know it’s just for the act, and I know you’d make sure I’m comfortable. It’s just…” You fidgeted with your bracelet. “My brain is already struggling to catch up with this right here. I barely processed us being friends and now three days later, you’re asking me to act like your fake girlfriend and sleep in your bed. That’s just…” A shaky breath slipped out. “It’s a lot.”

He needed to understand that. Whether he liked it or not.

Also… whether this was actually for the act or maybe correlated to his clinginess or attachment, you needed to slow things down a bit.

LIKE SLEEPING NEXT TO HIM IN BED???

WOAH WOAH WOAH WOAH WOAH.

You probably wouldn’t even be able to sleep. You’d just lie there, staring into the dark, heart thundering in your chest, trying to make sense of the fact that you were actually sharing a bed with Rafe.

“I don’t get it,” Rafe said, clearly hurt. “I thought this wouldn’t be an issue for you. I mean, you do the same with your girl friends, right? How is this different?”

You let out a baffled laugh. “Because those are sleepovers and...uh...”

Shit. You had no valid argument. Other than the fact that he was a guy—the guy you were badly in love with.

“And?” There was something almost sad in his expression. He turned his body toward you fully, gesturing to himself. “If I were a girl, would you still say no?”

Okay. Fair. This wasn’t about him being a guy. THIS WAS ABOUT HIM BEING RAFE FUCKING CAMERON, YOUR CRUSH.

You chuckled softly. “I think you’d say no. Girl sleepovers involve things you probably wouldn’t do.”

“Says who?”

“What?”

“That I’d say no.”

OH. MY. GOD.

Your eyebrows shot up. “So you’re telling me you’d be down for pajamas, gossip, giggling about guys, doing face masks and makeup and all that stuff?”

“Cut the giggling and the makeup and I’m good with the rest,” he said, way too casually.

You laughed. “Rafe, that’s—”

“I’m serious,” he cut in, frowning. “You said you wanted to be friends, so why can’t we do friend shit? Sarah and Kie always left me out of that shit too. Like, is that some fuckass girl code or shit like that?”

Okay, new theory: maybe this wasn’t just about the act or his clinginess. Maybe he never actually had a real sleepover growing up and felt excluded his entire life.

And somehow, that… shifted your entire perspective on this situation.

You smiled softly. “So you wanna have a sleepover like that?”

He paused for a moment, arms crossed. Then shrugged. “Shit, I guess.”

AJSKFKSMFEK.

“Okay.”

His eyes widened like a starving medieval peasant getting tossed a piece of bread. “For real?”

You nodded, stifling a laugh. “But I don’t think the dinner night is the right time for that.” His frown was already returning, so you added quickly, “Because sleepovers like that take preparation, you know? You go shopping together, pick out snacks and stuff—that’s part of the whole experience.”

Rafe shook his head lightly, brows furrowed. “But the dinner night would be—”

“You need to understand, the whole act is already a lot for me,” you interrupted gently. “And not because of you. It’s just… a ton of pressure. Playing pretend in front of your dad and Rose, convincing them it’s real, and I also wanna make a good impression independent from the act, because I’m gonna be around even after this whole fake thing ends. Then coming home with you on the same night, Sarah will probably pull me aside and talk to me about it, and then it’d also be my first time sleeping over at a guy’s place and—”

“Alright, alright,” Rafe said, smile tight (great, now your panic was rubbing off on him too). “You need to chill the fuck out. It was just an idea to support the whole thing, okay?” His expression softened. “You’re gonna do just fine. Just be yourself, that’s enough. My dad already thinks you’re the perfect catch anyway.”

Your face twisted. “But he doesn’t even know me.”

“He knows your parents, and he respects them a lot,” Rafe explained, letting out a half-laugh. “And there’s never been any drama with you or them. Plus, you’re polite, kind, and pretty on top of that. He already thinks I've won the jackpot with you.” A small smile curled on his lips. “And he’s probably right.”

OH MY HOLY FUCKING GOD.

How did he keep on casually dropping comments like that?? He probably thought they’d calm you down, but they were only making you freak out more, HELLOOOO???

“So just the dinner on Wednesday then. No sleeping over,” he said. “That cool with you?”

You nodded. “Yes.”

“Aight.” Rafe exhaled quietly, visibly relaxing. He shifted back next to you, his shoulder resting against yours. Then he reached for the Switch. “Now let’s drop this shit till tomorrow. I wanna crush your ass in Mario Kart now.”

A chuckle escaped your lips and you sank deeper into the seat, grabbing the controller he handed you.

"What about the bet?", you asked, gazing up at him.

Rafe’s brows twitched, and he shifted his gaze from the Switch to you. “Yeah, well, that shit doesn’t really make sense anymore, does it?”

“We could come up with a new one,” you offered, absentmindedly tracing the joystick’s curve with your thumb—until you noticed the crooked grin forming on Rafe’s face. Clearly, he thought that motion implied what would be part of the bet.

You stopped immediately and frowned at him. “Seriously.”

A cheeky chuckle escaped his lips. “Didn’t say a thing.” He made a poor attempt at looking serious. “Alright then—what did you have in mind?”

You pressed your lips together, hesitation bubbling in your chest, but--no. Screw it. “Are you free tomorrow night?”

Rafe blinked. The surprise washed over his whole face as he stared at you for a second before nodding. “Like... the whole night or just the evening?”

“The whole night.”

He tilted his chin, raising his eyebrows. “To do what exactly?”

HORNY-ASS BOY.

“Having a sleepover. We literally just agreed on planning one,” you clarified, deadpan. “And my mom’s yacht is docked not far from our house and it’s basically a small apartment. Fully furnished lounge with a TV and everything. Perfect for spending the night.”

Rafe raised a brow. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were trying to get me to hook up with you.”

You gave him a blank stare.

“What?” he said, laughing. “I’m just wondering why you'd choose a private setting like that over one of our places.” He pointed at himself, wearing a teasing smile. “Just being cautious about your intentions here, okay.”

This fucker was mocking you. Wow.

A frown appeared on your face. “I literally just told you I'd feel pressured about sleeping over with one of our families around. And I know my parents would be checking in every ten minutes, asking if we needed anything and whatever.”

You grimaced. “They’d make the whole thing so awkward just because a boy is sleeping over, and then they’d start poking around about us dating and stuff and just… ugh, no thanks.”

Rafe chuckled and picked up the Mario Kart game case. “Alright, alright, I get it.” With a soft click, he pulled out the game card. “So what are the new bet terms?”

“If I win, you pay for snacks and everything,” you said, eyes following his hands. “And if you win, I will.”

Rafe scoffed and paused, looking up. “That’s lame as hell.”

“What? Why?”

“I was gonna pay for that shit anyway,” he said, sounding borderline offended.

NOT HIM WANTING TO PAY AGAIN, OMFG.

Your cheeks flushed but you didn’t dare argue. “Okay, what then?”

He slid the game card into the Switch slot and closed it, shifting his gaze back to you with that crooked little grin again. “What if we get a little fun out of this fake-dating thing?”

UM. WHERE EXACTLY WAS THIS GOING NOW.

You let out a nervous laugh. “What do you mean?”

His face could mean literally anything from let’s do it right now to let’s tell our parents you’re accidentally pregnant.

“Nothing wild. Not tryna make you uncomfortable,” he said, still grinning. “But I think we should use this opportunity to our advantage. So” he raised his brows, “if you win, we stick to the original plan. Just pretend for our parents and that’s it.”

UH-HUH.

“But if I win,” he went on, grin turning cockier, “we do the same thing in front of our friends—without telling them it’s fake.”

WHAT.

You kind of saw that coming but it still hit you like a truck.

"Think about it. It just makes sense," he said with a casual shrug. "What’s the first thing they're gonna ask when we tell them we randomly decided to start fake-dating?"

You just shook your head, too stunned to think.

“Why we’re doing it all of a sudden,” he said, brows drawing together. “And if we say it’s to influence my dad’s decision on the deal, they’ll start digging. Asking questions. About Ruthie and all that shit. And Kelce will throw a tantrum over why I didn’t tell him and your friend will probably do the same.”

He raised his chin, voice dropping. “Or does she already know?”

You shook your head. “No. I promised not to tell anyone.”

“See? So not telling them just makes things simpler.” He shrugged. “Avoids unnecessary drama, and we can completely focus on the Ruthie shit and the deal—without anyone else trying to get involved.”

This was insane.

Pretending not just in front of your families, but also your friends? Lying to them like that didn’t just feel wrong, it was also a ton of pressure.

“Or,” you said with a sheepish smile, “we could just tell them half the truth. Say you accidentally dropped the dating thing during an argument with your dad and that’s it. Same outcome and no one needs to know about Ruthie or the deal.”

Rafe frowned. “Shit, don't you get it? They’ll still start bothering us. Annoy us by trying to help us or some shit, I don't even wanna know. Doesn’t matter what excuse we’ll give them.”

“Then we tell them not to.”

“You know damn well that's not gonna stop their nosy asses from meddling.”

You stayed quiet, not knowing what to respond.

Shit. He was right. But still...

“Look,” he said, voice softening, but the strained edge still very much there. “Like I said, I’m not asking you to throw yourself at me or anything like that. We’ll keep it lowkey, and I won’t do anything you’re not comfortable with, okay?” He raised his brows slightly, almost pleading. “It’s just for a few days, okay? Once all the Ruthie shit is over, we can tell them everything. I just… I don’t have the energy to deal with their bullshit and this whole mess at the same time.”

Oh. So this poor boy was just overwhelmed and trying to lighten the load.

You got that. Like, how many times had you nearly had a meltdown juggling two big problems at once?

And… you had to admit he wasn’t wrong. They would throw lots of questions at you two. And considering your friends had been rooting for you and Rafe anyway, maybe it really was easier to not tell them it was fake.

Just today, Cara had suggested you two should just put the friendship aside and start dating, so it would even be believable that you two suddenly did. And since Kelce already knew about the little setup Rafe created here as well, it wouldn’t be a stretch to claim you two talked, got closer, and boom—now you’re dating.

HELPPPPPP.

Everything in you wanted to say no, to keep it limited to your parents, keep it managed and under control, so you wouldn’t fall any deeper and get hurt and—

“Okay,” you said, cutting off your spiral before it could consume you.

The tension fell from Rafe’s face immediately. “You sure?”

You nodded, a soft smile tugging at your lips. “Guess you were right when you said I make simple things complicated. Maybe I should try the easy path for once.”

Rafe let out a relieved breath and sank back down beside you, turning his head your way again. “I promise I won’t do anything—”

“Yeah, yeah, I got that just fine,” you cut him off with a chuckle, picking up the controller from your lap. “Now let’s play before I change my mind.”

A big grin spread across his face as he reached for his controller too. “Aight, but I guess the bet’s useless again now, huh?”

Uh. Yeah. You had basically just agreed to his idea. No need to use it for a bet.

OH! WAIT.

You grinned at him.

“What?” Rafe’s lips twisted into a curious smirk.

“If I win, I get to do your makeup and nails tomorrow night,” you said, watching the color and life drain from his face. “And if you win, you get to do mine.”

And just like that, the light came back into his eyes.

Although, the grin that stretched across his face—a huge winner expression—made you question just how many hours Rafe actually spent on gaming, and whether you were doomed to lose since the beginning.

“You're on”, he said, and started the game.

✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿

K M S M A S T E R L I S T | <- P R E V I O U S | N E X T ->

✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿

T A G L I S T F O R M (taglist for this series is CLOSED but you can sign up for my other stuff through this link)

@ursogorgeous13 @my-name-is-baby @moneybaby07 @jjasmiineee @sttaejoon-blog @vogueprincess @princesspeaxhh @wtfisastiles @wefelldowntherabbithole13 @rafes4 @kathryn-maraudersversion @wuluhwuhmaster @torturedtypewritersdept @sfotiegiuls @ltristessedureratoujours @stoned-writer @lunaleah @akobx @cokewithcameron @b00klvrs @rafesdrew @mattyskies @yktayy9669 @beabafreakbee @c1gsafterwhat @drewstarkeyswife-7 @wtfdudesblog @akobx @wintercrows @miaaaoa @setmefreemyg @pogueprincesa @chimchimjiminie16 @drewstarkeysrightarm @wtfdudesblog @wolfstarsimpxx @emmiesummers @brycesfav @ayy1234567 @rgeraldg @stanseventeen @louvrgirl @chaoticromantic @drewstarkeysrealwife @drewstarkeyswifehoe @psychicnatural @mysticbby2009 @oreocheescake-12 @miniiminie @drunkinthemiddleoftheday @drewstarkeyywife @persiar9

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loveinhawkins · 2 days ago

Text

“Stop putting weight on it,” Steve snaps.

“I don’t exactly have a choice,” Dustin snaps right back.

They’re walking to the spot where Fred Benson was killed. Dustin assumes there’s some logic to it, that maybe it’ll be easier to get Eddie through this Gate instead, but he can’t really follow anything—save for the white-hot pain in his ankle as he limps along the road. It’s taking all his concentration just to not throw up.

It’s weird, he can feel the evidence of him sobbing over Eddie—tears sticking to his cheeks, his throat, the heave of his chest—but the emotion of it all has gone numb, replaced with an anger he doesn’t understand. But Steve must be feeling it too, because they’ve argued practically the whole way here, as Steve carried a very still Eddie, and Dustin stubbornly refused to lean on Robin or Nancy.

“Jesus Christ, don’t be so stupid,” Steve had said after the third refusal, sharp and mean, and Dustin can’t remember what he said in response, but he knows it must’ve been bad because Nancy drew back with a barely disguised flinch, and Robin was silent.

Steve’s eyes are burning; he scowls every time he glances over at Dustin. It’s like he can only be angry, like they both have to be, or…

The walkie crackles with an update from the Creel House every so often—Lucas, Max, and Erica. They’re all together, all safe—even if Max sounds shaken—and each update is the same, that they’re hiding in the attic, that it’s all quiet. Dustin thinks that’s the only thing stopping everyone here from losing it.

“Let me check,” Nancy says suddenly. She moves away from Steve, where she’d been helping support Eddie’s weight; Robin takes her place.

It’s only when Nancy somehow disappears from view that Dustin’s brain catches up: they’ve arrived, she’s gone through the Gate. She returns barely a second later, catches Steve’s eye and nods.

“It’s—it flips, but it’s not as bad as the one at Eddie’s, we can do it.”

Robin asks a question, and Steve grunts as he readjusts his hold on Eddie, but Dustin has to tune it out; his ankle gives yet another warning throb, the worst yet. He doesn’t think he can stand for much longer, but like hell is he gonna mention it.

“Dustin,” Steve says. His voice is still in that awful sharp tone, but it sounds strained, like he’s been saying Dustin’s name over and over.

And—shit, Dustin’s tuned out for longer than he thought, because Robin and Nancy are nowhere to be seen.

Steve nods at the Gate. “Go already.”

Dustin laughs harshly. “No way.”

“Jesus Christ, Dustin, just—”

“No.”

Steve grits his teeth, but Dustin knows he’s won when he sees his arms finally start to shake. Adrenaline’s carried him all the way here, but it’s running out.

“You’re—” The word cracks in the middle. “You’re coming right behind me or I swear to God I’ll—”

Bullshit, Dustin thinks.

There’s no way he’s going through the Gate first, not after what Eddie—

Voices are coming through in a weird, distorted echo; he hears snatches of conversation, enough to distinguish between Steve, Robin and Nancy, but anything beyond that is muffled.

Satisfied that no-one will notice now, he slowly lowers himself to the ground, bites down hard on his tongue to stop a cry of pain from escaping. Crawls forward until he reaches the edge of the rift, jagged concrete beneath his hand.

Steve’s voice echoes—tight, clipped. “I have to go back through. No, now, I need to get him—”

Dustin doesn’t mean to look. He doesn’t want to, but his eyes are drawn to the Gate anyway, and he looks through it with a sickening twist in his gut because—because—

Eddie is dead. He knows this. Knows it’s the big unspoken thing Steve and Nancy and Robin are trying to keep from him, like he’s suddenly just a little kid, and that fuels the rage inside him, because it’s so much easier to feel that than to feel anything else. I know, he wants to scream. I’m not stupid, I saw it happen. I know, I know!

But.

Eddie’s been pulled through, he’s lying on the road in their Hawkins, and Dustin distantly feels something move underneath his hand, but he ignores it; he can’t look away.

Because Eddie’s chest rises all at once, in an unmistakeable breath; he can’t trust it, he can’t—

A wet, choking gasp—the sound rebounds through the rift, and Eddie spits out something jet black, thick. Another breath—deeper, stronger—and his face is deathly pale, but he’s breathing.

His eyes open. They flash with awareness—and as if in answer to Dustin’s thoughts (it’s not real, he can’t be—), Eddie looks right at him.

It happens so quickly.

Eddie’s eyes widen, and his head turns against the tarmac, searching, searching. A shout that sounds like it’s done with all he has left, “Steve!”

But he’s not begging Steve to help him; he’s looking up, like something is really wrong.

Dustin doesn’t have the energy to understand.

Screams. Someone’s calling his name desperately, they all are. He can’t tell them apart until—

“Dustin!” Steve screams.

He’s trying to get back through the Gate, but for some reason he can’t. He’s cursing, out of breath.

Something is still moving underneath Dustin’s hand. The road.

Oh. It’s closing, he thinks.

“Dustin! Oh my God, oh my God, this isn’t—” It sounds, Dustin thinks with a strange detachment, like Steve’s going to throw up. “Dustin, please! Jump!”

Okay. He’s done it before. What’s one more?

He falls through darkness. Lands—all the weight on his foot. Feels the bone shift. A crack. He screams.

And then—

Nancy’s face above him, upside down. Her lips are moving, he can’t make her out—

Then overwhelming sound: a siren. He jerks his head against wet tarmac. Robin’s voice, wavering, “Woah, woah, woah, don’t look, okay, it’s—”

A flash of something: Steve kneeling on the ground, terrible, heaving breaths. Hands covering his face. “I thought—I thought—”

I’ve never heard you sound like that, Dustin thinks.

And suddenly the cold of the ground beneath him is gone, and he’s rocking side to side. There’s people all around, but he can’t tell—where are they—?

Where’s Steve? he tries to say, but his voice isn’t working. I need to—need to tell him I’m sorry.

And then—just before everything is gone—he feels a hand around his, holding on tightly.

Somehow he knows it’s Eddie.

#another take on the aftermath has grabbed me. Steve carries the guilt of an older brother because of course he does 💔#dustin henderson fic #steve and dustin fic #implied (pre) steddie but not the focus here #eddie and dustin #dustin henderson #steve harrington #eddie munson

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capuccinodoll · 3 days ago

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The boyfriend act, part 17: "The one with the vampire girl" Pairing: Frankie Morales x F!reader SERIES MASTERLIST

Chapter summary: Frankie opens up to you. And suddenly, it hits you. WC: 12.3k

A/N: Writing this chapter took me ages. Between medical appointments and the end of the semester, I was so eager to get to this part of the story. I hope you enjoy it <3 Tag list CLOSED, it ain't working anymore, too much of youu<<3. Don't forget to follow capuccinodollupdates for notifications!

Friday, November 1st, 2019

The door burst open.

“Aren’t you ready yet?” Mai was already irritated. She crossed the room in long striddes and landed a firm punch to Frankie’s stomach, not hard enough to hurt that much. “Get up. You’re not spending the night here sulking like a loser.”

Frankie let out a groan, his hand drifting lazily to the spot she'd hit. He was sprawled across the bed, one sock half-off, one eye barely open.

“This doesn’t even make sense,” he muttered as he stretched. “Halloween ended like, like yesterday.”

Mai didn’t bother replying to that. She was already at the dresser, snatching the bag from where it sat on top.

“Yeah, I don’t care. Whatever reason you’ve got in that head of yours, save it. Get dressed,” she said, tossing the bag toward him. “Or I swear I’ll drag you out by your hair, I’m not joking.”

Frankie sat up slowly, pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes.

“I’m not going,” he was pushing himself up off the mattress. “I’m grabbing drinks with dad.”

She turned. “You mean dad and his friends?”

“Yeah.”

“You’d really rather go hang out with a bunch of sixty-year-old than come out with me tonight?”

He didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

“Jesus, dude. You’re so tragic sometimes.” She climbed onto the bed and sat with her legs crossed. “I’ve got free drinks lined up all night. We could actually have fun. Remember fun?”

“No.”

She let her head fall back with a dramatic groan.

“I said no,” he repeated, quieter this time.

Twenty minutes later, Frankie walked out of the room with the costume on.

Gabriel appeared in the hallway, clicking his tongue. He was holding a small handful of almonds, pinching them one by one from his palm.

Since Helena had started seeing a nutritionist, Gabriel had decided to "support" her, which mostly meant copying her eating habits. Frankie wasn’t sure his father had fully grasped the concept of moderation; every day, he watched him consume what looked like an entire bag of almonds, convinced he was doing something virtuous simply because they were technically healthy.

He laughed now, head tipping back a little. “You look like me thirty years ago.”

“Blame your daughter.”

Gabriel raised an eyebrow. “What? You trying to say looking like me at your age is a bad thing?”

“You know I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Sure,” he said, popping another almond into his mouth. “Doesn’t mean I believe ya.”

Frankie sighed and moved past him, adjusting the jacket on his shoulders as he walked. He was nearly at the door when his dad’s voice stopped him again:

“Hey.”

He turned.

Gabriel wasn’t smiling this time. “Try to enjoy yourself, yeah? A bit of fun might actually do you some good.”

Frankie nodded. “I know.”

“And watch out for your sister.”

“I will,” he said, tilting his head in a small, quiet gesture of reassurance. “Take care at the bar, alright? Don’t overdo it.”

Gabriel chuckled. “You too, Morales. God knows where you got that party streak from.”

Frankie smiled as he turned back toward the stairs, but didn’t answer.

Downstairs, Mai was waiting for him.

When she saw him, her mouth opened, ready to say something overly encouraging.

“Shut up,” Frankie said, before his sister could say anything, heading straight for the door.

Two hours in, and Frankie had already downed a couple of drinks. Not enough to feel good, not really, but... just enough.

He stood with one shoulder pressed against the bar, arms crossed, watching the crowd move like a single overstimulated organism. Everyone sweating and smiling too wide. Everyone trying a little too hard.

He hated it.

Mai had vanished ten minutes ago, promising she'd be right back, her voice already trailing off as she disappeared into the crush of bodies in search of her friend Pam. He hadn’t seen her since.

Now the air was dense, humid with other people’s breath and perfume, it was disgusting. Thanks to the music pounding from the walls, conversation was impossible and thinking inconvenient.

He needed a cigarette. Desperately.

Frankie tipped his head back and exhaled through his nose, eyes skimming the ceiling as if it might offer him oxygen or answers.

What kind of overpriced, allegedly exclusive nightclub didn’t have a smoking area? Or at the very least, some kind of outdoor patio? They were six floors up, sealed in by glass and neon, and it felt like being trapped inside a very loud snow globe. With strobe lights. And smoking inside wasn't an option, not for him, at least.

He didn’t even think about telling anyone where he was going.

He wandered away from the bar, weaving through a few clusters of people without making eye contact, and headed vaguely in the direction of the restrooms. It was quieter there, only marginally, but enough to make him feel like he could breathe again.

That’s when he saw the staircase. Tucked behind a half-open maintenance door, mostly unnoticed.

He climbed the narrow, uncomfortable steps and there, on the door, there was a sign posted at eye level. Something official-sounding about restricted access or authorized personnel only, whatever, he didn’t read the whole thing. His attention was already on the lack of a handle on the outside. He knew what that meant. He also knew he didn’t care.

He pulled the door open with both hands, glanced around quickly, and spotted a greasy rag crumpled on the floor nearby. It looked like it had been there for weeks.

So he bent down, picked it up, and wedged it between the frame and the edge of the door, testing it once to make sure it would hold. Then, with one final glance over his shoulder, Frankie stepped outside.

It turned out to be a terrace. Just that. Nothing fancy. No lights, no chairs or benches, not even a trash can. Just concrete under his feet and open sky above him, vast and black and indifferent.

He exhaled like he hadn’t realized he’d been holding tension in his chest for the last hour.

Frankie figured he’d stay out there until Mai came looking for him, or until she got tired of the party and decided they could leave. Whichever came first.

So he pulled a cigarette from his pocket, balanced it between his lips, and lit it. He inhaled deeply, the smoke curling up around his face as he leaned forward, resting his elbows against the cold edge of the terrace railing.

Below him, Austin sprawled in every direction. Glittering streetlights. Red brake lights inching down the avenues. A city that never quite shuts the fuck up.

And without meaning to, without even wanting to, his mind circled back to Nico.

Nico. A year and three months, almost to the day. And still, Frankie thought about him daily. Sometimes it was brief; a flash of his voice, a dumb joke they used to share. Other times, like now, it hit deeper, caught him right beneath the ribs. 'Cause something inside him still hadn’t accepted the finality of it.

The thing about losing a friend like that—suddenly, permanently—was that it never felt entirely real. It was sharp. Blunt. Unreasonable. One day Nico had been there, and the next, he wasn’t. Just gone. No warning. No goodbye that felt like a goodbye.

The last night they’d seen each other, Frankie remembered it perfectly.

It had been their night off. They’d gone to the bar they always ended up at when they were tired but could afford to waste a little time.

Nico was happy that night. He’d waited until they were halfway through their drinks before reaching into his jacket pocket and pulling out the ring. Small, gold, classic. Nestled in a navy velvet box.

Gemma. That was her name. He was going to propose as soon as he got back to their city. He had it all mapped out, all of it.

They wanted a family, a home. But not just any home. A peaceful one. Something quiet and soft and normal.

Nico had never had that kind of life. He’d grown up with too much noise, the wrong kind of silence, and an ever-present sense of walking on eggshells. A lonely childhood followed by a teenage wasteland of rage and locked doors. He never talked about it unless he was drunk or tired enough to forget to be guarded. But Frankie knew. He always knew.

Nico told Frankie bits and pieces over the years, never all at once. A mother who screamed until her throat gave out. A father who disappeared for days and came back angry, high, or both. Doors slammed in anger. Food locked in cabinets. That constant feeling of being too much and never enough.

He didn’t want to replicate any of it. He was careful not to, in fact. He wanted a safe house. Children who weren’t afraid to come downstairs in the morning. A partner who never had to walk on eggshells just to make it through the week.

That night they talked about all of it. The future: What do you want for your future?

Frankie had told him the truth. That what he wanted was a peaceful life. Nothing extravagant, just peace. Happiness, if the universe was generous. He wanted a family. To fall in love, maybe. With someone kind. Someone who didn’t make everything feel like a battle. He remembered saying it out loud and immediately wanting to take it back. It had sounded too earnest, too fragile.

“God, that’s corny,” he’d said, wincing into his drink.

But Nico only smiled.

“Nah, it’s not corny,” he said. “But be careful. You fall too easily.”

They had one more beer after that, maybe two. Then they’d stood up, a little unsteady, promising to text in the morning, maybe grab coffee before Nico’s flight. It was nothing dramatic. No final words that hinted at their finality. Just a night between friends, and the assumption of more time.

Nico died the next morning.

A bike ride, a sharp curve, a truck going too fast. It didn’t seem real at first. Frankie remembered getting the call, and the words not making sense in his brain.

And even now, months later, it still felt like the biggest fucking lie life had ever told him.

How could someone like Nico be here one minute, talking about marriage, about peace, about all the things he’d never had but was finally ready to build and then just… gone?

What kind of joke was that?

He kept asking the same questions. How? How? How?

Wasn’t it unfair? Wasn’t it cruel? Wasn’t it complete and utter bullshit that someone like Nico didn’t even get the chance to try?

If there was a God, some higher being keeping tabs from above, then what the hell was He doing? Watching? Testing? Letting good people get crushed under the weight of completely avoidable tragedy?

And then there was his own life. The work Frankie did. The structure he was part of. Always carrying grief around like equipment. Failed missions. Names that didn’t make it onto safe lists. People dying. Families never getting the phone call they’d been praying for.

What was any of it for?

Every time he closed his eyes, it was Nico’s face he saw. Not smiling, just gone. The feeling of too much time and not enough breath. The senselessness of all of it.

He lit his third cigarette, the tip flaring red as he pulled in smoke and let it burn his lungs.

Below, the city carried on. Lights stretching out in messy patterns, people dancing to music that pulsed from the floor beneath him.

And all he could think was: none of this makes sense.

Not the dancing, not the laughter, not the overpriced drinks, not even the cigarette between his finger or the weight of grief or the fact that the person who’d understood him best would never call him again.

None of it made sense. Not then. Not now.

Just pure SHIT.

And then there was the costume. He looked ridiculous. Like someone else entirely. Maybe that was the point, but it didn’t make it feel any less stupid.

He raised the cigarette to his mouth, inhaled—and behind him, something slammed. The door.

Frankie choked.

He spun around, coughing, eyes watering. For a second, he thought maybe the wind had pulled it shut or that the rag had slipped, betrayed him. But no, the door hadn’t moved on its own.

There was someone standing in front of it.

A woman.

“Jesus,” he said, catching his breath. “What the hell—?”

She jumped at the sound of his voice, stumbling back a step before she turned to face him fully.

“Oh my God! You almost scared me to death,” she said, pressing a hand to her chest.

Frankie stared at her, annoyed but too tired to express it properly. He reached up to rub a hand over his face, forgetting about the mask. The fabric scraped against his skin and the gesture landed half-heartedly.

He exhaled. “You closed the door.”

She turned, registering it for the first time. The door was definitely shut. No handle on this side. No way back in.

Her eyes widened slightly, but she didn’t say anything.

Frankie took her in now. She was wearing a little black dress, tight, cut just below her collarbones. A pair of delicate black horns sat perched on a headband in her hair. White transluscent thigh-high stockings. Tall, black lace-up boots. Small bat wings, stitched and glittering, stuck out from her shoulder blades.

He raised an eyebrow. “Vampire?”

She turned back to him, like she’d forgotten he was there. For a second, her face was blank. Then she caught on and nodded once, lips quirking slightly.

“Zorro?”

Frankie nodded, exhaling smoke out the side of his mouth. “Yeah. You almost gave me a heart attack, by the way. And you just locked us up here.”

Her hand flew to her forehead, the gesture dramatic and a little self-conscious. “Oh, shit. Shit. I’ll call my friends, don’t worry.”

He didn’t answer.

He didn’t actually care.

So he turned back to the railing, settling into the same position he’d been in before she’d arrived. One foot crossed over the other. Cigarette balanced between his fingers.

There wasn’t anything urgent to return to anyway. Inside was just noise. He could live without it.

So he smoked. And did exactly what he’d been doing before the interruption; staring out at the city and letting his mind drift wherever it wanted. Thinking about his own life. Thinking about other people’s lives too, sometimes, because that was easier.

He felt so empty. Not in a dramatic, falling-into-a-void kind of way. Just blank. He assumed that was normal. Or at least, normal enough not to mention.

After a few minutes, she appeared beside him again. Frankie didn’t notice her at first. He was still leaning on the railing.

“They're not answering,” she said, glancing sideways at him. Her voice was quieter now. Less sure. “What are we supposed to do?”

Frankie turned his head and met her eyes. He hadn’t expected to find them so close.

Something in his chest hit pause.

She gave him a nervous smile. “I’m sorry. Do you think you could call someone?”

It took him a second longer than it should have to respond. “Yeah. Yeah, of course.”

He reached for his phone, thumbed through his contacts. First Mai. Then Pam. He held the phone to his ear, listening to the tone of voicemail.

He tried again. Same thing.

And again.

He didn’t realize how tightly he was gripping the phone until the fourth time.

There wasn’t a fifth.

With a long sigh, Frankie sank to the ground, lowering himself until his back met the railing.

She was already sitting next to him, legs stretched out in front of her, her phone resting on her lap.

“I’m sorry,” she said again, turning her head slightly. “I was just looking for one of my friends.”

Frankie clicked his tongue, not quite annoyed. “And you thought she’d be up here?”

“You don’t know her.”

Frankie studied her profile for a moment, the way her hair brushed the top of her shoulder, the way she bit her bottom lip, the way her eyelashes brushed her cheeks with every blink. Then he leaned his head back against the railing, eyes drifting toward the sky.

“Well, it’s fine. I was feeling like shit anyway, so honestly, you have great timing.”

She looked at him. “What? Why?”

Frankie gave a half-laugh, nothing too revealing.

She laughed too, softly.

“Come on,” she said. “Tell me, what’s Zorro doing on a rooftop, miserable on a Friday night at a party?”

“I don’t know. What does a vampire do when she’s stuck on a rooftop and the threat of sunrise is getting closer?”

She raised both eyebrows, impressed. “I think the answer to both is: I closed the broken door.”

Frankie looked at her and smiled. “Yeah. That’s about right.”

“Well, feel free to continue your misery spiral. I can join you, if you’ll have me.”

His eyes drifted shut.

“Be my guest,” he murmured. Then, after a beat, his gaze flicked toward her. “But let me tell you something. You won’t win.”

She blinked, parting her lips.

“You’re suggesting this is… competitive?”

“That’s exactly what it is.”

A laugh slipped from her. “You honestly think you’re more miserable than me tonight?”

“Absolutely.”

She pushed off the wall, stepping forward, one hand braced casually behind him, fingers splayed across the chipped paint. Her legs crossed at the ankles.

“Want to make it interesting?”

“Define interesting.”

“Wanna bet?”

“On what?” He furrowed his brow. “I don't have anything left to give.”

She tilted her head. “How dramatic. Not even a drink?”

He exhaled softly, something close to a smile threading through his voice.

“A drink I can manage. Actually, I can manage several. Want to know something?” He leaned in a fraction. “I’ve got connections.”

She laughed. “Connections?”

“Swear to God. I’m an honest man.”

“What, you’re like… Halloween party royalty? Nepo baby of the booze table?”

“Technically,” he said, eyes narrowing, “nepo brother.”

“Oh,” she grinned, closing the space between. “A nepo bro.”

She was close now, really close, and he wasn’t entirely sure she’d clocked the distance yet. But he had. His heart, irritatingly, had too.

There was something unnerving about being looked at like that by someone so stunning, so unbothered by proximity. And worse, knowing she could probably hear the slight edge to his breathing.

God, he hoped it wasn’t obvious.

“So,” she said suddenly. “What’s going on with you?”

Frankie exhaled. His eyes drifted upward, as if the answer might be there.

“Well,” he said eventually, glancing back at her, “first of all, I didn’t even want to come here. I was basically dragged. My actual plan was to grab a drink with my dad tonight.”

He caught her nodding.

“Second,” he continued, “I’ve been drinking a lot, like, enough that I should probably be on the floor by now, but somehow I’m not, which feels… unsettling. Third,” he paused, scratching the back of his neck, “this whole year has been, honestly, a disaster. I quit my job. Moved back in with my parents, which—humiliating. Constantly questioning the entire structure of my existence. But mostly, I miss one of my best friends. And he’s dead. So.”

She opened her mouth, the automatic reflex of sympathy, but he raised a hand, cutting her off gently.

“Don’t. Please don’t say you’re sorry. Let’s not do that. Now, your turn,” he prompted. “Unless you already know I’ve won, in which case you can just buy me a drink and concede defeat. I’ll take whiskey. Or vodka. Honestly, anything with alcohol will work.”

She squinted at him, half-smiling, half-scolding. “How charmingly confident you are.”

He shrugged, almost grinning.

“Well, let’s see,” she began, arms folding tightly across her chest. “First of all, my ex-boyfriend is somewhere down there, in the middle of that crowd. We broke up a week ago because he said he needed to be alone to figure himself out.” She pulled a face. “Except, apparently, he’s figuring himself out by making out with someone else at this very moment. So. There’s that.”

Frankie raised an eyebrow. “That’s it? Your big tragedy?”

“Please. That’s just the headline.” Her voice softened as she continued. “I’ve been—God, I’ve been stressed. Not like, ‘busy-week’ stressed. It’s this constant buzzing in my body. Even when I’m asleep, I can’t unclench my jaw. I wake up with these headaches that feel like my skull’s being split in two.”

He watched her carefully now.

“I have to run this family business that my father left me, and I thought I’d feel good about it, but instead I’m terrified I’m doing everything wrong. And I can’t ask my mom for help because she left the city. For good. Just packed up and left a few weeks ago. Like she didn't even care about me. And my dad... I miss him more than I can explain. But he's dead. And I still feel like I’m waiting for him to walk through the door. And the worst part?” she added finally, her gaze locking onto his. “I feel lonely. Like, really lonely. Even in a place like this. Especially in a place like this.”

Frankie watched her, saying nothing. He caught it, that brief flicker behind her eyes, like someone had turned down the brightness for just a second before she recovered. He almost said I’m sorry, but he bit the words back.

Instead, he exhaled softly and said, “I was standing here a moment ago, thinking about jumping off.”

Her expression shifted instantly. “What? Are you serious?”

He nodded once. “Just… wondered what it’d feel like. You know? The fall.”

She let out an exasperated breath, rolling her eyes. “Yeah. Right. I’m not falling for that. You’re not winning this competition.”

Frankie laughed. “I tried.”

“Want to know something really pathetic?”

“Obviously.”

She tucked her hair behind her ear, eyes dropping for a second before meeting his again.

“When I was little, my dad used to take me out for strawberry shortcake. It was my favorite thing. Still is, probably.” She shrugged lightly. “We’d go just us, or sometimes the rest of my family would come too. He always got me cake on special occasions. Or if I did something worth celebrating.”

She exhaled, a faint, humorless laugh slipping through. “Last night, I bought myself this tiny shortcake from the grocery store. One of those sad little ones with the plastic lid. Sat in my kitchen, ate the whole thing by myself, and cried like some cliché. Just sat there thinking, God, I’m so pathetic.”

“What was the occasion?”

“There wasn’t one,” she replied, her mouth pulling into a crooked smile as she glanced at him sideways. “I cheated. Bought it for no good reason. I felt awful, and I—” She paused, searching for the words. “I just needed sugar. Something sweet to drown it out.” She laughed quietly, but there was no joy in it. “Didn’t help. It made it worse, actually. The taste reminded me of him.”

Frankie opened his mouth, then closed it again. There wasn’t anything useful to say. No polished, comforting sentence that wouldn’t sound cheap.

So instead, he just looked at her, and she looked back. He let himself drown in her eyes and for a moment, it was as if time had stopped completely.

A few seconds passed, Frankie didn't know how many. It felt eternal. And then, she let out a quiet sigh. Her lips curved into a smile, and she turned away, leaning back against the railing beside him until their shoulders brushed.

Without saying anything, she tilted her head gently onto his shoulder. Frankie froze, not in panic, but because her proximity knocked the words straight out of him.

Time passed. He wasn’t sure how much. It could’ve been minutes, or more. An hour, maybe. He didn��t know. It was just the two of them, in silence, her head resting on his shoulder.

Then, her voice came through, soft.

“You have really beautiful eyes,” she murmured.

His face flushed instantly, the heat crawling up his neck before he could stop it. He smiled without meaning to, a small, private thing that stayed tucked into the corner of his mouth.

She tilted her chin up, her eyes meeting his again. “You’re shy, aren’t you?”

He let out a breath, deciding against retreat. “Apparently, that’s what happens when a beautiful woman leans against me.”

He saw it. The exact moment her face changed — the flicker in her eyes, the slight, almost embarrassed curve of her mouth, the way her lashes dipped for a second, like she wasn’t entirely prepared for him to say it.

“How charming,” she whispered, but her voice wavered slightly, just enough to give her away.

Frankie felt it too; the spark at the center of his chest, sudden and electric, pulling him toward her like he couldn’t help it.

When he reached out, his hand settling gently along the curve of her cheek, his fingertips tingled like static had built up under his skin.

Her eyes softened, her voice barely above a breath. “Can I see your face?”

He didn’t answer immediately. His thumb brushed lightly beneath her jaw, and for the first time all night, everything else faded; the noise, the crowd under them, even the ache that had been sitting under his ribs for weeks.

Just her. Right there.

“Hey—hey, you two. You can’t be up here!”

The voice cut through the quiet, loud and so, so uninvited.

They both startled, shoulders tensing in unison like they’d been caught doing something criminal. Frankie turned toward the sound and saw a man standing in the doorway, holding it open with one hand. He was dressed head to toe in black, his suit expensive enough to suggest authority, his expression hard and bored and unamused.

“Come on, downstairs,” the man instructed, gesturing with a clipped movement of his wrist.

Frankie was the first to react, pushing himself to his feet and instinctively holding out his hand for her. She slid her fingers into his, and their hands stayed joined as she stood, their fingers brushing, tightening. They both laughed, the sound bubbling up at the ridiculousness of getting scolded like teenagers.

They slipped back inside, moving fast down the narrow stairwell, her shoulder bumping his every other step.

When they reached the lower floor, the music hit them all at once. Heavy, loud, annoyingly pulsing through the walls and floors like the building itself was vibrating.

She turned to him, that same smile curling at her mouth, the one that had been steadily undoing him since the moment they started talking.

He stepped closer without thinking, close enough that the bass rattled in his chest, close enough to smell the faint sweetness of her perfume.

He leaned in, his mouth hovering near her ear.

“Can I get your number?” His voice was rougher now, shaped by nerves, barely carrying over the music. He straightened up slightly, still too close. “Only if you want to. If you think—”

“Oh my God!” Someone interrupted loudly behind them. “We’ve been looking for you everywhere! Where the hell were you?”

Two girls pushed through the crowd toward them. One wore pink bunny ears, the other had a leather cap tilted low over her forehead, some costume Frankie couldn’t quite piece together.

He glanced at the vamp in front of him, her mouth was already half open, like she’d been about to answer before they were interrupted.

“I—” she started.

“We’ve gotta go,” Bunny Ears said urgently, grabbing for her wrist. “Lizzy confronted Alex, and he’s freaking out and wants to talk to you.”

Everything happened quickly. They were pulling her away, her body turning reluctantly, her eyes still on him like the rest of her hadn’t caught up yet.

But before the crowd could swallow her completely, she twisted over her shoulder and called back, voice rushed but clear:

“Berta's Café, tomorrow—no! Monday. Five o’clock!”

And then she was gone, disappearing into the mass of bodies, their hands slipping apart.

Frankie stood there, heart pounding in his throat, realizing as the music crashed around him—he hadn't even asked her name.

Saturday, November 2nd, 2019

“You should just make posters or something,” Will said, barely looking at him. He cracked open a can of Coke. “Zorro looking for vampire girl from Kairos party. Real subtle.”

Frankie clicked his tongue. “That’s desperate.”

Will shot him a sideways glance, lifting the can to his lips. “And what exactly do you think this is? You look desperate already.”

“I’m not doing anything. Monday I’ll go to the café. That’s it.”

Will snorted, kicking his foot lightly against Frankie’s leg. “You say that like you’re calm. Inside you’re losing your mind, aren’t you?”

Frankie didn’t answer. His silence was answer enough.

Will laughed under his breath. “So what was she like?”

“Jesus, man, I already told you. Stop being a dick.”

But the truth was, yeah—he’d already told him. Twice. And replayed it in his own head a hundred more times than that.

That morning, Frankie woke up with a headache that pulsed behind his eyes and this gnawing, unavoidable sense of loss, like he’d misplaced something vital. His body ached from bad sleep, his thoughts worse.

He stayed in bed for hours, staring at the ceiling, dissecting the night before with surgical precision. Every word, every glance, every near-miss. He regretted a lot of things—first, not kissing her when he’d wanted to. Second, not asking her name. Third, not offering his.

Stupid. All of it stupid.

But he still had one chance left, the last card to play. Monday. Berta's Café. Five o’clock.

She’d said it, hadn’t she? She wouldn’t forget… would she?

He hated how hopeful he was about a stranger. Hated how much of him had been unraveling ever since.

He probably would’ve stayed in bed all day if Will hadn’t called around noon, insisting they drive to San Marcos to look at a car. There wasn’t really a question in it, Will already decided Frankie was coming.

Frankie knew what was happening. The whole group had been doing this since he moved back to Austin; dragging him out, pulling him along to things he wouldn’t have gone to on his own.

For the first few months, he’d resisted all of it. Locked himself away in his parents’ house, only leaving when it was unavoidable. Grocery runs, doctor appointments, obligations he couldn’t talk his way out of. That was it.

That’s why Will had reacted the way he did when Frankie mentioned the Halloween party. It was disproportionate, like Frankie had announced something miraculous. He’d lit up, started peppering him with questions: Who was she? What did you talk about? Why didn’t you kiss her? Why didn’t you ask her name? Why did you do that? Why didn’t you do this? why? Why? Why?

Frankie answered them all, mostly because he needed to talk about it, needed to say the words out loud to someone who wouldn’t let him sit with it quietly and rot.

And when they got back to Will’s place later that afternoon, they sat outside on the patio. Will kept circling the story while offering Frankie cold cans of Coke and brought out his most creative side, mocking him while reciting ideas for posters.

“Lost: one vampire girl from Kairos party. If found, please return to lovesick idiot in Zorro costume.” He said once. And then: “Missing: vampire girl from Kairos party. Last seen disappearing into a crowd. Answers to nothing, because Frankie didn’t bother to ask her name.”

It was irritating, but also, it wasn’t. Frankie let him push.

When he finally stood to leave, it wasn’t even four yet.

“I’ll see you at Santi’s later, right?” Will asked,and Frankie heard the warning beneath it.

“Obviously, what kind of friend do you think I am?”

And he meant it. Whatever else he’d been avoiding, he wouldn’t miss Santiago’s birthday.

Thursday, October 29th, 2024. Now.

You were sitting beside Frankie on the sofa, knees barely an inch from his. You hadn’t looked away from him once, not since he started talking.

And he had told you everything. Every detail. Every small, awkward, uncomfortable truth.

Frankie couldn’t begin to guess what was happening inside your head but he forced himself not to overthink it, at least not yet. He had to get through the story. He owed you that much.

“I didn’t know what to do when I saw you at Santi’s,” he admitted finally, the last thread of explanation hanging there.

You exhaled then, finally, your eyes dropping to your hands where they rested tangled in your lap. Your breathing was uneven, shallow, your shoulders still locked with tension. He noticed that instantly; the way your whole body language screamed uncertainty. And the worst part? He couldn’t tell if it was directed at him. He couldn’t tell if you were angry.

“It was you,” you said, barely audible. “All this time… it was you.”

Your eyes lifted, meeting his. Frankie froze under the weight of your stare.

“All this time you were right there,” you whispered, “and I didn’t see it.”

Frankie shook his head softly, his throat tightening. The question slipped out before he could second-guess it: “Are you mad at me?”

A small, incredulous laugh escaped your lips. You shook your head once, then again.

“No—I… I’m just…” You broke off, shutting your eyes. “Francisco, this whole time you’ve been Zorro?”

Frankie nodded once.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” The question hit him like a quiet accusation, more hurt than angry. “Why didn’t you say something the first time you saw me after that night?”

Frankie sighed, dragging his hand across his face.

“That’s the thing, I…” His eyes found yours. “When I saw you that night… at Santi’s… I swear to God, my heart just stopped.” He shook his head, like the memory still disoriented him. “I couldn’t believe it. You were standing there, and it didn’t feel real. I’d literally been talking to Will that day—about the party, about you, about how ridiculous it all felt. And then there you were. And I just—” He paused, running his palm across his mouth, struggling to untangle the words. “I didn’t expect it. You being his sister. You being right there. It completely—I didn’t know what to do, or what to say. It felt like my brain short-circuited.”

You stayed quiet, watching him unravel.

“I thought you might recognize me,” he admitted, a faint, sheepish smile pulling at the corner of his mouth, but there was no humor in it. “I mean, yeah, I had the mask on at the party, but still… I thought maybe, somehow, you’d just know. But then I saw how you acted that night. You were… distant. Not even friendly, barely looking at me. And I panicked. I thought, Shit, she figured it out. She recognized me. She’s disappointed. I wasn’t what she expected.” He dragged a hand through his hair. “So I jumped to conclusions.”

You stared at him. “You seriously thought…that the way I acted toward you that night was because… you weren’t what I expected?”

Frankie’s eyes dropped to the floor for a moment, his posture folding slightly inward.

“What other explanation was there?” His gaze lifted again, searching your face. “You didn’t know me yet. That was supposed to be the first time we met, officially. It didn’t make sense any other way. I figured, you must’ve realized it was me, and you regretted it.”

“You know that’s not true.”

“I know, I know that now.”

“I told you, I told you weeks ago why I acted like that. You already know.”

Frankie exhaled. “Yeah, and that’s when I finally understood… you never realized it was me.”

He could still remember that night —five years ago— with frustrating clarity.

Santi’s house had already been full of people by the time he arrived. The usual group. Drinks in hand. Of everyone there, it was only him and Tom who hadn’t met you yet.

And then he saw you.

It was immediate, the way his chest tightened, the way everything slowed down around him. But it wasn’t like before. This time, you were standing right there in front of him, just a few feet away, staring back at him with an expression he couldn’t decode. Your smile looked polite, but fake. Your eyes flicked across his face like you were trying to place him.

And Frankie’s heart sank. His first thought was: She recognized me, and she doesn’t like me. Not at all.

His throat tightened now just thinking about it.

“I was so nervous that night,” he admitted. “I couldn’t handle it, seeing you there. I completely lost my ability to function like a normal person. That’s why I acted the way I did. Weird, awkward, whatever you want to call it.”

You tilted your head slightly, your expression unreadable as you edged a little closer.

“I couldn’t look you in the eye,” he continued. “I couldn’t talk to you, couldn’t… be near you, really. I thought, if there’s even the smallest chance you didn’t recognize me, I had to hold onto that. It felt safer.”

“Safer?” you repeated softly. “Why do you say that? I would’ve liked to know it was you.”

Frankie exhaled, a dry, half-laugh escaping as he met your eyes. “Baby, after that first moment when Santi introduced us? It was obvious you didn’t like me. I could feel it.”

“Because you were weird with me!” you argued, amused. “You made it weird.”

And you weren’t wrong.

After that awkward introduction, Frankie had done everything he could to act normal, to seem indifferent. He tried not to stare when no one else was looking. Tried not to react when someone mentioned your name casually. Tried not to let his nerves chew through him every time you were nearby.

But of course, he failed.

Of course he acted weird.

Dinner was the worst part, everyone talking around the table like it wasn’t the most tense situation imaginable for him. And then Santi, completely oblivious, asked you how the Halloween party had gone the night before.

Frankie’s entire body locked up. He stared at his plate, willing himself to stay composed.

You started talking. About the party, about everything. You mentioned Emma. You mentioned Lizzy. Nothing remarkable in what you said, but your voice made his pulse trip all over again.

And when he finally looked up from his plate… Will was staring at him.

Frankie felt the heat rise to his cheeks, so he lifted his glass to his mouth mostly to avoid himself, to focus on something other than the awkward tightness sitting in his chest. He forced his attention toward your cousin Irene, who was sitting beside him, telling a terrible joke. He laughed anyway.

And then Will, perfectly timed as always, turned to you and asked, “So, what did you dress up as?”

But before you could answer, Frankie had jumped in, cutting across the conversation with something else entirely, some clumsy attempt at changing the subject. He couldn’t even remember what he’d said now, just that it had been rushed, probably dumb, and definitely transparent.

Sitting with you now, the memory hit differently.

“I thought you were being rude,” you said. “When you did that, interrupted me, I felt awful. I thought you were trying to make a point. Like, you couldn’t be less interested in what I was saying, or maybe you were bored, or… I don’t know. It just… sucked.”

Frankie shook his head. “No, no—it wasn’t that. Jesus, it’s such a disaster in my memory now.”

He paused, meeting your eyes, his expression uncertain.

“Do you remember what you overheard? From the bathroom? That night?”

You raised your eyebrows. “You mean the thing I’ve been asking you about for weeks? That?”

He laughed, the sound dry, self-conscious. “Yeah. That.”

You crossed your arms, waiting.

“Okay, so… Will was the only one who knew about the Halloween party. I told him everything because we drove to San Marcos that day, and I… I couldn’t keep it to myself. I had to say it out loud to someone.”

You nodded.

“He knew all of it,” Frankie continued. “What you looked like, what costume you wore, everything. So at dinner, when you started talking about the party… when you mentioned how your night went… Will clocked it instantly.”

He paused, watching your reaction carefully.

“If you had told him that night you went as a vampire, he would’ve known. Confirmed it right there.”

Your eyes narrowed, the corners of your mouth twitching like you were trying not to smile. “Okay… so?”

“So after dinner, he cornered me immediately. He didn’t even give me a chance to breathe.”

You tilted your head, eyes bright now, waiting for the next part.

And Frankie couldn’t help it, his chest tightened all over again, remembering exactly how badly he’d handled it all.

“You’re basically confirming everything for me right now, Fish,” Will said. “It’s her.”

Frankie shook his head immediately, too too quickly. “Of course not. You’re insane.”

“She was at the same party last night,” Will pointed out, like the evidence spoke for itself. “And now you’re acting weird as hell. I know you. You’re not subtle.”

Frankie shook his head. “There’s nothing wrong with me.”

Will didn’t flinch. “Nothing’s wrong with you around everyone else. But around her? You’re completely—” He paused, narrowing his eyes, the grin creeping onto his face. “You’re being weird. Why? Is it because she’s the vampire girl? You’re spiraling, aren’t you?”

“Dude, stop. Stop making shit up. Santi’s sister isn’t the vampire girl.”

Will raised an eyebrow, the corners of his mouth twitching.

“She’s just… I don’t know. She’s weird,” he blurted finally, immediately regretting it.

Will tilted his head. His expression practically screamed really?

“Weird?” Will repeated, crossing his arms tighter. “What does that even mean?”

“You saw it,” he said, grasping for footing. “When Santi introduced us? She gave me weird vibes. I’m not even sure she likes me.”

“That makes way more sense than her being weird. You probably made her uncomfortable.”

Frankie snorted, his mouth twisting into something like a defensive grin. “Or maybe there’s something you’re not seeing.”

Will shook his head. “Nah. I’ve known her longer than you. She’s nice. She’s funny. Usually.”

Frankie’s heart kicked uncomfortably in his chest, but he kept his expression flat.

“Well,” he muttered, avoiding Will’s eyes, “not to me.”

“You know what I think? You’re full of shit. She’s the vampire.”

Frankie brought the cigarette to his lips, inhaled, then exhaled a cloud of smoke into the cool night air. His eyes flicked toward Will but his expression stayed carefully blank.

“She’s not,” he replied simply. “I’d recognize her.”

“What you’re telling me isn’t enough, man. I don’t buy it.”

Frankie shrugged. “Then don’t believe me. I’m not here to convince you.”

“But what’s wrong with her, then? You’re being weird and cagey, and I know you, something’s off. What is it?”

Frankie hesitated, dragging the cigarette to his lips again, stalling for time. His head tilted back, eyes tracing the outlines of tree branches above them as he exhaled.

“I just... I mean I don’t know,” he began. He shook his head. “I can’t explain it to you. There's just something weird about her.”

“That doesn't mean anything. You'll have to give me more than that.”

Frankie exhaled. “Yeah, no. I don't think so.”

Will let out a frustrated noise, shifting his weight. “Talk to her. She’s nice. Kind. Cool. Unlike you right now.” He lifted his beer to his mouth, then seemed to think better of it. “I get it, whatever, you have your weird feelings about people. But she’s Santi’s sister. Just make the effort.”

Guilt tugged at Frankie’s chest. Will probably wasn’t wrong.

So instead, he smiled. That detached, defensive kind of smile he knew annoyed Will more than anything.

“I don't want to be dramatic,” he said, taking another drag on his cigarette, “but I'd rather sacrifice myself in another way.”

Will huffed. “God, you're ridiculous.”

“Maybe.”

Will smirked faintly, shaking his head. “I still don’t believe you. She’s the vampire.”

Frankie took another drag, saying nothing.

“When I asked what you’d heard… back then,” Frankie said now, “I wasn’t trying to avoid it. I just… needed to know how much you already knew, so I could explain myself properly.”

He watched you, the glassiness in your eyes making something sharp twist in his chest. His throat tightened, and for a second, it was hard to keep talking.

“All these years,” you said quietly. “All this time, it was you. And it was just—” You paused, your jaw tightening. “It was a misunderstanding. A stupid misunderstanding that… maybe could’ve been avoided?”

“I’m sorry,” Frankie said, stepping closer. His hands found your face, warm against your skin. “I’m so sorry. I didn��t tell you because I... I couldn’t. I wasn’t ready.”

“Do you know how excited I was to see you? At the café… that Monday?”

Frankie’s stomach dropped. His breath hitched slightly.

“You… you actually went?”

You nodded, looking at him like you couldn’t believe he’d even question it.

“Of course I did. But you didn’t show.”

“No,” he said quickly.“No, No, I did go. I swear I went.” His hand dropped to yours, fingers curling around your wrist. “I went to both.”

Your brow furrowed. “Me too.”

A small silence stretched between you as the realization began to untangle itself.

“What time did you go?” Frankie asked.

“Five o'clock. Like we agreed.”

“Me too. Which one did you go to first?”

You paused, considering. Frankie watched the small movement of your hands brushing against your own skin.

“The one in Central Austin,” you said eventually.

Frankie let out a breath, shoulders sinking. “I went to the one downtown first.”

Your expression softened. A small, exhausted smile curved on your lips.

“We didn’t coordinate, right?”

Frankie’s eyes dropped to the floor. “Apparently not.”

You slipped your hands from his, your palms ran over the sides of your neck.

Frankie studied you. Your face, your hands, the visible tension still clinging to your shoulders, trying to read you the way he always tried to. But today, he couldn’t. Not entirely.

“All this time… you knew,” you said. “You let me hate you.”

“I didn’t let you,” he replied, blinking. “It wasn’t some grand plan. I didn’t think it would get that far, but… it did. It just… happened.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “At first, I kept my distance because I honestly thought you might recognize me. I kept waiting for it, convinced it was going to click for you at some point. And then…” His mouth twisted, self-deprecating. “Then we started actually not getting along. And I thought, shit, maybe this isn’t what I imagined at all. Maybe you weren’t who I thought you were.”

You smiled softly.

“I started to really dislike you,” Frankie admitted, his voice almost apologetic but laced with amusement. “Which was… weird for me. But you rejected me so, so bad. You made it seem so easy to dislike me. It just became—natural, I guess.”

You tilted your head. “Did you hate me that much?”

“No,” he said quickly. “No, I didn’t hate you. Hate feels dramatic. I really, really disliked you, sweetheart.” His mouth curved into a grin. “You were unbearable. You’ve got to admit that.”

A laugh escaped from your lips despite yourself, and Frankie smiled instantly.

“Oh, me?” you challenged. “You’re unbelievable. What about you?”

“I wasn’t that bad.”

“Francisco,” you snapped playfully through gritted teeth, reaching over to pinch his arm, gently. “You were unbearable. I remember it real good. It wasn’t even that long ago, like, what, three months? The memory’s still fresh.”

Frankie laughed. He leaned in, tapping your shoulder with his index finger.

“You threw a dart at me,” he reminded you. “You literally scarred me.”

“That’s fair.”

Frankie’s heart pressed up against his ribs as he watched your face. You could’ve confessed to anything in that moment, and he would’ve forgiven you for all of it.

“I’m sorry,” you said lightly. “It won’t happen again.”

“Oh, I hope not.”

You tilted your head, eyes tracing his face. Then your hand lifted, fingers brushing his cheek with hesitant tenderness.

“It’s you,” you whispered. Your eyes were shining in that way that made Frankie’s chest ache. “I can’t believe it’s you.”

A crooked smile pulled at his lips. “Disappointed?”

You shook your head. “No, I’m glad it’s you. Because I have this ridiculous, hopeless crush on you. In case you somehow missed that.”

Frankie let out a soft laugh.“You’re going to have to be a lot more obvious than that.”

You rolled your eyes, tapping his shoulder lightly, and before he could answer, your arms were around his neck, your mouth pressed to his, and the world tilted, just for a second.

The kiss was messy, deep. Frankie’s hands settled on your waist as you leaned into him, and for the first time in weeks —maybe longer—he felt weightless. The knot of anxiety in his chest unwound quietly as your lips moved against his, the unspoken things between you burning off into nothing.

It was simple. You knew now. Everything was laid out, and you were still here.

When you finally pulled back, your breath uneven, your eyes scanned his.

“Are you staying the night, Zorro?”

Frankie raised his eyebrows. “I'd want to, baby, but I’ve got my new roomate at home.”

“Oh… right,” you nodded, considering. “What if you bring him?”

His hand drifted along your back. “You sure?”

Instead of answering directly, your lips found the side of his neck. “Yes.”

He smiled, his hand sliding up to cup the back of your neck.

“What about Darcy?”

“Mr. Darcy gets along with other cats.”

Frankie didn’t need more than that.

The truth was circling in your mind over and over again as you lay flat on your bed, eyes fixed on the ceiling, barely blinking.

It had been him.

All along, it had been him.

And somehow, it clicked into place now. That strange sensation you'd had around him, the way he always seemed to be nearby, like an annoying shadow that knew more than you did. And he did.

You felt the disbelief settle in your chest like static. It wasn’t unpleasant. Just... strange.

You’d thought about that night more times than you’d admit. The party. Zorro. The weightless blur of it all. The way you’d felt when you locked eyes with him, something flickering inside you that you hadn’t understood then, and maybe still didn’t now. But Frankie had those same eyes. They had always been his. How could you not have seen it?

The answer was easy and humiliating: you’d been too consumed by your own resentment to really look. Anger had narrowed your vision.

Now Santi’s birthday replayed in your mind: Frankie hadn’t been cold, he’d been anxious. And that conversation with Will—God, if you’d just stayed a few seconds longer. If you’d paused before walking away. You might have known then.

That Monday, you’d gone to the café like you said you would. Expectant. Maybe even a little too hopeful.

But he wasn’t there. Or at least no one who looked like the version of him you were imagining. He would’ve recognized you, you were sure of that. He’d seen your face.

So you tried the other one.

Nothing. No trace of him.

And you felt a little foolish. He hadn’t shown up. Of course not.

If only you’d known you'd already seen him two days earlier, standing in your brother’s living room, laughing too tightly, his shoulders tense.

You told yourself to stop thinking about it, to let it go. But you didn’t. Not fully. Not deep down.

Because there was something inside you, swelling, shifting, growing. A current of excitement that buzzed just under your skin, tangled with shock and with something else entirely. Something you couldn't name yet. Because giving it a name would make it real. And real was scary.

But still, it sat on the tip of your tongue.

Frankie showed up about twenty minutes later, hair damp, wearing clean clothes and carrying a backpack slung over one shoulder. In his other hand, he held a medium-sized pet carrier that shifted slightly with movement inside.

It was already late. The apartment was quiet, dipped in a soft stillness that only came after midnight. You were tired but your smile didn’t carry any of it when you opened the door and stepped aside to let him in.

Upstairs, he set the carrier down and unlatched the door. The tiny kitten crept out, inch by inch, his paws tentative against the hardwood floor. He blinked up at the unfamiliar room, wide-eyed and twitchy, like every sound was urgent.

“Come on, buddy,” Frankie said, kneeling beside the crate and tapping two fingers lightly on the floor.

Mr. Darcy had been sitting a cautious distance away, his fur puffed out with theatrical indignation. The hiss came out sharp and instinctive. But the little one didn’t seem fazed. In fact, he looked more intrigued. He blinked once and padded toward the older cat, wobbling slightly as he walked.

You crouched next to Frankie, knees bent, arms resting loosely on your thighs.

“He needs a name,” you said, watching as the kitten inched closer to Mr. Darcy, whose tail flicked like a metronome behind him. “He can’t just be the kitten. He’s earned a real name.”

Frankie chuckled under his breath. “Yeah, I know. I’ve been trying to think of one.”

You both stayed like that, watching them circle each other. Darcy sniffed once, eyes narrowed. The kitten copied him, clumsy andcurious. There was a cautious sort of respect between them.

Then, just like that, it shifted. The kitten darted across the rug, then turned back and pounced on nothing in particular, tail flicking in excitement. Something in Darcy's posture relaxed, though he wouldn’t admit it.

Frankie got up and walked into the kitchen to set down a small bowl of food. You remained where you were, eyes still on the cats.

When he came back, you tilted your head slightly and said, “What about Bingley?”

Frankie raised an eyebrow. “Bingley?”

“He’s Mr. Darcy’s close friend in Pride and Prejudice. Mr. Bingley. It fits, doesn’t it?”

He repeated the name under his breath, trying it out. “Bingley. Bing. Mr. Bingley.”

“Bing like Chandler,” you added. “Bingley like Mr. Bingley.”

He grinned, looking over at the kitten, who was now sniffing the base of the coffee table.

“I kind of love it. Sounds distinguished. And look at him—look, those spots. It’s like he’s wearing a little dress shirt. He's really formal.”

Right on cue, Mr. Darcy extended a paw and gave the kitten a light smack on the back. Not hard, more like an announcement of dominance.

“Exactly,” you said. “A shirt. A formal little gentleman.”

Mr. Darcy leapt onto the coffee table, casting a glance down at the newcomer below. He looked vaguely pleased with himself, like he’d reclaimed his throne.

You watched him carefully. For a second, it looked like he might knock something over; the notebook you’d left there, maybe a pen. He hovered beside it, his paw lifted just slightly. But then he changed his mind, curled into himself, and lay down instead.

From his vantage point, he kept his gaze locked on Bingley, who wandered the room in tiny zigzags, absorbing every smell.

When you finally made your way to bed, Darcy and Bingley remained curled up on the couch. The kitten had parked himself a few inches from Darcy, close enough to signal friendly intentions, but still cautious, unsure if the proximity would be tolerated.

Darcy didn’t seem to care. His eyes had already drifted shut, body slack with sleep, unbothered by the new presence at his feet.

In the bedroom, you slipped beneath the covers. The sheets were cool against your skin, the pillow already shaped to your head. You turned onto your side and watched as Frankie moved around the room.

He peeled off his t-shirt, then his jeans. He draped them over the back of the chair in the corner; his version of neat.

“Don’t look at me, I’m shy,” he said over his shoulder, and you could hear the teasing in his voice, the smile.

You rolled your eyes without replying, stretching your arms above your head as a yawn pulled at your mouth.

“Okay, fine. Good night,” you mumbled, already halfway turned away from him.

You flicked off the lamp on your nightstand, and the room dipped into a softer darkness, quiet except for the shifting of blankets and the occasional creak of the wooden floor beneath his feet. You exhaled slowly through your nose, eyes fluttering shut.

You felt the mattress dip behind you.

And then, he was there. His body pressed against your back, warm, his hand slipping beneath the hem of your T-shirt. His fingers moved across your ribs.

“I’m not that shy,” he murmured just behind your ear, and you could feel it more than hear it.

You smiled, one hand reaching behind you, your fingers sliding up the back of his neck. He dipped his head to kiss you, his mouth finding yours without hesitation, while his other hand roamed higher.

His palm brushed over your stomach, then your chest. His fingers found your nipple, thumb and forefinger moving against it in a way that made your breath catch and something unspool inside you.

A sound escaped your lips, a quiet moan. You pulled back just enough to breathe, tilting your hips toward him. You could feel him against you, already half-hard, his breath hot against your skin.

He wasn’t panting, not exactly, but there was a rhythm to it, something restrained, like he was holding himself back from giving in too fast.

His hand moved downward, tracing a path over the curve of your ribs, then your stomach. His fingers made small patterns there.Then, without pausing too long, he slid his hand beneath the waistband of your underwear.

His touch met you exactly where you were aching for it, and the contact made your breath catch in your throat, your body instinctively curling toward him. You moaned softly, your hips pressing back against him, searching.

He wrapped his other arm around your shoulders, pulling you close, anchoring you to his chest. One hand still between your legs, the other finding its way back to your breast. Your whole body felt overheated and starved.

Your hips started moving, just barely; grinding gently against his hand, against his body behind you. Your breath grew ragged and you felt the tension building.

And then, all at once, he stopped.

“Turn on the light,” he whispered, voice hoarse.

You blinked, dazed, and reached toward the lamp on the nightstand. The warm, amber light filled the room. And when you turned back, Frankie was already moving, pulling your shirt higher, then off, exposing your bare chest to the air. Your skin prickled instantly, your nipples tightening from the shift, from the way his eyes locked onto you.

The glow from the lamp caught the flush in his face, the light bouncing off his skin, peach and rose and gold. He looked untouchable. You reached for him without thinking, your fingertips brushing down his arm, across his chest. Because you could. Because right then, he looked like he was yours.

You slid back into the center of the bed, his gaze never breaking from yours. He leaned down and began kissing your neck, his mouth tracing the outline of your collarbone, then lower, across your chest, until his lips found your breast. He sucked gently at first, then bit just enough.

His hands moved to your hips, then lower, fingers curling around the fabric of your panties. You raised your hips for him without needing to be asked. He dragged them down your legs, his mouth still on your skin, still moving, devouring, worshipping, taking his time.

You looked down at him as he began to kiss his way lower. And something inside you broke open. Your stomach flipped, your chest burned, your skin came alive under his mouth.

You tipped your head back, eyes fluttering shut, and let out a trembling sigh, like you were letting go of everything you’d been trying to hold in.

Just drop it.

Frankie moved between your legs, his hands warm against the inside of your thighs as he eased them open. His mouth followed, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses to your skin, first near your knees, then higher.

You reached for him, fingers threading through his hair. And your stomach tensed with anticipation. It was hard to think clearly. You watched him, watched the way he looked at you.

He kissed you, right there, with a tenderness that made you gasp. One kiss. Then another. Each one dragging something deeper out of you. When his tongue finally moved against you, you flinched from the intensity of it. It wasn’t even pressure, not really. Just sensation. His mouth coaxing you open, tasting you like he couldn’t get enough.

Everything about you felt raw; your skin, your breath, your thoughts. Even the brush of the sheets along your back felt overstimulating. You rolled your hips instinctively, searching for more of him. His tongue moved with intention now, his lips wet against you, a moan vibrating up from his throat and into you.

Then came the rhythm. Flat, circular strokes on your clit that made your thighs tremble. The build was fast and intense, something white-hot and total. It tore through you before you could hold onto it, a kind of release that caught you off guard.

You came quickly, too damn quickly, your fingers curling in his hair, your thighs tightening around his head. For a second, you felt embarrassed by how fast it had happened. But how could you not? Look at him. He was him. And he was there. Between your legs. Like that.

You blinked down at him, chest rising and falling hard, your skin flushed all over. Frankie looked up at you, smug and pink-cheeked, his mouth shining. There was something devilish in the way he grinned—proud and utterly unfair.

You touched his cheek, brushing your thumb just below his eye as he climbed up your body, lifting his face to meet yours.

“What am I going to do with you, Dante?” you whispered, voice shaky.

He furrowed his brow, smiling lopsidedly. Then he leaned in and kissed the corner of your mouth.

“At this point? Whatever you want.”

You rolled your eyes. “So you're up for anything, then?”

Frankie gave a soft snort. “Sweetheart, I’m not up for anything—I give myself away.”

Your eyebrows lifted. “So that’s your thing? You just give yourself away too easily?”

He narrowed his eyes at you. “Yeah, I’m not falling for that.”

You laughed. “Smart man.”

Frankie smiled against your mouth and kissed you again, his hand cradling your jaw. You wrapped your arms around his neck and pulled him closer, your body melting into his.

It should’ve been a given by now, after everything, how much you liked the way he kissed you. But somehow, each time felt new. You found yourself thinking about it again in real time—not as a memory, not as a fact, but as a feeling that struck you fully in the moment: the way his lips moved with yours, the weight of his hand on your waist, the familiar taste of him, the way his tongue brushed yours.

You could’ve stayed there for hours, just kissing. Letting time pass around you like water. But it was late, and the night was quiet. The only sounds in the room were your mingled breaths and the wet, rhythmic hum of his mouth against yours.

Eventually, he moved lower, trailing kisses along your jaw, then down your neck. Your eyes fluttered open, head tilting back to give him more access, a soft sigh slipping from your mouth. You brought your hand to his chest, your fingertips tracing over his skin, following the subtle lines of his torso until they met the waistband of his boxers.

You let your hand rest there for a beat before pushing gently against his chest, just enough for him to understand.

He pulled back slightly.

“Lie back,” you told him.

Frankie obeyed, settling onto his back, arms at his sides.

You shifted onto your knees beside him, your gaze flicking down, drawn, unavoidably, to the shape pressing against his boxers. The sight of it, so obvious and unashamed, sent a rush of heat to your face, your chest, your thighs.

You moved between his legs, and your fingers curled under the waistband and tugged, inch by inch, your eyes locked on his as you pulled them down. His smile widened into something cocky.

He sat up just enough to push his boxers down the rest of the way, discarding them with one swift motion before reclining again.

And when your eyes dropped back to him, your breath caught. Your mouth actually watered, and not in some dramatic metaphor, you felt it.

Frankie was already watching you, that knowing look still etched into his features. Like he could read your thoughts before you even had the chance to say them out loud, or show him.

You kissed the line of his stomach, the subtle ridges of muscle, trailing downward in measured steps. And when you reached his cock, you paused, just for a second. It was hard, warm, flushed, and heavy against his abdomen. Your hand wrapped around him, your fingers barely able to meet. You leaned in and gave him a long, teasing lick from base to tip, tasting salt and skin and heat. Then you closed your mouth over the head, your tongue pressing against the underside as your lips formed a seal.

Frankie exhaled sharply, eyes fluttering shut. He murmured something under his breath, but the words were blurred and indistinct.

You began to take him in, gradually adjusting to the weight of him on your tongue. Your hand moved at the same time, up and down from the base to where your mouth met it, hungry. At first, you tried to keep yourself in check, to pace it, but your heart was pounding, your breath already uneven, and you could feel the change in him too.

His hands moved instinctively, one brushing through your hair, the other cupping your cheek. His touch wasn’t rushed, but there was tension behind it. He sighed against the ceiling, trembling, and the sound made you want more.

So you took him deeper, inch by inch, until your mouth was full and your throat tightened around him. He groaned, a low, broken sound, and you clenched in response. You moved again, up, then down, your lips tight around the slick heat of him, spit slipping down your chin in thin threads.

The sound was indecent and it filled the room in the absence of anything else. But the image of Frankie beneath you was even filthier. His jaw clenched, his eyes half-lidded, his chest rising unevenly. He looked undone. And you loved that you were the one doing that to him.

You kept going, licking and sucking, adjusting your angle, letting him slip in and out of your mouth. Every few moments, you’d pull back slightly, just enough to let him breathe, to keep him from falling apart too soon. But even then, he was close, you could tell by the way his hand tightened in your hair, the way his hips shifted toward you, just a little, like his body couldn’t help it.

When you began to suck harder, his response was immediate. He moaned from deep in his chest, his hand fisting in your hair, commanding, pulling you back with a soft pop, your lips swollen, your hand still stroking him.

Frankie tipped his head back against the pillow and let out a breathless curse.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he said, voice hoarse.

You let him go and placed your palms on his sides, fingers spread wide, lifting yourself up and shifting forward, settling on top of him, your knees bracketing his hips. The look on his face, half awe, half hunger, was enough to make your pulse stutter all over again.

His hands flew to your waist like instinct and you placed your palms flat on his chest, shifting your hips back just enough. But before you could reach for him, Frankie was already there, guiding himself with one hand, dragging the head of his cock through your slick, the pressure teasing, dragging across your clit, then slipping through your folds again. You inhaled sharply, hips twitching against the sensation.

Then, with barely a sound, he lined himself up.

You leaned back, thighs flexing around him as you began to lower yourself onto him. Inch by inch, he filled you, the stretch so intense it bordered on unbearable, but you craved it. Needed all of it.

Your moan echoed in the space between you, met by his; low and ragged, almost disbelieving. You stayed still for a beat, seated fully, your body adjusting to the fullness, your fingers curling against his chest. His hands tightened at your hips, like if he let go, he’d lose control entirely.

And then you started to move.

Up, then down. Gradual at first. And Frankie’s eyes fluttered shut for a moment, his lips parting in a breathless sigh, a soft smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. It lit something in you. You wanted to ruin the calm on his face.

So you moved faster. Harder. The sound of skin on skin filling the room, your hips bouncing against his, the force of your movements creating a desperate rhythm. The headboard tapped against the wall, again and again and again, in time with the pace you set.

“Shit,” Frankie groaned, strained, teeth clenched as he lifted his head to look down at the place your bodies met. His hands clamped tighter around your hips, guiding you, grounding you, lost in the sight of you taking him.

The sound of it all; his moans, your wetness, the sharp breaths and quiet curses, was almost too much. You threw your head back, chasing friction, chasing the building tension as his pelvis ground up against your clit with each thrust.

And then Frankie rose slightly, propping himself on one elbow. His other hand was still gripping you.

“Yes, baby,” he whispered, wrecked and shaking. “Fuck me just like you need it. Don’t stop until you get what you came for.”

Your hands were still on his shoulders, one of them drifting upward, fingers brushing his neck. You squeezed there, just enough for him to feel it. And your mouth found his.

It was close now. You could feel it coiling in your belly, all-consuming. You pulled away from his mouth, lips parted like you were trying to speak but couldn’t find the words in time.

Your heart beat so fast it felt like it might escape your chest. Your entire body vibrated with it. Little sounds left your mouth; half gasps, broken syllables, soft whimpers you couldn’t have controlled even if you’d tried.

“Oh my—Fran—”

Your head tipped back, mouth opening on a soundless cry as your orgasm hit, sharp and blinding, splitting you open from the inside. It was too much, all at once. It left no space for thought, only feeling. You shut your eyes and saw stars behind your lids, fragments of light flickering against darkness.

Your rhythm stuttered as the sensation tore through you, and Frankie caught you with both hands, grabbing your hips hard as he took over. He thrust up into you, hard, the angle deeper, sharper. The slap of your bodies meeting filled the room, louder than your moans, louder than anything else.

“Fuck—fuck—” he gritted through clenched teeth.

His chest was flushed, blooming pink down to his stomach. You were still shaking, the aftershocks of your climax rolling through you in unpredictable waves, and all you could do was hold onto him; eyes glassy, mouth open, whispering yes, yes, yes as he moved inside you, every thrust dragging up and down again and again.

You could tell when he got close. His rhythm faltered, hips stuttering. You felt him thicken inside you, the tension rolling through his entire body. Then a sound escaped his throat, and his head tipped back, eyes squeezed shut as his release overtook him.

His stomach clenched, his jaw locked. He looked completely wrecked.

You moved again, instinctively, chasing the end of it. Frankie groaned like it hurt in the best way, and his grip on your hips turned punishing, fingers pressing so firmly into your skin you knew you’d see the marks in the morning.

“Shit—baby,” he rasped, ragged and almost too quiet to hear. “Easy… easy.”

You softened your movement, easing your hips down until he dropped his hands to the mattress, spent and trembling.

You stayed like that, straddling him, his body still buried inside yours. He was warm everywhere. His breath came in shallow waves, and his eyes stayed closed for a few seconds longer.

You looked down at him, memorizing the mess of him beneath you: messy hair, lips parted, chest rising and falling like he’d just run for miles.

And it hit you so, so clearly.

You loved him.

You loved him so much it terrified you.

But you kept the words where they were; tucked inside your mouth like a secret.

dividers by @/saradika-graphics

Taglis: @paleidiot @gothcsz @everyth1ngfan @katw474 @mellymbee @pedritosgirl2000 @tsunamistorm123 @jokesonthem @sunnytuliptime @greenwitchfromthewoods @ashleyfilm @darkheartgatita @thedilfdiaries @nandan11 @whirlwindrider29 @onlythehobi @diabaroxa @yellowbrickyeti @deatt @yslgreen @daybleedsintonightfa11 @mys2425 @pigeonmama @speaktothehandpeasants @pez3639 @stylesispunk @imaginecrushes @isla-finke-blog @smiithys @brittmb115 @sukivenue @awkwardmebaby @la-vie-est-une-fleur29 @suzysface @picketniffler @gaypoetsblog @merz-8 @doblasftcisco @ultra-nina-bella @satanxklaus @readingiskeepingmegoing @copperhalfcent @ashhlsstuff @sunfairyy @icanbringyouinhot @hi--have-a-nice-day @sesdeuxyeux @peachiestevie @biccaline @crayolacraycray @wencontre @peepawispunk @berryispunk @billionairecowgirl @blub-senpai @madpanda75 @joelmillerpascal @thatdbeagoodsticker @dtftheavengers @jessthebaker @yourallaround-simp @vingtetunmars @deatt @pedges-world @vickie5446 @whitewolfstar01

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florihaei · 1 day ago

Note

can i request enha members reacting to you being jealous, reassuring you and stuff:)

𝓨OU KNOW BETTER .ᐟ ✦ - 엔하이픈

♡ 𝑺𝑪𝑹𝑰𝑷𝑻 ─── 𝖾𝗇𝗁𝖺 𝗆𝖾𝗆𝖻𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖻𝖾𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗃𝖾𝖺𝗅𝗈𝗎𝗌, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗌𝗌𝗎𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎

﹙ reactions ﹚enha ! 𝓕em. reader — soft possessiveness, jealousy, reassurance, tension, suggestiveness 𝓑ookshelf ❜

꒰ 𝓜ail 💌- sorry this request took so long, request are open, so please keep requesting!!, please enjoy <3

• ✉️ ~ ʀᴇʙʟᴏɢs ᴀɴᴅ ꜰᴇᴇᴅʙᴀᴄᴋ ɪs ɢʀᴇᴀᴛʟʏ ᴀᴘᴘʀᴇᴄɪᴀᴛᴇᴅ !

LEE HEESEUNG ◟✿

you barley say a world the whole ride home. you hid sit there, arms crossed, lips tight, eyes out the window like he’s not even in the car. heeseung doesn’t push, not until the engine’s off and the silence get too loud. “was it the girl?” he finally ask, voice soft. “the one who wouldn’t stop laughing at everything i said?”

you scoff but don’t answer. he leans over, fingertips grazing your thigh, eyes searching yours in the dark. “you don’t have to act fine princess.. i know you.” his hands slides a little higher. “i wasn’t even looking at her, i was looking at you, the whole damn time.”

and when you still don’t speak, looking down, he sighs and whispers. “don’t ever think you gotta fight for my attention. you already got it princess, all of it.

PARK JONGSEONG ◟✿

you’ve been cold all night, not loud, not dramatic, but just enough distance that jay feels the chills. he saw the way you looked at the girl who got a little too close at the bar. saw the way you walked off, jaw set, your hands clenched.

now you’re home, and he finally stops pretending not to notice. “you really think i’ll be stupid enough to look at anyone else pretty?” he ask, stepping into your space.

you don’t answer, you just look away. that’s what gets him. his hand cups your face gently, his thumb brushing under your eye. “don’t do that. don’t get all quiet and pull away.”

he kisses your temple, then your cheek. “you’re the only one who knows me like this. the only one i let in, don’t doubt that alright?” his voice drops a little. “im yours baby.. jealous or not.”

SIM JAEHYUN ◟✿

you don’t say anything when he walks up to you. you just keep looking at your phone like you didn’t see the girl touching his shoulder earlier, laughing way to hard at his joke. jake knows that look on your face, it’s the same one he gets when someone flirts with you.

“hey.” he nudges your side. “what do you look so cute when your mad?”

you roll your eyes. “don’t”

jake sighs, stepping in front of you. “i didn’t do anything pretty girl” he says, “i didn’t flirt, i didn’t even notice her like that. i noticed you getting quite tho.”

you shrug. “didn’t seem like it.”

he leans in until his forehead rests against yours. “you don’t have to play cool with me baby. im already yours, fully, you get that right?”

you blink up at him, his fingers laced with yours. “you jealous baby?, that’s okay. just don’t forget im always coming home to you.”

PARK SUNGHOON ◟✿

sunghoon’s calm when he sees you pull away from him, too calm. he notices the way your mood changed after the girl leaned into him at the bar. he noticed everything. he always does.

“you okay?” he would ask later, when it was just the two of you.

you shrug. “im fine.”

he raises an eyebrow. “you don’t look fine.”

when you still won’t talk, he walks over and slips an arm around your waist. “jealousy’s not a bad look on you” he murmurs. “but you don’t need it baby.”

you glance up at him. “she was all over you.”

“she could’ve been naked and i still would’ve only seen you.”

you scoff. “dramatic..”

he smirks. “dead serious” then quieter. “i like when you get possessive, means you care. just .. don’t bottle it up baby, tell me next time.” he pulls you closer. “or show me.”

KIM SUNOO ◟✿

sunoo knows something’s off before you even realize you’re doing it. your short replies, the way your tone drops when you talk to him, the tight look in your eyes. he saw the girl flirting. he saw how you looked when she did.

“are you mad at me or mad at her?” he asked later, pulling you aside.

you hesitated but spoke. “both.”

he softens. “baby..”

he reaches for your hands, thumb brushing over your knuckles. “she’s not important sunshine, she’s not you.”

you sighs, looking away from him. “you smiled at her.”

“i smile at people, i love people, but im in love with you.”

that gets you instantly, you glance up and he leans in with a soft voice. “you don’t every have to fight for me sunshine, i’d pick you in every room.”

YANG JUNGWON ◟✿

jungwon notices right away. you get quiet, you cling less, laugh less. he saw the girl lingering near him during a game, too close, too flirty.

later when the crowd thins, he corners you gently by the kitchen counter. “you’re upset” he says, it wasn’t a question.

you frown. “im fine.”

he scoffs. “you always say that when you’re not baby.”

you try to move past him, but he cages you in with both arms. “she didn’t matter” he says. “she didn’t even exist to me.”

you stay quiet, and his voice softens. “but you.. you walk away like i’m not supposed to feel it?, you really think i wouldn’t notice?”

his head dips lower. “you don’t have to be quiet about how you feel baby, you can be jealous, mad, clingy, i’ll take it. i just want you to be close.”

NISHIMURA RIKI ◟✿

you were fine all night, until she walked over, giggled at his joke, and touched his sleeve. you tried not to react, but niki caught the shift in your face instantly.

now you’re sitting on the couch, scrolling through your phone like you didn’t just ignore him for an hour straight.

he drops down next to you, legs brushing yours. “so we’re ignoring each other now?”

you don’t look at him. “i’m not.”

“your mad..”

“im not.”

“then tell me why does it feel like i cheated on you when all i did was talk?” 

you stay quiet, and he leans in. “you jealous?” he murmurs. “good.. now you know how i feel when guys breathe in your direction.”

your eyes flick up. his eyes dark, unreadable. “but your mine” he says, “and im yours, so stop acting like she meant anything, she didn’t.”

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hatsbuckets · 2 days ago

Text

The worm @anjelicawrites (thankyouthankyouthankyouthankyou) put in my brain from this post andncicnffjejeienrjrn hnnnnnnggggggg it started as a ramble and became this.

Woodsman John

Pairings: Price x Reader (reader has no explicit gender, but i write as an afab so it might seem that way?) WC: ~4500 Warnings: 18+ smut. nsfw. recluse!Price(?). oral, reader receiving. unprotected sex. Short Vers: Readers gets stranded in a storm and the resident town recluse/quiet woodsman takes them to his cabin to warm them up (winkwonk) and keep them safe.

The rain is coming down in sheets, thick enough to blur the world into grey smears and dark silhouettes. The kind of storm you hear about in headlines: washed-out roads, flash floods, people found days later in their cars. And yours… yours gave up half an hour ago, hood steaming and lights dimming until it finally sputtered to silence.

No signal. No sound but the storm. No houses you passed for miles, and the trees crowd the road like they’re trying to pull you under.

You’re walking now. Soaked through. Cold enough that your fingers hurt, your teeth won’t stop chattering, and your flashlight is down to its last weak flicker. The dark feels endless.

And then headlights, blinding and cutting through the rain like a blade.

You freeze, hand half-raised. The truck slows, a grumble of tires over gravel, the creak of the suspension when it stops just ahead of you.

The driver's side door opens. You don’t see him at first, just a shape, tall and broad, stepping into the downpour like it doesn’t touch him.

“Car break down?” he calls. His voice is low, not unfriendly, but not soft, either. Like someone who hasn’t spoken aloud all day.

You hesitate and take a step back.

“I—I don’t know,” you say. “It just… died.”

The man nods once, slow. His coat is soaked. His hair is plastered to his head. He doesn’t come closer, and somehow that’s worse. He just stands there, outlined in headlights and rain, watching you like he’s trying to decide what kind of problem you are.

You recognize him then. The man from the woods who only comes to town a few times a month. Always quiet, in and out, never causing a scene, like a ghost. You had offered smiles in passing, a small wave once in a while. He’d never do more than nod his head politely.

“You’re a long way from town.”

“I wasn’t trying to be,” you murmur.

Another pause.

Then he gestures toward the truck with a tilt of his head. “Get in. I’ll take you somewhere dry.”

You don’t move.

“I don’t usually get in cars with strangers,” you say, the words half-swallowed by the rain.

“And I don’t usually stop for them,” he replies.

It’s not a threat... You think... It’s just honest. That somehow makes it more terrifying.

But you’re freezing. The rain is getting worse. Your car is dead, your phone is useless, and this man—this huge, quiet man with eyes you can’t quite make out in the dark—is the only thing standing between you and something that might be warmer.

You climb in.

The truck smells like cedar and something metallic. The heater’s running, and thank God for that. The door thunks shut behind you, and you jump when it does. He gets in after, not saying a word, and pulls back onto the road like it’s just another night for him.

For a while, the only sound is the pounding of the rain and the wipers dragging across the windshield. You glance at him sideways. He’s older, maybe. Hard to tell in the flickering dashboard light. Beard thick, jacket worn at the elbows, knuckles scarred.

You wonder if he always looks this tense behind the wheel. Or if it’s just tonight. Or just you.

“Cabin’s ten minutes ahead,” he says, eyes fixed on the road. "You can get warm. Dry off. You can figure the rest out after.”

Still no name. No questions about yours. Just... a direction and a decision already made.

You stare out at the storm again and try not to wonder what kind of man lives alone this far from anywhere, in a cabin that doesn't show up on your GPS.

The drive is short. The wind howls through the trees, and every crack of thunder feels like it’s trying to chase the truck off the road. He doesn’t speak again, doesn’t look your way. Just grips the wheel like he’s done it a thousand times before, like muscle memory’s the only thing keeping him steady.

Then the truck crests a rise, turns down a muddy gravel path nearly hidden by overgrowth, and there it is.

The cabin's not large. Definitely not new. It’s tucked into the edge of the woods like it’s always been there, slouched under the weight of time. There’s a woodpile stacked neatly, a lantern hanging by the door, and a sliver of warm light leaking through the curtains.

He kills the engine and gets out without a word. You fumble with your seatbelt, nearly drop your bag, but he’s already circling the truck. When the passenger door opens, he doesn’t offer a hand, he just holds it open until you climb down, then turns for the door.

“Come on,” he says. “Cold’s worse when you stop moving.”

You follow him up the steps. He unlocks the door, pushes it open, and the smell of firewood hits you sharp and clean. The cabin is sparse but solid. Everything has a place. The hearth is still warm, like he banked it before leaving. He crouches without speaking, stacks a few logs, and coaxes the fire back to life with ease.

The light flickers, casting shadows across the walls. There’s a coat rack, a few mismatched chairs, a shelf full of books worn at the spines. It should feel claustrophobic, but it doesn't.

He stands, brushing ash from his hands, and disappears into a hallway. When he returns, it’s with a neatly folded pile: sweats, a soft long-sleeved tee, thick socks.

“Bathroom's back there. First door on the right. Bedroom’s next door, there’s space to change.”

You hesitate, hands still trembling around your soaked sleeves. He watches you for a beat, then adds, quiet but sure,

“Name’s John.”

It catches you off guard. Not just the name, but the way he says it. Like he wants you to have it, even if it’s all he’s offering.

“I’ll have tea ready when you’re out.”

And just like that, he’s gone again, heading for the kitchen, the soft clatter of a kettle and a cupboard door grounding you in a way you didn’t expect.

You glance down at the clothes in your arms.

John. Big, bearded, quiet, John... Okay then.

...

Morning comes slowly.

The storm is still letting loose, less violent, more relentless. Rain taps steady against the windowpanes, a sound that blends with the crackle of the fireplace and the occasional groan of wind through the trees. The world outside is grey and half-drowned, blurred by mist and water.

You’re not sure what woke you. The borrowed clothes are soft, worn thin in places, and the bed smells like cedar and smoke, but you can't fall back asleep.

You push the blankets back and pad barefoot across the wooden floor, careful not to let the boards creak. The air outside the room is warmer.

And then you see him. He’s in the main room, facing away from you, sitting low in a worn armchair. There’s a rifle across his lap—already clean, but he’s running a cloth down the barrel again, slow and methodical. He doesn’t look at what he’s doing. His eyes are locked on the TV in the corner, which buzzes softly with static. Just that white-gray flicker casting him in pale ghostlight.

For a moment, he's still. The only motion is his hand, steady on the rifle, and the slight twitch of his jaw.

He looks like a painting.

You move quietly as you can, but he hears you anyway.

“Didn’t mean to wake you,” he says without turning. His voice is quiet. Raspy from disuse, like gravel rolled in smoke. “Tea’s still warm. Left it by the stove.”

You take a step forward, then pause. “You always clean your rifle this early?”

That gets a huff of breath. “Some habits are harder to kill than others.”

He sets the cloth down. He doesn't look at you yet, but his body language shifts. Loosens slightly. Like your presence did register, and it didn’t raise an alarm.

You move slowly. Pick up the mug from the stove, lukewarm but sweet, steeped strong with something herbal. You wrap your hands around it, letting the heat sink into your fingers.

“TV’s not working?”

His eyes finally cut toward you. Just a glance. Then back to the screen.

“Didn’t turn it on for the TV.”

You wait. But that’s all he gives.

You sit down across from him with your tea, the too-big sweats cinched at your waist and your sleeves rolled halfway up your forearms. He still hasn’t moved much, rifle across his lap, hand resting loosely against the grip.

The firelight casts shadows across his face, strong, weathered features softened by the flicker. His beard is a little too long, the grey at his temples catching the light. You wouldn’t call him handsome in a traditional sense, a little grizzled, older, but there’s something about him that sticks.

And god, his voice.

He hasn’t said much, but every time he speaks it sits low in your gut. Deep and worn, like it's used to barking orders but doesn’t have the heart for it anymore. Like maybe the world took that part of him and left this quiet thing behind. And maybe you shouldn’t notice the way his hands move—broad and sure, calloused fingers stained faintly with oil, tending to the rifle with the kind of care people reserve for old wounds or sacred things.

You sip your tea, but your eyes wander. Just a little.

Just enough to wonder what that voice would sound like saying something that wasn't a host's obligation. Just enough to notice how tall he really is, how he filled the doorway last night without trying. Just enough to think about how warm his cabin is, how warm his body must be under all those layers, how he didn’t flinch when you passed him on your way to the fire—just shifted slightly, like he was making room.

You shouldn’t be thinking about any of that.

You don’t know him.

But he’s not ignoring you, either. You catch the way his eyes slide toward you now and then, subtle, sidelong. Measuring, but not unkind. Curious. Like he’s still not sure what to make of you, but he's not sorry you're here.

The static hisses on the TV. The fire pops.

And when he finally speaks again, his voice is quiet and... intimate, somehow.

“Sleep alright?”

You nod. “Better than I expected.”

He hums. A low, thoughtful sound.

“Storm’s still goin’. Roads’ll be a mess ‘til late tomorrow at least.”

You take another sip. Feel the warmth settle in your chest. You meet his eyes and let the silence linger a little longer this time.

“That a roundabout way of saying I’m stuck with you?”

He looks at you fully now, and for the first time, the edge of a smile ghosts over his lips.

“Suppose it is.”

And damn it, that shouldn’t make your stomach flip the way it does.

You don’t mean to stare, really, but it’s hard not to.

The way he handles the rifle is practiced, almost soothing. He’s not really cleaning it—just going through the motions. Running the cloth over the barrel. Checking the sights. Like his body doesn’t know how to not do something.

You sip your tea again, then speak before you can second-guess it.

“Can you show me?”

He looks up, slow. “What?”

“The rifle. How you clean it. You’ve been doing it so automatically, it’s kind of fascinating.”

He gives you a look you can’t quite read. Not suspicion just… surprise. Maybe a flicker of something warmer behind it.

He tilts his head toward the seat beside him. “C’mere then.”

You set your mug down and cross the room, careful not to seem too eager. The floorboards creak under your bare feet, and you feel his eyes on you as you move.

You sit beside him, close enough that your knees almost touch. He shifts the rifle between you both, then turns it in his hands with the kind of care you’d give a sleeping animal.

“It’s nothing special,” he says, quiet. “Just an old bolt-action. Reliable. Got me through more winters than I can count.”

He shows you how he checks the chamber. Where to look for buildup. How to wipe it down without damaging the finish. His voice stays low and steady, that same gravel-and-smoke drawl, and you try to focus on the rifle, but his thigh is warm against yours.

His hand brushes your wrist as he passes you the cloth.

And when you glance at his face—close now, just inches from your own—you catch the way his gaze lingers on your mouth for half a second too long before shifting back to the task.

You’re both pretending not to feel it. But it's there.

It’s so there. damn it.

“I thought people who lived off-grid were supposed to use bows,” you tease. “Y’know. Quiet. Noble. Robin Hood vibes.”

That earns another real sound from him. A low chuckle, barely more than a breath.

“You think I look like someone who’d dress in green tights?”

You arch a brow. “I think you’d surprise me.”

He hums again, and this time when he hands you the rifle, his fingers rest against yours just a moment longer.

It's still storming outside. The fire’s still warm. And the way he’s looking at you now... it makes your skin feel too tight and your borrowed clothes suddenly way too soft against your skin.

You try to focus on the weight of the rifle in your hands. The way the metal’s cool even near the fire. You ask a quiet question, something about the scope, maybe, and he answers it with a small nod, leaning in, his shoulder brushing yours as he adjusts your grip.

“Like this,” he murmurs.

His fingers wrap over yours.

And maybe it’s the storm still raging beyond the windows, the firelight licking at the walls, the borrowed warmth of his clothes on your skin—but when his skin brushes yours again, you don’t move away.

Your breath catches slightly. You feel it, sharp in your throat as he shifts closer.

And then you look up at him.

John is staring at your hands. Or maybe past them. His jaw is tight. His eyes darker now, shadowed under the soft light.

“Been a long time,” he says, voice low. Almost like he didn’t mean to say it out loud.

You don’t ask, but he keeps going.

“Since anyone’s…” He pauses.

You shift your fingers slightly under his, threading them.

“I don’t mind the quiet,” you say.

His eyes lift to meet yours.

Something about that undoing is soft at first, silent and reverent, but then you see it. There’s hunger. It’s not desperate, but very very there.. Like it’s been locked up behind his teeth for too long.

And he kisses you.

God, he kisses you.

It starts as a breath. Then his mouth is on yours—warm, rough and needy—his hands cupping your jaw like he’s scared you’ll vanish if he doesn’t hold you still. His beard is coarse and sends tingles down your skin. His lips are firmer than you expect. He waits just long enough for you to kiss him back.

He groans softly into your mouth, like that single motion undid something in his chest. His hand slides to your hip. He kisses like a man who forgot how, like he’s remembering it piece by piece through the shape of your mouth, the wet heat of it, the way you press closer without thinking.

When he finally pulls back, his breath is ragged.

He leans his forehead to yours, closes his eyes.

“I shouldn’t’ve—”

“Don’t,” you whisper. “Don’t ruin it.”

The rifle slides from your lap with a soft thump as you reach for him again, one hand at the collar of his shirt, the other curling into the back of his neck.

He exhales like the air’s been knocked out of him. Like he didn’t expect you to want this back. Like he doesn’t trust himself not to fuck it up.

He kisses you again, harder this time.

His hands find your waist first. His broad palms pressing in, dragging you closer, gripping like he needs the feel of you under his hands to believe this is real. He groans low in his throat when you push into him, your thighs brushing his, your mouth hot and open against his.

His beard burns a little, but you don’t care. You’re kissing him like you’ve wanted to for days, not hours. His tongue brushes yours, testing and teasing, and when you open to him, he groans again, this time deeper, rawer.

“Christ,” he mutters against your lips. “You don’t know what you’re doing to me.”

You tug at his shirt, bunching the fabric in your fists. “Then show me.”

His hands roam now, slipping under the hem of your borrowed shirt, callused fingers skimming over your skin like he’s desperate to feel more. He pulls you into his lap without asking, with a grunt that makes your breath stutter. You straddle him, knees bracketing his thighs. You press your chest to his as he kisses you again and again and again like he’s starving for it.

You grind down, just a little, and his whole body jerks like he wasn’t ready for that. His hands clamp down on your hips, thumbs digging into your sides like he’s trying to control himself.

“You sure?” he rasps, voice hoarse, barely holding on.

Your answer is in your mouth, your hips, the way your hand threads into his hair and tugs just enough to make him swear under his breath.

His control shatters with a sound somewhere between a growl and a prayer. Then his mouth is on your throat. Your jaw. Your collarbone. Hands everywhere, groping and needy, reverent but rushed. Like if he doesn’t touch you now, he won’t survive the night.

You bite his shoulder through his shirt and he groans loudly, hips surging up against yours, hard through his jeans, and it makes your pulse spike because fuck.

“Bedroom’s warmer,” he mumbles against your neck.

You kiss the pulse of his neck, then the shell of his ear and smile against his skin.

“Then take me there.”

Big hands slide under your thighs, and in one smooth motion, he stands—lifting you like you weigh nothing, like he’s done this a hundred times, like his body remembers how to hold someone this close.

You gasp, arms instinctively wrapping around his neck, your legs locking behind his back as he starts toward the hall.

“Jesus—John—”

His grip tightens, and his voice rumbles right against your ear. “What, dove? Takin’ you there, aren’t I?”

The hallway is narrow, the shadows deep, but you barely register the creak of the floorboards, the storm outside, the faint hiss of the forgotten TV. All you can feel is him—his chest against yours, the flex of his arms, the heat bleeding off his skin even through the layers. He smells like firewood and smoke and sweat and soap that’s probably meant for dishes, and you’ve never been more turned on in your life.

He kicks the bedroom door open with his boot and sets you down on the floor like he’s trying not to drop you, like the moment your feet hit the floor, he’s failed somehow. He stands close, his hand barely brushing your cheek.

You grab his shirt and pull him close and drag it over his head.

It comes off with a rough pull, and then he’s bare before you, broad chest scarred and dusted with hair, stomach soft but strong, arms like something carved from years of hard living. You reach out and press your palms flat to his chest, feeling the thump of his heart.

He’s breathing hard. Almost like he’s waiting for you to change your mind.

You reach for the hem of your own shirt, but he beats you to it—hands sliding under, palms rough on your ribs as he lifts it off of you, slow at first, then with a hunger he can’t quite hide. The shirt hits the floor.

His mouth finds yours again. Hot and desperate. One hand slides up your spine while the other cups your ass, dragging you against the thick press of him through his jeans.

You whimper into his mouth. He groans into yours.

Then you’re backing toward the bed—step by step, tangled in each other—until your knees hit the mattress and he lays you down, climbing over you.

He groans softly into your mouth and shifts downward, dragging his mouth along your throat, your collarbone, your chest. His hands are reverent now, spreading over your body like he’s trying to learn it by heart. He mouths at the swell of your chest, then lower, kissing your ribs, your stomach, groaning again as you squirm under the weight of his mouth.

Then he settles between your thighs.

Spreads them with both hands, palms firm but not forceful.

“Fuck,” he mutters, almost like to himself. “You’re beautiful.”

And then he leans in. His beard scratches soft against the tender inside of your thigh as he kisses a slow path upward, and when his mouth finds you, you jolt. Gasp. Fingers twisting in the sheets.

He licks you slow at first, just one broad stroke of his tongue, then again, firmer and deeper. His hands anchor your hips, but he doesn’t stop you from bucking against him. In fact, the sound he makes—that low, guttural sound—tells you he likes it. That he’s getting lost in this as much as you are.

Then he adds his fingers. One at first, thick and slow as it eases into you, testing the stretch. Then another. He moves them just right, curling, dragging, learning what makes you twitch and moan and shudder. His mouth never leaves you. His beard is slick. His groans are muffled in the mess he’s making between your legs.

You’re already close, panting now, your hands grabbing at his shoulders, his hair, whatever you can reach.

“John—please—fuck—”

He pulls back just enough to look up at you. His lips and beard glisten, his chest rising heavy with breath. His pupils are blown wide.

“You’re ready for me?” he rasps.

You nod. Desperate. “Yes—yes—please.”

He moves up, hand still working you, curling just right inside until you’re trembling under him, barely holding on. He kisses you again—messy, deep, all spit and heat and shared breath—and only then does he pull his fingers out.

You reach for him again, tugging at his waistband, breathless now.

“Off,” you manage. “Come on—John—”

He growls low, a sound from deep in his chest, and strips them off with shaking hands, dragging boxers down after in one rough motion.

And fuck, he’s hard. Big, flushed, heavy, already leaking at the tip—and the look on his face when he sees you watching him is nothing short of starved.

“You sure?” he asks again, even now, even half undone.

You pull him down to kiss you, deep and slow and yes. He lines himself up, one hand guiding himself to your slick entrance, and the other bracing beside your head as he sinks into you—slow, thick stretch, inch by inch, until you’re gasping, clinging, your whole body arching to meet his.

And he doesn’t move for a moment.

“Christ,” he mutters, voice gone wrecked. “Fuck—like I’m not gonna survive this.”

He moves steady, deep and a little rough, like he can’t hold back, like every thrust is dragging something buried out of him. His hands grip your hips hard enough to bruise, your name low and wrecked in his throat every time he bottoms out.

He starts to move with a rhythm that’s more instinct than intention—deep, slow thrusts that hit every nerve, every aching spot inside you that’s been begging to be touched. Every time he pushes in, you feel the weight of him, the stretch that borders on overwhelming, and every time he pulls back it’s like your body claws at him not to leave.

It’s filthy, his moans mixing with your breathless whines, the contact of his skin against yours. The wet of him sliding in and out of you. His thick arms braced by your head as your arms wrap around his neck and your knees falling wider open.

“Fuck,” he grits out. “You take me so well—so fuckin’ good—so tight.”

You moan high and wrecked and he groans right back, dropping his head to your shoulder as he thrusts harder. The bed creaks beneath you both, the sound almost drowned out by your breathless gasps, his muttered curses, the wet slap of skin on skin.

He kisses your neck, your jaw, your mouth, sloppy, open-mouthed, desperate.

One of his hands slips between your bodies.

His fingers find you without hesitation, broad, callused, stroking hungrily and it making your whole body seize up.

“There,” you gasp. “Right there—don’t stop—John—”

He watches your face now, every twitch and moan and stutter of your breath, fucking you like he’s memorizing all of it, like he doesn’t want to miss a single second. Like he’s saving it for later. You can feel how much he needs this. It’s feral, possessive, and heated. How long it’s been. Every thrust, every drag of his hand against you, is soaked in need.

“I wanna feel you come,” he growls, low and wrecked. “Want you to fall apart for me, sweetheart—come on—I know you’re close.”

You’re so close, so tight around him, clenching, hips rolling to meet his every stroke, chasing that edge like it’s the only thing that exists. His fingers keep working you, relentless, wet and slick with you, and his cock hits that deep, perfect spot that makes stars burst behind your eyes.

“John—”

“Come on, love. Give it to me.”

And your body shatters.

It hits like a wave, hot and high and all-consuming, your thighs trembling, mouth open on a silent scream as you clamp down around him, your orgasm crashing through you in pulsing, gasping waves.

He groans, deep, guttural, nearly a growl, and fucks you through it, burying himself as deep as he can go, fingers bruising your hips, chasing his own edge now with abandon.

“Shit—fuck—gonna—where do you��?”

“Inside,” you breathe, drunk on the high, locking your feet around his back. “Please—.”

He growls something broken and filthy against your skin, then slams into you one final time, hips jerking as he spills inside you with a sound you’ll remember for the rest of your life. His body shudders over yours, all heat and weight and breathless need, his face buried in your neck as he rides it out.

You stay tangled like that, sweaty, shaking, chests rising together, his hands still gripping you like he can’t bear to let go.

And for a long, long moment, neither of you says a word, just the rain outside and the fire glowing down in the next room.

thanks for reading

#I have more ideas for this but grrrrrrr #n e way bark bark bark or wtv #captain john price #price x reader #call of duty #cod #tf 141 #john price x yn #cod x reader #john price #too lazy to make a banner so gifs #god bless gif makers #my writing

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thatonegrimm · 2 days ago

Text

🌙 Saja Boys – Drabbles # 7

🧿 Jinu – “He Braids Derpy’s Fur When He’s Nervous”

You find him on the back porch, kneeling beside Derpy in the late afternoon light.

She’s still as a statue, eyes half-lidded as Jinu gently threads sections of her fur into loose, uneven braids.

You lean against the doorframe. “So this is how you cope?”

He startles. “She likes it.”

Derpy thumps her tail once. In agreement. Or protest. You’re not sure.

You walk over and sit beside him, watching the braids multiply.

“How bad is it?”

Jinu exhales. “We’re still getting interference from whatever crossed the seal last week. Abby says it’s nothing. I don’t think it’s nothing.”

You don’t say anything.

You just reach out, take a handful of fur, and start braiding too.

His hand brushes yours.

He doesn’t pull away.

💪 Abby – “He Catches You”

It’s not a huge fall.

Just a trip over a demon root knot in the training field. You’re bracing for impact, already wincing—

—and then you’re not falling.

Because Abby catches you one-handed like it’s nothing.

He doesn’t say anything right away. Just stands there, hands on your waist, eyebrows lifted.

“You okay?” he asks.

You nod, breath caught somewhere in your chest.

He nods back. Doesn’t let go.

“Abby,” you murmur. “You can let me up.”

“I could,” he says. “But you’re not asking.”

You roll your eyes, but don’t move.

And neither does he.

📚 Mystery – “The Shadows Like You”

You’re walking through the hallway when the lights flicker.

Not out—just dim, like they’re adjusting for something. Or someone.

You stop moving.

So do your footsteps.

That’s the first sign.

You turn. No one there.

Then Mystery speaks from behind you—so close you feel the echo in your ribs.

“They do that when you’re near.”

You don’t scream. Barely.

“The lights?”

He shakes his head. “The shadows. They… like you.”

You stare.

He tilts his head. “You don’t like them back?”

“I didn’t know I was supposed to like them.”

He steps into the hallway, and the lights flicker again.

“Now they’re sulking.”

You have no idea if he’s joking. That’s the second sign.

💋 Romance – “He Keeps Score”

You don’t realize it’s a game until it’s too late.

The subtle touches. The flirty comments. The way he leans just a little closer when you’re tired or distracted.

One night you poke his chest and say, “Keep that up and I’ll win.”

He arches a brow. “Oh, you think we’re keeping score?”

You falter. “Aren’t we?”

He just smiles.

And the next morning, there’s a note on your coffee cup:

“Romance – 17 / You – 1

You crumple the note and throw it at him.

He catches it. Adds a tally mark.

🔥 Baby – “He Doesn’t Say Goodnight”

It’s a pattern.

He stays up later than everyone. Stares at the fridge like it wronged him. Eats spicy ramen at 2 a.m. Watches static-heavy dramas no one else remembers.

You always say, “Goodnight.”

He never says it back.

Not once.

One night you ask, “Why don’t you ever answer?”

He glances up from his bowl. Doesn’t flinch.

“Because it sounds like an ending,” he says.

You sit beside him, barefoot on cold tile, and don’t say anything for a while.

When you finally stand, you don’t say it either.

He watches you go.

And when you’re out of earshot, he whispers:

“Sleep safe.”

M-List

Taglist: @honey-and-sweetdreams

#abby x reader #baby x reader #jinu x reader #mystery x reader #romance x reader #saja boys x reader #kpdh x reader #kpop demon hunters #kpdh

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nomoredying · 2 days ago

Text

saturdays

sevika x reader

tags: modern au, explicit sexual content (fingering, use of strap-on, oral sex, pegging), dirty talking, bratty reader, hurt/comfort, a little angsty maybe, is it still a slow burn if they have sex on the first day, reader has Issues™, sevika is such a softie, emotional vulnerability a/n: english is not my first language — please feel free to correct me, thank you

it started simple.

it’s saturday. you just moved in to place of your dreams — see, mom, working in a film industry is not a total bullshit — and found a bar not that far away. just what you needed after another day around annoying agents and celebrities who think you owe them.

you sit at the bar counter and order your usual whiskey with ice, when you hear laughter coming from one of the tables. you turn just out of curiosity and see a woman, possibly in her early forties, smoking a cigar playing cards with her friends, buddies or whatever they call each other. and winning, seems like it.

“rotten luck, boys,” you hear her deep voice saying, as she leans against her seat. your eyes meet.

you turn away. not surprisingly so, a moment later she appears sitting beside you and ordering whatever you’re drinking.

“please, don’t start with i haven’t seen you here before," you say, eyes up at her now that you can finally get a closer look.

her grey eyes are surprisingly expressive. you like them. in fact, you like everything about her — at least about how she looks — and you don’t hide it. neither does she.

“but i haven’t, have i?” she raises an eyebrow. you introduce yourself, “sevika,” sevika says back.

“sevika. is that hindi?”

she nods, her lips curling up in a slight grin.

“how much did you win today, sevika?”

“enough for me to pay for you and for them,” the older woman gives you a simple reply,

that makes you chuckle. “you’re so generous,” you say in a mocking, seductive voice, after taking another sip.

“and you’re a brat,” sevika says, narrowing her eyes, tapping the cigar against an ashtray.

you don’t disagree. “do you know of any hotels nearby, sevika?”

she smirks.

⚢ ⚢ ⚢

as soon as the door closes behind you, you find yourself pressed against it.

sevika doesn’t kiss you gently — she kisses as if she’s been starving in a desert and you’re both her first sip of water and first meal. her tongue against yours, rough and wet.

you don’t pull away until you need to grasp for breath. “the bed is not that far,” you tease.

you knew her hands were strong by the way she held your hips but when she lifts you to throw you on the bed, that’s when you know it for sure.

she has to physically restrain herself from licking her lips like an actual hungry animal when she looks at you spread on the bed underneath her.

you don’t even have time to say something before she pulls down your trousers and then unbuttons your shirt, tossing them both somewhere aside. at the moment it’s the last thing you care about.

“enjoying the view?” you ask, when sevika stares at you in your pretty underwear set which you only wore today because you felt like wearing it, but you guess that god works in mysterious ways.

“aren’t i lucky to notice you first,” she muttered, her voice hoarse, and she leans in, capturing your lips in a kiss once more.

while she does, your fingers deftly help her get rid of her tank top (the jacket was lost somewhere on the way to the bed). she’s not wearing any bra. your hand eagerly reaches to caress one of her bare breasts. she bites your lower lip.

as soon as her mouth shifts from your lips to the rest of your face and then your neck, you instinctively bite your lips, but sevika doesn’t approve.

“if you stop yourself from making noises, i’ll stop too,” she warns you, and you let out a hoarse chuckle.

“bossy,”

the older woman’s hand slides down your stomach, “spread your legs,” she says, and when you do, she grins, smug and mocking. “you’re already soaked and all i’ve done is kiss you. is this why you came to that bar? to let someone take care of your greedy cunt?”

when you don’t answer, her hand applies slight pressure. a warning.

“answer me,” her raspy voice sends shivers down your spine.

a breathy sigh comes out of your mouth when you admit, “yes,”

you came to relax. you haven’t done it in a while. with the help of a drink, sex or both, doesn’t really matter.

you find your back arching, grinding against her hand. just to feel more. needy. oh, you’re so needy and she knows it.

“sevika,” you say.

“yes?”

“be a big girl and fuck me already,” you practically demand it now. she can’t help but laugh.

how can she resist such a straightforward, sweet demand?

her hand finally pulls down your panties and her fingers circulate around your clit, rubbing it hard enough to get a gasp from you. her second hand comes up to play with your nipples.

then, with no hesitation, her two fingers entered you and you almost yelp, your hands griping the sheets.

at first, sevika doesn’t rush, “feels good?” you mumble something unintelligible and the older woman takes that as a yes.

her pace quickens, and she adds another finger, stretching you out even more.

“fuck. fuck,” you moan, and she smirks.

“that’s what you asked, isn’t it? no, eyes up,” sevika says when your eyes look somewhere in the void.

her fingers move in a pulsing motion, turning you into nothing but a flustered mess with only one thing in her mind.

when you reach the climax, they’re still deep inside you. she fucks you through your orgasm and then falls beside you on bed.

you let yourself lie there for five minutes or so before you sit up and move so now she’s the one pressed against the bed. your cunt is not that greedy.

“what are you doing?”

“returning you the favor, of course,”

she lifts her hips, helping you to take off her trousers. you start by leaving a trail of wet kisses. on her neck, collarbone, chest, — especially chest, biting and kissing it, playing with nipples (you have your favourites) — and stomach. your hands go up to clutch both of her hips. you nip and kiss her inner thighs, teasing her.

“don’t play with me,” sevika grumbled, clearly unamused.

“if you ask nicely—“ you start, but her hand grips your hair, guiding your head now where she wants it most.

you roll your eyes. your tongue finally meets the throbbing heat of the older woman’s cunt when you rid her of her last article of clothing. sevika presses your face against it even harder.

you eat her whole in the earnest. sucking. nipping. your tongue runs across her pussy. you look up at her through your half-lidded eyes only to see how she looks like when you pleasure her.

sevika’s trembling. you can feel that she’s close.

she lets your hair go as she explodes. groaning low, chest rising.

⚢ ⚢ ⚢

an exact week later at approximately same time you’re sitting at the bar counter in that very bar and she is gambling on the same place with same guys. or not, their faces are a blur to you. don’t have to be a genius to guess how the night ended?

and the next week after that too.

on the fourth night that you two spend together, you bothered to ask where she works.

“zaun corporations,” sevika replies. she exhaled, putting her cigar out.

the company is big enough for you to know about it, so you raise your eyebrows in appraisal.

“well, aren’t you a careerist?” you watch her, still lying on your back, “what do you do?”

“stuff that gives you a headache. coo,” she shrugged carelessly, turning to you, “what about you?”

you smile lazily, “i work in a film industry,”

most of the time people start chuckling, — that’s nice, sweetie! — in that condescending voice, asking what type of movies do you do or where they could have seen you.

“what, an actress?”

you look at her with feigned offense, “what, aren’t i pretty enough?”

“you’re pretty alright. you know that. what i meant was that you don’t seem the type—,” sevika paused, choosing her words.

“to ham it up in front of the camera?” she nods, “well, that’s because i’m not. i’m a creative producer,” although you would like to add that actors don’t just ham it up in front of the camera, as you just said, you don’t. it would turn into you yapping about creativity, ideas. and you don’t need to bore your sex partner into death.

sex partner? is that what you are? you’re not so sure. you decide that there is no need for any labels because it doesn’t matter.

⚢ ⚢ ⚢

at some point you get tired of going into the bar every time when they don’t have anything you actually want in their menu. you exchange your contacts so that you can meet in the hotel room itself.

[sevika] are you coming? she texts you in the evening of a saturday.

i’m already at the hotel. they have a great driving range. come. [you] you reply. she rolls her eyes, but you don’t know that.

sevika asks a worker about the golf course. walks. sees you, standing on the line with a golf club in her hands. approaches.

“do you find this entertaining?”

you squint your eyes, watching the ball fly.

“i like hitting things. i play tennis too,” you turn and hand her the golf club, “your turn,”

sevika takes it reluctantly and hits the ball. hard.

“you’ve got a great hands,” you take the turn, and your fingers brush against hers as she passes you the club. deliberate, lingering.

“you would know,” she says, her tone casual. but sevika’s already pulling the club back, and you stumble forward a half-step, laughter catching in your throat. the distance between them collapses.

your lips meet not quite by accident. the taste of tobacco from her smoking, something sweet beneath. the club drops into the grass, forgotten.

sevika’s hands finally settle, fingers curling into the fabric of your polo shirt, pulling you even closer.

you finally part. sevika’s thumb swipes at the smudge of light lipstick now staining the corner of the your mouth. you’re a mess.

⚢ ⚢ ⚢

you close your eyes. hot steam of water falls down your bare body. you can’t stand warm or cold showers — you need it to be boiling hot. which is unhealthy and you know it, but it’s so addicting you can’t stop. or maybe you can’t stop because you intentionally cause yourself harm, but you wouldn’t go that far with digging into it.

it’s saturday and you’re in hotel room again.

this particular day of the week became your favourite soon enough. before it was tuesday you waited for due to the fact that it was the day the new episodes of your favourite show came out, but now that it’s over you had to find something new to feel good about, right?

sevika makes breathing — which is something humans do automatically — easier. being alive easier. you find something about her presence, raspy voice and smug grin calming. probably the sex part.

of course, it’s the sex. she’s good in bed. if that were her allegations and you would have to be the lawyer defending her, you wouldn’t even bother yourself.

finally, you came out of the shower in a velvety bathrobe (one of many reasons you stayed loyal to this hotel).

she’s standing with her back to you.

“sevika, did you know that—“ you’re sure you wanted to tell her something, but now that you’ve seen itit doesn’t seem to matter anymore.

it is a strap-on that she wore on her thighs, adjustable by harnesses. you knew the older woman liked wearing belts, but this is your first time seeing this one. it’s not that you never saw dildos before, you have. this one is just.. slightly bigger.

“wanna try it?” she looked like a little preteen, showing you their new toy. well, it is a toy. fair enough.

yes.

instead of answering, you let your robe fall on the floor. sevika grinned, amused.

“lay down,” she said, gesturing at the bed. you did, but she shook her head. meaning — on your stomach, not your back. you narrow your eyes, but obey.

soon enough sevika looms behind you.the lube is already in her hands, and she lavishes it all over your hole with her thick fingers.

“you’re already dripping just at the thought of me pegging you, aren’t you?”

“do you want me to say yes, mommy?” you mock her, and her free hand pulls your hair back. you lips part.

“such a brat,” sevika sighs, as if she’s not enjoying this, “say it. what do you want, hm-m?”

“sevika,” you start, but she doesn’t let you finish, stopping you with another tug.

“do you want me to fuck you in the ass?” sevika helps you with your answer.

you murmur something unintelligible. that’s not what she’s looking for. you know it.

“say it,” she insists. strap-on becomes more tangible.

“i want you to fuck me in the ass,” you finally say it. no reason to be ashamed, the only thing stopping you was her arrogant smirk her lips curled in.

you can’t see it, but you can feel it in her voice as she speaks, “good girl,”

letting go of your hair, her calloused hands slide possessively over the curve of your bare ass, fingertips tracing the flushed skin before pressing just enough to make you shiver. the cold, slick silicone of the strap nudged against your hole, glistening with the lube, teasing before she pushed in with one brutal, delicious slide — stretching you open, forcing a ragged gasp from your lips as your spine arched off the mattress.

"fuck—,” sevika growled, her voice rough with want, her hips snapping forward to bury the dildo to the hilt in one smooth stroke. your fingers twisted in the sheets, knuckles white, as she didn’t give you a second to adjust, already pulling back only to slam in again, the thick ridge of the toy dragging against your walls in a way that made your thighs tremble.

you groaned, your ass jiggling with each thrust, the obscene slap of skin on skin filling the room. sevika’s free hand fisted in your hair once again, wrenching your head back so you could feel her breath hot against your ear. "you’re so good. taking everything i’m giving you," she punctuated the words with a sharp grind. you whined, your hips canting back desperately.

her chuckle was hoarse, filled with lust as her fingers dug into your thighs, controlling your movements as she fucked into you harder, faster — the pace relentless, the bedframe rattling with every brutal snap of her pelvis.

then she pulled out, flipping you onto your back, your legs hooked over her shoulders before you could say anything. the head of the dildo pressed against your soaked cunt this time, her smirk wild as she watched your face.

“i want to know how loud you can really scream when I fill this tight little pussy instead."

you didn’t bother yourself with trying to give an answer. she slammed into you, your slick walls clamping around the intrusion as a broken cry tore from your throat. her hips rolled in slow, deliberate circles, grinding the strap deep inside you, the stretch burning in the sweetest way.

"fuck, look at you," she snarled, her metal hand tracing the outline of the dildo pushing up against your stomach, her other hand pinching your nipple hard enough to make you jerk. "all stuffed full, twitching around me like a desperate slut."

“sevika,” your orgasm crashing hard, your walls fluttering around the strap as you came with a shuddering whimper.

she leaned down, her lips brushing against yours in a maddening kiss.

“let’s see if we can make you come again before I’m done with you,”

⚢ ⚢ ⚢

it’s raining.

you sit on the floor of your bathroom, in some tank top and shorts, damp hair sticking to your cheeks, your back against cold tiles. you don’t remember how you ended up here — you were brushing your teeth, maybe? maybe not. who cares.

something happened. nothing serious, not to the outside world at least. a passive-aggressive email, someone raising their voice during your sixth meeting this morning, an overdue call from your mother with one of those phrases that always leave a scar no matter how many times you’ve heard them.

it happens, it always happened and it will happen. never bothered you before. you thought you were fine. then you weren’t.

you tried breathing. drinking water. pacing around the apartment, opening windows, shutting them. screaming into a pillow. didn’t help.

you need to talk. you need someone to talk to. not someone who’ll coo into the phone and tell you you’re strong. not someone who’ll pity you or try to fix it. you just need to not be alone in your head for one fucking second.

you open your phone, scroll through contacts. you hesitate at a few names. delete one. almost call another.

then, without thinking, you click call.

“…hello?”

her voice is husky from sleep, low and raspy. you glance at the time. 2:41 AM. of course it is. you’re surprised she answered.

you don’t say anything at first. your throat is tight, aching from trying not to cry, but sevika hears your breath.

“why are you calling me?”

not what’s wrong, not are you okay — just why are you calling me? blunt and steady. exactly what you need.

“i didn’t know who else to call,” you whisper, your voice cracking like cheap glass.

you hear the rustle of bedsheets on her end. “you don’t have to explain,” she says. she’s more awake now. “you want me to come? just send the address,”

you squeeze your eyes shut, tears slipping out anyway. “no. no, just— just stay on the line, okay?”

“i’m here.”

you don’t say anything for a moment. your breathing is shallow, hiccupy.

“i’m losing it,” you admit. “i’m losing it and i don’t even know why. nothing happened. or maybe everything happened. i just— i don’t know how to be anymore. i’m tired all the time and when i’m not tired i’m angry and when i’m not angry i’m empty and i feel like i’m screaming underwater and no one can hear me and—”

“breathe.”

you do. slowly. shakily.

“again.”

you obey.

“good.”

you let your head fall back against the tile. “sorry.”

“don’t be,” sevika replies immediately. “you don’t have to make sense right now.”

it’s quiet for a beat. just the sound of rain hitting your window and her steady breath in your ear.

“you know, when i was twenty-six,” she starts, and her tone is calm like smoke curling in a cold room, “i broke a guy’s nose just because he called me a disappointment. i mean, he was my father, but still.”

you let out a breath — half-sob, half-laugh.

“i didn’t even feel better after that,” she continues. “just sat on the curb after and smoked. my hand was shaking so bad i dropped the lighter three times.”

“you’re telling me this to make me feel better?”

“no. i’m telling you this so you know you’re not the only one who falls apart sometimes. we all do. some of us just pretend better.”

you pull your knees to your chest. your voice is small when you say, “i don’t think i’m pretending well anymore.”

“then don’t,” Sevika says. “take the night off,”

the silence that follows feels different now. not so crushing. not so alone.

you sniff. “are you always this good at late-night phone therapy?”

“i’m usually better with my hands,” she mutters, dry. you hear the faint clink of a lighter. “but i manage.”

“thank you.”

“don’t mention it.”

“no, i mean— really. i didn’t want someone to coddle me. i just needed someone who… wouldn’t freak out. and you didn’t.”

“i’m not the freaking out type,” sevika says, taking a drag.

“i know,” you lean your forehead to your knees. exhale. the tile isn’t so cold now. maybe your body’s just going numb. “can we just… stay like this? for a while?”

“i’m not going anywhere.”

you don’t talk for a long time. sometimes you hear her smoke. sometimes she hears you breathe. once, she says something about needing to clean her balcony. you tell her you bought overpriced grapes that don’t even taste good. you argue over whether they’re red or purple.

your chest still hurts. but less.

you talk until the sky starts turning blue.

⚢ ⚢ ⚢

you didn’t mean for it to turn into this.

it was supposed to be simple. one night — well, maybe two, three, four — just sex. good sex. sure, really good sex. and then you started talking. really talking. not the lazy banter between orgasms, but the type of talking that leaves your chest all too soft. raw.

she could’ve ignored the call. just blocked your number after. she didn’t. instead, she chose to be on the other end of the line when you were a mess on your bathroom floor. why? you don’t know.

but you know that something’s changed.

you feel it in the silence between her sentences. in the way your fingers hover too long over the screen before typing something stupid like what kind of coffee do you drink anyway. in the way you catch yourself replaying her laugh — the real one, not the sarcastic snort — in your head, like a favorite scene from a film you don’t want to end.

you text her.

are you busy tonight? [you]

[sevika] tonight’s not saturday.

you roll your eyes so hard you nearly see your brain. shame she can’t witness it.

thanks, calendar app. i’m cooking. come by if you want [you]

a beat. then another.

or don’t. i’ll just eat my culinary masterpiece alone [you]

the typing bubble appears. vanishes. appears again.

[sevika] text me the address

you do.

and just like that, you’re setting the table in your penthouse. the one you dreamed of when you were a broke, wide-eyed assistant fetching oat milk lattes for directors who didn’t know your name. now your place looks like a walking moodboard. framed movie posters lining the walls, warm lighting, tall windows. a kitchen you barely use but pretend to know your way around.

you did cook. sort of. technically. with help. fine, you ordered from a semi-obscure place and transferred the food to your own plates and pans. your hands did something.

when the doorbell rings, your stomach flips. you curse yourself for that quietly before answering.

sevika’s there, wearing what they call an effortless outfit — leather jacket, plain tee, that smug little expression she always brings like a plus-one.

“so,” she says, stepping inside, surveying the apartment, “you really leaned into the whole ‘i work in film’ thing, huh? what’s next, an oscar in the bathroom?”

“shut up,” you grin, “those are tasteful posters.”

she smirks and shrugs her jacket off, hanging it on the back of a chair. “sure, sure. very tasteful. and the table setting? what’s this, a date?”

you don’t answer that. instead, you motion for her to sit.

“i cooked,” you lie, serving with flair.

sevika raises an eyebrow. “really?” she picks up a fork, inspects the dish. “this smells suspiciously professional. no offense.”

“i’ll take none, because you’re right. i ordered it. but i plated it myself.”

“you shouldn’t have,” she deadpans. “i love lies with my dinner.”

you both laugh, and suddenly it’s easier.

you eat. you talk.

not just what do you do or what’s your star sign or how do you like your eggs in the morning. it’s more real. more layered. like the parts of her that don’t come out during sex. the parts she keeps close to her chest. although you do like your eggs in a oddly specific way, but you decide you’re not that close for that level of deep talk.

you learn she has a niece. doesn’t see her often. “family stuff,” she says, and you don’t push.

you learn she listens to old records when she’s stressed. mostly rock. sometimes jazz.

you learn she used to fight a lot when she was younger. “i still do,” sevika admits, “just more metaphorically now,”

and you’re asking these things because… you want to know. not because you’re trying to get close — whatever that means — but because you already feel like you are.

you’re not friends. not lovers. not a one-night thing. not a thing at all. and yet, here she is, sipping your wine, making fun of your poster of the incredible shrinking man, telling you about the scar on her wrist from a kitchen accident no one ever asks about.

and you listen. all of it.

something warm blooms in your chest, unsettling in the best way.

⚢ ⚢ ⚢

“and then he just— died. mid-scene. the actor didn’t know what to do, he just kept monologuing like a lunatic. it was kind of beautiful, though. tragic, but beautiful,”

you’re perched on the kitchen island, legs swinging, a glass of wine in one hand, fork in the other. sevika’s standing near the open window, smoke curling from her lips.

“so what’s the title?” she asks.

you pause. “the ashtray fell first. working title. you don’t like it?”

“bit pretentious,” she smirks.

“bit accurate,”

sevika steps closer. “you really think death mid-monologue’s a metaphor no one’s used yet?”

“says the woman who quotes bukowski unironically,”

that earns you a curl of her lip. then a long inhale. she walks up, and as she exhales, she deliberately blows the smoke into your face. you hate that. she knows it.

you recoil. “you’re a dick,”

“yeah,” she says, already leaning in, lips brushing against yours, “so what?”

you kiss her back. it’s hot and lazy and perfect, her hands spreading over your hips, sliding under your shirt. you drown in this heat until a vibration on the counter buzzes right through your spine.

your phone. you don’t even get a chance to check it. sevika’s hand reaches out and flips the screen down, silencing it.

“rude,” you murmur between kisses.

“not really,” she replies, kissing down your neck, “just considerate,”

what follows is the usual. sharp breaths, gasps, tangled limbs. she fucks you with her hand again, and your thighs are still trembling when she finally falls beside you on the bed.

your phone buzzes. again. you groan. sevika turns her head lazily to glance at the screen. her face unreadable.

“that same number tried calling before,” she mutters, voice low.

you freeze for a moment. sigh. reach for the phone. “it’s— whatever,” you wave it off.

sevika raises an eyebrow.

you answer, when it doesn’t stop buzzing, “hey,” your voice drops into a slightly strained politeness.

you roll onto your side, back to sevika, as the voice on the other end starts talking. she can’t hear all the words, just enough to get the tone: familiarity. a kind of old, strange closeness.

“no. yeah, i got your message, i just didn’t have time— no, i’m not ignoring you, i’ve been working. some of us do that full-time.” you force a laugh. fake. “what do you want?”

sevika watches. silent. her metal fingers curled slightly, the light from your bedside lamp catching the dull sheen of steel.

you finally hang up and sigh, tossing the phone aside. “ex,” you say, sitting up a little. “she’s directing some indie mess and wants me to help with post. she’s out of budget and out of her mind,”

sevika’s voice is flat. “and you’re thinking about it.”

you shrug. “i could. it’s not the worst offer.”

she scoffs, reaches for her cigar pack “sure. sounds great. help out the woman who once said your ideas were ‘too commercial to matter.’”

you look at her. “you remember that?” the older woman doesn’t answer. you pull your shirt back over your head, irritation growing like static in your jaw. “it’s just business,”

“is it?”

you snap. “yes, sevika, it is. not everything’s about feelings, or grudges, or— whatever it is you’re doing right now.”

she leans forward, lighting the cigar. doesn’t meet your eyes. “i’m not doing anything,”

“oh really? so this isn’t about the fact that my ex just called me and asked for a professional favor, and i didn’t immediately throw my phone out the window like it’s a plague?”

sevika finally looks at you, sharp. “you think i’m jealous?”

“aren’t you?”

her silence says everything.

“well,” you huff, crossing your arms. “you don’t get to be,”

her jaw clenches. “and why the fuck not?”

“because i told you. i don’t want any labels and everything that comes with them,”

it’s quiet. then sevika stands. pulls her jacket off the chair.

your chest tightens. “seriously?”

she doesn’t answer. just slips her arms into the sleeves.

you stand too. “you’re leaving?”

“you said it yourself. this isn’t about feelings. so what’s the point of staying?”

“don’t twist my words,”

“i’m not,” she says, walking to the door. “you made yourself clear,”

“i didn’t mean it like that,”

sevika pauses with her hand on the doorknob.

“then figure out what you do mean. because right now it sounds like you want to keep me at arm’s length until it’s convenient to let me in.”

she doesn’t slam the door. doesn’t yell. just leaves.

and you’re left in your too-big penthouse, with the flickering silence and the leftover scent of smoke and sex and something else, something you can’t name — something that had the chance to become real, and slipped right out your door.

⚢ ⚢ ⚢

it’s been three weeks. twenty days, technically, if you count like a lunatic. which, at this point, you do.

you haven’t seen her. haven’t texted. haven’t gone to the bar. but you’ve thought. obsessively. rewrote the last night in your head, again and again. your words and your pride.

and still, you didn’t move. until tonight.

you don’t know what snapped. maybe it was the silence, maybe the half-drunk glass of wine, maybe the storm outside your window. but suddenly you’re putting on shoes with shaking hands and grabbing a jacket and searching for the address you swore you deleted but didn’t. of course you didn’t.

the drive is messy. you get lost once. the rain smears across your windshield like a cliché. your hair sticks to your forehead. you ring the bell. once. twice.

the door opens.

sevika’s standing there in sweatpants and a faded shirt, no bra, cigar still lit between two fingers. her hair’s tied back, damp at the ends. eyes dark.

she stares at you. you stare back. soaked. “i—” you start.

“get in,” she says quietly. not kindly. not unkindly either. just… inevitably.

you step inside. warm air hits your face. the place smells like ash and tea. she disappears into another room, returns with a towel and hands it to you without a word.

you wipe your face. your shoulders. she sets a mug on the coffee table. sits across from you. the tea smells like chamomile. you take a sip, warming your hands as you hold the cup.

“i’ve been thinking,”

sevika raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t interrupt.

“about us. if that’s even a word i get to use.” you take a breath. your heart’s pounding. “look. i’m a rational person. i overthink everything. i dissect my own feelings before i even feel them. and i told myself that what we had was sex. and then it became something else. and i didn’t know what to do with that,”

the older woman says nothing. just smokes. watching you.

“i thought you didn’t want anything serious. you don’t act like someone who wants it. you keep people away,”

“and you don’t?” sevika mutters, low.

you smile, bitter. “i do it differently. i make sure everyone thinks i’m too busy, too cool, too whatever to need anyone. i play the part,”

you swallow.

“i had this girlfriend. years ago. the director. you remember,” a dry laugh slips out. “she told me i was too much. said i made her feel like she couldn’t breathe. like i was always waiting for something she couldn’t give,”

her eyes narrow, ever so slightly.

“after that, i stopped trying. i just— worked. stayed impressive. impressive people don’t get left behind, right?” you meet her gaze. “and then you walked in. blowing smoke in my face. laughing like you didn’t care about anything. and i thought, finally. someone who doesn’t want anything from me. someone safe,”

the irony twists in your throat.

“but you’re not safe,” you whisper. “you’re so not safe. you make me feel like—” your voice catches. “—like a shaken bottle. like someone just lit a match in my chest and left it there. sevika, you are addictive. and i have a very bad self-control,”

she doesn’t move. but something in her eyes shifts. flickers. you sit up straighter.

“i want you,” you say, and this time your voice is steady. “not casually. not on weekends. i want all of it. the mess. the silence. the ‘don’t text me during work hours’ bullshit. the cigars, even,” and there it is. the pause.

sevika stubs out the cigar. slowly. deliberately. then crosses the space between you in three quiet steps. her hand brushes your cheek, thumb catching a drop of water still clinging to your jaw. your eyes flutter shut.

“you’re still wet,” she mutters, voice rougher now. “you’re gonna catch a cold.”

“i’ve had worse.”

she sighs. low. tired. fond. and then pulls you into her arms. you fold into her like you’ve been trying to do since the first fucking night.

she smells like shampoo. her breath warms your temple. her metal hand presses against your back.

you’re shaking. not from the cold. from relief.

“you’re a pain in the ass,” sevika murmurs.

“i know,”

“but you’re mine now,”

“i know,” you repeat, nose brushing her collarbone.

tags: @riotstemple29

#sevika x you #sevika arcane #sevika #sevika x reader #sevika my love #wlw #sapphic #lesbian

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leonkennedybreedingkink · 2 days ago

Text

CHERRY POP

leon kennedy x fem!reader

tags: first half is pure virginity loss smut. piv, leon eats u out, positions etc. second half is fluff. yet again a little autobiographical (loser)

“Shit. You okay?” Leon presses calloused fingertips to your skin, hand splayed between your naked shoulder blades. “Your heart’s beating really fast, we don’t have to do anything if you don’t want to.”

That’s sweet of him.

You stretch a little closer to him, your thigh pressing against his. “No, I want to. I’m fine. It’s… a good sort of nervous.”

The hand on your shoulder migrates to your hair, smoothing it down. He doesn’t really look like he believes you. “Okay.”

You make yourself make eye contact. “I swear, I want to. It’s a good nervous.”

Leon considers your face for a moment before he nods, shifting over to kiss you, rolling you onto your back. “Alright, I believe you.” He says between kisses, one hand sliding down your front and splaying on your inner thigh.

He makes his way down your neck, to your chest. “So pretty.” He breathes against your skin, leaving a kiss over your heart before he—oh.

“Oh.”

Your shoulders tense up when he sucks on your nipple, his other hand playing with the other.

Leon grins, nipping you before switching sides—it’s enough to make you squirm a little beneath him. When he decides he’s done, he moves down, pressing kisses to your stomach, pulling away when you shift, stifling a laugh.

At least the instinctive laughing makes you loosen up. “I’m ticklish. It’s your hair.”

He keeps grinning as he stares at you. “Noted.” He presses a kiss to your hip and no—you’re ticklish there too. He pins you down, shifting between your thighs.

You may have planned far enough ahead to wear a henley that showed a lot when you bent over and your best pair of jeans, but you hadn’t planned this far ahead. “Uh.” You cover your pelvis with a hand. “There’s, uh,”

Leon gives you a perplexed look, tilting his head to the left. “What is it?”

“Uh, I’m not… um. Shaved.” Even now, you can see your bush poking out from behind your hand. It’s like trying to squeeze into pants that are too small, it just moves around.

“That’s okay, I’ve been with girls who haven’t shaved before.” He attempts to move your hand, gently clasping your wrist.

You don’t let him. “No, it’s—it’s a lot of bush.” You’d know, you trim it yourself. It’s not out of the realm for you to be hairy anyway.

Leon can’t help a smile when he sees your apprehension. “It’s fine.” He insists, tugging on your wrist again.

There’s only one real way he’s going to learn. You let him take your wrist to the side, laying back on the pillow and trying not to feel too self conscious. It’s enough to make you want to get dressed and skedaddle.

“Hey, look at me?” Leon braces a hand on the backs of your thighs, gently pushing so your knees bend.

You lift your head after a reluctant moment, propping up on your elbows.

“It’s fine, really. I’ll figure it out.” He’ll tell you later that you’re the most hair he’s ever dealt with. It’s not a bad thing, it’s just more than he expected.

You lick your lips, holding eye contact from where he lies between your legs. “Okay.” You lay back, staring at the ceiling and wondering if you made the right choice tonight.

Anything to get your ex out of your system, not that he fucked you or anything. If you were treated like a porcelain doll right now just because your v-card was being swiped, it would just add insult to injury. Virginity doesn’t really mean much in the long run, anyway.

The first lick makes you jolt. His hands move to hold your hips as your thighs relax, creating a little V around his head. Leon watches you stir beneath him, face pinched as you try and get used to the feeling of someone’s face in there.

It’s not bad, actually. Especially when he focuses more on the clit—with the guidance of your hand in his hair—and puts a finger inside you. He keeps a hand between your thighs and shifts up, distracting you with a heady kiss.

One finger? Good, fine, you can fit that no problem.

Two? Not terribly uncomfortable, his fingers are just thicker than yours.

Three? Fuck, you can fit three of your own fingers once every third Wednesday. And for less than five minutes.

You hiss, panting with an open mouth. Paranoia strikes you and you look down. “Did you put it in?”

Leon tilts his head at you, kissing your cheek before pressing his forehead against yours. “No.”

True to it, he didn’t. It’s just his fingers.

You sigh, eyes shutting briefly. “Sorry, I…” You breathe, heart still hammering from the idea of him hitting it raw. Still, with reassurance that he didn’t do anything, your heart begins to calm.

He presses a kiss to your mouth, curling his fingers on every careful push to hear you gasp. “It’s okay.”

“Okay,” Your brain feels more than a little foggy, especially as he keeps working you open, wetness running down his palm. You pant, wrapping an arm around the back of Leon’s neck to keep him close. You can hardly kiss him, he’s hitting all the right notes.

He pulls his fingers out when he gets too impatient—if you feel like this around his fingers, he’s going crazy imagining what you’d feel like when he’s inside.

Leon takes a second to marvel at the mess you made all over his hand, turning it this way and that, separating his fingers to see if there’s a mess connecting them. “Look at that.” He muses when there is, showing it to you. “You did that.”

Predictably, you get embarrassed, watching in horror as his fingers separate and there’s a clear web between them. You smile instinctively—you’re a nervous laugher and talker, it happens—eyebrows pitching up as you watch. There’s a stream down his palm that glimmers in the low light.

“No need to be embarrassed.” Leon shakes his head, wrapping that hand around himself and squeezing before he shifts to get a condom and lube from the dresser.

“Didn’t know I did that.” You mutter back, watching him curiously as he rips open the wrapper, adding a drop of lube to the center before he rolls it down.

He gives you a look. “What, did you want to do it?” Leon gestures to his dick, a teasing tilt to his head.

“I can’t be curious?” You watch him with those beautiful eyes of yours, gaze flicking briefly down to his dick before they’re back up.

“You can be curious.” He plants a hand by your head, shifting between your thighs again. “You can put it on next time, how does that sound?”

You huff a laugh, a smile crossing your face. “Yeah, sure. Next time?”

“You don’t want to do this again?” His chain dangles above you and you watch it shine in the light.

You loop an arm around the back of his neck, the other on his arm. “We can. I want to.”

Leon gives you a real smile, eyes shining. “Good. You ready?”

Oh, God. This part. You nod, bringing him down so your foreheads touch. He accommodates by balancing on his forearm, his other hand pushing on the back of one of your knees before it ventures to his dick, pressing the tip against your entrance.

“I’m ready.” The first press in isn’t so bad, he goes slow, plying you with kisses so you’re not ruminating on the pressure.

That’s what it is, pressure. No tearing, maybe you’re being split in half a little. It could be a very pleasurable splitting in half.

He gets about halfway in before you stop him, a hand on his chest before he can go further. “Fuck, sorry, I need a minute.” You feel hot all over, especially where your hair lays against your neck.

You’re killing him, just a little. “It’s alright, take your time.” Leon gently pushes your hair behind an ear, hand lingering by your cheek.

You turn your head, panting against his palm until the pressure goes away, leaving a kiss before you turn your head again. “I’m good.”

“You sure?” When he pushes, there’s some slight resistance. He looks down at where you’re joined, pulling back a little and gently sawing.

You sweat, mouth dropping open. That’s new, you don’t know about it being pleasurable.

When he pushes again, there’s more give. Leon chews on his bottom lip, chest rising and falling a little quicker.

You jerk a little when he’s fully seated, a hand on his chest. “I need—I—sorry. Just a moment.”

“It’s okay.” He drops his head and runs his mouth across your cheek.

When you feel ready, you wrap your legs around his waist. “I’m ready.”

“Yeah?” Leon presses a kiss to your mouth. “You sure?”

You smile into the kiss. “I’m sure.”

“Got it.” He braces himself on his forearms, pulling back and thrusting in.

There, that’s a little closer to pleasurable. “Oh!”

He gives you an open mouthed grin, starting out slow just to get you used to it.

Your legs unwind from his hips, one hand beneath a knee to pull it back and change the angle. “Oh.” You bristle a little when it changes, then flinch when you feel a sharp push against something.

Leon keeps that open mouthed smile, giving you a wet kiss. “That’s your cervix, sweetheart.”

“I know, I’ve hit it with my fingers before.” You say against his mouth, squeaking when he hits it again. ”Oofh.” You visibly wince, cheeks puffing out.

He laughs breathlessly, pulling back a little without you having to say anything. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine.” To pacify him, you give him a kiss on the cheek, your forehead pressed to his temple. This is nice, very similar to what you’ve gotten up to with your fingers.

You watch him grimace—shit, is he close? “You good?” You ask, jerking when he briefly thumbs at your oversensitive clit.

“My hips hurt.” Leon admits with a breathless laugh, pushing himself up on his palms as he slows to a grind that’s enough to make your legs tremble. “You wanna switch?”

Why not, you’re already being adventurous enough tonight. Besides, it’s not fair to make him do all the work—you’re nothing but a willing participant.

You exhale when he pulls out, moving out of the way so he can lay down too. “Sorry if it’s sweaty.” You say as you clamber on top of Leon, his hands on your hips helping you on; your legs are shaking a lot already.

He smiles at you, thumbs swiping at the skin. “You’re good, I expected you would be.” Leon grins wider when you roll your eyes at him, getting up on the ball of one foot and fitting him in again. His eyes shut as you slowly sit, exhaling slowly.

It takes you a second to adjust, then another as you slowly rise up and push back down. “Oh.” That’s new, very different from when he was on top.

Leon watches your brows furrow as you move, his hands migrating up to your waist to help hold you up when you lean forward on your palms. “How’s that?” He asks, his hands closing around your wrists to lift them and thread his fingers through yours.

Shit, maybe he can tell.

The thought makes you stutter and you give him an awkward smile. “Good.”

Leon watches you ride him for a moment, watching your brows furrow when you can’t really hit the right spot. “Shift your hips a little when you go up.” He murmurs, letting go of one hand and putting it on your hip, showing you the motion.

What he really wants—what he’ll show you later—is to take control, he knows you’d be squealing and coming in no time.

You follow the motion a little awkwardly, your face visibly changing in pleasant surprise when you do it again.

Leon can’t help smiling; it's too easy to read you.

He progressively gets antsier as you keep riding, hands migrating everywhere: your waist, your hands, your tits when the jiggling is too much temptation for him.

“You wanna switch?” He murmurs when you look vaguely frustrated, rhythm fracturing again. “We can try another position, if you want.”

You tilt your head at him, slowing to a grind that has his eyelashes fluttering. “What do you have in mind?”

“Doggy, if you’re down. Or we can stop if you want.” Sue him for noticing your ass in those jeans. “I’m, uh…” Leon can’t help smiling. “Angled a little downward. Would probably press against your g-spot better.”

He really wants to see you come. Not because he wants this to be over—or because he thinks you’re bad at sex, all it really takes is enthusiasm—but because he thinks you’re beautiful and wants this to be good for you too.

(He’ll tell you one time after he comes with you that he thinks you can come just from g-spot stimulation. You’re not exactly surprised when you hear that, you kinda figured.)

You nod, clambering off him a little quickly. Maybe you get a little dumb—or the term fucking your brains out is literal. Very literal, it seems.

When you get on your knees, you fold like a cheap table, sending you sprawling on his bed. Leon laughs with you, leaning down and kissing your shoulder. “You good?” He asks through stifled chuckles, helping you resituate on the bed with a sweet hand on your knee.

You’re still giggling as you balance on your forearms. “Yeah, I’m alright. I’ve fallen harder before.”

“Okay, good.” He smooths a hand over your back—it’s a nice looking back, the view of you from the front and behind is scenic—using that to gently angle you so there’s a slight arch in your back as he angles himself in. Leon watches your head hang forward and your shoulders move like you’re pushing your chest out once he’s seated, giving you a second to adjust before he pushes and pulls, a hand dipping to the fatty part of your hip.

You think you come from that, but you’re not sure. Guess you have proof all orgasms are different.

Leon watches sweat break out on your back, the way you hang your head in hopes of getting your hair off your neck to cool down.

He wonders if you’re close a few times after that, based on the way you squeeze him. You won’t be breaking down the door to tell him you just have to pee, obviously.

“Do you wanna stop?” He leans forward, propping himself on his hand and using the other to gently push your hair back behind an ear to see your face.

“Did you come?”

You’re sweet. “It takes a while for me to come.” He leans down and kisses your cheek, soft and suffocating weight on you for the briefest second until he’s above you again. “Besides, tonight was about you, anyway. Do you wanna stop?”

You have to fucking pee. “Yeah, I’m good.” It crosses your mind that you could do something for him so he comes, but it looks like neither of you are going to have that pleasure tonight, at least.

Leon pulls away and tosses out the condom while you leave, bringing you back to the bed to cuddle. “How was that?” He asks when you start shivering, wrapping you closer to him and dropping a kiss on your temple.

“That was good.” It’s not sunshine and roses, you don’t feel any different than an hour ago. There’s no blood on his sheets that he’s holding over his head and shouting to his Viking brethren that he’s pierced your Maidenhead—then again, you’d thought that you’d have your first with someone you trust body and soul, someone who loves you.

Leon smiles against your head. “Good.”

Spending time with Leon is shockingly easy. There’s no pressure—no strings, importantly—and he’s as easy as the summer ocean, barring any tidal waves.

You swallow some of your cocktail—you have a fondness for aperol spritz’ that he lacks—and watch him talk.

“I dunno, where would I rate with your previous boyfriends, sex partners, et cetera?” He raises his eyebrows at you as he sips his beer.

As if you can sense what’s coming, you reply with, “Better than them.” It would probably torpedo any goodwill you’ve fostered over the last six months if you told him the truth.

Leon rolls his eyes and you make a face at him. “Better? Put it on a scale of one to ten.”

It’s easy for you to say: “Solid eight, you get up too quickly when I want to cuddle.” And not feel like you’re giving something away. “And my ex and I didn’t have sex, I don’t remember if I mentioned that to you.”

“Well, yeah, I gotta toss the condom and put on boxers, get you snacks and water. Come on, I come back to cuddle with you.” Leon watches you curiously, head tilted like a dog’s. “But I wasn’t your first, right?”

Leon’s good at leveling those sorts of kill shots at you when you least expect it. You can’t help the way your face drops, hand freezing where you hold your drink.

Leon sits up straight, technicolor eyes bewilderingly clear after three and a half beers. “Oh, my God.”

“Uh…” Consider your buzz killed. Your stomach turns, your knees feeling a little funny. Maybe you still have an instinct to run somewhere inside you.

He stares at you for a long minute. “You didn’t have to lie, I thought I asked what your body count was.”

You give him a bewildered look. “I don’t remember that.”

You wish you could read him as well as he reads you. Everything on his face is shuttered to you.

There’s a soft thunk as he puts his bottle on the coffee table. “You told me it was two.”

You stare at him for a long minute. You don’t remember telling him that—or maybe you do. “I’m sorry.”

Leon bites down on his lip and leans back against the couch, hands loose in his lap.

Your heart hammers in your palms—was it wrong to not tell him and conserve your pride for a night? Or a hundred eighty-two and a half? You can’t make yourself look at him, shame and embarrassment warming your face.

“Would you have still wanted to do anything if you knew the truth?” You ask, throat aching. You press your tongue to the roof of your mouth and swallow.

You, who prize yourself for being honest and blunt to a fault, lied to him.

“Yeah.” He admits bluntly, shifting a little on the couch to look at you. “I would’ve just… double-checked to be sure. Made it more…” Romantic. “sensual, more passionate. More kissing, more gentle. I’d have taken it slow.”

Thinking back on it, you might have actually shattered if he treated you like glass just because you had sex for the first time.

You swallow again, staring at your lap. “Would you believe me if I said I liked how it went, my first time? I really didn’t want or need to be pampered.”

“Yeah, but,” Leon scoots over to be closer to you. ”First times are special. Always are—I could’ve done so much more for you if you had told me.”

Your brows furrow as you look at your lap. That’s what he wishes he’d have done? Is he not mad that you lied?

“I mean, it must’ve hurt.” He sets a hand on your knee, suffocatingly warm.

“You used your fingers, it wasn’t that bad.” You mutter, looking at his hand spanning across your knee.

He scoffs a laugh. “Yeah, but I’m… you know, girthier.”

You smile slightly, guilt still yowling inside you. “Yeah, that’s why I sat still for a minute to get used to it.”

“I thought she was rusty.” Leon admits under his breath, relieved to see you smile a little more. “Though, there’s also a difference between pampering you and tearing your hymen.”

You make a face. “I don’t have one.” You checked long before he came into the picture.

His eyebrows turn up. “Have you used insert toys before?”

You shake your head. “Just my fingers.”

He tips his head to the side. “That’s why.”

You sit in silence for a moment before you say, “I didn’t tell you because it would’ve added more insult to injury if you knew and were so nice to me.” Your eyes burn a little.

“I could’ve been more considerate.” His thumb swipes over your knee.

“I like what happened that night.” You shift, putting your drink on the coffee table with a soft thud. “It’s special to me, even if it wasn’t more sensual.”

He sits there for a moment before he says, “I appreciate that.”

You sigh heavily, sitting there in silence before you say, “The reason I didn’t say anything about it is because I’m embarrassed that I held onto my virginity for so long. Logically, I’m not competing with anyone else but myself, but still. I’m embarrassed as shit about it.” Your nose burns. “And to be treated that gently after getting out of a relationship where I wasn’t wanted or desired would’ve added more insult to injury.”

He sighs too, thumb rubbing your knee like he knows you’re less than ten seconds away from crying. “It’s not that deep.”

Oh, come on. He can be so in touch and so out of touch at the same time. “It is because they’re my feelings and they informed my thought process about having sex with you.” You let out a slightly huffy sigh that he pacifies with a soft circle on your kneecap.

“I think it would’ve gone two ways if I’d told you the truth and you’d been so gentle with me about it. I think I would’ve ran at the first sight of you being so kind, I’d have picked up my clothes and made you take me home. Or, B, I’d have started crying while you were fingering me—not dainty crying like you’ve seen before, I mean full ugly sobbing to the point where I’d have made you stop. And after that, I wouldn’t have had sex with you.” And would’ve probably blocked him the second you were home.

“I’d have stopped if you’d started crying like that.” He all but coos at you. Ordinarily, you’d be soothed (or wet), but you’re baring your soul here.

“I know you would’ve.” You put your head on his shoulder. “Hence why I didn’t tell you.”

Leon puts his head on top of yours, staring at the paused TV before he begrudgingly says, “Alright, I can see why you didn’t tell me.” He presses a kiss to the top of your head. “And just so you know, if I hadn’t had sex with my ex and given her my virginity, do you know what age that’d made me by the time I lost it?”

You look up at him.

“Twenty.”

Oh. You blink a couple times and he kisses the space between your eyebrows. “Well… when you put it that way…”

He puts his arms around your shoulders and squeezes. “I’d have been in the same boat. It’s really not that big of a deal.”

You hold back a comment about the average age of someone losing their virginity being sixteen in favor of tucking your face into his neck briefly. “So you’re not mad at me?”

He shakes his head. “Shocked, honestly, you’re a knockout even on a bad day.”

You laugh a little, stomach untwisting. “We have plenty of time for gentle too, you know.” Gently, you push him down on his back.

Leon goes willingly as you climb atop him. “We do.” He toys with the hem of your shirt, raising his eyebrows as if to ask if you want this.

Your shirt hits the floor.

#mine #leon kennedy x reader #leon kennedy x you #leon s kennedy x reader #leon s kennedy x you #resident evil x reader #leon kennedy smut

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manmuncher777 · 2 days ago

Note

Your roommate one shot was SO GOOD, the idea of the reader being horny when high, it makes me want more! I so badly want to read one where the reader has an aphrodisiac, but only the reader. I love the teasing, perhaps with Suguru 🙈

SWEET TREAT

Suguru Geto x reader smut

It wasn’t even on purpose, you would swear that on anyone’s life.

But the way Suguru was fucking you? God you would think you had planned the whole thing.

Waiting for him to get home from hanging out with Gojo was boring. All you had done all day was laze around, lying on the couch, watching tv, reading, eating.

The eating would be what caused your demise. Purely for not looking at what you were grabbing from the shelves. Your eyes resting on a pretty bag of chocolates. They were pink, and heart shaped, sat there wrapped in a cute little bow.

Welllll if Suguru didn’t want you to eat them, he shouldn’t have left them so visible. Not even reading the label to check their flavour, your hand scooped into the bag, discarding the ribbon. Four chocolates sat in your palm, only to be eaten a few seconds later.

They were good too, well worth stealing them off the shelf.

Finally having satiated the sweet-tooth you had, you return to your spot on the couch, flicking through channels absentmindedly. Action movies, westerns, period dramas all flashing past on the tv until you settled. SpongeBob, yeah that would do.

The voices droned in the background for a few minutes. Your body twitching slightly now, almost feeling a bit restless. You kick your feet, removing the thick blanket, noticing the temperature in the room increasing slightly.

Although maybe it wasn’t slight, you can feel yourself getting warmer by the second, pressing a hand to your face to see if you had a fever. But it was different. Almost like you were tingling all over, an internal warmth. It stretched from head to toe, settling in your stomach.

You did your best to ignore it, maybe you were getting a hot flush?

You shifted on the couch, squeezing your thighs lightly, trying to stretch out almost. A tense feeling resting on you. You weren’t sure why, you weren’t uncomfortable… just restless.

Doing your best to focus on the tv show, not the dull thrum in your belly, pulling lower and lower…

Mere minutes passed, you still tossing and turning. Sitting up straighter now.

Your chest felt tight. You heart was beating faster; you hadn’t moved that much surely? The tv now blurring distantly into the background, your mind unable to focus on anything but this sensation. You shook your arms lightly, trying to snap out of the haze.

You rubbed at your skin, a dewy warm sensation. Suddenly acutely aware of everything in contact with you. The way your brain felt a little bit tighter than usual, brushing against your nipples. Your nipples suddenly hard, and sensetive.

Your mouth feeling parched as you swallow

“Why’s it so hot in here?” You mutter aloud, your voice sounding slightly hoarse as you spoke.

You could feel your pulse almost everywhere, in your chest, your stomach. Lower.

What was wrong with you?

A quick buzz next to you drawing your hazy attention.

| Suguru: I’ll be home soon baby, love you xx

Your mind began filling with thoughts. Thoughts of him

Suguru

The way he looked before he left today. The kiss he gave you as you made breakfast, the tattoos that were peaking out from his rolled up sleeves. That chain around his neck. The way his hands gripped your hips when he moved past you, the light smell of cigarettes mixed with his aftershave. His voice, the way your name sounded when he said it.

Your thighs clenched together, breath hitching in your throat.

You could feel your hands tremble slightly as realisation hit you.

You were wet.

Not just warm, not just bothered. You were soaked. The king of wet that clung to the fabric of your panties, that made your pulse skip when you shifted. Yout body was screaming for attention, your thoughts no longer drifting, but spiralling

You glanced back at the open chocolates that sat on the counter. Suddenly recalling a late night conversation with Suguru on trying out aphrodisiacs. He mentioned buying some chocolates, but hadn’t told you he’d actually got them yet.

You whimpered, a half laugh and dropped your head back against the cushions.

You weren’t scared, you were burning.

| You: Hey baby, those pink chocolates on the shelf look really good, can I have | some?

Your shakey hands type out the message, knowing full well you’ve already eaten them, but you just have to be sure theyre what you think they are.

Your legs wont still, you’ve already stripped off everything but your panties, stealing one of Suguru’s shirts to throw on, needing to be close to him in one way or another

| Suguru: wouldn’t recommend it yet, those ones are aphrodisiacs

Shit, you really are fucked

| You: wellll….

| I kinda already ate some

| Suguru: how many is ‘some’?

The feeling was worsening with each second, you couldn’t help but let one of your hands travel down to your throbbing cunt. Imagining the very man you were texting, even the stern way in which he was messaging you now had set you off. Your fingers rubbing circles over your clit, hand above your panties

| you: four…

| I swear I didn’t knowww, I was just hungry

| Suguru: Four???

Baby the recommended amount is 1

are you okay??

A beat passes, you hadn’t even realised he responded yet, getting distracted by your growing need

| you: oh fuck

im okay I thimk jus warm

really mis uou

| Suguru: Fuck

are you touching yourself?

You bite your lip, not surprised that he managed to figure you out already.

You type back with shaky fingers

| you: maybe…

The typing bubble appears instantly

| Suguru: fuck

| well don’t get shy now pretty

| poor little thing, you had 4? I bet you’re soaked

Your breath catches in your throat, your fingers now working their way under your panties to meet the wetness

| you: I need you so bad

The aches is unbearable now, you’ve already whispered his name into your pillow more times that you can count.

| Suguru: already here pretty girl

Your brows pinch, confused

Click

The front door creaks open

You scramble upright, panic and need fighting in your chest.

Suguru steals into the room like he owns the air in it. Still looking as good as he did when he left that morning. His eyes dropping instantly to your lap, your soaked panties. His shirt.

“Oh pretty girl…” his smile is slow and dangerous, his voice a false pity “look, what a mess you’ve made”

Your breath catches in your throat, unable to speak

“Four chocolates?” He continues, his voice lazy and warm, like it’s no big deal.

The only movement coming from you was a pathetic little nod.

That smirk still resting on his lips, like he was finding your ruined state amusing

He walks around now, crouching in front of of the couch resting his tattooed forearms on his knees, eye-level. Near enough to kiss, near enough to ruin you.

His gaze drags down your body, taking in every details with that unbearable smugness

“You touch yourself thinking about me?”

Silence

“C’mon baby, you were messaging me earlier about how much you needed me. Now you cant even talk to me?”

You thighs twitch. He notices. Of course he does. Lifting one of his hands, just a knuckle to trace over your exposed thigh

“Sugu-“ you start, breathless, lis already parted “I- I swear I didn’t know-“

“You didnt know? Just happened to miss the label on the packaging yeah?” He chuckles, slow and dark. Eyes watching and waiting as if you were about to give him some sort of confession.

“I didnt even check!” You blurt, face hot and skin burning “I was just… hungry and they were on the shelf and I- fuck I didnt know they would work so fast”

You’re still half naked, one leg bent up, panties tugged to the side, skin glistening. His gaze is dragging over every inch, and it feels like a touch all on its own.

“And what exactly did you want me to do about it?” He asks softly, but you know all to well there is nothing soft or kind in him right now. That look in his eyes tells you hes seconds away from pouncing.

“I just…” you whimper, blinking rapidly “it got so bad, I thought if I touched myself, maybe it would help.”

“And did it?” His brow lifts. “Did touching that pretty little pussy help?”

You look away, and that was a mistake. His fingers catch you chin and tilt It back, forcing you to look at him, pupils blown and jaw tense

You shake your head “no, jus’ made it worse” youre almost sniffling now.

“You want my help?” he asks next, gaze dropping again to the mess between your thighs. “You want me to fuck it out of you?”

“Yes.” You don’t even hesitate. “Please. I need you so bad, Suguru, I can’t—I can’t think straight.”

He hums, slow and thoughtful. “Mm. Yeah, I figured. You’ve got that look in your eyes.” He brushes a thumb over your cheek. “Feral little thing.”

Your hips twitch, desperate for anything.

“I’ve been going crazy,” you breathe. “It’s like… all I can think about is you. Touching me. Being inside me. I tried to stop it but—”

“But you didn’t really want to,” he finishes, soft and cruel. “You liked it. Getting all worked up thinking about how I’d treat you. How I’d use you.”

You nod. Barely. Shame burns behind your eyes, but it’s no match for the heat throbbing between your legs.

Suguru doesn’t kiss you right away.

He just smiles — slow and sharp — and then sinks lower, hands slipping up your thighs, spreading them wide. You gasp when the cool air brushes your soaked folds, panties still tugged to the side, your body already clenching around nothing.

“Fucking soaked,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “Just from thinking about me?”

You nod. Shamefully. Breath shaky as his fingers graze you lightly, barely even touching. You lift your hips instinctively — and he pulls back, grinning.

“Mm-mm.” He shakes his head. “You don’t get to be greedy. You eat four of my chocolates and think you’re in charge now?

“Suguru, please,” you whisper, voice broken already. “I need it. I need you.”

“I know you do,” he says, dragging a single knuckle down your slit, just enough to make your hips jump. “You look pathetic, pretty girl. Fucking adorable.”

He’s toying with you in this moment, seeing how much you can take before you truly break. Featherlight touches and small pinches all over your skin, straying from where you craved him the most.

You can feel the tears brewing in your eyes, threatening to spill at all the teasing.

Then he gives you more — just his fingers at first. Two of them, thick and slow, sinking into you with a filthy wet sound. You moan, mouth falling open, head rolling back.

“Yeah?” he breathes. “That what you needed?”

You can’t even answer. You’re gripping his wrist like a lifeline, hips moving helplessly.

It’s like your mind can comprehend anything but the pleasure he’s giving you in that second. Your hips chasing veery movement he makes. And already you feel that intoxication build in your stomach.

“You’re gonna come already, huh? That easy?” He laughs, curling them inside you, hitting just the right spot.

Your moans get high and desperate — your walls tightening, that hot pressure building fast —

All to fade away

A sudden feeling of emptiness as his thick digits are removed from you.

“No—no, no, no,” you cry out, body shaking, hips chasing him.

He leans in close, whispering right at your lips. “Not yet.”

Your entire body trembles, eyes wet with frustration. He kisses your jaw — soft, almost affectionate — while dragging your panties down your legs.

“You’ll thank me later,” he says, licking his fingers clean with a low groan. “You’re gonna come so hard for me when I let you.”

Then he starts again — with his mouth this time.

And it’s slow. So fucking slow.

He kisses your inner thighs first. Bites them, too, hard enough to make you twitch. His tongue licks along your folds in long, lazy strokes, and when your hips buck, he just holds you down.

“Uh-uh,” he mutters into your cunt, one arm draped over your pelvis. “Told you. Not yet.”

You’re whimpering, toes curling, trying not to scream as he keeps going — fingers and tongue alternating, building you up like he’s sculpting something out of you. Just when you’re close — right there — he stops again.

“You’re so mean,” you sob, barely coherent. “Why are you being so mean to me?”

He’s smirking when he lifts his head, chin shiny, eyes dark. “You want mean?” he asks, voice low and amused. “Baby, I’m just getting started.”

Your thighs are still trembling from his tongue, breath ragged as Suguru kneels up, broad shoulders looming over you. His hair is tousled, some strands clinging to his temples. He looks wrecked — eyes dark, pupils blown — and all he’s done is taste you.

But the real ruin is you.

Your mind is swimming in need, soaked and trembling and delirious, staring up at him like he’s something out of a fever dream. The sheer sight of him undressing — shirt peeled off, tattoos rippling down the line of his abs — makes your breath catch.

God, he’s so hot. So fucking hot it hurts.

And he knows it. His cock is thick, already slick at the tip as he strokes it lazily above you, grinning as your eyes fixate — wide and hazy, lips parted.

“You’ve been wanting this, haven’t you?” he murmurs, voice low and velvety. “Touching yourself thinking about me?”

You nod. Helplessly. “Please.”

“Yeah?” He leans in, dragging the head of his cock along your slick folds, making you jolt. “Well now you’ve got me, pretty thing.”

Then he pushes in — slow, so fucking slow — and your entire body arches off the couch.

“F-fuck—!” Your gasp is strangled, nails scraping the cushion as he splits you open, inch by inch. “Oh my god, Suguru—”

He bottoms out with a low groan, and you swear you see stars.

It’s too much. It’s not enough.

Instantly his thick head pressing against that perfect spot inside of you

You’ve been aching for this for hours, and now he’s buried deep inside you — so thick, stretching you perfectly, filling you like you were made for him — and your body can’t handle it.

Your first orgasm crashes over you like a wave, instantly.

You let out a sharp cry, back arching, walls fluttering around him. Suguru just stills, watches you come undone with hungry eyes.

“Holy fuck,” he breathes, cock twitching inside you. “You really needed it that bad, huh?”

You nod again, barely coherent — tears already pricking your eyes from the intensity.

He leans down, lips grazing your jaw. “Didn’t even move, and you came all over me.” His hips rock forward slowly, grinding into your sweet spot. “So fucking cute.”

“Suguru,” you whimper, blinking up at him, still gasping. “Kiss me. Please, I— I need it—”

“Oh, now you want kisses?” he teases, lips ghosting yours. “What happened to my filthy little thing, touching herself for me over text?”

You whine, eyes fluttering shut. “Please—”

And then he gives it to you.

Hot and deep and possessive, tongue sliding into your mouth as his hips start to move — slow and rolling, grinding into your soaked cunt. You moan into his mouth, clinging to his shoulders as his pace builds.

“Ohhh, look at her,” he coos, hips rocking slow and shallow, pulling his mouth off yours. “So needy. She’s talking, baby. It’s her turn now.”

You choke on a moan as he pulls out nearly to the tip, then thrusts in again — deep and wet and obscene.

“Listen to her,” he huffs, biting back a grin. “You hear that, pretty girl? That slick little sound every time I slide in?” Another thrust, harder this time, and you yelp. “That’s her begging me to stay.”

You’re flushed all the way to your chest, squirming under him now — mindless, soaked, practically sobbing.

“F-fuck— Suguru—”

“Oh no, don’t interrupt,” he tuts. “She’s being so polite.”

He brushes a hand down to your thigh, spreading you wider as he dips his head lower — like he’s going to fucking talk to her face to face.

“You want me to kiss her instead?” he murmurs, tongue dragging along his teeth. “Think she deserves it more than you right now, baby?”

You whimper something incoherent — your body arching, thighs trembling — but all you get is that cruel, cocky smirk.

“Yeah, I think she earned it.”

And then he slides out and drops, mouth immediately sealing over your swollen, soaked clit — tongue flicking, sucking, teasing her while you cry out, the stimulation too much and not enough all at once.

“Fuck— oh god—” You’re babbling now, voice cracking, your fingers fisting the sheets. “Suguru, please— I’m gonna—”

His voice hums right against you, wicked and low, tongue still moving as he mumbles:

“She wants to come again already, baby. You hearing this?”

You nod frantically, gasping.

“Give her what she wants,” you beg. “Please, Suguru—”

And he fucking does.

Pulling off your soaked cunt with a content sigh, lining himself up with your entrance once more. Entering you with a sharp thrust

He’s so deep, so perfect, and it feels like your entire body is on fire. Every thrust makes your legs shake, makes your eyes roll back.

“You’re so good, baby,” he whispers against your lips, hips snapping harder now. “Taking it so well.”

Your second orgasm hits faster than the first — a cry ripping from your throat as your body clenches around him again, legs wrapped tight around his waist. Suguru groans low in your ear, gripping your hips to fuck you through it.

“That’s it,” he breathes, voice hoarse. “There you go. Shhh— I’ve got you. Let go for me.”

You’re crying now — a mix of pleasure and overwhelm, of pure high — and he loves it. Kisses your cheeks, your temple, presses his forehead to yours.

“You’re perfect,” he murmurs, thrusts slowing again, more controlled now. “So fucking beautiful like this. Look at you.”

You can barely keep your eyes open. Your body is limp, boneless beneath him — but you still cling to him, needing more, always more.

“Sugu,” you whisper, drunk on him. “Again.”

His smile is wicked — but there’s softness in his eyes, too, something deep and warm just for you.

“You still want more, baby?” he breathes, voice low and ragged. “You’re not even close to done, are you?”

You shake your head, lips parted. “Want you deeper, Suguru— please—”

He laughs — breathless, disbelieving — like you’re the most beautiful fucking thing he’s ever seen. “God, you’re insatiable.”

And then he grabs your hips and flips you over, pulls you up onto your knees and presses your chest back down, arching your spine. His hands are rough, sure, spreading your legs wider until you’re open and dripping for him. You whimper, burying your face into the couch cushion as he lines himself back up.

“Look at this perfect fucking pussy,” he growls, dragging the head of his cock through your slick folds. “All this for me?”

“All for you,” you pant. “Please, Suguru— I need it— I need you to fill me up, please—”

And he snaps his hips forward.

You scream — honest to god scream — when he thrusts in again, deeper in this position, hitting something devastating. His hands are gripping your hips tight, nails biting into your skin as he pounds into you like he’s lost his fucking mind.

“You want my cum, pretty girl?” he pants, rutting into you hard enough to bounce the couch. “That what you’re begging for?

“Yes— yes, please—”

“Fucking say it.”

You can barely breathe, but the words come anyway, ragged and desperate.

“Need your cum, Suguru— want you to fill me— fuck, fuck, I need it—”

He lets out a guttural groan behind you, fucking you harder now, rough and relentless. His voice is wrecked.

“You’re gonna get it, baby. Gonna cum so deep in you you’ll still feel it tomorrow. Gonna ruin you for anyone else.”

You can’t even respond — can’t speak — just moan brokenly, sobbing into the cushions as another orgasm builds, white-hot and unbearable. You’re shaking, barely able to hold yourself up, vision going hazy with every thrust.

Suguru’s losing it too — you can hear it in the way he’s swearing under his breath, the ragged way he’s breathing, the way he’s growling your name like a curse and a prayer all at once.

“Fucking— say you’re mine,” he grits, pounding into you. “Say it, baby— say this pussy’s mine—”

“It’s yours—! Yours, all yours, I’m yours—” You’re choking on it now, on everything. “Please, Suguru—”

“Cum for me.”

And like a command from god himself, your body obeys.

You clamp down around him, screaming, sobbing, shuddering so violently that your legs almost give out — and that’s all it takes. Suguru groans like he’s dying, hands gripping your hips so hard they’ll bruise as he buries himself deep and cums with a low, broken moan.

He stays inside you, twitching, emptying himself in deep pulses — so warm, so thick — and you can feel it.

Neither of you speak for a long moment — just breathing, tangled and spent.

Then, soft hands. Suguru gently eases you down, rolls you onto your side and pulls you to his chest, stroking your hair as your breathing starts to steady.

“Such a good girl,” he murmurs, kissing your forehead. “You did so good for me.”

You sigh, melted and hazy, burying your face in his chest.

And with his cum still dripping from between your thighs and his hand stroking your back, you know he’s never letting you go.

You’re sprawled on top of him, bare skin sticking to his from heat and sweat, still catching your breath. Suguru’s got one hand lazily stroking your thigh, the other tucked behind his head like this is the most casual thing in the world.

Silence settles for a moment.

Then he goes, all smug, “That’s what you get for eating my stuff without asking.”

You groan, face burying in his chest. “Don’t start.”

“I told you those weren’t regular chocolates,” he continues, grinning like he didn’t just rearrange your entire nervous system. “You should really learn to read labels, baby.”

You slap his stomach, weakly. “I was hungry.”

He snorts. “And now you’re full of my—”

“Don’t finish that sentence.”

He chuckles, low and lazy. “Karma’s a bitch, huh?”

You roll your eyes, but the smile tugging at your lips betrays you. “Next time I’m eating all your snacks. See how you like it.”

He hums, lips brushing your temple. “If it ends like this, I’ll buy you a whole box.”

You groan again, half-exasperated, half-melting into him. Still fucked-out. Still floating.

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